Because Pretty People Sometimes Deserve To Die

When a synopsis for a low-budget horror film involves a bachelorette party,  you can guess you’ll be in for a rough ride. Then again, that also means a bunch of obnoxious bachelorettes will experience horrific deaths, so that in itself makes The Last Resort fairly inviting.

Quick Plot: A group of attractive and annoying 20something females head to Mexico for a week’s worth of drinking and being skanky in honor of their pal Kat’s upcoming wedding. After the kind of night in a bar that involves a drinking montage with enough shots that would kill Andre the Giant, the sensible girl of the group (because she’s a brunette) goes home with a nice guy, while the other four airheads awaken the next day with killer hangovers and the great idea to go sightseeing in a van with two not suspicious at all locals. 

In case you’re wondering, yes, you are now at this point expected to wish a painful death to everyone you’ve met onscreen thus far.

As Brunette spends a sunny day at the beach with her bland beau, her shriekier pals get robbed (but pointedly not raped), non-fatally shot, and left in the desert with only an abandoned resort to keep them comfy. All would be okay enough if the resort didn’t happen to be channeling eviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiil energy with the power to possess its inhabitants and inspire all sorts of hysterically violent actions.

What follows involves cannibalism, guttings, and a fair share of dumb white people not understanding ominous warnings in Spanish. It sounds awful, but believe it or not, The Last Resort isn’t half bad for what it is. Yes, the cast is about as likable as a skin rash, but the film is more than willing to go to darker, grislier places than its pretty sheen might have you suspect. The actual results of a possessed give-in-to-your-inner-urges hotel causing some visitors to eat their friends...hey, I can get behind that.

High Points

In the wake of the modern thin-is-in trend, it’s weirdly refreshing to hear so much verbal attacks on the skinniest character’s body. Sure, a bandit telling her she’s too bony to rape isn’t exactly a step towards equality, but hey, it’s less insulting than it should be

Low Points

You know, the whole “these women are terribly annoying” thing...

Lessons Learned

Being shot is not good

Mexico means in Mexican weird

Petty thieves with gunshot wounds don’t get to make demands

Rent/Bury/Buy

I’ve seen far worse horror movies than The Last Resort. It’s by no means a major feat in filmmaking, but one could do far worse when surfing the Instant Watch offerings than this gory vacation tale. It doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see almost every character suffer a horrible fate, but it also means I didn’t hate watching it. So you know, modern mediocrity at its most mediocre.

Not the One With Rachel Weisz

“In a crazy city, if one is to survive, one must be more than crazy.”

 Easily one of the best opening quotes I’ve heard!

 Quick Plot: We open with the brutal slaying of an apartment security guard in 2007.

 We’ll get back to that.

Meet Sheung (Josie Ho, redeeming herself from the horrid Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun Li), a bank telemarketer by day, retail employee by night, and unhappy dreamer during both. Sheung longs to buy her own flat in the spiffy part of town, something she’s wanted ever since her unhappy childhood where she witnessed her own neighbors cruelly driven out of their homes by greedy developers and violent mobs.  Now an adult with just enough savings, Sheung is ready to make an offer on a 2-bedroom with a seaside view and nothing--NOTHING--will stop her.

 So back to that strangle-stab...

Dream Home is essentially a slasher, but one done with such innovation that it almost elevates the category. Sheung embarks on a brutal murder spree, but the film threads that one massacre throughout its running time, alternating between Sheung’s childhood flashbacks, the buildup towards the sale gone wrong, and Sheung’s determined attacks upon anyone in her way, be they drunk punks, trigger-happy cops, or wealthy pregnant women.

As a result of its structure, Dream Home does something very important: it makes us understand Sheung’s actions. That’s not to say we agree with them or cheer her on--no character can be likable enough to do what she does with a vacuum to a mom-to-be--but we see how and why an everyday woman could take this path. Sheung has dreamt about this chance for her entire life, and just when she gets it, that pesky housing market takes another turn and suddenly, it’s once again out of her reach. It’s NOT fair, but of course, that doesn’t justify mass homicide.

There’s a smart mix of horror, smart satire, and gooey old gore in Dream Home. The marriage isn’t perfect, but for 100 minutes, it’s incredibly fascinating.

High Points

Dream Home isn’t quite a black comedy, but there are some hysterically horrific elements to it, especially once the bloodshed really starts to drip. A fairly lengthy sequence involving sharp bongs, a naked hooker, and Sheung’s determinism is both a great horror scene AND bit of comedy

Low Notes

I didn’t quite have this problem, but I know many a viewer has taken issue with Sheung’s coldness and the idea that our protagonist has little redeeming value. I’m going to draw a strained comparison to Kristen Wiig’s unhappy Annie in Bridesmaids, another female character making the wrong decisions. Like Annie, Sheung dates a man who treats her terribly and feels sorry for herself, even if her life is still easier than many. I don’t know about you, but I know both women because we ARE human. Too often films—particularly horror—delegate female characters to simple Madonna or whore categories. Sheung is by no means cinema’s new treasure, but her flaws are real and fascinating

Lessons Learned

All men care about is the 19th hole

Forcing cocaine upon a passed out drunk will reward you with having your crotch vomited upon

When in doubt, pay for the night. Hourly love motel rates are a secret killer

Rent/Bury/Buy

I had heard plenty of other bloggers recommend Dream Home (beginning with Mattsuzaka with this fine older review) and having finally sat down with it, I couldn’t agree more. This is as funny as it is scary, satirical in its view of class lines but shocking in its violence. Best of all, it’s a slasher with a brain, one that toys with structure in a way I’ve never quite seen. Stream it on Instant Watch if you can or pick it up cheap. Trust me. It’s good.

Monday March Musical Madness: Love Never Dies

Basketball? Please. Unless those orange orbs are bouncing in rhythm a la High School Musical’s Keep Your Head In the Game or making Anne Ramsay’s face explode in Deadly Friend, there’s simply no room for that kind of game here at the Doll’s House. So while sports fans around the country fill out their brackets, we’re going in a different direction this month with Musical Mondays.

(But just in case you haven't seen it, here's the greatest non-musical basketball scene in cinema history)

Truthfully, I just happened to recently see two slightly-to-very horror-ish musicals, so why not make it a mini theme?

Remember when you were a thirteen year old girl with a locking diary and annoying confidence in your imagination? Maybe you saw a play or movie that awakened your inner romance novelist, inviting the muse in all her Delia’s clad glory to inspire your first draft of Romeo + Juliet 2: Heaven Can't Wait or Titanic Sails On: What If Rose Never Did Let Go? Such ramblings were harmless of course, because while your Twilight-like dreams of extending a fluffy love story were in hindsight fairly silly, they were your own.

Unless you're Andrew Lloyd Webber and your Twilight-like dreams of extending a fluffy love story could be realized with a multi-million dollar musical extravaganza, recently filmed and showing this Wednesday (March 7th) in movie theaters through Fathom Events.

Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera is a novel that has fascinated filmmakers since the birth of cinema. From Lon Chaney’s skeletal expressionism to Robert Englund’s teleporting patchface who made a crummy deal with Dwarf Satan, the story seems to have endless appeal to filmmakers, even luring Dario Argento to tackle it twice from different angles.

Yet for all the adaptations, it’s Webber’s juggernaut musical hit that has had the most global impact, influencing for better and worse (really more worse) the musical theater scene for decades to come. Having seen the Broadway production ten years ago, I suppose I understand the appeal: pretty sets, big dresses, overwrought love triangles, duet after duet, slow-moving chandeliers. To my more Sondheimian sensibilities, it doesn’t quite warrant its place as the longest running Broadway musical but more importantly, the idea of making a generically titled sequel even tackier than the original just seems…

Well…

Pretty effin’ amazing.

Not, mind you, for the right reasons. Love Never Dies—yes, that’s its title because that’s the kind of title a thirteen year old girl gives to a poem she writes during math class—is entertaining in being quite terrible. Heck, it’s even entertaining in its dullness, if that makes sense. Of course, those of you with an allergic reaction to musical theater are already bored, so for those who aren’t, let’s recap:

Ten years after the ingénue Christine Dae left Paris with her dullard fiancée Raoul, the Phantom disappeared to leave only his mask and a curtain call. Then 15 years earlier, The Phantom of the Opera became extremely profitable and LORD Andrew Lloyd Webber teamed up with some lyricists allergic to thesauruses to continue to story, which now finds The Phantom running a freak and burlesque show of sorts on Coney Island—

Yes, that Coney Island—

But still obsessing over the whiny soprano who screamed at his scars a decade before. He solves this problem by luring Christine and her family (the now alcoholic vertically challenged gambling addict Raoul, because it’s important for the audience to know which side to take in this love triangle) and her TEN YEAR OLD son Gustav, a tragically useless child charged with singing the same lyrics over and over again, then being put in danger, then reprising his repetitive lyrics, then escaping danger, then finally standing firmly in tableau.

Oh, and in case you couldn’t guess it because you didn’t see Superman Returns or lost half your brain in a poker tournament, the Nine Years and Three Month Old Gustav is—SPOILER ALERT IF YOU CAN’T FIGURE OUT REALLY OBVIOUS SECRETS—actually the result of one passionate and dimly lit night between Christine and her former voice instructor.

Wait! You say, if you’re still reading or need me to hold an elevator. Christine and the Phantom…they…you mean…but…

Yes ladies, all those fan fiction entries you stumbled through are true: Christine and The Phantom got it on. 

And on. 

And on, or at least that’s what the 20 minute song  featuring lyrics like “And you touched me/And I touched you/And you held me/And I held you” would like us to believe. It doesn’t really make any chronological sense in terms of what we know about these character, but it makes PERFECT SENSE to legions of Rachel Berrrys who probably fantasized about that white mask at crucial times in their sexual development.

(Side note: remember when Glee was good? Side note sigh...)

Love Never Dies was a highly hyped show that never quite ignited th theater world, mostly because theater critics are generally a few brian cells wiser than 7th grade show choir members. The show fizzled in its London run and unlike the Phantom himself, never crossed over to New York. The production filmed for the DVD and film release was done at the Regent Theatre in Melbourne and in truth, it’s pretty grand. Set and costume designer Gabriela Tylesova either had an unlimited budget or unlimited access to Tim Burton’s warehouse and uses it to give us arias in giant peacock style,

 glittering costume jewelry that never lets the mezzanine ticket holders feel left out,

and a wardrobe for the ringmaster...

that calls to mind Community’s Dean Pelton...

Which just reminds me how much I wish Community would return.

But hey, if I plopped down $100 or euros or kangaroo eggs or whatever Aussies use for currency, that’s exactly what I’d want! Throw in a little person being thrown--

(It happens a lot)

--And I can’t possibly complain!

Except I can, because the show’s terrible. Webber’s score is lavishly large, but when paired with lyrics a contestant on America’s Next Top Model could write for a viral video challenge (yes, that happened last season) the whole shebang just feels silly. So silly that a good half my packed movie theater treated the production as a comedy, openly guffawing because how could you not? The entire experience made me think that cinemas catering to this kind of film should segregate seating, positioning those who came for the humor in the front and letting those that want to get caught up in the overwrought and scarily chauvinistic love story sit back to absorb the emotion.

I say chauvinistic because my goodness is this an abusive relationship on every end. Upon being reunited with her long-lost (giggle giggle) lover, Christine immediately faints, then is served an ultimatum that she either sing the Phantom’s song or he will kidnap her child. And yet she’s now actively considering leaving her tiny husband for this man. Then again, said tiny husband gambles his own wife away when he makes a deal with The Phantom that Christine’s decision to take the stage will ultimately decide the fate of her life. Not that Christine needs to be consulted about this or anything. In case the Titanic-like costumes didn’t clue you in, this is the early 20th century and women--even the heroines of musical theater--apparently have very few decisions to make. Sure, they get to choose which chandelier-ish earrings to wear for big nights, but we can’t go about giving them any REAL responsibility now, can we?

If you're still reading and have nothing to do this Wednesday, sneak in a six-pack, grab a secluded seat, and enjoy the ridiculousness of a show that if standards shakily remain where they are, will never see the light of Broadway. Maybe I'm being a gloriously curled hair mean, but that's because I'm not a thirteen year old who goes to the theater expecting to see my fantasies (or PHANTasies, seewhatIdidthere?) laid out in the precise manner I would have written for extra credit in junior high English class. Love Never Dies can't be accused of laziness, but a hard-working musical does not a classic make. 

But a hilarious time at the movies? I'll buy that for fifteen dollars.

WELCOME...to Medieval TIMES!

The name Roger Corman calls to mind a lot of things--MST3K episodes, 2-day film shoots, high profit margins, Lance Henrikson in Scream 3--but 'a quality film' is rarely one of them. The presence of Vincent Price, on the other hand, generally implies that SOMETHING good will happen onscreen, making 1964's The Masque of Red Death irresistible to a curious cinemaniac like myself.

Quick Plot: A mysterious man in red hands a rose to a crone passing by in the woods. You know what that means.

Well, if it was the year 1100, you would TOTALLY have known what that meant. The devil/death is sending a message to a European village that their deliverance is at hand. For most of the lowly townsfolk, this means they'll die of the plague. The wealthy or imprisoned, on the other hand, get to party/get tortured inside the castle of one Prospero, played with juicy evil by a devil-worshipping, gold lace-trimmed puffy shirt wearing Vincent Price.

Prospero isn't all black masses and pentagrams though. The man is quite the party animal, actively encouraging his guests to play dress-up, act like farm beasts, and get wasted while he observes such entertainment as tiny dancers with womanly voices performing what I guess is simply little person ballet, but what somehow feels more akin to Toddlers and Tiaras.

When that gets boring, Prospero passes the time trying to corrupt Christians, particularly when they're good-looking. His favorite good girl, Francesca, stays as a well-dressed prisoner actively trying to free her doomed-to-die lover and father. For the most part, this involves whining about Christianity and turning her head as Propsero orders lashings on others, though slowly but surely, an interesting form of mutual respect begins to grow.

As I explained in my intro, I expected very little from The Masque of Red Death. The only things prompting me to press play were the presence of Price, convenience of a 90 minute Instant Watch, and the mere words "12th century" and "plague" in the film's description. 

I am sometimes easy to seduce.

So imagine my surprise to learn that The Masque of Red Death is an ACTUAL GOOD MOVIE. If you’ve seen Uwe Boll’s Rampage, you probably know what that feeling is. It begins with doubt, as you double check IMDB to confirm that you are indeed watching the movie you planned on. Once that happens, you fall into hesitation. There’s no WAY the quality can be maintained coming from the hands of a filmmaker who keeps one eye on the clock while directing...right?

But for the most part, it does. The Masque of Red Death isn’t the greatest genre film of the ‘60s, but it’s a fun ride that toes a gleeful balance between the cheeky and macabre. Poor villagers die, wealthy lords and ladies dress up like fools and die even worse, Vincent Price mugs like a champ and Corman’s colors pop like paintball. There’s little not to like.

High Points

Holy Crayola box batman! The rich brightness of virtually every costume, haircut and furniture piece makes The Masque of Red Death an absolutely stunning visual work. Observe one of its most famous scenes, as Prospero flees Death through a series of rooms that change color, Wizard of Oz/The Cook The Thief His Wife & Her Lover style

Low Points

For all the hubub and worshipping, I expect Satan to have a far more badass mustache than one composed of lampshade fringe

Lessons Learned (About Medieval Times)

Not too surprisingly, gorilla suits were highly flammable

The parties of the upper class made the Playboy Mansion look like Sesame Street

Bangs were totally bangin'

Rent/Bury/Buy

I’ll readily admit my weakness for any film involving plagues, dances of death, medieval torture, Vincent Price in period garb, or noblemen dressed like gorillas. The Masque of Red Death includes all these things, and it includes them extremely well. It’s not a masterpiece, but the film is bursting with life in its depiction of Death. It’s a fun, dark, and unique little watch and if nothing else, it beats just about anything else in the Corman catalog. 

Did I Kill Davy Jones? Also, Thus End'th The Shortening

As we say goodbye to 2012's 2nd Annual Attack of the Vertically Challenged Villains: The Shortening, it brings me incredible sadness to mourn the passing of my very first crush and perennial petite powerhouse, Monkees lead singer Davy Jones.

Growing up in the late '80s, I fell in love with basic cable's reruns of their comedy show, so much so that I used my very first tin of push pins to hang posters of Davy's sparkling eyes on my bedroom walls. Two years ago, I blushed my way through meeting him at New Jersey's Chiller Theater convention where I was excited to discover he was still good-looking AND a good inch and a half taller than me.

While there, I bought a fan club worthy autographed 8x10 glamor shot that still proudly hangs over my toilet, meaning Mr. Jones will forever watch over those who do their bodily business in my apartment.

Davy Jones passed away on Leap Day. As far as I'm concerned, that implies we only have to acknowledge the fact that he died every four years and therefore can go back to daydream believing him back into existence for the other three. That's how the system works and I'm sticking to it.

It's a fitting, solemn end to 2012's Shortening, though personally, I'm a tad disturbed. See, just two weeks ago, I also had to mourn the passing of a celebrity I harbored serious romantic feelings for throughout my elementary school years: former Mets catcher and baseball Hall of Famer Gary Carter, who succumbed to brain cancer on February 16th. If I could have been an underage polygamist in a highly experimental tribe, you can bet a few leprechauns that I would have been Mrs. Emily Intravia-Carter-Jones. It worries me to see the highlights of my youth taken before their time. Now let us lend kind thoughts and extra bodyguards to other notable entries in my imaginary lovebook, including fellow vertically challenged superstars Rick Moranis and Martin Short.

On the sunnier side, we have one last round of Shortening sharing! Thanks and cuddles to the following bloggers who tackled some vertically challenged villains and lived to write about it:


Over at Cinema Gonzo, sir Thomas Duke headed back to the swinging '60s for the oddball little person horror, Curse of the Doll People. Find it in its glory this way

Also on a Mexican trek was Ms. Mermaid Heather, who opened up the toy chest for a review of Dolly Dearest and thusly conquered both The Shortening and Women In Horror Month:

The cool as an air conditioned space Elwood Jones headed up north for one of my personal favorites, David Cronenberg's extra gooey The Brood. Go have a taste.

Dare you forget T.L. Bugg's swap duty covering 2008's killer kids in a winter wonderland classic, The Children. It might not be a fair fight for poor Darby O'Gill's leprechaun army, but the Bugg still does it right.

Finally, though I failed to find a proper doll flick for this month's festivities, the Direct to Video Connoisseur came to the rescue with pristine coverage of Puppet Master 2 and the quick cut-and-paste job (of the movie; not the review) for Dollman vs. Demonic Toys.

As we march on through March, there are glimmers of hope: HorrorHound Weekend's biannual snugglefest, a hopeful Leprechaun marathon on the SyFy Channel, the return of Community, the quest to snag a green milkshake in the Bronx that's supposed to be that way. Will anything top little people conning men out of their souls, shrunken men fighting tarantulas, Mickey Rooney encouraging child labor, or Harry Potter trying to out-act creepy monkey dolls? It's hard to say but I take comfort in knowing we will always have 2012's Shortening, and more importantly, Davy Jones will always watch my houseguests pee.