Art of the Odd

I talked to my mom last week.

“I’ve got your birthday check in an envelope,” she said. “Spend it on something fun.”

I got a separate check from my dad. It didn’t come with instructions.

I took them to the bank this morning, and then I went to Best Buy. “Just on the off chance they have Excalibur.”

They didn’t. But they did have the James Bond Ultimate Collections. And they were on sale.

I couldn’t stop there, though. Ultimate they may be, but they’re missing the most recent movies, and they’re missing the original film version of Casino Royale.

And we just can’t have that, now can we, Mr. Bond?

(By the way, that rather shiny silvery surface my Bond Bonaza is resting on there is the glass top of our rockin’ new patio set, where I am, even now, drinking a glass of wine and writing this post.)

She wouldn't be torturing that animal if she knew which island this is...

I don’t watch a lot of TV. But when I got an email from Fancast this afternoon asking “Whose week is it to die?”, I had to find out. Which is how I ended up watching Harper’s Island.

My first impression wasn’t favorable, as anyone who follows me on Twitter knows.

Seriously, I know it’s difficult to introduce a score and more new characters, many of whom have complicated, interlocking backstories, but you can do better than this:
Abby Mills: Looks at fancy, engraved invitation in her lap, while one-eyed cabbie examines her in the rear view mirror.
Cabbie: Who’s getting married?
Abby: The groom is my best friend from growing up.
Cabbie: You look familiar.
Abby: I grew up on the island.
Cabbie: Right! You’re Sheriff Mills’ kid. What a shame. All those people? Terrible.

Or this:
Henry Dunn (that would be local poor boy Henry Dunn, groom-elect of the wealthy bride-to-be, and not to be confused with English actor Henry Dunn, whom I know from the SF Fringe): “I’m really glad you came, JD. Since our parents died, you’re my only family.”

But then the wedding party reached the eponymous island, and I noticed something.

I checked IMDB.

As I suspected:

Compare:

Here’s Abby, walking the old home road.

And here’s what’s left of poor Mr. Skinner’s Bug, after the giant rats were finished with him.

NovySan was amused.

Maybe so, but I had to point out that it’s a narrowly targeted skill.

So now I’m watching the show with an eye to spotting more locations from one of my favorite films. And yes, I’ve signed up for the contest – predict each week’s victims correctly, win $1,000. (My guess is the fat guy dies next. It’s either him or the black man, because I know how these things work.

But I’m really hoping that this blonde, whose role in the first episode is to fill us in on the serial killer who strung up Abby’s mom, gets eaten by a giant snail.

“My dear Dr. Foster, you talk like a lovesick shopgirl. We all rot away in the end. But not all of us for a purpose!”

Having recently discovered the joys of watching B movies while I work out, I’ve run through a fair number of them in the last few weeks. NovySan asked me last night if I was going to do something like Will and Annika’s 200 Westerns; I said I probably should, but I’m not at all sure I’m that organized. There’ve been a few highlights, though, that I’ll try to hit, at least briefly (Carnival of Souls, which might have been more interesting if A) I hadn’t already seen The Sixth Sense, and B) I hadn’t also read How to Survive a Horror Movie;The Lady from Shanghai, which didn’t need to be a B movie, but was; The Bad Seed, which isn’t really a B movie at all; the brilliantly creepy Spider Baby…)

But this post isn’t about any of those films. This post is about the Blood Island Trilogy, and I probably should have saved it until I’ve watched the third film, but they’re just too brilliant not to share.

Shot on shoestring budgets in the Phillipines, these are classic Man in a Rubber Suit Monster Movies with more blood and boobs than comparable Hollywood films could have slipped past the censors, even on a platter of entrails. There are man-eating plants (and a beautiful woman who screams and writhes under a puppet tentacle in a way that should have earned her an Oscar for screaming and writhing under a puppet tentacle); there’s the truly horrifying premise of Brides of Blood, that a native god called “The Evil One” is satisfying his lust on the women of the island, and tearing them to pieces in the process; there are atomic mutations that come and go, and somehow affect the island air; there’s a man poisoned by chlorophyll – the doctor’s instructions? “When he comes to, just give him some hot soup – and no green vegetables, of course.” There’s a young woman who “became a whore for love.” (Isn’t that something you wish you’d done yourself?) Oh, and there’s a very scary butterfly cut-out on a string, and a lot of orgiastic dancing. Because we all know how those exotic island women love to dance.

If you’d like a more coherent review, David Zuzelo’s done great write-ups on all three films here (with screenshots!), but if you’ve got an Internet connection and a few hours to kill… Just go wallow in Blood.