Because I like lists, and sympathise with the tourist dilemma of “Bollocks! We only have 5 hours to spend here – what do we do first??”, I’ve decided to compile a big fat list of awesome things to do in Salem. Yes, this list could have been shorter, but the number 66 is cool, so shut your face (and click “Continue reading” to read more!):
“Bunch of strangers in a confined space: yeah, we’ve seen this before. Right, OK, some of them appear to be ill or have talked about being in a rush to get somewhere. Yep, I know where this is headed…”
Lol no. It’s highly unlikely you have ever, or will ever, having a viewing experience quite as compellingly, preposterously bewildering as The Similars.
There’s quirky, and then there’s Blood Car. Set in a near-future where petrol costs the earth, one nerd (Mike Brune) stumbles across experimenting with human blood as new fuel source.
While that in itself is intriguing, what kept me watching until I eventually fell asleep (I need to stop starting these movies so late) was the tone: classical music layered over painfully awkward social misadventures of said nerd (Archie Andrews, I shit you not) as he navigates his daily interactions with the cute, perma-crazy-eyed cactus juice stall owner (Anna Chlumsky). The price of cactus juice is, apparently, also at an all-time high.
It’s all so deliciously amateur that it’s funny in a way that movies like The Greasy Strangler could never do as sweetly. The characters are mostly earnest and simple; and, as in a scene where a government agent flimsily slaps someone he’s arguing with, it’s hard to tell if someone’s being deadpan, improv-ing terribly, or just unable to deliver their lines. The fact that everybody appearing to have graduated from the Napoleon Dynamite school of acting lends Blood Car an unpolished charm.
Actually, this extends to the whole film: the moment Archie empties half his left arm into his gas tank and realises it works, he instantly passes out on the steering wheel from blood loss. From there it just gets weirder, more shocking, yet somehow more implausible. It’s like the entire movie is a gawky amateur that is just stumbling its way towards either a car crash or the finish line, and it’s oddly fun to watch either way.
Most of the Netflix reviews for this movie complained about something my family constantly do – switching between languages. It’s not a big deal if you’re used to it, but I’m surprised to learn that not only is this exclusive to South Asian communities (because of their bilingual upbringing), but it infuriated Netflix users so much they felt it ruined the entire film. Despite the Hindi-spoken parts having subtitles.
What can one say about Bunny the Killer Thing?
It sounded cute: perhaps a gorier Critters, or a quirkier Zombeavers. Nope. With so much gross, graphic nudity that the mutant lupine penis is basically a main cast member, this eye-watering, Finnish-British concoction of ultra-comic gore and furry porn makes The Greasy Strangler look like a Disney Channel edit of Dead Snow.
I’m not quite sure what this film wanted to be. An Irish/Scottish co-production, the heavily-stylised shots of flying ravens majestically flapping their wings in slow-mo to a chugging ’90s metal backing track gave off the air of a movie that’s already trying to hard to be American.
Pollyanna McIntosh is implausible as a rookie cop (Heggie) assigned to a remote village in the Highlands of Scotland. On her way to the station, she arrests a kid called Caesar (Brian Vernel) for hitting a pedestrian with his car, but the victim (Liam Cunningham) appears to have vanished. Her commanding officer MacReady (Douglas Russell) introduces himself and books Caesar with a spectacular testicle punch that causes him to puke on Heggie’s shoes. No sooner does Heggie clean the chunks off her boots with the station’s surprisingly present shoe-buffer does said victim turn up. Unsurprisingly, things get weirder from here.
The poster for Inner Demon may be off-putting: the trope of pretty blonde dishevelled girl with a hand forcing its way out of her mouth (dat rapey oral fixation of the genre). And never mind the fim’s relentless perving on lead Sarah Jeavon (Sam)’s spray-on, low-rise jeans, tight, white low-cut vest and gravity-defying cleavage that was probably sprayed with oil between takes; it’s easy to mistake this as a movie that was not written and directed by a woman.
Despite this, writer-director Ursula Dabrowsky’s film is largely an effective spin on the kidnap chiller…
Barry Levinson directing a horror movie – and for the first time – is enough to raise my eyebrows (I can’t raise just one; I’m not Emilia Clarke). More so on knowing that this this is a found-footage cautionary tale about not fucking up our planet’s environment (Levinson devised the idea as an offshoot of an eco-documentary about the Chesapeake Bay area, where the film is set). According to Levinson, the movie is “80% accurate” with regard to pollution issues in the area. Our monsters? Fish parasites from toxic water, mutating their human hosts, and which are aggressively pathogenic. In short, if Al Gore wrote a zombie movie. So far, so intriguing.