"Martyrs" (2015) d/ The Goetz Brothers

Remember how much you were affected the first time you watched Martyrs, the highly evocative, blood splashed 2008 French/Canadian cult classic from Pascal Laugier? Whatever feelings you might have encountered screening that particular piece of French New Extreme Cinema will be nowhere to be found should you choose to check out the 2015 American remake, as piloted by the Goetz Bro's, the guys responsible for 2013's Scenic Route, and starring Troian Bellisario and Bailey Noble. Of course, if you were anything like me, you wouldn't go into something like this expecting a return of much of anything, and I didn't, and what I expected, in the end, is what I got. In this, only the audience gets tortured...


"That cloud looks like Roman Polanski..."
In this loose re-imagining, a ten year old Lucie (Troian Bellisario) escapes from the warehouse that has been her prison and ends up in an orphanage, a introverted shy mess, until she's befriended by fellow orphan Anna (Bailey Noble), who realizes that her deep-seated psychosis should be treated with freshly stolen chocolate chip cookies and cloud gazing at the playground. Ten years later, we see that Anna's homeopathic madness remedy has failed, as she abruptly interrupts a family's breakfast with a vengeful shotgun full of shells. She calls Anna to the crime scene, relieved that the buckshot-stuffed cadavers before them are the ones responsible for her childhood imprisonment and torture, but Anna isn't so sure. In fact she tries to help the dying mother escape in between Lucie's bouts of self-abuse, where she believes she's being punished by a feminine creature that represents a young girl that she couldn't rescue at the time of her escape, but Lucie manages to finish her off, before trying to finish herself off, aware that her best friend knows she's fucking mad as lorries,  free-falling from the top of a staircase.


I now qualify as a martyr for sitting all the way through this one.
You might recall that Lucie slits her own throat, being faced with psychoses that refuse to disappear, despite having violently rid herself of her real-life boogymen in the original movie, well, that sort of downer has no place in the remake. She survives her suicidal tumble long enough to be set upon by the very similarly sadistic associates of the original family she's just fed lead-wiches to, and they reward Anna for returning their merchandise by burying her alive in the corpse-filled pit outside the house. While they get reacquainted with doing rotten off-camera things to Lucie, Anna digs herself out and dramatically bursts in to save her, with pistol in hand, only to find that they've put her on death's doorstep, and they've gathered around her with hopes of hearing transcendental secrets of the universe before she shuffles off her mortal coil. I'd share the finale with you, seeing how spoiling it has already been handled by the filmmakers themselves, but I'm left feeling angry with myself, having written too much about this thing already...


"The preserves are all over the floor and the guests'll be here in less than an hour...."
The screenwriter has stated he wanted to move away from all the signature on-screen violence in the original, and the results are surprisingly tame, by anybody's standards, and I'm not just addressing ultra-gore hounds here; even a mainstream crowd would be hard pressed to flinch at anything in the remake.With no bloody edge, and a useless rewrite of major plot points in the final reel leaves viewers feeling like they've just spent an unjustified hour and a half watching yet another pointless remake. Because that's what it is, and what it would have been, even if the filmmakers paid due respect to the nihilistic 2008 film, which really didn't need a remake in the first place, especially not one with positive Hollywood twists. See the Laugier film, avoid this one altogether. One Wop.


"There's so much happiness behind my tears, I pray you beat me for ten thousand yeaaaaaars(name that song lyric)!"

"Godzilla" (2014) d/ Gareth Edwards

Remember Hollywood's last attempt at tapping Toho's rich Gojira-vein back in '98? You know, the one with Ferris Bueller and the computer-generated iguana that sent the schiziest hardcore traditional Goji fans into a frothing rage? Naturally, the backlash of angry fans still shitting on that particular take would offset Tinseltown's desperation for revenue and warrant no further attempts in the future, one would think,  right? Riiiight. Here's the latest big budgeted cash grab from Legendary Pictures and Warner Brothers, a repetitive, lobotomized re-imagining of Tokyo's greatest menace that easy-to-please mainstream audiences will (continue to) devour barehandedly at the box office, while leaving those hardcore G fans I mentioned earlier, feeling pretty ripped off in the end.


"Spock, are you out of your Vulcan mind? No human can tolerate the radiation loose in there!"
For what seems like two hours or so, we're treated to recycled human drama concerning a physicist named Brody (Bryan Cranston), who watches helplessly as his wife dies like Spock in The Wrath of Khan, and obsesses for fifteen years over the true cause of the nuclear tragedy only to get squashed in the aftermath of an improbable-looking winged M.U.T.O., or Massive Unknown Terrestrial Organism, even though it's more of a M.U.F(lying).O., when you really think about it. The thing hatches out of an enormous chrysalis that's discovered when a mine in the Philippines collapses to reveal the fossilized skeleton of something massive. Meanwhile, there's the hint of impressive back spikes breaking the surf, and a few bird's eye views of the destruction wake left by colossal animate objects (okay, there's a lot more than a few), but no Godzilla, though.


"Don't skydive directly into a giant kaiju battle, whatever you do, son.", warns Joe Brody (Bryan Cranston).
After ten or fifteen lengthy snooze-worthy chunks (I must've caught myself dozing off about that many times along the way) of exposition involving Joe's son Ford (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), a Naval Officer whose family is separated from him amid all the creature-based chaos, and the back story of Gojira, an ancient god among prehistoric predators, etc. , etc., Big G finally makes the scene, and sixty years of dormancy haven't been kind to everyone's favorite atomic breathed lizard, as his latest incarnation is grossly overweight with stumpy legs and arms and a boxy head with no great abundance of teeth. It's no surprise then, that Tokubetsu-Goji (my own prefix, I confess)  gets manhandled at great lengths by two M.U.T.O.s, the larger female noticeably pregnant with eggs, before finally tail-swatting the pesky winged male against a skyscraper and decapitating the female with an atomic blast down her throat. In the end, Godzilla, thought to be dead, revives suddenly and makes for the ocean, with the people of the world declaring him a savior, despite the massive destruction and death he's been responsible for, of course, and young Ford is reunited with his family. Grab your popcorn, we're outta here.


"Me? Godzilla? Naaaaaah, I'm just a harmless islet over here."
On the positive side, the cast handles the material pretty well, and the cg kaiju scrap in the final reel, but it takes forever for the viewer to get there, after miles worth of unnecessary jibber-jabber and a painfully slow reveal of a creature that the audience already has a pretty good idea of (thirty plus movies worth, by my count), unless they've been living down an abandoned mine shaft for the last sixty years. Aesthetically, I hated all of the kaiju designs, with most contempt saved for Godzilla, himself. He hasn't looked this goofy since he was seen with Minya riding on his tail back in 1967, in my opinion. I'm done talking about it, for now. A half-step up from Bueller-zilla. One Wop.


"Tokubetsu-Goji want potato!"

"Black X-Mas" (2006) d/ Glen Morgan

If Bob Clark's 1974 cult classic were tantamount to the year that perfect Christmas present found it's way under a well-decorated tree (I dunno, 'matching buxom brunette boudoir bookends' comes to mind directly, for some unknown reason), then the 2004 remake would represent the year your old man fell off a ladder while hanging lights on the rain gutter and ate neck-snapped death a week before Christmas. Some of you already disagree with me, but I don't see how you can replace the real suspense and terror of the original with a handicapped backstory, replacing the engaging '74 subplots with more hot broads that already know what they have coming to them before they start dropping like flies, yet stick round any ol' way just to get whacked, and not see a total failure. This one doesn't just throw the kitchen sink at you in vainly trying to camouflage it's holes, the bathroom sink, the guest bedroom sink, the basement sink, and even the garden hose are all projectiles with your face written on them here. A body mechanic would have better chance of filling in the bullet holes in Bonnie and Clyde's deathmobile with a baby spoon full o' Bondo. Sure, it's a somewhat entertaining, splattery, incoherent mess, but I expected a little more out of something titled "Black X-Mas", and less is what I got, instead.


Remember the incestuous, jaundiced cannibal from the first movie? Me neither.
This time around, Billy has a surname (Lentz), a liver condition (jaundice), and a drunken, abusive mom so disgusted by the yellowy sight of him that she locks him in the attic until, years later, sexually unsatisfied by his blank-bustin' poppa, she naturally climbs up and socks it to him as only a hateful mother could, resulting in a sister-daughter named Agnes, who he jealously blinds in one eye when he escapes one legendary Christmas to snuff his mother's candle ...while she's in the cellar... trying to bury his father's corpse. Have you swallowed all of that so far? Yeah, then you'll eat anything. Meanwhile, the authorities find him eating his mother's baked back flesh after shaping it with a cookie cutter and abruptly throw him in the 'Clark' Sanitarium. Oh, you two-guys-that-shoulda-stuck-to-X-Files-and-Millenium-on-television, you're clever, really you are. Speaking of television, several familiar small screen faces turn up as sorority sisters at Lentz's former home, now the Delta Alpha Kappa house, as overseen by Mrs. Mack (Andrea Martin, from the original movie). Lacey Chabert, Michelle Trachtenberg, Katie Cassidy, among others, all joke openly about the house's terrible past, even leaving Billy a yearly gift under the tree, so it should come as no surprise to any of them when they start getting bag-smothered and crystal unicorn-shanked one by one, but it somehow does, anyway, doesn't it.


Cheap over-the-top gore for dinner again?
While the sisters are getting eyeballed and asphyxiated , we see Billy cleverly orchestrate a dramatic and bloody escape from the sanitarium (especially clever, since the guard even remarks that the disturbed man attempts a break out every year at the same time just moments before he's added to the body count himself), meaning that his cyclopean sibling-offspring has been the one chopping the heads off of wallflowers back at the sorority house, leaving the obligatory one or two most resilient gals to square off against both murderers in a fiery false finale that naturally claims neither Lentz psycho, so they're able to be more dramatically wiped out at the hospital, with a defibrillator and Christmas tree impalement, respectively. Big deal...


I liked Margot's head gag considerably more than this gag head.
If you tried replicating the ceilings of the Sistine Chapel with a crayon on the back of a toilet lid using only your feet, you'd probably come closer than Wong and Morgan came to succeeding on any level here. It's too bad,  as I liked both of  their big tv shows just fine. Goofy self-aware nods to several, more effectively executed slasher flicks, shlocky gore, and terrible writing bereft of anything remotely resembling tension or a scare might be worth a good laugh with your buddies, but if you're on board to re-experience any of the original's potency, you're fucked outta luck, Chuck. Don't let Bob Clark's producer credit fool you here, either, as he had no problem attaching his name to crap towards the end of his career. See: Super Babies:Baby Geniuses 2 (2004). One wop, but just for laugh's sake.


Smother me with the bag when you're finished, would ya?

"Humanoids from the Deep" (1996) d/ Jeff Yonis

In 1996, schlock god Roger Corman remade a few of his earlier B-movie classics for Showtime cable network under the "Roger Corman Presents:" banner, tonight's review being one of them; an update of sorts on the 1980 cult classic starring Doug McClure and Vic Morrow. After having read an online review of this one that boasts it's "more consistent, realistic, and mature" than it's predecessor, it's kinda startling to see so many blind waterheads with internet access these days. Maybe even more so to see people who've dropped their collective entertainment bar so low that a fucking stinkbug couldn't limbo underneath it, even if he was sucking his gut in.


He looks as bored, dead, as I was, watching him die.

At the outset, we see some military types shooting up and flamethrowing an oversized container only to notice that whatever was housed inside has made a beeline for the convenient manhole escape route located a few feet behind it (that the soldiers apparently never scouted out). One of the soldiers sticks his head down the manhole. Au revoir, la tête! Then it's business as usual, with government cover ups and environmentalists protesting the local hatchery, where unscrupulous white guys, led by Bill Taylor (Mark Rolston, from 'Aliens'), count money and wantonly dump a synthetic growth hormone  named Synestin (as kept in empty-looking fifty-five gallon drums, naturally)  into the surf even after they've been videotaped in the act by the young activists, one of which happens to be dating  the daughter (Danielle Weeks) of a local fisherman named Wade (Robert 'Revenge of the Nerds' Carradine, looking appropriately grizzled here) and Ron Howard's weird-looking brother Clint is also aboard as some sort of  mostly useless law enforcement officer.

"Hold 'im in, Ellie Mae, you don't wanna lose yer Jazzy privileges at thet thur K-Marts, now..."
Emma Samms shows up as a genetic scientist posing as a news reporter and straightfacedly reveals the government's evil plot to transform five death row inmates into amphibious super soldiers, except, they fucked up and created these humanoids from the deep, instead. The horny fishmen abduct some local females and goop them together into a big latex pile in a cave on the shore, then familiarly attack the town's waterfront fair in a sequence directly snatched from the original movie. A chick gives birth to a fish-baby on a pool table at the dive bar, and later, Samms hatches her own tadpole at a midday traffic light. Typing finger suddenly compelled to hit the Z key, repeatedly.


Sometimes you get to play Fallon Carrington-Colby in Dynasty, sometimes you share a latex cocoon with a variety of half-nude twenty-something bimbos.
If you're going into this one with fleeting hopes of revisiting the exploitative levels of nudity, gore, hokey ignorance, and horny fishman sex that the original delivered, you're not gonna experience a single one of those things here. Even the creature effects (when the crew could be bothered to shoot new footage, lazily relying several times on whole sections of footage cut directly from the 1980 effort) look worse, as you can see for yourselves, below. On the scale, the Humanoids remake baits a familiar hook, struggles for eighty-six minutes, and pulls an old boot out of the foam for it's troubles. Goose eggs.


It's work like this that reminds me how much I liked Rob Bottin.

"The Last House on the Left"(2009)d/Dennis Iliadis

I could seriously spend the next four paragraphs describing in vivid detail how thoroughly tonight's review sucks.In fact, the last time I experienced sucking of this magnitude, I felt compelled to buy her fucking roses afterwards(Don't get excited, I didn't). The latest casualty of Hollywood's recent shameful cheap buck remake pitch is none other than Wes Craven's 1972 cult classic, Last House on the Left, another movie that probably should have been left well enough alone, despite being a low budget remake of Bergman itself.At the very least, if you're gonna tackle a remake of this magnitude, try to pay homage to the original by doing it some justice with respect to its fanbase, instead of leaving it in the ineffectual mitts of those eventually responsible for such an ephemeral mess as this.Though I wasn't a big fan of the tweaks in the new script, apart from the complete ommission of the bumbling cops storyline(and the less I have to see close-ups of cackling toothless chicken-tending hags, the better), the fault clearly lies in the casting.Looking at the updated Krug and company, as portrayed by Garret Dillahunt, Aaron Paul, Riki Lindhome, and Spencer Treat Clark, respectively, leaves me thinking the worst crime any of these cats would ever commit would be pirating internet connection off of an upstairs neighbor.The original cast had a vérité scumbag vibe that permeated every frame they occupied, that frankly, still makes me a little itchy whenever I watch it today.What Iliadis has created here is less edgy than a jam spreader, little more than a glorified episode of Dawson's Creek with a few uninspired gore set pieces.Don't even get me started about the friggin' microwave...

"Help! I'm being shanked up by soap opera actors!"
After a daring escape from police custody orchestrated by his lanky squeeze, Sadie(Riki Lindhome) leaves two transporting officers dead, Krug(Garret Dillahunt), Francis(Aaron Paul), and company hole up in a nearby hotel room where Krug's son, Justin(Spencer Treat Clark) has been entertaining two teenaged girls, Mari(Sara Paxton) and Paige(Martha MacIsaac), with his boyish charms and his seedless stinky buds.With Krug's grill all over the local paper, they decide to take the girls hostage, jacking their vehicle to flee the state.As cruisers speed past them and Krug searching for the road to the highway, Mari directs him down the road to her parents' summer home on the lake, instead.She puts the vehicle's cigarette lighter out in Sadie's face in an attempt to distract her kidnappers long enough to jump out, which culminates in the front end wrapped around a tree and a hearty beating from Krug and his furious, disfigured arm decoration.Krug tries to force his son to score some cheap grope-jollies off of the terrified girls, but decides to impose some surprise sex on Mari himself, instead, when the boy is reluctant.Paige deducts that insulting the would-be rapist is the protocol for getting him to leave her girlfriend alone.She turns out to be wrong, mistaking the procedure for getting repeatedly stabbed in the labonza by Krug and Francis for it.Mari watches Paige bleed out on the ground a few feet away while she's assaulted by the leader, who shoots her in the back afterwards when she tries to swim away to safety.A coming storm forces the fugitives to the nearby house of John and Emma(Tony Goldwyn, Monica Potter), the parents of the girl they've just left floating in the lake to die.

It's barely a movie.It's barely a movie.It's barely a movie...
At the house, Justin realizes exactly who his family's hosts are, and is instantly wracked with guilt, leaving Mari's necklace on the counter for her parents to find later.That night, John and Emma find their daughter, barely clinging to life, slumped on the porch after having swum and crawled from the lake in a seriously wounded state.Her father, a doctor, performs some impromptu dining room table surgery to alieviate her suffering, then later plants a hammer's claw into Francis' skull after jamming his mitt into the trash compactor in the sink drain.When the couple goes into the bedroom to finish off Krug and Sadie, they find Justin holding his old man's burner.He gives the doctor the gun, but Sadie awakens and distracts the vengeful father long enough for Krug to high tail it outta there.Emma puts lead in Sadie's loaf while her husband hunts down the gang's leader, who eventually gets K.T.F.O.ed by his own son(can you imagine the schoolyard chants that woulda grown outta something like this?)and Mari's desperate folks, who speed away in a boat towards medical care for their daughter.Krug, on the other hand, rendered paralyzed by the good doctor, lies with his head precariously laid on the tray of an open microwave that John has impossibly rigged to nuke the villain's head even with the door ajar.One exploding dome later and Death in Vegas takes us into the end credits.

Palmolive dishwashing liquid? Why, you're soaking in it.
I'm not surprised by the fact that I hated this boring plate of re-re-heated leftovers, as I'd once told the real Krug that it was destined to be a trainwreck that I'd never willingly sit through(Sorry, Hess, wherever you are, I finally gave in for the sake of a good laugh).What surprises me is how many of you out there actually dig this mess:The fact that this actually has a higher user rating on imdb than the Craven original(6.6 to 5.9) currently does is proof positive that a lot of people out there these days like their horror movies glossed over with bad guys that look like a perturbed Burger King manager, his cashier, and the respective fries jock, and neutered with no scares or tension to speak of and obligatory happy ending.I reiterate.Even without the inevitable comparison to the 1972 film, Iliadis' movie is about as tense as two kittens wrestling on a yarn afghan, relying on antagonists who are as threatening as a skinned knee.His earlier effort, 2004's Hardcore, about two Greek chicks in a brothel, looks entirely more interesting than this ended up being.Zero biggies on the scale for you, Last House, in the hope that you really are the last Last House I'll ever have to visit.Skip altogether, if you know what's good for you.

Lazy revenge:Sure, half of his face'll be exploded, but the other half is bound to turn out all rubbery and overcooked.

"Halloween"(2007)d/Rob Zombie

"...it's pointless and why are they doing it?"-Rob Zombie,on the Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake
Anyone who's talked to me for more than five minutes about movies knows how furious I was when Rob Zombie signed on to remake John Carpenter's 1978 horror classic,Halloween.Once I reattached my mandible to my face,I set out to be as vocally opposed to such a project as anyone possibly could be.I added Rob Zombie as a friend on MySpace so I could shit on him directly and have him see my hatred firsthand(he deleted me after a few choice wall comments helped him realize I wasn't one of his sphincter-licking moronic fans).I went to Blockbuster the week his movie was released on dvd and ridiculed anyone I saw walking up to the checkout with the box in their hands.Above all,I vowed NEVER to see it,and more importantly,NEVER to pay money to see it and feed into the rehashed cycle of Hollywood unoriginality.Well,that was three years ago now,and though I still hate remakes,I figured enough water was under the bridge that I could actually objectively watch this thing,and if it was better than I thought it would be,I'd apologize openly to Zombie for being a dick about it,and if it sucked like I thought it would,well,it'd make for one helluva funny read here at the Wop.So I queued it up online,in keeping with my vow to never pay money to see it,threw on my headphones,and viddied well,little droogs.The verdict???
It seems I owe Mr. Zombie one hell of an apology,folks.He's not only a gifted writer with a great directorial eye,but he's actually improved....Of course I'm kidding,people,it fucking sucks sore-ridden AIDS ballbag at a Haitian hospital all day long.Giving a blowjob hack like Zombie a project like remaking Halloween to tackle is like throwing a blind double hand-amputee a hammer and chisel and putting him in front of a seven foot high pile of shit and demanding that he create a Michelangelo-level sculpture of Megan Fox out of it.After enduring the entire clusterfuck I wouldn't trust that douchebag to direct traffic.Of course I realize there's a small minority of diehard Zombie fans who'll idiotically defend anything the guy does,including this huge mistake,and to those people,I say:Walk blindfolded into rush hour traffic on the West Side Highway in Manhattan.You,along with Insane Clown Posse faggalos,and anyone who thinks Bono of U2 is some sort of humanitarian,are everything that's totally wrong with the world today.You won't be missed,and in fact,you'll be saving me several trips when I finally completely lose my mind and go on a sweeping kill crazy rampage.Everyone responsible for this mess should be wholly ashamed of themselves,and switch careers to cripple-robbers,as it's undoubtedly more dignified work.I feel most sorry for any actors and cult genre stars who appear here,and the list is long and pathetic:Bill Forsythe,Danny Trejo,Bill Moseley,Sybill Danning,Udo Kier,Brad Dourif,Richard Lynch,Clint Howard,Dee Wallace,Ken Foree,Mickey Dolenz,Danielle Harris,and Malcolm Mc-fucking-Dowell,ferchrissakes.Did you cast the entire movie at a horror convention,shitlocks?I can only hope you people were collectively drugged and forced to deliver the drivel that passes for dialogue here against your wills,otherwise...

Sherri Moon Zombie shows her acting flexibility here as a foul-mouthed,weatherbeaten white trash stripper very much unlike the other strippers she's portrayed in the past.
I've heard retards defend this,saying Rob Zombie adds backstory to the classic,putting his own personal spin on it.What they meant to say was,in Rob's little celluloid world,everyone's either a foul mouthed long haired piece of shit or a foul mouthed piece of white trash,with no in-betweens.Hell,the whole cast is playing essentially the same charac-turd here.After his prequel of sorts,where he graciously writes his own wife into the story as Michael's stripper mother(there's a stretch),turns his sister Judith into an obscenity spewing teenaged cockacidal whore,and worst of all,Michael himself into a long haired,chunky,animal killing ten year old pussy with a fetish for masks,Zombie piles on several unnecessary and uninspired deaths that would leave most gorehounds counting sheep instead of bodies.Dr. Loomis(McDowell)is Michael's school-appointed psychologist,and even he's a fucking scumbag,writing Michael off during his sanitarium stay in favour of a book tour hawking his years with Myers under the title "The Devil's Eyes".Give me a fucking break,would you?If they're not trying to get rich off of Michael,they're long haired dirtbag orderlies taking female inmates into Michael's cell to rape in front of his mask-covered eyes,only by now,he's mutated into a seven foot tall pro wrasslin-looking,long haired shitbag,that Zombie wants the audience to somehow pity for all the wrong done to him.He might have pulled it off too,if every single character,Laurie(Scout Taylor-Compton)included,didn't talk like two ten year old boys in a schoolyard trying to constantly offend each other.

Malcolm McDowell watches as his cinematic integrity,raped and freezing,runs screaming away,never to return.
"Just make it your own. Hell. That's the most important thing. Make it yours."-John Carpenter to Rob Zombie,on his Halloween remake
...which roughly translates to:"I know you won't do my movie any justice,but do it anyway,because the stink of yours will only make people appreciate mine that much more."It's almost like Zombie doesn't get what made the original such a great piece of cinema,and even when his awful prologue is finally over,and he sets out to film the Carpenter section of the film,his glaring incompetence smells up the screen.The beautifully framed shots that drip with suspense and tension have been replaced with flat spastic,jerky camerawork,completely bereaft of anxiety or fear.He hamfistedly adds kills to the body count(Annie's boyfriend Paul,and both of Laurie's parents),with precious little flair or style,and then negates the entire gripping Laurie v Shape climax of Carpenter's masterwork in favor of yet more bromidic examples of Michael's humanity(In case you haven't figured it out yet,turning a blank,expressionless,inexplicably indestructible vessel of evil into an abused white trash mutant with a sliver of humanity remaining inside is NOT scary.It sucks.),erasing the entire balcony scene and replacing it with an empty inground pool and hostage negotiation with Loomis and a slew of trigger-happy cops.The sum of these pitiful parts is equivalent to the soulless McDonalds assembly line unhappy meal of slasher flicks.Lots of people may have paid money to eat it,but it's bland,bad for you,and a complete waste of time and money.

Remember the scene in the original where Michael butchers the Strodes?You don't?That's because IT NEVER FUCKING HAPPENED!
I spent an hour or so trying to salvage something positive out of the whole experience,apart from the fact that I remained true to my word,and added none of my own money to the box office of this pile o'shit,and all I could come up with was this:Danielle Harris,who laboured away in the fourth and fifth craptacular Halloween sequels as little Jamie Lloyd,and signed on here to anonymize Nancy Loomis' Annie Brackett character,really grew up into a hot little number,and is the only eye candy I happened to notice throughout this mess.Hearing her spout filth like "Do you wanna fuck me?I wanna hear you say you wanna fuck me." while writhing topless on a couch was probably the only time I perked out of my Michael-esque catatonia during the entire hundred and twenty-one minute ordeal.I'll most likely endure the sequel to the remake sometime soon,after seeing how many hardcore Zombie-ites thumbs downed it,it's sure to make for another piece of review-based comedy.As for this toilet log,it merits ZERO wops,just as I predicted it would.Keep up the bad work,Rob!

Outside Wrasslemania XXXV,Kane searches a squad car for Hulkamaniacs.