I’m already behind on my westerns . . . fail . . . but I’ll have to continue ignoring them for just a little bit longer because Road House popped up on TV the other day, and I’d somehow gone my whole life without seeing this cinematic masterpiece.
Well, I feel more fulfilled as a person now.
Stephen King adaptations are, historically, not awesome. For every Stand by Me or The Shawshank Redemption, there is a Needful Things — or a Dreamcatcher — or a Children of the Corn — or a Lawnmower Man — or a Maximum Overdrive — or a Tommyknockers — or, hell, even a Haven. Which, hey, could be good, for all I know — I’ve seen maybe ten minutes of it — but the show seriously stretches the meaning of the term “based on”. Hell, the show seriously stretches the meaning of the term “loosely inspired by”. Seriously, go read The Colorado Kid at some point and then watch even a promo of Haven on Syfy. It’s ridiculous.
But I’m not here to talk about Haven. I’m here to talk about another television treasure.
Periodically, Mekaela and I just have to pop in this DVD and rejoice in glorious mockery. As it’s a four hour miniseries, I’ll only be covering the first half now, but look for the second part of this review later in the week.
For now . . . welcome to Derry. Home of the creepiest clowns and the worst match cuts you’ll ever see on screen.
I love writing my excessively wordy reviews, but sometimes they are a bit draining because — unfortunately — I’m not a particularly fast writer, and 3,000 words of snarky analysis actually does take me a while. So I think I might make the Baby Review a real thing on this blog because, hey. Some movies don’t take much more than a thousand. For instance . . .
If you like mystery comedies, well, this is a big’un.
Sometimes, I regret not having grown up in the 1950’s and 60’s when impressionable young children could ride their bicycles down to the local theater and see a double feature of cheap grindhouse and bad monster movies. (Everything I know about the 50’s, by the way, I learned in a Stephen King story.)
So I was pretty happy when my theater of choice — the Roxy — started having Cult Film Nights once a week. Last Thursday, I left my comfy couch to meet my friend Lindsey for a showing of Gremlins and Silent Night, Deadly Night.
I had every intention of reviewing both films on this blog, but right now I don’t actually have a lot to say about Gremlins — possibly because I need a second viewing before I make up my mind, or possibly because the insanity that was Silent Night, Deadly Night just obliterated my brain for anything else that came before it.
Oh yes. This was a very special Christmas movie.
So I made this horror movie challenge for myself at the beginning of the year, and I can already tell you that I’m going to fail it. Abysmally. We’ll talk about punishment come December, but for now, let’s get to reviewing one of the movies actually on the list.
. . . also known as Cemetery Man.
Honestly? I don’t know what the hell to make of this thing.
As many of my friends could tell you, I’m a bit of a zombie enthusiast. Yet, sadly, I developed my love for zombies late in life (like, in my late teens/early twenties) and am thus still catching up on many classics. For instance . . .
I can’t say I loved this movie the way some people love it, but it was a lot of fun to watch.
Taking a brief break from superhero movies—I realize the last six films I’ve reviewed have been The Incredible Hulk, The Avengers, and Batman through Batman & Robin—I thought I might try something a little bit different.
I don’t know if it’s my favorite alien invasion movie of all time, but it’s really good.
The worst thing about not being a professional movie critic is that it doesn’t matter how much time you spend working a review—you could write your little heart and soul out, bleed yourself dry, and you’re still not getting paid. On the other hand, the very best thing about not being a professional movie critic is that when you stumble upon a film that you’ve told yourself to review—even though you know full well that it is the kind of cinematic trash that will make you weep blood, the very sort of abject horror that you can’t possibly stomach without vast quantities of alcohol in your system—well, you don’t have to watch it without vast quantities of alcohol in your system.
Thus, may I present . . .
. . . The Batman & Robin Drinking Game!
(Please drink responsibly. AKA, don’t use vodka. You won’t make it four minutes.)
Well, Tim Burton had a vision of Gotham, and it was dark and gothic. Joel Schumacher, on the other hand?
He saw it as a bit more colorful than that.
My Geek Blasphemy 