*Hallelujah chorus plays* Elliot “Rat” Ross is the editor of The Basement on a Hill. His passion is writing whacked-out reviews of nutzoid movies, sifting through screeners, and interviewing independent filmmakers and artists. He lives in Omaha, NE, where he works a big boy job instead of writing for a living, but hopefully that will all change one day. He is happy to contribute to Cinemaslice, and asks that you send him presents. Email him for his address.
A review for Lunch Meat is a review for us all. I’m sure my insights here will echo those of everysoul fortunate enough to have ridden the unshakable homegrown fiend of a ride that is Lunch Meat. Watching it seems to synchronize the viewer into some larger, undefined headcheese consciousness. And with a movie named after cold cuts, would you expect anything less than the completely strange?
The movie begins with a false sense of security. Entitled yuppie teens call eachother scab and fungus as they drive towards a cabin they’ll never reach. It all feels familiar. Someone likes someone and that person likes someone else. Someone forgot the lunch meat, and someone forgot the gas, so the jeep gets pushed to the nearest watering hole. The jeep finds a drink and the teens find a bite to eat. It’s evident that those aren’t any ordinary burgers and they grimace and chew. Grimace and chew. Continue reading “Schlock du Jour: Lunch Meat (1987)”→
Necessity is the mother of invention. Daenerys Targaryen is the mother of dragons. Judy Garland is the mother of Liza Minnelli.
Okay so I can’t figure out how to begin this review. They say if you just start typing that eventually everything will work itself out. Taeter City is kinda like that? Well it isn’t, but if you keep watching its goofy ass, eventually it will end, so that’s something.
Let me start over. How about this…
Taeter City is a scrumptious vegan’s delight. Eating animals is punishable by death! What’s that you say? Eating criminals is encouraged? All I have to do is drive up to my nearest Taeter Burger and order a buttcheek sandwich with blended cartilage sauce?
I am a disappointment. Before you attempt to console me, please, just listen to my story.
I had it all planned out, see? I held my horses for the perfect opportunity. I had waited so long to finally see it, and I knew I needed my best mates Jade, Jeremy, and Tim there to enjoy the experience with me. I also needed drinks of course. You can’t forget the drinks when you’re screening an A+ Schlock bomb that would rewire our synapses after it blew our collective minds. This was going to be a great night. We were going to watch Rollergator. Hell. Yes.
Fast forward 83 minutes to me sitting there, in silence, embarrassed and ashamed as the credits rolled. Because that’s when I realized that I showed the wrong movie. What I meant to watch involved women in skimpy clothing turning into reptiles, and then killing other people to turn them into gay zombies! It had been Repligator I meant to watch! Bret McCormick’s erotic sci-fi romp from the same year. Not whatever the shit this was. I had never even actually heard of Rollergator, it had merely incepted its way into my mind like its name was Berenstein Bears. Press [F] to pay respects.
A beloved pastime of horror fans is talking about how many “Massacre” films there are. FromThe Texas Chain Saw Massacreto Alien Beach Party Massacre, and pretty much anything you can fathom in between (I’ve yet to see a Purple Weasel Massacre, but I’m sure it’s in production). So when I heard there was a film called Leaf Blower Massacre, I was as surprised as I was to find out Roman Reigns is facing Brock Lesnar at Summerslam for the Universal Championship. That is to say, not at all.
Leaf Blower Massacre is a 2013 short approximately 12 minutes in length. In it, we are introduced to a killer that is a dead ringer for the nail gun killer in Nail Gun Massacre, except instead of a high-velocity carpentry tool, the killer is wielding none other than the eponymous leaf blower. The fact that the weapon needs an outlet to work is a funny way to poke fun at the killer’s weapon trope. This short is all in good fun, even if it does seem to get confused about what it actually is, much in the way the WWE creative team is confused about the character of Roman Reigns. What would have been more compelling is if our 12 minutes of attention were met with a relentless onslaught of killing randos in clever ways with a leaf blower. But I’m projecting.
There has never really been a moment in my life that I didn’t at least live with a cat. When I was born, my parents already had a half-persian named Yo-Yo. I moved in with my cousins and they had Simba and Dinkers. Then there was Sabrina, Koko, Maxx, London, Cosmo, Eevee, Yuna, Bowser, and finally Bowie and Raimi. I think it’s safe to say I like cats. Still with me?
Dog people tend to be more extroverted and have more friends. Cat people are more likely to be introverts. I’m generalizing, and also pulling this 100% out of my ass, but it sounds good! So I’m definitely lacking in the friends department because of my affinity for cats, and not because I invite people over to watch a movie where a man dresses up as a cat, uses a litterbox, and wears a giant, barbed, cat cock dildo while he murders women.
A Playboy playmate, a Penthouse pet, a man named mom…
This isn’t a riddle, it’s Doom Asylum! Welcome!
I hope you enjoy your stay. While you’re here, make sure to enjoy the whole host of cartoon characters. From yuppie alimony attorneys, to hungover coroners, to all chick noisewave bands (they play the local sewers!), Doom Asylum kicks you in the crotch, spits in your mouth, and then tickles you and takes your laughing as affirmation of enjoyment. Never mind the steady stream of sadness pooling at your feet.
When I was a kid, I had an impressive collection of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles action figures. I would make them perform impossible feats, and they were never truly in danger of the bad guys. They would just punch their stupid faces in after performing some ridiculous quadruple flip pile-driver on Pizzaface or Sergeant Bananas or Rocksteady. What does any of this have to do with Alien Nightmare X?
It’s the year 2025. Comrades Alex and Victor have just returned from the Illuminati’s own planet, planet Silius. Now they are looking a ravaged Earth in the eye-sockets. Not much is left after the alien invasion. They team with a warrior that goes only by “The Possessed,” and fight to survive the attacks of the alien humanoids and spiders.
Deep within the annals of YouTube, there is a particular catacomb that when properly navigated grants access to a SOV sci-fi/horror flick that breathes like a sleeping dragon. Its scales of recycled footage and claws of bad tracking primed to unleash a blaze of rambling voiceovers, pulled punches, and regional wit. That dragon is Trashcans of Terror.
A chance meeting between our hero, a man named “Spider” (director Handy), and a disoriented powerlifter named Kathy, begets romance after some light dad-humor flirtation. When Kathy gets angry she turns silver and becomes stronger than an ox on the juice. This is explained later, kinda. After a health bar brawl resulting in $37,500 worth of damage (even though said brawl took place in the alleyway), our two heroes run for it. Kathy goes missing and Spider somehow determines that alien trashcans are to blame. It is never explained how he comes to this conclusion. He simply does, and relays this information to us with the same enthusiasm one would use when telling you they had a ham sandwich for lunch. He enlists the help of his military friend, Velasquez, to help find Kathy and fight an army of trashcans.
DISCLAIMER: THIS REVIEW CONTAINS NERDY AND INAPPROPRIATE SHIT.
From director Jim Wynorski, Heather Locklear’s Boobs AKA The Return of Swamp Thing
I saw Avengers: Infinity War against my better judgement. I knew I was done with the modern superhero yarn and I got absolutely nothing out of it. It was big, it was busy, it was SAME-Y. In other words, it was being stuck in traffic on the way to work on Monday morning. The good vs evil dynamic that seems to drive everything isn’t of much interest to me, and when it comes to superhero films, that angle is obviously amplified. For that reason, you won’t find me reviewing superhero films very often…
Enter The Return of Swamp Thing. Based on characters from the DC comic where Swamp Thing is basically Captain Planet without the kids and rings. there are also things like the Rotworld story-line, wherein Swamp Thing—as an avatar of “The Green”, and Animal Man—as an avatar of “The Red”, are tasked by The Parliament of Trees and The Parliament of Limbs, respectively, to team up to defeat Dr. Anton Arcane and “The Rot”. It’s trippy and nightmarish, Lovecraftian even, as it features animals and humans being turned inside out. It is good. Most importantly it feels more like a horror story than a superhero one.
Point being, I view Swamp Thing in a different light, as in my experience he’s portrayed as less of a hero and more of a pile of vegetable matter that just happens to be an elemental entity of balance. That entire point is moot however, since we are talking about Wynorski’s The Return of Swamp Thing.
Being an incompetent drive-through attendant gets you killed. So does being a loquacious hitchhiker, a loutish litterbug, and a radical religious zealot.
Honeymooners Nick and Vick are having none of it as they exit a church to operatic Cascio rock that brings to mind the rise of power of the iron fist in an Orwellian futurescape. While dystopia isn’t on the menu for Road Meat, that doesn’t stop the honeymooners from running over a fat man in their “Just Married” mobile and turning him into, well, you guessed it…
They pick up a claw-handed, alien-jabbering hitchhiker. Slamming on their brakes his claw goes into his own face, killing him. The honeymooners bury him, crack jokes, and play in the wilderness. Think Natural Born Killers, except you won’t want to slit your wrists afterwards. Or like a Bonnie and Clyde adaptation as imagined by Charles Band or the Chiodo brothers. Maybe it’s morbid to laugh at death, but for my meat, it’s all good in the catharsis of fiction.