Thursday, January 27, 2011

hey ya.

Outcast (2010).
Dir: Colm McCarthy.
Cast: James Nesbitt, Kate Dickie, Niall Bruton, Ciarán McMenamin, Therese Bradley, Hannah Stanbridge, Daniel Porter, Andrew Martin, James Cosmo, Karen Gillan, some Neds and a big, bald pink man-dog with tiny girls feet.




The smooth of thigh and dusky of skin Romanian/Scottish bird Petronella Bugge (Stanbridge) is a poor 'schoolgirl' (yeah right) whose dreams are dashed by her living in Edinburgh.

Admittedly it is one of Edinburgh's better kept neighbourhoods, I mean there may be piss stains in the lifts, graffiti on the walls and burnt out cars in the gardens but at least the place isn't full of comedy accented junkies.

Unlike The Royal Mile on a weekday.

Anyway, Petronella shares a small rat infested flat with her frighteningly wrinkly alcoholic mother, Jitta (Bradley, who was once in Taggart) and her disabled brother Wilf, who you can tell is meant to have 'the special needs' because he's portrayed as fat with a greasy side parting, top button done up and a habit of sticking his tongue into his bottom lip when he speaks.

Nope nothing clichéd or offensive to see here at all.

You can tell they shot it in Glasgow tho', if it had really been Edinburgh that dog would be on bricks.


Late one night comedy voiced Oirish woman Mary (Red Road's Dickie) and her mono-browed, flat faced son Fergal (Bruton, looking like a cross between Frankenstein's uglier wee brother and a whippet licking a cancerous growth from a gammy leg) move into the flat next door.

But not before mental Mary torches their transit van.

“Begorah! dis be da end of ta line, to be sure!” whispers Mary as her son toasts some crumpets on the van's dashboard.

Poor people eh?

After pouring a Guinness and cooking a potato, Mary waits for her boy to fall asleep (making sure he doesn't hit any more branches of the ugly tree on the way down)  before removing her clothes and starting to paint circles on the walls whilst chanting some made up words and flashing her arse.

Which is nice if you like that kind of thing.

You can tell they're not really Scottish, if they were they'd have stolen the guys camera and sold it for skag by now.


It seems that these random doodlings are actually ancient protection charms, but what is our pikey parent protecting Fergal from?

The fashion police?

Accents are us?

Turns out she’s protecting him from two down and out Oirish wizards, Liam and Cathal (Primeval's McMenamin and the ladies favourite Sir James of Nesbitt), who've been sent on a mission to kill Fergal (to death) for some reason or other.


Before they can even think about stabbing the ugly boy (it'd be a mercy killing if I'm honest) tho,  creepy Cathal must take part in a naked tattooing ceremony that will grant him supernatural senses.

Tho' hopefully not an enhanced sense of smell.

Or shame.

But that's not all, because once he's completed his task, he will gain special magical powers, a wee bit like a hairier less punchable Paul Daniels.

"You'll never get yer hands on mah lucky charms ya bastards!"


Unbeknownst to our man-muck stained magicians (but known to us obviously) Mary knows that they're coming (and not just cos she can smell them) and has a sneaky plan up her sleeve.

Well, it would be up her sleeve if she were wearing clothes.

And what does this sneaky plan involve?

Well it better be something pretty damned impressive after all this nude painting, naked tattooing and bird sacrifice.

Yup, you guessed it, she decides to lock him in the house.

But not all the time obviously, or he wouldn't be able to meet Petronella, her brother and the local inbred bad-boys.

More importantly had he been locked up for good the running time would have had to have been taken up with even more shots of Dickie's pale and uninteresting arse.

"Fire engine!"

As is always the way in these stories, Petronella and Fergal begin to fall in love, much to the chagrin of scary Mary and Petronella's sort of boyfriend Wee Boab, who decides to get his revenge by attempting to finger fuck Petronella's pal Ally (Amelia Pond herself Karen Gillan) in a kiddies play park.

Between mad mothers, Oirish wizards, wandering hands and teen romance you'd be forgiven for thinking that the writers wouldn't have room to fit anything else into the film.

But then you'd be dead wrong and really embarrassed (but not as embarrassed as poor Karen Gillan must have been having to let a tiny Ned boy violently shove his sweaty fingers up her skirt) because that night, when Ally is walking home she's attacked and killed by a big monster.

Your mums cum face (trust me, I know).

With Petronella and Fergal's relationship moving every closer to a bit of 'the sex' (fantastically - and subtly - shown by having shots of Fergal sweating and grimacing in a dirty bath whilst Petronella flies ever high on a kiddies swing, the wind catching her tiny pleated school skirt until it rides up and reveals her big black pants - see screenshot below), our paddy practitioners of magic closing in one the tattie loving twosome and the mysterious beast taking out bewitched social workers (it's way too convoluted to go into, trust me) it's only a matter of time before Mary's spooky premonition that "It all ends here" becomes a violent truth...

It's just a pity it doesn't come to pass a wee bit sooner.

Petronella's big black pants, make sure you keep the remote control in your free hand.


From the director of two episodes of the soggy Mini Driver underwater travesty The Deep comes quite possibly the most depressingly clichéd and arse clenchingly embarrassing horror movie I've had the misfortune to see in a long time.

Well, since A Serbian Film back in December anyway.

One of it's main faults is that the movie appears to have no idea what it wants to be.

Is it a hard hitting social commentary on working class Scotland?

A supernatural romance? 

A murder mystery?

A creature feature?

Or a messy mish-mash of all of the above?

I have a feeling that not even the writer and director know for sure.


Myleene klass: The pikey years.


Maybe I'm being a wee bit harsh tho' and the film isn't really aimed at me but at that small section of Middle England that has only ever seen poor people on television documentaries, think The Bill is cutting edge drama and who think that the last horror movie made in the UK was Carry On Screaming.

And those Americans who try to convince themselves that they're in fact Irish because their granddad wore some green trousers once.

If that is the case then can I just say now that you're welcome to it.

But can we have James Cosmo back when you're finished please?

"The most original horror since Let The Right One In" says the poster.

Original?

Nope, but horrific?

Fuck yes but unfortunately for all the wrong reasons.

It may only be January but I'll stick my neck out and say that I doubt anything else will come along this year to take Outcast's well deserved 'what's the fucking point?' crown.


And I'm definitely sure we that no other film this year will feature such an unintentionally amusing monster, the fucker looks like Ren Hoek from Ren and Stimpy on steroids.


I haven't laughed so much since the dead baby swapping storyline in Eastenders.



Well at least the year can't get any worse.

Can it?

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

people you fancy but shouldn't part 26.

Catriona Shearer; full time Scottish news reader and part time rock chick.





a load of old sarse.

A close acquaintance of mine, Sir Nick of Frame, whom you may know from his sickeningly popular and incredibly well written blog, the fantastic DVD Trash, handed me these two beauties a few months back because as he put it:

"I'm really busy at the moment reviewing all the limited edition gold plated, hand etched screener DVD's I get sent on a daily basis, these two films are really good, honest and I think it would take an intellectual giant such as yourself to do them justice...and you never know the director might read it and then you'll at least double your readership."

Obviously I jumped at the chance, knowing full well that he only gets sent the best stuff to watch.

The man whose life you want: Sir Nick of Frame yesterday.

And after viewing the movies in question?

All I can say is God bless you sir!

SARS/SARS: The Dead Plague (2009)
Dir: J. R. Thomas.
Cast: Michael Cooper, Ashley Mullis, Aaron Meade, Aubrey Davidson, Allie Stapelton, Meg White (not that one) and Tony Anthony.


Pray for the dead? Pray for the unfortunate fucking viewer more like.



Back in the year 2005 that nasty Avian Bird Flu finally turned up in the good ol' US of A (it probably took it that long to get thru customs) to mild apathy from the locals.

This is probably because most of them were too fat, too busy shooting each other or too busy riding about in big gas guzzling cars whilst eating potato chips to notice.

Or in the case of director (and I use that title very loosely) JR Thomas, too busy in his parents basement masturbating over pictures of Amanda Bynes whilst listening to Slipknot.

Sad bastard.

Amanda Bynes: scarily an anagram of 'shite in mah mooth'.


By 2009 however the disease had mutated to a point where it now infected insects who in turn bit lots of kiddies who then bit their parents.

And the result of all this biting?

Well by 2015 everyone who's ever been bitten, scratched or shag their weans have transformed into zombies.

Yes, the make-up is this shit.


Unfortunately a small number of non-actors, friends of the producer and piss stained tramps (male and female) have survived and must now struggle to live in a world overrun by the undead.

Oh and one that features stolen footage from the Dawn of The Dead remake and, a fucking abysmal 'nu-metal' score and it's entire running time shoddily cut together from various quality (from shit to really fucking shit) Youtube shorts.

As the DVD sleeve says:

Embrace the madness.

See what they did here? Yes, the world is bad.


Finally I can die a happy (if not slightly soiled) man for I have witnessed a film so bad, so pointless that I am certain that it can never, ever be beaten.

Unlike the director who couldn't be beaten enough for my liking.

Saying that tho', perhaps I'm missing the point and the obvious lack of plot, acting talent or make-up skills on show here are intentional and this is, in fact a really, really clever art movie.

I tried to contact the director to ask him but to no avail.

Tho' thinking about it, the chances of him replying by email are very slim.

I mean that would involve him learning basic communication skills and at the very least how to form words because if this script (what?! You mean there was a script?) is anything to go by he has trouble even attempting to bash the keys into a cohesive sentence.

A man named J.R. Thomas yesterday. Did he 'direct' this shite?


The most grating thing about this whole sorry affair isn't any of the things I've already mentioned (surprisingly) or even the fact that the entire thing was lit with a torch and a strobelight.

No, it's the fact that the first one was popular enough to warrant a sequel.

Is there no God?

I mean come on America, you'll shoot someone as hot as Gabrielle Giffords but you let this guy live?*
Or was it this Thomas?


The only thing we can do is to buy up every damned copy and burn them before they fall into the wrong hands.

Because if we don't it's our children who will suffer.

Thank you and good day.




*By the way, I'm not really advocating murder (I'm not Sarah Palin for one thing) but I wouldn't say no to anyone who fancies giving him a swift knee to the balls.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

bareback mountain.

Received this from a 'friend' as a (very) late birthday gift.

They must have assumed it was one of those seventies blaxploitation flicks.

At least that's what I hope.

God knows why they sent it me otherwise.

Enjoy.



Niggas' Revenge (2001).
Dir: Dick Wadd.
Cast: Chane Adams, Bobby Blake, Chris Blake, Flex-Deon Blake, Dallas Chalmers Bud Cockerham and Eric Top Stud.

"We're gonna have a barbecue tonight...and the main course is fresh Nazi ass!"



The small, everyday American town of Felchington is idyllic in every way; from it's picket fences, fat folk in high waist plaid trousers to it's neatly kept lawns.

But scratch the surface of any seemingly perfect place and something vile and slimy (and slightly rancid smelling) is bound to appear.

In this case it's a band of buffed up, bastard neo-nazi bad boys going by the terrifying monikers of Bud, Dallas and Chane who seem to spend their entire waking life shouting slightly sexually charged yet incredibly racist abuse at their brick shithouse of a neighbour, Mr. Robert Blake (not that one).

"Excuse me! Do you require any scissors sharpening?"


Hurling remarks that would make the writers of Love Thy Neighbour proud it's only a matter of time before Bobby (as he likes to be called), tired of the police doing nothing takes matters into his own hand.

Alongside his massive cock.

Ringing his 'partner', Flex (who works as a baker fact fans) and his brother (not too sure if it's his real brother or a 'brother' brother, showing a slight lack of important character development methinks) Chris, Bobby only needs to say three little words to get the (mini) posse running.

And those words?

"White boy trouble!"

Can you dig it?

Indeed I can sir.


Bunnet.


And so the fight begins as three skinny arsed white supremacists face off against three hulking, body building black blokes.

Now who do you think will win?

The clue is in the title by the way.

As the good ol' racist boys fight valiantly to protect their right to be arseholes, the gangs leader, Dallas interjects with some choice insults between his punches referring to Bobby as 'Uncle Tom', which I assume is a continuity mistake by the way, seeing as his name is Bobby and he's not an uncle.

Shame on you for such a glaring mistake Mr. Wadd.

Who's ready for a wee mooth shite-in?


You know what they say about sticks and stones tho' and before too long Dallas is knocked to the ground, a bloodied, muddy mess.

But Bobby/Tom/whatever has a special surprise for our racist chum.

Pulling down his leather trousers whilst pulling out his frankly terrifyingly large penis, the Bobster drenches Dallas in the golden warmth of his urine.

In the mooth.

Shaking every last drop from his mammoth member, Bobby leans toward Dallas and, with a big cheesy grin on his face announces that "There's gonna be a barbeque at Twelve Oaks tonight...and the main course is Nazi ass drenched in nigga piss!"

It was at this point I began to suspect that this wasn't actually an action movie ala Death Wish or Shaft and that I was, in fact watching what could be referred to as 'the porn'.

Tho' not being 100% sure I bravely soldiered on.

Bobby by now high on the smell of man sweat and piss fumes decides to clean up the urine soaked racist and dunks poor Dallas in a nearby septic tank before bending him (a wee bit like Beckham probably) over a barrel and beating his bare arse with a handy piece of 2x4 that just happened to be lying about in the back yard.

His fun is cut short tho' when the wood breaks, leaving Bobby weapon-less and Dallas with what looks like a bright red baboon bum covered in splinters.

But if he thinks this is as sore as his bottom is gonna get then he's in for a big surprise.

"I love you....could it be magic?"


Bored with mealy standing back and watching (albeit whilst sitting on Dallas' wriggly pals), Flex and Chris decide it's time to have some fun of their own and drag the three badboys off to bobby's basement games room cum sex dungeon...

From Dick Wadd, the worlds finest purveyor of the oft ignored genre of bareback arse assault comes what will probably go down in cinema history as the greatest (and most successful) attempt to portray the grim reality of racially motivated intolerance ever committed to celluloid.

Utilising the harsh black and white colour palette of both the sets and performers bodies to subtly represent the violent transfer of power between the attackers and the attacked, the film culminates with what is quite possibly the most powerful statement on racism ever seen; the image of the persecuted African American transforming the oppressive white man into his slave.

Then violently bumming him for 40 minutes inbetween forcing him to drink warm urine from a dog bowl.

"Here come the Belgians!"
As with all great works of art Niggas' Revenge has it's critics, unbelievable as it seems there are some (very stupid) individuals tho' that disagree with the accepted interpretation of the movie, seeing it as nothing more than an excuse for 90 minutes of forced interracial buggery and fisting intercut with the occasional golden shower scene and angry men shouting "Nigga!" a lot.

As if.

If you really feel you need to see it tho' and want a good excuse, tell your parents/partner/therapist that you're interested in experiencing the final on-screen performance by the legendary Bobby Blake (star of High Rollin': A Black Thang,  White Nuts & Black Bolts, Pumping Black: Hold on Tight amongst many others, go on ask your dad for more info who, in his autobiography (that bears the fantastically original title of "My Life in Porn: The Bobby Blake Story", musta taken weeks to come up with that) admits that due to the animalistic intensity of his buggery and pissing scenes that many performers refused to do movies with him, which aided his decision to retire.

Frankly I was terrified enough by the size of his cock.

I mean it was so big it hand an adult knee in the middle.

And a spine.

A spine of a giant.

Any other reasons?

Well it does feature the largest amount of urine ever unleashed in the man of interacial pornography.

Which in itself is frankly spectacular and worth the admission price (and shame filled evenings) alone.

File under 'hide from the babysitter'.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

when cosplay goes bad (part 22).

Enjoy.






Monday, January 17, 2011

planes, pains and awful mobiles.

Found this review loitering around the bottom of my in progress folder since I first watch the movie way back in October.

Yup, it's that good.

I've tried to make it as painless (and as short) as possible so apologies for anyone expecting the normal ranting and excessive sweary words.

Altitude (2010).
Dir: Kaare Andrews.
Cast: Jessica Lowndes, Landon Liboiron, Julianna Guill, Ryan Donowho and Jake Weary.

“Where the hell is the ground?”


After witnessing her mother die in a flashback plane crash and deciding to face her fear by learning to fly herself, box chinned wannabe pilot Sara (90210's council estate Michelle Ryan, Lowndes) has agreed to take her frighteningly clichéd college buddies; the toothy blonde bombshell Mel (Friday 13th's Guill), monobrowed, flat faced dumb as fuck drunken Jock Sal (Weary from As The World Turns), lovesick Emo Cory (Donowho...indeed) and Sara's freakish, comic book geek boyfriend Bruce (Degrassi: The Next Generation's Liboiron) away for a weekend of soft rock, hard cock and drink induced sickness. 

Teenagers eh?

Unfortunately as soon as they take off things start to go wrong, a big screw falls out of the wing and jams Sara's flaps (snigger), a pissed up Sal decides to argue with his missis and the plane starts ascending in a fairly uncontrollable manner.

Could it get any worse?

"Tell Richard Baker that I've found the turkey mountain!"


Well, funnily enough it can as from out of nowhere (I say nowhere but it's out of the sky obviously) a huge black cloud cum terrifying lightening storm appears and causes all the planes instruments (except Cory's guitar unfortunately) to start sparking before stopping working completely.

Oh yeah and Sara forgot to fill the plane up with petrol before they left.

Well, they say it it never rains...

But obviously in this case it is.

In fact it's not only raining cats and dogs but giant octopus tentacles too.

"Shite in mah mooooooooooooth!"


Yup you read that right.

It's as if the writer (hang your head in shame Paul A. Birkett) reckoned that all the other (impossibly clichéd) happenings were obviously not exciting enough to make the film even vaguely interesting so he thought he'd throw a gigantic (and admittedly well realised), fanny mouthed Lovecraftian monster into the mix for good measure.

Now if only he'd gone the Japanese tentacle route the whole thing would have brightened up no end.

I wouldn't want that swimming up my arse.


Cue forty five minutes of screaming, bitching, mid air attempts at screw removals, and overdose, a totally unnecessary comic book mutilation (the films most disturbing scene) and the revelation that one of the passengers holds a dark secret that could mean the difference between live and death...

 But will it be enough to save the audience from terminal boredom?

Possibly if you've never heard of The Twilight Zone.

From Kaare Andrews, ex Marvel artist, scribe and award winning Hulk cover doodlier comes a tale so threadbare and devoid of any surprises that even M. Night Shyamalan would knock it back before scrubbing his hands with bleach for even touching it.

And remember, this is the man that made The Happening.

And The Last Airbender.

As a plus point it does feature the most punchable cast ever to be seen in a horror movie and a twist so ludicrous and so obvious as to appear almost ironic in it's execution.

I can safely say without fear of spoiling it for any masochistic mentalists who having read this far that don't worry, it's not that it's all a dream.

Indeed the ending isn't that original.

Someone farted...and it was an eggy one.

Saying that tho' the monster looks good.

Which is a wee bit like letting Fred West off for being not bad at plastering.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

eastenders: classic knitwear (part one).

Britain's dreariest soap but Britain's brightest knitwear...

Go figure.




film posters i wouldn't want swimming up my arse (part one).

She-Wolf, Poland, 1983.


Tuesday, January 11, 2011

documental.

Sorry for the lack of updates of late but people keep offering me money to draw stuff rather than sit at home watching cinematic shite.

Either they think I'm a huge talent or someone is really fucking desperate to stop me writing this blog.

Anyway, I came across this little chiller over Crimbo and thought I'd share.

Enjoy.

And please, don't have nightmares.

Haunted Changi (2010)
Dir: Andrew Lau, Tony Kern (uncredited).
Cast: Andrew Lau, Audi Khalis, Farid Azlam and Sheena Chung.



Singapore's famous (in ghost hunting circles) Old Changi Hospital has, for years been the focal point of hundreds of paranormal investigations by psychical researchers from both home and abroad.

Save for Yvette Fielding, who's unable to fly to Singapore due to unpaid library fines and crimes against swimsuit fashion.

Probably.

Anyway, the history of  the hospital gives an interesting insight into just why the site is claimed to be so haunted; originally commandeered as headquarters for the Japanese Military during World War 2, rumours circulated that the Japanese had built a number of barbaric torture chambers below the building in concealed tunnels as well as executing hundreds of POW's in  the hospital grounds.

Which is nice.

Yvette Fielding:  mottled thighs, beef curtains.

Not long after the war (we won by the way) the former hell hole was cleaned with disinfectant, given a fresh lick of paint and turned into a public hospital.

Obviously the local council thought that this would make everyone completely forget about the buildings notorious past.

Surprisingly this plan would have worked if only someone had decided to tell the myriad of ghosts, spectres and various Pontianaks (a Malay vampire fact fans) that haunt the building.


Typical local authority eh?

Not ones to let things lie, the snub nosed locals decided that no ailment or illness was worth visiting haunted Changi Hospital for so whilst the staff sat about twiddling their tiny thumbs the local residents limped about and tried not to complain to much about their sore throats, various cancers and ingrowing toenails.

A wee bit like Govan then.

In 1997, the government had had enough and finally closed down Changi,  relocating it to Holby City, leaving site open for numerous ghost-hunters, thrill seekers and vandals to visit in the hope of encountering any supernatural creatures or even Derek Acorah cracking one off in the basement.

Oh go on then, especially Derek Acorah cracking one off in the basement.


Changi Hospital: twinned with Fred West's house.


And this, dear reader is where we come in.

You see, groovy movie director Andrew Lau has decided to film a documentary about the infamous hospital, recruiting the pixie-like poppet Sheena Chung to produce his epic and hiring top sound-man (and sound man) Farid Azlam and his cameraman buddy Audi Khalis to act as crew.

The brief is simple, with the documentary starting out in standard style with lots of creepy time lapse shots of the building, various talking heads interviews, a wee bit of wandering about the building during daylight hours and background info  finally culminating in an all night vigil alongside the local paranormal group.

What could possibly go wrong?

"...and this is where I take off my zombie mask and shite in the tramps mooth".


with all concerned not taking the shoot too seriously (indeed, Khalis is more interested in using the night vision camera to gaze at young girls breasts in nightclubs), the crews mood is pretty playful with even Andrew admiting that they may edit in some homemade 'spooky stuff' to give the audiences a thrill.

Their day time jaunts to the hospital and evenings spent in the editing room show a group of close friends laughing and joking, sometimes at each others expense but all committed to making the best movie that they can.

try to imagine Cannibal Holocaust's lost footage revealing that the crew were busy helping the natives build rafts and knit jumpers before wandering off happy and content and you're halfway there.

But not too surprisingly, all that is about to change.

Watch out...Beadle's about!


Checking thru' the latest footage Andrew spots a ghostly, shadowy hand resting on Sheena's shoulder and if that wasn't enough to put the willies up our team then the headless shadows appearing against the hospital walls must surely serve as a warning of bad things to come.

Luckily for us it doesn't otherwise it'd be a really short film.

As the night shoot beckons Andrew appears to be somewhat distracted but no-one really notices seeing as the local paranormal group have turned up with a wee boy in tow.

It seems that whenever they go on an investigation (or 'vigil' as they call it) they drag the group leaders son along and make him go into the building first.

Seemingly if he doesn't get eaten, possessed or buggered by trees then the ghosts are friendly.

Phew, glad that's sorted.

A saucy Pontianak yesterday.

Everything is going swimmingly until the poor little sod is sent up a darkened corridor leading to the toilets.

Within seconds of him touching the door handle (and cloth) he runs screaming out of the hospital and off down the road causing the investigators to hastily agree that they have enough evidence to suggest that yes, the hospital is probably haunted.

And with that they leave.

Unperturbed by this turn of events Andrew and co. soldier on, getting plenty of spooky footage and scary noises to spook the thrill-seeking public but when they return to the relative comfort of their studio, Andrew seems a little distracted.

It appears that a few days earlier when exploring the hospital Andrew discovered a Chinese national (who'd unwittingly been duped into working in Singapore's burgeoning sex trade - it's happened to us all), the exotically monikered Xiao Juan, had been living rough on site for the last six months and our main man has been secretly interviewing her about the site. 

Insert cock here.


Obviously his pals are oh so slightly pissed of that he's been keeping secrets from them, especially Sheena who having a crush on the cheekie chappie flies off in a jealous rage causing Andrew to storm out of the studio to a rousing "Fuck you!" whilst carrying a huge bag of tapes out to his car.

Which doesn't really bode well for the rest of the shoot.

The crew, being nice folk decide to give him time to calm down.

Bless.

"What do you mean I raff I ruse?"
After a few weeks of unanswered calls and sitting about randomly looking at blank monitors Sheena decides that they should maybe go and visit Andrew but on arrival at his house none of them are prepared for the stench of stale sweat, semen and shame emanating from his kitchen.

Stumbling from the bedroom covered in sticky filth and weeping sores, it appears that Andrew has spent the intervening time hanging around the hospital alone, filming extra footage and 'probing' Xiao Juan for information.

Classy.

Some filthy, AIDs ridden (non Chinese) prostitutes in my house yesterday.

Andrew, completely obsessed with both his new squeeze and the secrets of the hospital, begs his colleagues to join him for one last night shoot where he promises to reveal the truth behind the hauntings once and for all...

"Ssssshhhiiiimmmmooooooo!!!"

Appearing almost from nowhere late last year, US born Singapore based Tony Kern's mockumentary shocker has been unfairly judged as a late bloomer Blair Witch/Paranormal Activity rip off.

Mainly, it has to be said by folk who haven't seen it yet.

But look passed the few (well one) similarity (the all pertain to be real) and a surprisingly effective little ghost story awaits.

Following the blueprint set by his first full length feature, A Month of Hungry Ghosts in which Kern's takes the celebrations surrounding the seventh-lunar-month Hungry Ghost Festival and adds a few supernatural events of his own, Haunted Changi's real-life hospital setting and history - it's reported to be Singapore's most ghost filled location alongside The Old Ford Motor Factory on Upper Bukit Timah Road, Fort Canning Park and the pontianak riddled Old Commando Jetty near Changi Beach - is used (and abuse)d as a basis for a good old haunted house tale which is as rewarding as it is scary.

Like one of those seldom repeated Christmas ghost stories of old so loved by the BBC or a particularly gruesome episode of Tales of The Unexpected, Haunted Changi builds slowly yet creepily towards it's shock climax, a lean mean tale of caution that works not only as a ghost story but also as a modern equivalent of an old fashioned folk tale akin to Hansel and Gretal.

Not bad for a film that probably cost less than the photocopying budget of Avatar.

George Takei, up the casino, Luton, 1967.....Yesch!

With it's likeable cast, genuinely freaky locations and simple, scare filled agenda Haunted Changi is worth searching for in much the same way as the intrepid film makers hoped to search for ghosts.

Only with less chance of catching the clap of a dirty Chinese whore.

Let's hope this is just the beginning of a sexy Singapore shocker scene.