Skulls and All: Brotherhood, Bloodlines, and the Bargain Bin

by Buzz Drainpipe

From the “Trash Temple Archives” column, Crease Magazine #66

They say you don’t find The Skulls trilogy—you get selected by it. Maybe it’s a cold spring afternoon, you’re drifting the aisles of a dying chain drugstore, and there it is: a three-disc stack sealed in plastic, artwork glowing like Masonic graffiti under flickering fluorescents. Price tag: $4.99. You don't hesitate. You don't even think. That’s how it begins.

PART I: SKULLS 1 — The Ivy League Occult Initiation Simulator
The first film plays it straight. Paul Walker’s in peak white-collar blue steel mode, Joshua Jackson does his brooding antihero routine, and there’s the whole “skull ring = shadow government” thing. It’s The Firm by way of Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. But goddamn does it go hard on that secret society paranoia—hushed rituals, underground catacombs, oaths whispered in oak-paneled tombs. It’s slick, dumb, and accidentally brilliant. You watch it and wonder, Was my college experience just a low-budget reboot of this?

PART II: SKULLS II — The Direct-to-DVD Doctrine
Everything’s cheaper, wetter, and filmed in Toronto pretending to be New Haven. There’s a new protagonist—generic, determined, bloodied by betrayal. The Skulls are now full-on cartoon fascists with skull-branded towels, possibly a theme park. You get night-vision stalk sequences, sexy betrayals, and the kind of synth score that sounds like a Winamp plugin having a panic attack. But here’s the kicker: it knows what it is. The cinematography is television-grade, but the mood is there—cheap Gothic dread with that WB afterschool special tang.

PART III: SKULLS III — Sorority of the Bone Gods
Suddenly it’s girls only, and the plot slides sideways into gender warfare territory. The Skulls are no longer just an elite boys’ club—they're a franchise, and sisterhood has teeth. Ritual hazings meet Cruel Intentions vibes, and the gothic melodrama starts to feel earned. It’s low-budget Buffycore meets skull-chalice erotica, and it weirdly slaps. You’re no longer watching for coherence—you’re watching for those accidental artifacts of sincerity that only late-stage sequels can deliver.

AFTERGLOW
You finish all three in a daze. You stare at the TV, hollow-eyed and fulfilled, clutching the flimsy DVD case like a relic. You feel like a member of something now. Not the Skulls—but a fellowship of forgotten viewers who once bought 3-packs from gas station endcaps and felt something.

Five bucks. Three movies. One secret society you didn’t ask to join, but now can never leave.

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