God bless PONTYPOOL. I've been thinking lately about what a slobbering dope I am for eye candy. I can't help it, I'm a visual person. Is it shiny? Does it sparkle? I can overlook many a flaw in a film as long as it gives my retinas a hootchie-coochie dance. PONTYPOOL, though handsomely shot in a bare bones way, would be equally effective to a blind man (and was, in actuality, simultaneously produced as a radio show.) It enters your ear like that crazy worm from WRATH OF KHAN and it burrows into your brain like a corkscrew. Audiophiles listen closely, have I got a film for you.

Adapted by TONY BURGESS from his novel, PONTYPOOL CHANGES EVERYTHING and directed by BRUCE McDONALD (HARD CORE LOGO and the now suddenly interesting to me, TRACEY FRAGMENTS), PONTYPOOL is scholar smart, stoner weird and ten times more interesting than most of the porridge you've been served this year. A brain diddler from beginning to end, there are moments as soul chilling as a schizoid audio hallucination and some that are as jet black funny as a funeral parlor giggle fit. You may think you've seen it all as far as horror films go, but have you heard it all?

Pitch perfect STEPHEN McHATTIE stars as gruff Pontypool, Canada radio personality Grant Mazzy, whose normal broadcast is interrupted by reports of mad herds of people behaving ostensibly as zombies. Slowly it is unfolded that a virus is using language as a host and infecting anyone who hears certain key words, particularly words of endearment. Once infected the individual, out of frustration of not being able to express themselves, eventually comes to the conclusion that the only solution is to chew through the mouth of an uninfected person. Oh, and if a victim is not found, they vomit blood and die. Have you ever heard of anything like this before? Me neither.

Inspired a bit by H.G. WELLS' famous WAR OF THE WORLDS broadcast, a lot of the action here takes place in the audience's noggin. BE WARNED not all of you are going to dig this approach. If you had a disappointing experience with say, WILLIAM FRIEDKIN's BUG (which was based on a stage play), you may want to avoid this one. Personally, I was head over heels with this movie's adoration of semantics. Words are dissected and blown apart, poetry is made into garbage and garbage into poetry, meaning is ripped to shreds and communication is enemy and savior. Some call this a zombie movie but no, that word, like so many others, is wrong.

Thank you PONTYPOOL for gifting me an original horror experience. At times I thought I was watching the silliest, most preposterous joke and at other times I thought you were talking directly to me and that I might get infected myself. Either I'm going crazy or you PONTYPOOL are a genius. I can't tell you which because I don't know what either word means anymore.

I really love to travel especially when it involves not leaving my house. Norway, you are my new favorite place to visit through my T.V. , from my couch, covered in multiple blankets and adopted strays. Since I'm still experiencing a residual high after my duel satisfying experiences encountering COLD PREYs 1&2, I thought it was just about time to take a shot of that other Norwegian horror flick that I've been hearing so much about, DEAD SNOW. You know, the one with the Nazi zombies.

Now, if you think your Unkle Lancifer will just roll over for any movie that takes place in the snow involving Nazi zombies regardless of how well made it is then all I can say is thanks for paying attention and I'm so happy that you know who I am and what I'm about as a person. You officially know me better than most of my so-called friends. Honesty is not usually my forte, but I have no problem admitting that this movie's job seducing me was half done the moment it was put into the can.

As luck would have it, I don't have to feel to guilty for having a predetermined affection for DEAD SNOW. Its lighthearted, cartoonish fun, and it wears its admiration of all things EVIL DEAD right on its thermal sleeve. Still, DEAD SNOW is not without its yellow patches; its wafer thin characters and fuzzy logic keep it miles away from being as compelling as it could have been. Blame the script or lackadaisical casting but if I can only identify a character by what they are wearing or how long their hair is there's a problem. Not that they grow on trees but a BRUCE CAMPBELL or a INGRID BOLSO BERDAL would have made a gargantuan difference.

Having typed that, there is something to be said for a film that delivers the gore goods and action set pieces and doesn't tax emotionally. It may end up being drive-thru disposable but at least if you watch it with others, you'll never have to tell them to shut up during the important parts. I could have done without the dusty, eye-rolling "suiting up with kick ass weapons" montage but the fourteen-year-old ‘80s kid sitting behind the steering wheel in my brain deigned a scene with a head being ripped in two by hand notably rewind worthy. (I was equally heart-eyed over a bit that finds a guy hanging over a cliff by an intestine.)

DEAD SNOW is a visual stunner and a overall good time that could have been even better if there was even the slightest attempt at depth or characterization. Frankly, for all its splatter-ific glory, the scene that left me most disturbed involved two people having sex in an outhouse while one is actually sitting down on the toilet (!) Call me a prude, but THAT my kinderpals is just disgusting.