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The 2010 Vendetta Movie Marathon, Part 2

Part 5: I got ya audio problems RIGHT HERE, ya rat-soup eatin’ mutha!
Saturday, 23:10-THE HUMAN TORNADO

THE HUMAN TORNADO. The flick that could only have come from the deranged imagination of the late Rudy Ray Moore. A movie I had been planning to see once I’d got around to watching my copy of DOLEMITE, a flick I’ve been hanging onto for a Bad Movie Afternoon. A flick I’d delayed for some time after nearly breaking the B-Movie Crews collective brains with Rudy Ray’s insane DISCO GODFATHER earlier this year. (And a movie that’s currently playing in the background as I type this.)

For those unfamiliar with the style of Rudy Ray Moore, a little background. I referred to him on the night as “The poor man’s Richard Pryor”, although THE HUMAN TORNADO marks him more as the black Don Rickles. A relentlessly filthy insult comic, he somehow parlayed his act into a series of films, written by and starring himself. The two I’ve now seen both wildly inconsistent in style, with wacky comedy, terrible kung-fu, graphic violence, T and A (The A quite often being his own), heavy-handed pathos and mawkish drama all rolled into one jaw-dropping package. All served with a heapin’ helping of terrible acting, hot funk music and fashions that must have been considered over-the-top even in the cocaine-fuelled 70’s. As an example, as I write, DOLEMITE is at the14 minute mark. There’s been a heavy drama scene, six variants on a crude term for matriarchal incest, 3 bad kung-fu kicks, 1 pair of bared breasts and a guy getting graphically shot before a thankfully implied John-Wayne Bobbit-ing.

That being said, I’m guessing THE HUMAN TORNADO is almost certainly one of his most deranged flicks. Because it’s one of the most deranged flicks to ever grace the Hollywood’s’ screen during a Marathon. Hell, it kicks off with lengthy montage of Rudy Rays’ stand-up act, despite the fact that the character he’s playing, Dolemite, was a pimp with a penchant for ghetto poetry in the original. It’s a breath-taking piece of plot-padding that really sets the tone for the flick. (And gave me flashbacks to Stuart Whitman’s opening ten-minute sermon in GUYANA, CRIME OF THE CENTURY, provided Rev. Johnson was accompanied by a booty-shaking dancer in between verses.)

(DOLEMITE UPDATE: 21 minutes in, and the Boom Microphone makes a cameo appearance. And Dolemite knocks out a man by viciously kicking the air next to his face. He’s BAD!)

Before the montage of fat/sex/you so ugly jokes (“Your lips make you look like you’re wearing a turtle-neck sweater!”) started, we got the Funkalicious credits, however. (Austin and I tried to get the crowd clapping along, which lasted about 30 seconds at best. Man, this crowd is full of rhythm-less Jive Turkeys. We then head to Dolemites pad. And from that moment the movie departs the realm of realism for ever more. Instead, we plummet heedlessly into the Rudyverse. A place where men are men, women are women, and white men are inbred redneck racists, no matter whether they’re from California or Beverly Hills. Seriously, we’re talking about a characters painted with a rather broad brush. Broad enough to paint the Parthenon in a single stoke, in fact.

The Comedy redneck cops are led by Sheriff Kenny Rogers von Evilstein. This prince amongst honkies is first seen opening fire on one of his deputies when startled from a nap. Yep, that’s who’d I’d vote for as Sheriff if I lived in that town. Oddly, they’re apparently situated in Alabama, making me wonder why the hell Dolemite moved there, and how he managed to find such a nice, Californian-styled mansion to live in. (Also, why does a lot of Alabama look so much like an industrial estate in the more low-budget part of California?)

Sheriff Kennys reaction to reports of Afro-American men relaxing on the balcony of an expensive house is to gather the troops, bust in on Dolemites society party and attempt to sexually molest the nearest Soul Sister he can find. (Even in the Seventies, I’m SURE you needed a court order to grope a suspect in full view of the general public.) Sheriff Kenny gets a knee to the prairie oysters for his trouble, much to the pleasure of the viewing public. His bad night gets worse as he gets to see his wife in Dolemite’s boudoir, riding the Black Mamba of Love. OUR night gets worse as we get a huge, loving shot of Dolemite’s rear end in glorious wide-screen. Broad comedy, thy name is Dolemite!

Until the Sheriffs wife takes a shotgun blast to the chest courtesy of her cuckolded hubby’s dipshit deputy. That sound you heard was the audience getting whiplash from THAT tonal shift. Dolemite takes to his heels, leaping over a balcony and rolling down a hill to escape.

Oh, and did I mention he doesn’t take the time to get his pants on first?

The audience reaction to a naked Rudy Ray Moore doing his own stunts reached COMMANDO-like proportions as the film paused, rewound and gave us an Instant Replay. (Complete with “INSTANT REPLAY” caption.) Amazingly, I’ve since discovered that the audience laughter completely drowned out a dubbed-over line by Rudy Ray, letting us know the replay was there to prove he’d made the jump himself. Dude, I trust you. Leave the Fourth Wall alone!

Dolemite and his boys (Including Ernie “Winston Zeddimore” Hudson!) decide to get the hell out of Dodge and take off for sunny California. Because wherever the hell they were, was so obviously NOT California. As the script has so far only be insulting to white people, black people, fat people and women, we throw in a Flaming Homosexual. Okay, not so much “Flaming” as “Heart of the Sun”, as the “actor” aims for “High-pitched Gay Man” and actually hits “Human Dog Whistle”. I think his voice shattered the remaining ice in my tortured water bottle. En route to Caifornia, Dolemite calls his main Sunshine State woman, Queen Bee at her bar and has a conversation with her.

Well, I think that’s what the script read, anyway. What ACTUALLY happens is that Rudy Ray stands in a phone booth smiling at the camera while holding the receiver. Meanwhile, Queen Bees’ dialogue is dubbed over the top. Apparently they started filming and then went “Oh, shit, did anyone write a script, yet? Fuck it, improvise!” The driving sequence is full of brilliant moments like that. Twice there’s a wobbly, dialogue-free hand-held shot of Rudy walking at the camera. (The second one cutting multiple time to the same scene of Dolemite eating an apple for no reason.) Both times I wondered who the hell edited Rudy Rays home movies into the flick.

Queen Bee’s bartender rocks one of the better hairdos in the flick by the way. It’s an oddly square look I’ve dubbed the “Franken-‘Fro”.

By the time Rudy and the crew finish their epic trek from California to California, Queen Bee has been menaced and brutally beaten by her (white) rival Joe Cavaletti’s Hired Goons. Keeping track of the movies tone is like watching a tennis match, folks. Queen Bee’s rival follows up the assault and battery by kidnapping a couple of Bee’s waitresses. Instead of doing something wacky like calling the police, Queen Bee and her remaining girl instead go to work for the bad guys bar. This after Cavaletti phones her to claim responsibility for the eighty-five felonies his boys committed. Apparently California is the only state whose law enforcement standards makes Pittsburgh’s cops look like the model of efficiency.

Speaking of law enforcement, Sheriff Kenny Rogers does share a few scenes with a straight-arrow California detective. Who brought the house down by responding to Kennys mild bigotry (Mild in the sense that I believe he only burns crosses to celebrate major holidays) by telling him to go forth and multiply, in no uncertain terms. Right on, my man!

After Dolemite and his boys discover Queen Bee’s place deserted, they check out every nightclub in Los Angeles to find her. Or so it seems, given how many second-rate nightclub acts we get to watch. Finally, Dolemite catches up with another of his stable of Californian Girls, Hurricane Annie, who puts two and two together to make “Cavaletti”. Seeing as how Cavaletti is less than subtle in his evilness, it’s hardly a mystery that would stump Sherlock Homes.

Of course, Cavaletti himself is no Moriarty, as his entire gang is composed of the clinically insane. From his bizarre pantomime witch torture-ess, (You only THINK I’m kidding) to the John Ritter clone with the painted-on beard, Cavalettis’ mob makes a mockery of the phrase “organized crime”. They tie up Queen Bee’s girls (albeit so loosely that the knots wouldn’t contain anyone with smaller wrists than the late Andre the Giant.) and subject them to horrible, horrible torture! Well, it’s less terrible than having to look at Rudy’s naked man-ass, as we once more get to do a few scenes later. Dude, put it away, already!

Post-sweaty Rudy Ray Buttcrack, Dolemite goes undercover to discover the missing girls location. This leads directly into the most brain-breaking sequence, not only of the film, but of the entire Marathon. Dolemite meets Cavalettis wife and somehow hypnotises her by the simple expedient of showing her a piece of terrible nude art. Within seconds Mrs. Cavaletti is writhing, moaning and shedding clothes like she suddenly became the worlds first deciduous human. Which segues into a truly mind-bending dream/freakout/what the fuck is going on sequence as Mrs. Cavaletti fantasises about naked black men sliding onto her crotch. From an actual slide.

Once again, you only WISH I was kidding.

That surreal sequence also ends with an sex scene that literally “brings down the house”. The crowds’ reaction to Mrs Cavaletti experiencing a Six-on-the-Richter-Scale shagging was right up there with the “Vibrations” scene in YOUNG AMERICAN HOUSEWIFE. Only without the icky incest overtones.

The final twenty minutes of the flick had it all. Speeded up kung-fu, lengthy comedy fist-fights, excruciatingly melodramatic scenes of pathos, an actual world kung-fu champion having to lose a nun-chuk fight to Rudy Ray Moore, the works!

How insane is this flick? Let’s put it this way. To write even this disjointed, inaccurate recap, I had to find and RE-WATCH the film. And considering the damn thing isn’t available in New Zealand (The DVD release being cancelled due to excessive classification costs) that took some commitment. And I feel like I’ve still only scratched the surface.

Car Crashes?:
70’s cars could explode if you looked at them funny
Denigration of Women?: Only in every second scene.
Tough Guys With Crazy Eyes?: Buggy eyes, painted-on beard!
The Hunter Becomes the Hunted?: AMBUSH THE HONKEYS!
Big Twist Ending?: It’s impossible to “twist” a film that hates conventional narrative as much as this one does.
Jungle Fever?: Sho’NUFF!

CARDIO?: For a “kung-fu” expert, Rudy could have used to lose a few pounds.
DOUBLE-TAP?: You usually don’t need to double-tap with a shotgun.
CHECK THE BACK SEAT?: Yes. For Rudy’s pants.

Skeeters’ Summary:
Un-be-lieveable. And ridiculously fun. Thumbs WAY up!

Part 6: Possession is 9/10’s of the Film.

With my back and legs registering their complaints about my seating arrangements, and with our next premiere scheduled , I abandoned the stalls. I’d earlier moved my borrowed beanbag right to the front left corner of the theatre, and a quick check proved that this would give me a good view of the screen. This had the additional benefit of also allowing me unlimited legroom. I sunk gratefully into the beanbag, which, being half-full, somehow formed a perfect donut shape around the top half of my body.

Comfy. So comfortable in fact that I was pretty sure I’d be asleep halfway through this flick. But there was one factor working in my favour. You see, the Hollywood is an old-school theatre. And directly to the left of me is one of the original features.

The Emergency Exit.

The exit hardly justifies the capital letters above, let alone it’s own paragraph. It’s simply a set of wooden doors that open out to the rear of the adjoining shops. But like any old building, despite being firmly closed, it allows somewhat of a draught in. An Arctic draught. As we were now well behind schedule, the break between THE HUMAN TONADO and this film was minimal, meaning I hadn’t grabbed my sweatshirt when I changed seats. The net result was that I was Goosebump Central in minutes.

Which was surprisingly apt, given the film we were watching. THE LAST EXORCISM is the latest in the current crop of “First-Person Perspective ”
Horrors making the rounds. (AKA the “Found Footage” genre, ala last years PARANORMAL ACTIVITY.) Interestingly, PARANORMAL ACTVITY 2 had opened in general release a few weeks before the Marathon, making it ineligible for screening. As someone who was unimpressed with the original in 2009, this was no bad thing, despite some fairly creepy trailers.

THE LAST EXORCISM by contrast was a much better watch, and at times projects a genuinely creepy vibe. It follows an evangelistic exorcist, who by his own confession is a jaded fraudster. Having lost his faith but retaining his showmanship, he cheerfully invites us along on one last road trip before his gives up the old Demon-Eviction racket. The opening is full of some sharp satirical humour and (literal) winks to the camera. As he rolls out to Rednickville, documentary crew in tow, you can kind of film in some of the script in your mind. Possible case of possession, priest who’s lost his faith, creepy old house in the middle of nowhere, creepy teenage girl… all fairly standard, right?

Well, yes and no. Yes, one sequence was so like THE EXCORCISM OF EMILY ROSE I thought the projection booth had got the reels switched. But there’s a few twists on the formula, mainly as the result of the shaky-cam style, which feels very organic. At least until the small pieces of creepy music and bassy sound effects start to come in. This became somewhat distracting, as I started wondering who edited the “Found” footage. (Not to mention the inexplicable reaction shots that seemed to indicate there was a second cameraman on the Grassy Knoll. Uh, barn.)

Much like PARANORMAL ACTIVITY there’s a slow burn as the creepiness ramps up, but unlike P.A, the script was strong enough to keep my interest in the quiet moments. In fact, despite it’s tendency to sometimes go for the big jump scene, THE LAST EXORCISM is strongest in the small details. I can still see very clearly one characters perfectly-timed evil smirk, glimpsed as a door swings shut in front of them. One of the bits that really got me was a middle of the night shot as SOMEONE picks up the camera, and it’s patently obvious it’s NOT our never-glimpsed camera op. The pay-off to that scene got a good reaction, (To anyone who wasn’t an animal lover, at least) but that first few seconds of “Oh, we could be in for something fucking scary” was for me the REALLY chilling bit.

The ending of the film was a room splitter, with probably more people in the “They fucked it up!” camp. I wasn’t disappointed by the way they went, but was certainly a last-second swerve that NO-ONE saw coming.

In the end, I was amazed that after 3 premieres, there was not one I’d found dull or forgettable. (And this at a show that had previously hit us with EMILY ROSE, a RESIDENT EVIL flick and a sequel to ANACONDA, for fucks sake!) Could this unusual trend continue?

Car Crashes?: Some people might think that climax was a car wreck.
Denigration of Women?: How, physically, mentally, spiritually? Take your pick…
Tough Guys With Crazy Eyes?: Inverted, as it’s a tough GIRL with wild eyes.
The Hunter Becomes the Hunted?: Run, cameraguy, run!
Big Twist Ending?: One of the biggest. Did it make sense? That’s up for debate.
Jungle Fever?: More like “Lake of Fire and Brimstone” Fever.

CARDIO?: SEE: Hunter becoming hunted.
DOUBLE-TAP?: Here, kitty, kitty, kitty…
CHECK THE BACK SEAT?: Nah, you’ll just find the sound op. Check everywhere else, though.

Skeeters’ Summary:
I could think of plenty of worse ways to spend 90 minutes. Solid flick.

We were into the wee small hours. Knowing that this was usually the time that people started to drift off, I returned to the stalls for a little B-Movie Crew support. (Steve Chow is notorious for flaking out around 3AM in particular.) Leaving my beanbag, I discovered a pen beneath my feet, which I was sure hadn’t been there at the start of THE LAST EXORCISM. Dubbing it “The Evil Pen”, I gave it a wide berth. On my return a few films later, it had been joined by The Evil Sunglasses. Turned out the girl sitting nearby simply had a habit of having her stuff migrate across the floor.

Now sitting just a seat away from Campbell, I was happy to see a black-and-white movie flicker to life. Considering the lateness of the hour, this could mean only one thing.

Part 7: Dirty Raincoats on, Gentlemen!

“We got us a titty flick!”

Man, the guy they yelled that is like school in the summer. No class.

Yeah, it was me. Despite Ant saying he was going to mess with the “traditional” line-up, this 60’s stag film would have started right at the same time as last years MAIDENS OF FETISH STREET if we weren’t 40 minutes behind schedule. But in truth, this is the perfect “Zone-Out “ spot for films of this nature. Unlike sleaze films of the seventies, most 60’s stag flicks I’ve seen have been heavy on the sizzle with a pretty meagre serving of steak. You have to wade through a huge chunk of dialogue, endless establishing shots and a really LOVE watching people dance the Twist before you get your brief glimpse of un-augmented boob, back or butt. (An invariably, that was about it.)

For people needing a little shut-eye, these flicks gently lull them to dreamland within the first reel. For those trying for the “No Sleep till Sunday Night!” mark of honour, these are usually the biggest test. But something about the way this started convinced me I needed to focus on it.

Firstly, there was the acting credits. An amazing list of pseudonyms appeared before us, promising the acting talents of such luminaries as “Steve Stunning” and “Alpha Centuri”. (Seriously, what the hell? Was one of those girls studying astronomy when she signed up for this tawdry little skinflick?) Adding to the amusement levels was one other acting credit.

Bob Parker? What the hall are you doing in this flick? If this gets out, your next mayoral campaign is… well, going to be even more of a landslide than this years ended up as.

Secondly was the music. It was library music, as is usual for this type of flick. But the music selection wasn’t exactly well considered. In fact, it was more like the director said “Look, just find the least appropriate music for the scene and slap it on there. Trust me, it’s an artistic decision!” I knew we were in for something special once ultra-dramatic suspense music played over the scene of a woman getting out of a car and walking into a building. I scribbled a few descriptions of some of the most glaring examples of Stock Music weirdness. Here’ a few examples;

The Lite-Jazz Sleaze Theme
Evil Doctor Music
The Unexpectedly Persian Make-out Music
The Killer Bee Theme for Walking up a Flight of Steps
The Austin Powers Theme! (Yes, it was and early version of Sould\ Bossa Nova, as performed by Quincy Jones for the Austin Powers flicks.)
The Morning Sickness Military Tattoo.

Then there was the directors favourite transitional shot.. the nausea-inducing PLUMMETING ZOOM! No less than five times, scenes would end with the camera suddenly falling to the floor, a couch, an actresses stomach. I wasn’t sure if it was a conscious decision, or if the cameraman was suffering from narcolepsy. An additional delight was the fact that this was the CREEPING TERROR of the 2010 show… in the sense of “Synch Sound? Fuck your synch sound!”. Yes, for 70 minutes, we’re treated to a never-ending narration by our leading lady. And that’s all. No dialogue to.. well, speak of. Brilliantly, she fumbles her lines more than once, proving once more that dreams are free and re-takes are sometimes just too damn expensive. (Her mangling of the word “nymphomaniac” suggested she’d never even uttered it before the record.)

But the best part of this flick had less to do with the shoddiness of the production, and much more to do with our second major technical glitch of the night. Without which, the film would probably have been quite dull. You see, the script is tracing-paper thin, being the story of a naive college girl who moves in with a bunch of swinging chicks on campus. They smoke, they drink, they party, (In a tiny, TINY room with a hunting rifle hung on a wall for no readily obvious reason.) they strip off and fondle anything with a pulse. Including some shocking, SCANDALOUS faux-lesbian frottage. (Which was probably the highlight of the flick.)

She proceeds to get busy with both a local hep cat and her professor. (Who, in an exceedingly icky plot point is an old friend of the family. And, it’s mentioned, has been “Just like an uncle” to our Heroine. Ick. ) She gets knocked up, contemplates a backstreet abortion, confronts both the potential fathers and in a final unlikely twist, sticks her head in a gas oven. (Narrating the whole time, making me think this was a VERY early version of AMERICAN BEAUTY.) She gets saved by one of her room-mates boy-toys, they fall in love and everyone lives skankily ever after.

Which would all be standard stuff for a skinflick. Unless of course you show the reels in the WRONG ORDER!

And not just one reel in the wrong place, either. We started with reel one, as our Heroine moves in and a VERY extended party breaks out. Much twisting and frug-ing later, the girls start showing off their granny panties. And then, in the blink of an eye, we leapt to reel four, and were in the apartment of a terrifyingly decrepit abortionist. Apparently, our Heroine was suddenly about to pop out a Virgin Birth. (Proving to be an appropriate follow-up to several plot elements in THE LAST EXORCISM.) I figured out pretty quickly what had happened, especially as the movie quickly built up to its melodramatic conclusion. The only thing I wasn’t sure of was whether Ant had decided to just show us an edited to oblivion version of the film to re-coup some lost time, or if thing were going to get confusing.

It was the latter. As the music swelled for the final fade-out, we jumped back to reel 3. Now our Heroine had moved in with Swingin’ Hepcat and had just found out she was pregnant, but couldn’t work out who the father was. The drama (purportedly) built as she confronted Swingin’ Hepcat and Professor Faux-Incest about her Spontaneous Bun-in-Oven manifestation. (Including a flashback to her flirting with Professor Morals-and-Ethics-of-a-Swamp-Rat while he gave a lecture. In a “classroom” that was depicted by him standing in front of a plain white wall. Apparently this campus was going through one hell of a funding crisis at the time.)

Eventually, Little Miss Up-the-Duff plucked up courage to go visit the aforementioned Back Alley Abortionist Lady. (Accompanied by misplaced music cues the whole way.) Annnnnd, back we went to the same swinging party from Reel one, just in time to catch a little light lesbianism in action. Our heroine meanwhile was coming on to Mr Swingin’ Hepcat, who was responding with abject boredom. Soft 60’s coupling soon ensued, Professor Hornypants entered the storyline and BANG, the movie was abruptly over as Reels 2 and 3 met in Swingin’ Hepcats apartment.

Now as I had been wide awake for this whole flick, and had even been taking a few notes by torchlight, the mixed-up reels weren’t as brain-breaking as they could be. My half-asleep (or in some cases, VERY asleep) compatriots were a little further out of the loop. With the exception of Campbell, who for the second year in a row went the full 24 hours without any sneaky napping (or so he claims, at least), some of the Crew was still trying to piece together the flick come breakfast time.

Car Crashes?: This movie didn’t have the budget for a minor fender-bender.
Denigration of Women?: Two guys being dickwads to the same chick vs. one nice guy. It’s a split decision, but yes.
Tough Guys With Crazy Eyes?: Who could tell behind those swingin’ shades?
The Hunter Becomes the Hunted?: SOMEONE must have been a hunter, due to the .22 on the wall. I’m still puzzled about that.
Big Twist Ending?: The big twists was that the ending was only the middle, and the movie ended before the ending began to start.
Jungle Fever?: You seem to think black people socialised with white folks in the mid 60-s.

CARDIO?: There really was a lot of bad dancing to keep people in shape.
DOUBLE-TAP?: It’s impossible to double-tap yourself with a Rangemaster Oven.
CHECK THE BACK SEAT?: Check the library for better music next time.

Skeeters’ Summary: Not quite as good a glitch as GIRLY, but close. The flick itself was pretty forgettable.

And so we came the 3AM slot. (Or as close to 3AM as our fractured schedule allowed.) In the last few years this spot has gone from “New and mindless” (ANACONDAS and RESIDENT EVIL) to “talky and challenging”. (KING DINOSAUR and MILL OF THE STONE WOMEN) What would Ant throw at us this time?

Part 8: Cornel Wilde Make Big Boom!
Sunday, 03:45-BEACH RED

Oh. My. God. It’s a war flick. A 1960’s war flick. With Cornel Wilde and Rip Torn, shot in beautiful, lush colour that had of course faded to purple somewhat. We’re hearing internal dialogues. We’re getting scenes in un-subtitled Japanese.

This is going to hurt.

In truth, it was our own fault. Ant had put up genre ideas on Facebook to see what we wantd. And we responded to each with “YES! Great! Do eeeet!”. I myself voted for a war film.

Of course, I was thinking more along the lines of BRADDOCK: MISSING IN ACTION.

This was a serious, earnest war film. The first 45 minutes cover the storming of a Pacific island by U.S Marines, and the battle scenes rival SAVING PRIVATE RYAN in their intensity. (If featuring a little more stock footage that Mr. Spielberg’s film.) It’s full-on Hell in the Pacific stuff, with characters we’re introduced to like they’re the films leads getting abruptly removed from the cast list by mortars and machine gun fire. The second half of the flick is more intimate, following two Marines on patrol and featuring many, MANY flashbacks to civilian life from soldiers on both the American and Japanese sides. It ends with the stark message that there are sometimes no winners in war, just survivors. It’s brutal, harrowing and relentless stuff.

That being said, have you ever tried to watch a war film at four in the fucking morning?

By the time the Marines had a foothold on the island, I had zero clue as to who was who. The fog of war was located in my brain, and every character was just a faceless grunt in uniform. I stuck with it as most of the Crew gave in to sleep. Cherie and Steve Chow were in their traditional 4am comas, along with most of the people in front of me. One of the Crew (either Andrew of Steve Austin, I think) remarked later that the moment the opening credits rolled, he felt safe to sack out.

How I didn’t flake out, I’ll never know. Three or four mammoth Atomic Neck Snaps (Backwards, for some reason this year) kept me from drifting off. Campbell and I were probably the only people in our row awake, but we didn’t exchange word one during the flick. I doubt I could have formed a coherent thought by 5AM.

As Ant said later, war is hell and so is scheduling a 100-minute-plus war film at 4AM.

Car Crashes?: Tanks go boom.
Denigration of Women?: Several women appear in flashback. Several have topless scenes. But no as I recall.
Tough Guys With Crazy Eyes?: Most of the cast.
The Hunter Becomes the Hunted?: Very much so at the end.
Big Twist Ending?: Less of a twist, more an “I KNEW that was going to happen!” swerve.
Jungle Fever?: They’re in a mosquito-filled jungle. SOMEONE’S getting a fever, all right.

CARDIO?: Drop and give me fifty, Private!
DOUBLE-TAP?: It’s a war film. Do the math.
CHECK THE BACK SEAT?: Check behind every rock and palm tree.

Skeeters’ Summary: A film I’d like to see properly sometime. As in, at a time when it won’t do my head in.

It was 5:30. After fourteen and a half hours of flicks and the last hour and forty-five minutes of explosions and flashbacks, I may not have hit the wall, but I damn sure was within spitting distance of it. I grabbed some supplies, headed to my beanbag and fortified myself for the final flick before breakfast. (Read “Fortified” as “Found an orphaned, unopened can of V on the floor of the stalls and chugged the piss-warm beverage in about three swallows.”)

C’mon, Ant. Give me something to wake me the hell up!



November 2011

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