Criticult.Com

I hold Appetite for Destruction in the highest regard, and put the Use Your Illusion albums in my list of the top 20 all time greats. No such list currently exists, but if it DID, Appetite would be #1 and the Illusion double album would be in there somewhere. My point is I loved those drunken rude-ass sons o' bitches.

And it pains me to say that Guns N’ Roses is dead. The monstrosity that exists in name only as a monument to the massive ego of Axl Rose is but a hollow shell of the past glory the baddest mother fuckers on Earth once bestowed upon all of us eager metal heads.

It is doubtful another debut album will ever hit as hard as Appetite for Destruction. The entertainment world has simply changed far too much for that to happen. What I can promise you is Guns N’ Roses will NEVER release an album that comes close to achieving what Appetite for Destruction achieved. And on some level I have to think that Axl Rose knows this which would explain the endless tinkering with his magnum opus, Chinese Democracy. This monstrosity is rumored to have cost Geffen Records upwards of $13 million dollars. An absolutely mind blowing amount in an age when anyone with a smattering of talent can crank out a full album in a home studio for under $15k in start up cost.

Rumors are running rampant again that the album is finished and heading to stores this fall. The story last week was that Axl’s management were trying to distribute the album exclusively through either Best Buy or Walmart. I don’t know about you, but when I think of a don’t-give-a-fuck-band that plays raw and raunchy hard rock I can’t think of a better entity to push their albums then pro-censorship Walmart.

It was announced earlier this year that a new Guns N' Roses track called "Shackler’s Revenge" will be featured prominently on the upcoming videogame Rock Band 2. This is the only solid evidence pointing to a release but at this point who can honestly tell. More importantly, DOES ANYONE CARE? If the below tracks are any indication those that are looking forward to Chinese Democracy with breath held are about to become an even smaller minority. And dead. Seriously, it's just a damn rock album, you're turning blue for Christ's sake.

I have no idea what version of the songs I have. They sound finished and polished to me. From what I understand there are about 80 songs that could make up Chinese Democracy, and those 80 have been remade about 200 times each. Axl’s vocals fluctuate between passable and screechy godawful and every track I’ve heard features a drum machine in one capacity or another. None of these songs are great, some are better than others, but NONE top a single song the band has done before. That is with the notable exception of Axl’s horrific experiment into industrial music, "My World", featured as the closer on Use Your Illusion II. That song sucks in so many ways just listening to it can get you arrested for soliciting prostitution.

I should note that I have listened to these tracks at least twenty times each. I'm not trying to bag on the songs, more than anything I would love for Democracy to set the world on fire. If you can get your hands on these tracks, and honestly it's not all that hard, I recommend listening to them on head phones. Axl's choice to go with a wall-of-sound style production drastically reduces the fidelity of the tracks on anything other than headphones.


Chinese Democracy

This track opens with Axl hooting like a monkey. Honestly, I have no other way to describe it. This is followed by a cluster of unintelligible voices all talking on top of itself. An electronically fuzzed out guitar riff comes in over wind noise followed by Axl’s trademark caterwaul.

The song is not bad, but I have no idea what he’s singing about. I believe one of the lines is:

sitting in a Chinese stew, to view my disinfatuation

Incidentally, spellchecker assures me "disinfatuation" is not a real word.

This is easily his best song and at best it’s a Nine Inch Nails B-side. It's a song that seems to be going somewhere but never quite arrives. The whole thing is build up and makes for a frustrating experience.

Better

This one leaked to the Internet for the first time last year so "Better" could nearly be called a single. At least it’s familiar. This version is different from the one that released last year and is still just as musically schizophrenic. This song changes beats and music style so often it’s like a mini-album all by itself.

If the War

Spanish flamenco guitars give way to 70’s funk that would feel right at home in a Barry White Burger King commercial. Axl’s voice is stretched to the breaking point and actually crosses over into headache inducing toward the end. My dog cries when I play this song.

IRS

"IRS" perfectly captures the major problem with all of these tracks. There are some good ideas, and some good music, but the presentation is a complete mess. There is just way too much going on. I’m sure Axl prefers to call the production “layered” but I’m going to just call it "chaotic". That said, this track does rock pretty hard. I dig it despite the flaws.

Madagascar

Another song we’ve heard for years now. Probably the best song to date that is unfortunately brought down completely by the never ending and overwrought sound clips. Then there is the ponderous horn and string section and backing vocals courtesy of Axl. Maybe it's just me, but nothing irritates me more than a singer that provides their own backing vocals on tracks. It's just diva antics, pure and simple.

Worst of all is the recycling of the famous Cool Hand Luke quote used effectively at the beginning of the band's own "Civil War". Here it is a painful and embarrassing reminder of past glories of a band that burned out too soon and now limps along as a solo project with a grandiose name.

Riyadh & the Bedouins

I actually like this one. It sounds like Led Zeppelin but is fairly catchy. This is one of the few songs that comes closest to capturing the old Gun N' Roses sound. It would fit just fine as a throw away track on Use Your Illusion II.

Silkworms

An electronica/industrial rip off that makes Axl’s aforementioned travesty "My World" sound like "Head Like a Hole" by comparison.


That's it. Obviously a full release would include material none of us has heard. As it stands, if the above are the tracks released (and I would bet "Silkworms" is a demo that never sees the light of day) the completed album could be a respectable hit. Will it recoup the reported $13M it costs to make it over the last 18 years? Hell, no. But at this stage, I would just settle for the damn thing to be GOOD.

But I know what Axl Rose would have to say about my doubts.

Labels: album review, TylerDFC

God help me, it's that time again.

Every four years everyone and their dog pretends to be intensely interested in track and field, swimming and gymnastics for a few weeks when the Summer Olympics come around again. Every morning I go to work to find that everyone around me has suddenly become an expert on the balance bar, diving, throwing the javelin and anything else Bob Costas said last night that they can remember well enough to repeat.

And every morning - without fail - someone comes up to me, breathless, wide eyed and gushing:

"Did you see the Olympics last night?"

Never mind that my answer to that question every morning is "no". People like to make small talk at the office and as such they rarely think about what they're saying before they say it. Every Monday people ask me how my weekend was, even though we both know they don't really care, and if I were to say "It was terrible, my car was repossessed" they're not going to sit there and listen to my whole story and offer me a ride to work every day.

I have nothing against the Olympics. If there's one thing the world needs more of it is sanctioned events where all the nations of the world and their citizens can enjoy fellowship regardless of race, color, politics or nationality. It brings people together. I get it and I am all in favor of it, even if it means enjoying the proceedings with a hint of Fascism in the air.

It's just that I am endlessly fascinated by the Human Condition, as in what makes us do what we do. I take pride in the accomplishments of our athletes and certainly wish them all the best, but I have absolutely no interest in any of the sports played at the Olympics, and chances are neither do you. The difference is I have no intention of pretending I'm interested in any of it just because its on every night.

I guess that if you let it be, the following is a morbid contrast: The way athletes of all stripes put a thousand times more dedication into what they do than 99 percent of the rest of us will ever put into anything, while we just sprawl on the couch gawking, and then show up to work Monday talking like we're the superstar just because we got to see it.

Sure, I am being cynical but this isn't really about the Olympics, it's about people. I just find it interesting how most of us will do absolutely anything to bring something meaningful into our lives - except when it means doing it ourselves. I'm not saying anybody can run out and become an Olympian or anything else in particular, I'm just saying that I observe every day people who spend their whole lives doing pretty much nothing with their free time but you can tell they really want something great to happen to them.

Everyone has dreams and hopes and things they've always wanted to do with their lives and they aren't always things we deserve or are likely to achieve. But of course the purpose of having goals and dreams has more to do with the steps you take to get there than anything else. Dedicating yourself to a challenge is all about building yourself as an individual; hard work builds character and makes you a more interesting person.

Which explains why most of the people I know are so boring. Not bad people by any means, just boring. Did I watch the Olympics last night? No, and here's a question for you. If you woke up tomorrow and there were no television, what the hell would you do with the rest of your life?

Hey, I go through this every time the Olympics come around. I have to repeatedly explain to the same boring people that no, I am not nor have I ever been interested in men's gymnastics and I am not going to fake it now just so we'll have something to talk about around the water cooler.

Let's face it - that's the true distillation of my diatribe.

If there were suddenly no television, most people would assume they did not have anything to do or anything to discuss - except maybe the irony of being forced to talk about something other than television because there is no television. There's nothing wrong with entertainment, God knows we all need it. But it is depressing how many of us forfeit out own lives to sit around in a dreary fishbowl, watching someone else live theirs. For far too many people, life is like being inside an ant farm, smug in the assumption that everything outside is the entertainment.

Well my friend, the joke's on you.

And in my mind with this Olympics the joke is on all of us. The Chinese fooled us all. They used a lot of forced labor to ready the city for the games, and god knows where the buried all the homeless people. They used machines and environmental trickery to fake two weeks of sunny days in one of the most pollutes cities on earth. They rendered the Opening Ceremonies partially in CGI. The same night had a pretty girl lip synch the high point of the evening while the ugly chick sang behind the curtain.

And they replaced their women's gymnastics team with cyborgs all designed to look like ten year old girls. (So where was Sarah Connor in all this?) Maybe this is all why the Olympic Mascot is some sort of friendly...devil..thingy...in hell.

But don't listen to me. Seriously. I am just getting this off my chest same as I will for the Winter Games in two years. I just like to bitch about things. It is both my gift, and my curse.

Maybe your hobby is rotting on the couch in front of the television and mine is rotting in front of my computer excoriating people who spend their time on the couch rotting in front of the television.

Fair enough. Just call this column How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Box.

Just remember though - two weeks from now when the only fucking thing you can remember about the whole Olympiad is something about the Kindergarten Gymnastics Squad and that dude what's-his-name the swimmer who won, like, 800 medals or something...don't say I didn't already call you out.

Am I the only one who hears Morgan Freeman's voice everywhere now? I don't mean in the form of a paranoid delusion - although that's entirely possible since like most people I am inherently dissatisfied with my life but have no plan whatsoever to resolve this.

No, I mean that every time I turn on the television, I hear Morgan Freeman's soothing, avuncular voice assuring me that everything is going to be just fine, provided I just buy something because he is telling me to. I can't say I ever have bought anything because Morgan Freeman told me to, but I can tell you that if I were going to buy something based entirely on the effect of someone's hypnotic vocalizations it would probably be Morgan Freeman.

Think about it for a moment. The world of commercial voice overs was once the domain of struggling actors who just needed a paycheck in between gigs because studios only wanted big names headlining movies. The problem is, why would I want to buy something from an anonymous voice that is unfamiliar to me? How many times have you thought:

I know what you're thinking.

There was a time in Germany when uttering such a thing aloud about certain people would ensure that you were dead before morning. There was a time in Russia - as recently as last night I understand - when the same was true.

So needless to say, by the time you read this I will in all likelihood be dead. Don't let it be in vain; tell the world my story for the world must know.

It all started three years ago when I went hiking with a girlfriend in a slightly remote area. We were having a relatively decent time chatting and enjoying the scenery. I was actually pretty optimistic about things, as to this day this is one of the most unpleasant people I've ever met yet we were having a terrific time. Well, one way or another we got on the subject of who our personal heroes were.

This is one of those questions that sooner or later in a relationship a woman will ask you and to your ears it sounds like she's kidding - because nobody but your girlfriend ever asks you stupid shit like that - but she's completely serious. And foolishly, you answer facetiously.

You're not alone. I said William Shatner.

Not sure whether I was being honest, she asked me why, and of course I said 'because he was Captain Kirk, T.J. Hooker and Denny Crane.' (The 'duh' implied in my inflection which was also unwise). Before anything unpleasant could happen, I asked her in return and she said...

"Oprah Winfrey."

She didn't just say Oprah, she conspicuously thought about it for a moment, waited until she had reached the top of the small hill she was climbing just ahead of me and she stopped at the apex. There she stood, right between two trees, sun over her shoulder, one foot perched upon a small stone. The benign purr of a nearby brook danced in my ears, and the wind kissed the trees like the gentle touch of a distant lover.

My memory may be slightly fuzzy but I could swear a small bird landed on her other shoulder - opposite from the sunbeam - as she placed her hands on her hips and gazed skyward. Her back arched slightly and her mouth became a slit. Like leaves from a dying tree, the words flowed from between her slightly parted lips and seemed to float in the air for a moment as though pulled forth by eternity, transformed into milk and honey and dispersed to the ages like an ancient spirit released from aeons of torment.

"Oprah Winfrey."

Oh ha ha, it sounds intolerably cheesy now but trust me, that's exactly what happened and I'll fight anyone who says it isn't. Frightened by this but not knowing what else to say, I uttered the first thing that came to mind:

"Oprah is Evil and Must Be Stopped."

It was at that very moment I thought - for just a flash - that I was going to die. They'd never find my body, it was too far out, too far up. The animals would take care of things long before the police could find a shred of evidence. Trust me, if you lie there long enough without breathing there'll soon be nothing left of you but your social security number. I kid you not - if lasers could have come from her eyes I'd have been a cloud of water vapor. She leaned forward slightly and hissed:

"Very funny. Men like you are the reason we need Oprah. She's intelligent, beautiful and empowering. She brought herself up from nothing to become the most powerful woman in the world."

Yes, as I recall, many cult leaders hail from meager beginnings and this they use to ensnare the humble to their cause. Just because you're on television doesn't mean you can be trusted. Just ask that crazy guy with the ponytail who sells the exercise equipment.

You wouldn't believe the number of women I know who have turned out to be secret members of the Cult of Oprah. You'd think that women had never had anyone to look up to before now. Susan B. Anthony, Eleanor Roosevelt, Marie Curie, Harriet Tubman...Princess Leia Organa...apparently these women weren't wealthy or ubiquitous enough to merit admiration.

No, only Oprah can tell you what to think and how to feel, and if the men in your life tell you you're paying too much attention to Oprah they must be discarded...disposed of...or worse.

I was sitting at work with a friend of mine - a woman who is notorious for having a poor self image and I noticed her purse was lying open and inside was a self help book that had made Oprah's book list the previous weekend. I don't remember the name - Finding Yourself, Helping Yourself, Helping Finding Yourself, Finding Happiness Through Letting Go Of Yourself, Letting Go By Finding Happiness In Yourself, some shit like that.

This is one of those gals who only date men who treat her like shit, are fifty pounds overweight and can't stand to look in the mirror and punish themselves by eating...you know the story. I'm not making light of it, I am just pointing out that she's typical. This was clearly yet another quick fix for her:

Naturally it didn't work but at the time I pointed out to her that self esteem comes from with in and isn't something that can be given to you - and that role models are people you have to physically spend time with, not just put on your Windows Wallpaper so they can grin at you when you come to work every morning because they're $39.95 richer and you're a bigger failure than you were even yesterday.

Again, I thought I was going to die. I was standing on the 90th floor of the World Trade Center and that plane was about to hit me right between the eyes. She didn't kill me but it wasn't for lack of desire for having slighted Frau Oprah. And for the record, she's worse than ever today. Not Oprah, the Girl at Work.

Well...both, really.

Then there's Oprah's Bitch, Doctor Phil - that corn fed hack who feeds people shovel after shovel full of hug-yourself feel good pabulum designed - like crack - to make you feel great for a while but keep you just damaged enough to continue coming back to him for help, thinking all the while it is your fault you're not feeling any better. Back in the day this is what they used to call a 'snake oil salesman'.

Yeah, go ahead and give him a nickel. It'll change your life. Just let me know if you want to be buried face up or face down.

And then there's the James Fey incident. Remember that? Oprah descended from Mount Harpo with yet another Holy Book Club Selection in Her hand, clothing torn, hair windswept, a single gossamer Tear teetering agonizingly in the corner of an Eye, and She Spake unto we huddled masses Her Almighty Will. This time it was James Fey's 'A Million Little Pieces', a gut wrenching tale of overcoming something by finding something within something and blah-blah-blah.

Upon her command, millions of her Obedient Servants sprang forth from the bowels of suburbia like locusts and made the book an instant best seller overnight. J.K. Rowling couldn't get arrested for a while, because Oprah's Almighty Book Cult, which had long stopped promoting fiction and started pushing weak kneed self-help bric-a-brac was in full swing. Any drunken hack who happened to hit it off with Mrs. Stedman could sell a million copies while the next Dostoevsky could be...well, in a gulag somewhere, I guess.

But why encourage people to read truly great books, when they could read something that just made you cry so hard you'd never notice through your tears how badly written it truly was?

And then the book turned out to be at least in part fake. And it wasn't the first one. Had Oprah failed? Was she losing her touch? Was she a fake too?

I'll be honest with you - Oprah's done a lot of good for some people but from the perspective of the Non Afflicted, something has always bothered me about her. It's the way that even in the beginning she pushed herself as one of us - someone who was just trying to figure out how to be a better person, and wanted to share it with all of us. She had a conversational presentation whereas the other leading talk show host of her day - Phil Donahue - was something of a cross between a completely humorless David Letterman and Sam Donaldson in a white wig.

But Oprah never really was one of us - despite her humble beginnings. There was always something about her that implied that the reason she was trying to help you was because she was just an itty bitty bit - just a little bit better than you.

Oprah needs to fix you, sort of the way you'd treat cockroaches if you didn't have the guts to kill them but instead felt the need to train them to accept your table scraps on command. With a single wave of your arm they'd scurry from the walls, humbly accept your bread crumbs, and then with another, obediently disperse when your dinner party guests arrived, picking up their filth behind them.

And who knows...if you needed them to kill for you, maybe...just maybe...they'd do that too.

And for more than one generation of Americans who think the answers to life are inside the television Oprah has given more and more of us reason to sit and be coddled by the warm fuzzy glow of high calorie cathode rays than find a path to enlightenment within ourselves.

You know the biggest difference between television and books? Television - for all its merits - flings ideas at you like a rabid electronic monkey hurling poo and you sit there gurgling at it with all the immediacy of a puppy chasing its tail. Books on the other hand - good ones at least - are the blood and sweat of a single author just as he put them to paper and they retain their relevance throughout the ages. They rip feelings from you, impart intellectual sustenance to you, awaken parts of your mind you didn't know were there and before you know it you're creating ideas independently and thinking for yourself.

The difference is, it takes work. Effort. That's right. Self improvement takes work, people and it's painful and it will suck. It's supposed to. Nothing worth doing that is meant to change your life is ever going to be easy or pleasant. And while it doesn't hurt to have help it's something that you ultimately have to do yourself. Oprah can't tell you what to do, and neither can Doctor Phil, James Fey or anybody else.

Resist Oprah, my friends. Turn away the Kool-Aid and Just Say No. Awaken your mind, turn off the television and learn to think for yourselves. Tell the world what I have said here today. Pass it on and don't let my words die with me. You can become a better person, but you have to do it yourselves.

Oh God...what's that? No...not yet...I've still so much to say...no...you'll never take me alive...oh...you're not here to keep me alive. Well, that's a good point. Still though, it is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done...oh...what? You've heard that one? I'll admit I'm a little surprised, I wouldn't have expected Dickens to be on Oprah's list...

Very well...do your worst...wait...who's there? You? Can it be? Dear God someone's come to save me...I'd never have dreamed in a million years there was anyone powerful enough to challenge Oprah...but...

It's strange how the older you get, you start to notice the 'little' things in life. It isn't unlike watching a movie or reading a book several times, and seeing something you hadn't noticed before even though you're repeating the same activity.

Likewise with life, if you're unfortunate enough to get into a rut for long enough you will eventually begin to take note of such things. You begin to notice your own peculiar little zeitgeist of boredom.

So it is with furniture. There is a point in the lives of most normal middle class people where you've graduated (or otherwise left) college and find yourself living on your own for the first time. At this point all the furniture you own is probably borrowed, found in an alley or courtesy of the grocery store down the street.

At some point, you enter a phase of life where things evolve and before you know it you're doing things like opening a checking account, investing in real estate, showing up at work on time and even - hold on to your hats - buying your own furniture.

Little by little all of the old remnants of your life pre-financial solvency diminish and fade away but this takes time, to be sure. I'll be honest here - I am a homeowner but furnishing it has never been a priority. I have decent furniture, it's just that it is almost all second hand and by that I mean things my parents once gave me, or friends unloaded on me after getting married and realizing they now had three queen size beds and four sets of bookshelves.

They are nice enough things but they are nonetheless second hand. Not to mention that when I look at the furniture in my living room the stuff doesn't exactly all match. Seriously, there are more woods in here than a golf bag. But I am the type of guy who likes things simple, functional and efficient. I'd like to have a house full of kick ass furniture, hardwood floors, pictures on the walls and a space age stainless steel kitchen but I am in no way willing to go into debt to get it.

When the television I have finally explodes, I'll get a new one. When the bookshelf I have collapses then I will replace it. And when the Orkin man shuts the bathroom door where I keep the litter box and eight hours later the cat decides to use the couch...

...I will grudgingly but finally get a new couch. Trust me, like the blood on Macbeth's hands or the shame you felt after taking home Samantha Dogface after the bar closed last Saturday night - some things just cannot be washed out.

This brings me to the subject of this post.

I was over at a friend's house this weekend watching some football. This is a good friend but nonetheless the sort of person who is still using the same filthy furniture from the year after college some fifteen plus years later and thinking nothing of it. This isn't my problem of course but when I mentioned the incident with my couch and that I would soon be purchasing a new living room set I was informed that my friend was considering the same thing and that I would be welcome to his existing sectional.

Normally this is the sort of generosity would be appreciated but this time no sooner than the words had left his mouth I felt something...a pang of some sort in my stomach. It felt something like the time back in college when you ate that Hamburger Helper out of your friend's dorm room fridge. You knew full well it had been in there for three weeks but at this stage in your life you're pretty much thumbing through the Universal Rolodex of Bad Decisions and dialing every number at random.

It wasn't twenty minutes before that first stomach cramp arrived and you knew you were going to be spending the night in the emergency room with a tube in your arm.

Well, this is how I felt when my friend said 'You're welcome to my sectional when I get my new stuff'. I leaned back in my chair, peered into the living room and took in said sectional. Remember what I said - good friend but the sort of person whose home still looks sort of like a frat house. The carpet looks like it's moving, the floorboards along the walls all have fur, the microwave looks like someone cooked a hamster in it and if I sent a swab from the bottom of the refrigerator to the CDC in Atlanta I'd be arrested for biological terrorism.

Similarly, the couch in question (along with just about everything else in the living room) was covered with a very visible film of cigarette smoke, beer stains, and dog snot from the pair of eighty pound pooches that also share the house.

And let's not forget the body oil stains from where people's arms, legs, bare backs and God knows what else have been in constant contact with this never-been-cleaned biohazard over the course of its unfortunate existence.

Full disclosure: I do sit on this thing when I am over there but it is just to be polite. You have to respect a friend inviting you into his home but you don't have to approve of the accommodations. Just the thought of putting this monstrosity in my living room made my skin crawl and the fact that my friend would assume I wanted it sort of...well...

Insulted me.

I keep a pretty damn clean home - in fact most of the time it is probably nearly as clean as the day I bought it. I'm not saying the place is going to win any awards - I told you about my admittedly Spartan tastes. But even though the walls are still bare after three years and it is only slightly better furnished than a Howard Johnson's it sure as hell is CLEAN. And let's not forget - I mentioned I had to get rid of my own couch because the cat pissed on it, and my pal turns around and offers me something that looks like it was fished out of an empty lot in Upper Ninth Ward New Orleans and transported here tied to the top of a Chevy Impala.

There's only one couch in America I'd like to own less.

Are you serious? Is this what you think of me? Are you high? Pluck the saddest character out of any Charles Dickens novel and ask him where he'd like to sleep tonight - on this couch or a storm sewer and you know what his answer would be?

Well actually I am pretty sure the answer would be "You have sewers?!?"

But you get my point. Don't worry though, as I said this is still a friend of mine so I politely declined, although I am sure the look on my face gave away what I was thinking. But there's no reason to go there with people. There just isn't a polite way to inform someone that the toilet upstairs is actually cleaner now that you've used it.

Welcome to a new feature here at Criticult. We have decided to give you our thoughts on various cinematic weekend adventures in what should be a weekly entry. We think you are all smart enough to search the IMDB for relevant information so think of it as the Cliffs Notes versions.

First up we have two movies bound to be cult classics. On deck...BLACK SHEEP



Proving once again that genetically mutated animal experiments rarely turn out ok, Black Sheep arrives from New Zealand to give the horror-comedy genre a swift kick in the ass. On a large farm in NZ, scientists have been mucking about with sheep and managed to create a carnivorous version that also can turn people into some sort of were-sheep through their bites. Yes, it is as ridiculous as it sounds. Yes, it sounds pretty damn awesome.

NZ effects house Weta did the effects for this low budget gore-fest and there is some truly awesome work on display. For anyone that is a fan of laugh-and-squirm classics like Dead Alive, Evil Dead and Reanimator you are going to want to seek this one out. It's a hell of a lot of fun. As gory as it gets, and it gets VERY gory indeed, you just can't help but laugh watching a sheep tugging on a man's intestine. Or maybe that's just me.


DOOMSDAY



In 2008, Scotland will fall to a horrible and incurable contagion called the Reaper Virus. The United Kingdom decides to wall off the country and leave everyone inside to die but protecting the rest of the island. Jump forward 25 years and the Reaper has shown up again in London. The government has had evidence for 3 years via satellite imagery that there are survivors inside Scotland. So they send in Major Eden Sinclair (Rhona Mitra) to lead a team to find a survivor and bring them out so a cure can be extracted from their blood. She has 48 hours to accomplish her mission before London is wiped out.

Taking bits from Escape from New York, Aliens, Mad Max, and a dozen other genre classics of the 80's Director Neil Marshal has crafted an action/adventure that exceeded all my expectations. To be blunt, I haven't enjoyed an action movie this much in quite a while. Fast moving, inventive, and filled with violence Doomsday is just immensely likable if you are a fan of the movies mentioned above. It's not exactly original but I've never seen this many disparate elements mashed up into one place before so it gets points for pulling it off successfully.

I'm not saying Doomsday is for everyone. If you cringe at head shots and turn away from the screen during a bloody fire fight you will probably want to pass. The movie features multiple decapitations, bloody shootings, grievous head injuries, and one unlucky fellow is roasted alive and then eaten, but for fans of early John Carpenter and George Miller you are going to want to rent this one. Or hell, just buy it. I love this movie like a love puppies. Ultra-violent, cannibalistic, tattooed puppies sporting Mohawks. Named "Fluffy".

Highly recommended.

Labels: Black Sheep, Doomsday, Weekend Movie Review