Campire Stories is what happens when you take Creepshow and Tales From the Crypt, put them in a blender with a bunch of low-level hallucinogenics, and smoke it. I have no idea whether this is a good or a bad thing.

(Hilariously, I'm starting to think [personal profile] scarimonious and I are engaged in some weird-ass unspoken contest to sit through everything awful in the world. Here's a hint: we've both seen Blood Creek.)

Campire Stories is supposed to be in the same vein as Creepshow. You can tell, because the movie opens with narration by a talking skull in front of a field of flames, animated by CGI my high school Television Productions class would have envied. In 1994. Sadly, this is the most sense the movie will make for the rest of its runtime.

In the wraparound story, two guys are on their way to a third friend's house for the weekend. They run into--almost literally--Jamie-Lynn Siegler, who's standing in the middle of the road to attract the attention of passersby. Her car's died, and she could use a ride to somewhere with a phone to call a tow truck. The guys, being (surprisingly) not total douchebags, agree to take her; almost immediately, they get into a wreck themselves and need to hike to find a phone.

Aaaaaand here's where shit starts getting crazy, because this is when, while traipsing through the woods to find a gas station, they run afoul of Forest Ranger David Johanson, who some of you might know better as Buster Poindexter. YEAH. THAT HAPPENED.

See, Forest Ranger Buster calls a tow truck and leads the kids out into the woods, where they gather around a campire and he tells them cautionary tales. (You might be wondering, "Why the fuck would they do that?" To their credit, so do the kids. I mean, they went with him in the first place, but still.) Said cautionary tales are as follows:

-A group of lacrosse players anger the school's janitor, a mentally deficient man who was driven crazy during experimental psychological treatments some 20 years before, who promptly starts killing them off in what look like the most sparse woods the state of North Carolina had to offer. The lead asshole, by the way, is played by John Hensley; one of his compatriots is played by--no shit--Perez Hilton (acting here under his real name). Blah blah blah tied to a chair dead girlfriend in an equipment locker blah blah creepy janitor blah blah.

-A group of drug-seeking teens decide to rob an elderly Native American man based on the theory that A) he might have peyote and B) they just saw him break out a wad of hundreds to pay for a cup of coffee. They kill him and smoke whatever strange plant he has on him, only to age prematurely and die horribly. The elderly Native American man then...steals their youth? Whatever, suddenly he's all hot and like 28 and paying for coffee with hundreds again. Because all Native Americans do magic.

-A young woman, being stalked, figures the prime suspects are her bi-curious female roommate, the roommate's boyfriend, and her own ex-boyfriend (whom she dumped for trying to secretly videotape them having sex). TWIST ENDING ALERT: the stalkee has a split personality and she kills all of them. Dun-dun-DUNNNNN.

All of these things might, as presented, seem fairly logical, if extremely stupid. THEY ARE NOT. I--dude, they basically tell you that all Native Americans smoke peyote and do evil magic, and retarded people are all evil and crazy. THESE ARE NOT GENERALIZATIONS. THESE ARE CENTRAL THEMES TO THE STORIES CONTAINED HEREIN. I own a movie--that, granted, I got like thirdhand from MovieStop for like $4--that features people murdering an old man to steal his magical bag of holding. THAT HAPPENED. I am not high, that is a real plot development.


So somewhere after the third story--and I cannot properly express the sheer pants-weeping creepiness of Forest Ranger Buster, here, because for real, that guy just screams "serial killer who ate the real forest ranger and is wearing his uniform to lure unsuspecting idiots with car troubles"--all three of them book it through the woods, in the pitch darkness, and end up at a bar in the middle of what looks like honky-tonk country.

And here's where things get batshit insane.

One: we are in a honkytonk bar where the house band is THE GODDAMNED MISFITS. Like, The Misfits. Actual band The Misfits. Not a Misfits cover band; not like when Ace Frehely leaves KISS and tries to start his own version of it. The actual fucking Misfits. The seminal punk band. The ones Frank Iero really fucking likes.

Two: The Misfits were one of the producers on this thing. SO.

In short order, the guys get separated from Jamie-Lynn and discover that not only is the bar loaded down with evil janitors, evil Native Americans, and split personality lady--oh my God, those stories were real!--but here comes Forest Ranger Buster, and The Misfits, and they're all demons from hell, and they totally eat the guys. Like, eat them. Kill 'em, certainly, but some of those fuckers had utensils.

And then--SPOILER ENDING!--Jamie-Lynn Siegler, who is also a demon from hell and walking bait, steps into the road half a mile away and starts the whole thing over again, and her eyes glow red. It's as if I'm watching Tales From the Darkside.


You guys, this is a real movie. I did not make this up. The Misfits helped finance a movie where two dudes get freaked out by Evil Forest Ranger Buster Poindexter and sit through a horror anthology only to get eaten by demons from hell in a honkytonk bar.

Sometimes people ask me why I do this. And then I put on my sunglasses, say "Someone has to" like I'm Bruce Goddamned Campbell, and stride off into the--hahahahahha, no. I point to this and The Thirst and start shouting because I DID NOT MAKE ANY OF THESE THINGS UP. I AM NOT ACTUALLY EXAGGERATING.

I'm not gonna knock big-budget movies or anything. But sometimes you spend four bucks and fucking magic happens.
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