As the cult of ass-to-mouth surrounding vile but slightly boring schocker The Human Centipede continues to grow, it was only a matter of time before someone figured out how to make it even more fucked up and off putting than it already was, and hey, while the original was pretty diabolical, it was also pretty, well boring really.

Luckily if there’s one thing garuanteed to spice up a party, it’s a huge pair of hooters, so take a bow The Human Sexipede!

Yep, it’s a porn parody that gives doggy style a whole new meaning if this trailer is anything to go by.

I’ll be honest with you, I’m actually a bit weirded out by this. Enjoy perverts, enjoy…

Now, it may seem we’ve been a little slack on the reviews front here at STS this week. “I expect their reviewers have all got swanky jobs as corporate journos at celebrity websites, they can’t be arsed writing for the likes of me anymore…” I can hear you saying. But honestly? I’ve spent most of my long weekend wondering exactly how I can put this abomination into words with out using extra, Lovecraftian letters that burst human eardrums and syllables that should not be.

Now, I’m all for the odd crap movie -hey, I even gave Miley Cyrus’ last effort a decent go, but what I’m not for is misanthropic, petulant, childish ultra-crud like this…

Hey you poor (rich) broken down (pumped up with Botox and Collagen implants) 40-something (57) urban go-getters (shallow idiots), if you’ve never wondered if there’s more to life than slurping Cosmopolitans and talking shit about your perfectly decent partners, then here’s the movie to blow your doors of perception right open.

Everyone else? RUN!

So, boiled horse and all-round ex-Flight of the Navigator supporting cast member Carrie is finally married to Mr.Big, but married life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be because..get this – her husband enjoys staying in with his wife and watching a movie occasionally. THE BASTARD!!! He should be strung up!!

Oh, and there’s some others as well aren’t there? Well, the pretty one has hired a big-titted housekeeper and thinks her husband is having it away -and let’s face it, he probably is, because that’s what men do -THE BASTARDS!!!! And the one out of Police Academy is still getting old, and the other one has decided it’s a bit noisy in her office and SHE’S MAD AS HELL AND SHE’S NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!

You’ll have to excuse the histrionic screeching I’m afraid, I’m honestly just trying to prepare you for watching the movie.

Anyway, apparently these are all huge problems when you’re a spoilt, self-obsessed rich tit, so they decide to head off somewhere nice to bond. But where to go? Somewhere quiet, somewhere isolated. Somewhere where they can escape the crass commercialism of Noo Yawk. Yep – Dubai! (Morocco) Because it’s like, y’know, outside of America and stuff (I Know, I like, totally didn’t know it was in Canada either), so it’s like, totally non-capitalist and things and all like, retarded simple and stuff.

Because Mz.Bradshaw’s an award winning journalist, she’s definitely the sort of person who wouldn’t realise that Dubai isn’t full of giant cocktails and all-you-can-shag buffets, but hey, it’s creative (bereft of any and all original ideas) license yeah?

Ummm…and that’s about it really.

They wander around the desert, make suggestive movements with a Hookah pipe that would probably get them the lash in real life, and wear some really bad clothes. I’m not saying that as an anti-fashion statement or anything by the way, the couture on display is shockingly bad, particularly when you factor in the sheer importance of fashion in the series. Frankly, the clothes are bizarre, beaded, semi-kaftan abortions that make them look like a gay tribute to Omar Sherif starring Jigsaw from the Saw franchise and Gumby. Just wrong on all levels.

Holy shit I hope that's a mirage lads...

It could be over-familiarity, it could be the current cash-deficit many of us are experiencing, but there’s just no room for any left-over sentiment from the TV series here. This is just dull, ill-plotted and ill-conceived rubbish.

There’s no plot to speak of, the jokes are gossamer thin, and the whole vapid thing has the nerve -the sheer temerity of which it’s hard to fathom – to try to make a statement about women’s rights in the UAE. Basically, if everyone around the world would just let their mothers dress up like psychotic, prostitutes in psychoreactive fabrics and have sex with the gardener, then the world would be, like, totally healed you know? It’s a fucking insulting, banged together pile of hopelessly confused morals, slack-wittedness and a penchant for aligning DAZZLING, FABULOUS TAN-TAN-TAN-TAN-TANTAAAAN-TAAAAAAAAN GAAAAAAYYY WEDDING!!!! with equality.

About as enjoyable as a frontal lobotomy, and about as effective.

Generally, we watch any old crap round here – in the interest of being a representative, even-handed site obviously – from Marley & Me to Apocalypse Now,it’s all fair grist to the review grinder-yep,we even sat through Troll 2 once.

But just occasionally there are some movie crimes so cynical and heinous in their deployment that we’re robbed of even the enjoyment bought by bright shapes moving around a large screen.
Twilight: New Moon is one of them…

The Twilight Saga’s advance guard of posters and promos have been doing the rounds for a few weeks now, it’s gangsta/Calvin Klein ad Werewolves looking like the world’s worst boy band as they balefully bring to life everything awful about post-Rowling fiction in one sanitised, imaginatively stultified package

The reasons for the unerring – and to most people over 30,completely mystifying – popularity of the Virginity-embracing Goth-a-thon are manifold and as ancient as the vampire myth itself, but the main one?

Boredom.

To contextualise; it’s probably worth remembering at this point that tabloid fodder Cradle of Filth are from a small country village, the interminable ennui of small-town existence producing gratuitous, theatrical stabs at an inescapable conformity that have absolutely nothing to do with the isolationist work of their contemporaries

Twilight has risen from the endless malaise of the American Midwest. Despite the stunning scenery, for many growing up there it’s an endless vista of mini-malls and soccer meets, a land robbed of endless opportunity that retains a general snobbishness for any authentic ‘old-world’ culture (”What do you eat in Britain?” Is a standard enquiry I received while travelling), and while this is a gross oversimplification; in terms of romance, Utah is up there with Chernobyl.

It’s no wonder then that the Disneyfied, stripey-sock Goth peddled by Hot topic is grasped so ravenously by teenagers in a locale where dying your hair or missing church is a rebellious act, and although tweens the world over go through endless recycling of these tropes the constant marketing of them as a substitute for genuine invention is a troubling one. Potter and his ilk are the spawn of daytime TV and half-remembered nursery tales, rather than any familiarity with actual fantastical literature. It may be churlish to suggest, but I’d be sorely surprised if J.K’s library included anything by Lord Dunsany. Tapping into a culturally bereft society doesn’t gift a work with any greater kudos.

Likewise Twilight is born of a warped, half developed sexuality, a flirting with defiance in the face of the US religious machine, and the deeply unsatisfied and unrealised yearnings of its author. Vampires are the ultimate asexual – the bite representing a non-threatening penetration – that means they are non-threatening romantic partners, perfect grist for the mill of the unsettlingly carried out (if well-intentioned) Chastity movement the books encourage. While virginity and chastity are both admirable qualities, they are very personal ones that shouldn’t be enforced by mass-media or religion; to do so is a backwards step, rather than a liberating one. Here non-sensationalist information is the key, not mass hypnosis.

Most movies try to sell you a tie-in computer game and a McDonald’s happy meal. Twilight tries to sell you morality.

Twilight (And Buffy beforehand, although Weedon at least realised this and had fun with it) is in effect Mills and Boone without the edge. Here there’s no sex, and while there’s haemoglobin aplenty even death is robbed of it’s power.

Author Stephanie Meyer claims the novel is about ‘losing true love’, but has aimed it squarely at a population so cut off from genuine interaction the word becomes meaningless, a substitute for parental affection and an excuse to pretend at the rebellious. In one of the most telling scenes Bella’s ability to commune with Edward is enhanced when she pursues ‘The Dangerous’. In this case, riding a motorcycle – that ever present symbol of disaffection for American youth. Meyer has crafted a work where motorcycles and leather jackets stand-in for danger, where Italy represents the entire planet outside the Midwestern bowl, and where dreaming of wider horizons inevitably leads to terror and sadness-or at least a simulation of it.

New Moon offers an endless curse – one of morbid, flatulent commercialism infecting its victims with a warped feminine ideal where the answer to everything is a good man who doesn’t want to have sex. It has more in common with Mona the Vampire than Dracula – this is sex and death without the sex and death played out by blandly attractive mannequins whose only supernatural power is the height of their hair.

Excited yet?

Let’s face it, if characters from movies were real, you’d hate them. Imagine if your neighbour was a chiselled man-mountain who regularly slept with supermodels in between blowing things up with his flying, time-travelling tank.

Us regular guys just couldn’t compete.

Fortunately Hollywood knows this, and balances things out by rampantly increasing the odds that he’ll be horribly killed at any moment – and none more so than when he’s getting’ some! Sure the sex you have may be dry and perfunctory, but at least it won’t end in death by robot. Want proof? So do we- it’s death by sexy as we take a look at cinema’s deadliest sex scenes!

Jason X

Running seriously out of ideas, the FTT producers well and truly jumped the shark when they sent the hockey-masked marauder into Spaaaaaaaace for instalment 10, with amazingly good results!

In among the saucy androids in leather pants, there’s just time to squeeze in some good old fashioned teens with loose morals! “We love premarital sex!” Squeals one photonic cutie-just before being stoved against a tree by the big man.

What a way to go!

Titanic

The ultimate expression of the cinematic virgin rule!

If Jack could have just kept his hands out of Kate’s whimsical underwear, hundreds would have lived! Hell, if young Rose was really that up for a bit of rough before marrying the decidedly unsexy Cal surely she could have got it down at the docks before they left?

Nope, she had to shake her thang on the ballroom floor, sealing the doom of every man woman and child aboard with every hip-shake, the callous cow! Proof positive that the ocean is a very jealous lady who doesn’t take kindly to people poking on her turf, and is fully willing to instigate Oscar winning effects to prove it.

Flash Gordon

When a pair of leather hotpants is considered acceptable wear for a state funeral, you know you’re in for a pretty sexy time! Of course, Flash himself isn’t really the star of this 80s exercise in ultra camp, so his wiggling, gas chamber death only comes second here.

Sexiest death? Well, that honour goes to the completely bat-shit crazy Max Von Sydow as Ming. If submission is your thing then there’s no finer example than Mrs Mercyless’ most over-achieving son being well and truly rogered to buggery by the imperial flagship – hell, it even has Freddy Mercury shouting in the background!

Phallic substitution on a cosmic scale!

Teeth

I Spit On Your Grave may have used the classic “Todger-Off” manouver first, and spawned a host of grisly imitators, but after a brief struggle to escape distribution hell Teeth revealed itself as the Citizen Kane of castration flicks! (It’s a compliment -honestly!)

Hale Appleman looks like one lucky dude when he takes super sexy Jess Weixler to bed, but unfortunately he’s oblivious to her dark secret: A pair of comedy chattering teeth buried in her lady-garden.

Tapping into every man’s deepest psychosis, this is quite literally a teeth-grinding nightmare of a death scene!

11:14

A deservedly straight to bargain bin movie with the added value of a topless fresh-from-Josie and the Pussycats Rachael Leigh Cook, it’s 99 pence well spent!

Unfortunately the poor dude taking advantage of young Rach never gets past the vinegar strokes – instead receiving a huge tombstone to the noggin halfway through: Garuanteed to squish any libido!

Of course, Ms.Cook does exactly what we always knew she would, and carries on to the bitter end. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “getting head”.

Goldeneye

Famke Janssen offs more than her fair share of guys as Bond baddie/babe Xenia Onatopp, but it’s during her sauna scene with a horny Canadian admiral that she really earns her name.

Engaging in some excellently angry banging, most people would only have to worry about slipping on the tiles, but unfortunately for the over-sexed officer there are two far more deadly items in this bathhouse; Famke’s thighs.

Displaying the kind of muscle tone previously only seen on prize livestock, her wraparound technique makes sure the guy goes down – and stays there.

Species

While Spider-man opted for punching him the face, Alfred Molina enjoys a far more saucy defeat in this Ben Kingsly starring codswallop from the early 90s.

Here he’s a bizarrely accented scientist hot – in every sense of the word- on the trail of a spawning alien lizard thing; even though he’s fully aware she’s fond of killing her mates.

Of course, there’s always the theory that he took a look at the future career of his Ex-Ghandi boss – in tripe like Bloodrayne -and took the opportunity to cop off with a naked Natasha Hendstridge while it was going.

and of course…this entire movie:

There you have it, from crashing ships to horny zombies, these are movies that work way better than a cold shower! Anyone would think the marleting men had realised that Sex and Death sell, to the point where we can’t possibly keep track – let us know which ones we missed!

Finally arriving in cinemas after its Sundance premiere, HumpDay takes the old theory about homoeroticism in buddy movies to its logical extreme – and is partially successful.

When two college friends reunite after years apart, it doesn’t take much for the bohemian Andrew (Mark Duplass) to convince Ben (Josh Leonard) that the American dream isn’t all it’s cracked up to be and drag him along to a boozed up party where ‘creatives’ (or at least, their Hollywood avatars) smoke, drink and give pan-sexuality a try out.

During the course of the evening, the central odd couple decide to enter an amateur porn contest (as you do), Seattle’s real-life annual HumpDay, where contestants are asked to ‘take back’ porn from the silicone-implant brigade. The catch? They’re entering the Gay section.

As a comic premise, it does have mileage, with some engaging banter as the two alternately egg each other on or try to get each other to chicken out, while Ben’s exchanges with unsuspecting wife Anna (a standout Alycia Delmore) provide some of the few laugh-out loud lines in the movie. Unfortunately the mumble-core scripting and some uncomfortable gender stereotyping spoil things, with Lynn Shelton’s script trying too hard to satirise the modern American male sense of self, when a dumber and sillier approach may have worked better.

It’s not often that you find yourself arguing for a movie to be stupider, but while there are some funny lines, many jokes fall flat or are offensive as if the film itself is overcompensating.

It’s still successful in some ways, showing how the straight-laced Ben is still wild and kerazy at heart, while Andrew may not be the all out hippy he pretends to be, but it’s too little too late. Finding out that people behave differently in different situations is hardly groundbreaking, and once the focus is off the porn and onto the talk, it’s difficult to maintain any interest. While the notion of fluid sexuality and monogamy is given a once over, the film tends to rely overly on sitcom chatter rather than – excuse the pun – taking things deeper.

It could be a comment on male hang-ups, as the short scene with two bisexual women is far more incisive than the endless dialogue between the two leads, or it could be a case of a female writer unfairly relying on male stereotypes. When done right, the gender war can provide a poignant and very funny battleground, but any battle requires a sense of daring to win – and that’s sadly lacking here.

Gay for pay? No way.