Underheard & Overlooked: Reflections of the Way It Really Is by Louis Paul

Underheard & Overlooked: Louis Paul's Reflections Of The Way It Really Is

In the vast landscape of lost musical gems, some albums remain shrouded in obscurity despite their undeniable brilliance. Louis Paul's Reflections Of The Way It Really Is is one such record—an enigmatic blend of soulful storytelling, rich instrumentation, and raw emotion that never quite received the recognition it deserved. Released in 1973, this album serves as both a time capsule and a testament to an artist who remained on the fringes of mainstream success.

The Man Behind the Music

Louis Paul was an artist who never fully stepped into the limelight, yet his work carries the weight of an artist who had lived, loved, and lost. While not widely documented, Paul's music evokes the deep Southern blues, R&B, and folk influences that shaped so many unsung legends before him. His voice—gravelly yet tender—guides the listener through stories of heartbreak, perseverance, and reflection, embodying the title of the album itself.

The Sound and Soul of the Album

From the opening notes, Reflections Of The Way It Really Is exudes a timeless quality. Tracks like "Leave The Door Where You Found It" and "Hey Mr. Moon" blend bluesy guitar riffs with haunting melodies, capturing a sound that feels both familiar and fresh. There’s an intimacy to Paul’s music, as if each song is a conversation shared between old friends over a drink at a dimly lit bar.

The production is raw but intentional—this isn’t a polished studio effort aimed at mass appeal. Instead, it’s an album crafted for those who appreciate music with depth and authenticity. Paul’s ability to weave intricate narratives through his lyrics elevates the work beyond mere instrumentation; it’s poetry set to music, a collection of lived-in experiences translated into song.

A Legacy Waiting to Be Discovered

Why did Reflections Of The Way It Really Is never break through to a wider audience? Perhaps it was a matter of timing, or a lack of major label backing. Regardless, albums like this serve as reminders that great music doesn’t always come with mainstream validation.

Thanks to streaming platforms, Reflections Of The Way It Really Is now has a chance to find the audience it always deserved. For those who seek out music that speaks to the soul, Louis Paul's masterpiece is waiting to be heard.It’s time for the world to finally listen.

OZPLOITATION THURSDAY: METAL MAYHEM & BIOHORROR MADNESS

Two films, two unhinged visions, one night of pure, unfiltered chaos.

Sons of Steel (1989):
A heavy metal rock opera fever dream. Time travel? Check. Nuclear annihilation? Double check. A protagonist named Black Alice who looks like Rob Halford crash-landed into Mad Max? Triple check. The future is bleak, Sydney is drowning, and only one leather-clad rock god can save us. But first, let’s throw in some neon cyber-dystopia, corporate overlords, and a wild synth-metal soundtrack that sounds like the end of the world played through a busted cassette deck. The logic? Who needs it? The aesthetic? Peak 80s apocalypse chic. If you fused Rock & Rule with The Terminator and a bucket of beer-soaked VHS static, you’d get Sons of Steel. It doesn’t care if you get it—it only cares that you ride the wave of chaos to the last distorted power chord.

Death Warmed Up (1984):
Shotguns, motorbikes, brain surgery gone wrong, and a doctor who took mad scientist way too literally. This is what happens when you take a perfectly normal revenge flick and inject it with a psychotic dose of NZ horror grime. Mutants? Check. Lab experiments gone haywire? Check. A protagonist who spends most of the movie running around in a blood-soaked frenzy? Oh yeah. The camera lurches, the synths screech, and sanity is the first casualty. It’s what Mad Max would look like if it had been left in a microwave. There’s no safe place here—only blood, sweat, and surgical horror.

Two films, one unifying energy: absolute, unrelenting 80s insanity. The kind of movies that feel like they crawled out of a forgotten video store bin, covered in dust and ready to ruin your mind. You don’t watch them. You survive them.

OZPLOITATION THURSDAY—Where cinema melts your brain, and you like it.

Tune In Tuesday: Popcorn (1991) - Synapse Films Blu-ray Review

Few horror films capture the nostalgic charm of cinema itself quite like Popcorn (1991). A meta-slasher that pays homage to classic horror gimmicks, Popcorn has long been a cult favorite despite its rocky production history. Now, thanks to Synapse Films, the movie has received a stunning Blu-ray release, offering fans a definitive home media experience.

Picture Quality

Synapse Films has provided Popcorn with a gorgeous new 2K scan sourced from the film’s interpositive. The result is a crisp, film-like presentation that maintains natural grain structure while enhancing detail and depth. Colors are vibrant, especially in the movie’s in-film horror sequences, which capture the rich hues of 1950s B-movies. Black levels are deep, and contrast is well-balanced, ensuring that shadow-heavy scenes retain clarity without appearing washed out.

Audio Presentation

One of the standout aspects of this release is the audio. Synapse offers both the original 2.0 stereo mix and a newly mastered 7.1 surround sound option. The latter breathes new life into the film’s theatrical experience, particularly in scenes featuring the horror marathon’s elaborate sound effects. Dialogue remains clear and well-balanced, while the score and ambient effects benefit from enhanced depth and separation.

Special Features

This Blu-ray release is packed with extras that provide an in-depth look at Popcorn’s troubled yet fascinating production. The highlight is Midnight Madness: The Making of Popcorn, a 55-minute documentary featuring interviews with cast and crew. Other bonus features include:

• Audio Commentary with director Mark Herrier, star Jill Schoelen, and special makeup effects artist Mat Falls.

• Electric Memories, an interview with actor Bruce Glover.

• Original Theatrical Trailer, TV Spots, and a Stills Gallery.

• Reversible Cover Art featuring original and newly commissioned artwork.

Final Verdict

Synapse Films’ Blu-ray release of Popcorn is a must-own for horror aficionados. The exceptional picture and audio restoration, combined with a treasure trove of bonus content, make this the best way to experience this underrated gem. Whether you’re a longtime fan or discovering it for the first time, Popcorn on Blu-ray is a love letter to both slasher cinema and the golden age of movie theater gimmicks.

Rating: 4.5/5

Jean Genies

Jean Cocteau: A Life in Art

Jean Cocteau (1889–1963) was a French writer, poet, filmmaker, playwright, designer, and artist whose work spanned multiple disciplines and shaped modern artistic movements. A central figure in 20th-century avant-garde culture, Cocteau’s creations blurred the lines between literature, visual art, theater, and cinema, making him one of the most influential artists of his time.

Early Life and Influences

Jean Maurice Eugène Clément Cocteau was born on July 5, 1889, in Maisons-Laffitte, France, into a wealthy bourgeois family. His father, Georges Cocteau, was a lawyer and amateur artist who died by suicide when Jean was only nine years old. This loss had a profound impact on him, and he later explored themes of death and the subconscious in his works. Raised by his mother, Eugénie Lecomte, Cocteau displayed an early aptitude for literature and the arts.

By his teenage years, Cocteau had immersed himself in the bohemian circles of Paris, frequenting salons and befriending influential writers, including Marcel Proust. His early poetry, particularly La Lampe d'Aladin (1909), demonstrated his interest in mythology, symbolism, and dreamlike imagery.

The Avant-Garde and Artistic Development

Cocteau’s artistic development coincided with the explosion of avant-garde movements in early 20th-century France. He collaborated with major figures such as Pablo Picasso, Erik Satie, and Igor Stravinsky. His involvement with Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes led to his work on Parade (1917), a groundbreaking ballet with music by Satie and sets by Picasso. This collaboration placed him at the forefront of modernist experimentation.

During World War I, Cocteau served as an ambulance driver and became closely associated with the Dadaist and Surrealist movements, though he never fully embraced their ideologies. Instead, he cultivated a unique style that fused classicism with dreamlike distortions, often exploring themes of transformation, death, and beauty.

Literary Achievements

Cocteau’s literary works are diverse, ranging from poetry to novels and plays. His novel Les Enfants Terribles (1929), a tragic story about an intensely close sibling relationship, remains one of his most celebrated works. His play La Machine Infernale (1934) is a retelling of the Oedipus myth with a modern, ironic twist. Throughout his career, Cocteau’s writing balanced surreal, poetic expression with psychological depth and classical references.

Filmmaking and Visual Art

Cocteau made a lasting impact on cinema with his poetic and visually innovative films. His first major film, Le Sang d'un Poète (1930), was an experimental meditation on artistic creation and reality. However, he is best known for La Belle et la Bête (1946), a cinematic adaptation of Beauty and the Beast that remains a masterpiece of fantasy filmmaking, with its dreamlike imagery and use of innovative special effects. His 1950 film Orphée, a modern take on the Orpheus myth, further established him as a pioneer of poetic cinema.

In addition to filmmaking, Cocteau was an accomplished visual artist. He created sketches, paintings, and murals, including those in the Saint-Pierre Church in Villefranche-sur-Mer. His artistic style combined whimsy with surrealist influences, often featuring elongated figures and symbolic motifs.

Personal Life and Legacy

Cocteau was openly gay, though he maintained relationships with both men and women. His romantic and creative partnership with actor Jean Marais profoundly influenced his work, as Marais starred in several of Cocteau’s films. He was also close friends with numerous artists, including Edith Piaf, whom he greatly admired and for whom he wrote Le Bel Indifférent (1940), a one-act play tailored to her dramatic persona.

Over the years, Cocteau’s health declined due to opium addiction, which he often referenced in his writings. Despite this, he remained a prolific artist until his death on October 11, 1963, just hours after learning of Piaf’s passing.

Jean Cocteau’s impact on literature, theater, film, and visual art endures. His works continue to inspire generations of artists, particularly those drawn to the intersections of myth, beauty, and the surreal. As a true Renaissance figure of the 20th century, Cocteau’s artistic vision remains timeless.

Jean-Paul Sartre: A Life in Existentialism

Jean-Paul Sartre (1905–1980) was a French philosopher, playwright, novelist, political activist, and literary critic. As one of the leading figures in existentialism and phenomenology, Sartre profoundly influenced 20th-century philosophy, literature, and political thought. His works explored themes of freedom, responsibility, and the nature of human existence, challenging individuals to confront their role in shaping their own lives.

Early Life and Influences

Jean-Paul Charles Aymard Sartre was born on June 21, 1905, in Paris, France. His father died when he was an infant, and he was raised by his mother and grandfather. A precocious child, Sartre developed a love for literature early on, influenced by his grandfather’s extensive library.

He studied philosophy at the École Normale Supérieure, where he met Simone de Beauvoir, his lifelong intellectual companion. Their relationship, built on mutual respect and philosophical discourse, shaped much of Sartre’s personal and professional life. During this period, he was influenced by the works of Immanuel Kant, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, and Martin Heidegger, laying the groundwork for his existentialist philosophy.

Existentialist Philosophy and Major Works

Sartre’s philosophical ideas are rooted in existentialism, a movement that emphasizes individual freedom, choice, and the inherent meaninglessness of life, which must be confronted and given meaning by each person. His seminal work, Being and Nothingness (1943), outlined his concept of existential freedom, arguing that humans are condemned to be free and must define themselves through their actions.

His philosophical ideas also found expression in literature. His novel Nausea (1938) explored themes of alienation and the absurd, while his plays, such as No Exit (1944) and The Flies (1943), dramatized existentialist themes of self-deception and moral responsibility. His essay Existentialism Is a Humanism (1946) provided a more accessible explanation of his ideas, countering criticisms that existentialism was nihilistic.

Political Engagement and Later Years

Sartre was not only a philosopher but also an engaged intellectual. In the postwar years, he became increasingly involved in political activism, embracing Marxism and supporting anti-colonial movements, particularly in Algeria and Vietnam. He founded the journal Les Temps Modernes, using it as a platform to discuss politics, literature, and philosophy.

Despite his alignment with certain Marxist principles, Sartre remained critical of authoritarian regimes, including the Soviet Union. He refused the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1964, stating that he did not want to be institutionalized by any establishment.

Legacy

Jean-Paul Sartre died on April 15, 1980, in Paris. His impact on philosophy, literature, and political thought remains profound. His ideas continue to shape existentialist and postmodernist thought, influencing writers, artists, and activists alike. Through his work, Sartre left behind a lasting legacy that challenges individuals to confront their freedom and responsibility in an indifferent world.

Jean Genet: A Life in Rebellion

Jean Genet (1910–1986) was a French novelist, playwright, poet, and political activist whose works explored themes of crime, betrayal, sexuality, and power. His provocative and often controversial writing cemented his status as one of the most radical literary figures of the 20th century, challenging societal norms through his depictions of marginalization and defiance.

Early Life and Influences

Jean Genet was born on December 19, 1910, in Paris, France. Abandoned by his mother at a young age, he spent much of his childhood in foster homes and reformatories, where he developed a deep mistrust of authority. By his teenage years, Genet had become a petty thief and vagrant, frequently running afoul of the law. His experiences with crime and imprisonment profoundly shaped his literary vision, as he came to see criminality as a form of personal and artistic rebellion.

While incarcerated in the 1930s, Genet began writing poetry and prose, drawing inspiration from his own life on the fringes of society. His literary heroes included the likes of Marcel Proust and Arthur Rimbaud, whose works resonated with his exploration of identity, desire, and transgression.

Literary Achievements

Genet’s first major work, Notre-Dame-des-Fleurs (1943), was a semi-autobiographical novel written while he was in prison. It depicted a world of thieves, pimps, and outcasts, celebrated through lush, poetic prose. This work, alongside Miracle de la Rose (1946) and Querelle de Brest (1947), established Genet as a bold new voice in French literature.

His plays, including Les Bonnes (1947), Le Balcon (1956), and Les Nègres (1958), pushed the boundaries of theatrical convention. Often employing ritualistic elements and surreal settings, his plays explored themes of power, performance, and social hierarchy. The Balcony in particular, with its exploration of political illusion and revolution, remains one of the most studied works in modern theater.

Political Engagement and Later Years

In the 1960s and 1970s, Genet became increasingly involved in radical political movements. He openly supported the Black Panther Party in the United States and the Palestinian struggle, seeing in these movements the same themes of resistance and marginalization that defined his own life and work. His later writings, including Prisoner of Love (1986), reflected his engagement with revolutionary politics.

Genet spent much of his later life in relative seclusion, living in various European cities while continuing to write and advocate for the oppressed. He died on April 15, 1986, in Paris, leaving behind a body of work that continues to challenge, provoke, and inspire.

Legacy

Jean Genet’s literature remains a cornerstone of transgressive writing, celebrated for its lyrical beauty and uncompromising vision. His portrayals of desire, criminality, and rebellion have influenced countless artists, writers, and thinkers. As a literary outlaw and social provocateur, Genet’s legacy endures as a testament to the power of art to challenge and redefine the boundaries of morality and identity.

"Through the Looking Glass: Cocteau’s Orphic Trilogy Decanted"

The Orphic Trilogy by Jean Cocteau—The Blood of a Poet (1930), Orpheus (1950), and Testament of Orpheus (1960)—is not just cinema but a hallucinatory descent into the mirror-labyrinth of the soul. These films beg to be watched through the bottom of a red wine glass, where reality distorts into something richer, darker, more poetic. They’re soaked in myth, shimmering with avant-garde pretension, but it’s the kind of pretension you want to get lost in, like wandering into a party of surrealists and philosophers you barely understand but feel utterly enchanted by.

Take The Blood of a Poet, a film so abstract it practically dares you to scoff, but instead, you find yourself drawn into its fever dream of flying statues, snowball deaths, and corridors of voyeurism. It's less a narrative and more a séance, and by your second glass of Syrah, you’re no longer questioning its cryptic imagery. You’re just floating in it.

Then there’s Orpheus, perhaps the most intoxicating of the trilogy—a film that transforms the Orphic myth into a noirish meditation on art, obsession, and death. Cocteau’s black-and-white elegance pairs perfectly with a dark red Bordeaux, the kind of wine that tastes like the shadowy underworld he depicts. Every mirror becomes a portal; every word feels like a spell. It’s both maddeningly profound and whimsically absurd, leaving you wondering if Cocteau himself knew the answers or if he was just as seduced by his own riddles.

Finally, Testament of Orpheus is the ultimate indulgence—a meta-poem masquerading as a film. Here, Cocteau casts himself as the aging poet wandering through his own mythology, confronting past characters and symbols like a drunk philosopher trying to reconcile brilliance with mortality. This is when you switch to a Pinot Noir, light and melancholic, as the film wavers between playful self-awareness and cosmic yearning.

Sure, you could call these films overread pretension, the cinematic equivalent of quoting Rimbaud at a dive bar. But that’s missing the point. The Orphic Trilogy is not about understanding—it’s about surrendering. Like wine itself, these films intoxicate, disorient, and open portals in the mind. You don’t analyze Cocteau; you drink him in.

Wim Wenders’ Road Trilogy: A Punch-Drunk Stumble Through Existential Asphalt

It starts with a map, doesn’t it? A fold-out, creased-to-death map that smells faintly of coffee rings and dashed hopes. Wim Wenders’ Road Trilogy — Alice in the Cities (1974), Wrong Move (1975), and Kings of the Road (1976) — is less a celebration of the open road than a confession to it. These are films that rub shoulders with the ghosts of Jack Kerouac and Werner Herzog, though in Wenders’ hands, the road doesn’t sing. It mutters, stumbles, and occasionally spits in your face.

Alice in the Cities: A Polaroid in Purgatory

The trilogy kicks off with Alice in the Cities, a film that feels like waking up hungover on a stranger’s couch, clutching someone else’s memories. Philip Winter, the writer-turned-wandering-Polaroid-snapper, is a man who’s misplaced himself. He picks up a camera, as if snapping pictures of motels and gas stations will stitch him back together. Enter Alice, a precocious child dumped into his reluctant care.

The road they travel isn’t some mythical artery of freedom; it’s a conveyor belt of anonymous towns and sterile highways. Wenders paints the landscape not as some beacon of promise but as an endless shrug of asphalt and concrete. The film doesn’t resolve so much as it evaporates, like the last drops of whiskey in the bottom of the glass you swore you’d nurse.

Wrong Move: The Sour Note in the Symphony

Then there’s Wrong Move, a title that’s less a hint and more a disclaimer. Wilhelm, a would-be writer and certified nobody, embarks on a journey that’s less about finding himself and more about avoiding anything resembling accountability. His companions are a grab bag of oddballs: an actress who quotes Goethe as if it’s foreplay, a mute acrobat whose presence feels like a dare, and a poet who is equal parts clown and prophet.

This film takes the European road movie tradition and smashes it against the rocks of German introspection. It’s a travelogue of inertia, where every step forward feels like three steps back into the muck of Wilhelm’s own self-importance. Wenders turns the road into a stage, the scenery as hollow and performative as Wilhelm’s half-baked aspirations. By the end, you’re left wondering if the road is even real or just a cruel hallucination conjured by boredom and bad weather.

Kings of the Road: The Long, Slow Burn

And then there’s Kings of the Road, the heavyweight champion of Wenders’ existential boxing match. Here, the road stretches like a lazy cat across the German borderlands, a liminal space where time gets lost between cigarette drags. Bruno, a projectionist who fixes broken-down cinema equipment, and Robert, a man who drives his car into a river for lack of better ideas, form an uneasy alliance.

They drift from town to town, not so much searching for meaning as avoiding its sharp edges. The film is slow, deliberate, like the measured pacing of a drunk trying to convince you he’s sober. Cinemas crumble, friendships teeter on the edge of silence, and the road unfurls endlessly, a gray ribbon of apathy.

The Trilogy as Bar Fight

If Wenders’ Road Trilogy were a bar brawl, it would go something like this:

Philip from Alice throws the first punch, a lazy swing born of sleep deprivation and misplaced conviction. Wilhelm from Wrong Move leaps in, quoting Nietzsche and flailing like a poet who’s never thrown a punch in his life. And then Bruno and Robert from Kings step in, nursing beers and watching the chaos unfold like it’s an experimental short film.

The road itself doesn’t intervene. It’s the bartender, disinterested and wiping down counters, muttering, “You’ll sort yourselves out or you won’t.”

Wenders’ Legacy: Driving in Circles

Wenders doesn’t romanticize the road. He deconstructs it, dismantling the American myth of freedom and replacing it with something uniquely German: a road that leads not outward but inward. These films aren’t about escape; they’re about being cornered by your own existential hangover.

In the end, the trilogy leaves you stranded in the middle of nowhere, clutching a map that leads to places you’re not sure you want to go. And maybe that’s the point: the road doesn’t care where you’re going. It just keeps going.

The Masked Ennui of Mortimer Graye

Mortimer Graye had once been the face of justice—or rather, the mask. In the 1940s, he’d soared across silver screens as THATMAN, the shadowy avenger of crime in a series of B-grade serials that promised twelve cliffhangers and delivered precisely twelve resolutions, all involving Mortimer's square jaw, a cascade of punches, and a signature line: “Justice always bats last!”

But now it was the mid-1960s, and Mortimer was a man adrift. At sixty-two, his once-chiseled features had softened into a face more suited to selling cigars than delivering justice. Hollywood had moved on, leaving him to pick at the remnants of a once-bright career. His mornings began with cold coffee and silent arguments with his reflection. His evenings ended with too many glasses of sherry and the faint hum of static from his forgotten television set.

Then came the call from Heyboy Mansion.

A Resurrection of Irony

Heyboy Mansion had become a haven for the cool crowd—a place where irony and self-awareness mixed as freely as martinis. Every Thursday night, Hugh Heyboy himself hosted screenings of old serials for an audience of hip, detached twenty-somethings in bell-bottoms and sunglasses. THATMAN, it turned out, had become a cult sensation. The serials’ creaky dialogue, overwrought drama, and unintentional absurdity made it perfect fodder for the postmodern set.

Mortimer was invited to attend one such screening. Against his better judgment (and because he needed the fifty-dollar appearance fee), he accepted.

That night, as the crowd guffawed at every melodramatic punch and stilted delivery, Mortimer sat frozen in his chair. Was this what his legacy had become? A joke? He watched himself in grainy black-and-white—a younger man in a cape and cowl, barking lines with absolute sincerity. It was as if he were watching a ghost perform.

“Man, you were so bad you were brilliant,” a woman in a psychedelic kaftan told him afterward, holding out a cigarette she’d already lit for him.

Mortimer took it. He wasn’t sure if it was meant as a compliment.

Enter the Network

A week later, Mortimer’s agent called with news: a television network wanted to adapt THATMAN into a series. “It’ll be campy,” the agent explained. “They’re going for bright colors, pop art, lots of ‘Bam! Pow!’ on the screen. It’s the hip new thing.”

Mortimer wasn’t sure what campy meant, but he knew it wasn’t good. Worse still, they didn’t want him as the lead. “Too old,” they said. Instead, they’d cast a younger, handsomer man with a lantern jaw and zero sense of irony. Mortimer was offered a recurring role as Commissioner Hampstead, a bumbling bureaucrat who always called THATMAN for help.

Mortimer accepted—partly for the money, but mostly because he couldn’t look away from the slow-motion car crash of his dignity.

A Studio in Technicolor

On set, Mortimer watched the new THATMAN cavort in a ludicrously bright costume. The scripts were deliberately silly, filled with puns and exaggerated scenarios: THATMAN foiling a bank robbery carried out by the Polka-Dot Gang or escaping a giant cupcake trap set by a villainess named Confectionery Kate.

The audience loved it. The network was thrilled. Mortimer, meanwhile, felt his soul shrinking with every “Holy guacamole, THATMAN!” uttered by the sidekick.

One night, after filming a particularly humiliating scene in which he’d been pelted with rubber fish, Mortimer sat alone in his trailer. He stared at his old THATMAN mask, now faded and cracked with age. He’d once worn it with pride, believing he was part of something meaningful. Now it was a relic of a bygone era, reduced to a punchline.

“Justice always bats last,” he muttered to himself, the words hollow.

Epilogue: The Many Faces of THATMAN

The campy THATMAN television series became a sensation, launching a franchise that outgrew Mortimer entirely. In the decades that followed, THATMAN was reimagined in countless ways. The 1980s brought a gritty reboot, complete with brooding monologues and a dark synth score. The 1990s introduced a blockbuster film franchise that leaned heavily on CGI and explosions. By the 2000s, THATMAN had become a cultural juggernaut, with billion-dollar box office returns and solemn explorations of justice, morality, and trauma.

Mortimer Graye lived to see it all. In his twilight years, he was occasionally invited to conventions, where die-hard fans would approach him with reverence. They spoke of THATMAN as if it were a sacred text, oblivious to the absurdity that had birthed it.

Mortimer would smile politely, sign autographs, and tell the stories they wanted to hear. But in quiet moments, he would remember the laughter from Heyboy Mansion, the rubber fish, and his younger self—earnest, foolish, and utterly unaware of the strange immortality awaiting him.

Justice always bats last, indeed.

Record Review

The Wanderers – Only Lovers Left Alive (1981) is a record that feels like the electric ghost of rockers past and future, a haunted transmission from a time when punk, glam, and dystopian paranoia clashed in neon-lit alleyways.

Fronted by Stiv Bators—already a legend from his time in the Dead Boys—The Wanderers took a detour from the raw nihilism of punk and dove headfirst into a synth-laced, sci-fi vision of rock ‘n’ roll rebellion. Inspired by Dave Wallis' apocalyptic novel of the same name, the album pulses with the energy of a world on the brink, fusing the sneering attitude of ‘77 punk with the grand, cinematic scope of dystopian rock operas.

Tracks like No Dreams and It’s All the Same channel the desperate urgency of early punk while layering on ghostly synths and echoed vocals, as if beamed in from a lost radio station in a crumbling metropolis. Ready to Snap is all jagged edges and paranoid energy, while Can’t Take You Anymore struts with a glam rock swagger that recalls Bowie’s Diamond Dogs or Mott the Hoople in their most apocalyptic moods.

But beneath the neon decay and synthesized doom, the heart of rock ‘n’ roll still beats. Bators’ vocals oscillate between wounded croon and defiant snarl, and the band—featuring members of Sham 69—lays down a sound that is both coldly futuristic and deeply rooted in the past. It’s as if Gene Vincent’s ghost hijacked a New Wave band and forced them to play his rockabilly requiem.

Only Lovers Left Alive remains an overlooked gem, a record that exists in the margins of punk history but resonates like a lost signal from a different timeline—one where rock’s past, present, and future collided in a blaze of static, reverb, and revolution.

The High Arts: A Review of Paterson & Saltburn

Paterson (2016) – The Poetry of the Mundane

Jim Jarmusch’s Paterson unfolds like a haiku—a meditation on the quiet rhythms of life, carefully arranged yet deceptively simple. Adam Driver plays Paterson, a bus driver in Paterson, New Jersey, who also happens to be a poet. His days are a ritualistic blend of morning kisses, overheard conversations, long walks with his recalcitrant English bulldog, and scribbling poems in a notebook.

There’s a wry amusement in watching a man so utterly unfazed by modern chaos. His wife, Laura (Golshifteh Farahani), a woman of boundless ambition and monochrome enthusiasm, serves as an unintentional comic counterpoint. While she dreams in grandiose black-and-white patterns—cupcake empires, country music stardom—Paterson remains anchored in small, perfect observations.

Jarmusch, ever the connoisseur of deadpan existentialism, offers no dramatic crescendos, no fiery altercations, no grand revelations. The most harrowing moment comes when Paterson’s notebook is destroyed, a catastrophe met with a sigh rather than an outburst. It is the ultimate anti-Hollywood maneuver: resilience, not in grand gestures, but in the decision to simply begin again.

Paterson is the cinematic equivalent of a well-worn library book—quiet, profound, and rewarding for those patient enough to read between the lines. A film where the poetry of life is neither forced nor exaggerated, but merely observed.

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Saltburn (2023) – Decadence with a Dagger Behind Its Back

Emerald Fennell’s Saltburn swans into the room with the self-assuredness of an aristocrat who has never held a door open. Opulent, menacing, and utterly drenched in an acid-laced wit, it follows Oliver Quick (Barry Keoghan), a social outsider who ingratiates himself into the orbit of the impossibly wealthy Felix Catton (Jacob Elordi). A summer spent at Felix’s sprawling estate—Saltburn—becomes a slow-burning exercise in indulgence, manipulation, and the razor-thin line between admiration and obsession.

Fennell wields satire like a stiletto, skewering the oblivious privilege of the aristocracy with such precision that one almost pities them—almost. Felix and his ilk glide through life with effortless hedonism, their excesses as grotesque as they are enviable. Meanwhile, Oliver, ever the outsider, shape-shifts between admiration and quiet calculation. The film teeters between opulent gothic drama and pitch-black comedy, luxuriating in its own aesthetic while hinting at the rot beneath the gilded surface.

If Paterson is about the poetry of the ordinary, Saltburn is about the operatic tragedy of the extraordinary. It dances on the knife’s edge of adoration and revulsion, reveling in the exquisite horror of unchecked privilege and the lengths to which the have-nots will go to infiltrate the world of the haves.

One film finds the profound in the everyday; the other finds the sinister in the extravagant. Together, they paint a picture of humanity in all its absurd, fragile, and deeply poetic contradictions.

Sunday Night Trash Review: I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle (1990)

Sometimes, cinema isn’t about art or profound storytelling. Sometimes, it’s about letting loose and reveling in absurdity. I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle (1990) is exactly that—a gloriously bonkers slice of British B-movie trash that dares to ask: What if your motorcycle was possessed by demonic forces and developed a thirst for blood?

Plot

The story follows Noddy, a down-on-his-luck biker, who unwittingly purchases a motorbike imbued with the spirit of a satanic cult victim. Cue ridiculous carnage as the bike gains sentience, craves human flesh, and wreaks havoc in the most ludicrous ways possible.

The Wild

This film is a fever dream of gratuitous gore, surreal comedy, and over-the-top performances. The practical effects—while undeniably cheesy—are creatively grotesque, from the bike’s demonic transformations to its bloodthirsty rampages. A standout scene features a motorized showdown that’s both hysterically absurd and surprisingly tense.

The dialogue is riddled with laughably bad one-liners, and the supporting cast embraces the chaos with gleeful abandon. Throw in a cameo from Anthony Daniels (yes, C-3PO) as a priest, and you’ve got a recipe for something truly unhinged.

The Free

While I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle isn’t high art, it’s refreshingly self-aware. The film doesn’t take itself seriously for even a second, allowing the audience to revel in its trashy brilliance. It’s a punk-rock tribute to the weirdest corners of cult cinema, dripping with campy charm.

Verdict

If you’re in the mood for a wild and free cinematic ride, I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle is your ticket to B-movie bliss. It’s a messy, blood-soaked ode to the ridiculous, best enjoyed with friends, beer, and zero expectations.

Trashy, campy, and utterly unique—this one’s a late-night gem.

Rating: 7/10 (For trash cinema enthusiasts)

Rediscovering Toto’s Turn Back: An Underrated Gem

Toto's third album, Turn Back (1981), often sits in the shadow of their mega-hits like Toto IV and Africa, but it deserves a reassessment. Marked by its distinct blend of rock ambition and melodic craftsmanship, the album is an exhilarating ride that reflects the band's musical virtuosity while exploring a harder-edged sound compared to their earlier releases.

Opening with the explosive "Gift with a Golden Gun," the album wastes no time showcasing Toto's instrumental prowess and knack for tight arrangements. The track brims with energy, signaling the band's desire to embrace a more guitar-driven approach. Throughout the record, Steve Lukather’s blistering guitar work stands front and center, bolstered by Jeff Porcaro's impeccable drumming and David Paich's textured keyboard layers.

Tracks like "English Eyes" and "I Think I Could Stand You Forever" highlight the band's underrated lyrical depth, weaving themes of longing and introspection into their melodies. Meanwhile, "If It's the Last Night" closes the album on a wistful note, proving the band’s ability to craft emotionally resonant ballads alongside their rock anthems.

What makes Turn Back so compelling is its rawness—it’s a transitional record, and that’s part of its charm. While it didn’t achieve the commercial success of other Toto albums, its adventurous spirit and cohesive production (helmed by Geoff Workman) make it a hidden treasure for fans of polished, late-'70s/early-'80s rock.

For those who’ve only dipped into Toto’s radio staples, Turn Back is a classic waiting to be rediscovered. It’s a testament to a band willing to evolve and experiment, even in the face of commercial pressures. Dive in, and you’ll find it’s more than worth the trip.

Sunday Horror Afternoon Review: Spellcaster (1992)

If Spellcaster (1992) feels like a fever dream of ‘80s MTV culture and classic haunted-house horror, that’s because it is. A film born from a love of campy excess, low-budget charm, and a sprinkle of supernatural mayhem, this oddball treasure revels in its own ridiculousness while delivering enough weirdness to make it perfect for a lazy Sunday scare session.

The setup is wonderfully straightforward: a group of contest winners is invited to a lavish European castle to compete for a million-dollar prize. But, of course, the castle isn’t just dripping with opulence—it’s crawling with dark forces, courtesy of a sinister sorcerer (Adam Ant, chewing scenery like a pro). One by one, the contestants fall prey to a series of increasingly bizarre magical traps, from man-eating furniture to cursed mirrors.

At the heart of Spellcaster is its gleeful embrace of camp. The film doesn’t just wink at the audience—it practically screams, “Look how much fun we’re having!” The characters are broad archetypes—the ditzy blonde, the sleazy producer, the plucky heroine—but the cast leans into their roles with gusto, making even the cheesiest moments oddly endearing.

Visually, the movie is a time capsule of late-‘80s/early-‘90s aesthetics, with neon lighting, over-the-top costumes, and practical effects that are delightfully wonky. The creature designs, courtesy of legendary effects artist Carlo Rambaldi (E.T., Alien), range from genuinely creepy to laughably silly, adding to the film’s offbeat charm. And while the pacing sometimes drags, the sheer creativity of the death scenes keeps things engaging.

Director Rafal Zielinski injects just enough gothic atmosphere to balance the camp, with the castle’s shadowy corridors and hidden chambers providing a perfect backdrop for the supernatural chaos. Meanwhile, the synth-heavy score and occasional pop-rock cues give the film an infectious energy, even when the plot takes a backseat to spectacle.

Spellcaster isn’t a masterpiece, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s goofy, gory, and endlessly entertaining—a time capsule of an era when horror didn’t take itself too seriously. If you’re looking for a movie that feels like a haunted house party, complete with cheesy dialogue and imaginative kills, this one’s for you.

Turn off your brain, grab some popcorn, and let the magic (and mayhem) of Spellcaster transport you to a world of VHS nostalgia. It’s exactly the kind of quirky gem that makes Sunday horror afternoons so special.

Sunday Horror Afternoon Review: Necropolis (1987)

If Necropolis (1987) isn’t the epitome of video store sleaze, then no film is. A gloriously absurd concoction of punk rock aesthetics, occult weirdness, and neon-soaked sleaze, this ultra-low-budget oddity plays out like a gutter poet’s fever dream. It’s the kind of movie you’d discover on a battered VHS tape, its warped visuals and lurid cover art begging for late-night viewing.

The plot—if you can call it that—follows Eva (LeeAnne Baker), a centuries-old witch who resurrects herself in 1980s New York City to feast on souls and bring her coven back to life. Along the way, she crosses paths with hapless mortals, including a gritty journalist and a streetwise cop, both of whom are powerless against her charm and supernatural malevolence. What Necropolis lacks in coherence, it more than makes up for with sheer attitude.

LeeAnne Baker is the unholy anchor of the film, exuding raw charisma as the seductive, leather-clad villainess. Whether she’s leading blood-soaked rituals or lounging in her lair surrounded by undead minions, she owns every scene. Her performance is campy yet magnetic, embodying the film’s love of excess.

Director Bruce Hickey leans heavily into style over substance, with neon lighting and off-kilter camera angles giving the film a surreal, dreamlike quality. The practical effects, while laughably cheap by today’s standards, add to the grimy charm—particularly the goopy, stomach-churning gore sequences. And the soundtrack? A pulsating mix of synth and punk that perfectly captures the film’s rebellious, anarchic energy.

But beneath the schlock lies a twisted little heart. Necropolis isn't just a movie; it’s a manifesto for the weird and forgotten, a love letter to horror's grimy underbelly. It’s messy, ridiculous, and unapologetically itself—qualities that make it feel like an artifact from a bygone era of filmmaking.

If you’re craving something that feels like it was ripped straight from the shelves of a dingy video store, Necropolis is an ideal pick for your Sunday horror ritual. It's chaotic, campy, and completely unforgettable. Just don’t expect it to make sense—and that’s part of the fun.

Sunday Horror Afternoon Review: Mom (1990)

Few Films capture the late-night video store aesthetic quite like Mom (1990), a lesser-known gem of early '90s horror that gleefully meanders between gruesome creature feature and tender, guilt-ridden family drama. Imagine a suburban nightmare penned by a gutter-poet philosopher—this is a movie where the mundane and the macabre coalesce into something unexpectedly poignant.

At its core, Mom is a story about maternal love gone horribly wrong. Mark Thomas Miller plays Clay, a radio journalist whose life is upended when his elderly mother, Emily (Jeanne Bates), becomes the victim of a mysterious drifter/vampiric predator. What follows is a transformation—not just Emily’s horrifying physical metamorphosis, but the unsettling shift in their familial bond.

The film thrives on contrasts. Emily’s sweet demeanor clashes with her newfound hunger for flesh, creating a queasy mix of tenderness and terror. Bates’ performance is nothing short of extraordinary—her portrayal of a kind, doting mother turned ravenous monster is both tragic and terrifying. Meanwhile, Miller’s Clay is a brooding everyman, grappling with his love for his mother and his growing realization that she’s become something otherworldly.

Stylistically, Mom revels in video store sleaze, from its grimy cinematography to its unapologetic splashes of gore. Yet, beneath the pulpy exterior lies a melancholic meditation on familial duty and unconditional love. The script flirts with absurdity, but its earnestness keeps it grounded, delivering lines that feel like the musings of a streetwise philosopher who’s seen too much.

Sure, the pacing can be uneven, and the effects are gloriously lo-fi, but these quirks only add to the film's charm. Mom is an underappreciated oddity, a movie that dares to mix blood-soaked carnage with heartbreaking humanity. It’s the kind of film that feels like it was made for that perfect Sunday horror afternoon, where you’re searching for something raw, weird, and unexpectedly poetic.

If you’re in the mood for a unique blend of sleaze and soul, Mom is well worth a watch.

Liminal Jazz Café: Mulligan Meets Monk

The café is half-empty, which is to say it is half-full of ghosts. A place that exists just outside of time, between two beats, the space where the note almost happens but never does. The sign flickers, the neon buzzing like a dying wasp. Inside, the smell of burnt coffee and old lacquer, of rain-soaked overcoats and newsprint dissolving into memory.

Onstage, Gerry Mulligan and Thelonious Monk are playing something that never was. A baritone sax, warm as candlelight, curls through the air, seeking something just beyond reach. The piano answers in jagged steps, unpredictable and inevitable, each chord a question without an answer. The two of them speak in a language without words, a conversation that only exists in the moment it's heard.

Life is like that, I think, sitting in the corner with a coffee gone cold. It doesn’t make sense, not in any way that matters. Patterns emerge and dissolve, meaning flickers like the sign outside. Monk stabs at the keys, Mulligan exhales a long, mournful phrase, and for a moment—just a moment—it all feels clear. The absurdity of it, the melancholy, the sheer weight of nothingness, and the fact that nothingness can swing.

A man at the counter stirs his drink without drinking it. The waitress wipes the same spot over and over again, lost in the rhythm of it. Outside, the rain continues its indifferent applause.

Mulligan plays another note. Monk answers.

We keep going.

Trash Guru Review #2: Stuff Stephanie In The Incenerator

*Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator* (1989) is one of those obscure, low-budget oddities that feels like a fever dream of late-'80s direct-to-video horror. Released during the dying days of the slasher boom, it lacks the gore and sleaze of its more infamous contemporaries but compensates with a bizarre, almost theatrical structure that keeps you wondering if the filmmakers were in on the joke—or just had no idea what they were doing.  

At its core, the film is about a wealthy couple, Jared and Stephanie, who are invited by their eccentric friend, Robert, to his mansion for a weekend of elaborate role-playing games that quickly take a sadistic turn. The movie sets up a series of betrayals, fake-outs, and power struggles, playing with the audience’s expectations in a way that almost feels like a lost *Tales from the Crypt* episode—except without the style, budget, or a cackling Cryptkeeper to reassure you that it's all meant to be fun.  

Despite the sinister title, the film is surprisingly light on actual incineration. Instead, we get an overcomplicated narrative that constantly pulls the rug out from under itself. Every time you think something horrific is happening, it turns out to be part of the game—or does it? The constant reversals make it hard to take anything seriously, and by the time the movie settles into its final act, you've either bought into its weird, surreal energy or completely checked out.  

Technically, it’s rough. The acting wavers between passable and community-theater levels of awkward. The cinematography has that stiff, overly-lit look common in late-'80s VHS fare. But there’s a strange charm in its commitment to its own nonsense. The artificiality of the whole thing—combined with the awkwardly theatrical performances—gives it an uncanny, almost dreamlike quality, as if *April Fool’s Day* (1986) had been made for pocket change and directed by someone who’d seen *Sleuth* once but didn’t quite understand it.  

Is it a lost classic? Not really. But if you have a soft spot for cheap, forgotten oddities from the VHS era—especially ones with more ambition than talent—this one’s worth digging up. Just don’t expect it to actually throw Stephanie into the incinerator.

Review of CSI: Cyber

CSI: Cyber is the tech-savvy cousin of the long-running CSI franchise, trading blood splatter analysis for computer code and digital crime scenes. It’s the kind of show that doesn’t take itself too seriously, making it a surprisingly enjoyable binge for a lazy afternoon.

Patricia Arquette leads the team as FBI Special Agent Avery Ryan, bringing her signature grounded intensity to the role. Alongside her, James Van Der Beek delivers a solid performance as Elijah Mundo, the muscle of the operation. The rest of the cast rounds out the ensemble well, each bringing their own quirks to the table.

The series tackles cybercrime in ways that range from genuinely thought-provoking to hilariously over-the-top. Hackers, ransomware, and online predators are the usual suspects, though the technical realism can sometimes be sacrificed for dramatic flair (cue the classic "enhance" trope).

What makes CSI: Cyber work is its fast-paced storytelling and the slick production value the franchise is known for. Sure, it’s not groundbreaking TV, and tech enthusiasts might roll their eyes at some of the liberties it takes. But if you’re willing to suspend disbelief and let the absurdity of it all wash over you, it’s a fun, easily digestible ride.

Perfect for a rainy Saturday when you want something light yet engaging, CSI: Cyber proves that even the most niche spinoffs can find their groove. It might not be the most sophisticated entry in the franchise, but it’s undeniably entertaining.

A Masterpiece in Disguise: Why the 2024 SNL Movie Deserves a Second Look

The Saturday Night Live movie of 2024 might not have struck box office gold or achieved unanimous critical acclaim, but let me say it outright: this is a modern classic, a film destined for reevaluation in the years to come. Its poor reception? A mere footnote in the long history of misunderstood art.

Yes, some, like Nathan Rabin at the AV Club, may dismiss it as another misguided attempt to stretch a beloved sketch format into feature length. But those criticisms miss the forest for the trees. This movie isn’t about punchlines or fleeting comedy—it’s about the unrelenting absurdity of life itself, wrapped in the anarchic, freewheeling ethos that SNL has embodied for decades.

The film dares to be ambitious. Its fragmented narrative structure, often compared to Robert Altman’s Nashville or even the Coen Brothers at their most surreal, captures the disjointed, kaleidoscopic reality of our times. The script, filled with moments of biting satire and profound melancholy, feels less like a "comedy" in the traditional sense and more like a sly critique of how we consume media and culture.

Performances across the board are stellar. Breakout moments from the SNL ensemble prove that they’re not just sketch artists—they’re actors capable of layering pathos and vulnerability beneath the laughs. One monologue in particular, delivered by a cast member known for broad comedy, is so raw and achingly human that it’s impossible not to be moved.

Let’s not forget the film’s audacious direction. The surreal visuals, avant-garde editing choices, and a soundtrack that weaves between bombastic and hauntingly minimalist underscore its status as a bold artistic statement.

It’s easy to see why some critics might have been quick to dismiss it. The film defies easy categorization, and its refusal to cater to conventional expectations was bound to alienate certain audiences. But isn’t that the mark of all great art? Like The Big Lebowski, Death to Smoochy, or Southland Tales, the 2024 SNL movie demands patience, reflection, and multiple viewings to fully appreciate its brilliance.

Mark my words: history will vindicate this misunderstood gem. Call it art, call it audacity, call it ahead of its time—whatever you call it, the SNL movie is a testament to creative risk-taking in an industry increasingly averse to it. It’s a classic, and the sooner we recognize that, the better.

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