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Hunter Lee
Hunter Lee

Dead Rising 1: Watchtower High Quality

Neil Genzlinger of The New York Times wrote that the film may be rewarding for fans of the video game but is otherwise "a time waster devoid of the wit and depth of other walking-dead fare currently available".[10] Pat Torfe of Bloody Disgusting wrote that the film adheres too closely to the video game for non-fans to enjoy.[11] Gareth Jones of Dread Central rated it 3.5/5 stars and called it respectful enough of the genre to draw in non-fans.[12] Jones and Torfe both praised Riggle's acting,[11][12] but Genzlinger said that it should have been funnier than it was.[10]

Dead Rising 1: Watchtower


i remember when the first dead rising game came out back in 2006 and i was so fucking psyched to play it, i legit played that game like 10 times from start to finish and i had always wanted a movie based on it...

Before The Lord of the Rings conquered the world, Peter Jackson's aspirations were much more niche but by no means any less ambitious. Braindead (a.k.a. Dead Alive) is quite simply one of the most entertainingly disgusting times you can have while watching a movie.

This zombie comedy follows a group of elementary school teachers dealing with a school full of undead kids and, while that definitely doesn't sound like the firmest basis for a comedy, the central trio of Elijah Wood, Alison Pill, and Rainn Wilson gives a distinct sitcom vibe to the weary formula.

Zombies still eat people but the conventions of the genre are toyed with when Nicholas Hoult's undead heartthrob, who provides a droll narration to the audience about the mundane existence and inner thoughts of a zombie, falls for a living woman and attempts to win her heart.

Athor, lord of the Keep, was dead, long beard bloody from the wounds he'd taken. Ryke had seen him fall, and in the haze of the fight had expected Tornor castle and tower and walls to waver and fall with him in the shock ... But it had not happened. The walls were still there. All the men of Ryke's watch were dead. They lay outside the gates they had died defending, frozen into the uncaring snow. Ryke pictured the women from the village coming in spring to dig the bodies of their husbands and sons from the loosening ground.

That man stepped forward and dragged Ryke up. He had big ungentle hands. Ryke leaned against the wall until his legs stopped shaking. Col watched him with detached interest. The man did not look like a warlord. Everyone knew that war came from the north. It was born in rock, and it toughened in the constant strife, now at truce, between Arun and the country yet farther north, Anhard-over-mountain. Athor of Tornor, watchful for signs of the Anhard raiders, had paid no heed to the rumors that reached the Keep through the southern traders, about a mercenary chieftain rising out of the peaceful farms of Arun, the shining golden grainfields, the Galbareth. Yet this man had warred on wartrained Tornor in winter, and won.

They went through the inner gatehouse, under the iron teeth of the portcullis. Guards stood at attention. Several of them wore spoil marked with the fire-emblem of Zilia Keep, the easternmost of the Keeps, three days ride from Tornor. Ryke did not know what had happened to Ocel, lord of that castle, and to his family. He had a big family. Probably they were dead. More guards swarmed in the outer ward, between the walls. One carried an armful of spent arrows. He held them by the quill end, spoiling the set of the fletch. Southerners knew naught of shooting. Ryke wondered if the Keep could have held out longer with more arrows. The Keep's fletchers had kept the castle supplied with hunting shafts. But since the making of the truce they had more or less ceased crafting war arrows.

Over the wall, Athor's banners snapped in the wind, a red eight-pointed star on a white-field. As Ryke watched, a small dark figure wormed up the pole and cut the banner down. Ryke looked away, aware that Col was watching him. The cuffs dragged painfully at his wrists. They walked along the south wall. The dog cage sat in the sun at the foot of the watchtower. It was a small stockade with a linen awning shading it. Athor had built it for his wolfhound bitch and her pups. There were no dogs in it now. Errel lay sprawled across the dung-spattered stone, covered by a filthy blanket. His face was blue with cold and cut up about the mouth. His eyes were closed. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest told Ryke that he was living. 041b061a72


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