Sexual Disorders

MotD's very own psychopath, Nathan Tyree, has a sick new novel out now. It's called Stygiophilia. The narrator of Stygiophilia has big problems. He may be an alcoholic, the bird-snake god Quetzalcoatl has taken up residence in his apartment, his underage girlfriend may be just using him for sex and he can’t stop mutilating himself. His real problem, though, is that he is starting to really enjoy his life. He carries with him a terrible secret and a set of even more terrible desires that lead him on a year long journey toward a stunning revelation about what it means to be human in a world where humanity is dying. Stygiophilia is sexually explicit, violent, brutal, surreal and crushingly real. Nathan Tyree is the author of the cult classic Mr. Overby is Falling, as well as King of Citizen Bands and How to Make Love Like a Zombie. His books have been read and debated on six continents.

Have a look at Stygiophilia and maybe buy a copy

Island of the Dead

You can't really say that it's come full circle, because it really makes more of a lopsided Q or something. George A. Romero's second Of the Dead film, Dawn of the Dead, was released in Italy (in a slightly different cut, edited by Dario Argento) under the title Zombi. While Romero was making his sequels (Day of the Dead, Land of the Dead, Diary of the Dead) the Italians started a second line of sequels (or a first, since although they were unofficial, they came first). Lucio Fulci directed Zombi 2. Now Romero is a making a currently untitled zombie movie (Island of the Dead is the working title, but may change). This new film has a synopsis that is strangely similar to Zombi 2.

Draw your own conclusions from this.

Outside the Illness

November 23, 2011

I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I hate being alone.

I had to kill three today.

I was sure the street was empty before I opened the door this morning, but as I turned around to lock up I saw one of them standing in the yard next door. He was completely naked and holding the rotting remains of a squirrel, bits of its fur still clinging to his lips. As soon as he saw me, he immediately turned and began running in the other direction. This is the first time that this has happened, and I was surprised that he was fearful of me. I pulled the pistol out of my waistband and slowly began to head in his direction, curious as to where he would go.

He ducked around the corner and behind the house, so I broke into a jog in order to keep up. I didn’t want him to know I was following, so I was trying to give him some distance in case he looked back.

I reached the corner of the house, and peeked around just in time to see him head behind a house across the street, not looking back once. I began running in that direction. I had just about reached the yard when I heard a confusing series of yells that resembled no form of speech that I had ever heard. I froze dead in my tracks.

Seconds later he came running back out from around the corner, straight towards me, accompanied by two more of them, both female and both just as naked as he was. I immediately began firing at him and he dropped after a few shots. The other two did not hesitate for a moment and neither did I. I’m not sure how many shots it was later that one of the females fell. I do know that five shots went into the third, but she continued in my direction, seemingly unphased by pain or the condition of the other two. After that, I was pulling the trigger on an empty clip.

I dropped the nine and fumbled for the rifle hanging from my shoulder, but had barely gotten it past my arm when the third fell to the ground without another shot. All three were still moaning and lying in the boiling pools of their blood.

I took a few minutes to gather myself and let the adrenalin rush pass. I then pulled the hatchet loose from its belt loop and proceeded with the dismemberment, disappointed that this was to be the start of what looked to be a bright Wednesday.

That done I broke into the house, to check for supplies. This house had been better stocked then mine, and I filled my bag with all the cans it could carry (many of them beans, thankfully).

That done, I headed back to my place. I didn’t have the stomach for any more adventures, so I spent the day reading. I’m halfway through Making History by Stephen Fry now.



I wish I had a time machine.

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Just Some Updates

There's a lot going on that we need to tell you about. MotD has just learned that there is a porn parody of Romero's Night of the Living Dead. It's called Night of the Giving Head (which wins our award for best parody title ever). We can't find much information about it yet, but when we do you will be the first to know.

In other news, our sister site, An Ordinary Year, has a new chapter on-line. For the uninitiated, An Ordinary Year is a novel in progress by MotD's own Nathan Tyree. It's a twisted little piece that develops right before your eyes, so be sure to check it out.

We've got a lot of great stuff coming soon, so stick around.




The MotD team is in love with Dexter. Serial Killers deserve more love than they get. We, being the sort of sickos we are, spend a lot of time thinking about serial killers. The real life ones (Albert Fish, Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacey, Dahmer, Jones) and the fictional ones. The fictional ones are sexier. They are layered and flawed and complicated. The real ones tend to just be damaged and sexually inadequate. But then, who isn't? Never mind, though.

We are fascinated by Patrick Bateman. Aroused by Norman Bates. Puzzled by Hannibal Lecter. Giggle over Jack Overby. Dexter Morgan is just the most recent. If you haven’t met him, you should.

Finis Mort

Finis Mort Five out of Five stars It’s not often that a movie reviewer is really surprised by what he sees on the screen. I guess that it’s totally fair to say that we are a jaded lot. Normally, even the most unexpected of movies has a familiar structure, or characters that we recognize. Fifteen minutes into most films we see the direction that the movie is headed and we begin to lean that way. Arturo Janneti’s Finis Mort manages to completely obliterate all expectations. This is Janneti’s first film, and I for one hope that we can hope to see much more from him. The cast is almost totally unknown. Only Fred Kessler is familiar to audiences, and he appears only for a few moments of the movie. The fact that we have not seen these people before (and in some cases are guaranteed not to see them again) lends a certain quality of fascination to the film. The unfamiliarity of the faces combines with the Cinema Verite style to convince us that this is more historical document that entertainment. But, entertaining it is. Since this film is of the sort that is likely to be seen by viewers who worry about spoilers let me give my recommendation right up front. See this film. Now that you know my suggestion, read no further if spoilers worry you. For those who are still reading, here’s my full review: The film opens on an indistinct, blurry image. The camera takes it’s time finding focus to finally reveal that we are looking at a gray room, wet looking all around, with a large wooden chair in the center of frame. A hooded man walks past the camera, then vanishes from sight. Off screen we can hear some muffled sounds. Maybe these are the sounds of a struggle of some sort. Perhaps we hear some moans and cries. We can’t be sure. Then the hooded man re-enters the shot. He is dragging a pretty girl (Julie Castgate) who is fighting to escape. She is wearing a sheer nightgown that barely comes o her thighs. Her hands are bound behind her back. One perfectly shaped breast finds its way free on the silken nightie. The hooded man forces her into the chair, and ties her into place. The image cuts to black We fade in on Fred Kessler, dressed in a white lab coat setting behind a desk. He gives a monotone speech about the reality of what we are about to see. He tells us, again and again, that this is not fiction, but is rather real footage of brutal acts. He warns us not to watch. The look on his face is blank, as if he has been drugged. We know Kessler from many Z grade movies and his appearance creates the expectation of more of the same. Then we see a short title sequence. I know that what I’m describing so far sounds like nineteen-seventies exploitation movie fare. I can’t explain why, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. Although we are only a few minutes into the program by the time the opening credits roll, it is already clear that we are in the hands of some sort of mad genius. After the credits we can suppose that we have been dumped into a flash back. We watch a white van creeping up a quiet street at night. We see Julie Castgate (who in the credits is billed only as “Female Victim,” a decision that we may find odd) walking nervously down the sidewalk. The van comes to a sudden stop, and two men (Warren Smith and Ed Stall) jump out. They grab the female victim and drag her screaming into the van. Then the van speeds away. By this point we in the audience are completely off balance. We can’t be sure what is going on. It is if is we are lost at sea. Next we watch the hooded man (oddly, he is totally un-credited in the film, so we never know who the actor is) in a room with a large wooden table. The table is littered with knives and surgical instruments. He is sharpening a rather large butcher knife. This scene functions to give us our first real glimpse of what is to come. The foreshadowing is almost unbearable. The strangest part of the film comes next. We get a strobe effect of images coming too quickly to be distinct. We can almost be sure that we have seen several dead bodies, and a girl’s screaming face. Then the screen cuts to soft black and stays that way for over a minute. Over the blackness we hear mechanical, grinding noises and indistinct dialogue. Then we fade back to the young woman in the chair. The man in the hood walks into frame and draws the blade of his knife across her face, releasing a small stream of blood and a terrified scream. The camera pushes in very tight on her eyes, which are wet and wide and filled with what looks like real fear. Then we flash back (we guess) again. The girl is in another room, still dressed in her clothes from the street. The hooded man and the two men from the van are in the room. They strip her, and take turns raping her violently. This scene really doesn’t need any more description than that. As the scene ends we see the hooded man forcing the girl into the nightgown that we’ve seen before. We return to the room with the chair. This is where Ms. Castgate does her best acting. She manages to portray real, paralyzing fear using mostly her eyes. At first she screams, but then the executioner (it is clear by now that that is what he is) forces a ball gag into her mouth. He begins to cut her in delicate ways. He makes it slow; takes his time and punishes her. At the same time he is punishing the audience. We want to look away, but really cannot. Most of us (unless we are Charlie Sheen or Paris Hilton) have never seen anything like this. There is a fascination that builds around this sort of brutality, an obsessive appeal that makes us watch things that we never in our public minds admit to wanting to see. Perhaps it is catharsis. Perhaps we are just sick. By the moment when he finally cuts her throat, and ends her life, we are hoping for it. When her eyes go dead we can’t be sure if we want that light to go out to spare her more pain, or to spare us more pain, or because our reptile brains long for the butchery. Maybe we are aroused, in some inimitable way, by all of this. When she is finally dead the hooded man unties her, lays her out on the floor and removes what’s left of her clothes. Then he does the most unexpected (and most horrible) thing. The hooded man pulls his erect penis from his pants, strokes it a moment, then mounts the corpse in the room. The credits roll over the scene of this unbearable act. The film ends with a statement from the film makers telling us that all of what we have watched is real. We, of course, don’t believe it. At least, I didn’t the first time I saw the film. By now I know that it is true. I, like you, have read the news stories about the murder of Julie Castgate. I, like you, know that Arturo Janneti is in hiding (in South America, the FBI suggests) and not likely to be found. And yet, even knowing what we know now, we can’t help watching. We are shocked and amazed by this wondrous document. If you are like me, you will be seeking out a bootleg VHS of this film, and making copies for your friends. You will watch it late at night at parties you have hosted for only the select few who are likely to enjoy it (and most importantly: not likely to tell anyone about it). Janneti’s film becomes like a drug. I expect that we will see other young directors attempting to copy it soon. I for one cannot wait.

Bubba Ho-Tep

Elvis traded places with an Elvis impersonator and now lives a quiet life in an East Texas nursing home surrounded by decrepit old folks. He worries about life and the meaning of it all and about that growth on his penis which may be cancer. Elvis (Bruce Campbell of Evil Dead Fame) meets up with JFK (Ossie Davis). Kennedy, it seems, had his death faked. He was then dyed black and dumped in this rest home under another name.

Bubba Hotep is the story of these two old men, and their lives in what is, for all intents and purposes, Hell. It is about there attempts to regain some of their youth, vitality and zest for life. It scrapes around the edges of being a film about aging, and about how we abuse and forget our progenitors. Then, just when you think this movie is one thing, the mummy shows up.

Bubba Hotep is an Egyptian mummy that was stolen, then washed into a creek near the nursing home where JFK and The King reside. He has come to suck old people’s souls out through their rectums. He then, apparently, poops soul debris into the visitor’s toilet (where he also scrawls graffiti in hieroglyphs).

The Potus and the King decide that they must put a stop to this dreadful creature. That’s where the comedy/horror.camp aspects really get moving. Along the way we’re given a lot of flashbacks to Elvis’ former life, and some explanation as to why he left that life.

The big question is: are these men who they think they are? The answer: it doesn’t matter. The film works (as much as it does) through the ambiguity of this point.

Despite its flaws, this movie is very entertaining. Mostly this is due to the performances by Campbell and Davis. They both play it straight. Had they gone campy, or over the top, the entire thing would have collapsed upon itself like an overcooked soufflé. Since they play it straight, we tend to believe and like the characters.

Campbell does a great job of being Elvis like, without becoming a parody of Elvis. The make-up helps with this, but really it's his voice and attitude that carry it off.

Davis doesn't play the JFK accent and mannerisms, but instead merely acts presidential. This was the perfect choice.

Now, having stated that I enjoyed the film, I can’t help thinking that it reaches too far. In fact, why is the mummy even there? Really, any adventure could have worked. Given the brilliant set up, any set of events that caused these characters to reawaken and try to live again would have made this film enjoyable (because in the end that is what the movie is about). The mummy may actually detract from the film’s ability to function well.

Oh well. It is what it is, I suppose. I recommend this movie, but would have liked to have seen what else it could have become.


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