Ah, Rob Zombie. A man with whom I have somewhat of a love/hate relationship. His music is either really good, or it’s really bad, and the same can be said about his movies.
House of 1000 Corpses is a modern-day classic, and The Devil’s Rejects, for me, is his personal masterpiece.
However, the less said about Halloween 1 & 2, the better. Unfortunately, I feel 31 must be thrown into the latter category.
So, if you’re sitting comfortably, allow me to begin.
31 opens with a fantastic single-shot dialog with our somewhat lead antagonist Doom-Head (fantastically portrayed by the talented and criminally underrated Richard Brake) which gives the film a warming sense of promise from the get-go. We are then introduced to our heroes who seem like a rag-tag bunch of misfit carnies on the road (and again, this film is set in the ‘70s, which seems to be a running theme for mister Zombie) when they are set upon by goons! You heard me! Goons!
They are then awakened in an old factory where Malcom MacDowell, apparently in drastic need of a new boiler and/or kitchen faucets, tells our five survivors that they will be pitted into gladiator-styled combat against his henchmen in a 12-hour game that he likes to call “31” (we’re left to assume it’s named this because it lands on Halloween, another running theme of Zombie’s).
I really wanted to like this film going in, as I am somewhat of an admirer of Zombie’s nitty- gritty style of cinema which pays a fantastic homage to ‘80s horror and grindhouse productions, and the premise seemed like somewhat of a promising one. Oh, how I was wrong.
The story itself was one of those ‘you know what you’re getting yourself into on the way in’ scenarios, so for me, that wasn’t an issue, but, Rob Zombie, if you’re reading this, I cannot say this enough and I’m sure many will agree, so here goes:
Stop casting your wife! She is terrible! Stop it! I mean, seriously, stop it right now! She cannot act, okay? Be a professional! That’s like hiring a plumber who can’t plumb! Okay? Good! Well done!
Seriously, for me, Sheri Moon-Zombie was the worst thing about this movie and she dragged the rest of it down with her. If there is one thing more annoying than a 47-year- old woman (or man, for the snowflakes reading this) trying to act like a sexy 18-year- old, it’s one that tries to act like an 80’s tough guy and really, really not pulling it off. Fuck me brutal, the cheese-o- meter exploded in my hand, and for once, that’s not a name for my penis.
There were astounding performances in this film from Richard Brake, Pancho Moler, Meg Foster, Kevin Jackson and Lawrence Hilton-Jacobs, and then she comes along and ruins it! Seriously, it was almost as though a group of great artists came and painted a mural that’s as glorious and it is beautiful, and then Sheri Moon-Zombie comes along with a handful of shit that’s been encrusted with oats and wet cabbage, splatted it right in the middle and then skipped away like a twat singing “My husband said I’m allowed! La-la- la-la- laaaa…” into the sunset.
I know this seems like a personal attack on Sheri Moon-Zombie, and that’s probably because there's an element of that to it. If the man had actually hired an actress for the lead role of Charly, then this movie would’ve sky-rocketed my enthusiasm, but because, instead, his wife screamed at him “I’m still sexy and matter, you have to make a movie for me that proves that or no more nookie”, we got left with this steaming pile of promising, though ultimately shite, pile of wank sausages.
Aaron's Spoiler-Free Rating: So, Mr. Zombie, in future, go pro or go home. – 4/10
Aaron James Waters is a best-selling Pulp Fiction writer who has written more books than he's actually read.
He's also the rotten apple of the group who thinks this whole Star Wars thing needs to hurry up and die already.
You can find Aaron's debut novel on Amazon!
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