In his jet black Shelby Super Snake, vampire slayer Shawn Black (Michael Matthias) takes to the road in search of a group of bloodsuckers led by his brother Cain (Vinnie Jones). On the way, he meets a couple of shallow clubber babes (who we are presumably supposed to care about because they have great tits), before teaming up with unlikely preacher Father Roy (Michael Madsen) to storm the vampires' headquarters—the very same nightclub at which the aforementioned big breasted hotties are now partying.
Just because someone has spent decades behind the scenes blowing stuff up, crashing cars, and staging fights, it does not automatically mean that they have what it takes to direct a whole film (even if that film is to be filled with action). Case in point: Charlie Picerni, whose vampiric romp The Bleeding is suitably explosive at times (the Road Warrior-inspired chase scene at the finalé is reasonably impressive), but lacking in virtually every other department.
Picerni's ham fisted direction results in a chaotic, plot less, and joyless mish-mash of half-baked ideas and hackneyed action movie clichés that irritate far more than they entertain—but Picerni shouldn't take all the blame: Lance Lane's awful 'script' must have taken all of a lazy Sunday afternoon down the pub to throw together; Vin Diesel wannabe Matthias displays all the charisma of a sponge; Michael Madsen simply goes through the motions; DMX is DMX ('nuff said); Vinnie Jones delivers his cornball dialogue in a manner that, if there was any justice, would kill his acting career dead on the spot; and whoever did the editing clearly hadn't been taking their Ritalin.
Just because someone has spent decades behind the scenes blowing stuff up, crashing cars, and staging fights, it does not automatically mean that they have what it takes to direct a whole film (even if that film is to be filled with action). Case in point: Charlie Picerni, whose vampiric romp The Bleeding is suitably explosive at times (the Road Warrior-inspired chase scene at the finalé is reasonably impressive), but lacking in virtually every other department.
Picerni's ham fisted direction results in a chaotic, plot less, and joyless mish-mash of half-baked ideas and hackneyed action movie clichés that irritate far more than they entertain—but Picerni shouldn't take all the blame: Lance Lane's awful 'script' must have taken all of a lazy Sunday afternoon down the pub to throw together; Vin Diesel wannabe Matthias displays all the charisma of a sponge; Michael Madsen simply goes through the motions; DMX is DMX ('nuff said); Vinnie Jones delivers his cornball dialogue in a manner that, if there was any justice, would kill his acting career dead on the spot; and whoever did the editing clearly hadn't been taking their Ritalin.