Vampire Junction (2001)

From the onset, there is absolutely no doubt that the budget of this film is in an altitude limbo contest with the instincts of the director: which will sink lower? The tug of war between these two contestants painfully drags across the surreal cinematic landscape of this bizarre opus for seemingly four and a half hours. It's up for the viewer to decide who wins, and I'm here to tell ya that you should prepare for a photo finish.

In actuality, this film clocks in with a running time of 1:35 but since most of the scenes are presented at one third the normal speed you risk burning in your television screen with images of Eurpoean ass pimples. As the war between the questions of "what is the minimum effort we can get away with paying for this shot?" wages between "what can my strange, aged libido rationalize asking these young actresses to do?" there is another competition afoot. Which out of shape and unappealing actress will chalk up the most utterly (read udderly) unasked for nude scenes on film: Kathy Bates or Lina Romay? Who fucking cares? But Lina has definitely upped the ante here.

When all is said and done this film doesn't truly deserve much attention. I want to pan this thing into a stinking George pile, but there is a conflict raging within me, too. My horror senses weren't left entirely untingled while watching the intentional and unintentional perversities in this film exchange... err... licks. Vampire Junction is like Ed Wood directing a softcore porn flick while praying through time to David Lynch for inspiration. For this- and for the horrifying juxtaposition of gorgeous and gross specimens of femininity blearily basking in their own dreamy decadence for the benefit of Billy the Kidd in a store bought Bela Lugosi-era Dracula cape- I give this film a Silver(?) Treehorn and an arguably deserving two Georges... one for each side of the many conflicts battling against one another in this grand cinematic hypocrisy. Perhaps in ten years we can make the call whether or not Jess Franco's classic films won out over his later shames to prevent his total loss of genre credibility.

Desert of Blood (2008)

There's a reason why you see a great pair of teeth... err... teats in the opening minutes of this film: once you're done gawking at Annika Svedman's pear-like plushies, there is absolutely nothing left to sit through this film for. Sadly, that includes Jackie Freed's topless scene where it is painfully obvious that her buxom bosoms were delivered as naturally as the strained acting of her cast mates. An apt title for a film that leaves your palette dry and you loins yearning for even a fleeting glimpse of Tori White's Tecate Treasures. The latter lack of bare breastage earns "Desert of Blood" a Blue Treehorn in my book. Don't waste your time.