Scorned

"Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-In" for 9/2/94

cutline: Shannon Tweed comes to the guest house to tutor the teenage son, but stays to administer deadly perfume to his mom, Kim Morgan Greene, in the drive-in version of "The Hand That Rocks the Cradle," an excellent rip-off called "Scorned."

By Joe Bob Briggs
Drive-In Movie Critic of Grapevine, Texas

You know how ever time there's a war, or a strike, or a lawsuit, there's always people who say, "Now why can't they JUST GET ALONG?"

My mother is like this. My mother thinks all the problems of the world would be solved if people JUST GOT ALONG. I never asked her about it, but I imagine she thinks the Jews and the Nazis wouldn't have had to go through the Holocaust if they'd stopped for a minute and said, "You know what? We should GET ALONG."

And so that's what people are saying about the baseball strike. Isn't it a shame that those players and those owners JUST CAN'T GET ALONG?

But looky here. This thing is simple. The owners are holding out for a "salary cap."

That's a nice way of saying PRICE-FIXING.

That's a nice way for the owners to say, "Let's compete with one another, but ONLY UP TO A POINT. Let's make it so that, no matter how much we wanna outbid the other guy, there's a cut-off point, a limit."

It's like holding an auction where the bidders can only spend $5,000 each. Any more than that is illegal. So, even if they WANT to pay $5,000 per chair for four chairs, they're forced by the rules to limit their bids to $1,250 per chair.

I understand this. It seems like America could understand this, too. But a lot of ordinary working people think the players are being unreasonable. Hell, the players are taking the ORDINARY WORKING PERSON position. They believe in FORCING these old coots to pay em what their worth, and what the market will bear. Baseball is one of the few American businesses where the worker has WON.

And the fans don't like that. I don't know why, but they do NOT like ball players making a lot of money. They could care less if owners make millions of dollars, but they don't like it when it's third basemen.

So look at it this way. Who do you go to the ballpark to see?

Who do you wanna give your money to?

I wanna give it to the players.

If the owners don't wanna spend a million a year on outfielders, then DON'T SPEND A MILLION A YEAR ON OUTFIELDERS. Use ANOTHER outfielder, who doesn't cost as much.

But let these guys make their money, however they can, whenever they can. Cause one of these days, like around the time they turn 30, they're gonna be back in the trenches with all the rest of us.

It's not much time. My advice to the players: Whatever you do, DON'T GET ALONG.

And speaking of national pastimes, this week's Shannon Tweed movie is "Scorned," also starring and directed by the multi-talented Andrew Stevens. (Is it my imagination, or have there been about 40 movies with Shannon Tweed and Andrew Stevens? Did they get married or something?)

What we've got here is an excellent "Hand That Rocks the Cradle" rip-off, with Shannon as the Widow From Hell, Tutor From Hell, and Psycho Sex Demon From Hell. When her sleazeball husband commits suicide because he's passed over for promotion, Shannon shows up at Andrew's house, posing as a high school tutor for Andrew's troubled teenage son. Why Andrew? Because Andrew GOT THE JOB her husband should have gotten after he forced Shannon to let a client have sex with her on the kitchen counter.

So Shannon moves into the guest house, makes friends with everybody, sleeps with the teenage son, sleeps with Andrew, sleeps with Andrew's ditzy pill-poppin wife (Kim Morgan Greene), and is so despicable that she even murders the live-in Meskin housekeeper.

Where does it all lead? Well . . . er . . . uh . . . hm.

I knew it just a second ago.

Oh yeah, it leads to Mayhem.

Three dead bodies. Two dead birds. Twelve breasts. Multiple aardvarking. Catfight. Gratuitous coke-sniffing. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Dan McVicar, as the slimy husband who tells Shannon, "Be NICE to him! Party a little bit!"; Kim Morgan Greene, as the drughead wife who says "Don't patronize me, I am not crazy!"; Andrew Stevens, for directing this baby the drive-in way and for smashing Shannon Tweed through a second-story window; and Shannon Tweed, as the experienced older woman who tells the kid, "Next time you wanna see something, knock on my door and ask me" and "I'm gonna teach you everything I know" and "In an hour, I promise, you'll be able to beg in two languages."

Three stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.

JOE BOB'S ADVICE TO THE HOPELESS

Bureaucrat Alert! The city council of Mt. Healthy, O., is CROWING because they've managed to use city money to rip down the screen, tear down all the buildings, and plow roads through the 14-acre former site of the Mt. Healthy Drive-In on Compton Road. Why? So they can sell the site as an "office and light industrial" complex. The first people to move in: four doctors. Sorry, friends, but the patient is already terminal. Thomas A. Long of Cincinnati reminds us that, without eternal vigilance, it can happen here. To discuss the meaning of life with Joe Bob, or to get free junk in the mail and Joe Bob's world famous newsletter, "The Joe Bob Report," write Joe Bob Briggs, P.O. Box 2002, Dallas, TX 75221. Joe Bob's Fax line is always open--214-368-2310--or you can reach him through Compuserve: 76702,1435.

Dear Joe Bob,

On the recent occasion of my 47th birthday, a friend commented that my whole life so far has been like a drive-in movie. Do you think I should continue waiting for the obligatory Daryl Hannah nude scene or go head on and place a "Relationships" ad in the Chronicle?

Thanks,

Captain Ozone

Yreka, Calif.

Dear Captain:

Clint Eastwood's life has been a drive-in movie, and his leading ladies are getting YOUNGER.

Hold out for the good nookie.

Dear Joe:

Elphay.

I am an indentured slave trapped just north (pink on the map). Our national debt is larger than yours. Although I am part French, speak French (merdement) and work in Quebec, any criticism of our leader brands me as a bigot--you know the pain! I like Quebec fu or fu Quebec as we must say here. At least we have a drive-in.

Hopelessly,

Ken Parker

Whitby, Ontario, Canada

Dear Ken:

I think you wrote me a letter with a French accent.

The horror, the horror.

Dear Joe Bob,

Keep up the fine work! We read your columns in Comic Relief, as well as bizarrely edited versions of your work in Stars and Stripes. I think you probably cut to the heart of whichever subject you choose to dissect better than anyone else in the mass media. No vitriol here, just let's plain ol' cut through the bull. Even when I don't agree, you help ream out clogged arteries of opinions instead of looking for, well, dare I say it?, TRUTH. Or a reasonable facsimile. Much closer than government work!

My husband is in the Navy, and we are living in Naples, Italy. Italy is great, but having come to military life late (that is, in my thirties, after my brain developed), the worst part of living abroad is being too near other Americans. If we aren't forcing our opinions and morality on one another or trying to make Italians fit into our particular world view, then we are rude to one another and complaining. You can always tell Americans in a crowd of Italians 'cause we look scared to death! Perhaps it's the unswerving search for security and safety in all aspects of the American psyche that leads us to be unable to enjoy life, or at least our constant demand for safety in a land where safety and security are purely optional, as well as is good typing.

At our recreation park are the sad remains of what was once a drive-in. Just the wall remains, leaving only sad flickering images of movies from the forties and fifties. You were right. Those dirty Italian Commies won that battle, even on U.S. Navy (leased) property.

So, thanks for everything! Keep it up. Some of us are with you.

Sincerely,

Erika Palack

Naples, Italy

Dear Erika:

Don't be too hard on the Americans over there. It takes em three years just to learn how to pronounce the food.

Dear Mr. Briggs:

I greatly enjoy your column, which appears in various alternative (i.e. FREE) local papers. I also once heard you on the Larry King radio program. (Like most "good old boys," we live in the outskirts of a rural area, about 25 miles from Richmond, and only one of our various 100,000-plus-mile, American-made cars has an FM radio; hence we listen to a lot of AM talk radio on the road).

I, too, enjoy less than Oscar-winning films. Our VCR has been a godsend. My children (now 14 and 16) were weaned on old "Star Treks." However, let it be known that I have a B.S. in Physics with a double-major in Interdisciplinary Science, my husband (my high school sweetheart) has a B.A. in Mathematics with a minor in Sociology, and both my son and daughter have been in the Talented and Gifted program since first grade. We own both "Forbidden Planet" and "Nuke 'Em High."

We were born and raised in New York, are Southerners by choice, read voraciously and live in the middle of the woods. In other words, we are eccentric but intelligent, and find your movie reviews and commentary to be much more informative and dependable than the likes of Rex Reed. We want a movie to be fun!

Yours truly,

Christine Paine

Powhatan, Va.

Dear Christine:

Overeducated Yankees that live in the Virginia woods and force their gifted children to watch old Troma movies?

And they said "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" was scary.

Dear Joe Bob Briggs,

I first heard about you when I went to college in Norfolk, Virginia. A local progresesive station, WOFM, Moyak/Chesapeake, had at one time broadcasted you or your column. Part of your broadcast was a movie review and commentary on viewer additives, like a six-pack. Next, your column appeared in our university student paper. Two of your columns were on junk bonds and Prozac. I do like your column, Joe Bob. I do. I do.

I have read your column on Andy Sidaris, cult B-movie maker mogul and profit boffo. This was in the local community newspaper here in northern Virginia. I like it. I do.

My question is: A local entertainer died recently. His mirth of song, like your column, was dear to me. With his obituary enclosed, I was wondering if you ever heard of Root Boy Slim. If not, what do you think of Mojo Nixon and Skid Roper?

With interest,

Vince Panigot

Chantilly, Va.

Dear Vince:

I never knew the great Root Boy Slim, but he took a line out of the Joe Bob Briggs Drive-In Oath and turned it into one of the greatest songs ever written.

I speak, of course, of "Boogie 'Til You Puke."

May he rest in peace.

Mojo Nixon is a buddy of mine, ever since we worked together on the great but unlamented box-office flop, "Great Balls of Fire."

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