Sunday, December 27, 2009


deadgirl Pictures, Images and Photos

I feel dirty.
Not the regular kind of dirty like after you've done some heavy work and you're dripping with sweat.
Not the good kind of dirty like when you're in a strip club and you're being massaged by the best tits money can buy.
Not even the literal kind of dirty like when you've fallen into a mud puddle after stepping out of your carriage and misjudging the first step. (...If you so happen to travel by carriage, I suppose.)


The layer of filth that seems to have coated my very being is unique.
It has stained my skin, my eyes and possibly even my very soul. (I'll only know for sure once I visit a clairvoyant. Only then will I be in a suitable position to decide which lies I shall believe in order to attempt to heal my corrupted aura.)
Until then though; I fear that this sickening sense of putrescence that clings to my form like film upon rotting meat will be with me for some time.
What could have caused this grimy residue imbued with such gag-inducing potency?
Well, how about the face-paralysing experience of witnessing a film concerning teenage zombie rape.

Yep. You read that correctly.
Teenage. Zombie. Rape.

Aren't you glad you visited my blog today?
Allow me to now provide my report a la some kind of pseudo-coroner upon the cinematic corpse that is DEADGIRL

(Oh yeah, I'm not going to spoil the journey for y'all by laying the plot out on a slab. But hey, I've already mentioned 'teenage zombie rape'. If that triple-threat combo of words does not inform you as to whether or not this is the film for you, then perhaps you need to do some soul searching. Light some candles. Find yourself, y'know? Have fun.)

- This horror film is, appropriately and refreshingly, horrifying.
It's about time a flick came along that lives up to the implications pertaining to the HORROR genre.
This is a greasy, unpleasant film that leaves a thick layer of retch-worthy after-taste in the back of your throat.
It's like eating something rotten on a hot, sticky day...and you have no beverage available to rinse your mouth out with.
You can even almost smell this film.
The stale sweat. The sickly musk of old sex and body odour generated by the exertions involved in such an activity.
Waves of scent seem to radiate out from the screen and place you in the middle of these disgusting events.
And that face that you generally pull when you smell something offensive? The way your nose lifts and your top lip curls back slightly as if trying to recoil away from the source of the odour? Yeah, that face is the mask that you will wear throughout the duration of this film.
I put my mask on during the first 'sex scene'...and never took it off.
It's still on as I type this.
Damn, I need a shower. I hope soap can rid me of this feeling. Perhaps I have some heavy-duty cleaning products in the cupboard. It's worth checking...

- The Dead Girl's face is simply terrifying.
Even before it has been, well, ...worn out, so to speak. Ahem.
Her expressions display a perfect blend of ravenous fury and corpse-like mindless vacancy...yet with eyes that seem to still hold a faint echo of her past humanity.
And when she 'grins' she becomes the mascot of nightmares.
I'll be seeing this gal in my mind for years to come.
Perhaps I should adopt a drinking problem...

- Noah Segan's performance as JT is excellent. He did solid work in BRICK (Just watch it. NOW) as Dode, and yet I didn't even recognise him here; so different was he from that previous character.
JT is one frightening chap.
He's that kind of friend that is always just one small situation away from snapping, y'know?
You could see in his eyes that there was a pendulum just waiting to swing away in the wrong direction and the right set of circumstances were all he required to swing away and smash everything to pieces.

- The 'shopping for a new girl' scene at the gas station is disturbing...and yet it manages to catch you off-guard and take an unexpected turn.
The scene could have played out predictably and still succeeded; yet the curve-ball that is tossed at the audience allows our minds to fumble briefly before being led off onto a new path in this disturbing journey.

- This is a TRULY original take on the whole zombie movie genre. A most impressive feat, indeed.
There are no head-shots.
There are no mall scenes.
There are no shambles of zombies laying siege to a structure that contains a holed-up band of distressed survivors with suitably diverse backgrounds.
It basically ditches the bulk of zombie movie cliches and decides to tackle the subject from a VERY different angle and have the players be anything but heroic survivors.
Heroism is nowhere to be found within these halls, kids.
These characters are just plain...wrong.

- Far too many so-called “horror” films these days are stale, formulaic affairs that deal with text-book scenarios that, at best, barely manage to elicit a giggly shriek from the audience.
True horror should do as the name implies.
They should stay with you.
No other genre of film; and I mean NO OTHER GENRE, manages to stay with you afterwards as effectively as horror.
...Provided it is done right.
Take a quick run down a general list and you'll see:
ROMANCE = “Oh, wasn't that lovely. I feel romantic. Let's kiss and maybe you'll get a handjob on the drive home later. Where should we eat?”
COMEDY = “Oh, wasn't that funny? I liked the part where I laughed. Hahaha. Where should we eat?”
ACTION = “That was awesome. That explosion was...explosive. Where should we eat?”
DRAMA = “That made me think about things. Let's discuss it before our entrees arrive and then our relationship issues will take priority. Where should we eat?”
Yet with HORROR, you should get:
“...That was awful. I don't want to be alone tonight. I think I need a bath. What? No. I don't even feel like eating. Let's go.”

Horror stays with you.
It makes you look at the darkness in a different way.
You try to open the car door quicker.
You make sure you double-check the door and window locks.
You don't want to be alone afterwards.
Your mind has now been conditioned to believe that all of those things you just experienced on a screen...have managed to follow you THROUGH the screen, out into the real world.
THAT is a truly memorable experience.
Some may cry that such films make you feel bad or scared and why would anybody desire that from a film.
The watching of films is supposed to be a leisure activity. Why would you desire a negative feeling?
...But therein lies the whole trick to horror films and good films in general.
If they 'get to you', regardless of genre or subject matter, then the film has served its purpose...and then some.
It makes for a richer experience and the level of immersion is raised considerably if you happen to take something away from the film, long after you've safely pressed the STOP button and sighed with relief as you remind yourself that it is “just a movie”.

I still cannot rid myself of DEADGIRL's disgusting taste.
It is horrible and this, ...this is a horrible, HORRIBLE film.

And I mean that as a MASSIVE compliment.


Martyrs Pictures, Images and Photos

I am speechless.
My jaw is literally still open from when this film made it fall to the floor at the beginning.

I am not going to go into detail about this film, for to spoil it would be unforgivable.
I can only say that it is absolutely brilliant.
Believe me or do not.
I could not care less.
But if you choose to disbelieve me, then it is your loss.

It is easily one of the best films I have ever seen in my life and I believe that it may be the BEST HORROR FILM I HAVE EVER EXPERIENCED.
I'm serious.
This film is like getting hit by a truck.
...If you had never seen a truck before.
You'd be like, "What the fuck is that?" and then it would slam into you with such force that your mind never had a chance to process your own question before the answer obliterated your very existence.
Yeah. It's powerful, yo.

I shall write one of my usual posts about this film sometime in the future; but for now, I must leave you all with nothing but my highest of recommendations and a few little morsels:

1. The breakfast scene stunned me senseless.
2. The bathroom scene terrified me.
3. The 'final stage' had me doubting my own eyes.

This film is NOT an easy journey and you MUST have a strong stomach, but if you feel up to it, then please; witness this film.
Yes, it is disturbing and unpleasant...but the experience is unforgettable.

As I said; I shall return to this film again in a later post.
I have to go and think more about it now...

Sunday, December 6, 2009


I've seen it at least 3 times, now.
No...I believe it was 4 times, if I'm to be truly honest with myself, and I must. For if I fill my own ears with lies and deception, then who knows what that could lead to.
I may grow angry.
I may stalk through the night, blade held tight, stepping in the memorised locations upon the old wooden floorboards of this house that yield no creaking moans of protest.
For I do not wish for my location to be revealed.
I must precisely execute every step of this remembered dance so that I may infiltrate my own sleeping chamber...without waking myself up.
For if I catch even the slightest scent of my own approach then it will be curtains for us all.
I will unleash considerably more than a simple “moan of protest” if I learn of my own vicious plans for this evening. If I am discovered then I will surely tear the wallpaper of this shabby dwelling with screams that would shatter the teeth of a whole choir of sinister angels, rendered deaf by a birth defect that was no mere accident, contrary to what the newsreels will have us all believe.

Damn it.
I'm losing focus...and I cannot afford to do so.

The steps...I must recall the correct steps...
What was the next one? Think!

Something...has just caused a vibration in that area of the memory-web that causes the plump abdomen of the mind to pulsate in anticipation of a delicious new recollection.
Well-timed, too. For I have grown hungry.
This nostalgic morsel will help me maintain my stamina.

This is no memory.
This...this is understanding.

My god.
How could I not have noticed?
It was so clear.
The floorboards...
“Moan of protest”...
Why did that particular current in my stream of consciousness self-punctuate as if it was in third-person?
Almost as was heard...

Now I hear something...
The soft, disappointed moan of creaking wood was enough to make me turn...yet this reaction was predictably late.
My eyes had only a chance to barely locate my assailant, but not focus on them, as the blade seemed to vanish from my grip and appear elsewhere.
Unfortunately, 'elsewhere' happened to be buried 5 inches into my chest and by the time I understood that brutal fact about my own bodily geography, it was too late.

I did not hear another floorboard creak as I crashed to the floor.
Perhaps, I struck a rare silent board? It could happen.
After all, those boards were integral locations in the many steps I'd committed to memory that made up the 'dance' that allowed me to get close enough to my own sleeping chamber and murder myself while I slept.

I've never been a good dancer.

Perhaps that fact should have tipped me off that this endeavour was doomed from the beginning.
Surely I should have realised that I would learn of my own sinister intent?
Was I simply too arrogant to acknowledge this fact? Did I consider myself...stronger than myself?
If so, then I must be laughing heartily now.
I hear something...
The moan of another floorboard?
Just laughter.
The soft, raspy laughter that comes from a parched and cracked throat that has known nothing but the flow of endless insults and hostility from the darkness within for years.
That laugh is familiar.
For it is my laugh.
I know it well.

I lie upon the floor and wish I could join in on the mirth...but a punctured lung, shattered rib and flooded chest cavity do not allow for much in the way of vocal expressions of joy.
I listen to myself laugh as I stand over my convulsing body.
The heaving sounds and corporeal shudders have reached a regular rhythm, and I realise that I have done this so many times now, that I can almost perfectly pinpoint the exact moment when 'body' transitions into 'corpse'.
It's a skill. One of many.

I should set my watch to this moment in time.
Where is my watch? No matter.

I utter a bubbling gurgle of fluid and bone fragments as I try to begin a fit of giggling, but I do not hear it because my own laughing has increased in volume and I hear nothing but the cacophony of joyous echoes as they fill the room like unnamed guests at a dinner party.
The laughter sounds like a party, actually.

The wind from the night outside was ideal for masking my footsteps, but now I can barely hear it.
The laughter has drowned everything... and I know that, I too, am drowning.

I try for another gurgle.
Perhaps a bark of final defiance...or a simple giggling word...
...Nope. No good. The laughter is too loud.
Strange; I thought I would feel worse, considering my situation.
Instead, I feel...calm. A sense of satisfaction seems to be a side dish to the main emotion.
Perhaps that laughter really is infectious.
I don't know.
I'll just close my eyes now. I'm tired of looking up at myself.
I never liked myself from that angle anyway.
I can't even hear the wind any more.
I can only hear myself laughing.
I could use a lozenge.
I have things to do. I'm glad my eyes are closing.
My eyes are closed.
The change will happen soon. I'm glad. Right on schedule. I don't need my watch.
I can only hear my laughter.
Nothing else.
I cannot hear anything except laughter.
I CANNOT HEAR ANYTHING...except...laughter...

...and the moan of a floorboard from behind me.

It seems louder than usual. Clearer.
My laughing stops.
I cannot look down at my body...or is it a corpse now? I can't tell. There's no time.
I cannot turn around. There's no time. Where the hell is my watch?

I only heard the floorboard.
I only feel the hands alongside my my neck is snapped.
I wish I heard the crack.
I wish I could still hear my laughter...

I open my eyes and blink until I'm satisfied with the clarity.
My mind echoes, but I can't remember the point of origin.
Perhaps I'll remember later.

My throat hurts.
I lick my lips and wonder when was the last time I drank.
Even if I had my watch, it could not provide such information.

The room is dusty...and I can easily see the footprints that I've left upon the floorboards.
Only my prints.
It looks like some kind of dance has taken place.
I lean forward and shift my weight onto a nearby floorboard; one that has no footprint.
...It creaks, like the groan of a disturbed homeless man.
Just as I thought.
I was lying...and it looks like it worked.

After all; I'm an excellent dancer.

(Just writing to see what comes out. This came out. I wrote most of this a couple o' months ago, I think. I can't remember the exact date.)