I Sell The Dead
Overall Recommendation
Recommendation?
This is a really good little movie, sort of like a smaller ensemble What We Do in the Shadows. Not that irreverent, but equally intelligent in a strange manner of asking a ridiculous question, whiteboarding out the answers, and then serves them up in a “Whose line is it anyway” kind of format. Watching Ron Perlman interrogate a hobbit is good cinema, and Dominic’s lightheartedness and talkative tale-teller of a character is perfect for him and his big expressive eyes. Kinda like trying to bad-cop a Kender. They really walked a fine line with the comedy without straying into stupid, and the out of the box thinking kept the plot fun and fresh. The ending- which I’m not really going into- was amazing and out of left field, and the lead-up was a Kaizer Soche shuffle of hilarious anecdotes and beautiful artwork. No, it’s not really a zombie movie, and no, the zombies in it really aren’t accurate as real zombies- these are zombies crossed with ape DNA. But that said- if you don’t mind a little vampire, or rather, a tiny alien, well, then this is the perfect zombie-not-zombie movie for you.
Plot Autopsy
Plot Autopsy
- Jack Nicholson gets run through the guillotine
- Ron Perlman arrives to interrogate Dominic
- They were corpse thieves, and started digging up strange things.
- Vampires, space aliens, zombies… these are all buried secretly around us, just look.
- We finally get to some good, dedicated zombie stuff!
- Such an absolutely funky ending I don’t want to ruin it. Good times!
Zombie Description
Zombie Description
Well, the zombies in this aren’t really “Zombies”… rather, the two main guys wander around digging up corpses, and special corpses, so after digging up a vampire and a space alien, they dig up a zombie, which acts like a chimp- even going so far as the face-eating and whatnot that occurs when you attempt to domesticate intelligent quasi-sentient animals the same carrot and stick way you’d treat a dog. I guess “Rabbit and stick” is more appropriate considering not many dogs would be motivated by carrot. I know- some dogs love them. Some dogs eat poo. So- these are fast, nimble, ape-like zombies with wizened grey faces. Oh, and they’re really good at hopping. So this is a movie with zombies that is not a zombie movie. You got that? Even though it’s better than a lot of actual zombie movies.
Where the money went
Where the money went
Money went into making a perfectly good Ron Perlman movie. Granted- this isn’t the best I’ve ever seen Perlman, nor is it a role that only he could fill, in fact, one could say he is extremely undercast, but he works perfectly against the hobbit for the conversational foil, the good priest to the bad graverobber. This felt like maybe it was shot over a longer period of time than intended, or maybe a couple scenes were a bit hastily thrown together, but the artistic side of things, the aesthetic embellishment to the story which gives the spice to the meat and potatoes… The art involved here is a 10. From the montages to graphic novel blushes, everything was perfect. They might not have put their money into making an actual zombie movie, but I regret nothing.
Best Weapon
Best Weapon
You only see it at the very end, but Ron Perlman has what appears to be a huge, studded metal fist that he finally gets around to attacking Dominic with. It looks like the helmet from a suit of armor, but Ron Perlman makes it look believable size-wise. Then they bring up the concept of a “Wrecker”- a person who intentionally signals ships with directions that dash them against rocks and cliffs, sinking them; only so that they can pick through the wreckage that washes ashore for anything valuable. Movie was really fond of throwing knives, too. Perfect amount of well done CGI to make it work, and that it did.
Can I get a hand?
Can I get a hand?
There were hands galore here. Like, in the first 5 minutes of the movie we see a trail of dead hands, even one walking on it’s fingers, I think- which happens to be my worst fear. All the memorable nightmares of my youth involved hands walking around on their fingers. There was a great revival scene, even if it did turn out to be a vampire- and then at the end, it looks like Ron has a metal fist, even though upon replay, you can tell it’s just a mace or Warhammer.
That was new!
That was new!
This was great- I’ve seen movies that incorporate the feel of graphic novels, and this was up there with the best of them, if not the most graphic-oriented, definitely some of the best done. The “More Corpses” montage was awesome, as were most of the other artistic transitions and introductions. This movie feels like a dream, with the medium constantly twisting and changing, the tape looping back over itself with double exposure. I’ve never seen a movie throw in a UFO/space alien Paul type thing so casually, and then segue out of it so gracefully.
Review Notes
Review Notes
We start with a Jack Nicholson guy getting run through the old guillotine.
Some guy in an alley… kicking people.
Ron! Dom!
Dom’s in chains. (Now, THAT is a strange sentence.)
Ron can Sniff when he wats to. At Olympic levels!
“Well, all this really means is you’re a dead man and I’m here to make you say you’re sorry.”
Oh, shit- that’s a lot of severed hands. Even a walking one.
I believe I would also drink on that night.
Father Francis Duffy.
We’re flashing back to young Dom in a cemetery getting ready to steal a body…
“Selling things.”
More fog in use than on a Cheech and Chong set.
Oh, that’s proper yuck.
They leave the shroud?
Whoah! Willy was gonna kill Dom!
And then turns into a cartoon still for a second.
“But look at the beautiful corpse she left behind.”
Strange sobbing. Sneaky little bastard.
Wow- this is some innovative corpse stealing!
“I think it’s time to talk about my salary.”
“What about it?”
“I think I should have one.”
Heh. Little horndog.
I don’t understand this bar scene. What about fiddles?
“More corpses” montage. Fucking awesome!
“Never ever trust a corpse.”
I love Ron’s teeth.
“Is this… the first time you’ve paid someone to be alone with a man, Father?”
Some very beautifully artistic cut scenes. Great vibe.
“Still. I’m hungry enough I could eat that corpse there.”
Looks like they’ve unburied a vampire. Stake through the heart, garlic…
I would think you shouldn’t un-stake corpses that you find staked.
Oh, we have one hell of a lurchy corpse stand-up.
The corpse!
Willy takes a dash…
The corpse…
Floats towards Dom!
Got a vampire tying to chew his throat!
Shovel to the rescue!
She throws herself on Willy…
Willy *is* a mad bastard!
Oh! Shit! Did they leave the corpse as a trap?
Shit! That means he’s going to become a vampire too, and he’s already an evil man.
Who plays the fucking violin. I used to play the violin. I fucking hated it.
Another graphic novel cut scene!
Lotta drinking…
The House of Murphy?
Tim Burton feeling to this.
They’re at a grave with frozen ground.
See, that’s the kinda thing you don’t seek out.
“Looks like a child’s coffin.” All the more reason not to open it!
Oh, shit. Dropped the box.
Holy shit. A space alien.
Throwing knives!
What the fuck? E.T. went home!
A wrecker? Jesus, that’s evil!
Drinking contest!
Fat guy is completely manipulative.
No, in the morning she’s gonna feel hungover. That doesn’t make people want to go to work.
What’s in the box?
Oh, shit, zombie!
Choking her!
But… passes out when sees the cross?
“a cross-to-fix”
The coffin shaped flask is cool as shit.
He sniffs the burnt bones like coke?
She… is that Yolandi?
Dog teeth. He’s got dog teeth.
Later, that night… in bed…
Daddy… crushes a lot of things.
Oh shit. Age 5, do NOT give bunny rabbits to children. Whoa, that kid is deranged. I love it.
Black mist? Watery grave?
Oh, shit. Bad sign, that dropping of the crucifix overboard and all.
Well, those are the crates, but…
Dog teeth is there.
Oh. Shit. She just killed him!!
Found a random eye patch lying around?
Worst plan ever.
A foot?
Oh, shit! Zombie!
Very chimp like!
Oh, shit! Willy got bit!
Oh. Knife to her head.
“Valentine! Why don’t you show them your face?”
Even the zombie is disturbed!
I wanna see!
Footless zombie!
Drunks are no good for conversation.
Bartender just had a nervous breakdown.
“I’m ravenous, Arthur!”
————End Transmission——————–
Introduction
Introduction
Went to a Spurs game a couple nights ago. We met up with about a dozen of my wife’s co-workers, and everything was fun and a good time, and a couple of them were truly trashed, and I’d eaten a mushroom and my wife was having a couple beers. It was a good time, and then the game ended, and people began leaving. The group of people we were with were stuck in “no-one is alpha and everyone is talking and people are trying to get other people to go do things” and I thought my wife and I were leaving when the game ended.
The couple- also from our group- that was sitting in front of us had said their goodbyes and left. I suggested to my wife that we leave, and as we began walking away, I waved goodbye to the group. Who, then, decided to follow us, since they think of my wife like a mash-up of a surfing hipster Jesus and some version of Mother Theresa who knows Kung-Fu the way Neo does.
She has 3 or 4 younger nurses who have imprinted on her the way seagulls or ducks or whatever do with the red-dot on the bill and the “follow you forever!” thing. So my wife is line-backering it out of the stadium, I’m trying to keep up, there’s a wake of drunken young’uns following us, and we make it outside, and the resentment emanating off my wife could blister paint on the other side of a lead wall.
I asked her if she was upset, and she started talking angrily about how I rushed her out and the didn’t even get to say goodbye. I spun us 180 degrees, facing into the crowd, and said “Ok, let’s go find them.” Anything is better than dealing with my wife when she gets enraged.
No, she didn’t want to look for them now, what was the point?- she replied. And then led me across a street that a whole mess of other people were walking across, regardless of the fact that it was taking us further from our car.
I followed her until we reached the next pedestrian crosswalk hub, where there were multiple directions to head off into. I waited patiently. I knew she didn’t know where to go. She turned and asked which way to go- something that half enrages, half entertains me; I got to say one of my platitudes of logical happiness. “Am I leading or are you leading?”
She said that I was leading, since she didn’t know where we were going. Ok. I led us back across the street she’d had us cross and back to our car. I drove- she’d had three beers. Enough that we were going to have a conversation.
She quickly turned sour and belligerent, a pedantic contrarian viewing our interaction with the intensity of a top Tennis player, thinking of nothing other than how to smash it back away from her the minute it heads towards her. She evidenced this thinking when she began to caustically apologized for my mother drinking tea; something my mother isn’t exactly known for. My mother prefers coffee.
Some more raised voice from her with the addition of sarcastic vulgarities and I was done. Stopped talking. Just drove. We got home, there were deer in the driveway. Some cute little fawns. That sort of broke the angry silence spell, and we chatted a bit as we headed inside and greeted the dogs.
About 15 minutes later, she’s in the bathroom projectile puking into the toilet, trying to balance, bent over, on her feet but falling forward to her knees, grabbing the bowl for support. I didn’t want to look away. It wasn’t that I wanted her to see me watching her in a moment of vulnerability, but it was more of something I needed to see, lest I remain jealous of her ability to drink when she wants to and not drink when she wants not to.
Watching her retch, I realized I had become envious of the easy social interactions booze lubricates. I didn’t know anyone there, except the most drunk of them. If I’d drank, I could have hung with them. The worst part was my wife repeatedly attempting to martyr herself on the “I chose this lifestyle when I chose you.” line of logic where marrying me has lead her to an unsocial island of sobriety.
It really makes me want to cut her adrift, push her out into the current; give her the means to easily leave me, but the ability to stay if she’s willing to fight the current to get back to me. I feel like this is the only way to cease her disappointment in a life partner who can’t drink and can’t socialize without drinking. If you love something, set it free…
It’s much cheaper of a sentiment when the reality of individual particulars lead to a rephrasing as “If you love something, enable it to drink heavily without your presence, and if they feel like wandering back and spending time with you, consider yourself lucky that you know *that* bit.” The next day, I told her that I didn’t have a good time with “Drunk-wife”. She tried all the usual conversational judo to shift culpability, but I kept things simple and focused on two main points.
1: I would feel better if her take away was pleasure that I came, not resentment that I wanted to leave when it ended, and 2: Her feelings, as they were- were valid. But that did not give her the excuse to drunkenly swear at me.
I think I *wanted* an apology, but wasn’t asking for one, since at the wrong time that can feel like an escalation or morality-call, but in the end, she apologized for the yelling and swearing. That little bit of post-trauma remorse made all the difference. I felt much better about everything. But then, watching the person who has been berating you as they unsteadily blow chunks does have a soporific effect on ones anger.
Let’s see. In other news, I got a strange text from a complete stranger announcing her name. I replied back “I’m Jackson. How can I be of service today?”. I quickly got an apologetic “Oops, wrong number!”, so I sent a picture of our Pitbull. I received one of a brown lab playing in the shallows of a river.
I think that at this point, love of dogs might be the only thing strong enough to overcome the red/blue division and derision we got going on. To shift the conversation one color over, I completed my application for a Marijuana Workers Permit. I’m hoping that there’s some company out there that would appreciate an MBA with years of experience. I don’t care if I’m behind the counter of a dispensary, really.
This comes down to my need to bring something fiscal into this household, as well as a need to structure my days and provide me with more social interactions, which should be seen as learning opportunities. I’m also about 2 weeks from being done with the WordPress class, at which point the really ugly grind of uploading all of these saved reviews is going to sink me like wet clay mud.
Winter and all, been on a bit of a movie bender. Saloum, which had exactly 7 seconds of zombie-ish thingy in it, when it leaps out of the water towards the end… Whole movie was sexy- very stylish, each character was amazingly ornate; but at the end of the day, you can’t have weird horned things made out of leaves and bugs running around grabbing people but being susceptible to bullets and blades… It seemed more fantastical than frightening.
To talk about frightening, we have to talk about Wire Room, which was Bruce Willis’s last movie. Aphasia is a frightening thing. Bruce… looked like a turtle on heroin, trying not to nod off between lines. He walked like an arthritic duck. The entire plot was based around people calling other people on the phone, and Bruce’s character was a dick to everyone, but finally the old good turtle saved the day. With a shotgun loaded with CO2 cartridges.
Yeah, I said it. You heard me write. At one point, the Ethan Hawke guy looks down into a box and says “We’ve got 8 rifled slugs for the shotgun.” or something like that. And as the camera pans down, the box is clearly labeled CO2 cartridges. This wasn’t enough, either- there was a scene where Ethan’s character is making Bruce open a safe, and Ethan’s gun’s slide alternates between being forward and being locked back. It’s kinda hard to accept that level of stupid. Did they use test reel footage when the actual proved unusable?
All I know is Yippie-Kai-Yay, Motherfucker. I think that’s the quote. I’m back binging on mushrooms, and I’m dealing with the whole “building tolerance” thing by eating larger quantities of heavier mushrooms. At the moment, the tubs are only fruiting with some albino strain that I don’t know the name of, but it stomps all over you with staticky fuzzy feet.
I’m yawn central. I got another movie here to talk about- Raven’s Hollow. This was… about Edgar Allen Poe, in his formative years. It involves him imbibing drastic measures of opium in order to see the evil creature hiding amongst the townsfolk. And then shooting at it, and exhorting others to shoot at it, too. It made for an alright movie, but it really made me miss the days when taking a shit-ton of drugs was reason enough to explain away bizarre behavior and generally speaking, there weren’t much for consequences.
I suppose you have to be right with your ranting accusals in order to get the get our of jail free card to begin with, though. I’m putting my cart before the horses, but it’s only the mushrooms talking there. I just yawned so wide it felt like my lip split. I should find my Chapstick.
11/18/2022
So… I guess I went looking for Chapstick, wandered off, never came back. That’s ok though. I didn’t do anything with the night anyway. I spent most of the time cuddled with my old dog; or staring at the computer uncomprehendingly as the psilocin fried and crackled in my skull.
There is a feeling I get when the mushrooms begin rowing through the gears where I am wide open and willing more amperage my way. It’s a feeling of falling backwards into electric clouds, it’s the feeling of the tide rolling over you and rolling you under, it’s the last microsecond of purple sunset appreciation before the bullet hits. All I know in these moments is that I’ve taken too much but not enough- if I’m still here, willing myself into oblivion, then I still exist. I resent, therefore, I exist.
I just went looking for a valium to try to relax to get into the groove and I remember now they’re in my wife’s car- I brought them for the basketball game since crowds and I don’t do well, and I guess they’re still in the car’s glove compartment. I have a small little bottle of mixed meds somewhere, but I can’t find it. Probably still packed in some piece of backpacking gear.
On any given day, I find or lose a pocket in pants I’ve owned for years. I once found the desiccated remains of a banana in an interior pen pouch of a backpack that I didn’t know had a banana hammock. I mean, pen pouch.
It’s cold out, hinting at freezing. The dogs keep needing to go out, which I don’t begrudge them; but one of my neighbors is burning something plastic- the air has the oily smokey quality that makes me want to puke and shower. I ask, is this income inequality at play, or lazy and stupid doing as they only know to do? Then wonder: Are these two sides of the same coin?
At my absolute lowest- or rather- tied in an a hundred strong race for worst moments of drunken stupidity, I was living in an apartment complex that had wood burning fireplaces. That winter, they were doing rebuilds on a number of the units and I took to getting drunk to the point of impaired ambulation and dumpster-diving for wood to burn.
Yes, all the wood was treated with something, yes, it was a horrible idea, yes, I probably took years off my life and a decade off my IQ, but I was drunk and wanted to *do* something. Missions to raid the neighboring units for burnable scraps became highly entertaining whence no longer able to successfully navigate snowy stairs.
One of the worst moments of my life occurred one of those nights, when a woman roughly my own age stopped me, mid dumpster, to tell me that I couldn’t burn the wood I was collecting, that there would be chemicals released… and then she had the realization that this could be me “providing” for my family, doing the best I could, when really, I *was* doing the best I could.
To remain standing and focus on the three of her that were wobbling around, taking pity on me. I couldn’t explain that I didn’t need the wood, I wanted the wood to burn it, chemicals be damned, but the look of hopeless wanting to help coming from her rendered me speechless; I climbed down and walked away, leaving her asking me if I needed help feeding my family or with other forms of heating.
Did I need jackets? Hats? Her goodwill stomped all through my inebriation, splashing my fun with condescension; if only of my own surplus and projection. The next night, a grocery bag full of non-perishable food was waiting down outside the dumpster when I drunkenly approached again.
No note, no indication that it was anything other than someone forgetting to bring their last bag in, but I saw all the signs of intentional placement in the light where it was dry, and the nature of goods were the kind you’d buy for a stranger if you wanted to ensure that they had enough to eat yet don’t feel like they’re capable of fresh vegetables or keeping anything frozen. (In the middle of snowy December.) What should I have done?
I rifled through the bag, took anything that I or my girlfriend would eat, and then left the rest sitting in the bag in case someone else came along. My girlfriend was mortified, which made me angry, but overall, I feel ashamed for acting in a way that caused me to be judged and found mentally deficient.
I know this woman meant well, I doubt she’s forgotten that first night either, but I wish I could find her, talk to her, explain that I *was* working, and coming from New England the idea of paying for wood is ridiculous. I grew up helping my dad run saw and stack wood. I like fires, and Portland is the most metropolitan I’ve ever lived; when I saw a bunch of 2×4 chunks and plywood remainders, it reminded me of high-school bonfires, so I collected armloads to take home to the fireplace.
I’m a drunk, not really concerned about the inhalation of gasses since I’m already doing Nitrous recreationally a couple nights each week. It was an attempt to slow my drinking. If the world was spinning over backwards and undulating “WUB WUB WUB WUB” then I don’t need to be intoxicated on alcohol. I don’t drink, I don’t do nitrous, but I’m still chasing that feeling of being a loose ribbon fluttering in the breeze.
That’s where I want the mushrooms to take me to. The feeling is there, but so is the compulsion to pace back and forth rubbing my head and thinking about world history and geo-politics, leaving myself scribbles on index cards of ideas that I feel could change the world if I only could decipher them the next day.
I Sell the Dead “Grave robbers, the dead and not-so-dead. “Old-fashioned…what a couple of crafty thieves can do with elbow grease, some spare change and the kind of deep movie love that never dies.” – Dargis, NY Times” I do believe this is the first review I’ve done where the movie description on Amazon included a critic’s description of the movie.
Now, I have no idea who Dargis is, but I know the NY Times is a newspaper. An important one, I suppose. Ron Perlman and Dominic Monaghan… (I’m coining “Ron & Dom”) So, this comes with high praise from smart people. Or, at least, that’s the implication and assumption.
Let’s take that quote though; let’s examine it. What the fuck does it mean? It’s old-fashioned… how so? Full of racial prejudice? Set in Colonial Burma? And who are the crafty thieves? What have they stolen? Are they the ones who love movies? Is their motive pure while their methods indefensible? What is the spare change meaning? Did this not have a decent budget?
Oh, Tardis… I mean, Dargis… What the hell do they pay you for? You write nonsense, and I should know- I’m the Naked King of Nonsense. Touche!