This Goliath was always going to be top of the tree, not because of professional bias as the Keeper of the Crimson Quill doesn’t roll like that, but because of the uprising he has provoked. The horror industry needed a shake-up; let’s lay the cards on the table. Granted, there has been an assortment of distinction from various filmmakers since the turn of the millennia; but none have had the brutal bloody impact that Brother Matt has.
My first indicator of this man-mountain’s supremacy comes in the form of The Orphan Killer or TOK as I regularly refer to it. Although there has been an influx of eminence, notably not much of this has come from the source of good old slasher. I was weaned on this marvelous sub-genre from an early age and it furnished my young mind with all the blood compulsory to fire up my dark engine. No oil, no water, no gas, just grue; that was the requisite and slasher provided that in abundance.
The amount of noteworthy slasher flicks over the past two decades can be counted on one hand, with fingers to spare. It had grown stagnant, discarded by many of its legion of supporters and left to fester like a soiled tampon in a public restroom. It simply hadn’t received the service; filmmakers were still churning out the same derivative garbage and not pushing the envelope in any way, shape or form. Then we were awarded something truly idiosyncratic; a slasher picture which totally revitalized the stale genre and shepherded it into an electrifying new age.
Anyone who has read my recent article Marcus Miller: A Horror Icon for the Download Generation will already be aware of the avant-garde approach by Matt Farnsworth which enabled him to shake the bloody fizz, and when he popped off the lid it ruptured like a piñata in a guillotine. Social media was always something I scorned, and appeared to be good for one thing… zilch! All it managed was to cause monkey business with folks’ intimate shit, and I detested what it stood for. My estimation now has malformed into believing it to be an inestimable asset as it enables a community of like-minded Grueheads to congregate and share their fervor for horror.
My swift swivel was down to one dude; a guy that looks like a rock star, but in truth is someone far more conscientious as many role-models in the music industry. His previous works had already put him plainly on radars, but when he concocted Marcus Miller he gave us a barbed-wire bound emblem of true Slasher righteousness. To put it with lucidity…he was, and is, the harbinger of a new wave.
No more did the eradicator lurch around muted like Marlee Matlin, he had a right to be heard and he took that right! His vocalization of intent makes him a far more compelling intimidator; the words he articulated had significance. Now imagine if you will, if Jason Voorhees could voice his bemusement. As a young scamp (with Rocky Dennis-like outer shell) he perished. It’s not like you receive tuition in the woodlands, unless of course you’re Mowgli or Greystoke. If he had the extravagance of a voice-box then I’d imagine ‘duh-huh’ to come out of his decayed chops. Basically, he’s a masked Mongo. On the flip side, look at Fred Krueger. He had a say and he utilized it far too often. By Dream Master he was running at the mouth like a pimpled ten-year old on a Turtle Beach headset. His flapping lips stripped him of any of his former menace, and the clown shoes and squirty flower came out. Why?!!!
Marcus Miller on the other hand has equilibrium, Brother Matt finds that middle-ground and the fact that he does so effortlessly denotes his standing as the new Carpenter or Cronenberg, make no mistake! It is a matter of time before the penny drops for some, but I pride myself on my aptitude of human insight and trust the Keeper of the Crimson Quill, he is of outstanding ability. What’s talent if you’re a deplorable cunt? Nothing, and there are far too many out there raping the machine which crafted them. Not Matt Farnsworth, he’s fucking the machine hard with four digits, whilst using the other hand to extend warmth through his craft. Visionary, visionary, visionary…I could spout it all day man; he is the new master of independent horror, in a quagmire of sludge his is the bay of blood which flows adjacent with the Rivers of Grue.
Those with natural flair feed from each others’ pools of energy and in our case Bloody Grue, you spark off each other like plugs, revving that engine until it purrs like a well-shafted pussy. I feel that with Brother Matt, and evidently the Salacious True Scream Queen Diane Foster. The vigor is intoxicating, think of a tightly rolled joint and then add a back-rub and ball-lick. It’s pure psychosis of the paramount kind. Take a stroll to the official TOK website and witness for yourself; it’s a benign utopia, filled with comforting humidity and a superfluity of dark essence. If you’re timely you may catch a glimpse of a naked Baby Sister with gore-sopping angel wings, passing from tree to tree like an untainted unicorn. Savage bloody rapture, in its purest form.
During another of my recent posts, Primary Preamble into the Mind of Matt Farnsworth, I touched on other accomplishments such as his tireless work in the issue of addressing Meth addiction in Midwest America. Matt and Diane researched the shit out of how it really manifests itself. His deeds far outstretch TOK, but it is here that he has found his ultimate legacy. It’s afoot now; begin sounding the horns as we no longer wait for the arrival of our horror deity. In the most ceremonial of manners, with outstretched arms and abs pointing forward with intent, Brother Matt is among us, and the energy that generates is electric.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill