(January)
while its no doubt a return-to-form for the gorehound charmers, who have spent an unfortunate amount of their post-American Mary good will slumming it on WWE Films productions and stabs at reality television, i still can't help but acknowledge the failings of their unfortunately uninspiring Cronenberg fan-film, which derives its worship almost exclusively on the surface molecules of the auteur's universe, completely disregarding his talent for creating characters that feel adult and believable rather than the stock monster movie archetypes that populate the Soska's iteration of the material. great effects work, though.
Drop Dead Fred went up Jacob's Ladder and when he came back down he had turned into your worst nightmare of a PUA.
the worn out trope of the serial killer as an encyclopedic arbiter of class and culture gets thoroughly decimated as only Von Trier knows how.
a maggoty gem from the Far East.
a deliberately frustrating collage of intermittent explosive disorder and unyielding panic attacks that will have you tasting copper half way through attempts at recalling its message.
the mythologized demonization of Ricky Kasso gets a late 90s wet look makeover that unfortunately plays like a mediocre cable TV pilot remake of Jim Van Bebber's My Sweet Satan.
the Money Pit as interpreted by Lucio Fulci.
mean.
compact stalk-and-slash stripped to meat and bone.
a corrosive mutant of overwhelming cosmic phosphorus shock-loads the senses until its sight can no longer be described as beautiful or ugly... heavenly or hellish... only as a force that supplants everything.... interloping definition... re-contextualizing the smattering miasma of matter and its reverse into one concentrated blast of succulent unknowing. good to have you back, Richard.
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