Vincent Cassel Making Crazy Faces Does Not Make This Movie Worthwhile

•November 15, 2010 • 2 Comments

So you like remember when I said I was going to watch all these French horror movies and that I thought they were so awesome and I was all peeing my pants in excitement over them and then I put on my “French Horror #1” tee shirt and then I finally said, “Oh hi! Nice to meet you”?  Right?

Well, Hell hath frozen over, my loves, because I have found a really, really shitty French horror movie.  Take heed, dear children, because I watch these films so you don’t have to.  DO NOT, I repeat DO NOT rent Sheitan.

So a bunch of asshole teens (?) are at the Styxx Club.  They get wasted and generally make a mess of themselves before one of them gets a bottle smashed in his face.  Out the club, they are kicked.  Of course, this is only the start of this completely irritating experiment in audience abuse, so one of the boys brings out a chick he met inside.

The group packs into a very small car (three boys, two girls, and a pit bull) and proceed to steal gas and snacks from a BP (seriously?  are these everywhere?) before heading out into the country.  Naturally, we have no idea where they are going until they arrive in the morning at the new chick’s country estate, which is filled with what looks like a bunch of garbage.  Maybe they don’t have Hoarders in France.  I don’t know, but if I walked into this house and saw it in such a state, I would want to leave immediately.  Yeesh.

New Chick (I’m sorry I can barely remember their names, and this isn’t a good enough movie to bother looking them up) gives them a tour of the house culminating at a room upstairs where her “father” has made a bunch of dolls.  The Other Girl says the room is beautiful, and maybe I can’t get tone when it’s subtitled, but I am hoping beyond hope that she was just being polite because this is the creepiest room I have ever seen, and I am ten thousand percent sure that I would vacate the estate upon entering this labyrinthine house of horrors.

No matter, of course, because our incredibly vapid and shallow teens remain.  They hang out with the housekeeper Joseph (Vincent Cassel sporting the weirdest and widest grin I have seen on anyone who wasn’t contained with me in a booby hatch) and his “friends” who appear to be a large group of developmentally disabled people.  They get into a fight in the hot springs with one of the teens who seems to be singled out for special attention from Joseph.  His friends, because they are the best friends ever and not at all intelligent and completely incapable of recognizing that Joseph is weird and creepy and might do upsetting things to him, just make a bunch of gay jokes.  Yes, they are these kinds of teens.

(ASIDE: You know, I know I wasn’t the greatest kid in the world.  Hell, I was a major fuck-up, but I did not act the way horror teens act these days.  I mean, what is wrong with these people?  Do they have no parents?  They seem relatively privileged, so you’d think someone was raising them.  I know I am all sounding old crone-y, but I can’t help it.  These kids just get my blood boiling.)

AnyMonicaBelluciInTheMatrixWearingThatCondomDress, the kids continue to act like assholes, and I am getting tired.  I have a moment when I think, “Well, maybe this has some Carpenter pacing, and I am just not watching it in the right mode.”  And then The Other Girl gets into bed, and there are grasshoppers everywhere, and she freaks out like it’s a fucking horse head, and I start to lose my patience with her, which sucks because she was the only one I liked even a little.  Bummer.

And then more things happen that don’t make any sense, and it turns out Joseph (Vincent Cassel) is married to Vincent Cassel in drag, and Vincent Cassel in Drag is about to give birth to the antichrist, and they need Bottle Face Boy’s hair, clothes, and eyes to make a toy to shake in the antichrist’s face.  And then there are some weird hallucinations, and that’s pretty much it.

And if you think that sounds good, I think we are permanently breaking up.

HOLY MOTHER OF STEAMING DIARRHEA CRAP.  This movie was bad.  After it concluded, I felt as if someone had pulled my brain out of my skull, shook it vigorously, and shoved it back in.  At least three times I said, “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?”  And you know I can handle some bullshit in my movies.  I mean, I am working my way through all the Hellraiser movies, and they’re nothing if not some serious bullshit.  But when you give me a movie wherein everyone is someone I want to die and then YOU DON’T KILL ANY OF THEM, I pretty much want to light your cats on fire.

(Nothing against your cats, but I am looking for something that will get you where you live.  Why?  Because every time you eff up a French horror movie, an angel gets its wings broken.  And there has to be some kind of punishment for that.)

In conclusion, eff this movie super hard.

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Tuesday Too Scared to Watch It Twice: Week Three

•November 9, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Gather ’round, y’all, for another edition of the Tuesday Too Scared to Watch It Twice.  This week B-Sol and I take on films that are all about penetration–of the flesh, of the soul, and of the eyes.  I take on one of Herschell Gordon Lewis’s more notorious gorefests while B-Sol takes on one of the more rapey exploitation flicks.  What can we say?  Violence against women just isn’t that fun for us.

Me Me Me of This Here Site on The Gore Gore Girls (1972)

I love Herschell Gordon Lewis.  Never in my life have I encountered a director so uninterested in making a quality film.  What can I say?  I love the arrogance required to make his kind of films.  The man has got cajones.

I sat down to take in The Gore Gore Girls as my first HGL film.  That’s right.  I hadn’t seen Blood Feast or The Wizard of Gore or anything else before sitting down to what has rightly been called an “unwatchably offensive” film.

Reading the description of the film (strippers are being hunted and murdered one by one in a grisly fashion) confirmed for me a deep-down belief that this would either be the best film of all time or the worst.  I was getting excited to see this Gore Gore Girls movie.  Unfortunately, it is neither of those things.  Oh, it’s bad.  It’s terrible, in fact.  But it’s not the worst, and as such, it sort of falls into that netherworld of “Meh” that bums me out so much.

Why then, you must ask, am I writing about this for the Tuesday Too Scared to Watch It Twice?  It’s quite simple, really.  This movie is filled with a gleeful hatred and a series of images one can never be prepared to see.  From the first murder, we realize that the French have nothing on bodily mutilation.  Our first stripper’s face is all but obliterated with the most aggressive facial stabbing I have ever seen.  I’m pretty sure Lewis was just chopping up chicken parts.  Another stripper is… how shall I say this?  Tenderized?  And, you know, that’s all well and good, and if the murders from then on were of the average stab-bleed-dead variety, then I likely wouldn’t think anything of it.

But then comes the boob-abuse.  During a particularly brutal scene, our killer decides to cut off the nipples of a woman.  Out of one nipple spills white milk.  Out of the other spills chocolate milk.

I’ll just let that sink in for a moment.

The murders in this film are done with such wanton glee that it’s hard to notice the underlying tone of hatred.  But this film does hate women.  There is no way around it.  To make a joke of not just the sex industry but also the ways in which the female body can be mutilated and destroyed is a dangerous choice and one that Lewis failed in making.

Still, try as I might, I can’t quite dismiss it.  It’s quite a picture.  And as much as I am sure it’s never going to be put in my DVD player again (even though I own it), I am also sure I will always be talking about it.  And that’s worth something, right?  Right?

B-Sol of The Vault of Horror on House on the Edge of the Park (1980)

Make no mistake, this is not a movie for everyone. It took a full five years for it to be released in the U.S. Banned in Singapore, Finland, the U.K., Canada and Norway; denied ratings classification in Australia and also released unrated in America. One of Britain’s notorious “video nasties”. Chock full of rape, torture and sadism.

I cannot deny that this movie enthralled me. I found it distasteful at times, but nevertheless I was fascinated by it, and also cannot deny that it is a fine little piece of filmmaking, for what it is. But there can be no question that it was designed to titillate, and to do so using some very questionable means. More than most of the movies today that get labeled “torture porn”, this is a movie I would certainly classify as such.

The main problem I have with it is in the depiction of rape. This is the kind of story in which the rape victims actually start to “enjoy” themselves and give in willingly to their rapists. In other words, at times it feels like some guy’s warped sexual fantasy, and I found it pretty damn uncomfortable in parts. There’s a certain hypocrisy here–on the surface the film is condemning the callousness of these characters, but truth be told, you’re intended to get off on watching what they do.

It walks a dangerous moral line, that’s for sure. And yet, I’d rather have a horror flick like this which challenges me and makes me uncomfortable than most of the cookie-cutter, soul-numbing drek we get spoonfed these days.

While I’m not sure what it says about me, I admittedly eat stuff like this up. Maybe it’s because it disturbs me–maybe I find it somehow cathartic to deal with material like this in a relatively safe way. It’s the kind of movie that definitely provokes strong emotion.

Stepping back from it, I can certainly see how people would have problems with it. Much of the movie is simply one tense, gut-wrenching rape or near-rape after another. And when you watch a rape scene in which the supposed victim begins to “get into it”, there’s no denying it leaves a bad taste in your mouth. And yet, I somehow relish the power the movie has to provoke strong emotion, even if that emotion is disgust.

Six Degrees

•November 8, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Thursday Guilty Pleasure: Week Four

•November 4, 2010 • Leave a Comment

There’s only one week left of this totally embarrassing series that B-Sol and I have decided to bring to the masses.  Sit back as I tell you how much I simultaneously love and loathe Rob Zombie’s House of 1000 Corpses.  And I can’t even imagine how you would pass judgment on B-Sol for affection for TerrorVision.

To see more of our Guilty Pleasures, visit the series page.  Look forward to one more fantastic week coming up soon!

Me Me Me of This Here Site on House of 1000 Corpses (2003)

This week is the first time in the series that I have actually been ashamed of my film choice.  I mean, isn’t there some alliance among horror fans to universally hate Rob Zombie?  Weren’t we planning to tar and feather him next weekend?

But here I sit before you about to tell you that I have a weird and totally incomprehensible affection for his first film, House of 1000 Corpses.  Yes, I know it makes no sense.  Yes, I know it is the most derivative film ever made.  Yes, I know it is criminally awful.  And yes, I am very irritated by the fact that there are not 1000 corpses in the movie, but I just can’t help it. Whenever I sit down to watch it, damned if I don’t have one good ole time.

As I said, the movie makes no effing sense.  And I don’t mean that in that glorious Fulci way.  I mean, from start to finish, there is just no logic to the movie.  Besides, everyone knows that The Devil’s Rejects is the superior film—what with that “Tooty Fucking Fruity” scene and all.  But every time I put the DVD in, and I see Karen Black, I just get all schoolgirl giddy.  There is nothing that makes me happier on a rainy day than watching that woman’s eyes roll about in her head.  And inevitably, I am drawn to watch Burnt Offerings by the time it’s over.

While it might be an unpopular opinion, I have also grown to like Sheri Moon Zombie.  Whatever you might say about her, she commits to each project.  And she really knows how to irritate the shit out of you. And when she teams up with Karen Black, the two manage to take the exceedingly dreadful material and make it surprisingly funny.  There is nothing like watching a duo of dynamic women take an atrociously bad script and turn into something worth watching.

Say what you will about the plot, but visually, the film is impressive.  It’s the pastiche-ness of the whole affair that makes it unbearable, and while I can understand that most viewers would not be able to look past that, I have spent my life wading through all the feces the horror genre has to offer, and this one just barely manages to save itself from the scrap heap by going almost Argento in its color scheme.

Zombie has… oh, I am loathe to use this word… crafted a film that combines its senselessness with its gorgeous colors and becomes somehow magical.  It’s one of those experiences that only fits on a turn-your-brain-off Saturday.  We all know we have that desire to watch a film that is for nothing more than downing popcorn and dozing off before the end credits.  For me, House of 1000 Corpses fits the bill perfectly.

B-Sol of The Vault of Horror on TerrorVision (1986)

OK, If you really want to talk schlock–I mean, outright, absolute unapologetic crap that you can’t help but love–then you can do no better than that mid 1980s gem which haunted the HBO airwaves during my youth. That’s right, it’s TerrorVision.

I cannot possibly describe how bizarre my love affair with this film is. The amount of affection I have for it is pretty much inversely proportional to how much it deserves that affection. Simply put, this is a really bad movie. And I’ve adored it for a quarter of a century.

Think E.T., only as a horrendous, campy horror comedy in which E.T. eats people. The special effects are at about the level of Hardware Wars, the comedic level of the acting is broader than the side of a barn, and then there’s that theme song that bores its way into your brain stem and doesn’t let go. “Terr-or-Vision!!”

I distinctly remember enjoying this movie so much, I would watch it each time HBO would air it, if I happened to be home. And once its cable TV run ended, I moved on to the neighborhood video store, so I could rent and enjoy it some more. And of course, back then, as with most horror comedies, I completely missed all the humor and irony, and found myself terrified of this ridiculous-looking creature swallowing people left and right.

The concept of a carnivorous alien pest transported to Earth via satellite TV is really one that needed exploration, so thank God that TerrorVision came along to fulfill that role. The level of absurdity is utterly infectious, and I make no excuses for loving this film the way I do. It’s pure garbage. I’ll take a nice, steaming, stinky helping, please. Thank you.

Thursday Guilty Pleasure: Week Three

•October 21, 2010 • 1 Comment

And here we are again.  B-Sol and I are bringing you week three of our most shameful favorite flicks.  Read about them here, and then be sure to pop on over to The Vault of Horror.

Me Me Me of This Here Site on The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003)

This one is sure to get me kicked out of the Cool Kids Club, for I love the remake of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.  I know it’s like a rule for all of us to have a hate on for Platinum Dunes, and I do.  I swear I do.  When they made that Amityville Horror remake, I held up my middle finger.  When they remade Friday the 13th, I held up my other middle finger.  And when they trotted out A Nightmare on Elm Street, I turned around, pulled my pants down, and mooned a metaphorical Michael Bay.

But I can’t help it.  I love a movie that begins with a traumatized victim whipping a gun out of her vagina.  Could she walk so well with a gun in her spam purse?  Probably not!  But who cares?  Wouldn’t gravity sort of make it fall out from between her meat curtains since she was clearly wearing no underwear?  Most likely!  But what difference does this really make?  I’ll tell you.  It makes no difference… none at all.  The moment is sheer absurdity, and that is what makes it so awesome.

You see, the original is clearly like the best horror movie in the history of history.  (Yes, I know that’s debatable, but just give me some leeway, will you?)  And it was so frightening because it was so simple.  The idea that something so macabre, something so grisly, could exist behind the front door of a simple farmhouse is a terrifying one (and one that kept me up nights as I grew up in a house just like it).  And this remake all but obliterates that notion.

Our baddies live in some dilapidated manor—a home anyone would be stupid to enter.  But stupid is exactly what they are.  And if you’re looking for a film wherein people you kind of can’t stand (especially Morgan who must be an intentionally irritating character who does almost as a good as job of pissing you off as Franklin) get picked off, this is the movie for you.  Gone are the days when you want to see people live.  Gone are the days when you don’t know what’s going to happen.  This movie is an exercise in predictability.

I realize that makes it sound just awful, and you know, it really is.  But there’s something oh-so-comforting in that predictability that just draws me in.  This movie is like a sweater you keep in the bottom drawer of your dresser and only trot out when you’re feeling lonely.  It’s just a comforting piece of shit, my friends.  And sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.

B-Sol of The Vault of Horror on Maniac (1934)

I’m fully convinced that Ed Wood must have traveled 20 years into the past, changed his name to Dwain Esper, and brought this film into being. There’s really no other way to explain how a motion picture that so smacks of the King of Bad Cinema could have emerged during the golden age of classic horror.

The tale of a mad scientist and his vaudevillian comedian accomplice on a mission to reanimate corpses, it’s really just about as bad as you’d think it would be. OK, well, it’s actually a whole lot worse. The actors seem to have been people just pulled in off the street and told to make random gestures and exclamations, the production value is on a par with the local high school’s presentation of Brigadoon, and best of all, the whole thing is punctuated by an unbearably overwrought narration about the dangers of the criminal mind or some such nonsense.

And yet, despite all this–or perhaps because of it–I couldn’t take my eyes off this flick when I first watched it as part of one of those 80,000-horror-movies-for-50-cents collections which I picked up a while back at my nearest soulless big box outlet. What’s interesting to me, is that when you think of bad movies of this caliber, you’re usually not going back any further than the 1950s. If you want to be extra thorough, you can find some real clunkers from Monogram and their ilk from the ’40s. But the ’30s? For some reason, most people only think of the likes of Frankenstein, The Invisible Man, Dracula, etc. when discussing that era. Well folks, allow me to present you with a glaring exception to the rule.

Maniac is a kind of torture, but a sublime kind. It’s the same kind of experience one gets watching Bride of the Monster or Plan 9 from Outer Space only, for whatever reason, far less infamous. Watch it for one of the most overacted death scenes in history. Watch it because its original pre-Hays Code title was Sex Maniac. Watch it because it features an actress named Phyllis Diller, who isn’t the one we all know. For all these reasons and more, watch Maniac.

And when you do, you’ll discover the wonderful, unifying truth that I did: Really bad movies have been around as long as there have been movies.

Tuesday Too Scared to Watch It Twice! Week Two

•October 19, 2010 • Leave a Comment

B-Sol and I are back with week two of the Tuesday Too Scared to Watch It Twice. Get ready to shake in your footy pajamas because these are the flicks we can’ t bare to glimpse even one more time. To get your fill of our weekly terrors, visit the series page. Now hold on tight for here we go with two more terrors.

Me Me Me of This Here Site on I Spit on Your Grave (a.k.a. Day of the Woman) (1978)

It took me about twenty-eight years to have the courage to watch this movie. No, really, I thought about it for years before I finally queued it up and had the courage to sit down and watch it. For the first ten or fifteen minutes, I was really okay. I thought, “ Gee. This isn’ t so bad. I’ m sure it can’ t get much worse.”

And then there’ s that rape scene. Twenty-six minutes of sexual violence and four
moments of penetration is more than I can handle and keep my sanity intact. It should be more than anyone can handle. While viewing Jenny Hill’ s abuse, I had the though that I must be implicated in the proceedings because I sat there complacently and watched. It’ s a very Kitty Genovese situation, no? Of course, this idea of implicating the viewer is nothing new, and in fact, it’ s been used to much greater effect by directors from Wes Craven (The Last House on the Left) to Michael Haneke (Funny Games). But the complicity in I Spit on Your Grave is different than the other films that employ this technique. I Spit on Your Grave covers your very skin in its filth. Never before have I felt so compelled to shower after seeing a film.

Ultimately, what makes the difference in Meir Zarchi’ s film is that it is filled with hate
and misogyny. No matter how hard people try to defend it, you just can’ t get away from the fact that it murders its own believability in the service of its own misogynistic impulses. This becomes clear in the two scenes in which Jenny seduces her abusers.  There is no excuse for such blatant woman-hating, and I find myself sickened just thinking about the scene in which Jenny climbs into a bathtub with Johnny and gives him a handjob—even though that handjob is followed by a castration.

Many people hold this film up as a perfect example of Grindhouse exploitation cinema, and they wouldn’ t be wrong to do so. However, that descriptor (I think we can all agree here) certainly doesn’ t mean the film is good or that it’ s worth a moment of your time.  And while I fully admit to seeing rape revenge films due to a sadistic revenge fantasy I myself harbor, the justice in this film is not worth the abuses you’ ll endure to witness it.

When Jenny stumbles through the woods thinking she’ s escaped her rapists, she finds herself once again in their clutches. This happens again and again, and as an audience member, you’ ll feel what Jenny feels. You’ ll beg for the scene to end. You’ ll beg to be set free. And when you are, it’ ll be much too late. This film will have gained power over you, and it’ s something from which you might never recover.

B-Sol of The Vault of Horror on Inside (2007)

I actually reviewed this bit of French depravity right here in the Vault, not long after it first came out. And if memory served, I described it as a film which “challenges the definition of entertainment.” And now, a couple of years later, I stand by that assertion. Yes, Inside is an excellent movie, and yes it deserve recognition as one of the must-see horror flicks of the past decade. Nevertheless, after that first must-see experience, I can honestly say I have no plans of ever putting it in my DVD player again.

Maybe it hits a little too close to home. Maybe being a parent is what makes it difficult to get through. Perhaps it’s the brutal realism of all the gore, and how far removed it is from the cartoonishness that usually makes extreme violence in film more palatable. Simply put, Inside packs one hell of a punch and doesn’t let up. It’s far from what anyone would describe as a fun bit of recreation.

Alexandre Bustillo and Julien Maury are no doubt to be commending for crafting a superior thriller. In fact, they’ve done their job so well that I still get chills thinking about the things I saw as their movie washed over me in the dark that night. It took me to places I didn’t want to go, and held me there far longer than I was comfortable staying. Yes, this is in some ways the mark of great art, and I’d be hard pressed to say that Inside isn’t great art. It probably is. I just can’t stomach that much unpleasantness. Call me what you want. I’ve heard worse.

Ironically, despite my trepidations, I will say that it’s a film that should be seen, even if it’s only that one time. It’s raw, powerful, and never anything less than completely gripping. Just prepare to be disturbed. The subject matter is certainly beyond the pale for anyone who is merely a casual genre viewer. And I’m sure there are plenty of hardcore fanatics more than equipped to sit through repeated viewings of a film about a stalker trying to rip an unborn fetus from a woman’s belly. I’m just not one of them.

Thursday Guilty Pleasure: Week Two

•October 14, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Welcome back for week two of the Thursday Guilty Pleasure. Sit tight while B-Sol
of The Vault of Horror and I regale you with tales of our deepest, darkest, and most
shameful secrets—namely, our love for the worst horror cinema has to offer.

To read previous entries, please see the series page. And now, go forth and judge!

Me Me Me of This Here Site on Mother of Tears (2007)

There is something special about Italian horror, no? All of us genre fans have a little
place in our heart for those crazy Italians—mostly Lucio Fulci and Dario Argento. They make what we like to call “style over substance” movies. Hell, I’ve never seen a Lucio Fulci movie make much sense. Argento, however, is somehow a master at this particular kind of filmmaking. His movies are generally among the most visually beautiful you’ll ever see (see Suspiria or Tenebre).

This is why I was so surprised to discover that he’d botched Mother of Tears so badly.
Holy hell, is that movie a mess or what? I mean, the acting is abysmal. The visuals are
absurd. The story makes no sense. It should be the greatest cinematic disappointment of the decade.

But for some reason, it just isn’t. Don’t get me wrong. This is one of the worst horror
movies I have ever seen. It’s an absolute disaster. But I’ve got such a girl boner for it
that I can hardly believe it. That’s right, folks. I love Mother of Tears.

What makes the movie such a treat is the absolute shamelessness with which Argento
made it. From the beginning, wherein a woman is strangled with her own intestines, the film is an experiment in absurdity. If I were to give you a highlight reel, it would look like the worst films of the eighties (a decade Argento seems to still be stuck in). A good example of this is the monkey (is it really a monkey? A baboon? Who knows?) that chases Sarah all over Italy. One could also cite the people chasing her on the train, what with their decidedly Duran Duran hairdos and makeup stylings.

But the real treat of Mother of Tears is the titular witch. Sporting a big, bouncy hairdo
and the glossiest red lips you’ve ever seen, she’s no more terrifying than your average
glance at your family photo albums. Upon first seeing her, I thought, “What? This is the worst of the three mothers? But she’s so eighties!”

All right, all right, truth be told, when I first saw Mother of Tears, I thought it was
awful. I thought it was the worst possible ending to a fantastic trilogy. But then I saw
it again. And, I don’t know, folks. You’ve got to admire Argento’s moxy. He made
one atrociously bad movie (and yes, a bad ending to the trilogy), but it’s sure got style,
doesn’t it?

B-Sol of The Vault of Horror on Godzilla’s Revenge (1968)

This happens to be, by everyone’s estimation, the ultimate lowpoint of the entire classic Showa series of Godzilla films from Toho. To that I say, pshaw. That’s right! Pshaw. Because Godzilla’s Revenge–as you would know if you listened to my recent Vaultcast with Miguel Rodriguez–brings me, and has always brought me, a disproportionate amount of pleasure.

By the late 1960s, Toho had completely given in to the fact that the main fans of the Godzilla series were little children. And so, instead of trying to make truly excellent films like Ishiro Honda’s original Gojira, they started cranking out blatant kiddie fare, created without any intention of being anything but fluff. But once you accept that this isn’t Gojira…well, Godzilla’s Revenge can be a whole lot of fun.

You’ve got the little boy Ichiro, who aroused more jealousy in me than any other cinematic boy aside from possibly Elliot in E.T. You see, Ichiro had a magical machine that could transport him to Monster Island to hang out Big G and the rest of the gang. OK, so he was only dreaming, but that didn’t make it any less awesome to me. I wanted to be that boy, and I wanted to chill with Anguirus, Gorosaurus and the rest of the kaiju crew.

Then, of course, there’s Minya. That’s right, I was the world’s biggest Minya fan. Godzilla’s little son (although paternity was never incontrovertibly established) completely captured my imagination, with his Don Knotts-like voice and classic smoke-ring blowing abilities. Yes, he may be the most maligned member of the Japanese movie monster fraternity, but I’m not too much of a snob to admit I loved the goofy-looking guy–and somewhere, in my grown-up heart, I still do. So take that, purists!

Godzilla’s Revenge is a whole lot fun–not to mention the perfect gateway Godzilla film for little kids. So let’s all get off the high horse, kick back and enjoy it’s silly goodness, shall we? After all, what better way to learn a lesson about how to deal with bullying than by watching Godzilla duke it out with something that looks like a cross between a giraffe and a cat?

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Please make sure you pop on over to The Vault of Horror to wish the site a happy third birthday!  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.  That site is THE SHIT.