Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; Truck Turner isn’t just what we call Brian when Tacos-On-Wheels runs out of Baja sauce. Welcome back suckas, to the Internet’s freshest bad movie column; this month featuring a funky twist. This is Blaxploitation History Month: Sequel Edition. Every week in February, we’ll be rolling out another super bad blaxploitation sequel that’s so whack we can’t help but dig it. We’ll lay down some cold-blooded mockery on said film, going upside its head with its own numerous faults, but then will jump back, kiss ourselves, and get hip to all the reasons we think these movies are dy-no-mite. To top it off, we’ll serve you with a badass, and bad for you, snack food item themed to the movie.

Today’s jive turkey: The Human Tornado.

What Makes It Bad?

The Human Tornado is the sequel to Dolemite. How that sentence isn’t scribbled on some Mayan temple wall next to references of fallen empires and circling comets is beyond me. But as it is 2012, it seemed all-the-more appropriate to crack the seal on this doomsday capsule. Dolemite, as you recall (because your therapy clearly isn’t working), is the story (read: slapped-together case of visual Tourettes) of a lovable pimp sent to prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Upon release, he takes his revenge through a series of half-finished scenes, costume changes, and lyrical freestyle sessions in which he proceeds to tie us all up and mercilessly rap us…rap us right in the ears. But clearly, this is a man whose ineffable charm and epic heroic qualities could not be contained in just one movie. Enter The Human Tornado…exit your will to live.

The movie kicks off with one of the most spastic, nonsensical title sequences history of spastic, nonsensical title sequences; a history encompassing nearly 300 years if I’m not lying. Every person credited is bestowed their own individual font style and color; choking up the screen with silly and giving the distinct impression that The Human Tornado is set on the rough Streets of Sesame. The film sees the flabtastic hero Dolemite working as a nightclub comedian by evening and an expensive manwhore by day. True to the spirit of what really sets the Dolemite franchise apart from, you know, real movies, the “writer” of The Human Tornado both celebrates the familiar ways in which Rudy Ray Moore was ill-equipped for stardom and creates entirely new mediums to further explore his untalentedness. Turns out he’s just as inept at stand-up comedy as he is at being naked. So he’s hired by the desperate(ly unattractive) wife of the local sheriff for clumsy, well-feed sexulations. The sheriff, whose racial sensitivity makes Buford T. Justice look Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall, is alerted that a party of non-whites is occurring and rallies a posse of plain-clothes clansmen to break it up. He finds his hatchet-faced beloved in bed with a far-more-nude-than-any-of-us-needed-to-see Dolemite and shoots her in the upper face. Dolemite is of course framed for the shooting, and blamed (arguably rightfully) for the guy he totally does shoot, and must go on the run; hijacking a flamboyantly gay man’s car and heading to California to meet up with his old ally Queen Bee. You know, hero stuff.

This represents the closest The Human Tornado ever comes to having a plot. Let me be clear, I’ve seen plenty of non-movies in my time, films that abandon the tedious, mainstream constraint of a narrative throughline in favor of a pastiche of formless visual ejaculations. The first film is a great example of this, in particular the moment wherein the film grinds to halt in order to give Rudy Ray Moore a pulpit from which to deliver his hip-hop sermon from the Book of Jo-Mama. What I’ve never seen is several non-films crammed within one singular non-film. The Human Tornado plays out less like a movie and more like a variety show, featuring extended sequences of Broadway dancers, lounge singers, comedians, and Central American nunchuckers; no part of that sentence is a joke. It was as if the director thought, “if we load up the movie with people who are good at things that have nothing to do with the film, subconsciously the audience will be fooled into thinking we’re good at making movies!” There is also a subplot about an old witch woman who operates a torture chamber in which two unfortunate ladies find themselves trapped. Apparently the filmmakers were very concerned that the one demographic this franchise had not yet catered to was burgeoning serial killers.  Poking its head through the thicket of nonsense is some shoehorned story about Dolemite taking down the mob, but only because the writer was required by blaxploitation law to include it.

The showcasing of people who are all very skilled at things that don’t belong in this movie is aligned with scenes of things that make no sense regardless of context; all them proving that The Human Tornado is sexually charged…or rather should be charged under a number of sex crimes statutes. The police chief in L.A., where Dolemite is hiding out, calls in his “best man” to track him down. When he calls this “best man,” the detective in question is engaged in what appears to be the rape of a female officer. He pauses to take the call before returning to his twisted application of law enforcedsex. And then of course, there’s the scene in which we see Dolemite seduce a woman, watch as she gets undressed, and then get down to some real dirty exercise. No that’s not a euphemism, they actually get very nude and take in a few reps with the Nordic track apparatus hanging above the bed. In addition to illustrating the writer’s unresolved body issues, scientists now credit this scene with the discovery of the cure for sex addiction.

But the weirdest thing in the movie, and high in the running for the single weirdest eyeball intrusion to which I’ve ever subjected myself, is the point at which The Human Tornado splits off into this tangential dream sequence/sex-terrogation scene. It’s downright arthouse, and by that I mean it’s initiated by hideous ART and looks like it takes place in a carnival funHOUSE. Dolemite arrives at the home of the mob boss’ wife with the intention of humping some information out of her as to the location of the missing girls (the ones being imprisoned in the torture chamber of JiggaSaw. He masquerades as an artist and shows her a velvet painting of an interracial couple embracing. As he anticipates, this of course sends her into an uncontrollable sexual frenzy that causes her to not only bang Dolemite, but all the while fantasize about a circus stage in which she lies on three giant wooden blocks that spell out the word bed as a bevvy of black Adonises file out of a trunk marked “toy box.” I really do wish I was making this up because it means I wouldn’t have had to actually witness it on screen. I’m not going to touch the sociopolitical implications of a white woman keeping several black men in a box, but these men then take turns hurling themselves wang-first down a slide and onto the eager woman’s naked body. It’s either the most avant-garde or absolute worst porn you’ve ever seen depending on how drunk/horny/self-loathing you feel.

Why I Love It!

The Human Tornado‘s function as a film is clear to me now, to make Dolemite look like Citizen Goddamn Kane. The filmmakers must have taken stock of the bad sound and even worse martial arts of Dolemite, because they strive to fashion ways to correct both issues…failing spectacularly at doing so. To correct the nearly inaudible line delivery of Dolemite, they decided to ADR nearly every single line of dialogue in The Human Tornado and lay it over footage shot like a home movie. What this leads to is a film that seems like a documentary about mentally disturbed people. We get scenes like the one wherein Dolemite comes out of a shoe store, clearly not moving his lips, and the ADR has him saying, “great new shoes for my feet…now I can get me something sweet to eat.” It happens all through the movie and reminds me of those segments on Mr. Rodgers’ Neighborhood where he would tour a cheese factory or get a root canal and would then narrate his own adventure after-the-fact. I know it’s been said by every respected film historian you’ve ever read, but I’ll go ahead and reiterate that The Human Tornado is even more hysterical to watch if you image that he’s one of Mr. Rodgers’ neighbors. “I’m comin’ for ya, Mr. MuthaFUCKin’ McFeeley.”

As to the martial arts in The Human Tornado, it isn’t so much that the fight sequences are “better”as much as they are “considerably sped up so you don’t notice how bad they are.” Rudy Ray Moore didn’t get any more skillful at throwing a punch and making it look remotely believable so they just had him do it slower and then went back and hit the fast-forward button in the editing booth. This not-so-brilliant cheat ends up defining the whole damn movie; the “speed” with which Dolemite “strikes” is what “earns” him the nickname the “human” tornado. The result is that we, the audience, are left to conclude that that he learned his ancient fighting style from revered kung-fu master Benny Hill. Despite Human Tornado‘s best efforts to make its fight scenes unwatchable, they are actually a lot of fun; aided in no small way by Rudy Ray Moore’s combat grunts…or rather his impressions of Bruce Lee possessed by the demon Pazuzu. I also find it hilarious that, realizing that they still had that mixing board anyway, the editors actually pause the film, rewind it, and replay certain scenes. My favorite of these being the one wherein they replay a stunt in which Rudy Ray Moore jumps head-first down a hill. During the replay, he espouses in voice-over, “y’all don’t believe I jumped, so watch this good shit!” Unfortunately we see the shot again from the same obscuring distance, providing no further evidence that the person jumping is actually Rudy Ray Moore.

Once again, a blaxploitation movie as bad as The Human Tornado finds one level on which to excel: the theme song. It’s basically just a constant restating of the film’s title over and over, with a few absrud lyrics mumbled in between, but if you’re going to be the personification of a natural disaster, there are only like four of five better choices than the tornado. I’m sorry, but if you listen to the opening song here and don’t aspire to be a human tornado yourself, or at the very least a “bad motor scooter,” I’m not sure we can be friends anymore. Also, listen very closely for the line in the song that sounds an awful lot like Rudy Ray declaring himself to be a “notarizer.” He actually says that he’s been “known to rise up,” but it took me several viewings to realize he wasn’t actually letting me know he was available to sign off on these alterations to my will. I’m leaving everything to the Dolemite Foundation for Talent-Challenged Actors.

Junkfood Pairing: Texas Tornado Cake

As I currently live in Texas, and this movie is called The Human Tornado, my first choice for the junkfood pairing was of course creme brulee, but then I remembered that I’m still not quite sure what creme brulee is so instead I fell back on the slightly less on-the-nose Texas Tornado Cake. Sorry, I know it makes no sense. As Rudy Ray would say, “spin this cake around inside your mouth, before Dolemite makes you laugh so hard you spit it out…th.”

Rot your teeth with more Junkfood Cinema

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; the jiveness of our turkey is a byproduct of its being deep-vat chocolate-fried. Welcome friends, to the mean streets of Schlocksburgh. Every week, we pick on some fast-talking, upstart bad movie out to make a name for himself, roughing him up with sucka punches of merciless mockery. But then, just when we think we’ve won, that movie kicks in the doors of our gentlemen’s club, The Cynical Shit Heel, and proceeds to blow us away with two well-aimed barrels of undeniable amiability. Then, in acknowledgment that this brash movie from the block now unquestionably owns our territory (and our hearts), we humbly offer a tribute in the form of a funky, themed snack food item.

It’s finally February again…is a sentence few people are wont to utter. But here at Junkfood Cinema, February means one thing and one thing only: Blaxploitation History Month. That’s right, it’s a grand tradition that, to this day, has somehow failed to get us banned from the Internet forever. Some might charge that our adoration for this controversial subgenre reeks of poor taste. I for one resent the implication that we here at JFC have any taste whatsoever. I won’t go into the sociopolitical critiques of blaxploitation because, well frankly it’s boring. But I can tell you that I legitimately love these films and I am so grateful for the actors and characters to which they’ve introduced me. Given that this is our third annual celebration of blaxploitation, I’d say we’ve effectively established this feature as its own franchise. Therefore, for the rest of the month, we will be paying homage to blaxploitation sequels; to the cult titles who experienced a longevity as inexplicable as…the fact that this is our 3rd Annual Blaxploitation History Month.

This week’s fine foxy mess: Scream Blacula Scream.

What Makes It Bad?

As you may recall, Blacula was the blaxploitation version of the popular horror icon Scott Bakcula. Wait a minute, I think I may have that wrong. Quick, everyone leap back to just before I said that and I’ll try again. Quantum Leap jokes are to topical comedy as tapioca pudding is to toothpaste. Blacula is of course the creative recasting of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Because let’s face it, Stoker was a stuffy old honky. In the first film, an African prince was cursed by the original, cracker Drac with his own thirst for human blood. Unfortunately, where Dracula got to live in a castle and have many sexy gothic encounters (sort of a male Elvira, or Malevira, but without the comedy or boobs), Blacula was confined to his coffin until a pair of flamboyantly gay antique dealers released him; slightly less grandiose a story. Blah blah blah, blood rage through the streets of L.A., blah blah melted by sunlight.

But then, thanks to a combination of mystic rituals and box office witchcraft, the super smooth, bad muthasucka returns. The story goes that there’s a feud within an L.A. voodoo sect, because we all know you can’t throw a headless chicken in L.A. without hitting a feuding voodoo sect. So, the  queen of this sect dies and plumb forgets to name a successor. Her son therefore declares himself the rightful heir to her kingdom, but the voodoo counsel thinks him too ambitious and seeks to install more reasonable leadership. It’s like Game of Thrones except it’s blaxploitation and nothing like Game of Thrones. So the son, his juju underoos all in a bunch, does what any power-hungry vengeance-seeking man would do…purchase a bag of bones from a shack-dwelling magical hobo. In his palatial mansion, he performs one of the sillier black magic (which in this movie is just called magic) rituals I’ve ever seen. The ritual involves fire, chanting, and a common dove poorly painted blue to make it look tropical; the actual effect is that the dove looks like a rabid college football fan on his way to a CooCLA game. Overall, it’s so silly as to barely qualify as voodoo, it’s more like voo-don’t.

But wouldn’t you know it, the bones belonged to Blacula and he returns to life much to everyone’s surprise, including the man preforming the ritual. So now that he’s back, what is Blacula’s ultimate plan for world domination? How will he take his revenge on the cold new world that orchestrated his demise? Brace yourself for this because he’s gonna…relax in this mansion for the foreseeable future. All he does is hang around that house and build an army of vampire followers; an army he intends to use for the big nothing he has planned. I’m not saying Scream Blacula Scream is too self-contained, what I am saying is that it’s like watching The Real World Snoozeville. He ventures outdoors a couple of times, to be accosted by pimps and fundamentally fail to grasp the concept of prostitution, but other than that he’s a bit of a homebody. It’s truly unfortunate that he chose for his headquarters the one house in L.A. that happens to to have ready supply of perfectly-cut wooden stakes piled up outside just waiting to be discovered by the invading police force. It’s oddly reminiscent of the time Wolfman bought that charming English cottage…next to a silver mine. Nards! Somewhere around the hour mark, he finally reveals that his grand design is to use a voodoo priestess to remove all traces of vampirism from his body so he can return to his African nation where his people will then embrace him. I guess I’m just not seeing how his people are more likely to accept a century-old undead Prince than they would be to accept a century-old undead prince who could transform into a bat using terrible special effects.

Luckily, while cooking up this scheme, Blacula encounters plenty of genre conventions. At one point, a completely superfluous dance party, replete with awfully so-so soul music and supposedly hot booty, takes place in his honor. There is also a racist policeman that shows up at one point, though I have to admire the bold decision to cast a black actor as the obligatory white racist police officer. There are of course the jive-talking pimps to which I previously alluded, whose fashion is inspired by the excrement of Rerun from What’s Happening. And the mutton chops are back! Oh my Sam Jackson, if these aren’t the most epic mutton chops in cinema. The demarcation between Blacula’s calm public guise and his meaner blood-sucking side is that his mutton chops suddenly extend from his cheeks to his eye sockets; reclassifying them as murder chops. And one of my favorite era-inspired absurdities is that his first follower, the man who brought him back to life in the first place, more upset that he can no longer see his reflection in the mirror than he is about being a vampire. “A man’s GOT to see himself!” Yeah, clearly you’re the biggest problem, Carly Simon.

But where Scream Blacula Scream really shits the coffin is in its bookends. The first film had a wild, animated opening title sequence that, while costing them all of twelve dollars, discoed us into the right mindset for the film. The sequel however opts for a much blander approach. They zoom in to Blacula’s face and do that technicolor photo-sketch imagry that epitomized 70s television. Between that and the recorded-at-the-last-minute opening song, I either expected to hear a voice-over stating “This week, on Blacula…” or witness him introduced as a member of The Partridge Family. But at least the ending is good, right? Ha, I laugh at you. The ending involves a few murky alterations to both voodoo and vampire mythos and then it ends…just ends. Blacula does his titular scream as he looks to the ceiling, and the film, in keeping with its odd TV theme, actually concludes with a goddamn freeze frame. Looks like the A-Team wins again…if the “A” stands for “abrupt” and “astoundingly unsatisfying.”

Why I Love It!

In Scream Blacula Scream (at one point titled Blacula II: The Blackening…in my mind), the world’s foremost blood brutha is once again played by William Marshall. Marshall, who would go on to portray the King of Cartoons on Pee-Wee’s Playhouse, is even more badass in the sequel if that’s conceivable. His return is actually handled with creepy seriousness that strives to build upon the character’s mythology. We first see his profile in shadow, and we are immediately aware of his legacy; sort of the black vampire version of Alfred Hitchcock. His dedication to carrying himself with old-world esteem and distinguished charm not only makes the character impossibly likable, but also allows him to serve as a satirical juxtaposition to the 70s caricatures that canonized the genre. When the uppity pimp asks for all his bread or else he’ll kick his ass, Blacula calmly explains that he carries no bread with him and that the pimp should carefully consider the consequences of said kick to the posterior. Take that, rudeness!

In the sequel, Blacula tangles with the likes of the one and only Pam Grier. Grier plays the voodoo priestess tasked with crafting a ceremony to exorcise the vampirism from his body. She is sexy as ever, but she’s much softer and more vulnerable in this film than she is in Coffy or Foxy Brown. I don’t mean soft as in weak, I mean she is chiefly responsible for taking Blacula down, but she’s lovely and sweet and you fall in love with her for entirely different reasons. Plus, if you ever make the mistake of calling Pam Grier weak, she shows up in your home like Bloody Mary and puts two in your chest, and I am not about to invite that wrath upon me; fool me twice, shame on me. She’s really one of the selling points of the film. So, two of my favorite blaxploitation icons in one film? Do I really need to explain why this makes me love Scream Blacula Scream?

Where the original was a more traditional blaxploitation gimmick in which Dracula is merely thrown into an urban setting mostly for laughs, Scream Blacula Scream feels like a blaxploitation Hammer film. Blacula sets up his grand, pastoral domicile, even in the middle of the big city and seems to wait for his evil deeds to attract the attention of the villagers (i.e., the cops), which it eventually does. The police, stakes in hand, storm the castle mansion and Justin (the boyfriend of Pam Grier’s character) becomes the de facto Van Helsing. He busts in there like afroed Peter Cushing and dispatches the legion of the undead with a goddamn crossbow. Hammer time! And don’t forget about the army of busty female vampires…I know I won’t.

Junkfood Pairing: Cookies and Scream

This discontinued Halloween candy may be hard to get your hands on, but amounts to the best possible accompaniment for Scream Blacula Scream. Apart from the sharing of a pivotal word with the film’s title, Cookies and Scream combines candy and cookies for a eerily delicious symphony of sugary goodness. The combination of blaxploitation and horror, of William Marshall and Pam Grier, creates a similarly delicious symphony for our eyeballs.

Go suck the blood out of more Junkfood Cinema

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; if it wasn’t for bad luck, we’d have won that chicken-fried cake eating contest. You have walked under the ladder of decent web content, smashing a few mirrors on your way, and have crossed paths with the black cat of bad movie columns. Every week we step on the cracks of a schlocky film, breaking its back and spilling salt into its wounds. But then, as we’re spinning around three times like boozed-up dreidels, we offer the film the better part of a wishbone with our genuine love and affection. To put a fourth leaf on this clover, we will suggest a themed snack food item that is sure to hex your digestive track as badly as the movie hexes your IQ.

This week’s unlucky charm: Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan.

What Makes It Bad?

Jason Takes Manhattan is the heartwarming story of a sad, but sweet little lake mutant who, despite the fact that his face looks like soggy, unstirred oatmeal, travels to New York City to pursue his dream of becoming a singing, dancing Broadway star. At least, that’s what it should have been about. Instead it’s just the seventh time nobody learned a damn thing from the slaughtering of an entire summer camp in New Jersey. This eighth installment in the Tolkien-esque saga of Jason Voorhees proves that the deciduous forests surrounding Crystal Lake can no longer contain the masked maniac. He therefore boards a floating high school, kills nearly everyone on board, and ends up in New York City where, like Woody Allen and The Muppets before him, he stakes a rather presumptuous claim to the island of Manhattan. However, his escapades in this famed burrow would leave a trail of blood-splash and destruction the likes of which would not be seen again until Sex and the City 2. Funny thing about Jason’s taking of Manhattan, which mind you is only the title of the goddamn film: he doesn’t get there until the movie is more than halfway over. Perhaps the film should have been called Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes His Sweet Ass Time Getting To Manhattan.

So prior to his arrival in the Big Apple, what’s Jason up to? What is his travel itinerary? Well, first he has to be jump-started back to life like a Dodge Dart via an underwater powerline ripped apart by two horny teens who – despite knowing they are sailing along the shores of the site of a mass murder where COUNTLESS horny teens have been soundly dispatched – see no problem stopping for some ill-advised nook. So then he’s free and, according to one character, swims up river to the ocean. So yes, he begins his swim from Crystal LAKE…up RIVER (?)…to the…ocean. He then boards an ugly, rusted out Panamanian industrial freighter days away from being decommissioned. Did I say an ugly, rusted out Panamanian industrial freighter days away from being decommissioned? I meant a luxurious cruise ship apparently. This “cruise ship” is packed from stem to stern with “American” “high school” “teens” on their senior class trip. Evidently in order to afford the trip, Lakeview High (which don’t forget is on the river that leads to the ocean) had to share their cruise ship with a consignment of machine parts and a jovial cache of coke dealers eluding prosecution. This retro-fitted frigate could not be more alarmingly unfit for teen partying; the galley/dance floor featuring ceilings no more than 5ft in height and representing the first time a dancer was in real danger of headbutting a disco ball since our last Bring Your Favorite Gheorghe Muresan To The Party party.

So who does our weary traveler encounter on this ship? Only probably the worst collection of irritating youths who couldn’t even spell interesting if you spelled it for them. Our lead female is purportedly a writer, and yet through the entire movie the biggest word she uses is “experience.” Oh, yes, I kept track. In fact, it’s unfair to the denotation of the word to say that she ever has a conversation with any other character in the film, as that would suggest the involvement of two functioning brain stems. Her crippling inability to muster any audible responses makes nearly every  inviting statement a waste of breath and every direct question a rhetorical. Pretty much the exact opposite quality of what you should be looking for  in a movie heroine. She has this exceedingly silly extrasensory connection with Jason Voorhees, or at least little boy Jason Voorhees, which she apparently earned when she almost drowned in Crystal Lake. Two things. One, I don’t believe that anyone can have extrasensory anything until they demonstrates basic operational understanding of their regular human senses. And two, the reason she almost drowned was that the ghost of Jason pulled her under so obviously she already had this connection prior to earning it by almost drow…*chews off own foot to escape plot trap.*

We also have a “rocker” girl who “rocks” by playing “rock music” on a stereo and stabbing her chubby fingers at the strings on her guitar without making any sound while she whips her awful Joan Jett wig around like her head’s sole desire was to gain independence from her spine. Congratulations, you have effectively failed at grasping the core concept of both actual guitar-playing AND air-guitar-playing. Adding to the confederacy of doorknobs is the bitchy blond who tries to blackmail the teacher by revealing that her “biology project” is nothing more than her drawing body parts on her half-naked frame while another student videotapes it. “I want to make sure I’ve labeled all my organs correctly,” are the words that coyly fart from her stupid mouth. Well, sweetie, considering you only labeled the heart and the stomach I’d say you’re either bollocks with biology or you are a goddamn medical marvel. Oh, and don’t forget the boxer guy who dashes at blistering speed between being a stereotypical 80s black guy and being the worst 80s black guy since Philip Michael Thomas. I’ve never heard anyone flounder so spectacularly at uttering the word “motherfucker.”

So after Jason works his way through this boat of high school travesties – casting the deciding vote on who’ll be voted Most Likely To Be Electrocuted and Best Chest…For Housing A Smoldering Sauna Rock – he follows a dinghy-full of the last remaining survivors (a dinghy of dinghies if you will, or even if you won’t) to the shores of one the greatest cities in the world. And what does he find? An unwashed jungle of filthy filth-covered filth. You could watch a Troma Team film directed by Abel Ferrara and DPed by a crack-addicted prostitute who, ironically, specializes in DP, and you still wouldn’t end up with a sleazier portrait of Manhattan than that in the last act of Friday the 13th Part VIII. I’m not even sure Jason would want to take this city, he’d end up spending a fortune on machete-sized prophylactics. This is a place where the public works department just accepts it as a given that the entire sewer system is flooded with toxic waste every night at midnight and mohawked punks listen to awful, just awful, 80s soft rock; equally disgusting. Oh, and at one point our heroine is kidnapped by a couple of hoods who inject her with heroin from an old needle. At that point even if she were to survive Jason’s rampage, I’m pretty sure the AIDS will finish what he started.

In the end, after this long, arduous journey to see The Big Apple before he dies (for the umpteenth time) what is Jason’s reward? To be transformed into a quivering fat kid by a tidal wave of toxic sludge and left for dead by two asshole teens. I’m sorry, I don’t care what his grown-up version did to you, how bastardly do you have to be to leave a kid dying in a New York City sewer? So yeah, after he has suffered the killing blows of makeshift weaponry from desperate camp counselors and sinning teens across the tri-state area, Jason is foiled by a half-assed plot twist. You’d think a story device this bereft of thinkfullness would require a secondary story device (an amulet, ancient incantation, amnesia bullet, real bullet to mercifully end the life of anyone who paid to see this in theaters) to lend at least some measure of forced validity to it, right? Nope, we’re just supposed to take it on faith that despite the fact that there have been no shortage of aquatic resurrections and even littoral kills throughout this franchise, it turns out Jason’s fear of drowning will transform him into a piss-ant little chub bucket. Thanks, writers of Jason Takes Manhattan. Hey, I’m actually writing a script called Brian Takes A Chunk of Skull with a Sledgehammer. Spoiler: it’s filming at your house.

Why I Love It!

As a die-hard Voorheesian, who owes a great deal of his horrorphile status to this schlock-and-chop franchise, I can’t help but adore this most absurd entry. It was the first time Jason was taken out of the woods and allowed to wreak his special breed of havoc upon even those who were wise enough to stay the hell away from Camp Crystal Lake. If nothing else, it opened the door for his eventual trip to space in Jason X so I don’t think it’s overstatement to note that all human life on this planet owes a life-debt to these filmmakers. Seeing Jason tromping through Times Square, and actually having to divert his shark-like eyes from his prey to take in the spectacle, is an image that, for me, canonizes the allure of B-movies. Is it a cheesy and desperate gimmick? Of course, fool. But that doesn’t make it any less of a selling point for those of us who delight at seeing a concept, and a tired trope or franchise, live beyond its means.

Also people die…like a lot of people. By the time you get past the first Friday the 13th…’s opening credits, you have to admit that you are watching these movies almost exclusively for the kills. In Friday the 13th Part VIII, they know you’ve had seven courses of murder and seem intent on busting your gut with an all-you-can-eat sundae cart of carnage for dessert. It’s not simply the quantity of homicide here, but the quality as well. Kane Hodder’s Jason is angry, and these people are sinners in the hands of this vengeful dark deity. He bashes them with guitars, stabs them through the chest with dirty syringes, drowns them in sewage, and literally punches a man’s head clean off. I am convinced that once he had finished with his initial quarry, Jason would have proceeded to slaughter every citizen of NYC; stacking bodies into towers that rival the city’s iconic skyscrapers.

Yet despite the film’s mean streak (read: apparent hatred for all mankind), there is a pronounced measure of humor running through Jason Takes Manhattan. The first thing Jason sees when he reaches the New York docks is a giant billboard for hockey (no specific team mind you, just hockey in general) in which a player is wearing the exact same mask as the one he wears. Sports jokes! There is also the moment wherein Jason, when accosted by a group of dishwater dull punks, opts to simply lift his mask and frighten them away over butchering them; probably seeing it as pointless as they would be dead in a few years anyway of drugs, skateboarding accidents, or incidents involving Roman candles and their private parts. And then of course there is the ten minute pummeling Jason takes from the ethnically-confused pugilist that ends with Jason decapitating him with one punch; his head then falling from the roof and landing perfectly in an open dumpster. Touchdown, Jason! Three points! Icing! Collective Bargaining! (I don’t know sports). But I think the thing that had me most in stitches, the thing too ridiculous not to be intonational, was this exchange between said doomed boxer and his nerdy compatriot after they’d gathered weapons to fight Jason:

Nerd: What weapon are you taking, Julius?

Julius: Nothing…(LONG PAUSE)…but this gun.

Junkfood Pairing: New York Style Pizza

Embark on your own flavor trip to Manhattan by devouring a hockey-mask-sized piece of New York style pie. This delicacy is often served by the slice…just as Jason serves his annoyance that people dare to breathe oxygen without his express written consent. For most appropriate results, tell yourself all day that this is what you’ll be eating for dinner and then don’t eat it until five minutes before you go to bed.

More hot, delicious Junkfood Cinema

When we at Junkfood Cinema heard that we had somehow again avoided outright cancellation, clearly an oversight on the part of hectically busy and woefully unobservant management, we decided to celebrate with another installment of the Junkfood Cinema Awards, affectionately known (read “irresponsibly abbreviated”) as The Junkies. Since this was our sophomore effort, we really wanted to flaunt our year-long incompetence with plenty of pomp and circumstance. We therefore hired a big time Hollywood director, one who had similarly proven his commitment to terrible films, to produce a garish, way-too-expensive, online awards ceremony. But then we had to fire him over some incredibly unsavory comments he made; something about rehearsals being for fatties. So instead, we’re just going to do the exact same crap we did last year. Enjoy.

The Junkiest Prime Number of 2011: 2

What the hell does that mean? First of all, just assume I’ve anticipated your asking that question of every single category or you may very well pass out from confounded sighing. 2011 was a big year for sequels here at JFC, with 8 total followups being canonized. We labored over this category for literally days on end; neglecting sleep, but never food. At first we seemed pretty keen on the number 3 (as in Scream 3, Final Destination 3, and Jurassic Park 3–all featured this year), but it lacked the paradoxical irony of also being an even number; not to mention the political implications. Also, and much more likely the reason than that thing I just said, we actually covered five different part 2′s this year: Death Wish 2, Stepfather 2, Home Alone 2, Conan the Destroyer, and U.S. Marshals. Thank you, number 2.

Grossest Misuse of the Entire Screen Actors Guild: Dick Tracy

Seriously, there are more clueless, direction-free actors in this film than at a political rally and/or benefit concert for third-world countries in which they own beachfront property. Watching Dick Tracy is tantamount to attending one of those Eyes Wide Shut orgies (except way filthier) wherein every single attendee is riddled with shame and hiding their true faces under copious piles of makeup. Except Madonna of course, who is doing all she can to keep her face perfectly in frame…as well as her frame perfectly in your face.

Worst Understanding of the Basic Tenets of Law: Sylvester Stallone (Over the Top)

Stallone is a regular guest of our relentless mockery. In fact, his frequency of appearances saw him sharing 2010′s coveted Musclehead of the Year award with equally repeatedly mocked Austrian half-goon action hero Arnold Schwarzenegger. But in 2011, he opted for (lack of) quality over (embarrassing) quantity, appearing in the column only twice. However, in Over the Top, he exhibits enough brazen stupidity in one sitting to last through even the brainiest of winters. Not only does he subscribe to the concept that custody of his son can be obtained via the winning of an arm-wrestling contest, but he pursues this course in spite of the fact that he LEGALLY HAS CUSTODY THE ENTIRE TIME!!! *Face* *Palm*

Best Ambassador of Blaxploitation: Sho’nuff (The Last Dragon)

Here at JFC, we take blaxploitation very seriously, too seriously, and then uncomfortably seriously. Every year we designate February as Blaxploitation History Month, showcasing some of the best of this controversial b-movie genre as well as simultaneously proving just how white we really are. And yet, even with the likes of Slaughter, Coffy, Black Belt Jones, and Dolemite turning up in February, our selection for the person most representative of the spirit of the subversive subgenre was featured in a movie written into the annals of our cyber tome of misery by guest author Adam Charles. The Last Dragon‘s Sho’nuff, the self-proclaimed Shogun of Harlem, is a modern day (and by modern day, I of course mean the 80s) version of Dolemite: a lyrical loudmouth with a fashion that can only be described as…visible.

Most Inane Phobia: The Color White (Blackjack)

Every hero needs a weakness, something to keep him (or her) grounded and vulnerable so that the audience can relate. For Superman it was kryptonite, for Magneto it was plastics, and for The Green Lantern it was evidently pacing and plot structure. So what was hero Dolph Lundgren’s Achilles Heel in John Woo’s Blackjack? The color white. That’s right, this Swedish man mountain is routinely foiled by…the presence of all chroma in the light spectrum. Classical conditioning notwithstanding, unless of course Jack was violated with a milk bottle by the Abominable Snowman, this seems a hilariously absurd choice for a foible.

Guest Contributor of the Year: Luke Mullen

As much as my heart, and my aversion to sleeping on the couch, tells me to go with my lovely wife who wrote not one, but two pieces this year, the numbers do not lie (except the ones on that bastard bathroom scale). Therefore, the clear winner this year is Luke Drago Mullen. Luke turned in a whopping six entries this year covering the greasy gamut from Pitch Black to The Mummy (daring choices, considering how easily sand gets stuck in his beard). Luke preformed more than admirably and proved without a shadow of a doubt that I am 100% obsolete. Honorable Mentions: Mrs. Junkfood, Adam Charles, and Kate Erbland. Photo courtesy of John Gholson’s Taking Requests.

Worst Indictment of Heavy Metal: Black Roses

Look, we are all well aware that heavy metal music is the dark lord’s most insidious weapon against the innocent followers of the Almighty. Well no, I take that back; it’s actually Angry Birds. But heavy metal is still pretty evil. And yet even I have trouble swallowing the anti-metal (so, pro-wood?) propaganda of 1988′s Black Roses. They actually insinuate that attending one heavy metal concert will make American teenagers (American teenagers who are Canadian, no less) fight, smoke, and have plenty of the sex; plugging their ears and singing as the world tries to remind them that these teenage indiscretions are also known side effects of…being teenagers. Thankfully, they also throw in as evidence rubber-boobed demon puppets and devil worshipers who use Yankee Candles in their dark, but pleasantly scented, consorts with Lucifer.

Best Represented Mythical Creature: The Dragon

In our ongoing efforts to each year have the federal government to certify one mythical creature as real, we’ve again failed. However, 2011 turned out to be a great year for dragons both cinema figuratively and cinema literally. We clocked a grand total of four dragon-related pieces. What’s more, we had a different author contribute each of the four dragon pieces…sounds like the plot of some terrible Shaw Brothers movie. Dragonslayer (by moi) and DragonHeart (by the lovely Mrs. Junkfood) featured “actual” dragons while The Last Dragon (by Adam Charles) and Kiss of the Dragon (via Luke Mullen) featured characters, of varying levels of Asian descent, nicknamed Dragon. It’s such a shame that we still live in a society under the control of a mythist government. Occupy Reality!

Most Apathetic Hero: Dan Haggerty (Elves)

“Grizzly” Dan “Grizzly Adams” Haggerty  “Adams,” at some point after the cancellation of his television series about a man-ursine love affair, developed a terminal case of the DontGiveAShits. Now don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of put-upon cinematic “lifers” who stop giving each and every role their all. But there’s not busting your ass, and then there’s refusing to take the cigarette out of your mouth long enough to fight the gun-toting Nazi cultists trying to use an evil elf to spawn a race of supermen. So not only does Haggerty look like a homeless person they found at the bus stop minutes before shooting, but apparently his approach to the role was to embody a homeless person found at a bus stop minutes before shooting.

The Most Disgusting Junkfood Pairing Stuffed Inside The 2nd Most Disgusting Junkfood Pairing: A Ryan’s Buffet Stuffed Inside a Marshmallow Peep (Deep Blue Sea, U.S. Marshals)

It’s a good thing this category speaks for itself, because I have a serious challenge ahead of me. We’re gonna need a really, really…tiny Ryan’s Buffet.

There’s always more helpings of Junkfood Cinema

And now we present, before this stops being funny, a disaster called Santa and the Ice Cream Bunny.

What Makes It Bad?

To properly lampoon Santa and the Ice Cream Bunny, I must resort to tactic heretofore unseen in this column. (Humor?) Shut up, self! For the next few sentences, I will not make a single joke. I need this abdication of puns, quips, and gags to be absolutely clear so that the absurdity of this film’s actual plot strikes you upside the head like a lead candy cane. I will caution you to move any breakable objects out from directly beneath you as they are now in the jaw drop zone. Okay, here goes…no jokes…whew…no jokes…here goes…

Santa’s sleigh drops out of the sky and lands smack dab in the middle of a sandy beach in Florida. Good so far? Oh, just wait. No jokes. His reindeer have run off and he is sweltering in the hot Floridian sun. He sends out a thunderous call to all the children in the area, calling all of them by name except for two girls whom he just calls, “girls.”  The children come running to his aid, passing Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn on a raft as they do. No jokes…head starting to hurt. They trod out a menagerie of animals to serve as potential replacements for the wayward reindeer (including a cow, a sheep, and a dog) to no avail. In an effort to raise the spirits of the children, who he’s already disheartened by telling them they won’t be getting any gifts that year, Santa tells the children the story of…Thumbelina. Actually, he tells them the story of a little girl who goes to a theme park and who is told the story of Thumbelina by a loudspeaker as she watches the tale unfold in a magical diorama at the Thumbelina exhibit. Yeah, ok, so that happens. Then, when the story is completed, the children hear a siren and, lo and behold, here comes…The Ice Cream Bunny…driving a fire engine…to save the day? No jokes, just a twitch that I’m fairly certain is the early stages of a stroke.

Yes, that is the plot of this lost, rightly, 70s holiday non-classic. The elements of this film are like massive tectonic plates of crazy floating on batshit magma on the gonzo crust of this mad mad mad world. As you would expect, Santa and the Ice Cream Bunny was not produced by a major studio. In fact, the film was produced by a failing theme park in Florida. That’s right, the not-at-all-famous-to-anyone Pirate’s World, the very same park that provided the setting for what has to be one of the most uncomfortable retellings of Thumbelina ever conceived by supposed human beings. But yes, Pirate’s World. It’s not a world for “Pirates” in general nor is it a world belonging to all “Pirates’.” Instead it is apparently a park owned by one random individual pirate. So as you walk shuffle monotonously from the rusted Ferris Wheel to the Tilt-a-Whirl that neither tilts nor whirls, you could at any point be tossed out of the park by its rightful owner: Long John Silver or Blackbeard or…Roberto Clemente.

Therein lies the problem with Santa and the Ice Cream Bunny, apart from the producers’ dreadful mistake of actually producing it. If the issue were simply a disharmonious combination of very different elements, that would be one thing; a shit stew of sorts. But instead what we have is more akin to a shit salad, with all the individual ingredients proving just as rotten individually as they are together. It’s like a garbage sculpture of a pile of garbage. Let’s break this down like an improper fraction…

The pairing of Santa Claus and Thumbelina is as appropriate as the pairing of fried chicken and nail guns. So right off the bat, Santa and the Ice Cream Bunny has an uphill battle to sell this distinctly non-Christmasy concept. But the manner in which the film includes Thumbelina’s tragic, and oddly misogynistic, tale is downright baffling. Santa is telling the kids the story of a girl being told the story of Thumbelina as she watches the story unfold, a story that she is also a part of, as the loudspeaker narrator changes from someone outside the story to a character within the story. So Santa is basically trying to relay…to children…a story with more levels than a Mega Man NES game designed by Christopher Nolan; now facing Inception Man! But get past all that, I know you won’t, and what you have is the story of a woman who learns that she can only be happy with “her own kind” and only then if she is married to a man and serving his every whim. Gee, great choice for story time, Santa. This movie makes me want to burn the bra I promise I don’t wear.

Only slightly less inexplicable in its moronitude is the pairing of Santa with…The Ice Cream Bunny. If you recall your Mother Goose, Aesop fables, Grimm’s fairy tales, Disney flicks, 80s children’s television, and fast food spokespersons, you’ll be keenly aware that this character DOESN’T EXIST ANYWHERE! The reason for his absence from any preexisting material is most likely his total and willfully insulting lack of definition. Why the hell is he called the Ice Cream Bunny? He isn’t made of ice cream, he doesn’t eat ice cream, and he doesn’t distribute ice cream either by hand or from any orifice. In fact, this flop job doesn’t even mention the words “ice cream” once in his very limited screen time. Is he called the Ice Cream Bunny because he is white and some ice cream is also white? That seems pretty flimsy. If that’s the case, why isn’t Santa called The Bloated Tick Man? So the Ice Cream Bunny shows up driving a woefully out-of-date fire engine, not that driving a fancy modern fire engine would have fallen within the realm of reason, just in time to save Santa. Was this Pirate’s World’s mascot or something, I guess I could understand if that were the–hey wait, neither ice cream nor bunnies have anything to do with pirates either! Damn you, Roberto Clemente!

So the whole time these kids are trying to save Santa’s bacon, ironically proposing a pig as the beast of burden at one point, all the old fat guy does is sit in his sleigh and complain about the heat. Funny thing about sitting directly in the blistering sunlight, it tends to get a little warm. But it never dawns on pathetic old St. Nicolas to get his chubby posterior up out of the sleigh and, I don’t know, seek shelter perhaps? I get that you’re from the North Pole, Santa, but you do know how the sun works, yes? You don’t actually believe that it is a sentient being that will follow you wherever you go as if you’ve made it to World 2 in Super Mario Brothers 3, right? The hapless putz doesn’t even think to take off his enormous winter coat until about thirty minutes into the film. I hate to say it, but perhaps this is an unfortunately festive example of natural selection; deck the halls with Darwinism. Am I being too cruel to Santa? At the risk of receiving nothing but coal this year, hell to the no! Because after we go through all this grief to get Santa’s sleigh out of the…shallow sand, listening to his entirely-too-complicated rendition of Thumbelina and calling in pallid, lactophiliac mascots for help, the sleigh disappears! So Santa drives off with the Ice Cream Bunny as the children, who have worked themselves half to death trying to get the sleigh unstuck, wave goodbye, we find out the goddamn sleigh could have teleported out at any time? I’m gonna say it, Santa’s kind of a dick.

And let us not forget about Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn…as clearly the screenwriter did. They show up for a moment at the beginning and then again at the end, having not moved from the bushes on the bank of what they claim is the Mississippi River. I’m going to go ahead and ignore the fact that no other representatives of the literary world traverse the boundaries of time, space, and being inescapably fictional to help Santa in his time of need. I have to ignore it because otherwise my head fold in on itself fifty times like Cronenberg origami. Instead I want to note the fact that the Mississippi River is 100 miles from the nearest Florida beach, so these corny bumpkins are out and out wrong. But I suppose if you carelessly play leap frog with planes of existence, the laws of simple geography need not apply to you.

Why I Love It!

Quite simply, and because at this point I have lost the ability to conjure words of any greater significance, Santa and the Ice Cream Bunny exists. That in and of itself is a monumental achievement for both Pirate’s World and the entire human race. It is like an experiment in self-imposed obscurity. It’s clear that not a single person who worked on this film, or had the dubious distinction of “starring” in it, believed it would ever see the light of day outside the hallowed walls of that “amusement” park, which subsequently-and without the slightest hint of shock–closed three years after the release of this film. To their credit, and perhaps in calculated defense of their collective pride, for years the film failed to graduate beyond one sorry VHS release.

However, the film’s reputation for extraordinary levels of nonsense caught the attention of the gents over at Rifftrax. The former quip-slingers, the b-movie Gielguds, of Mystery Science Theater 3000 have since made available for sale their irreverent musings on all manner of new films as well as “classic” “cinema” fare that was sadly overlooked during the series’ run. The siren call of Santa and the Ice Cream Bunny‘s beautiful abomination was too much for them to ignore and they have released a side-splitting Rifftrax commentary for the film. Also provided on the DVD is the film itself so, against all odds and in clear defiance of legislation against the purveyance of black magic, Santa and the Ice Cream Bunny is available on DVD.

Making it through the entirety of this film’s runtime is the pinnacle of cinematic endurance tests. You will be tempted, in the moments when the air is wholesale let out of the already vacuous plot, that you will not only want to turn it off, you’ll also be tempted to pray to whatever most convenient god can promise immediate snowfall so that you have the ability to experience the far more rapid release of hypothermia. If nothing else, Santa and the Ice Cream Bunny makes you appreciate even the heretofore perceived lamest of holiday films.

Junkfood Pairing: Blue Bunny Ice Cream

As you watch this confounding combination of Santa, bunnies, and ice cream, try to cool the hot, feverish flashes of frustrated rage with this frigid, delicious, and far more practical pairing of rabbits and frozen freezer treats. Happy Holidays from all of me here at Junkfood Cinema!

Today’s figgy pudding of shame: Elves.

What Makes It Bad?

What do we know about elves? Traditionally, these minuscule denizens of the North Pole have defined their entire existence laboring in Santa’s workshop; being bred into a bizarre form of indentured servitude. They suffer daily the oppressive whip of a bearded, rotund Über-capitalist with no outlet for their seething, but impotent rage. Like many of you, I have spent literally hours lying awake thinking about these beleaguered minions of the jolly old overlord, fearing the day that they would inevitably rise up and take their revenge upon the human race who refused to come to their aid. Enter 1989′s Elves…exit sanity.

In this film, elves are not cutesy, pointy-eared cherubs. Nor are these elves tall, silver-haired Adonises who know their way around a bow and arrow and cause very difficult-to-process urges in purportedly straight film bloggers who are totally not me. Point of fact this film does not feature elves at all, because that would imply some sort of multitude. Instead we have just one gaped-mouthed hand puppet who bears a horrifyingly striking resemblance to a shaved and genetically-altered chimpanzee. Part of me wants to laugh derisively at this cast of cardboard human likenesses in terrible attire, but part of me is genuinely moved by their plight of being chased hither and thither by half a wax stuffed animal attached to the lens of a camera to obscure both its diminutive size and lack of mobility. I also love that as the elf is following our heroine–or more accurately our named dishcloth–through the department store, not one person notices a bipedal naked mole rat saunter down the aisles or fleeing out of the store after it repeatedly crotch-stabs Santa Claus.  And so begins running joke of this article: having to insert very few actual jokes because, believe it or else, most of these things happen exactly as I describe them.

The real “star” of the “movie” is Dan Haggerty, better known as Grizzly Adams; currently best known as “Who The Hell Is Grizzly Adams?” At one point in my life, I thought City of the Living Dead‘s/Day of the Animals‘ Christopher George was cinema’s most apathetic hero. I thought to myself, “gee self, I don’t think any actor could possibly put less effort into headlining a film if they tried…which they wouldn’t because they don’t care.” Dan Haggerty–and his lush, untamed face carpet–hath once again made fools of us all. Haggerty plays a former detective thrown off the force for his drinking, or so the painfully overstated exposition would have us believe…that we were too stupid to figure out ourselves. He cares so little about this film that the pendulum actually swings the other way to the point where he’s pissed off he has to do the movie and actively, though his inactivity, seeks to further derail it. He sleepwalks through each and every scene, mumbling his lines with learned incoherence, and–I shit you not–dangling a lit cigarette from his lips during even the most supposedly exciting scenes. It’s as if they were crafting an early, reverse version of Speed wherein if Haggerty gives more than one shit in any given scene, his gut will explode. It’s hard to believe this sack of man lumps is legitimately interested in saving the heroine when he can’t park his Camel Ultra Light for five minutes in order to stop the Nazis from shooting her.

Oh, did I mention there were Nazis in this film? Because there are totally Nazis in this film. I feel their storyline was a concerted effort to allow Elves to stand apart from all the other Dan Haggerty evil Christmas elf movies. So you remember how Raiders of the Lost Ark informed us that the Nazis were obsessed with the occult and using mystical and religious powers to take over the world? DOCUMENTARY BY COMPARISON TO ELVES. The Third Grade Reich described in this film decided that elves were the supreme power in the supernatural world and constructed two potential schemes for exploiting them. The first was to use elves as assassins because of their size, strength, and killing prowess. This carefully conceived plan was apparently thwarted when they ultimately realized there were no such things as elves. That is not a joke, a professor of “history” within the film tells us of this. So they wasted what I’m sure were years of research and millions of ill-gotten dollars only to discover imaginary things are imaginary, the Nazis sought to fulfill an ancient prophecy in which a pure blood virgin descendant would get boinked by an elf and give birth to a race of supermen…Elf+Pure Blood Virgin=SuperMEN? The thing is, this backup plan still relies heavily on the existence of imaginary elves! They make up some crap about an ancient rune that, along with the virgin’s blood, can conjure one elf who can then fill her with Elf/Superman babies. This movie is actually the story of how composer Danny Elfman was conceived.

What you would expect by this point is that our heroine, who lives with her mom and Nazi grandfather, is the pure blood virgin. It’s predicable, but operates within the measures of the film’s logic…until we find out why she’s the pure blood. Apparently, in a stunning twist befitting of Sir Jerry of Springer, her grandfather IS ALSO her father. He knocked up the girl’s mother, who is also his own daughter, in order to birth his grand-daughter daughter. If you aren’t feeling desperately in need of a shower right now, then you are filthy and desperately in need of a shower right now. It’s as if the screen”writer” decided that the one thing missing from this Christmas killer elf movie with Grizzly Adams and Nazis was incest. The elf therefore spends the rest of the movie killing everyone around Incest Baby Protagonist in order to hump Incest Baby Protagonist and bring about the end of the world. The writer of this film would himself later go on to…be exorcised out of the body of a poor, innocent girl he was possessing…in my mind.

Why I Love It?

I’m a sucker for bad Christmas horror. They are so deliciously mean-spirited in their marring and warping what is supposed to be an untouchable, joyous time of year. When a film like Elves goes the extra mile to mar and warp something that is marring and warping something good and pure, it’s an exponentially more bizarre experience. Elves is easily the worst Christmas horror film I’ve ever seen, it’s position however admittedly precarious given the existence of Silent Night, Deadly Night 4 and The Christmas Shoes. Watch The Christmas Shoes again and tell me I’m NOT supposed to be terrified. The only thing that could have possibly sullied the holiday more than seeing Santa get his pelvic stocking sliced up or an elf brandishing the carcass of a dead cat who was drowned in a toilet by an evil bitch (also actually happens) would be…cripes, I’ve got nothing. I can literally think of no comically outrageous image that would be worse than the verifiable content of this film. You cannot understand how to effectively quantify the boundaries of terrible cinema unless you constantly redefine for yourself where those boundaries are. In that way, and I must stress solely in that way, Elves is a pioneering film.

Elves is not available on DVD and it’s dubious that it was ever shown on movie screens besides those made of stone in the solitary confinement cells of certain mental asylums for the criminally insane. We therefore had to watch Elves on VHS which was then projected onto the screen at the Alamo Drafthouse in a room full of what can only be described as…former inmates of certain mental asylums for the criminally insane. This night exemplified everything I love about VHS. Without a lunatic-like refusal to abandon this obviously dead format, films like Elves would be lost to the ages and the breadth of its incompetence would go uncelebrated, unmocked, and unlaughed at. It is a film that demands to be seen with a room full of, hopefully, imbibing masochists who ultimately see their own lack of cinematic taste as a form of gluttony and seek to punish themselves for their mortal sin. Elves is basically ocular flagellation and we are all better people for having subjected ourselves to it.

Junkfood Pairing: E.L. Fudge

A few of Santa’s elves did manage to escape with the assistance of nefarious criminals known as “Cookie Coyotes,” who promised them freedom and a better life. But sadly they were sold into the Nabisco white slave trade wherein the laziest among them were killed, stacked, and then separated by a layer of delicious fudge. I would urge you not to support this debased practice…if the end result weren’t so damn tasty. Grab a bag of E.L. Fudge cookies, dust off the VCR, and fire up the movie that celebrates the true meaning of Christmas: Nazi incest.

Stop wondering what Spanish cookies have to do with Elves, and go read more Junkfood Cinema

This week’s flimsy gingerbread house: Home Alone 2.

Earlier this week, I pointed about some of the genuine flaws running rampant throughout the holiday classic Home Alone. I was dutifully informed, first via email and then by means of a flaming bag of what I assume was once pickled herring crashing through my living room window, that perhaps I was too harsh on this apparently “untouchable” film. I will concede that where I find fault with the film, others may find my finding fault with the film unfounded. So I wondered, how could I deconstruct the problems of Home Alone in such a way as to allow fans to remain objective? How can I review the exact same movie again without it being the exact same movie? Oh, I know, I’ll deconstruct Home Alone 2. After all, Home Alone 2 uses a cookie cutter formula identical to that of the first film, but with a lobotomized script that comparatively makes the script of Home Alone seem more layered than a Charlie Kaufman parfait.

 What Makes It Bad?

So remember our discussion of how Home Alone took careful, exacting steps to tie up every loose end in terms of how Kevin gets left at home? The logic in Home Alone 2 is slightly less concerned with your acceptance of its logic from the get-go. The tumorous pieces of this crap puzzle fail to join in any discernible fashion. First, they try to pull that “parents slept in, everyone’s in a frenzied rush” card again, but in a fashion that shows their half-assery hand early. In the first installment, a wind storm knocks the power out for the whole house. It therefore makes sense that no one was roused by their electric alarms at the appropriate hour; thus the tizzy. But in the sequel, the power remains on and only the dimwitted McCallister parents’ alarm is disconnected. So why is that still not one person in the house got up on time? Did they all assume their game of Nyquil Pong was a safe venture because one alarm in the house was set? As they dash through the airport, Kevin lags behind searching for batteries in his father’s bag. Now given the fact that just one year before Kevin was put into a dangerous situation due to his family’s negligence, any reasonable parent would install a Lojack on their previously abandoned child or, at the very least, attach one of those super-not-humiliating-at-all kid leashes to him.

But no, Kevin stops for a moment, gets separated, and then proceeds to follow a man wearing his father’s same coat to the wrong terminal, then to the wrong gate. He thinks nothing of the fact that “his father” walks right down the ramp and doesn’t even glance back to ensure Kevin gets on the plane. Kevin plows into the ticket agent and loses his ticket in the scattering stack she was formerly holding. He assures her that his boarding pass is somewhere among the mess. She allows him to board SANS TICKET and then leaves him to end up in an alien city sans family. Forget the fact that Kevin’s “I’m In NYC” montage ends with him atop the World Trade Center, THIS is the real reason Home Alone 2 could not be replicated in a post-9/11 America. Well, that and the advent of cell phones; maybe that would have encouraged Kev to call and let ANYONE know where he was. But once again, as soon as Kevin realizes he’s separated from his parents, he immediately assumes he’s made them disappear. Nevermind the fact that you are obviously in New York, you’ve been through this same scenario before in which your squishy “magic powers” theory was debunked, and that YOU KNOW YOUR FAMILY IS IN FLORIDA, you go own believing that you are the David Copperfield of empty-headed sprat dolts.

So now the Swiss cheese exposition is behind us, let’s dig into the meat of the film; apparently in this metaphor Home Alone 2 is a tasty chicken cordon bleu. I guess we’re just going to go ahead and accept the fact that Kevin is not HOME alone in Home Alone 2: Lost Not At Home. I understand the necessity to retain the title for franchise recognizability (a word I’m almost completely sure I did not make up), but it seems to negate the central conceit. It would be like setting House Party 5 at Burning Man. Speaking of House Party, when Kevin reaches New York City, this KID don’t PLAY around. Despite the fact that he’s never been to NYC before, we don’t see him purchase a map until day 2 of his trip. Yet somehow, as soon as he steps off the plane he immediately knows the city and, presumably, the public transit system well enough to efficiently get from landmark to landmark in a few hours. Now granted, we do see him utilizing the New York City Montage Cab Co., but it still seems a bit of a stretch. And I’ve only been to New York once so forgive my ignorance, but is it really possible for a child to purchase a knife at a toy store? Kevin walks up to the counter with a NY map, a tube of Monster Soap (Charlize Theron’s bubble bath brand), and what looks to be a Swiss-made Leatherman. Apparently it was on the shelf between the Nerf balls and the Johnny Spaceman Surface-To-Air Missile Launcher. And I must say Kevin’s improvisation skills (read: super power to slow the passage of time) have greatly improved. He’s able to blow up a six foot inflatable clown (made by Nightmare Toys Incorporated), rig it to a complex, makeshift marionette system, and fill a bathtub in the time it takes one reprehensible concierge to creep from the suite’s front door, to the bathroom. Seriously, stop spending your dad’s money and go fight crime, you’re in New York, for Peter Parker’s sake!

The biggest logical fallacy of Home Alone 2 is once again to be found in the involvement of law enforcement. Whereas in the first film Child Protective Services could not be bothered with the triviality of protecting children, especially when there were donuts to be eaten, the Miami PD from whom the McCallisters seek help in Home Alone 2 follow procedure a little too well. Upon finding out that Kevin has his dad’s credit card, they decide to cancel the card. Wait, what? Why cancel the card? You know your son is alone in New York City, right? Do you not want him to have funds for food and a place to stay? Their concern for their son’s well-being apparently only extends to lengths that don’t dampen their credit score. When the McCallisters get to New York, Kevin’s mom, who somewhere between films found time to become a wholly unlikeable shrew, is actually indignant toward the staff of the Plaza Hotel for letting her child check in alone. Silence, Harpy! Would you have preferred they turn your son away; forcing him into vagrancy and doing things for money that even 2011 Macaulay Culkin would…have to seriously think twice before agreeing to do?

There is a complete tonal shift between original and sequel; the emotional crux of the story taking a bath in the black bile of human baseness. So in Home Alone, even at this most selfish, Kevin just wanted to be alone in his own house having his own Christmas. It’s a movie about the natural childhood conflict of independence vs. the need for family. This is why the film ends with a lighthearted, impish brother’s quarrel; Buzz shouting, “Kevin, what did you do to my room?” In Home Alone 2, the minute Kevin again achieves accidental autonomy (and apparently alliteration), his budding talent for the long con leaps immediately to the surface. He checks into the swankiest hotel in town using fake phone calls, his father’s credit card, and a story of epic flimflamery (still almost no way I made that word up). He runs up an enormous room service bill ordering indulgent junk food, which I realize is not for us to judge here; like the pot calling the kettle fat. He then uses another con to finagle himself a limousine and a, you guessed it, cheese pizza. So where Home Alone was about discovering the importance of familial bonds, Home Alone 2 is about excess, materialism, and identity theft. This actually explains why a chief piece of the film’s merchandising, the Talkboy, occupies a major plot point of the film itself. The sequel’s insipid emphasis on the greed and the consumerism of Christmas made me feel like I was watching Jingle All The Way 2: Lost In Home Alone 2: Lost In New York.

In last week’s entry, we (meaning me) talked (wait, me talked?–Tarzan?) about the fact that the Wet Bandits probably would not have survived some of the traps Kevin set for them in Home Alone. If there was a slight chance that Kev could have accidentally brought about their demise in part one, his sole intent in the sequel is to reek savage murder upon his enemies so brutally as to serve as a warning to any who might cross him in the future. There’s not even any build up to deadly intent either. Kevin’s first, and arguably least innovative trap is simply hurling bricks down onto Marv’s head from atop a three story building. Even if you are a card-carrying member of The Royal Order of Home Alone 2 Apologists and want to argue that it isn’t outside the realm of possibility for a man to survive one three-story brick-to-the-head, Kevin lands four to Marv’s skull. Unless Marv is actually living tissue over a metal exoskeleton, and was sent back in time to kill Kevin before he grew into the future leader of the human resistance, he would be a grease spot on that sidewalk. The bricks are just for openers, then we have the electrocution, 100 lb. objects dropped from three stories onto skulls, and the full on cranial combustion. Pesci and Stern survive so many events that would pulverize an actual human being that the film begins to adopt the physical laws of a Wile E. Coyote cartoon; replete with pseudo sentient lit fuse gag. This is a much healthier assessment of what’s happening than the far more painfully obvious scenario that Kevin is a vengeful, tow-headed angel of death.

Why I Love It?

As much as I have a big gooey, spongy soft spot for Home Alone, I have an even bigger, gooier, spongier soft spot for the sequel. When it came out, I was just at the right age that new movies in the theater were still wonderful spectacles of dream-like proportions. I remember going to see Home Alone 2: Lost In New York with my childhood friend Paul and coming out giggling like a couple of little girls over the various misfortunes that befell the bandits; something I now suspect is in the DSM-IV as a potential early warning sign for sociopathy. I also had a Home Alone 2 poster in my room as a kid, the one with the Statue of Liberty locked in Kevin’s signature pose, and by “signature” I mean “stolen from Edvard Munch.” So, like many of the films that earn entry into the Junkfood Cinema archives, nostalgia plays a major role in my appreciation for this film. I was also the victim of a terrible, fiery View-Master accident as a child that caused my rose-colored glasses to be permanently affixed to my face.

I don’t care how you feel toward the rest of the film, because clearly I am no longer the barometer of good taste, you’ve got to love Tim Curry in Home Alone 2. He brings that same brand of slimy, conniving, slightly closeted, charm to the role of the Plaza Hotel’s most evil, and curious-as-a-cartoon-chimp, concierge. You’ve got to admire his misplaced tenacity as he sneaks into a guest’s room just because he thinks a child is guilty of credit card fraud. This is almost as incendiary and hard to swallow as the fact that, well, a child commits credit card fraud in this film. I love the transition, as Kevin watches the holiday classic from his (sigh) limo, from the the Grinch’s impossibly wide grin to Tim Curry’s…equally wide, supposedly human grin.

We don’t watch Home Alone movies for their deep, philosophical deconstruction of the human condition, nor do we watch them for their dialogue…which becomes seared in our brains like brands upon cattle. We watch the Home Alones for the traps. The disquieting thing about this commonality is that it is also the reason we watch Saw movies and the second act of First Blood. But in spite of these films implanting the seed of inventive homicide in our adolescent brains, ignoring the appeal of the traps in Home Alone would be like denying that people watch auto races for the crashes, hockey for the fights, or professional basketball for…the fights. As someone who grew up to be a horror fan, I love that the traps are far more brutal in Home Alone 2. It really does abandon all delusions of being taken seriously the moment Daniel Stern gets brick-kissed on his forehead. To his credit, Stern’s desperate moaning, flailing, and falsettoing illicit genuine laughs from me to this day. In fact both Stern and Pesci seem to be inhabiting the Three (Two?) Stooges with their intensely overblown physical performances. And true to his character, and his raging rage issues of rage, Pesci returns to his litany of pseudo swears all throughout the film; often calling Kevin a “fargin’ fricka’ fatchadul”…even to his face!

I also love that Kevin is, what, nine years old and he already has mortal nemeses? I mean their feud has reached the point where the Bandits talk casually about, and even attempt to, kill a child! Weren’t you guys just burglars in the last film?  This may account for why it’s so much fun to watch these two get their faces trounced and their insides scrambled by Kev’s various do-it-yourself torture devices. Basically this is a revenge movie wherein the revenger is subjected to revenge from the revengee. Mock its simple family film trappings and its porous plot if you must, which I did because I musted, but this is actually the Inception of revenge films. The Talkboy is actually Kevin’s totem! Also, I’m drunk!

Junkfood Pairing: Fruit Stripe Gum

Delicious Fruit Stripe Gum is delicious. It is so good that apparently it is also a system of currency. Kevin offers the bellboy at the hotel Fruit Stripe Gum as gratuity; the bellboy played by Rob Schneider in a remarkably prescient nod to the new career to which this “career” was leading him, pieces of. This seems really cute and innocent until later in the film when he tricks the bellboy into declining a sizable cash tip in order to torment him. He’s in New York, right? Can we go occupy (read: ransack and steal from) this little shit’s hotel room? The original title of this 1%-minded sequel was Home Alone: With All This Goddamn Money, Bitches.

This week’s sugar plum: Home Alone.

What Makes It Bad?

I can already hear the dissent and consternation from the readership at the very idea that Home Alone, a beloved classic, is somehow less than perfect. First of all, I want to thank you. Your constant doubt and wafer-thin support are the perfect prelude to my going home for Christmas. Secondly, shut up. Thirdly, I share your affinity for this film and revisit it at this time every year. That being said, if you can shake off the snowy, drunken daze of the holidays and take a good gander under the wrapping paper, you’ll find a regifted box of silliness. For starters, it doesn’t simply ask you to suspend your disbelief, it demands that you leave your pesky sense of logic and your troublesome ability to reason behind while you go on a trip to Paris without one of your children. How dare I, you ask? I dare thusly…

As far-fetched as it may seem that a mother would leave her son home alone while the family went on an international trip, John Hughes’ script actually goes to great lengths to tie up almost every conceivable loose end and pave every plot hole as to how Kevin gets left at home. I only wish a modicum of that same effort had been dedicated to the rest of the film. It’s as if Hughes, in a bizarre turn of events not seen since Coleridge penned Kubla Khan, finished the first third of the script, fell asleep, and woke up without the ability to fathom reasonable outcomes for any given situation. For example, what’s with the apathetic police force?

I think we can all agree that leaving an eight-year-old kid by himself with an ocean separating he and his parents is a crisis. But when Mrs. McCallister calls her local police department and they connect her with a department called Family Crisis Intervention, they can’t understand why she’s so upset and they don’t know what to make of her request to send someone to the house to check on him. When they finally relent, grudgingly agreeing to do their damn job, Kevin is too scared to come to the door. So what does the intrepid officer do? He tells dispatch to have Mrs. McCallister to count her kids again. Yes, because it’s entirely likely that she’s freaking out and calling from thousands of miles away to send regrettably incompetent police officers to her home simply because she has miscounted her kids and doesn’t notice Kevin standing right next to her. Did these people get their badges from Cracker Jack boxes? My guess is she then tried to call the local branch of Child Protective Services, but they were out stealing orphans to make decorative handbags. Given how quickly the police respond to Kevin’s call at the end of the film, maybe Mrs. McCallister should have said her house was being robbed instead of her trifling complaint about her young son being alone.

Or how about the fact that a small child would rather dig in and face down dangerous burglars than, I don’t know, hide out somewhere during the time he knows they will be robbing his house? When they say 9pm, they mean they will show up AT 9pm; world’s most punctual thieves. And apparently for Kevin, this is a quest so personal that he won’t even seek assistance from the kindly old man with whom he speaks just before running home to hatch his plan. Suddenly he turns into a little Charles Bronson with a serious grudge against crime. He decides to construct a series of traps designed to pummel, set ablaze, and shoot in the face the audience’s common sense. First of all, for most of these traps to spring the way they were intended, an incredibly specific series of circumstances has to unfold in exact succession. Not only does Daniel Stern have to find the open window AFTER having his shoes and socks stricken from him by the tar-covered steps in the basement, but he must refuse to look down as he climbs through the window into an unfamiliar room and then slam his feet down as if he’s claiming the room for Spain in order that the ornaments inflict harm upon him. In fact, the success of every single trap requires Kevin to have at least some prescient knowledge of the future and the every movement these two crook would make. This would also mean he should really be fighting crime on a much larger scale, or winning chess tournaments against those smug computers. Yeah, I’m looking at you Deep Blue, you 0101100110!

And let’s talk about the complexity and severity of these traps for a moment. Early on in the film it is established that Kevin is a perpetual screw-up, incapable of even simple tasks such as putting clothes into a suitcase. Additionally, this is the same kid that, even though he knows full well they were leaving for Paris the next day, believes he has wished his family away and therefore asks Santa to bring them back instead of picking up a goddamn phone and calling them. Yet when push comes to shove, this relentless little paste-eater is able to perfectly install swinging paint cans, tar a set of basement steps, and rig a flamethrower to a door frame. I also love that Pesci just stands there as his head is being burned because he’s evidently the one human being born without the evolutionary instinct to instantly pull away from hot things. You know, like when you accidentally put your hand on the stove and instead of pulling it back you stand there screaming, “OH MY GOD, THIS IS SO HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!!!!!”

But I could possibly forgive the sinfully convenient plotting of the film’s climax if it weren’t for the fact that these burglars not only march senselessly to the beat of the script in full defiance of rationale, but are also apparently superhuman. While revisiting Home Alone recently, my wife and I actually started playing a drinking game in which we took a shot each and every time one of the Wet Bandits was subjected to what should have been–by all rights–fatal head trauma, or managed to otherwise survive a trap that would have killed or at least severely incapacitated a mortal man. If I didn’t know better, and I often don’t, I would say Kevin was actually trying to murder these guys. What the film doesn’t make clear however is that Pesci and Stern aren’t playing burglars, but protesters seeking to more fairly distribute America’s wealth. Take a look at the size of that house and consider that Kevin’s father is paying for his entire extended family to fly to Paris for Christmas. Kevin’s dad is a Burberry-coat-wearing member of the 1%. The Wet Bandits were staging their Occupy The McCallister House protest when Kevin, who has been brainwashed into believing material possessions are more important than human life, seeks to inflict his own brand of brutality on them. What we don’t see is years later when Kevin, dripping with abandonment issues after being left by his family not once, but twice (the second time in New York City no less), grows up to be an angry, cancer-ridden serial killer seeking to punish all criminals for their base deeds with a series of elaborate traps. Home Alone 5: This Time It’s Saw 8.

Why I Love It!

Home Alone is one of those movies that defined the holiday season for me growing up, and might actually operate within that same capacity even more so now. As a kid, it represented my pre-pubescent id. Were I to be left to my own eight-year-old devices, I would have run screaming around the house for no reason, watched movies I was expressly forbidden to watch, and eaten enough, duh, junk food to make my heart explode like a hotdog in the microwave; also I would have blown up hotdogs in the microwave for fun (This is Mrs. Junkfood. He still does all of those things). I used to watch it religiously and quote every line until my parents would actually want to ditch me at home and leave the country. As an adult, I love the fact that it’s a siege movie for kids. Kevin struggles fearlessly to keep his enemies out of his fortified base with every weapon at his disposal. It’s like Assault on Precinct 13…or Assault Tamer Than PG-13. I also have to admit that it still fills me with the warm and the fuzzies seeing Kevin and his family reunite to the tune of a swelling emotional score. Home Alone takes the classic maxim of “be careful what you wish for” and adapts it to the perspective of a little boy on Christmas learning how important family is. It’s hard to be completely cynical toward this film.

Home Alone is one of those dream team collaborations that we rarely see nowadays. It was directed by Chris Columbus, who has gone on to direct the first two Harry Potter films and, prior to Home Alone, wrote one of my other favorite holiday films: Gremlins. The script was, as I previously mentioned, written by John Hughes which not only accounts for the prevalence of Chicago accents, but also explains the tightness of the plot…at least for a while. I mock the absurdity of the second and third acts of the film, because they are absurd, but Hughes really does craft some great little touches to explain how Kevin got left behind: the neighbor kid in the van during head count, his ticket and passport accidentally getting thrown away, the fact that there are two vans so the people in one van would assume he was in the other, and the power outage causing everyone to rush around in Benny Hill vision and therefore not be super attentive. I also think Macaulay Culkin was one of the best child actors of all time. He had this ability to deliver lines with a maturity that belied his years and therefore, in opposition to many contemporary family films, we were able to easily tolerate spending time with this kid for the length of an entire movie. Top that off with a terrific score by John Williams and that 500 million dollar total gross starts to make sense.

As a fan of gangster cinema, and short, angry people in general, I love that Joe Pesci plays one of the bumbling bad guys in Home Alone. It’s such a weird piece of casting, considering he normally plays expletive-spewing thugs who stab people to death with knives, pens, remote controls, mittens, etc. What’s so hysterical about seeing him in Home Alone is that he desperately wants to be dropping f-bombs like Tony Montana in a rap battle, but he’s gagged by the PG rating. He was told by Chris Columbus to say the word “fridge” and variations thereof whenever he wanted to say “fuck.”  This is the reason Pesci sounds like a stroke victim each and every time he falls into one of Kevin’s trap. He makes noises that make it seem as if his brain motor is having trouble turning over. I franging fridging frocka fotching love watching him struggle valiantly against his own rancid mouth.

Junkfood Pairing: An Extra Large Cheese Pizza

The scuffle that lead to Kevin being sequestered on the third floor–which played a huge role in his being left behind–was ignited when he learned no one left him any cheese pizza; his favorite. When he is left to his own devices, he orders an extra large cheese pizza to eat all by himself. This unrepentant act of selfishness and gluttony really just makes all of us here at Junkfood Cinema so proud. Order yourself a massive pie du fromage, pop in your copy of Home Alone (or Angels with Filthy Souls), and eat it devoid of any topping…other than loneliness.

Today’s Reheated Nugget: Deep Blue Sea.

What Makes It Bad?

Deep Blue Sea is a killer shark movie much like Jaws. Well, point of fact, it’s almost nothing like Jaws. Jaws is a film about exploring the universal, and deep-seeded fear of the unknown. Deep Blue Sea has genetically altered CG fish. Jaws was an experiment in low budget filmmaking that furthered the idea of creating atmosphere through clever withholding in service of its overlying theme. Deep Blue Sea has people gettin’ et up. And boy do they get et up epically. Some producer, who now likely works exclusively for the SyFy channel, was apparently quite miffed by the relative lack of explicit violence in Jaws. So now, armed with awkward, rubbery CG that wouldn’t fool Ray Charles’ even blinder grandson, he punishes the cast of this film by ripping their Sims avatars to bloody bits in savage shark attacks. An emotional gravitas you may be tricked into perceiving upon the death of any given character is ripped to shreds as we watch that character crassly…ripped to shreds. Only Lucio Fulci seems to hate his actors as much as does Renny Harlin; they are sinners in the mouth of an angry, shark-shaped God.

There’s a painful irony in the fact that a movie featuring a major plot device involving genetically enhanced brains is so irresponsibly idiotic. Disagree? Well put down that tub of dry Play-Doh you’re eating for a second while I break it down like a fraction. How did none of the other scientists figure out that crazy boss bitch had tampered with the sharks’ genes? Did they think it was natural for a mako shark to grow to the size of a U-boat? Had any of these moron biologists ever seen a goddamn shark before? And then there’s inconceivably imbecilic moment just after the sharks utilize Stellan Skarsgård as a battering ram, that is a real sentence that really describes a real scene in this film. As this glass, apparently rated for the water pressure of deep sea exploration but not for the impact of one Swedes face, begins to slowly crack, our heroes simply stand around and stare at for a solid minute. Evidently not one of these scientists got their degree in Recognizing Stuff That Will Kill You…ology.

Just when you thought it was safe to only commit one paragraph to the stupidity of Deep Blue Sea, you remember Renny Harlin was involved. So let’s quickly recount what this film taught me about sharks. My preexisting knowledge of sharks, feeble though Deep Blue Sea proved it to be, included understanding that sharks can detect blood in water from great distances which allows them to track their prey. What I didn’t know is that this hypersensitivity is not specific to blood. Sharks actually have a gland that secretes heavy doses of LSD into their system. Like ball-tripping club kids, this allows sharks to smell colors…or at least that’s the only explanation I could muster for why the shark in the opening of Deep Blue Sea is attracted to the red wine that drops from the boat party into the water. Also, sharks have the evolutionarily advantageous ability to change size to conform with whatever hallway or vent shaft they happen to be trapped in. Despite the fact that you could build an aquarium inside one of these supersharks, in which you could then house several regular sharks, they manage to fit into whatever smaller and smaller places are needed to create dopey action sequences. They’re Latin name is Carcharodon Accordion. That’s kind of stuff you learn from Shark Weak programing.

L.L. Cool J’s character is a screenwriting facepalm. He plays a cook who rises to the occasion when called upon to fight. Because if there is one cinematic exemplar to which one should aspire…it’s Steven Seagal in Under Siege. Ironically, L.L.’s character is like a tray of muffins taken out of the oven before they were completely done. He is obnoxiously religious throughout the whole film, but then randomly glibly utters the line, “all death is pointless”? I thought if you were a Christian death meant you got to go to that place, oh what’s it called, heaven! At one point near the end, L.L. refers to the last shark as “the devil.” Really L²? Don’t get me wrong, this is exactly the type of arrogance I’d expect from someone with such a romantically self-assured nom-de-plume, but let’s try and look at this from the shark’s perspective shall we? Was it the shark that plucked you out of the water and starting messing with your midbrain? Was it the shark that stabbed you in the eye with a crucifix making him permanently cross-eyed? And was it the shark that recorded a rap song with the lyrics “deepest, bluest, my hat is like a shark’s fin?” No, because sharks have a much stronger grasp of lyrical structure according to recent data I may or may not have made up.

And how about that ending, huh? Filled with drama, excitement, and scienceIguess. The trio of ungobbled heroes has reached the surface pursued by the one remaining shark. They are completely free of the water and are positioned on the battlements atop the facility. Game over, right? As long as they don’t go back in the water, they just have to wait to be rescued and they are home free! But wait, what’s this? The shark is trying to escape the holding pen? Suddenly our heroes look at each other, all of them sensing the turn of the tables. “Guys, we can’t let this shark leave the facility. WHAT WILL WE DO IF THIS SHARK REACHES THE OCEAN! OH UNKNOWABLE UNIVERSE!” Why if he were to do that, he could potentially…be a shark in his natural habit slightly better equipped to do what sharks already do. He could disappear into the vastness of the ocean and never bother us again! Yup, totally worth sacrificing your life to prevent.

Why I Love It!

If you’re going to make a mindless neo-exploitation film, your best bet is to craft something in the elegant monster-eats-a-smorgasbord-of-people genre. Whenever the audience begins to pick up on your flimsy narrative of paper-thin characters, you can send along your agent of distraction to devour those concerns in a stunning display of nature versus standards. Revisiting Deep Blue Sea reminded me of how much I loved Shark Night 3D.  The two films actually have the same root concept, shark attacks that achieves the staggering biological accuracy of recognizing that sharks eat things and have teeth, but approach it from two hilariously divergent angles. Where Shark Night 3D was a self-aware over-the-top action film, Deep Blue Sea actually thinks it’s a legitimate sci-fi monster epic. They believe so wholeheartedly that we will believe their bullshit science wholeheartedly. The score tries to create human drama and tragedy when in fact we are watching this movie with the same unspoken contract by which we view NASCAR or professional hockey; ignoring the immeasureable boredom and self-diluted, manufactured spectacle for the momentary thrill of crashes and fights. L.L. Cool J’s character is the one element of the film that creates a case for it not taking itself ridiculously seriously, but unfortunately no one bothered to tell him that.

***SPOILERS IN THIS NEXT PARAGRAPH***

Speaking of watching Deep Blue Sea for the tawdriest of reasons, it would be categorically impossible to write about this film without mentioning Sam L. Jackson’s death. Now we all know that Samuel L. Jackson is not a man, but rather a thunder-voiced Afro titan spawned of the ancient gods of Badassery and Impeccable Style. It is therefore appropriate to assume that his character will survive any supernatural or otherwise dangerous situation in any film; Jurassic Park notwithstanding as palentologists have incontrovertibly proven that raptors are racist lizards. But unfortunately Sir Sam L was not informed of the similarly recent ichthyological finding that sharks hate monologues. Just after his rousing and hysterically far-fetched account of how he survived an avalanche, he assures the team that their escape is certain as long as they believe in it. He is then snacked upon by a shark who somehow leaps into the room via an observation pool. It’s like my grandfather always used to say, “Bartleby, if you go around telling fish stories all the time, Samuel L. Jackson will get eaten by a shark leaping into the room via an observation pool.” Sage words indeed.

Deep Blue Sea is only a killer shark movie if you look at it from the water. They villainize the ancient predators as if they were in anyway responsible for their own actions. Personally, I find Deep Blue Sea to be considerably improved if thought of as a shark prison break movie. Having committed no crime, these majestic beasts are locked into cages and subjected to inhumane experiments by the evil wardens. When they finally break free, they must tunnel through environments unknown to them, thwarting (read: eating) their captors in the hopes of regaining their freedom. Just as the last surviving escapee reaches the final gate, he is struck down by a cold-hearted, emotionless brick pile played by Thomas Jane. But in their quest for liberty, they completely change the system. I therefore humbly suggest they retitle the film The Sharktank Redemption.

Junkfood Pairing: Ryan’s Buffet

Much like the nautical predators of Deep Blue Sea had a veritable actor buffet at their fin-gertips, so shall you be treated to another day of gorging yourself flabby. But since you’ll be eating Thanksgiving leftovers from now until New Years Eve, why not go out for change to the temple of obesity that is the Ryan’s Buffet. Once you’ve gobbled down sixteen plates of what, by all reports, is apparently edible food. Make your way over to the dessert buffet and grab yourself a Micheal RapaTORT topped with some Saffron (Borrows) and a dollop of L.L. Cool Whip. But be mindful of the Stellan Sneezegård and…Samuel L. Jackson.

Continue your binge with more in the Junkfood Cinema archive.

This week’s didgeri-don’t: BMX Bandits. 

What Makes It Bad?

BMX Bandits is an adventure film from Australia. Now I know what you’re thinking, what the hell is an “Australia” and aren’t BMX bikes only for children? Like you, I can only glean what little knowledge is available about this uncharted land  from the popular documentary The Road Warrior. BMX Bandits, though supposedly fictional, is a further depiction of life after the Aussiepocalypse. What we learn from BMX Bandits is that the crippling gas shortage documented in The Road Warrior lead to an unsurprising decline in automobile sales. In response, Australia saw a dramatic upswing in BMX bike ownership. The childishness of BMX is a common misconception, but the truth is that this is an incredibly grownup sport. In fact, the abbreviation BMX actually stands for Business Management Xecutive. BMX Bandits is therefore one of the few films that recognizes the incontrovertible fact that the word “dude” is merely a bastardization of “adultitude.” Were this a kiddie sport, the film’s theme song would not begin with the line, “we’re ready to die,” because that would be weird. But it totally does, and it totally isn’t.

The misconception is furthered by the fact that upon first glance, the casual observer may mistake the bike riders in the film for children. This too can be explained. Lingering radiation in the air after the atomic fallout of the Koala Wars caused stunted growth in some of the citizenry, making it appear as if these BMX riders are children. Even the statuesque escaped kangaroo that is Nicole Kidman appears downright adolescent. But clearly with their entrepreneurial and crime-fighting skills, coupled with their propensity for Vaudevillian jokes, these are in fact adults. This is made all the more clear when Kidman transforms into what is clearly a full-grown male during the film whenever performing wide-shot stunts on her bike. She’s so adult she’s actually two of them at once! I mean come on, if these were kids, don’t you think we’d see one parent at some point during the film?

Speaking of attachment issues, it seems as if the protagonists of this film are unable to be apart from their bikes for any length of time. At one point, they decide that the thievery is so rampant in their town that they can nary afford to leave their bikes unattended, even for the span of time it takes to travel down a water slide. The irony, of course, is that they themselves are the greatest thieves in their town. So in spite of the overwhelming risk of rust, these three go barreling down the slippery slides with their BMX bikes out in front of them like ten-speed life preservers. They also refuse to wear anything but BMX racing attire throughout the film. With their chromatically mish-mashed assortment of helmets, striped pants, and shirts bearing the name of the film, they succeed in resembling colorful, candy-coated mental patients from start to finish. But I suppose their obsessive addiction is somewhat warranted given that these are no ordinary bikes. These bikes make the sound of shooting lasers as they fly past stationary cameras and actually have the ability to alternately outrun and catch up to speeding cars and trucks. This has to have something to do with the cars and trucks trying to conserve precious gasoline because otherwise this would just be the product of a mindless script.

The plot of BMX Bandits may seem overly simplistic, and that’s because it is. But again, it is an expression of life in the post-apocalyptic wasteland that is Australia. Be not fooled by the shots of gorgeous blue skies and clear ocean waters, this is a lawless land. After all, the film isn’t called BMX Upstanding Members of Society. Hearkening back to its roots as a prison colony, this straightforward story centers on a trio of bandits who happen across a hidden cache of walkie-talkies (the new Australian currency after the “Gibson Incident”) and immediately sell them to their friends for ill-gotten profit. This wanton lawlessness is met by even more lawlessness as thugs pursue our “heroes” at every turn, seeking to reclaim their precious communication devices. When one of their rank is kidnapped by the thugs, the two remaining BMXers gather an entire tribe of little bicycling wallabies and mount a viciously silly attack on those transgressors. But that’s pretty much all we have to go on; the movie is unencumbered by subtext or even secondary plotlines.

As if the unrepentant theft of walkies not enough, the lawlessness of these riders is further illustrated by their brazen disruption of basic commerce as they ride through shopping malls and restaurants. Is there no end to their devious criminality? Although, the infrastructure of their town is doing little to curb their misdeeds: constructing ramps out of all manner of otherwise useful objects and carelessly scattering them about in locations most facilitating of super rad jumps. That same lackluster infrastructure is also what allows the riders to become vigilantes. These bandits basically do all the town’s police work, bringing in bank robbers the police are helpless to apprehend. Their mercenary tendencies will not be sated until they are given their own BMX park. Through completely underhanded means, they secure their prize in a deal with corrupt government officials so shady it’s details are shrouded in secrecy even from the audience.

Why I Love It!

BMX Bandits is but one of many fantastic offerings from the great Brian Trenchard-Smith. BTS has become one of my favorite cult film directors since being introduced to him two years ago by my good friend Brian Kelley (whose twitter handle is @BTSjunkie). This is not the first BTS film to be featured in Junkfood Cinema; his man-hunting opus Turkey Shoot was one of the first JFC alums. With his affinity for wild genre fare and his ability to produce films at often unwisely brisk speeds, Brian Trenchard-Smith has earned a reputation as Australia’s Roger Corman. Like Corman, he has some stinkers that are fun despite themselves and some legitimately quality films as well. Whichever breed of BTS you happen to be watching, you can be certain that the stuntwork will be outstanding. And even though BMX Bandits is cast with mostly children, the clever costuming often obscures the age of the stunt performer on screen and therefore BTS creates, mostly effectively, the illusion that these young kids are climbing atop moving trucks and dodging traffic on their bikes.

Like the best Ozploitation films, BMX Bandits features Aussie bullies. A disturbingly frequent trend in Australian b-movies is the presence of a crude, buffoonish character who understands only violence and crime; these are the bullies. Typically they roam the roadways waiting to torture innocent motorists. But BMX Bandits isn’t satisfied being a typical Ozploitation film. They have TWO Aussie bullies. They got David Argue, the bully from Razorback, and John Ley, the bully from Turkey Shoot, and combined them to form one epic bully conglomerate. But somewhere in the bully gene splicing process, they came up with two barely-functioning oafs who only understand how to inflict pain on themselves for comedic effect. Nevertheless, it serves the film well and represents the Aussie bully equivalent of the 92 NBA Dream Team.

I really do enjoy the juvenile cast here. Normally the thing that irritates me most about kids’ movies is…the kids. They are usually so incessantly precious or, worse, lacking in anything resembling acting talent that I end up wanting to claw my eyes out before the first refrain of the emotionally manipulative score. But this motley crew is geeky, funny, and just crude enough to be both entertaining and genuine. Even Nicole Kidman, the adult version of whom I don’t count myself a fan, is charming and feisty. In addition, the fatty fat rich kid is also quite funny if only because he’s the worst antagonist in recent memory. He’s fooled by the simplest grift, he slips on discarded ice cream falling flat on his back, and his greatest feat of mischief involves detaching a segment of shopping carts in a grocery store parking lot. He’s basically Dennis The Slightly Inconvenient.

Junkfood Pairing: Bloomin’ Onion

You may think me a dingo for selecting this snack for this film because, while a staple of a certain Australian-themed steakhouse, the bloomin’ onion has a multitude of layers, whereas BMX Bandits does not. But if you’ll kind stop thinking faster than me for a moment, smarty smartertons, you’ll take note of the fact that a bloomin’ onion doesn’t so much have layers as it has one thing presented over and over again in succession. Replace onions with BMX bikes, and you’ve got the perfect summation of BMX Bandits. Just be happy I didn’t insist you eat Vegemite. I said g’day mate!

If you’ve got a taste for more, there’s always another helping in the Junkfood Cinema Archive.

I will then buy a beer and a disgustingly awesome snack food for the film as we stand as friends at the bar singing our gang’s…theme song (?).

This week’s punk: Never Too Young to Die

What Makes It Bad?

Never Too Young to Die existed in this very brief span of time in which Hollywood, well not Hollywood but someone with a movie studio and few hundred dollars, thought it would be a great idea to turn young John Stamos into a movie star. Apparently the thought process was that if much bigger studios had success with Emilio Estevez, then surely another vaguely ethnic pretty boy was a surefire win…especially if he’d work for a fraction of Estevez’s asking price. I mean, how could they possibly afford the future star of Free Jack? Stamos, for all his giant hair and muscleheadedness, is quite flat and dull. He seems as if he rolled out of bed and directly onto set without having read a single page of the script. He delivers his lines with a conviction that absolutely screams, “won’t someone please hurry up and invent Full House already?”

Stamos plays Lance Stargrove, the son of master spy Drew Stargrove. Only, get this, he has no idea his dad is a spy. So we get to see Lance whine about his daddy not being there for him while the old man is busy, you know, saving the planet. We get scenes of dad taking care of espionage business set against angst-ridden cavorting on Olympic rings as if those two events hold exactly the same amount of excitement. Or maybe not. There’s probably someone who will watch this movie and think, “Gee, I wish someone would get all these pesky gun battles out of the way so we could focus on this wicked thrilling gymnastics meet.” Drew Stargrove is played by George Lazenby, but as it turns out, his appearance in this film is as brief as his time as James Bond, and just as effective. So naturally, little Lance becomes a spy too, what with his all-too-vital abilities like…jumping on trampolines, mumbling, and achieving victory over his adversaries by throwing shit into the air.

And what an adversary this kid goes up against! He must do battle with the tornado of gender confusion that is Velvet Von Ragner who wants to contaminate the country’s water supply. Ragner is played by, I can’t believe this isn’t a joke, KISS frontman Gene Simmons. Simmons, wearing what is clearly his weekend gardening attire, may not be recognizable without his makeup; or rather in his more differenter makeup and his Cher wig…and Cher wardrobe. From the moment he utters his first line, “Hello turd nuggets,” it’s clear that he lacks the subtlety and quiet dignity of Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Ragner’s favorite means of killing involves one hideously long, and desperately obviously plastic, finger nail. It’s every bit as intimidating as being stabbed with a Bugle corn chip or a dull pen cap. Ragner performs burlesque in front of an army of biker punks haughtily singing, “what you see is what you get.” Considering the source, that lyric seems like flagrant false advertising.  If Simmons is not the greatest hermaphrodite archvillain, s/he is definitely in the top 25.

Teaming up with Stamos is honest-to-goodness female agent Danja; or at least I think that’s what she was called, but then people may have just been sneezing at her a lot. Danja is played by 80s flash in the pan Vanity, an actress with as many names as she has dimensions. If you aren’t familiar with Vanity, that’s ok, really. She was brought in as the vaguely Candian love interest to Stamos’s vaguely ethic teen heartthrob. She really delivers–mediocrity–as the agent so badass that she has to take off her shirt to apply a tiny band aid…to her arm. Her love scene with Stamos is among the most awkward mating displays not to be narrated by David Attenborough. She is coming on to him as if his naked body is constructed of more acting work and he is resisting for reasons only he knows and he feels are too personal to share with the audience. So what is his response to her getting progressively more nude on his patio in an act of seduction? He compulsively eats. First he sucks down a Perrier, then he rushes inside for an apple, and then another apple. They finally do end up awkwardly boinking, I’d don’t think anything has so spectacularly lost its sexiness over the last twenty years like the sexy saxophone, but not before Stamos reveals his sexual bulimia.

Along with Vanity (such a ridiculous name) Stamos is also aided by his token best Asian friend who is a veritable convenient store of techno plot devices. Cliff, as he is so called, is somehow able to create flamethrowers and gadget-laden motorcycles in his dorm room without anyone noticing or offering him something better than community college. He is a strange cross between Q and Data from The Goonies..if either or both of those characters ever dressed like a Devo cosmonaut. The existence of Cliff does call into question Stamos’s later “insult” of Ragner as a “Japanese fruit fly.” Not that we didn’t already call it into question as a suitable slam, but maybe don’t use thinly-veiled, and poorly constructed, derogatory Asian slurs considering Cliff is the one saving your ass every ten minutes.

Never Too Young to Die is another movie featuring a depiction of punk culture so accurate it borders on documentary. For one thing, and this is something most people don’t know, punks run in packs with an age range of 18-45. They love to deck out their motorcycles like horses; not fire-breathing hell stallions as one would expect, but rather dainty little carousel ponies. They dress in post-apocalyptic attire because no one in mainstream society bothered to tell them that there was in fact no apocalypse. This is why we get villains like Green Skunk, Step-Dad Biker, and Chaka Khan the Barbarian who was never afforded the education necessary to come up with threats better than, “we’re going to tenderize your butt.” But where Never Too Young to Die really nails punk culture is its depiction of their worship of transsexual terrorists. If I had a nickel for every…you know what, I can’t even finish that joke. This movie harbors as much understanding of punks as I have of balanced diets.

Why I Love It!

This is the kind of film that could only exist in the 80s. In addition to the hockey-haired hero, the Casio-heavy soundtrack, and the plucky Asian friend, this film is firmly rooted in its decade of release. Watching the army of villainous henchmen, all I kept thinking was, “hey, you got Road Warrior on my teen spy flick…no, you got teen spy flick on my Road Warrior.” Finally I just gobbled up the whole thing and realized that the two great tastes went deliciously awry together. Sure, they could make–and unfortunately have made–teen spy flicks nowadays. But I can almost guarantee you Nick Cannon or Zack Efron or Jersey Twitterplanking would not be going up against hermaphroditic supervillains to the sounds of syntho-electric guitar and a theme song comprised almost solely of the character’s last name. Plus, if modernized, the action sequences in Never Too Young to Die would lose their we-had-to-shoot-this-in-a-day aesthetic. And as underwhelming as he is, Stamos’s 80s despite-his-best-efforts charisma really does make the film…an ill-advised novelty.

Never Too Young to Die is not available on DVD, and rightfully so. It is not the sort of film that demands of a wide viewership, or any viewership composed of people who like themselves, their eyeballs, and their precious time. It is however, to freaks like me, a VHS gem of the highest caliber. This sort of cinematic zeppelin is precisely why we collect VHS in the first place, and just having proof that this film exists justifies the outrageous expense of purchasing it. Oh it was only $1, but much of my little-remaining dignity was forfeit.

In addition to Gene Simmons’ insane-but-somehow-captivating-in-a-way-that-will-cost-my-therapist-thousands-of-hours-of-his-life performance, there is also a cameo from a horror icon that makes Never Too Young to Die worth…this sentence. Robert Englund appears as a nerdy computer technician first seen in a smart varsity sweater. This, of course, marking possibly the only time Englund has appeared wearing a sweater in a film and didn’t end up killing people in their dreams.

Junkfood Pairing: Lady Fingers

In honor of Ragner’s method of dispatch, and bold fence-ridding about his/her own sex, I highly suggest devouring as many of these “upscale” pastries as you view this decidedly “working for scale” action film. Maybe if you eat enough ladyfingers, dipped in copious amounts of rum, Stamos’s homophobic statements during the climactic fight scene will actually be funny…instead of wildly uncomfortable.

Get even more uncomfortable with more Junkfood Cinema

This week’s abomination: The Pit.

The Pit is the happy, all-too-familiar story of boy meets girl, boy falls for girl, boy shoves people he doesn’t like into sunken pit filled with ancient ravenous monsters. The protagonist here, and the best pro-abortion argument I’ve ever seen, is Jamie. Jamie is a eccentric recluse whose only real friends are the inhabitants of his terrarium and his teddy bear. Jamie is also fond of the monstrous denizens of a large hole in the woods: the trogs. Jamie, obsessing over an older woman he can’t have, becomes even more unstable than usual and begins to go out of his way to ensure the survival of the trogs…by feeding them human meat.

What Makes It Bad?

Have you ever been sunburned from head to foot and had to ride home from the beach in a Jeep with leather seats and poor alignment? It’s almost as uncomfortable as watching The Pit. Jamie is a mobile crazy factory with a Partridge Family haircut. At first, we are dumbfounded by the seemingly undue abuse he suffers from the townsfolk. He seems a touch weird but certainly undeserving of something like a punch in the face just for asking to be in the popular kid’s club, right? But had we known where this mouth-breather’s fractured psyche was going to take him, take us, we would have slipped that popular kid a shiv and told him to finish the job. Jamie’s insistent pursuit of the twice-his-age babysitter is, in medical terms, just plain icky. He sneaks a peek under her dress, creeps in on her while she’s showering, and begs her to wash his back while in the tub as he assures her “I’ll be all covered with suds.” It’s like Mary Kay Letourneau in reverse which, surprisingly, turns out to be twice as creepy.

If the hemorrhoid-like discomfort of Jamie’s relationship with his babysitter isn’t enough to give you the heebies and/or the jeebies, Jamie has a teddy bear. What’s that you say? You don’t find the fact that a twelve-year-old harboring a sixteen-year-old’s libido would still have a teddy bear? I’ll grant you that, but what if I told you that Jamie talks to that bear…and it talks back…in his own voice. Luckily, Jamie’s normal speaking voice is what I imagine that dog who told the Son of Sam who to kill sounded like; soft, but unmistakably coo-coo pants. The teddy bear is the one that advises Jamie not only on the best way to catch a glimpse of babysitter nip, but also strongly urges him to kill. It’s actually just as silly as it sounds. They were clearly going for creepy, but ultimately it’s just sad to watch this pale-faced psycho tot communicate his sexual hangups to a stuffed bear. I mean if you’re going to do that, you might as well name the kid Brian. Hahah….hmmm. Note to self: edit that line out later.

Tonally, The Pit has as many identity disorders as its toe-headed lead. It sets itself up to be a Carrie rehash, then it becomes an almost Lovecraftian monster story; not too jarring. But then randomly it becomes a silly, slapstick-filled feeding frenzy full of both whack and zane. It adopts this tone despite the fact that Jamie is sending children, ballerinas, and even old women in wheelchairs to their deaths. So imagine Little Shop of Horrors with a raging case of Aspergers. And there are musical cues throughout the whole film that seem set on selling it as the type of wildly entertaining schlock for which the 80s was so identifiable. But except for a few glimmering moments, The Pit is not fun. When it gets to the end it’s a dark, ugly cautionary tale…for which there isn’t even a moral. Then it’s a creatures-on-a-rampage flick followed finally by a procedural police thriller. The American Medical Association strongly recommends wearing a neck brace while watching The Pit…or at least they would if they weren’t busy with all that cancer nonsense.

There are plenty of odd and ends and missteps in The Pit to keep the schlock train a-rollin’. Jamie may be the product of an abusive home, a chemical imbalance, or violent comic books, but I honestly feel the more likely cause of his psychosis is horrible editing. The Pit just STARTS in the middle of a child’s Halloween party–because the movie hates us–with no studio logos or lead-in black; keep an eye out for the kid dressed as, as far as I can tell, an octopus who pilots a WWII era bomber. Then, just as Jamie shoves his first victim into the titular crevasse, the music begins to swell…only to be cut off immediately as we move to the next scene. Nice job, capuchin monkey intern. Or how about the little girl that keeps calling Jamie “funny person” as if that’s an actual insult. Shut up kid, you’re name is Abergail. Who the hell is named Abergail? I’ll tell you who, people who think “funny person” is an effective insult. I take that back, it is insulting to Barbra Streisand movie enthusiasts slavish to title accuracy.

The design of the monsters in The Pit leaves much to be desired (read: look as if they were designed by five-year-olds with a couple biology textbooks and astigmatism). I’m all for monsters looking like “a cross between x and y,” but the mammal/sea creature crossover is a little goofy. It looks like An American Werewolf in…a fish. Or how about the fact that our straw-haired little sociopath disappears for a good twenty minutes near the end of the film? Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled for the break from Jimmy No Marbles, but it takes a certain amount of boldness to abandon your main characters that most, you know, good films don’t boast.

Why I Love It!

As much as I love the context-free, unabashedly fun horror movies of the 1980s, something about The Pit just grabbed me; thankfully it wasn’t Jamie or his devious stuffed animal. The loneliness of adolescence is an emotionally disturbing and terrifying experience and I am always fascinated with the myriad methods by which horror films communicate that literally. Why doesn’t Jamie have any friends? Because he drives them all way (figurative)…by feeding them to prehistorical creatures who live in the woods (horror literal). If they were going to write a series of young adult books about Jamie’s life, it would be set at Cthulu Jr. High. Despite it’s not being based preexisting material, as you watch The Pit, you can see how it could have easily come from a horror short story…and how the imaginary short story is better. This is exactly the kind of film that could, and honestly should, be remade and would benefit from the changes in cinematic landscape since the original was released.

SPOILER ALERT!!! I actually enjoyed the monster hunt section of the film. Not only were we granted reprieve from the obnoxious kid acting of Cedric Von WhinnyMouth (I can’t remember the actor’s actual name), but the movie sort of becomes a clone of Humanoids from the Deep; the monsters setting up shop around a swimming hole and snatching up bathing beauties. This section of the movie gives us the most practical-effects-heavy innards snacking and speaks to the danger of letting loose a contained evil. Once they corner the beasts back in the hole, they gun them down with gusto and cover over the pit with dirt. It’s actually sort of heartbreaking despite itself.

The ending of The Pit had me leaping up and applauding. SPOILER ALERT!!! Well, I leaped as much as any man could who had spent the previous 90 minutes building a despair fort out of blankets and Funyan wrappers on the couch; did I mention how dark this movie gets? Once Jamie resurfaces, apparently having somehow escaped any suspicion of any of the countless murders he committed, even the ones set to Benny Hill music, he goes to live with his grandparents. While there, he is introduced to a young girl who is assigned the uneviable task of being Jamie’s playmate. As they chase each other into the cornfield they come across, you guessed it, another pit. At this point, we’re all thinking the same thing: that Jamie’s troubles have followed him to his new home and that it’s all going to start over again. What we should be thinking is, “where the hell did Jamie’s parents go and why is he suddenly living with his grandparents without any explanation?” But instead, the little girl makes a passing comment insinuating that she knows all about the Trogs, circles behind Jamie, and shoves him in. It’s such a legitimately effective ending that both gives Jamie his comeuppance and provides a chilling condemnation of every child who ever existed ever. Do not trust children.

Junkfood Pairing: Teddy Bear Lollipops

Inspired by the masterminding stuffed toy, enjoy these delicious teddy bears on sticks…before they decide to kill you and mount pieces of you on pikes. It’s ironic that these treats are most often made with molds considering The Pit operates so far outside the mold of a traditional 80s horror film.

For more teeth-rotting goodness, browse the Junkfood Cinema archives.

This Week’s Cauldron Offering: Killer Party

The basic story here, and I only say “story” because they’ve yet to come up with a word for the result of highlighting every fifth word in the newspaper and then filming it, is that years ago on a sleepy college campus an April Fool’s Day prank ended with the death of a young fraternity brother. Years later–after the world had, after much doubt, decided it could in fact continue spinning with one less frat boy in it–the now vacant frat house where the accident occurred is designated as the spot for this year’s collegiate bash. The film follows three fresh pledges who have just gotten into the most exclusive sorority on campus and must work the party as part of their initiation. Too bad no one bothered to tell them someone was planning to drop a big, stinky murder bomb right in the middle of the proceedings.

What Makes It Bad?

Some films start with a bang, others take their time and slowly acclimate the audience to the world of the film through subtlety and nuance. The filmmakers here opted to be so subtle in acclimating the audience to Killer Party, that they actually start two entirely different movies before they even get to this one. This film opens with a meta bonanza as first we are introduced to a horror film involving a vengeful corpse…which is then being watched by a pair of young lovers at a haunted drive-in…which turns out to be a music video being watched by one of the characters in Killer Party (I’m repeating the title in case you had forgotten as we traversed the many planes of existence at play here; none of which are particularly worthwhile). We are talking about a movie within a music video within another movie. Uncross your eyes, you look as ridiculous as the screenwriters for Killer Party.

Many of the tropes of bad 80s horror are alive and well in (and to a certain extent invented by) Killer Party. A group of college girls, who are supposedly cute but all look like your mom, have their hearts set on joining the most popular sorority on campus; clearly not limiting their dreams and truly shooting-for-the-moon-top-of-a-Pontiac-Fiero. The girls who are already members of I Whana Di are exactly like every college sorority girl you’ve ever seen: thirty years old and harboring lesbian tendencies. The afternoon communal, nude dip in the hot tub is weird enough, but the fact that their house mother is casually floating around the whole time creeps into a whole separate talk show topic I don’t want to explore. We also have the dorky boy characters who are constantly mistaking “harmless pranks” with “assaults bordering on attempted murder.” Yes, it’s adorable (read: near felonious) that you want to snap pictures of the hot sorority girls naked, but lobbing an entire nest of bees into their backyard to do it is…somewhat ill-advised. It’s like watching Revenge of the Nerds as directed by Ted Bundy.

Speaking of psychotic, let’s talk about the hazing ceremony these girls must endure. The leadership of the sorority have more nasty tricks for torturing their pledges than George Lucas has ways to ruin Star Wars. They call their fledgling sisters “goats” and if they were any more obsessed with that particular animal, the ceremony would have ended with one of the pledges impregnated with Satan’s unholy hellspawn. But in the midst of all this, one of the pledges, Vivia (which is in fact a name and not an over-the-counter asthma medication) decides to pull an elaborate prank involving moving tables, in-house explosions, a perfect plastic likeness of her own head, and a working guillotine (like you do). Wait, what? So who’s actually being hazed here? To haze the hazer in the middle of your own hazing is textbook haze entrapment, which will cost you $500 in fines…or 15 yards and a loss of down, I can’t remember. The irritating thing is that this is merely the start of Princess SillyName’s long string of practical jokes that completely delude most of the horror from that point forward because almost all of it turns out to be her pranking people. In other words, for a majority of the film, the scariest thing present is this ratty little goofball who looks as if Joanne Fabrics stuck two fingers down its throat and temporarily alleviated its body dimorphic disorder all over her.

Killer Party so fleetingly establishes changes in its temporal setting that it borders on time travel. The film begins on the eve of “Goat Night” which is clearly in the fall from the preponderance of dead leaves on the ground. But the day after Goat Night, the president of the Sic Lil Shrus (if it isn’t obvious by now, I can’t remember what the sorority was actually called) tells Vivia St. MaleEnhancementDrug that she is to perform the same prank she executed during her initiation during their April Fool’s Night party the following spring. This scene ends with a smash cut to that same sorority president walking into a meeting on what seems like the next day. But then the very next night is the April Fool’s Night masquerade? Unless this sorority is called Alpha Zeta McFly, that doesn’t seem to gel. But, if you rewind the film and freeze frame right as she goes in the meeting, because you have that much time in your life, you’ll see a blurry sign that reads “Greek Letter Society Council Meeting, March 15, 9:30 A.M.” Apparently that’s all the more we need to be made aware that six months have passed. For all we know, some overzealous, forward-thinking Greek Society page posted that sign to denote a meeting occurring half-a-year in the future. The point is, if you had sneezed–or wiped away the shame crumbs from your once-full bag of Mallomars–at that precise moment, you would believe this to be the University of Quantum Leap.

Why I Love It!

About fifteen minutes before the end, Killer Party really kicks it into high gear…is not a sentence I should have to write. But it does in fact adopt this bold pacing strategy and just before the credits roll, the film turns a sinister corner toward, get this, watchability. That’s when the spirit of the too-soon-departed frat brother–you know, merely the trivial antagonist of the film–shows up and begins killing. But in fact, he only shows up because he’s possessed the body of poor…what’s her name…Mom Hair#3. Disguised in a diving bell getup, apparently so she can kill those fornicating teens at the bottom of the fish tank, she dispatches a few schlubs in fair to middling ways, and then reveals herself to her friends. At this point, Killer Party becomes a weird Night of the Demons clone…two years before Night of the Demons! The effects and sound design here are actually pretty impressive as they make her look as if she is crawling across the ceiling and sound as if…she just found out she was contractually obligated to do Killer Party 2. To her credit, the actress playing the possessed monster is throwing herself headlong into the role and really selling it…as much as any emotionally unstable sorority girl can sell crazy.

Call me crazy, and I’ll eat the faces of your first cousins. But I do indeed enjoy the unrestrained idiocy of Killer Party. The lines of dialogue seem presciently stolen from drunken Facebook status updates nearly two decades before that intellectual garbage shoot was created. Killer Party doesn’t just look down its nose at dorks, it feels more comfortable assigning them to the same category as sexual predators; marching their dignity from house to house and informing all the neighbors of their odiousness. The dorks literally spend an entire scene crawling around a dance floor looking at girls’ asses because they can’t think of anything to say to them. Apparently for men there is no happy medium between James Bond and Amber Alert. I also enjoy that the twerpy nerd in the group ends up getting the girl…even if it is Vivia VonFashionDisaster.

The ending of Killer Party is flat-out awesome. The demon is transferred from Female Trainwreck #1 to Female Trainwreck #2 just before the cops arrive. They swoop in to save non-possessed Vivia Antihistamine and, assuming the other girl standing there is also a surviving victim, whisk her away as well. But they end up in the same ambulance, which despite being as ironic as a black fly in your dark-colored insect collection, is actually an amusingly dark note on which to end this campy college slasher. But the best part, and believe me when I say you should be dubious when I use the word best, is the song that plays over the credits. It’s one thing to cut budgetary corners by not getting a big-name singer to record your theme song, but it’s something far more ingenious and/or irresponsible to get your cast of dooftard girls drunk, take them to a karaoke bar, and record whatever song they make up when they can’t remember the lyrics to the Who’s The Boss theme. These are indeed the best times of our lives girls, what with all the blood and death and killer parties.

Junkfood Pairing: Gorditas

A certain taco-vending establishment denoted by a sonorous ringing device, who have repeatedly asked me not to mention their name and suggest any sort of association with this column, is to thank for this week’s snack. Taco Bell’s original Gordita seems the perfect junkfood pairing for Killer Party. As the opening of Killer Party is a movie within a music video within another movie, please enjoy this taco within a layer of nacho cheese within another taco all wrapped in a heart attack and deep fried in a you really need a girlfriend.

Enjoy more cheese in the middle with Junkfood Cinema

But then, because we learned nothing from The Evil Dead, we will resurrect the film by reciting passages from the necronomicon of pure adoration. To complete the blood ritual, we will pair the film with a insidiously delicious snack food item in the hopes that we can create for you a completely interactive horror film experience by actually shortening your life.

This Week’s Beast: Black Roses

The basic story here, and I do mean basic, is that a very popular rock band called The Black Roses has decided to begin their world tour in Mill Basin, Ontario, Canada USA. The kids in town are all super psyched, but the parent groups seem to have their collective undergarments in various stages of entanglement. They feel that The Black Roses is a group that promotes evil and the corruption of youth. Eventually, the parents see the error of their ways and let the band play all four (?) of its consecutive shows. Turns out they were right because much evilness and corruptitude ensues.

What Makes It Bad?

Black Roses is 1980s white conservative America’s worst nightmare caught on celluloid. Writer Cindy Cirile (which I choose to pronounce “surreal” for the purposes of irony), who actually played a mom in Rock ‘n’ Roll Nightmare just a year before, crafts a preposterously paranoid world in which attending one heavy metal concert turns perfectly upstanding American teenagers into juvenile delinquents; subsequent concerts transforming them into murderers and, worse, hoebags. And I mean these are the best kind of American teenagers, the Canadian kind, so this heavy metal music must be pretty evil. I mean smoking? Fighting? Making sex times with each other? Clearly these are all by products of loud music having almost nothing to do with the fact that these teenagers are… teenagers. My favorite absurd example of how this music corrupts is the hedgehog-headed six-year-old who chucks his superhero action figures into the fire claiming that they are actually the bad guys. It’s subtle; about as subtle as throwing what would now be priceless collectibles into a fireplace. The geek in me therefore has no trouble believing he’s an evil little bastard.

Some religious scholars subscribe to the The Clockmaker Theory of theology. In this theory, God was responsible for creating the universe, but is no longer actively involved in its operation; as a clock is created by a craftsman but then runs on its own. This same ideology was evidently used to construct the script for Black Roses. Ms. Surreal came up with a general conceit of “evil heavy metal concert makes kids no good” and left it up to the universe to decide how the plot would get to that point and how it would conclude. There are so many half-finished scenes that go entirely nowhere and lines of dialogue that ardently profess to the film’s mind-gelatining nonsensicality. The opening of the film shows the effects this band had on another city wherein an entire audience is transformed into zombies while an old man guards the door. The authorities shove him aside and open the door, unleashing the horde. Who the hell was that old man and why wasn’t the zombie storyline repeated to conclusion in Mill Basin? This absentee screenwriting is also apparent in the scene where a woman we can’t identify walks up to a mirror, pulls down her top and begins playing with her nipples for a solid three minutes. She then pulls her top back up and exits the scene. Umm, well, thank you of course, young lady but uh…what? In Canada, context eludes YOU.

There are in fact many, many head-scratchers to be found when examining the unapologetically disjointed arrangement of scenes in Black Roses. The band itself relegates its communication with Satan to a tiny room adorned with lipstick-drawn pentagrams and what I assume are apple-tart-scented offerings from The Yankee Candle Company. It’s just about as intimidating as the lead singer’s ewwrotic leather daddy wardrobe. And why is there a playground outside what is supposed to be a high school? True, I suppose it could have been a K-12 school…a tiny, three room K-12. It also doesn’t help matters that there is an obviously thirty-year-old student attending this school who resembles, in both appearance and swagger, Andrew Dice Clay; though he’s Canadian so I suppose it would be Andrew “Molson Ice” Clay. There’s of course also the woman who holds up the band’s logo before a town hall meeting as evidence of their dalliances with the dark arts. Trouble is, the logo is a smiling skull quite similar to the cartoonishly non-threatening Wal-Mart decorations you find in any first-grade classroom during the month of October. One does not typically find anarchy and finger paints in the same aisle.

Black Roses has one of the most uncompromisingly awful endings of any horror film I have ever had the happy misfortune of subjecting myself to. Let me see if I can explain all the events leading up to the closing credits without the reasoning center of my brain suffering a Vietnam-like flashback and crumbling in on itself like an expiring pill bug. First the band’s lead singer, named Damien in the interest of nuance, removes his wig and turns into a rubber lizard monster who engages in a dainty slap fight with our heroic, Tom-Selleck-clone of an English teacher (do they even speak English in Canada?). Then, the teacher douses the stage and monster in gasoline and, after uttering cinema’s most inaudible final one-liner, sets the demon-lizard-rocker ablaze. He then later completely fails to react when the evening news reports that The Black Roses will be playing Madison Square Garden. Hey, Mr. Selleck…ish, you do know that was the name of the band you literally just burned alive, right? eh? The worst is when they zoom in on the lead singer’s photo and the voice-over states only, “evil.” After a pregnant, which you can actually afford to be in Canada, pause they proceed with the character’s earlier monologue about the nature of evil. But for a good ten seconds, you think the film is simply reminding you where everyone stands.

Why I Love It!

One of the things I love most about being a horrorphile is discovering pockets of esoteric subgenres. Black Roses is among the very best of one of the weirdest of the secondary horror classifications: heavy metal horror. Truth be told, I am not incredibly well versed on this particular breed of horror film, but of the few I have seen, there seems to be a very distinct pattern at work. Namely, these films uniformly reveal that filmmakers in the 80s had no idea what to make of heavy metal or, especially, its fans. Between this film and the similarly toned Trick or Treat (1986), in which a metal band lead singer is also an instrument of evil, it seems clear that where these writers heard “heavy metal” their brains translated “root of all that is sinister and nasty.” It’s almost like Invasion of the Body Snatchers wherein the pod people are “pod punks” and one fearless, upstanding (read: hopelessly square) adult must save the children from the big bad metal band. Where there seems to have been this intention to subversively condemn the musical genre, the hilariously misguided fear of heavy metal lends an even greater charm to the cinematic subgenre that augments the already tangible charm of 80s horror. To wit, Black Roses is endlessly entertaining and effortlessly succeeds despite its failed heavy-handedness.

Not surprisingly, one of the largest components of Black Roses‘ irresistible appeal is its soundtrack. Now don’t get me wrong, I am in no way advocating that the music featured in the film is to be taken as quintessential heavy metal. Point of fact, it isn’t even to be taken as decent heavy metal; or even mildly cumbersome metal. But it is a syrupy bastardization that tries so hard, and nosedives so epically, as to win over even the most stalwart metalheads. It pulses with the same dimly electric, but wholly intoxicating, energy as, say, the theme song from New Year’s Evil, but manages to sustain that energy throughout the film as opposed to merely shooting its load in one track. Part of the ironically palatable nature of this terrible music is again rooted in the subgenre’s utter misunderstanding of the music scene to which it is ultimately so beholden. If this is what the spooked conservatives think real metal is, they actually have no idea how terrified they should be.

As a torch-bearer (read: crotchety old fart) for practical effects, there was plenty for me to love in Black Roses. One of my favorite scenes in the film, and quickly climbing the list of my favorite death scenes of all time, features a not-s0-caring father, played by none other than Vincent Pastore, meeting a fitting and giggle-inducing demise. A demon flies out of his son’s stereo and, after wrestling with him Ed-Wood-style, sucks him completely into a speaker. The design of the monster was respectable and the use of camera tricks and clever editing to complete the illusion on a stingy-budget was most impressive. I also love that prior to this head-banging stage dive off the mortal coil, Pastore–the biggest Pussy of TV’s The Sopranos–actually says to his son, “only two kinds of guys wear earrings: pirates and faggots. I don’t see a ship in our driveway.” Eat your heart out…inexplicably ungagged right-wing talk show hosts! I also loved the scene in which the girl transformed into the, for lack of a better term, tufted tit dragon; strange as those are usually dormant in Ontario this time of year. Just after rendering herself shirt-free in a failed act of seduction, she launches into a demonic mood swing that sees her neck elongating and her head going full puppet (and it’s not even Oscar season yet!). It may look silly at first, but the wide shots where we see this thing stalking the guy through his kitchen is categorically ooky.

As a special side note to this film, it has been rumored that fellow film critic, and good friend, Mr. James Rocchi of MSN Movies has a small part in Black Roses. And by “it has been rumored,” I mean “James Rocchi is totally, 100% in Black Roses.” Back when Rocchi still lived in the great white tundra of Canada–or as I like to call it, his pupa stage–he happened to be in the same area where Black Roses was being filmed and the rest is “Stuff We Just Found Out Today” history. If you’re looking for him as you watch, Rocchi described himself as “a scarecrow nerd in a white denim jacket.” This only increases my love for this unsung horror gem.

Junkfood Pairing: Devil’s Food Cookies

There is a paradox inherent in devil’s food cookies that echoes that of both Black Roses and the climate of fear surrounding heavy metal as communicated in heavy metal horror. While devil’s food is a typically heavy delicacy, devil’s food cookies are light and fluffy. In much the same way, The Black Roses purport to be a “heavy” metal band, but their overall act and sound could not be more fluffy…and the result is just as awesome as eating an entire box of devil’s food cookies in one sitting.

Also, devil’s food cookies are every bit as ensconced in the practice of satanism and the black arts as was the heavy metal music of which 80s parents were so desperately afraid. You’re just as likely to sell your soul under the influence of this chocolaty treat as you would be listening to Iron Maiden.

Rock on with more Junkfood Cinema

This week’s ghoul: Dead Heat

What Makes It Bad?

The basic premise of Dead Heat is that a detective is killed while investigating a bizarre jewelry store robbery that leads him to a mysterious laboratory. The detective who dies is named Roger Mortis because apparently when you opt to make a movie called Dead Heat, you’ve already thrown subtlety into the meat grinder. Det. Mortis is then resurrected by a machine at that same laboratory and must try and solve his own murder before his body decays. Dead Heat is a buddy cop movie with delusions of horrordom. Frankly, it also suffers from delusions of hilarity, buddiness and coptitude as well.

The two cops in the film are played by Treat Williams and Joe Piscopo. If you aren’t familiar with Joe Piscopo, he is a prime example of humanity’s ultimate failure as a race. I weep that there was ever a time in our shared history that anyone thought this mulleted assortment of ill-earned muscle and wasted machismo could be a movie star. I’m not saying he’s a steroid freakshow, but he does resemble a walking, unfortunately talking, Roger Clemens perjury case. Imagine a caveman granted the ability to speak only in atrocious puns and one-liners. It’s as if that monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey was covered in Arnold Schwarzenegger’s lines from Commando…or The Running Man…or his state of the state addresses to the people of Caly-FOR-nia. Piscopo doesn’t so much drive the plot as he does drive the movie as close to total destruction as possible before Treat Williams has to save it.

The worst part about Joe Piscopo in this film is that Dead Heat is structured in such a way as to never let us be rid of him. Dead Heat does us the very kind service of killing his character horribly, and there is much rejoicing. But our elation is quickly sullied by the sudden recollection of the film’s plot. “Don’t worry gentle audience,” it brainlessly cheers, “we have a plot device to bring Joe back from the dead.” We begin to sniffle. “He’ll survive to the last frame no matter what!” A solitary tear of deepest sadness cascades down our cheeks. “You’ll never be rid of him… NEVER!” We contemplate hurling ourselves under buses or eating an entire magazine of bullets, which sounds only as impossible as Piscopo’s career.

So much of this film requires of you to forgo logic. No, that’s not enough actually. You must indeed stuff all your logic in a burlap bag, beat it with a cricket bat, set it on fire, and chuck it through the front window of your local library. For example, it seems to me that any facility that builds an asphyxiation room the size of a racquetball court with a wide-open door that closes easily with no way to open it from the outside is asking for trouble. And they actually try and justify its existence by calling it the most humane method of putting an animal to sleep? If this plot point were any more convenient, it would serve you Slurpees and speak very little English. And the twist about the 80s hot 80s average lab employee being dead the whole time is absurd even within the confines of the film’s already absurd central conceit. If she was brought back to life years ago by the same machine that brought Roger back, why isn’t she slowly decaying too? Instead she looks conspicuously alive the whole time and then randomly dissolves to ash within seconds for no discernible reason. Dead Heat, you forget yourself! At least play by your own ridiculous rules.

Why I Love It!

If 80s movies came any more enjoyable than Dead Heat, you’d have to pray they weren’t undercover cops and tip them generously afterwards. A buddy cop movie smacked upside the head with Return of the Living Dead is everything I’ve ever wanted from the medium of cinema; Piscopo notwithstanding.This is a zombie film in which the zombies don’t shamble aimlessly in search of brains. This is a world wherein zombies commit robberies, crack wise, and engage in balls-out awesome gun battles. Our heroes are zombies on a mission to avenge their own deaths; ironically breathing new life into the procedural police drama.

Every scene in this film is a cheese-soaked testament to the wild imagination of the 1980s and it refuses to take itself even the least bit seriously. Even in the moments wherein the characters are contemplating life and death, they do it so hilariously clunkily that their truer, more irreverent take on the matter is crystal clear. I mean come on, two undead tough guys shooting each other at point blank range for five minutes before one of them thinks of an alternative? How can you not love this film? And Darren McGavin’s explosive exit from the film calls to mind Scanners by way of…leaving a hotdog too long in the microwave. When Doug and Roger walk off into the sunset, or in this case a brilliant white light, they discuss reincarnation. Roger would like to come back as a statesman, Doug as the seat on a girl’s bike. Just like Vishnu intended.

While Piscopo may be a titanic waste of flesh, Treat Williams is incredible in Dead Heat. In life, he’s a charming, no-nonsense cop who gets results no matter what and an effective counterbalance to the loudmouth slacker with whom he is partnered. In death, he becomes an angry gun-toting wraith of action hero vengeance. I love the makeup they used to show his slow descent into necrosis. It begins subtly with hair falling out and darkness around the eyes, but by the end he bears striking resemblance to the most terrifying monsters to ever host The View. After he is burned up in the ambulance crash, his approach to solving his own death goes from investigative to ass-kickative and name-takeative. Throughout all of this, Treat William’s performance is grounded and empathetic. I’d make a joke about spending 90 minutes with him being a real “Treat,” but I’d like to think my puns are slightly above the Piscoposian standard.

If for no other reason, Dead Heat is worth watching for the butcher shop scene alone. The zombified carcasses of everything from ducks to suckling pig attack our intrepid heroes con gusto! It’s like watching George Romero’s botulism-induced fever dream. Of course hideous puns get slopped about like so much A1  sauce, but the scene is riotously funny in concept alone. As goofball chic as it may be, the practical effects used to animate this kitchen of the living dead meat are quite remarkable. My favorite aspect is the entire side of beef that comes bursting out of the freezer like it is entering a bullfighting ring. I like my meat rare, but this is *Insert Piscopo Joke Here*.

Junkfood Pairing: A Barbecue Sampler Platter

I defy you not to develop a hankering for fire-roasted meats after watching the butcher shop scene in Dead Heat. Even if you don’t live in the saintly barbecue mecca that is Austin, Texas, I highly advise you to run, don’t walk you lazy bastard, to your local meat purveyor and demand a sloppy cross-section of all their wares. Eat as much barbecue as you possibly can no matter your dietary proclivities. Vegetarians will not be spared when the zombecue uprising is upon us.

Suck the sauce and zombie guts from your fingers and go read more Junkfood Cinema

What’s the plan? Well, it’s the usual plan. I’m going to roast a terrible film over the coals of a hellfire, gently turning it on a devil-approved spit, and dance around all that horrific burning while the screams stretch up through eight other levels of Hell, said bad film begging for mercy and forgiveness. Then, we’re just totally going to skip Purgatory, because it’s super-boring, but then and only then will I shower the film with love, tickling it gently with little white feathers, with a brief pause to run through a sunlit meadow while a blonde lady plays a harp nearby. Then we’re all going to eat cake.

Please open the pearly gates for Just Like Heaven.

What Makes It Bad?

Just Like Heaven is not quite appallingly bad, but it is stultifyingly silly – like someone saw Ghost and thought “jeez, this would be really great if only it was funny and if Napoleon Dynamite played the Whoopi Goldberg role. And maybe if there was no crime to solve, crime is so sad. And if there was no weird crafting that would give me a boner at a later date.” Going to Color Me Mine is rough for dudes who saw Ghost when they were kids, I get that. Fortunately, Just Like Heaven features no sexy crafting scenes, so that’s an automatic point for it right there. Reese Witherspoon’s character does have a slight fixation on her coffee table, however, but I think that has less to do with her affection for fine woodworkmanship (go with it) and more with her being a Class-A OCD nightmare.

As most romantic comedies go, Just Like Heaven tracks the relationship between two equally damaged people. In this case, however, Witherspoon’s Elizabeth is physically damaged (she’s in a coma after a bad car wreck) and Mark Ruffalo’s David is emotionally damaged (he’s in, for lack of a better term, a feelings coma). In case you missed it, she’s in a coma – she’s not dead. There’s no heaven involved, nor angels, just a pun-y little title that gets introduced by way of a truly bad cover of The Cure’s song of the same name. But we don’t quite know all of that right off the bat – we know that Elizabeth is a workaholic doc who gets slammed by a big rig, and we know that David is a sadsack who trolls for sublets based on how comfy their couches are to his sadsack ass. It’s a comedy about comas. It’s a coma-dy.

And we do know that David can somehow see Elizabeth – even when no one else can. Whatever happened to Elizabeth on that rainy night, her apartment is now up for grabs, and David moves right in. And then Elizabeth moves in on him. Is she a ghost protecting her abode? Has David finally gone crazy after watching too much bad TV and drinking too many Budweisers? Why am I beating around the bush on this, considering I’ve already revealed what’s really going on with ol’ Lizzie? The girl is in a coma, and David is either a total nutbag who has started seeing things (and talking to them in public), or he’s the only one who can see her “spirit” and is thus the only person who can help her figure out who she is so that she can figure out what happened to her. You know where this is going, right? They fall in love. Of course they do. We don’t really need to go much further with this.

Because the film relies entirely on a conceit that is, ooh, well, let’s put it delicately, ridiculous, it’s also infused with a very weird and seemingly necessary sense of magic. Most of the magic consists of wind and some tinkly score and Napoleon Dynamite, but still – magic. Ugh. As if most rom-coms weren’t hard enough to swallow already, now we need to add magic into the mix. Isn’t the magic between two people who genuinely feel for each other enough? Yeah, guess not, that’s no good for a concept comedy.

Just Like Heaven pulls absolutely no punches when it comes to the levels of ludicrous it’s prepared to go to in service to its insane plot. Body-snatching, a very loose sense of medical procedures, a pick-and-choose view of spirituality, Mark Ruffalo crying a lot, a whole side plot about rooftops gardens, people touching spirits, a cheeseball “twist” ending, it’s all there, with most of it set to some of the worst covers of popular pop jams imaginable. If this is what Heaven is like, send me straight down.

Why I Love It!

I’ve long believed in something I call “The Spinning Wheel of Romantic Comedy Casting…of Death!” (I added the “…of Death!” for pizzazz). Some rom-com pairings are so captivatingly wrong-headed that I am convinced that all casting directors are issued a giant, spinning prize wheel (“…of Death!”) that is outfitted with the names of a male lead and a female lead (well, maybe there are two wheels, one with ladies and one with dudes, or maybe it’s more like a dart game? I haven’t quite worked out the logistics on this one, but death is definitely involved). In any case, that wheel gets spun and whomsoever pops up on it gets cast as the leads in whatever romantic comedy is being cast at the time. This is literally the only reason why Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore were paired up in Music & Lyrics. Sometimes, the Spinning Wheel rolls right off its pedestal (it’s cheaply made), and that’s when people just use a pair they’ve used before, shrugging all the way to the bank (“what can I say, people just love these two together!”).

This is all a very long way of saying that obviously the Spinning Wheel was used to pair up Witherspoon and Ruffalo, but this time around, the Wheel did a fine job and its work resulted in an unexpectedly solid pairing. Witherspoon is all tight and type-A and nutty and busy and really kind of sad, and Ruffalo is like a big smooshy puppy who just wants to lie on your couch and drink coffee and maybe talk about his feelings. Don’t you want to talk about your feelings with Mark Ruffalo? Sigh. I do. Witherspoon and Ruffalo are just lovely together, and despite how balls-out stupid the plot is, they make it not only tolerable, but really just quite sweet.

Also, the film really goes for it in the most bizarre ways possible – this is a film that features Napoleon Dynamite (I know he has a real name) as a spirit medium and a hugely overt reference to the Ghostbusters as the key elements to the entire otherworldly aspect that’s supposed to be central to the plot. There’s also the crowd of wackos that surround Elizabeth and David – David’s wiseass (and wise) best friend (Donal Logue), Elizabeth’s unhinged older sister (Dina Waters), and the other doctor competing for Elizabeth’s job (Ben Shenkman, as a dude so set on getting the position that he essentially tries to kill Lizzie, so much for the Hippocratic Oath). And no in-depth discussion of Just Like Heaven (of which I suspect this might be the first one) would be complete without a massive shout-out to Ivana Milicevic as Elizabeth and David’s dumb-bunny neighbor, Katrina, a character who manages to issue amusing thoughts on sexuality, politics, tattoos, linguistics, and psychology in a swift three-minute sequence. Any film that features a character pantomiming a telephone conversation with bin Laden that features the line, “hello, Osama, Communism is so over, like give your people toilet paper” wins all of the points in my book.

And if we’re going to get deep for a minute, it’s totally conceivable that, for all its fluff, Just Like Heaven really does have something important to say about love itself. Just Like Heaven works under the theory that love is a transformative experience, so much so that true communication between people who cherish each other exists on a realm that other people cannot even touch (or, as it were, see). Of course, the film also assumes that said true love can only blossom from two people who hate each other on sight. It’s banter and sexual tension for dum-dums, which is why the same piece o’ plotline is present in just about every big studio romantic comedy you’re likely to catch in a theater near you. But it’s nice in Just Like Heaven! It’s sweet! Come on, guys, it’s a coma-dy!

Bad romantic comedies are a dime a dozen, throwaway outings with no real heart. Just Like Heaven doesn’t even care about morals when they get in the way of true love (see: body-snatching, no, really body-snatching for love). That’s stick-to-your-ribs schlock.

Junkfood Pairing: Angel Food Cake

Despite its title, Just Like Heaven isn’t even really about a ghost, and since there’s no food named for workaholics in an accident-induced healing sleep (trust me, I tried to find a recipe for coma cookies, they don’t exist), we’re just going to keep right on chugging with all the heavenly mumbo jumbo. Angel food cake! It’s supposedly healthy cake (your guess is as good as mine on who decided that one), so go ahead and toss some ice cream and whipped stuff and hot fudge syrup on it and go eat it on your rooftop garden and think about how good it is to be alive. Or something.

If you find you aren’t dead from internal bleeding, you are welcome to then enjoy the snack food item I pair with each film. Because honestly, name one person obesity ever killed, right?

This week’s heart-clogger? Ernest Goes to Camp.

What Makes It Bad?

Whether you hated Jim Varney‘s dopey, rubber-faced bumpkin Ernest P. Worrell or you simply thought he was without merit, I’m willing to go out on a limb and say that this was the first Ernest movie ever made. The great thing about Ernest movies is that they also function as covert I.Q. tests. Show this film to a group of your friends and carefully note their reactions. The buddy who sits grimacing without even a hint of a smile can be trusted to, say, drive a car or dress himself in the morning. The acquaintance who rolls on the floor cackling, the one who only got invited because you forgot to mark your Facebook event as private, is probably the one laboring under the misconception that the iPad is a feminine hygiene product.

There is something downright uncomfortable about laughing at Ernest’s antics; primarily because his mental condition is a bit nebulous. He’s obviously an adult, he drives a car/has a job, and yet he reacts to stimuli as would an incredibly simple child. He also has a great deal of affection for small pet animals and holds lengthy conversations with a turtle. He’s essentially a country-fried version of Lenny from Of Mice and Men. I’m fairly certain this means that laughing at Ernest’s pratfalls qualifies as a hate crime.

Speaking of hate crimes, the movie sure does beat the hell out of this lovable r-word. They knock him off ladders, attack him with badgers, and drop a coke machine on him. This movie hates Ernest even more than I do. Ernest’s slapstick is so desperately wacky that it actually defies physics. While driving a bus, he gets into a very minor fender bender at extremely low speed that sends him whirling from the driver’s seat, tumbling backwards through the bus’ doors, and landing on the ground. Scientists now speculate that if he were to slip on a banana peel, he would be ascend 200 feet in the air, grow a tail, and be hurled 26 years into the future, by which time he would have already been dead 13 years.

All that to say, you forfeit certain braincells and systems of logic if you completely buy into the world of Ernest P. Worrell. Case in point, this is a world wherein the dregs of a juvenile detention center be granted an entire summer of basically unsupervised fun at a camp? That would be like the most hardened criminals of Rikers Island being rewarded with a trip to King’s Island. Or how about the plot point wherein the old American Indian chief who runs the camp is tricked into signing over the lease to a disreputable mining company. Any logical person would, I don’t know, dispute this in court. And indeed, the chief’s daughter mentions that they could fight it in court. Ernest, however, opts for the slightly less ideal solution of attacking the encroaching miners with homemade grenades, crossbows, and parachuting snapping turtles. The daughter ends up showing up at the end with an injunction against the company that she, get this, WON IN COURT! I’m pretty sure even if they get to keep the camp, Ernest is still going to have to stand trial for several, several counts of attempted murder. Luckily, he’ll probably get off due to being mentally incompetent to stand trial.

Actor Gailard Sartain, in addition to having the most Canadian name anyone from Oklahoma could ever dream of, is an actor who shows up in some form in all of Ernest’s adventures. While I feel like he works in some of the entries, he is easily the most obnoxious part of this film. He plays the camp chef who creates “outrageously” bad cuisine. That’s pretty much the only joke on the menu here. Eventually he also invents a machine that turns random ingredients into…unbearably bad puns. It seems pretty obvious by the film’s end that Sartain was cast solely on his ability to whip his eyeballs back and forth in a silly, rapid fashion; much like Sir Laurence Olivier.

Editor’s Note: The author has informed us that the above image chosen to accompany this piece belongs to Ernest Goes to Jail and not, in fact, Ernest Goes to Camp. We don’t regret the error.

Why I Love It!

Ernest Goes to Camp is one of the best examples of a very specific subgenre of film I like to call “Let’s Save the Rec Center.” It always centers on a group of underdogs, in this case a group of serial killer babies, who must band together to save the one place that has proven to their only real home, in this case Camp Kikakee, from some evil land developer or whatnot. Also, it usually follows that the underdogs are minorities to emphasize the underdoggedness. In the case of Ernest Goes to Camp, the juvenile delinquent “heroes” are the only minorities in the entire camp. Apparently “Kickakee” is an old American Indian word that means gerrymandering. Throw in a couple of “let’s come together and build shit” montages and the “everybody learns a lesson” moment and you’ve got yourself Breakin’ 2: Ernestic Boogaloo.

If there are two things for which I am a consummate sucker, it’s montages and inexplicably absurd plots. Ernest Goes to Camp has one of the greatest montages in the history of cinema; that’s right Rocky IV, you heard me. True to form, it features a terrible, easy-listening rock song from a band no one’s heard of. And the images of the boys coming together to stop the miners is so heart-warming that it almost makes you completely forget that they are building a two-story mobile weapon of, if not mass destruction, then at least grievous bodily harm. The result of that montage is an assault on a group of burly grown men by a group of pre-teen offenders that is far more explosive and action-packed than it has any right to be.

As to absurd plot points, it would be impossible to discuss this film without examining the complex redonkulousness of the Ceremony of the Blade, the Stone, and the Arrow. The film opens with a scene of an ancient tribal ritual in which a young brave is strapped to a plank of wood while a shaman hurls various weapons at him. The concept here, as per the narration, is that if the brave is…brave enough, the giant knife, the tomahawk, and the arrow launched at him will not touch him. Really? Because unless bravery can alter the path of an object in motion and debunk all of Newton’s Laws, that mutha-feather still gonna die. Forget the fact that this exact sequence of exposition shows up twice within the film just to make sure we understand its complexity. And nevermind the fact that Ernest is later able to avoid getting hit by the bullets that an angry John Vernon fires at him from close range despite the fact that Ernest is cowering in fear. My biggest problem with this is that the very white, middle class camp administrator talks to his campers about the ceremony as something in which they will all take part at the end of the summer. They really didn’t need the plot point about the mining company wanting to buy the land from under them, Camp Kikakee was just one more tri-pierced dead camper away from being closed all on its own.

Jim Varney’s heartfelt musical number is so hokey and out of place, it really has to be seen to be believed.  He sure is glad it’s raining, because no one sees your teardrops when it pours. Unfortunately no amount of rain can obscure this movie from our view. It’s so bad, but Varney pulls it off somehow by playing it so–God I hate myself for this one–earnestly.

Junkfood Pairing: S’mores

The ultimate camp food for the…most averagest camp movie ever made. All of Ernest Goes to Camp‘s schlocky components melt together to form one deliciously awful treat.

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As per usual, I’ll start off by listing all the reasons to avoid this film like the swamp lands of Kentucky, but I’ll finish up by lovingly wrapping it in one of those emergency blankets that look like aluminum foil. I’ll also recommend a tasty if health challenged treat to warm your cholesterol-laden insides. So what are we waiting for?

This week’s cinematic indulgence is…drum roll…U.S. Marshals!

What makes it bad?

Remember when The Fugitive came out, made a metric shit-ton of money, and practically screamed for a sequel? No? That’s because only the first two parts of that sentence were scientifically accurate. The Fugitive was in fact released August 6th, 1993 and made damn near $200 million domestic, which is coincidentally the exact conversion rate to metric shit-tons. Thing is, there was no reason to do a sequel to The Fugitive. Things worked out pretty well at the end of that movie and unless someone was going to come along and frame Richard Kimble again, there’s not much story left there. Plus that would just be mean-spirited. In any event, some executive with dollar signs in his eyes decided that a sequel was the way to go, and thus was born U.S. Marshals.

As you might expect, the sequel follows Deputy Sam Gerard and his crew of cronies as they try to capture yet another evader of the judicial system. We start with a stellar bust in Chicago, one that sees Tommy Lee Jones wearing a chicken suit. One of the dastardly devils is played by Donald Gibb, who our loyal readers, all 4 of you, will remember as the Mick Foley impersonator from Bloodsport. Sadly Gibb and his brother are being shipped off to a federal pound-you-in-the-ass prison, and Gerard is tapped to accompany them.

They’re on a prison transport plane, making an inexplicable run from Chicago to Memphis and then to New York. It’s not like they’re flying Delta and they have to go through the Delta hub in Memphis. It seems like they could just fly directly to New York instead. Now I have considered the fact that maybe they needed to drop some prisoners off in Memphis, but the thing is this plane is fully loaded with 30-40 prisoners. How are there that many criminals that need to leave Chicago all at the same time? And you’re telling me that not only did Chicago happen to stumble across 30-40 criminals from other places but the only two places they need to go is Memphis and New York? I’m sorry but that makes about as much sense as writing a screenplay about the exploits of the United States Marshals offi….oh.

Luckily for the plot, someone has slipped a zip gun (but not a zip drive or zip line) into the toilet paper holder on the plane. This allows a young Asian fellow to try to shoot Wesley Snipes on his way back to his seat. Sadly, the plane hits a bump and he misses, blowing a hole in the side of the plane and causing it to crash land. This also allows Snipes to escape. From the plane. That was obliterated when it crashed. Because of a single bullet.

Wesley Snipes was supposedly a Marine and then a CIA black ops asset before working for the State department. Despite all that rigorous training, it seems no one ever taught him how to lie. When he’s caught and interrogated by the oldest cop on film ever, he answers far too quickly and swings his head around looking up at the ceiling. It honestly feels like the director told him to be as obvious as humanly possible about the fact that he wasn’t telling the truth. But don’t worry too much for Snipes. Despite his clear inability to fabricate facts he can pick the lock on a pair of handcuffs with a broken piece metal from a pair of reading glasses. So at least that training was good for something. In fact, Gerard’s first clue that Snipes actually worked for the State department was the fact that Downey Jr. could also pick the lock on handcuffs with a broken pair of glasses. Why is this a skill that they teach? It seems way too specific. I can see the room now, sterile and cold with a table filled with handcuffs on one side and broken pairs of glasses on the other. It’s like the optometry apocalypse.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Tommy Lee Jones, but he’s a very specific type of actor with a personality that doesn’t lend itself well to the traditional leading man role. Unfortunately, no one on this production seems to realize this and instead seems content trying to shove him into it like a round peg in a square hole without a shoe horn. He could not be possibly look more uncomfortable at a fancy dinner party with a lovely lady on his arm. It’s like he’s never been on a date, possibly that he’s never even touched a woman. Watching Jones try to smile is like watching a horse try to hopscotch. They even ask him to play the good cop at one point, which requires a modicum of sympathy, politeness and generally being a nice guy. Jones has no idea how to play this and simply comes off as fake and a little creepy. Andy Serkis emotes more in a green suit with ping pong balls taped to it.

Why I love it!

Despite its faults, U.S. Marshals is a pretty decent action film. It’s paced well enough to keep the story moving, doesn’t drag too much and has enough going on to keep the audience interested. They threw money at this film allowing them to actually beat the shit out of a real plane and drop it in a lake. Thus, they get serious credit for a good deal of practical effects work there.

The action scenes are very well done, in particular the plane crash, the fist fight between Jones and Snipes on sand dunes of grain and the scene where Snipes jumps off the top of a building holding a rope, then swings Indiana Jones style on to a nearby elevated subway train. It’s a surprisingly big sequence, obviously a dangerous stunt, and it’s filmed quite believably. Coincidentally U.S. Marshals was directed by longtime editor Stuart Baird. Baird has edited classics like The Omen, Superman and Lethal Weapon as well as modern ass-kicking action films like the Daniel Craig-starring Casino Royale. So it should come as no surprise that the man knows how to craft an action sequence. It also explains why the action in U.S. Marshals is frankly a little better than it probably should have been.

But the real reason to watch this film is Tommy Lee Jones. Yes, I know I mentioned his problems in the above section, but he can hardly be blamed for a screenwriter and director who didn’t understand how to use him. He works best when he’s allowed to be himself. Thankfully, there’s a good deal of that as well and Jones doesn’t disappoint. Frankly, he’s kind of a dick to people which is admittedly his MO in a lot of cases. Some people can make that work better than others. Tommy Lee Jones is one of the best. It’s true that the man seems to have only three facial expressions that range from annoyed to about-to-rip-your-face-off. But what he lacks in warmth he more than makes up for with dialogue.

He can make quick-witted and bitingly satiric dialogue sound just right with a hard edge to it. He’s intensely focused on the hunt and doesn’t give a shit about much else. He gets some great lines like “Knock on the door, Biggs,” “This cat ain’t no statistic. Not yet,” and “Get yourself a Glock, lose that nickel-plated sissy pistol.” Even Joe Pantoliano gets a good one. When Downey Jr asks if Gerard is crazy, Joe responds with “No, but he is a carrier.” A lot of the lines are genuinely funny and keep things fun and light.

This should be in the why it’s bad section, but speaking of that nickel-plated sissy pistol, whoever did the cover art for the DVD clearly hadn’t seen the film, because Jones is shown standing tall holding that very gun in his hand. Sam Gerard wouldn’t have been caught dead holding that gun and yet Jones is looking off in to the distance like a bad-ass while his right hand betrays him by holding a nickel-plated sissy pistol. For shame!

Ultimately U.S. Marshals is an enjoyable if forgettable film. But where else are you going to see Tommy Lee Jones in a giant yellow chicken suit?

Junkfood Pairing: Peeps

In honor of Tommy Lee Jones in the chicken suit, get a nice box of yellow marshmallow Peeps. See how many you can stuff in your mouth before Jones says something snarky. You could also get a few boxes and try a drinking game where you eat a Peep each time Jones stares at someone with contempt. Either way, enjoy!

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Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; constantly in need of a bigger boat. Remember when Junkfood Cinema only covered crusty old cheese that you didn’t care about or crappy movies out of theaters just long enough to have completely vanished from your consciousness forever? Those were good times, simpler times. You were safe from it as long as you stayed in the boat and didn’t venture into my usual feeding grounds. But now, like some God-awful 3D gimmick, I am bursting through your computer screen and invading your local movie theater to take a massive bite out of a brand new movie. I will chomp apart all of this film’s many, many faults and drag it down to a watery grave. But then, like Matt Hooper, my love for this movie refuses to stay submerged and comes bubbling to the surface. I’ll wrap it up by chumming the waters with a tasty snack food themed to the film.

Today’s Catch: Shark Night 3D

It is a true rarity that brand new movies, in those fancy shmancy multiplexes with their hoity toity 3Ds, XDs, and D-students, perfectly exemplify the core values of Junkfood Cinema. But in the case of Shark Night 3D, the confines of a traditional review would simply do no justice to the complex, near-paradoxical experience of seeing this terrible/amazing film in a theater and, despite all its best efforts, loving it so much that you unironically hope it wins an Oscar so that a hundred more movies just like are released within the next year. This was one such transcendent experience. And even though the 3D in this film did little more than perfectly replicate how uncomfortable and irritating it is to go swimming in a lake, I admit I enjoyed it. If you see only one shark movie in your lifetime that doesn’t rhyme with SHMAUZ, see Shark Night 3D.

What Makes It Bad?

Shark Night 3D is a stinky fish. It is loaded to the gills with every imaginable screenwriting SNAFU and FUBAR and WTF and POS and all the other acronyms that amount to something totally inept. It is so bad that your brain won’t let your eyes believe what its seeing, so instead it goes into panic mode and starts chucking out buckets of IQ points and critical thinking skills as the flood of idiocy comes rushing in. Shark Night 3D is a marvel of bad movie evolution, largely unchanged from its schlock ancestors. All this thing does is swim, and kill, and make little sense. It is like a SyFy original movie made by an MTV executive. This is evident immediately in the title sequence featuring stock footage of sharks set against red color tint and industrial heavy metal. It was like David Attenborough’s Planet Earth as directed by Trent Reznor. If I tried to load up all of the problems with this film, your brain boat would sink. So instead, I’ll try and narrow it down to just the top fifty or so.

Let’s start with our hero and all his little chums; pun not only intended, but maliciously intended. The characters in Shark Night 3D are not human beings. No they are actually flesh-covered cardboard cut into the shape of reality TV contestants. Much like those “reality” TV dopes, these characters are founded on archetypes that are so force-fed to us that each of them is actually introduced surrounded by environments that further the hackneyed idiosyncrasy that defines them. It’s like when you package Astronaut Barbie inside a diorama of the Milky Way galaxy…just in case the enigmatic space suit wasn’t a dead giveaway. We have the rebellious slut replete with tattoo on the ass, the nerd gamer, the shallow, spray-tanned Adonis, the brainy med student, the chaste blond heroine, and the black athlete. And yet somehow, and with great aplomb, they all still manage to be ill-defined. Beyond their assigned stereotype, which they wear like nametags on their chests, the only thing we know for sure is that there is no way in hell thirty-three-year-old Joel David Moore is actually in college. And their dialogue to one another is so flat and ham-fisted that the first twenty minutes feels like sitting through the worst episode of Saved By the Bell ever conceived, think on that and despair.

Also true to the reality mold, the movie even features the “we just got into the house for the first time” montage replete with high-speed photography, trendy (read awful) music, girls stripping, and exact shots repeated thrice to emphasize…the fact that a girl just walked by. It was like watching the premiere episode of The Real World: Amity Island. They also have music video sensibilities when it comes to cinematography. Every woman in this film is introduced and subsequently photographed ass-first. Not that I’m complaining mind you, but with the added effect of 3D, it’s like residing inside Sir Mix-a-Lot’s subconscious for two hours.

// Thar Be Spoilers In This Paragraph //

Horror movie tropes are well-established and plenty of entries into the genre have comfortably fallen back on those tropes like they were a trust exercise at fat camp. But Shark Night 3D is not satisfied simply being conventional, and instead injects each of those tropes with a strain of bovine growth hormone from Barry Bond’s private stash. Sure, we get the plot device that they are on an island and none of these kids can get a signal on their phone as to create a feeling of isolation. But then they go and crash their boat in a ostentatious explosion that lasts somewhere in the neighborhood of four-and-a-half minutes. And yes, the ingenue is naive. But there’s naive and then there’s trusting a guy who once refused to save you when you were drowning which caused you to, in a panic, slice part of his face off with a boat propeller. This makes even less sense when paired with the fact that said scarred doucebag now runs with a Deliverance reject whose teeth are, I shit you not, filed into points to resemble those of a…anyone…anyone…shark! They basically lobotomize their female lead to the point that you not only wonder how she could survive this onslaught of sharks, but if the reason she almost drowned was because she couldn’t figure out how to close her mouth and stop looking up during a rainstorm. Oh, and it is never explained why scarred douchebag, who was her boyfriend at the time of the incident, tried to let her drown. But when the impetus for his overarching evil scheme is revealed later in the movie, you’ll understand why this little loose end is comparatively air-tight.

// NO MORE SPOILERS NOW //

Apparently nobody who worked on this goddamn movie had ever actually seen a shark in their entire life or, God forbid, picked up a book on the subject  Or, if they have, it was a pop-up book in which a friendly cartoon shark warned them of the dangers of shoving small objects up their noses or sticking forks into electrical sockets; judging by this film, they didn’t heed those warnings. My favorite thing about the sharks in this film is that they are not mutated or genetically altered in any way. Why does that matter? Because despite that fact, these sharks are able to chase down speeding boats and jet skis. I did a little research, and it turns out that this is fucking stupid. The fastest shark on the planet is the shortfin mako which has been clocked at speeds up to 20mph; speeds UP TO 20mph. Which means most of the time they don’t even go that fast. So unless your speedboat is actually a canoe with a racing stripe, and even then only if you aren’t in decent shape, I’m betting you could outrun a shark. Oh, and the sharks not only understand that they can totally defeat a boat at full speed, but also instinctively know to target and systematically dismantle the steering mechanism. Yup, that boat crash/explosion I mentioned? Totally caused by a bull shark with a bad temper and an engineering degree. That’s a big load of bull shark alright.

Few movies have the boldness to include an epic geography fail; Shark Night 3D is so bold. In the movie, our merry band of reproBAITs travel from Tulane University to Lake Crosby, Louisiana. Through the magic of what appears to be a Moby video, we see that this drive starts at dusk, continues through the night, and puts them in Lake Crosby at the dawn of the next day. Let me see if I can break this down like the fractions these writers couldn’t grasp in the third grade. First off, there is no Lake Crosby in Louisiana. So let’s assume they meant Crosby Lake which is both the name of a real town and its very real namesake body of water. That’s not too much of a stretch. The problem is that Tulane University is also in Louisiana. Now I don’t know if the screenwriters got drunk and seriously misinterpreted the Google Earth data they were looking at intermittently alongside their favorite up-skirt websites, but it only takes four hours to get from Tulane to Crosby Lake. If anything, you’d think all those obnoxious montage-y camera spasms would have put them there even sooner. But apparently to get to Crosby Lake they drove north through Mississippi, across the Arctic Circle, down across the prime meridian, and around the Cape of Good Hope to arrive promptly in WhyTheHellDontWeOwnAGPSVille.

Why I Love It!

// PESKY SPOILERS AGAIN //

I have never seen a film go flying off the rails with more maniacal glee than Shark Night 3D. There are things that happen in this movie that are so insanely inexplicable, that I wonder if they were intentional or if the writer had a massive stroke by about page ten. When the black athlete has his arm torn off by a shark, you’d think he’d spend the rest of the movie bed-ridden. But no, once he learns that his girlfriend was gobbled up, he goes looking for revenge on that shark. He wades out into the water, still bleeding from the gaping hole in his shoulder, brandishes a freaking spear and fights mano y fish with a hammerhead shark. He’s like a one-man army, minus an arm. Think that’s absurd? He also wins! Take that nature, and common sense. Or how about the fact that one of the bad guys carries around a baton with an impact device at its head that fires a single bullet? In other words, an actual, honest-to-goodness boomstick! Where does one get such a device? Other than the inside of Sam Raimi’s head of course. It’s one thing when a SyFy channel or otherwise made-for-TV movie pulls these shenanigans. But when a theatrically-released movie pulls something so outlandish and irreconcilably moronic that you whip your head violently around the theater to make sure everyone else saw what you did, thereby assuring yourself that a blood vessel did not pop in your brain, you know you’ve stumbled onto something truly special.

No matter the faults of a film like this, sharks are still goddamn scary. There’s a reason National Geographic does not devote an entire week to giraffes. Because not even an advancing pod of the surliest giraffes could ever match the intense dread and sheer terror of even pondering being attacked by a shark. Shark Night 3D understands this. It knows you are afraid of sharks and seeks to allow them to leap out of the water and into your nightmares. And do they ever leap. The kills in Shark Night 3D are so over-the-top and balls-out spectacular that they make Deep Blue Sea look like Deep Blue Something…and they’re a band so I don’t even know what that means. I like that the kills are subtle at times and only show the victim thrashing about, but it was nice to also be treated to a high-flying, teeth-nashing, reality-flipping-offing murder-by-fish every now and again.

// You Read The Paragraph, Spoilers In The Paragraph, Shark Night Spoilers //

As with any killer shark movie, Shark Night 3D is beholden unto Jaws and, as such, genuflects to the master with references. But instead of merely hurling lines from the original film at the screen with absolutely no context, the film opts instead to utilize subtle, plot-based references to Jaws; can’t believe the words subtle and plot managed to sneak their way into association with Shark Night 3D. In other words, it’s a case of reference what they do and not what they say. First, we have the opening kill. A girl, swimming alone after her boyfriend wanders off, is attacked by a shark we don’t see and dragged from one side of the screen to the other. When angry, armless athlete kills the hammerhead, he thinks he’s killed the shark that dined on his girl but he actually just killed a shark; similar to the overconfident fisherman in Jaws. We also get a severed limb residing at the bottom of the lake, a line about how a certain type of shark will eat anything including license plates and tin cans (the exact contents of the tiger shark’s stomach that Hooper cuts open), and even a brief moment wherein characters compare scars. The girl’s scars are emotional while the villain’s perforate his face like he lost a knife fight to Seal. The way these references are sewn into the plot and the way in which Shark Night makes them unique to their film suggests a movie a little smarter than its…everything else would have you believe.

The dog lives. One of my least favorite tropes in any genre is the propensity for horror films to kill innocent dogs. It’s usually in a lazy attempt to establish that a certain character is a real “evil dude.” As a dog lover and dog owner, this irritates the crap out of me. Why do you have to kill Spot to prove your a psychopath when there’s a whole batch of stupid teenagers in the camp next door. In Shark Night, it’s been established all to crap that Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Fat Rapist are complete bastards, and by the time the dog was brought aboard their ship they had already killed two human people. So when Dweedle Fat Rapist throws the poor mutt overboard, I was ready to throw my finger at the screen and walk out. But guess who comes back at the end of the film to provide our hero with some much needed assistance? That’s right, the crafty canine. This movie makes the bold, atypical choice to let the dog live and that alone is enough to warrant praise from me.

Shark Night 3D is the epitome of a midnight movie, and no, I don’t mean that simply in the sense that I happened to catch it at a midnight screening. It has just enough awareness of what it is and who its audience is that it is able to elevate something absolutely worthless into something that captures the spirit of schlock past. This is the Jaws ripoff that Joe Dante would make today, as opposed to the one he made thirty-three years ago with no money. It doesn’t desperately clutch at the obvious visual aesthetics of a b-movie; no artificial film scratches, no missing frames. Instead it matches the excitement, the lack of pretension, and the absurd ride that makes bad movies so much fun. This is a timeless bad movie; a new classic.

Junkfood Pairing: Betty Crocker’s Shark Bites

Fruit snacks shaped like sharks of many varieties you say? How fitting! There are also several different types of sharks in this film, although they will be the ones eating you. The added bonus here is that when you sit down to watch Shark Night 3D, you will think it too is a “crock,” but oh Betty if it doesn’t amount to one sweet bad movie.

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Every Friday, right before you shuffle off for the weekend, I slap you upside the face with a film that fell well short of greatness long ago and is now selling insurance and renting a double-wide in a little town called Schlocksburgh. My job is to walk the dirt roads of Schlocksburgh under cover of night and hurl rocks of mockery at said double-wide until somebody calls the internet police. But then, just as I’m about to be booked for a hate crime, I tear off my shirt and reveal a crudely drawn homemade tattoo across my chest professing my undying love for said film.

I then offer a disgustingly tasty themed snack as an act of contrition, and in the hopes of avoiding a bothersome restraining order.

This Week’s Target: Blackjack

What Makes It Bad?

Blackjack is directed by John Woo. John Who? No, Woo. Truth be told, if this film were made in Hong Kong in the late 80s, the fact that it was directed by John Woo would be a sterling testament to its greatness. Unfortunately, Blackjack was directed by John Woo…in America…in the late 90s. Those three ingredients culminate into one enormous fecal cupcake. Let’s run down the list of Woo’s American films shall we? Hard Target (Hardly a Film), Broken Arrow (Broken Script), Face/Off (Face/Plant), Mission: Impossible II (Mission: Unwatchable), Windtalkers (Blows), and Paycheck (He’ll Take One, Thanks). And right in the middle of this garbage parade, Woo directed a made-for-TV film starring Dolph Lundgren. Blind howler monkeys engaging in lit match fights on barrels of gunpowder aboard the Hindenburg don’t spell eminent doom like that last sentence.

And Holy Station Identification Break does this thing wear its made-for-TV trappings on its sleeve. The whole thing is lit like the classiest episode of The Red Shoe Diaries (which I’m almost positive exists). As if that’s not enough to justify the film’s working title, Skin-a-Maximum Risk, the whole movie is scored with a single, evidently very angry saxophone. Kenny G SMASH!!! There are ironically only two scenes wherein this music fits: the date-rapey dance number wherein Dolph tries to dance drugs out of a young actress’s system, and the moment in which he presses her up against a wall for a surprise back-crack that has orgasmic sounds leaving her mouth. So when I said, “ironically” I meant “I now desperately need a shower.” Bundle all that up with the “and now to Chip Chipperstein with sports” wipe transitions and you’ve got a movie that seems very comfortable wedged between Ronco Knives infomercials and Matlock reruns.

Sometimes you have to sit down and watch a bad film in its entirety to comprehend its shortcomings, and other times you need only hear the central conceit of the film before you begin laughing uproariously and contemplating the innumerable things you will be doing instead of watching that film. I will now attempt to explain the concept of Blackjack without laughing. Dolph Lundgren plays a U.S. (chortle) Marshal who is (snicker) afraid (chuckle) of the (guffaw) color white (breaks a rib on the coffee table as he falls from his chair and doubles over in what is now a mix of laughter and searing pain). Who the hell is afraid of the color white?! People who lost their virginity to their cousin in a snowbank? People whose parents were eaten by bunnies? People who have been raped by clouds?

Well apparently there is an actual psychological phobia known as leukophobia, which is not, as I would have guessed, the fear of FSR writer’s with enormous beards. The writer tries to shoehorn in some link to Dolph’s childhood and his failure to get his dad out of a scrape while sitting in a white car. Yeah, I believe the car was a ’65 Buick Tenuous. But I don’t care if Betty White shoved an Ajax-coated golf ball up lil Dolph’s nose in Whiteville, Tennessee while The White Stripes played a rousing rendition of White Christmas, it’s still an ill-advised foible for your hero. Dolph ends up facing down the killer at a milk processing plant which sounds like a convenient, hackneyed plot device, but it’s really just an homage to all the countless classic films that feature climactic battles at milk processing plants: Skim Like Flint, There’s Something About Dairy, and A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Milk Processing Plant.

There’s a veritable potpourri of absurdity in Blackjack that defies conventional methods of categorization. Dolph, in addition to his signature line mumbling, also manages to throw cards at high speed, salsa dance, and bounce on a trampoline during a gunfight. Try to digest all that! It’s like watching Ivan Drago audition to play Gambit for Marvel Comic’s Circus of the Stars. He is also randomly placed in charge of a precocious little girl whom you will spend the whole film wishing he would just go ahead and kick in the mouth already and get it over with. Not enough? How about Saul Rubinek as an eye-patch-donning butler with an indefinable European accent? An assassin who preforms Shakespeare for an audience of haystack dolls? I sound like I’m having a stroke in the middle of this paragraph, but I assure you I was almost completely sober while watching this film and all these things…pretty much definitely happened. The tone was set early on when Dolph dropped action cinema’s all time worst one-liner. The little girl is holding a carton of milk (at this point I’m willing to believe that the movie was produced by the Dairy Farmers of America) while a thug is holding a gun to her head. But uncle Dolph assures her, “don’t worry, Casey, you’ve got milk.” She then proceeds to pour it on the thug’s arm which, surprisingly, is completely ineffective. Is lactophiliac a thing? If so, the writer of this film is that.

The biggest problem with Blackjack, apart from its being afflicted with a raging case of stupid, is that it is waaaaaaaay toooooooo loooooooong! Dolph runs afoul of the villainous assassin in a climactic battle, not once, not twice, not even three times but…oh wait no, it is three times. But still, three final showdowns? Was this movie written by Tolkien? If so, is Dolph a cave troll? That would actually explain a lot. After a while it’s like watching the filmed version of a small child trying to tell a story; continually returning to previous plot points because they think they’ve forgotten something and then having not the foggiest idea of where they were going or how the story was supposed to end. Seriously, is there anything worse than children?

Why I Love It!

Not to overstate it, but Blackjack may be mankind’s single greatest contribution to existence. All joking aside…is something I never say. But for realsies, Blackjack is in many ways John Woo’s best American film. Now given the slate of material we have to choose from, this statement is akin to saying “this pile of old wigs and broken glass is the best pile of old wigs and broken glass.” However, I stand by my assertion as Blackjack, more so than any of his other American films, effectively plays to Woo’s sensibilities and the action sequences are substantially badass. There is one particular stunt wherein Dolph slides sideways on a motorcycle under a leaping motorcycle which then bursts into flames and crashes into a parked car. Dolph then rides his own motorcycle backwards down a ramp and fires at his pursuer until the pursuer’s motorcycle explodes and the stunt man rides down the ramp fully ablaze in one long take. Aghast at the awesomeness of these stunts, I began choking on the popcorn I wasn’t even eating. Hell, even the trampoline stunt was cool and sort of a throwback to the wacky morgue drawer sequence in Hard Boiled.

This movie is an absolute blast; pun only slightly intended given the amount of combustible motorcyclists there contained. When it succeeds, we get some killer action sequences. When it fails, it fails hard with a vengeance. You therefore spend the entire film trading off between laughing uproariously and grunt-cheering with macho delight be ye man, woman, or Brigitte Nielsen. This movie exemplifies everything I love about what I like to call VHS roulette. I go to one of Austin’s phenomenal local video stores, rent something on VHS solely based on the cover and hope for the best. Many times, I crap out. But every once in a while I find an ace on the flop, double down, and hit the jackpot! I’ve officially forgotten which gambling metaphor I started with. In any event, Blackjack is better than Broken Arrow.

So by now you’re probably asking yourself, “why the hell do I subject myself to this awful column week in and week out?” Wait, what? No, the other question: “is there any actor more manly than Dolph Lundgren?” Of course, you fools! That walking battleship of testosterone goes by the name Fred “The Hammer” Williamson. Williamson was a staple of blaxploitation and is quite possibly one of the coolest melon farmers on the planet. The Hammer represents one of this film’s greatest attributes and most glaring weakness: The attribute is that the film features Fred “The Hammer” Williamson. The weakness is that it doesn’t feature enough Fred “The Hammer” Williamson.

He’s a secondary character who merely bookends the movie, but he still manages to steal the show from a perpetually confused Lundgren. I have to say I admire the racial progressiveness at play here in that Fred “The Hammer” Williamson is in this film and yet Dolph Lundgren is the one called Blackjack.

Junkfood Pairing: Black Jack Chewing Gum

This snack may seem a bit on-the-nose, but that’s only because this snack is extremely on-the-nose. My other option was John Woo’s Violent Chewing Product for Gargantuan Swedes With Idiotic Phobias, so I would like a little credit for my commitment to subtlety.

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