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by Bill Gibron

16 Oct 2008


How did it happen? How did a man with limited governing skills, a track record of career calamities, a laundry list of personality (and parental) issues, and a jerryrigged jailhouse conversion to Jesus end up as President of the United States? Was Al Gore that dull, John Kerry that tenuous? What, exactly, about the son of a former failed Commander in Chief indicated he was ready for the job, or should have his Constitutional contract renewed for another four years? Were we in need of some post-Clinton jingoism, or a bugf*ck shoulder to shiver on when the bad guys showed up to terrorize us?

Perhaps the bigger question is why? Why a war in Iraq? Why a pro-corporate stance that seems destined to lead to one of the longest and deepest recessions in US history? Why the lack of an exit strategy, a balanced domestic and foreign policy approach, or a smidgen of basic humanity in all the pro-fear, anti-dissent smirks? George W. Bush may not be the worst President in the history of the US, though he seems to be willing to fight for said slot. And outside of his cavalcade of crazed advisors, one senses he may be a decent enough man. This is the angle taken by Oliver Stone in his sensational example of present political theater, W. Turns out, the answers to any and all these questions have their roots in family, not party affiliation.

From the beginning, the young George W. Bush had big shoes to fill. His grandfather was Senator Prescott Bush, and his father was a war hero, a millionaire oil baron, and an eventual Washington mainstay. It was therefore never a question of “if” the boy would follow in his dad’s demanding footsteps, but “how”. This is the dilemma Stone wants to explore, the rise of an expected prodigy that has little ability or capability of complementing his establishing legacy. As the current incarnation of W. discusses the possibility of war with his A-list brain trust, we see the portrait of a disappointment as a young man. Stone avoids certain situations - there’s no cocaine use, National Guard controversy, or in-depth analysis of his bad business acumen. Instead, like a grand opera or studio era Hollywood epic, we watch a boy grow up to be a very incomplete man.

When W. does pop psychology - or perhaps a better term would be “Popi” psychology, considering how much screen time Bush Sr. gets in his son’s story - it’s superficial but fun. Clearly, the standard eldest boy issues apply, as confrontation after confrontation confirms the father/son disconnect. Even better, whenever W. does something and succeeds (as when he wins the Governorship of Texas), all Bush Sr. can think of is how disappointed he is for Jeb (who ran in Florida at the same time, and lost). We get it early and often here - nothing W. did was ever good enough. But then Stone stops feeling sorry for the man and starts explaining the mania behind the mess we are in, and suddenly, the gloves come off.

This is one of the few movies that accurately explains post-modern politics, that is, the notion that a President is only as powerful (or persuasive, or important) as the people he has in his pool of advisors. From Toby Jones’ dead-on Karl Rove to Richard Dreyfus’ bald-headed devil Dick Cheney, we see how a simple ideologue became a crackpot demagogue. With Thandie Newton’s perfectly pinched Condolezza Rice and Scott Glen’s clueless Donald Rumsfeld rounding out the reactionaries, it’s crystal why the US is now a country unnaturally divided. Stone must absolutely adore Colin Powell, however. As flawlessly executed by Jeffrey Wright, the ex-Bush confidant is offered up as the only rationale voice in a din filled with self-satisfied fools.

One of the best things about W. is the casting. Watching dozens of high profile performers sinking their teeth into these roles satisfies on a cinematic level almost unimaginable. Whether its Oscar winner Ellen Burstyn as Barbara Bush, dressing down her cowardly son, or an almost unrecognizable Stacey Keach as smooth talking evangelist Earle Hudd, we are in wonder of the talent on display. Everyone brings their best to the project, but no one is better than Josh Brolin as the flawed Defender of the Free World. You can see the gears clicking off in W.‘s mind the minute he hears something he likes, and the No Country for Old Men star has no problem allowing that inspiration to drive him to distraction. W. is seen as someone who means well, but often finds the wrong path for achieving said aims - or lets others lead him down said boneheaded boulevard.

Brolin does something that’s more sly than a mere impersonation. He takes the elements of the Bush that we know best and finds a way to make them a truly organic part of who the man is. The out of touch reactions to simply suggestions? Something he’s been doing since his time at Yale. The angry confrontations over small, insignificant issues? A reminder of the living room clashes he had with his dad? The smooth talking slickness that resembles a car salesman shilling white slaves? His form of man of the people seduction, from the moment he met his wife to be Laura (a wonderful Elizabeth Banks) to the preparations for his Presidential campaign. Everything we’ve grown to love, hate, admire, and despise about the man is on display and defined.

Of course, this doesn’t mean everyone will enjoy this experience. Revisiting a leader who lost his way early and often, who seemingly betrayed the tenets of his party to protect the powerbase of a bunch of cronies who couldn’t care less about the smaller issues of the nation, may seem like two hours too much for some. No matter the amazing performances, the pain of reality is just too strong. Similarly, Stone doesn’t go for the knockout punch. He’s not out to debate the Bush mythos, but fill in some of the personality gaps. Clearly, the men and women behind the crown get the kind of dressing down reversed for war criminals and sleazy sycophants, but not the king himself. Stone may stray into territories of sympathy, but W. never excuses the man, just explains him…sort of.

All of which winds up as devastating cinematic strutting. W. is evocative and aggravating, as open with its ideas as it is insular about the issues that matter most. It’s the kind of ambiguous account that reflects an audience’s reaction as much as a filmmaker’s feelings. When it was announced, many familiar with Stone’s motives imagined a fiery satire, a Dr. Strangelove for the Patriot Act era. Instead, this is genealogy gone gangrenous, a look at royals in ruins similar to the predictable period pieces that come out of England every now and again. W. may not deliver the answers to the many questions the current administration stirs, but it’s so much fun following along Bush’s bell curve that we can’t help but enjoy the downward spiral. Oliver Stone has fashioned a fair and balanced distillation of how George W. Bush became President. The ‘why’ one imagines, will have to wait for another day.

by Bill Gibron

15 Oct 2008


Though fans love to toss them into the same supernatural boat, Clive Barker and his main inspiration Stephen King have very little in common. The man from Maine works in a traditional terror territory while Barker believes in the mantra “blood, beasts, and bedevilment.” King claims the rank of best selling genre author of all time. The brazen Brit’s resume is a little less successful. So it’s safe to say that in meaningful macabre circles, they are as different as Bram Stoker and Anne Rice. But they do share one thing in common. Each has had incredibly successful novels and/or short stories destroyed by hackneyed Hollywood film adaptations. However, in the case of Midnight Meat Train, Barker finally sees his ideas wholly realized in brilliant fashion.

Though he’s very good at what he does, photographer Leon Kauffman is barely making a living. His girlfriend Maya believes in him, but that doesn’t help to pay the bills. So when his pal Jurgis gets him an interview with influential gallery owner Susan Hoff, Leon thinks his ship has finally come it. But the shrewd businesswoman sees nothing that interests her - that is, until she comes across as particularly grim photo. She suggests Leon head back onto the streets and capture the real city - mean, vicious, unrepentant. During one of his night shoots, our hero comes across a brawny man in a well tailored suit. Following him around, Leon soon discovers that he may be a serial killer. Intrigued by the motive behind this butcher, he continues his surveillance. What Leon doesn’t know is that he is putting his life, and the life of everyone he knows, in mortal danger.

Midnight Meat Train can best be described as splatter noir. It’s Fritz Lang by way of an abattoir. It is part genius, part genre excess, with enough inventive gore to make even the most seasoned lover of arterial spray sit up and take notice. Thanks to the visionary work by Versus helmer Ryuhei Kitamura and the most unsettling kills this side of Eli Roth, we get a true gut wrenching experience. This is a movie that grabs you by the errant body parts and literally rips you apart. Kitamura is a big fan of over the top violence - his infamous zombie mob movie from 2000 is second only to Riki-O: Story of Ricky in individual offal spilled. But in Midnight Meat Train, he makes every death count. By keeping the camera locked on the victim as eyes fly out and faces crumble, he turns the cinematic threat intensity up to near apocalyptic levels.

It helps that he balances things out with a romantic subplot that’s deep with emotion. Actors Bradley Cooper and Leslie Bibb turn Leon and Maya into a couple you can root for. She only wants the best for him and he loves her unconditionally. Even when her beau goes bonkers and starts acting odd, she does nothing but support him. Some might question her dedication - she ends up putting herself right in harms way during a typical “what were they thinking” brand of inappropriate snooping - but even at the end, she’s determined to stand by her man. Cooper compliments this devotion nicely. His decent into obsession may seem abrupt, but a story element near the end may help explain the sudden shift.

But it is UK thug mug Vinnie Jones who steals the show as Mahogany, long pig butcher to…no, that would be spoiling things. Indeed, the famed onscreen heavy portrays someone so enigmatic, so full of secrets that part of the joy in Midnight Meat Train is uncovering all his character clues. As they fall into place, one by one, the portrait painted is unsettling indeed. In fact, the minute Jones is proven fallible, or even worse, human, we start to really hate him. Unlike other famed mass murderers, Kitamura and his writers aren’t out to make another Voorhees. Mahogany has a purpose, and you’re enjoyment of the movie in general just may turn on it.

In fact, the ending reveal is the make or break point for Midnight Meat Train. The explanation for all the deaths, the reason the cops don’t care, how one man manages to dispatch dozens of people without raising much of a stink is satisfying if slightly surreal. It does explain what Kitamura was doing with all those remarkable CG shots of subway trains careening down unearthly tracks, and it pays off in ways that are plausible. But horror fans are a notoriously persnickety bunch. Fail to fulfill your promise or try to trick them and they will laugh you out of the fright fraternity. But Midnight Meat Train does deliver. It may require a bit more of that patented suspension of dread disbelief, but thanks to the visionary behind the lens, we enjoy the deferment.

As usual, the studio behind the film unceremoniously dumped it on a few dozen “dollar theater” screens this past August - and this after touting it for months as some kind of macabre milestone. It just goes to show how marginalized and misunderstood the genre really is. Of course, the track record of the brain behind the bloodshed may have given some of the suits pause for concern. Ryuhei Kitamura is far from a household name, and Clive Barker may be a fascinating individual and celebrated writer, but as the foundation for a film, he has very limited appeal. Midnight Meat Train might have changed all that, had the fright community been given a chance to celebrate its paranormal panache. Sadly, it looks like DVD will have to save the day - which is typical for terror.

by Bill Gibron

14 Oct 2008


Some horror movies can live solely on their carefully crafted hype. Others actually deliver the goods the studio staged ballyhoo promises. And then there is Pieces. Back in 1982, distributors desperate to continue the coattail ride started with Halloween and Friday the 13th took the Spanish splatter film Mil gritos tiene la noche (“The Night Has a Thousand Cries”, roughly), renamed it, and added the intriguing tagline “You Don’t Have To Go To Texas For A Chainsaw Massacre!” With a final carnival barker punchline - “It’s exactly what you think it is.” - the results were unleashed on an unwitting world.

Thanks to VHS and the thriving home video market, the sleazoid shocker became an instant cult classic. The question remains, however, does the movie match the marketing - or is this just another case of carefully chosen words speaking a heckuva lot louder than the action on the screen. The storyline is dead simple. We are introduced to a young boy, tormented mercilessly by his blousy whore of a mother. After a particularly gruesome showdown, we flash forward forty years. On a small college campus, young girls are being viciously vivisected by an unseen killer. Using a chainsaw to carve up the bodies, the police are baffled by the murders.

Detective Lt. Bracken (a nicely cheesy Christopher George) hopes to crack the case with a two fold approach. First, he will elicit the help of student Kendall James (Pod People‘s Ian Sera) to snoop among the student body. This BMOC knows all the angles - and the ladies. Secondly, seasoned cop and star tennis pro Mary Riggs (Lynda Day) will go undercover as one of the faculty. This will allow her greater access to suspects like groundskeeper Willard (Paul L. Smith, with Lawrence Tierney’s voice) and the slightly fey Professor Brown (Jack Taylor). As the body count rises, Bracken grows desperate. Apparently, the murdered is making some kind of trophy out of the ‘pieces’ of his victims…and he’s almost done.

Pieces is the kind of fright film that sneaks up on you. It is really nothing more than your standard slasher effort with a chainsaw doing all the slice and dice (well, there are a couple of knife kills thrown in for good massacre measure). Director Juan Piquer Simón digs deep into his fellow Europeans bag of terror tricks and comes up trumps more times than not. The opening is an obvious homage to Dario Argento’s classic Profundo Rosso, down to the deadly dynamic between parent and child. Once we move to modern times, Lucio Fulci’s full bore gore conceit comes into play. While most of the killings occur off camera, their nasty results get full view visits. Even the ending is unrelenting, delivering not one, or two, but THREE false jolts.

As with much of the Mediterranean macabre geared toward Western audiences, Christopher George gives his Cheshire Cat capped grin a good workout as Bracken. While not as active here as he is in such gems as City of the Living Dead, The Exterminator, and Mortuary, he provides the necessary despotic smugness that makes these movies work. Bracken has to be self assured and clueless, otherwise, the villain’s reveal gets shortchanged. Sure, we see who the bad man is almost immediately, but the cops have to fumble a bit before pulling out their pistols. Similarly, then wife Lynda Day is nothing more than eye candy, reduced at 38 to playing pseudo-paramour for the wispy lothario Sera. 

And speaking of Kendall, it is clear that Simón sees him as the calm within the monster movie maelstrom. Instantly cast off the isle of suspicion, he gets to hit on Day, act as an inspector substitute, emote over various F/X corpses, and show off his larger than average “assets” during a laughable love scene. For fans of the unflappable Mystery Science Theater 3000, seeing the musical prick Rick running around san shorts may explain his angry male animal arrogance. But as a romantic lead, he’s rather limited. According to IMDb Sera’s career was also rather short lived. What started in 1979 was soon over five years later. Google offers up a similar overview.

Even with the cast’s uneven facets, Pieces manages to work. It’s a shame that so much talent takes a backseat to naked babes being butchered. Smith, fresh from playing Bluto in Robert Altman’s Popeye, does little except smirk and speak like a certain Joe Cabot. Crusty Dean Edmund Purdom has to get by on clipped British courtesy and a nasty five o’clock shadow. Thanks to the dubbing - everyone’s voice is redone (even if it was their own in the end), as was the standard for most import productions - Pieces takes on an amplified exploitation feel. We sense this is a movie that will do almost anything, including substitute actor accents, to get its gruesome point across. Oh, and one thing about the gore. It is plentiful, but clearly culled from an early ‘80s limit of realism.

Indeed, very little of this fright flick plays like an authentic police procedural. A premise is devised, a killer walks among his potential prey, Greed decade fashion victims disrobe with alarming regularity, and soon - it’s power tool time! The Georges chew up the scenery and all is right in the domain of dread. Grindhouse Releasing, a company started by cinema schlock lover Sage Stallone, is promising a two disc “UNCUT” DVD release of Pieces come Halloween. As they have done with other splatter masterworks (Cannibal Holocaust), they assure us fans that we will experience this otherwise mistreated movie as it was originally intended. Some will scoff no matter the digital dressing. Pieces is that kind of perverse product. But don’t be surprised when, after it’s all over, you’re more than a little unnerved. It is that kind of movie - exactly.

by Bill Gibron

13 Oct 2008


The real independent cinema, the one being championed by skylarking individuals with camcorders and a vision, has its own set of unappreciated auteurs. There’s the guiding light Godard Giuseppe Andrews, able to channel both the trailer park and toilet humor with equal imagination. Damon Packard can’t get his oversized originality out of Spielberg’s sphere of influence and the ‘70s ABC Movie of the Week, while Chris Seaver literally creams over the high concept stupidity of the proceeding Greed decade. Add in the Campbell Brothers and their meticulously crafted homages, and you’ve got quite an impressive list. However, one name needs to be added to this cinematic Mt. Rushes-more - 51 year old Warren F. Disbrow. If genius had a conservative sounding name, it would be this knotty New Jersey savant.

For many in DVD nation, Disbrow first came to geek cult fame with his remarkable Troma Double Feature Flesh Eaters from Outer Space/ Invasion for Flesh and Blood. This pair of alien invasion insanity is highly recommended to anyone looking for cinema that doesn’t cater to the normal or the nuanced. Disbrow’s broad, sweeping, erratic epics are just the tonic for a recreational existence lived in direct to video Hell. Later on, he released the demonic delight Scarlet Moon. If Disbrow was comparable to a jerryrigged genre David Lynch, this movie was Dune. The final product stands as a sensational mishmash of comedy and corpses, devil worship and dumbness. Naturally, aficionados wondered what his next cinematic step would be.

Who could have imagined it would be a combination wistful nostalgia trip and nasty slasher epic? With Haunted Hay Ride, Disbrow delivers a throwback treasure, a splatter filled festival of Fall, friendship, and vivisection. While it may not be as accomplished (or unhinged) as his other films, it does do something that few mainstream movies can claim - it shows a real passion and love of the often misbegotten genre. If anything, Disbrow is horror’s gatekeeper, a man who’s made it his career to collect and care for the many monster movie fear factors that have been tossed aside for more ‘real’ scares. Haunted Hay Ride may sound like a rejection of same, that is, until you realize that with his new serial killer character, he’s simply shifting the paradigm from the paranormal to people.

When we first meet Hate, the scarred figure in the permanently affixed fright mask (that’s right - Disbrow’s villain literally screws his metallic skull face right onto his head via a drill) is teaching his father a deadly thing or two about bad parenting. Soon, he is off to Brock Farms to torture and torment the employees and visitors to the famed title tour. Mr. Brock, an older no nonsense kind of man, can’t believe that his beloved workers are disappearing one by one. Naturally, this raises concerns about the police…and publicity. In the meantime, a pair of on again/off again lovers, along with two of their slacker buddies, take in the last hay ride of the season. Little do they know that Hate is waiting to make this the best, and bloodiest, Halloween ever.

At first glance, Haunted Hay Ride looks like an episode of the classic Scooby-Doo taken to serious, psychotic extremes. Unlike the Saturday Morning spook show from the ‘70s, Disbrow keeps the body count high and the gore plentiful. Fans of flowing bodily fluids will truly enjoy the ample arterial spray here. Some of the F/X are obviously fudged, but a few leave a lasting sense of distress. Hate also cuts a rather impressive swath. While he’s not the beefiest bad guy in the slice and dice spectrum, his unrelenting desire to kill puts him a clever “cut” above. Indeed, there hasn’t been a executioner this obsessed with slaughter since Jason faced off against Freddy.

Disbrow also does something that every fledging fright filmmaker needs to take note of. The Brock Farms location - actual working businesses in Freehold and Colt’s Neck, New Jersey -  makes a wonderful backdrop for the action. Local haunted attraction Dracula’s Domain also makes an appearance. But it’s the farm, with its lush grounds, oversized animal statues (including a few animatronic dinosaurs), and acres of wooded trails, that’s a perfect place for a horror movie. There is a real sense of authenticity, a feeling that we’ve actually walked into a family business beleaguered by a rampaging maniac. Thanks to the classic deadpan acting style of Disbrow’s dad, Warren Sr., the Brock enterprise becomes part of our recognizable world. It’s not a lonesome abandoned building or an art director’s fever dream. This helps heighten the suspense.

If Haunted Hay Ride has a flaw, it’s in its victim-ology. Of the foursome we follow throughout the 90 minute running time, none make that much of an impression. Our hero and his gal pal snipe at each other so often that we wish Hate would show up and put them out of each other’s misery, and the dunderheaded duo they chum up to (who go off on a surreal subplot involving an aborted drug deal) are practically opaque as individuals. Luckily, this is counteracted by the employees of Brock Farms. Everyone, from office staff to attraction workers come across as genial, sincere, and very, very real. When they die, we feel a twinge of unfairness. When Hate takes on the leads, we tend to lose interest.

Still, for all its minor shortcoming, Haunted Hay Ride is a great deal of retro-fun. It’s the classic case of a ‘80s Saturday Night, the “take anything” trip to the local Mom and Pop video store that produced as many gems as junk piles. With such a direct-to-video dynamic, Disbrow comes up with a near classic, a film that feels wholly original and yet simultaneously similar to everything that came before. Some will miss his old lunacy, the mixing of ideas and individual beats to create macabre that resembles nothing else in the dread lexicon. But Haunted Hay Ride is pure history, like watching a live action adaptation of Famous Monsters of Filmland. Forgive its little faults and simply enjoy someone who inherently understands the nature of the beast. Warren F. Disbrow deserves a place among other outsider auteurs. Haunted Hay Ride might just guarantee such an appointment.

by Bill Gibron

12 Oct 2008


Never pretend to be handicapped. Know what awaits you in Heaven. Use racial tolerance to get what you want. Never swear on television. Stay HIV positive. Never take a joke too far. Never give up on cheating. People will always find a way to ruin your good time. Kids with red hair and freckles have no souls. The world will end in 2012. These are just some of the revelations offered by Eric Theodore Cartman, the nine year old self-proclaimed wunderkind of South Park, Colorado. Along with opinions of Family Guy (“sucks balls”) and the Jews (let’s not go there), the rotund prophet want you to join his cult of comedy gold. And thanks to a new DVD set from Paramount, you too can become a member of his portly People’s Temple.

Yes, this is another of those studio compiled merchandising doorstops, meant to appease the appetite of those longing for more and more South Park box sets. For those unfamiliar with the main premise of the series (and you really should be by now, dammit), it centers on a group of grade schoolers growing up in a pleasant, podunk mountain town. The main kids are Stan Marsh (well meaning and slightly nerdy), Kyle Broflovski (Jewish, and frequently ridiculed for it), the aforementioned Cartman and Kenny McCormick (poor, parka-ed, and prone to dying suddenly).

Together, the guys hang out around town and fraternize with friends Butters (a gullible little goof), Tweak (tanked up on caffeine and paranoia), Timmy (unapologetically paraplegic), and Jimmy (a crippled stand up comic). Along with local residents Mrs./Mr. Garrison (the gang’s confused transgender teacher), Mr. Mackey (the guidance counselor), and their various zoned-out families, the main premise of the show finds current events and popular culture filtered through the prepubescent perspective of some smart, if slightly scatological, preteens.

While clearly aimed at appeasing fans until a Season 12 compilation comes along, The Cult of Cartman: Revelations reminds us of why Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s animated anarchy stands as a certified comedy classic. Not only does the duo understand the innate charms of over the top toilet humor, but they always manage a little satiric bite along with the scatology. Additionally, South Park is almost exclusively a character driven show - albeit one where the personalities involved are slightly twisted and unusually perverted. By focusing on Cartman, especially later day Eric’s evil shenanigans, we observe how Parker and Stone push the envelope of their invention to maximize laughs while staying well within the confines of creative license.

Disc 1 begins with what has to be one of South Park‘s most amazing episodes - “Scott Tenorman Must Die”. No other animated television series could find a way to make pubic hair, a chili cook-off, peer pressure, the band Radiohead, and cannibalism work in a flawless examination of school days hazing. The last installment on the DVD, “La Petit Tourette”, tries something similar with the noted neurological disorder and Dateline’s ‘To Catch a Predator’. In between, we discover that a certain sedate sea creature writes all of Family Guy‘s abysmal scripts (“Cartoon Wars 1 & 2”), pretending to be a robot won’t help your figure out your friends (“Awesom-O”), and dying can be as big a bitch as being completely ignored by your school chums (“The Death of Eric Cartman”).

There’s even more insights on Disc 2, whether it’s dealing with the notoriously humorless “Ginger Kids”, or discovering that a simple case of “Tonsil Trouble” can lead to a cure for AIDS (the secret? Lots and lots of money). Terrorists will always undermine your “Super Fun Time” at a pioneer recreationist village, while the demands of the public and standard business models means that even having your own amusement park (“Cartmanland”) is nothing but headaches. The other two episodes of South Park included on the second DVD feature Mrs. Garrison desperate to become a man again (“Eek, A Penis!”) while Cartman himself fakes mental retardation to “win” the Special Olympics (“Up the Down Steroid”). It is here where you find the only three episodes not previously included on other digital collections (“Tonsil”, “Eek” and “Super”).

As with any random collection of series installments, fans can question the inclusion or exclusion of certain titles, and there will always be arguments over the necessity for such stopgap sets in the first place. Fox received lots of grief for putting The Simpsons out in such a scattered strategy, but since Paramount regularly releases South Park in full season packages (and relatively quickly after they’ve aired on Comedy Central),  some character specific indulgence can be forgiven. After all, without this specialized one-off ideal, we wouldn’t have gotten the amazing full length feature film version of “Imaginationland” a few months back.

As for the sole bonus feature, the tiny life lessons from Cartman himself (part of new introductory animation) are funny, if rather short. Some last no longer than a few seconds. No one is suggesting that Park provide more. After all, Parker and Stone seem content to allow each season set to arrive sans anything remotely resembling real digital extras. Instead, they offer up their own “commentary-mini” (three to five minutes max) and seem satisfied. So having these risqué one liners and profane prophecies setting up each episode is ample added content - especially when you consider the cool packaging and inclusion of a membership card/sticker recognizing your status in the Eric Theodore Cartman Society.

Together, the entire presentation explains how South Park maintains its coveted commercial and critical status. It argues for the value in all aspects of humor - from the outrageous to the subtle, the offensive spoof and the current culture of irony. While the 12 episodes provided might not be the best in the show’s history (that’s up to true Park geeks and messageboard surfers to decide), they remind us of how easy Trey Parker and Matt Stone make it look. In the past, the boys have explained how some ideas take years to foster, while others arrive during the standard production week pressures. In combination with the current political clime, and whatever spills over the TMZ tabloid transom, the duo has fostered one of the finest farces ever conceived. The Cult of Cartman: Revelations may have specious motives, but as a collection of South Park, it’s well worth the re/pre-visit. 

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