Being a nostalgia fiend has some advantages. I’m not just rehashing old material you’ve probably seen or read a billion times before, spewing the muck and bile that’s been regurgitated and swallowed down again only to be regurgitated once more. Hardly do you see another, run-of-the-mill review about Scream, Friday the 13 VIII: Jason Takes Manhatten or Bride of Chucky. Most horror fans are familiar with the bodies of these works; my realm of interest scratches at the indie circuit and those lesser known films that, perhaps, folks are aware of but never seen, or have witnessed them in the past and their minds can’t piece together what that film was in the present. The latter happened to me with an old Frank Darabont TV movie Buried Alive. You know Darabont, right? He only did some of the most prolific work of the last decade and half adapting works from Stephen King and kicking off the hit AMC TV show The Walking Dead!
Clint Goodman lives a humble town with his high maintenance wife Joanna. Her love for Clint has been long gone ever since he constructed, what he thought, was their two story dream home in his home town. Joanna strings along an affair with a city doctor; they plot to kill Clint with a fish secretion that causes a fatal heart attack. When Joanna pulls off the caper, she collects what she thinks is her dues: sells the house, sells the business and is ready to leave town to start her new life. However, Clint awakens. Trapped inside his own coffin, he manages dig himself out, discover Joanna’s dastardly doings and plans his own revenge against his wife and her lover.
It's Bloggin Evil! 