Last House on Hell Street. Wow. I was so bored that I started licking the batteries in my dvd player remote so I could stay awake. If there ever was or is the ultimate endurance film, I think Last House might get pretty damn close to being worse than Curse on Blanchard Hill. And on the other side of the shit scale when it comes to low or no budget horror, that's fucking saying something. I came so very close to gouging my eyes out with the very pen that I use to slop down notes while watching these gems so that I didn't have to endure the rest. But some empty, sick part of me kept urging me to keep going. I just really wish I was on acid, LSD or shrooms for the duration of this bowel movement because that's the only thing that would have kept me interested besides beer and breasts. And there were barely any of those.
This opening credit sequence is way to fucking long.
Can we get to the goddamn movie already?!
You need to be baked like a Christmas ham to even remotely appreciate this.
Yeah, break that cross into pieces! Yeah, butcher that bitch! Yeah!
It's not my child! Pray! Die! Shut up!
Shots of trees with people talking backwards over them is supposed to be creepy?
I laughed. I cried. I ate Clancy's BBQ flavored potato chips from Aldi.
They were running on top of river water so they must be related to Jesus.
How I, my analog tv or my dvd player never hung ourselves out of pure, straight boredom during this "film" boggles the mind. Jesus H. Christ.
At the end of the day, Last House on Hell Street is 70 minutes of field frolicking, backward talking trees and some chick that keeps blabbering on with an inverted color filter effect whenever she's on screen. I never, ever want to see or hear about this piece of shit ever again. And I'm still not going to church.
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