Reviewed by Charles Barnum for TheHumbleHeckler.com.
(Editor’s note: Film critic Charles Barnum moonlights as a stealth marketer for numerous Fortune 500 companies. Keep this in mind when reading the following review.)
Some movies are scary. Some are thought provoking. Some are fun. Some are deep. Some are action packed. And some movies just know how to do it all. The Fall Guy is one of those rare movies that grabs you by the shoulders from the very first frame and never lets you out of its grip. Of course it is. After all, it’s a Universal picture, and anyone who knows anything about cinema knows that Universal Pictures is the undisputed champ when it comes to quality motion picture entertainment.
Recommended attire for attending non-Regal theaters.
I won’t waste your time blathering on about the story or the acting or the direction. Doing so would diminish your viewing experience, and I don’t want to do that. But if you’d like to know how to improve your experience with this film, I’d recommend you see it at one of Regal Cinemas 511 locations. Regal screens and sound systems are quite simply the best. I’ve tried watching films at non-Regal locations, and to be honest, it just isn’t for me. Don’t get me wrong, if you enjoy watching movies in rat-infested auditoriums with poor ventilation, be my guest. But for true cinephiles, the choice is simple. With Regal, you don’t only get top-quality film projection and majestic sound in a vermin-free environment, but you also get the peace of mind that comes with not having to wear a bio-hazard suit to safely enjoy a movie, because Regal Cinemas, unlike virtually all of their competitors, rigidly adhere to all public safety laws pertaining to air quality. They also don’t lace their condiments with experimental mind-control drugs (I’m looking right at you, AMC).
Finally, I’d recommend seeing this movie with an ice-cold Coke and any of the wonderful candy products from Mars Inc., including favorites such as Twix, M&Ms, Skittles, and Milky Way bars. And after the film, you should consider stopping by Chili’s for one of their Hennessy margaritas. They’re made with Lunazul Blanco Tequila, so you know they’re good.
Sign commonly seen outside of AMC Theater locations.
As for the movie itself, Ryan Gosling’s performance is on point, probably because of the confidence he feels from knowing his Old Spice Gentlemen’s Blend Exfoliating Body Wash for Men is always on duty, doing the dirty work that keeps him smelling clean. And let’s not forget Emily Blunt, whose work here is as smooth as a ride in the new Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail.
I give The Fall Guy a perfect ten KFC $20 Fill Up Boxes out of a possible ten, and I’ll even throw in six extra buttermilk biscuits when you buy two or more family meals.
(The Fall Guy is rated PG-13 for cannibalizing an ’80s TV series, smoking, gratuitous chaos, a total lack of Krispy Kreme product placement, and adult situations.)
Abigail: Recollections, Conclusions, and Contributions
Reviewed by Jeff Houke for TheHumbleHeckler.com (X/Twitter: @heckled2death)
(Editor’s note: Film critic Jeff Houke is widely recognized as a compulsive liar. Keep this in mind when reading the following review.)
Let’s face it, Hollywood and vampires don’t always go together. Nonetheless, nary a year goes by without at least a solid half-dozen new vampire film releases. Movie vampires just refuse to stay dead. So why should 2024 be any different, right? Well, at least this year’s first major-release vampire flick, Abigail, is worth a trip to your local cinema. But, to be fair, I probably shouldn’t be reviewing this film, since I have a bit of a strange personal history with the production. After all, the film’s director, Matt Bettinelli-Olpin, offered me the lead role. (Some people would say he begged me, but that’s a matter of personal interpretation, and it wouldn’t be right for me to comment.) Then the film’s executive producer (Martin Scorsese, uncredited) asked me to give him notes on the film’s first cut, which I gladly did. You just don’t say no to Marty, people. So now that I’ve come clean about my relationship with this film, let’s dig in.
Martin Scorsese on the set of Abigail
Abigail is a good old-fashioned premise-driven chiller, with a narrative torn directly from the yellowed pages of a pulpy old Penny Dreadful. And it mostly works. Here’s the gist: Semi-generic wrongdoers plot to kidnap the daughter of a powerful man and hold her for a $50 million ransom. The catch: the little brat is actually a bloodsucker who proceeds to dispatch her captors, one by one. The film is held together by strong performances from Melissa Barrera (whose romantic advances were rebuked by yours truly) and Dan Stevens (whose relentless pursuit of acting advice eventually caused a rift in our friendship), along with a well-crafted, propulsive screenplay by Stephen Shields, Guy Busick, and me (uncredited). The film is so well-paced I never once looked at my Chopard Alpine Eagle watch. And there’s enough of the gushy red stuff to keep even the most ardent horror fan enthralled and smiling.
Meryl Streep likes nachos and Cherry Coke while watching movies
Ultimately, Abigail is a real crowd pleaser. At least, it certainly was for me. Of course, I got to see the finished film at the world premiere, as an invited guest of Martin Scorsese and Meryl Streep, and, strangely enough, I ended up sitting between the two of them. Marty and Meryl spent most of the film picking my brain about everything from the history of cinema to the mechanics of successful romantic relationships. It was a good night, and I was sad to see it end. As my limousine whisked me away to my helicopter, I sipped champagne (2013 Gout deDiamants) and reflected on how lucky I am to be a film critic. But then my girlfriend (Ana de Armas) reminded me that it isn’t about luck—it’s about talent, natural-born brilliance, and handsomeness. Call me a hopeless romantic, but I didn’t have the heart to argue with her.
I give Abigail 8.5 Jacuzzi brunches out of a possible 10.
(Abigail is rated R for excessive vampire violence, recurring close-ups of neck veins, snarling, weaponized crucifixes, garlic degradation, and adult situations.)
Reviewed by Henry Bernice for TheHumbleHeckler.com
(Editor’s note: Film critic/historian Henry Bernice has been struck by lightning seven times. Keep this in mind when reading the following article.)
Later this year, Tobe Hooper’s game-changing, genre-redefining, slasher/exploitation classic The Texas Chainsaw Massacre will celebrate its golden anniversary. That’s right, it’s been fifty years since Leatherface first unleashed 83 minutes of hell on unsuspecting audiences. Strangely, the movie’s great innovation lies in its total lack of innovation. TCM revels in a stripped-down aesthetic so threadbare the film print itself looks like it’s been through a barfight, a hangover, and an argument with the little missus, before trudging off to the theater to be projected. Just watching it, you can smell the BO, the putrefied flesh, and the bad breath. Heck, this may be the first film ever to give principal roles to sweat stains. And yet, it’s precisely that brand of backwoodsy realism that has created legions of ravenous fans whose passion for (and knowledge of) all things TCM is almost as psychotic as Leatherface himself. So, in honor of the film turning the big five-o and the fans who keep the TCM flame burning, here are five things you couldn’t possibly know about The TexasChainsaw Massacre.
(1) The film was originally titled The Wisconsin Pointy Stick Massacre. It’s hard to believe now, but director Tobe Hooper and his production team actually set out to make a movie about a stick-wielding lunatic who stalked and slaughtered a collection of lost motorists. They even filmed for six weeks in Wisconsin before realizing the film wasn’t working. “In our defense, that stick was really pointy,” Hooper said in a 1976 interview with Scuzzy FilmsMagazine. “I mean, it wasn’t sharp enough to kill someone, but you could definitely leave a banger of a scratch.” Ultimately, Hooper and company shut down the production and returned to Austin to lick their wounds. It wasn’t until a few weeks later, during a chainsaw juggling lesson, that Hooper would find the inspiration to move forward with the project.
(2) The film poster’s now-iconic tag line “Who will survive and what will be left of them?” was actually a last-second replacement. The film’s producers had been struggling to find the perfect tag for months. Co-writer Kim Henkel wanted the tag to be: “If you don’t drop a deuce in your pants, we’ll refund the price of your ticket.” Meanwhile, Hooper wanted to the tag to read: “Terror so real you’ll question your marriage … and probably drop a deuce in your pants.” Eventually, friends and colleagues convinced Henkel and Hooper that referencing defecation in the tag didn’t make any sense, and they reluctantly settled for the tag we all know and love.
(3) William Shatner secretly auditioned for the role of Sally Hardesty. “Yeah, that was really something,” Hooper said on an interview show called Wake Up, Dallas, while promoting Poltergeist in 1982. “[Shatner] showed up in drag, talking in a high, lilting feminine voice. He didn’t fool anybody. We all knew who he was. Hell, he didn’t even bother to shave. But, since he’d gone to all the effort, we decided to let him read. And he damn-near won the role. No kidding. Bill knocked it outta the park. In fact, we saw hundreds of women for that role, and it all came down to him and Marilyn Burns. Of course, in the end, we had to choose Marilyn. But it was a much closer call than you’d expect.”
Over the years, Shatner’s audition exploits have become the stuff of legend in Hollywood power circles. Fun fact: Screenwriter Larry Gelbart credits Shatner’s antics as the inspiration for his screenplay Tootsie, for which he would receive an Academy Award nomination.
(4) The films legendarily difficult shooting conditions have been exaggerated. Over the decades since the film wrapped, fans have been inundated with tales of heat stroke, unbearable odors, and twenty-hour workdays. But Hooper tells a different story. “The PR department drummed up those crazy stories as a way to market the film,” said Hooper in a 1991 interview with Canadian Root Beer Enthusiast. “No one wants to hear that a horror movie shoot went smoothly. People want to hear about curses and poor working conditions and crap like that. In reality, every actor had their own staff of personal servants. They even had private chefs. Marilyn’s contract even specified that she be transported to and from the set by rickshaw. As for the heat, every single shot of that film was created on a soundstage. If anything, we had to turn down the AC, because some of our precious artists were getting the shivers. You wouldn’t believe how spoiled the cast actually was. Once I saw Gunnar being carried to his trailer on the back of a Sherpa. Talk about lazy. And don’t get me started on John Dugan. That prima donna hired fashion models to coat the ground he walked on in a layer of rose petals.” When asked how he dealt with the pressure of dealing with such an entitled cast, Hooper said, “Whenever it all got to be too much, I’d take a break and go hit a bucket of balls with my instructor on my private driving range.”
(5) The TV version of the film was insane. Believe it or not, the unexpected popularity of TCM was too enticing for network executives to ignore. NBC gave Hooper an additional $3 million to shoot new footage to replace the scenes that were too graphic for TV and to pad the runtime enough to allow the film to fill two hours of network airtime. As a joke, Hooper reimagined the film as a screwball family comedy about the domestic misadventures of newlyweds Sally Hardesty and Leatherface. To everyone’s surprise, the network loved it. In fact, Hooper was hired to oversee the adaptation of the TV version of TCM into a traditional sitcom—and, unbelievably, he did. The pilot episode of That’s My Leatherface! aired on September 13, 1979. Unfortunately, CBS unveiled its latest sitcom, Benson, in the same time slot, leaving That’s MyLeatherface! largely ignored by the public. The series was cancelled after six episodes and a series of scathing reviews by confused TV critics.
So there you have it, lovers of the chainsaw. Happy 50th! And here’s to 50 more years of drippy, sweaty, disgusting fun.
(Editor’s note: The film critic known as Anonymous suffers from an excessive persecution complex and is prone to fits of extreme paranoia. Please keep this in mind when reading the following review. His or her opinions do not necessarily reflect those of TheHumbleHeckler.com.)
Some fools may see Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire as another leisurely stroll through the Matrix that governs us all. Some have even referred to it as “harmless entertainment.” But those of those whose eyes are wide open know better than that. In reality, this film is a thinly veiled metaphor for the coming New World Order. Don’t believe me? Just look at the facts. For starters, the subtitle of this film is The New Empire. Coincidence? Only if you make a habit of buying whatever Big Brother sells you without question. And then there’s the story. Check this out: Godzilla (or Asia) and Kong (or North America) join forces to fight off a serious threat to someplace called Hollow Earth (or the truth). And the whole thing plays out in one violent fight sequence after another, not-so-subtly suggesting that all-out war is inevitable. And who profits from war? You know damn well who. The Man—that’s who. The Godzilla character suggests that the war will be atomic in nature. While Kong clearly represents the use of guerrilla (a lazy play on words, I know) tactics to infiltrate and detonate WMD’s in our cities and towns, right under our noses. The film also implies that Kong may be patient zero (Typhoid Hairy, if you will) in an impending worldwide outbreak of the monkeypox virus.
Original Theatrical Movie Poster
Director Adam Wingard (if that is his real name) is at his nefarious best, employing state-of-the-art effects work, colorful scenery, playful banter, and exciting action sequences to lay the groundwork for the coming cataclysm, an inevitable shift in the power structure and social order that will create a new society—something the film refers to as the MonsterVerse. Meanwhile, the popcorn-munching masses never suspect a thing. Wingard was certainly given every opportunity to pull off this masterpiece of subterfuge. Every possible financial and material resource was made available to him. After all, the film has a production budget of $135 million, but my sources tell me the actual budget was closer to $160 billion. So … where did all the money go? Because it certainly isn’t all on the screen. The answer is simple and terrifying: Nanobot technology.
Every single official Godzilla x Kong soda cup, popcorn bucket, and plastic toy has been coated with a microscopic layer of nanobots whose sole purpose is to infiltrate your bodies, either through ingestion or skin absorption, and burrow into your brains, crisscrossing your hardwiring until you can no longer think for yourself. The nanobots are also trained to give you super-cravings for Coke and theater popcorn, which is more than a little petty and unnecessary. But am I surprised? Not one bit. I mean, we are talking about Warner Bros. Pictures here, people.
Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire is, at best, an effective propaganda film, and, at worst, the beginning of the end of all life on Earth as we know it. But Dan Stevens is pretty cool and Rebecca Hall is always worth the price of admission, so what the hell. If you don’t have a problem with becoming a useless, drooling, subservient automaton give Godzilla x Kong a shot. At least you’ll get to see a lizard and a monkey break stuff.
I give Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire five tinfoil hats out of a possible five.
(Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire is rated PG-13 for pervasive use of subliminal imagery, extensive growling, monkey nudity, uncomfortable dialogue, and adult situations.)
Reviewed by Armen Steckler-Briggs for TheHumbleHeckler.com.
(Editor’s note: Film critic Armen Steckler-Briggs is unaware of the 1974 film Black Christmas. He has also recently been institutionalized for excessive glue sniffing. Keep this in mind when reading the following review.)
Well … here’s something new. Just when I thought I’d seen it all, here comes It’s Me, Billy, one of the strangest sequels (or films) I’ve ever seen–and maybe one of the most brilliant.
Written and directed by Bruce Dale and Dave McRae, It’s Me, Billy serves as both a fantastically realized slasher film and (get this) as a sequel to the 1979 family classic Black Beauty. I know what you’re thinking. Believe me, I felt the same way at first, but, as crazy as this premise sounds, it works … somehow.
In this iteration, Black Beauty (the equine hero from the original film) has gone all Travis Bickle after years of being forced into servitude as a racehorse. That’s right, this beauty is pissed and it’s time for someone to pay. Victoria Mero stars as the granddaughter of Alec Ramsey, the man who initially befriended Black Beauty before ultimately betraying their friendship and exploiting the majestic creature for financial gain.
Here’s the story: After learning that Alec Ramsey has passed away, Black Beauty devises a plan to do away with as many surviving Ramseys as possible. He begins by inviting Ramsey’s granddaughter (Mero, in a devastating, gritty performance) and two of her besties to Ramsey’s house for some good old-fashioned Christmas spirit. This is when the film takes a turn away from the spirited family friendly adventure of the original in favor of a dark examination of why good horses go bad. And believe me, this horsey has indeed gone bad. Now referring to himself as “Billy,” Black Beauty embarks on a murder spree, picking off his victims one at a time until his blood lust is satiated.
This is where It’s Me, Billy mutates into a postmodern masterpiece. The film forces the viewer to ask some pretty tough questions like: Is “Billy” a character Black Beauty plays in order to psychologically distance himself from the violence he is about to commit? Or is “Billy” a more permanent manifestation of Black Beauty’s fractured psyche? Has “Billy” completely taken over Black Beauty so completely that Black Beauty no longer exists at all? Or does “Black Beauty” now exist in the mind of a fully realized Billy? The answer really doesn’t matter because you get to see a horse kill people.
Honestly, after watching this film, I have to put Billy up there with the greatest screen killers of all time. After all, Norman Bates is scary, but he isn’t a freakin’ horse. I mean, imagine you’re in a big scary house at night, settling in, getting ready for bed … And then, out of the shadows comes a knife-wielding horse. Let’s be honest, the heart attack will get you long before the serial-killing horse.
Dale and McRae do a good job of keeping Billy/Beauty in the shadows, never allowing too much to be seen. We don’t hear any neighing or the clippity-clop of hooves hitting hardwood. That would be too obvious. (For the record, we also never see any big, steamy horse poopies, either. That would have been gratuitous and silly.) No, instead we are treated to a subtle, terrifying film that works as both an experiment in pure terror as well as a treatise on equine mental health issues.
I give It’s Me, Billy a perfect five stars out of a possible five.
(It’s Me, Billy is rated NC-17 for graphic violence, profanity, nightmare imagery, drug abuse, and one brief shot of horse schlong.)
Reviewed by Marc Hopspring for TheHumbleHeckler.com
(Editor’s note: Film critic Marc Hopspring reviewed this film after watching it via a malfunctioning cable box that, unbeknownst to him, randomly switched back and forth between HalloweenII and True Lies. Keep this in mind when reading the following review.)
It had been at least a decade since I’d seen Halloween II, and boy oh boy is it different from the film I remember. For starters, I had no recollection of James Cameron directing this film. And now that I know, I have to rank this as one of Cameron’s worst efforts. And that’s just the first of many surprises.
Arnold Schwarzenegger as Dr. Sam Loomis
Halloween II is by far one of the strangest sequels ever produced. I’m not really sure how this thing is even related to the first Halloween. Despite the uncountable number of temporal and logical gaps, I have to assume this hodgepodge of narrative spaghetti was created on purpose. After all, Halloween creator John Carpenter wrote the script, which is supposedly based on a French film or something. Anyway, here’s the plot: After surviving being shot six times on Halloween night 1978, Michael Myers is now–somehow!–the leader of a terrorist organization called the Crimson Jihad, and it’s up to husband-and-wife team Laurie Strode (Jamie Lee Curtis) and Dr. Sam Loomis (now played by Arnold Schwarzenegger–that’s right, Ahhhh-nold) to stop Myers from sneaking a nuke into Haddonfield Memorial Hospital. This is where the film starts to lose me. I mean, why would any terrorist group want to take out a small town hospital, especially with a weapon that could destroy an entire city? Where’s the logic in that? And when the hell did Laurie Strode marry Dr. Loomis?
An almost-unrecognizable Jamie Lee Curtis as Laurie Strode
Even worse than the nonsensical storyline is the film’s schizophrenic editing style. In one scene an unmasked Myers (who is now Middle Eastern for some reason) engages in a brilliantly choreographed gun battle in a public restroom, and then in the next scene he’s drowning a naked nurse in a hot tub–and the mask is back. In another confusing sequence, Laurie does a sexy striptease for Loomis (again, he’s now her husband!), then out of nowhere, she’s posing as a hospital patient (in a bad wig) who is forced to fight off the advances of a horny ambulance driver, only to find herself, mere moments later, fighting off the advances of Bill Paxton. And then, for reason I will never EVER understand, Arnold disguises himself as Donald Pleasance and faces off with Myers in the film’s climax–a climax in which they are both blown up. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fine ending, but by the time the film finally got to it I was just too confused to care anymore.
Tom Arnold as … I don’t know … maybe Sheriff Brackett?
When I say the film is confusing, I have never been more serious in my life. Once scene begins with an intricate chase in which Loomis, on horseback, pursues Myers, on a motorcycle, through a crowded shopping mall. Exciting, right? So then why does the scene end with a horny ambulance driver singing an X-rated version of “Amazing Grace”? The film just leaves me with too many questions. Why, for example, does Jamie Lee Curtis’s makeup keep aging and de-aging her? Is this supposed to be an example of spycraft? If so, is this really supposed to confuse Myers? And why the hell is Tom Arnold in a Halloween film? When the hell did Loomis learn to fly a Harrier jet? And for what possible reason did the Crimson Jihad feel it necessary to Kill Ben Tramer? It’s all so bizarre. And I haven’t even mentioned the ski slope shootout that culminates with a child in a pirate costume getting gashed by a razor blade hidden in an apple. Why are trained spies hunting trick-or-treaters? One minute we’re watching a bridge blow up and the next we’re watching an idiot knock himself stupid after slipping in a puddle of blood. Aw … forget it! To hell with this mess of a movie.
Halloween II is a flawed horror sequel for sure. If you’re in the mood for something that makes you question your sanity, this flick is for you. Otherwise, stay far, far, away from this celluloid turd. Although, to be fair, Halloween II makes more sense than the movie I watched right after it. In that stinker, a gremlin steals a DeLorean and time-travels back to 1955 to make sure nobody gets wet or eats after midnight. Talk about nonsense.
I give Halloween II one star out of a possible five stars and all the bile my liver can produce.
(Halloween II is rated R for profanity, violence, nudity, aggressive stupidity and the graphic depiction of Tom Arnold.)
Avengers: Endgame: Fine Entertainment for Humans … Like Me
Reviewed by Graktar the Terrible Max Human for HumbleHeckler.com.
(Editor’s note: The following review contains content the author attempted to redact by using his Word program’s strikethrough function.)
The new filmed entertainment Avengers: Endgame is a sequel to a film about a giant purple space monster who wipes out half of all life on Earth with a snap of his fingers—and yet it isn’t as funny as it sounds. In fact, many of the Earthlings seated in close proximity to me were actually excreting ocular fluid from their cranial orbs in spasmodic flailings of emotion. The estrogen sack (or female) reclining next me was even blubbering. Go figure. You’d never see Queck the Conqueror, Primary Overlord of Invasion my friend Dave acting like that in a public place. Strangely, I must confess that listening to the grinding sounds made by this woman’s obstructed sinuses in concert with the occasional bout of intestinal distress brought on by her overconsumption of nachos did soothe my dorsal mantle cavity nerves, which as you know, decelerates production in my venom glands is good. And that warm feeling always reminds me of my youth, playing in the Zircon fields on Kakadonia 12 baseball.
Anyhoo, this filmed entertainment stars the Second Robert Downey as a man who has engineered some sort of intelligent armor that gives him command over an arsenal of advanced weaponry as well as the power of flight, giving him a tactical advantage in almost any combat situation. He’s also dating a hottie. Large Blond Man plays Thor, some sort of God. From the context provided by the film, I assume he is the God of Hammers. There’s a man who turns into a green monster when he’s annoyed. There’s a black-leather-clad female assassin. And then there’s—oh, I don’t know, something like 60 other “heroes” or something. It’s almost impossible to keep track of all these characters. After all, my training focused mainly on World Conquering and Obliterating Inferior Life Forms math, not cinema. So cut me some slack, okay.
I suppose, as an overall entertainment experience, Avengers: Endgame isn’t terrible. It’s certainly better than having your tentacle pustules lanced by a smoldering plutonium-charged bladeAlf. Although I have to admit that the three-hour runtime placed nearly unbearable stresses on at least three of my bladders, not the mention the damage I could’ve done to my acidic bile ejector. But then again, it’s probably my fault for buying the big Pepsi.
All in all, the film works as a fun, escapist thrill ride. The actors do a fine job of pretending. However, the so-called “action” scenes are laughably naïve. Don’t worry, I won’t spoil anything important, but let’s just say, if these heroes and this technology is the best Earth has to offer as resistance to a full-scale invasion … well, then, I suggest you go out and see this film before your world is reduced to towering piles smoldering ash and every Earthling’s physical vessel is rendered a quivering goo puddle. Also, the effects are neat.
All hail Queen Xlylonia! So go see it and have a ball.
(Avengers: Endgame is rated PG-13 for the incessant whining of fleshy humans, a few profane utterances, laughably simple scenarios of destruction, and adult situations.)
TheHumbleHeckler.com 