Suggested Audio Candy
Hirax “Bombs of Death”
It all caught me off guard. I ordinarily pride myself on my tireless preparation when appraising any piece of another person’s art. Firstly I set my expectations according to my gut as a cavalier approach is not sufficient when left in the safekeeping of another’s blood, sweat, and tears. I appraise any work on its merits, not on the back of a hissy fit because unrealistically set targets have not been met. The truth is, I don’t read reviews. Whilst having appreciation for anyone who favors this as their vocation, it’s a bigoted political mind-field where ultimately your view will become skewed by the boundaries you are restrained within and the sole reason I chose the term appraisal when I started out.
When I appraise there are no more manacles encumbering me and setting no limit affords me unbounded room for maneuver. So when a piece of gilt-edged veal such as The Orphan Killer drops into my lap, covered in grunge, my mind becomes a perpetual playground. Once work like this lodges itself in the old hippocampus, the grey matter dances wildly around its perimeter like Britt Eckland, weaving macabre impressions around my frontal lobe. It intoxicates me; desire builds immediately and it milks my prostrate in the process.
That’s what Keeper is bringing to the table; my entire inner-fiber aches for that moment again, one more time. The first time I teased The Texas Chainsaw Massacre into my VHS toploader and sat alongside my dear father to drink it the hell in. The first ever video rental, Xtro was the suitor. As a fully grown Philip Sayer was birthed before me, I too was in mid-transmutation and, as I wiped clean the fragments of placenta and gestation fluids from my new soiled crust, I made an oath.
I wish to unite an army. That’s right you heard me correctly. I’m a natural reflector, and I do so in action. As I scribe an appraisal no overall score is taking five at the closing stages of the critique. I remain open-minded through the process as there’s no rhyme or reason, no precincts to my prose. It gushes forth, the Crimson Quill not congealing for a solitary second.
So by now you are matching the pointers together, Matt Farnsworth’s The Orphan Killer hit me with the vigor of a splitting maul, then again and again until my lungs were soundly compromised. Frantically clamoring for precious oxygen, I felt Miller’s imprint pressing on my jaw line, repositioning as it prepared to compact my phizog. If you read my recent writings on Marcus Miller then you will be aware that I have waited a long fucking time to feel that intoxication. Thus Keeper has decided to give full access to his most intimate of individual experiences; lay it out like a sacrificial virgin for all you fine people.
Saturday 1st June 2013. 6.55pm
I’m sitting aside my desktop at a rare loss for words. It has been 72 hours from the time of my third viewing of The Orphan Killer, since I wrapped up my appraisal that tally has over doubled. That’s inconsequential right now as my dreams have been breached. I barely recall any phantasms from the past twelve months but these have been decidedly lucid. Pungent like a putrid rodent carcass doused in napalm, my nostrils flare and, with that, I recall my nightmare with frightening clarity.
Marcus has been there and I recall his ominous stance. Those low groans and his polluted pant on the cuff of my neck are two things I shall never forget for as long as I live. This is my sanctuary so how did he locate me here? I confess to feeling roused by the prospect of again shoveling down dairy before my eyes close next in an attempt to pick up where we left off. I’ve deliberated my evening meticulously. Write a piece, focus on an upcoming Interview with Farnsworth, Foster, and the elusive Marcus Miller himself and put in a shift. However, all doesn’t appear to be going to plan.
I’ll admit to rare procrastination over the looming mental dissection. This poses an elite opportunity for the Crimson Quill to burrow to the blackened heart of The Orphan Killer and I’m not content to shoot my bilge without said hesitation. This interaction needs to be intimate and requests a different vantage point to what is customary. Here are three core components to a piece of film which has had the audacity to catch me off-guard and that is no easy feat for a battle hardened horror aficionado who has nigh on thirty years experience in the field.
It will not be hurried as a piece like this needs to be teased out organically. Keeper will not be in awe; I must stand in front of these fine people and exemplify my understanding of the core structure of The Orphan Killer. This will be undemanding as Marcus has plunged his smutty machete blade deep into my courteously accepting abdomen and been twisting it like Chubby Checker ever since. I mention components; the perspective my interactions will be taking have become vivid to me at this juncture.
You see, I haven’t allowed for Audrey or Mike. The more you get down and dirty with any classic nugget of celluloid, the wider it unwraps for you. It needs to resonate intimately and through the tireless conviction and meritorious work ethic of Matt Farnsworth and Diane Foster, as well as humbling hospitality, The Orphan Killer shows its profane pollen.
This is a first, not in living memory has there been such an inclusive concoction of capacity before us Grueheads. Fuck reality TV, these grafting flagbearers have sussed the true key to triumph. The Download Generation that I speak of at regular intervals now has a cruel commander to abide by. An adept and constantly adapting cluster of raw intent, armed with an open playing field and the willingness to evolve organically which is damned admirable if you ask me. I speak from familiarity as it’s how I roll also.
The way that The Orphan Killer’s Trojan has gathered momentum underscores a new yardstick for others to strive to reach for. This isn’t a mere cash cow, it’s their legacy, in the same manner as my workings are to my three-year old boy and every single last one of the Grueheads. Money isn’t the drive, if it was then these cruel advocates would not show this kind of commitment to Marcus and Audrey’s cause. They’d already have discharged some callous sequel. No, it is more cerebral than that. I have clarification on that claim as my dark soul tells me so and I always take heed of its suggestions.
Sunday 2nd June 2013. 9.15am
Many hours have passed now, The Orphan Killer has played four times already tonight and I am emotionally upright at the prospect of what I have planned for my unique projected insight, but I’m feeling fatigued. Fourteen straight and I’m starting to leap at shadows. The only thing keeping me topside now is the ripened 1080p transfer which has kept my flickering eyes half-open. Caffeine can’t cut it at this moment in time, if I don’t boot down soon I will be nonoperational for a substantial length as my penance. Besides, I can feel that harsh breath on my neck once more.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
First Knight of TOK
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013