Last night, I watched the classic Degrassi 2008 Halloween special, The Curse of Degrassi.
Why Was I Watching It?
Last night, I was suffering from conflicting emotions. I was depressed and angry over the fact that I’m probably going to have to go spend a few thousand dollars on a new laptop. However, I was also all happy and hyper because, after spending a week far away in Houston, Jeff’s back! So, I was like “Yay!” and “Boo hoo hoo” all at the same time and Jeff finally suggested that maybe it would help me get my mind off the boo hoo part if I watched something silly and stupid. And, as usual, he was right! Though, in its defense, Degrassi may often times be kinda silly but it’s rarely stupid. Except when it is. Anyway, The Curse of Degrassi is available for free viewing off of Uverse OnDemand, which is how I watched it last night.
What’s It About?
Okay, so like many years ago, there was this very special, two-part episode of Degrassi: The Next Generation in which bullied, picked-on Rick Murray (played by an excellent actor named Ephraim Ellis, and by the way, that’s Jeff’s last name too but they’re not related and believe me, I asked) was competing in some sort of high school quiz-like game show and he ended up getting a bunch of yellow paint and chicken feathers poured on him by school bully Spinner (Shane Kippel). So, naturally, Rick went home, got a gun, and came back up to school and started shooting people until he himself eventually ended up getting shot and killed.
Now, four years to the day after Rick’s death, a group of Degrassi students are all up at the school at night, getting things ready for the upcoming Harvest dance. Group ringleader Holly J. Sinclair ends up getting possessed by Rick’s vengeful spirit and proceeds to kill off the entire cast. And no, this is not a dream or one of those non-canon fantasy episodes. Which is cool because, quite frankly, Holly J. annoys me…
What Worked?
To be honest, the entire 22 minute episode worked. For a Canadian teen show, this was actually pretty scary and had some fairly effective (in their own fun way) special effects. Plus, as much as I complain about the character she plays., actress Charlotte Arnold does a pretty good job playing psychotic, possessed Holly J. Plus, even among all the mayhem and death, the episode gets across a well-meant and sincere anti-bullying message and if you don’t get a little bit emotional when Rick says, “I’m dead, aren’t I?,” then you have no soul. That’s right — you’re a freaking zombie.
(Though, at the same time, Rick Murray was kind of a disturbed guy who, let’s not forget, first appeared on the show as an obsessive, abusive stalker who put Terri in a coma when he pushed her down and she hit her head on a rock. It was his abusive behavior that led to Rick becoming a pariah though Spinner, ultimately, took things too far. By the way, I always loved how Degrassi students all had names like Spinner.)
Plus, you get to see all the Degrassi kids die.
What Didn’t Work?
Seriously, it all worked. In fact, I’m just going to say that this is the greatest thing ever to come out of Canada. Okay, maybe not. But still, I enjoyed it.
“OMG! Just like me!” moments
I always have a lot of “Oh my God! Just like me!” moments whenever I watch any TV show or movie that features silly people falling victim to some unseen supernatural force. Usually, they’re along the lines of, “WHAT!? There’s a killer stalking the school and you’re going to stop to make out with your boyfriend in some dark, isolated room that only has one exit!? OH MY GOD! JUST LIKE ME!” Anyway, I had quite a few of those while watching The Curse of Degrassi. Though my biggest “Oh my God! Just like me!” moment came when Holly J. screamed, “I’M HOLLY J. FREAKIN SINCLAIR!” as that’s the way I usually chose to introduce myself as well.
Lessons Learned:
The world can do without the Harvest Dance. That, and be nice because otherwise, you might get possessed by Rick Murray.
Until next time, this is Lisa Marie Freakin Bowman saying, “Stay supple!”
For my latest horror review, I will be reviewing another classic film from one of my favorite directors, Mario Bava. Following the suggestion of my twitter friend Tom, I spent last night watching Bava’s 1963 classic Black Sabbath.
Starring Boris Karloff, Black Sabbath is a compilation film that’s made up of three different horror-themed stories. Originally entitled Three Faces of Fear, Black Sabbath has been released in many different versions over the years. Depending on which version you seen, the stories may be in a different order than in the order that Bava intended. The version I watched was the original, uncut, Italian-language version that was released by Anchor Bay. For those of you who want to truly experience the genius of Mario Bava, this is the version to see.
Black Sabbath begins with Boris Karloff playing himself, giving a deliberately over-the-top introduction and informing us that there could very well be vampires and werewolves sitting next to us in the theater. Yes, it’s silly and yes, it’s campy but it’s also a lot of fun. A lot of this is because these words are delivered by Karloff, an actor who could make even the silliest of dialogue sound important. The other part is that, as silly as the introduction may be, it’s beautiful to look at. Instead of going for the standard spooky narrator in a cobweb-filled library approach, Bava frames Karloff standing against a brilliant dark blue backdrop that establishes that this isn’t just your typical horror host … this is BORIS FREAKIN’ KARLOFF!
After Karloff’s introduction, we move on to the first of Black Sabbath’s three separate stories, The Telephone.
In The Telephone, Michele Mercier plays a Parisian prostitute who returns to her apartment after an evening out. As she tries to change for bed, her bright red telephone rings. Every time Mercier opens the phone, she hears a man’s voice taunting and threatening her. Finally, the caller claims to be Frank, Mercier’s former pimp who has just escaped from prison. The terrified Mercier calls her estranged lesbian lover (Lydia Alfonsi). Alfonsi comes over to the basement to comfort Mercier. However, what Mercier doesn’t realize is that it wasn’t Frank calling her. It was Alfonsi, pretending to be Frank. However, needless to say, there’s more twists to come before the night’s over.
Of the three segments, The Telephone is probably the least succesful if just because it has the most pedestrian plot. At the same time, this segment also show just how good Bava was at creating tension even with so-so material. Speaking as someone who has been stalked in the past, I can say that both Mercier and Bava perfectly captures the way that one seemingly simple intrusion on your privacy can leave you suddenly feeling very isolated and very alone. Finally, even after the segment’s over, it’s impossible to forget the sight of that vibrantly red phone sitting like a lurking monster in that artfully drab apartment.
The Telephone is followed by probably the film’s most famous segment, The Wurdalak.
Based on a short story by Tolstoy, The Wurdalak opens with a Russian nobleman (played Italian exploitation mainstay Mark Damon) on a long trip through the Russian wilderness. He comes across a headless corpse with a dagger plunged into its heart. Damon takes the dagger as a morbid souvenir of his trip.
As night falls, Damon comes across a small cottage and asks the family inside for shelter. Inside the cottage, Damon discovers a wall that is covered with daggers similar to the one he found earlier. His hosts explain that the daggers belong to the family patriarch, Gorcha (Boris Karloff). Gorcha left five days earlier to kill a wurdolak (or vampire, by any other name). As the family waits for Gorcha to return, not knowing whether or not he himself is now a vampire, Damon finds himself falling in love with Gorcha’s daughter. When Gorcha finally does return, it’s obvious that he’s not the same man he was when he originally left.
Of the three segments, The Wurdolak is probably the most obviously Bavaesque and a whole lot of the same images and themes would later turn up in Bava’s masterwork, Kill, Baby, Kill. Everything, from the constantly howling wind to the sense of isolation to the well-meaning but ultimately impotent upper-class hero, is classic Bava. Special mention should also be made of Boris Karloff’s performance here. Because Karloff was best known for appearing in “monster” movies, he never gets enough recognition for being a pretty good actor. His performance here, which is full of malice and threat, is just as menacing as his earlier appearance in the introduction was fun and campy.
The final segment of the film is entitled The Drop of Water.
In many ways, The Drop of Water is the simplest segment of the film but for me, personally, it’s also the scariest. In London, a nurse (Jacqueline Pierreux) is called to a large house to prepare a medium for burial. While doing this. the nurse notices a large (and, quite frankly, kinda gaudy) ring on the medium’s finger. The nurse steals the ring and returns to her own apartment. As soon as she goes to her apartment, she finds herself haunted by increasingly ominous events: a buzzing fly refuses to leave her alone, the sound of water dripping echoes through the apartment, the lights go on and off, and — naturally — a mysterious figure suddenly appears in her bedroom.
Mixing the sense of growing paranoia that characterized The Telephone with Wurdolak’s sense of predestined, metaphysical doom, The Drop of Water is the perfect concluding chapter of Black Sabbath. It also happened to scare the Hell out of me. Along with Bava’s usual superb direction, this film was distinguished by some wonderfully creepy make-up work. Seriously, once that mysterious figure reveals itself, you’ll wish it hadn’t.
I usually don’t enjoy compilation films because, too often, it seems that you’re lucky if you get just one above average story surrounded by a bunch of forgettable filler. Far too often, the stories themselves don’t seem to go together. Instead, they just appear to have been tossed together randomly with the weakest of possible connection. Black Sabbath is an exception and that’s largely because of Mario Bava’s iconic direction. The stories aren’t linked together by plot as much as their linked together by motif and theme. Each story — from the emphasis on isolation to the creative use of color to suggest mood and menace — is linked by Bava’s style. Boris Karloff may have been the name emphasized in the credits but the true star of Black Sabbath is Mario Bava.
The genius of Bava wasn’t in the originality of the stories he told but instead, in the new ways that he found to tell familiar stories. Usually, I hate it when directors describe themselves as being about “style” as opposed to “substance.” Too often, it seems like that’s just an excuse to not come up with an interesting story. However, Bava is one of the few directors about whom the term “style over substance” can be used as a compliment. Bava knew how to make style into art and he certainly did that in Black Sabbath.
During the late 1970s and early 1980s, one could hardly step into a theater during the fall or winter movie season without seeing a trailer for the newest Stephen King adaptation. His name had become synonymous with cinematic horror, and nearly every year brought a new film promising supernatural terror or psychological unease.
Among this wave of adaptations came a 1983 film that united two masters of the genre—Stephen King, the reigning literary giant of horror, and John Carpenter, the filmmaker who had already cemented his reputation with Halloween and The Thing. Their collaboration resulted in the sleek, deadly story of a boy and his car: Christine.
The film opens on the assembly line of a Plymouth factory in 1957, immediately signaling that something is off about this particular 1958 Plymouth Fury. From the first note of the retro rock soundtrack to the gleam of that deep crimson paint, Carpenter frames the car with both nostalgia and menace. The lighting in this opening feels almost clinical—bright, sterile, mechanical—yet Christine’s red sheen cuts violently through it, a visual omen that this machine is infused with something beyond metal and chrome. Carpenter wastes no time making it clear that this car is not an inanimate prop; it’s a living entity from the moment it’s born.
We’re soon introduced to the film’s human core—Arnie Cunningham (Keith Gordon), a shy, bookish teenager tormented by bullies and smothered by his controlling parents, and his best friend Dennis Guilder (John Stockwell), the confident star athlete who often looks out for him. One afternoon, during their drive home from school, Arnie spots a rusting, decrepit Plymouth Fury in the front yard of an old man named Roland D. LeBay. Where Dennis sees a heap of junk, Arnie sees perfection. Ignoring his friend’s concerns—and later, his parents’ outrage—Arnie buys the car and names it Christine.
As Arnie begins restoring Christine to her former glory, a transformation occurs—not just in the car, but in Arnie himself. The once timid, acne-scarred teenager grows into a confident, even arrogant young man, donning slicker clothes, sharper speech, and a darker aura. Christine becomes his obsession, his refuge, and ultimately, his identity.
Carpenter crafts this metamorphosis with eerie precision, pairing the car’s physical renewal with Arnie’s psychological decay. The cinematography shifts accordingly—the lighting grows darker, drenched in neon reds and shadowy blues, mirroring Christine’s two faces: seductive allure and demonic possession. Carpenter’s score, a pulsing blend of electronic rhythm and minimalistic dread, underscores these shifts. It functions almost like Christine’s heartbeat—steady, mechanical, and ominously sensual.
Between the vintage rock tracks that accompany Arnie’s moments of infatuation and the electronic motifs that follow Christine’s predatory stalks, Carpenter manipulates sound to blur the lines between teenage romance and supernatural horror. Every rev of the engine feels rhythmic, almost musical, as if the car itself communicates through vibration and tone rather than words.
Arnie’s newfound confidence even earns him Leigh Cabot (Alexandra Paul), the most desired girl in school—a relationship that initially feels like a symbol of his triumph. But Christine is no fairy tale. When Arnie’s bullies vandalize his beloved car, the story turns from eerie to vengeful.
In a now-iconic sequence, Christine repairs herself before Arnie’s stunned eyes—the crumpled metal expands, glass re-forms, headlights ignite like eyes opening from a nightmare. Carpenter lights the scene with a soft, golden underglow that turns mechanical resurrection into a hauntingly beautiful transformation. It’s both horrifying and hypnotic—a perfectly scored ballet of vengeance set to the hum of machinery and the director’s unmistakable electronic pulse.
What follows is a furious killing spree. Christine prowls the night streets for retribution, a creature of fire and gasoline more alive than metal should ever be.
While Carpenter’s adaptation diverges from King’s novel, it remains faithful to its emotional and thematic essence. King’s book delves deeply into the idea of objects absorbing the evil of their owners, suggesting that malevolence can linger in things as much as in people. Carpenter, however, turns the focus inward.
His version becomes a tragic character study—a battle for Arnie’s soul between the cold, seductive power of obsession and the fragile warmth of human connection. In one corner stands Christine, the car that offers Arnie unconditional love but demands total possession. In the other are Dennis and Leigh, desperate to save the friend they’re rapidly losing to something they can’t fully understand.
Carpenter’s signature touches—his electronic score, minimalist framing, and cynical tone—imbue the film with a dark romanticism. Christine is less a haunted object than a femme fatale: a mechanized embodiment of jealousy and desire. The film’s atmosphere bridges two eras, combining the nostalgic vibe of 1950s Americana with the grim realism of Reagan-era suburbia.
By the end, Christine becomes both a story of supernatural obsession and a commentary on teenage identity—the hunger to shed weakness, to command respect, and to control one’s fate, even at the cost of one’s soul.
Upon its release in December 1983, Christine performed modestly at the box office but was far from a failure. Over time, it has developed a strong cult following, cherished by both Carpenter devotees and Stephen King fans. Though often overshadowed by Carpenter’s heavier-hitting works like The Thing or Escape from New York, Christine remains one of his most technically polished films. It also stands as a fascinating bridge between studio horror and Carpenter’s independent sensibilities—where the shine of a Hollywood production mingles with the grit of a B-movie heart.
If Christine teaches any lesson, it’s that love and possession are two sides of the same coin. Arnie’s tragedy lies not in falling for the wrong woman, but in falling for one that burns with literal hellfire. In Carpenter’s vision, the road to damnation isn’t paved with good intentions—it’s lined with chrome, lit by headlights, and always hungry for one more ride.
It’s just 13 days more days til the season 2 premiere of AMC’s The Walking Dead series. The show has been a runaway hit for the network and for all involved. The past summer has seen some major turmoil within the creative team (mostly the firing of show-runner Frank Darabont halfway through the season 2 filming), but the show still remains one of the most awaited ones for 2011 with millions of fans waiting to see what’s in store for Rick Grimes and his small group of survivors.
Leading up to the show’s October 16 premiere the people at AMC and the show decided to create six webisodes showing the life of the first zombie Rick comes across in the first season. Yes, these 2.5 minute webisodes details the life of the “Bicycle Girl” before she joined the ranks of the undead. The webisodes were directed by the show’s lead make-up effects guru in Greg Nicotero.
One would think that AMC would release one webisode every other day until the seasoon 2 premiere but they’ve tortured fans of the show enough with all the drama this past summer and decided to release all 6 webisodes at the same time.
From what I saw these webisodes were well-done and added an extra but of tragic backstory to one of the iconic figures of the first season. Here’s to hoping this becomes a regular practice with each new season for the show.
Part 1: “A New Day”
Part 2: “Family Matters”
Part 3: “Domestic Violence”
Part 4: “Neighborly Advice”
Part 5: “Step-Mother”
Part 6: “Everything Dies”
Comment on what you’ve just watched. Do you think the family’s decisions made things worse or were things just too far gone for them to reach safety? What would you do differently if in their shoes?
Werewolf horror films have not enjoyed the same prolific output as zombie or vampire cinema in recent decades. While the undead and bloodsuckers dominate both mainstream and indie horror, lycanthropes remain relatively underrepresented. In the last ten to fifteen years, the number of truly memorable werewolf films is small enough to count on one hand, suggesting that the subgenre is persistently niche despite the creature’s long-standing place in horror folklore. This scarcity makes standout entries even more notable, and among those, two titles remain touchstones for modern audiences: Neil Marshall’s gritty low-budget Dog Soldiers (2002) and the Canadian cult classic Ginger Snaps (2000), which preceded Marshall’s work by two years.
Ginger Snaps is as much a coming-of-age drama as it is a horror film, weaving werewolf mythology into a biting exploration of adolescence, sisterhood, and female identity. Set in a seemingly quiet Canadian suburb, the story follows sisters Ginger and Brigitte Fitzgerald, misfits bound by their shared cynicism, morbid sense of humor, and disdain for high school conformity. Isolated from their peers, they find comfort in their own dark, goth-influenced world, preferring late-night cemetery photography to pep rallies or social gatherings. Their bond is strong, but it faces a severe test one fateful night.
While walking home together, the sisters encounter something in the darkness—an unseen, feral creature that lunges, attacking Ginger with brutal force. The animal’s bite leaves a wound that begins to heal at an unnatural speed, and soon, strange transformations begin to manifest. At first, these changes seem physical—accelerated hair growth, heightened senses, and an insatiable appetite—but as time passes, her personality shifts as well. Ginger grows more assertive, sexually confident, and rebellious, traits that make her magnetic to others yet alienate her from her once inseparable sister.
Director John Fawcett and screenwriter Karen Walton craft the lycanthropy metaphor with unusual clarity: the werewolf curse mirrors puberty’s upheaval. Much like films inspired by the “body horror” sensibilities of David Cronenberg, Ginger Snaps draws unsettling power from portraying transformation as both horrifying and intoxicating. This duality captures adolescence’s contradictions—its liberating confidence and its destabilizing volatility—while reframing the traditional werewolf narrative to center on female experience. For Ginger, the physical metamorphosis coincides with new social dominance, a rejection of her former outsider identity, and an embrace of raw, animalistic freedom. For Brigitte, these same changes signify danger, loss, and the unraveling of the relationship she once relied upon.
The narrative excels in balancing its supernatural premise with human emotional stakes. While a less thoughtful script could have leaned entirely on gore and special effects, Ginger Snaps roots its horror in character dynamics. Walton’s writing, although sometimes heavy-handed in its metaphors, is remarkably strong for a film produced on a modest budget. Themes of loyalty, femininity, sexuality, and transformation run parallel to the literal werewolf plot, creating layers of meaning. This thematic richness ensures that the story resonates beyond its horror trappings, inviting audience discussion in a way that pure creature features often do not.
Central to this success are the performances. Katharine Isabelle embodies Ginger with feral charm, adeptly shifting from sardonic teenager to predatory seductress. Her portrayal never loses sight of the character’s humanity, even as the animal side takes over. Emily Perkins delivers an equally strong performance as Brigitte; her quiet, introverted resolve becomes the emotional anchor of the film, providing a moral counterbalance to Ginger’s volatility. Together, they create a convincing sisterly dynamic where love is tested by fear, jealousy, and survival.
Even the supporting cast contributes meaningfully, with Mimi Rogers standing out as Pamela Fitzgerald, the sisters’ well-intentioned but oblivious mother. Rogers resists the temptation to overplay the role for comic relief, giving Pamela a genuine warmth that contrasts the darkness overtaking her daughters’ lives. This restraint keeps the film grounded, preventing it from becoming camp and ensuring its humor arises naturally from character interactions rather than exaggerated antics.
Visually, Ginger Snaps sidesteps the glossy look of higher-budget Hollywood horror, opting instead for the muted realism of suburban streets and dimly lit interiors. This aesthetic choice enhances the film’s authenticity, making the supernatural intrusion feel more jarring. The creature effects, while limited by budget, are used sparingly and effectively; rather than relying on endless transformation sequences, the filmmakers allow viewers’ imaginations to fill in the most disturbing details. This restraint mirrors the approach of Dog Soldiers, demonstrating that practical effects and atmospheric tension often outshine CGI spectacle.
The film’s release trajectory reflects its cult status. Premiering at the 2000 Toronto International Film Festival, Ginger Snaps did not achieve immediate mainstream attention. Instead, it found its audience gradually, through word of mouth and home video rentals. Horror fans discovered it over time, drawn to its unconventional blend of teenage angst and supernatural dread. In the years since, it has earned a devoted following and spawned two sequels—Ginger Snaps 2: Unleashed (2004) and Ginger Snaps Back: The Beginning (2004)—that expanded the lore while retaining the core themes of the original.
Part of the film’s enduring appeal is that it approaches werewolf mythology with fresh eyes. Traditionally, cinematic werewolves are framed around male protagonists, their curse tied to aggression, uncontrollable rage, or forbidden lust in a way that reflects masculine fears and desires. By centering two teenage girls and equating lycanthropy with female sexuality and transformation, Ginger Snaps subverts these tropes, adding complexity to a genre often dominated by male perspectives. The werewolf becomes a vehicle for exploring how society reacts to—and attempts to control—the emergence of female autonomy.
Dark humor plays an important role as well. The Fitzgerald sisters’ sardonic wit is woven throughout, providing moments of levity even as events grow increasingly grim. These comedic beats arise out of their personalities, underscoring their outsider status and emotional coping mechanisms. The humor and horror work in tandem, preventing the film from collapsing into bleakness while maintaining its bite.
Thematically, Ginger Snaps joins a short list of werewolf films that transcend their genre trappings, akin to An American Werewolf in London (1981) or The Company of Wolves (1984). It invites analysis not just for its scares but for what those scares signify: the fear of change, the allure of liberation, and the strain placed on human bonds by transformation—be it supernatural or psychological. In this respect, it aligns with Cronenberg’s The Fly, where bodily change becomes the central metaphor for loss and evolution.
Two decades later, the film remains a touchstone for horror fans advocating for more diverse and conceptually rich werewolf stories. Its success highlights that the subgenre’s scarcity is not due to audience disinterest but perhaps to a lack of filmmakers willing to innovate beyond conventional “monster hunt” templates. As the horror landscape continues to evolve, Ginger Snaps offers a blueprint for blending creature mythology with compelling character drama, ensuring that lycanthropes can be as emotionally resonant as their undead or vampiric cousins.
For viewers wondering why werewolf cinema lags behind zombie apocalypses and vampire sagas, Ginger Snaps provides an answer: when the subgenre is approached with thematic depth, sharp performances, and genuine character stakes, it can be every bit as compelling—and perhaps even more relatable—than its supernatural peers. In weaving together dark humor, horror, and adolescence’s raw turbulence, the film stands as a rare entry that deserves both its cult following and its place in the broader horror canon.
Well, here it is October 1st and you know what that means. It’s time for horror, horror, and more horror. This edition of Lisa Marie’s Favorite Grindhouse and Exploitation Trailers is dedicated to just that. So, without further ado, let’s jump into the world of ghosts, zombies, maniacs, and Paul Naschy…
Though this appears to be a fairly standard old school Jamie Lee Curtis slasher film, I like this trailer a lot. The opening shots of the train are nicely ominous, the shots of winter are perfectly matched with the trailer’s grim atmosphere, and it’s interesting to see Ben Johnson in one of these films.
Lisa Marie picked her favorite scene from Lucio Fulci’s classic Zombie (aka Zombi, Zombie Flesh Eaters) and now I counter with my own favorite scene from this film.
This scene has a simple set-up. The wife of the doctor researching zombification on the island of Matool gets herself in a sort of a pickle. Zombies have laid siege to her island home and most of her servants have either fled into the night or have become zombie chow. She’s barricaded herself in a room as zombie begin to batter down doors to get to her. It’s in the sequence where she has thought herself safe as she’s barricaded the door to her room when the hand and arm of a zombie breaks through the door (for some reason quite flimsy and prone to splintering) and grabs her by the hair and begins to pull her out through the splintered hole in the door.
I could continue to describe the scene, but I think it’s better for people to see why this scene is the one I love from Lucio Fulci’s Zombie.
During the weekend it looks like several people saw Final Destination 5 to the tune of over $18million dollars. From what has been said about this fifth entry in the on-going series of Death playing with his food this one was actually quite good and enjoyable. I’ll probably end up seeing it this week, but until then I re-watched my favorite in the series to date: Final Destination 2.
It’s from this second entry in the series that I pick the latest “Scenes I Love” and this scene I still consider the best opening disaster-kill sequence in the series. It’s the opening highway car crash and pile-up which sees one of the best car crash sequence ever put on film since the days of George Miller and his Mad Max post-apocalyptic series. This scene had everything.
tree log vaporizes highway cop
motorcycle crushes it’s rider
stoner’s car get rammed and dies in explosion
mother and son crashes headlong into wreck and explodes
fratboy looking guy being burned alive before huge semi finishes him off
SUV full of spring break college kids rolls over before getting the smi truck treatment
This opening disaster-kill sequence beats out the plane crash from the first, the rollercoaster in the third and the NASCAR disaster in the fourth. I may change my mind once I see the bridge sequence in the 5th but it’ll take a lot for that to happen.
Stephen King’s novels and short stories were mined relentlessly during the late 70’s and through the 80’s and the early 90’s. For the most part the film and tv adaptations of his work were adequate and passable. Some were downright awful and made one wonder if King was just trying to cash as many of his work for licensing paychecks or if he really thought the studios who purchased the rights would actually do a good job adapting them. One such studio which seemed to have done a very good job adapting one of King’s greatest works, Salem’s Lot, was Warner Brothers who adapted the classic vampire novel to become a mini-series for CBS.
I never saw the mini-series when it first aired in 1979, but I did see it a few years later when it re-aired on TV and then many more times on VHS and then on DVD. Tobe Hooper directed the hell out of this mini-series and turned what was a very complex modern retelling of Bram Stoker’s Dracula into a 3-hour mini-series that was both gothic and downright terrifying despite the restraints of TV.
While the mini-series does seem dated now it still retains that creepiness, foreboding atmosphere and scares which made Hooper’s Salem’s Lot one of the better King adaptations. The scene which will always stick with me and still gives me the chills whenever I watch it is when Danny Glick’s younger brother visits him in the hospital. This scene is just downright scary whether watching it as a 9 year-old or one in their 30’s.
The day before AMC released new production photos from the set of the second season of The Walking Dead series. Another bonus was their reveal of the Comic-Con exclusive poster for the show painted by comic book illustrator and cover artist extraordinaire Tim Bradstreet. Today was the big panel for the show’s season 2 at San Diego Comic-Con. Robert Kirkman was in attendance as was showrunner Frank Darabont and producer Gale Anne Hurd. The cast was also in attendance. Questions about their initial experience on the truncated first season were asked and answered. But the one thing people wanted to see the panel showed quite early and again as the panel concluded.
The Walking Dead season 2 has been given a definitely premiere date of October 16, 2011 just in time for AMC’s Fear Fest leading up to Halloween. It was the unveiling of the new season’s trailer which got the audience cheering loudly and from reactions to the trailer one thing is set to be sure and that’s this season looks to be even more bleak and with more forward momentum than the first season.
The show is less than 3 months away and it cannot come any sooner.
