Glock Gen 3 and Gen 4 Upgrades
Glock Pistol Modifications

Your #1 Source for Glock Pistol Parts and Upgrades

[wd_asp id=1]
Image is not available
Image is not available
Joe Bob Briggs

The Official Home of America's Drive-In Movie Critic Extraordinaire

[wd_asp id=1]

Prison Stories (1991)

Several of my cousins are movie stars now.

They got parts in the new Oliver Stone movie they’re making in Dallas called “JFK.” Oliver refuses to reveal what the letters “JFK” stand for, and if you ask him for a copy of the script, he sends six security guards to your house with “Riders on the Storm” blaring out of their ghetto blasters, and they won’t leave until you sign a statement that says, “I will never reveal what is in Oliver Stone’s movie, even after the movie comes out.”

In other words, “JFK” don’t stand for “Just For Kicks.” There’s some heavy security surrounding this project, and Oliver’s just a little touchy on the subject.

First he told the press, “I’m not saying it IS a conspiracy-theory movie, and I’m not saying it’s NOT a conspiracy-theory movie. Is this room bugged? I don’t think the whole story has been told, but, after all, we’re just making movies here. Are you CIA? I don’t think this is a valid issue to be discussed in the press. Marina Oswald’s KGB contact has, however, been following me for 12 years.”

I happen to have some opinions on this subject, mostly because my cousin Wilbur was hired as an extra to stand in Dealey Plaza carrying an umbrella that fired poison darts. Then there was my cousin Horace, who was part of the thirteen-man submachine-gun squad concealed behind the Grassy Knoll during the filming of the assassination scene. But most of my information comes from Blanche Verona, my sister-in-law, who was hired on the special effects crew. It was her job to wire Jackie Kennedy’s pillbox hat with a miniature spy camera.

I don’t mean to say this guy is paranoid, but, out of the 27,000 people who have come to Dallas over the last 30 years trying to prove conspiracy theories, Oliver Stone may be the number one loony in the bin. Remember the British guy who spent two years getting permission to dig up Lee Harvey Oswald’s body so he could check his teeth? Well, this movie is evidently WEIRDER than THAT.

First, it’s based on a book by Jim Garrison, the former New Orleans district attorney who’s done nothing for the last 25 years but invent NEW conspiracy theories, including one where Kennedy was killed by elephant handlers in the Barnum and Bailey Circus because he wasn’t doing enough to protect the endangered gorillas of Borneo.

Next, he hires Kevin Costner to BE JIM GARRISON IN THE MOVIE!

Let me repeat that.

The main role in the movie “JFK” is not JFK. It’s not LBJ. It’s not Governor Connally or Jackie or Chief Justice Warren or Lee Harvey Oswald or Jack Ruby. The main role in the movie is this FLAKE from Nawluns.

Of course, if you asked Oliver, the only reason we think Jimbo Garrison is a flake is that he’s been persecuted by the media conspiracy, the Cuban conspiracy, the FBI conspiracy, the CIA conspiracy, the conspiracy of the doctors at Parkland Hospital, the conspiracy of all the employees at the Texas School Book Depository, and now the conspiracy of all guilty Texans to whitewash what their state did to the president.

We have a few theories about “JFK” ourselves.

It stands for Just Full of Krap.

And speaking of American history scholarship, “Prison Stories: Women on the Inside” just came out on video, and I know what you’re thinking. Here goes Joe Bob, reviewing some kind of indoor bullstuff socially responsible Home B.O. cable mind-junk. But I’ve got an excuse–namely, that I am the only person in recorded history who has seen every single women-behind-bars movie ever made, and therefore it’s my duty to humanity to record this one in the books. It’s the first women-in-prison flick ever made completely by women (all the male characters are responsible for is getting the women into prison in the first place), and it’s also the first women-in-prison picture where all the prisoners keep their blouses on at all times throughout the picture.

Hated it.

It’s one of those anthology deals, with three stories in one movie. In the first one, Rae Dawn Chong gets pregnant while she’s in jail and starts selling drugs for a fat black mama so she can get proper day care for the fetus. Talk about your feminist plot run amuck! She got thrown in jail because of a man, then a man got her pregnant, then the corrupt MALE guards make it impossible to get into the prison day-care program–and so this lady, the daughter of Mr. Drughead Chong, of drive-in legends Cheech and Chong fame, starts dealing coke. Sorry.

The next one is better. Rachel Ticotin, of “Total Recall” fame, is doing some fairly hard time on a drug rap, and she has to leave her son in the care of her sister, Talisa Soto, of “License to Kill” fame, and before you know it the little yard monster is running down to the corner and doing drug deals for a guy named Montoya because he doesn’t think Mama loves him. You starting to see a theme here?

Finally, we got Lolita Davidovich as a battered wife who blew her husband away when he beat her up one time too many and then went after her helpless daughter. She’s coming up for a parole hearing, but she decides she might be better off in jail–“safe in the cage,” she calls it.

At least in the men’s prison movies, like Leon Isaac Kennedy in “Penitentiary,” the guy has to DO SOMETHING CRIMINAL to end up in prison. I think the point of this deal is that women would never be in prison if it weren’t for men screwing up their heads.

In other words, Politically Correct Fu.

Save it.

No breasts. No dead bodies. (See what happens when you let women direct.) Strip-search. One catfight. Cell-wrecking. Wife abuse. Gratuitous inmate rapping. Crack Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for the three directors, Penelope Spheeris, Donna Deitch, and Joan Micklin Silver, for actually getting Home B.O. to put up the money for this.

One-half star.

Joe Bob says . . . well, you know.


Read More

Pray for Death (1985)

Sho Kosugi is the best kung fu man since Bruce Lee.

Forget Jackie Chan. Forget Jet Lee. Forget Bruce Lei, Bruce Li, Bruce Lea and Bruce Leigh.

It’s no wonder that they’re giving Hong Kong back to the Commies. They haven’t turned out a world-class thwacker since 1974, when Bruce’s head blew up.

“Pray for Death,” which I discovered in France in the 1980s, is the first movie ever made about a Japaheeno ninja who joins a neighborhood improvement group.

All Sho wants to do is take his little Japaheeno wife to Houston, buy an old house, lay a little bathroom tile, replace some wood shingles and play some Frisbee with his Yokohama younguns.

Unfortunately, there’s this mush-mouth mobster named Limehouse that gets his jollies out of pouring gasoline on people and saying, “Hey, how about a Viking funeral?” And he decides a Japaheeno family would be just the right people to take the blame for some missing California nose candy.

So first he kidnaps Sho’s little kid, then he gets two Cro-Magnon men in a pickup to run over the other kid and Sho’s wife, and then he sneaks into Sho’s wife’s hospital room, fiddles around with her life support equipment, and goes, “Whoops!”

Pretty soon we got one p.o.ed ninja in a business suit. Unfortunately, we also got some Communist censorship going on here. The version I saw over in France is not the one that was released in the United States.

The guys on the national censor board decided “Pray for Death” needed an X rating for violence, and so that meant they couldn’t advertise in the newspaper, and so that meant they had to go back and take out some of the scene where Limehouse burns up an old man and the scene where Sho’s wife gets her plug pulled.

They’ve been doing stuff like this ever since some mommies com- plained about “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Scum” a few years back. Good thing we got Sho in charge, though, cause he rises above the scissors and turns this into “Enter the Dragon,” “Death Wish” and “Halloween” all rolled into one flick.

Back when I first had the pleasure, “Pray for Death” went immediately to Numero Uno on the JBB Best of ’86 list, surpassing the previous best horror flick – “A Chorus Line.”

Forty-eight dead bodies (17 before the opening credits). Two breasts. Nine gallons blood. Ninety-eight on the Vomit Meter (84 in the censored version). Chest-carving. Wrist-slashing. Six kung fu brawls. Motor vehicle chase. – Kung fu. Ninjitsu fu. Kid fu. Hypodermic fu. – Ax fu. Chainsaw fu. Lumber mill fu. Crowbar fu. – Big Wheel fu. Gasoline-and-a-Bic-lighter fu. – Shinto Temple rigamarole about fire and sword and death and prophets. Gratuitous mall shopping. Gratuitous Batman. – Two exploding cars.

Drive-in Academy Award nominations went to…

* James Booth, who wrote this sucker and also played Limehouse, a guy so mean he says, “I’m gonna burn you, kid, like a roman candle.”
* Sho, the master, who keeps saying, “I’m sorry – my fault – so sorry.”
* Kane Kosugi and Shane Kosugi, Sho’s kids, for excellent midget fu.
* And Gordon Hessler, the director, for his best flick since “Scream and Scream Again.”

Four stars.

Joe Bob says check it out again.


Read More

Porn Star the Legend of Ron Jeremy (2001)

The first time I realized just how famous Ron Jeremy had become

was while reading the sports section one day. I came to the section where all the topless bars advertise. Normally the adds say, “Meet Pandora Peaks! One Week Only! 56EEE-24-34!”

But one of the clubs, a place called Legz Diamondz, had an ad announcing “Meet Ron Jeremy! In Person! Live on stage!”

Do you know how popular you have to be to interrupt the nude flesh parade at a strip bar to stand on stage telling jokes for a half hour? He may be the only guy in the history of movies–any movies, not just porn–who could do that. Robert DeNiro could not stand onstage at a strip club without getting booed off by the rowdy frustrated crowd.

And, man, do they turn out when Ron shows up. He’s not just a porn star, he’s the porn star, a phenomenon examined in an excellent new documentary called “Porn Star: The Legend of Ron Jeremy,” now playing on the west coast and soon to open in the east. To give you just one example: When Ron appears at the Consumer Electronics Show, among hundreds of scantily clad porn women, he has the longest autograph line in the building. People are fanatic about the guy. They feel like they know him.

His secret, of course, is that he’s the most unlikely porn star in the business. He’s short, overweight, roly-poly, out of shape, and so hairy his nickname is “The Hedgehog.” His saving grace is that he never loses his sense of humor–even the steamiest scene can be interrupted by a Jeremy quip–and he’s the hope of the great unwashed. Literally the great unwashed–he usually looks like he just crawled out of a Goodwill Box, and his costars have occasionally complained about his hygiene. In some cases women won’t have sex with him unless his whole body is shaved first. (We see this fairly gruesome process taking place in the movie. It takes two guys to do it.)

In other words, if Ron Jeremy can have sex with 4,000 women- -the number is hard to verify, even by Ron, but he multiplied the 1,600 movies he’s made by the average number of women he beds in each–if this guy can do that, then there’s hope for every schlemiel in America.

The documentary, though, is not so much raunchy as sweet and poignant. We watch Ron, in baggy shorts and frumpy T-shirt, schlepping his luggage through airports as he goes home to an empty house. We watch him skittishly waiting for the results of his mandatory monthly AIDS test (required by the industry of all performers who work in porn). We watch him become truly crestfallen when a producer takes him out of a TV segment filmed at a Nevada brothel. He comes off, ultimately, as an insecure little teddy bear who needs to be the center of attention 24/7, using porn as the easiest way to do that.

The film is peppered with interviews and clips featuring all the usual suspects–Hustler publisher Larry Flynt, Screw publisher Al Goldstein, porn director/historian Jim Holliday, and his good friend Al “Grandpa” Lewis–but the most telling moments are when he’s alone, speaking in stream of consciousness to the camera, revealing more than he knows. The moment when he talks about the only woman he ever loved–she ended up hating the porn business and leaving him–is amazingly personal, like seeing Emmett Kelly without his makeup. Who would figure that the world’s most famous fornicator would be a closet romantic?

Ron is extremely close to his family. He grew up middle- class Jewish in Queens, and he still goes home to see his dad, a retired physician who has a remarkably good-natured and realistic attitude about his son’s profession. His sister describes their childhood together (it’s peppered with Super-8 home movies that are priceless, including Ron’s bar mitzvah!), Ron talks about awkwardly losing his virginity at 17, and the whole family talks about the pivotal moment in all their lives, when Ron’s mother was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease.

Of course, the movie delivers on all the frat-boy aspects as well–in fact, it shows Ron being initiated into a fraternity that also initiated Ronald Reagan–such as the size of his equipment (“It’s scary!” says a girlie fan), the movie in which he had sex with 14 women in four hours, the good-natured banter among the various porn stars who work at a big grey studio in the San Fernando Valley, women talking about Ron’s special bedroom skills, and some especially funny commentary by Al Lewis, who says frankly that Ron’s standup act stinks.

Even though he’s a thoroughly satisfied sensualist who has the life that every 18-year-old boy would kill for, Ron freely admits that he’s not satisfied, that everything he has ever done has been an attempt to be a legitimate actor. He still tries, killing himself with a workaholic schedule that has him constantly on the road, constantly hitting the Hollywood parties, constantly schmoozing anyone who could possibly give him a job or make him famous in some world other than porn. (In one fairly hysterical scene, he raps onstage with Kid Rock in Vegas.)

And, yes, even Ron–whose sheer physical skills are well documented–occasionally has trouble performing in a sex scene. “People think it’s easy,” he says, “but it’s not.” He has a regimen to get ready for it. Sex two days before his scene. (One day is too recent; he won’t be aroused enough. Longer than two days will make him too eager.) He does both a mental and a physical preparation in a workout room. And he refuses to take Viagra. If he ever took one, he says, he’s afraid he would start to rely on it, and he would rather rely on himself. He turns 50 this year and is still one of the busiest adult sex performers.

He keeps pictures of himself with every famous person in Hollywood. He has an amazing networking notebook that is the size of a phone book. He loves premieres and paparazzi and parties and food. And he gets lonely. He thinks of being a father. And he still dreams of Tanya, the girl who got away.

You go this movie expecting to be titillated by his feats of sexual prowess, but you leave it saying, “Awwwwwwww, such a sweet guy.”

Amazing movie.

One hundred three breasts. Lots of goofy clips from the golden age of porn (1975-1983). Rap song called “Freak of the Week.” Gratuitous Rodney Dangerfield. Nazi Skinhead Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Seymore Butts, the remarkably articulate porn producer; porn star Samantha Styles, for saying “I love a big guy”; porn star Herschel Savage, for roasting Ron in one of the funniest scenes in the film; Al Lewis, for saying “That is the worst act in show business! He has no material, he has no presentation, he has no timing–forget it!”; Scott J. Gill, the director and editor; and, of course, Ron, for calling porn “a real pure sort of acting” and breaking our hearts when he says “My goal in life is to be an actor” and “Sex is simple–love is painful.”

Four stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.


Read More

Pledge Night (1990)

Not many people know that I used to be a member of a fraternity.

I don’t like to talk about it. But, yes, I was a Sigma Nu at Tarleton State cow college in Stephenville, Texas, for a full three weeks. Or, as we used to say in the old “frat”:

“My name is Scumface Pledge Briggs, Sir, and yes, Sir, I would like to wear those plastic baby diapers on the outside of my clothes all day, Sir.”

I mean, who could resist this level of male bonding? Everybody going around TOGETHER wearing plastic baby diapers while sucking down Old Milwaukee Tall Boys by the case. I’m surprised I didn’t become a homosexual.

Anyhow, I’d probly still be a practicing Sigma Nu today, except for two things:

1) I got kicked out of Tarleton State when I flunked rodeo the third time.

2) I killed one of my pledge brothers on “Barfhead Weekend.”

When I killed my brother, who was named Slats Franken, it had a definite effect on everyone’s mood. We even canceled the annual Butt Toss, which, if you’ve ever been a Sigma Nu, you know is a sacred and secret ceremony that I can’t go into here.

(All of this has a point directly related to this week’s movie, “Pledge Night,” which I’ll get to in a minute.)

But I guess enough time has passed so that I can talk about what really happened, even though it’s not easy. Barfhead Weekend, as you probly know, is the annual Sigma Nu festival where we force ugly girls to get down on their hands and knees and form a mule train, then the pledges dress up like Mexican tour guides and sell rides to upperclassmen. It’s a harmless little bit of fraternity whimsy.

But one of the things outsiders don’t know about Barfhead Weekend is that one pledge is always singled out to be the Epileptic Reetard. It’s an honor awarded to the pledge who has distinguished himself by carrying the most Jello Pudding under his armpits in the previous Thursday night’s “Cosby Run.” Slats Franken was that year’s winner. The poor little guy had armpits so hollow you could have hidden a stuffed mongoose in there.

So anyhow, the job of the Epileptic Reetard is to run into the room with your shirt off sometime after the official Barfhead Mule Train is formed and start twisting around on the floor like a wounded grizzly bear with rabies, while all the other guys yell “Stand back! It’s Slats! He has permanent brain damage and a rare epileptic disorder! Just leave him alone! Give him air!” And then the Epileptic Reetard jumps up off the floor and starts attacking innocent bystanders, smearing a special axle-grease paste all over their legs, arms and clothing.

Just a little practical joke. It’s the kind of thing we do in fraternities because it fosters goodwill, brotherhood, togetherness and values that will serve us well in later life. It probly made me what I am today.

But this year was different. Right before it was time to go on, Slats came to me–he already had his axle-grease mixed up, his shirt was off, and foam was starting to seep out of the corners of his mouth–he came to me and he said, “Joe Bob, I have a PREMONITION about tonight.”

And I said, “What do you mean, a premonition?”

And he said, “I don’t think I can be the Epileptic Reetard.”

“Sure you can do it. If I’ve ever seen a NATURAL Epileptic Reetard, it’s the man who sticks pencils up his nose to amuse himself.”

“Yeah, I know,” Slats told me, “normally I would think that, too. But tonight I’m just afraid that, if I do the Epileptic Reetard, I’ll like it so much that I’ll . . . well . . .”

“Yeah? What, Slats?”

“That I’ll never come back.”

“Come back?”

“I didn’t expect you to understand. But I have one favor to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

“If I start to go over the edge, if I go into the seizure and I lose my ability to stop twitching, I want you to give me these pills.”

He poured out some green and white pills into my hand.

“What are these?” I asked him.

“They’ll calm me down.”

“But what are they?”

“Just some depressants. They’ll calm me down.”

And that was the last time I talked to Slats.

That night the Epileptic Reetard routine started off without a hitch. Slats came in twitching like a pro, practically mashed his face in when he hit the floor, started rooting around on the sides of his arms like Curly, screamed like a Zulu warrior, and had the Mule Train girls so scared that three of em were clinging to light poles. But after this went on for about ten minutes, I knew something was wrong. I knew Slats had gone OVER THE EDGE. I knew he had passed from Epileptic Reetard state to Paranoid Schizophrenic Frontal-Lobotomy Candidate right before our eyes.

And so I rushed in to administer the Quaaludes, but before I got there I shuddered in horror and stopped to watch:

Shirley “The Weasel” Stoddard, chubbiest girl in the Mule Train, took a baseball bat to Slats–hit him about eighty times before we got her to stop.

Later we asked Shirley why she did it. It turned out Shirley was permanently brain-damaged and prone to epileptic fits AND dyslexic. She thought she was caressing herself. Actually she was beating the brains out of another person.

After I got back from taking Shirley to the Terrell State Institute for the Feeble-Minded, I reflected on my life. I could have stopped Slats that night. I could have said, “Slats, don’t worry about it. I’ll do the Epileptic Reetard tonight.” And then Shirley “The Weasel” would have beaten MY brains out with a baseball bat. And Slats could have had a long productive life as a . . . now that I think about it, Slats didn’t have diddly squat worth a life ahead of him. Good thing the little nerd died early.

And that’s just ONE of the valuable life lessons I learned during my career as a frat man.

Speaking of vomit-inducing behavior, “Pledge Night” is the most REALISTIC fraternity movie ever made–part comedy, part documentary, and mostly a pure-dee horror flick about what would happen if you accidentally killed a pledge by boiling him in a vat of acid, but twenty years later he turned up during the secret initiation ceremony with hunks of flesh falling off his face. He’s a Zombie Hippie From Hell, like a cross between Freddy Krueger and Val Kilmer on acid, and he’s here to party.

Unfortunately, it looks like the distributors hacked up some of the best hazing scenes in this baby, scissoring out the great cockroaches-on-the-face torture and screwing up the ending by taking out a shishkebob scene where Acid Sid, the zombie, plunges a sword through a bunk bed where the frat president and a talented bimbo are making the sign of the triple-winged tree lizard. Except for these examples of Communist Censorship, though, it’s a GREAT flick.

To give you some idea: Two weeks after this movie was made at Rutgers University, a pledge died in a hazing incident . . . at Rutgers University.

I can’t stand it when life is more disgusting than the movies.

Fourteen breasts. Twelve dead bodies. Eight quarts blood. Steak-knife stabbing. Egg-pelting. Butt-branding. Screwdrivers to the spine. Cherry-on-the-block-of-ice torture (first seen in “The Young Warriors”). (If you haven’t seen it, you don’t wanna know.) Raw-egg chewing. Worm eating. Dogpile. Ax to the stomach. Guy choked with a spinal cord. Electrocution. Mixmaster-through-the-mouth. Shave Cream Fu. Commode Fu. Cherry bomb Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Steven Christopher Young, as Rex the frat president, for saying “That’s Danny–it looks like he’s got himself a brain tumor”; Ronna Larsen, as the world’s largest stripper; David Neal Evans, as Dirty Pledge Richard Goodman, for saying “Thank you, sir, may I have another, sir?” as the pledge leader whips him; Joey Belladonna (yes, the guy in Anthrax), as Young Sid, for taking an acid bath; Todd Eastland, as the hero, for saying “Nobody else’s mother visits him during Hell Week”; Will Kempe, as Acid Sid the Hippie Zombie, for having a face like a can of ravioli, and for saying “Bummer, huh?” and “So where are the chicks?” and “If it feels good, do it”; Joyce Snyder, the writer and producer, for doing her reesearch; and Paul Ziller, the director, for finding new and different ways to kill dumb teenagers.

Three and a half stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.


Read More

Playroom (1990)

Here’s how they came up with the idea of government funding for “the arts.”

It was probably somebody like Hilton Kramer, the “eminent art critic” of The New York Times. Hilton is so pompous about “the arts” that he thinks, the day after he dies, the Louvre will be renamed “The Kramer.”

Anyhow, I’m sure it was somebody like Hilton Kramer, and this person said something to the effect of: “Look at all these scuzzy kids who don’t know what Art is. All they do is watch “Star Wars” and listen to music that sounds like a bunch of cats having their intestines scraped out. We’ve got to DO SOMETHING.”

So what they do is, they get a bunch of New York and California congressmen to pass some laws establishing the National Foundation For Creating Art We Can Forcefeed to the Scuzzballs and Save America. Then they hire a guy from Europe to run it, for $80,000 a year.

And so what’s this guy supposed to do?

First he gives $50,000 to a husband-wife filmmaking team in Bozeman, Montana so they can make the experimental movie “Dead Pizza.” No actors in this movie. Just a pizza.

Nobody goes to the movie except Hilton Kramer.

Next, they hand out $175,000 to fifty sculptors in Ohio who put up a chain-link fence from Akron to Toledo and cover it in red paint to symbolize “the death of the factory.”

This results in a nasty little editorial in the Cleveland Plain Dealer, wondering why the fence wasn’t extended all the way to Lake Erie, because Cleveland could have used some of that money.

Next, somebody at the University of Southwestern Oklahoma does a study showing that the head of the National Foundation For Giving Away Loads of Money to Artists isn’t giving enough money to MINORITY artists, especially Filipino-Americans, Native American Indians, and lesbian Jews.

So what can the guy do? He commissions a work of music-and-dance performance art called “All Three Of My Mothers Kissed One Another on the Lips,” by the noted lesbian composer Helen “The Womb Woman” Steinhagen.

At the premiere of this superb visual essay on the meaning of multi-cultural non-gender-dependent Motherhood, as experienced by females throughout history, three of the dancers go onstage buck nekkid and pull their heels up behind their necks, frightening several small children.

The next day, the director of the Big-Shot Commission To Hand Out Freebies to Artists gets calls from 194 Congressmen, telling him his job is in danger if he doesn’t straighten up and stop giving out money for PORNOGRAPHY and FILTH and LEWDNESS.

The next day, the ACLU comes down to his office and tells him that he’s being censored, and that if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll give at least a million MORE dollars to lesbian Jewish performance artists, or else he’s gonna have a lawsuit on his hands for violating the rights of pornographic minorities everywhere.

So what does the guy do?

The next time he hands out money, he gives it to the Cleveland Symphony for a Sunday afternoon performance of Theme From Star Wars, with the original Star Wars composer conducting. In the first half of the show, a local experimental violinist performs his own composition, which sounds like a bunch of cats having their intestines scraped out. All the local high schools are invited to the performance, and the students are invited to slam-dance during the show.

People Magazine loves it!

USA Today gives the Arts Guru a thumbs up!

Funding is renewed!

Finally, we’ve gotten those scuzzball kids out of the movie theaters and into the symphony halls where they can be EXPOSED to some CULTURE.

Speaking of people that can’t get their stories straight, a horror flick called “Playroom” just came out, and it’s the FIFTH movie where a bunch of Americans go to an abandoned monastery in Yugoslavia to find out what’s inside.

Listen to me:

We KNOW what’s inside.

There are DEAD PEOPLE inside. You could have gone right out to Forest Lawn and found the same thing and saved a lot of TWA airfares. It’s either dead vampires with German-shepherd teeth, or

it’s dead Egyptian boy-kings, or its devil priestesses from lost continents, but no matter what it is, the stupid Americans are gonna go inside the monastery, or the castle, or the cave, and get eaten by weirdbeard East European Communist ghost-monsters. They eat reporters. They eat archeologists. In The Howling V they ate a whole lot of really bad character actors.

But you would think these people would wise up. In the movies, it’s safer to go to Baghdad than to go to Belgrade.

I don’t when this happened, but evidently the Chief Movie Commissar of Yugoslavia decided that Dracula didn’t really come from Romania, he came from Yugoslavia (so they got all the Dracula business), then he decided that all that King Tut business was apparently wrong, and Yugoslavia was the place that had the really great Egyptian tombs (and so they got all the Egypt movies), and the next thing you know they’re sending Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello to Yugoslavia to make beach movies, in order to take advantage of the famous 25-cents-per-day Yugoslav extra.

This time its archeology stuff. Christopher McDonald takes his girlfriend over to Yugoslavia to find out what his father was looking for 20 years ago when–whoops!–the whole family was suddenly murdered by a maniac with a pickaxe. Chris has been having nightmares ever since, and it kinda BOTHERS him when he remembered the bloody bodies of his family scattered throughout the tomb of the evil torturer dead boy-king Elok.

When the four intrepid Yuppies arrive, the tension mounts:

Does Elok live?

Does Elok have a pickaxe?

Will any members of the cast rip off their clothes and start making the sign of the twin-humped alligator gar in a musty funeral chamber?

Here’s a hint: it’s an “ancient Slavic demon.”

Oh, you’ve been to Yugoslavia before?

Of COURSE they do.

“Gidget Goes to Belgrade, Loses Several Body Parts.”

Two breasts. Nine dead bodies. One undead body. One dead bloody rat. One Yugoslavian loony bin. Ax through the hand. Supporting actress cut in half. Guy impaled in a pit of metal spikes. Heads roll. Medieval buzzsaw Fu. Pickaxe Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Christopher McDonald, as the crazed archeologist who gets all teary-eyed when he remembers childhood experiences like “twisting the head off a grasshopper”; Aron Eisenberg, as the little obnoxious boy-king ghost, for saying “I’ve always loved hide-and-shriek!”; Jamie Rose, as the bimbo girlfriend, for saying “Is he going to pound all day? I’m trying to meditate!” and for making a Geraldo Rivera joke; and Vincent Schiavelli, as the lunatic who supposedly killed McDonald’s parents 20 years ago, for saying “Last stop–Hell” and “I’ve always wondered–can you sever somebody’s neck with three shots?”

Two and a half stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.


Read More

Pistol Opera (2001)

The more Japanese shock flicks I watch,

the more I think the Japanese are so bizarrely kinky that we can’t even begin to understand them. It’s hard to even figure out the ground rules for what’s going on in a Japanese film, especially the sort of in-your-face violent ones about yakuza hitmen and depraved criminals that like to use samurai swords as human-flesh shishkebobbers.

“Pistol Opera” is one of the milder Japaheeno Nasties, but it’s still something that requires LSD to properly appreciate. It’s a combination of a gangster film, kabuki theater, the Greek classical stage, and random musical moments, all shot through weird orange filters on locations from the Tokyo docks to wild forests to construction sites, and all we know at any given moment is that many people will probably die within the next five minutes.

Let’s see, what would I rather have? Bamboo shoots rammed under my fingernails, or another screening of “Pistol Opera”? It’s a tough call.

At any rate, the reason I don’t get it might be that I missed Seijun Suzuki’s 1967 action film “Branded to Kill.” Suzuki is in his seventies now, and “Pistol Opera” is his operatic remake of “Branded to Kill” after the earlier film had been acclaimed as a classic by John Woo, Quentin Tarantino and others in the “Hip to Asia” crowd. Suzuki is either insane, senile, or ingesting way too much Singaporean Polio Weed.

It’s the old story of the beautiful kimono-wearing hitwoman called Stray Cat who is currently ranked number three in the assassination world, taking rub-out assignments from the mysterious Ms. Uekyo, who wears a veil over her face at all times. Complications ensue when Stray Cat shoots the mistress of a millionaire while she’s plunging off the high board at an Olympic-style swimming pool. Making a clean getaway in her bodice-enhancing one-piece, Stray Cat is suddenly shot by one of her fellow hitpeople, “The Teacher,” who works in a wheelchair. She chases down the lethal cripple–this hardly seems fair–and reduces him to a pile of flesh and spinning wheels, but not before the murder is witnessed by a little girl named Sayoko who now insists on following Stray Cat everywhere she goes. It turns out that Sayoko is an aspiring 12-year-old hitgirl. (I told you the Japanese go places we never dream of.)

It develops that all the various assassins have embarked on a deadly feud, trying to become Number One in the hierarchy of The Guild, which is some kind of secret criminal organization that decides who lives and who dies in Japan. Meanwhile, we’ve got theater, we’ve got opera, we’ve got an old man on crutches who keeps hanging around Stray Cat recounting his exploits from the years when he was number one. We’ve got a hitman named Hundred Eyes, currently number one, who may or may not be a dream vision. (Don’t ask.) We’ve got an especially weird assassin named Dr. Painless who likes to ram scalpels and knives through craniums. And, of course, we’ve got the old woman who sings songs about whales and goldfish while she does her washing.

What does it all mean? Well, even though the screen is often full of thousands of rose petals, it’s not exactly “Flower Drum Song.” In my opinion it’s “Flower Dumb Song,” which means, I’m sure, that it will be acclaimed as a work of genius any day now. Just prop open my eyelids with matchsticks. I’ll be fine. Let’s look at those drive-in totals:

Fourteen dead bodies. Four breasts. Knife through the hand. Knife to the brain. Chest-piercing. Three shootouts. One wheelchair chase. Onstage catfight with ammo and shaved-head backup dancers. Gratuitous images of smiling old women. Gratuitous samurai ballet. Gratuitous Hammond-organ-in-the-woods sequence. Gratuitous story about Mishima having his head sewn back on. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Makiko Esumi, as Stray Cat, for hiding her pistol in her bra and saying “I think it’s okay to live my life as a pistol”; Hanae Kan, as the little girl who aspires to be a grownup hitwoman, who dances to “Humpty Dumpty”–all the verses–and says “Sister, are you stupid or what?”; Mikijiro Hira, as the mysterious cripple who used to be number one but is now embittered and lonely; and Sayoko Yamaguchi, as the ice woman in charge of killing assignments, who says “The guild hasn’t forgiven your selfishness.”

One star.

Joe Bob says check it out.


Read More

Piranha (1995)

Last week I decided it was time to update my personal ad.

I think it had something to do with Wanda Bodine telling me that I was “the kind of scumball that no sane woman would ever date.” I mean, who could resist a challenge like that.

First I tried my usual flat-out lies:

“Michael Bolton-lover likes trips to the botanical gardens, wine coolers and long phone conversations about what your cat did this morning.

“Looks not important, but a wise, commitment-minded soul is. Please be serious about tofu.”

This kind of ad ALWAYS works, but you end up with gals named Valerie who work at the Whole-Earth Vitamin Store. Been there, done that.

OK, so next I tried my “man of iron” ad: “Whitewater canoe guide (competed in three Olympics) desires Amazon to trek the Arctic Circle in showshoes and make passionate love in an orange pup tent.

“You should be a mountaineer who can bench-press 200 pounds and still fit into a size 4 plastic dress (for those wild nights in Anchorage).

“How ’bout them Rangers?”

Unfortunately, this ad ALSO works, but you end with girls named Jeri who might decide at any moment to abandon you for a woman named Velma.

No, what I needed was the perfect ’90s ad-sensitive, but not TOO sensitive; macho, but not TOO macho; and, above all, totally deceptive.

So here’s what I came up with:

“Hi! How you doing? Want a hopeless romantic who will cater to your every need? Well, maybe I will and maybe I WON’T, depending on your MOOD. Because no matter how crazy and illogical you become, I always just GO WITH IT!

“Need somebody to pick up your cousin at the airport? I’m your man!

“Need somebody to send flowers at the PRECISE moment you’re considering suicide but you haven’t told anybody? I have ESP!

“Do you get easily bored when a guy is too nice to you? I’d love to slap you around, but only if you beg for it!

“Always thought you wanted a man in your life, but once a real one shows up, you think, ‘He’s got a FLAW!’ Well, now you’ve found ME.

“I’m a total chameleon. Call me, write me or e-mail me. I’m flexible. P.S. Be spontaneous! Send a photo! Topless spandex would be nice, unless you feel like wearing Birkenstocks and overalls!”

So what do you think?

Do I understand the woman of the ’90s or WHAT? Speaking of flesh-eating creatures, they remade “Piranha.” Can you believe it? The original filmed-in-Texas Joe-Dante- directed “Piranha” is a ’70s cult classic, but I have to say, they really screwed it up this time.

They have these giant mutant fish that were bred at a secret military installation, and now they’re out there devouring skinny-dipping teen-agers and careless motorboating enthusiasts.

But wait! Here comes Alexandra Paul, the doggedly determined and stylishly dressed private eye who travels to the boonies searching for the missing slutty daughter of a real estate developer.

Fortunately, she runs into sullen novelist William Katt, and together the two of them pole down the river on a log raft, chasing the killer piranha as they get closer and closer to a kids’ summer camp and an opening-day river resort celebration.

Sure, we’ve seen it before, but have we seen it with giant bug-eyed piranha that actually SCREECH LOUDLY as they chew up the legs of their victims?

I think not.

In short, this movie doesn’t make a lick of sense, but who can complain when it has a stellar performance by Soleil Moon Frye as the sensitive camp counselor?

Nineteen dead bodies. One dead cat. One dead dog. Four breasts. Aquarium to the head. Codger-eating. Multiple leg-eating. Killer raft-eating piranha attack. The old shards-of-porcelain-in-a-sock trick. Three motor-vehicle crashes, with dead deer. Arm rolls.

Drive-In Academy Award nominations for …

* Lorissa McComas, as the skinny-dipping teen-ager who has two enormous talents.
* Darleen Carr, as the crazed, grapple-hook-wielding piranha expert who says: “Razorteeth! They breed! There’s no way to stop them!”
* William Katt, as the mumbling novelist who says, “The fish were bred for intelligence and endurance and God knows what else!” and: “The piranha are coming! You’ve got to believe me!”
* Kehli O’Byrne, as the oversexed camp counselor who says, “I’m kind of like a promotion-you have to earn me.”
* And Billie Worley, as the groveling toady who says, “They’re eating the guests, sir.”

One and a half stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.


Read More

Phantasm 3 (1994)

I just got kicked out of a hotel bar for smoking a cigar.

I don’t mind so much gettin kicked out, cause it was a 15-dollar Bolivar and I managed to save it without havin to smush it out in an ashtray. But what bugged me was: THERE WAS NOBODY IN THE BAR! And I was in the SMOKING SECTION!

Am I the only one, or has anybody else noticed that cigar-smokers are just slightly above heroin addicts in terms of social respectability? My buddy Fred Olen Ray, the B movie director, once had to put out a cigar he was smoking at a CARNIVAL–in the OPEN AIR! People complained about the smell as they were walking by on the Midway! And I can vouch for Fred. He doesn’t smoke cheap cigars. If they hated the smell, then they hated the smell of the finest tobacco in the world.

It’s also interesting to me that, the more expensive the restaurant, the more they LIKE cigars, and the cheaper the restaurant, the more they HATE cigars. You can still smoke cigars in all the restaurants of the Plaza Hotel in New York, but you can NEVER smoke a cigar in the smoking section of a McDonald’s.

Anyhow, here’s my only point on this. I don’t mind being considered the scum of the earth for cigar-smokin, but I’d like to point out a couple things.

Numero Uno, it’s the CIGARETTES that smell bad. And the reason they smell bad is that most of what you’re smelling is PAPER. People are burning paper. A cigar, on the other hand, is one hundred per cent tobacco leaf. Cigarettes were invented in the 1890’s as a way to sell the WASTE PRODUCTS from cigars–the part left over–the SMELLY PART. So why should people favor cigarettes over cigars, especially in public places?

Numero Two-o, when people say “How can you put that poison into your body?” they’re missing the point again. A cigar is something you taste, in your mouth, like cognac. A cigarette is something you draw into your LUNGS, to get a rush, like opium.

Numero Three-o, when people complain about cigars, they’re not REALLY complaining about the particular cigar you happen to be smoking. They’re really saying, “You’re a disgusting human being for havin that thing at all.”

In other words, it’s not the cigar that people hate. It’s the guy that smokes it. I don’t know why this is, but, believe me, I’m a veteran of the tobacco wars. It’s true.

That’s why, when you meet a Cigar Guy these days, it’s like an instant bonding thing. You become friends for life. It never fails. Even if the guy smokes Romeo-and-Juliets and he HATES the taste of your Partagas, he never hates the SMELL of your Partagas. He’s in the club. He knows. He’s ready to go all the way with you, even if it means gettin kicked out in the street TOGETHER.

I kinda like this. Don’t ask me why, but I do.

Speaking of great American traditions under attack, The Tall Man is back in “Phantasm III: Lord of the Dead.” We get a new Phantasm movie about–what?–ever six, seven years. And every time the producers ASSUME that we remember the plot of the last movie, when the truth is, nobody could even figure out the plot of the very FIRST one. Basically it’s about this real ugly-lookin old skinny guy who goes around collecting dead bodies, and the way you know he’s coming is that a flying Christmas tree ornament with daggers stickin out of it tries to imbed itself in your skull right before The Tall Man shows up. There’s always a lot of talk about who The Tall Man is, where he is, where he comes from, whether he’s dead or alive, why he wants the dead bodies, what the flying Christmas tree ornaments are for–and I never understand a WORD of it. But it’s neato-mosquito special effects, with all kinds of exploding goo.

This time The Tall Man, as played by the ghostly Angus Scrimm, is hangin around eastern Oregon, going from small town to small town, cleanin out the mortuaries while his army of zombie monks roam the countryside in pink hearses, trying to kill the remaining members of the cast.

One cool thing about the “Phantasm” movies is that the hero ALWAYS drives a Hemi Cuda, the most outrageous muscle car ever to legally prowl the highways. And this is no exception, as bald-headed Reggie Bannister sets out to find The Tall Man and rescue his dead brother’s soul. Meanwhile, he joins up with Kevin Connors, a little kid who’s become a Grade School Rambo ever since both his parents were killed by The Tall Man. And the two of THEM join up with a crewcutted black Amazon kung-fu queen named Rocky to destroy all the evil forces of the universe.

Multiple brain damage ensues.

It’s no “Phantasm TWO,” but it’s still pretty dang decent.

Twenty-three dead bodies. Two breasts. Exploding eyes. Multiple fireballs. Exploding hearse. Zombie monks feeding on human flesh. Multiple exploding heads. Electric drill attack. Needle to the neck. Hatchet to the forehead. Skull-drilling. Daggers to the forehead. One flying monster hand with teeth. One motor vehicle chase, with crash and burn. Face-peeling. Heads roll. Hands roll. Gratuitous 1970 426 Hemicuda convertible. Kung Fu. Baseball bat Fu. Frisbee-with-a-razor-edge Fu. Cryogenic spear Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Angus Scrimm, as The Tall Man, for saying “Nothing is EVER as it seems”; Kevin Connors, as the kid who takes no prisoners, for saying “The Tall Man got my family”; Reggie Bannister, as the man trying to rescue his brother, for trying to sleep with the hot kung-fu mama by saying “Ever try vanilla?”; and Gloria Lynne Henry, as the kung-fu soul sister, for gettin into a hellacious catfight with a zombie.

Three stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.


Read More

Petticoat Planet (1996)

Did you see where the Canadian navy blew up a warship

so that it would settle at just exactly the right place on the bottom of the ocean? They want it to be right next to the OTHER four ships they’ve already sunk in the waters between Vancouver Island and the mainland of British Columbia.

Their secret plan: to attract TOURISTS.

They think that tourists will find out they’re sinking these ships and say, “Fred! Come on! Let’s go scuba-diving THERE!”

They think these ships will be fascinating to divers because they can swim around through the various rooms, thinking, “Isn’t this cool? I’m doing this UNDER the water.”

In other words, they could’ve just tied the ships up next to a wharf and said, “Welcome, Mr. Tourist. Walk through the ship.” But somebody thought, “Naaaaaw,  that’s too EASY. I know. Let’s put it 110 feet underwater. Let’s make the tourist WORK to see this ship.”

I mean, it’s one thing when you go to that Sir Francis Drake Channel in the Caribbean where there are 120 shipwrecks from 200 years ago, and they’re full of stuff that looks like it could go on the wall at Red Lobster. Cause you dive down there and you go, “Ooooooooo, there were DEAD PEOPLE here. They didn’t even take their halberds.

What is a halberd?”

But if you’re diving in the Yuppie waters of British Columbia, all you can say is, “Oooooooooo, here’s where the Canadian navy blew up this destroyer escort because they thought they could make a thousand bucks off me on this weekend vacation. Look, there’s a porthole!” I mean, it’s just not the same experience. Shouldn’t somebody tell em this?

It’s part of the whole trend toward making modern things look like they’re 200 years old. You build a hotel in the mountains, but you put wood stoves in the rooms. You open a restaurant in the country with a thatched roof. You don’t use powerboats anymore; you learn to sail on your personal teakwood schooner. You buy a brand new jacket out of the J. Peterman catalog only because it looks like the jacket Clark Gable wore in Vienna in 1936.

In other words, it’s part of this whole retro thing where the whole world is being turned into one giant theme park.

They didn’t have any decent shipwrecks off the coast of western Canada, so they just by-God BUILT some.

The least they could do is put some halberds down there.

I don’t get it. I really don’t.

Anyhoo, speaking of lame stuff floating around out there, “Petticoat Planet” is the story of a hunky rocket commander in a wrestling leotard who crash-lands on an all-woman planet where everyone thinks they’re characters in a cheap fifties western. Betsy Lynn George is the moony-eyed saloon girl who nurses him back to health, but it’s been a LONG TIME for the ladies of this town, if you know what I mean and I think you do, so before long Troy is caught in a sexual catfight between Leslie Kay Sterling, the foxy brunette sheriff, and Elizabeth Kaitan, the bitchy blonde mayor.

Elizabeth will be familiar to lovers of that immortal drive-in classic, “Attack of the Killer Bimbos,” not to mention the equally beloved “Slavegirls from Beyond Infinity” and, more recently, “Vice Academy, Part 4.” What can I say? The woman was born for exploitation.

When Troy makes the mistake of pulling a gun on the street, he’s slapped in the pokey, charged with “excessive usage of derogatory female nicknames,” and forced to make the sign of the snaggle-toothed rooster with the sheriff while handcuffed to his cell. Later the mayor corners him and forces him to render the dance of the tripple-finned mongoose in the Town Hall. When he’s had his fill of both of them, he tells Betsy he REALLY wanted to aardvark with her all along, and so they perform some horizontal monkey aerobics on the main stage of the saloon.

So much for the plot. This flick has about five minutes of storyline and 85 minutes of aardvarking.

In other words, my kind of movie!

Eight breasts. Lesbo dance of the hot-panted six-shooters. Multiple aardvarking. Bedroom tribute to Sappho. Whips. Handcuffs. Leather. Catfight. Milk-spiking. Gratuitous seventies fashion montage. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Elizabeth Kaitan, as the oversexed mayor, for saying “I have nothing against men–I think every woman should own one”; Leslie Kay Sterling, as the sultry sheriff, for saying “You don’t wanna spend the rest of your life with Delia Westwood–she smells like a horse”; Troy Vincent, as the hunky sex object who sings “Home on the Range” a capella for no reason, for saying “As much as I’d like to live out this beer commercial, I’ve got responsibilities”; and Betsy Lynn George, a convincing actress in a weak movie, as the naive saloon girl who understands the outer-space visitor, exclaiming at one point “You’re treating him like a side of potatoes!”

Three stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.


Read More

Perfect Weapon (1991)

Every once in a while my mother, Leona Briggs, of Burkburnett, Texas,

decides I need spiritual help and sends me these little brown pocket-sized books full of pictures of elves with curly-toed shoes and Pinocchio noses. They’re called “Elf Help” books.

Excuse me a moment while I spew some vomit around the room.

All right, I’m better.

There’s a whole series of em–the “Be-good-to-yourself Therapy” book, the “Be-good-to-your-marriage Therapy” book, the “One-day-at-a-time Therapy” book (I assume that one’s for drunks and cokeheads)–and each page of each book has a Rule For Living. Like:

“Let your feelings be known. They are important.”

Or “When someone yells at you, physically support yourself by relaxing into your chair or putting your feet firmly on the floor. Remember to breathe.”

(There are people buying these books who FORGET TO BREATHE!)

Or how about this one? “When you can’t think straight, stop thinking. Feel.”

And so I’ve gotten so many of these books in the mail that last week I finally decided I would give it a shot. I would try to make these rules work. So the first one I did was Rule #18 in the “Be-good-to-yourself Therapy” book, which is:

“When you feel alone, know there are people who want to be with you. Fantasize what it would be like to be with each of them. Decide if you want to make that happen.”

I did this one. You probly read about it, how it took three security guards to remove me from Nastassja Kinski’s apartment building. But I didn’t give up. Next I tried Life Rule #9:

“Be spontaneous. Though risky, it opens up a world of exciting possibilities.”

I enjoyed this one a lot. Of course, it’ll be tough raising the $50,000 in fines that the Federal Communications Commission slapped on me after the TV show last Saturday night. It wasn’t so much the WORDS I said (that was only $10,000). I had no idea that the government had such a THING about Filipino nude mud-wrestling. I had no idea those girls were going to bring lewd devices, or that they were going to stick the lewd devices into other lewd devices, or that they were going to attempt the triple-reverse contortionist’s pelvis flip. That caught me totally by surprise. I was afraid we might have a medical emergency on our hands. Otherwise I wouldn’t have touched her.

The only way to really make these rules make sense is to apply what I call “Have-a-Beer Therapy.” You take the rule in the book, and you add a beer to it. For example:

1. Trust yourself. You know what you want and need. YOU NEED A BEER.


3. Let your feelings be known. “I’LL HAVE A BEER.”

4. Express your opinions. “BEER IS BETTER THAN WINE.”

5. When you need something, don’t talk yourself out of it. YOU NEED ANOTHER BEER.

6. When you’re scared, let someone know. A BEER WILL HELP.

7. When you feel like running away, let yourself feel the scare. CONSUME BEER UNTIL YOU’RE NOT SCARED ANYMORE.

8. When you’re angry, let yourself feel the anger. DRINK SOMEONE ELSE’S BEER.

9. When you’re sad, think about what would be comforting. TWO BEERS.

10. When you’re hurt, tell the person who hurt you. Keeping it inside makes it grow. THROWING A BEER CAN MAKES IT BETTER.

You get the idea? I think my mother will be proud of me for finally putting this information to use.

Speaking of contortionists, we’ve got so many kung-fu masters out there these days that it’s hard to keep track of em all–Jean Claude Van Damme, Steven Seagal, Benny “The Jet” Urquidez, Dolph Lundgren, Lorenzo Lamas, Chuck Norris, Sho Kosugi–there’s even a FRENCH guy named Olivier Gruner, making movies where he’s a “French exchange student at USC.” Gimme a break. But the guy who’s getting a whole heck of a lot of attention–for being the most AUTHENTIC martial artist since Bruce Lee–is Jeff Speakman, a black belt in kenpo karate. No trampolines for this guy. No pulled punches. No lamebrain stuntmen standing around like wounded ducks while they wait to get clobbered in the head.

Speakman’s movie, “The Perfect Weapon,” is the first flick that’s so true to martial-arts teaching that the body count is only ONE. That’s uno! Because, after all, the original idea was self-DEFENSE, right?

Jeff plays a hothead who takes on the Korean Mafia, trying to get even for the murder of an old friend by ruthless drug goons. Everybody thinks Speakman’s an idiot, including his cop father, his cop brother, his kenpo karate master, his fighting Korean girlfriend, and several dozen oriental head-bashers. The surprising thing about the movie is that, as it turns out, he IS an idiot. He puts a high school kid in the hospital, almost gets his brother killed, almost kills the WRONG gangster, and endangers the lives of several other people, including a 12-year-old kid–until he figures out to “become the dragon, not the tiger.” (I’m not going into it right now. It’s some of that “Karate Kid” chopsocky poetry they use right before the big final fight.)

So anyhow, what’s REALLY strange is that kenpo karate looks more like belly-dancing than it looks like kung-fu. You’ve got all this hand motion, and these arm swings, like Steve Martin doing “King Tut,” and you don’t really think it’s a very MACHO martial-arts technique–until you see Speakman knock out FOUR guys in FIVE seconds. Excellent.

No breasts. Three dead bodies. Deadly head-butting. Leg-stabbing. Whirling knife-chains. Nine karate brawls. Outstanding fight choreography. Two motor vehicle chases, with multiple crashes. Exploding Korean. Kung Fu. Kenpo Fu. Stick Fu. Gratuitous “You Got the Power” disco song. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Seth Sakai, as Master Lo, for saying “To control the power of kenpo, you must first control yourself”; John Dye, as Adam the “good” brother, for saying “You kill Yung, you throw away your whole life–and Jimmy’s”; Professor Toru Tanaka, as the 350-pound bad guy, for wrecking two cars with his bare hands and killing a man with his forehead; and Jeff, the new Bruce Lee.

Four stars.

Joe Bob says check it out





Read More
Image is not available

© 2018 Joe Bob Briggs - All Right Reserved

Image is not available

Joe Bob Briggs is a film critic, writer and comic performer. He has appeared on The Tonight Show , Larry King Live and Comedy Central’s “The Daily Show” amongst others.

Sign up to have the latest Joe Bob Briggs news and happenings delivered straight to your inbox. 100% Spam Free.

About Joe Bob Briggs

Quick Links

Legal Bull Stuff

Joe Bob's Official Newsletter

Image is not available
Image is not available
Image is not available
Scroll Up
Cart Item Removed. Undo
  • No products in the cart.