"Joe Bob Goes to the
Drive-In" for 2/11/94
cutline: This pretty much sums up the
plot of "Dinosaur Island," the finest
prehistoric-Amazon-bikini-babes-on-a-desert-island flick ever made.
By Joe Bob Briggs
Drive-In Movie Critic of Grapevine,
Texas
What
are people talking about when they say, "Well, you know, it's the
nineties"?
I
have no idea what this means.
I
mean, what do they expect me to say? "It is NOT. It's the SIXTIES."
There's
a movie out right now with a poster that says "A Love Story For the
Nineties."
Well,
I HOPE it's for the nineties, because the goldang movie is coming out in 1994.
Just
exactly what idea is supposed to pop into your head when you hear the words
"The Nineties"?
Are
there really this many people into NUMEROLOGY? Has everyone turned into a New
Age rock-worshippin loonie who thinks that when the date goes from December 31,
1989, to January 1, 1990, something in the sky moves and we go into a different
MIND ZONE or something?
And
even if we ARE gonna talk about "The Nineties," what the hell does it
mean? After all, we've just barely started in on 1994. We had three years with
a Republican, one with a Democrat. We had two years with a bad economy, two
years with a recovering economy. We had homeless people the whole time. We had
the same bad TV shows over and over again the whole time. We had one real war,
but it was over so quick we forgot about it. We had two years of Communism in
Russia and two years WITHOUT Communism, and it's too early to tell which one
was better.
In
other words, what the hell ARE the Nineties, and what do people mean when they
say that? We've got everything from "a car for the nineties" to
"a fashion statement for the nineties" to that favorite of the news
magazines--the "Woman of the Nineties." And I get the impression,
when people say "You need this new CD Player For the Nineties," that
what they're really saying is that it's BETTER than something you could buy in
the eighties.
But
that's not really the way people say it on the street. They always SHRUG when
they say it, like, "Oh well, you know, IT'S THE NINETIES." If you say
"It's a Nineties Thing," a lot of people mean, "It's all screwed
up, it doesn't make sense, we'll never fix it, and they're all crooks
anyway."
So
which is it? Does The Nineties mean new and different and special and modern?
Or does it mean crummy and cynical and broken-down and stupid?
It
can't be BOTH things, right?
And
if it IS both things, why do we say The Nineties at all? Why does it matter
what the NUMBER of the year is? Why don't we just say "Today"?
Am
I thinking about this too much?
I
don't think so. I think people are really screwed up on this one.
Anyhow,
I got your movie for the nineties. Isn't it about time for a flick about
prehistoric bikini babes wearing nothing but furry loin cloths and animal-skin
tops, running around a desert island being chased by giant dinosaurs and
ripping off their clothes for some stranded Army guys who wash up on shore one
day?
Of
course it is, and who better to bring it to us than the can't-miss
ultra-low-budget directing team of Jim "Remove Your Tops, Please,
Ladies" Wynorski and Fred Olen "That Looks Good Enough For Me"
Ray.
The
idea of this movie is to cross "Jurassic Park" with "Monster on
Party Beach," and so it's got everything--virgin sacrifice, Amazon river
bathing, jungle hot-tub massage, cheesy dinosaur attacks, catfights,
pterodactyl-hunting, purple cave monsters, and, of course, primitive pesticide
laboratories. That's not to mention all the people making the sign of the
twin-pronged rutabaga all over the landscape.
In
other words, there's no doubt about it:
This
is a feminist statement for the nineties.
Four
dead bodies. Three dead dinosaurs. Twenty-four breasts. Soldier-munching.
Bimbo-chewing. Exploding dinosaur head. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for
Nikki Fritz, as the blue-bodied high priestess who dances around like a dancer
from Goldfingers Topless who's done too much acid; Ross Hagen, as the grizzled
old Army veteran who lands on the island with three goofball prisoners; Richard
Gabai, as the private who washes ashore and says "Please, God, let it be
Club Med"; Griffen Drew, as the prehistoric bimbo who says "Teach me
page 34!"; Toni Naples, as the Amazon queen; Michelle Bauer, as the
catfighting virgin, for her two enormous talents; Peter Spellos, as the
obligatory fat guy, for saying "It's time to kick some monster ass!";
Tom Shell, as the brainy one, for finding a giant blue dinosaur egg and saying
"My God, think of the cholesterol"; and Antonia Dorian, as the dimwit
soothsayer who could be a B-movie star of the future.
Four
stars.
Joe
Bob says check it out.
JOE BOB'S ADVICE TO THE
HOPELESS
Victory Over Communism! The Bel Air
Drive-In Theatre and Big M Restaurant on Route 22 in Churchville, Md., had one
of its best years in a decade, thanks to its regular schedule of Saturday-night
antique car shows and the eternal vigilance of owner Bob Wagner, who has worked
at the 12-acre, 300-car site since 1968 and still lives in a trailer on the
property. (Four other family members also live in trailers at the drive-in.)
Roland S. Sweet of Alexandria, Va., Melissa Darwin of Baltimore, Biff Dorsey of
Portland, Ore., and Tony Wilds of Baltimore remind us that the drive-in will
never die. To discuss the meaning of life with Joe Bob, or to get free junk in
the mail and the world famous newsletter, "The Joe Bob Report," write
to Joe Bob Briggs, P.O. Box 2002, Dallas, TX 75221. Joe Bob's Fax line is
always open: 214-368-2310.
Dear Joe Bob,
In a recent column of yours occurs the
following:
"I do distinguish between actual
breasts and the dreaded STUNT BREASTS."
I assume that by "stunt breasts"
you mean breasts that belong to some back-up bimbo rather than to the
top-billing bimbo. But let us reconsider. Why are a back-up bimbo's breasts any
less actual than the top-billing bimbo's breasts? Are they fake breasts or
prosthetic breasts? Those back-up bimbo breasts may well be just as nice as,
maybe nicer than, the top-billing bimbo's breasts. So why should they be
"dreaded"? Shouldn't we be accepting of all breasts? (I realize you
said "distinguish" not "discriminate," but your use of
"dreaded" entails disparagement.)
Perhaps you think you are warning against
some kind of consumer fraud. But we are only looking at the breasts, not
actually purchasing them. Indeed, we are not even looking at actual breasts in
any case but only at a cinematic illusion of breasts. Are you not the man who
eloquently defended Milli Vanilli's use of artistic illusion? (By the way, the
only intelligent comment I have yet seen on that affair.) Come on, Joe Bob,
lighten up. It's tough enough being a back-up bimbo without having one's breasts,
one's only two talents perhaps, labeled "dreaded stunt breasts" and
denying their actuality.
Your linguistical
friend,
Eric Hyman
Fayetteville, N.C.
Dear Eric:
I certainly did NOT mean to disparage
the technical accomplishments of professional stunt-breast experts like Shelley
Michelle, of "Pretty Woman" fame. When we watch a film, we should
never forget the little people (or, in this case, enormous people) who made it
possible.
But the excessive use of stunt breasts
deprives us of the more aesthetically pleasing full-body shot, not to mention
the lingering downward tilt from the face to the lower torso.
As the Russian film theorist Sergei
Eisenstein once put it, "The important thing is not the isolated breast
per se, but the total flesh package."
Dear Sir:
I have noticed in myself a number of
disturbing trends since I began reading you regularly. I find myself setting
the VCR to record movies like "Assault of the Killer Bimbos" and
"Amazon Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death." I find myself frequenting
the low-budget section of the video store. But a recent experience was the last
straw. I bought a copy of "Losin' It." I watched it. I enjoyed it. I
will watch it again. I think that pretty much says everything, doesn't it?
I am no longer surprised that "The
Oregonian" refuses to carry any of your columns. Twice recently they have
censored Dave Barry. While, unlike you, I am not necessarily opposed to
censorship, but Dave Barry! "Dangerous" and "subversive"
are not words that come to mind when I think of Dave Barry.
Sincerely,
James Isaak
Hillsboro, Ore.
Dear Jimbo:
You didn't think that Dave Barry column
about his dirty laundry went just a LITTLE BIT over the line?
Dear Joe Bob,
There is one unsolved mystery that has
puzzled me for quite a while now. Whatever happened to the chair that broke
Geraldo Rivera's nose? Do you think there is a conspiracy here? I cannot
believe that a chair can disappear without a trace. Maybe you can shed some
light on this subject.
Sincerely,
Jaime Iglesias
San Francisco
Dear Jaime:
The chair that broke Geraldo Rivera's
nose is in the Smithsonian Institution, of course, right between Archie
Bunker's chair and the chair that Indiana basketball coach Bobby Knight hurled
across the court.
To Joe Bob Briggs,
Re: Your suggestion of an "American
Sports College."
It already exists, and has for several
years. It is known as the United States Sports Academy, and it is located in
Daphne, Alabama. Undergraduate, Masters, and Doctoral programs are awarded in
just about every area mentioned in your article, and then some.
Just thought you may want to know!
Frank Ibieta
Baton Rouge, La.
Dear Frank:
Thanks for the info about the USSA. Now
my question is, Why don't they have the greatest sports teams in the country?
I've never even seen a score for one of their games.
Joe Bob,
Dateline Miami--Hyman takes a vacation.
Several observations. Postcards depict perfect 10's--bare-butt buxom bimbos in
string bikinis, well hung hunks of undetermined sexual preference with perfect
pecs. But all Hyman saw were Canadian and American snowbird swine with
gargantuan bloated bellies (also wearing bikinis). It looked to this reporter
like a Niagara Falls of flab, a shoreline full of out-of-shape sumo wrestlers.
Lots of trendy bistros on Ocean Drive populated by genuine and wannabe
Europeans dressed in obligatory Edgar Allen Sassoon funereal black and sporting
the ubiquitous "Cochise Whiz" hairstyle (like who's yer barber, Mr.
Oil Change?). How bout it, Luigi, lose the pony tail . . . and get a life!
Between the tourists and the fact that
Miami is Fossil Central, driving can be a challenge. Traffic copters don't
report traffic jams in Miami, they report heart attacks. "Yeah, we got a
baby blue Rolls just jumped the guard rail on I-95 South and heading north at
high rate of speed--possible coronary arrest. Proceed with caution." Or
"We got another stroke victim on the MacArthur Causeway, looks like
they're gonna have to saw that biddy out. Please use alternate routes."
Took the tour boat around the Miami Harbor,
a breath-holding view of the Miami Beach rich and famous. Saw where Vanilla Ice
lives. Saw where Gloria Estefan lives. Saw where Flipper's widow and Gentle Ben
live. Nice condos on Fisher's Island, modest but tasteful. Went to the famous
Rick's on Key West, just long enough to be barfed next to by some local who
decided it would be a good idea if she took a shot of every hard liquor in the
bar. Somewhere between the gin and the Cuervo she projectile-vomited all over
the nice 300-pound biker to her right. Hyman was up on his barstool like a
circus elephant. Takes the blush right off the rose.
There's so much more, but this is Hyman . .
. goodday.
Hyman
Buffalo
Dear Hyman:
You didn't even get a flamingo ashtray?
© 1994 Joe Bob Briggs All Rights Reserved