German filmmaker Ulli Lommel has managed a task many horror fans thought was impossible: he's unseated fellow Teuton Uwe Boll for the crown of director of the worst horror film ever made.
Lommel is truly the Ed Wood of the new millennium. This film is as shoddy and laughable as the best-worst of EW. I am both proud and embarrassed to say that I watched it in toto, morbidly fascinated to see just low the bar could be set. The answer is: subterranean; Lommel dug a pit and buried it.
The fun begins with the cast of international nobodies. Only someone who has lived in Los Angeles, where every auto mechanic, doctor and mailman is an actor or screenwriter waiting to be discovered, could easily understand how Lommel managed to find so many wannabe actors willing to spew his ridiculous dialog with a straight face.
The main character, a villainous beat cop, is played by a German actor with a thick German accent. Aside from being a serial killer, he is also the oldest beat cop in LA. Despite the fact that he stops innocent women drivers and takes them into custody, then drags them into his home (which inexplicably is the top floor of a furniture warehouse), and does all this in plain sight of his rookie partners, the LAPD refuses to investigate, going so far as to physically attack one of his accusers in a ninja style raid on his apartment.
The sets are excruciatingly bad. The production designer's budget apparently included just enough money for a can of paint; enough to paint "Precinct 707" on a cardboard wall.
Since the actors were obviously unpaid non-professionals--a sad assortment of European emigres (possibly deportees if they acted in their native lands), bimbos, mimbos, and desperate middle-aged women--and since little if any money was spent on sets, special efx, locations or other production value, it is only fair to mention that they did spring for a few genuine-looking police uniforms. Sadly, they couldn't afford a police car; the uniformed cops cruise the streets in a shiny new Mercury rental.
More than half of the story focuses on the dirty deeds of our deranged German LAPD officer and the futile efforts of two young rookies to stop him. One of these young actors is especially pitiable because he's the only actor in this whole mess with even a vague shot at a real career in the movies. The other fits right in, with a rockabilly hairdo and tortured Brando posing that needs to be seen to be appreciated.
The latter part of the film is where the title gets its zombie, as the victims of our killer are resurrected after he murders a girl who had just visited some voodoo priestesses to have a protective spell put on her. Don't ask why a girl from Romania would resort to voodooism in anticipation of being murdered, just accept Lommel's logic and enjoy the absurd ride.
After much prolonged hand-clawing out of straw-covered roadside graves, the zombie girls manage to make their appearance. They look exactly as they did before death, maybe even prettier, with black glamor make-up generously airbrushed around their eyes. Looking nothing like zombies, they look more like high fashion models ready for the runway.
At this point in the movie Lommel borrows a creative note from his lauded countryman Boll, and injects large doses of cheesy Euro-trash techno into the soundtrack. We're talking prehistoric electronic bumblebee noise. Stuff they might have played in an Ibiza disco when Lommel was still young enough to shake his booty.
Unlike other zombies, Lommel's girls speak and function as normal... er, I mean, as they did before becoming zombified. This gives our auteur ample opportunities to shower us with more of his golden dialog. Yes, a golden shower it is.
I won't spoil anything by revealing the shock ending. All I can say is it's perfectly in tune with the rest of this masterpiece. The spirit of Ed Wood lives on... or should I say his geist.
Lommel is truly the Ed Wood of the new millennium. This film is as shoddy and laughable as the best-worst of EW. I am both proud and embarrassed to say that I watched it in toto, morbidly fascinated to see just low the bar could be set. The answer is: subterranean; Lommel dug a pit and buried it.
The fun begins with the cast of international nobodies. Only someone who has lived in Los Angeles, where every auto mechanic, doctor and mailman is an actor or screenwriter waiting to be discovered, could easily understand how Lommel managed to find so many wannabe actors willing to spew his ridiculous dialog with a straight face.
The main character, a villainous beat cop, is played by a German actor with a thick German accent. Aside from being a serial killer, he is also the oldest beat cop in LA. Despite the fact that he stops innocent women drivers and takes them into custody, then drags them into his home (which inexplicably is the top floor of a furniture warehouse), and does all this in plain sight of his rookie partners, the LAPD refuses to investigate, going so far as to physically attack one of his accusers in a ninja style raid on his apartment.
The sets are excruciatingly bad. The production designer's budget apparently included just enough money for a can of paint; enough to paint "Precinct 707" on a cardboard wall.
Since the actors were obviously unpaid non-professionals--a sad assortment of European emigres (possibly deportees if they acted in their native lands), bimbos, mimbos, and desperate middle-aged women--and since little if any money was spent on sets, special efx, locations or other production value, it is only fair to mention that they did spring for a few genuine-looking police uniforms. Sadly, they couldn't afford a police car; the uniformed cops cruise the streets in a shiny new Mercury rental.
More than half of the story focuses on the dirty deeds of our deranged German LAPD officer and the futile efforts of two young rookies to stop him. One of these young actors is especially pitiable because he's the only actor in this whole mess with even a vague shot at a real career in the movies. The other fits right in, with a rockabilly hairdo and tortured Brando posing that needs to be seen to be appreciated.
The latter part of the film is where the title gets its zombie, as the victims of our killer are resurrected after he murders a girl who had just visited some voodoo priestesses to have a protective spell put on her. Don't ask why a girl from Romania would resort to voodooism in anticipation of being murdered, just accept Lommel's logic and enjoy the absurd ride.
After much prolonged hand-clawing out of straw-covered roadside graves, the zombie girls manage to make their appearance. They look exactly as they did before death, maybe even prettier, with black glamor make-up generously airbrushed around their eyes. Looking nothing like zombies, they look more like high fashion models ready for the runway.
At this point in the movie Lommel borrows a creative note from his lauded countryman Boll, and injects large doses of cheesy Euro-trash techno into the soundtrack. We're talking prehistoric electronic bumblebee noise. Stuff they might have played in an Ibiza disco when Lommel was still young enough to shake his booty.
Unlike other zombies, Lommel's girls speak and function as normal... er, I mean, as they did before becoming zombified. This gives our auteur ample opportunities to shower us with more of his golden dialog. Yes, a golden shower it is.
I won't spoil anything by revealing the shock ending. All I can say is it's perfectly in tune with the rest of this masterpiece. The spirit of Ed Wood lives on... or should I say his geist.