Zombos' Closet

Murder By Death Final Destination 5 (2011)

ZC Rating 4 of 7: Very Good (but no surprises)

First, Final Destination 5 is slick slacks franchise-pressing, albeit drenched in body tissues and glistening blood most of the time. Second, because of this, there are no surprises. I don't recall the take a life, live a life gimmick used before, but everything else is the same: pretty people die horribly, the END. The ways they die is the kicker that brings us back again and again. But for how long?

We all ready know you can't cheat death because Coroner Bludworth (Tony Todd) tells us so in every installment.  But an important question is brought up by Sam (Nicholas D'Agosto). He's the one who sees Death's de facto dire predicament ahead of the appointed departure time and warns everyone. He's confused. Why get a glimpse of doom if you can't change the outcome? My simple answer is it would kill the fun of watching people being mashed, mushed, and medlied in escaltingly convoluted ways. But is that all there is to it? Will Final Destination xx be the same formula setups, the same befuddled victims, and Tony Todd's (hopefully) Coroner Bludworth repeating the same dictum: Death will always crash, crush, spindle, mutilate, and amputate your pajama party? I hope not. That would be worse than death.

A company retreat brings a busload of employees to their rendevous with a bridge collapse. Sam's frantic warning after hearing Dust in the Wind saves his boss (David Koechner) and his friends Molly (Emma Bell), Peter (Miles Fisher), Candice (Ellen Wroe), and Nathan (Arlan Escarpeta). He also saves Isaac (P. J. Byrne), but Isaac is a cretin, not a friend. Seeing the collapsing bridge and how everyone is supposed to die will make gore fans happy. Personally,  I don't think computer- generated gore is as viscerally pleasing as the old fashioned, hand-turned variety because it shows up too 'succinct' on screen, especially with how entrails burst out and splatter. Am I wrong? 

Death's cheekily  improvised ways for gruesomely killing off escapees from the precipitating mayhem are succint also, but Steven Quale manages to build adequate suspense around each personally constructed building-blocks-for-quietus and red herrings by muddling the how of what we all ready know must happen. The imaginatively messy demises include a very spirited gymnastic body split, an acupuncture misadventure, and a laser eye surgery flop-plop-squish I'm sure will annoy medical professionals. Then again, acupuncturists will not be happy, either. I'm sure the very long and rediculously thick needle Isaac pulls--nice big closeup here--out of his chest is definitely not one used by any acupuncturists I know ( or want to). If it's metal fatigue tiring, electricity shorting sparkily, water puddling deeply, wrenches left around carelessly, fan blades whirring ominously, or flames licking closely, Death is sure to capture the anticipated moment.

Since Isaac is a cretin and Sam's boss is a company toadie, we don't care about them much and--yes, I'll admit it--we enjoy watching them die. The piece de resistance is the Buddha bust finale, even if heads really don't easily burst open like watermelons. But Sam and his friends are young, hip, and darn cute. They even act well beyond the needs of Final Destination's Dr. Deadly's Monster Scenes requirements of victimization and terminus. There's a stronger story of desperation waiting to be emancipated in this franchise: and when will Coroner Bludworth make a stand?

Although Final Destination 5 is shown in 3D, I didn't get a strong sense it was entirely shot in 3D. The now standard pointy-objects-jutting-in-your-face are handled on cue, but the strongest dimensional effects are seen in the lengthy opening credits, shattering glass montage. The 3D effects in The Final Destination 4 are better.

Shades of Death Over Leaves of Grass The Final Destination (2009)

Rating 3 of 7: Good

"What are you doing?" asked Zombos.

I dog-eared the page I was reading. "I'm sorry?"

"You have not written your review of The Final Destination," he said.

"Death goes a-deathing. People die horribly. What's more to say beyond that?

"You see, there, that is your problem. You are not creative enough. Now, I have been thinking of ways you can add je ne sais quoi to your reviews. They have been rather stale lately."

"Really?" I said, but not with much enthusiasm.

He continued, ignoring my lack of enthusiasm. "Yes. For instance, why not look at doing a review in a completely different way."

"Way?" I asked.

"Way." He jabbed his right forefinger into his left palm. "Take The Final Destination." He rested his forefinger on his chin. "Let me think, yes, I have the perfect answer to creatively review it: Walt Whitman." He waved his forefinger for emphasis.

"Walt Whitman?" I asked.

"Yes, Walt Whitman. Leaves of Grass. I hear America Singing. There. Now go, fly with it!" He flew out of the room, leaving me with one of those conundrums in a peanut shell situation we all face now and then. I seem to get them a lot, though.  If Walt Whitman were a zombie he'd eat me for sure after this.

 

I Hear the Deathly Screaming in The Final Destination

I hear Nick and Lori, Hunt and Janet screaming, and cussing, and breathing heavy and hard, their varied shrieks of fear I hear,
From death's mechanics, each one swung with his scythe wide, as it should be blithe
and strong, whilst whacking heads and limbs akimbo, bone and muscle, and formerly high spirits, 
into fallow, shallow ground of McKinley Speedway, and everywhere else they run
Nick shrieking his premonitions, he measures his chances, nail and coffin width long, as George the security guard runs in fright from his inevitable smackdown, tries hanging himself, 
but still no good
Lori hissy-fitting her bewilderment as she makes ready for ignoring death's hooves fastly approaching, or leaves off
salvation by not believing in Nick's foreshadows of graveyard co-ops, for all, coming soon enough,
Hunt bemoaning Charon's dire boatman dirging of what belongs to him in his rotting boat, the pool man cursing the
sticky mess Hunt leaves behind, all suckered innards spouting in fountains of grue, clearing out the pool real fast, as 
sparking electrical circuits burn bright
Janet screaming as she drives through her car wash, the bristly-brushes whizzing closer as she sticks her head in their way, 
but stay the Grand Guignol hand and spoil the girl, to vain thoughts of 
giddily escaping death's plan--
until later, when he can dish it out even worse, of course
Lori's song of mistaken relief, the deathboy's not on his way in the morning, or at nooning intermission, or at 
sundowning, to sharpen his blade 'gainst wet red oozing twitching body parts
The delicious grinding of the escalator, or zinging of the shearing metal flying, or the phat tire splatting, or the 
air-compressed canister flattening, all in marvelously punctuated 3-D
Each groaning what body parts belong to him or her and to no one else, though it's all mixed up 
The day what belongs to death—at night the parade of dead
teens, robustly still dead, or dying, or waiting their turn
Screaming with open mouths, when left intact, their strong outcries in stereophonic crescendos, 'gainst awaiting another destination,
'cause it ain't over yet 'til the fat lady gets hers
or the audience stops coming,
but then they'll reimagine, rework, rewrite, rethink, rekindle this franchise till no one else remains, but death grinning over all 

What the Hell? Tokyo Gore Police (2008)

ZC Rating 2 of 7: Fair 

 

I grabbed Glenor Glenda's elbow as her foot slipped on the ice water puddling across the Mongolian teak wood floor of Zombos' study. She composed herself, slid the steaming hot mug of Satan's Balls back to the center of her serving tray, and properly presented Chef Machiavelli's frothy and zesty spiced rum-cocoa concoction--splashed with peach-ginger--to our shivering and quite unexpected guest. Our housekeeper waited expectantly as he took a sip and neatified her uniform with much suspicious intent.

"May I get you a blanket...Mister...? Glenor asked.

"Lucifer. Oh, hell, let's not stand on formality; just call me Luc, okay? You're a darling, but I doubt a blanket would help." Lucifer's long red tail waved excitedly as he sipped his drink. "By Tartarus! This drink is wicked bad! And you say your Chef doesn't use any black arts? Amazing! My cook couldn't find her way round a souffle, even with her three heads. Damn creature burns everything. Ah, this sinful beverage is heating up my rump. In spite of all the fur in my nether region I was going numb down there, you know." He winked at our unusually flirtatious housekeeper. Glenor giggled.

I cleared my throat. She stopped giggling.

"Oh, jealous are we? You needn't be." He winked at me and flicked his tongue in a devilish manner. Glenor clapped her hand to her mouth stifling another giggle, which was doing its best to burst forth. My withering glance at her helped keep it at bay.

I was desperate. "Zombos? Any luck?"

Zombos was standing behind his Carlton House desk, holding the phone in one hand and a thick legal document in the other. Every now and then a few more sheets of paper slipped from the document and fluttered to the floor. He shrugged. "Sosumi is looking into it. He doesn't know how this could have happened."

Sosumi 'Jimmy' Jango was Zombos' crackerjack lawyer.

Lucifer finished his drink and smacked his lips. I motioned to Glenor to bring another one for our frisky guest. It looked like evening vespers would be well over by the time Zombos found the document we needed.

"What is that Jimmy?" said Zombos into the phone. "It is in Attachment 66? Okay. Okay, I will look for it." Zombos hung up the phone. "He is almost here. He said to look for--"

"Attachment 66, yes, I heard," I said.

"Ouch! Oh, you devil!" gasped Glenor with delight.

I looked at Glenor.

"He pinched me," she said giggling as she hastily left the room.

I looked at Lucifer; he shrugged and smiled and winked again. I looked back at Zombos imploringly. "Let's find that attachment pronto, shall we? Did you check the Wooten? You tend to bury stuff in there pretty well."

"Of course!" Zombos turned around and quickly opened the doors of his Wooten desk. The two places Zombos relies on to hide, store, or forget things are his closet and his cherished Wooten desk. Since the Wooten desk is smaller than his closet, I figured it would be easier to search first.

"Well, I'll be," said Zombos.

"You found Attachment 66?" I excitedly asked.

"What? Oh that, no. I found my set of Brasher Doubloons. I was wondering what happened to them.”

"Great, I'll let Philip Marlowe know. What about the legal document?" My spirits were sinking fast.

"No, I do not see--wait a minute."

"Yes?"

"I found it!" Zombos said triumphantly.

"Thank god," I sighed. Lucifer cleared his throat. "Sorry," I said, shooting a glance his way. When I looked back to Zombos he was doing the walk the dog move with his gold-trimmed Duncan YoYo. He found that, too. I sighed again. There but for the grace of god I thought. Lucifer cleared his throat more loudly and gave me a smoldering stare.

"We really need that legal document...now," I implored Zombos.

"Oh, yes, yes. Let me see." He put the YoYo back and opened another draw. "Here it is." He held up Attachment 66. "Let me see, now. Jimmy said to check the waiver at the bottom of page 13. Hmmm...hmmm...not good. Here, you better read it."

Beef Jerky Horror Trailer Park of Terror (2008)

ZC Rating 3 of 7: Good (but not my cup of tea)

From the case files of the League of Reluctant Reviewers comes this trashy horror, based on the Imperium Comics series, that will make you think twice before eating beef jerky ever again.

I remember it all quite well. It came uninvited in a small brown envelope mixed in with the mail, on a day when the leaves tousled angrily on the limbs of dying trees, fighting against their inevitable descent to lesser heights of vibrancy. An oily, pipe smoke fog, so thick it choked the throat and chilled the soul, gamboled in the deserted streets, stirred by winds playfully knocking off the hats of the few brave passersby hurrying along the quiet streets. Darkness had come early this unusual day in October. I twirled my scarf tighter to ward off the dampness. Or was it something else that made me shake uncontrollably as I tapped the brass flamingo knocker against the massive oak door of 999 Transient Street.

"Welcome Mr. Bolton. Good to see you again," said Chalmers. He took my raincoat and scarf as we walked toward the Champagne Room, so named because of the pale yellow light that reflected in sparkling shimmers from its large Waterford crystal chandelier. Chalmers reached for the small brown envelope. I instinctively held it tighter, though I was not sure why. He smiled and went to hang up my coat. I entered the room.

"Punctual as usual," said the unseen man sitting in the Chippendale wing chair facing the fireplace. A lively fire blazed on the grate. "Let me see it," he said in a soothing voice.

I relaxed my grip on the envelope and dropped it into the starkly white hand that appeared from the left side of the chair. The envelope disappeared from sight for a few seconds. A light chuckle came from the unseen occupant of the chair. "You do bring the most challenging movies."

Chalmers appeared. "Your drink is ready."

"Thank you," I said and followed Chalmers to another, smaller room, where a polished Stiegel glass, filled with lightly chilled sherry, waited for me. The cheery, paisley-tailed peacocks embroidered into the linen upholstery of the settee I nestled into were very soothing, and the plump cushioned seat, along with the sherry, had my cheeks on both ends glowing with warmth. I drifted into reverie while the League of Reluctant Reviewers did what few could do or care to; there but for the grace of God and all that as John Bradford would say.

 

Torture horror jars against dark humor in this otherwise well done, to a turn, trashy-bin of 1950's comic-book-zombie spook terror with nods to Two Thousand Maniacs! and John Waters' pink flamingoed, filthiest person alive. Director Steven Goldmann and writer Timothy Dolan squander their over-the-top playfulness by turning sadistically nasty in overly long views of depraved victimization. I guarantee you’ll break into a cold sweat whenever you see or hear the words "beef jerky" after watching this movie.

When Norma (Nichole Hiltz) yearns for life away from the grungy trailer park she’s trapped in, she’s spiritually crushed when her new boyfriend is impaled on a fence by her redneck neighbors. She gets even after meeting Old Scratch (Trace Adkins) who gives her a shotgun to blast away her troubles. Where the Devil goes, damnation follows, and both she and Tophet Meadows, the trailer park she can never leave now, wait through the years for stereotypical victims, sent down stormy bad roads by grizzled, rustic strangers you would have to be a fool to listen to.

A van full of dead-teens-walking is provided courtesy of Vertical Ministries youth rescue service. After stopping at the local yokel diner and following the advice of de facto grizzled, rustic stranger (Tracey Walter, no less), Pastor Lewis (Matthew Del Negro) and his misfit flock collide with a derelict truck in front of Tophet Meadows. Being a certified, script-necessary dead zone for cell phones, they can’t call for help, so they head toward the cheerily-lit mobile homes in the trailer park.

Cursed Norma puts on her happy face—she really does need to-- and greets them with hard liquor and hard luck story of how her mother died in front of her. After sending the kids off to bed and doom, she gives a rousing private sermon for Pastor Lewis. A flashback about her mother puts the brakes on the wicked-fun energy of the story, which comes to a full stop by the time our wanderlust teens are deep-fried, dismembered, and deboned. Unlike Two Thousand Maniacs!'s absurd, quickly executed viciousness by somewhat reluctant townsfolk, each scene of depraved cruelty here is overlong and disturbingly, gorily, serious in its attention to misery, easily outdoing scenes fit for an extended version of Hostel, not a satirical take on retro drive-in splatter.

Norma is joined in the mayhem by the same yahoos she shotgunned years before--misery fosters miserable company I guess. They’ve not aged as well as she has: layers of ghoulish EC comics-styled decay make-up indicate their dispositions--one even uses duct tape to hold himself together after being blown up--but kidding is kicked aside by unpleasant torture horror, ill-timed and  unnecessary exposition, and a long song sung by a guitar-strumming, pot-smoking cadaver. The acting, aside from the de rigueur stupidity of the victims, sustains a moderate level of terror, or disgust, depending on how you take it.

The beef jerky scene stands out as one of the most brutally-rendered and disgusting excesses today’s horror movies are prone to, a seriously disturbing gore-fest not for the squeamish. If stark close-ups of slow flesh peeling don’t make you upchuck, by the time you get to the human french fry dunk into a bathtub of boiling oil, you’ll either be gagging or nervously giggling to lighten the heaviness.

The troubled teens--now in trouble with a capital T--pair off with the decaying trailer trash still living in the park’s mobile homes, and are scratched off the hit list, one by one. Tiffany (Stefanie Black) goes tripping and runs afoul of Roach (Myk Watford), who saws off one of her arms for using his stash. When she comes down from her trip and back to one-armed reality, she runs screaming into the mother of trailer trash monstrosities, the repulsively grotund 'where's my meat?' Larlene (Trisha Rae Stahl). Scratch one 'needs some salt' Tiffany off the list. The only victim to put up a fight is goth-minded Bridget (Jeanette Brox), who finds herself in a demolition derby car crunch when she tries to escape.

I recommend you watch the R-rated version first, sort of like dipping your feet in the pool before jumping in head first. Then after you warm up a bit you can try the unrated version. Do not plan on eating anything if you do. Better yet, invite a bunch of friends over and hand out beef jerky. Give a prize to the last person who can stomach it: the beef jerky and the movie.

Not 1000 But Two Thousand Maniacs! (1964)

ZC Rating 6 of 7: Classic

Glenor Glenda was upside down. Rather, her face was upside down. Or maybe I was upside down. I couldn't tell much through the foggy haze. Suddenly her face changed to Saw's Billy the Puppet's upside down face, leering at me with those cold, unblinking eyes. I closed my eyes wishing him to go away. I mean her to go away. I mean I don’t know what I mean.

"Good lord, now what?" I heard Zombos say.

"He passed out," she frantically said. "I think he was watching Two Thousand Maniacs! when he fainted."

"Here, then, give me the smelling salts. And stop bending over him like that. Give him some air."

I opened my eyes. Zombos' face was upside down now, leering at me with its stern, accusatory eyes. I wished him to go away, too.

"You ninny," he said, holding the smelling salts under my nose. "I do not know why you insist on putting yourself through these exercises in self-punishment. If you do not want to see Saw IV, then just do not see it."

He helped me to my feet, though I was still a bit wobbly. "I thought if I prepared myself by watching one of the earliest gore films it would help desensitize me. I have a responsibility to our readers," I explained.

"Oh, I think the five of them really do not want to see Saw IV, either," joked Zombos. At least I hope he was joking. "How far did you get into Herschell Gordon Lewis' movie?"

"Up to the axe scene. When she got her thumb cut off I started getting woozy. The axe scene did me in after that." I sipped the glass of Glen Caren Glenor handed to me. There's nothing like a vatted malt whiskey to bring back the color in your cheeks; bright red color, like the color of freshly spilled blood.

 

And there's lots of bright 1960s-colored blood in Two Thousand Maniacs!, the second film in the Godfather of Gore's blood trilogy that ushered in the splatter-horror genre to an eager drive-in movie audience. Dipping once too often into the nudie-cutie and exploitation well, Lewis and his partner David Friedman searched for their next commercial gusher. They found it in colorized gore, delivered with manic glee, cheap setups, and lingering eyefuls.

Perhaps it's the gleefully sadistic way in which the Brigadoon-like southern townspeople of Pleasant Valley go about torturing and killing the slow-to-grasp-the-situation northerners, or maybe it's the hokey acting and poor direction slamming against the energetically strummed banjo songs, sung by the strolling bluegrass trio (go figure) as the entire town celebrates its revenge-fueled centennial. Whatever the reasons, the film is still a wild southern fried terror ride that revels in its nastiness while cheekily grinning from ear to ear. The gore is mild compared to today's more graphic, mechanically-oriented, dismembering and mashing appliances, but a simple knife, or axe, or sharp nail-lined barrel always provides a homey touch of stark horror whimsy to any victimization.

Every hundred years the town of Pleasant Valley comes to life, looking for a little cold comfort by revenging its destruction on those damn Yankees that decimated it during the civil war. Since revenge mostly involves innocent people in horror movies—dumb, innocent people--and sometimes those who instigated the problem in the first place, the townsfolk detour a few northern-born passersby off the highway and into the town as centennial guests of honor.

A carload of two bickering couples--bickering couples are a staple in horror films, too--are the first to find themselves invited to the barbecue. The couple with extra-kinky shenanigans in mind—my, this one is full of staples, isn’t it?--are the first to succumb to the town's madness. They each go off looking for a tryst with a local yokel, but find terror instead.

By the pricking of her thumb, she loses a digit with more to come.

In a violent scene that holds intensity with its sudden brutality, the hot-to-trot blond gets her thumb maliciously cut off by the town's dashing, rope-belted, blue jeans hunk. With blood spilling all over the place, she's hustled into the "doctor's" office, where quick surgery with an axe really makes a mess of things. Lewis' direction throughout this unpleasant business is over the top. The contradiction between the laughing good-ol' boys hovering over the bleeding, shocked, and dismembered woman is held in the camera's eye long enough to register a disturbing absurdity and disgust, delivering a grindhouse-styled wallop to the senses even a Saw-jaded fan could appreciate.

Her husband doesn't fair all that well, either. After waking from a drunken stupor, he finds himself with a hangover and tied to four horses pointed in different directions. Lewis tones down the shock by cutting away when the horses prance off, only showing a bloody limb dragged over the ground afterwards. For a moment, his camera dwells on the unhappy looks of the spectators, realizing the horror of what they've just done; but only for a moment. The festivities continue.

Lewis' pièce de résistance is a barrel rolling contest with a nail-barrel. Forced into a gaily-colored barrel, the male half of our second unfortunate couple is perturbed when the mayor starts pounding large sharp nails into it, leaving the prickly points exposed inside the barrel. A short kick down a long hill leaves one more brightly-colored victim dressed in blood-red as the townspeople cheer.

The third couple fares better. A hitchhiking teacher and the woman who picked him up catch on pretty quickly that not all's fun and games in Pleasant Valley. When communication to the outside world is cut off, the teacher realizes it's time to hightail it out of there. The only obstacle to overcome is finding the car key and getting past Billy the kid.

Billy (Vincent Santo), whose favorite pastime is tying mini-nooses to strangle cats with, knows where the car key is, but he drives a hard bargain to fess up. Watching Billy, I couldn't shake the creepy feeling he looked awfully like Billy the Puppet. Just paint two large red targets on his cheeks, darken his hair, stick him on a tricycle, and you'd swear he looks just like him. Or maybe it's just me.

Lewis' budget ($65K in 1960s dollars) for Two Thousand Maniacs! was higher than his more explicit gore-fests in the trilogy, Blood Feast and Color Me Blood Red, allowing him to devote more time to the story and the setups for each gore-effect. Ironically, this may have hurt his directorial style more than helped, but Maniacs! holds up well primarily because of its rough edges.

 

"Feeling better," asked Zombos. With his help, and three glasses of Glen Caren, I had watched Two Thousand Maniacs! in its entirety.

'Much better," I said.

"Good, then perhaps we should move you up to The Wizard of Gore. Lewis really piles on the bloody gore as a maniac magician's illusions leave his volunteers in pieces. Good lord, not again. Glenor! Quick! Bring the smelling salts! He has gone and fainted again!

 

Hostel (2005)

ZC Rating 4 of 7: Very Good

Thank you. It's very exciting for me to be here, especially since I know that there are some people from Slovakia who probably want to kill me for making this movie. In America, Hostel is a very terrifying horror film for many people, but I truly believe it could become one of the great comedy classics here in Eastern Europe. I'm sure you have questions, and about why I made Slovakia look like all of a sudden it's from the 1950s, and what it might do to the tourist industry in Slovakia, and I look forward to answering all your questions and hopefully I will not get tortured to death. (Eli Roth, 'Smash hit horror Hostel causes stir among citizens of sleepy Slovakia')

 

Whistling. I hate whistling in a horror movie. It's such a pleasant activity, a normal activity; one that reflects a satisfied, joyful—even exuberant state of mind in the whistler. That's why it's so frightening and effective in the opening scene of Hostel. To hear that simple tune casually whistled by one of the "janitors" as he nonchalantly cleans the guest suites, routinely rinsing away the red splatter and body chunks down a drain, will freeze your blood. Just another day at work: just another day in hell; especially for the tourists. And you thought the plane trip was torture.This chilling contrast between the innocuous whistling and the gory evidence of disturbing activity is frightening, setting the gruesome tone for the film. Callous indifference is the theme here with people unconcerned that intense suffering and death are their job. They make money from it so it's okay; providing human cattle to be slaughtered by bored Über-rich seeking ever more intense emotional experiences, dehumanizing themselves in their avid consumerism.

What redeems this film from being a gratuitous exercise in explicit gore and sadistic violence is Paxton, the survivor. He starts out as another hedonistic consumer, but gains a precious sense of his soul while losing two fingers along the way. He is forced to care: he cares enough to take time while escaping to pick up his severed fingers; he also cares enough to rush back into the charnel house, after narrowly escaping the caress of a chainsaw, to save a girl he hardly knows.

His decision sets up one of the more intense and nauseating scenes in a film filled with them. When he finds her, she is missing half of her face, and one eye dangles precariously from its now burned-out socket. That dangling eye does present a problem. Okay, what do you do? At this point I had my hands over my eyes, but through my fingers I could see the flash of scissors as Paxton decides what he must do. You know what's coming, but Roth extends the tense moment into an excruciating eternity.

Roth tickles our fear-bone: the fear comes from being helpless while someone can commit any form of injury on you, and fear also comes from the knowledge that the amoral townsfolk in this creepy village gladly share in this consumerism-from-hell scenario. Even the children are sadistic monsters, roaming the town and demanding tribute; willing to harm or kill for a bag of candy. Being a foreigner in Hostel is a death sentence. The chilling words spoken to Paxton by one of the rich clients sums up the moral decay best: “Be careful: you could spend all your money in there.”

But after a film like Hostel, where do you go? How much torture and depravity can an audience take in a horror film? I'm sure Roth will try and find out.

Hostel a comedy classic? Find out more at Radio Prague.

Hostel Part II (2007)

ZC Rating 4 of 7: Very Good

I wanted to take a long hot shower after watching Hostel: Part II. I felt dirty. The horror genre is a distasteful, discomforting one to begin with; that's what sustains it. It's supposed to both titillate and frighten us at the same time with shocking images, unpleasant sounds, and extreme, sometimes disgusting, subject matter. But then there's Eli Roth's Hostel series, rolling up all those elements into a nice and tidy puke-ball of horrifyingly intense and nauseating brutality. The problem is that he does it so convincingly well.

Unlike another, albeit less gruesome, torture-flick, 1970's Mark of the Devil, there are no gimmicky vomit bags to be handed out here to lighten the experience, though now's the time they'd come in handy. Time was, you went to a horror movie to be grossed-out, but in a fun way. Thrills and chills, and some red spills, but ha-ha, just make believe your sick and keep that vomit bag pristine because it makes a wonderful souvenir.

Of course there are many horror films, from grind-house to art-house, that do their best to make you upchuck your last meal or your complacency, but Roth's fictional Slovakian village, filled with menacing townspeople—including the children—pushes your complacency right out the window, then stomps on it's fingers as it desperately dangles from the windowsill trying to avoid that long fall downward.

Once Again Unto the Breach Saw III (2006)

ZC Rating 4 of 7: Very Good

"Hello, Zoc."

"What? Who's that?" I shook the sleep away. It was 2:30 in the morning. I had dragged my butt back from watching the midnight showing of Saw III, and was fighting sleep to write an early review of it.

"Let's play a game."

"Who's talking to me?" I asked.

A squeaking sound came from the dark corner of my attic office. A tricycle slowly rolled into the circle of sparse light that illuminated my desk. It was Papa Smurf.

"I am Jigsaw. Your life is an empty shell."

"You're not Jigsaw! You're Papa Smurf!" I cried, frantically pinching my hand to wake up.

"I am--"

"You're Papa Smurf with large red targets painted on his beard." I pinched harder.

"I am here to help you face your fears. Of course, you may die in an extremely painful and gory way, but you will thank me in the end. If you survive."

"Okay, look, when Zombos said I needed to cover these midnight showings while he's away, he didn't mention shit like this." I gave up on pinching my hand. It hurt anyway. "Okay, I'll bite. What's the game?"

"Look at you; you are tired, overworked, and barely notice the richness of life around you. Your entire existence is now focused on only one thing. Blogging. How sad. To lose the gift of Twitter, of Facebook, and yes, even the gift of World of Warcraft, just so you can type away on that cold, hard laptop keyboard. Click, click, click, all day and well into the night. For what? You have lost touch with your inner self, Zoc, and those most important around you. I will help you find the way back--did I mention you may die horribly like a twisted pretzel, or maybe a ribcage deboner would be visually cool--back to your life that is waiting patiently for you, and the loved ones who miss you."

"Er, what's the catch?" I asked.

"The game is simple. Write the review. If I like it, you will live and have fame and fortune. If I don't like it, you will make like a corkscrew and go pop in a shower of crimson. Make your choice."

I always knew deep down that Papa Smurf was evil. I just didn’t know how much.

"Okay," I agreed. I must be dreaming, so what did I have to lose? I also vowed to give up either midnight showings of horror movies or drinking that fourth. I started typing on my cold, hard keyboard, and relived the horrors of Saw III.

 

Before you can nestle in your theater seat with your drink and popcorn, Saw III starts with a little game. Should the victim saw his foot off or just mash it down to a bright red pulp in order to slip it through his shackle. Let's see, you're a horror fan, what would you rather see? Oh, wait, sawing off a limb was done in the first Saw, wasn't it? No sense repeating that, then.

And before you can take a swig of Coke, and eat a handful of popped kernels, another game brings us to a room, a guy who is about to have a really bad day, and another set of chains, although these have large hooks at the ends. Bloody chunks should have been the tagline for this movie. You do get to see lots of them. Funny, but no one sitting around me in the theater--it was surprisingly packed for a midnight show--ever touched their  drinks or popcorn after that one.

The story--do you really care there’s a story linking all this gory carnage together?--revolves around two plotlines: Amanda (Shawnee Smith) is back with a vengeance as Jigsaw's eager apprentice, and a man must come to grips with the loss of his son, and the witness, judge, and killer involved with his son's tragic death. Director Darren Lynn Bousman moves between both stories, using a fair amount of woozy camera shots, dark lighting, and grainy, garish coloration to move characters through a succession of torture tableaus highlighting the devious, extremely unkind, and painfully realized Rube Golderg devices that come into play for unlucky victims.

Once Jeff (Angus Macfadyen) escapes into Jigsaw's maze, he must face the people he blames for his son’s death. Will he save them from horrible, painful deaths--and disappoint horror fans--or will he let them suffer and die gruesomely? Surprisingly, even knowing what must happen--this is a horror movie, after all--the tension is still palpable, the expectations still hopeful. Everyone’s acting sustains this suspense well as does the direction, although the woozy camera was used a bit much and diluted some scenes down to confusion.

As Jeff makes his way to salvation or damnation, Doctor Lynn (Bahar Soomekh) is kidnapped by Amanda. Good old Jigsaw (Tobin Bell, of course) is not doing so well. He needs a doctor. In one of the most gorily effective scenes I’ve seen, the doctor tackles his brain tumor with a few handy Home Depot tools lying around the old torture device workshop. I tried the old standby of closing my eyes, but Bousman put the foley (sound effects) guys into overtime with this scene. The squishy, ripping, sucking, pealing back the scalp, cutting the skull, and wrenching the bone fragment out audio accompaniment is the best use of disgusting sounds I’ve heard in a horror movie. Considering the stark, bloody chunky close-ups of pealed away skin and the drill bit going into his head—with close-up blood bubbles dribbling around the drill bit--this scene is one sustained gorefest treat.

Did I forget to mention Doctor Lynn is sporting a beautiful new shotgun shell collar, designed by Amanda? A bit showy, but definitely a party conversation starter (or ender, depending).  If Jigsaw dies, Doctor Lynn's head goes bang. If things weren’t bad enough Amanda is going off the deep end and Jigsaw is having trouble staying alive and keeping her in check. Woozy flashbacks tell the story of Amanda and how she came to be Jigsaw's apprentice.

 Jeff finally meets the man who killed his son, tidily stuffed into the Twister. His arms, legs, and head are locked into a 360 degree rotating armature. Guess what happens next? Will Jeff save him, or spend too much time thinking about what he should do while bones crack and muscles are twisted? While Jeff deals with his latest conundrum, the doctor and Jigsaw have a nice chat about suffering and murder. Tobin Bell is so convincing as Jigsaw he makes your hair stand on end. So self-righteous, so certain what he is doing is right; his character echoes the reality of extreme rationalization uncomfortably for us. In a twisting climax (pun intended), Jeff confronts Jigsaw, the doctor, and Amanda. Will he make the right choice? Will Jigsaw once again play his game too well? Exactly who is Jigsaw playing games with?

Saw III is hard horror. The midnight showing I attended was sold out. I'm not sure if that's a good thing for horror movie in general, but it certainly may bode well for Lionsgate and the franchise. The acting and scripting is done well enough, and the ever ingenious evolution of the main star of this franchise, the convoluted machine of death, is an unforgettable draw for the more sadistic--

"--Umhum." Papa Smurf Jigsaw cleared his throat.

--for the more gore-headed fans of the genre.

"Well," I said.

"It will do."

"So I win, then?"

"No."

"What? You said I would have fame and fortune!"

"Surely, John, you of all people should realize that you will have to wait."

"Wait? For what?" I asked.

"The sequel of course; there is always a sequel," said Papa Smurf as he and his tricycle squeaked back into the darkness.

"Noooooooo!"