Dr. Storm employs cackling attendants, brutish motorcycle thugs and stern matrons whose medical credentials seem dubious at best.
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What begins as an innocent attempt at sexual assault and victim shaming turns into something rather ugly.
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One never expects to find much present-day relevance in a jolly little whodunnit produced over seventy years ago.
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The whole business of fiction and reality gets considerably blurry and it’s hard for a regular Johnnie to know what’s what.
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The audience is treated to spheres in eyeballs, spheres for eyeballs, brains in spheres and, marvel of marvels, golden spheres.
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Blood Fest addresses a problem that has plagued brainy terror scribes since time immemorial.
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