Where's Mein Gold?

As you might guess from the title of this post, Nazi zombies have more in common with homicidal leprechauns than history textbooks tend to admit. And with that snappy intro, I give you Dead Snow.

Quick Plot:

A group of Norwegian medical students take a sure-to-be-doomed vacation in a snowy mountain cabin. Armed with beer and bad coffee, they revel in the typical young people-on-holiday-soon-to-be-atacked-by-R-rated-menace sort of way: snow mobiling to blasting music and sports channel editing, having sex in outhouses, and referencing the fact that they’re in the ideal situation for horror carnage.

And of course, they are, this time due to the unwelcome presence of buried Nazi soldiers with super strength, super speed, and an insatiable appetite for human flesh (Kosher or Aryan okay). Before you can say marzipan, our somewhat likable (nah; they’re all rather bland or annoying) human gang is whittled down in body parts and beating hearts. 

For whatever reason, filmmakers seem to pair Nazis and zombies like peanut butter and honey. Shockwaves, Blood Creek, Hard Rock Zombies (actually that’s not fair; the Nazis are responsible for the zombies, but the Germans of that classic big-hair ballad stick to eating themselves). On one hand, Dead Snow is simply another entry into a surprisingly packed subgenre filled with other familiar elements of cabin fever and pretty young people in peril (though to be meanly fair, the majority of the cast wouldn’t make it into the door of Melrose Place).

So plot and character-wise, Dead Snow is hardly innovative. At the same time, director Tommy Wirkola thankfully has a few new tricks up his thermal sleeves. After a been there, seen that opening act, the fun eventually picks up. The monster makeup looks great. The longer lifespanned humans demonstrate some spry self-defense and a few of the action sequences give us pleasantly icky twists. 

High Points

As I do a German folk dance around spoilers, allow my lederhosen to tear ever so suggestively with the compliment that the “final girl” twists were refreshingly new

Once Dead Snow gets kicking, there are some nifty gore-riffic moments that we haven’t really seen before, including a cliff-hanging via large intestines and a full-limb tear-off that calls to memory Captain Rhodes demise

Low Points

It’s personal taste (or lack thereof) but the rested metal soundtrack played during early montages made me feel cranky and old

Lessons Learned

Don’t be too surprised if your claustrophobic girlfriend isn’t turned on by you smothering her face with a couch pillow

On the other hand, pooping + slashers = huge turn on for select loose women

One more reason not to listen to heavy duty thrash metal: the volume turned up to 11 means your chance of hearing dying friends’ screams is below zero

Birds don’t respond to the human voice saying “ssshhh”

Rent/Bury/Buy

For the first 45 minute of Dead Snow, I felt a giant cloud of ‘meh’ floating over me. There just wasn’t quite enough promise to lift my expectations above “this is it?” territory, but once the mayhem started rolling, I genuinely had fun. Much like the recent I Sell the Dead, Dead Snow is an earnest and well-made horror film that never really rocked me, but was entertaining in a refreshingly 21st century with a hint of ‘80s throwback kinda way. This is the type of film that easily warrants a direct-to-DVD sequel, but doesn’t necessarily earn a $15 for a purchase. Rent it with friends and a case of Heineken.

Pimp Dolly

Some movies try awfully hard to just be awful. It's not enough, they say, to have a dwarf henchman; they go one step further by putting an eyepatch on said dwarf henchman and making him the keeper of an awful, occasionally nude girl band musicalized by electricity.

Yup. Blood Dolls is that kind of movie. 

And thus I spent 90 minutes with a film that clearly wanted nothing more than to make its audience say "That was weirrrrrrd." 

Granted, I've done this about as many times as I've brushed my teeth and sometimes, it works. In addition to hard rock and zombies, Hard Rock Zombies incorporates Nazis, self-cannibalistic dwarfs (apparently that's the go-to for ambitiously bizarre film), glorified statutory rape, and big heads, but it works due to its let's-have-fun spirit. Blood Dolls, a 1999 schlockfest from Full Moon, feels more as though writer/director/Full Moon granddaddy Charles Band patrolled a horror convention, took notes on merchandising and fashion, mixed it in a used blender still soiled with leftovers from past films, and made a movie out of it.

Quick Plot: Eccentric billionaire Virgil Travis has just lost a fortune to crooked former partners and thus his revenge scheme is about to take its bloody birth. Using a few racially stereotyped dolls shrunken down from a few former acquaintances that led to his downfall (black judge as pimp, Asian lawyer as dragon lady) and his deadpan juggalo-esque butler, the Southahn gentleman Virgil orders death by hand weight, gunshot, and tiny knife while the real instigator behind the money laundering reveals herself as the seemingly meek and good-hearted Moira, wife of Virgil's former business partner. The biggest twist comes when we first see Moira in the comfort of her home, where the dark-haired beauty proves to be a brilliant minded dominatrix feeding off the physical pain and sexual submission of daft, usually leashed hubby Harrison. 

Did I mention Virgil is eccentric? It's an important plot detail, but thankfully, you probably won't miss it due to the caged leather-clad girl rock group he keeps in his living room and stone head mask he wears over his itty Beelteguice head. Subtlety is not a selling point when it comes to Full Moon.

Blood Dolls is an exercise in forced wackiness, a sort of Leprechaun in Louisiana seasoned with the oddities of Bloodsucking Freaks (dwarf, caged women, torture, etc.). I found it tiresome and forced, but occasionally, slightly cute. Debra Mayer's role as the kinky mastermind was actually enjoyable, although it left me rooting for her simply because I couldn't respect any character who was amused by such obnoxious and bland music.

High Points

While the idea of his presence begins rather ridiculously, William Paul Burns's solemn performance as a very spiritual painted face right-hand man actually becomes funnier as the film progresses

Low Points

Even with warp speed kills, a single flimsy plot, and a dual ending, Blood Dolls stretches out its should-be-short running time to 90 minutes by adding dull rock song after dull rock song. I suppose a film has to fill out space for Sunday afternoon airings on SyFy, but Blood Dolls pads itself more obviously than a 14 year old girl at a school dance

Lessons Learned

Behind every mentally retarded man is a very kinky woman with a high IQ

There are worse things in life than being kidnapped, locked in a cage, and forced to perform bad rock music for a sadistic billionaire; you could be the sadistic billionaire who has to listen

Dwarfs carry singles

Rent/Bury/Buy

Blood Dolls will please many fans of the let's-be-as-goofy-as-we-can subgenre of horror comedy. Personally, I tend to have a rotating membership to that club, enjoying some of those films (ThanksKilling ) and hating others that just try too hard (Snakes On a Plane). I will concede that I began enjoying Blood Dolls much later in the story, when the whole "How crazy can we be?" attitude had settled and Band let his characters have their story. By the time I got to the Clue-like alternate ending, I was invested enough to smile, but perfectly pleased when it was over. That’s that. Now pass the gouda.

Clip your coupons & make your will...

There was a time in my past when six hours spent in a shopping mall was just about the most incredibly magical way a Saturday could be spent. Thankfully, I'm no longer a 14 year old suburbanite and now dedicate weekends to more noble pursuits (such as watching gems like Jack Frost 2 and The Stabilizer) and reserve department store excursions solely for updating zombie survival blueprint plans. While I wouldn't mind shuffling my way past Cinnabon and Game Stop free of charge during martial law, a shopping spree now seems more odious than a dentist's appointment in October.

So rather than haul myself to Macy's for the yet-to-be-started holiday shopping, I'm spending my Friday Pop Syndicate column browsing a few great (and not-so-good) horror titles set in...you know. Where the dead go when hell gets crowded on Black Friday.

Come for a read and stay for the Orange Julius.

Otherwise you face the wrath of Nazi made toad-eating elves. And really, who needs that when you haven't even begun wrapping?

This Is a Dark Ride

As we pack away the bermuda shorts and citronella candles to welcome crispy autumn, there’s one summer institution that I’ll be slightly sad to watch hibernate: amusement parks. Sure, lucky Californians and other citizens get yearlong access to large scale outdoor playgrounds, but for those of us that must abide by Mother Nature’s mood swings, a mobile carnival that sets up in a supermarket parking lot is a temporary joy. 

Thankfully, like so many venues of our dimension, there are plenty of horror films that help to keep alive (and sometimes, undead) the memories of rickety ferris wheels, questionable carnies, and possessed bumper cars (that’s what Herbie: Fully Loadedwas about, yes?).

If you’ve seen the trailer for Zombieland (and let’s face it: if you’ve been anywhere near a movie theater or Internet connection, you’ve seen the trailer for Zombieland)then like me, you’re itching for the promising marriage of roller coasters  and cannibalism. For a brainy appetizer, check out Umberto Lenzi’s Nightmare City. While it doesn’t answer the question of whether zombies throw their arms in the air when descending down a big drop or if they take a good picture via those seizure-inducing photo flashes, this 1980 classic does does provide a nifty chase up my favorite staple of vintage theme parks, a wooden roller coaster (and by chase, I mean actual chase; these roasted marshmallow headed ghouls can run). A truly horrifying ending demonstrates what happens should the teenage ride operator not check your safety harness (20+ years before Final Destination 3 gave us grisly details. 

Roller coasters not your thing? There’s still plenty of rides that can instill insane levels of fear in under 2 minutes. Child’s Play 3 boasts one  of those unrealistically extravagant funhouses only seen in cinema. Motorized cars take you on a herky jerky spin through a maze of foamy gargoyles. The ride itself is hardly terrifying, but its physical setup--which includes 20 foot drops over mini-van sized fans--makes for the perfect grounds for soul possessing and doll hunting. Pity the poor maintenance man who has to patrol that death trap.

Appropriately enough, a more believable funhouse can be found in a film I’ve discussed here before, Tobe Hooper’s The Funhouse. This 1981 slasher is set in a weekend carnival overflowing with stale popcorn and ex-cons (the type of three day event my lax fire department sponsored every August). Best of all, its titular attraction is perfectly decrepit and looks like it’s already hosted the deaths of countless ticket holders, much less the naughty teens whose demise will follow.

Maybe you prefer stationary entertainment at your evening fair. Many a carnival goer enjoys some of the live shows offered, although unless your ticket says Disney or Dollywood, the odds are fairly high that you won’t be clamoring for autographs at the end of the show. Still, give Tod Browning some credit for amassing a real-life collection of sideshow workers in 1932’s Freaks. From giggly pinheads to limbless crawlers, this group doesn’t seem to rival Cirque de Soleil, but damnit if they don’t throw kickass parties. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that their boss gives them enough time off to occasionally deform anyone who disrespects one of their own. An alternative black-and-white after hours entertainment can be found in the German expressionist classic, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, where a somnobulist brings the house down by predicting the date of your death. Fun for the whole family!

For less authentic performers, visit Victor Salva’s Clownhouse, where a trio of mental patients escape the big house to kill and impersonate three bitter circus clowns. Sure, the whole chasing-three-teenagers-and-trying-to-kill-them thing is wrong, but what’s even worse is the actual clowns’ performance ettiquette. Dancing around like--well, clowns--they please the local kids fine enough, but why when it comes to choosing a volunteer, why does Cheezo the leader grab our young protagonist against his will? If a boy stares into your painted eyes with a look of true terror, shaking his head at your extended gloved hand, is it really wise to grab his clammy right and throw him in the center ring? You’re just asking for a kick in the nuts. The strangulation and identity theft? Not completely undeserved. 

Speaking of clowns, one can’t discuss theme parks without a wistful visit to Killer Klowns From Outer Space. A neon tent rivals Las Vegas’ Circus Circus and a drop down ball pit lands you in the Playboy Bunny mansion of rainbow headed jesterettes. Best of all is the prime selection of artery clogging food. I’ve seen my share of candy apples and fried oreos, but that’s nothing compared to the klowns’ selection of 4’ long blood-stuffed cotton candy, monster-making popcorn, and acidic cream pies that will melt even the surliest of night security guards.

Finally, to bid proper adieu to summer days and snow cones, stop by the hauntingly barren landscape of rigged games, flea ridden stuffed animals, and loose screwed rides in 28 Weeks Later. Sure, Carnival of Souls gets plenty of ghostly points for its artistic eeriness, but there’s something sad and understated about a carousel so clean of children’s laughter and motion sickness vomit. 

Have I missed any? Throw in your vote for best use of a tilt-a-whirl, haunted house, deep fryer, or any other treat found only inside those non-permanent gates of traveling fun.

Unhealthy Horror

At a recent Shadow Box performance of Repo! The Genetic Opera (chalk it up to research/ my addiction to seeing Anthony Stuart Head in leather on the big screen) I noticed the general unhealth of the genre fans around me. Perhaps it’s the unflattering fit of pleather, fishnets, and pre-shrunk t-shirts, but glance at any midnight movie or convention line and it’s hard to feel confident in the event of a surprise field day (though conversely, it does give you quite the edge in a surprise Battle Royale tournament). 

For a genre whose fanbase is often less than athletic (not to make any sweeping generalizations; I’m basing this on the unexplainable fact that nachos, beer, and chocolate covered anything tastes better when watching people eat or kill each other), you’d think that a few filmmakers would have tried their hands at addressing this issue. But despite their insatiable appetites and reluctance to exercise with any enthusiasm, zombies are generally reserved to symbolize human cruelty, apathy, societal breakdown, and stupidity, while slashers focus their lessons on premarital sex participants and users of illegal substances. Onscreen, such a definition has yet to include trans fats.

In any genre, the overweight are generally cast as comfortable furniture. In horror, they can be used to showcase creative killing (like the gluttonous spaghetti massacre of Se7en), comic relief (Dawn of the Dead’s Big & Tall swim trunks model), or to emphasize the grotesque in villains (the latest round of Texas Chainsaw Massacres). Even that perennial holiday favorite, Silent Night Deadly Night features a trim psycho killer, and that’s a film about Santa Clause, a character who has himself been accused of setting a bad example when it comes to eating habits.

I accept the whole escapist fantasy of film and television and wouldn’t expect to see a Lane Bryant model playing Friday the 13th’s next final girl. What surprises me is that, to my knowledge, there are few films that delve into obesity or the culture of weight with the same intellectual and/or horrific energy as, say, Cronenberg’s studies of the sexual body or even Ginger Snaps’ lycanthropic menstrual analogy. We like our struggles with religion, suburban psychology, and alcoholism metaphors just fine, but an ubiquitous health crisis, not so much. 

Perhaps the most obvious example of “fat horror” is Stephen King’s little loved Thinner. Sure, that film gave us a donut devouring stereotype of an antihero, but for all its incredible shrinking waistline, the horror was more focused on the diabolical power of Gypsies than the potential fright of diabetes. The recent Drag Me to Hell gave heroine Allison Lohman an interesting character history as a formerly chubby farm girl (because apparently Gypsies have some sort of vendetta against the overweight). While one message board posting I read insisted the entire demonic hunt was a representation of Lohman’s discomfort with her past, you’d have to find some pretty incredible spandex to stretch that metaphor over the whole story. 

One of the best genre pictures about dieting--and America’s obsession with making it look cook, in particular--is Larry Cohen’s quirkily genius 1985 The Stuff. Pre-dating the Atkins Diet popularity explosion by a good 18 years, this satirical riot of a horror-comedy targets American consumerism with a product eerily packaged with a logo similar to Target. Once again, the real subject is corporate advertising and our inability to resist it, but it does a decent--and thoroughly entertaining--job of considering one sector of the weight issue on camera.

So does cinema need to pork up, or am I missing a few delicious treats that explore or exploit the rotundity of the modern age? 

Rock & Roll To Steal Your Soul

List of Things to Do Before I Die:


-Read Ulysses
-Catch a foul ball at CitiField
-Beat Zombies Ate My Neighbors on Super Nintendo

-Host a film party featuring a double showing of Hard Rock Zombies and Black Roses


Black Roses is not a good film, nor does it qualify as a so-bad-it's good stinker. In the cheerfully wide catalogue of 80s horror, Black Roses represents an average 90 minutes of decent rock, poor acting, and monsters that rotate between looking evil and resembling poor man's Muppets. Yes, it does mark the dubious film debut of Vincent Pastore, but worse crimes have been committed. If Hard Rock Zombies is a bowl of melted cheddar, Black Roses is the the liquid nacho topping that shoots out ingredients you can't pronounce onto your salty movie theater tortilla chips. It's always edible, but never quite delicious.


Quick Plot: A sleepy midwestern town is visited by the country's biggest metal band, Black Roses. The school board is mildly miffed by the offensiveness of hard rock but allow the band to play a few shows for the enjoyment of the very white teenage population. After the opening night performance, one lone high school teacher notices his students committing acts of violence and (gasp!) wearing muted colors to class. The only possible explanation would be that Black Roses are agents of Satan (or maybe Satan himself; it's unclear) set to collect the souls of America's youth, one Footloose-y town at a time.

Black Roses isn't quite as much fun as it sounds, but it has its moments. As Damien, the kooshball headed lead singer, Sal Vivianno fares somewhat better than the soft-spoken Jessie of Hard Rock Zombies, but demony puppets and killer turntables don't quite match cannibal Nazi dwarves in entertainment value. Lead actor John Martin has a decent presence, but none of the kids make strong enough impressions for us to really care about their fates. So ultimately, there's nothing mind or ear-blowing about Black Roses, except...well...it's a 1988 horror about a demonic hair metal band.


High Points
The variety of monster puppets shows some ingenuity, particularly in the opening scene music video

Props to actor John Martin, who manages to pull off the role of an overly caring high school teacher with female fans and a porno mustache without coming off as overly creepy

Low Points
Did the high school band perform the elaborate and not very appropriate score?


The final heroic pun is barely audible, which would make Buffy the Vampire Slayer shake her ponytail in shame


How does one set a climax at a rock concert and not end with a stage dive?

Lessons Learned
Underage breasts are quite versatile and inconsistently sized in small towns


In the 1980s, any girl named Tina was a slut


Tennis rackets, when used correctly, make excellent tools for demon bashing


Rent/Bury/Buy
There's something about these 80s high school horror flicks that's hard to resist, and Black Roses is certainly likable in its cheesiness. Under no definition is this a scary movie, but there's a lot of low budget heart to keep it watchable. A small selection of extras includes a compilation of Damien auditions, which surprisingly reveal that Vivianno may have been the best casting choice (at least from the drudge of a pool amassed in that collection). An affectionate audio commentary by director John Fasano, screenwriter Cindy Cirile, and their teenage children is joyfully humble and good-natured, but the overall rewatchability of Black Roses isn't quite as high as you would think. A rental should suffice.