Blood Fest addresses a problem that has plagued brainy terror scribes since time immemorial.
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All manner of inconveniences may arise if a burgeoning hellmouth is allowed to blossom, the worst of which being that no living creature shall find peace in death ever again.
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Max expresses his affections as any lovelorn fellow might, ensuring that he and his beloved are regularly forced into uncomfortably close confines and carving her name rather skillfully into his arm.
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On the darker side of the spectrum, you have the murdering rapists, who are really all sorts of bad when you put the old skull to the matter.
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And this is the root of Uwe Bowl’s genius -- by depriving me of my most basic expectations, I was reduced to my basest self.
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Feels frightfully relevant at a time when many people seem to suspect the presence of “false news” among trusted outlets of reportage.
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