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Found this bit of awesomeness while digging through some boxes today. It's supposed to be F.W. Colqhoun's (Robert Carlyle) cannibalistic journal.

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aside from a go-to for some funny gags and nice counterprogramming to the widely loved mainstream teen comedies of the mid-'80s. As I assume Class was designed to be; a mix between the raunchy comedies Troma toiled away in before the success of The Toxic Avenger, a heavy dose of Toxie's disgusting aesthetic, and a good number of their 1984 breakthrough's cast. The best thing the constantly embattled indie studio usually does is hammer down lead couples that have a palpable chemistry on-screen and Class is no different. Janelle Brady and Gilbert Brenton emit exactly the right sense of a longstanding teen couple; even when gratuitously naked, drooling slime, or indulging in any combination of the usual Troma zaniness.
Troma's second Blu-ray release ever, the first being Poultrygeist, arrives with another 1080p lowish bitrate MPEG-4 AVC transfer on a single layer disc. I'm not going to blow smoke up your ass or tear it apart like "professional" Blu-ray review sites inevitably will, but Class looks decent enough for its basement budget with no restoration effort. There's print flecks, dirt, and reel change burns, but colors fare well with a layer of grain that pops up from time-to-time in the sharper shots.

The two simply don't mix. This especially holds true for the country of Japan and scissored up media on home video. Hell, as long as genitalia is optically censored, it's fine to have a chick spraying hapless naked obese men and shaved farm animals with an arrant stream of milk and fertilizer cut forth from her...well, this a "hard R" blog after all. Anyway, veterans of the whole Interneting thing know this from merely existing in the perils of cyberspace, but in applying this to horror fans, those who experienced the import VHS wars before the days of DVD also know of Japan's uncensored trustworthiness. Japan, The Netherlands, and Greece were the reigning champions of usually widescreen, uncut copies of virtually every horror film floating around in existence. It's were diehards and bootleggers alike looked for reference length presentations.
Wes Craven, ermm, what happened? 1991's The People Under the Stairs typifies everything that was wrong yet in an odd way right about early '90s horror. It's such a jumbled hodgepodge of over-the-top antics and half baked social commentary that it seems "off" director Craven also wrote the screenplay. Wait a minute, he wrote The Hills Have Eyes Part II, right? Craven tiptoes about the notion of racial redistricting; the racist practice of concentrating minority populations in geographical areas for the benefit of continued support of those district's elected officials while they in turn keep those they represent under their thumb.
And that's perfectly okay, one of my personal casual "throw-ins" happens to be this very film. It's just that the telegraphed guffaws of the bumbling maniacs, "likable" kid lead, and general sense of "safeness" really hamper the potential impact of its weighty ideas. Despite the word "nigger" tossed around a few times, the overly mad couple actually nearly come off as likable as the one-liner laden boy trapped in their fortress-like home. If Craven insisted on "going there", why didn't he make them real pigheaded scumbags, like Fred Phelps on steroids on PCP-laced crank. Instead of stealing what appear to be white children, why not make African American babies transform from years of brutal neglect into oatmeal-faced maneater savages? That would have made the community "Mommy" and "Daddy" control so much more pissed off at their oppressors once the truth is revealed. Hell, you wouldn't have needed dynamite to blow up that house once that cat tore out of its bag. There's a slew of minor tweaks that could have been made to make The People Under the Stairs substantially more powerful than just goofy fun dancing around serious topics. At least we have the following year's Candyman for compelling racial subtext.
However there is one scene in People Under the Stairs that genuinely approaches something of greater interest. The boy, "Fool", is captured and forced to watch his sister's boyfriend (Ving Rhames) gorily gutted like a deer by the Man with bloody chunks being thrown to feed the people under the stairs. Of course, the streetwise boy merely cringes like he's smelling some bad bologna at the most horrific sight ever in his young life, but what makes the scene so disturbing is the smear of blood on the Man's lips. It's just a small touch that's incredibly subversive, yet sadly mostly missing in the rest of Craven's biding of time before the acclaim of Scream. I also liked the tiny bit right afterward with the (100 pounds soaking wet) feral Roach propping up the (250 pound) mutilated carcass out of the dead pit to divert the attention of the mutants away from the boy. For a second you're truly like "WTF?!" as the ripped up corpse rises from the dead before The People Under the Stairs falls back into its MPAA safety net.
deemed great werewolf horror merely because of the dearth of any "real" examples of the subgenre for so long. There is some truth to this with the only lycanthrope romps of note in the few years prior to this 2002 feature being the fantastic Ginger Snaps and perhaps '96's Bad Moon. I would mention An American Werewolf in Paris and the last few Howling sequels, but they fucking sucked. Yet Dog Soldiers is indeed a solid werewolf flick; the underused/misused mythical creatures are married with a great tough guy siege mentality which elevates the proceedings past what otherwise would have probably been an average programmer.
and quite humbling. The experience is also intimidating as a "horror aficionado" with most genre product prior to Romero's ushering in of the modern age with Night of the Living Dead being far out of my forte. It's simply easier to write fluffy sentences about crap slashers and messy Karo syrup explosions than to even trend onto the hollowed grounds of such a foundational criterion like Bride of Frankenstein. Not to mention both of Whale's classics being event films with gala premieres, something that truly hasn't occurred in the genre for decades, and it feels wrong watching them on such a relatively tiny screen. Despite being afraid of insulting the genre even by attempting to write about James Whale's classic, I'll trek onward, as I viewed both Frankenstein (1931) and its 1935 sequel last night.
It's interesting that Whale appears to have wanted this sequel to be a "memorable hoot" believing it couldn't be superior to his original. What makes that even more curious is that the levity in Bride is mostly relegated to the first half with the boisterous Minnie shouting about everything and the technically great special effect of Doctor Pretorius's "little people"; while the cantankerous Baron Frankenstein is more evenly spread throughout Frankenstein. Once Bride hits stride with the Monster's incarceration and escape, Whale seemingly forgets about the comedy and really crafts the tired adage of "one of the greatest horror films of all time" that only gets better by the minute.
This is where Ernest Thesiger's deliciously sinister Doctor Pretorius comes in as the catalyst (along with some nefarious kidnapping) for Frankenstein to agree to the creation of a mate for his Monster. Pretorius is essentially an older, wry version of Frankenstein without the shred of conscious anchoring the younger doctor. Pretorius also snaps into a more traditional rendition of the genre's "mad doctor" character type and Thesiger seems to relish every wrinkled sneer and roll of the tongue. Clive's Frankenstein still has the look and sound, but Thesiger's grandiose delivery does loom large in every sequence graced with his appearance. There's also an inspired sequence that breaks the film's segmented feel when Pretorius quietly signals the Monster to kidnap Frankenstein's squeeze as he closes a door after presenting the hulking thing that should not be to his creator.
Boris Karloff's protests over the Monster speaking for this sequel were thankfully overruled. That sounds harsh considering the actor/make-up master's immense contributions to the genre, but the sparse lines work to give viewers even more empathy with his character and the scenes with the blind villager might be his best acting work. Karloff's make-up is revised from his threadbare appearance in the original with a progressively decayed, tattered, and dejected look matching the Monster's entirely unwanted presence in the world he inhabits. The Monster's final ominous lines are also instantly memorable and rank among the most powerful in the horror genre. I'd also be remiss if I didn't mention Dwight Frye's greasy fumblings as Frankenstein's minion of dastardly deeds.
I know what you're thinking. Does he really mean Meatballs? Yes and I'm not referring to an extremely obscure gore flick where some maniac replaces his male victim's testicles with everyone's favorite meaty pasta accoutrement. Ivan Reitman's 1979 summer camp comedy, Meatballs, has been a favorite of mine outside the realm of cinematic head cleavings for longer than I can remember. It's curiously innocuous when compared to other teen comedies of the early '80s period, especially its raunchy mirror Summer Camp, and predates much of the horror genre's camp hackers like Friday the 13th, The Burning, and Madman. I mean, there isn't really even a hint of adult innuendo to be inferred anywhere in Reitman's breakout film behind the camera after producing John Landis's Animal House. That's extremely commendable and something seemingly lost in today's marketplace of continually winking at narcoleptic parents dragged to whatever Dreamworks-produced CG animal garbage their kids begged to see.
If it's tough to call Pericles Lewnes's Redneck Zombies a "zombie classic", then it should hopefully be easier to call it one of the best shot-on-video horror flicks ever made. In one of the interviews on the new Tromasterpiece DVD, Lewnes makes the point that his 1987 SoV wonder plays best to smart horror fans that understand the backbreaking rigors of such filmmaking. Not to say some horror fans are stupid, but I couldn't agree more that it's very important taking Lewnes's assertion into consideration while watching. Sure, it's a super-amateurish cheeseball, but Redneck Zombies has an undeniable soul and much like Peter Jackson's Bad Taste, Lewnes mines tremendous mileage from its dumb premise. In a way, the zeal of those involved and "fullness" Lewnes pulls from the simple story through comedy is the best testament to the film's enduring popularity. It's deceptively challenging to look past Redneck Zombies's goofy, splattery facade, but so worth it, as it speaks for itself and hits much more than misses. Most of the time, SoVs either have better cover art than their actual content or were solely made to sell the cover art to unwitting renters, but Lewnes's undead hillbilly opus delivers exactly what it promises. They're Tobacco Chewin', Gut Chompin', Cannibal Kinfolk from Hell!