Andy is a contributing writer, occasional interviewer, surrogate Schnaars, and co-host of the Sophisticult podcast. He might not be as funny as Joe, rich as Jon, strong as Casey, adorable as Mark, or surly as Eric, but damn does he give great hugs.
Let me set the scene for you. A hirsute man-child strolls into his local multiplex to check out the latest installment in a franchise about werewolves and vampires. Sounds pretty great, huh? What’s that you ask? Yes, that’s right. He’s never seen any other Underworld movie other than what’s been on FX in the background. Won’t this diminish his enjoyment of the impending whirlwind of leather, fur, blood spurts, and runny egg style Shakespeare? Absolutely not.
Somewhere in the hills of Southern California Irma (Barbara Crampton) is acting as caretaker and psychologist to a meek shut in named Janine (Sarah Hagan). Irma puts Janine through hypnosis sessions, sensory tests, and yoga lessons. “It seems so easy now,” Irma says, “but that wasn't always so.” Having exhibited obedience and lucidity Janine is allowed to venture into the outside world unattended. On one of these trips she encounters Savannah (Sara Malakul Lane).
Every year the BGH crew selects their picks for best and worst horror films of that year. Stay tuned toward the end of the year for our infallible consensus for the best and worst of the year, compiled by our very own genre mega-scholar Jonathan Schnaars.
Kevin Smith’s Yoga Hosers is a butts-joke movie. Things are going in butts. Things are coming out of butts. And if nary a butt be in sight you best believe there is going to be some sort of Internet joke geared toward (or about) those pesky millenials. It’s a movie purposefully base and as Smith has stated, geared toward a particular demographic. But whether Yoga Hosers captures the attention of that market is uncertain at best.
Bleary-eyed and soaked in chlorine, cheap pizza, joy, fulfillment, and margaritas, some of the BGH team comes to you with a list of 13 Hot Takes from this year’s Horror Hound Weekend Indianapolis (HHW).
In the opening moments of Roman Polanksi’s Repulsion we watch as titles drift across the eyeball of the film’s protagonist, Carol (Catherine Deneuve). The camera proceeds to pull back as a despondent score plucks, thuds, and reverberates in our eardrums. Slowly a face covered with a thick plastering of who-knows-what calls out, “Have you fallen asleep?” At the film’s conclusion, a carefully orchestrated bookend image offers an uncomfortable answer, suggesting Carol may never have been “awake”.
The road trip has come to symbolize numerous things in the milieu of cinema USA. It’s freedom, self-discovery, escape, or denial. Whether from Rey, Hellman, Peckinpah, Malick, Reichardt, or as depicted in a sea of sex comedies, horror stories, or motorcycle gang flicks, the road has unspooled across celluloid landscapes as yellow paint races by and voluminous clouds however in the distance. Though far from specific to the U.S. such a story had come to inform many New Hollywood filmmakers and their subsequent acolytes. And at their core, they are films about uncertainty.