The motivation behind my resolution to scribe was with one clear purpose. Not to feel self-important and pass judgement like some sort of deranged demigod, but to signpost. I stand before you a meek servant of grue; my estimations should act as a guideline to all you fine individuals. I come armed to the back teeth with a lifetime of Horror familiarity, that’s my exclusive vocation. Since my former overture at a tender age, Horror has been my dark soul’s provider and provide it has. Over the past thirty years, very few Horror films worth their salt have escaped my consideration. Indeed, a hefty hunk of my childhood was spent shoe-horning in as many rentals as sanctioned by my kitty.
From big hitters such as The Thing, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Dawn of the Dead to lesser-known fancies such as Madman, Stagefright and my personal darling Xtro, they all received my full-blown concentration. Nowadays, horror is back under the search lights and fresh fodder is fed to us from all directions. I am as culpable as anyone else for permitting great movies to pass me by but this season I plan to compile a shortlist of twelve particularly fine examples of post-millennia plutonium which any self-respecting gruehead should investigate with the greatest of haste.
Delight #1 is The Orphan Killer and no great revelation here. Matt Farnsworth has managed a feat which few can aspire to with the conception of an entirely fresh sub-genre. The Social Media Slasher is, as stated previously and fervently by yours truly, the most instrumental player for thirty years. The Download Generation required an emblematic eradicator, but more so an interactive horror experience to truly hang their hat upon. No director since the likes of the Carpenters, Cronenbergs and Romeros of horror’s heyday has concocted such an intimate piece of scientific fine art. The Orphan Killer negotiates tintinnabulation more than any other for three distinct reasons.
Through the unwavering ardor and belief in his brand, Farnsworth has created a community figure and anti-hero in Marcus Miller every bit as relevant as Myers was in 1978, more so even. There may only have been a solitary entry thus far but fans have been given more insight into the psyche of Marcus than has ever before been presented, and this has been due not only to pitch-perfect marketing but something far more confidential.
In a conversation recently with Matt, he revealed that he had himself viewed The Orphan Killer something in the region of two thousand occasions. That statistic speaks for itself and anybody skeptical of this man-mountain’s fidelity to the cause should now be nibbling their trilby. That is where the splendor of his creation lays; he is putting his soul out there for us to feed on like prairie dogs. We get to nourish ourselves on life-force from his boundless vaults and the meals just keep on coming. Fuck the Kardashians; both he and similarly Diane Foster (who I shall get to in due course) document their gusto towards Miller’s cause on a prevalent basis. Not a dawn passes without fresh content being presented reverentially to a militia of TOK-heads (myself inclusive) who have been ill-served and thwarted for what feels like infinity.
Matt has something to articulate, beneath the course exterior lays social commentary which bears superlative significance in our contemporary culture of slipping standards and lackadaisical parenting. Being a parent himself, he comprehends the obligation of nurture and a role-model to aspire to. Marcus Miller never enjoyed that luxury and in a respect is his doppelganger. If you peel away that mask it will be Matt Farnsworth standing before you portentously.
That’s not to say David Backus doesn’t own Marcus Miller when squatting within his crust, his turn as TOK is without proviso one of the most all-encompassing, certainly in recent remembrance. He carries himself with such assurance, indisputable vim and vigor that each bout of blows with his machete, ax or boot print reverberates that smidgen more personally. But he leases it from its true vendor, Farnsworth’s passionate direction and unvarying social interface are what breathe the dirtied air into his blackened lungs.
Unlike bent politicians with their fucking splintered oaths and vacant assurances, Matt does unerringly what his own nations of followers are assured. He leads from the front, chest out, chin upright and eyes making unflickering contact. He has nothing to hide, that bloody cavity hangs from his sleeve, dripping ample scrumptious grue to drown every one of those one-dimensional celebrities explicitly robbing the masses blind.
Baby Sister, Diane Foster, is fundamental to the savage brunt of this emblematic Dark Jesus, firstly for providing us with a scream queen in Audrey to rival the greats. Her tremendous exotic exquisiteness is tempered with a darkness and unknown quantity which keeps you guessing and rooting for her every single bloody stride of the way. She packs the self-same clout as Marcus Miller in cruelly captivating the addressees.
Her performance bleeds sexuality, it drips off her like a dozen post prom Carries and in providing such raw lasciviousness she reaches into every red-blooded man’s nut hammock and jerks us off until we ejaculate crimson. Her grasp is decorated with barbed wire bracelets, evoking a titillating mesh of dark gratification and smarting pain. Every last droplet of Marcus’ rouge pumps with synchronicity through her own ventricles; she stands before him with her own glorious chest out and holding his obtrusive gawk. The bloodline was already tainted long before the siblings sinister seedlings were embedded, their gifts already lavished.
Audrey drives a continuous sharp edge into Marcus’ kidneys, and then winds it like an antique watch. And in every frame Diane Foster is enabling carnal delights the likes of which needle our innermost sexual urges like a succubus. Every grue-sodden step of the expedition, Baby Sister has enslaved us with her own resolute faith in what she peddles.
She devours the screen like a famished bird of prey, delivering to the nest giblets of forbidden desire for our sub-conscious to nosh upon. Mealtime consists of a three course buffet comprising succulent sirloins of salaciousness, liberally seasoned with luscious sanguine juices and a quimful of sensual sauce, enriching the aroma further still.
And she tucks us in snugly with tantalizing optical bedtime stories, an amorous embrace with those sugar-coated lips and a sparkle of flirtatious allure in her every self-assured glance protecting us from night terrors whilst providing us with our own cruel fantasies.
Marcus Miller completes the trinity, flaunting such primitive rage with his uneven breaths of pure iniquity before fluently revealing his intent with intelligible lucidity. Rather than lessening his overture it simply adds credence to his claim of being the true boogeyman.
You see; no negotiator could ever talk him down. His verbalization reinforces our ominous belief that he is unclouded malignancy incarnate. Wrathful, barbarous and fiercely concentrated; Miller is not here to make up the numbers. When dishing out his penalty he suffers no pangs of conscience, no second thinking and exhibits no capacity for rehabilitation. You’re quite simply fucked, in the balloon knot, dry and with a serrated phallus.
To anyone willing to invest their faith, the rewards are further-reaching than any other. By greeting and meating his captive audience through a portfolio of atrocious snapshots, he engraves his blood-spattered moniker across our sub-conscious. And by vocalizing his desire to feed from our vital organs he leaves an interminable stain on our souls. Make this priority if you crave carnal rapture, then Matt, Diane and the estranged afterbirth that is Marcus Miller will greet you with open bloody arms. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of The Crimson Quill
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