Sex, Drugs, and Satanic Evil! “My Master Satan: 3 Tales of Drug Fueled Violence” review!

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Allister, Bubba, and Charlie are friends.  They’re friends who do drugs together.  They’re friends who do drugs together and steal from people.  They’re friends who do drugs together, steal from people, and kill people.  Allister, Bubba, and Charlie are serial killers.  Serial killers on a drug fueled killing spree without limitations or exceptions, not even some of their closest drug distributing friends are exempt from their murderous wrath.  Being serial killers isn’t their only disturbing hobby as they dig up the graves, lay torch to corpses, and torture-to-kill innocent, doughy eyed animals.  Deep rooted depravities clutch so fiercely to the fragments of their tattered souls that the Devil himself can communicate to them through the hallucinations of a bad trip and, after that little glimpse of hell, hailing Satan and spilling blood feels too good to pass up on command.
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Underground filmmaker Dakota Bailey helms a rough and insensitive “My Master Satan: 3 Tales of Drug Fueled Violence” that’s extremely gratuitous in it’s violence and purposefully plotless to be episodic in Allister’s and his ghastly friends’ grisly acts. Labeled as an anthology, “My Master Satan” is suppose to intertwine the individual stories of Bubba (Matt Marshall), Charlie, and Allister into a single entity, but the Bailey written story is more literal than described. The stories circle more around Allister, the glue that pieces the story together, and his interactions with Bubba and Charlie rather than with Bubba and Charlie saturating the scenes with their own segments. Allister is the kind of friend to have in your corner and not piss off; he’s merciless and nihilistic, burning to rip to shreds anyone and anything for the simple joy of delivering pain in the name of Satan. The supporting characters come and go in and out of the story, but seem to motivate Allister, Bubba, and Charlie with tasks of drug dealer’s assassinations and perversions along with conversing, briefly, with other just as insane homicidal friends.
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Bailey intentionally downgrades the video quality to start the ambient hallmarks of an underground shock feature on a VHS format; a film we may experience and see from Unearthed Films distributed features similar, yet watered down versions, of “Slaughter Vomit Girls or the “Guinea Pig” installments or films that were shot by a Hi8 or VHS camcorder made gloriously from cult favorite directors like Brad Sykes, Donald Farmer, or Tim Ritter. Though the video quality purposefully sets the disconsolate tone, the two-third inaudible dialogue audio negates the desired brazen effect from the lack of good mic placement, leaving our ears more toward the screen than our eyes. However, Bailey surely epitomizes the film as a clandestine venture into shock horror that will only find a niche market for those who adore sadomasochistic ultra-violent behavior accompanied with a death metal soundtrack. Luciferian Insectus wasn’t affected by the audio and paired well with the scenes.
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The real shocker to take away from “My Master Satan” is the lack of good practical effects that usually coincide with a micro-to-zero budget project. Underground movies usually require gallons of blood, mise-en-scene implemented extreme violence, or to somehow find a way to stand out amongst the herd of the countless independent filmmakers. A high school biology class skeleton and an actor having simulated sex with a blow up doll doesn’t speak highly of the film’s caliber and won’t cut the mustard. The editing techniques are shaky at best and, even sometimes, relied to heavily on the words on a screen exposition to help the viewer along.
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“My Master Satan: 3 Tales of Drug Fueled Violence” feels like a labor of love from Dakota Bailey and his crew of supporters; however, the film staggers along with unoriginal content that just becomes part of the collective. The intention to unnerve is evident, but the execution didn’t connect nor could the story spark any interest. Not even the autoerotic scene aided in produced a jump to unsettle. The hindrance of dialogue audio loses much of the film’s plotted course, especially when Little Blunt sends Allister on death calls. Not even Bailey’s baritone and slightly raspy voice could be heard at times. Again, an underground feature from Denver, Colorado needs polishing, but shows heart and initiative to relay hurt and allegiance to the dark Lord.

Buy “My Master Satan” on DVD today @ Amazon.com

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