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B-Movie Reviews
Joe Bob Briggs

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

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Party, Incorporated (1990)


Last year Wanda Bodine got drunk one night

and ordered the complete “Mysteries of the Unknown” from Time-Life Books, and ever since then she’s been predicting her Harmonious Heart Path. For a while, when we were back in the “Visions and Prophecies” book, Wanda would dangle a rock on a key chain and then ask it a question.

If the key chain rotated clockwise, it meant “Yes.” Counter-clockwise means “No.” This is how she ended up buying seven pairs of leopard-print high heels.

Then one month the “Portents in the Palm” book came in the mail, and for a long time I had to stick my hand out ever time I wanted a beer.

“Joe Bob, your Fate Line says you will remain active and intellectual all your life,” she’d tell me, “and so you’d better not SCREW IT UP by drinking a beer.”

And I told her, “The reason I have that lined permanently pressed in my hand is from squeezing thousands of beer cans around the tin ridge. It’s absolutely NECESSARY to my future that I have a beer.”

By then, I was starting to believe in this stuff.

Next came “Penmanship and Personality,” the one about how your handwriting reveals the secret to your soul. And so I wrote out the Gettysburg Address one night for Wanda, so she could analyze it, and after a while she said, “Joe Bob, you’re not in the book.”

And I said, “What do you MEAN, I’m not in the book? Everbody’s in the book.”

But she said there was nothing in the book about a person’s writing where every other letter slants in a different direction and every tenth letter is upside down. But there has GOT to be a meaning to stuff like that. That doesn’t just happen by ACCIDENT.

“Psychic Powers” showed up one day, and–here’s the really strange part–I had this PREMONITION that we were gonna get a book about psychic powers.

Also–you know, these things start adding up–Wanda had a premonition, too. She had a premonition that one day she would go out and buy seven purses to match her seven pairs of leopard-print high heels. And, sure enough, she DID.

But the one that takes the cake is “Numerology,” the one we just got. If you take the name “Joe Bob Briggs” and figure out the true numeric meaning of it, here’s what you get:

Soul Number: The essence of my soul is 3. I normally have 3 dollars stuffed way down in my pocket. I have 3 good tires on my car. I bum an average of 3 cigarettes a day. Three of my ex-wives still get money from me. These are things that only I could know about myself. Pretty amazing.

Outer Personality Number: The way others see me is 9. When I go to the drive-in bank, they have to yell over the intercom “Sir, may I help you?” exactly 9 times before I answer. When I play golf, my average score on each hole is 9. And, most incredible of all, I wear the same 9 shirts over and over again.

Path of Destiny Number: My future is 2. I will marry only 2 more women in my lifetime. I will be sued only 2 more times. I will begin a weight-training program and work up to 2 repetitions a day. And my great hope for the future is that someday I will bet the 2-2-2-2-2-2 Super-fecta “Pick Six” at Louisiana Downs race track and then I can retire.

There was a time when I would have LAUGHED at this stuff.

And speaking of clingy silk dresses–okay, okay, I can’t do it right EVERY week–Marilyn Chambers just crossed over from X-rated movies to legitimate film. For the fifth time. And the astounding result is “Party Incorporated,” the only movie ever made featuring not one but TWO torch songs sung by Marilyn, a guy having sex in a chicken suit, and a striptease number than goes on so long it puts you into a coma. (Striptease? Is this a trick? Are we re-entering the thirties?) Made by that famous director Chuck “Oh It’s THIS End of the Camera” Vincent, “Party Incorporated” sets the new modern record for registering a perfect 100 on the Sleaze Meter without ACTUALLY having ANYTHING sleazy in it. They just talk about it a lot.

Do you know the kind of movie I’m talking about, the kind where you just know that, two seconds after the director yells “Cut,” everbody says “Can we go home now?” These are some of the most uncomfortable people I’ve ever seen, and I think I’ve figured out the reason–THEY HAVE TO WEAR CLOTHES. They’re not used to it. It’s strange. It hurts. It cuts off the circulation. And they have to say things like “Would you get that phone, please,” when all they normally say is “No, touch me THERE.”

In other words, yet another R-rated movie made by X-rated people that looks like . . . er . . . well . . . an R-rated movie made by X-rated people. “Behind the Green Door” had more plot!

Also, one more thing. Marilyn, if you’re listening–most people wouldn’t be a good enough FRIEND to tell you this–do NOT take your clothes off on camera anymore. We have fond memories of you. Your body now looks like OUR bodies. And that is NOT a pretty sight. The black leather pants, great! The poufy blonde hair, outstanding! But no more nookie, please.

Okay, let’s look at those totals: Twenty-four breasts. One dead body. Three orgies (sort of). Female shave-cream wrestling. Three male strippers. Bimborama. Drive-In Academy Award nomination for Marilyn Chambers, for singing a song called “We’re Always Friends” in an empty office building atrium with a straight face; and Christina Veronica, for wearing a zebra-print bikini and for using the name “Christina Veronica.”

One star.

Joe Bob says check it out.

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Overkill (1996)

I’ve only recently discovered the Male Biological Clock. It works just like the Female Biological Clock,

but it sets in between ages 50 and 55. That’s the age when guys who have never done diddly-squat except play checkers at the courthouse and discuss transmissions at the Chevy dealership suddenly decide they need to leave an heir for posterity.

What got me thinking about this was the recent marriage of Chubb Fricke, previously described in these pages. Chubb is 68 and he went over to the Philippines and got himself a 17-year-old wife. The reason I remember the ages so perfectly is that, every time I see Wanda Bodine, all she can do is scream, “He’s FOUR TIMES HER AGE! He’s FOUR TIMES HER AGE!” And, if you do the math, he’s EXACTLY four times her age, but only a woman would think to do the math.

Anyhoo, Chubb’s biological clock kicked in late. But for a lot of single men, or divorced men, or men who always regarded women as The Enemy, they hit 50 and they go: “Hmmmmmmmmmm, there’s always that CHILDREN thing. If I don’t have a son now, I’ll be croakin’ around the house like a constipated frog by the time he’s 12.” But they figure that, if they pack the little monster off to college when THEY are 68, then they’ve got the situation covered.  They remain coherent throughout HIS childhood, and then they enter their own SECOND childhood when the kid is old enough to pay for everything.

Rich guys wait even longer. Tony Randall married a 26-year-old.  Tony is, of course, 108. And they instantly went for a baby. Norman Lear was having kids a couple years back, when he was in his mid-’70s. I think he had two, but I wasn’t counting. But that’s just the Showbiz Principle. It works the same way the women’s Showbiz Principle works, so that you’ve got 45-year-old soap opera stars who are birthin’ them babies so they will be fulfilled as Womyn.

But the pesky little problem you have when you’re 50 to 55 is deciding who exactly you’re gonna marry. You can do the Chubb Fricke thing and order one from a Third World country. You can hang out with high school gym teachers. You can go on singles cruises with divorced women who have at least two kids already.

There are lots of ways you can do it, but what’s amazing to me is that it’s a true biological thing. I’ve seen it more than once. The guy says, “You know, I’ve gotta start thinking about what I’m gonna leave behind in this world.”

And what you wanna say is, “Just leave behind some tobacco juice and that cheap whiskey flask in her hip pocket, Hiram.”

But no, they wanna actually produce HUMAN BEINGS.

You know that Baby Boom thing that’s happening, where the boomers are all hittin’ 50 at once? Watch next year-5,000 books published on “fatherhood.”

All ye elderly slackers, go forth and procreate. I’m all for it. Let’s get those sperm MOVING, boys. You shoulda been grandpas by now.

And speaking of family unity, there’s a new Norris movie out. AARON Norris. Brother of Chuck. Director of many of Chuck’s best flicks, including “Braddock: Missing in Action 2.” Works with Chuck on “Walker, Texas Ranger.” Can karate-chop like a madman. And he’s pretty dang good lookin’, too.

Aaron stars in a flick called “Overkill,” and I was prepared to puke all over my Levis. Usually when a brother or sister of a big star tries this we end up with Disaster City. Remember B-movie vixen Lana Wood, sister of Natalie Wood? Remember the 340 B movies made by Joe Estevez, brother of Charlie Sheen? And I won’t even mention Sal Stallone.

Anyhow, Aaron does that same Chuck Norris man-of-few-words don’t-bother-me-or-I’ll-have-to-kick-you-in-the-throat action hero thing, but he looks a little looser than Chuck. I don’t wanna say Chuck has SLOWED DOWN, but Aaron pops those overhead whirlybird kicks WAY out there, mowing down Mexican stuntmen like a human Weed-Whacker. Makes you wonder if he could kick his brother’s hiney.

So Aaron is this El Lay cop who goes postal one night during a drug bust and mistakes one of the undercover cops for a bad guy and throws him through a plate-glass window onto the scuzzy apartment-complex lawn. His captain is a little ticked off, so Aaron ends up taking a forced vacation in the Latin American paradise of San Carlos, where he meets up with a neurotic accountant who’s on the run from an evil psycho resort developer and his wallflower girlfriend and about 17,000 federales. Of course, Aaron helps the guy, and pretty soon we’ve got Shoot-the-Gringo Uzi practice in the jungles of Puerto Vallarta. It’s one big long chase scene through the tropical rain forest, with some pretty decent kung fu and some punji-stick action that is really never explained. Apparently Aaron can build any type of jungle booby-trap device in an hour or less, a skill he picked up working South Central narcotics, no doubt.

Better than your average man-on-the-run flick, with a few rip-offs from “The Most Dangerous Game.” It does not suck.

Twenty dead bodies. No breasts. (It’s a Norris family rule.)

Neck-cracking. Two deadly cliff plunges. Punji-sticks to the chest.

Knife to the heart. Torture.

Two gun battles. Chair busted across the back. One prison escape.

Coconut avalanche.

One motor vehicle chase, with Mexican-dragging.

Gratuitous stand-up comic.

Six kung fu scenes. (Great fight choreography.)

Tear-gas fu. Machete fu. Invisible-Indian kung fu.

Drive-In Academy Award nominations for…

Pamela Dickerson, as the token piece of furniture known as The Female in a Norris movie, for saying, “The locals believe that spirits protect the jungle.”

Kenny Moscow, in a great performance as the won’t-shut-up neurotic accountant who gloms onto Aaron Norris like a loophole on Donald Trump’s 1040.

David Rowe, as the savvy operations guy for the evil developer, who does some mean kung fu and says, “We got ourselves a player out there.”

Michael Nouri, as the screaming, trigger-happy developer who likes to drink champagne in the jungle right before he kills somebody.

And Aaron Norris, for doing things the drive-in way.

Three and a half stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.

 

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One Man Army (1994)


Did you know you can go into a computer system,

type out some lame message like “Hey there, honey, wanna play spear-the-muffin with a Weed Whacker?,” send it to somebody on a computer system in Canada, and end up getting SUED?

Welcome to the world of Virtual Harassment.

You don’t even have to see the woman, speak to the woman, know the woman’s name, or, for that matter, know the woman EXISTS–and they can STILL get you for Sexual Harassment.

And while we’re on the subject, can’t we get a better name for this? I’m sick of this long Latin name that nobody can pronounce. Is it HAIRissment, or is it HerASSment. Why don’t we just call it “hittin on a chick”?

Aren’t we gettin into, like, a MAJOR free-speech issue here?

The whole idea of Amendment Numero Uno is that you can say whatever the heck you want to, you can be as nasty and mean as you want, and then the person you were nasty to can be nasty RIGHT BACK AT YOU.

But suddenly, in the Nazi Nineties, we have the idea that everbody is HELPLESS, that nobody can DO ANYTHING about an obnoxious remark, and so the government or the courts or somebody else should do something about it. What we’re trying to do is eliminate the troublemakers, get rid of the people who JUST WON’T SHUT UP. Or, as my sixth-grade teacher used to say, “Some people just need to LEARN THEIR LESSON.”

And that lesson is that the majority will decide what words you can use, who can yell em at, and where you can stand when you do it. We’ll have committees decidin this stuff–committees of 40-year-old women in nylon pants suits who drink too much herbal tea.

What would Thomas Paine say?

Actually, I KNOW what Thomas Paine would say:

“Hey there, honey, wanna play spear-the-muffin with a Weed Whacker?”

And speaking of guys who can kick righteous hiney, Jerry Trimble is back this week in a flick called “One Man Army,” and I’m sorry to report that Jerry STILL hasn’t taken those voice lessons, and so he LOOKS great, but he sounds like a Latvian accountant with a hernia.

Jerry is a mild-mannered El Lay Tae Kwon Do teacher who drives back to the small town where he grew up to bury his Grandpa. But when he gets there he’s attacked by vicious pickup-truck-driving Meskins, lured into an illegal backroom kickboxing match, and invited into the bedroom of luscious Melissa Moore, the girlfriend he hasn’t seen for four years, even though I don’t really know WHY he hasn’t seen her. It just kinda slipped his mind, I guess.

Fortunately his loyal dog Hank remembers him, too, and so the kickboxer, the long-suffering girlfriend, and the frisky dog who paws at the door while Melissa is in the shower (thank you, Hank) set out to rid the county of the crooked sheriff who accepts money from a rich sleazoid who runs prostitution, gambling and immigrant-smuggling operations through an old abandoned mine.

The interesting thing about this revenge flick–unlike the other 9,000 that came out this year–is that Jerry decides to beat the evil sheriff by . . . CAMPAIGNING AGAINST HIM!

I don’t know about this.

A kickboxer who decides to settle things the safe, legal and honest way?

What is this world coming to?

Exploitation king Roger Corman made this movie, too. I gotta talk to that boy.

Twelve dead bodies. Twelve breasts. Aardvarking. Skinny-dipping during an automatic-weapons attack. Two motor vehicle chases. Two brawls. Two explosions. Three gunbattles. Guy crushed by a car. Strangulation. Gratuitous wife-beating. Twelve Kung Fu scenes. Volkswagen Beetle Fu. Tire iron Fu. Skilsaw Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Rick Dean, as the nasty sheriff, for saying “I would love to have you in my jail”; Dennis Hayden, as the coke-sniffing deputy who says “He died the way he lived–a hero”; Jerry Trimble, as the Goody Two Shoes kickboxer, for saying “I’m not for sale”; and Cirio Santiago, the legendary Filipino director whose motto is “When in doubt, blow it up.”

Two and a half stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.

 

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Obsessive Love (1984)


I’m tired of not being up-to-date. People write me these letters all the time.

“Joe Bob, you JUST DON’T GET IT, do you?”

Don’t get it? I don’t even know what IT is!

Okay okay okay okay okay, I do know what “it” is. I admit it. So I’m gonna make an effort this week. I’m gonna clean up my act and get politically hip. I’m gonna enter the nineties–or at least the late seventies, cause let’s face it, I’m never gonna stick a ring through my nose or tattoo a pig on my hiney.

Let’s start with lesbos. I already apologized to the lesbos last year for calling em “lesbos.” From now on they’re Lesbos. Every group is entitled to its own capital letter.

All right all right all right all right, I know I know I know. Remember, I’m breaking DECADES of habits here.

So what do I call the lesbos?

How about Gender-Distinct Buffalo Women?

No, it’s too long.

They like stuff with “goddess” in it, right? How about Generously-Hipped Grunge-Goddesses?

I don’t know, I still think Lesbos is the best–from the ancient Greek island of Lesbos, home of the most famous Lesbos in history. I’m gonna stick with the ancient authorities on this one.

You gals read your Sappho, okay? I don’t wanna have to tell you again.

All right, what else?

Fat people. They don’t wanna be fat anymore. They don’t like Fatso, Tub-o-lard, Balloon Body, or even the simple “Hey! Western Hemisphere! Get a Stairmaster, how about it?” No, these are the outdates phrases of yesteryear.

I have a new one: Perfectly-Weighted-For-Moon-Travel People. Or we could call em “Moonwalkers” for short. As in, “I was in this bar last night, couple of bouncers came over, real Moonwalkers, if you know what I mean. I was afraid they were gonna sit on me.”

How about my friends the stutterers, who are always writing letters to me?

Here’s one for them: Consonant Lovers.

See how much a man can reform if he really puts his mind to it?

Midgets. From now on they’ll be the Vertically-Challenged.

People with missing arms or legs are no longer gimps. From now on they’re Limb-Efficient.

People who have lost all their teeth will become the Applesauce-Inspired.

I’m on a roll now. I may be getting too hip for my own good.

What do you call transsexuals?

Convertibles.

What do you call Ku Klux Klan members?

The Racially-Vigorous.

What do you call crazy people?

The Brain-Aspiring.

What do you call blind, deaf and dumb quadriplegics?

Lawrence Welksters.

How about street bums?

Experimental Room Deodorizers.

What do you call those old ladies in Vegas that sit in front of the slot machines all day with their big purses?

The Lipstick-Indulgent.

But why should I do this by myself? Surely you have suggestions of your own. Send in your politically-hip let’s-be-nice-in-the-nineties LABELS for people, and I’ll report back to you on em. Send em to Joe Bob, P.O. Box 2002, Dallas, TX 75221.

After all, I wouldn’t wanna have to send one of my pickup-driving, beer-drinking buddies over to your house to prove what a Pugilistically-Overdeveloped Performance Artist he is. You know what I mean?

I thought so.

Speaking of politically hip, Yvette Mimieux has been hip for a LONG time. This woman makes about one movie per DECADE, but it’s always a classic, beginning with the original “Where the Boys Are” in 1960, in which she virtually bikinied men to death. That was her in “Three in the Attic,” the movie about the sexist guy who is sexually tortured by three women. That was her in the 1975 drive-in hall-of-famer “Jackson County Jail,” getting raped, abused, humiliated and jerked around by southern rednecks before she shows em a little home cookin with a sawed-off shotgun. And then in the eighties she did it again, with a TV MOVIE, of all things.

Normally I don’t review TV movies, no matter how much the video companies gussy up the box to make it look like a REAL movie, but in Yvette’s case I’ll make an exception. This is a kind of “Fatal Attraction” obsessed-fan story that actually came out BEFORE “Fatal Attraction,” and it’s being released this month on video.

Yvette is a lonely, repressed woman from the midwest who starts fantasizing that she’s in a sexual relationship with a soap opera star played by Simon MacCorkindale, and, even though she thinks sex is something you shouldn’t even have in a zoo, she’s ready to aardvark her way to Tahiti with the lucky Simon, who happens to be going through a marital crisis and doesn’t think twice about it when an obsessed fan lies her way onto the set, impersonates a journalist, spends her life’s savings on a suite at the Beverly Wilshire to seduce him in, wangles her way onto his yacht when he goes out for the day, and hangs around him like stink on a bulldog until finally, yes, she does it–Bikini City! Yvette is still Bikini-Capable after all these years! And so there they are in the sand, making the sign of the Speckled Squid, while Lainie Kazan, the soap opera writer, is back on the set, wondering why Simon can’t remember his lines.

Then, when Simon pulls one of those, “Oh, you don’t think that could possibly MEAN anything, do you?” things, Yvette has Jackson County flashbacks, and pretty soon we’ve got the Bikini Woman From Hell.

For a TV movie, this is a great flick.

One dead body. No breasts. Surf-frolicking. Underwater-frolicking. Beach-frolicking. Plain ole frolicking. Rodeo Drive health-spa makeover montage sequence, including steam bath, mud pack, aluminum foil in her hair, manicure, pedicure (in closeup! yuk!), eye shadow, makeup, and many other Lipstick Lizard procedures, accompanied by porno music, raising this to a 94 on the Vomit Meter. (Network Fu.) Disco Fu. Lingerie Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Yvette Mimieux, for saying “Michael loves me–he thinks I’m pretty” and “I wonder if you know the power you have over so many women” and “Do you think I’ll let you get away from me?”; Simon MacCorkindale, for saying “These lines make my character sound like a jerk” and “I could never marry you–I’m already married” and “I told you–don’t call me here!”

Sound familiar?

Eighties Fu.

Three stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.

 

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Oblivion (1994)

Have you noticed the bill collectors gettin NASTIER this time of year?

They used to be friendly. They used to write you a letter saying, “Hey, we know you had to go buy Christmas presents for senile aunts in Montana and all your little nephews that look like midgets with fungus growin on their face. So just SKIP A PAYMENT.”

And then you read down at the bottom where it says, “An additional 75 per cent interest charge will be joyfully added to your bill by our friendly staff.”

But this year I didn’t get a single “skip a payment” letter, and then when I maxed out my credit cards by buying $9,000 worth of videos and cigars in three days, they acted like that was STRANGE, and they started callin me up.

I said, “Hey, man, it’s Christmas.”

But they’ve got these guys on the phone that go to Credit Card School. At Credit Card School they teach em things like:

1) How to be incredibly nice when you leave a message on the guy’s answering machine. Say something like, “Mr. Briggs, we have a very important matter to discuss with you involving possible fraudulent use of your card. We’re sorry to bother you, but could you please call us back at your earliest convenience?” And then when you DO call back, they NUKE YOU.

2) How to say “Go to hell, you and your whole dang family,” without actually SAYING “Go to hell.” You know what I mean? It’s this tone they have in their voice–this arrogant “You’re a deadbeat” tone. They’re saying “We’d appreciate payment as soon as possible,” but it sounds like “You ignorant lying scumdog.”

3) How to REFUSE TO COOPERATE with any request. If you say “My bookkeeper won’t be in till next week,” they say, “Then what other arrangements do you intend to make?” If you say, “I’ll write you a check on the tenth,” they say, “This bill is due on the fifth.” I don’t know why they do this, cause half the time it DOESN’T EVEN MATTER.

4) How to get people to reveal stuff so that you can make their life miserable. This happened to my friend Willie Jay. He said to one of these guys, “Look, man, I lost my job last week or I would have made the payment by now. I’ll have it in a couple weeks.” He was trying to be, like, honest and helpful. And the credit guy goes, “LOST YOUR JOB! We want a hunnerd per cent of it by next week, and the card is CANCELLED.”

5) How to invent an imaginary universe where there is no such thing as “a mistake.” The worst thing you can say to these guys is, “It’s a mistake. The bank bounced the check, but there’s ten thousand bucks in that account.” They’ll come down on you like a hammerhead in a goldfish bowl.

Listen to me. Here’s what I do.

Whenever you deal with one of these professional collection pigs, just listen to em but DON’T SAY ANYTHING. When they ask you a question, say “I’ll have to check on that.” And then when they ask you to commit to something, very politely say, “I’ll pay all of it one week from Wednesday. I don’t care if you like that or not, because you’re a Momo.”

Hang up.

I don’t know what a Momo is. They won’t either, but they’ll have to write it down in their report. It’ll make you feel good.

Speaking of space aliens in the modern world, we got a flick this week called “Oblivion” that’s kind of a sci-fi western, a cross between “Gunsmoke,” “Attack of the Crab Monsters,” and the night-club scene of “Star Wars.”

What happens is this one-eyed lizard-skin alien lands his spaceship on a desert planet, loads up on Killer Draconium, and kills the town marshall of the little town of Oblivion. Then he joins up with a slinky gal who dresses in black leather and uses a bullwhip, and the two of them go around collecting protection money from all the businesses, including a general store run by a whiny schoolmarm. Fortunately, the long-lost son of the dead marshall is nearby, fighting off a giant scorpion monster and saving an Indian wise man who’s been staked to the ground after his wife and kids were massacred, and the two of them join up with a tall thin undertaker named Mr. Gaunt, and then there’s the drunk town doctor and the floozy saloon keeper–“Miss Kitty,” as interpreted by Julie Newmar wearing catsuits and whiskers–and the long-lost son comes into town to attend his daddy’s funeral, which is happening on the same day as a bingo game upstairs and . . .

I’m gettin all tuckered out here.

It’s one of those cartoony sci-fi special effects dealies made in Romania by Full Moon Entertainment. I don’t know what the heck it’s about.

Cowboys-and-aliens.

Nine dead bodies. No breasts. One gunfight. Three giant scorpion attacks. One barroom brawl, with midgets. Killer arm-rasslin. One flesh-eating alien frog. Cyborg surgery. Back-lashing. Eye-gouging. Arm rolls. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Andrew Divoff, as Redeye the pus-faced killer alien, for saying “We all know what gutless cowards humans are, don’t you?”; Meg Foster, she of the ice blue eyes, as the cyborg deputy; Musetta Vander, as the nasty whip-wielding femme fatale in black leather, for saying “We can’t simply shoot everyone!”; George Takei, as the drunken doctor, for saying “I want booze! Now!”; Isaac Hayes, as the outer-space drug dealer; Richard Joseph Paul, as the non-violent son of the dead marshall, who says “This world dries up your soul”; and Jackie Swanson, as the whiny widow-woman shopkeeper, for slapping Paul and screaming “You’re a dreamer!”

Two stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.

 

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Spooky Empire 2011

Spooky Empire | Orlando, FL | Oct 2011

Thanks!  Team Joe Bob absolutely had a blast at this event, from the GatorvilleTiki Bar to the Creepy Car Show.

Special thanks to all the fans that came out to Orlando and stopped by our table to say hello!

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B-Movie Celebration 2011

B-Movie Celebration | Franklin, Indiana
October 2011

Yes we did indeed celebrate.  And them some.

Nothing better than seeing some of the old scream gems back on the big screen where they belong!

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Rise of the Planet of the Apes (2011)


After getting nominated for the Indoor Bullstuff Academy Award, James Franco gets back to his drive-in roots as Dr. Will Rodman, the scientist who single-highhandedly causes the Monkeypocalypse because he’s trying to find a cure for John Lithgow scenery-chewing Alzheimer’s Guy disease. John!  Man!  Eat some fiber!

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While there’s no hope for the Lith Man, the drug makes a monkey named Caesar really smart, but when he tries to protect John Lithgow from an angry neighbor, he ends up in monkey jail, and pretty soon the monkeys are organizing. So, really, everything’s John Lithgow’s fault.
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Sixteen bodies (six human, ten monkey). No breasts (PG-13).  Monkey chasing. Monkey trapping. Monkey testing. Monkey escape. Baby monkey bonding. Multiple monkey montages. Experimental drug-stealing. One neighbor with unreasonable hatred of monkeys. Monkey match-making. Muir Woods monkey field trip. Dog scaring. One resentful monkey. One neighbor with unreasonable hatred of John Lithgow. Monkey sanctuary bait-and-switch. One monkey prison hose-down. Monkey prison fight. One monkey pick-lock. One gorilla enforcer. One bitter monkey, with James Franco rejection. Monkey prison break. Monkey lab break. Monkey zoo break. One bus shield. Finger rolls. Gratuitous close-ups of monkey eyes. Gratuitous John Lithgow. Cattle prod Fu. Electrocution Fu. Spear Fu. Sewer-lid Fu. Parking-meter Fu. Helicopter Fu. Viral Fu.

Drive-In Academy Award nominations for James Franco as the scientist who starts it all, for looking earnest for the entire film, and for saying things like, “This drug has the potential to save lives!;” John Lithgow as James Franco’s Alzheimer’s-stricken dad, for saying “No way to live! No way to live!”; Freida Pinto as James Franco’s love interest, for being just as earnest and bland as he is, and for saying things like, “I love chimpanzees–I’m also afraid of them–it’s
appropriate to be afraid of them”; David Oyelowo as the head of the pharmaceutical company, for having all the best lines, like “I run a business, not a petting zoo!” and “You know everything about the human brain except for how it works!” and “You make history, I make money!”; and Andy Serkis as Caesar, who manages to out-perform everyone even though he’s been motion-captured into chimpanzee form, for saying, “Apes alone, weak. Apes together, strong.” and “Caesar is home.”

Three stars

Joe Bob says check it out.

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Outtake Reel 2011


Pouty little actress Ashley Swan is dead at the hands of Thomas Grayson, a horror movie director who fancies himself an auteur, which is French for “expensive lenses.” Fortunately for the case against Thomas (and unfortunately for him), an annoyingly persistent documentary filmmaker named Danny shot the whole making-of-the-movie that killed her,

including a whole lotta footage that was used in the trial, which is what we wind up watching—the footage, not the trial, that is. Sure, we’ve seen the faux-documentary-with-hand-held-shaky-cam before, but have we seen it with a documentary filmmaker who’ll do anything to prove he can direct, and a director who’s just one bad scene away from snapping? I think not.

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Two dead bodies. Fourteen breasts. One beast (Danny). One Ashley Swan photo montage. One Ashley Swan Memorial Trust. One talking head. Multiple screen tests. One monologue-on-the-toilet. Serial killer Home Depot shopping. One diva fit, with walk-out. Kidnapping. Duct-tape gagging. Multiple uses of a cattle prod. Actress fondling. Safety pin under the fingernail. Forced anti-freeze drinking. Off-screen chainsawing. Documentary filmmaker bludgeoning. Documentary filmmaker immolation. One plot twist. Director slapping. Assistant Director bludgeoning. Toes roll. Gratuitous green screen. Gratuitous butt-crack. Gratuitous Lloyd Kaufman. Chloroform Fu. Off-screen Fu.
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Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Tiffany Shepis, for showing up for a screen test cameo; Ava Santana as Ashley Swan, for being willing to pop her top, and for saying “I really hope you’re not getting paid to be a retard”; Jeffry Chaffin as documentarian Danny, for saying “I guess that’s fancy director-speak for ‘F-off’ and “Why do you always have to be a whiny bitch? We’re just making a movie”; and Scott Feinblatt as director Thomas Grayson, for saying, “I can do anything I want–I’m the director.” and “This is not a game–you’ve got a girl tied up in your garage!”

3 stars.

Joe Bob says check it out!

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Nymphoid Barbarian in Dinosaur Hell (1990)


They’re trying to make aerobics into an Olympic sport–long overdue, isn’t it?–and people are getting so nutzoid over this

that they’re forming aerobic teams, hiring aerobics choreographers, nutritionists, personal trainers and, of course, leotard handlers.

The way it works is, you have your aerobic competitor standing up in front of a panel of judges wearing her ankle-warmers, pony-tail, and one of those Spandex pastel pink bodysuits that makes her chest look like two Jello molds, and then they give aerobics instruction to these IMAGINARY aerobics students.

“Everybody on tiptoe now! Stretch and two and three and four, and PULL and two and three and four, and RIGHT ARM and two and three and four, and ANOTHER RIGHT ARM and six and seven and eight, now GRAB THOSE ANKLES WITH BOTH HANDS AND STICK YOUR HEAD BETWEEN YOUR KNEES and two and three and four and RAISE ONE FOOT UP OFF THE GROUND AND SQUEAL LIKE A WOMBAT and two and three and four and SQUAT ON YOUR NEIGHBOR and six and seven and eight and SQUAT ON YOUR NEIGHBOR WITH THE RIGHT BUTTOCK ONLY and two and three and four NOW LEFT BUTTOCK and six and seven and eight NOW BOTH BUTTOCKS and two and three and four DOESN’T THAT FEEL GOOD and six and seven and eight . . .”

And this goes on forever while the judges are scoring the aerobics expert on “skill” (60 per cent) and “presentation” (40 per cent).

“I gave her a nine-point-four on skill. I especially liked the way she did the scissor extension cross-over with her left leg while holding her stomach like a matador. But she got a nine-point-NINE on presentation. She never stopped grinning. When she said ‘Come on, YOU CAN DO IT,’ I really FELT something. I really FELT she wanted those imaginary students to ACHIEVE something. Her musical selections were impressive as well. I’ve never heard ‘Why Don’t We Do It In the Road?’ used for a post-pregnancy workout. So a perfect ten for originality.”

Actually, if they’re gonna do this right, I think the competitors should be forced to perform in front of a room full of pot-bellied, cellulite-encrusted slugs who just enrolled in the class because somebody sold em a membership over the phone. Now THAT’S adding some reality to the process.

You know how there’s always one totally uncoordinated guy who, no matter how many times he’s done the exercises, he’s always ONE step behind the routine, but he never KNOWS he’s one step behind the routine, so you start watching this guy, hoping he’ll catch up, or either get SO slow that he catches up by mistake–are you following this?–but pretty soon EVERYBODY is watching him and so EVERYBODY starts messing up?

They should put one of these guys RIGHT IN FRONT of the competitor, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, dirty sweatshirt, high-top tennis shoes from 1967–and, of course, he wears BLACK SOCKS with his tennis shoes, Bermuda shorts with ducks and palm trees on em, or a Mexican shirt, one of those kind with all the pockets that fat people wear so they’ll look skinny only they just look fatter–put one of these guys in the front row and THEN see how it works when they’re grinnin and singin “WORK THOSE DELTOIDS and two and three and four YOU’RE LOOKING GOOD! and six and seven and eight and WHAT’S THAT BIG STAIN ON YOUR SHIRT? and two and three and four and THAT’S DISGUSTING! and six and seven and eight and WORK THOSE FAT FOLDS and two and three . . .”

Wouldn’t this be more realistic?

Speaking of girls in loin-cloths, it’s finally here, the movie we’ve all been waiting for–“A Nymphoid Barbarian in Dinosaur Hell.” And it IS, as the ads say, “Where the Prehistoric Meets the Pre-pubescent.” Linda Corwin, who looks so young she’d get carded at Chuck E. Cheese, is the last woman alive on earth after nuclear war has wiped out all the cities and most of her wardrobe. All our pets and livestock have been mutated into giant rubber lizards, and she’s finding it REALLY hard to get a boyfriend.

Unfortunately, everyone is so screwed up by the radiation that the dinosaurs think they’re humans, and the humans think they’re dinosaurs, and ALL of them wanna father children by poor little rags-and-tatters bikini-loinclothed Linda. We’re talking perky here. We’re talking nubile. And when you’re dealing with green bald-headed Lizard Men, the courtship period is VERY short, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

What I’m trying to say is that for 90 solid minutes this woman is clawed at, manhandled, groped, chased, pinned, clubbed, roughed up, beaten, and her hair gets REALLY ratty, before a dimwit hunter named Marn can fight his way past giant sea serpents to a castle where she’s being held captive by a gap-toothed skull-head medicine man with a broken nose. He wants to feed her to a giant mutant pit bulldog, but Marn just MIGHT arrive in time to feed HIM to a giant crawdaddy lurking in the dirty brown moat.

In other words, a feminist flick.

Two breasts. (When there’s only one woman on earth, you can’t score very high.) Eighteen dead bodies. Pet-dog eating. Giant man-eating serpent. Ax fight. Sword fight. Dagger-through-the-lizard-gizzards. Close-up ear-chomping. Hand-eating. Goat-head sphinx. Iguana-head mutant eaten by a dinosaur. Mutant octopus attack. Arm rolls. Hand rolls. Most terrifying of all, Lizard Drool. Gratuitous “Jabberwocky.” Kung Fu. Bimbo Fu. Prehistoric bikini Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Linda Corwin, as Lea, for saying “Sometimes my juices start to flow and I feel like a nymphoid barbarian in dinosaur hell”; Mark Deshales, as The Man With No Face, for befriending Lea and teaching her to mouthe words out of a book, even though she can already speak perfect English; Alex Pirnie, as The Iguana King, for saying “The hell with you–you’re lizard meat!” and for doing the giant-lizard animated effects, which looks kinda like Claymation.

Two stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.

 

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