Rawhead Rex (1986)
Zombos’ Says: So bad it’s good.
“What the hell, Paul?” I said to Paul Holstenwall.
We had just finished his latest dreck of choice, Rawhead Rex, from 1986. I sipped my pumpkin spiced latte, seeking comfort after watching it. He studied the Blu-ray box liner, took a sip of his latte, and looked at me with all innocence and surprise.
“What? You didn’t like it?
I swallowed another sip of my latte and gave him the look of death. My perfectly fine cool October day was ruined by his biking over to the mansion with this stinker while Zombos made a run for it, knowing full well from past experience how Paul’s tastes in horror could swing like Poe’s pendulum. And yet, there he sat, looking like a thinner Quentin Tarantino, dressed in faded blue jeans and a Fright Rags hoodie. I imagined him having worked in a video store too, doling out questionable movie advice to susceptible customers, while making too many runs through the beaded curtain in the back to the schlock and X’ers. So here I sat, trapped like Andre Delambre in The Fly. …