Movies are for Scaring

 

It’s here. The most frightening day of the year (unless Kim Kardashian’s over-publicized, ill-begotten nuptials have already trademarked that caption). Routinely one of my favorite holidays, this Halloween season has seemed slightly lackluster. AMC showed the same four movies over and over and over, my costume was a half-assed last minute Bret Michaels, and the NYC subway wasn’t the bumping costume party it usually is (this might be due in part the snow storm that took a dump on the Tri-State Area Saturday).

Rather than dwell in the ho-humminess of this year’s Hallow’s Eve, I’ll instead take the opportunity to recommend some of my favorite films of suspense and terror that, should you watch them, will likely scare the s**t out of you—or at the very least make you queasy and uncomfortable.

1) The Reef (2010) A survival story of five passengers on a leisurely sailboat cruise off the coast of Australia who hit a reef and capsize. Sans lifeboat and deciding to tread water to the nearest spot of land 8 hours away, they are subsequently stalked by a rather hungry, rather determined, rather ferocious shark. I expected predictable thrills with a side of cheese. What I got was a hand-wringing, stomach-knotting, oh-my-gosh-oh-my-gosh-look-behind-you adrenaline rush with engaging characters and a shark realistic enough to scare me out of the water for the next couple of seasons. In short: Jaws meets Open Water.

2)  Rogue (2007) On the subject of Aussie creature features, this film covers one of the reptilian kind. An American travel writer, played by the ever-alluring Michael Vartan, is sent to begrudgingly cover the Australian outback. He immediately finds himself on a river tour with a bevy of eager, annoying tourists guided by the also ever-alluring Radha Mitchell. When they are far from any civilization and without a line of reliable communication, a gigantic, territorial crocodile does a destructive number on their boat stranding them on what’s not much more than an elevated sandbar. Their island of refuge from the croc forebodingly grows smaller and smaller with the encroaching tide. As the sun goes down and the death toll goes up, base survival instincts kick in as they desperately contemplate swimming to the mainland. And just when you think the movie can’t get anymore gruesome, terrifying and frantic, it does. Poor Michael and Radha. In short: Lake Placid grimly void of any Betty White’s comic relief.

2) Dressed to Kill (1980) Wrought with the tell-tale objectification of gorgeous women for which he’s known, here DePalma crafts a tale of a juicy young call girl, Liz (Nancy Allen), who is the sole witness to the brutal, straight razor slaying of a philandering housewife, Kate (the glamorous Angie Dickinson).  Liz joins forces with Kate’s nebbish son to find the killer before she falls victim to the infamous razor. In Short: Psycho if it was infused with lots of early 80s T&A, fabulous camera angles, intoxicatingly melodramatic slow motion, and a horrific subway scene that will make you want to take a taxi next time.

From The House of the Devil

4) The House of the Devil (2009) What says Halloween better than the occult, the 80s, and a beautiful babysitter? Ti West must agree because he seamlessly interlocks every single one of them in this movie about a beautiful, soft spoken college co-ed who signs up for more than she knows when she answers an ad to “babysit” a creepy old man’s even creepier, older mother. Suspense, sound effects, and steadily growing tension all converge on a background that has such a genuinely 1980s feel, you’ll swear you hair is feathered and your jeans are Jordache. In Short: Rosemary’s Baby meets When a Stranger Calls.

5) The Howling (1981) This is undeniably my favorite horror film of all time. Dee Wallace, early 80s guru cult mentality, sex, violence, werewolves, nauseating special effects. All signs point to yes. And that yes hasn’t faded one fraction since the first time I saw it fifteen years ago. Karen White, a renown tele-journalist in San Francisco, is being stalked by a  psychotic fan, Eddie, who police think is linked to several gruesome murders in the area. Karen agrees to help them find him in a sting operation that leaves Eddie dead and Karen in the throes of a nervous breakdown. As part of her recovery, she is sent to ‘The Colony’, a West Coast retreat that offers therapy, quiet cabins, campfires…and werewolves that kind of want to bite your throat out. The Fan meets American Werewolf in London.

Now go grab some Milk Duds, a couple of cold cans of Tab, buckle down and watch one or all of these. If you piddle your pants just a little, just blame the soda.

Gluten Filled Ad

I've never cared for beer (except on those off moments when it's four in the morning on New Year's Eve and you're dancing on a coffee table in a Lower East Side bar while bar wenches practically throw you $1 PBRs). So it wasn't too much of a low blow to my drinking habits when my gluten allergy forbade any interaction with the bubbly ale of Germans and Frat Boys. Until now.



This Heineken commercial makes me want to drink a beer right this very gluten-filled second. It also makes me want go all James Bondy rom-com in Chinatown and sh*t. And buy a new suit.

Son of a Witch

It’s that time of year again, when last minute DIY disguises miraculously come together (or don’t), candy is consumed by the gallon, children get the shit scared out of them by creepy neighbors in murder doctor scientist zombie attire, and Drag Queens put us all to shame with elaborate costuming that has been in the works—sketches, blueprints, fittings­—since  November 2 of the previous year (the ladies require at least one day of rest).

From Halloween III Season of the Witch

So easy is it to get swept up in the macabre and mysterious allure Halloween brings that we often forget to ask that one lingering question that has plagued mankind’s curiosity for years: Why the f**k was Halloween III: Season of the Witch made? And why have I watched it three times this week?

Uniqlo Is a Size Queen

If you don't live in or visit New York often, odds are you haven't experienced the moderately priced fashion wonders that are Uniqlo. The Japanese company, who claims to "provide casual clothes for all kinds of people", has only had one location in Soho until this month when the Fifth Avenue store opened last week (the third, at Herald Square, is slated to open tomorrow).

A step above questionable touch-and-go HM quality and a step below the obnoxiously over-confident prices at Top Shop, Uniqlo has been my go-to place for novelty socks, slim-fitting button downs and wardrobe trend pieces that might cost more elsewhere. So you can understand my delight in learning this month that the Fifth Avenue store would be the largest retail space on the famous Manhattan shopping stretch.

Uncharacteristically eager to join the throngs of shoppers this weekend, I decided it was high time I invested in some more Uniqlo stock (and socks) so I headed over to Fifth Ave. My optimistic spendthriftiness soon turned into amusement park anxiety and panic. When they say it's the largest retail space, they're not kidding. The place is seemingly endless, made more dizzying by a multitude of mirrors that reflect hallways and corridors and foyers in overwhelming triplicate and quadruplicate.

Determined to leave clutching a new purchase I used everything but GPS to find the sweaters, of which there were piles and piles and PILES (I'm sure there were more piles, but the end-of-the-world/last-minute-holiday-shopping frenzy of tourists and suburbanites were blocking my view).

In short: Too much is too much. The Soho store is anything but small. But the Fifth Ave location is far too big. I've been satisfied with my Uniqlo purchases in the past, there's no doubting it. Yet, when a store goes from retail outlet to mammoth warehouse, it sadly becomes more apparent how sub-par a majority of the products are (i.e. if you see one rhinstone, it's pretty and sparkly, if you see 1,000 rhinestones, it looks like a one way ticket to High Class Hookerville).

The polyester blends I used to breeze past in Soho, are now so obviously overtaking the shelves and tables and racks, that the gilded vision I had of my Uniqlo products morphed into a brassy, poor quality poly blend of misfortune and tackiness. Word to the wise: you can have too much of a kind of good, well-priced thing. I'm not saying I won't return to the Soho store for my usual basics, but I am saying when I go there, there'll be a fleet of sweaters in non-naturally occurring fabrics dancing in my Fifth Avenue memories telling me that I should just go and spend a little more somewhere else.

Real [Estate] Headache

This is where I’d normally be blogging brilliantly about something involving fashion, film or comedic stupidity. Instead, the preliminary days of a New York apartment search have made me creatively lethargic, leaving me with only enough energy to slowly go into a hypnotic state watching Halloween horror films whilst alternately drinking almond milk (AM) or wine (PM).

So exhaustive is the search, I nearly thought that a very tan Debbie Gibson ensconced in a silver ski jacket was a hallucination when I passed her in Mid Town Manhattan yesterday.

Autocorrectica

I email, text, tweet, Facebook and can even Photoshop images of myself before they go to print in whatever Conde Nast magazine happens to be writing my praises at the moment. However, sometimes I’m a little less reluctant than my peers to jump on board for the latest technological gimmick and thus come across as a little less technologically savvy than others. I’ve decided I want to use that tendency to my advantage.

Therefore, from now on, when I’m frustrated with someone, I think I’ll just send a text that says “You’re a f**king turd faced slice of bitch from hell, you douchec**ker” and immediately send a follow-up text saying “Oh my gosh! My new phone autocorrected that! Sorry! I Meant to say “Hey! How are you? It’s been forevsies! xoxo”

Cult Classic

NOTE: this is written in the voice of what I see to be the generalized bat shit crazy voice of conservative Republicans. Challenges to its accuracy are welcomed to the debate floor.

I’m delighted that with all of this Republican candidacy business, we’ve seen such an honest, blatant disregard for that old separation of church and state nonsense. Thank goodness. But since adamant Perry supporter Baptist Pastor Robert Jeffress (whose crazy eyes are by no means comparable to a teen addicted to huffing) has so bravely said what we were all thinking—Mormons are a cult (why else would they have cable shows about them?)—I think we better continue the trend and be really, really specific about those “religions” we just shouldn’t stand for in the Oval Office.

Pastor Robert Jeffress

Methodists are entirely too liberal. They’re well intended, I suppose, but kind of lazy when it comes to punishing themselves for not being good enough. They may as well have orgies in a field somewhere and smoke maryjauna cigarettes.

Non-denominational. Now that just pisses me off. It’s like saying you’re too lazy to pick something. They have milquetoast lady preachers, homosexual congregations and casual clothes. You can’t wear jeans next to a men-loving man while listening to some old woman tell you to bow your head and be thankful for all our differences. It’s so backwards I can’t even wrap my Christian head around it. I guess I forgive them, but is that the kind of lax attitude we want choosing the fate of our Christian nation? Nosirree, Jesus.

Catholics are just plain creepy. What’s that saint stuff? And why do I need to tell a creepy old man the things I’ve done wrong this week? So he can tell me to recite some incantations while clutching a chunky necklace with a tacky cross on it? I think not. Now, I’m not going to say that sounds like saying spells and witchcraft or anything, but. Well. Yes, I am. 

I’m not even going to touch on Hindus. They seem nice, I guess, but a blue elephant with lots of arms? My goodness. I’m familiar with the fear of God. But that’s just insane. I think some acid junkie hippie in Los Angeles made it all up for one of them horror movies and it just caught on. Crazy talk.

And Buddhism. Man. That yoga vegetarian situation just ain’t right. I mean, yoga? Do you want to praise your Lord or do gymnastics? Good grief. And God put cattle on earth to make burgers during football games not to ignore them in exchange for some gloopy, silken tofu bean patties that Gwyneth Paltrow is bound to rave about.

Rick Perry is exactly what this country needs. He will uphold the values and social structure we need to make our country one big, conservative church where people like Michele Bachmann’s non-closeted husband can continue his non-gay work and everyone can realize how great it is to be white, male, carry a gun and make money in underhanded dealings in the name of the Lord. Amen!

All Hail the Mighty State

Fresh back from a stay with my family in Houston, I return, per usual, with cultural realizations and observations. They are as follows:

• If you are deep in the heart of the Texas suburbs, a dirty martini might be served on the rocks in a salt rimmed glass with enough olive juice to kill a small animal. When said martini is returned to the bartender with the polite instruction to make it a liiiiittle less dirty and serve it straight up, for some unknown reason you’ll receive a lime daiquiri in return. With salt on the rim.

• In October in New York, New York residents say, “Now THIS is what autumn’s supposed to be like.” In October in Texas, New York residents say, “Now THIS is what summer’s supposed to feel like.”

•  Beef tastes better in the Texas. Period. The end.

• After a fabulous seafood dinner­, and just when you’re ready to tell everyone who says Houston is classless and behind the times to piss off, a guy pulls up to the valet in a Ferrari…wearing jeans from 1994 and a shirt that is so tragic it shouldn’t even be assigned a decade of origin.

• Drinks and real estate may be way cheaper in Texas, but this law of frugality does not apply to clothes at Neiman Marcus. Dammit.

• The haircut of choice for brassy young women is the angled bob, preferably bleached and preferably paired with an ill-fitting sequined tank top that may or may not be the atrocious product of Forever [and ever and ever and ever] 21.

In short, Texas is just like every other place. There are some unfortunate fashion options, the hairdos are blog-worthy, and the food is hit or miss. But honey, ain’t nobody got wide open spaces like the Lone Star State.