Everybody says ‘war is hell’. Bullshit! Hell is editing video in Windows!
Monthly Archives: January 2012
Trying to explain WEIRDO: THE BEGINNING in a thousand words or so is no easy feat. It’s a lot like trying to explain what ‘nothing’ is to a child who’s never heard the word.
Q: Daddy, what is nothing?
A: It’s nothing.
Q: But what is it?
A: I just told you, it’s nothing.
Q: What’s it look like?
A: Um…it doesn’t look like anything.
Q: It doesn’t look like something?
A: No, something can look like anything, because anything other than something is just nothing. But nothing just looks like nothing.
Q: Where can I find some nothing?
A: Hmm, everywhere, I guess. I mean, most of the universe is nothing. Then again, you can’t really find it, because it’s not there. Nothing doesn’t need to be somewhere, cuz it’s nothing. So it’s nowhere, too.
Q: Why did mommy leave us?
A: Cuz you were bad.
Shot and released in 1989, the making of this ‘movie’ was possibly contemporaneous with a brief flirtation I had with the Boy Scouts, and that was present in my mind as I watched. Not too much later, my mother would start dating an ‘outdoorsy’ guy who would abuse me and destroy the childhood purity that had, up to that point, been tenderly guarded by those who loved me. The man did not hit me or molest me. No, camping was his chosen form of abuse.
Also known as ‘wooding’, camping can often feel, depending on the participant’s tolerance for frigid temperatures, bowel discomfort and perpetual emasculation, like a Pre-Renaissance form of punishment. Hard to imagine that this practice still exists in our time, when teens are said to describe, while trembling, the temporary loss of their iPhone’s texting function as ‘torture’. That’s NOT how I define torture, personally. Not as long as I can still get on the internet.
This ‘movie’ helped me remember why I hate the outdoors. In the very opening scene our hero, Donnie(aka Weirdo), a skinny, mongrelized version of a person, is accosted while wandering through the forest collecting trash in a sack. Being a nature despiser, I’ve never had the chance to observe a donny up close. And if this movie contains any amount of accuracy, I don’t want to. Here are a couple of pictures of one, to help you understand what we’re dealing with here.
As should be plainly obvious, it’s hard to photograph donnies. Not only do they cower in the darker corners of the forest in daylight hours, but they are almost always being assaulted by bikers and personal trainers. It’s getting harder, too, as their native habitats slowly disappear beneath the cement foundations of urban sprawl. Though, not often, sometimes they can be seen wandering outside the perimeter of the gas stations and Dairy Queens that now occupy the spots where, once, the foul outhouses and sheds that used to be their homes stood.
The tale of Donny is the tale of all donnies. Rejected by their mothers, they live with pious old women and collect dirty frisbees, old turnips, and wood to decorate their bedrooms with. Donnies seem so much like us, that it’s easy to forget that they are still animals. Their person-like gazes imitate, quite realistically, visages of thought and emotion that can seem so human. This is understandable because, as actual people, capable of empathy, we have a tendency to attribute intelligence where there is nothing but shameful stupidity. But this Donny gets closer than most to crossing over that fine line.
He can almost speak, he can play with himself(I assume so, anyway, since the scene in which he is secretly observing a young female bathing, thankfully, transitions to a fade out before he begins), and he understands the value of sixty cents(an amount of money incomprehensible today). I ask you, what else makes a man a man? Seriously, that’s it. Also, due to his waif-like innocence and uselessness, people sympathize, befriend, and help him. Most dogs attract this sort of attention, too, but dogs have a reason to exist.
Like most irritating, lower-phylum creatures, Donny is spurned by his biological mother and driven away from the family nest when he’s old enough to spawn. This having already occurred years before the movie takes place, we don’t get to see it. That’s unfortunate, for it’s one of the more fascinating trials to be found in nature.
Typically, this process begins when the mother detects the scent of the donny’s hormonal glands, usually found wafting through a hole in the posterior of his unlabeled jeans, and he begins to attract females. The mother confronts the donny, using her hard, sharpened teats to threaten physical harm, to which he responds with immediate intestinal evacuation of the field mice and Doritos he feeds on. That’s usually the end of it. However, this one continually returns to be subjected to further abuse by her.
Though this ‘movie’ doesn’t exactly have a plot, every now and then something almost verifiable does occur. If you really need a story, you can make up one up for yourself. And that’s one thing I really do like about this ‘movie’ – it lets you use your imagination. Donny gets pummeled, mocked, even stabbed so frequently, and so viciously, that it seems almost like a service he provides to the community, and it’s left up to the viewer to figure out why. It takes a refreshing detour around those niggling little details, and challenges the audience to fill them in for themselves. It’s a bold approach, a real gamble. One that pays off better, at least, than a penny slot machine I once saw that spit out dead bees with AIDS.
You witness the first overtures of the donny mating ritual early on in the film, when a gimped female named Jenny wanderers into his creek-side bachelor hangout. Unless a great amount of time passes that the viewer of the film is unaware of, Donny and Jenny become instantly emotionally intertwined, even before they know very basic things about each other. This is, once again, another example of this ‘movie’s’ participatory approach to non-storytelling. Not unlike an ugly child with a dented head, abandoned in the back of a flatbed truck to raise itself on its own, WEIRDO: THE BEGINNING allows the viewer to create its own rules, ethics and morality.
Though Jenny, somehow, resists Donny’s romantic advances, at first, within one or two brief scenes she becomes fully dedicated to him. Defending him, yet keeping him at arm’s length. This is partly due to a violent experience in her past that has left her scarred, and partly because she must sense that Donny makes love with the gentle grace of a baboon fucking a coal-burning stove.
Though it touts itself as a love story, WEIRDO: THE BEGINNING is so much more than that. By using my imagination, I can create an entire universe within the vast empty spaces left in the narrative.
Why, I can imagine that Jenny’s inexplicable love for Donny stems from a resemblance he bears to her father, an environmental scientist named Pierre Caduz, who was tragically lost on a dangerous expedition to Antarctica while cataloging the diminishing ice shelves. The ‘movie’ leaves this open for discussion, making it seem to the viewer like being an embarrassing cripple is enough to make you grateful that any man loves you, even a forest-dwelling imbecile.
Also, the reason the three-dude biker gang hates Donny so passionately is never really dealt with. I mean, they beat him close to death every time they encounter him. The ‘movie’ leaves explaining it up to me! Hot dog!
I can use the magic of imagination to figure out the reason as having it’s origins in the town’s founding. Yes!
You see, two-hundred years earlier, the first settlers of the town committed sacrilege when they broke ground on an ancient Indian burial site. They angered the ancient Indian demon spirits that haunt the soil, who had deemed this sacred dirt the future site of a Blackfoot casino. Since then, once every generation the community must select some shit-for-brains wild boy as a sacrificial lamb, and they must abuse him mercilessly to appease them. This doesn’t interfere with the director’s own explanation, which is, none at all.
Eventually, though, something happens to kick start the third act. You will know this is happening, because something will be happening. Don’t be alarmed, it’ll feel like when a friend spikes you in the shin, waking you up before the teacher notices you’ve fallen asleep with your face cemented to your textbook by snot. Donny visits his mother only to have her reveal to him that his father is also his uncle. Following that, you’d think, might be hard, but then she tells him that she’s sold him into slavery to a Texas oil thousandaire. For what purpose, you can only imagine. Well, you’ll have to, actually. What they do with donnies down South is left up to you to devise. Personally, I smell barbecue.
Donny murders her with a cleaver. It’s a miraculous, bloodless beheading and is depicted below in a glorious VHS still. And you’re lucky to even have that, asshole, because you won’t find WEIRDO: THE BEGINNING on DVD. In fact, it only ever made it to VHS by accident, when Rusty, the teenage stepson of a Beaverton, Alabama KKK local chapter president, mistakenly recorded it over his stepdad’s tape of 1978 Super Bowl Highlights. This chance occurrence happened during WEIRDO’S one and only appearance on cable tv, when it was broadcast over a Chinese military satellite on a bet between two techs named Dong, who were later hung for treason.
Donny continues his bloody rampage, murdering a new person in the next several subsequent scenes. Murder is too strong a word, though, for the whiny, sniveling way he goes about his business. It’s too pathetic for first-degree homocide, but definitely more illegal than just doing nothing at all.
Eventually, he’s cornered in a wide open field and beaten to death by angry family members(the director’s family). Jenny leads the police to his body, but it’s gone! The policeman picks up the tattered jacket, covered in fresh blood, and says ‘Where’s the body?’. I suppose he’s never heard of the magic of imagination. Some people are hopeless.
Writer/Director Andy Milligan, maker of this, and many other, celluloidal tests of faith, has been dead these last twenty years. I’m not certain what killed him. Whatever it was – natural causes, disease, or an understandable suicide – it happened, just in time, to prevent a sequel to WIERDO. So, I guess that is kind of a happy ending.
You will not enjoy WEIRDO: THE BEGINNING. Nor will you learn anything from it. If I have to pinpoint a moral in this tale, it’s that what doesn’t kill you, doesn’t necessarily make you stronger, but might leave you alive just enough to limp off back into the wilderness, leaving a trail no one, not even the local police force, is interested enough to follow. Really, when it comes down to it, WEIRDO is about how anybody can find love, just as long as they absolutely do not care who it’s with.
EDDIE FURLONG: THEN AND NOW
If you’re a Terminator 2 fan, then you probably remember Eddie Furlong, the young girl who played the teenage John Connors. However, if you’re a fan of Eddie Furlong, himself, then you are not here reading this. You don’t read for pleasure, if at all. Also, like a goat, you probably swallow random things lying scattered about your neighbors’ lawns and garages. In fact, right now, you’re out squatting in your backyard waiting for your father’s car keys to emerge from your bowels in a hardened dinosaur egg of tar, plaster, paint chips, and newspaper. I pity your parents, who wanted a child, but instead were cursed by an angry God with progeny that uses the sink and toilet interchangeably.
Eddie’s destiny has led him from public celebrity to public drunkenness. There are worse fates, I suppose, since he did have a good time for a short while, and he really does get along with Christian Slater. However, since Corey Haim passed on to the great VHS clearance bin in the sky, those two have been without a third to make up their trio of Merry Junksters. This kind of life may work out fine for Furlie, but most of us don’t need tubes leading from penile catheters to our left cowboy boot. That sloshing sound Eddie makes when he walks is not his flask. Not just his flask, anyway. Most of us prefer experiencing life in the present tense, not later on in flashbacks. But Eddie has to live his dream, and we ours. And who knows? One day he might find a place in our hearts again, rather than fighting for his place in a row of derelict cardboard boxes lining the alley behind his ex-wife’s apartment. Listen, honey, restraining orders mean nothing to people without restraint.
When asked why he didn’t reprise his role as John Connors in the popular TERMINATOR 3, rather than the poorly casted, equally Testosterone-killing, Nick Stahl, his reply was something along the lines of ‘It just wasn’t the right time.’ I’m paraphrasing, of course, I suppose the ‘right time’ would have been just minutes after the casting director was blinded by a bucket of boiling sewage and fumbling about with a .38 caliber bullet embedded between his frontal lobes. Not a pretty picture, huh? Well, neither was T3, from what little I recall of it. However, I do remember seeing a very firm pair of buttocks in the film. I wasn’t certain which terminator they belonged to, but I liked them, nonetheless.
Look up the word Douchebag in the dictionary, sometime. I don’t mean the kind of Douchebag that Eddie grew up to be, I mean the actual feminine kind. You won’t find anything in there about Furlong(maybe if you check a thesaurus, I don’t know), only a mind-expanding description of a container used in the rinsing of orifices. I only mention this because Eddie currently makes his living selling them out of a burlap sack alongside Ventura Highway. He still doesn’t know what they’re used for, but he keeps one filled with a homemade gin that he distills with berries that grow out through the cracked tiles in his bathroom floor. Does this sound depressing to you? Of course it does. It would to Eddie, as well, if he was mentally present for more than the few precious seconds that occur, everyday, between waking up in the morning, stumbling to the kitchen, and dunking his head in a sink filled up with potato vodka.
To top it all off, Eddie also released an album. I haven’t heard any of the tracks, but Furlong’s voice shifts in and out of a higher register that, if you close your eyes and imagine tits, can sound quite feminine. No doubt, his stringy, underdeveloped, DiCaprio-esque physique has fooled many a lonely con in the dimly lit Los Angeles county drunk tank, as well. You can, at least, speak up a little when that happens, Ed.
BRAINSCAN was made in that brief period, after T2, that he was a recognizable film actor. A time that people snapped photos of him walking down red carpets with beautiful starlets, rather than face down on stained throw rugs, somewhere within the vicinity of Tara Reid. He’s not recognizable now, however, to even his mother, who often mistakes him for a hobo, and keeps a taser on her person at all times, just in case it IS him.
BRAINSCAN is not a horrible film, but it’s not one of those movies that are so bad that they’re good, nor is it one of those far rarer movies that are actually good. If you pay attention to the film, you’ll notice a couple startling similarities to the more recent DISTURBIA. Although, there’s no Shia LaBeuf(LaBeof or LaBufe, or however that guy’s ridiculous name is spelled), there’s plenty here to sicken and horrify you, without him. If, like Lot’s wife, you’re the type who simply must take a look, you can get a better epinephrine shot of Shia’s befuddled terrorism in Transformers.
BS features Furlie playing Michael Brower, your typical high school outcast, who is an outcast for no reason that is ever made clear in the film. He doesn’t carry weapons, wear chains or nose studs, dye his hair, or even bomb his nostrils with nitrous charged whipped cream cartridges for recreation. He doesn’t wear black, either(a la Columbine’s infamous Trench Coat Mafia), which, at least, when done right, can come off mildly threatening, even if underneath the apparel is just another noodle-armed geek(also, just like the Columbine’s Trench Coat Mafia). The movie seems to think it’s enough that he’s into horror films, and adorns his walls with old black and white movie posters. As if being a horror fan makes him more likely to slice up his Home Ec teacher into little cubic chunks and build a bloody, mini-igloo out of her. As far as the film is concerned, Michael Brower is the definition of misunderstood rebel, even though he may seem like the kind of kid who’s too afraid to enter a restroom he’s never been in.
Furlie’s character is also a voyeur who enjoys spying on his neighbor Kimberly(Amy Hargreaves), an angelic girl, his own age, whose room has more windows than the Titanic. We are supposed to find this odd and suspicious. However, I think I’ll cut him a little slack on this one.
He’s just doing what nine-out-of-ten teenage boys(and one-out-of-ten teenage girls), would do in his place. Anyway, Michael’s mother is dead, and his dad is an itinerant ‘businessman’ who’s always away on ‘business’. So, of course, Michael has zero supervision, and is left to his own devices almost all of the time. Essentially, he can come and go as he pleases, which is really, really good for the plot of this movie. Good for you, plot! I’m not certain of the legality of this arrangement, since Mikey is clearly not even old enough to drive yet, since he’s still chitty-chitty bang-banging around on a BMX. But, judging by his house, and Mike’s collection of expensive computers and gadgetry, his dad is doing awfully well. So why mess with a good thing?
It’s a sweet setup, an allegedly awkward teen’s wet dream of a situation, and contrived deliberately for the intended audience of this film. So what’s dad’s ‘business’, a bright fellow, such as you, may ask? Why, it’s being away for long periods of time. Wait, I know he’s got ‘business’, but what kind of ‘business’ is it? What’s he doing when he’s away? He’s being away. That’s his job. Don’t you get it? What’s the problem? Back the fuck off.
Furlie’s best friend is named Kyle. He’s your standard 90’s, grunge rock, flannel wearing, baggy-panted, long-haired, irreverent doofus. Seth Green played this role in every other stupid movie made that decade, and might have grounds for a lawsuit(so long as the case doesn’t coincide with Comic Con, and he can wear his Spidey costume). Kyle tells Michael about an ad for a new game he saw in the back of a magazine(Scouting for Girls)for a new horror video game called Brainscan, which claims to be the ultimate experience. Mikey, so jaded to the muted offerings of horror games, shrugs it off as hype, but orders one, anyway. He dials the number his friend gives him and receives a “insert title of film” that assesses his psyche, and decides what version of the game to send him. Despite the fact that “insert title of film”-ing over a phone line would take impossible, supernatural technology, Mikey is unperturbed.
You wanna get a copy of the game? The number they give in the movie is 1-800-555-FEAR. You could also try 1-800-555-DEAR or DEBS. I’m proud to say that I only had to consult the internet twice to figure that out.
Next, we see Furlie and his pal Kyle at school, watching a gore film in their horror flick fan club. The Principal bursts in and calls a halt to all proceedings. Back in his office, he lectures Mikey, in a subtle display of foreshadowing, on the degenerative influence of such filth as he’d just been viewing, stating firmly his belief that partaking of such movies and games could lead to murder and rudeness in real life. Mikey laughs this off, and rebuts his principal’s opinion with an argument that, influences aside, a person is responsible for their own actions, and that the modern cultural tendency to blame said influences, rather than the individual, needs to be reconsidered from an historical perspective, which demonstrates that staggering violence has always been a part of our collective heritage, while video games are just a recent phenomenon. The principal leaves him with a warning that he is headed for disaster, and that he should, forthwith, go fuck himself.
EDDIE FURLONG: THEN AND NOW
On his way home, Mikey comes across a crime scene swarming with police. A murder has occurred just a strong piss away from his own home. He is noticed by the lead detective, played by Frank Langella, and told to get lost. Langella plays the role of typified, bland authority figure with his usual flare, coming off as he always does: dependable, yet possibly a pedo-necrophiliac. When Mikey gets home, Brainscan is waiting for him in the mail. Mikey pops it into his Tandy 1000 and off he goes!
He finds himself in a murder simulation, in which, he’s a would-be serial killer breaking into some bald guy’s house(don’t serial killers ALWAYS murder in accordance to their sexual preferences?). Along with him on the ride is Trickster: at the moment, just a disembodied voice egging him on and providing helpful guidance, like when Mikey comes across a rack of kitchen implements, all of them useless in murder, but for the gigantic butcher knife, and the voice advises him to ‘choose one!’.
Trixter is so persistent, so irritating in his Lower Mortgage Rate/Refinancing commercial style voice, it’s a wonder this doesn’t end up a suicide simulation. Also, he laughs through the murder, his breathless cackle sounding much like the last sound most teen runaways ever hear being coughed onto the top of their head in a bathroom stall. Well, Mikey does the deed, quite messily, and saws off his victim’s foot for a souvenir. Why you’d want some frumpy, hairless guy’s foot, I can’t imagine. The best meat is on the thighs and cheeks.
Well, with his murderous urges satisfied, and his demons exorcised in violent retribution to the frustrations of growing up almost, but not quite, wealthy, Mikey wakes the next morning with a clear head. However, he hears at school that, yet, another murder has occurred on his street. This one, to his dismay, sounding a bit too much like the shenanigans he’d gotten into last night. Surprise, Private Pyle! Mikey freaks out and, when he gets home, is confronted by Trickster in his terrifying true form: the ugliest, dumbest looking villain you will ever see outside of Japanese cinema. He looks like a cross between SCHINDLER’S LIST’s Ben Kingsley and a laughing hyena that’s cursed with the ultimate 80’s metal haircut. Not to mention his name is Trickster. Trickster? For godssake! Someone get the director a Budweiser! He’s been drinking Mimosas for far too long!
Trickster tells Mikey it’s all just part of the game, which, though violent, perverse, and actually happening, can’t be more sick than anything playing Friday night on ABC. A german shepherd steals the foot out of his bag when he’s out in the woods trying to bury it. This is a major setback, but it begs the question: why bury a foot?
About half the way through the movie I started paying attention to how often Furlie nervously scooped his hair with his fingers. At his peak, I think I counted five times in one minute. He does this more than Kristen Stewart pauses, more than Keanu Reeves gets confused, more than I use analogies. Considering the amount of torture it took to mount those early-90’s haircuts, which required computer guided lasers to burn the end of each prickly follicle to the width of a single atom, the palms of his hands must have been more calloused than a Kardashian girl’s tonsils.
At one point Trickster starts urging Mikey to kill himself. On this point, Trickster and myself see eye-to-eye. The sad fact is that movie Eddie has more to live for than the real one.
To sum up the rest, without giving everything away, people that Mikey knows continue to find their quietus in manners not consistent with natural causes, and Detective Langella, with the aid of basic problem solving skills, starts closing in on Furlie, the single, possible, most obviously guilty suspect in the case. In the film’s denouement, Mikey finds out that his gorgeous neighbor has been spying on him, as well, and she, despite having seen his penis, loves him. Then, Mikey and Trickster face off in the greatest battle since Bonaduce vs. Barry Williams.
All in all, the simplicity of BRAINSCAN really works in its favor.. There aren’t many plot twists in this movie, and fewer characters than most pornos. Even though it was intended for viewing by impressionable young people, it doesn’t try to be too preachy about morals, yet, it’s very straight forward, with little ambiguity as to who is naughty or nice. It was made to turn a quick buck selling and renting to teens, and I’m sure it did that. Don’t expect boatloads of gore, or for all of the pieces to fit together in a logical way. And don’t be surprised if you even start rooting for Eddie Furlong to succeed over the evil Trickster, in the end. Why? Believe it or not, he’s even less likeable, and awful looking, than the real Eddie is nowadays. Only time will tell if that remains true.
Talent in the funny can be trained on a different medium. The greatest tribute video of all time. Enjoy. Be inspired.
CAUTION: In honor the new year, I am posting my first ever movie review from a while back, and on another site(killerreviews.com). I’m doing this just to delineate my progress. Here is my review of EYES OF FIRE: shorter, less comprehensive, less funny than what I’m know for, but it shows the progress I’ve made, and how much closer I am to fulfilling all of our dreams.
If you juxtapose my posts on killerreviews.com, chronologically, alongside major news headlines across the world, as they concurrently went public, you would notice in the headlines the rise of new social phenomena. Phenomena that can only be described, collectively, as a new force of nature come into being, so powerful it is. A unifying trend that swept across the globe like a glorious storm of brotherhood, penetrated us all to our very hearts, and connected us like a ribbon of righteous goodwill that has virtually defeated cynicism, restored hope to billions, and nearly ended worldwide hunger. This is no coincidence = it was me.
Though much work is left for you to do, I shall continue to do my part…
God Bless Me,
In modern times, when religion is casual and most people’s personal beliefs are a mishmash of major religions, new age silliness, Chiropractory and Beatles lyrics, we find people who take their religion seriously a little odd. But back in the Colonial Era, when people were superstitious and most science books were called The Bible, lacking a central authority, inhabitants of communities had the autonomy to hang and burn whomever they wished. This might sound just like right-wing spectator fun to me and you, but people on the wrong end of it really got fucked.
Hence, the setting of our story.
A lazy, adulterous preacher named Will Smythe is living in sin with a trapper’s wife. The trapper, Marion Dalton: big, tough as nails, and not likely to take any guff about having a girl’s name, is conveniently absent. One day, having little else to do, Smythe’s neighbors finally get around to doing something they’ve been putting off, mainly, hanging Smythe by his neck until dead and soggy-breeched. As he is being hoisted into the air his noose suddenly snaps, thanks to a strange and dirty wild-girl named Leah who has magical powers, doesn’t speak and, for some reason, likes the guy. Smythe rubs his neck and comes to the conclusion he’s worn out his welcome.
He decides to head downriver with Marion’s way-too-attractive for the 1700’s wife Eloise, mute, magical Leah, and a handful of other people who have far too few lines to realistically expect to live to see next month, to find the ‘Promised Land’. The Promised Land, he promises, is a real and really promising, Promised Land, just filled with promise. Such is the premise of his promise.
Well, after ditching their raft to escape some very surly Indians, our hardy band of alternative lifestylers heads off into the woods and discovers a tiny abandoned community and moves right in. This, despite its appearance of having been evacuated more hastily than the bowels of a Mexico City tourist, and being, quite frankly, a shithole. Oh, and Marion catches up with them, saves them from a group of surprisingly good-natured Indians and Frenchman by dressing up like a platypus, then narrowly avoids his sworn duty, as an absentee, frontier husband, to gut Smythe like a dolphin in Japanese waters.
The promised land, however, ain’t tit. It’s got a witch who steals people’s souls and brings them back as exploding, white-washed lunatics who, for some reason, just can’t leave the good settlers alone and allow them to starve, freeze to death, or contract water-based diseases like they’d moved out here to do. WTF? Meanwhile, Suicide Girl Leah prances about the woods and communes with nature.
Anyway, despite my flippant attitude, I actually quite enjoyed Eyes Of Fire. It differs from the current generation of horror flicks in that it’s not dependent upon gore and repeated BOOs to scare the audience. There’s never the obligatory OH NO, IT’S QUIET AND YOU CAN HEAR ME BREATHING HEAVY moment that inevitably leads to a some computer effect leaping out with a screech. Also, its spare soundtrack isn’t constantly distracting you, reminding you that at some point, a bunch of classical musicians took a day off from being snotty and pretending they like Mahler, crowded into a sound studio and did take after take of jarring sequences of notes just to drown out the sounds of the forest, or of human activity, or of any naturalistic element that may add a sense of reality to a surreal situation.
The movie does what so few horror films do nowadays: it builds up tension. Rather than using the aforementioned NOW ITS QUIET/NOW ITS LOUD method of scares, which, I’m pretty certain is based on Nirvana’s SOFT VERSE/LOUD CHORUS song structure(prove me wrong asshole!) Eyes Of Fire lets the predicament of being hundreds of miles deep in the wilderness, as isolated and helpless as can possibly be, slowly work its way into you. It doesn’t take long for it to sink in that, even if you build a tall log wall around you and arm yourself, there is still nowhere to go, even if you make it through to next morning.
Anyway, I might give the movie a higher score, but the poor quality of the version I watched diluted the experience. It was a VHS transfer to .AVI that had a multitude of sound problems that made me nearly turn it off several times. I would just have enough to time to get into it before it got sloppy and mute, much like Leah, again.