|Title:||The Midnight Meat Train|
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|09.01.09||Netflix|| This is not about those taco trailers all over town. Instead it's about one of NYC's subway trains and Vinnie Jones whacking people in the head with a gigantic fucking hammer and practicing his day trade (butcher in a meat packing plant) on some "long pork."|
Exactly what a movie called Midnight Meat Train should be. Midnight? check. Trains? check.... Yeah, surprisingly good. The CG is pretty cheap but it's also kind of gritty and lo-fi at the same time that most of it works (the camera going around the train during the fight scene... not so much, but hey I said "most"). Some good fun gore, Vinnie Jones is a badass as usual, and you know... just a solid horror movie. Nothing amazing, but nothing close to a disappointment either.
tangentially, jesus! Clive Barker's polyp-ridden throat gives a really effin scary voice.
OK. I have to add a note about something on the DVD. There's a special feature I guess all about Clive Barker's art. as in painting. Does anyone want to know why I don't consider myself an artist? Because I'd pay someone to slap me if I ever said any of the stuff Clive Barker says about his painting during these 15 minutes or so. Seriously... I guess all that pretentious rambling is supposed to make complete sense to an artist so... I'm a nerd because I don't consider my head a bucket and my body an impediment getting in the way of art escaping through my conduit. This little bit is so hilarious I'd almost recommend a rental just for it. At one point he has a little circular canvas in which he's drawn a black spiral and he talks for almost two minutes straight about the nature of the spiral and all that it represents to him... and I mean he more than talks, he pours forth. No contemplative elipses, no ums or ahs, no qualifications or conditionals. Just him staring at a spiral (and pointing to different parts of it) and holding forth on it's relevance to the universe.
Jesus Christ. Another favorite moment was when he's in a little tent filled floor to ceiling with what he calls his "failures." Hundreds of canvases filled with paint. He quickly flips through them like a teenager looking at rock posters at Sam Goody, passing down sentences: "That's a loser
This proves to me that I am not an artist and have no eye for art. In the painting medium at least. Thanks, Clive. Hey, weren't you a writer at some point?