Moving Day

Hello there. It's been awhile, hasn't it?

It's been a somewhat eventful number of months since last I posted here. This site as you can see, though, has not been very eventful. The simple reason for that is that I have been preparing a new location for my bizarre ravings to be hosted. Yes that's right... a new blog. What will happen to From Beyond Depraved, you ask?* FBD, for all intents and purposes, is deceased.

*Or do you ask? Maybe I'm talking to those pesky voices in my head again.

But, as we all know, when it comes to monsters they're certainly hard to put down. Because the spirit of FBD is alive and well, simply hosted in a much more active and decidedly eccentric body. This blog will not vanish; it'll still be here for the perusal of any curious visitor. But if you're in a visiting type of mood, might I suggest a particular destination on your map? It's a little out of the way, but I hope you'll like what you find there.

It's called Mephisto's Castle.

Like I say, I'd be greatly pleased if you took the time to drop in. Those of you who have visited this here blog have greatly warmed my heart, and the wonderful horror fans whom I've had the opportunity to meet here have made my stay all the better. I hope you'll come along with me to my new digs. The place is a little dusty and would do good with some TLC, so every last guest is appreciated.

In the wise words of a distinguished actor, I think it'll thrill you. It may shock you. It might even horrify you. But as is my life's philosophy, I hope that it is, above all else, fun. You might want to hurry though.

It's almost sundown.

Amateur (1994): The Webs We Weave

Directed by Hal Hartley
Written by Hal Hartley
Starring Isabelle Huppert, Martin Donovan, Elina Lowensohn, and Damian Young

The amnesiac, the nympho nun, the streetwalker, the accountant, the assassins. It almost sounds like it could be the beginning of Chaucer’s tales from Canterbury, doesn’t it? A cast of eccentric and nuanced characters whose own separate stories all weave in between each other before they reach their final, ultimate destination.

I must say, when I originally took on the sacrificial task of entering into the White Elephant Blogathon, I really didn’t expect to be viewing a film quite like this. Based on the history and details of the event, I expected to be on the receiving end of some truly atrocious cinema, stuff that at best would be hilariously awful and at worst soul-wrenchingly boring.

Surprisingly, Amateur wasn’t all that bad.

Three souls searching. And one really bad Monday.

The plot itself, on its surface at least, could describe a big-budget Hollywood action flick. A man awakens in an alley, completely devoid of any idea of who he is and what has happened to him. He soon meets an ex-nun, Isabelle, who busies herself with writing sex novels. What this man doesn’t realize is that his amnesia has been caused by an attempted murder perpetrated by his porn star/prostitute wife who was fed up with his asshat-ways.

Said wife gets tangled in a plot with the accountant of an arms dealer when the accountant retrieves a set of floppy disks that contain very delicate information. After the porn star blackmails the dealer for a million dollars, the criminal sends two hit men out to get the disks and slaughter anyone who gets in their way. With Isabelle taking on the mission of helping the amnesiac regain his identity, all of our players eventually collide head on and many spills and hijinks ensue.

In a nutshell.

Too cool for school.

What separates Amateur from the type of film you would expect to have such a storyline is the approach director Hal Hartley takes to the material. There are really no explosions, gratuitous violence, or (surprisingly) nudity to speak of. Amateur is one of dem “sophisticated” pictures. It has blockbuster plot elements but is manipulated by the hands of a dedicated student straight from the art house.

It’s this overall feel that I suspect may be the reason behind this film being included in the blogathon. It’s one of those movies whose accomplishments can be utterly destroyed if the viewer goes in expecting certain things to happen. I myself was a tad jarred by the odd flickering edits and the seemingly random snippets of offbeat dialogue. It took some warming up to, but eventually I felt myself settling into its quirky grooves. If not fully, than at least a little.

There are doses of humor in the movie. Equal parts dry, witty, and dark, it’s not your typical slapstick or broad physical acting. Instead, the comedy seems to come from the characters themselves. Their little quips and behaviors are only a natural way to cope with all the grim craziness going on around them. Nothing is strictly played for laughs in the movie. All the jokes and slightly exaggerated circumstances stem from the personalities of the characters themselves and it’s that that brings Amateur up a slight degree on the smart scale.

Tango, mon amour?

It really is a theatrical piece when you think about it. The characters are what really drive the action, as opposed to the other way around. They’re all rather skillfully developed and acted by the impressive lineup of performers. Although each of them really do shine, I admit to being slightly partial to Martin Donovan as our amnesiac friend Thomas. His speech patterns and mannerisms can’t help but remind me of Richard Thomas: his soothing voice and good looks are a potent combination. When it’s revealed that Thomas was not a particularly nice fellow before his spill (he had promised to slice his wife’s face off with a razor just before she helped him out the window), it’s actually quite easy to imagine Donovan’s “Mr. Hyde” side. Despite Donovan being quite charming for the whole film, we can see that insidious Id lurking just below those icy but peaceful blue eyes of his.

At its heart, the movie is a drama of the most traditional kind, albeit tinged with snippets of dry humor. It’s the story about a quest to that ultimate goal, all of our heroes going through trials and tribulations to gain what they desire most: redemption, closure, freedom, you name it. And most of the characters do find what they’ve been looking for, in some form or another.

Inspiring one life at a time.

Perhaps most touchingly of all, Thomas finally hears the sound of his own name. But it comes just a moment too late. He begins to exit a convent and Isabelle, realizing that a police firing squad waits outside, runs frantically to him. She calls out his name, he turns, the doors swing open… It’s a powerful moment and a rather fitting if bittersweet end to this tragi-comedy.

If I did have to make one complaint against the film, it would probably be the pacing. It’s only an hour and forty minutes long, but you can FEEL each second ticking away. My eyes gravitated towards the timer on more than one occasion. Not that I necessarily didn’t expect that to happen when signing up for the White Elephant Blogathon, but I was surprised and a little dismayed to find myself tapping my watch during a movie that, on the whole, I really did like. Some might call the pace of Amateur downright sluggish, but I realize that the intimate look into the characters’ minds that Hartley is attempting to give to us necessitates the calm and measured rate of the action.

Jesus Christ, we haven't reached the half-hour mark yet?!

So what’s the verdict? Believe or not, I genuinely enjoyed Amateur. Here I was thinking that Divine Fate would surely punish me for cursing a fellow blogger with such cinematic plague as Diary of a Cannibal.* But instead I’ve been given the chance to see a film that has hitherto been unknown to me (and I think the majority of people) only to find that there are quite a few gold nuggets to be found in this emotionally turgid river.

So thank you, [Insert Benefactor’s Name Here], for giving me the chance to watch Amateur. Whether you personally hate the film or adore it, I shake your hand for granting me the opportunity to sit down to some viewings that I mostly likely never would have done voluntarily. Perhaps I may never see this low key gem again, but I’m grateful for having gotten the chance to give it a spin at least once.

*Apologies to Bryce over at Things That Don’t Suck!

One Big Happy

Off The Rails

For those who don't already know, I love the theater. After seeing Andrew Lloyd Webber's magical stage version of The Phantom of the Opera, I knew that one day I would have to tread the boards. And tread them I did, as I was an active member of my high school's drama club for all four years. Although now my participation has shrunk down to pretty much none to speak of (this is definitely out of lack of time, not interest), I cavorted on that dingy little stage in the auditorium like it was nobody's business. I was so enamored with theater that one day I decided "Hey, I could probably one of dese here plays!"

So I wrote one.

A horror anthology, to be exact.* And the next thing I know it's November 2008 and it's being staged for the whole world (re: small Florida town) to see. Which I think is enough history to bring us to where we're at right now. What you see below is a filmed segment from Nightmare Theatre (hey you, in the back, stop giggling!), the first story in the collection of short terror plays. I chose to show this one to you because A) I'm in it, B) It's the story I'm most satisfied with, C) I wouldn't dare make you sit through those other passingly-bearable "stories", and D) Only two out of those three are true.

*Did you expect anything less of me? Don't answer that.

It's called "The Ghost Train." Ectoplasmic railway hijinks ensue. Enjoy if you find it in your heart to do so.

Blogs Like White Elephants

Call me a glutton for punishment. When I heard about the White Elephant blogathon through the esteemed Dr. Morbius of Krell Laboratories, I knew that the only sane thing for me to do was participate with all due haste.

The gist of the matter is that bloggers submit the title of a movie to be reviewed by other bloggers participating in the event. You toss a movie into the pot and get someone else's suggestion, see? The catch is, these tend to be HORRIBLE movies. Whether the bloggers are suggesting underrated gems that are disliked by 90% of society or are maliciously submitting notoriously atrocious pieces of garbage (like I did), chances are somebody's gonna be feeding their eyes with the cinematic equivalent of sauerbraten. After watching said brain hemorrhage-inducing movies, the bloggers write up their reviews and post them on April 1st for everyone to see.

Sounds like fun, right?

After I suggested up my film (a shit-smeared hors d'ouevre called Diary of a Cannibal whipped up by that bastard chef Ulli Lommel), I received my death sentence assigned film from moderator Paul in the form of an independent gem right from the thick of the 90's called Amateur. I'm purposefully not looking too much into the movie before I watch it, but I have seen the trailer which I now offer here:



Well, I'm excited. Although the movie doesn't necessarily gel with the atmosfear of this particular blog, I'd be a rather bad sport to decline from the proceedings just on a matter of genre. So be expecting my thoughts on this ditty come April Fool's Day. I hope you'll be there to hold my hand.

Grow Old With Me

If you're like me, I pity you you probably have a taste for comic books. Your eyes immediately light up with glee at the sight of those garishly colored panels and you're suddenly overcome by the urge to burrow beneath the folds of your blanket and read the book by the shaky glow of a flashlight as your Mom slowly strolls down the hallway outside to make sure you're safely tucked into bed.

What? That second part only applies to me? Well this just got embarrassing...

Either way, my mission today is to indulge both of our hungers with a little terror tale from panels past that I hope you enjoy as much as I did when I first read it. This doozy is ripped from the May issue of Adventures Into Terror, #19 specifically. Our story is called "The Girl Who Couldn't Die" and, though the title isn't very original*, the tale itself has a few nice surprises in store for the unwary reader. It's one of our most beloved tropes: the slightly cuckoo scientist who gives God the middle finger and sets out on a mission to toil with Forbidden Powers and reanimate his Lost Beloved. That knockout cover alone would be enough to elevate this one to greatness (though to be perfectly honest with you, it never happens in the story).

*With old time radio alone you can't spit without hitting an episode that claimed that someone or another "...Couldn't Die" or involved someone who "...Died Twice" or possessed "...X Amount Of Lives." Believe me, I've tried.

Granted, if readers tend to like this type of feature I'd be happy to post more stories in the future. Though with such magnificent giants in the field such as Karswell keeping the rabid masses happy with his definitive blog The Horrors Of It All, I can see how these types of posts might be considered "obsolete." Still, if you like what you see, just be sure to say so. Get out the tissue box for this one, kids. It's a real rom-com!

Of Inhuman Brundage: The Art Of Margaret Brundage

Since February has been claimed as Women in Horror Month, there have been numerous tributes made by writers to the lethal ladies that we love. Actresses, writers, and filmmakers are just a small sample of some of the talent that's been given the spotlight in the past few weeks. Sadly, the glorious gal who serves as the subject of today's post is no longer with us, but her work has been important to the genre all the same. She is someone who may only be primarily known amongst pulp magazine enthusiasts, but her beautiful artwork is something that can be savored by weird addicts and virgins alike.

That woman is Margaret Brundage, who served as the chief cover artist for Weird Tales between 1933 and 1938. Those of you who may not be familiar with her name may at least recall seeing one of her covers; they are striking, unforgettable and, like some of the gods that occupied the stories she drew for, seemingly immortal. On this February day I raise a blood-filled goblet to Miss Brundage's legacy, one that has left us with these deliciously lurid horrors rendered upon the pulpy pages of yore.


If there was one thing Margaret was (in?)famous for, it was painting scintillating scenes occupied by women who were garbed in little to no clothing. This flesh-friendly approach wasn't appreciated by some (particularly after it became known in the public that "M. Brundage" was a woman herself), but as any good advertising agent would tell you, sex sells. And boy did it help Weird Tales get each issue into the anxious, sweaty palms of mass America...


An "Arabian Nights"-like portrait with the hero or villain (it's really hard to tell which) guiding our buxom beauty into the expectant hellfire of some sphinx-esque demon.


A rare SF-ccentric cover for Weird Tales. Reflects some of the futuristic fears being depicted in other media at the time like Lugosi's Murder By Television or the seldomly seen but oft-whispered serial adventure Death At Oldies Station 96.9.


Man do I dig the pulp magazine villains! Think the Red Skull and Dr. Doom are badass? Well when they were in their penitentiary playsets, black-hearted scoundrels like Fu Manchu, The Scorpion, and Doctor Satan here were busy tearing the world asunder with their monstrous creations of science and the occult! Margaret really brings the gaudy villainy to full power here with our cowled friend seeming to sneer out at the audience, just daring us to read his story.


Which came first: the witch or the model? Is the cantankerous crone stalking some haughty bimbo, or is the red-head the very same sorceress rejuvenated by some dark powers? What does it matter? There are some awesome bats and that girl is smokin'.


Kickin' it old school with the opera cape-vampire. Remember when bloodsuckers used to be actually seductive and charming? Our nightwalker friend on the cover (the vampire, that is) seems to be having a hard time convincing the girl that he really is a good guy. He just isn't sure if he's ready to commit at this point in his un-life.


Forbidden love is a great way to catch a curious onlooker's eye, as this portrait seems to be suggesting a much deeper and flesh-bound connection between the "Priestess of the Labyrinth" and her bull-headed escort.


The ever reliable "innocent-everyday-girl-served-up-as-sacrifice-to-ancient-bloodthirsty-god" cover that so many other pulps of the time relied on. The reds of the roses and cape look really great (can we assume there's a touch of scarlet to our bashful damsel's cheeks as well?). This story was probably called "The Last Bat Mitzvah."


Well the presence of Lucifer in Hollywood would certainly explain Tyler Perry's movies, but I wonder what purpose he serves in this story too. There's such a disgustingly giddy, "I gotta secret" gleam to his eyes that really chills your blood. Let's hope our fainting leading lady can face Burgess Meredith's wrath and make it to the sequel.


Mmm, beautiful. Just beautiful. Could almost pass for a "Perils of Pauline" installment except that the dominant blacks, the cobwebs, the slack dead-like face of our heroine, and the SPINNER'S WHEEL O' DEATH tells us that we are in the thickest parts of Bogey Land.


Wonder what could be going on here. I have a feeling it was something along the lines of the fateful bar pickup. Drunk girl brings mysterious stranger back to her place and, just as she slips off her silky, vomit stained pantyhose, realizes her date is a demonic, disembodied skull that wants to take possession of her supple body in an orgy of hellish fury. Classic story.


A nice action shot... I like how the throne almost seems to mirror the muscley sinews in the struggle. There's certainly nothing "implied" about this cover. I'm pretty sure the Emperor is looking to get his decrepit claws on some human nooky and isn't trying to ask Cheryl who does her fall wardrobe.


One of Brundage's more famous covers, perhaps because this was one of the few occasions where Robert E. Howard's immortal Cimmerian warrior Conan was depicted. Although he may not be as sweaty and bulky as some of his later incarnations, Brundage does some nice work here with Conan facing down a beast that looks like it could be the Angel of Death itself.


Yowza! Did Brundage know how to draw exotic woman garments or what? This Crystal Peacock looks like she'd be more comfortable headlining a revue on Broadway, but instead she's stuck with being menaced by some drooling, long-nailed Yellow Menace fiend who's probably thinking of a special ingredient he can now add to his famous shrimp fried rice.


Without a doubt, this is my absolute favorite Weird Tales cover. Sure, any fool with a dash of testosterone would probably say the same thing, but other than the wonderful, ahem, gifts that Brundage bestows upon her vampire lady, this cover for me seems to sum up the allure of horror in one striking image. As utterly terrified as we may be looking at that sinister glint in this femme's eye, we can't help but be drawn into her arms, can't help but want to press her ruby lips against our own even though they probably hunger for blood. I think that's the spell horror has on us sometimes: even though we know that death and decay ultimately await us, we can't help but walk towards it, practically begging it to take us. Plus, that has to be the snazziest bat mask ever.


Come on, lady. You can't wear something like that and expect for your date not to turn into a slavering wolf-beast on the spot. That's just not polite.


The floral patterns on the girl's dress and the almost cuddly nature of the skull can't help but stir up thoughts of Mexico's Dia de los Muertos for me. I suppose that's appropriate, given that the girl seems to be revering the dead rather than shrinking away from the Reaper's shivery cheek.


'Nuff said.


Now Julie, how many times must I explain this to you? Imprisoned love slaves do not just up and leave their Satanic overlords like that. Where's your sense of respect? Have you no gratitude for the rat-infested cell I've accommodated you with? Is it not enough that I invite the guys over every Saturday so they can sear your bum with white-hot pokers? Ahh, but you've caught me on a good day. I'll have you on the rack for only three hours today. Go in and get started without me.


One of the more distinct-looking critters to terrorize our maidens for this one! The way Margaret captures the pure fright of the damsel (she looks like she's actually frozen with fear) is nothing short of perfection. Look into my eyes...


This is one that nearly everyone has seen at some point in time. Although there may be some argument here for a small hint of racism, it can't be denied that Brundage taps into the pool of the forbidden quite effectively here. The willingness the woman shows in her taboo-breaking display is pretty chilling as she literally gives herself over into the arms of the dark side.


A more dynamic Conan cover to get the blood pumping. What I love about this one is that it's one of those pieces that gets you thinking about what happens in the next few seconds. Swiiish.


More diabolical terrors from the East. And no, you CANNOT buy a vowel.


Yikesssss, more snakes. As if the naked woman wasn't impetus enough, those suggestively shaped reptiles stirs up a whole charmer's basket of icky sexual implications involving bare flesh and venomous fangs.


This one came as a complete surprise to me. A nice noir piece through and through and not a ghoulie in sight. You could paste a big ol' "Detective Stories" on it and no one would know the difference. It'd be great to find more work by Brundage that dealt with inky shadows and trench coats.


As taken as I was by the art, I was having trouble figuring out just exactly what was going on in the cover. I took this piece to a local elementary school and asked a group of 2nd graders what they thought the bad man was doing to the naked lady. Restriction order pending.


Okay, let's put the facts together here. We have (1) disrobed woman who at least had the decency to keep her designer high heels on. We also have (1) grave marker and flickering candle to set the sordid atmosphere. We also have (1) adorable white kitten that seems to be, if pictures don't lie, commanding our naked-but-high-heeled lady friend to perform some unspeakable act upon herself using its supernatural feline mind tricks that it learned while in the Orient training to become a master ninja and sushi chef.

And that leaves us with... wait, what?!


Don't worry my, darling. The art show may be over but our legacy will live on forever! Don't try covering yourself up; we're trying to sell magazines here! I'm coming for you, darling. So silence your screams... and long live Margaret Brundage!

These Kicks Were Made For Stalking

FITTING PUNISHMENT- TALES FROM THE CRYPT
Directed by Jack Sholder
Written by Jonathan David Kahn, Michael Alan Kahn, and Don Mancini
Starring Moses Gunn, Jon Clair, and Teddy Wilson

Take out your notebooks, everyone. Today we are having a little lesson in payback. It’s fairly common knowledge that nothing good ever happens to stingy people. Just take a look at that Scrooge fellow. It never pays to be a penny-pincher, does it? Ahh, but if only someone had told that to good ol’ Ezra Thorntonberry. It would have probably saved him a great fortune… by the end of his ordeal he had already spent an arm and a leg. And maybe a pair of feet. Oh, there I go again, prattling on and getting ahead of myself. Maybe it’s best if I let the events speak for themselves.

A funeral service is taking place within the parlor of dear old Mr. Thorntonberry (Moses Gunn) when a young whippersnapper named Bobby (Jon Clair) stumbles in straight off the pickup truck from a normal teenage life turned upside down. Bobby sees what a nice guy Ezra is when he offers up honey-glazed condolences to the family of the deceased before bringing the hurt down on his slavish organ player and chief indentured servant Clyde (Teddy Wilson).

Turns out Bobby is Ezra’s nephew, but the old coot finds more pleasure in hearing the gory manner in which his sister died than getting the news that he is now Bobby’s legal guardian. So what’s a father-on-the-fly to do but share a bonding moment with Bobby? Namely by yanking a gold tooth straight out of a dead woman’s stiff lips in order to hawk it for some quick bucks!

I ain't payin' no tree-fitty to no Crypt Keeper!

As if this and the wonderful closet that Ezra has given Bobby as a bedroom weren’t cool enough, the mortician takes the lad under his wing as an apprentice corpse cosmetologist. But Ezra’s idea of a beauty makeover is of the stuff ‘em and bury ‘em variety. After draining one corpse (regarded as a “cesspool” by Ezra) our lovable undertaker refills the body with good ol’ American water straight from a filthy tap. Screw that formaldehyde crap! We’re running a business here and frivolous expenses like that have to be cut. Ezra’s charm even includes purchasing coffins made in Taiwan (despite them being a tad shorter due to the peoples’ average height) that he delightfully sells for full price to his mourning customers. Don’t you just want to give him a big ol’ hug?

Amidst complaining about cadavers stinking up his parlor and slapping Bobby upside the head for being a damn fool in general, Ezra orders his put-upon nephew to take the measurements and coffin specifications of the Geoffreys boy downstairs. After the service a few days later, Ezra is consoling the solemn Mr. Geoffreys who takes one last look at his son before the burial. But what’s this? The coffin is made of pine when Geoffreys had specifically asked for oak! This tomfoolery cannot be tolerated and the elder Geoffreys insists on getting “the best for my son.”*

*This guy was apparently upset for a total of thirty-six seconds before he noticed the mistaken coffin. All concern and sadness over the loss of his child was dropped like a sack of cadavers in favor of nitpicking over which executed tree the little snot was placed in. As much as an ass Ezra is to everyone, I think Geoffreys' fathering skills need to seriously be scrutinized. I got news for you, daddy-o: the worms don’t care what type of bread you put on their sandwich.

"Now does it hurt when I do this?"

As you could probably guess, Ezra is not overjoyed to hear this news; it means that (gulp!) he’ll have to open his wallet again! A punishment is in order, and Ezra is enthusiastic to hand out the floggings. Poor Bobby tries to explain to his uncle that he did in fact specify oak but his declarations of reason are a little hard to hear under the DEATH-BLOWS FROM HELL that rain down on his spinal cord from Ezra’s crowbar! Bobby can’t handle a good beating and the doctor that arrives later (Ezra informing him that the injury was due to the rambunctious tyke suffering a spill after running through the house) gravely informs the mortician that his nephew will never be able to walk again.

Wuss.

The medical bills begin piling up, Crutch-Boy (I mean Bobby) begins whining because Ezra sold his Air Jordans, and they still have that damn pine coffin that’s not being put to use. Hmmm, on second thought, scratch one problem off the list there. Actually, make that two problems. Just as Bobby is sweating bullets trying to get upstairs, he’s met by the grinning Ezra, looking just like a cuddly teddy bear that happens to have a knife behind its back.

"...as a doornail!"

But instead of a blade Bobby gets a face full of basketball that sends him tumbling all the way to his twisted-neck death. Ezra’s a tad perturbed to find out that the lanky boy’s feet extend just past the pine coffin’s ledge, but that’s no trouble an electric saw can’t fix! Even at the burial the doctor can’t help noting the short coffin PLUS the double freak accident that claimed first Bobby’s spine and then his life… but hey, whaddayagonnadoright?!

Our favorite lowly organ player Clyde tells Ezra he’s hitting the road, hinting that he suspects the true cause of the boy’s death, but old man Thorntonberry ain’t taking any of that. He can get along just fine without him (I hear he plays a mean “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes”). That night our unctuous undertaker is trying to get some shut eye when he hears a tap-tap-tapping at his chamber door.

Quit handing out your worldly advice, Morgan Freeman.

Naturally he goes to answer and, also naturally, there’s no one there except the howling wind of the night. Faucets begin to leak and lights are turned on but it takes more than that to put the fear in Ezra’s stony heart. So the forces of the supernatural send Bobby’s basketball thumping down the stairs ala The Changeling in order to inspire some goosebumps. Ezra hardly has time to process this before a severed, bloody, sneakered foot gives him a solid kick in the ass and sends him packing down the basement stairs.

Lo and behold, Ezra’s now paralyzed (being a mortician is certainly a back-breaking undertaking, ain’t it?). But that’s the least of this codger’s worries; the basement doors swing open to reveal Bobby’s reanimated corpse, his stumpy legs grotesquely dangling in the air as he holds himself up on his crutches. His wide, dark eyes stare lividly out from his death-white face and just before Bobby can inflict some due payment on his greedy old uncle via the handy dandy crowbar, he rasps out a chilling line of scripture: “Like it says in the Bible, Uncle Ezra: Blood is thicker than water!” End Scene.

This eerie episode from Tales from the Crypt’s second season is quite underrated in my opinion, and I don’t really know why. Perhaps because it fits into the E.C. mold so warmly and snugly (poetic vengeance from the land six feet under) it tends to go unnoticed amongst its moldy and more romantic partners in crime like the fiery love triangle of "The Thing from the Grave" or the festering zombie crush from "Til’ Death."

I don't know about you, but I'm thinking LOVE SEAT!

It’s a little more unique amongst its rotting brethren, retaining a nice urban flavor and attitude that compliments the dog-eat-dog world view of Ezra’s character quite nicely. It could very well be a segment straight out of Tales from the Hood; couldn’t you just imagine our good, wild-eyed friend Mr. Simms pouring his giddy, warped heart out at the prospect of presenting a tale about a fellow man of the funeral cloth? Yes, yes, I can see it all now… *Cliché harp strumming* But instead we get the Crypt Keeper playing hoops with dusty skulls, so I think we can safely say that all is right with the world in the end.

Although the cast is filled with fully capable thespians, it’s Moses Gunn as the despicable Ezra that steals the show (even though I’m partial to villains, I think it was the filmmakers’ purpose to put this fiend front and center for all of us to hiss at). He never makes you doubt that he is the real deal; his deliveries are short and crass and nearly everything that comes out of his mouth is filled with hatred. He pulls the cantankerous skinflint bit off extremely well. But you can tell that underneath all of the character’s unpleasantries that Gunn is delighting in his juicy role. And there’s plenty of meat here for everyone to enjoy. And maybe, just maybe, we might be able to take away a little bit of Ezra’s philosophies to only better our own lives.

After all, dem funerals sure ain’t cheap.

Satan bless us, everyone!