fish fang grrrrrrr!

What can I say?

The box art looked exciting plus it's from some of the folk that made Sharktopus so sue me.

And at least there'll be no footage of 14 year old abducted girls getting violated in this one.

Which is a shame really.

Dinoshark (2010).
Dir: Kevin O'Neill (not the one that drew Nemesis The Warlock).
Cast: Eric Balfour, Iva Hasperger (me too), Aarón Díaz, Dan Golden, Christina Nicole, Humberto Busto and Lord Roger of Corman.

"Welcome to the Endangered Species list, bastard!"

Our story begins off the coast of Alaska (or at the very least a lovely painting of it), where solo yachtsman Sevrin Seas (as himself) has managed to bump his boat into a particularly sharp bit of CGI iceberg.

Deciding to dive into the icy waters to check the hull for scratches it's not long before our salty pal is being stalked by something in the deep blue sea.

And no, it's not called 'Josh'.

Suddenly and without warning (apart from a whooshing sound) poor Mr. Seas (and his handy GPS) is swallowed whole by what looks like a huge, grey computer generated turd with fins.

And  a bad case of all over genital warts.

"Shark in mah mooth!"

Meanwhile in Mexico (just across the street from where they shot Sharktopus) the horse-faced and bullet nippled everyman Trace McGraw (Balfour from 24 and the Texas Chainsaw remake) having recently returned home from sailor school, as decided to put his training to work by running a tourist cruise throughout the holiday season in a kinda Carry on Cruising way.

Sun, sand, sexy senoritas and various STD's beckon.


Well it would be if the harbour patrol would let him live on his boat.

A sexy senorita (sans AIDS) yesterday.

Heading to his pal Jeremy's pub, The Salty Seaman, to drown his sorrows, a long (well longer than usual) faced Trace soon gets chatting the blonde bombshell, scientist and girls water polo coach, Carol Brubaker (Hasperger from the Billy Zane classic Vlad) who just happens to be a buddy of his bestest pal Rita (the mightily moustached and spud faced Nicole).

After a few drinks and a wee bit of character development, Rita makes her farewells and heads off to the beach for a swim leaving Trace and Carol to stare at each other giggling whilst trying to figure out who has the bigger chin.

Adrien Brody: the mooth shite-in years.

Making her excuses to leave (and no she doesn't just say "I have my women's period" and walk away) our brainy beauty heads of to meet hotelier and part-time dirty perv Mike (Bad Girls from Mars star Golden) who talks her into having her huge thighed female volleyball team hold an exhibition game in a canal that leads to open sea.

For no other reason it seems than to make for an exciting climax.

Whilst all this chat is highly commendable (and unusual) for this kind of movie, what we really want is gratuitous scenes of Frank Dinoshark chowing down on some olive skinned beauty.

Well we get half of our wish granted when poor Rita becomes the main course in our prehistoric chums Latino lunch.

Entrails on mah beach!

Worried (kinda) by their friends non appearance at dinner time, Trace and co. head out to look for her, finding instead our titanic toothed terror chomping away on a couple of non speaking extras dressed as rejects from Baywatch Nights.

What the fuck is this giant scaly beast? enquires Trent with the worried look of a slightly constipated beagle.

Luckily for us (and the plot) as well as everything else, Carol is an expert on badly rendered prehistoric shark type things and heads over to see her old friend, eminent marine biologist Dr. Frank Reeves (Corman himself looking as sexy as ever) to see if he has any idea how to make it die.

Call me stupid but it doesn't matter how old and grizzled it is cos at the end of the day it's only a big fish?

Why would she need to ask how to kill it?

I mean it's not like it's lead lined or made of gold.....surely bullets, bombs or a big net would do?

"Come my children...suck the movie milk from my man tits!"

Anyway, Trace and Carol decide it'd be wise to hunt down and kill poor Dinoshark before he has a chance to eat any more of the admittedly small number of tourists there for the resorts annual bring and buy sale.

So will our dynamic chinned duo manage to kill this titan of terror before the budget runs out?

Or will the swim team get eaten whole?

Well, what do you think?

"Laugh noooooooooo!"

Another day, another big shark and another SyFy original movie produced by Sir Roger of Corman on a break from counting his money, directed by the man that gave you Dinocroc (and did the effects on the Feast trilogy) and starring the pretty one from the TCM remake.

What's not to love?

Apart from the acting, visual effects and shoddy production values obviously.

Filmed in exactly the same locations - and with exactly the same script - as Sharktopus you kinda know what you're getting yourself into even before you've slapped a fiver down for this beauty in your local Morrisons and if you don't then it's no ones fault but your own.

And frankly you should be ashamed of yourself.

Rum, sodomy and the lash.

I mean come on, you know the CGI beast is going to look like a slightly spastic childs bath toy, that the performances will be pitch at comatose level and that the lead actress has been hired on breast size rather than talent but who the hell cares cos sometimes after a hard days toil you just want to see busty babes and comedy shirted men get eaten by monsters.

Admit it, you know it's true.

It's just a pity that Eric Roberts was busy.

things i get sent (part something or other).

Genuine message I received thru' Facebook this morning:

Dear Dr. Lamont, 

Let me first say that I think your blog is OK and sometimes even a little bit funny but not always.


The reason I'm messaging you though isn't to stroke your obviously massive ego but to ask your advice.


Imagine this. 

You are attracted to women, like you are now (emotionally and sexually), but they do not exist. 

They existed a long time ago, and no one knows what they looked like (They have a pretty good idea from the fossils, however), but they do not exist anymore.


That means, not only do you know there will never be any possibility of you
having sex with one, but there’s not even a possibility of you ever seeing one in real life.


Everyone else, however, except for a very few, are not attracted to women,
they are attracted to something else entirely.


So in other words, you will never find any porn anywhere on the internet, only non-sexual pictures of women.

Everyone you have told about your attraction to women think it’s disgusting.
To relieve yourself, you get off on the non-sexual pictures of women, knowing it will never get any better.


That’s what life is like to me.


I am a degree 6 Zoosexual, sexually and emotionally attracted to Tyrannosaurs and nothing else.

Women don’t even do it for me. I am cursed to live my life in the misery that my most powerful emotional fantasies will never be even close to coming true. Life is like hell to me. 

I will never know true love.


So can you recommend me any good Dinosaur movies?

Yours ____________________

He needs your help! (and not just in a fashion sense).

OK readers it's over to you.

reckless eric.

Sharktopus (2010).
Dir: Declan O’Brien.
Cast: Sir Eric Roberts, Sara Malakul Lane, Kerem Bursin, Liv Boughn, Héctor Jiménez, Blake Lindsey, Ralph Garman and 'Hand' Shandi Finnessey.

"Ladies and gentlemen there's a killer shark-octopus hybrid headed this way. So please leave in a timely fashion". 

Eminent genetic scientist and professional sexy man Nathan Rand (the living legend that is Eric Roberts) alongside his geekily librarian-like bespectacled daughter Nicole (Phraw Rak Kkhrap Phom's Lane) have been busying themselves creating a brand new bio-weapon for use by the U.S. Navy.

As one does.

The culmination of this work, codenamed: S11, is a terrifying mix of shark and octopus (oh and a wee bit of porcupine if the spikes are anything to go by but obviously sharktopineporkopus didn't fit on the box) controlled from dry land via a huge pair of snazzy earphones screwed into it's skull.

And it's ready for testing.

The lights are on...

 Obviously as is the way with these things, on it's first trip out it accidentally bumps into a speedboat snapping one of the leads and re-tuning it's command frequency to Jazz FM causing the poor sod to go crazy bat (shark?) shit mental and start swimming to Mexico.

Who saw that coming?

Imagine the shite it would take to fill that.

The Navy, led by the amusingly monikered Commander Cox are understandably furious (even tho' it was him that pointed poor sharktopus in the direction of the boat in the first place) and demand that Rand returns sharktopus to them within the next 48 hours, leaving the sexy scientist no choice but to grab the largest bottle of scotch the budget will allow, get pissed and head down to Mexico himself alongside a couple of folk in ill fitting shirts and his daughter.

Is it just me who thinks he's not really taking the situation seriously enough?

Meanwhile sharktopus is getting a wee bit peckish from all this swimming lark, so you can imagine how delighted he is (well as delighted as a computer graphic from around 1984 can be) to find the coastline littered with hundreds of plastic breasted, anorexic wannabe actresses not too ashamed to thrust their bony crotches camera-ward and a variety of middle aged, balding has been and ne'erwere hunks all decked out in Matalan Hawaiian shorts.

He surely is a lucky shark (topus).

"It'll eat me whole!" "don't worry it'll spit that bit out!"

Arriving in Mexico around the same time as a number of sea-based killings are occurring, Rand begrudgingly contacts the slick 'n' sexy Andy Flynn (Bursin, best know for his role of Grauss in the hit indie short Thursday and for keeping your mums bed warm after bingo),  a comedy hat wearing, lecherous former shark hunter cum soldier of fortune who also happens to be an ex-employee of Rand who was sacked for lighting his own farts in staff meetings.

It seems the drunken, shiny manbreasted arse is the only hope we have of catching the sharktopus before it's too late.

Frankly I think we're screwed.

"Look at the dog!"

Not too surprisingly, Rand and his erstwhile buddies aren't the only ones in pursuit of the beast, also hot on its tentacles are fright-chinned news reporter Stacy Everheart (Boughn from the upcoming Dinoshark), her cameraman Bones (Jiménez, best known for dancing on Yo Gabba Gabba) and a drunken, womanising fisherman who's seen the creature first hand.

And if that wasn't enough characters to fill such a threadbare plot there's also the pot-bellied local pirate radio DJ Captain Jack (Garman from Family Guy), who alongside his scarily Stepford-like assistant Stephie (former hostess for "The Firm Express" workout system infomercials and Miss Missouri USA 2004 winner Finnessey) who could give sharktopus a run for it's money on the scary teeth stakes if I'm honest.

"Put it in me!"

 Now that all the pesky character and motivation stuff is done and dusted we can sit back and enjoy  ninety odd minutes of titanium tittied, bikini babes and iron balled boys being eaten by the titular monster as they innocently sunbathe, search beaches for Roman coins and bungee jump as our heroes argue, look quizzically at laptop screens, shoot stuff and in Eric's case get more and more pissed on duty free gin as you try to forget your once Oscar nominated career.

"Rrrrrrraaaaannnngggeeeerrrrsssss!"

And for the ladies viewing?

The film even has a heartfelt (and incredibly realistic) burgeoning romance between Nicole and Flynn as they bicker, fight and steal lustful gazes at each other before eventually falling in love and gazing out over a CGI sunset just in time for the end credits.

Awe.

He can see you naked.

From the man behind Wrong Turn 3, Rock Monster and Learn The Game: The Big Football Game comes quite possibly the greatest hybrid shark/octopus movie starring the one-time Master from Doctor Who ever made.


Showing Jaws, Cloverfield and Jurassic Park how it should be done, fear-Meister O’Brien has crafted a tension filled, thrill a minute beast of a movie with performances so real and effects so perfect that you will honestly believe sharktopus exists.

No, really.

With a script that holds such gems as "The sharktopus is armed and dangerous!” and a lead in Kerem Bursin to rival Mark Hamill in the charisma stakes, Sharktopus is as near as cinema gets to perfection.

If you only purchase one shark/octopus hybrid movie this year make it this one.

hey ya.

Outcast (2010).
Dir: Colm McCarthy.
Cast: James Nesbitt, Kate Dickie, Niall Bruton, Ciarán McMenamin, Therese Bradley, Hannah Stanbridge, Daniel Porter, Andrew Martin, James Cosmo, Karen Gillan, some Neds and a big, bald pink man-dog with tiny girls feet.

The smooth of thigh and dusky of skin Romanian/Scottish bird Petronella Bugge (Stanbridge) is a poor 'schoolgirl' (yeah right) whose dreams are dashed by her living in Edinburgh.

Admittedly it is one of Edinburgh's better kept neighbourhoods, I mean there may be piss stains in the lifts, graffiti on the walls and burnt out cars in the gardens but at least the place isn't full of comedy accented junkies.

Unlike The Royal Mile on a weekday.

Anyway, Petronella shares a small rat infested flat with her frighteningly wrinkly alcoholic mother, Jitta (Bradley, who was once in Taggart) and her disabled brother Wilf, who you can tell is meant to have 'the special needs' because he's portrayed as fat with a greasy side parting, top button done up and a habit of sticking his tongue into his bottom lip when he speaks.

Nope nothing clichéd or offensive to see here at all.

You can tell they shot it in Glasgow tho', if it had really been Edinburgh that dog would be on bricks.

Late one night comedy voiced Oirish woman Mary (Red Road's Dickie) and her mono-browed, flat faced son Fergal (Bruton, looking like a cross between Frankenstein's uglier wee brother and a whippet licking a cancerous growth from a gammy leg) move into the flat next door.

But not before mental Mary torches their transit van.

“Begorah! dis be da end of ta line, to be sure!” whispers Mary as her son toasts some crumpets on the van's dashboard.

Poor people eh?

After pouring a Guinness and cooking a potato, Mary waits for her boy to fall asleep (making sure he doesn't hit any more branches of the ugly tree on the way down)  before removing her clothes and starting to paint circles on the walls whilst chanting some made up words and flashing her arse.

Which is nice if you like that kind of thing.

You can tell they're not really Scottish, if they were they'd have stolen the guys camera and sold it for skag by now.

It seems that these random doodlings are actually ancient protection charms, but what is our pikey parent protecting Fergal from?

The fashion police?

Accents are us?

Turns out she’s protecting him from two down and out Oirish wizards, Liam and Cathal (Primeval's McMenamin and the ladies favourite Sir James of Nesbitt), who've been sent on a mission to kill Fergal (to death) for some reason or other.


Before they can even think about stabbing the ugly boy (it'd be a mercy killing if I'm honest) tho,  creepy Cathal must take part in a naked tattooing ceremony that will grant him supernatural senses.

Tho' hopefully not an enhanced sense of smell.

Or shame.

But that's not all, because once he's completed his task, he will gain special magical powers, a wee bit like a hairier less punchable Paul Daniels.

"You'll never get yer hands on mah lucky charms ya bastards!"

Unbeknownst to our man-muck stained magicians (but known to us obviously) Mary knows that they're coming (and not just cos she can smell them) and has a sneaky plan up her sleeve.

Well, it would be up her sleeve if she were wearing clothes.

And what does this sneaky plan involve?

Well it better be something pretty damned impressive after all this nude painting, naked tattooing and bird sacrifice.

Yup, you guessed it, she decides to lock him in the house.

But not all the time obviously, or he wouldn't be able to meet Petronella, her brother and the local inbred bad-boys.

More importantly had he been locked up for good the running time would have had to have been taken up with even more shots of Dickie's pale and uninteresting arse.

"Fire engine!"

As is always the way in these stories, Petronella and Fergal begin to fall in love, much to the chagrin of scary Mary and Petronella's sort of boyfriend Wee Boab, who decides to get his revenge by attempting to finger fuck Petronella's pal Ally (Amelia Pond herself Karen Gillan) in a kiddies play park.

Between mad mothers, Oirish wizards, wandering hands and teen romance you'd be forgiven for thinking that the writers wouldn't have room to fit anything else into the film.

But then you'd be dead wrong and really embarrassed (but not as embarrassed as poor Karen Gillan must have been having to let a tiny Ned boy violently shove his sweaty fingers up her skirt) because that night, when Ally is walking home she's attacked and killed by a big monster.

Your mums cum face (trust me, I know).

With Petronella and Fergal's relationship moving every closer to a bit of 'the sex' (fantastically - and subtly - shown by having shots of Fergal sweating and grimacing in a dirty bath whilst Petronella flies ever high on a kiddies swing, the wind catching her tiny pleated school skirt until it rides up and reveals her big black pants - see screenshot below), our paddy practitioners of magic closing in one the tattie loving twosome and the mysterious beast taking out bewitched social workers (it's way too convoluted to go into, trust me) it's only a matter of time before Mary's spooky premonition that "It all ends here" becomes a violent truth...

It's just a pity it doesn't come to pass a wee bit sooner.

Petronella's big black pants, make sure you keep the remote control in your free hand.

From the director of two episodes of the soggy Mini Driver underwater travesty The Deep comes quite possibly the most depressingly clichéd and arse clenchingly embarrassing horror movie I've had the misfortune to see in a long time.

Well, since A Serbian Film back in December anyway.

One of it's main faults is that the movie appears to have no idea what it wants to be.

Is it a hard hitting social commentary on working class Scotland?

A supernatural romance? 

A murder mystery?

A creature feature?

Or a messy mish-mash of all of the above?

I have a feeling that not even the writer and director know for sure.

Myleene klass: The pikey years.

Maybe I'm being a wee bit harsh tho' and the film isn't really aimed at me but at that small section of Middle England that has only ever seen poor people on television documentaries, think The Bill is cutting edge drama and who think that the last horror movie made in the UK was Carry On Screaming.

And those Americans who try to convince themselves that they're in fact Irish because their granddad wore some green trousers once.

If that is the case then can I just say now that you're welcome to it.

But can we have James Cosmo back when you're finished please?

"The most original horror since Let The Right One In" says the poster.

Original?

Nope, but horrific?

Fuck yes but unfortunately for all the wrong reasons.

It may only be January but I'll stick my neck out and say that I doubt anything else will come along this year to take Outcast's well deserved 'what's the fucking point?' crown.


And I'm definitely sure we that no other film this year will feature such an unintentionally amusing monster, the fucker looks like Ren Hoek from Ren and Stimpy on steroids.


I haven't laughed so much since the dead baby swapping storyline in Eastenders.



Well at least the year can't get any worse.

Can it?

planes, pains and awful mobiles.

Found this review loitering around the bottom of my in progress folder since I first watch the movie way back in October.

Yup, it's that good.

I've tried to make it as painless (and as short) as possible so apologies for anyone expecting the normal ranting and excessive sweary words.

Altitude (2010).
Dir: Kaare Andrews.
Cast: Jessica Lowndes, Landon Liboiron, Julianna Guill, Ryan Donowho and Jake Weary.

“Where the hell is the ground?”

After witnessing her mother die in a flashback plane crash and deciding to face her fear by learning to fly herself, box chinned wannabe pilot Sara (90210's council estate Michelle Ryan, Lowndes) has agreed to take her frighteningly clichéd college buddies; the toothy blonde bombshell Mel (Friday 13th's Guill), monobrowed, flat faced dumb as fuck drunken Jock Sal (Weary from As The World Turns), lovesick Emo Cory (Donowho...indeed) and Sara's freakish, comic book geek boyfriend Bruce (Degrassi: The Next Generation's Liboiron) away for a weekend of soft rock, hard cock and drink induced sickness. 

Teenagers eh?

Unfortunately as soon as they take off things start to go wrong, a big screw falls out of the wing and jams Sara's flaps (snigger), a pissed up Sal decides to argue with his missis and the plane starts ascending in a fairly uncontrollable manner.

Could it get any worse?

"Tell Richard Baker that I've found the turkey mountain!"

Well, funnily enough it can as from out of nowhere (I say nowhere but it's out of the sky obviously) a huge black cloud cum terrifying lightening storm appears and causes all the planes instruments (except Cory's guitar unfortunately) to start sparking before stopping working completely.

Oh yeah and Sara forgot to fill the plane up with petrol before they left.

Well, they say it it never rains...

But obviously in this case it is.

In fact it's not only raining cats and dogs but giant octopus tentacles too.

"Shite in mah mooooooooooooth!"

Yup you read that right.

It's as if the writer (hang your head in shame Paul A. Birkett) reckoned that all the other (impossibly clichéd) happenings were obviously not exciting enough to make the film even vaguely interesting so he thought he'd throw a gigantic (and admittedly well realised), fanny mouthed Lovecraftian monster into the mix for good measure.

Now if only he'd gone the Japanese tentacle route the whole thing would have brightened up no end.

I wouldn't want that swimming up my arse.

Cue forty five minutes of screaming, bitching, mid air attempts at screw removals, and overdose, a totally unnecessary comic book mutilation (the films most disturbing scene) and the revelation that one of the passengers holds a dark secret that could mean the difference between live and death...

 But will it be enough to save the audience from terminal boredom?

Possibly if you've never heard of The Twilight Zone.

From Kaare Andrews, ex Marvel artist, scribe and award winning Hulk cover doodlier comes a tale so threadbare and devoid of any surprises that even M. Night Shyamalan would knock it back before scrubbing his hands with bleach for even touching it.

And remember, this is the man that made The Happening.

And The Last Airbender.

As a plus point it does feature the most punchable cast ever to be seen in a horror movie and a twist so ludicrous and so obvious as to appear almost ironic in it's execution.

I can safely say without fear of spoiling it for any masochistic mentalists who having read this far that don't worry, it's not that it's all a dream.

Indeed the ending isn't that original.

Someone farted...and it was an eggy one.

Saying that tho' the monster looks good.

Which is a wee bit like letting Fred West off for being not bad at plastering.

the maggots have gushed forth...

Well everyone else seems to have an opinion (and a couple of those folk have even seen it) so who am I to miss a wee bit of bandwagon jumping?

On a more serious note the kids are off because of the snow so I wanted something we could watch as a family.

A Serbian Film (AKA Srpski Film. 2010).
Dir: Srdjan Spasojevic.
Cast: Srdjan Todorovic, Sergej Trifunovic, Jelena Gavrilovic, Katarina Zutic, Slobodan Bestic , Ana Sakic, Lena Bogdanovic, Luka Mijatovic and Andjela Nenadovic.

There are a load more folk too but my spell checker just had a breakdown.

"start with the little one."

Milo, former member of The Tweenies and semi-retired Serbian porn star (Todorovic, allegedly but I reckon it's really David Spade of Saturday Night Live fame) lives the good life with his beautiful wife Bela (Eastern Europe's very own council estate Famke Janssen, Gavrilovic, bless you) and their young, pretty lipped son Jake.

What he lacks financially he more than makes up for in his home life and buddy buddy relationship with his wide-faced brother, Marko (Bestic from the fantastic Serbian teevee hit Metla bez drske) , a white suited policeman with horses teeth.

Don't be too surprised to find out he's the good looking one in the family, after all they are Serbian.

But deep down our sexy friend is worried that his meagre savings wont be enough to support his family in the future and has taken to swigging Jack Daniels straight from the bottle and leaving his porn stash around for his wee boy to see.

A bit like my childhood then.

Then one day out of the blue Milo's former co-star, the frighteningly pneumatic Lejla (Zutic) contacts him with an offer he'd be hard put to refuse.

Or just hard judging by his past performances.

It appears that  bushy bearded millionaire pornographer cum artist cum in mah mooth director Max Vukmir (Trifunovic, who once made a film with Nicolas Cage) is a fan of Milo's earlier work (especially the episode where Doodles goes missing and Fizz loses her hair ribbon) and is intrigued by his legendary erection skills

Milo, it is rumoured, can keep - and maintain - a massive hard on just by thinking about it.

No big deal really, I've got one whilst I'm typing this.

"I'm shagging your weans!"

Vukmir is determined to take porn out of the gutter and into the realms of 'true art' and to this end offers Milo a huge wad of cash to be the movies star. The only rules are that Milo must remain ignorant to the films plot, never interacting with the other performers off stage as to keep his reactions 'true'.

If he agrees to these demands a car will arrive to pick him up every morning and he will be supplied with an earpiece where instructions and direction will be relayed to him.

Milo reckons that it sounds a pretty easy job for a lifetime of potatoes and Vodka (or whatever those pesky Serbians class as luxuries) so signs up straight away.

I mean none of it sounds at all sinister.

"No! I'm shagging your weans!"

A few days later (after a series of 'Rocky' still training montages intercut with shots of Marko having a wank whilst thinking of his sister-in-law) Milo is taken up the local social work offices where he's filmed reacting to a woman shouting at her daughter before being led into a room where the very same woman (I think seeing as the casting brief seems to have read 'Wanted: rough as fuck, interchangeable blonde women with builders thighs') gives him a blow job.

So far so so, if not for the fact that the room is full of giant screens showing the woman's daughter putting on bright red lipstick and sucking on a long sticky lollipop during the whole thing.

I'm assuming this has a hidden meaning but it was a wee bit too deep and intellectual for me to understand.

"And I'm watching him shagging your weans!"

Thinking to himself "Wahey! I'm getting paid to get girlie gobbles!" Milo begins to enjoy revisiting his old life until that is he's led into a room and is expected to let a battered and bruised woman touch his tadger whilst the young girl from earlier, dressed this time like Alice in Wonderland, sits and watches him.

Milo, obviously embarrassed to have his cock out in front of such a wee lassie has a major hissy fit and refuses to continue but as he goes to leave the battered bint bites down on his manhood whilst one of the crew appears from the shadows, grabbing Milo round the throat and forcing him to comply.

Milo is not a very happy chappie.

"I'm crushing your head. I'm crushing your head. Crush. Crush".

Wiping his cock on his trousers he storms off to see Vukmir, hoping to get to the bottom (fnarr) of what's going on.

It comes as a surprise to Milo (but to no-one watching) that despite the charm, well trimmed facial hair and a government contract, Vukmir is a bad man (hey! Do you think that the director is trying to say something about authority here? Maybe he's hinting that those well spoken Serbian politicians with their fancy suits and big words could really be bad men too?) and alongside his job as a minister for childcare and the like is head of an organisation that produces 'specialist porn for the more discriminating viewer.

One such project, explains Vukmir excitedly, in a scene that rivals The Mother of Tears  in it's misuse of a Baby Alive doll, involves a fat man delivering then shagging a newborn baby whilst the mother (not too surprisingly played by a rough as fuck, blonde with builders thighs) looks on approvingly.

Give me a minute whilst I fire off an angry letter to my local MP.

And Mattel.

Somewhere to park the directors bike at least.

Reeling from the shock revelation (well it's either that or he's so fucking offended that someone would attempt to pass off such a shoddy effect as being even remotely realistic) Milo stomps off to his car and drives off, not realising that Vukmir, just for a laugh, has spiked his with bull Viagra which, when given to humans (or even Serbians) creates a highly aggressive, permanently aroused sexual state that leaves the unfortunate victim open to all manner of suggestion.

No, really.

Coming over all woozy (which makes a change from having to endure shots of him coming over various, unattractive women's faces), Milo pulls over to the side of the road where almost immediately he's approached by a whorish brunette (I reckon it's the directors sister) who reaches into the car are starts fondling his cock.

Scarper! It's the parkie!"

The next thing Milo knows is that three day have passed and he's at home in his bed, encrusted in blood and semen, beaten to a pulp and with no memory of anything post the dirty bird hand job.

To most folk reading this would be a normal Saturday night, but as we've come to learn Serbia is bad (as are it's rulers, women, fashions etc.), so Milo heads back to Vukmir's pad to find out the truth.

Or at the very least find a stash of poorly hidden video tapes containing everything that's happened over the last seventy two hours.

Within minutes of arriving at Vukmir's (now deserted) house, Milo has indeed found a stash of  tapes and decides to go into the garden to view them.

Well it is a sunny day, which I gather is unusual in Serbia where it's more likely to be raining virgin's tears mixed with shame.

Armed only with a plate of egg and cress sandwiches and a weak lemon drink Milo begins his videotaped trip into terror.

High on the bull Viagra and totally under Vukmir's power, poor Milo is forced to shag the ample arse off a (you guessed it) nude yet still rough as fuck, blonde women with builders thighs (and arms) who's been thoughtfully handcuffed to a bed whilst Vukmir rants on about Serbia, Serbian war heroes, Serbian weather and Serbia in general.

Yup, I'm pretty sure all this violence is metaphorical.

This rousing speech regarding national identity is bought to a thrilling finale when Vukmir orders Milo to cut the woman's head off with a handy machete in order to allow him to experience the ecstatic joy of rigor mortis rogering.

Out of all the people in this scene she was the one I now felt the most jealous of, yes I know this poor woman has been raped and murdered but as a plus point at least she hasn't got to listen to all this teen angst political bollocks anymore.

Unlike the viewer who has at least twenty five minutes of this shite left to deal with.

Tape two consists of footage of Milo, off his tits, naked and chained face down on a sofa bed being anally violated by a hunky blond man.

So not all bad then.

Gerry McCann was shocked to find his cupboard was bare.

Pausing only to wipe the blood from his arse, Milo tentatively loads the final tape and finds himself looking at Lejla bound by the wrists and hanging in the middle of the set from Hostel, her face swollen and bloodied from having all her teeth removed.

Just like the Serbian government removed workers rights to vote on International X Factor or something.

Probably.

Suddenly a granddad-panted man with a bin bag on his head enters the room and forces his cock (well an obviously rubber representation of one) down her throat until she suffocates.

Milo is visibly stunned by what is revealed on the tapes.

How could Vukmir lie about making art porn with proper plots when he's really producing so-so, been there, seen that torture porn that went out of fashion around five years ago?

But that'll have to wait as there's only fifteen minutes left and there's plenty more buggery fun to fit in before then.

His memory returning thanks to the tapes, Milo begins to remember more and more details about his missing days.

And frankly it doesn't get any more entertaining.

Or interesting.

Srdjan Todorovic, up the arse, Serbia, 2010....he fucking wishes.

 After being dragged off the street where a gang of teenagers have caught him having a wank in an alley, Milo is taken back to Vukmir's where he's given even more drugs before being taken into a huge white lit room.

The room is empty save for a big bed where two bodies, all covered save their arses, one peachy and one fairly scrawny are waiting for him.

Milo is told to take his pick.

Deciding to take the easy (and more rounded) bottom first Milo  opts for the big round one, pulling his best stroke face and grunting whilst what sounds like a disco version of the theme to The Terminator pounds from the soundtrack.

I take it that this is meant to be fairly serious and a mite disturbing then.

Oh well.

 His boots might have been made for walking but his mooth was definitely made for shite-ing in.

Finishing up with a loud squish Milo hops over and gets to work on the smaller of the two bums, whilst the mysterious Y-Fronted masked man from earlier enters the scene and the (by now soggy seconded) first arse, grinning and groaning as he humps away.

Removing his mask at the moment of climax, Milo is shocked (well as shocked as a junked up arse raper can be) to see his brother grinning back at him, but that's not the worst of it, for the bottom that both of the sleazy siblings have just violated belongs to none other than Milo's wife, off her (fairly attractive) tits on a massive cocktail of drugs administered by the villainous Vukmir.

Surely this powerful and disturbing scene shows the "monolithic power of leaders who hypnotise you to do things you don't want to do"?

Well according to the film's ruddy faced, leather box jacketed writer Aleksandar Radivojevic it does and he wrote E-Snuff and reviewed a couple of horror films once so he knows a thing or two about, erm, stuff.

My personal opinion is that he's a huge fan of Japanese guro manga artist Uziga Waita from whose work huge chunks of A Serbian Film's imagery seems to have been lifted from wholesale.

Or am I the only person to notice this?

"To me!" "To you!"

Anyways, back to the 'plot' and as Milo tries to process what he's just seen (and done) he notices the covered figure beneath him start to stir.

Slowly pulling back the covers Milo is horrified to see that he's spent the last ten or so minutes shagging his own son up the shitter in a scene that could almost be seen as a stark visualisation of the molestation of the Serbian populace by the faceless Serbian government.

Well if you listen to Radivojevic (again) I'm sure that's what he'll tell you.

And if you're easily led (and easily pleased) you'll probably nod sagely and agree with him.

Rather than telling him to get to fuck, finishing your drink and leaving.

So with Milo finally realising the full horror of the situation, his mind snapping as he's dragged kicking and screaming back to reality the full base energy of a man betrayed comes to the fore, fuelling and act of savage violence not seen since Milan Stanković performed Ovo Je Balkan in Oslo to a mildly apathetic audience in early 2010....

After months of rumours, cancelled showings, moral outrage and reviews using words like 'resonance' and 'transgressive', the cinematic equivalent of two middle-class teenagers left home alone for the weekend and deciding to amuse themselves by shouting "Cunt!" at passers-by is here.

Billed by it's distribution company, Revolver Entertainment as 'an uncompromising, artistic and political statement from a unique film-making vision' rather than the more honest 'It wants to be a wee bit like a lobotomised Old Boy but with a uniformly uglier cast', A Serbian Film is one of the few cinematic experiences that has ever left me with no feelings toward it whatsoever.

Like an angry child it tries to act and sound like an adult as it screams and shouts in the corner, it's shrill voice getting louder and louder as it demands your attention.

But on taking time out to listen you realise it really has nothing to say. 

Unlike writer Radivojevic and director Spasojevic who quite cleverly (and/or cynically) have manage to wrap their movie up in a big shitey bow made up of all the bad bits of recent Serbian history, hoping that some of it will stick to as many wannabe intellectual journalists as possible and lessen the duo's chances of getting found out as the second rate hacks they really are.


Spasojevic is quoted as saying that "You have to feel the violence to know what it’s about".

Well if this is the case then I'm sorry but he's never been kicked hard enough.


But with him being in the public eye at the moment his chance may come sooner than he thinks.

I do hope so.

video naschy.

The strangely hypnotic Vicar of VHS and his evil cohort in cinematic sin The Duke of DVD have graciously asked me to take part in the first ever Paul Naschy Blogathon that they've unleashed (from beyond the grave obviously) over at their frankly magnificent MMMMMovies blog.

And not only did they ask very politely but they said that if I agreed they would burn both the set of photo's and the negatives.

So dear reader how could I refuse?

But which film to pick?

Well, after a random, blindfolded grab at the shelf (which first brought forth Banda Darwaza, different country completely but still subtitled) I reckoned it was probably easier to put all the Naschy stuff together before picking (otherwise I'd be here all night).

With that done my sticky little paws found themselves drawn to...

Curse of the Devil (AKA Return of the Werewolf, El Retorno de Walpurgis. 1973).
Dir: Carlos Aured.
Cast: Paul Naschy, Fabiola Falcón, Maria Silva, Ana Farra, Fernando Sánchez Polack, Maritza Olivares, José Manuel Martín, Ines Morales and Eduardo Calvo.

Damn the Exorcist! The Devil won't let go!

Returning home after a busy night working as a Sir Lancelotagram, Irenius Daninsky (the late, great Naschy AKA Jacinto Molina Álvarez and the reason we are here) is surprised to come upon his evil rival in the kissing knight business,  Baron Barry Bathory riding toward him across a deserted field.

Furious at the thought of such a second rate snogger (and crap dancer) stealing his work Irenius has no alternative but to challenge the beastly Baron to a full on Knight Fight.

With the sound a cheap tin on plastic filling the early morning air it's not too long before our hero has bested (tho' thankfully not beasted) the vile Baron, taking his large comedy proportioned head as a souvenir.

But the smell of blood, sweat and shame has driven Irenius into a righteous fury that the life of one bad Bathory isn't enough to quell.

Raising (and rousing) his most trusted men he decides to march on Bathory Towers, where he is certain that the Baron's wife, the professional vixen and part-time bad girl Elizabeth Bathory (a behatted and narrow of hips yet still quite fit for an old bird Silva) is holding a Black Mass.

Crikey.

Just in case you forget what we're talking about.

Entering the castle just in time to catch mad Lizzie cutting an oil-covered naked gypsy girl's throat cut, our Christian crusaders waste no time in taking the whole coven into custody and, after the shortest (and by the looks of it the most legally dubious) trial in the history of Witch-Finding hanging them from the bridge at Daninsky's castle.

Which, admittedly is a good use of space which really adds contrast to the stark brickwork.

All that is except Elizabeth who, being the leader of the coven (and more importantly the only real actress in the scene) is tied to a stake and set alight.

Which (unfortunately for Irenius and his kin) give her just enough time to curse his family with what must be the most convoluted threat ever made by a burning witch.

With her dying breath she explains that one of his descendants will, at some point accidentally kill one of her descendants, thus setting the (most probably) vile curse in motion.

And you wonder why you're girlfriend wont invite you home to meet her folks?

Now the back story is done and dusted we can all flash forward a few years and meet the mournful and slightly melancholic Waldemar Daninsky (It's Naschy! Again!), the last of the Daninsky's, his roly-poly housemaid Malitza (Ana Farra but not the one from Scary Movie) and 'man-servant' Maurice (Cannibal Man's Polack).

Imagine Bruce Wayne with a third of the cash but twice the charisma, topped off with William Shatner's hair and you're halfway there.

Naschy: Dreamy.

Being a closeted, rich type, Waldemar spends his days moping around reading poetry and taking long walks in the woods While his servants try (in vain) to get him to take up a hobby or talk to girls.

Things seem to be turning round for our troubled hero tho' when one day, completely out of the blue he asks if he can join Maurice on a hunting trip.

You see, it appears that a wolf is loose around the forest scaring the local farmers chickens and it's Maurice's job (seeing as he's the only person with a gun license) to kill it.

Armed with a swanky new Chinese fowling piece (made in Birmingham, England naturally) and bedecked in his best tweed jodhpurs, Waldemar throws himself whole heartedly into tracking a wolf, letting out a loud "Woohoo!" when he finally bags the beast.

Imagine then his surprise when on closer inspection of the body he discovers that it wasn't a wolf at all but a man!

And he wasn't even that hairy.

He couldn't have been a Werewolf could he?

Well if he was his gypsy brethren (who aren't at all named Bathory oh no) aren't saying, seeing as they're too busy being huffy and refusing money from Waldemar whilst trying to sell pegs to all and sundry.

Whilst all this soap-like drama is going on the gypsy elders, hidden deep within a nearby cave, are busy summoning the Devil himself in order to set the second part of the Bathory curse, which seems to involve a spandex clad mime taking various busty gypsy wenches up the arse to see who has the sexiest cum face, into motion.

Which is nice work if you can get it.

Ines Morales, up the casino, Benidorm, 1973....Yesch!

Thru' all the grunting, groaning and cross-eyed lip biting it's Ilona (scrumptious Necrophagus star and another survivor of Cannibal Man, Morales) that comes out on top (albeit with slightly scuffed knees) and, posing as a helpless lady with a low cut dress, manages to worm her way into Waldemar's home.

And his king sized bed.

After on particularly heavy night of love making, Ilona, clad only in an old ladies chiffon nightie sneaks back into our unlucky chums room clutching a wolf skull and a pen knife.

Unluckily for Waldemar this isn't some kind of proto-Basic Instinct shagathon but the final rites in the dreaded Bathory curse.

Finally.

Slitting her wrist and wiping the fresh blood over the skull Ilona plunges the little wolf teeth into Waldemar's ample manbreast before disappearing into the night.

But just to show that bad things do happen to bad people she's soon hacked to death by a passing axe wielding mentalist.

So that's ok then.

Waking up on the bedroom floor with a terribly itchy tit, Waldemar is helped back to bed by Maurice and an overly concerned Malitza.

It seems that last night was the eve of Walpurgis and being of good old fashion pikey folk, Malitza has an inkling of what may have been done to poor Waldemar.

There's no time for Malitza to voice her fears tho' as no sooner has Waldemar got up and gotten dressed than the local police type bloke turns up to inform him that the axe murderer that killed Ilona appears to have set up home in the woods and is intent on annoying the neighbours.

A prayer before mooth shite-in.

If all that wasn't enough to keep everyone interested then the fact that a famous Belgian industrialist, his blind wife and beautiful young(ish) daughters have moved into the house a the edge of the woods (tho' not at the edge of the park unfortunately) it at least cheers Waldemar up and he decides to go for a walk in the hope of coming across them.

The daughters that is, I mean if he came across the mum she'd probably think it's was just raining or something.

Tiptoeing thru' the tulips Waldemar hears a cry from in the distance and runs toward the noise only to find older sister Kinga (the permanently middle aged star of National Mechanics, Falcon) teetering precariously on a ledge after attempting to pick some flowers.

As our hunky hero helps the poor maiden down their eyes meet and it's love at first sight, much to the annoyance of the rabbit toothed yet incredibly bouncy breasted younger sister Maria (the pixie-like Olivares) who, quite understandably, fancies a wee bit of Naschy nookie for herself.

"Awight hen....who's first for a suckle?"

As the romance blossoms and the full moon rises so does the body count, the locals (and police) blaming these lunar head loppings on the murderer still at large in the woods.

So why is it that Waldemar keeps waking up with dirty feet?

Whatever Malitza knows she isn't telling.

Smiling for the first time since the film began and preparing to announce their engagement Waldemar receives a letter from his bride to be asking to meet at their secret love nest (a cottage at the edge of the woods) and hoping for a bit of pre-nup rumpy Waldemar quickly washes himself.

But he's in for a shock on his arrival seeing as that's where the axe man is hanging out.

And the note was sent by Maria, not Kinga.

It's like a less fantastical Eastenders isn't it?

Arriving just in time to see the killer attempting to stick his chopper in Maria Waldemar jumps into the fray, beating the badman within an inch of his acting ability before stabbing him with a letter opener and throwing him out of an open window.

Turning to Maria for an explanation he notices two quite important things.

1. she's naked.

and

2. Her breasts are indeed much perkier than her sisters.

Five fingers, never touched the sides.

It seems that far from being the flirty little whore we mistook her for (which is a shame) Maria just wants to be loved and is sick and tired of being treated like a child.

Bless.

After pouring out her heart she turns to Waldemar and confesses "I came her a virgin and don't intend to leave one".

Waldemar, being a strong upstanding guy does the right thing and sticks it in her.

And before any of you start tutting we've all done it at some point or another if we're honest about it.

What we haven't done tho' (probably) is transformed into a Werewolf during intercourse and bitten the throat out of our partner.

Which is unfortunately, what occurs here.

Arse.

With the room (and Maria) awash with blood, hair and semen Waldemar leaps from the window ready for the hunt, leaving Malitza to come out of hiding and tidy up the mess.

Bless her, I mean who wouldn't like a granny that did that for you?

The locals (being country bumpkins and therefore thick as pig shit) are still intent on blaming the escaped axe man for the crimes, until that is they find his corpse rotting away in a barn with a letter opener bearing the initials WD sticking out his chest.

This (fairly circumstantial) evidence couple with the man sized paw prints and hairballs scattered about immediately points to a Werewolf wandering around the place and by a using a complex method of elimination it's decided the real killer is none other than Waldemar Daninsky himself.

To prove this the villagers indiscriminately murder Maurice before heading into the woods with pitchforks aloft and shouting loudly.

As the rampant mob gather numbers, smashing letterboxes and upturning flower pots as they go Kinga realises that there is only one thing she can do to save Waldemar's eternal soul...

But does she have the courage and love to see it thru?

"Blood in mah big hairy mooth!"

Back in the days before t'internet (and, gulp even video) the only way you could find out about new (ok let's be honest here, any) horror movies was from local library books (usually written by Leslie Halliwell, a writer whose own ideas of good horror once noted that Night of The Living Dead had killed the genre and nothing of any worth had been made since) or one of the very few genre magazines available (stand up and be counted House of Hammer and on the rare occasions it got imported to a wee newsagent nearby Famous Monsters).

As a precocious seven year old force fed a Saturday night teevee double bill of Universal and RKO classics these greats of film literature were a godsend to me and I would spent all my spare time pouring over grainy black and white shots of  Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney Jr. as the tragic Lawrence Talbot.

Bejesus and Mary Chaney.

I'll never forget tho' (I have a good memory) that one particular issue had a photo of the Wolfman I'd never seen before, true it was labelled 'the Werewolf' and although the accompanying picture of a fraught young man had a hint of Chaney about him his name wasn't Talbot.

It was Daninsky.

Like any curious kid of that age I examined the picture for a few minutes before completely forgetting about it and turning the page to reread an article on what looked like the greatest monster movie ever.

Ah Crater Lake Monster where are you now?

The love of horror stayed with me (as did the love of Universal) and thanks to magazines like Starburst information became easier to find, the Saturday night double bills sometimes featured the films of Eddie Romero alongside the old faithfuls and movies like Dawn of The Dead and Phantasm had fuelled my geek gene, forcing me to learn more about the directors and their influences.

As a teenager you can probably tell I was never asked out on dates.

The strange sad faced man with the foreign name seemed to have disappeared without a trace tho' and whilst Coffin Joe was being photographed with Christopher Lee at swanky Parisian horror conventions it would take a controversial censorship bill of epic proportions to bring the legendary Paul Naschy to the attentions of young horror fans in dear old blighty.

Yup, I hate to admit it but it's thanks to the 1984 'video nasty' furore and the inadvertent banning of Naschy's 1975 monster mash The Werewolf and The Yeti that finally introduced me to the great man's work.

And oh boy did I hate it.

Bizarrely enough, of all the films I devoured at the time this is one of those that I have only the vaguest recollections of; something about the infamous Abominable Snowman playing the bagpipes during a fight scene and being sent out of the room to get biscuits when Naschy got involved in a wee bit of threeway action comes to mind.

But the most upsetting thing about it, and I'll admit this stayed with me for years, wasn't the gore or the sex (or even the lack of decent biscuits at my nan's).

It was because this young upstart seemed to be taking all the ideas, the drama and heartache (plus the dissolve effects) of my beloved Universal movies and trying to make them his own.

How very dare he.

The second most terrifying VHS case of all time.

So being the sensible and knowledgeable film connoisseur that I was (you know, the way you can only be when you're 14) there was only one thing I could do.

Laugh loudly at the screen and flounce back to my 'serious' horror movies, tutting audibly at anyone who even mentioned that film.

Looking back I find myself dying a wee bit inside at the thought of being such a know all little brat, so caught up in my own (movie-based) importance that I totally failed to see the irony in the situation.

The whole fact that they reminded me of the Universal series was that Naschy was a fan too.

It's just that he knew how to have fun with his 'fannishness'.

And there's no better example of that than Curse of The Devil, taking as it does it's basic storyline from the Universal Wolfman (well it was written by Curt Siodmak so you might as well steal from the best), the mad witches and mysterious castles from Poe era Corman and it's copious amounts of tit and fanny shots from early seventies Hammer before mixing the whole thing together with a continental flair usually kept for high quality Euro-porn to make something so comfortable yet so unique that you can't help but fall for it's charms.

A wee bit like the ladies round the great man himself.

And talking of the great man, it's true that it looks like most of the scant budget went on styling his hair (both as Daninsky and the Werewolf) but the lack of polish and (sometimes inappropriate) use of library music only adds to the enjoyment factor.

Yes you may have seen it all before but never quite like this.

If you've never experienced the joys and heartache of  Waldemar Daninsky them I suggest you use the Christmas holidays to catch up and to Mr. Naschy a (slightly late) but heartfelt apology.

Sorry I never got the joke sir, I was too busy trying to get my head round the exploding doorknob in Suspiria at the time.

And at least I grew out of that serious geek phase.

I hope.