Reviews written by registered user
|50 reviews in total|
There are no actual decapitations, cattle mutilation, desecration of houses
of worship, or spurting arteries in Sex Kittens Go To College. Within those
limits, this is ghastly beyond anything you can imagine.
Imagine Mamie van Doren as an ex-stripper with an IQ of 268 and twelve college degrees - no, thirteen, hired as a college professor. Imagine Jackie Coogan as a blustering oilman doing a 45-minute W.C. Fields impression. Imagine Martin Milner out-geeking Eddie Deezen, a twelve-foot robot named Thinko that handicaps horse races, a chimp in golf pants. Imagine the most credible and disciplined performance in the film being turned in by Louis Nye. Imagine Vampira so hagged out you'd flee to the arms of Nancy Kulp...Brigitte Bardot's little sister as an exchange student...Conway Twitty...fire engine...funny gangsters... Are your sides aching with laughter yet?
Terrifyingly awful. The only saving grace is that neither Woody Woodbury nor Paul Anka makes a guest appearance.
It took me years to find a copy of this, and I can tell you in all sincerity
that it's worth whatever it takes to see it, not once, but as often as you
can. If it shows up at a local film festival, make sure you see every
showing. If it's shown once, make sure you cajole, bribe, or threaten every
friend you've got to come along. Because otherwise you're going to spend
the next year in a walking trance, stopping perfect strangers and trying to
describe this...THING... you saw, where Groucho Marx and Frankie Avalon and
John Philip Law...no, you've GOT to LISTEN to me!
Read all the other comments, read anything you can find on this monstrosity, and you'll still be only half-prepared for what you're going to see. The only two other films I can think of that so exceeded even their own outrageous hype were Blood Freak and Godmonster of Indian Flats. But, hey, those were low-budget obscurities. Skidoo was a HUGE production - and, unfortunately, I can't imagine this is EVER going to be released on DVD, VHS, CD, cassette, or eight-track, because I can't imagine the Preminger estate wanting any trace of Skidoo to surface ever again.
Carol Channing in bra and tights. Groucho Marx on a wood screw. Dancing garbage cans. Sure, sure, sure. You've heard the stories. But, lordie, there's sooooo much more....
After hearing about Blood Freak for years, after preparing myself by
collecting over two hundred of the worst movies ever made, after nearly
resigning myself to paying a fortune for a copy, I found Blood Freak sitting
on a shelf with a cute little green price tag, biding its time, waiting to
I wasn't ready for this. Read all the other comments and realize that they're not exaggerating in the least. WORST movie ever made? No, that's still got to be Night of Horror. Blood Freak calls for a category not yet invented - the sheer glorious dancing-with-the-angels whack flakiness of Godmonster of Indian Flats or Troll 2, combined with the absolute ineptitude of Night of Horror, Weird World of LSD, or Broadway Jungle. And then add something more, an X factor, the ability to send you off the couch and onto the Karistan wheezing like a busted calliope, like the head of Hitler mugging it up in the back seat in They Saved Hitler's Brain, or the immortal. "The natives call it - Tabanga!" in from Hell It Came.
Yes, it's about mutant turkeys, good Bible preaching, a hair farm named Herschell, and balding cracker dopers, but Blood Freak goes so much further. It has the rare quality of twisting away from you and running off in a different direction, whenever you think you've got it pegged. At half a dozen points in the movie you'll have yourself totally convinced that this is a send-up, that the crazed lounge-lizards-for-Jesus narrator is smirking and winking at you. Then a throat gets slashed, a leg gets sawn off, and you realize that, no, the mutant turkeys that created this farrago are SERIOUS.
I'll give a free kitten to the first person who comes up with the present location of the papier-mache turkey head.
We're exploring new territory, kids.
Think of all the icons and touchstones of Bad Bad Bad we love and respect: Manos, Plan 9, Eegah! Think of all the big-budget stinkburgers we've forced friends and relatives to sit through, trying to infect them with our disease: Skiddoo, Myra Breckinridge, Showgirls. Think of how we all felt when we realized that MST was only able to scratch the surface of Bad, since they had to track down the perpetrators and get rights, and since they had to stick to movies that COULD be ripped. I mean, how do you make fun of Acid Eaters, Night of Horror, Broadway Jungle? Now, for you lucky ones, you true connoisseurs of cr*p, think about those very special flicks even you couldn't take in one sitting, the absolutely unwatchable: Misery Brothers, Jimmy the Boy Wonder, Microwave Massacre.
This. Is. Worse. This is hallucinatorily bad. This is so much further down the scale than Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare that you'll laugh hysterically rereading all the one-star Comments on IMDb for the original-poor fools! You think this is bad? Wait till the sequel comes out twenty years later, then you'll REALLY see something that'll bring up your lunch!
If you believe, really believe, in the healing power of bad film, this is a can't-miss. No hints, no clues as to what you'll be exposed to-OK, just one: the magic scene in which Jon-Mikl, now pushing three hundred pounds, in floppy rubber armor, is attacked in a park by a SINGLE STRAND of Swedish ivy. Does he defeat it with his mighty broadsword? You'll never know till you see The Original Rock Warrior in...INTERCESSOR!!!!
Evil has many dimensions. It can make you angry, it can make you quiver
with fear, it can make you doubt the existence of a kind and loving
Being. For years I've sought Ultimate Evil, ever since I discovered that
Plan 9 not only isn't the worst film ever made, it probably shouldn't make
the Bottom 20.
And, while I'm always ready & eager to audition new candidates, "Night of Horror" may be -- IT. This film turns ALL the dials on the Evil Meter to 11. It will make you angry AND afraid AND plunge you into blackest despair.
Picture this. You take three or four of your lumpiest mullet-headed male buddies and dress them in Confederate uniforms. Put a bucket of dry ice in front of a Ford Gran Torino and turn on the headlights. Have your buddies stand in front of the lights and shift from one foot to the other. That's the sum of your horrifying FX.
Picture this. You see some goat-roper in line at Wal-Mart with 1978 REO Speedwagon hair and so skinny, his jeans fit exactly the same with the fly in the front or the back. That's your male lead. Oh - identify him as a "California rock singer" so everybody will know that he's supposed to be terminally hip.
Picture this. You want to establish your female lead as being hopelessly sensitive. So you have her read an Edgar Allen Poe poem to the male lead in the back of an RV. It works too well - his voice-over tells us he's now afraid of losing his cool.
This doesn't give you even a hint of how loathsome Night of Horror is. I've seen it cause even hardened veterans of the Bad Movie Wars to hit the Eject button screaming after the first twenty minutes. Manos at least had the studly cape. Zombie Lake had the naked girls' basketball team treading water. They Saved Hitler's Brain at least had Hitler's head mugging it up in the back seat. But Night of Horror has NOTHING. NOTHING. NOT ONE MOMENT of inspiration, humor, or gratuitous nay-nays. NOT ONE FRAME that doesn't look like it was shot in a koi pond and processed in bongwater.
And this turkey di tutti turkeys ACTUALLY FOUND A DISTRIBUTOR. Do you understand what that means? I have no doubt that all around the world people have worse films sitting in cans in ancient Kelvinators rattling away in mouldering tool sheds, that they just can't make themselves take to the dump. But Night of Horror actually caused money to change hands - somebody screened this excrescence, said, "Yeah, I think I can make a buck off that," and cut Malanowski a check.
We're there. This is it. We've touched bottom. Until Battlefield Earth 2 premieres, The Worst Movie Ever Made.
Oh, Lordie, is this a wonderful movie. The only JD movie that compares is
High School Confidential. You'll watch it again and again, consumed with
envy at Dick Contino's sheer studliness and convulsed in laughter at some
the worst continuity in modern history.
Hot rods! Well, a T-Bird and a TR-3. Hot sex! Well, more naked Bruno VeSota than is probably good for you to see. Steamy dialogue! Well, "Want some?" was pretty hot in 1959. Juvie crime! Well, Dick Contino was no more a teenager than he was a Soviet cosmonaut, but he WAS running dope for Big Bruno.
And it DOES feature Bruce, the gym rat. Watch this movie, ponder this movie, and remind yourself that someone, the actor, the director, the writer, SOMEONE had to invent the incredible bundle of character twitches that is Bruce.
Daddy-O Notes: Dick Contino is alive, well, still studly in his early seventies, and the living master of the show accordion. You can buy current Dick Contino CD's and promotional merchandise, you can see him live in person. According to one interview, Dick is famous for, and I quote, "humping" his accordion as he plays. Oh, that I should live so long. Does he still hike, hike, hike hike his pants up?
Jack McClure, who played Bruce, was also in "Friendly Persuasion." At one point the poor deluded fellow might actually have thought he had a career going.
When the movie came out, my little brother and I, absolutely forbidden to see this or any other immoral movies about juvies and their chicks, were enthralled by the ads that ran constantly on the radio. One featured a woman's voice shouting, "Daddy-O! Look out BEHIND you!" and a stock sound clip of a skidding car's squealing tires. When MST beat up on Daddy-O I taped it (naturally) and watched it over and over - kids, that line is NOT in their version. Is there a "long" version, a la Wicker Man? A director's cut?
Ghod, when it comes to sheer entertainment value, they just don't make 'em like this any more. All this movie lacks is beatniks, a polar bear on a tricycle, and a coupon for free beer.
No, folks, this is NOT a no-budget horror flick from the seventies. Look
again - it's well-shot, well-staged, and, if anything, it's wildly
overpopulated with enthusiastic minor characters and extras.
Godmonster isn't like anything else you've ever seen, heard, read, smelled, or tasted, with the possible exception of a Thomas Pynchon novel. Like Pynchon, Hobbs keeps piling on plot until you think the plate in your head is going to shatter. And then you realize that it's only the first thirty minutes. And it keeps coming at you and it WON'T STOP.
I've seen them all, from Acid Eaters to Zombie Nightmare. I've laughed at Begotten, wept over Forbidden Zone, sat amazed at semi-legal prints of White Dog with Dutch subtitles and Addio Uncle Tom with Greek subtitles.
I've got Killer Klowns in Spanish.
But Godmonster is the last stop on the line. I wish this WERE a crappy rubber-suit monster movie. It'd be vastly less disturbing.
Worst zombie ever made? Not even close. Hunt down Joel Reed's magnificent
Night of the Zombies. Watch it. Watch it again. Burn it and scatter the
ashes. Then watch Zombie Lake.
Note that Zombie Lake has lovely shots of the scenic French countryside; educational underwater gynecological shots of an entire girls' basketball team; a recognizable sub-plot; one or two actors who can actually distort their faces into "expressions." Night of the Zombies has NONE of these, NONE.
Did I mention the underwater photography?
However, I understand that there are versions of Zombie Lake out there that lack both the amazing Sea Hunt sequence and many of the heartwarming nay-nay shots. Ha! That's like a special edition of GoodFellas with Joe Pesci edited out. You get one of these versions, you put up with it, you might as well write, "Please Don't Hurt Me" on your forehead in pink lipstick and check into the nearest Federal prison. Wuss. Gimp.
The Baby joins a select club of really flaky little films from the
poofy-hair-on-guys era, early 70's to early 80's; the best of these was
Night Warning, William Shatner's wigged-out Impulse is another, the MST'd
Touch of Satan is another. The Baby and Impulse even share the services of
the wondrous Ruth Roman, who in The Baby looks more than ever like Victor
Mature in full drag. All these feature somebody driving around in a Dodge
Dart or a Maverick and plot twists that make you ask, "What were these
Ted Post was already in his late fifties when he did The Baby, so the lame direction can't be written off as a young director learning his craft. It just plain sucks. Anjanette Comer stands around screeching and flapping her hands for emphasis like she's at a community-theater audition; it's hard to see any of the luminescent Aimee Thanatogenos from The Loved One, just eight years before. And Baby is a hoot - this was pretty much the entire career of the hard-working young actor trying to make us believe he's a teenager operating at a 9-month-old level, but somebody decided to dub in the sounds of a real baby coming from his adult voice-box, and you don't buy the bit for five seconds.
But there's just enough here to make it worthwhile to stick it out for the snapper ending. Anybody who says they guessed where this was going is lying like a red dog. It's no Night Warning, but if you've seen Night Warning and you need another sip from the same bucket, it'll do.
To grasp the concept of eternity, you don't need to know about mountains of
diamond and tiny birds pecking at them till they wear down to a nubbin. All
you need to do is sit down with Plutonium Baby, a pot of coffee, and a fresh
package of $1.29 oatmeal cookies, and, trust me, you'll experience eternity.
The coffee will be nothing but a stain in your cup, the oatmeal cookies
will be nothing but crumbs, and Plutonium Baby will STILL be slowly,
patiently, remorselessly unreeling on your screen.
Characters wander onto the set, they wander off, things happen, a whole new movie starts about two-thirds of the way into the tape; yes, there's a radioactive Muppet Baby, yes, there's people preserved in drums of radioactive waste for a decade, yes, some doof decides he just has to use a drum of radioactive waste for a beer cooler, yes, at one point there's three unrelated parties of armed men wandering around in the Jersey woods looking for the Nuclear Kid. But you just don't care. You can't make yourself care.
I'm told there's a bet that you can't lose, no matter how drunk the individuals involved are: simply bet a guy any amount of money he can't eat a pound of butter in an hour, and keep it all down. In the same vein, I'd almost be willing to bet that a sane person could not sit, unrestrained, in a metal folding chair in front of Plutonium Baby and watch the whole thing straight through without falling asleep or getting up to purge.
I'd like to watch it again and see if I could isolate the elements that make this hog so completely unwatchable, but no force on earth could make me go through this a second time.
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