Frost
(2001)
review by Head Cheeze

Based on a comic book that I'd never heard of, and written and directed by creator, Kevin Van Hook (who may have also funded the film as well seeing as though it looks like it was shot in his backyard), Frost is fifty percent action film, fifty percent horror film, and one hundred crap.

Meet Jack Frost (played by Manzenares, who is a most unsightly actor and made me wince with his every gesture, line, and breath) a soldier of fortune fighting Russians in Afghanistan with his elite team of third rate actors. When a group of Afghani rebels (who look amazingly caucasion) bring Jack a Russian who they claim has been drinking the blood of their villagers, Jack's best friend Nat (Lister) get's bit. Soon he displays super human abilities, like the ability to hear a crappily rendered CGI Helicopter approach their camp. We flash forward one year, and Jack has left the globe trotting S.O.F. life behind to focus on his studies (Jack appears to be as cultured as a gelatinous pearl, but we're supposed to believe he's an expert in Italian renaissance art) and moonlighting as a (ham)burgular. Meanwhile, news spreads that his buddies were slaughtered in Central America, and Nat's wife wants Jack to help find out if he's alive. Jack needn't worry, however, since Nat's already sucking his way up the west coast in a blood fueled rage that only Jack can stop.....TO THE EXTREME!!!!!

Frost succeeds only in that it could inspire a roomful of mutes to achieve rudimentary levels of speech to exclaim how awful this film really is. To that effect, Frost could prove useful. As entertainment, however, it stinks like a pig farm in July. Kevin Van Hook is supposedly a comic book artist, which would suggest a reasonable amount of creative ingenuity, but the movie looks as though it were directed by an OSHA training film crew. It's stunningly unattractive and bland, as is it's completely ill-advised lead, Jeff Manzenares, who exudes all of the sex appeal and charisma of a pile of rat corpses. Gary Busey pops in and out of the film, spouting random nuggets of wisdom, as Micah, Jack's blind mentor. Busey plays blind like an albino Stevie Wonder, and alternates between incomprehensible muttering and wildly improvised monologues that would be hilarious if the actor didn't look as though he were literally decaying before our very eyes. His story is a sad one, indeed, and his inclusion here is the cinematic equivolent of wheeling your Parkinson's addled grandfather out to greet the family at Christmas. The only actor who seems to even be aware that he's in a film is Lister, but that doesn't mean he's any good. He's sort of the happy medium between Busey's insane ramblings and Manzanares donut induced celluloid coma, and serves as a reminder that this isn't a documentary on mental illness.

I couldn't get this movie out of my DVD player quick enough.