The Fashion Victim

By All Means, Go In The Water: Piranha 3-D

2010-12-21T09:09:00.000-08:00

Greetings, friendly readers! I have returned after almost a year's absence with a new Fashion Victim post for you. I apologize for my beyond-sporadic posting, but I just haven't seen a lot of horror films where I can actually talk about the costuming.

No matter; last night I saw a movie so awesomely awful, so hilariously, unashamedly tasteless, that I had to share it with you despite the fact that I can really only mention the LACK of costumes.

Man, I love Alexandre Aja. You can always count on him to squint at the line of tastefulness, class and subtlety, and without missing a beat just drive right through that sucker with a Mack truck. Such is the case with Piranha 3-D, a remake of the original 1978 Joe Dante film.

Okay, so the plot, like I even need to tell you: earthquake opens seismic rift in lake -

- clearing the way for thousands of prehistoric killer fish to attack obnoxious partiers during Spring Break. Good times.

I never got the whole concept of Spring Break. Let me give you a little history. Not so long ago, I was an Adult-Movie Reviewer. Hey, the pay was decent, and it was educational. Every so often I would get one of those Girls Gone Wild-type vids to review, and they were always subtitled "Spring Break Edition." Reviewing just one of those things was the Eighth Circle Of Hell.

That's the one where they force you to watch 3-hour long unedited footage of loud, insecure, attention-seeking girls flashing the camera and sticking their tongues in each others' mouths, with no actual sex, and then another 4-6 hours of "bonus footage." It was mind-numbing, and instilled in me a great aversion towards screaming, topless college girls.

Now, I haven't appeared in even a one-piece bathing suit since 1987, nor will I ever do so again in my life, but I have a pretty fair idea of what the college kids are wearing on the beach or lake these days. Seems to me that not all of them do their shopping in the pole-dancers' section of Frederick's Of Hollywood, and that not all swimwear consists of a series of one-inch wet-look lycra triangles held together with single-strand thread.

There is not a single one-piece or tankini in this movie. Not one. I'm not just talking the pr0nstar girls. It's the "regular vacationers" too.

Okay, so of course we have the usual cast of characters. Elisabeth Shue as the tough mama sheriff -

her teenaged nerd son, who you can tell is different from the Spring Break fratheads because he's wearing a Pixies shirt -

Christopher Lloyd, typecast as the deranged eccentric scientist -

his younger counterpart, the cute, heroic seismologist -

Insanely obnoxious Girls Gone Wild-style pr0n director and his hott bikini girls -

a seemingly endless sea of nearly-naked college girls whose sole ambition in life (well, in this movie anyway) is to pop their tops -

Ving Rhames, because they needed a gruff badass cop -

- and Richard Dreyfuss, who absolutely cannot catch a break when it comes to water-related activities. (Note to readers: Don't Go There. I deliberately did NOT say "water sports," but I know some of you are headed over that way anyway.)

There is so much in the realm of exposed breasts, legs chewed down to skeletons, WTF-you-don't-have-time-for-that situations, booty shots, wonky science, scenery chewing moments, completely gratuitous use of 3-D, and the inevitable Stupid Ass People Getting Their Skin Chewed Off, that I was literally rolling on the floor laughing.

I'm sure most of you are very glad you were not there with me, because I was talking back to the movie like a madwoman. "Haven't ANY of you seen Jaws?"

I mean, at one point, ol' Ving and Elisabeth are trying to save the dumbass tourists, who won't get out of the water, by shooting their guns at the fish. In the middle of a horde of screaming, splashing people. At thousands of flesh-eating piranhas, attempting to pick them off one by one. Brilliant idea, that's really safe for the tourists.

And when they run out of ammo, Ving grabs a boat engine propeller and starts making a piranha smoothie. Awww yeah.

Also, when they blow up a boat, one of the characters says "Look, they're all dead!" and points to about twenty dead fish floating in the water. Everyone rejoices, having defeated the menace, despite the fact that it is a huge-ass lake and Chris Lloyd already told them there are thousands of these things.

Oh yeah, and the pr0no director gets his, er, man-parts bitten off, and then in case we missed the sight of the dismembered organ sinking to the bottom of the lake, we get a shot of the fish spitting it back out. That Aja, what a classy director dude.

(No, I will spare you that screencap.)

Biological fact: wieners do not float, apparently, nor do flesh-eating fish find them tasty. I'm sure if you tossed a hot dog to a shark, it would totally reject it.

Now, you're reading all of the above and thinking, man, the Costuminatrix totally hated this movie, avoid at all costs. You would be wrong. This is AWESOME. This is awesome in much the same way the Two Thousand Maniacs! remake was awesome.

I have not been so grossed out, or laughed so hard at a movie in a long, long time. If this is any indication, I also saw Black Swan the same night, and I would give the Oscar to Piranha 3-D instead, it was so incredibly great.

Unless they can work in stripper-ballerina bikinis and have Natalie Portman devoured by ancient killer fish. I could get behind that.

LOLITA KILLER!! X-Cross (2007)

2010-03-04T10:20:00.000-08:00

There are times when the movie you are watching may be just OK, but then someone walks on in a costume so awesome your jaw just drops.

Since I am one of those undiscerning gourmands when it comes to J-horror (I blame Takashi Miike for this, though it isn't his fault that some of his countrymen don't make films as awesome as he does), I have waded through a lot of black-haired ghosts and terrified girls in sailor suits.

What IS it with the sailor suit/school uniform thing? Every female aged 15-35 in every Japanese horror film I have ever seen seems to wear their school uniform 24-7. I went to a uniform-mandatory school, and lemme tell ya, we couldn't WAIT to get out of those things once we left the school gate. It was considered so incredibly uncool for anyone to appear in a non-school setting in their uniform.

Different cultures, different strokes. Let's move on.

OK, so X-Cross has this wacky non-linear storyline with the diverging points of view of two cute girls; one of whom is kinda slutty and the other sweet and innocent .

The latter broke up with her boyfriend, so the two friends go to a mysterious village to soak in the hot springs. Turns out the village is inhabited by a bloodthirsty cult with a fetish for chopping off young women's legs.

And then the awesome walks on screen.

Deranged side-plot killer in full-on Sweet Lolita getup. Rocking an eyepatch. Wielding enormous sewing scissors as a weapon. OH HELL YES.

She also changes costume, because, you know, sometimes in between stalking your intended victim, you can suddenly decide that Elegant GOTH Lolita is really the way to go.

As soon as the Lolita Killer showed up, I lost interest in whatever the plot of the movie was. I mean, bloodthirsty cults really cannot hold a candle to scissor-slinging deranged Japanese girls in 50 yards of pink and white eyelet, bows, ruffles, knee socks, and platform Mary Janes with little roses on the straps.

The Glam World of 1978: Eyes Of Laura Mars

2010-03-03T14:27:00.000-08:00

Greetings, fellow Fashion Victims! After extended wanderings, I have returned to regale you with more horror film costumery.

I was recently on tour doing costumes for a ballet company. During late nights in some of the duller towns and hotels, I indulged myself with play-on-demand movies. One of them was this golden oldie slasher-thriller from 1978.

Man, I loved Eyes of Laura Mars when I was an impressionable young teen. I thought it was super creepy and exciting. Photographer who portrays scenes of fashion and violence can suddenly see through eyes of slasher killer who is systematically stalking her and taking out all of her closest pals. AWESOME.

Now, in my dotage, I just find it sort of hilariously campy, although it is quite a slab of fashion history. Seriously, the outfits in this thing veer wildly from fabulous to horrifying and back to fab again.

One thing you can say about Faye Dunaway, she does have the amazing ability to flare her eyes like she's trying to hypnotize prey.

Also, great legs. And her split skirt ensemble is not only practical, it shows that feature off to incredible advantage.

I do NOT have great legs, nor have I ever, but damn I wanted a few split skirts after I saw this movie. 'Course, I also heartily embraced the Flashdance fashion trend, so that about sums it up for my clothing sense during that time.

I also love very much how Dunaway's character can go from ultraglam...

...to Valium-soaked frump.

Plus she has one of the kinkiest bedrooms ever.

Her fashion models are no slouch either. Here's the famed "car crash" photo shoot, filmed in Columbus Circle:

You just can't go wrong with fur and lingerie, can you? And check out that crimp job on the center model.

Anyway, Laura's closest associate is this guy, the poor man's less comedic Gene Wilder. His hair is more feathered than Farrah Fawcett's.

His character's name is Donald, which makes for several utterly marvelous scenes in which a terminally freaked-out Dunaway races down hallways in her knee-high suede boots, calling "DOOOOOOOOOONAAAAAAAAALD!!!" in a voice like a foghorn.

Imagine a Tallulah Bankhead-style drag queen saying "Hello daaaaaahling" and you will get an impression of how Dunaway's voice sounds. It's like she's taken several hits of Nyquil after smoking for about a year.

Her love interest, by the way, is Tommy Lee Jones.

Anyone who has seen Jones' work AFTER he did this film will have a wonderful time seeing him emote in turtlenecks, mega-flared trousers, and rockstar hair.

Oh yeah, there's also Brad Dourif as everyone's favorite scuzzball. He's Laura's driver, and if you can't figure that out from the plot, he is wearing a hat that will remind you.

You know, originally this was supposed to be a Barbra Streisand vehicle, but she backed out because the subject matter was "too kinky." Guess she didn't like Laura's bedroom either.

She did do the theme song, though.

Don't get me wrong, I still love Eyes of Laura Mars. It's just that while watching it, I couldn't decide if it was all wonderfully glam and marvy, or whether I should be laughing myself sick at the high melodrama of it all.

Ultimately, I did both.

The Single Most Important Garment in the Modern Horror Movie

2009-08-07T08:51:00.000-07:00

Greetings, horror fashion fans. After considerable research, I have determined that there is one single clothing item that all modern horror movies MUST have. What could it be? Is it shoes equipped with razorblades? Swami turbans that hide your third-eye death ray? Metal-spiked gloves? The Drill Bra?

Nay, my friends. It is, of course, the White Tank Top. It is the Little Black Dress of the modern horror movie. And especially if you are the Final Girl in a teen slasher movie, you have to have it on as you battle for your life against the evil killer.

Witness:

House of Wax (2005) - check.

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake (2003) - check.

Return To The House On Haunted Hill (2007) - check.

Rest Stop (2006) - check.

Wrong Turn (2003) - check.

Martyrs (2008) - check.

Why is this particular top such a necessity in horror? Is it because Sigourney Weaver looked so awesome in hers whilst fighting the Alien?

Well, yes, she did, but no again. It's because white tank tops not only show off one's sexy physique whilst still looking tough....

..they are simple, cheap, washable, and bloodstains show up beautifully on them.

You can trash hell out of a white tank top and still have 9 more left in your cheapo Walmart 10-pack.

It is the costume designer's save-all.

The House of Hellraiser: Haute Couture, Hell-Style

2009-07-02T07:40:00.001-07:00

Ah, Hellraiser. Everyone's seen it. Any possible review or dissection or general discussion has been done. It is an 80s classic, as is its sequel, and rightly so.

Then things started to get weird and dare I say, lame, and there were tie-ins to video games and bad cinematography and completely boring plots and bad acting and more lameness.

But before all that, we had The Originals, and to the fashion-minded, Hellraiser is probably THE most important horror franchise ever created. Why, you ask?

You see, what Hellraiser does is: establish the Official Wardrobe Of Hell.

Apparently, Hell is like going to the grungiest, filthiest, most underground Goth club evar, where there are potential serial killers and Real Vampyyyres and aspiring members of Jim Rose's Circus.

Except they have all spent FAR more money on their outfits than any of you pathetic townies in your Hot Topic miniskirts and Lip Service knockoffs. You can totally forget about winning that Miss Goth Princess title this year.

In order to be one of the Cool Kids, a.k.a. the Cenobites, you need to be wearing full-length high grade leather and PVC, custom stompy boots, and intricately constructed corsets/body armor.

Not to forget Tenebrous Kate's mandate of the HUGE Fucking Sunglasses.

There is also that little matter of creative self-mutiliation.

You don't see the Cenobites with any wimpy mainstream eyebrow piercings or barbed wire tattoos. Oh no. These guys are HARDCORE.

Just be careful not to remind any of them that they once used to be human (or had day jobs), because according to the second film, their totally awesomely cool leader with all the pins hammered into his head...

...suddenly turns into that sad balding creepy old guy trying to wear fetish gear and hit on all the nubile twentysomethings in the place, prompting general shrieks of "NO, NO!! PUT THE PINS BACK IN!!!

I kid. I should show some proper respect for Doug Bradley, who has been picking up steady paychecks for wandering around in SFX makeup sending people to hell for god knows how many bad Hellraiser spinoffs. And he does rock the WWI military look okay.

Then, obviously, there is the all-important "skinless" look, which is apparently par for the course but not all that cool in Hell.

Of course, fashion this extreme makes the hapless human characters look sick. Witness Kirsty Cotton (Ashley Laurence) rocking the glam-metal hair and the Corey Feldman blazer-with-pushed-up-sleeves look:

Although to give her credit, she wears a skin-suit later on. When in Hell, and all that.

And there's Clare Higgins as Julia, who is supposed to be so beautiful that men are willing to drop their trousers the second she looks at them, but instead looks kind of like your really stressed out high school principal.

Unless your particular fetish is "Psycho Margaret Thatcher."

Still, in the second movie she gets a better hairstyle and wanders around in twist-style halter evening gowns.

Even when she is working the full-on-mummy look.

Now THAT is some primo Special Needs material, right there.

Blast From The Past: The Sentinel (1977)

2009-05-05T11:53:00.000-07:00

Last week I succumbed to nostalgia and watched Michael Winner's The Sentinel (1977).

Oh The Sentinel, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

1. I love thee for Cristina Raines' super awesome 70s wardrobe, including a different white Olga nightgown for every night of interrupted sleep...

for Beverly D'Angelo's all-red dance costume, and Ava Gardner's amazing Joan Collins hats.

2. I love thee for thy hysterically overwrought heroine, played by the aforementioned Raines, a supermodel with a terribly traumatic childhood. Said trauma was apparently triggered by her absolute horror at walking in on her father (who, in this movie, looks like he's pushing the age of 85) with two enormously fat prostitutes. This causes her to flee sobbing to the bathroom, and cut her wrists (crosswise). Said trauma could also have been caused by being forced to wear a miniskirted Catholic schoolgirl uniform, which I suppose was meant to make Raines look like a youthful teenager, but instead makes her look like a giantess playing dressup.

3. I love thee for thy completely random lines of dialogue, like the whole "Black and white cat - black and white cake!" exchange. Huh? (See #4, below - these dialogue lines were probably mandated by SAG rules or something).

4. I love thee for thy totally eye-popping star-studded cast of thousands, all of whom pretty much walked in the front door, walked across the set, took their paycheck, and walked on, much like graduates receiving their diplomas. Like Burgess Meredith as a mincing old man with a grumpy cat, Beverly D'Angelo and the 2-minute completely awkward masturbation sequence, Sylvia Miles as her German lover, Jerry Orbach with INSANE 70s feathered hair, Martin Balsam as the cliched absent-minded professor, Richard Dreyfuss as an uncredited, line-less extra, Nana Visitor and Tom Berenger as walk-ons, Jeff Goldblum (with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel)....

Eli Wallach as the crusty old detective, and his sidekick Christopher Walken, chewing gum and saying ONE line....

Chris Sarandon as the mysterious boyfriend, with the wimpiest milquetoast 'stache you've ever seen....

Jose' Ferrer as a fearful cardinal....

And John Carradine, who never seemed to play any role that did not require him to (a) be old or (b) slathered in wacky makeup.

It was sort of like the director wanted to make It's A Mad Mad Mad Mad Mad World, or a Robert Altman kinda thing, but realized that everyone just wanted to see The Exorcist or something scary involving demons, supermodels and the Catholic Church. Whatever.

5. I love thee for the mere idea that a furnished Manhattan or Brooklyn apartment with a view could be considered expensive at $600 a month, and that one built on the Gateway To Hell is a steal at $400. These days you would pay EXTRA for that little feature.

6. But most of all I love thee for thy massively awesome Opening of The Hellgates ending, wherein your director hired actual carnival freaks to portray the demons of Hell, which was so fucking sick and scary when I saw this as an impressionable mid-80s-era teenager, and is so absolutely not scary here and now in 2009. I mean, they are all just sort of standing there and not posing any real menace. In today's cinema, they'd be ripping Cristina Raines' skin off.

Honestly, who doesn't love a good blast from the past?

Not Bad, Except For the White Shoes: Shuttle (2008)

2009-04-20T06:54:00.000-07:00

Lest you believe, dear readers, that I never like anything I see these days, let me put your fears to rest, because I saw a pretty good movie last night. The critics are harsh to it, but I liked it okay.

Sadly, there's not much to mention in the way of costumery, but we can't have everything.

Anyway, Shuttle takes as its premise a situation that I have actually been in before: arriving very late at the airport, finding it eerily deserted, luggage not arrived so you're the last one at the carousel, and nary a ride home at ground transportation to be found.

I don't know about you, but empty hospitals, libraries and airports creep me the hell out. I mean, this happened to me once at Heathrow, for god's sake. It's insane (and not a little freaky) to be in one of the busiest airports in the world at ANY time of day, and no one in authority is anywhere to be seen.

I digress. So, two attractive girls return from a Mexican vacation, find themselves in the aforementioned situation, and take a ride on a shuttle. FROM HELL.

Well, nothing supernatural, but the driver definitely has Other Plans besides getting his passengers to their desired destinations.

I'm not going to tell you any more about this except to say that while the plot sounds simplistic, and indeed maybe a little predictable to some, it certainly does keep you going.

Especially since the acting is pretty damn good, and the lead characters anything but two-dimensional. And it has one of the bleakest endings since Wolf Creek, aided by an incredibly haunting sound design. Sound design, IMHO, is a vastly overlooked and unsung cinematic element, and when it's done right it can MAKE a film.

There's also a fair few very deliberate red herrings, done in such a way that you say "Aha, I know why THAT'S important to the plot" and then afterwards it's all "aaahhhh, THEY TRICKED ME!!"

Since this is a fashion-in-horror blog, I would be remiss in mentioning that for me, personally, white pumps on anyone, before or after Labor Day, is never attractive. Seriously, they make the tiniest feet look like cruise ships on stilts. But somehow it adds to the sleaze factor. You'll see what I mean if you watch this.

But to each their own, I suppose.

Sweeney Todd, Aussie Backwoods-Style: Dying Breed (2008)

2009-04-17T07:28:00.000-07:00

Last night I went back to the land of my upbringing, Australia, for a bit of cannibalistic sleaze.

Dying Breed is one of those Afterdark Horrorfest films, a series which is pretty hit or miss for the most part. I'd probably give this one a miss, despite the awesome poster....

...partly because it stars Leigh Whannell, one of the whiniest, most ineffectual actors to hit the silver screen. Look, I don't CARE if he was an original creator of the Saw franchise, he's BORING AND WIMPY. Every time you see him in a film you just know he is going to get offed in a particularly grisly way, and he is NOT gonna take it like a man.

Anyway, the plot. Such as it is.

Tormented scientist Nina (Mirrah Foulkes, whose character I think is supposed to be from New Zealand, but has a pretty hefty Irish accent) heads a small (read: four people, none particularly scientifically qualified) expedition into the Tasmanian wild to carry on her late sister's search for the legendary Tasmanian tiger. Her sister is, of course, Dead By Mysterious Circumstances.

Meaning, the local descendents of a cannibalistic 19th century convict called "The Pieman" captured her and did ugly fast-edit things to her.

When the ever-present Creepy Child starts singing about "The Pieman," and bites wimpoid Leigh, you can pretty much tell where this is going, even if you missed the film poster.

Except that Tasmanian cannibals are not as handsome or well-dressed as Johnny Depp.

And you don't see Helena Bonham-Carter slaughtering puppies. Ugh.

Anyway, off go the intrepid explorers. One of them is this immature doofus (a shame, he was good in Wolf Creek), who makes loud obnoxious noises at crucial times, and shoots cute bunnies, marking him for instant viewer's pick for First Grisly Death.

Sadly, his hott girlfriend gets it first.

Now here is where I have my first WTF, costume designer? moment. The cannibal decides to have a snack before taking the rest of the corpse to be made into pies, so he eats the girl's foot. In the toe-munching closeup, which I have no picture of, she is perfectly pedicured, polished and wearing a fairly heavy toe ring.

A toe ring? For hiking through the wilderness? Really, sports fans? Let me tell you, I've been on some Tasmanian wilderness hikes, and that ring would be cutting off my circulation within FIVE SECONDS. They would have to remove my toe and the ring on it surgically before I even got attacked by foot-munching cannibals. And why would anyone be wearing a toe ring UNDER their socks and shoes? Not to mention, wouldn't the cannibal choke on it, or break his teeth?

Why did they do this? Well, for much the same reason Quentin Tarantino chose to use one of the best Japanese girl-garage bands around in Kill Bill and then said, "Hey, let's have them play barefoot and then film their feet the whole time."

God, I hate Tarantino and his foot fetish.

I got off track there.

Okay, so do I really need to continue with the plot? Since he only knows how to use a crossbow to shoot helpless bunnies, the obnoxious guy dies, sending up a general cheer from the audience.

The scientist leaps off a bridge, and whiny Leigh almost makes it out alive, but, naturally, gets recaptured, thus proving that he is the least helpful person on earth that you want with you when you are in ANY life-threatening situation. Actually, maybe he'd be the best, since he is so ineffectual that he is obviously going to get it first while you make your escape.

And there is a final-shot twist that is almost exactly like Welcome To The Jungle (a film I actually found rather watchable compared to this because I sort of liked Cannibal Holocaust).

Coda: I actually found a newspaper article wherein people were hoping this film created an increase in tourism for Tasmania.

Yeah, that's my idea of a great vacation. Getting made into a meat pie by the local cannibal clan. Right on.

A REALLY Bad Hair Day - Exte: Hair Extensions

2009-03-31T06:59:00.000-07:00

Okay, we all know that most Japanese horror movies involve scary white-faced ghosts with super-long black hair, right?

Exte: Hair Extensions operates in the pared-down mode: remove the "scary white-faced ghosts" part and just concentrate on the hair.

Yes, kids, this is a movie about....killer hair.

You know when people say "The premise really isn't as stupid as it sounds?"

Well, you can forget that, because this is pretty darn stupid.

Plot, such as it is: the corpse of a brutally tortured and murdered girl has hair that keeps growing and growing and GROWING, its follicles saturated with vengeful malevolent intent.

Creepy psycho morgue attendant harvests said hair and makes hair extensions and wigs out of it and sells it to salons. People wear the extensions. Mayhem ensues.

Plucky heroine hairdresser apprentice, played by Chiaki Kuriyama, who was Takako Chigusa in Battle Royale and GoGo Yubari in Kill Bill Vol. 1, eventually overcomes crazy psycho guy and out-of-control killer weave and lives happily ever after with cute little niece of abusive (and dead) drug addict sister, and with fabulous hair.

If I had directed this movie I would have had amazing samurai battles with combs and scissors and hairspray cans made into flamethrowers. Sadly, this movie makes the colossal mistake of playing it straight.

They don't even go for the awesome idea, which is harnessing the power of the hair, because lord knows there are people I would like to strangle with my hair.

Except for the morgue attendant guy, who IS played for laughs - I think. He comes across like a crazed Sixties hippie version of Mickey Mouse, wearing a floppy fisherman's hat, wacky comic overalls with a heart sewn on the bib, hi-top sneakers, and smiley face buttons.

I mean, how can you possibly make a movie where the murderer is an out-of-control WIG and expect anyone to be scared by it? Cousin Itt was scarier.

Maybe if everyone in the movie had a fauxhawk. THEN I'd be scared.

Mainly at the terrible fashion choice.

Designer Safari Fashion

2009-03-26T07:46:00.000-07:00

When I was a youngster, and in fact well into my mid-teens, I got dragged on a lot of camping trips. In the Australian Outback, no less. My dad was a herpetologist and so took the family on his research jaunts. Suffice to say, I developed a great loathing for red sand, potentially dangerous wildlife, tents, sleeping bags, and being anywhere farther away than twenty steps from the nearest flush toilet, running water, comfy bed, or power outlet. Yes, I am a pampered princess of the modern age. I would not survive the apocalypse.

Hence, I have sort of a squeamish fascination with the cannibal-movie genre. On the one hand, ewww, gross, nature and savage beasts will kill you dead and eat your entrails. Not fun, and yuckily uncomfortable to watch.

On the other hand, um, savages will EAT YOUR ENTRAILS!! Blood! Guts! Mutiliation and senseless killings! Yes sirree!

I never claimed not to be perverse.

Anyway, 1979 film Mountain of the Cannibal God (or Slave of the Cannibal God, as it is sometimes known, in its US censored version) is kind of a throwaway in the world of cannibal gutcruncher flicks. Not much happens, really....we've got Stacy Keach playing his usual brooding troubled potentially-psycho character....

...and Ursula Andress wearing too much makeup and getting naked and oiled up to be a cannibal god sacrifice.

Basically the plot is that Ursula and her smarmy obviously villainous brother want Stacy to take them into the wilds of the jungle on a search for Ursula's explorer husband, who has gone missing.

Aha, thinks the viewer, why bother, since he has OBVIOUSLY provided a tasty snack for some island dwellers by now, but Ursula seems pretty insistent (we later learn that it's ALL ABOUT THE MONEY!!), so off they go.

And this is where the whole "expedition into nature" thing becomes my kinda vacation: Ursula gets all done up in designer safari fashion, complete with pristine khaki shorts and knee-high heeled boots. That's right, the boots have HEELS. Perfect for those moments when you need to climb rocky outcroppings, or wade through mud, or go-go dance your way through a native ritual (that last part doesn't actually happen, more's the pity).

Her brother is also a big fan of the Puffy Journalist Vest worn over tight white pants. Yep, white. And they STAY white throughout most of the expedition, to the bitter end. Homeboy's ability to rough it in the jungle and still find a few bottles of OxyClean along the way is pretty impressive.

And while Ursula's severely-pulled back hair and overly dark mascara makes her look like she's gone all Joan Rivers facelift before her time, she does get a pretty good cannibal sacrifice makeover, complete with elaborate seashell headpiece and body oil, at the end.

All that's missing is the Raquel Welch leather bikini.

I could get behind a safari expedition if I got to wear completely impractical clothing and maybe get carried around on a palanquin the whole time. And if there was running water, and feather beds, and gourmet food, and uh, no cannibals.

When 80s Nostalgia Goes Horribly Wrong

2009-03-02T10:01:00.000-08:00

Greetings, readers. I was going to regale you with the wonders of movies about killer hair, but then I got sidetracked by this little number from 1981.

I have no idea why I put this on my Netflix queue. Maybe because it was one of the few 80s campground-slasher flicks I DIDN'T see during my admittedly twisted childhood. Maybe because I wanted to see what Jason Alexander looked like with hair. Maybe I am simply masochistic. Either way, I asked for this, so I deserved what I got.

The story here is....oh good grief, do you even need to know?

Mean kids at summer camp play prank on drunken caretaker, Cropsy (great name, by the way) who accidentally sets himself on fire as a result.

Five years later, horribly burned caretaker takes a pair of hedge-clippers to a new batch of sex-crazed campers. Eye-scorchingly red arterial bloodspray and lots of senseless screaming ensue. Not to mention that the entire cast has the thickest Noo Yawk Welcome Back Kotter accents that you have ever heard.

To amuse myself, I checked the Wikipedia entry on this. Wow. Whoever wrote the plot summary is a stickler for detail. Excruciating detail. So excruciating, in fact, that I think the writer saw a LOT more in the movie than I did. Like, stuff that wasn't even HINTED at. I guess all bad horror has its slavering fans.

Anyway, The Burning is largely notable for the screen debuts of Holly Hunter (blink and you will miss her), and, as I said before, a very young Jason Alexander (with hair)....

.....Jason Alexander really never DID play any other character than George Costanza in his life, did he?

They also got the nerdy guy from Fast Times At Ridgemont High. Here, he plays....a nerd.

Oh yes, and as is customary with movies of this era, they have a jive-talking hospital orderly. I hitherto decree that like turban-wearing swamis, and cameos by Udo Kier, and bad hair-metal bands playing the same song endlessly on Night Train(s) To Terror, every movie needs a jive-talking hospital orderly expounding endlessly on how the drunken caretaker got turned into Chili-Mac.

Let's move on, shall we?

Now, I should mention that I LOVE the 80s. I love the music. I even love the bizarro, weirdly shaped, completely unflattering fashion aesthetic. Hell, I wore the legwarmers and the Flashdance sweatshirts and the Madonna rubber jewellery and fluorescent accessories. But I also want to point out that when I think of the 80s, I'm thinking mid-to-late decade, like, Square Pegs hipster new-wave era. (NOTE: Please remember that I grew up in Australia and we were a couple years behind the American trends. Also remember that I am old and cannot remember exact years of any previous decade to this one.)

I am most certainly not thinking of 1981, which apparently was the year of Richard Simmons/Steve Guttenberg from Can't Stop The Music fashion. Y'know, racing stripe short-shorts and tube socks worn to the knee.

Who am I kidding? That Steve Guttenberg outfit is FABULOUS. No one in The Burning is that fabulous. This film has a dearth of fab. It is in Fab Recession. In actual point of fact, the HAIRCUTS in this movie are more frightening than the shears-wielding lunatic. Cropsy could give them better haircuts with his hedge-clippers. Geez.

Okay, so I would be remiss in mentioning that there is ONE instance of a smart move, clothing-wise, in this flick, performed by none other than actress Carolyn Houlihan - have you ever heard of her? - didn't think so, because if you Google her you discover her ONE claim to fame is that she appears full-frontally nude in this movie. (Sorry, no photo. I know you are disappointed.)

Anyway, after blitzing our bimbo-radar by running around in low-slung bikini bottoms and T-shirts, and giving us all the urge to bitchslap her silly with her whining, ol' Carolyn emerges from a skinny-dip to find her clothing gone. Before she goes in search of it, she puts her shoes on. I mean, she's walking around a forest entirely nekkid but for her shoes for awhile, which is not exactly weapons-grade killer-proofing, but still, good girl.

The moral of The Burning: Summer camp is nothing but an extended term of sex, sex, having your fingers chopped off by crazed revenge-seeking madmen, hanging with people who have really bad haircuts, more sex, and maybe some singalongs.

Come to think of it, this would have been improved with some singalongs.

Offical Hillbilly Fashion

2009-02-06T13:25:00.001-08:00

Hailing as I do from one of the Southern states (by birth), I guess it is hardly surprising that I have a fondness for the "Southern Gothic" school of horror.

This is not really a Southern Gothic movie. This, my friends, is an exercise in total WTF hilarity.

So back in 1964, madcap exploitation director Herschell Gordon Lewis made a film called 2000 Maniacs! which was kind of the the blood and guts Deep American South version of the musical Brigadoon. A mystical town appears only once a year, during which time the inhabitants fall in love and dance and have fun.

In 2000 Maniacs! the inhabitants' version of "fun" is inventively killing and eating its hapless visitors.

Well, about three years ago, some filmmakers needed money for booze and rent and whatever, and decided to remake Lewis's movie. Hence, 2001 Maniacs!, released in 2005.....

...and starring Robert Englund in the snappiest Confederate Flag eyepatch known to man.

Basically a bunch of Northern college students get sneakily detoured into the eeeeeeevil revenge-bound Deep South town of Pleasant Valley and butchered by the ghostly residents, who have all taken human form for just one day to wreak their vengeance on those town-burnin', women-killin' Yankee bastards. And that's really all you need to know about the plot. Hell, even the Wikipedia entry provides a handy listing of how each Northerner dies.

The students are the most unlikable, shallow imbeciles I have ever seen in any modern horror movie (and I have seen a LOT). All the men are obsessive sex maniacs with NO other motive in life than to get laid, and all the women are trashy, tramp-stamped sluts. There are NO exceptions to these rules. None.

It's pretty much a pleasure to watch them all get skewered, decapitated, fed acid, crushed, what-have you.

The Southerners are so laughably cliched as to be cartoon characters. This is just about the most un-PC movie you can imagine. Black people shown eating watermelon and being called "boy;" the farm boy who constantly chases his sheep, ostensibly to have sex with it....

......the ZZ-Top style musicians who play endless rounds of "The South Will Rise Again;" multiple hollerings of "yeeeeeee-haaaaaawww!"; the gas station kid who plays a modified version of the Deliverance "dueling banjos" piece; and the overalled redneck gas station attendant (cameo by country singer Travis Tritt).

The accents are so thick you could build a house with them. Particularly weird (and sort of grating) is the fact that several of the men, who you might think would have deeper voices, have high-pitched girlish ones.

But the crowning glory here are the costumes.

I swear this film was costumed in this manner: the designer, director and producers all got together on site and said: "Where's the nearest high school that did Oklahoma! and Li'l Abner most recently??"

So what we get is every Southern cliche in the book, from "mountain hillbilly" Daisy-Mae style short-shorts and peasant blouses, to pioneer calico dresses, to full out Civil War uniforms. And then they ran out of ideas, so they added weirdo German milkmaid outfits and Fredericks of Hollywood bustiers atop big white petticoats.

And THEN they got to their notorious lead, Robert Englund, and discovered that they didn't have any more Civil-War-era outfits, so they decided to make him look like Colonel Sanders appearing in a community theatre production of The Music Man.

We're not even gonna talk about whatever the hell Lin Shaye, a.k.a "Granny Boone," is wearing. What IS that? Madame LeFarge meets Debbie The Debutante? Geez.

I advise you to check your brain at the opening credits for this one. It's worth watching only for the bizarre WTFery of it all. I mean, I can't tell if these people were having an absolute ball filming this movie, or whether to be really, really embarrassed for all of them. Only Robert Englund seems to be actually acting here.

But then again, he DOES have the cool eyepatch.

Rebel Yell, indeed.

Outback Fashion: CROCS Versus Crocs

2008-09-03T09:30:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when you are in the wilds of Australia, you just need some CROCS to make things more exciting.

And no, despite the fact that this is a horror-fashion blog (of sorts), and despite the fact that they are unsightly and scary enough to cause the fear in me when I see them, I'm not talking about these:

But rather, these.

The difference: the former will cause you eventual foot pain, fallen arches, and general derision. The latter will bite your foot OFF and cause you general death.

Ah, Australia, land of my upbringing. Land of sun and surf and in this case, swamp. Land of rare beasties, most of which will kill you in about five seconds.

Land of the GIANT Killer Croc.

The Aussies sure do love their Killer Crocodile movies, and I decided to treat myself to two of them recently:

Both are purportedly "based on true events." This does not particularly surprise me. What does surprise me is that these two do, in a way, seem to be the same movie.

Premise: boatload of tourists go out for a day trip in the swamplands, meander into a croc nest, get tossed out of boat, provide gourmet meal for killer crocodile.

Is it just me, or does that guy totally look like The Fonz?

The Fonz should have jumped a bunch of killer crocs instead of sharks.

The difference here is that Rogue plays for action-thrills-laughs, and Black Water is more a gritty survival tale. Although, strangely enough, Black Water totally looks like it was shot by the same director as Wolf Creek, when in fact it is Rogue who claims that director. Interesting.

At one point in Black Water, after having just escaped the clutches of the evil croc at least three or four times already, the male character delivers a stirring speech about how he hid in a cupboard for a whole day, afraid his brother was waiting to beat him up, when in fact the brother had gone off with his friends five minutes later.

"The point was, it was my own mind keeping me in that cupboard," he says. "If there's no croc down there, what are we bloody waiting for?"

As he descended into the water, I said out loud "I'm pretty sure there's a croc down there, mate."

And there was.

No, not that kind. Geez.

Where's this guy when you need him?

Anyway, this all begs the question: when choosing footwear for the Outback, is it better to go with these?

And which is uglier: CROC....

or croc?

You be the judge.

They sure have some great costumes in the Walled City of The Killer Virus

2008-08-22T11:28:00.000-07:00

So, last night's offering was Neil Marshall's futuristic-fantasy Doomsday.

Premise: a killer virus has wiped out a large chunk of Scotland. Sound familiar?

So, the eeeevil government decides to quarantine the upper half of Britain by building a huge maximum-security walled perimeter around it. Sound familar?

Well, several years later the virus pops up again in London. Once again, the eeeevil government cordons off a big chunk of the city, but they need a cure because of something to do with voters and money in the city coffers and not necessarily because, well, people are dying. You know, the usual thing the government worries about. Anyway, it is Revealed that there are survivors in the plague zone, you know, the one they walled off years ago.

So they send in a crack team of warriors who have a mission - find creepy doctor guy in Scotland, get cure from him, or don't come back. Sound familiar?

Or perhaps does THIS sound familiar, too?

Anyway, the leader of the team has Issues - she was saved from the Quarantine Zone as a child by her mother. Now, despite her baggage, she's going back in. Not to study them. Not to bring them back. But to wipe them ou - oh wait, wrong movie.

But the hott female team leader totally has a removable eye. Sound familiar?

You bet it does.

So in they go. Where they encounter the Glasgow natives, and boy are they pissed. They are also cannibals.

The head guy is creepy...

but he is NO comparison to the Duke of New York, A-Number-One, who would eat this Scottish punk for breakfast.

Then there are all these car chases with souped up vehicles. Sound familiar?

I thought so.

I swear to God I was rubbing my hands in anticipation waiting for the head bad guy to say "Just walk away."

Oh, and the bad guy has a Gimp. Sound familiar?

I lost count of how many movie plots and moments they stole wholesale and shoehorned into this flick, and made absolutely no pretense that they weren't doing so. It was delightful. I was giggling with glee by the end of it.

I did learn one very important lesson from this movie. Apparently, when you are walled up for years and left to die, but you survive - the FIRST place you loot is the local medieval costume rental store.

I mean, I would LOVE to know where Malcolm McDowell found his velvet doublet with the studded leather sleeves in the rubble and ruin of post-apocalyptic Glasgow, because obviously I need to be doing my shopping in some decimated plague-ridden Hot Zones.

And for the kids, it's time to raid the fetish shops and tattoo parlours and swipe every bottle of Manic Panic and AquaNet possible.

And in between all that starving and war with other tribes and torturing intruders for funsies, you have loads of time to work on your awesome Metal Chainwork Choker and Elaborate Breastplate-Like Bra, and major face tattooing.

Just because your whole society has been reduced to cannibalism and clan war is NO reason not to look totally fabulous at all times.

French Couture Graduate Seminar: How to GET IT RIGHT

2008-08-15T07:43:00.000-07:00

I've said it before and I have no problem saying it again - when it comes to horror movies, the French ROCK.

Witness, as evidence, the film I watched earlier this week - Christophe Gans's Le Pacte Des Loups.

I'm not going to tell you what it's about, except that it's set in France in the 18th century and it takes as its premise the legend of the Beast of Gévaudan. You need to either see it or read the synopsis if you really want to deprive yourself of a visual treat. Aside from the fact that it's well acted, beautifully filmed, with impeccable production values and a plot that clicks along at a brisk enough pace to make you forget this movie is two-and-a-half-hours long.....the costumes are PHENOMENAL.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is what I call GETTING IT RIGHT. Look at the freaking COATS.

There's no Ren-Faire panne' velvet knockoffs here, kids. No bargain-basement Hot Topic corsets or vinyl raincoats.

Best of all, even though this is sort of a werewolf movie (very much "sort of"), there is no Kate Beckinsale in a bad outfit, with a bad accent, looking like she walked in from a different movie.

Oh wait, I'm thinking of Van Helsing. Sorry.

Screw it, let's have some more coats.

Notice how the two protagonists, Fronzac and Mani, never wear red, but the potentially evil aristocrats do?

I thought you'd like that. That's some good designing there. Props to costumiere Dominique Borg. I want to be YOU when I grow up, Dominique.

Now, there were a couple minor flaws in this movie. First of all, they cast the Chairman from Iron Chef America:

...and sadly, they gave him lines.

They really should have just let him kick ass and stay mute. Because he DOES kick ass and take names in the fight scenes. And he IS rather easy on the eyes.

He needs to leave the talking (and, wisely, the Liberace outfits) to this guy.

I am now imagining Chairman Kaga in the Mani role, flinging a few yellow peppers at his opponent and crushing him with the sheer weight of his rhinestone-and-ruffle-encrusted tuxedo. Good times.

Anyway, back to the eye candy.

I am going to go out on a limb here and risk my possible banishment from the Tenebrous Empire by saying that now that Helmut Berger has Reached A Certain Age, I would not object to seeing Vincent Cassel take his place in the pantsless department.

I mean, even in a red velvet coat and a sweeping black cloak, with a latex hand borrowed from the closing scenes of Suspiria, he is totally hot. In a creepy Marquis de Sade kinda way, but still.

I'd let him challenge me to a fencing match (IYKWIM) any day.

Speaking of pantsless, there is a high volume of attractive nekkid people in this film. Kudos for making the costumes totally droolworthy and casting actors who look pretty damn good with them OFF.

Monica Bellucci. Naked. In a super awesome choker necklace. Thumbs up.

I will also admit that the ol' Chairman doesn't look half bad in a loincloth.

And Samuel le Bihan brings to mind a younger Frenchier Rutger Hauer. Yum.

You can all wipe my drool off your screen now.

How To Accessorize Your Movie: Storm Warning

2008-07-16T07:23:00.000-07:00

I haven't had much time to watch movies of late, but I did come across this late one night:

Storm Warning is an Australian production, and after Wolf Creek I am rather fond of Aussie horror, it being the land of my upbringing and all - even when the horror is basically torture porn (a genre I don't much enjoy, since it is rarely done well).

I wasn't very fond of Storm Warning.

The story is the old hoary chestnut of the sweet young couple who lose their way while boating and land on a creepy island. They find a house, go inside, and when the people who own said house come home, turns out they are vicious drug dealers who like to torment, rape and kill for fun. Oh, and their dog has a taste for fresh human kills. Yummy.

I'm always a little puzzled at some of these torture-porn flicks.

See, the couple gets menaced, they are obviously in the hands of some nasty people who steal their clothes, point guns at them and make the cute French wife show off her naked butt. This, of course, gives free reign for said wife, who henceforth has been really wishy-washy, to suddenly go all MacGuyver and start creating incredible defensive weaponry designed to tear the bad guys into as many bloody chunks as possible.

Seems a little over the top to me.

Of course, none of this matters, because this movie is really about one thing: Defensive Jewelery.

Yes, you heard me.

So the guy in the picture above is the patriarch of the family, a disgusting redneck who has every intention of raping French wife. With this knowledge in mind, our enterprising heroine decides to make a lovely ring. But not just any ring. Picture something like this:

Except, go low budget, and imagine making it out of a rusty soup can lid.

And you KNOW from the second you see that thing exactly where it is going to be worn, which means for about the last half of the movie the plot goes completely out the window. Because you are just sitting there waiting for the inevitable meeting between the Patriarch and the Defensive Jewelery.

Which there is no picture of. Sorry. I know you are disappointed.

And that, kids, is how to accessorize a horror movie. Like all outfits, the basic is suddenly made, well, not fabulous, but fierce I guess, by the simple addition of the right accessories. Look, she's even wearing the proverbial Little Black Dress. Which is actually a long T-shirt, but still.

Don't try this at home, please.

The Yakuza: Fashion Warriors

2008-07-01T08:18:00.000-07:00

Last night I watched Noboru Iguchi's film The Machine Girl.

I'm not going to attempt to review it - I think Tenebrous Kate already did a fine job of that - but this movie, paired with one of my favorites, Ichi the Killer, left me with one thought in mind: I want to be Yakuza.

And not necessarily because of the life of crime or random violence or flashing katanas or the sheer cold-bloodedness one needs to be able to fry the hands of schoolgirls in sizzling tempura batter, or feed someone's fingers to them on top of sushi. Oh no.

It's because according to manga, when you are Yakuza, you get to dress like this:

And absolutely NOBODY will tell you that you look like an explosion of a high school production of "Guys and Dolls." No one will tell you that you look like a gay extra from Dick Tracy, or I'm Gonna Get You Sucka. Because if they do, you can just take an entire roomful of people out and never get a speck on your red velvet coat.

Not that the arterial spray would show up on red.

Actually, no, scratch that. I want to be a Yakuza Ninja.

Then I could be in a gang that wears matching superhero outfits.

And best of all, I could wear a Drill Bra, and go around hugging people who pissed me off.

Gives a whole new definition to the saying "killing with kindness."

* Thanks to Tenebrous Kate for a couple of the pictures.

French Couture 101, How to Dye Gowns BLOOD RED

2008-06-19T07:49:00.001-07:00

I am a HUGE fan of foreign horror movies, as in, ones in another language than English. Lately, I have developed a genre-crush on the French. Their horror films, while not always perfect, certainly smack me upside the head a lot harder than anything made in the U.S. I could go into great academic detail about the creeping uncertainty and disconnect that happens when you get thrown into a different cultural world, especially one where the natives don't like you and YOUR culture all that much, and would not be averse to carving you up and eating your flesh for dinner, but the bottom line for me is that French films are awesome because

1. they have better acting,
2. they have better costumes,
3. they are willing to SOAK both actors and costumes with a blood and gore tidal wave.

Well, there are other reasons, but you get the idea.

Last night I watched Frontier(s). I rather liked it. Basic story: group of French thieves take advantage of riots after a new rightwing government is instated to do some looting. They take refuge in a hostel near the Luxembourg border, which just happens to be run by neo-Nazi cannibal freakazoids. Mayhem, wholesale slaughter, and a LOT of bloodshed ensue.

This movie is absolutely cobbled together from several parts Texas Chainsaw Massacre, several parts American Gothic (I could go on for days about the similarities to that one, complete with screencap evidence, but I'll spare you), a large dollop of Haute Tension and a small one of Hostel, and they seem to have found the brother of Anton Diffring's "Nazi sentimentalist" doctor from Faceless to play the family patriarch.

There are some who might sneer at such a wholesale looting of plot points from other films, but for me, it works, because I actually LIKE all those films. (Except Hostel).

Obviously, this movie is not about the costumes - too bad, because if Udo Kier was playing Papa Nazi he would totally have broken out the full uniform.

But there is some fairly impressive spatter-soak dyeing of a couple white party dresses -

I must use this technique on my next design gig. Instructions:

1. Put white vintage dress on attractive French girl.
2. Hand her various sharp objects, power tools, and rifles.
3. Provide her with creepy cannibal targets.
4. After the splash and spatter method is completed, pour approximately two-three buckets of blood over her head.

Voila! Instant couture-dyeing, Costuminatrix-style.

The "blood facial" also seems to be rather a thing with the French. We also saw this in Haute Tension: the wearing of a gore mud mask by the end of the film.

The new French spa treatment: guaranteed to keep you youthful and insane for years.

Hey, it worked for the Countess Báthory, didn't it? They obviously borrowed the technique from the Hungarian nobility, so it MUST be fabulous.

The Strangers Revisited: Anyone Can Write A Movie!

2008-06-17T07:03:00.000-07:00

So after seeing The Strangers, and thinking of that "very late at night with nobody else around" atmosphere, and realizing at the time that I was wearing a flannel shirt that was nearly an exact replica (though about twenty sizes larger since I Am Not An Elf) of that which Liv Tyler wore in the movie....

PLUS the fact that I come home quite alone very late at night at least once a week, I got to thinking about what sort of horror movie scenario I could create for myself.

Unfortunately, what I came up with was this:

1. The Costuminatrix gets into her car, drives home after radio show, goes into house, prepares for bed.

2. At 4 am, there is a knock on the door. The Costuminatrix is fast asleep and does not hear it.

3. Potential stalker killers leave because there is apparently no one home.

4. End of movie.

or: replace 2. with: The Costuminatrix hears knock, mumbles "it's 4 in the freaking morning and I do not want to sign any petitions supporting Obama right now" and goes back to sleep.

3. Credits roll.

And everyone goes home before they even finish their popcorn.

If I wanted to clear out the theatre Janet-Leigh style, I could do this:

1. The Costuminatrix arrives home after radio show, opens garage door, shuts it, goes upstairs.

2. Cut to silent figure with bag over head hovering in shadows inside garage.

Now that's scary.

Given that in the movie, Liv's boyfriend temporarily abandons her to go out and get her cigarettes, you could add this tidbit which would TOTALLY WORK in my world:

3. The reason Bag Head Killer got into garage in first place is because nicotine-addict husband forgot to lock the back door when he came in from one of his many outdoor smoke breaks, before leaving the house.

The moral of both stories: cigarettes will kill you, kids.

Fortunately, my friends are better writers than I am, and came to my rescue with their own ideas.

First, we have movie maven Flightless, who offers a more urban view:

1. Flightless has insomnia and is up reading at 4 a.m., but does not answer the door.

2. Potential stalker killers are attacked by neighborhood drug dealers, rats, or the giant cat who lives downstairs.

Now, if you remember from the last post, we have the technology (and creativity) to use those Ichi-inspired "razor blade in heels" surgical implants, so Flightless offered to use her gub'ment Stimulus Check to get them so we could use this modification:

3. Flightless finally looks out the 3rd floor window to see what all the noise is. Giant cat has potential stalker killers down on the concrete & is savagely toying with them. Stalker killers look up at the window and beg for a quicker death.

4. She kind of wants a snack anyway, so she goes downstairs and kills them with her razor blade heels before grabbing the Tofutti Cuties out of the freezer. [Product Placement!]

Flightless is already working the Hollywood system. Her movie has FINANCIAL BACKING due to the product placement angle! Now all she needs are some hott girls in lingerie and/or super short nun habits and we are talking box office GOLD.

Fortunately, she reminded me that she always sleeps in her teddy-wimple twinset.

Speaking of tofu, our resident chef Tofu Girl has a movie with an insectoid culinary theme, which you don't see every day in the horror genre:

1. Tofu Girl goes home. Tofu Girl kills several mosquitoes. Tofu Girl rejoices.

2. Killers arrive at 11:30.

3. Tofu Girl is busy counting mosquito corpses. She looks up to see the killers and decides that yes, that cattle prod is the VERY THING she needs to continue killing mosquitoes.

4. Tofu Girl offers cupcakes in return for said cattle prod.

5. Killers die of diabetic shock.

Tofu Girl emerges victorious against mosquitoes, killers, and sugar.

Rawk Spice’s movie deftly combines two storylines into something we like to call “Avoidant Vengeance”:

1. If its 2 am and RS is getting home from anywhere odds are she's been drinking

2. Any noise wakes RS up, but she's really choosy about who/what she gets out of bed for, especially under condition #1.

3. Potential stalker killer hears dulcet strains of Carrie Underwood coming from neighbor's place, assumes there is a chick in there, and knocks on his door instead.

4. RS has unintentionally killed two birds with one stone.

It has the ring of reality, plus a twist ending. Also, knowing RS as I do, it has the notion that Motorhead played at top volume probably scares the crapola out of bag-headed killers. I give it two thumbs up.

Professor Jack, our resident Decadent Victorianist, offers his ode to late-night interruptions, with violent and bloody results:

1. Professor Jack is in bed furiously taking notes on some tawdry French Decadent novel when he hears a knock at the door.

2. He opens the door, and standing on his landing is someone with a bag over their head, brandishing a knife.

3. Unfortunately for the would-be killer, Jack has a straight razor and it is much, much sharper than Bag Man's knife.

4. Jack yells "NO ONE INTERRUPTS MY TRAIN OF THOUGHT! I'M TRYING TO WRITE A DISSERTATION!" while slashing Bag Man to bits.

5. When it's all over, the Professor wonders if there is room in the basement for another one. Maybe if he stacks them creatively...

Moral of the story: Don’t mess with a PhD, man. They will CUT you, and they will fail you in British Lit.

Riva Derci wants rock stars involved somehow, and suggested that if anyone is knocking on her door at 4 a.m., it better be David Bowie, or there will be blood.

But Riva, what if it was David Bowie with a sp00ky bag over his head? "Let's dance.....put on your bag mask and daaaaance the blues...."

We decided that a bag-headed Bowie would probably sound more like Assy McGee.

The Tenebrous Empress hails from the Franco-Argento Cinematic European Lodge for Education and Study (FACELES), and pooh-poohs the idea of mere late-night doorknocks and bag-headed killers; this is all too American-peasant for her. Believing instead that she runs a significant chance of having her face stolen in Europe—as she says, hott Eurotrash is always trying to steal the faces of unsuspecting sluts—

--so she wouldn't even be home. She'd be in Europe seeking the Evil Scientist of her dreams, with leather miniskirt, merry widow and Aqua Net hairspray carefully packed in her suitcase.

The Lady Mishegas ups the ante – she has a secret weapon, the KILLER BABY.

1. It's 4 a.m. The Lady is up with baby in living room.

2. There is a knock at the door.

3. The Lady unleashes her Mini-Me, who savagely rends the intruder limb from limb with the power of her drool, diaper droppings, and extreme cuteness.

Kitty LeClaw advised me to do a little plot repair on my own movie. Instead of calling the police or going back to sleep, she suggested that I answer the door with a whirling blender in-hand.

Our blender, sadly, is busted as the result of too many impromptu margarita ice-crushing sessions, which would guarantee me instant death. People with faulty or overused electric weapons always seem to have trouble. Witness Leatherface’s chainsaw malfunction.

However, I do have hippie neighbors. They are fond of constant campfires and maypole dancing. Kind of like The Wicker Man but not as awesome.

Flightless immediately leaped into the screenwriting fray:

"This movie has EVERYTHING! Divine costumes [Screen cap], a killer blender [Screen cap], and the most horrifically ingenious use of a maypole [Screen cap-NSFW]!"

The Tenebrous Empress politely pointed out that she had omitted Helmut Berger, whose ingenious use of a maypole she would certainly pay $10.75 or more to view.

This was met with unanimous approval by all.

But in a fit of sudden brainstorming, I arrived at this script:

1. At 4 am, there is a knock on the door, waking The Costuminatrix from a sound sleep.

2. The Costuminatrix sleepily gropes her way to the door, throws it open, smacks hand repeatedly underneath "NO SOLICITING" sticker on side of house whilst yelling "Can you not &%*^#! READ????!!!?"

3. The Costuminatrix slams door, locks it, returns to bed.

4. Bag Head Killer stands forlornly outside, wondering what to do now.

Academy Awardsville, here we come!!!

* Many thanks to Tenebrous Kate for the use of the Faceless stills, and to all my contributors for this post.

The Strangers/Ils (Them) - Always Wear The Right Shoes

2008-06-09T12:31:00.000-07:00

Consider the analogy of the deep fried Twinkie. You eat the deep fried Twinkie. You KNOW it's bad for you. The outcome could be one of these things:

1. "I know that Twinkie was bad for me, but damn it was delicious, and I feel okay about eating it."

2. "I know that Twinkie was bad for me, and to be honest I was more bored than hungry, so I ate it anyway and....meh. Where are the Hostess Cupcakes?"

3. "I know that Twinkie was bad for me, and I really shouldn't have eaten it, and now I have OMG THE WORST STOMACHACHE EVER."

The Strangers kinda falls somewhere between the first and second categories. A pleasant waste of time, but ultimately unsatisfying.

For starters, I will say up front, by way of disclaimer: I am not really a fan of Liv Tyler. I do not care for her little-girl Julie Hagerty voice and her bravely trembling lips and air of general helplessness. That said, I also kinda wasn't really cheering for the villains, either. The couple getting menaced weren't quite dumb enough to make what was happening to them snarkily enjoyable in a campy way, nor were they likable enough to evoke a lot of sympathy.

The spoken narration at the beginning a'la Texas Chainsaw Massacre was kind of a bad move. It took me out of the movie immediately. If you are going to make a big deal over this being "based on true events" which is a very loose phrase, the absolute best thing you can do is have a brief title card reading "Based on true events" and LEAVE IT ALONE. If you carry on about FBI statistics on violent crime and blah blah, this starts to look more like an episode of Law & Order or a LifeTime Women In Jeopardy movie.

Apparently, by many accounts, The Strangers is based on the French thriller Ils (Them), starring Michael Cohen and Olivia Bonamy.

I can tell you, having seen Ils this weekend, that as usual, the foreign original is worlds better than the American remake. There are flaws in both, but ultimately Ils does the cat and mouse thing with better sound design, more sympathetic characters, and about a megaton more atmosphere.

Granted, it wasn't all roses for Ils. I don't generally believe that filmmakers need to answer every minor niggling question. But I can tell a movie is losing me when I start asking bothersome questions of myself that really have very little to do with the plot. Like "Why are they French and in Romania? Couldn't they have just set this movie in France?" or "Why are they living in this enormous sprawling mansion when there is just the two of them?" or "DAMN, those walls need a new paint job, that is just about the most depressing decor I have ever seen."

You know, that sort of thing.

However, Olivia Bonamy does a notable thing in this movie; something that Liv Tyler in The Strangers fails to do. She hears a noise downstairs, and before going to investigate she puts her shoes on. And they are not six-inch fuck-me stilettos. They are sensible sneakers, suitable for running through the woods when pursued by crazed hooded attackers.

I do question the wearing of a white shirt, which is going to light you up like the moon right when you do NOT want crazed pursuers to find you, but she was in a hurry, so I'll give her a pass.

The footwear-in-horror film is sort of a general problem. One of my fashion-in-film compatriots, Rawk Spice, has often expressed her distaste with the idea that if you are a woman in a horror movie, then you are either barefoot or in completely stupid heels that no woman would attempt to run in.

But Olivia is different. She did it right. Of course, she still gets it in the end, but she will be remembered for doing the smart thing when it came to shoes.

Contrast this with Liv. Liv starts out sensibly. She gets out of her pretty fluffy bridesmaid's dress and dons the Seattle grunge look. Not only is it comfortable and appropriate attire for running from killers, but it's totally hip. In 1994, but hey.

And then she doesn't put her shoes on.

I don't know about y'all, but if I am feeling alone and scared and kinda vulnerable and there may possibly be guys in bag masks circling the house, one of the first things I'm gonna do is put on the comfiest, sturdiest shoes I can find. Preferably with steel toes. Preferably with golf spikes. I am not going to wade through broken glass on the floor or, for Chrissake, go outside with bare feet. Because then people who are a lot more fashionably dressed than you are going to kill you with knives.

At least she wasn’t wearing rubber flip-flops because they would have heard her coming a mile away and perhaps killed her right away, in disgust, on principle.

There were a couple alternate footwear suggestions, so listen up, filmmakers.

Professor Jack, from Liar Society, believes that rollerblades are a fine option, as you can “glide away from terror.”

Flightless trumped that with the idea of ice skates, because “I could use them as weapons, and then when I did the inevitable fall-and-twist-my-ankle thing, the audience could say "Well, it is hard to run in ice skates."

But we all agreed that since Liv Tyler is an Elf and therefore used to running barefoot through Rivendell or whatever....

...the best we could do is Ichi the Killer inspired razor blade heels. Surgically implanted into her feet so she needn’t bother with shoes.

This is why I am a Costuminatrix. Clothing and accessories as DEADLY WEAPONRY. I would ROCK on Project Runway, man. I could just eliminate the competition.

Now that's "fierce."

Salutations, an obligatory introduction

2008-06-09T12:08:00.000-07:00

Greetings, all.

By way of introduction: My name is The Costuminatrix. I am a lifelong horror-movie fanatic. Let me give you an idea of what I think about the horror genre. In the foodie world, a gourmet is someone who enjoys the best of things; a gourmand is someone who will eat anything. Hence, I am a horror gourmand. I'm not saying it's a healthy way to live. But it sure is fun.

I'm also, by trade and training, a costume designer. I have a degree in this. I'm pretty good at it. No, I am not famous, nor would you recognize my work if you saw it. So while I wait for George Romero to call me and ask me to distress a bunch of clothes for zombies to wear on his next movie set, here I am, starting a blog primarily devoted to costumery in horror films. Plus other things. I am nothing if not opinionated.

I guess I don't really claim any street cred as far as actual film critiquing goes, since I review Adult Movies/Media/occasional Paraphenalia for AVN, which sort of makes me a cheap whore. But a well-dressed cheap whore. You're not going to see any of those reviews on here, namely because the object of those sorts of films is not to wear any clothes. Sorry. Believe me, you're grateful for the omission.

I am only as smart and witty as my friends, and I have several who share my love for horror, fashion and cutting remarks. A few of them even have their own blogs, which are much funnier than mine, and better written. I will likely refer to them a LOT, by their various monikers. Think of it as joining a fabulous party, one with wigs and masks and fans, and a big spiked punch bowl.

If you have stopped by out of idle curiosity, welcome! I make no promises that you will be constantly entertained and amused, but remember: some of the best parties end up with lots of people passed out in the back yard.