It's nice to see some fresh blood flow into the old hum-drum school that is the horror movie genre. The dividing lines are strong and the camps are very unsubtly seperated: horror movies are the same old slasher and monster bullshit, by and for the gorehounds, with buckets of blood being dumped all over the usual suspects and thrillers are more psychological in nature, suspense and story-driven, and thoughtful in all the way horror films are not. Rarely do the movies deviate from their paths.

Pontypool is high-minded horror as well as a taunt and suspenseful thriller carried by the notions of the horror genre, the all-too-tired zombie film remade into something very subtle and very cerebral.

The setup (and the film itself, for that matter) is very simple: a talk radio DJ, exiled to rural Ontario, comes in on Valentine's Day in the midst of a snowstorm and goes on air only to find that the city around him has descended into chaos as some incomprehensible plague begins to spread offscreen. And this is none of the typical, overused crap that passes for zombie apocalypses. This is a whole new breed; cannibal madmen spouting gibberish, infected by the use of language. Hard to explain and something you should really see to appreciate and understand, particularly without spoiling the fashion in which the film plays out.

This is not to say that the details themselves make up the body of the film. I could explain all the particulars and it still wouldn't ruin the experience of watching this character drama play out in the tight confines of a disused church basement radio station and, particularly, the sound booth at its center, from which our lead, Stephen McHattie, delivers the day's news, weather, sports and other sundry gossip for the small town of Pontypool.

It has been mentioned in interviews that the script-writing and filmmaking of Pontypool have drawn inspiration from the nigh-legendary Orson Welles "War Of The Worlds" radio broadcast and you can feel this throughout the film. Almost all action happens off-screen and most of the experiences of the movie are gathered through listening to people's voices and words, well-chosen for the subject matter. You could close your eyes and just listen to the film and very few events would be lost from your understanding. The first 40 minutes could easily stand as a radio play and the whole movie could be performed on stage, never leaving the confines of the church building/radio station.

Bruce McDonald, an accomplished director best known for Hard Core Logo, keeps the film simple but the look of the movie is elegant and every shot is well-composed, particularly the often eerie cut-aways to still scenes that make you fear some sudden surprise to come. McDonald shepherded along this film, adapted by his friend Tony Burgess from his own novel, Pontypool Changes Everything, and you can feel it in the movie; a labor of love is not often the environment of an ostensible zombie movie, even one raised to the rarified atmosphere of something as intelligent as Pontypool.

Though this minor Canadian film has the cachet and feel of a small independant movie, it manages all the qualities of a well-funded and financed picture from one of the smaller studios that churn out the majority of the yearly horror output in theaters. The cast are top-notch actors; not a rank amateur or friend of the director in the mix to make it feel like a student prodcution. The writing, while possibly slightly obtuse for the casual audience, is smart and keeps you straining to hear the next words, something absolutely necessary in a film that mainly plays out through listening to others' voices. Aside from perhaps a lack of striking eventfulness or shocking revelations in this movie, it is a perfectly made and performed exercise in filmmaking prowess. Anyone with an appreciation for a complex and thrilling work that hinges largely on what is said more than what is shown should be delighted to indulge their mind with Pontypool, which is anything but the norm for horrors or thrillers. And that's a damned good thing.

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Based on the pilot, "Spartacus: Blood And Sand" will divide the people that view it. To call the series vastly derivative would be an understatement; the entire thing is nothing more than a long-winded cobbling-together of Gladiator and 300, with even more stylization, sex and violence. This isn't to say I didn't enjoy it or find it promising. In fact, it could prove to be very interesting. But buyer beware: this one won't be for everyone.

Produced by Sam Raimi's company, it's got a certain bit of that atmosphere left over from shows like "Hercules" and "Xena", now moved to their new creation "Legend Of The Seeker". It's a certain cheapness that comes with TV productions of period shows. In this case, their apeing of the style of 300, often to the point of copying shots, may help or hinder the feel of the show, but at least it's more interesting than the standard fare. This is no "Rome"; I don't think anyone will confuse this with a character drama.

The plot is more or less straight from the script of Gladiator. The character to be known as Spartacus goes to war, is betrayed by Romans, heads home to save his wife from murder and saves her only to have her taken from him and to be forced into slavery as a gladiator to fight his way back to freedom. There is the prerequisite amount of conniving douchebag Romans who plot and seek to gain the upper hand on the others. And titties. Lots of tittles. There's almost as much in the way of sex scenes as there are of digital gore. I suppose it helps that all the women are beautiful and the men ripple with muscle. It works for "True Blood".

As mentioned, there's quite a bit of violence, as one would imagine from a show about gladitorial combat. The fact that it's digital and often overly stylized to the point of being artistic is often a bit much and kind of weird-looking. It definitely doesn't look real all of the time, but it does prove to be interesting, even if it is inconsistent in the capacity to which they use it.

There's also a pleasing amount of cursing. It's not every day you hear Romans call someone a "cunt". There's a certain novelty to that, though it often seems a bit silly and anachronistic, like a bunch of Cockney thugs yelling at each other. And the actual dialogue, while not bad, is a bit trite and standard.

One of the interesting things about the writing is that the producers actually seem to want to be historically accurate with the series, at least as much as you can be about these virtually unknown eras of history. No plots here based on Howard Fast novels. No, this tale of Spartacus tacks together all of the various legendary notes and rumors of Spartacus' origin, as well as his name being derived from an ancient king. The way in which the elements are brought together are rather canny on the part of the show's creators. And it's surprising that it's as good as it is, coming from the loins of one of Joss Whedon's acolytes.

Given that the pilot of a series is not always the strongest episode of the series, "Spartacus" does have some promise. It's a very simple story and concept. The character portrayals are also rather simple, but, as I said, it's no character drama. It's all a setup for the sex and violence. Were it not very R-rated material, you'd think it was made for Spike TV instead of Starz.

For those looking to drink more from the font of 300, this may be for you. For those not looking for a bunch of silly violent shit, well, you might want to look elsewhere.

Remember the one where the guy crosses the gypsy and gets cursed, horrible shit happening to him throughout the stupid fucking movie, labelled inappropriately as "horror", as the gypsy's curse wreaks havoc across his life? Yeah, I didn't watch Thinner either, but it was a roundly stupid idea, even for a fucking Stephen King adaptation.

You, like I, probably said to yourself "The day of the gypsy movie, much less the idea of gypsy curses in movies, is over and we'll never have to see this shit again." Apparently Sam Raimi, hack douchefuck that he is, didn't get the memo. Floating on all the undeserved credit of nerd love for the mediocre old saws, the Evil Dead movies, and the bland and ever-more-stupid Spider-Man films which were ruined under his watch, Raimi is allowed to make pretty much whatever he wants. For the longest time, that was restricted to producing endless and dull dimly-lit and heavily-filtered Japanese horror remakes. But, now, Raimi sticks his own toe into the fecal waters that pour forth from his ample theatrical bowels.

I will spare you all of the usual paid reviewer witticisms. "This movie drags the viewer to hell." "When you see Drag Me To Hell, you're asking for it!" Thanks, failed journalism major. I'll stick to the pertinent details and leave the shitty, inept stand-up comedy routine to Dane Cook.

Written by Sam and his untalented co-writer/brother/quack doctor, Ivan Raimi, who was partially responsible for the suck-ness of Darkman, Army Of Darkness, and the Spider-Man movies (particularly Spider-Man 3, which he actually got full credit for), Drag Me To Hell is one of the most awful, badly-written movies in contemporary history, especially to come out of the conventional studio system and not just be some 14th-rate slasher movie made for $6,000 by a bunch of kids with delusions of grandeur. No, this load of unwanted horseshit and slapstick absurdity was wrung from the world of high-budget film and well-known actors.

It should come as no surprise, then, that Justin Long, Apple's prime cocksucker, shits up the screen in this movie, as it is his wont in life to be the Poor Man's LeBeouf of the "mediocre theatrical release" world. Alison Lohman delivers the first majorly disappointing role of her career, apparently taking all her acting cues from Long's rucksack of blank stares and stupid faces. Though she's been good in many other films, Lohman's acting chops are incredibly weak, as is her character, in this particular lark. She was apparently no match for the list of indignities thrust upon her and her wide-eyes and blank look do little to pass for acting, though little about this movie is passable enough to force even her bad acting into perspective.

In what is supposed to be a morality tale, Lohman, the world's most inept and spineless loan officer, chooses to do her job properly and deny charity to an exceptionally gross, cranky, and unpleasant old cunt who can't pay her bills, despite the fact that she has a truckload of family members whom we see later, none of whom could have apparently helped the old whore. But she's a gypsy and, as we all know, they're gross, antiquated, thieving scumbags. The skank makes a huge scene and fondles Lohman while pleading to save her home and Lohman has her ejected from the bank, as any sane person would. The gypsy blames the girl for "shaming" her and curses her, then stalks her and attacks her in the parking garage, where a slapstick-y scene of violence, including the woman's false teeth popping out and the toothless old hag gumming on Lohman's chin for long, uncomfortable moments. The fact of the matter is that this movie (or Sam Raimi) has far too deep of a fascination with bodily fluids, as saliva and phlegm and many other grotesqueries fly around with abandon, coating everyone and everything. After the fight, the woman puts a proper gypsy curse on the silly girl, who has days to live before some bullshit goat-headed demon drags her away to hell. (I thought the curse was the fact that Lohman was forced to be in this piece of shit in the first place.)  Oh, did I mention that the demon is invisible? Invisible monsters are always fun, in that they aren't at all. I'm pretty sure we got enough of that bullshit all the way back in the 1950's heyday of fishing line and invisible creatures/people chosen for the plot because it could be filmed for virtually nothing. It's a big, stupid, hacky cheat and nothing vaguely interesting or frightening is seen for the whole movie. Or even unseen. It would have made sense if Raimi made the movie himself on a shoestring, but this was well-financed and filled with CGI. Why the invisible monster? Instead, your audience is paying to watch a shadow outside a door or window for an hour and a half.

Remember the scene in Evil Dead II where the weird noises spiraled around the room as Ash stood and listened, staring at the walls? Did you ever want to see a movie where that scene lasted an hour? Well, Drag Me To Hell is that movie. Almost every shot in the last two thirds of the film is Lohman staring at a wall, window or door as she listens for sounds and nothing happens. The shots grow stupidly, comically long, like a bad parody of The Grudge films. Just shots of doors and staring faces that last for minutes at a time while you watch absolutely nothing of interest happen. I'm sure it's everyone's dream film. I know you're rushing to your Netflix queue or whatever it is that you kids do these days.

The old woman dies after cursing the girl, so she can't lift the curse, not that she would, being an evil gypsy and all, so poor Allison is stuck going through the third-rate Final Destination "let's figure out how this supernatural bullshit works" plotline. I'll save you a large amount of your precious time by telling you that every character is tedious, nothing happens, no one does anything vaguely intelligent, there's a weak-ass seance scene (another thing moviegoers have been longing for all these years), Lohman tries to pass the curse back off onto the dead gypsy, and the ending features a "twist" where Justin Long inadvertantly helps his girlfriend stay cursed and she's dragged off to hell, as implied in the title. Oops, "spoiler alert". If I ruined the movie for you, good. The movie ruined more for me than that, so I'm saving you. You should be thanking me, you fucking ingrate.

It's clear from the writing of the movie that it was never salvagable; one viewing and this much is assured to be true. (And it makes a lot of sense why this idea sat on Raimi's shelf, unused, for over a decade.) But the direction does nothing at all to steer it toward being intelligible, watchable, or passable as a film. The shitty shots of nothing, the scatalogical nature of the story combined with the abject stupidity of a gypsy curse plotline, the idiotic slapstick scenes that Raimi claims are "dark comedy" (only "dark" or "comedy" under the definitions of a Three Stooges admirer of Raimi's caliber); all these elements are the hot mayonaisse and old, uncooked pork that you're asked to choke down and be happy about.

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