ZATHURA

Director - Jon Favreau
Starring - Josh Hutcherson, Jonah Bobo, Dax Shepard, Kristen Stewart, Tim Robbins

The first time I read the words "A new adventure from the world of Jumanji" on the cover box of Zathura I was quite titillated; Jumanji was a lot of fun, and I inherently prefer space-stuff to jungle-stuff, so how could I lose? Then I wondered how many reality-altering board games could possibly exist out there. Then I remembered the time I played "Mouse Trap" and found rat shit under the kitchen sink and wondered if maybe I wasn't living an adventure of my own. Turned out I wasn't. Halting this digression, I must profess at the outset of this particular interpretation that I did quite enjoy my "new adventure", though the marketing think-tank neglected to include the term "moderately inferior." Now, it could be argued that each film is an independent piece of art and I don't really have the right to draw comparisons between the two, and I can't vehemently disagree with that notion. In this case, however, it seems as though the latter is leaning very heavily on the shoulder of it's predecessor; is Zathura a sequel? A loose remake? An accompaniment piece? Or does it even matter so long as the viewer accepts the preconceived mythology set forth in Jumanji? That way, Zathura the movie doesn't have to spend any time developing the existence of "Zathura" the board game, because we viewers have already accepted the probability of said board game. Truth be told, I'd say the real answer is that this is supposed to be an entertaining kids movie about fighting robots and aliens, with a couple of life lessons blatantly tossed on top, and any over-analysing is obviously the action of a somewhat obsessive, somewhat pretentious, somewhat nerdy film fanatic with way too much brainstorming time on his hands. (This probably isn't a good time to note that I saw this movie twice to ensure I didn't miss any subtleties.)


The above cast list of five comprise the entire ensemble of human characters, but the vast majority of the screen time is shared by Hutcherson and Bobo. (Hell, Tim Robbins may have been strolling by on his way home from softball practice and had a free Sunday evening.) Hinging your film on two kids is often treading some dangerous ground; the actors have to maintain that childlike naturalism and banter, without coming across as too precocious or simply annoying. Our two heroes seem to hit the mark about half the time; I found some of their repertoire to be fairly humorous, particularly in the scenarios involving the reading and deciphering of the game cards. But it was always carefully checked by a healthy argument and round of name calling, and these are the scenes in which the acting succumbed to yelling and the grating began. Though I do appreciate the mild cussing spewed forth by the youngsters; it's not like the good old PG days, but it is one step closer to de-coddling the youth. Fortunately, Shepard and Stewart are introduced to break up the bickering; unfortunately, in both cases, it's about 7 minutes too late. Not that their chemistry is really that much better, despite the fact that the best one-liners do belong to Shepard. Stewart ran around in close-to-inappropriate lounging attire for a teenager, (which I'm actually okay with, not for the gross reasons one may assume, rather because I support the fueling of the imaginations of children,) perfecting the weak delivery and jerky head motions that would one day make her wealthy.


Moaning aside, the overall spectacle of the film is pretty bang on, with a bright colour scheme, grand exterior shots of the perils in the vastness of space, and a bunch of rip roaring destruction. The robot and the Zorgons hold onto that pseudo-retro design as realized with modern technology, and all of the threatening situations unfold extremely well. It was those scenes that made it easier to overlook the irritations brought on by the cast or script. The chaotic fun is more accentuated as it hones in on that forbidden fantasy of decimating one's private residence. However, by committing the bulk of the action to the actual house (and to the impending moral of "An adventure can happen without even leaving your own home..."), I feel there may have some missed opportunities to take this destruction on to broader horizons. I've got a lot of curiosities about what else was on board that Zorgon ship...It can't all be furnaces, conveyor belts, and 4-eyed goats...I don't wanna rub it in, but in Jumanji I got to see an entire town get ravaged.


And then the conclusion comes along. And things get a little weird. Some sort of metaphysical nonsense involving parallel universes, or something. I've seen a variety of movies that warn against the dangers of interacting with a past or future self, but very few have encouraged it as a means of personal growth. There's something about absorbing oneself into oneself that just doesn't seem like a healthy idea.


Generally, I couldn't help but feel as though every time something in the film went right, something else went "not right"; not terribly wrong, mind you, just "not right". There were many lessons laden throughout, and a little less focus on these may have been the sacrifice required to tweak those missteps. The movie had some very bright moments when it flirted with old tyme space serials, and I'm compelled to imagine the potential of the Astronaut character had he followed the same mold; full of bravura and 1950's idealism. Of course, this would greatly impact the "Take not thine sibling for granted..." lesson, and eliminate the potential existential crisis that it may inspire, and would that not be for the better? I also feel that I may owe Mr. Favreau an apology; I enjoyed myself, (twice, even) and it may not be fair of me to draw constant comparisons to it's superior predecessor. His intentions may have been differentiation, but is it worth it if the inevitable reaction is that "Jumanji did it better"? The only thing that is certain is that I'll never again haphazardly poke around the open game boxes at the Value Village.

MEGA SHARK VS. GIANT OCTOPUS

Director - Ace Hannah
Starring - Deborah Gibson, Vic Chao, Lorenzo Lamas

Finally, the direct-to-video, extra low budget, painfully lame underwater deathmatch we've all been waiting for. And who better to mediate the bout than washed up 80's icons Debbie Gibson and Lorenzo Lamas, thus resulting in not one, but two check marks on my "Match Ups I Never Thought I Wanted To See" list. (Actually, if Gibson and Lamas rode the Shark and Octopus and chased me around a swimming pool, it would have made reality of a nightmare I had when I was 4.)


Mega Shark Vs. Giant Octopus, or MSVGO as us cinema hipsters refer to it, falls into the same category as it's two-bit predecessors in the Super Animal A vs. Super Animal B shit-genre, in that the best thing about any of these movies is always the title. Probing (unnecessarily?) deeper into these "Vs." oddities, one discovers that they follow the same basic plot structure, and this one sure isn't breaking any new ground; as per usual, Super Animal A is found in one part of the world, Super Animal B in another part of the world, scientists fail miserably in their efforts to destroy them separately, then come to the logical conclusion of pitting them against each other. I long for the fateful day when one of these companies asserts their creative superiority by implementing an A vs. B vs. C formula.


Opening with a couple of aesthetically pleasing stock footage shots of mountain tops and underwater reefs, the film disintegrates, literally within seconds, into a revolving parade of shitty CGI attacks, medium shots of people crammed into cardboard underwater vessels, and Gibson and Vic Chao swooning over each other amidst unfinished-basement command posts and Toys R Us laboratory sets while Lamas lurks around acting tough.


I can't help but assume that had the cast and crew not gone to the vending machine during their lunch break, they would have had twice the budget to work with. Anything and everything that can be done to pinch pennies is attempted, and seemingly without shame. All of the supposed "hi tech" background equipment has been replaced with Commodore monitors and Lite Brites, and are disinterestedly poked at by some key grip's nephew. Shots remain stationary, panning as little as possible and filling the frame with our heroes, avoiding the even further embarrassment of accidentally showing the limitations of the sets. Though I do appreciate the actors' collective efforts to stare intensely off-screen in order to cover up the lack of proximity between them and impending doom, be it in Shark-form or Octopus-form.


But who really gives a shit about all that stuff? When you sit down to watch a movie called Mega Shark Vs. Giant Octopus you really only care about two things, and they better be versusing the hell out of each other. Alas, much like it's "Vs." brethren, the animal chaos is kept to a minimum, and upon witnessing all of the CGI glory, these omissions may be regarded as a mercy skimping. The Shark and Octopus have four scenes in the film (granted, the Octopus does seem to take a noticeable back seat); an introduction which frees each from it's underwater trappings, (when will misguided humans learn to not tamper with the unforgiving environment?), an attack on innocents to illustrate their threat, them defeating their respective government assaults to punctuate their superiority, and their final, un-epic, fin on tentacle face off. All told, it combines to make up just about 10 whole minutes of screen time...and what screen time it is... One has to suspend a lot of disbelief in order to accept the notion that a Mega Shark has some sort of beef with a Giant Octopus, and I'm okay with that; I love suspending stuff, and my disbelief is usually the first thing blowing in the wind. But when the supposed menace looks like it was the product of a High School software assignment, one that may have received a generous C+, it's difficult to embrace the prehistoric terror. Most of the actual confrontation consists of healthy doses of teeth gnashing, ink squirting, and general squozen twisting; there's even a tentacle-bite that the filmmaker's were so enamored with, they mirrored the image and used it a second time. Not intense enough for you? Plenty of rapid editing and shaky camera work should provide the desired amount of squinting/head scratching.


The other hour of screen time, (hour-five max,) have Gibson and Lamas desperately trying to hold onto fame (slipping into infamy) as they go through the motions of "brainy-but-not-bad-looking scientist" and "impulsive, hardened military type", and much of the dialogue is either science-based or military-based mumbo jumbo blandly filling the feature length time quotient, with the odd nature sentiment thrown in by the benevolent Chao. At least the obligatory romance is fueled by firey passion, expressed in nearby utility closets and through kisses so steamy the participants don't even care that Lamas is hovering over them.


Everything about this movie is deserved of mockery. Everything. Which may very well make it the perfect flick to get drunk and laugh at. I laughed at it. A lot. Thus bringing about the question as to how many people behind the scenes were laughing, and how many had faith in their art. More pressing, how many people were laughing when the profits came in, as I imagine they did. Between the bad-movie lovers and the easily appeased suckers, the audience is always there. Personally, I reside somewhere in the middle; sure it's really just a mega-shit vs. a giant piece of crap, but I'll keep watching in hopes that one day a "Vs." will come along that isn't utterly and laughably pathetic. It is also now abundantly clear that no aircraft is safe without a can of bat-shark-repellant...

GROUPIE

Director - Mark L. Lester
Starring - Taryn Manning, Eric Roberts, Hal Ozsan

Imagine yourself in this scenario: you're front row center at your favourite wuss-rock concert, awe-struck by your demigods "The Dark Knights", displaying their talents to simultaneously suck and avoid copyright infringement, holding up your sign or zippo as they belt out the chorus of their astonishingly number one hit "Firing Line", when they predictably do not close the show with an admittedly cool stunt that they've refused to do since it caused the death of an innocent teen over a year ago. Are you outraged? Do you join the crowd in their halfhearted booing? Would you tear up your sign in anger, go home, and begin constructing a new one in preparation for their next show which you've already bought tickets for, thinking to yourself "This time for sure..."? After all, a year is a long time to perfect pyro-technology. If you somehow cannot picture yourself amidst said surroundings, then sorry, kiddo, you cannot be a fan of "The Dark Knights".


Unluckily for us, some quasi-wealthy people are fans of "The Dark Knights", or at least actor/singer/songwriter/fictional front man/Jack-shit-of-all-trades Hal Ozsan, otherwise we wouldn't have been blessed with this shitty excuse for him to mope around and showcase his "skills". Apparently two of his fans are fellow co-stars Taryn Manning and Eric Roberts who offer not only their acting prowess but also associate produced. (Which makes me wonder if Roberts had any say in the band's name, attempting to remind viewers of the last decent movie he was in.)


The flick opens on what turns out to be one of many rock 'n' roll montage sequences built on cocaine, joint smoking, sexy midriffs, tour buses, and hotel rooms, repeatedly illustrating the decadence and overall awesomeness of this lifestyle. It's also a good setting/excuse to get a number of hot chicks topless. Little does the band know that their hard-rocked life is about to come to an abrupt end via vengeful former-fan, Manning, and her satchel of bronzing utensils. (Including the stubbiest pitiful knife ever wielded by an on-screen killer.) I'd almost feel bad for spoiling the mystery were there any mystery to spoil; who could have imagined that the ominously cryptic newcomer who glares directly into the camera and triggers flashbacks to the opening concert chaos was out for revenge? Big fucking shocker.


I expect more from Manning, and am pleasantly surprised on those rare occasions when I do get more from Roberts...though I no longer expect it...Given that their names are all over this mess, you'd think they would've ensured themselves a bigger budget in which to frolic around. Everything from the poor CGI fire, to the same thirty-five people at every concert, to the almost complete and utter lack of blood during the kills, reeks of loose pocket change. Try wrapping your head around the logistics behind that guitar thrown into the overhead lighting...despite the crowd's disdain, it would be a real cool stunt provided the guitar didn't just disappear in a hail of 128 bit frugality. To answer Travis' question as to who gives a shit about face masks; nobody...because face masks make for cheap, shitty kill scenes. One of but many examples of the abysmal writing...


Cheesy dialogue peppers the laughably basic story elements, attempting to make meaningful statements about artistic integrity and emotional expression, but really just allowing Ozsan some sulking time between gigs, whilst pointing giant, flashing arrows at the supposed mystery killer. Riley's "Wake up...you don't wanna miss your own death" is pretty quotable, but why'd the sound guy have to go and plant the seeds of murder by looking directly at Riley and stating about Davis: "He'd better watch out, with his bad heart and all...one shock and he's a goner..."? Fortuitously for Riley, in case she missed that subtle tidbit of information, someone went to the effort of labeling Davis' (and only Davis') guitar chord. One might be inclined to think that there's more to this sound guy than meets the eye...perhaps I underestimated the overall mystery here...Doubts are quelled come the final climax when crappy writing and generic struggling intertwine; Travis disobeys orders and neglects to tie himself up, possibly baffled by the mechanics of the demand, and opts to simply tackle Riley. It seems like a pretty sure bet, until he somehow loses a physical confrontation with this 100 lb. monster, though his pregnant wife is on top of the situation, allowing for one final sarcastic quip. Cue alterna-weep-rock and croon goodbye to one hour and fifteen minutes of your time.


Rock 'n' roll movies are supposed to be fun. This movie may be, at best, masochistic fun. I can remember the good old days, when I was 7, and could trust seeing the name Mark L. Lester on a cover box. As a rather self-comforting digression, I can't help but reminisce about the year that I watched Commando at least three times a week, and wondered to myself what the future would hold for this budding auteur. Should I limber up my hi-fiving hand in anticipation of a Class of 2084? Have I respectfully waited long enough to pitch my script for Showdown in Little Tokyo II? All of those James Remar/Coolio/lesser Baldwin brothers based thrillers through the 90's must have been practice for something. Well, the future has come. The wonder has ceased. The answer is Groupie. Allow me a moment of silence.

HOMECOMING

Director - Morgan J. Freeman
Starring - Mischa Barton, Matt Long, Jessica Stroup

I like to imagine this piece of drivel as the by-product of a case of wine and a game of "You Know What Movie's Good..." Close your eyes and permit me to whisk you off to creation-land;
Writer Kate L. Fetting - You know what movie's good...Misery.
Director Morgan J. Freeman - You know what movie's good...Fatal Attraction.
KLF - You know what movie's good...Single White Female.
MJF - You know what movie's good...The Hand That Rocks the Cradle.
KLF - You know what movie's good...Obsessed.
MJF - You know what movie's good...American Psycho 2.
KLF - Hey, I got an idea...
MJF - ...and I have Mischa Barton's home phone number...
(Chuckles had by both parties.)


Ahhh, where to start? So much chastisation, so little time. The biggest concern here is that with access to a not bad budget, a not bad actress, and not bad equipment, everything was still so goddamn formulaic. When will people learn that formula can remain stagnant only when outweighed by spectacle? So much more could have been delivered using so much less...


The storyline is by-the-numbers ex-girlfriend pining over ex-boyfriend and plotting to remove current GF to regain her once perfect life. But the catch is, and this'll throw you for a loop, she's crazy! Go figure. The movie may think it's a little smarter than it actually is by opening on a somewhat cryptic flash forward of Barton's Shelby simultaneously driving, smoking, and weeping, but it's not. Possibly a desperate attempt at invoking sympathy before we watch this character plummet into madness; possibly a reminder of who the star of this thing is; possibly a showcase of Barton's multi-talents. But it's also the first instance of the ongoing trend of shitty and obvious foreshadowing that permeates this film. Throughout Shelby's quest of stolen true love, as long as one is watching the screen, one can predict what will inevitably happen down the line. From the introduction of Roy the banker, to Shelby improperly chopping wood, to Shelby's discovery of the lamest blazer ever, each piece of this "Ages 2-6" puzzle is spoon fed to us with the fear that we've never seen a movie before. (Honestly, who would wear a suit jacket with the number 7 embroidered on the lapel...unless maybe attending a formal dinner on The Island...) My favourite example of this "technique" comes in the form of Billy, the amalgamation of what is normally two stock characters within this obsession-thriller sub genre; a not-so-carefully woven tapestry of disbelieving authority figure and interfering family member. Of course, when he's on the receiving end of what I call "the old Scatman Crothers", what would formerly have been two kill scenes is reduced to one. Though Shelby does also shoot him. And burn him. So maybe it all equals out.


The other consistent presence, and general curiosity, is the inclusion of Shelby's character constantly vocalizing her Mike-based infatuations at seemingly inappropriate junctures, much to the nonchalant, unnoticing reactions of the other characters. No one seems concerned over the fact that she often starts phrases with sentiments akin to "When Mike and I get married...", and apparently nobody bothered to sit her down and tell her to get over it. Perhaps they're all on board the same train of thought as I am, and can't fathom the notion that an extremely attractive, albeit overly slender, blonde chick that owns a bowling alley and likes to drink could possibly be hard up for love.


I feel a little sorry for Mischa Barton. She's not really that bad an actress. The other two I could care less about; they're pretty enough and deliver lines adequately enough that they can both be in Homecoming II: Coming Home.(Copyright pending.) But Barton has somehow tumbled down the chute after climbing the ladder of Lost and Delirious. One look into those wounded and menacing eyes as she maniacally plots from the haven of her Fortress of Stockroom, and I can't help but wish that this vehicle was anything more than just stupid characters making stupid decisions that lead them into stupid scenarios. Given the resources to include overhead rotating camera zooms and multi-space music montages, but two of the many weapons of cinema, an individual may be inclined to utilize more innovation than simply adding football helmets and maple syrup to the cadre of blunt object beatdowns. I find it very difficult to believe that Stroup's Elizabeth would opt to hobble away from the toilet tanked Shelby rather than finish the job, (having discovered that scrapbook of murderous memories and all), or that the final stage of her escape plan was to cower in fear rather then fight back; it's as though she changed her mind mid-risk. Admittedly, it is feasible that this ignorance of verisimilitude was a (purposeful?) blessing in disguise as it did culminate in the snipping of Elizabeth's Achilles tendon, ultimately resulting in the film's most entertaining 2 seconds of screen time.


What a waste; not only of Barton, but also of what I presume to be a grand total of about one million dollars. A psycho love bitch with some imagination behind it could've been a good role for Barton too, but in today's day and age a raspy voice and a passionate high school montage just doesn't cut it.
You know what movie's good...not this piece of shit.

THE BIG HIT

Director - Che Kirk Wong
Starring - Mark Wahlberg, Lou Diamond Phillips, Christina Applegate, Bokeem Woodbine, Antonio Sabato Jr.

I know, I know, we all wanted this one to work; action-comedy with a smattering of tongue-in-cheek satire produced by John Woo. Unfortunately, though a bunch of small things do go right, the majority of the comedy falls flat, some of it painfully so. At least one, preferably two, more action scenes would have also gone some distance in lifting this film out from the hole in which it fell.


This is an earlier American entry to foray into the realm of over the top, greatly exaggerated, gravity defying action, and the "bang bang boom boom" stuff is generally a success. Provided, of course, that you can swallow the idea of dead bodies soaring through the air and deceptively non-threatening explosions. Personally, I'm a huge advocate of gratuitous violence and can swallow just about anything that involves limitless bullets. We get Marky Mark rolling down hand railings, bungee jumping out of explosive blasts, being chased down a mountain by a flipping car, and (icing on the cake) knife-fighting Lou Diamond Phillips in a video store. There is literally a little something excessive there for everyone. The only down side to all this action hubris comes in the from of a few pointless, unnecessary jumps...and I don't mean "jump cuts"...I mean actual insert shots of the gang simply jumping...which doesn't seem immediately beneficial during a gunfight...


Such a pity that team Wong Woo failed to provide me with that which I so purely desired...50 or so minutes go by with nary an action sequence in sight. In it's stead, I'm subjected to a barrage of jokes ranging from mediocre to lame as shit and involving a running masturbatory gag, a forgetful homeboy, and a domestic comedy of errors. Timeless subjects, all of them. Not that those things are necessarily un-funny, but in these particular situations they too were exaggerated, and proved to turn themselves more silly than anything. Case in point: the "chicken stuffing/sweet sweet loving" juxtaposition. I get the allusion, but some softer lighting and more seductively subtle shots of the chicken's glory (i.e. taking the ridiculousness of the scenario just a bit more seriously) would have turned the whole sordid affair into a joke being played by the filmmakers, not just a cheap laugh being had by them. I don't even want to get into the travesty that was the "trace buster" gag.


Not that the actors themselves can't be held at least partially responsible for their beyond-caricaturistic deliveries and overall performances. Even when the odd couple of chuckles are induced (I did enjoy watching Cisco kill Gump...maybe because I hated him so much...even his name is obvious...), those are quickly squashed by the downhill boulder that is bad acting. Everything out of Gump's mouth is cringe worthy, as is usually the outcome of bad parody, and Phillips' Latino tough guy comes across as laughable and incompetent. He needs to go back and re-watch Stand and Deliver. Top that all off with China Chow as Keiko, pitifully uttering classic love tomes such as "I'm feeling it, Skipper," and you can't help but long for someone to get shot. Anyone. Quick.


The really great moments are far outnumbered by the really weak moments, and when mixed all together everything is merely moderately amusing. So much potential washed away in a hail of playground humour. Not even the good playground humour. Kudos on the soundtrack however. It's nice to see Molotov getting a little notice.

NO MAN'S LAND: THE RISE OF REEKER

Director - Dave Payne
Starring - Michael Muhney, Desmond Askew, Mircea Monroe, Stephen Martines, Valerie Cruz

It`s probably not a good sign when the cover box calls this movie No Man's Land: The Rise of Reeker, the DVD menu calls it The Rise of The Reeker (note the extra "the"), and the opening titles simply opt for No Man's Land. Ah well, can't judge a movie by it's numerous titles...


When you've seen as many shitty movies as I have, particularly within the horror genre, it becomes increasingly difficult to be unappreciative of mediocrity. In many instances, I find the result to be similar to what we have here, which is a generally bad film sprinkled with a few imaginative moments. Of course, I may watch it again simply due to my passion for the genre, but do not let my actions motivate yours; it's not very good and I can admit that to myself.


All this nonsense is further aggravated by the fact that I kinda dug the opening scene and my hopes were mildly raised. In the obligatory origin flashback, I was treated to some decent looking direct-to-video gore and a playful introduction to the background of said Reeker. All is faring positively up until the one-handed dweeb returns to his shanty accompanied by that goddamn overused, herky-jerky camera work as he moves. It denotes death...or stench...or otherworldly spookiness...or just a plain, old, overall successful attempt to piss me off...And with that minute technique, the story regresses into a typical "holed-up, disagreeing survivor" tale. (Not that the two things are inevitably linked...) After progressing to the present, we are introduced to a handful of one-note characters, where the only upside is that the greater the number of one-note characters, the greater the number of one-note deaths. We get the wise ole disheveled sheriff, his by-the-books Deputy son, the feisty waitress, the empathetic robber, the demented robber, the injured robber, and the intelligent, attractive, female doctor. Following a series of grave misunderstandings the gas station explodes, and, unbeknownst to them, the group of stereotypes are hurtled into the realm between the dead and the living. Now, given that Reeker ended with this so-called twist, why would writer/director Dave Payne slowly reveal this fact as though it were some great secret? I was already privy to this grand revelation, why not pay me, a faithful horror viewer, a little credit?


Amid the mundane proceeding dialogue, and generic "scares" in the form of disappearing people and bad smells, the film does occasionally offer up some visually satisfying (though CGI dominant) and inventive kill scenes. "Headless Binky" and the "wandering" torso spring immediately to my mind, but the majority of the spewing blood and pierced appendages looked acceptable. Finally, something here worth watching. (Now, if only there was some gratuitous nudity this thing might have made it on my "To Buy" list.) Unfortunately, for every drilled-forehead, there's also a lame attempt at comedy. The deputy doesn't sport the slapstick chops that are required to make walking into an invisible wall funny, (those comic gems are few and far between), and the entire "fish fuck" conversation is one of the worst attempts at natural dialect in recent memory. All this failed talking could have been replaced by moderately successful torturing.


Wrapping up the whole shit 'n' kaboodle is an extremely over-elaborate concluding explosion, involving a flaming pigeon for some reason, that resulted in the types of injuries received via the Reeker, smelly harbinger of death, in...take a deep breath...No Man's Land. (For those who have seen Reeker, the deep breath is not necessary.)


All I need now is the promise of an open-ended franchise and my continued Reeker viewership is assured, accompanied by what I assume will be a modicum of direct-to-video success. Hardcore horror fanatics are desperate for material that is even slightly above pitiful, and seeing how this was not quite a waste of my time, which I have in abundance, I will sit through the next olifactory adventure, stupid shaky camera and all.

KILLER KLOWNS FROM OUTER SPACE

Director - Stephen Chiodo
Starring - Grant Cramer, Suzanne Snyder, John Allen Nelson

Recalling the lost 50's and 60's hey-day of "Space Invaders" drive-in flicks, this comedy/horror (emphasis on "comedy") adds a sorely needed touch of the 80's to the familiar sub genre. Predilections towards this one should be immediately obvious; if you genuinely smiled whilst reading the infamous tag-line, you'll probably genuinely smile throughout the film's unfurling. In it's entirety, Killer Klowns... is one, rapid, circus based, pun or sight-gag after the next, laid down atop the stereotypically classic storyline. Anyone who furrows their brow at the idea of deadly cotton candy cocoons or living balloon search dogs should prepare themselves for an arduous journey. Personally, I was hooked from the opening Killer Klowns glam rock theme song. Not for all tastes, but it certainly sets a mood...


The narrative structure is quite simple and familiar; an alien ship passes over make-out point to crash land in a farmer's field. Two protagonists put their heavy petting on hold to investigate, and spend the bulk of the film trying to convince moronic authority figures that what they saw was not a hormone induced hallucination. Meanwhile, the outsiders showcase their threat by dispatching a slew of nondescript townsfolk. An exciting climax ensues. The pacing is kept brisk, with very quick scene changes alternating between clown havoc and our heroes and heroines desperately trying to overcome puberty, jealousy, and popcorn. And timeless 80's humour. Can't forget that 80's humour. Luckily for me, the colourful chaos (both literal and figurative) culminated, every single time, with a close-up of the perpetrating clown's face, laughing maniacally. It heralded the the moment I could put aside my terror, and once again laugh...and love...


Now we reach the real question concerning the film`s construction; Is all this tongue-in-cheek, cheesy-humour laden, death fueled, clown gallivanting preposterousness a loving, exaggerated homage? Or is it lame? Is the movie fun on purpose...or is the fun just a pleasant by-product? (And does it really matter...) I believe the majority of it was on purpose, and it makes the ordeal that much more enjoyable, but pleasure can definitely be garnered on the other end of this subjective see-saw. I still have no real explanation or justification for those "crazy" Torrenzi brothers...I probably would have preferred had they actually melted away with all that exploded ice cream...


Yet, there`s something wholesomely fun about watching a freakishly large clown, with crusty make-up covering his garish animatronic face, attempt to ply a young girl away from Big Top Burger and toward his big-ass hammer. Or a tiny, little clown box the head right off of a dated biker bully. The rousing success for me, as it was simultaneously funny, absurd, and still creepy, was Sheriff Mooney being used as a ventriloquist dummy. Sure, the doll make-up and ominous spot-lighting played integral roles, but it just so happens that one of my fears is not the alarmingly popular coulrophobia, rather a fear of ventriloquist dummies. (They`re just so stilted and unsettling...yet they still toss about scathing insults...)


Even the non-kill scenes, or "plot" as the experts have dubbed it, are in emulation of former cinematic comrades. The boisterous, forced, joviality spewed by Mike as he and Deb enter the ship is mockingly reminiscent of every "Invasion"-esque protagonist of yester-year. Mooney`s stubborn refusal to believe any of the frantic phone calls he receives is also characteristic of the close-minded authority figures upon which he is based.


Killer Klowns... is certainly not the keystone of comic satire...some of the stupidity lives up too much to just that label; but it will be enjoyed. By those who love the base genre, by those who like what is called a "good bad movie". It will also be argued that it is merely a bad movie, and nothing more, and that is an opinion that can be empathized with. What cannot be argued however, is that it is marketed poorly. With a title sporting unnecessary alliteration and that ugly mug on the cover, one gets a fairly good sense of what they are in for.