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Comic Review: The Wolfman Returns in Ferals

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Review by Comix

Werewolves have been a staple of human folklore for as long as their been a reason to fear the dark. Even the wise and reasonable Greeks had their own version of the lycanthropes in the form of the Neuri tribe, who once a year, were believed to change into wolves and terrorize the country side for several days. Even now, most countries have a version of a werewolf creature to warn their children about, even if they themselves don’t rightly believe it, and have unfortunately turned the once feared man/animal (or manimal, if you will) into a caricature of its former self. The comic Ferals, on the other hand, takes all that is good and terrifying about werewolves and slams it straight into your face with a rolling epic of blood, guts, and fangs. No more hot boys with stunning abs, no more glued on fake-fur clinging desperately to a C-actors face, and for god’s sakes, no more brooding! This is the comic that brings werewolves back to their natural habitat, killing people in the most brutal way possible.

Ferals starts off pretty normal with a shredded up dead body found splattered all over a mobile home. As tensions fly high between the corpses best friend Dale Chestnutt and the victims former wife, Dale decides to take a dip into the local dive bar and drink his woes away. It is here that he meets a mysterious woman who would change his life forever. He immediately finds himself, lets say, getting acquainted with her, and then stumbles drunk back to his friend’s wife and gets acquainted with her as well. Come morning though, all hell breaks loose. He wakes up find his former lover getting ripped apart by the narliest werewolf this side of London and as he chases it back into the woods, the cops appear and haul him in for the murder of his bar lay, who was also torn up to mincemeat. As he slowly comes to realize that the thing is after him and out to kill anything close, life hits the murder button. The werewolf bursts in and kills the cops, Dale gets bit and starts turning weird, blood and gore fly everywhere! It’s a wild rumpus! Suddenly, all the strange starts coming out of the woods. Who really was that woman who he plowed in the bathroom, what’s up with these bizarre secret agents, and how does this tie back to a weird cult now dead set on hunting him down? Full of twists and turns, Ferals keeps you on your toes all the way to the last page.

Ferals (published by Avatar Press) is just the punch to the gut that the werewolf genre needed. Foregoing any attempt at humanity or civility in the beasts, it takes the classic approach of making the werewolves snarling, savage sons of a bitches with a taste for blood. The writer, David Lapham, does an amazing job at bringing the horror as close to real life as possible. Instead of shying away from the sex and gore, he goes right for it, ensuring that your reading experience is chock-full of guts and titties. But it’s not just some exploitative, grindhouse comic aimed to shock your grandma; it also takes the time to create a great story and some solid characters. Dale’s adventures into werewolf land really stick with you and have you reaching for the next issue before it’s even out, especially when they end every comic on a cliffhanger. By the way, David Lapham is quickly rising up to be the next big horror writer, having taken over for Garth Ennis for a bit on Crossed and proved himself just as capable to write the genre of “fucked-up” as his predecessor. Don’t be shy on picking up his other work.

The art of Feral by Gabriel Andrade is just as kick-ass as the script, bringing to life all the bleeding bits into a fantastic, splash page art that leaves little to the imagination. He’s also credited with doing most of the cover work, and most of the alternate cover work, getting the honor of having a lot of creative control. If you want to grab the comic—which for trust me, you do—every issue is available through the Avatar website and probably your local comic book store. Unfortunately, there isn’t a graphic novel available yet, so you’ll have to satisfy yourself with the single issues, of which each one has at least three alternative covers. If you’re a stickler for collecting alternative covers, by all means, buy each version, but it’s the same story inside. Personally I think having alternative covers is scam grab more money, but who am I to judge? The comic is currently up to issue 12 and it’s in the middle of it’s second story arc, but I definitely recommend starting from the beginning. There’s a lot going on and you want to get the back story before you dive into it. Now go out and get it! Do it before the wolves come.

 

The Vampires of War – Baltimore by Mike Mignola

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Review by Comix

“War is Hell.”

This particular sentiment has been muttered by every soldier who has survived the horrors of battle; every man that delved deep into the pit of patriotism and swam back up covered in blood. But what happens when the actions of one man on the war front literally brings Hell on Earth? Such is the premise of Baltimore, both a novel and a comic, about a man who inadvertently wakes up a centuries old vampire that curses all of Europe with a vampire sickness, causing the populace to turn on each other in a rage of blood lust. Though originally out in 2007 under the title Baltimore, or The Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire, the work has become a solid, continuous series thanks to Dark Horse’s tenacious love for all things Mike Mignola, which makes sense. Mike Mignola is a bad-ass.

The whole series is centered around a WWI soldier named Captain Lord Henry Baltimore who one day leads a group of men to a righteous enemy battle in the middle of the night. Though his campaign was successful, he loses half his men and passes out in the field, only to wake up to a huge bat trying to eat him. What he doesn’t know is that the bat is actually a vampire and as he lunges for the winged fury with his bayonet, he rips out the bats eye and starts all kinds of trouble. Soon, it is revealed that the vampire is much older and powerful than once thought and in retaliation, he lets loose a wave of sickness that turns the infected into vampires. As Baltimore struggles with the guilt of being the harbinger of the apocalypse, he also finds that by the time he gets home, his family is dead, and his wife – well, the vampire kills her himself. It is here that Baltimore decides he’s done with this shit and goes on the hunt to find the his new enemy, now named The Red King Vampire, so he could splatter his brains all over the ground.

The comic Baltimore’s first incantation was actually not a comic, but an illustrated novel written by Christopher Golden and illustrated by Mike Mignola. Though it sounds like another fancy word for graphic novel, it’s actually closer to a Dante’s Divine Comedy type of book, where the story is accompanied by pictures. Sort of like a really bad-ass kids book with vampires and blood. But don’t mistake the format for something kiddy, the writing is beautiful and very-much gory, with a very poetic undertone similar to a modern Poe. Though Golden is responsible for the writing the novel out, it’s Mignola that is credited with creating the entire story. Why he didn’t write it himself is beyond me, but Golden does an excellent job of conveying the feeling of old-timey Gothic horror, so it’s not that much of an issue. Also, Mignola and Golden have known to work together pretty frequently, releasing two other novels, Joe Golem and the Drowning City and Father Gaetano’s Puppet Catechism, and collaborated on several Hellboy novels, so if you’re liking Baltimore, check out their other works.

After the novel, Baltimore took a bit of break for about three years, and in 2010 came back as a comic that has been going strong ever since. Once again, we find Mignola and Golden take up the mantle of writing the epic out, but unfortunately, Mignola does not illustrate the comics. He leaves that particular task to the ever talented Ben Stenbeck, who has also had a long history of working with Mignola on both Hellboy and other works. Of course, as a huge Mignola fan, I would kill to see him illustrate a comic again, but I’ll have to wait until the newest Hellboy – Hellboy in Hell – comes out before I get to see that. (By the way, that’s happening very soon on December 5. Have your money ready.) The comics themselves stay very true to the original story and continue the journey of Henry Baltimore as he crosses paths with vampires, demonic nuns, and sea ships stuffed to the brim with burning plague victims. As he travels, he befriends strange people and fights evil creatures, the whole while hunting The Red King to seek his ultimate revenge!

Baltimore is pretty widely available at your local comic books stores. The book is still in circulation and the first two story arcs, The Plague Ships and The Curse Bells, have already been collected into some sweet graphic novels. There is also a two comic story arc called Dr. Leskovar’s Remedy and two one shots, The Play and The Widow and the Tank, the latter not yet released. The idea is that there is one more one-shot coming out and that the Dr. Leskovar’s Remedy and the three one-shots are going to be collected into an upcoming collection, so if you don’t feel like getting the loose issues, you can always wait until they release the graphic novel. Whichever you do, if you’re a fan of Gothic horror, or even old school vampires, Baltimore is a great addition to your comic library and is already set to become a modern horror classic.

 

DVD Review: Piranhaconda

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Review by Ben Bussey

Yes, Roger Corman’s still alive. No, he has not yet tired of lending his name to half-brained SyFy Channel films with a concept surely concieved over beers in a titty bar, scribbled down on a napkin, accidentally slipped into a stripper’s thong, then hastily retrieved before being rushed to American World Pictures HQ. So what this time, eh? We’ve had Sharktopus, Dinoshark, Dinocroc vs. Supergator; so now what silly title can we come up with that provides an excuse for a poorly rendered CG beastie to wreak havoc in an off-season holiday destination? What’s that you say? Half snake half killer fish? Well alright, greenlit. I’m sorry, what? It’s not really half-fish, more just a big bastard snake with big teeth? Ah, who gives a shit, still greenlit.

But believe it or not, there might be a tiny, tiny bit more to Piranhaconda than you might initially think. You see, this isn’t just a people versus giant killer snake movie; it’s a B-movie crew versus gun-toting kidnappers versus giant killer snake. All the difference, wouldn’t you say?

So here’s how it breaks down. A typically ragtag, mismatched bunch of low budget filmmakers – including would-be scream queen Kimmy (Shandi Finnessey), charming heroic stunt guy Jack (Ribb Hillis) and script supervisor/’tattoo final girl on my forehead’ Rose (Terri Ivens) – are shooting a shitty sequel to a shitty slasher movie which, for some unexplained reason, is being shot in Hawaii. Yeah, because the first thing any underpriced hack-’em-up flick does is up sticks for exotic faraway locations. Girls will accept money to take their tops off and let you spray fake blood on them in any arse-end of nowhere town, you know. Anyway, they think they’ve got problems when their funding gets cut and they’re forced to abandon the shoot – but of course, they’re wrong. First off, they have to deal with the aforementioned gang of kidnappers – who, again for no apparent reason, count among their number the Artist formerly known as Mrs Rod Stewart/Stacey’s Mom, AKA Rachel Hunter – who hope to get a hefty ransom from the studio. And then, of course, there’s the big fuck-off man-eating snake. And who should be on the trail of the fucker but Michael bastard Madsen. If you can’t quite believe he’s in this film, he’s right there with you. Ours is not to question.

These AWP/SyFy productions are always infuriating for the simple reason that they’re made specifically for SyFy, which means minimal gore, little to no swearing, and absolutely no nudity. This really does not compute when the guy behind the camera is Jim Wynorski, a director who got his start with Corman a good three decades ago on the near-legendary Chopping Mall, yet – unlike Coppolla, Scorcese, Demme et al – is still one of Corman’s go-to guys in 2012. The thing is, up to this point Wynorski’s monumental filmography (90+ under various aliases – the American Franco, anyone?) has been pretty much defined by two things, and lots of them. Yes, I’m talking about bazoomas, melons, jugs, sweater puppies, fun bags, love muffins, tig ol’ bitties, Danny DeVitos (that one has haunted me since Eli Roth used it in Piranha 3D). So we see the problem. By all rights Piranhaconda should be as resplendent with bountiful boobage as, say, Dinosaur Island or his Bare Wench Project series (okay, I haven’t actually seen the latter but I’m going to go out on a limb and assume it’s got a lot of tits in it), but those pesky TV guidelines forbid it. Ever hear the classic Bill Hicks routine about hotel porno movies with the pornography cut out of it…?

Well, it may be somewhat neutered, but Wynorski’s grubby fingerprints are still much in evidence. By comparison with plenty of the more recent SyFy monster flicks, we have a great more top-heavy actresses here clad either in bikini tops or low cut and invariably wet vests, all filmed in a typically voyeuristic fashion. Presumably it’s the only reason Rachel Hunter’s there, as she sure as shit doesn’t serve much narrative function or bring much else to the table as an actress. And the director knows exactly what he’s doing when Terri Ivens stumbles into the giant snake’s nest, and finds her torso coated in some thick, transluscent sticky stuff. Brings to mind that moment in Eight Legged Freaks, when a giant spider pounces on a towel clad Scarlet Johannson and sprays her down with distinctly white and sticky webbing. Now what might that be supposed to resemble, I wonder?

Doubtless there’s also more to be said on how the monstrous antagonist obviously looks like a gargantuan penis, but I think we get the general idea. Anyway, we might be in slight danger of reading too much into a really, really silly film with spectacularly sub-par CGI, extraordinarily lazy cinematography and editing, and locations which are clearly nowhere near as warm and sunny as the filmmakers would have us believe. Also high on the list of SyFy crimes against monster movies are the death scenes; they obviously can’t be especially graphic, but do they really have to be so fucking repetitive? Seriously, every single death is practically identical: Piranhaconda pounces forward, human disappears in cloud of red mist, and their shoes go tumbling. Whilst the film has yet to go by the BBFC, a 15 certificate is predicted; in no way is this warranted, particularly in a country where Jaws is rated 12.

But at this point, pretty much all of this goes without saying. No one expects intelligence, depth and interesting characterisation in movies like this. It’s 85 minutes of unchallenging silliness, and really, for what it is it’s perfectly good fun. The cast are likeable, the dialogue is agreeably dumb, the psychobilly theme tune is reasonably toe-tapping, and you’ll forget about most of it within minutes of the end. Yeah, it’s crap, but it’s not crap crap. And anyway you look at it, it’s still better than Piranha 3DD.

Piranhaconda is released to Region 2 DVD on 7th January, from Chelsea Films.

Review: Megan Is Missing (2011)

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Review by Annie Riordan

There wasn’t no innernet way back when I was a stupid teenage girl in the long ago 1980s. Back then, if you wanted to meet one o’ them seckshul predators, you had to get on a bus and go all the way to the mall! Why I can’t even tell you how many times I went out walking with my friends – uphill, both ways, barefoot, in ten feet of snow – and not one single serial killer tried to lure us into his windowless van with the offer of illicit candy. Goddamned kids have it so easy nowadays with their chat rooms and their Wifi’s and their 4chans and stuff.

For the first hour of its runtime, “Megan Is Missing” is a spectacularly stupid chronicle of the lives of two Hollywood teenagers. Megan – she of the ominous title – is the popular slut whose mother hates her and whose dark past of molestations committed by stepfathers and camp counselors alike drives her to be ever more promiscuous, attending parties where she drinks too much, smokes too much (without actually inhaling) and blows any popped-collared douchecanoe who snaps his fingers. Her best friend Amy is her utter antithesis; sweet, virginal, plain, unpopular, still called “Princess” by her doting daddy. The inexplicable bond between these two seems to stem from their bottomless low self esteems, a thick glue of worthlessness that holds them together more powerfully than 3M Scotch Weld.

Megan’s life is at an all-time low when, lo and behold, a new guy pops up just in time to make her feel pretty and special. His name is Josh. He hangs out online a lot but, goshdarnit, his webcam is conveniently broken so Megan can’t see what he looks like. He sounds super cool though and he’s really nice, so Megan agrees to meet him behind a slummy diner in about 20 minutes. Sounds totally legit, right? When Megan fails to show up for school the next day, Amy knows that something is terribly wrong. No one else seems too concerned, until the one day turns into several, and then the days turn into weeks. The MISSING fliers go up. The local news is all over the story like flies on shit. Security cam footage turns up, showing Megan being led away from the diner by a strange man. But Megan herself has disappeared without a trace.

Amy has an idea about what may have happened and stupidly logs online looking for Josh, and finds him…or has he found her? The cool, sweet veneer is gone: Josh is a sick fuck, and while he doesn’t admit to having taken Megan, he assures Amy that the same thing – or worse – can happen to her if she doesn’t keep her big fucking mouth shut. Wisely, Amy reports this to the police. Not so wisely, she wanders around the lonely hills and wooded areas of LA by herself. Apparently, the scene in which Amy’s short term memory is surgically removed from her brain was cut from the film’s final reels. It’s the only thing I can think of that would explain Amy’s fucking idiocy in wandering off alone after having been told by a faceless psychopath that he is constantly watching her.

Amy disappears, but unlike Megan, we know who has her and exactly what’s happening to her, because the final 20+ minutes of film is an excruciating video diary which reveals – in sickening detail – Amy’s harrowing ordeal. What started out as a slightly racy (and, quite often, badly acted) After School Special about the tragic results of Stranger Danger, veers right the fuck off the road and slams headfirst into torture porn land. If Audition and Hostel had a baby, and aborted it, and then sewed its corpse onto the ass end of an episode of 90210, it might look a lot like this movie. It’s a filthy, grimy, ugly surprise at the bottom of a moldy box of cereal. I’ve seen worse – Jin Won Kim’s “The Butcher” and “The Poughkeepsie Tapes” come to mind – but this is pretty fucking unpleasant. Rolled in sugar and spice, then deep fried in diarrhea. Okay, I think I’ve exhausted the gross metaphors for now – you get the idea.

This film claims to be based on a true story, although I have yet to learn what that true story is. Sadly, there’s too many true stories to which this movie can be compared: Polly Klaas, Amber Hagerman, Adam Walsh, etc. Maybe I’m better off not knowing. As a cautionary tale, “Megan Is Missing” is both stereotypically shallow and graphically extreme, giving us the Grimm Fairy Tale version of online predator danger: completely devoid of common logic and parental supervision, then wallowing in the unsanitized, unDisneyfied world of the real Grimm’s tales, where nothing ends happily and no one – no matter their intentions – escapes the monster.

Bleak and depressing. Let your teenage daughter watch it at her next slumber party if you can’t be bothered to supervise her online habits. The bills for her psychotherapy will be astronomical, but I can guarantee you: she will never leave the house again.

Megan is Missing is available now on Region 1 DVD and VOD from Anchor Bay.

Review: The Devil’s Carnival

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Review by Annie Riordan

So, on Saturday morning, having nothing better to do, I stripped completely naked except for a pink tutu, popped a handful of NoDoz and washed it down with a bottle of Nyquil, lowered the disco ball, tuned into the All Calliope All the Time radio station, ran a YouTube recording of a Russian exorcism on a loop, filled my bath tub with circus peanuts, razor blades and glitter and then rolled around in it for an hour whilst simultaneously butt-chugging peyote steeped in Kool-Aid, poking a rabid baboon with a stick and screaming: “I am the Lizard Queen!” much to my neighbors’ consternation.

Uh, I mean, I watched The Devils Carnival, the latest offering from the weirdos who brought us Repo: The Genetic Opera back in 2008.

Set in the candy colored world of a 1950s that never existed, The Devil’s Carnival begins with the deaths of three young people: John, a grief stricken young father, commits suicide in his dingy bathroom. Miss Merrywood, a petty thief, is gunned down by police in her trailer home following a botched robbery. Tamara, a naive bobbysoxer, has her head blown off by her abusive boyfriend. Before the fact of their deaths can sink in, they find themselves wandering around a seemingly deserted carnival, each with a personally addressed envelope containing a single ticket.

But the carnival is far from deserted. In fact, it’s teeming with the damned souls of Satan’s sideshow, all of them eager for the show to begin. One by one, the players are handpicked for the night’s performances. The Painted Doll (goth chanteuse Emilie Autumn) is chosen to assist John (Sean Patrick Flanery, one half of the Boondock Saints). The handsome juvenile delinquent Scorpion (Marc Senter, the new Crispin Glover) is assigned to Tamara (Jessica Lowndes, MOH: Dance of the Dead). Miss Merrywood (Briana Evigan of S. Darko and Burning Bright) is set upon by the Hobo Clown and the Twin, who tempt her with a diamond the size of a rhino’s hemorrhoid. One by one, they newly dead fall to temptation as they play out three fables by Aesop, unaware of the fact that they are the stars of the show and that this is their last chance to redeem themselves and find eternal peace, or be condemned to an eternity as a bit player in the Devil’s Carnival.

The Devil Himself is the axis around which everything revolves, and he is played convincingly by Terence Zdunich, who – when last we saw him – was singing about little glass vials as Repo’s narrator Graverobber. He is entirely unrecognizable here, buried under prosthetics, horns and face paint that puts Gorgoroth to shame. He turns much of the show over to his supporting cast, but rises up in the film’s final moments to claim what is his with a power ballad entitled “Grace For Sale.”

For yes, this is another musical. A warped, perverted, sinister autopsy of a musical. Everyone gets a turn and everyone does a damn fine job with their assigned songs. Two pieces definitely stand out, however: “Prick! Goes the Scorpion’s Tale” is performed by Emilie Autumn and her amazing voice which moves smoothly up and down like a sultry genie performing a blowjob on its own bejeweled bottle. It’s hard to believe that anything could outshine Autumn’s amazing performance, but “A Penny For A Tale” is an absolute showstopper, performed by the Hobo Clown before an audience of carnies who have gathered to witness Miss Merrywood, now stripped down to a pair of lacy lambchop panties, being whipped repeatedly as she writhes and screams in the sexy red spotlight with a malformed carnie gyrating between her legs. I have been condemned to be a total hetero in this lifetime, but even I can admit that watching pretty Briana Evigan arching her back, sticking her ass in the camera and jiggling her naked-nude-with-no-clothes-on boobs was hot. If you’re NOT inclined to masturbate whilst watching this scene, there’s something wrong with you.

The Devil’s Carnival runs for a mere hour, but it’s a filled-to-bursting hour, like a water balloon filled with whipped cream and blood, stretched beyond the breaking point and about to viciously orgasm all over your lily-white virgin face. It’s relentlessly fun, totally insane and as catchy as an airborne virus. This isn’t a film, it’s a gothic steampunk orgy, batter dipped and deep fried. It’s Tod Browning’s Freaks on acid. And thankfully, this time around, Paris Hilton is nowhere to be seen.

DVD Review: Southern Comfort (1981)

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Review by Oliver Longden

Southern Comfort is a re-release of a 1981 survival thriller by Walter Hill, best known for the cult classic The Warriors in which a street gang must fight their way home across a surreal gang-haunted vision of New York. Southern Comfort tells a similar story of violence and struggle. A group of National Guardsmen training in the Louisiana bayou end up in a violent confrontation with the Cajun inhabitants of the swamps. With limited supplies, scarce ammunition and a collection of amateur soldiers with very little skill, the Guardsmen are trapped in a guerilla war with an enemy that knows the terrain, and the business of hunting and killing, better than they ever will.

Southern Comfort works on a number of levels. Firstly it works as a pretty typical ensemble survival thriller. We are presented with a middling sized cast who are violently whittled down over the course of the narrative. The characters are broadly drawn but well acted, with a cast that includes Keith Carradine and Powers Boothe, both of whom would later pop up in HBO’s Deadwood (on which Walter Hill also worked). Southern Comfort has a typical range of characters for the survival genre: the nutter, the coward, the bad guy and the guy who is clearly out of his depth. There are the guys who drive the plot forward through their mistakes and the guys who drive it through their ability to survive, to rise to the occasion. The Cajun bad guys are a mysterious other culture who, despite living in America, are not fully part of it, a species of indigenous alien. There are obvious points of comparison here with the hillbillies of Deliverance, the gang bangers of Assault on Precinct 13 and even the monstrous cannibal family of The Hills Have Eyes. The bayou location provides a plausibly alien environment; the claustrophobia of the sodden trees, the men constantly up to their knees in water, the endless panorama of greys and browns. It’s well shot and Hill expertly ratchets up the tension throughout the film, often exploiting familiarity with the shooting techniques of anticipation to raise the stakes in long, knuckle-biting sequences filled with the growing expectation of sudden violence. The music is excellent too: legendary slide guitarist Ry Cooder provides a fantastic score, and the final scenes make heavy use of Louisiana folk music to embody the unique Cajun culture of the bayou. Taken on a superficial level though, Southern Comfort is still a standard, if expertly put-together genre piece mostly notable for having an unusual and soggy setting that must have been an absolute nightmare for both cast and crew.

The film is about more than simple horror though. It can also be seen as a powerful commentary on war; the Vietnam war at the time, but equally applicable to the Iraq war and other conflicts. The actions of the National Guard patrol in microcosm reflect the actions and attitudes of the whole US military in macrocosm. The Guardsmen are arrogant, careless of the feelings of the Cajun residents, stealing their supplies and generally strolling round like they own the place. As the conflict escalates the soldiers find themselves increasingly out of their depth in the strange, surreal world of the swamps. The point is that they simply don’t understand what is going on, they don’t understand the swamps and they don’t understand the people who live there. Crucially they don’t understand how underskilled they are in this strange environment, and they never fully grasp that their arrogance is completely unjustified. There are links here with films like Black Hawk Down that chronicle some of the more abject failures of the American military abroad, but the parallels might be equally applicable to great British military failures like the Boer War and the disastrous Cadiz Expedition of 1625. Unwarranted military self-confidence has always been a widespread failing. This rich seam of historical commentary elevates Southern Comfort above its genre trappings and turns it into something rather more intriguing.

This re-release adds a 45 minute interview with Hill in which he talks about the making of Southern Comfort, the cast, crew and the social context in which it was made. He fills in some information on the National Guard that helps establish the organisation for non-US viewers. Interestingly Hill rejects the notion that Southern Comfort was designed to be seen exclusively as a metaphor for the Vietnam war and suggests that this is merely one interpretation. He goes on to suggest that the film can also be seen as a Western transposed to a new setting. The interview illuminates the filmmaking process and provides a fascinating insight into the way Hill sees the world. It’s well worth watching and is definitely one of the better DVD extras I’ve seen as Hill goes out of his way to be meticulous in his reminiscences and provide wider contexts for all aspects of the film.

Southern Comfort comes highly recommended, particularly to fans of survival horror and action thrillers who are sick of zombies and mutants and like their murder to come seasoned with a healthy dash of social comment.

Southern Comfort is out on Region 2 DVD and Blu-Ray on 26th November, from Second Sight Films.

Book Review: Splinters by Joseph D’Lacey

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Review by Ben Bussey

Short stories have quite a role in horror history, don’t they? While often the format is regarded perhaps a little dismissively as simply an entry point into the field for fledgling wordsmiths, for many writers they’re an end unto themselves. Plenty of the horror masters have done some of their best and most recognised work in short format; Poe and Lovecraft would probably be the most notable examples, whilst more recently Richard Matheson, Stephen King, Clive Barker and Joe R Lansdale are arguably as celebrated for their short fiction as their novels. In some ways, a compendium of an author’s short work might just give a greater insight into that writer’s style, interests and overall personality than a single long-format narrative.

So, if you’ll forgive me for playing reviewer-as-psychoanalyst for a moment, what does the short story collection Splinters tell us about Joseph D’Lacey in 2012? Well, one need look no further than D’Lacey’s blog to get a taste of the man’s general temperament (this entry in particular gives some indication of how his career has not quite gone to plan). Hopefully readers remember a few years back when he was hotly tipped as the next big name in British horror fiction on the back of his hugely impressive novels Meat and Garbage Man, both of which combined a time-honoured splatterpunk sensibility with contemporary ecological concerns and undertones of the metaphysical. Much the same approach is in evidence here, but arguably with an even gloomier, less redemptive bent. This may simply be down to the format – traditionally a short horror story is more likely to end with the protagonist facing doom than victory – but I can’t help but ponder that it may also be a reflection of the author’s own feelings given his professional misadventures. Of course, regardless of whether or not this is the case, it would be for nought if the anxieties expressed in these stories failed to resonate with a broader readership – and that is most certainly not the case here.

As for just what those anxieties might be – D’Lacey tackles both the big, global fears, as well as those of a more intimate nature; indeed, the two often overlap somewhat. Opening story Lenses provides an eerily plausible look at the potential Big Brother culture threatened by the proliferation of CCTV, whilst penultimate story What They Want (What Aliens Really, Really Want) attacks our obsession with materialism and celebrity. On the more intimate level, Altar Girl tells of a disillusioned middle-aged wife whose fantasies of a better life start coming true, only to be not quite what she’d hoped for; a kitchen sink Monkey’s Paw, essentially. Questions of sexual uncertainty and identity are explored further in The Unwrapping of Alastair Perry, charting a man’s literal metamorphosis into an altogether different person. Perhaps the most eye-catching tale, Son of Porn, contemplates the proliferation of hardcore porn in our digital age, and darkly fantasises about how this might develop, not only in terms of our sexual tastes, but our literal evolution as physical, sexual beings. In keeping with D’Lacey’s best work, it’s as creepy as it is sardonically funny.

Underlying it all, of course, is that same big question that underlies all horror: the D word. For me, the most evocative and effective stories are the ones that dealt with that most directly. Rhiannon’s Reach, an account of a diving expedition gone wrong, takes the ocean both as a literal oppressive force and a symbol of the abyss of death. My personal favourite of the bunch, though, is Armageddon Fish Pie, which tells of how an everyday Joe Bloggs reacts to the incoming end of the world. It manages the comparatively rare feat of being at once inescapably bleak yet somehow uplifting, making the case for remaining optimistic and savouring life even whilst facing the end; a valuable lesson, I dare say. Also offering food for thought is The Quiet Ones, which contemplates whether anarchism could really work as a way of life, a question I’m sure many of us are pondering these days given how badly our current system seems to be working.

Still, whilst the ideas have the potential to resonate far and wide, there may be more question as to whether we can say the same of D’Lacey’s prose itself, as Splinters certainly isn’t the easiest read ever. This is writing that requires a bit of work from the reader, with some quite abstract structuring and not immediately apparent meanings, so not all readers will likely take to it; in which case, I’d recommend giving Meat and/or Garbage Man a go first to get a sense of how D’Lacey works (I also hear good things about D’Lacey’s other books which I’ve yet to read, including Snake Eyes). I suppose some horror fans might also be a little put off by the absence of traditional ghosts, monsters and whatnot, with the exception of the zombies in closing story The Food of Love. But assuming you don’t mind putting a bit of work in, and are ready to have your preconceptions challenged as to the form and content of horror – and if you’re not then, beg pardon, you’re looking at the wrong website – then you should find Splinters to be well worth your time and money. Another recommended work from a recommended author.

Splinters is now available from Timeline Books.

 

Abertoir 2012 Review: Sightseers

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Review by Ben Bussey

It might raise some eyebrows that director Ben Wheatley has chosen to follow up his widely praised hitman/Satanic panic chiller Kill List with a black comedy about a couple on a British caravan holiday. Those who rate Wheatley’s last to be one of the best horror films of recent years might initially look on his latest as a step in the wrong direction. However, for this writer the matter is rather different, as I was among the apparent few who did not hold Kill List in such high esteem (though our own Marc and Nia felt similarly). Even so, whilst I don’t think it was the genre-redefining masterpiece that some claimed, there was never any question that Kill List had some significant strengths, particularly an evocative, fly-on-the-wall atmosphere aided by highly naturalistic performances achieved via largely improvised dialogue. Much the same approach is taken here, but with rather different intent. Where Kill List blended gallows humour with illogical nightmarish elements in a bid to shock, Sightseers keeps it strictly to the gallows humour – and I think there can be little doubt that’s where Wheatley’s real strength lies.

Tina (Alice Lowe) is a henpecked thirtysomething Brummie who still lives at home with her domineering mother (Eileen Davies). Thanks to the apron strings firmly around her throat, Tina has never spent much time in the outside world. Her first chance to do so comes in the shape of her new boyfriend Chris (Steve Oram), who plans out a road trip on which they will see the sights of northern England while getting to know each other better, inside and out. However, not long into their travels, certain previously unseen facets of Chris’s character come to light: namely, his homicidal tendencies. Perhaps even more unexpected is Tina’s comfort with this; indeed, with decades of repression under her belt, she may well prove to outdo her other half in her taste for murder. But what kind of strain will this put on their burgeoning relationship? And will anyone who crosses their path get away unscathed?

I swear I don’t intend to spend this whole review comparing and contrasting with Kill List, but I must say the two films are not quite so far removed as they might seem at first. Both place as much emphasis on the mundane as the macabre; where the earlier film tended to dwell on Neil Maskell and Michael Smiley checking in and out of Premier Inns and driving along motorways, Sightseers follows Chris and Tina in and out of caravan sites traversing country lanes; subsequently both films have a certain travelogue quality, highlighting the beauty of Britain, whether by accident or design. Also in evidence again is Wheatley’s taste for sculpting unusual atmospheres. The soundtrack often contrasts with the action, off-setting humourous scenes with placid acoustic music. Both the director and the cast (it’s worth noting Lowe and Oram are also the screenwriters) maintain essentially the same tone throughout, whether the scene be dramatic, comedic or horrific, and much of the humour comes from how Tina and Chris react no differently to a corpse than they would to a flat tyre.

This is not to say that all the humour in Sightseers could be described as subtle. You need look no further than the poster above mocking Chris’s gingerness, or that to the left mocking Tina’s dress sense to garner how high the jokes generally aim. Lest we forget, Chris and Tina are not merely on a road trip/killing spree; they’re also on (if I remember their words correctly) an “erotic odyssey,” hence we have special knitted underwear, naughty behaviour in restaurants, the dog putting his nose where it doesn’t belong, and numerous shots of the caravan rocking as if in hurricane conditions. I won’t deny I barked with laughter throughout the bulk of this along with the rest of the Abertoir audience, but even so I can’t help but feel that obvious cheap gags were settled for perhaps too often, sitting a little awkwardly with the overall air of introspection. It could potentially put the viewer in a slight quandry as well, given that we are invited to laugh at Chris and Tina as much as we are made to identify with them. This isn’t necessarily a real problem, but it might just detract a little from the pathos.

Still, these are minor complaints for a film which proves a hugely satisfying hour and a half of horror-laced laughs (on which note, don’t worry gorehounds – while the horror elements are understated and the gruesome moments are few, they certainly don’t hold back). The Abertoir audience voted it the best new film shown at the festival, with which I would have to disagree – to my mind John Dies At The End easily came out on top – but nonetheless Sightseers definitely warrants high praise. Being milder than the average horror film, more naturalistic than the average comedy and smuttier than the average character-based drama, this is for certain a film that stands apart, which may well take audiences by surprise.

Sightseers is released to cinemas in the UK and Ireland on 30th November, from Studiocanal.

Abertoir 2012 Review: Citadel

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Review by Tristan Bishop

When non-horror fans ask me why I am so besotted with my favourite genre, I tend to give them the following reason: I believe that even bad horror films are interesting as they reflect, more so than any other genre, the changing fears and obsessions of different cultures over the years. From nuclear paranoia of the 1950’s to the Vietnam-era pessimism of Night Of The Living Dead and ‘new horror’ onto the ‘War on Terror’-influenced proliferation of torture porn in recent years, horror films (and especially successful ones) hold the proverbial mirror up to our collective psyches.

Citadel is a film which is not without precedent here. The term ‘hoodie horror’ has been bandied around for a few years to describe films such as F (2010), Eden Lake (2008) and The Disappeared (2008), and which perhaps had its genesis in a certain French film from a couple of years earlier which I will not name due to the possibility of a spoiler. The Hoodie Horror subgenre plays with British society-as-a-rule’s fear of a feral youth underclass – the hoodie/’chav’, who obscure their faces, live on benefits in council housing, carry knives and hunt in packs. Their perceived status is perhaps stirred up somewhat by the media, who, like the horror film, tend to emphasise what scares people in order to sell their products –although thankfully films generally don’t push what they portray to be ‘the truth’. The pinnacle of this chavsploitation genre is Harry Brown (2009), a Death Wish-alike vigilante film in which aged Michael Caine lays waste to teenage thugs on his estate, which plays like I would imagine the wet dream of a Daily Mail reader might. There is also a flip side in Attack The Block (2011), which, despite initially introducing the hoodie characters as spineless muggers, eventually turns them into something more likeable, even heroic.

Which brings us to Citadel, the latest film to feature hooded nasties – this time on a condemned council estate on the outskirts of Glasgow. Aneurin Barnard (Elfie Hopkins) stars as a man haunted by the death of his pregnant wife, who is murdered by the aforementioned hoodies as he is stuck in a lift whilst they are trying to move out of their tower block (the Citadel of the title) which is due to be knocked down. His daughter somehow manages to survive the attack and he is left alone, caring for a baby and developing paranoia and agoraphobia. At his wife’s funeral a very abrupt and amusingly foul-mouthed priest (played by veteran actor James Cosmo), warns Aneurin to ‘get the fuck out’ before ‘they’ come for his daughter as well. It transpires that the priest is all too aware of the feral kids which inhabit the estate and is keen to deal with the matter himself.

Citadel has been garnering a great deal of praise on the festival circuit, and in some ways it is easy to see why. Aneurin and Cosmo are both good in their roles, and the film’s setting makes for some incredibly bleak and unsettling atmosphere, with the run-down tower blocks and rain-lashed Scottish slums appearing to be nearly devoid of human life, which makes the appearance of the villainous children even more disturbing.

So with atmosphere you can cut with a (concealed) knife, good performances and an interesting affliction for the main character to overcome, you would think we would be onto a winner here. Unfortunately this is a bit of a wasted opportunity, as there are numerous plot points which rather defy logic, and an attempt at a love interest for Aneurin – played by Wunmi Mosaku as a liberal social worker who claims that the kids on the estate just need some love and attention (and learns that this is not the case) – seems flat and unrealistic. Another character, a young blind boy who is in the care of Cosmo’s priest, seems to add an interesting dynamic to the final confrontation in the Citadel itself, but this too gets confused and messy towards the end, and the theme of agoraphobia feels glossed over in favour of a standard action climax. The film also seems unsure of what the ‘monsters’ actually are, and what their motives seem to be, despite a final reel revelation that I didn’t see coming.

In summary, I get the feeling that the film was trying to go for something a little more metaphorical than previous examples of hoodie horror, but the confused and confusing nature of the plot sinks this rather, and any kind of interesting political comment has a nail hammered into its coffin with the fate of the liberal-leaning character. But if you like British films with an atmosphere of dread and some decent performances, you might get some enjoyment out of Citadel.

Abertoir 2012 Review: John Dies At The End

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Review by Ben Bussey

When setting out to assess a film which deals with the nature of time, space, psychic phenomena, and the role that drug use might play in our perception of these matters, all from a detached, tongue-in-cheek perspective, it’s immediately apparent how easily a film of this nature might not work. From the word go, right there in the premise and the title, it’s all so clever-clever, so knowingly absurd on every level that it should by all rights crumble under the weight of its own smug self-awareness. It also doesn’t help that the lead actors are far too good looking and muscular by half. It could so easily be Detention all over again.

Yet not only does John Dies At The End successfully avoid drowning in a black lagoon of hipster self-importance; it also manages to be one of the most deliriously entertaining and inventive movies of the year, a joyful genre-bender with Pythonesque blood pumping through its horror fan heart.

Dave (Chase Williamson) and John (Rob Mayes) are a pair of old high school buddies still caught up in a perpetual adolescence, who through little-to-no fault of their own find themselves beset with enhanced psychic faculties, and have made use of this by becoming – in the words of reporter Arnie (Paul Giamatti) – some kind of “spiritualist-exorcists.” As for how they got that way, and what their new-found abilities have told them about the nature of reality and the fate of the world, indeed the universe – that’s what Dave meets with Arnie in a Chinese restaurant to discuss. It all has something to do with a new, rare drug that Dave and John have come into contact with; a black liquid they know as soy sauce. But where is John when Dave and Arnie meet? Might there be a clue in the title…?

Not long ago I lamented in a typical thirtysomething horror geek manner how more or less all the great directors of yesteryear bar Cronenberg have long since either lost touch with their creativity or sunk into apathy when it comes to their contemporary work. I realise now I failed to consider Don Coscarelli, and the clear exception to that rule he also represents. Although John Dies At The End is his first feature for the best part of ten years (seriously Bruce Campbell, can the script for Bubba Nosferatu really have been that bad? Especially by your standards?), these two latter efforts from Coscarelli can proudly stand shoulder to shoulder as representing a filmmaker who has only truly found his stride more than two decades into his career. Both films originate in comparatively lesser-known works of cult horror fiction; both balance supernatural horror with absurdist humour; and both manage to defy expectation with remarkable self-assurance, without alienating the audience. And while neither is necessarily that scary, by gum they’re funny as fuck. In a year that’s been no slouch for above-average horror comedies, John Dies At The End more than holds its own, proving laugh-out-loud hilarious almost from start to finish.

It’s not inconceivable that some viewers may be put off by the incessant quirkiness of it all, what with the abundance of impossible goings-on, and the fractured non-linear narrative leaping back and forth all over place. However, the whole enterprise is handled with such charm, it’s not hard not be seduced. Providing a familiar face in Giamatti as a window into this madcap universe was a wise move, just as it was wise to cast two unknowns as the young heroes of the piece. Much as I was initially predisposed to dislike Williamson and Mayes for their good looks, good hair and musculature, they’re an immensely likeable duo. Such characters could so easily have wound up Bill and Ted/Jay and Silent Bob clichés, which would no doubt have hurt the film. As much as we can buy Dave and John as drop-out slackers, we also need to believe they have what it takes to save the world as we know it; and Williamson and Mayes convey both, no problem. There are certainly no slouches in the supporting cast either, with a great nemesis in Glynn Turman’s cop, a wonderfully theatrical turn from Clancy Brown, and a fan-pleasing cameo from Phantasm’s Angus Scrimm. The dog proves pretty damn loveable too, even for a cat person like myself.

Nicely shot and well edited, with a good balance of decent practical effects and reasonable CGI, John Dies At The End radiates everything good about independent genre filmmaking today. Sure, it may be a bit of a stretch to class it as a horror movie, but – once again – its charm is more than enough to wash away such misgivings. In my estimation it’s not only the best new film shown at Abertoir 2012, but one of 2012’s best new films overall. See it as soon as you can. But of course, as the trailer requests, don’t tell anyone how it ends.

John Dies At The End is set for US release in January – keep your eyes peeled (the third in particular) for further release info.

Comic Review: In The Hands of The Devil – Berserk by Kentaro Miura

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Review by Comix

Berserk can really be described in one word, and maybe a lot of swear words: Fucking-BRUTAL-fuck-shit-up-wow! With the flowing, epic styling of a good dark fantasy series, this comic is a seriously crazy masterpiece sure to leave fans of both horror and comics on the edge of their seats. I’ve been covering a pretty fair amount of fantasy/horror crossovers lately, but this one is the cherry on the cake. It’s got your classic fantasy fare: a huge lead male, a strong but dainty lead female, magic, wizards, demons; you know, the usual, but this one ups the ante with a full-blown symphony of blood and guts that would make Clive Barker jealous. Arms ripped from bodies, heads crushed between a demon’s palms, and the skinning! My God, everyone gets their skin ripped off, like, all the time! It’s like Pinhead’s wet dream over there.

The story centers around the appropriately named Guts, a beast of a man with one eye and one huge-ass sword who travels the land beating up demons and saving dames. Though the better known story (the one that got turned into an anime) doesn’t start until volume four, the first three volumes introduce Guts and his strange quest for a group called The God Hand. As he battles his way through a literal shit-ton of monsters and men, he eventually makes his way to a dark magician called The Count. After Guts hands him his ass on a platter, The Count, in his dying throes, activates an egg-shaped necklace called the Behelit, a demonic charm that opens gates to Hell. Suddenly, Guts finds himself in a demon’s den, fighting for his life and something yet to be revealed, something that haunts the entire series.

Okay, I’m sure at this point, you’re like “WTF, Comix? You just gave away most of the story!” Well, I tell you sir, I have not. Like I said, the comic really kicks in at volume four, where we are introduced to two more main characters who fought along side Guts in his youth: a war leader named Griffith and a young lady named Casca. In those volumes (a whopping eleven manga books), Guts is just a young, traveling warrior who suddenly comes upon an army led by Griffith and is sucked into one hell of holy war that, well, ends really badly for everyone. Essentially, it is here that we see Guts’s true nature revealed and the true story begins to unfold; a story of love, monsters, and loyalty. The first three volumes are like a huge prelude to the main story, and the volumes after the Griffith/Casca story arc goes right back to where we left Guts after his brave escape from Hell in the first three volumes. Whew, you got all that? Good, there will be a test a later.

Alright, I admit, the story is pretty hard to describe, but like any good fantasy epic, if I could accurately describe it, it wouldn’t be a fantasy epic. You really need to read the comic to see what I’m talking about; there’s a lot of stuff that leads to other stuff that I can’t describe without giving things away and blah blah blah. The comic is pretty easy to follow, it’s just hard to tell you about it. But what I can tell you is that Berserk is totally, completely, insanely, awesome. Just like its namesake, the comic goes into places that are, well, completely berserk, and with 36 translated volumes (for now) it has plenty of room to get seriously messed up. Each volume brings another addition to an ever growing mythos of an alternate Medieval universe overrun with greedy warlords, demonic entities, and violence, violence, violence! As we follow Guts on his mission to over throw an alt-world Vatican that has take over all of civilization, we are treated to a plethora of unique creatures and disturbing visions of a Hell both in life and death. It’s a brain-scorching ride not for the faint of heart.

Berserk, like many huge Japanese comics, has also become a merchandising bonanza! Anything you can want has been made: toys, video games, wall scrolls, music albums, trading card games, lighters, key rings, what have you. But of course, the most successful and profiting endeavour of the line has been the animated series. Though Berserk the anime only addresses the ‘young warrior Guts’ volumes of the series, it does a pretty fair re-visioning of the comic. Despite leaving some of the more brutal violence scenes in the manga, the anime still prompts a very juicy Adults Only tag that fans have come to eat up. Each of the episodes were personally approved by the creator, Kentaro Miura, who by the way, is also pretty awesome himself. Though it’s his first continuous comic series, the amount of detail and thought that he put into it hints at a mind that is as dark as it is brilliant. His eye for detail is like no other, with his art filling up every bit of page that physics allow it. An example of his vision and versatility can be seen in his other, single volume works, such as the simply titled comic Japan, a scathing critique of modern Japan. In the comic, Japan’s modern attitudes are paralleled with that of Carthage, a Roman city that fell due to the citizens lack of unity and pride. A bit on the 1984 side, sure, but it was a great read none-the-less and proves that Miura is just as comfortable writing politics as he is demons.

Well, if you are ready to set yourself off the journey of epic proportions known as Berserk, the entire 36 translated volume set is available through Dark Horse comics, with a new volume coming out about twice a year. As far as I know, the comic is still serialized twice a month in a Japanese comic magazine called “Young Animal” and the volumes come out every ten to eleven printed installations. It’s pretty much like graphic novels collecting single issues. If you read Japanese, you can always start an international subscription and get the comics first hand or, if you already live in Japan, you can just run right down to the magazine/book store or train/bus station or grocery store/7-11 and grab one. Really, comics are like toilet paper over there, they are so lucky. Also, if you want to watch the TV series, the entire collection is available for purchase, translated by Anime Works, and a second collection titled Berserk: The Golden Age Arc-The Egg of the King, released through Viz Media, is now available for pre-order. Either way, watch it, read it, play the card game, I don’t care, just make sure you pick this crazy shit up. It will be your demonic Game of Thrones, an addiction you will never kick.