Vault of Christmas

It's astounding how printed material can be so closely soldered to a time in your life. 

Take for instance Christmas Holidays in Grade 4, 1992 through to New Year's 1993. Back then, they had these reprints of the old EC Comics, like Vault of Horror and Tales from the Crypt. Gladstone was doing them, the same company that published Uncle Scrooge and Donald Duck reprints. Well, for Christmas, I had got Vault of Horror number four, I believe it was by that enumeration, a double issue that had maybe Haunt of Fear as the back half. That was my Christmas gift, I think, just that one lousy issue. But that issue was fantastic. I mean, that issue was my Christmas Holiday from 1992 to the first few days of 1993. 

I can still remember the cover, a classy antebellum dame looking on in horror at some creature we can only imagine, because our perspective is from behind a rotted hand resting on a bannister. And the inside of that comic book, well, it delineated the very parameters of that holiday period—of that time and space. I spent most of that time in my parents' cabin in the woods, with its coal-oil lamps and its wood-heating and no electricity. The space of that confining cabin became the spaces described within the eight stories that spanned those two issues. 

There was the story of a man who, in his rise up the corporate ladder in the soap factory, had thrown his ever-hectoring boss into a vat of soap. Now, as he showered before a big date with a classy gal (a consequence of his inflated status), one of the bars of soap, apparently possessed by the murdered boss, slips away from the murderer and clogs the shower drain, leading to a death by drowning. I was in that shower all throughout that holiday. 

In another story, four or five Russian people in a sleigh are trying to escape pursuit by wolves. They finally decide that one of them has to be thrown to the canines to allow the others to escape. It's sort of a trolley problem as conceived by the Crypt Keeper. And for that whole holiday, I daresay I was in that sled. The narrow confines of the cabin were expanded by that well-thumbed EC reprint. There's no conclusion to that wolf story, so I can offer no real spoiler alert here, because we never get to see who volunteered to go over the side, or who was forcibly chosen by the group. So there are as many endings written in your mind as there were Russians in that sleigh. 

And so this comic book expands the space of this one story times five, multiplying the conceptual space into something much more expansive. You read it over and over again and the possibilities multiply. As such, my minimal little winter world, the four walls that seemed perpetual throughout my childhood, began to expand. Stories stretched space and time. Perhaps the expansiveness of narrative made that reprieve from school seem a little bit longer. I wouldn't have much wanted to go back to school. 

It was that year that I was really coming to terms with how much I wasn't getting done. I had this baseless, paranoid thought that I might fail grade four, just because I hadn't finished a few worksheets. I guess that's the first time I realized I was lagging behind in my effort to do things my best, and also that I was feeling the strain doing assignments I didn't really see the point of. I never wanted, at least from that point on, to be someone who did busy work and was driven by tasks. 

I see, then, why I gravitated to stories, because they could expand not only space that wasn't there but also time I felt like I didn't have. Seconds and minutes and hours never seemed long enough. Stories opened up new spaces of possibility; the interpretations of a narrative could stack the potentialities. Stories could fold time up in heaps, creating a strata of pocket universes. I wouldn't have been able to explain it then, and I can only vaguely intimate it now. Stories, or at least the best ones, have a multidimensional quality to them. 

I am glad I have had some limited opportunity to tell stories of my own. I hope I can compound those potentialities for other people through my writing. By giving up some of their time to read my works, I hope I can actually make some time for the reader, insofar as we collaborate in utilizing that extraordinary capacity imagination has of being able to multiply what can be, such that the present always seems so full. So while people might deride the EC Comics as corny and far too often predicated on cheap moral lessons (all of them wrapped in gore and gristle), I see them, when at their best, as fantastic stories that compound possibilities. They set the imagination going, and, if you let them, they may just keep it rolling on mercilessly. 

Take it from me—I can look back into Vault of Horror Gladstone reprint number four and I'm back on the cusp of 1992 and 1993, ten years old, in a cabin in the hard nadir of winter wondering about what happened to those Russians in the back of that sleigh, and at the same time experiencing all five possible fates.

The Eyes of Laura Mars (1978)

The Eyes of Laura Mars should be of obvious interest to slasher-flick historians. Written by John Carpenter and released just before his masterpiece Halloween, it represents a sort of spiritual prequel to Michael Myers' first movement. To wit, Laura Mars utilizes first-person perspectives to capture stalk-and-slash sequences, the very same that were perfected in Halloween. These sequences mark the central gimmick of the film, as the eponymous Laura Mars can see murders through the eyes of a killer on account of some unexplained psychic mind-meld. All told, this is among the least slasher-like of the proto-slasher films (that is, those films that predate the inception of the "slasher cycle" in 1978 with the aforementioned Halloween), and is probably better classified as a psionic whodunnit noir flick. The Eyes of Laura Mars seems almost giallo-like at times, blending Manhattan chic with late-70s NYC grime. The peerless Faye Dunaway, fresh off her deranged Oscar-winning performance in Network, turns in a serviceable performance as the titular character. A unrecognizably young Tommy Lee Jones delivers a solid supporting role as the detective investigating the murders. Raul Julia, the eventual M. Bison, plays Mars' alcoholic and histrionic ex-husband, while Brad Dourif, the eventual voice of Chucky, serves as her sketchy limo driver. This all-star lineup comes to comprise the prime suspects as more and more of the cast gets knocked off in murder-mystery fashion. Without offering any spoilers, I'll note that the killer turns out to be the person you least suspect (or, if you're into game theory, it's perhaps the person you most suspect, as inverting all expectations is a matter of course for game theorists). What really sets The Eyes of Laura Mars apart is its soundtrack, most notably a lengthy sequence backed by Michael Zaeger's disco classic "Let's All Chant." The arrangement is orchestral (at least by disco standards), juxtaposing jarringly with the vapid lyrics. This fits the uneasiness of both the 70s New York backdrop and Mars' confounding cognitive affliction exceedingly well. In the end, the visual and sonic experience offered by The Eyes of Laura Mars allows the film to hold up as a worthy period-piece for both slasher and noir fans alike.

In Defense of Tubi

Tubi or not Tubi? That is not the question, as that is the kind of referential, pun-driven “wit” that has ruined comedy in the internet age. Regardless of this article's inane intro, some readers might still be wondering if the Tubi TV app is worth downloading. The answer is yes—if you like to watch trash with ads intermixed.

That is not an attempt at acerbic wit or irony. Rather, I am earnestly recommending Tubi to people who like movies and TV that are so bad they are good . . . or just bad.

Perhaps most notably, Tubi boasts an excellent lineup of bad horror movies. Here you can find classics such as The Hills Have Eyes and the Rob Zombie movies, most notably House of 1000 Corpses. There is no shortage of obscure slashers, such as Slaughter High, Final Exam, House on Sorority Row, The Mutilator, and Don't Go in the Woods. There's also a cornucopia of exploitation horror—that is, the real nasty and relentless grindhouse fare such as Nightmare (a.k.a. Nightmare in a Damaged Brain) and the seminal gore films of Herschell Gordon Lewis such as 2000 Maniacs. And while Tubi features hundreds of crappy independent horror films made in the last few years, including unwatchable fare like Don’t F*** in the Woods, there are also some gems. Check out, for instance, Terrifier and tell me that Art the Clown isn't more terrifying than Pennywise and Captain Spaulding combined. All told, Tubi is a crash-course in horror and exploitation.

Tubi must also be praised for its junky science-fiction. Crappy schlock classics such as The Astro Zombies, War Beneath the Earth, and Battle of the Planets can all be found here, among hundreds of others.

For years, many of the aforementioned films were nigh impossible to find on Blu-Ray or even DVD, and so a person like me would find themselves searching YouTube for bootlegs. Sometimes people like me even had to resort to downloading illegally from seedy sites like Rarelust. But not anymore, now that I've found Tubi.

For the non-horror and sci-fi fan, there's a lot of other compelling material on Tubi that could never go mainstream. Take, for instance, Pro Gay Wrestling, a non-heteronormative wrestling federation. I love the idea and a lot of the storylines—most notably the heel wrestler who swears he's not gay—but a lot of the quality of the wrestling itself is subpar. There's also a healthy serving of obscure cartoons from yesteryear. Any JEM fans among our readers? If so, you've got a date with nostalgia on Tubi.

Tubi lets you have all of this for free, but there is, of course, an ostensible catch. Tubi has ads interlarded within the programming, and this has been enough to make consumers look askance at this service. After all, it's just classier to pay for Netflix, Paramount, Amazon Prime, and Disney Plus and not watch ads, right? Ads are so prole. Or are they? There are only three or four commercial breaks in any given Tubi movie, far fewer than on conventional television. Moreover, these commercials don't run as long as on television, meaning they're relatively unobtrusive. This may not eliminate the nightmare kaleidoscope of a typical commercial break completely, but it can at least mitigate the horror by making it less kaleidoscopic. That said, it's still a bit jarring to be watching Art the Clown bisect a buxom naked blonde woman with a bandsaw and then have Tubi cut to a commercial for Barbie-licensed Little People.

In many ways, Tubi is upstream from the paid services. In fact, Tubi seems to be capable of setting new trends. Just recently, Netflix has offered cheaper subscription tiers that feature some advertising. While Netflix might have “better” programming (“better” meaning overcooked dialogue and labyrinthine, recursive plots, in the view of the average middle-class viewer), Tubi still has a lock on cost-free streaming. Given the sad state of the economy and its attendant skyrocketing inflation, I think we're going to need more services like Tubi. Tubi is the food bank of entertainment.

(This image is property of 20th Century Fox, while the Tubi corporate logo is property of Tubi, Inc.
These properties are used here strictly for purposes of parody.)

As a schlock and horror fan, I give Tubi my highest recommendation. Tubi is the place to watch old horror and exploitation and sci-fi. You can call me a shill, but does someone really qualify for that moniker when no money has been exchanged? Sure, Tubi is trashy and quintessentially lower-middle class. It's not a prestige subscription by any stretch. And “Tubi and chill” just doesn't sound nearly as sexy. But it's free, and all it will cost you is time. So while it might be embarrassing to introduce Tubi to your friends, what with their sleek, voluptuous Netflix and Disney Plus subscriptions, just remember—they're the ones paying for services rendered.

"59 Chrystie Street" Revisited

The Beastie Boys' 1989 LP Paul's Boutique is arguably the finest hip-hop album ever made. A triumph of psychedelic sampling, it transcends hip-hop and can even be considered among the greatest records of all-time, regardless of genre. But Paul's Boutique is not perfect. It possesses one incontestable blemish within its final track, the 9-part song suite “B-Boy Bouillabaisse,” namely the first ninth, “59 Chrystie Street.” This segment is titled for the location of the prime Manhattan rehearsal space the Beastie Boys used during their early years, but its lyrical content describes something much more provocative. The track's aggressive, jejune sexuality would seem to hearken back to the frat-boyish aesthetic of the Beastie Boys' first album, Licensed to Ill, delving even lower than that album managed to stoop with some readily apparent misogyny (and perhaps even homophobia and transphobia). But if we allow our critical gaze to venture deeper into the cut, looking past its juvenile lyrics and into the very texture of its samples, we can argue that “59 Chrystie Street” is, if not as virtuosic as the rest of the album, at least defensible. It may even expound a vision of male sexuality that's rather profound.

Before diving deeper, it is necessary to detail the surface-level defects of “59 Chrystie Street.” We see these on full display in the first half of its lyrical content (the words in parentheses marking accompanying vocal samples), where the speaker or speakers manoeuvre a paramour into their home and/or rehearsal space:

There's a girl over there (aw yeah)

With long brown hair (aw yeah)

I took her to the place

I threw the mattress in her face

So already we ostensibly have a potential sexual partner being physically assaulted with a mattress (or, alternatively, being thrown down onto a mattress), possibly by all three members of the Beastie Boys, as they all participate in the rapping. The gang rap continues with its second half, a description of the mounting sexual encounter:

Took off her shirt (fresh)

Took off her bra

Took off her pants (fresh)

You know what I saw (wick, wick, whack)

The beat abruptly gives way to Adam Horovitz's braying laughter, and, with that, “59 Chrystie Street” concludes. What did the speaker (or speakers) see? In his 2006 analysis of Paul's Boutique for the 33 1/3 chapbook series, Dan LeRoy hypothesizes that the song “suggests a 'Lola'-esque encounter with a groupie.” By this reading, the speaker(s) saw a penis. If this is indeed the case, the track's narrative would seem to betoken transphobia. However, the bare-bone lyrics offer little confirmation as to the presence of the penis. We are left to project our own discriminations onto the big reveal, marking the track as cynically vague. Since all we have are feminine pronouns, your present author deems it just as tenable to assert that the speaker saw a vagina (as we'll see below). All we can say for sure is that “59 Chrystie Street” is an obtuse, nursery-rhyme rap about rough and impersonal sexuality. If the sexual conquest in question is a woman, then we can say the track is more than a bit misogynous, if not homo- or transphobic as per Dan LeRoy's penis reading.

And yet, peeling back the layers, more can be said about “59 Chrystie Street.” Certainly, a song is not just its lyrics. And the musical bedrock of “59 Chrystie Street”, like every track on Paul's Boutique, consists of a complexly woven skein of samples. What makes the segment salvageable, or perhaps something even better, is its thunderous drum sample. The track's unrelenting drums are those of a tribe in Burundi. The recording was originally made in 1967 by anthropologists Michel Vuylsteke and Charles Duvelle during their fieldwork in East Africa. Together, twenty-five male drummers can be heard on the recording. This particular anthropological recording would appear on a number of European and American compositions to follow, including Joni Mitchell's “Jungle Line” and “Burundi Black” by French composer Michel Bernholc (a Caucasian who really played up the “darkest Africa” angle, making for an album that hasn't aged especially well).

The predominance of this drumming turns “59 Chrystie Street” from a brainless sex rap into an incantation, of sorts, that's almost orphic in its outlook. The song possesses a certain ethnographic quality, not just in terms of 80s NYC hookup culture, but far beyond that, reaching eastward and touching on a kind of experience that's trans-societal and even transcendent. In the Burundi drumming, we have a form of musical expression that much of the American and European audience may very well consider “primitive” and “primal.” It will arouse, on some level, their stereotypes, projections, and fears regarding “darkest Africa” (as it apparently did for Monsieur Bernholc). It will evoke wild visions of an “uncivilized” country and continent (if the average Euro-American can even discern the two with regard to “Africa”). But these racist assumptions are immediately subverted, because the title of the song places the activity on a street in Manhattan, the putative capital of the developed world. The description of this all-American sexual encounter is undergirded by the forceful tribal drum. In effect, the track has collapsed the notionally insurmountable cultural distance between stereotypical “darkest Africa” and the presumptive center of Western civilization. And what has closed this cultural gap? It is the primal pull of the sexual encounter with a female—the desire for a vision of the vagina. This desire unites every male musician, no matter where on the globe he may be, whether he is a drummer in Burundi or a white rapper in late-80s NYC. (It may also apply to lesbians, though the choice of the sample and the lyrics in the present case would seem to foreground male sexuality.) For it is this vision of the vulva that stirs the Burundi drummer to beat his drum and compels the rapper to steal his drum samples. The persistent thud of male sexuality pounds on in both groups of men alike.

In seeing the vagina, all straight men are rendered one. We are all united in the vaginal gaze. Agape, we regard the vulva with thundering awe. We are gazing, after all, upon what Samuel L. Jackson rightly called “the holiest of holies.” Both the Burundi drummer and the white rapper shudder with Rudolph Otto's mysterium tremendum fascinans as they stare into that coral-petaled, vertical maw. And the vulva stares unblinkingly back at us, because it is not just a mouth, but also an eye. To be seen this way, this is what we drum for. The vulva may see and know us, but even if we can know it in a Biblical/carnal sense, can we truly know it? And so, Adam Horovitz's final line in the song echoes in our ear, sounding more and more like a question with each repetition. You know what I saw...? Does any man truly know what he saw after he sees the vagina? These are the questions that render all straight men throughout the world as a brotherhood. Fitting then, that the song should conclude here. For to snatch a glimpse—to glimpse a snatch—is to end the song—the ever-throbbing beat of male sexuality—and this vision is most likely what happens, your present author posits, at the end of “59 Chrystie Street.” The beat promptly stops, because the vision has been consummated. But the song suite is not over—it's never over, in fact—and the beat resumes anew, and the record plays on loop.

Thus, through its unabashed male sexuality undergirded by the Burundi drum, “59 Chrystie Street” has effectively overturned longstanding stereotypes about “darkest Africa.” The track has made a subtle testimony to the oneness of the human race—or the male race, at least—vis-à-vis the vadge, a vision quest, of sorts, that will forever quirt a man onward, regardless of his continent. For this reason, “59 Chrystie Street” shouldn't be considered an outright blemish on the nigh-perfect Paul's Boutique, but rather a mere peccadillo that, upon closer listening, is far from irredeemable. “59 Chrystie Street” is built on numinously fertile grounds.

The Most Precious Substance on Earth

Shashi Bhat's The Most Precious Substance on Earth (McClelland & Stewart, 2021) is a picaresque coming-of-age novel that starts strongly. It chronicles the youth of a South Asian high school student from Halifax named Nina after she experiences a sexual assault. It then jumps ahead to her experience of graduate school in creative writing at Johns Hopkins (Bhat's alma mater), a section that is particularly well-crafted.

Here, Bhat's descriptions are at their most acute. Describing a graduate of the program and published author who still shows up at events, Bhat's narrator offers the following: “In profile, his hair is a tilde” (90). Then, when this famous ex-student encounters lower-ranking staff members, the narrator offers: “his eyes flit past them for someone more important to talk to” (90). In this way, Bhat encapsulates the privileged graduate student, and how it can feel to be around these sorts of people when you are not so privileged and well-connected.

With the subsequent chapters, which are less plot-driven and read more like vignettes from the narrator's life, the observations continue, but they become less insightful and more embittered. While these sorts of observations are at first familiar in literary and Seinfeld-ian terms, as the book lurches along they feel like more of a crutch. Soon, it seems as if inadequacy is the narrator's singular approach to the world. Consider some of the following examples:

After graduate school, Nina gets a job teaching high school, and in order to develop professionally, she records herself teaching. She reacts as follows “...as soon as I saw my ogre face, and my Humpty Dumpty Body, and the stretch marks on my upper arms, and my shoulders rounded like those of a cartoon vulture, I turned the video off” (155-156). The level of self-loathing is almost parodic. Later, while giving an extemporaneous speech at a Toastmasters meeting, Nina verbalizes the following to the group: “'I'm trying to remember high school Physics. But all I remember is failing'” (158). By the later stages of the book, depressive sledgehammers like these swing freely on virtually every page—sometimes there are several in short succession. And so, as the book crawls on, this style of observation makes the experience seem like you are reading not so much a novel but rather a book-length defense mechanism. Bhat's narrator manages to become self-deprecating beyond tolerable literary levels, to the point of being self-eviscerating.

This is most salient in her explorations of relationships. Of a boyfriend Nina is seeing but apparently not really into, she notes that “He is frustratingly good at sex” (199). Later, with respect to dating, she claims that “coffee dates might as well be job interviews—except you must marry the interviewer and have sex with him for the rest of your life” (224). Your present reviewer will be the first to criticize the innumerable faults of marriage, but this quip makes for a depressingly narrow vision of that institution. These sorts of wisecracks become less witty and more depressing as the book continues. At one point, Nina goes on a date with a doctor who is somewhat eager to get physical down by Halifax's waterfront. In the aftermath, she says “For weeks after, I search The Coast for news of murders” (226).

At times, it seems like it's not all doom and gloom for Nina. Soon enough, she meets a guy she describes as “the kindest person I've ever met” (231). The guy wants to commit, so much so that he deactivates his online dating profile. This prompts the following response from Nina: “I deactivate my account, too. I picture marrying him under strands of twinkle lights and white mayflowers on the roof of the Seaport Market. I know my parents would like him. But I put off answering his latest message. It goes unanswered, and so goes the next. I ghost him. I'm a ghost” (232). By this point, the reader is left to wonder if this is not just the stream-of-consciousness of someone who is unhappy, but rather that of someone who cannot be happy. The Most Precious Substance on Earth is inadequacy porn.

But the book ends strongly. In the last vignette, the narrator starts a blog and soon finds that she has a troll. Rather than ignoring him, she actually tracks him down and schedules a meet-up. This may seem improbable and heretofore unforeseeable in the narrative, but it actually makes for a very fitting conclusion. After all, the narrator has effectively been trolling herself for the entirety of the book, and now she gets to meet a living, breathing (and rather pathetic) internet troll. Finally, Nina shows some nerve and stands up for herself like an adult. Still, it's not enough to convince this reader that Nina is anything approaching a well-adjusted grown-up. The Most Precious Substance on Earth is almost like a coming-of-age novel where the principal character doesn't actually come of age. Perhaps this marks the toll of Nina's sexual assault. The reader, sort of like the narrator, ends up waiting for something to happen to mark some kind of progress, but both end up just waiting.

A few memorable vignettes might not be enough for the majority of readers. All told, The Most Precious Substance on Earth seems to suggest that a life dedicated to language and storytelling is inherently depressing and unfulfilling and incomplete. But does it have to be? I'd recommend reading Bhat's novel to answer that question for yourself. The book serves as a great litmus test for your tolerance of how many maimed, melancholy thoughts you can stomach in one reading session.  

X-Ray (1982)

If you consult a typical reviewer's take on the 1982 film X-Ray (a.k.a. Hospital Massacre), you will inevitably get a negative diagnosis. What you need, however, is a second opinion, as these reviewers are quacks. X-Ray is a well-conceived, well-executed slasher that benefits on two fronts. First, it depicts the harrowing process of dealing with hospital staff and trying to get information therefrom in accurate and Kafkaesque fashion. Secondly, it benefits from a memorable and convincing villain, a masked surgeon who absolutely massacres his victims. With his heaving breaths and medical mask-and-hood combo, the killer is simultaneously reminiscent of Kane Hodder's Jason and Mortal Kombat's Sub-Zero. But he's also something quite unique unto himself, as he hacks people to death with an unbridled fury not often seen in conventional, non-exploitation slashers. In this way, he's in contradistinction to the stereotype of the surgeon as methodical, precise, and dexterous, proceeding with a reckless abandon that makes Jason and Sub-Zero look downright surgical by comparison. Moreover, some praise is due for the female lead, Barbi Benton (pictured), whose acting sometimes gets a bum rap because she's a former Playboy Playmate. In X-Ray, she's convincing in her frustration and exasperation as both the confused patient and then the killer's prime target. That said, the scene in which a male doctor examines her while she's in the nude goes on exploitatively long and ends up being more uncomfortable than alluring. Still, this isn't enough to pull the plug on X-Ray. My diagnosis: X-Ray is a salubrious slasher that's essential to a healthy horror-fan lifestyle.

The Cult of Trump

True to its title, Stephen Hassan's 2019 book The Cult of Trump attempts to establish that Donald Trump has effectively conducted himself like a cult leader, especially during his presidential campaign and reign. While the hallmarks of cult behavior can be identified in many of Trump's methods (repetitive speaking, good vs. evil narratives, malignant narcissism) and among his followers (lack of critical thinking, trance-like states at rallies, etc.), it's hard to be completely convinced that Trump's political movement was and is tantamount to a cult like that of Scientology or the Unification Church (the latter of which Hassan defected from). At most, Trump's movement is cultish. That said, this book should not be considered a failure. In fact, its perspective is prescient. In the later stages of the book, Hassan makes reference to Jim Jones and the mass suicide at Jonestown. Very judiciously, he writes that "[i]t may seem to be a leap to mention Jonestown when writing about the cult of Trump." Perhaps it did in 2019, but since the publication of this book, we have seen the January 6th riots and the assault on the Capitol. Hassan basically predicts the final months of the Trump presidency in the second-last paragraph of the book: "If Trump runs again and is not reelected in 2020, he might claim that the election was rigged. Who knows what he might call on his followers to do in that case?" (233-234). So while Hassan may not have been entirely convincing in his argument for there being a “Cult of Trump,” he can at least be praised for his foresight.

Sorority Party Massacre (2012)

Sorority Party Massacre (2012) starts off very promisingly. There is legitimate frisson in the opening sequence, where a woman en route to a sorority meeting pulls over to a roadside scrapyard only to find that she's being stalked via her cellphone by an unseen man. Sure, it's more than a little reminiscent of Scream, but the sequence presents a capable homage. At the conclusion of this opening sequence, we're introduced to an intimidating and visually compelling villain with a distinctive, foreboding laugh. A raspy click that sounds looped, this laugh could have been iconic.

Kevin Sorbo appears briefly in this movie.
I didn't want to post a photo of Ron Jeremy. 

To this point, the viewer is geared for a serviceable horror flick, but what follows after the opening credits is a faltering horror comedy that tries harder to be funny than horrific. What we get are fart jokes, consciously hammy acting, dialogue punctuated with sound effects, shameless over-reliance on montages, superfluous nudity, a “mongoloid” character, and Ron Jeremy cameos. In short, Sorority Party Massacre becomes that kind of movie. The titular sorority girls are little more than T&A, which in all fairness should have been obvious to this reviewer going in, given the title. The film is neither funny nor horrific, and it looks and feels amateur all throughout—a far cry from the intro. It's as if the opening sequence and the movie proper were directed by different people. We never do see that cool killer from the opening sequence again, at least not as he originally appears, sounds, and behaves. This viewer does not recall hearing that raspy, clicking laugh again.

But in the end, there is a half-decent denouement. Here we have the privilege of seeing Ron Jeremy brutalized by the main-character cop. This part has aged well, given Jeremy's recently litigated sex crimes. The Jeremy beat-down may even be enough to justify checking out the movie. But if you do seek out Sorority Party Massacre, just watch the opening sequence and then skip to the ending. The "movie" sandwiched in between is unwatchable.

The Astro Zombies (1968)

The Astro Zombies sometimes gets heralded as a schlock sci-fi/horror classic, but this is a gross misconception. I doubt if anyone who has ever suffered through this film in full could earnestly put forward a positive evaluation of the experience. Some might defend the movie by saying it's "so bad that it's good", but The Astro Zombies is just bad. The "so bad that it's good" designation really only applies to well-paced crap. The Astro Zombies may actually be the worst-paced movie of all time. It's ostensibly about alien-looking "quasi-men" who have escaped a lab run by John Carradine to commit "mutilation murders", but there's very little action of that nature depicted on-screen. Director Ted V. Mikels chews up most of the runtime with interstitial shots of driving, parking, and sci-fi babble, all of which makes for excruciatingly boring viewing. The only redeeming aspect of this movie is that it inspired The Misfits' song "Astro Zombies", a recording that accomplishes a lot more in two minutes and eleven seconds than The Astro Zombies does in an hour and thirty-one minutes.

Wrong Turn (2003)

Wrong Turn tells the story of a group of college-educated youths who take a shortcut through the West Virginia mountains and run afoul of a family of Republicans. It all starts with some tire damage caused by traps set by the Republicans. A quartet from among the college kids peels off in search of help and locates a ramshackle hutment, but when they find human remains inside, they realize that Republicanism is none too far away. Soon enough, the Republicans arrive home with the freshly riven corpse of one of the college students who’d stayed with the vehicle. From their hiding places, the surviving college kids have no choice but to watch as the Republicans dismember and devour their friend. When the Republicans fall into a satiated sleep, the college kids attempt to escape, but the Republicans are jolted awake and chase them into the forest, picking them off one by one. The urbanized college youths hide in trees, lookout towers, and caves to evade their pursuers, but the Republicans doggedly sniff them out. Can young, college-educated Americans survive the relentless Republican onslaught?

Upon its release, critics were initially hard on Wrong Turn. Scott Foundas of Variety describes the film as “frightless torpor”; Rotten Tomatoes calls it an “unremarkable slasher flick.” But these reviews come from a much different point in history. For those of us who survived the Trump presidency, the film rings irrefutably true and even prescient. In both mood and manner, these inbred, cannibalistic Republicans remind us of the insurrectionists who stormed the Capitol on January 6th, 2021. As such, Wrong Turn is not a “slasher flick,” but rather a fictive, filmic ethnography of America. While it is not nearly as deranged as the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the ne plus ultra of American ethnographic cinema, Wrong Turn is nonetheless an honest film in perfect fidelity with the base culture that spawned it. Even more than it entertains, Wrong Turn educates us about a subspecies of Republican that American civilization would do well to avoid.

All told, Wrong Turn comes highly recommended, as it's an unrelenting thrill-ride that doesn’t let up, not even after the Republicans have been neutralized and the plot has resolved itself (hence, a mild spoiler alert here). Stick around for the credits, and you’ll learn along with an unfortunate deputy sheriff a harsh lesson about American life—the truest Republicans are the hardest to kill.