To continue to celebrate Shadows of Dismemberment’s anniversary I created one of the novel’s most charged moments: John Satori and Judy find themselves face to face in a scene heavy with tension and truth.
Some cases change the course of a city. Others change the course of history.
In the 1930s, Eliot Ness was already a legend — the man who helped bring down Al Capone. But in Shadows of Dismemberment, we step into a chapter of his life that history books barely whisper about: a chilling murder investigation that dragged him out from behind his desk and into the darkest corners of Cleveland.
The answer lies not only in dusty police files but in the memories of those who lived it. Judy Getty’s account, handed down by her mother Rue, brings this forgotten horror into stark, unforgettable focus. Their story threads through decades — from the grim reality of Depression-era America to the present day — revealing that the shadows of the past still reach for us.
This is not just a meeting of two characters — it’s a collision of timelines, of hard evidence and intriguing memory.
What unfolds between them reshapes the investigation and sends the story hurtling toward revelations no one — not even Ness — could have predicted.
Crime is often about facts, but Shadows of Dismemberment is about impact. It’s about how murder doesn’t end with the victim — it ripples through families, across decades, and into the present.
By weaving historical fact with Rue’s firsthand experiences, the novel offers more than a whodunnit — it delivers a chilling reminder that some shadows never lift.
Written by Noah Hawley and directed by Dana Gonzales, “Mr. October” keeps the series’ momentum burning with high production values, inventive set pieces, and a deft balance of spectacle and suspense. Tensions rise between rival corporations, a reunion unfolds, and a long-kept secret comes to light — all against the backdrop of a world tipping deeper into chaos.
The sumptuous Georgian-style party is a visual feast: powdered wigs, heavy makeup, candlelit halls, and refined etiquette brought vividly to life. When the alien threat intrudes, the elegance shatters, and we’re left with an arresting collision of high society and visceral horror. The body count climbs swiftly, and while some of the violence is graphically on the nose, other moments are wisely left to the imagination, letting dread breathe in the shadows.
Sydney Chandler, Timothy Olyphant, and Babou Ceesay once again anchor the drama with grounded, magnetic performances, selling both the quiet human beats and the moments of sheer terror. Ceesay’s Morrow, gets some more interesting moments, and Lily Newmark’s shocked Nibs is memorable. The episode also treats us to an array of new creatures — each distinct, unnerving, and rendered with impressive FX work that expands the franchise’s bestiary without feeling too gimmicky. The Alien design seems to successfully borrow from the first four films.
Yet, as with the premiere, the editing lets the episode down. There are moments where the flow stutters, and gaps of darkness linger — possibly placeholders for ad breaks — evoking the old days of watching syndicated TV. While it may be an intentional broadcast-style choice, it occasionally pulls the viewer out of the immersive atmosphere, as do some of the more heavy-handed (perhaps intentionally different) editing choices.
As the sister scours the chaos for her brother, and he navigates a perilous path toward safety, the story tightens its grip. Gonzales’ direction makes the most of both the intimate character moments and the sprawling set pieces, delivering a world that feels at once lived-in and on the brink of collapse.
“Mr. October” doesn’t just move the plot forward — it enriches the series’ texture, marrying lavish period-style opulence with the cold bite of Alien horror. The result is unsettling, thrilling, and visually captivating, even if the editorial rhythm needs sharpening.
Director writer Mike P. Nelson’ offers just over fifteen minutes, The Jason Universe: Sweet Revenge wastes no time delivering carnage with stunning efficiency. The practical gore and effects are executed with impressive flair, making the most of a tight budget to deliver visceral, blood-drenched thrills that fans of the slasher genre will appreciate.
Lead actress Ally Ioannides (as Eve) brings compelling strength and presence to the screen, guiding the chaos with control and charisma. She anchors the short with a proactive, emotional core that elevates the body count with real stakes.
Stepping into the hockey mask is Schuyler White, who delivers the kind of physicality and menace worthy of the franchise’s legacy. His movements have the weight and deliberation of classic Jason, making him a fitting heir to the role’s long tradition. Incidentally, Chris Carlson’s Harold oddly gives Robert Englund vibes.
While the short doesn’t have the gritty VHS feel, or film grain, it harnesses that original Jason ambiance with purposeful pacing, shadowy menace, and well-timed scares. There’s a modern polish—akin to the 2009 Friday reimagining—but the spirit of the early films pulses just beneath the surface.
Nods to the franchise are peppered throughout—from familiar kill setups to sly narrative references—enough to feel like a loving wink to long-time fans. Add in a couple of clever twists, and you get a sharp little narrative that still manages to build momentum.
The finale hits you with a cliffhanger of sorts, leaving plenty of room for speculation and appetite for more. And then—the end credits roll to Sugar and Spice’s ‘I’ve Changed’ an ironic and fittingly twisted choice that underlines the film’s playful tone.
For fans of Friday the 13th Crystal Lake carnage, Sweet Revenge is a brisk, blood-soaked treat — a short that understands the rules of its universe and plays with them just enough to keep you hooked. Well worth checking out.
Noah Hawley—the creative mind behind Fargo and Legion—wears multiple hats here as creator, writer, executive producer, and director of Episode 1, “Neverland.” The episode was shot by cinematographer Dana Gonzales.
From the opening frame, Alien: Earth nails the tone—oppressive corridors, corporate dread, and that lurking sense of unease that harks back to the claustrophobic tension of the original Alien. At the same time, there are echoes of Prometheus in the sleek biotech undertones, and for fans paying attention, a visual reference to Hicks’ demise in Alien 3 is even thrown in, a subtle nod that underscores the series’ respect for its lineage.
Visually, the episode is first rate: direction is assured, cinematography striking, FX seamless, and the sets feel tactile and lived-in. Sydney Chandler brings emotional depth as Wendy, Timothy Olyphant exudes steady authority, and Babou Ceesay is magnetically composed even in quieter scenes.
There are plenty of nods and homages to the Alien canon—haunting shadows, industrial design cues, and tone—but these serve the story rather than override it. It’s a thoughtful homage, honoring the spirit of the franchise while forging its own path.
Where the episode falters is in the editing: jarring cuts and mis-timed transitions undercut some suspense. In a franchise built on meticulous pacing, these missteps stand out, even if they don’t fully derail the immersion.
Still, as a standalone entry—and as a faithful extension of the Alien legacy—this episode delivers. It’s atmospheric, well-crafted, and brimming with thematic promise. Now it just needs a sharper editorial edge to truly match the rest of its high-caliber execution.
My Alternative Death Stalker Poster ‘80s StyleMy Alternative 2025 Deathstalker Modern Poster
Roger Corman’s Deathstalker saga began in 1983 with Rick Hill swinging steel in a sleazy, violent Conan the Barbarian cash-in—think Sorceress (1982). It wasn’t as fun as The Barbarians (1987) or as well-received as The Sword and the Sorcerer (1982), but it hit big enough to spawn three sequels. My personal favourite? The charmingly fun, dumb Deathstalker II (1987), where the series went full tongue-in-cheek.
The original was part of an avalanche of ’80s barbarian flicks—Conquest, Beastmaster, Gor, Ator the Fighting Eagle, Barbarian Queen, and even serious outings like Hundra and the original Red Sonja.
Now, Deathstalker is getting a 2025 reboot from Steven Kostanski (Psycho Goreman) starring Daniel Bernhardt. With Corman’s scrappy DNA in its veins, this could actually surprise.
Original 2025 Deathstalker Poster
Meanwhile, Red Sonja—based on the comic—is also returning. It’s probably not a remake of the enjoyable Brigitte Nielsen film with Arnold Schwarzenegger (who was basically tricked into starring). This new low-budget take has Matilda Lutz in the lead, and I’m hoping it lands some solid blows, but there more pressure than Deathstalker given the budget of its predecessor.
As for Deathstalker, the official teaser poster felt a bit lacklustre. So, I made my own fan poster—leaning into that pulpy, barbarian grit that hooked me in the first place. It’s the kind of cover that would’ve made you grab the VHS off the rental shelf without even reading the back. Sometimes, you’ve got to put the sword where your heart is.
Time has a way of folding back on itself. One moment you’re writing through the early hours, chasing voices in the dark — the next, the story has made its way into the world, carrying more than you intended.
This month marks the anniversary of Shadows of Dismemberment, a novel that became something unintended: my final work. A sequel had begun and now rests in partial notes, draft chapters and scattered dialogue, its voice silenced before it could fully speak. But illness has a way of closing doors before you realise they’ve shut. What remains is this finished piece, both a culmination and, reluctantly, a farewell.
Three Places. One Thread of Violence.
The novel moves between three distinct settings, each chosen for what it reveals:
New York City, all vertical edges and sleepless glass, masks its violence beneath noise and ambition. Wales, remote and fog-drenched, is a landscape shaped by silence — where truths are buried under stone, blood, and memory. 1938, threaded carefully through the modern-day narrative, places trauma in context, not as a relic but as origin. Some horrors are inherited. Some simply adapt. This features a carefully studied Eliot Ness.
Exciting action setups are littered throughout, but the plot doesn’t chase twists or shock reveals. It spirals, slow and exacting — a psychological reckoning that leaves its trace long after the final page.
What About the Victims?
One exchange from the novel continues to haunt:
“Victims are seldom remembered,” a voice says.
“I remember all their names. All their faces,” John Satori replies.
That moment — recently reimagined in a new visual to mark the anniversary — sits at the core of the story. Not a confrontation between good and evil, but a reckoning between memory and silence. (Image below.)
Fiction Meets Reality
Shortly after Shadows of Dismemberment was released, the Idaho student murders surfaced in real life. At sentencing, Judge Steven Hippler said the killer should be “forgotten and studied in silence,” allowing the victims to live on in public memory — a sentiment that quietly echoed the novel’s own heartbeat.
Because Shadows was never about the killer’s mind. It was always about what was left behind.
Editions Out Now:
A Hardback Edition with an exclusive cover Paperback and Kindle editions
Released in the U.K. in 1988, I was too young to see Frantic at the cinema, I don’t recall renting it on VHS first, but sometime in the early ’90s — probably 1992 — I caught it late one night on television. One of those accidental viewings where you intend to watch five minutes and end up staying until the credits roll, fully submerged. I’d grown up with Harrison Ford as a dependable leading man — action hero, reluctant rogue, square-jawed everyman — but here, he was something else entirely. Stripped down. Lost. Unmoored. The difference was stark. And I couldn’t quite shake it.
Then there was Emmanuelle Seigner. She didn’t so much light up the screen as alluringly haunt it. She wasn’t written like the usual femme fatale — and she didn’t play it that way either. There was a detached energy about her, a mixture of worn-out cool and vulnerability, and I fell for it completely. It wasn’t just infatuation with the actress — it was fascination with her character, with her presence, with the way she moved through Polanski’s rain-slicked, indifferent Paris like a ghost who knew the way.
That initial intrigue became something else. I started tracking down anything connected to the film — original lobby cards, international posters, an old worn Warner puff box, the Warner Home Video Ltd VHS release, and eventually, the cardboard snapcase DVD that promised more than it delivered. I bought the soundtrack too — Ennio Morricone’s score, full of melancholy suspense, soon became regular listening.
I bought the soundtrack too — Ennio Morricone’s score, full of melancholy suspense, soon became regular listening. Simply Red’s “I’m Gonna Lose You,” used so hauntingly in the sobering riverboat scene, echoed the film’s themes of disconnection and quiet despair. I also picked up Grace Jones’ Island Life just to revisit “I’ve Seen That Face Before (Libertango)” — a track that, once paired with Seigner’s disaffected sway through the nightclub, took on an entirely new life.
Before long, it wasn’t enough to watch Frantic — I wanted to walk it. So in the late ’90s, I visited Paris, armed with nothing more than a few addresses: pausing on steps, scouring narrow streets, standing in front of the Le Grand Hotel; ÃŽle aux Cygnes — the island where the Lady Liberty scenes were filmed; Rue Scribe — the street with the flower shop; Passage Brady — where a bum points out the spot where Dr. Walker’s wife was kidnapped. The restaurant where Richard Walker (Harrison Ford) meets with the U.S. Embassy officials is Bistrot Marguerite, located at 1 Place de l’Hôtel de Ville.
Back then, that kind of location hunting was reserved for specialists — the kind of material you’d only find buried in film tourism books or occasional magazines, not fed through algorithms.
Today, of course, things are different. You can type “filming locations” into YouTube and walk the entire movie without leaving your sofa. Blu-rays now routinely come loaded with extras and visual comparisons. Ironically, when Frantic finally made its way to Blu-ray, it was demoted — belittled, even — lumped into a double bill with Presumed Innocent. A box-ticking exercise, not a celebration.
But for those of us who discovered it in the quiet margins — in fuzzy late-night broadcasts, in paused frames and physical media, in foreign streets half-familiar through cinema — Frantic is more than just a mid-tier thriller. It’s a mood, a place, a dislocation. Something that seeps in quietly and refuses to leave.
Among the supporting cast are several familiar faces. John Mahoney (of Frasier fame) plays U.S. Embassy official, offering a wearied but bureaucratically polite dead-end to Walker’s increasingly desperate inquiries. Jimmy Ray Weeks plays the suspiciously evasive Shaap, and Dominique Piñon (Alien Resurrection ) gives a poignant performance as the drunken wino — the only witness to Sondra’s disappearance. That brief scene, in Passage Brady, becomes one of the most memorable encounters in the film.
The choice to shoot entirely on location in Paris, with minimal studio interference, lends the film a grounded realism. The streets feel real because they are real. The disorientation that Ford’s character experiences is mirrored by the viewer — twisting alleys, unhelpful officials, red-lit clubs, cigarette smoke, and sudden rainstorms that make the foreign city feel even more impenetrable.
Polanski reportedly cast Ford because he wanted someone the audience would implicitly trust — a man’s man, but vulnerable, not invincible. Ford, coming off Witness and The Mosquito Coast, was game to play against type. His American arrogance is gradually broken down by the city, the system, and the situation. He stumbles more than he swaggers.
And then there’s Seigner — only in her early twenties at the time — who plays Michelle with a blend of aloof toughness and quiet curiosity. Dressed in iconic red, she visually mirrors Sondra Walker (played by Betty Buckley), who is also seen in red at the film’s outset. The costuming — subtle but deliberate — draws a visual connection between the two women, both drifting in and out of reach, both emotionally unavailable in their own ways. Despite the simmering chemistry, Walker never takes the bait. Whether or not Michelle would have genuinely reciprocated remains open. Their bond is born of circumstance, not romance — another subversion of genre expectations.
The stakes of Frantic are small and intimate — one missing woman, one distressed husband, no global crisis, no ticking time bomb. And yet it plays like a Hitchcockian thriller with world-ending weight. The claustrophobia is emotional, not physical. The absence is what fills the screen.
It’s worth noting how the plot hinges on the inability to communicate — no smartphones, no text messages, no way to trace someone once they’ve walked away. The MacGuffin — a nuclear detonator hidden in a miniature replica of the Statue of Liberty — feels far-fetched on paper but entirely fitting in the film’s dreamlike logic. If Frantic were made today, it would need to fight against instant connectivity, surveillance, and data trails. That analog sense of helplessness — calling from a payphone, writing down addresses, asking strangers for help — is part of what gives the film its distinct identity.
Controversially, Polanski’s personal history has also shadowed the film’s reception in later years. Some viewers find it impossible to separate the art from the artist, and Frantic is often caught in that debate — especially when paired with Seigner, who would later become Polanski’s wife. The power dynamics behind the camera, in retrospect, may feel uneasy. But on screen, the performances remain strong and the mood intact.
Ultimately, Frantic is a film of atmospheres and undercurrents — not explosions and resolutions. It’s a story of displacement, both geographic and emotional, and it lingers precisely because it doesn’t conform. For those who found it in the margins, its impact has been permanent.
Fighters chosen by a mysterious dragon marking are drawn into a brutal, interdimensional war against the forces of Outworld. As ancient rivalries reignite, a washed-up fighter, Cole Young, uncovers his true heritage and joins the battle to protect humanity.
Mortal Kombat finally gets the gritty, hard-hitting adaptation fans have long demanded. First-time director Simon McQuoid delivers a confident debut, skilfully balancing game lore with brutal action and giving the franchise its most faithful film outing to date.
Hiroyuki Sanada commands the screen as Scorpion-his bookended performance is fierce, emotionally grounded. Lewis Tan brings solid presence as newcomer Cole Young, while Joe Taslim chills with menace as Sub-Zero. Their showdowns, especially the final clash, deliver on the promise of a spectacle.
The cast round out with strong portrayals of iconic game characters: Jessica McNamee as Sonya Blade, Josh Lawson as the scene-stealing Kano, Mehcad Brooks as Jax Briggs, Ludi Lin as Liu Kang, Max Huang as Kung Lao, Tadanobu Asano as the thunder god Raiden, and Chin Han as the soul-stealing Shang Tsung. They're joined by Sisi Stringer as Mileena, Nathan Jones as Reiko, Mel Jarnson as Nitara, and a CGI Goro voiced by Angus Sampson. It's a faithful lineup that honours the game's core roster while embracing cinematic reinvention.
The production values are strong throughout. Sweaty gyms, ancient temples, and netherworld hellscapes are convincingly realised, lending weight to the fantasy. While the CGI blood effects sometimes fall flat-too digital, too gamey-the rest of the visuals hold firm. What the film lacks in polish, it makes up for in bone-breaking choreography and sheer commitment to violent spectacle.
The 18-rating is well-earned. From inventive kills to savage dialogue and unapologetic gore, the film embraces its mature tone. The music nods subtly to the classic theme, while lines and visuals honour the games with knowing fan service one liners that land perfectly.
McQuoid's Mortal Kombat doesn't just beat the previous adaptations-it annihilates them. Stylish, bloody, and packed with fatality flair, this is the franchise reborn with fists clenched and spine-rips ready.
In a neon-drenched future, a struggling all-girl band, The Vicious Lips, recruits teenage Judy Jetson to replace their missing lead and escape Earth for the biggest gig in the galaxy—only to crash on a hostile desert planet crawling with danger.
This is possibly the greatest “future band” film never to leave the 1980s. It radiates lazy-’80s charm—big hair, smoke machines, synth-punk attitude, and a day-glo palette that practically screams from every frame. The music, largely led by Dru-Anne Perry, is surprisingly strong and drives the film’s momentum with genuine energy. Credit to Michael McCarty and his music team for delivering some genuinely good ‘80s tracks.
Vicious Lips clearly laid the groundwork for Paul Verhoeven’s three-breasted woman bar scene in Total Recall. There’s other makeup prosthetic effects that would show up in Empire Pictures and Fullmoon films like Arena (1989), and Oblivion (1994) to name a few.
Lead actresses Dru-Anne Perry (as Judy), stunning Gina Calabrese, Linda Kerridge, and Shayne Farris all commit to their roles, bringing sass and swagger even when the script leaves them with little. The charisma and look are there—it’s just the narrative that stutters. Radioactive Dream Nightclub owner Maxine Mortogo (Mary‑Anne Graves) is a memorable screen presence—a Sean Young/Lady Gaga type before either Gaga was a fixture—along with her creepy, point‑tooth aide Milo, played by Christian Andrews. The wacky manager Matty Asher (Anthony Kentz) brings the over‑the‑top, sleazy energy to the cheap scifi sets and low rent Star Wars ships, exactly what you’d expect from this kind of intergalactic yarn.
Shot in under a week on a low budget, the film is severely limited by its resources. Albert Pyun’s direction has moments of visual flair, but questionable editing choices and erratic framing often undermine the momentum. It does have some interesting makeup effects, and the film works best when neon-drenched. The desert sequence, which takes up much of the second half, is atmospheric but padded, dragging out the already thin storyline.
As an Empire Pictures’ movie, with Charles Band lightly involved, it’s not as cohesive as Prison Ship: Star Slammer released the same year. Don’t expect the likes of Albert Pyun’s Cyborg, The Sword and the Sorcerer, or even Nemesis either— it’s more zero-budget Howard the Duck mixed with the oddity The Apple (1980) at times.
Still, what Vicious Lips lacks in polish, it makes up for in B-movie atmosphere. The glowing sets, overexposed neon, and synthetic score create a weirdly hypnotic tone. It may not be great cinema, but it’s cult material through and through.
Overall, Vicious Lips is a flawed relic—limited in scope and cinematography but drenched in sci-fi pop energy. A neon artifact from an era when drive and luna madness tried to triumph over budget.
The crew of the joint British and American space shuttle Churchill discover three naked humanoid bodies in suspended animation and begin the return trip to Earth—with dire consequences.
It would be easy to dismiss director Tobe Hooper's Lifeforce as a silly film, but in truth, it's completely outlandish, bizarre, and fascinating. Its comic book style is uniquely wacky, with enough horror shenanigans and adult themes to turn Lifeforce’s hokey premise into a serious space vampire story. Although the first two acts are slow-paced, the build-up to the third act is worth the wait, when London comes under siege.
The cast are great. Frank Finlay, as Dr. Hans Fallada, is memorable and reminiscent of Christopher Lee. Mathilda May is unforgettable and at times eerily intense as the Space Girl. Patrick Stewart shows up briefly.
Despite the involvement of Texas Chainsaw Massacre’s Hooper and Alien (1979) writer Dan O’Bannon, don’t expect Lifeforce to be in the same vein. Based on Colin Wilson’s novel The Space Vampires, Don Jakoby and O’Bannon’s screenplay is intriguing, with sci-fi elements that fans of the genre will enjoy. There’s also a score by Henry Mancini. Pre-CGI, with optical and practical effects, the star of the show is the visuals—it features some incredible special effects from John Dykstra.
Overall, it’s fragmented—it’s five great films in one. It’s a pity it didn’t stick to a single theme, but that’s also what makes it so special and unique.
