Faces of Gore 2 (2000) Todd Tjersland.

'A grotesque vision of hellish madness!'

I know it's little more than a foolhardy dream, but I'd sincerely like to believe that the hypertensive Dr. Vincent Van Gore is a legitimate medical practitioner, the infamous, foremost Gorenographer of our times! The cruelly sardonic VHS sickie Faces of Gore does exactly what it says on the tin. Justly reviled for its unutterably crass narration, objectionable crudity, and 'comedic' sound FX, Tjersland's glib, monotonous repetition of foully ruinous-looking cadavers remains an acquired taste. Graphic footage of the increasingly horrific aftermaths of mortal vehicular misadventure, gory self-annihilations, sadistic murder, brutal gorings at home, and in the workplace provides for a vile, hotly crimson Gorenucopia of brain-blasting obscenity. The wholly indefensible Faces of Gore 2 is sure to maintain macabre interest in the more openly degenerated shockumentary savage. The internet is hugely effective for disseminating propaganda, but it has also proven itself to be a generous provider of home entertainment's more conspicuously soiled underbelly. Even without the grossly indecent narration, armchair anatomists will find some of the spectacularly grisly distortions of human physiognomy unwholesomely fascinating. Faces of Gore 2 is in abominably poor taste, which, in its own wrong-headed manner, retains some abject appeal for any seeking gratuitously gory exhibits of pulped human remains. Behold then the bloody return of Faces of Gore, in a sordidly sanguineous sequel, that will assault the sensibilities with its relentlessly nauseating barrage of lividly blood-mottled monstrosity!

 Necrophobia (1995) – Frank Von Geloven /Edwin Visser.

I found this stylishly macabre Dutch chiller to be a strongly acted, well constructed, atmospherically photographed decent into a depressed, increasingly isolated husband's sinisterly disturbing, post traumatic grief. I don't believe this bloody necrophilic treat is as indelibly 90s as many other horror films of the period, since it is smokily steeped in a tantalizing late 70s, early 80s Aristide Massaccesi(Joe D'Amato)/Lucio Fulci morbidity. The fine score is surprisingly opulent, frequently making the experience much grander, than its modest budget may have afforded. Necrophobia is softer in the aggressively WTF department than Nekromantic, or Beyond The Darkness, but, for me, there are definite thematic sympathies. The dark plot is compelling, suspense is successfully maintained throughout, and the sporadic splashes of artisan gore prove effective. The frenzied climax is satisfyingly gruesome, and I also loved the musical tribute to Fabio Frizzi, telegraphing a delicious frisson of pending eeriness.

 The Loners (1972) – Sutton Roley.

'I never scalp on St. Patrick's Day!'

This goofier example of 70s bikersploitation boasts a far stronger cast than it needs, Scott Brady, Pat Stich, Gloria Graham, and the always absurdly charismatic Dean Stockwell, plus some amiable schmendrick (Tod Sussman) who acts like a proto-Ted Raimi!?! I can readily imagine that the premise for The Loners was woozily written on a Rizla paper, and absent-mindedly smoked up later, since there's a palpable haze of fragmented THCeed thinking throughout! The Loners is a stoner Biker Flick with mild T&A, generic redneck cops, a dishy Blonde ditz (Pat Stich) goggly-eyed for hard-luck half-Navajo/Irish reluctant biker outlaw Stine (Stockwell), culminating bloodily in a Pseudo-Peckinpah climax, Badlands it 'aint! Slight Taco Bell fare, watchable enough at the time, but almost immediately forgotten. Not for the first time, Dean's performance (almost) makes it a real film, as without him its nothing more than a dingy counter culture cash-in with delusions of Drive-in grandeur. They never fail to mention easy Rider with reverence, failing to mention the largely unwatchable backwash it inspired in it's boffo box office wake. The trailer cherry picks all the best bits, leaving one to wearily wade through all the grot that didn't cut it. The Loner's only rarely gets out of 1^st gear, but one scene that registered was the deliciously hyperbolic exchange between boozy shrew mother (Graham) and her foofy-headed daughter Julio (Stich).

Video Demons Do Psychotown (1988) – Alessandro daGaetano.

The Truck's got a short?', 'The Truck's gotta short what?'

Hey! While the director's got a 100 $ name, he made a 2cent movie!

The massively clunky intro, and excruciating acting/dialogue sets the scene beautifully for neglected Supernatural Troma schlocker Video Demons Do Psychotown. Bickering young couple shoot video at a spooky old building with a generic chequered past, leading monotonously to muddled horror hokum. Plus points earned for casting B-fox Donna Baltron, as she's hotter than a Venusian BBQ! Troma, visual Junk Food, mostly delivers what y'all expect, goofy chat, flat lighting, happy hour acting, generous portions of T&A, and equally plentiful emissions of day-glow goo! If it wasn't for the dynamite presence of delicious Donna, Video the stinky Demons Do Psychotown would be soggier than a fully loaded diaper. I wouldn't say this sucked outright, but is is frequently prone to suckage, and the lack of luminous goo didn't much help! The buff, plastic dude playing doof-master dingus Eric (Ron Arragon) dully read his lines like an only just revived coma victim, exuding all the charisma of a doughnut hole! Video Demons Do Psychotown has a truly bodacious title, but it's slow, and not good Saint Vitus slow, BAD slow, like a Joe Rogan podcast. The score is deliciously annoying, and really accentuates the leaden film-making, and strikingly shock-less slasher tropes. I still adore aggressively dopey B-Horror, so, as much as I loathe to admit it, I still kinda dark parts of it, but any blessed with a cogent brain should approach Video Demons Do Psychotown with due caution.

 Blood Money (1996) – John Shippard.

'A slinky DTV crime thriller with Traci Lords, Billy Drago, and James Brolin???? Dip my nuts in chocolate, and call me a cab, things are sure to get juicy real quick!!!'

As is so often the case, money is the root of all DTV evils in predictable, cookie cutter crime flex Blood Money. Bad guys squabble, cops quibble, and the blonde femme fatale got some righteous sizzle! Slicker than Pm Entertainment fare, with conspicuously superior performances, especially from veteran Brolin, and sultry blonde siren Traci lords. Due to the fact Drago is listed as 'With Billy Drago', he, unfortunately, isn't given all that much to do. Blood Money is mostly routine stuff, gussied up with bloody gun violence, fisticuffs, and a decent home invasion/torture sequence. While arguably a doable one-timer for true Traci Lords completists, I kinda zoned in and out of this one, and I couldn't help but feel that the stock plot development, and character's names fell out of the same cracker jack box.

 Instant Death (2017) – Ara Paiaya.

'How do we handle this?' ' Instant Death!!!!' “BLAMMO” etc.

Herculean pop culture legend Lou Ferrigno plays the damaged special ops father of estranged daughter and grandchild, cruelly slain by London mobsters, needless to say, this makes him very, VERY ANGRY, and swiftly thereafter much of London's gangland gets righteously smashed in B-vengeance actioner Instant Death. Bemoaning the generic text is largely pointless, as all the good folk really want to know is whether man mountain Ferrigno delivers some brutal beat-downs, and he most certainly does! Not the most polished of low budget shoot 'em ups, arguably level-leading with a 2^nd tier beered-up Dyer/Fairbrass hooligun-fest. I had a proper blast watching big bad Lou Taken care of business, my admittedly low expectations were greatly exceeded, since Lou steps up like a boss, pile-driving through Razor's sleazy lackeys like an out of control armoured truck! The script's lack of invention is woefully apparent, yet there's a tangible nastiness to Razor's blood-thirsty thuggery which dramatically provides for a serviceably malevolent nemesis. While Instant Death is practically indivisible from Danny Dyer's winningly Death Wish'd Vendetta, it is also wholly fair to claim that Lou's unique persona proves irresistible, his sledgehammer-styled justice is awesome, and I sincerely hope this isn't the last we see of the heroically hulking head-knocker!

 Kill The Moonlight (1994) – Steven Hanft.

Amiably ambling indie comedy drama about increasingly frustrated dude Chance's (Thomas Hendrix) desperate attempts to raise the lofty 2.500 bucks to get his beloved stock car back on track, and the myriad pitfalls he experiences upon said boozy mission. Kill The Moonlight has a low-fi, appealingly meandering quality, the music herein having no less of a meandering, fuzzily low-fi appeal, tonally matched by the cast's oddball, equally Ghost Town'd performances. Not expressly similar, but Hanft's progressively THCeed, loosey-goosey mise-en-scene frequently vibes with early Solondz, Hartley, and Linklater. For my money, the director did a credible job building a relatable proletariat diorama for his aspirational protagonist to goof off in. I would happily watch this again with company, as I believe the quirkier comedic elements would be greatly enhanced when shared. While you can't truly escape the impression that Chance is on an inexorably downward slide, but y'all still want the cat to get his shambolic life, and stock car in higher gear. Yo! Any film that boldly claims Henry Winkler is the greatest of all movie stars is all good in my book, but what do I know, I'm just a schmuck living in a room the size of a walnut casing. Now that Hanft's film has percolated in my celluloid-clotted mind for a few hours, I think I can say without fear of hyperbole that Kill The Moon is utterly righteous!

'Hope is good breakfast!'