This is an updated version of a review that was originally published in Bleeding Skull! A 1990s Trash-Horror Odyssey.
I was in fifth grade when I ran for vice president of the student council. Not president, mind you, just vice president. I was ambitious, but not that ambitious. I thought that being president was too much work. I wasn’t even sure what the responsibilities of a fifth-grade class president were—when to hold Silly Hat Day? Choosing a theme for the spring dance? Whatever the presidential duties entailed, it was far better and safer to run for vice president, a noble and prestigious position, without all the high-stakes decisions and political drama. It takes a certain type of mildly motivated person to run for vice president. And that person was me. Plus two other people. I wasn’t sure what the vice president’s duties entailed either, but I did know that I’d have to sit in council meetings and listen. That’s it. Maybe I’d nod occasionally or say thought-provoking things like, “That’s a good idea!” or “What do you guys think?” or “OK!” So really, as vice president I’d just sit back and wait for the highly unlikely event where the class president couldn’t fulfill his or her duties due to death or dismemberment.
I didn’t get elected.
Maybe the student body could sense my weak motives. Maybe my silly hat just wasn’t silly enough. Or, more likely, I just wasn’t popular enough. But either way, my political career ended with a whimper. The elected student body president and vice president ended up being highly impassioned, dynamic, go-getting, straight-A students. The theme they chose for the spring dance was “Enchantment Under the Sea,” an allusion to the school dance in Back to the Future. It was a good theme, actually. I certainly wouldn’t have come up with that myself. I didn’t go to the spring dance because I had a flute recital.
J.R. Bookwalter is the student body class president. He is passionate. He is ambitious. He is driven. He takes himself and his work seriously. He has a tsunami of ideas and the skills and ingenuity to pull them all off with little or no resources. He is a leader with a vision, which is painstakingly carried out with a detailed plan that has just enough flexibility to adapt to changing circumstances and sapped budgets. He also does the homework; each stunt and effect in his movies is carefully researched and executed. Bookwalter is not someone who runs for student body vice president; he knows it’s a vague, worthless position with no influence. No. He runs for president on a thoughtful platform, even though it’s fifth grade and no one gives a shit. But he gives a shit. And he wins because everyone respects him. Then he pulls off something really special, really memorable for all of the students. And in this case, it’s Ozone.
A junkie skulks around dark streets looking to score. A dealer with a chewed-up face gives him a tiny glass vial of what appears to be dirt: “This is my brand new concoction. This stuff will blow your mind.” The junkie dumps it into a spoon and goes to work. He injects it and then something happens. His head explodes. Consider his mind blown! The year is 1995. Heroin’s all the rage but there’s a new kid in town, and it’s called Ozone. If it doesn’t detonate your head, then it transforms you into a strung-out deformed zombie with an insatiable need to maim. “Ozone gives you the power to live again.”
Eddie and Mike are two detectives on a stakeout. They do everything cops do on a stakeout—they drink coffee, complain about snitches, and discuss shitting in the woods. They’re looking for a drug kingpin named DeBartolo. A scuffle ensues and Mike gets his hand severed. He disappears, though he leaves a finger or two behind. Meanwhile, Eddie gets stuck with a syringe by a junkie: “Have a nice trip, asshole!” For some reason, Eddie doesn’t quite transform. Instead he has visions of dissolving into a pool of blood in the office bathroom. Red is streaming everywhere. Eventually Eddie tracks down DeBartolo in—where else—an abandoned house in Akron, Ohio. Now Eddie must fight the kingpin and a murder-hungry horde of Ozone zombies in order to save his own life and the community he has vowed to protect and serve.
Ozone is a low-budget triumph on every technical level. The editing is quick and expert, and the photography is excellent—the camera swoops, tracks, and jumps. The plot, dialogue, and even acting are decent and engaging on their own. But, there is one element that propels this film from great to greatest: the kingpin. He looks exactly like Jabba the Hutt strung out on every single drug available at CVS, including the birth control pills and the morning-after pills. He’s got an oversized head with deep-set eyes, thick jowls, a large quivering belly, wideset man-boobs, thick arms covered in misshapen bumps and scales, and three-pronged claws. It is a grotesque beast to behold, one where you gasp in sheer amazement. Bookwalter’s genius shines even brighter here than in The Sandman. Ozone gushes. It oozes. It explodes. It squirts. It jiggles. It literally bursts into flames. Bookwalter throws in every single effect culled from his exhaustive archive of DIY horror magazines and books. There are legitimately dangerous explosions, chunky gore, rivers of blood, latex masks laden with moist warts, monster transformations, zombie make-up effects, and a punk with a Mohawk made from a circular saw blade. So, this movie has pretty much everything. While the effects are DIY, they have a professional, detailed polish. This isn’t a movie where a director just used what was readily available—out-of-the-box masks that are pre-stained with blood and ready to go. This is a movie where a director literally made everything out of nothing.
Ozone is like looking at the Grand Canyon; you’re dumbfounded at the splendor and glory, and you realize slowly that it is something extraordinary on Earth. You think, goddamn, Earth is fucking amazing and you may or may not shed a tear. Ozone is something you must see before you die.
