Author: unkle lancifer

INK is a glaringly original, "Fake it ‘till you make it" shoestring budgeted indie that audaciously envisions itself as a grand scale, epic fantasy. If you take a leap of faith and hold tight to its coat tails, it will show you a fascinating parallel universe the likes of which you've never seen; if you are rigidly resistant to its unapologetic non Hollywood esthetic and sometimes woeful dependence on community theater acting skills, you're likely to be kicked to the curb and left empty handed. This is a movie that fittingly feels built to detect and separate the stubbornly cynical naysayers from the hopeful dreamers in its audience.

When I was just a wee sprout, my Granny felt the need to inform me that when I was having a good dream an angel was sitting on my bed and telling me a story (so far so good) but when I was having a bad dream, a demon was doing the honors. Turns out it's not a very soothing idea to wake up from a bad dream as a child believing that a demon was just in your room, but INK reveals that it does make for a compelling starting point of a movie. Little Emma (QUINN HUNCHAR) not only wakes to find such a demon still lurking, but is also kidnapped by him and drug into a creepily beautiful netherworld.

Emma has been stolen by "Ink," a troll like creature stuck in a spiritual limbo who plans to use her as a bargaining chip to join the ranks of the dark side. Not so into his plan is Liev (JESSICA DUFFY) a good guy, guardian angel type who vows to save her. That's my simplified take anyway; the movie itself offers an impressively dense mythology involving Incubi, storytellers, pathfinders and other dream world denizens that I can't get into here because it's borderline TOLKIEN. Really, INK feels like an adaptation of a decades long comic book that you never heard of. Those susceptible to fetishizing sci-fi/fantasy minutia get your pens out and plan multiple viewings.

Although INK's whole backyard stage production of LABYRINTH vibe would be enough to recruit me as a fan, the fact is (and I have to tread softly here as to not ruin anything) it's ultimately damn profound. Unlike the many cult films it's bound to be compared to, what's at stake in this universe is nothing less momentous than the human soul. Don't be surprised if you are left contemplating just how far life's indignities have veered you off course from who you once were.

Writer, director and composer JAMIN WINANS is apparently fearless. If there are any limitations to low budget filmmaking he either didn't get the memo or refuses to acknowledge it. If he was ever an underage drinker, I'm sure he was never carded, so convincing is he that he deserves to walk among the big kids. I don't have any money, but if I did I'd be investing it all in his next film. It's not every day you witness straw spun into gold.

Like all great things INK is too unusual to be loved unanimously, but something tells me that the depth of the passion it's sure to inspire in some is all the acceptance it needs.

Note: Special thanks to reader Chris for telling me about INK!

God bless PONTYPOOL. I've been thinking lately about what a slobbering dope I am for eye candy. I can't help it, I'm a visual person. Is it shiny? Does it sparkle? I can overlook many a flaw in a film as long as it gives my retinas a hootchie-coochie dance. PONTYPOOL, though handsomely shot in a bare bones way, would be equally effective to a blind man (and was, in actuality, simultaneously produced as a radio show.) It enters your ear like that crazy worm from WRATH OF KHAN and it burrows into your brain like a corkscrew. Audiophiles listen closely, have I got a film for you.

Adapted by TONY BURGESS from his novel, PONTYPOOL CHANGES EVERYTHING and directed by BRUCE McDONALD (HARD CORE LOGO and the now suddenly interesting to me, TRACEY FRAGMENTS), PONTYPOOL is scholar smart, stoner weird and ten times more interesting than most of the porridge you've been served this year. A brain diddler from beginning to end, there are moments as soul chilling as a schizoid audio hallucination and some that are as jet black funny as a funeral parlor giggle fit. You may think you've seen it all as far as horror films go, but have you heard it all?

Pitch perfect STEPHEN McHATTIE stars as gruff Pontypool, Canada radio personality Grant Mazzy, whose normal broadcast is interrupted by reports of mad herds of people behaving ostensibly as zombies. Slowly it is unfolded that a virus is using language as a host and infecting anyone who hears certain key words, particularly words of endearment. Once infected the individual, out of frustration of not being able to express themselves, eventually comes to the conclusion that the only solution is to chew through the mouth of an uninfected person. Oh, and if a victim is not found, they vomit blood and die. Have you ever heard of anything like this before? Me neither.

Inspired a bit by H.G. WELLS' famous WAR OF THE WORLDS broadcast, a lot of the action here takes place in the audience's noggin. BE WARNED not all of you are going to dig this approach. If you had a disappointing experience with say, WILLIAM FRIEDKIN's BUG (which was based on a stage play), you may want to avoid this one. Personally, I was head over heels with this movie's adoration of semantics. Words are dissected and blown apart, poetry is made into garbage and garbage into poetry, meaning is ripped to shreds and communication is enemy and savior. Some call this a zombie movie but no, that word, like so many others, is wrong.

Thank you PONTYPOOL for gifting me an original horror experience. At times I thought I was watching the silliest, most preposterous joke and at other times I thought you were talking directly to me and that I might get infected myself. Either I'm going crazy or you PONTYPOOL are a genius. I can't tell you which because I don't know what either word means anymore.

I really love to travel especially when it involves not leaving my house. Norway, you are my new favorite place to visit through my T.V. , from my couch, covered in multiple blankets and adopted strays. Since I'm still experiencing a residual high after my duel satisfying experiences encountering COLD PREYs 1&2, I thought it was just about time to take a shot of that other Norwegian horror flick that I've been hearing so much about, DEAD SNOW. You know, the one with the Nazi zombies.

Now, if you think your Unkle Lancifer will just roll over for any movie that takes place in the snow involving Nazi zombies regardless of how well made it is then all I can say is thanks for paying attention and I'm so happy that you know who I am and what I'm about as a person. You officially know me better than most of my so-called friends. Honesty is not usually my forte, but I have no problem admitting that this movie's job seducing me was half done the moment it was put into the can.

As luck would have it, I don't have to feel to guilty for having a predetermined affection for DEAD SNOW. Its lighthearted, cartoonish fun, and it wears its admiration of all things EVIL DEAD right on its thermal sleeve. Still, DEAD SNOW is not without its yellow patches; its wafer thin characters and fuzzy logic keep it miles away from being as compelling as it could have been. Blame the script or lackadaisical casting but if I can only identify a character by what they are wearing or how long their hair is there's a problem. Not that they grow on trees but a BRUCE CAMPBELL or a INGRID BOLSO BERDAL would have made a gargantuan difference.

Having typed that, there is something to be said for a film that delivers the gore goods and action set pieces and doesn't tax emotionally. It may end up being drive-thru disposable but at least if you watch it with others, you'll never have to tell them to shut up during the important parts. I could have done without the dusty, eye-rolling "suiting up with kick ass weapons" montage but the fourteen-year-old ‘80s kid sitting behind the steering wheel in my brain deigned a scene with a head being ripped in two by hand notably rewind worthy. (I was equally heart-eyed over a bit that finds a guy hanging over a cliff by an intestine.)

DEAD SNOW is a visual stunner and a overall good time that could have been even better if there was even the slightest attempt at depth or characterization. Frankly, for all its splatter-ific glory, the scene that left me most disturbed involved two people having sex in an outhouse while one is actually sitting down on the toilet (!) Call me a prude, but THAT my kinderpals is just disgusting.