Horror Review: Horror Express (dir. Eugenio Martin)

Posted on October 6, 2025 by Arleigh

There was one film I saw when I was very young that absolutely terrified me, and even now, decades later, it still has the power to unsettle me and rob me of sleep. That film is Horror Express, a 1972 Spanish-British horror/science fiction hybrid directed by Eugenio Martín. It brought together two titans of gothic horror cinema, Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing—icons of the Hammer Films era—while also featuring Telly Savalas in a sadistic, scene-stealing turn as a volatile Cossack captain.

When Horror Express was released, the horror genre was at a fascinating crossroads. The gothic traditions popularized by Hammer Studios throughout the 1960s were beginning to fade, overtaken by the grittier, bloodier styles of filmmakers like Herschell Gordon Lewis and George A. Romero. By 1968, Romero’s Night of the Living Dead had already shifted the genre toward a darker, more nihilistic tone, paving the way for the grislier excesses that would dominate the 1970s. Martín’s film stood out precisely because it clung to the elegance and atmosphere of Hammer’s gothic aesthetic while incorporating moments of shocking violence and morbid detail. It occupied an unusual in-between space: refined in look and tone yet unnerving in its thematic brutality. Its blend of period atmosphere, science fiction paranoia, and restrained gore made it a fascinating transitional work in horror history.

The premise is simple but chilling. Aboard the Trans-Siberian Express, a British anthropologist (Christopher Lee’s Professor Saxton) transports a recently unearthed specimen—an ape-like, fossilized creature. His colleague, Peter Cushing’s Dr. Wells, becomes reluctantly entangled in the unfolding mystery. Predictably, the specimen is not what it seems; it revives and begins unleashing a series of violent attacks on the passengers. Soon it is revealed to harbor a far more terrifying, alien intelligence capable of killing and inhabiting its victims. This leads to one of the film’s most haunting sequences: the white-eyed, zombie-like corpses, drained of memories and humanity, shambling through the train corridors under the entity’s control. At eight years old, these images struck me as some of the most horrifying I had ever seen, and even today their uncanny blend of gothic atmosphere and science fiction body horror still lingers.

Viewed in retrospect, Horror Express bears a striking resemblance to John W. Campbell’s novella Who Goes There?—the basis for Howard Hawks’ The Thing from Another World and John Carpenter’s The Thing in 1982. Like those stories, it is steeped in paranoia, playing with the idea of an alien intelligence that can absorb knowledge and animate the dead. While it never attains the precision of Carpenter’s later masterpiece, it foreshadows that same blend of claustrophobia, distrust, and escalating dread.

What makes Horror Express unforgettable is its restraint. Rather than leaning on gore, it generates fear through suggestion, atmosphere, and disturbing imagery. The snowy isolation of the Trans-Siberian route reinforces the cold sterility of its alien invader, while the confined train cars become a claustrophobic prison of escalating terror. Over time, the film has slipped into the public domain, making it widely available on streaming platforms and budget DVDs. Though often overlooked in surveys of 1970s horror, it deserves recognition as one of the last great gothic horror films before the torch passed to Craven, Carpenter, and Hooper.

For me, Horror Express remains not just a childhood scare but a cinematic touchstone: a rare piece of science fiction horror bridging two eras, one that manages to terrify without relying on excess gore. It disturbed me at age eight, and even now, watching the blank-eyed corpses lurch through the dim train cars still triggers that same visceral shiver.

Horror Review: The Sadness (dir. by Rob Jabbaz)

Posted on October 5, 2025 by Arleigh

Zombie and infection films have long been a proving ground for aspiring horror filmmakers. The subgenre is relatively inexpensive to produce, often relying on claustrophobic settings, survival scenarios, and plentiful blood-and-makeup effects. Because of this, it’s become an enticing entry point for directors looking to make their mark. But while horror can be a forgiving sandbox for experimentation, creating a film that is not just watchable but truly memorable is another matter entirely.

That’s why Rob Jabbaz’s 2021 debut feature The Sadness feels like both a breath of fresh air and a brutal gut-punch. In a cinematic landscape oversaturated with lifeless zombie rehashes, The Sadness stands out as one of the rare gems in the rough: an uncompromising, unfiltered vision that twists infection horror into grotesque new extremes.

The film’s timing alone heightens its impact. Premiering in 2021 as the world was still reeling from COVID-19, The Sadness unfolded against a backdrop of real-world uncertainty and fear. Set in Taipei, it follows a young couple, Jim (Berant Zhu) and Kat (Regina Lei), as they struggle to reunite while a viral outbreak ravages the city. But this isn’t a traditional zombie plague. Those infected don’t stumble through streets in mindless hunger—instead, they shed every shred of empathy and morality, indulging instead in the darkest, most depraved impulses imaginable.

What makes this outbreak particularly disturbing is not the survivalist violence we expect from zombie cinema, but the sadistic cruelty with which the infected embrace their new instincts. They don’t just kill. They torment, torture, and mutilate with gleeful abandon. And yet, in one of the film’s most haunting touches, many of the infected appear to be crying as they carry out these atrocities. Buried deep in the recesses of their corrupted minds is an awareness of the horror of their actions, a recognition that what they are doing is monstrous and wrong. But the virus strips them of the ability to stop themselves, forcing them to participate in their own cruelty even as they mourn it. This paradox of weeping while committing acts of unthinkable violence underlines the film’s title: The Sadness is not simply about gore or shock, but about the profound tragedy of human beings imprisoned within impulses they are horrified to enact.

On its surface, the film invites comparisons to Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later—especially in its depiction of a city descending into viral chaos. But where Boyle’s rage virus unleashed primal anger, Jabbaz’s strain of infection is even more terrifying: it revels in cruelty, poisoning not just the body but the soul. The Sadness also recalls Garth Ennis’ infamous Crossed comic series—widely deemed unfilmable due to its extremes. That connection is impossible to ignore, both in subject matter and in its deliberate transgressiveness.

As writer, editor, and director, Jabbaz approaches the material with unnerving precision. The first act foreshadows the viral threat in subtle ways—background chatter on TV screens, fleeting moments of sudden aggression—before Taipei collapses into anarchy almost overnight. The narrative remains lean and purposeful, stripping away filler in favor of pacing that escalates terror with brutal efficiency.

Shot in just 28 days, the film nevertheless carries an impressive polish. Cinematographer Jie-Li Bai and production designer Liu Chin-Fu infuse the movie with a grounded sense of place: crowded subways, sterile hospitals, bustling street corners. Each environment feels authentically lived-in before they transform, piece by piece, into blood-soaked arenas of carnage. Practical gore effects are prioritized over CGI, and the result is viscerally effective—sickening yet strangely mesmerizing, almost operatic in their execution. Like the best extreme horror, it locates a twisted beauty in its spectacle of destruction.

The Sadness is more than just gore for gore’s sake. Released during the height of a global pandemic, the film functions as a thematic mirror, reflecting society’s fractures under pressure—our denial of crisis, government missteps, selfish impulses, and the darkness that emerges when rules and trust collapse. Whether or not Jabbaz meant the film as a direct allegory is almost irrelevant; in its execution, it feels pandemic-era, uncannily timely, and raw.

Unsurprisingly, the horror community quickly drew parallels to Ennis’ Crossed. The comparison resonated so strongly that Jabbaz himself has since been attached to direct a live-action Crossed adaptation. If The Sadness is any indication, he may be the rare filmmaker with both the vision and the audacity to bring such an “unfilmable” work to life.

From its deceptively calm beginning to its bleak and nihilistic finale, The Sadness never loosens its grip. It is not a film for everyone—many will find it too transgressive, too nihilistic, or simply too traumatic to endure. But for horror fans who crave extremity, who embrace the genre as a place where boundaries should be tested, The Sadness is more than another zombie flick. It is a tragedy as much as it is a nightmare, and the sight of its infected monsters weeping as they commit atrocities lingers long after the credits roll. That image embodies the very essence of the title: a work that confronts not only our capacity for violence, but the unbearable sorrow of being aware of it, powerless, and consumed.

It is a defining statement in 21st-century horror: brutal, relentless, grotesque, and timely. Rob Jabbaz’s debut doesn’t just enter the infection canon—it tears through it, leaving behind a benchmark of modern extreme cinema.

Horror Song of the Day: Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima (by Krzysztof Penderecki)

Posted on October 5, 2025 by Arleigh

Have you ever heard Penderecki’s Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima? It’s definitely not your typical kind of music. When I first listened to it, I wasn’t really sure what was happening—it’s loud, chaotic, and incredibly intense. There’s no melody or rhythm that you can follow; instead, it feels like a massive wave of sound crashing over you, full of raw emotion and tension.

One of the things that makes it so striking is that Penderecki wrote it for 52 string instruments. Now, usually, when you think of that many strings playing together, you imagine something rich, smooth, and harmonious. But this is completely different. Those violins, violas, cellos, and basses don’t blend into a melody; instead, they create layers of dissonant sounds—like dozens of voices crying out all at once. It’s less about making “music” in the traditional sense and more about creating an intense atmosphere you can almost feel physically.

What’s really interesting is that Penderecki wasn’t initially trying to compose a tribute. The piece was simply titled 8 minutes and 37 seconds, just the length of the piece. But when he heard it performed, he realized something powerful was happening. The sound conveyed devastation and sorrow in a way words couldn’t. That’s when he dedicated it to the victims of Hiroshima, giving all that chaotic noise a heartbreaking context.

Listening to Threnody is like being caught in a storm made of sound. It opens with a blast of high-pitched, almost screaming tones, then moves between moments of total chaos and eerie silence. Instead of a neat ending, the piece slowly fades away, leaving you with a heavy, unsettling quiet—like the echo of a tragedy that never really ends.

What’s especially notable is how much this piece challenges what we usually expect from music. It doesn’t have melodies, harmonies, or rhythms in the way most music does. Penderecki broke all those rules to focus purely on emotion through sound itself. That approach not only made Threnody groundbreaking in classical music but also opened the door for its huge influence on horror film music. Filmmakers recognized how those sharp, dissonant strings create tension and fear on a gut level. You can hear Penderecki’s influence in iconic horror scores like those in Kubrick’s The Shining or Lynch’s Twin Peaks. Those creepy, screeching string sounds that make your skin crawl? That’s Penderecki’s legacy.

For me, what makes Threnody unforgettable is how honest it feels. It doesn’t try to comfort or please the listener. Instead, it’s a raw cry of grief made real through fifty-two instruments playing together but refusing to blend smoothly. It’s a reminder that music doesn’t always have to be beautiful to be powerful and that sometimes the most intense emotions are best expressed through sound that challenges everything we think music should be. Once you’ve listened, it sticks with you—an echo of sorrow that doesn’t fade.

Horror Review: Men Behind the Sun (dir. by T.F. Mou)

Posted on October 4, 2025 by Arleigh

It was in 1988 that one of the darkest, least-discussed episodes of World War II history was thrust into public consciousness through the work of Chinese filmmaker T.F. Mou. The film in question is Men Behind the Sun, an infamous fusion of historical drama and horror that still provokes debate nearly forty years later. Unlike traditional war films that depict heroic battles, military strategy, or patriotic sacrifice, this film ventures deep into the murky shadows of wartime atrocity, unearthing the story of Unit 731—a chapter that had remained largely buried outside of East Asia.

The film is set during Japan’s occupation of Manchuria, beginning in the 1930s and stretching into the final years of the Pacific War. Mou frames much of the story through the perspective of a group of young Japanese boys who have been conscripted into service with the Imperial Army. These youths, filled with notions of loyalty and honor, find themselves assigned to Unit 731, a supposedly scientific research group whose true mission soon becomes horrifyingly clear. What they encounter—and what the audience is forced to witness—exposes both the capacity for cruelty and the terrifying ease with which human beings can normalize horror under the authority of war.

Unit 731 was not a fictional invention, but a very real military research facility overseen by General Shirō Ishii, a figure who still looms as one of World War II’s most notorious war criminals. Under the guise of developing defenses against epidemics and advancing medical knowledge, Ishii ran a program devoted to biological and chemical warfare research. The methods employed were monstrous: prisoners were intentionally infected with plague and anthrax, subjected to vivisections while still alive, had organs harvested for study, and were sealed within hypobaric chambers to measure the effects of barometric pressure. Others were exposed to grenades, chemical agents, or lethal extremes of cold and heat. The victims—callously referred to by their tormentors as “logs”—were largely drawn from the local Chinese population, though Russians, Koreans, and even children and pregnant women were subjected to the same fate. Official records suggest there were no survivors of these experiments.

In the film, the reaction of the Youth Corps to these atrocities provides the closest thing to a moral anchor. Initially repulsed, the boys attempt to adhere to the strict code of loyalty and duty impressed upon them by the Imperial Army. They are torn between horror at what they observe and fear of disobedience. But when a young Chinese boy whom they had befriended is selected as one of Unit 731’s subjects, the mask of discipline begins to crumble. Their attempt at resistance becomes both a moral turning point and a tragic acknowledgment of the futility of challenging the machinery of the Japanese war state.

What makes Men Behind the Sun stand out is its fragmented, almost documentary-like structure. Rather than weaving a straightforward dramatic narrative, Mou constructs the film as a series of stark vignettes, each showcasing one monstrous experiment after another. This disjointed quality mirrors the cold and methodical way Unit 731 carried out its work, giving the audience little comfort or space to detach. While the special effects often carry the look of late-1980s low-budget filmmaking, they remain powerfully effective in provoking revulsion. Time has not dulled their impact: the crude visual horror still conveys the visceral reality of suffering more effectively than polished stylization ever could.

To some, the film crosses too far into exploitation, presenting misery in a way that risks sensationalism. To others, it serves as a vital cultural reckoning, a way of exposing truths that were long suppressed not just in Japan but internationally. Men Behind the Sun may not offer the catharsis of traditional war cinema, but its unflinching confrontation with atrocity ensures it occupies a singular place in film history. Even more unsettling is the knowledge that outside the world of film, General Shirō Ishii himself escaped accountability. After Japan’s surrender, he cooperated with U.S. military authorities, trading his research findings for immunity from prosecution. As the Cold War escalated, his expertise in biological and chemical warfare was deemed too valuable to dismiss, and so the crimes of Unit 731 were quietly buried in exchange for data. This chilling epilogue—rooted not in cinema but in historical fact—ensures that the horror of Men Behind the Sun lingers long after the credits roll.

Brains, Laughs, and Decline: The Uneven Legacy of Return of the Living Dead

Posted on October 3, 2025 by Arleigh

Subverting the Zombie Canon: Satire, Genre-Bending, and Decay in the Return of the Living Dead Series

When talking about cult horror films, the Return of the Living Dead series holds a special place—not only as a spin-off from George A. Romero’s seminal Night of the Living Dead, but as a unique creative force in its own right. Thanks to a legal split between Romero and co-writer John Russo over rights to the “Living Dead” name, Russo and director Dan O’Bannon got to imagine a parallel zombie universe. This franchise quickly carved out its own identity, mixing horror, black comedy, and punk spirit in a way that both paid tribute to and upended zombie tropes.

Reinventing Zombie Lore with a Wink

The original Return of the Living Dead (1985) starts with a clever “what if” twist: what if Romero’s Night wasn’t just a movie, but a dramatized cover-up of a real government disaster? This meta idea instantly frames the film as self-referential and playful, setting a tone unlike anything out at the time.

Central to the film’s identity is the invention of 2-4-5 Trioxin, a fictional military chemical designed to clear marijuana crops which instead raises the dead—zombies with surprising new abilities. Unlike the slow, drooling zombies Romero popularized, these ghouls sprint, talk, and set traps. Their hunger is peculiar as well: they crave brains exclusively, as it eases the pain of being undead. And the old rules of zombie combat? Forget shooting them in the head. These zombies resist it, raising the stakes and scare factor.

This refreshing rewrite of zombie rules allowed the movie to be both frightening and fun. The zombies were smart but still monstrous, turning classic horror expectations on their head in a way that invited both laughter and fear—a tricky balance that few horror comedies manage.

Playing with Comedy, Panic, and Punk Rock

One of the greatest strengths of the original film is how it embraces horror-comedy so naturally. It doesn’t shy away from being funny while still delivering tension. James Karen and Thom Mathews excel as the main pair—Karen’s frantic, over-the-top panicked man paired with Mathews’ straight, slowly succumbing counterpart create a perfect comedic rhythm. Their slow transformation into zombies adds a tragic dimension to what could have been simple slapstick. Meanwhile, Don Calfa’s mortician character and Clu Gulager’s warehouse owner provide a grounded center amidst chaos.

The punk subculture flavor adds another unique texture. Linnea Quigley’s famous graveyard striptease encapsulates the 1980s’ blend of irreverence, sexuality, and horror obsession. The scene is shocking, hilarious, and iconic—one of those moments that encapsulates everything this film is about: having fun with taboos while not losing the darker undercurrents of mortality and decay.

Beyond laughs, there’s biting satire here. The film skewers the government and military’s hubris—scientists create a superweapon they can’t control, leading to chaos and destruction. This reflects 1980s American anxieties about bioweapons, government cover-ups, and nuclear fears. Horror and comedy collide to reflect cultural distrust and paranoia.

The Problem of the Sequel: Part II’s Familiar Ground

When Return of the Living Dead Part II came out in 1988, it felt like the franchise was stuck in a loop. With much of the original cast returning in near-identical roles, and lines and situations seemingly recycled, the film circles back to the same story. This self-copying invites a mix of amusement and disappointment: it seems the filmmakers didn’t believe they could improve on the original and decided to replicate it instead.

While it has its moments—good practical effects and a rollicking tone reminiscent of the first film—it leans harder into comedy, sometimes at the expense of the horror. The suburban setting and clearer military lockdown raise the action stakes, but the humor feels broader and less sharp, which can make the movie seem a bit cartoonish.

In a way, Part II comments on the pitfalls of horror franchises: once you’ve struck gold with an unexpected idea, sequels often struggle to regain that freshness. This installment is entertaining, but signals the beginning of the franchise’s creative plateau.

Much Darker Territory: Part III’s Horror and Romance

With Return of the Living Dead 3 in 1993, things take a major tonal shift. Brian Yuzna’s direction removes much of the comedy and replaces it with body horror, gore, and a genuinely tragic romance. The story centers on Curt and Julie, two teenagers tragically pulled into the military’s secret zombie experiments. After Julie is accidentally killed and resurrected, she becomes a zombie who feeds on brains but manages her hunger through extreme self-inflicted pain.

This grim take pushes the franchise into more serious, intense horror territory, with heavy themes of love, loss, and bodily autonomy threaded throughout. Julie’s tortured transformation is both tragic and unsettling, symbolizing not only the loss of life but also the torment of trying to hold onto humanity while losing it from within.

Yuzna’s effects are grisly in the finest tradition of ‘90s practical SFX. The film revives the franchise’s sense of danger and stakes by mixing romance with horror, delivering something emotionally resonant and viscerally impactful. While it diverges sharply from the earlier comedic tone, Part III proves the series’ flexibility and capacity for reinvention.

Creative Collapse: Parts IV and V’s Direct-to-Cable Downfall

Sadly, the wheels come off with Return of the Living Dead 4: Necropolis and 5: Rave to the Grave, both made in 2005 and directed by Ellory Elkayem. Shot back-to-back and released direct-to-cable, these films are pale shadows of the earlier entries.

They ditch the original’s clever mix of horror and humor entirely. Instead, we get generic corporate conspiracies, confusing Eastern European settings, weak scripts, and inconsistent zombie characterizations. The zombies lose their unique “brains only” horror and instead act like run-of-the-mill undead. Even the acting is amateurish, with only Peter Coyote standing out briefly as a sinister scientist.

Part 5 further muddies continuity by introducing Trioxin as a rave drug, leading to a chaotic rave/zombie apocalypse scenario that is both baffling and poorly paced. The low-budget effects and uneven pacing betray the exhaustion and lack of passion behind these entries.

These final two films underscore a common fate for franchises that outlive their creative spark—once inventive mythology becomes shallow cliché, and attempts to cash in feel uninspired. Instead of honoring their roots, they become muddled and forgettable.

Why the Series Matters

Despite its uneven legacy, Return of the Living Dead remains important for what it dared to do in horror cinema. The first film’s originality influenced countless horror comedies and redefined how zombies could be portrayed. Its self-awareness and invention paved the way for postmodern horror, where genre is as much about commentary as it is fear.

The third film’s daring shift to tragic body horror further demonstrated the potential for zombie films to explore complex emotional and societal themes beyond gore or giggles.

While the later sequels falter, their failure serves as a cautionary tale about the dangers of diluting distinct voices and creative risks in franchise filmmaking.

Ultimately, Return of the Living Dead survives in cultural memory as a zombie series that captured the spirit of its time—punk rebellion, Cold War paranoia, and genre self-mockery—with flashes of brilliance that continue to entertain and inspire.

Horror Song of the Day: Damien (by DMX)

Posted on October 2, 2025 by Arleigh

It’s been a while, but I’ve always thought of October as the best month for Through the Shattered Lens. The site has always leaned into sci‑fi and horror at its core—and in the early days, it was especially heavy on the horror side of things. That was really the big common thread between Lisa Marie and me when we first got started here.

So, as part of easing my way back into being a little more active on a site I’ve watched grow for over 16 years, I wanted to spotlight something that’s stuck with me for decades: “Damien,” the ninth track off DMX’s 1998 debut album It’s Dark and Hell is Hot. That record catapulted DMX—Earl Simmons—into instant superstardom.

“Damien” has always been the track I kept coming back to, even years after the album first dropped. The album itself was pure fire: a mix of chest‑thumping, hyper‑aggressive tracks laced with one of the rawest and most distinctive voices hip‑hop had seen since the losses of Biggie and Tupac. At the time, some even saw DMX as their natural successor.

But “Damien” stood apart. The song oozes dark energy, hitting like lyrical possession from start to finish. Built around a haunting sample from Stanley Clarke’s “Slow Dance,” the beat sets the stage for DMX to pour out a narrative of bad breaks, self‑inflicted wounds, and a desperate search for a guardian angel—only to meet something else entirely. Instead of an angel, he finds Damien, a voice offering help but radiating malevolence.

When “D” first enters the track, he plays almost like a mischievous accomplice, a shadowy partner in crime. But as the verses build, that “help” morphs into something more toxic, more sinister—a presence that feeds off the chaos it creates.

DMX’s debut wasn’t just a hit album; it pushed horrorcore rap into the mainstream in a way few had managed before. With “Damien,” he delivered one of the most chilling, unforgettable examples of horror woven directly into hip‑hop—a track that feels just as unsettling now as it did back in ’98.

Damien

Uh, Def Jam
Uh, Ruff Ryders
Uh, my nigga TP, creep with me

Why is it every move I make turns out to be a bad one?
Where’s my guardian angel? Need one, wish I had one
I’m right here, shorty, and I’ma hold you down
You trying to fuck all these bitches? I’ma show you how
But who-? (Name’s D, like you, but my friends call me Damien)
And I’ma put you hip to something (uh-huh) about this game we in
You and me could take it there, and you’ll be
The hottest nigga ever living (that’s a given?) You’ll see
Hmm, that’s what I’ve been wanting all my life
Thinkin’ about my little man, so I call my wife
Well, your dada is about to make it happen
(What you mean, my nigga?) I’m about to make it rapping
Today I met this cat, he said his name was Damien
He thinks that we’re a lot alike and wants to be my friend
(You mean like Chuckie?) Ha ha, yeah, just like Chuckie
(Dada, looks like we both lucky) Yeah

The snake, the rat, the cat, the dog
How you gon’ see him if you living in the fog?
The snake, the rat, the cat, the dog
How you gon’ see him if you living in the fog?
The snake, the rat, the cat, the dog
How you gon’ see him if you living in the fog?
The snake, the rat, the cat, the dog
How you gon’ see him if you living in the fog?

Ay-yo, D (What up, D?) You’s a smooth nigga
I seen you when nobody knew who pulled the trigger
Yeah, you know, it’s always over dough
You sure? I could have swore it was over a hoe
Nah, nah, that ain’t my style (igga, you stay fronting)
But you’re still my man, and I ain’t gonna say nothin’
Got some weed? Go ‘head, smoke it (what?) Go ‘head, drink it (what?)
Go ‘head and fuck shorty, you know I can keep a secret (aight)
I’m about to have you driving, probably a Benz
But we gotta stay friends, blood out, blood in
Sounds good to me, fuck it, what I got to lose?
Hmm, nothin’ I can think of, any nigga would choose
Got me pushing the whips, takin’ trips across seas
Pockets stay laced, nigga, I floss Gs
For that nigga I would bleed, give him my right hand
Now that I think about it, yo, that’s my man!

You like how everything is going? You like what I gave ya?
You know if you was going down, I’d be the one to save ya
But yo, I need a favor, these cats across town hate me
Plus their behavior hasn’t been too good lately
What? Anything for you, dog, where them niggas at?
38th from Broadway (aight, let me get the gat)
Run up on ’em strapped, bust off caps in four niggas
Laid low for ’bout a month then killed two more niggas
Now I’m ready to chill, but you still want me to kill
Look at what I did for you! Dog, come on, keep it real!
Aight, fuck it, I’ma do it, who is it this time?
Ayy-yo, remember that kid Sean you used to be with in ’89?
Nah, that’s my man! (I thought I was your man?)
But yo, that’s my nigga (hey, who’s your biggest fan?)
Either do it or give me your right hand, that’s what you said
I see now, it ain’t nothing but trouble ahead (uh-huh)

In the fog, the fog, living in the fog
How you gon’ see him if you living in the fog?
How you gon’ see him if you living in the fog?
The snake, the rat, the cat, the dog
To be continued, motherfuckers
Ah-hahahahaha

Horror Trailer: Frankenstein

Posted on October 1, 2025 by Arleigh

The official trailer for Guillermo Del Toro’s take on the Mary Shelley’s classic gothic horror Frankenstein has finally been released.

An earlier teaser was sent out months ago, but that was mostly played off like sizzle reel of what Del Toro had been up to with this latest adaptation. This official trailer gives us a much more closer look at the type of adaptation Del Toro decided to take with Shelley’s novel of the tortured scientist and his creation.

Even though it will be show up on Netflix on November 7, 2025, I do believe that this film needs to be seen on the big screen when a select cities get them on October 17, 2025.

Song of the Day: Something (The Beatles)

Posted on July 19, 2025 by Arleigh

Ok, time to get back in the saddle.

The latest entry in the “Greatest Guitar Solos Series” comes courtesy of The Beatles and one of the best songs, if not the best one, from their 1969 album, Abbey Road.

The song is the George Harrison penned “Something” and its been acknowledged by musicians and critics to be the greatest love song that doesn’t have the mention the word love (on a serious note, it is the greatest love song).

The guitar solo is performed by George Harrison and arrives as part of the song’s outro.

Something

[Verse 1]
Something in the way she moves
Attracts me like no other lover
Something in the way she woos me

[Chorus]
I don’t want to leave her now
You know I believe and how

[Verse 2]
Somewhere in her smile, she knows
That I don’t need no other lover
Something in her style that shows me

[Chorus]
I don’t want to leave her now
You know I believe and how

[Bridge]
You’re asking me, will my love grow?
I don’t know, I don’t know
You stick around, now, it may show
I don’t know, I don’t know

[Guitar Solo]

Great Guitar Solos Series

Song of the Day: In the House – In a Heartbeat (by John Murphy)

Posted on June 23, 2025 by Arleigh

It’s been 23 years since the world was introduced to Danny Boyle’s genre-defining horror film 28 Days Later. The film helped reinvigorate the zombie horror genre by introducing the so-called “fast zombies” to the horror lexicon.

It was a divisive change of pace, so to speak, within the zombie genre fandom. Some welcomed the change since it brought a new type of energy to what had become a stale, oft-ridiculed zombie film trope of the slow, shambling undead. The purists saw it as separate from the rules introduced by the zombie subgenre’s godfather, George A. Romero, with his Living Dead films. Yet, it doesn’t matter which side of the debate someone was on (something even I have fallen into spending way too much time with) there was no denying the fact that Boyle made a great horror film…no, let me correct that. He made a great film.

This was followed 5 years later by 28 Weeks Later (minus the involvement of the first film’s director and screenwriter, Danny Boyle and Alex Garland) with Spanish filmmaker Juan Carlos Fresnadillo. While not on the same level as the first film, it did add something new to the world created with the first film. It even had a mid-credit sequence that gave a hint as to how the series could move forward.

The latest “Song of the Day” comes courtesy of the series film composer John Murphy. He did the soundtrack for the the first film and the sequel. The song I picked was used in the first film, but took center stage in the sequel. The piece of music is the track titled “In the House – In a Heartbeat” that becomes the main theme for 28 Weeks Later.

Review: By Dawn’s Early Light (dir. by Jack Sholder)

Posted on June 17, 2025 by Arleigh

1990’s By Dawn’s Early Light is a film adaptation by HBO of William Prochnau’s novel Trinity’s Child. The film, when it first aired on HBO, seemed dated since the Soviet Union was ultimately going through its death throes as the military build-up initiated during the Reagan Administration crippled the USSR economically (they too tried to match the build-up in conventional and nuclear forces). Yet, despite the ending of the Cold War, recent events domestically and around the world has shown that the world never truly left behind the shadow of nuclear war.

The film is simplicity in the way the plot unfolds. A failed coup by dissident Soviet military commanders fails, but it’s after-effects of creating a “hot war” between the US and the USSR succeeds as both US President and Soviet Premiere make mistakes in their decisions. Decisions heavily influenced by their military commanders who see only black and white in how their respective nations should respond militarily. By Dawn’s Early Light shares some similarities to the classic 60’s Cold War films like Dr. Strangelove and Fail-Safe. Both films deal with the human frailties and flaws helping influence events that could lead to nuclear Armageddon for the whole planet. By Dawn’s Early Light concentrates on several storylines to highlight the stress and difficulties individuals must face to either follow their orders to their inevitable conclusion or allow their conscience to help make the moral decisions in trying to stop the madness spiraling out of control. Though some people’s decisions are left wanting, the film ends with a glimmer of hope that may just bring the world from the brink of annihilation.

The acting by the cast of Rebecca DeMornay, Powers Boothe, James Earl Jones, Darrin McGavin, Martin Landau and Rip Torn are well done. Rebecca DeMornay and Powers Boothe anchor one of the subplots as romantically involved B-52 crew pilots whose conflict comes from their own intimate closeness affecting command decisions and from the stress of families lost by the rest of the bomber crew. Darrin McGavin, Rip Torn and Martin Landau anchor the other subplot of competing Presidents. One a physically incapacitated US leader trying to avert escalating the conflict to the point of no return with another recently sworn in who fears of losing a nuclear war and thus wanting to strike back full and hard. In between these two leaders is the diabolical performance by Rip Torn as a warmongering Army colonel who sees only winning the war as the only objective. At times, the performances do become hampered by the simplicity of the script, but the cast power through to the end.

In the end, the film might look a bit dated in its production design (this was 1990 and many years before HBO became known for premiere television production) but the story itself is very current and relevant. What might have been a nice Cold War relic fairy tale when it first aired in 1990 on HBO has taken on more of a cautionary tale as more nations begin to acquire nuclear weapons with some of these nations not just enemies of the US and the world in general, but also led by men whose hold on sanity seem tenuous at best. By Dawn’s Early Light is a great piece political “what if” that hopefully remains just that and not a prediction of reality to come.