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A Less-than-critical journey through film
Jesus H Christos Achilleos. Why the hell are people so cynical and so critical these days? Take that anger, take that hate, take that inability to have fun with an artistic endeavour and GO CREATE.
There are bigger fish to fry in this world.
Who am I and who do I write for?
I’m nobody any more, baby. And I write for me.
Behind every successful man is a woman.
Maybe. But shouldn’t that line include the added sentiment “ready to deal with all his shite and stresses, clean up his mess, and push him to get things fucking done when he’d rather masturbate over pictures of his dead wife and plaster his face with a cheap latex precursor”?
Anyway. Aye. Vulnavia. Tidiest of henchwomen. Glorious costumery, graceful dancefloor antics.
Doctor Phibes. Fucking love that guy. Suave bastard. Some cunts fucked up looking after the health and welfare of his wife, resulting in her untimely death.

Sprouts, bitch…wait. What the fuck? I know I start burning as soon as I enter church grounds, but I don’t remember these green bastards being a plague?

Ohh, right. That’s why the sprouts are involved. Who knew locusts were such big fans of Christmas roasts?
Inventive deaths. Price with no face. Price with a static face. Price pretending his real face is made of plastic. Price with fake eyebrows and a frightwig. Price with a crazy voicebox. Price playing the shit out of a giant church organ whilst wearing an elaborate costume. Price doing fucking epic ‘Starey Eye’ acting, incorporating aforementioned fake eyebrows. Amazingly out-of-place but never-the-less wondrous dance sequences. A clockwork band. A CLOCKWORK BAND.
If you haven’t already encountered the disturbed mindscape of the Doctor, you fucking NEED to see this shit.