In Brad Sykes’ Scream Queen, real-life VHS scream queen Linnea Quigley plays the fictitious scream queen Malicia Tombs. On the set of her latest opus, she argues with her co-stars, director and crew members before leaving in a huff. Tragically, Malicia’s car crashes and explodes, killing her.  

The director, Eric Orloff (Jarrod Robbins, Sykes’ Zombie Chronicles), remains haunted by the events of his unfinished picture. One day, via an invite to a mansion, he’s offered $10,000 to complete it. Despite the place being located at 101 Killington Street, he shows up at the designated time, only to find a reunion of sorts of his ill-fated production’s cast and crew. They’ve been gathered for an evening of revenge in Malicia’s name — call it Six Little Indians with zero second takes. “Cut” means “cut.” 

Let’s acknowledge the obvious: Shooting on VHS presents several inherent and inescapable challenges, such as wind overpowering the camera’s microphone or night scenes looking especially ugly. The more SOVs you expose yourself to, the easier it is to forgive those limitations. Here, doing so leaves you with terrific fun. Your one true complaint may be the absence of nudity from the chesty Nicole West (Ted V. Mikels’ Dimension in Fear) in her animal-print underwear sex scene. I’m with you.

Building his slasher with a meta setup, Camp Blood creator Sykes gives the shot-on-video world its Scream. At the risk of oversell, it’s clear from the outset Sykes poured his all into the project, where others would half-ass it. His opening shot is Altman-style audacious for any format, running a couple of minutes as the camera moves from person to person, introducing viewers to each character and requiring every performer to be on their toes. 

Similarly, the prolific Quigley (Murder Weapon) is asked not simply to show up, but act. Don’t worry, kiddos, because your beloved kill scenes remain in full supply. Serving as host for the proceedings is a dwarf (Kurt Levee) — a nice Gothic touch, even if the guy is wearing a quasi-Christmas sweater. That’s just one element making Scream Queen the most wonderful kind of SOV horror. —Rod Lott

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Strangely, Pig Killer follows the superior Squealer as the second film released in as many months to tell the twisted tale of Canada’s felonious farmer, Robert Pickton — not exactly one of your A-list serial killers. Here, he’s played by Jake Busey (The Predator), whose hobby is murdering prostitutes and feeding their parts to his pet pig, Balthazar, most assuredly not named after the cinema of Robert Bresson. 

As the first sex worker dispatched and destroyed, Bai Ling (Southland Tales) does the “me so horny” bit from Full Metal Jacket and wears panties emblazoned with “ALL YOU CAN EAT.” With one hand petting Balthazar, Pickton has sex with her dead body while imagining he’s boning his own mom (Ginger Lynn Allen, Vice Academy). Not for nothing is Pig Killer produced by Girls and Corpses magazine.

The rest of the pic depicts the attempts of troubled young woman Wendy (newcomer Kate Patel) to keep from becoming a victim of Pickton’s, not to mention a gun with dildo silencer, antifreeze-filled syringes and penises I hope — nay, pray — are prosthetic. 

It’s an ugly picture further hampered by writer/director Chad Ferrin’s questionable decision to often present such brutal proceedings with his tongue pressed hard against his cheek, giving the effect of reveling in the sicko circus of Pickton’s creation. Also at odds with the grim subject matter is near-constant, mostly upbeat rock music — some 35 songs in all, most by one G Tom Mac (aka Gerard McMahon of The Lost Boys’ “Cry Little Sister” fame) and sounding like the clatter you’d hear from a stage at a state fair, adjacent to the fried footlong corndog vendor.

Pig Killer marks the third film I’ve seen from director Ferrin, and I think it will be my last. The other two, Easter Bunny, Kill! Kill! and Exorcism at 60,000 Feet, were odious enough, but at least they could lay claim to being spoofy. Based on the exploits of a real-life serial killer, Pig Killer has no such veil to hide its tastelessness behind. 

In one of the film’s final lines, from the back of a cop car, Pickton’s throat-cancerous comrade asks him about Wendy, “Did you ever get it in her pooper?” Did a 12-year-old boy write that? Or was he 13? Regardless, that’s the flavor of childishness running throughout two bloated hours; earlier, it plays an abusive sex scene for laughs. You can practically hear Ferrin giggling from behind the camera. Life is too short. —Rod Lott

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