Showing posts with label
The Annual Christmas Craptacular Marathon.
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Showing posts with label
The Annual Christmas Craptacular Marathon.
Show all posts
Ya know, most guilty pleasures aren’t really guilty pleasures at all because there is no guilt involved unless some other assholes are judging you and your life choices when it comes to the consumption of popular media. And while some may scoff at the knee-deep cheese of Frankie and Annette, the all out buffoonery of Harvey Lembeck's Eric Von Zipper, rear-screen projected surfing, or the thunderous chords of Dick Dale, I unabashedly wallow in all of it and readily stand in line for another heaping helping whenever I finish one of American International’s Beach Party movies,
Thus and so, I decided to get some sand in my crack for this year’s 13th Annual All-Night Christmas Craptacular Movie Marathon, where me and the cat once more loaded up on snacks, drinks, and spent the one night a year my newspaper doesn’t print on the beach with my favorite beachniks to once more combat my Seasonal Affective Disorder Blues and keep the ghosts of Christmases Past, Present and Future at bay for yet another year.
As the legend goes, the origins of AIP’s string of Beach Party movies began when prolific TV director, William Asher -- I Love Lucy, Bewitched, took a meeting with James Nicholson and Sam Arkoff, where they offered him a chance to direct a script by AIP regular, Lou Russoff, that was basically a rehash of their exploitative teen-angst product, like High School Hellcats (1958) and The Cool and the Crazy (1958), which the company had been churning out since the mid-1950s.
Well, turns out Asher wasn't really interested in another take on the horrors of drugs, failed parenting, and the widening generation gap, but took the opportunity to make a pitch of his own. His was a novel idea for the time: a movie where the kids weren't in any trouble at all -- except for the eternal pursuit of a good time, usually with the opposite sex. And being a surfer himself, Asher wanted to base the film around the gung-ho surf-culture of southern California, focusing on what happens to 10,000 kids with 5000 beach blankets when the sun went down, the moon came out, and the water got too cold to surf.
Not completely sold on the idea, fearing the films would have no appeal further inland, Jim and Sam took a gamble and rolled the dice. And when Beach Party (1963) hit big and started raking it in at the box-office, Asher was soon expecting a call from the AIP brass to cash in with a sequel.
That call came soon enough, but Asher quickly scuttled the idea of letting the characters mature to the next step of adulthood, thinking the sequel should be nothing more than a literal continuation from the last one, resulting in one of the longest summers in motion picture history that lasted for over three years and seven sequels and spin-offs. And while I had planned to watch all of them, due to last second change of Christmas Day plans, where a family dinner suddenly became a family brunch, I narrowed down the selections and stayed on the beach. Thus, no Pajama Party (1964), Ski Party (1965), Sergeant Deadhead (1965), Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine (1965), Fireball 500 (1966) or Thunder Alley (1967).
After Beach Party set the standard template for everything that followed -- Frankie (Avalon) and Dee Dee (Funicello) break up, reconcile, break up again, and then reconcile again, musical numbers, musical guests ranging from Dick Dale, Donna Loren, and Little Stevie Wonder, Von Zipper gets the finger, and they’d always end in a brawl; lather, rinse, repeat. BUT! There was at least some effort to change the scenery a bit for each sequel.
Muscle Beach Party (1964) added a cadre of Charles Atlas clones. Bikini Beach (1964) moved the action away from the beach and to the dragstrip. Skydiving was the thing in Beach Blanket Bingo (1965), while off-road motorbiking was the bee's knees in How to Stuff a Wild Bikini (1965).
And then the whole gang, sans Frankie and Dee Dee, get transported to a haunted mansion for The Ghost in the Invisible Bikini (1966). And while that is where the marathon technically stopped it didn’t officially end until the following day when I caught up with Back to the Beach (1987); an unofficial sequel due to lingering copyright issues, but they weren’t fooling anyone with this spoof of the whole genre.
I honestly have no doubt I will probably mop up the film’s I skipped in this series before the New Year rolls around. In fact, I’m not sure if I’ve ever watched Sergeant Deadhead before, and Ski Party is a fairly hilarious riff on Some Like it Hot (1959). But that’s another tale for another day. And with that, I wish you all a Happy Holiday or, Bah! Humbug, where applicable. And we’ll see all ya’ll next year for the 14th Annual All-Night Christmas Craptacular Movie Marathon. Until then, Boils and Ghouls, stay cool! And now, to bed! Perchance to dream of all those beautiful AIP beach bunnies and a Donna Loren serenade...
With the Holiday Season once more upon us, Boils and Ghouls, I must ask of you to once more rally to my war-cry as we barrel into the breach to do battle anew with a noxious spell of Seasonal Affective Disorder Blues with yet another all-night movie marathon to keep the ghosts of Christmases past, present and future at bay for yet another year.
Now, my dearest B-Movie Brethren, there was a bit of change in the usual menu this year as I skipped the traditional turkey sub sammich and went with a pizza instead, which netted me a free brick of puppy-chow. (Thus, by the middle of this bonkers binge, I was so buzzing on the sweet crunch of yum and covered in powdered sugar I looked like I had invited you all to say hello to my little friend but passed out face-first in the mountain of blow instead.)
Anyhoo, after flailing consideration, this year’s theme kinda came out of nowhere but I quickly latched onto it as it rocketed by and then slapped and dashed a tentative lineup of films together; half of which -- turns out, I had never seen before, while the rest had nearly seen two decades since last viewed on VHS tapes. And so, I decided to spend the Eve of Christmas Eve in the wild and frenzied animated world of one Ralph Bakshi.
I don't know, it just felt oddly appropriate this terrible and awful year.
Editor's Note: I should probably pause and also point out this marathon was officially delayed by about two hours due to the timely arrival of Arrow Video's new Bluray screener for Dario Argento's Cat O' Nine Tails (1971), which I watched and anxiously poked around all the extras
before jumping feet first into the Bakshi rabbit-hole. So expect a write-up on that some time after the first of the year, and also expect this delay to have a detrimental effect on the tail-end of this proposed line-up -- he typed ominously. Now back to the 12th Annual All-Night Christmas Craptacular Movie Marathon already in progress...
To kick things off, I hadn’t seen this take on The Fellowship of the Ring embarking on a journey to destroy the One Ring to end Sauron's reign over Middle-earth since well before Peter Jackson's version. And while I still kinda dig Bakshi’s interpretation of The Lord of the Rings (1978) on a visual basis (-- I actually love the rotoscoping process used here), the film is horribly hamstrung by abruptly ending in the middle of the tale due to time and budget woes (-- it inexplicably ends right after the Battle of Helm's Deep). Bakshi claimed this was always intended to be just part one for a sequel that never materialized; and how he wanted “real illustration” as opposed to “cartoons” for his take on Tolkien’s epic. And on that I think he succeeded -- except for a terrible, fuss-budget take on Samwise Gamgee. Thus, while I think the film was ambitious and interesting as an animated endeavor it’s still kinda flawed and ultimately a failure as an adaptation.
Next, I thought I had seen Fritz the Cat (1972) before but turns out I'd only seen the sequel, The Nine Lives of Fritz the Cat (1974), which Bakshi had nothing to do with. And for the first fifteen minutes, this film was exactly what I thought it would be: an X-rated anthropomorphic furry take on sex and drugs. But then the film takes a startling left turn into a scathing social commentary and vicious satire on the failures of counter-culture ideals and the fizzling hippie movement. Apparently, noted comic artist Robert Crumb, who created the character as a wise-ass hipster, hated the film adaptation. I found it offensive, too, but in all the right ways as it takes everything from drugs, to free-love, to Black is Beautiful, and Kerouac to the woodshed with a “I expected better from the lot of you” switch. Color me pleasantly surprised on this one.
And then, well … OK. I see what Bakshi and William Fraker were trying to do with Coonskin (1975) but, great googily-moogily. I mean: there's a moral grey area this film definitely plumbs the depths of, where it skirts around the notion of fighting stereotypes with even worse stereotypes as it stares into the abyss in this phantasmagorical mash-up of live-action and animated retelling of Uncle Remus' Br'er Rabbit as interpreted by Larry Cohen, Tex Avery and Bob Clampett, but it has definitely gone off the good-intentions rails long before the climax as three slick, hick hucksters and hustlers take back Harlem from the Mafia and a corrupt police department. Visually, it is stunning. Everywhere else, it's kind of reprehensible. Such is art.
Moving on ... Grounded by an assist from Frank Frazetta and a couple of old comic pros on the script, Gerry Conway and Roy Thomas (-- who wrote nearly every issue of Conan the Barbarian for Marvel), Bakshi seems to have really found the temperature with Fire and Ice (1983); a wonderful sword and sorcery and butt-floss tale of good vs. evil. Thus, essentially an old ‘78 van mural come to life, we have a young hero taking up the fight against a dastardly warlock to rescue a kidnapped princess with the aid of a reasonable facsimile of Frazetta’s Death Dealer. And together, they fight to stop the bad guys once and for all. Excellent world building, character designs, and some nifty interpretations and artistic representations of spell-casting and homicidal mesmerism had me hooked when I first viewed this nearly three decades ago and it hasn’t really lost anything in the interim.
As for American Pop (1981), I loved this movie. Loved it. And if Bakshi has a masterpiece, this is it. A sprawling, generational tale of music and family as each generation almost makes it in the music scene of their era only to fall to some tragedy or the fickle hand of fate, only to regroup and try again with each new generation, always gaining more momentum, visually and sonically, until finally making it in the arena rock age. A fascinating family history lesson on the surface, all the while showcasing the evolution of music of the 20th century: ragtime, jazz, big band swing, rock 'n' roll, beat, punk, prog-rock and all points in between. And on such a high I was after this first time viewing of American Pop, I nearly called it a night since it was needling toward 5 in the am.
But the film also kinda gave me a second wind; and so, I decided to keep on going with another Bakshi film I had never seen, Heavy Traffic (1973). Now. A lot of Bakshi's films have there "And then the drugs kicked in" moments. This one is basically a feature length version of that notion. However, I fear I kinda faded in and out of this one as that second wind quickly fizzled; thus and so, I should probably take another run at it before passing final judgement. As of right now, grotesque caricatures of terrible people doing grotesque and terrible things to each other trapped inside a pinball machine-induced metaphor of the big naked city -- stress on the naked. And like always when dealing with Bakshi, artistically it is something to behold, while everything else is a bit of an overwhelming slog. So as of right now, not really sold on Heavy Traffic, but am willing to give it a second chance. Some day.
And there ya go. Originally, I had hoped to squeeze in a viewing of Wizards (1977), too, but that would've meant starting it at 7am and I would've never, ever made it through without falling asleep. (I’d say blame the arrival of Cat O' Nine Tails but I have no regrets on the decision on the delay to watch that one first.) And since I had really fond memories of Wizards, I decided to officially pull the plug on the 12th Annual All-Night Christmas Craptacular Movie Marathon and give that one a spin at some later and more coherent date.
And
with that, I wish you all a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Kwanza, Festivus, Life Day, and a
Joyous New Year, one and all! Or, Bah! Humbug, where applicable. And see
all ya’ll next year for the 13th Annual All-Night Christmas Craptacular
Movie Marathon. Until then, Boils and Ghouls, stay cool! And now, to bed! Right after I shower off all that powdered sugar...
As I noted last year, the problem with traditions is that they just won’t die no matter how many times you try to burn them to the ground and salt the ashes and debris with acid and lime. Thus and so, it was time for some loin-girding as another Annual All-Night Christmas Craptacular Movie Marathon was suddenly upon me, where I celebrate the one night a year the paper I work for doesn’t print, arm up with a turkey sub sammich, a pecan pie, and several bottles of root beer, and tackle a theme specific run of films to help chase away the Ghost of Seasonal Affective Disorder Blues Past, Present and Future.
Now, there was a slight hitch this year in that Christmas fell on Sunday, meaning it was decreed by Caesar that we would have to work Christmas Eve and get a weekend paper out for … reasons. However, we closed out early, HOORAY!, and I finally narrowed down the selection to either an evening facing galactic threats on Gamma-1 or fighting rampaging mechano-robots with the gang of knuckleheads at Special Vehicle Section 2, Division 2. Either way, I win. But I really didn’t decide until I after I put the paper to bed and headed home Saturday night, earlier than even I had anticipated -- a Christmas miracle, to be sure. And figuring three films in the Patlabor universe wasn’t going to cut it, I decided to board a rocket to Antonio Margheritiville and spend the night with some completely bonkers Italian sci-fi space yarns.
A reader of science fiction and comic books since he was a kid, Antonio Margheriti abandoned a collegiate career in engineering in 1956 and embraced his passion for cinema and turned it into a career in the movies. Using his background in building things he soon became a goto guy for miniatures, demolitions, and model-work and other assorted F/X as he also dabbled in screenwriting, which eventually led to his first directing gig, Assignment Outer Space (1960), which he co-scripted with Ennio De Concini, and concerned the efforts to stop a damaged, runaway spaceship (essentially a large nuclear bomb) from colliding with Earth and triggering an extinction level event. Margheriti followed that up with Battle in Outer Space (1961), which is kind of a snoozer, and a crapload of disposable peplum and a few horror films with Barbara Steele, including Castle of Blood (1963) and The Long Hair of Death (1964). All entertaining enough, but extremely derivative from what came before.
That is, his films were derivative, until 1965, when Margheriti put his own personal stamp on a group of films that have come to be known as The Gamma-1 Quadrilogy: The Wild Wild Planet (1965), War of the Planets (1965), War Between the Planets (1965), and The Snow Devils (1965). It always amazed my brain that Margheriti managed to churn out all four fairly ambitious films in less than a calendar year. And upon further digging, I was completely baffled and stupefied to find out the man co-produced, directed, co-wrote, and did the FX for all four films simultaneously, completing the whole sheebang in less than three months; three. Months! This is kinda confirmed as one explores the promotional materials for these films, with photos and scenes from one film showing up in stills and lobby cards for others. Or how the art for some of the foreign posters for one would wind up as the domestic art on the poster for the sequel. It is all very confusing.
Okay, back to the films. Seems after earning himself a reputation for working wonders with a very small budget, MGM came calling looking for some cheap SF product to sell off to television. And so, these films were financed by Hollywood and shot with an eye for American distribution, meaning don’t be confused by those Anthony Dawson credits; that’s just Margheriti’s American code-name. And his end results were pretty amazing and highly entertaining and, dare I say, a little ahead of its time, beating the likes of Star Trek to a few progressive punches. And the films proved so ambitious and better than expected, MGM switched gears and gave all four a theatrical release, starting with the Wild Wild Planet:
In the far-flung future, the United Democracies have conquered space, with outposts on nearly every habitable moon in the solar system, and several rockets and orbiting space stations patrolling around or monitoring the Earth for any signs of trouble. Aboard one of those chrome-donuts with the wobbly trajectory, better known as Gamma-1, Commander Mike Halstead (Tony Russell) has been putting up with some obnoxious corporate muckety-muck by the name of Nurmi (Massimo Serato), head honcho of Chem-Biomed, who specialize in the synthesizing and mass production of replacement parts for the human body -- organs, limbs, you name it, they can grow you a new one. But it soon becomes apparent that Nurmi has another, far more sinister agenda that is already in play that somehow involves Lt. Connie Gomez (Lisa Gastoni), the station’s karate expert, chief communications officer, and Halstead’s on and off again girlfriend. And right now, they’re kinda off; and so Gomez accepts Nurmi’s offer for an all expenses paid trip to some fancy spa that’s under one of Chem-Biomed’s many subsidiary umbrellas.
Meanwhile, down on Earth, people have been disappearing by the thousands under dubious circumstances. And by dubious circumstances I mean they were last seen in the vicinity of a knockout female in the hottest haute couture and some trench-coated, multi-armed creep, who shrink their victims down to doll-size and ship them off to parts unknown. (It’s Italian, just roll with it.) And with the U.D. completely stumped, Halstead is commissioned to take over the case, which breaks when one of these kidnappings goes awry and one of the intended victims only gets half-shrunk. But whenever they almost catch one of the culprits, they seem to disintegrate into thin air, leaving a very disturbing discovery to be made inside an abandoned briefcase.
Eventually, Halstead links the bio-engineered kidnappers back to Nurmi, currently holed up on the artificial planet Delphus, where that secret spa just happens to be located; and where Lt. Gomez has been put through a battery of invasive biological tests against her will in preparation for Nurmi’s endgame. Seems this mad scientist and his Chem-Biomed cronies have hit upon a mad plan to make a new race of perfect beings by splicing a man and a woman together. But these subjects must be a perfect match on some genetic level, explaining all the qualifying abductees. Connie is Nurmi’s perfect match, and they are scheduled to be the first union -- unless Halstead and his two bestest buds, Ken (Carlo Giustini) and Jake (Franco Nero), can cut through some stubborn bureaucratic red tape and rocket to Delphus in time with a rescue party.
Well, I don’t want to give the ending away but the whole gang returns for War of the Planets -- after a quick check on the IMDB proved that came before War Between the Planets. [And please, do NOT confuse this with the nigh interminable Cosmos: War of the Planets (1978).] Anyhoo, this round, seems all contact with Gamma-2 has been lost after reporting a huge spike in radiation readings; and then the investigative team sent to see what happened finds half the crew dead and the other frozen in suspended animation; and then and then the whole station and the rescue party up and disappear. Alas, this emergency kinda throws a wrench in Gamma-1’s New Year’s Eve bash -- and trust me, there ain’t no party like a Gamma-1 party -- even though Lt. Gomez can’t hold her liquor at all.
Meanwhile, down on earth, a Captain Dubois (Michel Lemoine) has been possessed by an alien race of non-corporeal green globs of psychic energy, who translates a message -- more of an ultimatum, to the U.D., offering a symbiotic partnership between Earth and the Diaphonoids for “the good of the whole.” And after the Diaphonoids essentially (and rather easily) render the entire U.D. fleet inoperable, the U.D. has no choice but to buy time, agreeing to the alien demands of sending an envoy to a mining colony on one of the moons of Mars, led by Halstead and his usual gang, where they witness firsthand this merging process, which only works on the most susceptible of human hosts.
Thus, those with sterner constitutions are summarily rejected and put to death. This, of course, will not stand. Thank heavens Halstead bucked orders on flying to Mars unarmed. Those already converted are lost, and Halstead only manages to save six souls and barely blasts off in time before the site is nuked from orbit.
Halstead receives a medal for his actions on Mars, but he must also face a court martial for dereliction of duty and disobeying direct orders, which might explain away his absence in the next feature, War Between the Planets -- also known as the more appropriately titled, Planet on the Prowl. Titles aside, the action picks up with the crap already hitting the fan as the Earth is besieged by catastrophic earthquakes and bizarre weather patterns. The effect is eventually traced to a cause: a rogue runaway planet has entered the solar system and is on a current crash-course with Earth, and whose radiation bursts and magnetic discharges explain away all seismic destruction and apocalyptic weather.
And with the fleet devastated in the last installment, all that stands in the way of Earth’s total destruction is the crew of the Gamma-1, now under the command of Commander Rod Jackson (Giacomo Rossi Stuart -- who looks like the end result of Elvis Presley and George Reeves having a baby), who, along with his right hand man, Perkinson (Goffredo Unger), and his sort of girlfriend, Lt. Teri Sanchez (Ombretta Colli), launch an expedition to intercept the planet and destroy it.
Upon arrival, while planting the antimatter explosives, it is discovered that the entire planet is one sentient being that tries to absorb our heroes after they crawl inside one of its sphincters for guesses that are as good as mine. And with the sacrifice of the few, and a few good whacks with an axe, the many are saved as the prowling planet is powdered permanently.
Alas, the weather is still acting screwy in The Snow Devils; only this time the cause is traced to a rise in global temperatures and the melting of the polar ice caps. The source of this disruption is traced to the Himalayas, where it just so happens a U.D. weather observatory has just been wiped out. Wiped out by what? Well, all physical evidence points to an attack by -- wait for it -- yetis. And not just any yetis but -- waaaaait for it -- ABOMINABLE SPACE YETIS! That’s right, Space Yetis are trying to conquer the Earth with Global Warming. All in an effort to cover the planet in water so they can then freeze it into one large planetary glacier before they can colonize.
Sniffing all of this out is Commander Jackson again, who leads an expedition into the mountains with his buddy, Perkinson, even though he sort of died in the last film. (Oh, no, wait. Same actor but he’s a different character now. And, wait, the gal who played Lt. Sanchez in the last one is now a different character, too. And her old character is played by her romantic rival from the last movie. Wait. What? *eyegitty* *eyegitty* *eyegitty*) And while Jackson gets the head Space Yeti to monologuing, revealing their grand plan, and manages to destroy their outpost on Earth, the polar ice is still melting and people are still drowning until they trace the cause to one of Jupiter’s moons, where the Space Yetis have another advance base. And so, Jackson, Not-Perkinson, and New-Sanchez ride a slow rocket to the gas giant and paste the moonbase from orbit without being drawn into any orifices, thus, saving the day.
And while that adventure closed out the Gamma-1 Quadrilogy, our marathon wasn’t quite over yet. For you see, a couple of producers and screenwriters on the series (Walter Marley and Ivan Reiner) essentially pulled up stakes from Italy and moved to Japan to team up with Kinji Fukasaku and one more space adventure with -- sing it with me -- The Green Slime (1968), which essentially takes place in the same whackadoodle universe; it just moves the action from Gamma-1 to Gamma-3 and then kinda mashes up all the plots of the first four films into one giant ball of awesome covered in awesome sauce.
It begins with the detection of a rogue, extinction-sized asteroid barrelling toward the Earth. And so, Earth Space Command sends Commander Douche McAsshat (Robert Horton) to lead an expedition to blow it to smithereens. Internal conflict comes from an unresolved love triangle between McAsshat and Gamma-3’s current Commander, Vince Elliot (Richard Jaeckel), over the station’s chief medical officer, Dr. Lisa Benson (Luciana Paluzzi). (Hell, who wouldn’t fight over her?)
Luckily, the Earth’s imminent demise allows these three to get along long enough to destroy the asteroid in time. Unfortunately, someone got some alien snot on his uniform. And once it gets back to Gamma-3, this glob of snot feeds on the radiation used to decontaminate the suit and morphs into a multi-tentacled, multi-eyed, and energy-bogarting monstrosity that also spores out whenever it is injured and so even more creatures spring from its blood!
And so, the station is soon overrun by horde of Green Slimers, leaving the other human occupants in a battle for their lives as they fight a delaying action, destroying half the satellite as they try to hold the creatures off long enough to get everyone else evacuated, leading to one bugnutz of a climax and final battle as that love triangle solves itself when Elliot sacrifices himself to save McAsshat, who is the last one out, setting the Gamma-3 on a crash-course with Earth’s ionosphere, where it and the monsters burn up in reentry. And then the movie plays us out with the reprise of the most kickingist theme song of ever!
Hole. Lee. Crap. But I do love these movies. Like a lot. I mean, A LOT, a lot. Sure, the films are grounded a bit and anchored by what the swinging 1960s thought the future would look -- from fashion, to furniture, to transportation, to architecture -- but to me, that’s half of the films' charm. And it feels like a breath of fresh air as we move past the projected dates of these films, where we fail to pass muster as far as I’m concerned and the planet is bled dry and our own parasitic pursuits only hasten along our own demise. So, yeah, give me this kind of prognosticative wackiness and retro-designs any day of the week, please and thank you.
It’s also kind of amazing how representative these films were. Sure, all the main players were your usual blundering and gung-ho white guys, but Gamma-3 was populated by many races and manned by both genders, with females serving as rocket pilots, technicians, and security personnel. And sadly, the total white-washing of The Green Slime really brings the inclusiveness of the other films into a very sharp focus.
Of the first four I would say they get progressively -- not worse, but less good as they go. Most of that, I think, is a personal preference for Tony Russell and Lisa Gastoni, and the comedy relief of Franco Nero, over Giacomo Rossi Stuart, his concrete pompadour -- that kept losing its structural integrity in a few spots, and his revolving cast-mates -- though I do have a soft spot for portly Goffredo Unger, who appears in all four films and kinda comes off as this franchise’s Patroni. And did I mention Lisa Gastoni? Because she is so adorable I can't even even.
I LOVE YOU, LT. GOMEZ!
Add it all up and these things are completely nuts in concept and execution with rousing battles followed by drinking and dancing in the space bar. They’re also delightfully gruesome in spots, as the body counts are quite staggering. And as I watched them play out again, I got to thinking at how sparse and economical these things are with fairly no frills, taking advantage of several futuristic looking locations for added production value.
These things were made on the cheap, it shows, but Margheriti makes sure things moved fast enough that it doesn’t show too much. And the end result is a ton of fun to watch. But it did get me to thinking about what these things would’ve looked like if Margheriti had been given a little more time and a little more money. And the smile on my face while I contemplated this as I shut the TV off, put the DVDs away, and went to bed was large indeed.
And with that, I wish you all a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a Joyous New Year, one and all! Or, Bah! Humbug, where applicable. And see ya’ll next year for the 12th Annual All-Night Christmas Craptacular Movie Marathon. Until then, Boils and Ghouls, stay cool!
