More of the same over at Vintage Sleaze.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Jewel Car Crash 911 Tape - Listen To The 911 Call Here
Jewel Car Crash 911 Tape
Article by: Phillip Brunelle
Hollywood SHAME
http://www.hollywoodshame.com/
HOLLYWOOD, CA - The 911 tape from the car crash involving singer Jewel has been released. (see video below)
Jewel was driving her Cadillac SRX in Texas last week when she was struck by a fire truck. She was pregnant at the time of the accident, but both Jewel and the baby are said to be doing good.
The 911 call was made by OnStar who told the 911 operator that Jewel was not responding to them in her vehicle, but the OnStar employee could hear moaning and movement inside of the vehicle. Listen to the 911 call in the video below.
PLEASE SUPPORT US BY SHARING THIS STORY
Click Here To Follow Us On Twitter
Nate Dogg Dead At 41 Leaves Snoop Saddened
Rapper Nate Dogg Dead At 41
Article by: Phillip Brunelle
Hollywood SHAME
http://www.hollywoodshame.com/
LONG BEACH, CA - Rapper Nate Dogg, whose real name is Nathaniel Hale, died Tuesday, March 15th, 2011 in Long Beach.
The cause of death has not been immediately released when Nate Dogg's family announced the death of the well known rapper to the Long Beach Press Telegram, however Nate Dogg had suffered two recent strokes, one in 2007, which left him partially paralyzed, and another stroke in 2008.
Nate Dogg was a four-time Grammy nominee and a major participant in the West Coast G-Funk sound, contributing memorable and chart-topping hooks to hits spanning the past two decades, starting with his heavy featuring on Dr. Dre's The Chronic.
Rapper Snoop Dogg took to his twitter just hours following the death of Nate Dogg saying
PLEASE SUPPORT US BY SHARING THIS STORY
MORE CELEBRITY NEWS & GOSSIP FOLLOW US ON TWITTER HERE
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Justin Bieber Gets Waxed - Hollywood Latest News Gossips | Interview | Video
Justin Bieber Gets Waxed
Madame Tussauds wax museum debuts a life-size replica of the teen sensation! See Justin strike a pose with his clone.
Hotel Hijinks: Crazed Fans Break Into Justin Bieber's Room - Hollywood News Gossips
Justin Bieber may be adorable, but the actions of his fans can often be deplorable.
As has been well-documented, a set of crazed Beliebers have been threatening Selena Gomez ever since she started dating the singer. Now, Great Britain's Daily Mirror reports that a pair of obsessed followers actually broke into Justin's Liverpool hotel room last week.
As has been well-documented, a set of crazed Beliebers have been threatening Selena Gomez ever since she started dating the singer. Now, Great Britain's Daily Mirror reports that a pair of obsessed followers actually broke into Justin's Liverpool hotel room last week.
"Two girls snuck in through a side entrance and stole housekeeping outfits," a source tells the newspaper. "After ditching their regular clothes and slipping into their new costumes they got the lift to Justin's suite and knocked on the door... Having been allowed in, the girls began half-heartedly polishing tables and dusting surfaces."
This all took place while Bieber was trapped in the hotel because the streets were filled with screaming fans.
Justin was not in the room as the girls giggled endlessly and were eventually discovered snapping photos of the artist's belongings. They were then "evicted from the premises," according to the report.
While Bieber has always been supportive and loyal to his fans, this incident left him understandably "furious," the insider says. He checked out that same day.
Social Distortion Legend Casey Royer Arrested For OD In Front of Son
Casey Royer Arrested
Article by: Phillip Brunelle
Hollywood SHAME
http://www.hollywoodshame.com/
ORANGE COUNTY, CA - A former Social Distortion rock legend, Casey Royer, was arrested last week in his Orange County home after his 12-year-old son called for help after finding the ex-drummer overdosed on heroin.
Police said Casey Royer and his son were watching television when his son noticed Royer losing consciousness. The child ran next-door and notified the neighbors who called 911.
Police say that Royer's home was in complete filth and disaray with garbage and drug paraphernelia scattered everywhere, including needles with traces of heroin.
Once Casey Royer was treated and released from the hospital last week, police caught up with Royer Monday, March 14th, 2011 and arrested him on charges of child endangerment and being under the influence of heroin in possession of drug paraphernelia.
Casey Royer currently sings for a pop-rock band called D.I. who refused to issue a statement at the time this story was written. Police say that Royer is currently being held in jail on $120,000 cash bail. Details as to the current welfare of Casey Royer's son was not immediately available.
Congratulations Casey Royer! Because of your drug abuse, inability to care for yourself or your own child who you put in danger by using drugs in his presense and having used needles laying around your home, you have gone from Hollywood Fame to Hollywood Shame with a front row seat in our Hollywood Hall of Shame!
PLEASE SUPPORT US BY SHARING THIS STORY
MORE CELEBRITY NEWS & GOSSIP FOLLOW US ON TWITTER HERE
Monday, March 14, 2011
Usher Sex Tape For Sale
Usher Sex Tape For Sale
Article by: Phillip Brunelle
Hollywood SHAME
http://www.hollywoodshame.com/
HOLLYWOOD, CA - It seems people would do anything for a dollar these days, even breaking into a R&B star's car and stealing laptops and later finding out that you have got a sex tape staring Usher and his ex-wife Tameka Foster.
Now up for bids on the entertainment and paparazzi auction block is the Usher sex tape. Several entertainment outlets and celebrity news and gossip websites have been approached with the sex tape, offering small clips and image captures as proof of its existance, and sure enough, it is Usher in the video.
The person offering the video must not remember that just over one year ago Usher reported his car being broken into with over $1MIL worth of jewelry and electronics missing, including two laptops, one of which just may have had this sex tape on it. Do I hear a police sting in the near future to catch the Usher sex tape bandit?
PLEASE SUPPORT US BY SHARING THIS STORY
Friday, July 23, 2010
wild in the country.
T'other day a good friend of mine rang me up and, in a state of breathless excitement shouted that Dyanne Thorne (star of Ilsa) had once made a country and western video for kids and that he was sending a copy thru' the post as soon as.
It arrived yesterday morning.
And it's not Dyanne Thorne.
It's Diane Horner.
The world famous (yeah, right), blonde, bowl headed line dance champion.
But what the Hell, it was free and I had an hour to kill and I've always been a sucker for boys in cowboy boots....
Diane Horner: Country Dancing for Kids (1992).
Dir: Unknown but judging by the camera work I reckon it's Umberto Lenzi.
Cast: Diane Horner, Adrien Brody (possibly) and a gaggle of dead eyed, pre-teens.
Our video opens in a makeshift barn constructed in the bowels of a disused asylum, the darkness violently cut thru' by flaming oil drenched corpses atop ugly gnarled wooden poles whilst the creepy sound of an old west banjo band playing Dixie can be heard from somewhere in the fog enshrouded distance.
As if by magic the mysterious mistress of moves, the slender and snake-hipped Diane Horner (creator of the fantastic Country Hip Hop exercise programme) appears.
Clad head to toe in denim of varying shade and a pair of diarrhoea beige, eye gougingly sharp cowboy boots topped off with a haircut that would make a monk blush she angrily barks clipped orders at her unseen assistants.
"Bring on the children!"
And so they come, an undersized army of hyperactive teeny tiny rednecks ready to do the dance of death on the bones of their fallen brethren.
Or is it to just learn the joys of dancing?
I had to keep watching.
And boy am I glad I did.
This Horner woman may lack Dyanne Thorne's dirty pillow like breasts, fine line in too tight SS uniforms and Sapphic tendencies but more than makes up for it with her frankly superb dancing skills, covering everything from the basic steps in country dance (including those all important bows and curtsies) via the frankly erotically charged do-si-do and culminating in the allemande left, and right and left grand.
And what the fuck is the allemande left I hear you cry?
Well dear readers, in its most basic form, an allemande left is simply put an arm turn by the left (plus a foxy step thru' as the dancer in question heads seductively toward their partner).
See? This blog is educational.
Like a sexier, slicker Dirty Dancing by way of Mississippi Burning, Diane Horner: Country Dancing for Kids is the perfect antidote to those long, lonely winter nights and perfect for anyone who hopes to improve their pulling power via the medium of dance.
Tho' judging by the video the moves may only impress pre-teens and Lego-haired dyke types.
No change there then.
It arrived yesterday morning.
And it's not Dyanne Thorne.
It's Diane Horner.
The world famous (yeah, right), blonde, bowl headed line dance champion.
But what the Hell, it was free and I had an hour to kill and I've always been a sucker for boys in cowboy boots....
Diane Horner: Country Dancing for Kids (1992).
Dir: Unknown but judging by the camera work I reckon it's Umberto Lenzi.
Cast: Diane Horner, Adrien Brody (possibly) and a gaggle of dead eyed, pre-teens.
Our video opens in a makeshift barn constructed in the bowels of a disused asylum, the darkness violently cut thru' by flaming oil drenched corpses atop ugly gnarled wooden poles whilst the creepy sound of an old west banjo band playing Dixie can be heard from somewhere in the fog enshrouded distance.
As if by magic the mysterious mistress of moves, the slender and snake-hipped Diane Horner (creator of the fantastic Country Hip Hop exercise programme) appears.
Clad head to toe in denim of varying shade and a pair of diarrhoea beige, eye gougingly sharp cowboy boots topped off with a haircut that would make a monk blush she angrily barks clipped orders at her unseen assistants.
"Bring on the children!"
And so they come, an undersized army of hyperactive teeny tiny rednecks ready to do the dance of death on the bones of their fallen brethren.
Or is it to just learn the joys of dancing?
I had to keep watching.
"OK kids! who's ready for a mooth shite-in?"
And boy am I glad I did.
This Horner woman may lack Dyanne Thorne's dirty pillow like breasts, fine line in too tight SS uniforms and Sapphic tendencies but more than makes up for it with her frankly superb dancing skills, covering everything from the basic steps in country dance (including those all important bows and curtsies) via the frankly erotically charged do-si-do and culminating in the allemande left, and right and left grand.
And what the fuck is the allemande left I hear you cry?
Insert good ol' boy cock here.
Well dear readers, in its most basic form, an allemande left is simply put an arm turn by the left (plus a foxy step thru' as the dancer in question heads seductively toward their partner).
See? This blog is educational.
Like a sexier, slicker Dirty Dancing by way of Mississippi Burning, Diane Horner: Country Dancing for Kids is the perfect antidote to those long, lonely winter nights and perfect for anyone who hopes to improve their pulling power via the medium of dance.
Tho' judging by the video the moves may only impress pre-teens and Lego-haired dyke types.
No change there then.
Monday, February 8, 2010
sex and violins.
Pop music, the fashion, killings and a helluva lot of permed hair today.
Who says this blog isn't down with 'the kids'?
Paganini Horror (AKA The Killing Violin, 1989).
Dir: Luigi Cozzi.
Cast: Jasmine Main, Maria Cristina Mastrangeli, Pascal Persiano, Donald Pleasence, Pietro Genuardi, Giada Cozzi, Elena Pompei and Dame Daria of Nicolodi.
Somewhere on one of the many canals in Venice (or it might be the dirty old stream behind the producers house, who knows) a fright haired, scarily Victorian styled child (the directors daughter, Giada Cozzi) is heading home aboard a row boat cum taxi after a hard day of violin lessons and working part-time as a Railway Children lookie-likey.
Arriving at her palatial abode she happily bolts upstairs to see her mum (who is currently having a soak in what can only be described as a cheap Parisian brothel themed bathroom), stopping only to grab what looks like a glam rock Skeletor doll from her bedroom before skipping into the aforementioned bathroom (it must have cost a bomb to decorate so they have to get their moneys worth) and chucking a hair-dryer into the bath.
Ouch.
Frighteningly I can imagine one of our beautiful twin girlies doing exactly this but I'm not saying which one.
Embeth.
Jumping forward God knows how many years (around seventy odd by the state of the wee girl and her mum I'd wager) and top poodle haired popstrel Kate (Main AKA Jasmine Maimone, the harsh faced star of Demoni and The Black Cat) and her 'rawk' band are busy recording a new single whilst not wearing trousers (less Jem and The Holograms more Jim and The Whorishgrans) and whilst these crazy chicks (and studly drummer Daniel) seem to be enjoying murdering what sounds like a Karaoke cover of You Give Love A Bad Name their monkey browed manager Lavinia (star of the Italian hit Breakdance, Mastrangeli) however is suitably unimpressed.
Basically she thinks it's shit.
Which, if I'm honest it is.
She reckons that to become the top of the pops the band needs something new, something unexpected and maybe a wee bit dangerous and Daniel (Persiano from Demoni 2 and Voices from Beyond) thinks he may have just the thing.
Taking a boat to a deserted industrial estate and armed only with a ladies satchel full of dollar bills and a nipple revealing silk shirt he meets up with the mysterious and suavely hatted Mr. Ralph Pickett (Pleasence, one step closer to death and Fatal Frames, poor sod).
Swapping the money for a (fake) leather briefcase (just like the one your geography teacher had) with the spooky lock combination of 666. Daniel excitedly opens the case, revealing a hither to unseen piece of music written by 19th century Italian violinist, violist, guitarist, composer and owner of the most luxurious sideburns in Christendom , Mr. Niccolò Paganini.
Time for a wee history lesson methinks.
Paganini, as we all know got into a bit of bother whilst lying on his deathbed, as he was convinced that he just had a mild dose of the Flu, so decided not to bother his local priest with regards to giving him his last rights.
Which would have been OK had he not popped his clogs within minutes of this decision.
In true News of The World fashion, the gossip columnists of the time took this as a sign that the poor guy had sold his soul to Satan.
This is of course total bollocks.
But when has fact ever gotten in the way of a good story?
Well, it seems this particular piece of music was written specifically for Old Nick himself and is said to have unearthly, nay evil powers tho' Lavinia is more concerned about any copyright/royalty issues.
Daniel puts everyone at ease by Tippexing out Paganini's name and putting his own on there instead (in joined up writing and everything) meaning Kate and co. are free to pick some spooky outfits to wear on stage whilst Lavinia is so impressed that she even hires world famous horror film director (and star of 'V') Mark Singer (Genuardi from Cemetery Man and Gates of Hell) to shoot a 'music clip' for it at Paganini's old villa, which is now owned by the strangely attractive - in a senior librarian kinda way - Sylvia (Uber MiLF and firsat horror based Barclay's for men of a certain age Nicolodi, who needs no introduction), who is more than happy to welcome a band of talentless half naked, no talent sluts into her home for a few days (oh and for a shed load of cash obviously).
Anyway, we've yet to hear the group play this great song (now entitled Paganini Horror) so let's cut to Kate wandering around the mansion in a white wedding dress like some clap ridden council estate Madonna wannabe whilst Daniel (decked out in a frill fronted shirt and velvet suit that not even Jon Pertwee would be seen dead in topped of with a huge felt fedora, a gold painted poppy eyed skeleton mask and brandishing a gold violin) as Paginini chases her about for a bit before stabbing her in the stomach.
Director boy Mark can hardly contain himself as he shouts "Cut!" whilst Lavinia jumps up and down on the spot like a gin soaked chimp, rubbing her hands together with glee at the thought of all that lovely money she's going to make.
Sylvia on the other hand just stands in the corner holding a tray of tea and biscuits looking incredibly saucy in a mumsy kinda way, tapping her feet and nodding her head in time to the music.
Bless.
Obviously needing to pad the movies meagre running time Kate and her pals perform the song again, only this time wearing boob tubes, braces, tiny black skirts and a selection of cocktail waitress outfits (yes even Daniel), luckily Kate's insistence on staring straight into camera, all wild eyed and puckered lipped helps stop the men watching from having any impure thoughts of any kind.
Which is one up to the feminists watching methinks.
Anyway all this sexiness is way too much for foxy, firm of tummy bassist Rita (Ravegnini; imagine a youngish, cheaper Joan Collins stinking of gin and holding her shoes at a bus stop and you're halfway there) who, throwing continuity to the wind decides to change out of her electric blue bunny girl outfit into something a wee bit more sensible for the final scenes of the video.
However unknown to her the real demonic violinist (wearing an exact copy of Daniels frankly shoddy Paganini outfit) is hiding behind the coat rail in her dressing room.
Thinking it's Daniel up for a bit of a laugh, Rita light heartedly tells him to stop looking at her (fairly firm) breasts and get back to work, totally missing the fact that the violin he's holding has a huge blade attached to its bottom that's pointing straight at her toned flat stomach.
With one graceful move our golden pal plunges the blade into poor old Rita ending any dreams she had of playing bass in a Robert Palmer video (or getting paid) in an instant.
Uncomfortably shuffling and attempting to make small talk whilst waiting for Rita to return, Lavinia makes an incredible leap of logic and deduces that she has, in fact fucked off home after tiring of the whole rock 'n' roll lifestyle and orders Mark to replace he with a shop window dummy in a joke shop wig with a guitar round it's neck.
"No-one will notice" she says.
And on that bombshell Daniel excuses himself and heads off to the toilet where he comes across Rita, resplendent in a soaking, nipple revealing tissue paper dress with wild frizzy hair, lurching around like a (very attractive I'll admit) piss stained tramp.
Holding in his wee, Daniel decides to follow her thru' the cobwebbed corridors at the back of the house and into a small (and unfortunately empty) wine cellar where he's promptly stabbed to death by the violently vicious violinist.
Trapped in the mansion and with a killer on the loose, Kate, Lavinia, Mark and Sylvia can only pray that they'll survive till morning (or at least till Sylvia remembers where she's put the front door key).
Or is there more to the killings than meet the eye?
From the mind of Italy's third (or is that fourth?) best director named Luigi comes this fantastic tale of music and mentalism topped off with an arse clenchingly bad Eurotrash score, the kind of none acting usually reserved for prison productions of Chaucer and enough cheese to keep Domino's Pizza in business till the end of time.
Yes dear reader, the film is really that good.
Famous for directing (and writing) some of Italy's shoddiest yet most enjoyable movies (oh, and Demons 6), including such classics as the Caroline Munro sci-fi epic Starcrash, the alien egg based thriller Contamination, the Italian re-edit of Toho's Godzilla (or Cozilla as it's widely known) and a couple of Lou (Hulk) Ferrigno Hercules adventures, Paganini Horror is the last movie (to date) that this great man has directed.
But if you want to finish your career on a high then you could do much worse than this.
Like all of Cozzi's work the plot may be nonsensical and the production values cheaper than your mum but it doesn't matter as his genuine love for the horror genre oozes like the movies bright red fake blood thru' every frame and the enthusiasm he has for the material infects the actors much like a zombie outbreak.
Everyone involved seems to be having a great time and the audience can't help but be swept along for the ride.
And surely that's what good cinema is all about?
Speaking of the cast, Donald Pleasence seems to be having a ball (probably not a leathery one) in his cameo as the sinister Mr. Pickett, all twinkly eyes and dodgy accents whilst the goddess that is Daria Nicolodi is at once sinister, sexy and motherly in a role that would fade into obscurity had it been played by a lesser actress, she even manages to look good in an outfit that even Lady GaGa wouldm't be seen dead in.
The woman is a legend and should be worshipped frankly.
Even the worst members of the cast are great; Jasmine Main's manic eyed performance seems to consist mainly of teeth, a bubble perm and the ability to screech whilst not looking good in a skimpy outfit (which must take real talent judging by the outfits) but it's pitch perfect for a film where everyone else appears to be just wandering around in a badly dubbed haze of harsh red and blue lighting waiting to be offed by what looks like a giant child's home made puppet monstrosity made flesh.
Which is no bad thing.
Some cinema somewhere should be brave enough to organise a Cozzi weekender so that the great man's work can be foisted on an unsuspecting public brainwashed by crap commercial horror fare and lowest common denominator action pants.
The fuckers wouldn't know what hit them.
The campaign begins here people.
Let the world's first Cozzi-Con become a reality.
Who says this blog isn't down with 'the kids'?
Paganini Horror (AKA The Killing Violin, 1989).
Dir: Luigi Cozzi.
Cast: Jasmine Main, Maria Cristina Mastrangeli, Pascal Persiano, Donald Pleasence, Pietro Genuardi, Giada Cozzi, Elena Pompei and Dame Daria of Nicolodi.
Somewhere on one of the many canals in Venice (or it might be the dirty old stream behind the producers house, who knows) a fright haired, scarily Victorian styled child (the directors daughter, Giada Cozzi) is heading home aboard a row boat cum taxi after a hard day of violin lessons and working part-time as a Railway Children lookie-likey.
Arriving at her palatial abode she happily bolts upstairs to see her mum (who is currently having a soak in what can only be described as a cheap Parisian brothel themed bathroom), stopping only to grab what looks like a glam rock Skeletor doll from her bedroom before skipping into the aforementioned bathroom (it must have cost a bomb to decorate so they have to get their moneys worth) and chucking a hair-dryer into the bath.
Ouch.
Frighteningly I can imagine one of our beautiful twin girlies doing exactly this but I'm not saying which one.
Embeth.
"Jam in mah tombstone toothed mooth!"
Jumping forward God knows how many years (around seventy odd by the state of the wee girl and her mum I'd wager) and top poodle haired popstrel Kate (Main AKA Jasmine Maimone, the harsh faced star of Demoni and The Black Cat) and her 'rawk' band are busy recording a new single whilst not wearing trousers (less Jem and The Holograms more Jim and The Whorishgrans) and whilst these crazy chicks (and studly drummer Daniel) seem to be enjoying murdering what sounds like a Karaoke cover of You Give Love A Bad Name their monkey browed manager Lavinia (star of the Italian hit Breakdance, Mastrangeli) however is suitably unimpressed.
Basically she thinks it's shit.
Which, if I'm honest it is.
She reckons that to become the top of the pops the band needs something new, something unexpected and maybe a wee bit dangerous and Daniel (Persiano from Demoni 2 and Voices from Beyond) thinks he may have just the thing.
Less Donald where's yer troosers
more Donald where's yer dignity.
more Donald where's yer dignity.
Taking a boat to a deserted industrial estate and armed only with a ladies satchel full of dollar bills and a nipple revealing silk shirt he meets up with the mysterious and suavely hatted Mr. Ralph Pickett (Pleasence, one step closer to death and Fatal Frames, poor sod).
Swapping the money for a (fake) leather briefcase (just like the one your geography teacher had) with the spooky lock combination of 666. Daniel excitedly opens the case, revealing a hither to unseen piece of music written by 19th century Italian violinist, violist, guitarist, composer and owner of the most luxurious sideburns in Christendom , Mr. Niccolò Paganini.
"Baby baby baby!"
Time for a wee history lesson methinks.
Paganini, as we all know got into a bit of bother whilst lying on his deathbed, as he was convinced that he just had a mild dose of the Flu, so decided not to bother his local priest with regards to giving him his last rights.
Which would have been OK had he not popped his clogs within minutes of this decision.
In true News of The World fashion, the gossip columnists of the time took this as a sign that the poor guy had sold his soul to Satan.
This is of course total bollocks.
But when has fact ever gotten in the way of a good story?
Embeth after coming second in the official
'Rabid' re-enactment society fancy dress.
'Rabid' re-enactment society fancy dress.
Well, it seems this particular piece of music was written specifically for Old Nick himself and is said to have unearthly, nay evil powers tho' Lavinia is more concerned about any copyright/royalty issues.
Daniel puts everyone at ease by Tippexing out Paganini's name and putting his own on there instead (in joined up writing and everything) meaning Kate and co. are free to pick some spooky outfits to wear on stage whilst Lavinia is so impressed that she even hires world famous horror film director (and star of 'V') Mark Singer (Genuardi from Cemetery Man and Gates of Hell) to shoot a 'music clip' for it at Paganini's old villa, which is now owned by the strangely attractive - in a senior librarian kinda way - Sylvia (Uber MiLF and firsat horror based Barclay's for men of a certain age Nicolodi, who needs no introduction), who is more than happy to welcome a band of talentless half naked, no talent sluts into her home for a few days (oh and for a shed load of cash obviously).
"Laugh now!"
Anyway, we've yet to hear the group play this great song (now entitled Paganini Horror) so let's cut to Kate wandering around the mansion in a white wedding dress like some clap ridden council estate Madonna wannabe whilst Daniel (decked out in a frill fronted shirt and velvet suit that not even Jon Pertwee would be seen dead in topped of with a huge felt fedora, a gold painted poppy eyed skeleton mask and brandishing a gold violin) as Paginini chases her about for a bit before stabbing her in the stomach.
Director boy Mark can hardly contain himself as he shouts "Cut!" whilst Lavinia jumps up and down on the spot like a gin soaked chimp, rubbing her hands together with glee at the thought of all that lovely money she's going to make.
Sylvia on the other hand just stands in the corner holding a tray of tea and biscuits looking incredibly saucy in a mumsy kinda way, tapping her feet and nodding her head in time to the music.
Bless.
"Boiled onions!"
Obviously needing to pad the movies meagre running time Kate and her pals perform the song again, only this time wearing boob tubes, braces, tiny black skirts and a selection of cocktail waitress outfits (yes even Daniel), luckily Kate's insistence on staring straight into camera, all wild eyed and puckered lipped helps stop the men watching from having any impure thoughts of any kind.
Which is one up to the feminists watching methinks.
Anyway all this sexiness is way too much for foxy, firm of tummy bassist Rita (Ravegnini; imagine a youngish, cheaper Joan Collins stinking of gin and holding her shoes at a bus stop and you're halfway there) who, throwing continuity to the wind decides to change out of her electric blue bunny girl outfit into something a wee bit more sensible for the final scenes of the video.
However unknown to her the real demonic violinist (wearing an exact copy of Daniels frankly shoddy Paganini outfit) is hiding behind the coat rail in her dressing room.
"And when I have a stroke I pull this face!"
Thinking it's Daniel up for a bit of a laugh, Rita light heartedly tells him to stop looking at her (fairly firm) breasts and get back to work, totally missing the fact that the violin he's holding has a huge blade attached to its bottom that's pointing straight at her toned flat stomach.
With one graceful move our golden pal plunges the blade into poor old Rita ending any dreams she had of playing bass in a Robert Palmer video (or getting paid) in an instant.
Uncomfortably shuffling and attempting to make small talk whilst waiting for Rita to return, Lavinia makes an incredible leap of logic and deduces that she has, in fact fucked off home after tiring of the whole rock 'n' roll lifestyle and orders Mark to replace he with a shop window dummy in a joke shop wig with a guitar round it's neck.
"No-one will notice" she says.
And on that bombshell Daniel excuses himself and heads off to the toilet where he comes across Rita, resplendent in a soaking, nipple revealing tissue paper dress with wild frizzy hair, lurching around like a (very attractive I'll admit) piss stained tramp.
Holding in his wee, Daniel decides to follow her thru' the cobwebbed corridors at the back of the house and into a small (and unfortunately empty) wine cellar where he's promptly stabbed to death by the violently vicious violinist.
Jade Goody: The Return.
Trapped in the mansion and with a killer on the loose, Kate, Lavinia, Mark and Sylvia can only pray that they'll survive till morning (or at least till Sylvia remembers where she's put the front door key).
Or is there more to the killings than meet the eye?
"Shite in mah mooth!"
From the mind of Italy's third (or is that fourth?) best director named Luigi comes this fantastic tale of music and mentalism topped off with an arse clenchingly bad Eurotrash score, the kind of none acting usually reserved for prison productions of Chaucer and enough cheese to keep Domino's Pizza in business till the end of time.
Yes dear reader, the film is really that good.
Famous for directing (and writing) some of Italy's shoddiest yet most enjoyable movies (oh, and Demons 6), including such classics as the Caroline Munro sci-fi epic Starcrash, the alien egg based thriller Contamination, the Italian re-edit of Toho's Godzilla (or Cozilla as it's widely known) and a couple of Lou (Hulk) Ferrigno Hercules adventures, Paganini Horror is the last movie (to date) that this great man has directed.
But if you want to finish your career on a high then you could do much worse than this.
Like all of Cozzi's work the plot may be nonsensical and the production values cheaper than your mum but it doesn't matter as his genuine love for the horror genre oozes like the movies bright red fake blood thru' every frame and the enthusiasm he has for the material infects the actors much like a zombie outbreak.
Everyone involved seems to be having a great time and the audience can't help but be swept along for the ride.
And surely that's what good cinema is all about?
"Put it in me!"
Speaking of the cast, Donald Pleasence seems to be having a ball (probably not a leathery one) in his cameo as the sinister Mr. Pickett, all twinkly eyes and dodgy accents whilst the goddess that is Daria Nicolodi is at once sinister, sexy and motherly in a role that would fade into obscurity had it been played by a lesser actress, she even manages to look good in an outfit that even Lady GaGa wouldm't be seen dead in.
The woman is a legend and should be worshipped frankly.
Even the worst members of the cast are great; Jasmine Main's manic eyed performance seems to consist mainly of teeth, a bubble perm and the ability to screech whilst not looking good in a skimpy outfit (which must take real talent judging by the outfits) but it's pitch perfect for a film where everyone else appears to be just wandering around in a badly dubbed haze of harsh red and blue lighting waiting to be offed by what looks like a giant child's home made puppet monstrosity made flesh.
Which is no bad thing.
Some cinema somewhere should be brave enough to organise a Cozzi weekender so that the great man's work can be foisted on an unsuspecting public brainwashed by crap commercial horror fare and lowest common denominator action pants.
The fuckers wouldn't know what hit them.
The campaign begins here people.
Let the world's first Cozzi-Con become a reality.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
stab, cackle and pop (music).
Sometimes a film comes along that is so unique that it is only whispered about when in polite company.
A film so utterly wrong that you hide it in a donkey porn case to save your embarrassment.
A film so brain leakingly bizarre that I passed out during the last twenty minutes.
Winner of the 14th Fantafestival Fulci Award (and who knew that a fizzy drink sponsored horror festivals?), ladies and gentlemen I give you:
Fatal Frames (AKA Fotogrammi mortali. 1996).
Dir: Al Festa
Cast: Stefania Stella, Rick Gianasi, David Warbeck, Donald Pleasence, Leo Daniel, Alida Valli, Geoffrey Copleston, Linnea Quigley, Ugo Pagliai, Nina Soldano, Rossano Brazzi and Angus Scrimm.
It's after midnight in the blandly shot black and white house. Somewhere on the second floor an unseen musician is riffing Danny Elfman's Batman score on a Bontempi organ whilst the Werthers Original Granddad, clad in a pair of huge tartan slippers and a silk dressing gown sits cracking off a quick one to big breasted snuff porn.
From a crack in the doorway a wee boy sits and watches the unfolding carnage before him.
Suddenly Granddad turns to face the child but rather than be angry he picks up the boy and sits him on his (damp and sticky) lap to enjoy the entertainment from the comfort of the armchair.
Cut to a gaudily lit street somewhere in Joel Schumacher's mind, where an 80's catalogue model is tastefully hacked to death by a black gloved, flasher jacketed killer.
Phew! and that's all in the pre-credits sequence.
Back to the plot and pumped up, lion maned 'pop music' video director Alex Ritt (Sgt.Kabukiman himself Gianasi) is reeling from the murder of his young wife (that'll be the bird we've just seen chopped up then), moping around on rooftops looking windswept and interesting whilst a nondescript Europop score chunders in the background.
Hoping to cheer him up, horse maned and buff chested music producer Dan Antonucci (Daniel, last seen propping up the bar in Gypsy Angel) invites him to Rome to direct the video for the middle aged, beanbag lipped transsexual starlet Stefania Stella (no, hang on I've just checked and it is actually a real woman....terrifying).
Arriving in Rome he's almost instantly abused (but not in that way unfortunately) by a tramp before being taken to meet a bequiffed, power suited man in a foggy warehouse to talk about Madonna's Like A Virgin video and meet Amy Winewhore herself, the leathery Ms. Stefania in all her augmented glory.
Looking for the world like the result of a hideous teleport accident between Sylvester Stallone and a cheap handbag, Stefania spends the whole scene squinting at a convenient autocue reading the phonetic English subtitles like a child just discovering the power of speech.
Wandering around the warehouse in all his preening glory Alex bumps into the bendy and boy haired Rebecca an American ballerina hired to work on the video.
His best chat up lines failing, it's not until she realises that Alex is the director that she agrees to go out on a date with him that very evening.
Ding dong.
Unfortunately the evenings entertainment is cut short when, after an excruciating ten minutes when Rebecca runs around a fog enshrouded castle re-enacting the Total Eclipse of The Heart video whilst shouting "Alex! Follow me!" she's cut up with a machete whilst director boy looks on in mild apathy.
Looking constipated whilst rubbing his hands thru' his thick luxurious hair Alex calls the police.
Sting however is busy so he settles on Dishy David Warbeck (playing Commissioner Bonelli with a sarf London accent) instead.
When diddy David arrives however, there's no sign of either the killer or the victim. Alex, being brash, big boned and with hair like a Girls World is treated with the contempt he deserves as the Italian police point and laugh at him.
The laughing soon stops however when a video of the murder arrives on Warbeck's doorstep (that'd be a great name for a band) leaving David no alternative but to call Donald Pleasence (as top crafty killer catcher Professor Robinson) on the phone as it seems the video tape has triggered a memory in the depths of Warbeck's mind.
And no, it's not of him chaining a young boy to the radiator whilst sending electric shocks thru' his erect nipples.
Pulling a dusty file from behind the filing cabinet Commissioner Bonelli begins to explain how an evil American serial killer, nicknamed the video tape recording murderer who sends cassettes of his victims to the police to taunt them had exactly the same M.O. but mysteriously disappeared before he could be caught.
The most interesting fact tho' is that Alex's wife was the last victim.
Wanting to cheer poor Alex up Stefania and Dan reckon a visit to the local psychic's house where he can, if he's lucky talk to the dead girl should do the trick and the trio head out to the creepy mansion belonging to the creepy (and blind, you can tell by her outfit) Countess Alessandra Mirafiori (Suspiria's Valli) where a rather pretentious dinner party cum New Romantic tribute night is taking place.
After enduring a nonsensical conversation about how the blind can truly see everything (alright then, if there are any blind readers here how many fingers am I holding up?), Stefania takes Alex to meet the mysterious medium Tamara (the bullet nippled, beauteous bummed star of Tinto Brass's Paprika, Soldano) who without warning manifests the ghost of Rebecca who starts screaming "You did it you lank haired bastard!" (or something like that) at Alex.
Storming out of the house in a huff (stopping only to watch what looks like an AIDS ridden Timothy Dalton burning a child's painting of a house) Alex ends up wandering the (blue light lit, smoke filled) streets with the pained expression of a kicked puppy (or someone desperately trying to remember his lines), his contemplation broken only by the pounding bassline of his mobile phone ringtone.
It's the lovely Tamara calling and she wants Alex to meet her at a(nother) castle, she has important information for our director pal.
And hopefully the name of a good barber.
You can tell where this is heading can't you?
On arriving at the castle Alex can only stand and look on in abject terror (well, he tries bless him) as the only attractive member of the cast is cut to pieces in front of him.
Running to find a policeman it's no surprise to find the body gone when they return to the alleged scene of the crime.
But that's not the only freaky disappearance.
It seems that poor old Donald Pleasence has died in the extended break between aquiring extra funding and the actual filming but not to worry as we're treated to an unknown actor in a phonebox wearing a cut out Donald mask telling Commissioner Bonelli that he'd love to help with the inquiry but he has to go home for his tea.
Bonelli has no option but to call on bad bastard copper Valenti (The Red Queen Kills 7 Times Pagliai) whose interview techniques seem to be turning up whenever there's a video shoot cum song from Ms. Stefania (which is averaging about every ten minutes) and shouting at Alex whilst reminding him that is wife is dead.
Alex, beginning to feel his grasp on reality drifting away does what anyone in that situation would.
That's right, he goes out and gets rip-roaringly drunk and it's whilst he's propping up the bar (with Dan and Stefania looking on like concerned parents) that he accidentally pours a pint of warm, watered down lager over eminent parapsychologist Wendy Williams (original gore whore Quigley playing a scientist, yes that's right, a scientist!) who tells our staggering hero that it is, in fact, scientifically possible to contact the dead and find out who killed them.
With a burp and a shuffle Alex passes out.
Will he discover the identity of the murderer?
Will Stefania put on any clothes?
and will she ever stop subjecting us to those sub-Sabrina Salerno Eurotrash tunes?
And, most importantly how does all this link to a mysterious painting and the artist (Scrimm) who refuses to stay dead?
Well unfortunately I've no idea cos I fell asleep just after this scene, tho' I woke up about five minutes from the end so I have a pretty good idea of who the killer is.
It's been over a week now and I've still not recovered from the experience of viewing Fatal Frames and hopefully never will.
It can only be described as the real reason for the invention of cinema in the first place, one of those movies that totally destroys what we describe as good cinema, brutally buggering our expectations of the Giallo genre before coldly slicing those same expectations and conventions up before hastily sticching them back together and wiring them to the front of a junior school.
Director Festa (best known for composing the song 'Living After Death' for the Zombie 4: After Death soundtrack) has managed the impossible with Fatal Frames; he's created something so crass, so ludicrous and so obviously unwatchable yet managed to make it unmissable.
This is celluloid equivalent of turning lead into gold and no-one before or since has come close to re-creating this magic.
There's precious little else I can say, I mean the cast is full of the type of A-list talent you just couldn't afford today (tho' the fact that quite a few of them are dead might make it difficult too), with everyone from Almost Bond David Warbeck and elder statesmen of cult Donald Pleasence and Rossano Brazzi, who knowing that this was the greatest films of their careers died soon after rather than appear in anything less perfect again.
Now that's the kind of dedication you wont get from Matt Damon.
And talking of dedication, look at Stefania Stella (tho' not for too long obviously) who not only co-wrote and produced the film but also volunteered to play the lead character and perform all the songs on the soundtrack.
Whilst soaking wet in her undies.
Who else can you name that could do all that?
My friends there is a god.
And his name is Al Festa.
Worship him.
A film so utterly wrong that you hide it in a donkey porn case to save your embarrassment.
A film so brain leakingly bizarre that I passed out during the last twenty minutes.
Winner of the 14th Fantafestival Fulci Award (and who knew that a fizzy drink sponsored horror festivals?), ladies and gentlemen I give you:
Fatal Frames (AKA Fotogrammi mortali. 1996).
Dir: Al Festa
Cast: Stefania Stella, Rick Gianasi, David Warbeck, Donald Pleasence, Leo Daniel, Alida Valli, Geoffrey Copleston, Linnea Quigley, Ugo Pagliai, Nina Soldano, Rossano Brazzi and Angus Scrimm.
"It's pure Madonna!"
It's after midnight in the blandly shot black and white house. Somewhere on the second floor an unseen musician is riffing Danny Elfman's Batman score on a Bontempi organ whilst the Werthers Original Granddad, clad in a pair of huge tartan slippers and a silk dressing gown sits cracking off a quick one to big breasted snuff porn.
From a crack in the doorway a wee boy sits and watches the unfolding carnage before him.
Suddenly Granddad turns to face the child but rather than be angry he picks up the boy and sits him on his (damp and sticky) lap to enjoy the entertainment from the comfort of the armchair.
Cut to a gaudily lit street somewhere in Joel Schumacher's mind, where an 80's catalogue model is tastefully hacked to death by a black gloved, flasher jacketed killer.
Phew! and that's all in the pre-credits sequence.
Back to the plot and pumped up, lion maned 'pop music' video director Alex Ritt (Sgt.Kabukiman himself Gianasi) is reeling from the murder of his young wife (that'll be the bird we've just seen chopped up then), moping around on rooftops looking windswept and interesting whilst a nondescript Europop score chunders in the background.
Hoping to cheer him up, horse maned and buff chested music producer Dan Antonucci (Daniel, last seen propping up the bar in Gypsy Angel) invites him to Rome to direct the video for the middle aged, beanbag lipped transsexual starlet Stefania Stella (no, hang on I've just checked and it is actually a real woman....terrifying).
I. Don't. Have. The. Words.
Arriving in Rome he's almost instantly abused (but not in that way unfortunately) by a tramp before being taken to meet a bequiffed, power suited man in a foggy warehouse to talk about Madonna's Like A Virgin video and meet Amy Winewhore herself, the leathery Ms. Stefania in all her augmented glory.
Looking for the world like the result of a hideous teleport accident between Sylvester Stallone and a cheap handbag, Stefania spends the whole scene squinting at a convenient autocue reading the phonetic English subtitles like a child just discovering the power of speech.
Wandering around the warehouse in all his preening glory Alex bumps into the bendy and boy haired Rebecca an American ballerina hired to work on the video.
His best chat up lines failing, it's not until she realises that Alex is the director that she agrees to go out on a date with him that very evening.
Ding dong.
"Grrrraaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrr!"
Unfortunately the evenings entertainment is cut short when, after an excruciating ten minutes when Rebecca runs around a fog enshrouded castle re-enacting the Total Eclipse of The Heart video whilst shouting "Alex! Follow me!" she's cut up with a machete whilst director boy looks on in mild apathy.
Looking constipated whilst rubbing his hands thru' his thick luxurious hair Alex calls the police.
Sting however is busy so he settles on Dishy David Warbeck (playing Commissioner Bonelli with a sarf London accent) instead.
The temperature is fairly hot, must be in the 80's.
When diddy David arrives however, there's no sign of either the killer or the victim. Alex, being brash, big boned and with hair like a Girls World is treated with the contempt he deserves as the Italian police point and laugh at him.
The laughing soon stops however when a video of the murder arrives on Warbeck's doorstep (that'd be a great name for a band) leaving David no alternative but to call Donald Pleasence (as top crafty killer catcher Professor Robinson) on the phone as it seems the video tape has triggered a memory in the depths of Warbeck's mind.
And no, it's not of him chaining a young boy to the radiator whilst sending electric shocks thru' his erect nipples.
Pulling a dusty file from behind the filing cabinet Commissioner Bonelli begins to explain how an evil American serial killer, nicknamed the video tape recording murderer who sends cassettes of his victims to the police to taunt them had exactly the same M.O. but mysteriously disappeared before he could be caught.
The most interesting fact tho' is that Alex's wife was the last victim.
Warbeck's cum face
(as your Dad is all too aware).
(as your Dad is all too aware).
Wanting to cheer poor Alex up Stefania and Dan reckon a visit to the local psychic's house where he can, if he's lucky talk to the dead girl should do the trick and the trio head out to the creepy mansion belonging to the creepy (and blind, you can tell by her outfit) Countess Alessandra Mirafiori (Suspiria's Valli) where a rather pretentious dinner party cum New Romantic tribute night is taking place.
After enduring a nonsensical conversation about how the blind can truly see everything (alright then, if there are any blind readers here how many fingers am I holding up?), Stefania takes Alex to meet the mysterious medium Tamara (the bullet nippled, beauteous bummed star of Tinto Brass's Paprika, Soldano) who without warning manifests the ghost of Rebecca who starts screaming "You did it you lank haired bastard!" (or something like that) at Alex.
"I'm sorry, I have my woman's period".
Storming out of the house in a huff (stopping only to watch what looks like an AIDS ridden Timothy Dalton burning a child's painting of a house) Alex ends up wandering the (blue light lit, smoke filled) streets with the pained expression of a kicked puppy (or someone desperately trying to remember his lines), his contemplation broken only by the pounding bassline of his mobile phone ringtone.
It's the lovely Tamara calling and she wants Alex to meet her at a(nother) castle, she has important information for our director pal.
And hopefully the name of a good barber.
You can tell where this is heading can't you?
Even a titwank would kill you.
On arriving at the castle Alex can only stand and look on in abject terror (well, he tries bless him) as the only attractive member of the cast is cut to pieces in front of him.
Running to find a policeman it's no surprise to find the body gone when they return to the alleged scene of the crime.
But that's not the only freaky disappearance.
It seems that poor old Donald Pleasence has died in the extended break between aquiring extra funding and the actual filming but not to worry as we're treated to an unknown actor in a phonebox wearing a cut out Donald mask telling Commissioner Bonelli that he'd love to help with the inquiry but he has to go home for his tea.
Bonelli has no option but to call on bad bastard copper Valenti (The Red Queen Kills 7 Times Pagliai) whose interview techniques seem to be turning up whenever there's a video shoot cum song from Ms. Stefania (which is averaging about every ten minutes) and shouting at Alex whilst reminding him that is wife is dead.
Insert cock here. No really please do it,
it'll save us from her ungodly singing.
it'll save us from her ungodly singing.
Alex, beginning to feel his grasp on reality drifting away does what anyone in that situation would.
That's right, he goes out and gets rip-roaringly drunk and it's whilst he's propping up the bar (with Dan and Stefania looking on like concerned parents) that he accidentally pours a pint of warm, watered down lager over eminent parapsychologist Wendy Williams (original gore whore Quigley playing a scientist, yes that's right, a scientist!) who tells our staggering hero that it is, in fact, scientifically possible to contact the dead and find out who killed them.
With a burp and a shuffle Alex passes out.
Will he discover the identity of the murderer?
Will Stefania put on any clothes?
and will she ever stop subjecting us to those sub-Sabrina Salerno Eurotrash tunes?
And, most importantly how does all this link to a mysterious painting and the artist (Scrimm) who refuses to stay dead?
Well unfortunately I've no idea cos I fell asleep just after this scene, tho' I woke up about five minutes from the end so I have a pretty good idea of who the killer is.
Or here if you prefer.
It's been over a week now and I've still not recovered from the experience of viewing Fatal Frames and hopefully never will.
It can only be described as the real reason for the invention of cinema in the first place, one of those movies that totally destroys what we describe as good cinema, brutally buggering our expectations of the Giallo genre before coldly slicing those same expectations and conventions up before hastily sticching them back together and wiring them to the front of a junior school.
Director Festa (best known for composing the song 'Living After Death' for the Zombie 4: After Death soundtrack) has managed the impossible with Fatal Frames; he's created something so crass, so ludicrous and so obviously unwatchable yet managed to make it unmissable.
This is celluloid equivalent of turning lead into gold and no-one before or since has come close to re-creating this magic.
"Which of you guys is up for
a wee bit o' mooth shite-in?"
a wee bit o' mooth shite-in?"
There's precious little else I can say, I mean the cast is full of the type of A-list talent you just couldn't afford today (tho' the fact that quite a few of them are dead might make it difficult too), with everyone from Almost Bond David Warbeck and elder statesmen of cult Donald Pleasence and Rossano Brazzi, who knowing that this was the greatest films of their careers died soon after rather than appear in anything less perfect again.
Now that's the kind of dedication you wont get from Matt Damon.
And talking of dedication, look at Stefania Stella (tho' not for too long obviously) who not only co-wrote and produced the film but also volunteered to play the lead character and perform all the songs on the soundtrack.
Whilst soaking wet in her undies.
Who else can you name that could do all that?
My friends there is a god.
And his name is Al Festa.
Worship him.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
halloween hits.
For your listening pleasure, volumes 1 and 2 of the Unwell Halloween Party Spooktacular mixes, guaranteed to get any party raving from the grave.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
Monday, July 20, 2009
whacked.
Been away visiting the fatherland, hence no recent updates but whilst wallowing in the nectar-like taste of Banks' Bitter and dodging fried pork rinds I found this classic bio-pic on sale in the Aladdin's cave that is the Dudley branch of Cash Converters.
Under the circumstances it was a given that I had to purchase it...
And yes, it was complete shite from start to finish but I thought I'd better post something in case you all thought I'd died.
Man In The Mirror: The Michael Jackson Story (2004).
Dir: Allan Moyle.
Cast: Flex Alexander, Frederic Tucker, Krista Rae, William S. Taylor, Barbara Mamabolo, Samantha Kaine, Gerrick Winston, Eugene Clark, Lynne Cormack, Brennan Gademans, April Telek but surprisingly not Billy Dee Williams.
"Why can't you share your bed with someone?
The most loving thing you can
do is share your bed with someone".
God bless VH1, for their first foray into movie making what else could they choose but the fantastically freaky and lusciously lurid tale of the self proclaimed King of Pop Michael Jackson?
Well, if I'd have been them I'd have picked a subject better suited to the poverty row budget this production obviously had.
Welcome to Gary, Indiana (which is in America, near Canada for our European readers) where fuzz haired wonderboy Michael (Gademans, from the - believe it or not - unofficial Diff'rent Strokes bio-pic) lives with his freakish family and overbearing dad Joe - not the guy who sang Is She Really Going Out With Him- (Tucker so memorable in Vampire Cop).
Luckily these 'poor but happy' shenanigans are glossed over fairly quickly, just giving us enough time to see Joe being strict, MJ's mum looking concerned and the production team to get their money's worth out of the pound shop afro's they've bought before jumping Back To The Future like to various points during the grown up Michael's (now played by Alexander, star of Snakes on a Plane and The Hills Have Eyes 2) life.
But obviously only the bits that can be filmed cheaply.
Cue ninety minutes of money, the price of fame (which by the budget of this movie is about eight quid) and sharing a bed with the wee boy from Home Alone.
Yup, the movie (quite rightly) spends very little time on MJ's most musically productive period, not even trying to restage the Thriller video (I'm sure John Landis would have turned up - via a helicopter obviously - to play himself) so as to spend more time on the important stuff like his slumping record sales, getting married to Lisa Marie Presley (the man-chinned Rae from a load of Sci-Fi channel stuff like Andromeda, dragged up like your dad dressed as Madonna) and Debbie Rowe (Telek, another Sci-Fi channel veteran, all frightening breasts and bleached blonde hair completely unlike the bulldog browed real Rowe) and those aforementioned pesky accusations of buggering wee boys.
Obviously there aren't any such sexual shennanigans on show but you can imagine them if you're so inclined.
Racing (well, hobbling) towards it's exciting climax we can all experience the pain of Michael's descent into freak-dom, culminating in his interview with Martin Bashir (not played by Dr. Bashir from Deep Space Nine but a guy from the new Stargate series) and his decision to face the music (as it were) and go to court to defend himself against the beasting charges.
And it's scenes like this that magically transform what could be a trite and cheap bio-pic designed to cash in on some poor sods troubles into a work of Pinter-esque genius and all thanks to such stunning dialogue as in the scene where his family are helping choose a good lawyer:
"Michael, Johnny Cochran is the best criminal defense atourney in the country"
"But I'm not a criminal!"
"That's just what they call it Michael"
"Well change it! It sounds ugly!"
Yes indeedy readers, it's dialogue like this that raises The Man In The Mirror: The Michael Jackson Story above such lesser films like A Beautiful Mind and Walk The Line and although it's easy to slag off the producers for refusing to spend any cash on it (as I did earlier) you have to admire their gall.
Or blatant disrespect for the viewing public.
The casting is so random and out there that I'm surprised that they didn't bump into the Jupiter 2 at some point, Flex Alexanders portrayal of Jackson, decked out in a sailor suit and white face paint is either comedy gold or really offensive, I just can't decide whilst Frederic Tucker spends most of the film polishing an Uzi whilst shouting "This is mah house Michael!" at every given opportunity.
Of the other 'stars' Mamabolo as Janet Jackson and Cormack as Elizabeth Taylor appear to have been cast because they just happened to be passing by the studio on the day of shooting seeing as neither of them look or act anything like their real life counterparts, tho' to be fair, Krista Rae has Lisa Marie Presley's doe eyed look to a tee.
It's a pity then that it's staring out from such a big face.
Can I stop now?
Under the circumstances it was a given that I had to purchase it...
And yes, it was complete shite from start to finish but I thought I'd better post something in case you all thought I'd died.
Man In The Mirror: The Michael Jackson Story (2004).
Dir: Allan Moyle.
Cast: Flex Alexander, Frederic Tucker, Krista Rae, William S. Taylor, Barbara Mamabolo, Samantha Kaine, Gerrick Winston, Eugene Clark, Lynne Cormack, Brennan Gademans, April Telek but surprisingly not Billy Dee Williams.
"Why can't you share your bed with someone?
The most loving thing you can
do is share your bed with someone".
God bless VH1, for their first foray into movie making what else could they choose but the fantastically freaky and lusciously lurid tale of the self proclaimed King of Pop Michael Jackson?
Well, if I'd have been them I'd have picked a subject better suited to the poverty row budget this production obviously had.
Welcome to Gary, Indiana (which is in America, near Canada for our European readers) where fuzz haired wonderboy Michael (Gademans, from the - believe it or not - unofficial Diff'rent Strokes bio-pic) lives with his freakish family and overbearing dad Joe - not the guy who sang Is She Really Going Out With Him- (Tucker so memorable in Vampire Cop).
Lenny Henry, up the casino
and covered in flour yesterday.
and covered in flour yesterday.
Luckily these 'poor but happy' shenanigans are glossed over fairly quickly, just giving us enough time to see Joe being strict, MJ's mum looking concerned and the production team to get their money's worth out of the pound shop afro's they've bought before jumping Back To The Future like to various points during the grown up Michael's (now played by Alexander, star of Snakes on a Plane and The Hills Have Eyes 2) life.
But obviously only the bits that can be filmed cheaply.
Cue ninety minutes of money, the price of fame (which by the budget of this movie is about eight quid) and sharing a bed with the wee boy from Home Alone.
Hang it out a window, wipe it's arse or shag it...
what's a guy to do?
what's a guy to do?
Yup, the movie (quite rightly) spends very little time on MJ's most musically productive period, not even trying to restage the Thriller video (I'm sure John Landis would have turned up - via a helicopter obviously - to play himself) so as to spend more time on the important stuff like his slumping record sales, getting married to Lisa Marie Presley (the man-chinned Rae from a load of Sci-Fi channel stuff like Andromeda, dragged up like your dad dressed as Madonna) and Debbie Rowe (Telek, another Sci-Fi channel veteran, all frightening breasts and bleached blonde hair completely unlike the bulldog browed real Rowe) and those aforementioned pesky accusations of buggering wee boys.
Obviously there aren't any such sexual shennanigans on show but you can imagine them if you're so inclined.
She's all smiles now,
but just wait till the fucking starts.
but just wait till the fucking starts.
And it's scenes like this that magically transform what could be a trite and cheap bio-pic designed to cash in on some poor sods troubles into a work of Pinter-esque genius and all thanks to such stunning dialogue as in the scene where his family are helping choose a good lawyer:
"Michael, Johnny Cochran is the best criminal defense atourney in the country"
"But I'm not a criminal!"
"That's just what they call it Michael"
"Well change it! It sounds ugly!"
"I'm shagging your weans!"
Yes indeedy readers, it's dialogue like this that raises The Man In The Mirror: The Michael Jackson Story above such lesser films like A Beautiful Mind and Walk The Line and although it's easy to slag off the producers for refusing to spend any cash on it (as I did earlier) you have to admire their gall.
Or blatant disrespect for the viewing public.
The casting is so random and out there that I'm surprised that they didn't bump into the Jupiter 2 at some point, Flex Alexanders portrayal of Jackson, decked out in a sailor suit and white face paint is either comedy gold or really offensive, I just can't decide whilst Frederic Tucker spends most of the film polishing an Uzi whilst shouting "This is mah house Michael!" at every given opportunity.
Of the other 'stars' Mamabolo as Janet Jackson and Cormack as Elizabeth Taylor appear to have been cast because they just happened to be passing by the studio on the day of shooting seeing as neither of them look or act anything like their real life counterparts, tho' to be fair, Krista Rae has Lisa Marie Presley's doe eyed look to a tee.
It's a pity then that it's staring out from such a big face.
Can I stop now?
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
bolly good show.
Men Not Allowed (2006)
Dir: Shrey Srivastava.
Cast: Payal Rohatgi, Tina Majumdar , Aryan Vaid and Tarun Arora (and some other folk too).
Before I continue can I just point out that my DVD of this fine film is (unfortunately) not subtitled but, for the sake of expanding my cinematic horizons (and hopefully get the scary Halloween remake fans off my back) I decided to stick with it.
The fact that it features to attractive ladies in a bath together (wearing magnificent swimsuits I must add) had nothing to do with my decision.
Poor little rich girl Tanya (the funktastically Big faced Bollywood babe Rohatgi) has grown up in the lap of luxury. Her father, the multi-millionaire business tycoon (and serial womaniser) Brian Sharma with whom she runs an exclusive advertising agency has always made sure that she wants for nowt, especially after her mothers untimely death.
Living the high life from an early age she has everything she could ever want, including a hunky fiance named Jeff Shekhar (spongy faced, manbreasted superstar Vaid, looking like Sylvester Stallone's cheese constructed younger brother) and a great line in primary coloured eighties fashions.
Everything except her fathers love and attention that is.
Sniff.
But Tanya's complacent existence is shattered when she comes home to find sleazy
Shekhar in bed with another lady.
Dumping the nasty rotter, Tanya vows never to marry and throws herself into her advertising work.
During auditions for a particularly day-glo fashion shoot, Tanya meets the erotically eyebrowed, obscenely long legged wannabe model Urmila (Majumdar, star of the fantastic Haseena and regular interloper in my dreams) who, depite her stunning good looks and tasteful line in Ra-Ra skirts hides a dark secret, a secret that could wreck her dreams of catwalk stardom forever.
You see, even tho' Urmila is a natural at wearing clothes, whenever she's asked to walk down a runway or pose seductively she goes all limp and falls over.
Which is a wee bit of a pain for the photographer really.
Tanya, concerned for Urmila's welfare (and obviously fancying a bit of lipstick lesbianism later) probes the model about her past.
Get the tissues ready because her family make Shannon Matthews mob seem positively normal.
You see, it seems that Urmila's deadbeat dad was a sleazy drug dealer who died alone (and stinking of piss) in prison whilst her mum was filthy drug addled whore that died in a mental asylum.
And if this wasn't enough she was sent to live with her pedo uncle who tried to molest her on a daily basis till he got bored and packed Urmila off to an orphanage where he hatred for men festered and grew.
Which is nice.
Tanya, being a good egg (and frankly gagging for a bit of hot model chick) decides to help Urmila overcome her fears and emotional problems by lending her a shoulder to cry on.
And a bath to share.
Phew! What a scorcher!
After a fantastically soft focused Sapphic inspired montage of knowing looks, licking of lips and friendly cuddles (which is the equivalent of x rated porn in Bollywoodland) Tanya and Urmila admit to wanting more than just, ahem, 'friendship' as a love that darn not be mentioned grows between them.
Awww, sweet.
If not a little too subtley done for this blog.
Enter the vile Benny Vikram (Arora, looking like a swarthy boss eyed Corey Feldman), studly celebrity and a top model.
His ambition?
To marry Tanya, cure her of her lesbian tendencies and take over her business.
Bastard.
And, alongside Tanya's bad dad hatches an evil plan to break the girls bond of friendship for ever and maybe even get rich along the way....
Riding on the coat tails of director Karan Razdan's movie Girlfriend (famous for being the first commercial Hindi film to tackle head on the subject of lesbianism), Shrey Srivastava (director of the toptastic Sanjay Suri actioner Insaaf) joined forces with India's answer to Sharon Stone, Payal Rohtagi to produce this primary coloured kaleidoscope of high drama, market stall fashion and top tunes that (unsurprisingly) bombed at the box office yet still cemented Payal Rohatgi's reputation as the (never naked but usually wet) sleaze queen of Bollywood.
Which is fair enough really.
If you're a fan of Bollywood (or just from the Midlands - that's in the UK for our overseas readers) then you know what to expect, and whilst it never scales the dizzying heights of such classics as Disco Dancer or even Raja Nawathe's Gumnaam and is (albeit only slightly) more frightening than Bandh Darwaza (but for different reasons) it's still worth a looksie, if only for the sight of that saucy minx Rohatgi in a variety of eyeball searing outfits as she totters about on big heels to Sanjay Srivastav's groovy disco score.
Dir: Shrey Srivastava.
Cast: Payal Rohatgi, Tina Majumdar , Aryan Vaid and Tarun Arora (and some other folk too).
Before I continue can I just point out that my DVD of this fine film is (unfortunately) not subtitled but, for the sake of expanding my cinematic horizons (and hopefully get the scary Halloween remake fans off my back) I decided to stick with it.
The fact that it features to attractive ladies in a bath together (wearing magnificent swimsuits I must add) had nothing to do with my decision.
Poor little rich girl Tanya (the funktastically Big faced Bollywood babe Rohatgi) has grown up in the lap of luxury. Her father, the multi-millionaire business tycoon (and serial womaniser) Brian Sharma with whom she runs an exclusive advertising agency has always made sure that she wants for nowt, especially after her mothers untimely death.
Vaid: Cheese strings.
Living the high life from an early age she has everything she could ever want, including a hunky fiance named Jeff Shekhar (spongy faced, manbreasted superstar Vaid, looking like Sylvester Stallone's cheese constructed younger brother) and a great line in primary coloured eighties fashions.
Everything except her fathers love and attention that is.
Sniff.
But Tanya's complacent existence is shattered when she comes home to find sleazy
Shekhar in bed with another lady.
"Is it in yet?"
Dumping the nasty rotter, Tanya vows never to marry and throws herself into her advertising work.
During auditions for a particularly day-glo fashion shoot, Tanya meets the erotically eyebrowed, obscenely long legged wannabe model Urmila (Majumdar, star of the fantastic Haseena and regular interloper in my dreams) who, depite her stunning good looks and tasteful line in Ra-Ra skirts hides a dark secret, a secret that could wreck her dreams of catwalk stardom forever.
"French polishers? you may just be able to save my life!"
You see, even tho' Urmila is a natural at wearing clothes, whenever she's asked to walk down a runway or pose seductively she goes all limp and falls over.
Which is a wee bit of a pain for the photographer really.
Tanya, concerned for Urmila's welfare (and obviously fancying a bit of lipstick lesbianism later) probes the model about her past.
Get the tissues ready because her family make Shannon Matthews mob seem positively normal.
You see, it seems that Urmila's deadbeat dad was a sleazy drug dealer who died alone (and stinking of piss) in prison whilst her mum was filthy drug addled whore that died in a mental asylum.
And if this wasn't enough she was sent to live with her pedo uncle who tried to molest her on a daily basis till he got bored and packed Urmila off to an orphanage where he hatred for men festered and grew.
Which is nice.
Tanya, being a good egg (and frankly gagging for a bit of hot model chick) decides to help Urmila overcome her fears and emotional problems by lending her a shoulder to cry on.
And a bath to share.
Phew! What a scorcher!
"Where's the soap?"
"Yes it does, but not as quickly
as when I masturbate with it".".
"Yes it does, but not as quickly
as when I masturbate with it".".
After a fantastically soft focused Sapphic inspired montage of knowing looks, licking of lips and friendly cuddles (which is the equivalent of x rated porn in Bollywoodland) Tanya and Urmila admit to wanting more than just, ahem, 'friendship' as a love that darn not be mentioned grows between them.
Awww, sweet.
If not a little too subtley done for this blog.
Enter the vile Benny Vikram (Arora, looking like a swarthy boss eyed Corey Feldman), studly celebrity and a top model.
His ambition?
To marry Tanya, cure her of her lesbian tendencies and take over her business.
Bastard.
And, alongside Tanya's bad dad hatches an evil plan to break the girls bond of friendship for ever and maybe even get rich along the way....
Eyes son.
Riding on the coat tails of director Karan Razdan's movie Girlfriend (famous for being the first commercial Hindi film to tackle head on the subject of lesbianism), Shrey Srivastava (director of the toptastic Sanjay Suri actioner Insaaf) joined forces with India's answer to Sharon Stone, Payal Rohtagi to produce this primary coloured kaleidoscope of high drama, market stall fashion and top tunes that (unsurprisingly) bombed at the box office yet still cemented Payal Rohatgi's reputation as the (never naked but usually wet) sleaze queen of Bollywood.
Which is fair enough really.
Dirty pillows.
If you're a fan of Bollywood (or just from the Midlands - that's in the UK for our overseas readers) then you know what to expect, and whilst it never scales the dizzying heights of such classics as Disco Dancer or even Raja Nawathe's Gumnaam and is (albeit only slightly) more frightening than Bandh Darwaza (but for different reasons) it's still worth a looksie, if only for the sight of that saucy minx Rohatgi in a variety of eyeball searing outfits as she totters about on big heels to Sanjay Srivastav's groovy disco score.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)