It is incredible how on occasion ones body can conspire against itself. Please allow me.
Yesterday evening I decided to abstain, I got home, looked at some ladies bottoms, took a bath, did some writing which pleased me immensely and ate supper with nothing more than water. Then at about 9.20 a rogue moustache hair, stronger and more developed than the others, the sort of hair you’d find on a boars back, suddenly stabbed me through the top of my lip. I’ve broken bones, slipped a disc, passed a fucking kidney stone but somehow the irritating pain of this pathetic injury seemed to be proportionately worse as it was so fucking annoying. Yes, perhaps it was a lesson in vanity, my beard is quite magnificent, I’m now more awesome to both sexes; revered my men, desired by women in a way I could only dream of when I was facially bald, but sitting on my sofa with my eyes watering scratching insanely at my face in order to unplug a hirsute spear from my labium superior ruined everything and I even considered shaving the whole lot off in a fit of, well, pique.
It’s fine today though.
The winter has born forth horror films. On Monday evening Myfwt and I watched The Descent, an above average British horror with lots of birds in it fighting Morlock type creatures in a cave in the Appalachian Mountains. To be frank it would’ve been better without the monsters and played off as a girls stuck in a cave with a loony-in-the-dark element. The simple solution can’t be applied to 28 Weeks Later, which I watched last night following the hair attack. Whilst over played the first incarnation was a rather good stab at the zombie genre, this one falls down on its arse by pandering to the zombie-genre ‘get out’…The military. The reason this usually ends in disaster is simply because if Marshall Law was imposed on a community region etc., the film would be about as interesting as watching Noel Edmonds sleeping, so in order for the plot to run (as opposed to work) the most absurd injustices are taken with reality ballsing the whole christing lot up. I refuse to go into detail, really, it’s not worth it.
Another thing, and this can be directed at The Descent too, is the flurry of gore one is subject to in sudden bursts of lightening fast editing: growling/screaming blood, blood, matter, blood and then usually a close up of a dead eye. I’ve no idea what has just happened save the fact a thing just knacked a person. Think back to the wonderful horror movies of the 70’s, Tom Savini made an effort to show the audience what was happening, ‘look! That fellow has just had a giant chuck of flesh bitten orf his arm, good Lord!’ as opposed to ‘!!!!!! ?’
My final moan at British horror moves can be summarised in 2 words. Token Americans.
A cure for both theses British stabs at horror is the wonderful Zombie Diaries, it’s not perfect by any means but one of the best horror films I’ve seen in an age and worth double the two cited on today’s mutterings. The film was orginally recommeded by the chap that runs WWM (link top right) go there now and read my discourse on the Iceland advert whilst you’re about it.
This is a lovely touch, even if I do say so myself