Where the Fuck is John Wayne to Save You Now?

First and foremost, this is a found footage movie. Cue the nerds to start winging, "Why is this genre still a thing? Why do they keep filming? Why don't they put the camera down?". Pack it in nerds, we've heard it all before. Stop thinking you're bunch of big brained fucks cause you know the common flaws of the genre. At this point asking these questions is akin to watching a slasher and saying, "Why is she running up the stairs and not out the door?". Nobody cares. Me and the boys have just the one question each time, "Did you say new found footage? Let's goooooooooooo!". All those criticisms are totally valid mind, the genre has been stale creatively speaking for a long time. I wrote an entire piece on where the genre needs to go if it wants to be interesting again back in Vol. 1 Issue #5. Nerds I suggest you sit this one out and read that instead. My boys who appreciate the fact found footage allows greater access to equipment for aspiring filmmakers and value there being a trashy horror film every Friday regardless of quality read on because this one's for you.

The Outwaters has been sneakily picking up fans since its New Jersey premiere back in February 2022. Although not widely seen, it was big talk amongst the horror crowd who'd attended the few film festivals it had played at. Genuinely, there were those lauding it, calling it a bold new direction for horror and throwing out 5 star ratings like confetti. As always you can't trust horror fans. It's a fact. They are psychotic oddballs with a tendency to overrate. We're dealing with the kind of people who would chat your head off in the boozer about how the fifth film in a series like 'Bob's Murders: The Deaths of Hookers #16-20' is the great undervalued cinematic masterpiece of our time. Not even a series with a generally accepted start like Halloween or Hellraiser. That would be too easy. Nope, it has to be an obscure series you've never heard of and all of sudden a 5/5 has sprung up. Deranged individuals that need the bomb dropping on them like the end of Apocalypse Now. I speak as one of them.

Majority of us managed to catch The Outwaters when streaming service Screambox bought the rights. No longer did we have to rely on the word of the raving lunatics attending festivals and we could see for ourselves. As predicted the Letterboxd score has gone right down since it was accessible to the general public. Now, the question is whether this is a movie specifically made for a particular audience and has its merits or whether it was overrated in early screenings.

A mysterious opening phone call sets the mood of The Outwaters. The screen remains blank and we have to trust our ears. We hear a woman in distress trying to reach the police. As the responder continues to throw questions out, the female caller is distracted by all these indistinguishable creepy voices. Leaving one to imagine something like the orgies in the final act of Society. Solid opening. Come to think of it, so solid in fact, that it will ensure you stick around for the rest of the boring first act, which is an absolute slog. Yes, so appalling that you'll almost be siding with the nerds in believing this genre to be completely over. Anything to get you out of this dull endeavour.

Creativity gone but now the enjoyment too? A bad day for found footage defenders. There is not a single interesting character involved. Set up is this, that annoying attractive girl you know is going to make some edgy music video out in the desert. You know the type, the one who's always at gaffs picking up acoustic guitars and has a bang average voice but a pretty face. Her favourite musicians are Joni Mitchell and Joan Baez. Somewhere on her wrist she has a Fleetwood Mac tattoo. Everybody claps after and offers fake compliments but no-one really gives a shit. They just want to bang her. It's about playing ball. Our filmmaker spends so much time with these early conversations between people but none of them get referred back to later once the carnage begins making them entirely pointless.

As part of the found footage angle, the images we see have been located and assembled by the police. Noticed some mentioning how the police would not be interested in these scenes which attempt to establish characters. Sure, the police are not here to serve our narrative demands such as character development or laying pipe but to say they wouldn't watch these parts too is absolute nonsense. Some unfortunate pig would be tasked with sitting through the full footage. Half makes you want to make a deliberately awful found footage movie, leave it in the woods somewhere and waste the cops time having to sit through such monotonous and brainless garbage.

Aside from torturing cops with terrible filmmaking, I'm sure my fellow non-cop viewers will agree this is certainly overly long at 110 minutes. Shaving 10 or 15 minutes off that beginning at the house so they get on to the road faster would do a world of good. If you can't write characters, don't bother. You're only wasting time and likely to lose your core audience with such dull drama. Get straight to what you're good at and stop fucking about. We know who these people are, you don't need to bore me to death overexplaining them if you haven't got that in your locker. Soon as the gang hit the road, the film shows some real signs of improvement. If there is one thing I love about found footage, from Blair Witch to Willow Creek to Troll Hunter and going right back to The Legend of Boggy Creek, it is the genres ability to capture nature and the environment. They have a playful consideration of history and myth. What would The Outwaters have to add to that?

Completely surprising is the music video footage shot in the desert. I was expecting some faux-beautiful cheap rubbish and maybe even intentionally so. Yet, there is some shots that look directly lifted from Terrence Malick and Wim Wenders movies. Careful placing of the camera allows for experimentation with perspective of the subject in relation to the vast backdrop. Certainly, later on in the film they use this to create psychedelic effects to disorient the viewer with the location. Impressive as it keeps antagonising the audience in that the location remains pretty much the same throughout but appears endless and ever changing. There is that fear of an environment, which is the same but different. As though wondering through a dream and coming face to face with the unheimlich. Leaving you to wonder is this the same row of houses I passed seconds ago or an entirely new street? Perfect for any film with a looping structure.

Undeniably, those who are convinced The Outwaters is a masterpiece are fully entitled to pick out these surreal aspects as part of their argument. However, its shortcomings for me are in its inability to go beyond technique and use that to say something strong about the location chosen in the film: the desert. A missed opportunity for PsychoCondo

We spend so much time wondering what the threat shall be. There is the familiar scene of the campers in the tent hearing peculiar sounds outside. Eventually, when we do get our first image of the intimidator, they are standing in near darkness on a hill with an axe like weapon in their hand. Enough to freak the seasoned horror vet out. It's hard to positively make out who this suspicious character is at this moment in time, which reminds me most of the film is shot so that you can only see a tiny circular beam of torch light with the rest of the screen in darkness. Our big brained fucks have been ranting on about that I see in their reviews. A regular criticism is "you can't even see half the movie!"

Doofus, this isn't Alien Vs Predator 2: Requiem It's not a mistake of lighting, it's blatantly intentional. A creative choice I wholly respect as it restricts vision and harkens back to when found footage would heighten reality by letting your mind fill in the blanks. Making for a much scarier movie. Sometimes, suggestion is better than total actualisation. Then again, some people are just devoid of imagination and can't be helped. Personally, I always go off the basis, that once you completely know your enemy they can be defeated. Their weaknesses come apparent. Keep the mind working away cause if that stops and people can then file and categorise what you're seeing, you've lost your audience. So in this case, hold back on the villain. An outline is all you need. Your viewer will fill in the rest.

This is where the major flaw of the movie comes in. With that single shot of the axe wielding mad man on the hill, I was ready to fill that character in with my understanding of the American West. The Outwaters formulated itself as this cross between Bone Tomahawk and Cannibal Holocaust but with this unexplainable twist on time like Blair Witch. An eerie spot where the ghosts of the Native Americans come to wreak revenge on those that stole their lands. That's the movie The Outwaters should have been. Unfortunately, it shifts far away from that as a concept, instead choosing to go the most simple path it could have taken in making the place a militarised zone and venturing in to the Lovecraftian.

Although we have seen this movie many times, it's hard to be mad about a surreal Lovecraftian found footage movie which presents itself as the summer time version of The Thing. There is little that is ground-breaking about this enough to warrant masterpiece status. Anyone arguing that this is a new aspect to found footage or horror would be incorrect and severely deluded. However, defending this as a fun rollercoaster ride through weirdness is fair.

In the end, it is mainly an excuse to serve as a means to tie together random nightmarish acts in the desert. A favourite being the adequately gnarly cock chopping incident. Downside is that these images have little to connect them to a wider purpose. Definitely believe the Native American analogy would have been suitable and the way to go. Obviously, there can be an advantage to keeping things open to avoid a single reading but there's so little from the filmmakers to provide any particular meaning so getting lost in the possibilities is pointless to me. Best to sit back and get high off its unexplainable images. Robbie Banfitch serves as the director, camera operator and main star. He has made a beautiful looking and likeable movie for a measly $15,000 dollars. A shoestring budget and for that a mighty achievement worth appreciating. Looking forward to what he has next to offer.

Talking of dudes shooting music videos where they shouldn't be, it is time for this weeks Kelly and Bonehead conundrum. Ok, so I'll start this one a few weeks back when I was walking home from doing the weekly shop. Who do I run in to but The Goshima. Sheffield's biggest and whitest Asia appreciator. Catch him firing off fives at every Asian movie he comes across on Letterboxd. He never sleeps, he only smokes weed and plays video games. You call him at any hour and he is glued to his gaming bean bag and probably slurping on yesterday's Chinese takeaway. Usually with some undecipherable shoegaze playing in the background. This music gives him an indescribable warmth that his fellow man cannot provide. Across his walls are posters of Faye Wong and anime films that I couldn't name but probably feature a lot of incest and other questionable things. Across all his body is Japanese symbols. He assures me, he knows what they all mean. His windowsill serves as his small library, with my eyes I can normally make out works by Mishima and Musashi.

Meeting him under these circumstances again was a spot of bad timing. On the one hand, there was much to say considering we hadn't crossed paths in many moons but standing and talking whilst holding heavy bags is no way to catch up now is it? Heavy bags being no exaggeration, a boy gotta eat. Cut the conversation short and said "Let's go for a pint sometime". To which he nodded in agreement and off we went in separate directions. Since I didn't want this to be that metaphorical ghost pint that never happens between acquaintances with a firm respect for one another but not enough time to visit one another, I dropped him a message about a day or two later.

His one and only question was, "where we having this pint, Kelly-san?". Dealing with a man like this there could only be one place. "Got just the place for you, my dude. You'll love it. They got all Japanese samurai armour up by the entrance. New-ish bar on West Street by the name of Guyshi!". He said he's in there every week. Predictable as ever. As old friends, we sat back, demolished a few pints and traded the fates of the old gang. You will never understand the difficulty of going pint after pint sat only yards away from Samurai armour and resisting the urge to go full Harakiri and start drunkenly dive bombing in to the shiny gear on display. Not to make any political statements but purely on the fun of just knocking expensive shit over.

Such an act reminds me that the main topic of our conversation was Godzilla movies of the Showa era. After the obvious choice, his second favourite was Destroy All Monsters. I countered with Godzilla vs Hedorah. Slapping that down on the table like it was my champion conker or royal flush. "Ah, Banno. Such a good director, he never got another Godzilla gig or any movie for that matter", was The Gosima's response. "Yeah but I kind of love the whole psych rock counter to Ebirah's surf rock. They got that Woodstock vigil thing going on by the base of Mount Fuji! Plus Banno went and produced a lot of the American ones so he's clearly respected as an elder statesman of Godzilla", I threw back. "Too weird and it deviated too much from what a Godzilla movie is all about", he retorted like a silly studio head. Asked him how it deviated considering Godzilla's always had an environmental angle.

The Goshima had no comeback to this. How could he? He was pinned in a corner and his only way to respond was to change the subject in to the worst movies of this period, naming Son of Godzilla and All Monsters Attack. Little did this man know this would stir me even more. Told him, "keep my man's son out of your damn mouth". Informed him that any further Minilla slander and I would slap him silly. For some reason he laughed at these words as though he believed they were intended humorously. A warning to the misinformed, I don't joke around when it comes to matters of Minilla. To project such horrible statements regarding the son of God is blasphemy and punishable by death. We drank our final pints and left.

On the walk back to my flat, my phone began ringing. Incoming call from one Bonehead Bill. Answered this and barely even said hello before he announced, "I have the beasts in my sight, General". What the fuck was he talking about?

Bonehead Bill was parked out in Crookes by Bolehill rec, a large grassy spread out field with incredible views all round. Alternatively, his attention was on The Pseuds. A couple of no good punks we'd had a few spats with in the last few months. We hated them. They hated us. Bonehead shit in their sun roof, they kidnapped me. Here he was, laid out across the grass with a set of binoculars, listening on repeat to Cannonball by The Breeders on red light flashing low battery warning wireless headphones with empty beer bottles and cigarette buds to accompany him whilst plotting my revenge for me. The dude was on his own mission without even consorting your trustworthy critic and bringing him in on the plot.

Naturally, I was a little confused just why he was spending his afternoon on his own spying on people. Bonehead kept repeating he had The Breeders to keep him company. "The Breeders. The fucking Breeders, lad!", he kept shouting as though this explained his actions. He demanded I get down to his coordinates immediately without further hesitation. Since, I wasn't doing anything and listening to The Breeders in the sun with a few beers was a hard thing to pass down, I got the Kelly wheels (my trusted legs) in action and hopped on over to his position.

By the time I got there he was playing The Stone Roses's Love Spreads on his shitty phone speakers. The wireless headphones lay next to him. Presumably they'd run out of battery. How long had he been out here? 7 empty beer bottles and 12 cigarette buds gave me my answer. He wasn't too hard to spot out here, when I wandered over all I could see was a curious fat head sticking out of a bush. So this was where he'd set up camp. Some reconnaissance mission. For what certainly worried me.

According to James Bond here, he'd seen the shorter one of the two Pseuds coming out a house just two or three roads away and followed him to Bolehill rec. I think this was Louie but we often got them mixed up. So who's to say? Playing along, I picked up the binoculars and glanced down the scopes. Sure enough, The Pseuds were where Bonehead said they were about 120 yards in front of us. They were enjoying an afternoon in the fool's sun, that bright sun brings little heat with it. Joining our enemies were a couple of other guys we didn't recognise. Kopperberg was the groups drink of choice and some documentary called Meet Me in the Bathroom their topic of conversation. Oh no, not the 2000s indie scene! All that fucking Post-Punk revival rubbish. The Strokes, Arcade Fire, Interpol, Franz Ferdinand and LCD Soundsystem garbage. Who would dare make a documentary about that scene and bring it back when it was best left forgotten? Although these newcomers identities were yet to be confirmed, I could just tell they were insufferable.

"You handing them back or you gonna marry them", Bonehead asked, referring to the binoculars. This led me to ask aloud, "Bonehead, why do you have binoculars?". Without any pause he explained, "Cause sometimes women need to be looked at". Uncontrollably, this did elicit a chuckle from myself. "Bonehead, you're gonna get us all cancelled", I mentioned. Poetically he stood up and returned, "Twas never any hope for us, my friend". He went on to add that he was going back to Sandero to get a joint. As he headed back, he began humming the intro to Black Sabbath's N.I.B and crip walking, leaving me to survey the Pseuds.

A few days go by until Bonehead contacts me again. He gives me the briefest of warnings, stating that in 15 minutes he will be at my front door. Says he has our revenge plot and has figured it all out. The answer to all our problems. At 15 minutes on the dot, there is a knock on my front door. Opening it up, I see Bonehead walk straight in with a smile on his face. I shrug and he withdraws a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. "On here, written on this piece of piece of paper is my plan. This is how we get those bastards back. Everything you need to know is written on this piece of paper", Bonehead declares.

Taken in by my partner in crimes confidence, I open up his sheet of paper to read the messy scrawl that was worse than a 5 year olds handwriting: "lure pigeons with pigeon food laced with explosives in to The Pseuds house. Watch them shit everywhere and explode like How High" I glance over it again in pure amazement. Bonehead resembles a donkey, showing his teeth with a big smile on his face and nodding repeatedly. "What the fuck is this?", I query. "That's the plan!", screams back Bonehead. "That's the plan? Alright. What do pigeons eat numnuts?", I test Bonehead, knowing full well he doesn't know. This is indicated by his silence and I quickly go in to my next question, "No. You don't know. Moving on. What explosives are we putting in and how do we get hold of them without getting arrested?". Bonehead folds his arms behind his back and tucks in his bottom lip in as he states, "it's a work in progress" "A work in progress. Oh, right", I mock. "Yeah, a floor opener", adds Bonehead. "Oh it's a real floor opener", I mock once more and throw the sheet of paper on the ground.

Never been the brains of this outfit has old Bonehead Bill, yet he continues to try to take charge as though marks go to initiative. I wish they did Bonehead. "What did you do that for?", he cries out defensively and dives to the ground to retrieve his master plan. "My first rule when engaging in criminal deeds is always know the plan inside out so you don't get caught, alright?", I explain. "Brother, this ain't my first rodeo", exclaims Bill.

Over numerous Birra Morettis and endless listening to Method Man's All I Need (Razor Sharp Remix) we discuss our retaliation. When we get stuck in development hell, I defeatedly query, "Why do we even need to do this again?"

Sharp as ever, Bonehead boosts morale by saying, "Cause you thought Scream 6 was fucking shite lad and the last thing you want is a victory for The Pseuds". He was not wrong, I shall review that giant turd next month. We cannot let the nerds win. This encourages me to push on with the planning.

Early in to the next morning we have it all drafted. So get the Ocean's Eleven heist music blaring. Ok, so this is how it will go down. At dead on 02.15 AM, Bonehead will pick me up in the Sandero and drive me to the scene of the crime: The Pseuds residence. Then at approximately 02.30, Bonehead shall use his lock picking skills to break in the house. He assures me his lock picking skills are very good and he's done this tons of times. Upon entering the gaff, we will pour a slippery slime residue all over floor of the house. This mixture will be created by Bonehead earlier in his work garage using various liquids he can mix together. I'm not even sure I want to know what he's going to put in it. I'll leave that to him. Once, the unidentified slippery slime substance is poured out on the floor, I shall open the windows. At about 02.45 Bonehead will then leave a trail of bird seeds and berries bought from the local pet shop that goes all the way to Bolehill rec to attract his pigeons. By 02.50, we're long gone. We were never there. In the morning, The Pseuds will hopefully come down to a room of shitting pigeons. As they try to shoo them away, they will slip in the slime and fall in the piles of shit. How about that? Oh and obviously, we removed the part where the pigeons explode cause we decided that's a bit mean on the birds. Especially, considering they will be assisting us on this mission.

On the evening of the revenge plot, I was pacing my front room wondering whether this was a good idea and whether it would even come off. The pigeon part was a big ask on their behalf but I concluded that at the bare minimum The Pseuds would wake up to a sticky floor and that was payback enough for them kidnapping me and their championing of the abysmal Scream 6

Right on cue, Bonehead appears and I see the Sandero headlights silhouetted against my windows. Briskly, I sneak out the house and dive in to the passenger seat. Bonehead has Black Sabbath's Who Are You? blasting out his car speakers. I showed him this song a few days back and he hasn't stopped playing it since. One of the cooler points of their controversial prog rock turn away from the stoner and doom metal origins. Who can resist such juicy synths? Although, it must be said, Bonehead's non-stop playing of the song was beginning to drive me crazy. If Bonehead was nervous, he wasn't showing it. As for me, I was bricking one and barely able to speak. "Have you got the bird seeds?", I mumble.

"Ah yeah, it's on the back seat", Bonehead answers. I turn round and see the tin. "And the slime?", I follow up with. "You know I keep that that thang on me. That's riding up with me. Got it here in the side compartment as that needs to stay up right. Don't want that shit getting all over my car. Here smell this...", Bonehead says as he opens the lid and places it under my nose. I recoil at the stench and let out an audible "Urrggghhhh". That smell will never be forgotten. I look around for something to throw up in, anxious I may soon need to. While this is happening, Bonehead just laughs to himself. He's a maniac. A god damn maniac. Once I stop gagging, he starts tapping the steering wheel and humming the sound of the synths from Who Are You?

Eventually, we pull up a few roads down from the gaff. Bonehead shouts, "here" and throws what appears to be a pair of tights at my head. "What are these for?", I ask baffled. "To put them over your head, stupid. I nicked them from my sisters place", responds Bonehead. "Well, I don't want them. Give your sister her fucking tights back, mate", I shout back. He refused to take them back off me and said, "Look, I thought it be a good idea to conceal our identities if shit goes sideways". Cursing the dark skies lack of complete shielding, I ashamedly pulled Bonehead's sisters tights over my head. Jesus, what had we gotten ourselves in to?

Approaching The Pseud's pathway with bird seed and slime tucked under our arms, we crept along quietly. Bonehead begins humming the Who Are You synths again and I have to give him a quick "Shhhh!". Did this man ever snap in to seriousness? Only thing that would get me angrier would be if he couldn't pick this lock. Turned out we didn't have to, the door was left completely unlocked. We looked at each other in surprise and walked straight on in. After that, I just told myself they deserved what they were about to get.

Tiptoeing along the corridors, Bonehead starts that humming of Who Are You business again and putting me so on edge. "Shut the fuck up", I aggressively whisper and believe me there is such a thing as aggressively whispering. Having poured out the slime and bird seed, we got up to opening the windows when we heard footsteps moving up above. My heart stopped. I held my hand out to Bonehead in a gesture not to move a muscle. "What should we do?", mouths Bonehead. Although, it's kind of hard to tell what he's trying to say with his sister's tights on his head. My first instinct was to wait it out but those footsteps were busy making sweet music in the night. Worst of all, they seemed to be getting closer. It came clear that whoever the feet belonged to were coming down the stairs. That meant one thing, based on the design of the house we were trapped. Those symphonic feet would soon be united with a face. I put my hands on top of my head and looked at my partner in crime. Counting the precious seconds until we were fucked. Where was Link with the exit route when we needed him? In a split second it struck me. "The window", I called out to Bonehead and made a beeline for our new exit. We dived on out on to the grass like Gary Cahill jumping for a corner and sprinted in to the streets.

As we ploughed in to the dark, Bonehead with his sisters tights dangling half off his head was chucking bird seeds everywhere willy-nilly in order to keep his pigeon plan. All this running left us lost as to where the car was. Every street looked the exact same round here and the last thing we wanted to do is return anywhere near the scene of the crime. We were screwed with no way out. We needed to get off the streets asap. In anger, I threw the tights off my head and launched them in a nearby bush. "What should we do?", uttered Bonehead looking for our next exit strategy. Who would be up at this time to pick us up in the arsehole of nowhere? My face flashed as the thought came to me. It was time to call The Goshima

A car pulls up, a window rolls down and out comes a thumbs up. The Goshima had arrived. I have never been more relieved. We piled in to his Mitsubishi. Soon as I had the seat belt sorted, I let out a "thanks" "Any time, Kellysan", smoothly replied The Goshima. I could have fallen asleep in the passenger then and there like a child in a pram. No-one had ever felt this safe. I basked in the gift of silence and car comfort.

Still, I was not ready for Bonehead Bill's rambling quite so soon. "Hey Kelly. You're a JFK assassination enthusiast. You'll like this one. The other day I was speaking with Barry me boss and he said, if someone was interested in something like that...he said they should check out who owned the building... the building...what was it called? The one they supposedly shot JFK from", rambled Bonehead. "The Texas School Book Depository building", answered The Goshima putting Bonehead straight. "Yeah that's the one. He said if anyone wanted information. They would be wise to look in to who owns the building. I can't remember the name. But he said it was some rich oil man. A right winger with military ties to Lee Harvey Oswald and one of his associates. Now this might be a bit of a leap but what if that building was actually a covert CIA headquarters? Ah? Think about it. You got to move weapons around secretly. Who's gonna check in a box with 'Children's school books written on'. Smart, huh?", Bonehead rambles again. I was too exhausted and on edge from our previous engagement to even bother to answer him.

After a while of driving, I apologised to The Goshima for the interruption to his evening and hoped he wasn't up to much. "Just a Japanese noise night", he cleared up. "A Japanese noise night? Now where in Sheffield would they have one of those?", I asked in amazement. "You'd have to be in the know", he informed letting out a little grin. "Mr Goshima, would you mind if we tagged along with you and maybe checked this night out with you?", interrupted Bonehead. I wanted to berate my crime colleague for his insubordination but I also wanted to know whether we could go this Japanese noise night so held off. "Sure, if you boys behave" was The Goshima's decision. I assured him we would. Bonehead asked for control on the music of the car speakers, put Who Are You on and hummed along again.

This noise night was the greatest thing I'd ever seen. Just Japanese dudes running about, screaming and headbutting cymbals. "Go on, son!" I screamed in encouragement every time he hit that motherfucker. He didn't care one bit about the trickles of blood running down his forehead. Neither did I. We were all lost in the spectacle. Another guy had brought in what could well have been his car engine and spent about a solid 20 minutes drilling holes in it. Bonehead was frozen to the spot, he had never been so inspired in all his life. We were so drunk, we jumped up and down on the spot, daring these musicians to proceed with their art. Some other guys act was punching an inflatable sex doll and with the other hand carrying a microphone to pick up the sounds which he then heavily distorted and put enough reverb on to make My Blood Valentine wince.

After a while, The Goshima asks, "What do you think?". I pointed at the fella on stage currently slamming a toy Lightsaber in to the wall for about the 100th time and said, "That's music". He giggled and added, "Why don't you have a go?". "Can I do that?", I shouted in shock. "It's sort of like a open mic night. They have this night like once a month. The clubs called The Milennium. Small thing. You just go up and request a slot", clarified The Goshima. Not needing any further persuasion, I went up to a guy stood behind a laptop and whispered in his ear. They pencilled me in after the next act. I gave the DJ just one request, play Les Rallizes Denudes's Night of the Assasin's in its full 12 minutes and I would do the rest. There was just one problem. I'd forgotten the entire song is in Japanese and I didn't know a single word of Japanese. Not a problem, I just improvised by chatting utter shite about how much I loved Les Rallizes Denudes and the Japanese Red Army whilst doing karate chops through the air. Every few steps across the stage, I had to throw a roundhouse kick and this could not be questioned. Chatting utter shite and throwing in kung fu moves. This was my act. This was my art.

Since, this seemed to be met with a very positive reaction, I decided I had to up the ante. You can't be too tame in a place like this. Time to share my admiration for Godzilla with my new found friends. "Oh no, they say he's got to go. Go Godzilla, yeah. Oh no there goes Tokyo. Go Godzilla, yeah!", I chanted across the room.

This caused the small DIY venue to erupt with cheering for the King of the Monsters as Les Rallizes Denudes echoed on in the background. Bonehead had his shitty phone camera out and was announcing, "Live from The Milennium. He doesn't do studio recordings. Only Live. This is the fucking music video!". One man as if possessed, grabbed my neck, stood millimetres from my face and screamed, "Godzilllaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!". Not knowing quite what to do, I screamed back at him, "Godzillllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"

Sensing this as encouragement to keep going, I began singing, no wait shouting, "The cries of Godzilla's victims put me to sleep at night. Tokyo tears make my penis stand up right. He's the city destroyer. He smokes cities like the pipe smoking Tom Sawyer. Death to Japan. Goddy's got 'em in a chokehold like Vince McMahon"

Suddenly, the music screeched to an abrupt halt. A ringing filled my ears. "Give it up for The Godzilla Guy!", announced the DJ, quickly snatching the microphone from my hands. There was mostly silence with a few ironic cheers. The DJ screams down my ear, "Look, I know you're just fucking around being silly here. But there's a couple of guys that don't know that and didn't take it that way. There's some guys here really pissed off and really want to kick your head in. They think you just offended the soul of Japan. I suggest you get out now and never come back to The Milennium"

Bonus Points:

-being a Lovecraftian found footage movie

-all the surreal experimentation and trippy looping structure

-the cock cutting

-Robbie Banfitch acting, directing and operating the camera like a true auteur

-respectably making a decent movie on a measley $15,000 budget

Overall Score: 3.5/5

#1-The

Aesthetic

Watching Skinamarink:

Every thought that came to mind in the order they came to mind

This looks fucking gorgeous.

#2-The Concept

Well, this never got past the concept stage.

#3-It's No Blair Witch

Is this the movie idiots think Blair Witch is? The genius of that film was how it devotes so much time in the first act and the supplement promo material to giving a context so that your mind can then wonder. There's no context here so it's not scary. No-ones asking for a concrete answer but you have to provide at least some suggestion of what could be going on.

#4-It's Not Even Paranormal Activity Level

Oh come on, even Paranormal Activity had a few interesting elements such as the McMansions, surveillance and domestic violence. Say something Skinamarink please, for the love of God!

#5-Lack of Close Ups

What's the point in shooting with no close ups of the kid's faces? Hard to identify with them or be scared for them if you have such a detached shooting style.

#6-Slow Cinema Paranormal Activity

How can I be angry at this? It's a slow cinema Paranormal Activity and it's found its own form of storytelling. I just wish it had something to say. Something to match the cool visuals. Still, as a stylistic exercise this is pretty damn interesting.

#7-Do We Have An Allegory?

Woah. Hold on here. This may have something to say yet. Respect for keeping me waiting. I'm on my toes trying to reach for the allegory.

#8-Cracked It

Oh my God. I think I've cracked this. This is about the deterioration of the family home. Getting older, feeling nostalgic and suddenly realising that the place you want to visit no longer exists. That's why everything is slowly disappearing. The idea not to show the kid's faces was a good one because you can substitute yourself in. It's a perspective thing. Setting it during those early hazy hours when you couldn't sleep and would watch cartoons and play with toys while the parents were still asleep is about the most profound thing I've ever seen. That times always been slightly Lynchian to begin with but it's also the most pure visualisation of the family home. The only thing more embarrassing than finding this scary is that I'm actually finding it sad.

#9-Another U-Turn

Ok, disregard all that. I seem to be wrong here. There does not appear to be an allegory.

#10-Fucking Ghosts

Oh for fuck sake, is that a ghost? I beg this not to do away with its unique style for cliches. I'll get over the poor writing just don't do away with the style. Do not even think about giving me jump scares.

#11-Style Maintained

So I'm not too happy about ghosts being invited to the party and the easier route taking place of allegory but for the most part, it has maintained the style and remained dedicated to the way it began telling the story.

#12-Familiar Set Pieces In A New Way

We may have slipped narratively by the inclusion of conventional ghosts but in maintaining the style the familiar is presented new. I refer to the blood down the wall, eye stabbing and creepy phone call afterwards. It doesn't linger on the actions themselves but let's the dialogue play over strong images, far more effective. Instead of jump scares we get hazy faces in the dark where you have to lean in and form an image with your mind. Japanese style! This may be empty but I've got so much time for that.

#13-Conclusion

Without a doubt an wonderful stylistic exercise. Same with The Outwaters, maybe next time, I'm not asking for a fully comprehensive story, but maybe a bit more to make your mind wonder. That's not to say dialogue explaining what's happening but images which have a strong meaning. Personally, I liked my own idea best with bullet point number 8.

Overall Score: 3/5