Valhalla Rising blindsided me like a out-of-control Mac truck plowing through a crowded cafe. It’s that good. A brutal yet beautifully elegiac ode to the death of paganism and the rise of a new and equally violent faith, Valhalla Rising is a a sad, mournful film that takes no joy in its relentless violence. Nicolas Winding Refn’s punch to the gut follow-up to his masterful Bronson does not harbor one gratuitous scene. Valhalla Rising is so stripped of any romanticism that I could only stumble out of its presence in a punch-drunk melancholy, much in the same way I reacted to No Country For Old Men. Indeed, this Viking tale of horror and treachery could very well be a prequel of sorts to that film, as they certainly touch upon similar themes. A dismal tide, indeed.

The opening scene is all business. Our unnamed mute “hero” One Eye (Mads Mikkelsen, who does the Man with No Name routine with undeniable panache) is fighting for his life. In the blistery hills of Scandinavia, One Eye is tied to a post and forced to fight warriors so his captors can place wagers. It’s all very well he’s tied to the post, as his day job has transformed him into a feral beast who only knows survival. But One Eye is not resigned to his fate. He intends to escape, and escape he does in a singularly gruesome and efficient manner. If you’re looking for some balls to wall medieval combat, Valhalla Rising is your movie.

One Eye and his sidekick kid (a surprisingly charming Maarten Stevenson, acting as One Eye’s voice) set off for their life of freedom, and run into Eirik (a superb Ewan Stewart), who is leading a group of Crusaders hell bent on finding salvation, glory, and riches in Jerusalem. The sheer absurdity of Vikings traveling to the Holy Land for God knows what is the perfect frame for this film. Valhalla Rising does not bandy in common sense or compassion; there is only forward movement, violence, and madness. Eirik and his merry band represent the old school version of Christianity, which involves slaughtering infidels who would dare defy the Prince of Peace. But to One Eye, it’s all the same: They’re all bloody men in a bloody world, and which god you pray to is beside the point.

Valhalla Rising is divided into six chapters that are not only signposts guiding you to the Heart of Darkness. They represent the logical flow of theology and fanaticism, and perhaps what lies in store for the Viking people. The psychedelic sequences and occasional hallucinations blend smoothly. The film skillfully blurs the dream state and reality until they are one. One Eye and his companions do reach a Holy Land of sorts, and you could say everyone found what they were looking for.

Every performance in this film is powerful and rings true, to the resigned glare of One Eye to the grinning madness of Eirik. Walter Chaw suggests that One Eye harkens to Aguirre Wrath of God, but I say One Eye dives even deeper into our dark hearts, beyond avarice and religion. Whatever trappings you put on life, there is a primordial stew within all of us that makes any belief we harbor senseless and self-deluding. Christians are blasphemous heathens who eat their God, not out of reverence, but to create a simulacrum of life’s true nature. One Eye is these Crusaders’ Lord, and so the last chapter is aptly named Sacrifice. See Valhalla Rising with someone you love.

Spartacus: Blood and Sand is not so much a television series as a state of mind. I immediately bring this caveat to the table because it is simply not enough to say Spartacus is “not for everyone.” Entering its world is a transcendent experience; Spartacus is so recklessly indulgent in its genre, so unashamed in its over-the-top, contraction-free dialog that you cannot help but grow fond of this ridiculous show in all its gaudy glory.

Comparisons to 300 and Gladiator are inevitable, both in the camerawork and dialog. But where these two films demanded us to take them seriously in their dull-witted adolescent gravity, Spartacus is a far more nuanced creature. For starters, the ideology behind Spartacus is decidedly angry and proletariat-driven, quickly dispensing with the rah-rah, quasi-fascist Dulce Et Decorum Est bullshit that ultimately sunk 300 and Gladiator.

Techno Viking makes a cameo appearance

Andy Whitfield plays the Thracian with No Name, to be eventually saddled with the moniker “Spartacus.” Spartacus is working as a mercenary for the Romans in hopes of defending his homeland against frequent raids from the Getae. Things go sour when the Romans refuse to engage a Getae contingent that razes Spartacus’s village. Justifiably pissed off, Spartacus leads a mutiny against his Roman employers. The Romans don’t appreciate Spartacus not handing in his two-week notice, so they sell his wife off to slavery and condemn Spartacus to death by gladiator in the arena of Capua. Capua is to Rome is what Cleveland is to New York City. It’s a backwater to be sure, but Capua is still infested with enough intrigue and power plays of people eager to hit the prime time of Imperial Roma.

Batiatus would put Dick Cheney to shame. If Dick had any shame.

Spartacus manages to keep himself alive in a series of slow-motion, blood-spurting duels that highlights the martial athleticism of Whitfield and his solid costars Peter Mensah, Manu Bennett, and Jai Courtney. But the heart and soul of Spartacus is the deliciously decadent performance of John Hannah, who plays the gladiators’ owner Batiatus. Hannah delivers that rare feral performance of a man so detestable and conscience-free that of course, he is far and away my favorite character. Hannah chews up and spits out his scenes with aplomb and grace, his ruthlessness more frightening than the muscle bound ferocity of his slaves. Another fabulous standout is Viva Bianca, who matches Hannah’s terrifying performance as the scheming general’s wife Ilithyia, who will stop at nothing at seeing Spartacus dead for humiliating her husband. Let’s just say Ilithyia has a bad temper. A very bad temper.

Why do all the hot ones have to be so psycho?

I’ll tell why I love Spartacus: Blood and Sand, despite the fact every episode is a full-on cheese factory with dialog lifted from some bad D&D role playing manual. Spartacus succeeds admirably in demonstrating just how patently absurd an inherently dysfunctional culture can become. Sociopathic behavior is consistently rewarded, and the most grievous crime in this society is not knowing your socioeconomic place. Karl Marx would approve of the class-driven struggle that is the constant undercurrent of this earnest series. You could accuse Spartacus of being big and stupid, but you can’t call it dishonest. In a world where evil is its own reward, Spartacus: Blood and Sand is a wonderfully campy clarion call for the relatively virtuous to rise up and kick ass.

Yes, Lucy Lawless gets nekkid

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Scum of the Earth is a delightful piece of early 70s hack work, as bizarrely endearing as it is oppressively sleazy; if it were sold as a comedy instead of a proto-slasher flick, perhaps it would have a faithful cult following as opposed to languishing in obscurity for the past 35 odd years. While the gross misrepresentation of the VHS artwork is jarring enough (the film does not take place in a bayou, nor does the heroine wear a tattered dress), the original release poster does a better job reflecting the scuzzy hixploitation quasi-romantic vibe, while completely avoiding the slasher subtext. Maybe it was a tough sell. This unique hybrid of God’s Little Acre by way of Johnny Got his Gun has plenty to offer the schlock aficionado, and an even greater appeal for those who grew up in the Bible Belt and managed to escape with their dignity intact.

Despite the reissue title, Scum of the Earth has absolutely nothing to do with the 1957 Peter Graves cornpone drama Bayou, which was re-edited for the drive-in circuit, had its title changed to Poor White Trash, and was a massive success, especially in certain regions of the Deep South. While one could make the assumption that Bayou was some kind of Douglas Sirk styled celebration of backwater hick “culture”, it would be nigh impossible to make the same mistake when judging the merits of its unofficial sequel: Scum of the Earth is unequivocally and uncompromisingly disgusted with its subject matter, depicting every moment of low-class excess with an ugly, overlit Velveeta sheen rendering its hideous supporting cast even more freakish than usual. And then there are the axe murders.

Or rather, the single axing that acts as a dubious curtain-raiser: newlyweds Helen and Paul Fraser are inexplicably picnicking in some off-the-beaten-path sinkhole in rural Texas, enjoying roughly two minutes of vanilla wedded bliss before the business end of an axe finds its way into Paul’s chest.

Helen quickly comes to terms with becoming a widow, but she is unable to find the keys to their station wagon and is cast off into the wilderness. Instead of finding help, she encounters Odis, the odious patriarch of the Pickett clan, and foolishly follows him home to his ramshackle log cabin. Meanwhile, the unseen axe murderer hovers around, contributing an occasional POV shot, but he’s maddeningly inactive for the bulk of the running time. It would seem that his plan is to allow Helen to enjoy her Southern hospitality until it breaks her very psyche, and the Pickett clan is more than up to the task. Every member of the household embodies one or more crass Southern stereotypes to go along with their other fatal character flaws.

It’s a motley crew indeed.

Odis (pictured at Right), our heroine’s “savior”, is a misogynistic moonshine-chugging Good Ole Boy, who doesn’t have the slightest intention of helping Helen; the house doesn’t have a phone, nor does he have a vehicle, but what he DOES have is a raging libido and more than enough homemade booze chillin’ in the well to keep it raging. Meek Emmy (in chair, to Left of Odis) is pregnant with the newest member of the Picketts, and her pleasant yet vacant demeanor belies the fact that she’s essentially trapped in a loveless marriage, as her first husband essentially used her as collateral in order to pay off a loan to Odis. She’s hardly of an upper-crust background, but her down-to-earth humility stands in stark contrast to perennial tart Sarah Pickett (at Left of frame). Pronounced “Say-Ruh”, she’s been living at home since she done got run straight outta Beaumont, and Odis probably fathered her first aborted child. Good times!

Later we meet Bo Pickett, Sarah’s dimbulb younger brother, who is often tasked to “fetch a jar” of moonshine for his alcoholic dad, and is more than handy when it comes to bringin’ home chow for supper.

So while Helen may not exactly relish the thought of freshly killed possum in her stew, dinner time with the Picketts is by far the least horrific ordeal in what turns out to be a very, very, very long night out in the boondocks. But the frequently hilarious dialogue, and whimsical musical score, turn the proceedings into high camp rather than the penetrating social commentary that Z-list auteur S.F. Brownrigg was likely aiming for. Sure, there are still rural areas in the undeveloped Southern countryside where people still live like it was the late 19th century, inbreeding is common, and progressive politics are demonized, but the depiction of the lifestyle in Scum of the Earth is part affectionate parody, part hysterical exaggeration; there is no ring of truth to its gallery of low-rent horrors. The script plays on cliches and stereotypes, depicting this regressive culture as nothing short of Hell on Earth.

It’s a tonally appropriate companion piece and spiritual sequel to Brownrigg’s inexplicably titled Don’t Look in the Basement, which examined the treatment of the mentally ill and the inherent dangers in experimental treatments vis-a-vis group therapy. It works well for its micro-budget but does not transcend the trappings of its genre. Ultimately Basement devolves into mindless slasher fare in its third act, and the blatantly telegraphed Big Twist is less mindblowing and more shrug-inducing. The film has lapsed into the public domain, and is worth checking out if only to plumb the cinematic genealogy of Scum of the Earth. The price is right.

Much like its successor, Scum devolves into a very slow-paced stalk-and-kill murder mystery deal, only without any tension or emotional stakes or, indeed, any sense of mystery at all.

During one especially inept sequence, Bo is summoned with the words “fetch me a jar” and sent to the chillin’ well to retrieve more moonshine for his deposed Paw; the interior shots of the cabin show that it’s pitch black outside, but once Bo steps out it’s clearly just past High Noon. The Day-For-Night might match up with the similarly mishandled POV shots, but when there’s bright sunlight, stark shadows and birdsong in the middle of your tense murder sequence, well, say goodbye to any and all tension. To top it off, once Bo has his fatal meeting with a sharpened fence post, the discharge oozing from his open maw looks less like stage blood and more like raspberry preserves.

Once Odis is done slapping around his daughter and trading lewd remarks (it’s a remarkable bout of one-upsmanship that culminates in Odis declaring “They run you outta Beaumont ’cause you gave the Clap to half the town!”), his discovery of Bo’s corpse fills him with sorrow; less because he’s out one son than the fact that he’s going to have to fetch his moonshine by himself. Act 3 sends the atrocities flying at breakneck speed: an offscreen rape, more spousal abuse, a sloppy seduction turned barbed wire strangulation, drunken fury followed by a shotgun blast to the face. Then, of course, the Brownrigg signature: a ludicrous twist that adds absolutely nothing to the story.

As much as the lurid marketing campaign would like you to believe otherwise, there’s nary a single moment of terror to be found in Scum of the Earth, and indeed, were it not for the incest subplot and the occasional freshet of stage blood, it could have been reissued as a tongue-in-cheek parody fit for family consumption. With the somewhat optimistic yet totally bleak conclusion, combined with the weird upbeat theme song “Love is a Final Affair”, there’s tangible Family Values subtext to be found here. It’s just nearly impossible to decipher amidst the layers of grime and sleaze and Z-grade exploitation.

At the very least, co-writer and star Gene Ross deserves credit for creating one of the most loathsome yet inexplicably appealing quasi-villains in Odis Pickett. Making a drinking game out of his shenanigans is easy enough; dying from alcohol poisoning is a simple proposition if one were to drink with every utterance of  “Fetch me a jar”. And when’s the last time you saw a slasher flick that ended with cute little credit buttons?

Recommended with all the usual caveats.