I found
Fiend without a Face hidden in a beaten-down little joint, last chance for minor notions and damaged goods—and the picture does have a few dents in it, and sags a little—but those faceless fiends thump and squish like invisible dream-giants, and the victims grab at their napes and widen their eyes and scream and scream—a real horror show, part nuclear jitters, part brain power gone amok (the mad scientist making the monster happen just by thinking about it, more or less).
And the best part is that we're fooled into figuring that the budget was so low we'd never see the monster—and then we do, and how: a shiny brood of tentacled brains, spines curving behind, nightmare inchworms sliding along the ground, up tree trunks—then flying, improbable bats clamping down and sucking out regular brains and spines. And these brain-eating brains are definitely soft as brains: The nuclear flyboys shoot 'em up nicely, each Fiend gushing pudding-thick black goo, sickening and satisfying—what other fate would one wish for such things? Thank God I didn't take the kids—but of course the little voice inside (the one that knows the contradictory passions of childhood) whispers I should’ve brought them along; who was I to deny them what dreams may come?
I found Fiend without a Face hidden in a beaten-down little joint, last chance for minor notions and damaged goods—and the picture does have a few dents in it, and sags a little—but those faceless fiends thump and squish like invisible dream-giants, and the victims grab at their napes and widen their eyes and scream and scream—a real horror show, part nuclear jitters, part brain power gone amok (the mad scientist making the monster happen just by thinking about it, more or less).
And the best part is that we're fooled into figuring that the budget was so low we'd never see the monster—and then we do, and how: a shiny brood of tentacled brains, spines curving behind, nightmare inchworms sliding along the ground, up tree trunks—then flying, improbable bats clamping down and sucking out regular brains and spines. And these brain-eating brains are definitely soft as brains: The nuclear flyboys shoot 'em up nicely, each Fiend gushing pudding-thick black goo, sickening and satisfying—what other fate would one wish for such things? Thank God I didn't take the kids—but of course the little voice inside (the one that knows the contradictory passions of childhood) whispers I should’ve brought them along; who was I to deny them what dreams may come?
Comments
Post a Comment