Adam Sorg is a frustrated artist. Beyond his cheapola success, he can't find the right shade of red for his paintings, that is until his girlfriend gouges her hand. Then, like any true artiste, his deep, creative desires come gushing forth. But his girlfriend is quick to recognize the morbid limitations of such a body-based art: "The problem with using your own blood is that the undertaker will have to finish it." Here, Color Me Blood Red becomes the sanguine story of a demented painter scavenging for sickly art supplies. Shockmeister Herschel Gordon Lewis, the sixties guru of gore, renders his artist as a self-absorbed beatnik who'll go to any lengths to satisfy his artsy impulses. Along the way, we're treated to some hipster berets, fey cigarette holders, and a gallery filled with incredibly kitschy canvases. Satirizing the clichéd artist who sacrifices his life's blood for art, Lewis's creator simply takes art in vein.-Steve Seid