Orphan (Jaume Collet-Serra, 2009)

An adorable, perfectly sane little girl forced to subsist in a secluded den of yuppie vulgarity is the loopy premise of the straightforwardly titled Orphan, a refreshing throwback to the simplistic films of yesteryear... you know, the one's that pitted wholesome youngsters against their narcissistic parents. Following up his underrated redo of House of Wax, director Jaume Collet-Serra, and his crack team of typewriter enthusiasts, have fashioned a classy domestic horror film. Sure, it had me rooting for the wrong character to win the day. But the fact that I had any interest whatsoever in who came out on top in the end is testament to the skill that went into making this chilly tale about a pair of egotistical parents who attempt to stifle a little girls individuality, all the while, trying to take away her inherent right to kill nosy nuns with a hammer. Of course, I realize how strange it must sound for me to be using such negative sounding words to describe the parents and positive ones to describe someone who is clearly the villain of the piece. But I assure you, my reasoning is quite levelheaded. Boasting sharp camera work, a wintry setting (the snowy forests located around the family's lavish property were wonderfully creepy), a surprisingly strong group of actors, and just the right amount of cheap jump scares, this film might have camp classic written all over it (the stark image of Esther on the poster and intriguing tag line practically scream tawdry trash). However, based on the strength of the elements I just listed, this fidgety enterprise has the potential to bridge the cavernous gap that keeps kiddie-exploitation flicks and so-called "prestige pictures" from tasting each other's saliva.

The film centres around a couple of whiny crybabies (you see, very negative sounding) named John (Peter Sarsgaard) and Kate Coleman (Vera Farmiga) who live in this obscene home located in the woods with their son Daniel (Jimmy Bennett) and hearing impaired daughter Maxine (the excellent Aryana Engineer). Recovering from the loss of her third child (still born) and a bout with alcoholism, Kate decides she is ready to get back in the parenting game. Now, I'm not quite sure why they needed another kid in the house (the two they already have seemed fine and dandy). But either way, the peculiar Esther (Isabelle Fuhrman) ends up being their kid of choice during a quick stop at the local orphanage.

Before anyone can wonder aloud: Why does our newly adopted daughter dress like it's 1889? Esther is pretty much running things at the Coleman household. Pitting her parents against one another, forming an alliance with Maxine, and eliminating external threats with a bloodthirsty efficiency (the kid being stalked in that medieval looking jungle gym didn't stand a chance), the uniquely attired little scamp is always lurking in the background.

Whether watching John and Kate fornicate in the kitchen or utilizing Max's lipreading ability in the produce section, Esther is keening aware of what is going on around her at all times. She's got a secret to protect, and is not about to let some pill popping Lexus driver with dreamy eyes unveil her sinister plans.

The kinship I felt towards Isabelle Fuhrman's Esther was kinda scary. Seriously, she looked like my long lost twin sister. Yeah, it's true, I never dressed like I was in a very Gothic version of Anne of Green Gables. But in terms of genetic structure, it was like staring into a freaking mirror. Everything from the menacing glare to her penchant for deviousness was exactly the same.

This affinity for Esther's physical appearance goes a long way in explaining why as to I was hoping her scheming and manipulating would be successful. Which says a lot, since I'm a big fan of Peter Sargaard and Vera Farmiga – the two actors bring some much needed weightiness to the dramatic scenes. Yet, despite this fandom, I couldn't wait for little Esther to bring some Eastern European comeuppance down on their self-absorbed asses.

Appearances aside, the amazing, award worthy performance turned in by Isabelle Fuhrman cannot be discounted. It's one thing to look odd and strange, it's quite another to fully inhabit a character. And Isabelle does so with a depraved ease. She nonchalantly says "fuck," threatens to castrate her brother, shares some disconcerting couch time with a drunk Sargaard, has a massive temper tantrum in a public toilet (her screeching was exquisite), and knows her way around a vise-grip; in other words: a well-rounded piece of brainsick acting.

The scene in Orphan I found to be the most telling was the one where Esther gleefully watches her brother's pathetic attempt to escape a perilous situation she had a hand in creating. You see, Esther is an industrious person who doesn't rely on technology to get things done (I admired her use of hammers, knives, ribbons, and other items to move her perverted plot forward). Her brother, however, has spent so much time playing video games that simulate what's it like to be a rock star, that he has completely lost the ability to adapt to unforeseen events in the real world. I saw this to be a subtle jab at today's gadget obsessed youth, with Esther the crazed orphan representing a simpler time when people took a more hands on approach to being evil and junk. And I'll admit, I sure miss those days.

Orphan (2009) Trailer
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A Very Brady Sequel (Arlene Sanford, 1996)

Even though they have caused countless calamities (depression, suicide, greed, reality television), surreptitiously encouraged people to murder one another, and carelessly promoted a lifestyle that is unattainable to most of the world's population, the Brady family represented humanity at its most unblemished. I distinctly remember that my underdeveloped child's brain could not fathom as to why my house didn't have a stairway with an open space between each stair. This lack of stair space angered and perplexed me with the fury of an underpaid nudie booth attendant. So it's fitting that first thing I should see as A Very Brady Sequel opens is the iconic staircase that was the manufactured bane of my existence for, oh, let's say, the last two hundred years. It's also fitting that the Brady children and their live-in slave (a pathetic creature whose womanly crevice has obviously not been licked in eons) should be bound to the celebrated staircase with rope after being bested by a con man posing as the Brady girls' long lost father. Fitting because they deserve to suffer for making upstanding citizens envious of something as ridiculous as indoor steps. The torment they go through, while mild compared to the anguish I had to endure, was, in terms of attaining nonsensical retribution via a lightweight movie comedy, completely satisfactory.

According to my sources, a popular rock band called "Led Zeppelin" were so inspired by the Brady staircase, that they wrote a song about it called "Stairway to Heaven."

Letting go of my stair ire for a second, I'd like to comment on the actual film by using depraved language (I've already referred to eating out Alice) and hyperbolic trumpery (two hundred years?) for a change. The Brady family is going through a typical day: Jan is unloved, Mike is giving long-winded advice, Carol's sexy, un-pantsuited legs are as smooth as a raisin who exists in an alternate universe where raisins are smooth, Greg is starting to assert himself, and Marcia is behaving like a condescending bitch.

This gloriously mundane universe is undermined when a corrupting influence arrives at the door in the form of Roy (Tim Matheson), a man claiming to be Carol's dead husband. Infecting the Brady throng almost immediately, this Roy fella is actually looking for an antique horse statue that Brady's have on a table near their famous set of stairs. Apparently worth millions of dollars, the horsey is being cleaned when he arrives, so, in meantime, the impostor proceeds to taint the Brady way of life with his depraved modern values.

The duality between Roy's immorality and the wholesomeness of the Brady's was the second most interesting aspect of A Very Brady Sequel. I mean, the sight of the blandly dressed con man trying to transverse the kitschy realm of this bizarro family was not only fascinating, but it also quite illuminating. The implied incest subplot of Marcia and Greg was definitely number one in terms of being interesting and junk, as a genuine spark develops between the two after they discover they might not be brother and sister.

The only reason they don't act on the sexual desire is because society frowns on this sort of thing. Which is weird because they not really related. Sure, their parents are married, so technically they're brother and sister, but come on, man, what's the harm in letting them fuck? Anyway, the off-kilter chemistry that forms between the stunning Christine Taylor and Christopher Daniel Barnes is strangely scintillating. I say, "strangely," because I don't want to come off as some creepy, incest promoting reprobate.

Clear the way, because I'm about to lavish an obscene amount of praise on the awkward magnificence that is Jennifer Elise Cox as Jan Brady, the undervalued middle child and the main target of Marcia's catty cannon. Possessing a timeless beauty that transcends stuff like shapely discretion and spastic edification, and gifted with the comedic chops of a seasoned professional, Miss Elise Cox is the type of actress who makes the hordes of untalented charlatans infecting Hollywood's red carpets pregnant with fear through her sheer artistry when it comes to delivering the funny. Creating a sympathetic portrayal of a girl being gradually pushed to the edge of madness, Jennifer imbues the deeply troubled Jan with a quiet dignity.

The pressure of being popular, attractive, and wanted weigh heavily on the mind of the headgear-wearing little scamp. Which culminates when she decides to invent a boyfriend for herself named George Glass. It's a misguided attempt to placate the penetrating mockery of her raging whore of a sister to be sure, but desperate times call for counterfeit boyfriends. There's a veil of sadness that permeates Jan, but the exuberant way the gorgeous thespian plays her caused many of her more pathetic moments to explode with an unexpected mirthfulness. The scenes where she brings a mannequin of George into a mid-90s style coffee shop, for instance, was an excellent example of this pitiful hilarity. In fact, the other patrons think she's a new kind of performance artist when they see the smouldering vixen in the marmalade jumper desperately trying to reattach George's severed head.

Now, I must admit, I've been grappling with the lustful thoughts I've been having about Jan as of late, and trying to decide whether or not if they're repugnant, rational, or just plain kooky. My imaginary therapist tells me that it's perfectly acceptable to be attracted to a 25 year-old woman playing a slightly demented teenager. Which is a relief, because they amount of envy I felt towards Tim Matheson's trouser-covered lap (he gets to have Jan sit on it multiple times) was off the charts in terms of stupidity. Seriously, I wanted to be his lap like you wouldn't believe. But only when Jan is sitting on it; I don't want to give the impression that I want to be Tim Matheson's cock from five o'clock in the morning till ten o'clock at night.

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Mr. Mike's Mondo Video (Michael O'Donoghue, 1979)

The perfect film to play on a blurry television set overlooking the bar of a garish, porno-friendly nightclub on the outskirts of a once vibrant neighbourhood, Mr. Mike's Mondo Video might not be the most educational of the so-called "mondo" movies I've seen over the past sixty or so years, but it's definitely the most randomly interesting one. A demented and slightly warped product of the mind of Michael O'Donoghue, the video is a disjointed mishmash of dreamlike ideas that go nowhere, yet everywhere at the same time. A heady feat for a film that dares you not to masturbate to Dan Aykroyd's partially webbed feet. Just a second. I can't believe Dan Aykroyd's feet were mentioned before the sight of a statuesque Wendie Malick in radioactive lingerie. I don't know about you, but I think that's pretty messed up. I wonder what compelled me to mention his stinky, misshapen feet as my opening salvo? Very bizarre, very Mondo. Anyway, hit and miss in terms of being tolerable, the film never once goes for the easy laugh. Of course, that could have been because it wasn't funny in the first place (most awesome things are). But the rapid fire nature of the film's overall structure kept things so unpredictable, that you couldn't really focus on what was delightfully stupid and what was insufferably stupid. Either way, the scattershot endeavour, that features everyone from Bill Murray and Deborah Harry to Margot Kidder and Klaus Nomi, is a fascinating document of what Saturday Night Live could have become had the lunatics been given free reign to do what their unhinged brains were designed to do – which is to produce weird comedy that is more unpleasant than it is whimsical.
  
Oh, and I liked the abundance of bunny rabbits that appear throughout the video, and I have come to the conclusion that Paul Anka's anus is sometimes full of an inordinate amount of poop.

Favourite Mondo Moments:

"American Gals Love Creepy Men"
(Every cool chick in New York City at the time is featured in this bit. Including the sexy Wendie Malick and the lovely Laraine Newman.)
("When I reach down and feel a firm colostomy bag, I know I'm with a real man.")

"Klaus Nomi performs 'Samson & Delia'" and "Looking up Cheryl Tieg's dress"
(I wonder if the crotch they used--I doubt Miss Tiegs allowed her own crotch to be used--is the same crotch Wendie Malick wears on a day-to-day basis?)

"The general hotness of Wendie Malick" and "The insane amount of Rinse Dreamian posturing"
(Uh-huh.)

"Christmas on Other Planets" and "Japanese girls bathing in dolphin blood"
(I couldn't help but notice that one of the light bulbs the Christmas celebrating alien was smashing got away from him/her/it.)

"The demonstration of the Laser Bra 2000" (Featuring the exquisite tallness of Wendie Malick.)
(My outer pervert kept thinking: "Get undressed slower. Slower! The military industrial complex ain't going nowhere." My inner pervert didn't think anything, as she was killed in a horrific blimp accident in the early 1480s. Wait a minute: a "horrific" blimp accident? Yeah, as supposed to a pleasant blimp accident. Prat.)

"Gig Young's groceries" and "Nazi oven mitts"
(Tasteless. In that, Gig will never taste those groceries.)

"Wendie Malick smoking a cigarette while wearing Radioactive Lingerie"
(Try Annie Sprinkle's special secretion sauce - Now banned in Bhutan!)


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The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra (Larry Blamire, 2001)

This is a film that I hadn't seen before, but now that I have watched it (thus, completing the appropriate function that renders a film as "seen," or, to be technical, "observed with open eyes"), I can tell other people (those who enjoy watching films they haven't seen yet) that I have seen it without having to resort to tawdry lies or transparent diversionary tactics. The amount of weight that fell off my figurative shoulders after I watched The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra was so immense, that I felt the need to reference its size by employing a sentence that alludes to its weightiness. A cautionary tale that sheds a twisted beam of light on the dangers of sleeping skeletons and the risks that might arise when a scientist dedicated to science is lured into following a dancing animal/woman hybrid into a secluded forest, writer-director-actor Larry Blamire has somehow fashioned the most sincere science fiction epic of our time. A film that has no limits when it comes to terror and depicting madness in an unclouded manner, the totally earthshattering, totally engrossing, and totally elongating endeavour will leave you gasping for an oxygen-like substance. Not because you're inadvertently asphyxiating yourself, but because you won't be able to stop yourself from making sounds that resemble laughing.

The fact that a film this terrifying is also tremendous in size when it comes to providing the mirth-based relief that all us mouth breathers need to survive, has to be one of them miracle thingies. Now, I don't want to flaunt my brilliance too wantonly, but I think the humour in this film was completely unintentional. I mean, no film can be this funny on purpose, can it? If the comedy was purposeful, then that would imply that someone was being fraudulent, and I don't think the movie producers would be dishonest like that. No, the humour in this film was entirely accidental. Either way, the dizzying mix of genuine scares and undesigned laughter made for one strangely intoxicating stew.

Of course, this film isn't a moisture-covered meal that encourages drunkenness when consumed with one's mouth; that would be profoundly stupid. However, it does teach you how to drink liquid beverages that promote refreshment and how to correctly sit on a chair or sofa. Apparently, when drinking, you're supposed to press the edge of the cup or glass to your lip and tip it slightly until the watery contents pore out in a gradual manner. Sitting, on the other hand, is even simpler. In that, you just approach the item you want to sit on, and then fall backwards towards your desired seat while bending the middle part of your body.

It's sort of weird that I never knew how to do these things beforehand. But nonetheless, thanks to The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra, I'll never again find myself in a situation where my complete lack of drinking or sitting skills will be in the position to hamper my attempts to commingle with the drinking and sitting elite of our hard-and-fast society.

Taking place in a lush and wondrously bushy landscape, the film–you know, the one I seemed to stop writing about eighty words ago– is about science and the marvels that science can achieve if implemented scientifically. If it appears as though I'm using the word "science" a little too often, you should hear Dr. Paul Armstrong (Larry Blamire). A scientist not only dedicated to science, but also science as a verbal accouterment, the science-obsessed doctor is search of a fallen asteroid that contains atmosphereum, a substance that could greatly benefit his beloved field of science.

Traveling with his sexy, yet mildly dim wife, Bettie (Fay Masterson), the laughter-prone scientist drives out to a secluded cabin that is close to where the space rock landed. Near by, another scientist, Dr. Roger Fleming (Brian Howe), is on a journey as well. Though scientific in nature, this scientist has more sinister plans in mind, as he wants to find and awaken the lost of skeleton of Cadavra, a bony creature that apparently wields great power. And, as you would expect, the only way to wake up the skeleton is by acquiring some atmosphereum. Which brings me to a couple of space aliens named Kro-Bar (Andrew Parks) and Lattis (Susan McConnell), whose rocket ship crashes in the neighbourhood and can only be fixed by, you guessed it, employing the restorative nectar that only the juicy goodness of atmosphereum can provide.

The quality of the performances ranged from awesome to extremely awesome, as each thespian brought their own unique perspective to the proceedings. Populating the regular awesome spectrum would have to be the director himself, who, like I said, takes scientific language to whole new level of hilarity. The gorgeous Fay Masterson is wonderfully obtuse as the dutiful scientist's wife. Her cute nose and excessive laughter were a pleasure to observe. I found myself relating to the aliens played by Andrew Parks and Susan McConnell very much, as their ignorance of Earthlings and their peculiar Earth ways mirrored my own at times. For instance, the way Susan's Lattis character reacted to the sensation of wearing an Earth dress ("an inverted cloth funnel") for the very first time was eerily similar to way I behaved when I wore my first dress. (Self-molestation while in drag is the best invention since the toaster oven butt-plug.)

The performance that elevates this skeleton in the stratosphere in terms of sexy cool was the black leotard-sheathed allurement of Jennifer Blaire's Animala. A creature formed out of a scientist's intense loneliness, the amount of contorted charm Miss Blaire brought to the film via her catlike writhing and coquettish roaring was innumerable. Hell, even the exposed skin on the back of her neck was a reason to celebrate (her boyish haircut was sublime). I like to think that Animala was dreamed up with me in mind when Larry Blamire created her using his mind, because it's been like, at least five, maybe ten minutes since I've found myself this drawn to a cinematic character.

Alliances are formed and broken, mutants are unleashed, beastly women are created, The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra is the perfect metaphor for the need for there to be more understanding between humans and aliens. Boasting sharp writing, realistic skeleton effects, and some of the most deadpan acting I have ever seen, this loving tribute to cheesy movies from the past is an infectious lark of galactic proportions.

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The Driller Killer (Abel Ferrara, 1979)

A gritty, murky, derelict filled affliction of a movie, The Driller Killer is one of the grimier power tool-based horror movies I've come across in recent years. However, whereas most films that centre around holes being bored where holes aren't usually bored seem to made by flavourless anti-intellectuals with no sense of style (you know, philistines who think crossing dressing is uncool), Abel Ferrara is a true visionary. Bringing a fresh, guileless perspective to the much maligned genre, the director, and actor (who is credited here as Jimmy Laine), paints a raw portrait of New York City during yet another one of its rough transitional periods. The abject poverty, nonstop noise, cramped apartments and inebriated street people create at atmosphere that's literally crying out for a drill wielding madman. And Mr. Ferrara's uncompromising camera captures it all in its sleazy and bleak glory. The muddled cinematography (sinister shadows dominate the visual spectrum) and chaotic electronic music score by Joe Delia also help fashion an air of nervous disquietude. Which makes sense. I mean, who wants to watch a drill-based splatter film that is set mostly during the daytime and sports an upbeat soundtrack? But then again, the appeal of this particular version is a tad on the wonky side. In that, you have to be pretty unbalanced to gain conventional joy from this challenging enterprise. An artist named Reno Miller (Abel Ferrara) lives in a modestly sized apartment with his girlfriend Carol (Carolyn Marz) and her lover Pamela (Baybi Day)...at least I think they were lovers (I could have sworn I saw them in the shower together). Anyway, in the process of completing a painting that is dominated by a large buffalo for impatient art collector, Reno is being seemingly bombarded with unnecessary stress. The loud music of the punk band that rehearses around-the-clock next-door, hefty phones bills (the ladies like to gab in-between bathing), overdue rent, and a general sense of urban ennui are all nagging at his already disturbed temperament.

The sight of Pamela trying to drill a hole in a door (all the while being sexy and hung-over in her underwear) combined with an television advertisement for something called a "Porto-Pak" (a portable power storing device) sparks a murderous fire underneath the irritable painter.

The film's advice that The Driller Killer should be played loud seemed a bit iffy (the film opens with the words, "This Film Should Be Played Loud"). Seriously, COP, the 1984 album by SWANS, is only piece of entertainment that justifies sound level encouragement (the albums has "designed to be played at maximum volume" written on the back). Yet, upon further reflection, I can sort of see why it was issued in the first place. For example, the aforementioned music score, along with the disorganized racket that was The Roosters (the band next-door lead by D.A. Metrov), gave the proceedings a vomit inducing, unnerving quality at times. Which brilliantly puts us more in touch with Reno's evaporating mind set. You see, we're both losing our simultaneously, and that in turn makes us, not sympathize, but nod ever so slightly as he began to penetrate bums with his massive tool.

Okay, I didn't nod at all; I recoiled in feigned horror, if anything. But I can just imagine how horrible it must feel like to have your buffalo painting mocked by some rotund blowhard.

The acting of the film's mealy cast is amateurish across board, a cast that includes Abel Ferrara as the painter/boring enthusiast. To the director's credit, I did find his pizza eating to be disgusting and his drilling to be superb. At any rate, this apparent inexperience only manages to elevate the seedy realism of the piece. The wide array of homeless people who get drilled all had a genuinely disheveled aura about them (they were probably indigent in real life) and the rock crowds during the clubs scenes seemed authentic.

I was most impressed with the face of Baybi Day as Pamela, a perennially spaced-out chick who lives with Reno. Now, this might be the lukewarm green tea talking, but I thought she had a captivating screen presence. Which, of course, means this would turn out to be her only onscreen performance.

Unseemly and dirty, if you see one drill wielding psychopath movie set in a post-punk New York City, I recommend you make it The Driller Killer.

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Repossessed (Bob Logan, 1990)

I realize that there's no way to officially quantify this, but I'm just go right ahead and say it: 1990 is by far the cheesiest year, pop culture-wise, in the history of human existence. Proving that this cocksure proclamation of mine is entirely factual is the heinous Repossessed, a diseased corpse masquerading as a mainstream comedy. Boasting enough bloated references to Morten Downey Jr., Rob Lowe's home movies, Manual Noriega, Sean Penn punching photographers, and Technotronic to compel one to invent a time machine solely for purpose of traveling back to January 1, 1990 in order to commit suicide, the film, written and directed by Bob Logan, is so egregious in terms of soft penises dangling in a non-laughing state of bemused paranoia, a character is named "Luke" just so a couple of lame Star Wars gags could be properly implemented. However, that being said, any film that features the adorable Linda Blair yelling "lick me" while dressed as an ice cream cone can't be all that bad, can it? The stench of 1990 really permeates this film like no other I've ever seen. I mean, some films are able to mask their affiliation with this peculiar period of time by using well-established themes to tell their story.

This film, on the other hand, cannot hide behind universal truths and the poetic grandeur of a sentence spoken in the English language, uh-uh, it has to rely upon the idiocy of the day. And if that means priests rapping and Leslie Nielsen engaging in the millionth parody of that Robert Palmer video (you know the one), than so be it.

Despite all the sucking going on, Repossessed does have one feather in its cap, and that is: Willie Garson, who ventures outside his acting comfort zone to play a nerdy student who insists on asking Leslie Nielsen's Father Mayii a lot of probing questions. Just kidding.

Actually, the alluring Melissa Moore is the real star of the film.

Credited simply as "Bimbo Student," the shapely actress teases Father Mayii by recklessly molesting her own legs in a shameless attempt to arouse all those in and around her sexy aura.

Aided by the fact that her stems were sheathed in some sort of stocking-like material, the seated enchantress has the priest (who rarely acquires an erection via an adult female) and all the saps in the audience under her command.

Unfortunately, the moment "Bimbo Student" stops provoking her gams with her fingers is the moment this film runs out of gas and becomes the cinematic equivalent of being beaten to death with a Bible that was purchased from a vending machine that sells Bibles.

Luckily, the gorgeous Linda Blair is front and centre during the film's opening and closing. Yeah, that's right, opening and closing. I have no idea why she goes AWOL during the film's middle section, but her presence is sorely missed. This is especially true during the sequence that takes place at the heath club, as it was one of the longest, most unfunny chunks of cinema I have ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, playing Nancy Aglet, a housewife who becomes possessed by a demon after sitting to close to the television, Linda seemed surprisingly comfortable writhing around on a bed while covered in painful lesions and dry sick. Though, I wasn't surprised that she took to being evil so easily; I'd be aligned with Satan and spewing fire-hose-quality vomit, too, if I was married to an overly chipper asshole (Goodyear pitchman, Thom Sharp) who thought her possession was a some kind of Joe Cocker-related ailment.

In case you're wondering, Nancy's son thinks it premenstrual syndrome and her daughter thinks...well, I don't remember what she thinks. I do, however, recall Nielsen's character saying something about both kids being terrible actors. Now that was a funny bit.

The overall level of humour in Re-re-re-Repossessed can be gauged (measured) simply by watching the scene where a stagehand pokes an announcer with a pool cue after being told to "cue the announcer." If that tickles your funny area, you should definitely be able to extract some positive nectar from this film (you know, despite the abundance of stale 1990isms). If not, than I would recommend you do something else with your time. Of course, if you're Linda Blair fan, this should be mandatory viewing, as she manages to look scrumptious even covered in slime. I just hope you have an easier time getting through the extended exercise sequence than I did. Hell, pure, unadulterated Hell.

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