The Blob (1988)

It flies through the sky like a flaming testicle. It crashes in the woods provoking unwise curiosity. Once unleashed, it is insatiable and indiscriminate.

What is it exactly? A gelatinous monster from outer space? Pink slime with a chip on its shoulder? Close. It’s bacteria that has become predatory. And the US Government has a lot of explaining to do.

In a quiet small town where football is religion and a lack of snow is hurting the local economy, the arrival of this dangerous substance exposes an unprepared population to merciless mayhem and absorption. In other words, they won’t see it coming.

It doesn’t have an official name but The Blob is a fitting description. It oozes and squeezes its victims, sucking them into its ever growing shapelessness, powerfully grabbing them with tentacles that spool out, up and down like a fishing rod. It’s like vindictive Jell-o crossed with an octopus.

It’s addicted to human flesh, no matter the taste, no matter the quality. Be you sinner or saint, you’re a goner.

It’s like a constantly moving, demented art piece with human faces and limbs poking out for attention but permanently trapped within the goo, forever gasping into the void. Floating around in a glass prison in the Phantom Zone would be a preferable fate.

If only what I’m describing was truly terrifying to watch, though, for this material can’t be taken seriously. But at least it’s less stupid than its 1958 inspiration. Trying to pass off 27-year-old Steve McQueen, with his prematurely craggy face, as a 17-year-old high school student was the least of its own problems.

This version of The Blob, very much emblematic of its time with its synth-heavy score and glam metal throwaways, isn’t creepy enough to work as a thriller and it’s not ridiculous enough to be a guilty pleasure. Coming three years after The Stuff, itself a flawed miss, at least that film found some humour in its absurd premise. Playing it straight here hurts the cause greatly.

Early on, we’re introduced to a few, key characters. Kevin Dillon, with his magnificent, curly-haired mullet, is the obligatory bad boy who isn’t so bad at all. He’s supposed to have a criminal record but mouthing off at dim-witted authority figures is a virtue and, as this movie proves, absolutely vital for survival.

Looking a lot like a young Steven Tyler, especially when he glares which is often, he’s a loner more at home riding his motorcycle in the woods than fraternizing with his peers, although he’s not entirely unfriendly.

He clashes with the sheriff (Jeffrey DeMunn in a good, natural performance) and even more so with his deputy (hotheaded Paul McCrane from Robocop), especially after they bring him in for questioning following an incident at a local medical facility.

Super cute Shawnee Smith, who went on to be one of the many victims of Jigsaw, plays a cheerleader out on her first date with a football player (Donovan Leitch). But after driving into a can-collecting old man coming out of the woods, it’s cut short as they rush him in to see the only doctor in town.

Dillon, who happens to be following him after trying to fix his broken bike (he crashes it while attempting to clear a walking bridge in a early scene which means he will be more successful later on when it counts), is ordered by Leitch to get in the car.

While going to get a diet soda for Smith as they wait in the hospital for an update, Leitch notices something moving under the old man’s blanket as he lies motionless on his bed. After rushing to get the doctor, already preoccupied consulting another patient for possible surgery, after the unveiling only the top half of the old man is visible. And the jelly-thing on his hand has disappeared.

After rushing into the doc’s office to contact the sheriff, guess who’s right behind the door. Only poor Smith witnesses what happens next but of course no one believes her, not even an already bolted Dillon who she later spots walking around after being let go by the sheriff’s department. He will not be a skeptic for long.

As they overcome their tension over food in the local diner that same night (this is the first time they’ve spoken to each other during three years of high school), The Blob has somehow snuck into the sink pipe in the kitchen which means there will be some job openings shortly.

As characters I like are quickly disposed of (hate when that happens), Dillon and Smith find themselves locked in the restaurant’s freezer where they discover the evil jelly’s weakness. Now do they bother telling anybody about this once they make it out safely? Nope. Instead they get rounded up by dumb guys in hazmat suits and placed in an armored van. (Military tactics are useless against it which means they employ them every chance they get.)

Dillon, ever resourceful (he works in the local garage), manages to get the back doors open with a handy ratchet loaned to him by his boss Moss (Beau Billingslea) and jumps out without Smith who wisely endures the full ride so she can rescue her younger brothers at the local movie theatre. In one of the only two genuine laughs in The Blob, the fake horror flick they’ve snuck in to enjoy, Garden Tool Massacre (a spoof of Friday The 13th), features a funny one-liner from one of the on-screen victims. I mean he makes a good point about the hockey mask.

The biggest laugh is a pay-off to a scene that begins in the local pharmacy. Leitch and his rapey football teammate (Ricky Paull Goldin from All My Children) are buying condoms for their dates. Well, actually, Goldin is a little short so Leitch loans him a few bucks for his trip to makeout lane with future Under Siege star Erika Eleniak. However, Goldin tells the pharmacist he’s actually buying them for Leitch after awkwardly encountering the town’s priest. The revelation of Smith’s father when Leitch goes to pick her up for their ill-fated date is brilliant. Ribbed, indeed.

As for Goldin’s date with the future Baywatch babe, let’s just say he’s one of the only characters in the film who deserves the punishment he gets. I don’t know what the least painful way to get killed by this venomous bacteria would be but at least Goldin isn’t squeezed to death while trapped in a phone booth. He should’ve been, though.

It’s tradition in science fiction horror films to have a shady scientist who cares more for the villain than its victims. In this case it’s Dr. Meddows (a miscast Joe Seneca lacking heel heat) who is a little too delighted by the progress of this inevitably doomed top secret government project. No matter what, the homicidal bacteria, now 1000 times its original size, must be protected at all costs. Crazy Joe Debola’s onboard. Goddamn Cold War.

Dr. Meddows is a lot like the dope in the original Village Of The Damned but in that guy’s case he ultimately becomes a suicide bomber when he realizes those pint-sized blonde supervillains he’s trying to educate cannot be civilized. The stubborn Meddows, on the other hand, never has such an epiphany.

There’s another expected scene where one of the locals just happens to overhear incriminating information from the man himself which is later relayed to all the concerned townspeople during a Mexican stand-off between the deputy, the morons in the hazmat suits and the whistleblower. Good luck getting them all to sign a NDA, eh?

At one point, some of our heroes end up in the sewer with The Blob but Dr. Meddows doesn’t care for their safety including that of one of the surviving hazmat guys thrusted down there foolishly to try to capture it intact. So the manhole cover goes on. The tire of an armored van strategically placed on top for good measure. Good thing there’s a bazooka down below.

The Blob was directed by Chuck Russell who went on to make the last good Schwarzenegger shoot-em-up Eraser. He co-wrote the script with Frank Darabont who would redeem himself by making The Shawshank Redemption and The Green Mile.

Considering their later successes and the talented cast in this one, this should’ve been more fun and winningly satirical. I appreciate the attempt to throw a twist in with regards to the actual purpose of the falling meteorite but come on, this is lunacy. It’s just not credible. This material is begging to be over the top in a genuinely fearless way but that creative path is sadly not taken.

The movie takes its time developing the characters somewhat while forgetting to hook us with scary stuff. So while we like some of the players, especially Smith, the sheriff, and the diner owner he fancies, the quietly lurking menace fails to deliver the goods. The special effects have not aged well. And there’s way too many ineffective jump scares.

Another important character is the socially awkward priest from the pharmacy who ends up taking a sample of The Blob for reasons that don’t become clear until the final scene. Let’s just be thankful that that story will never be told.

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Monday, October 26, 2020
2:29 a.m.

Motel Hell (1980)

Actually, it’s Motel Hello.  And no, it’s not run by Uncle Leo.  As that second “o” on that neon sign flashes on and off throughout the night (they really ought to get that fixed), unsuspecting patrons arrive.  Some will have a normal experience, for the most part.  Others will become food. 

For you see, the owners of this out-of-the-way establishment, a deceptively friendly brother and his compulsive child-like sister, aren’t just in the hospitality business.  No sir.  Let’s put it this way.  When you’re offered samples of their homemade smoke meat, you should politely decline.

The brother, Farmer Vincent (Rory Calhoun in a darkly charming performance), lays bear traps for unsuspecting motorists who crash themselves into unconsciousness.  If that doesn’t work, there’s always knock-out gas, a fake cow roadblock, a shovel, fake print ads to lure in the kinky horndogs and a chase into a nearby lake for one who tries to drive away.

Either way, business is good.  As we enter the family’s “secret garden”, we see rows of heads covered in burlap hoods.  The poor, visiting food inspector, deeply suspicious of Farmer Vincent’s operation, makes the discovery himself and soon gets added to the pile.  He must not be missed because no one comes looking for him.

You can’t scream once you’re planted into the dirt because your throat gets slashed.  The only sound you can make is a monstrous gargle.  You might as well be a zombie.

Once someone is killed, like the members of the travelling punk band Ivan And The Terribles (funny name for a crap outfit), they’re stripped naked, their limbs cut off and thrown into a vat of some kind of goo, I’m not sure I want to know what exactly.  What remains is hung up and locked away until the smoked meat is ready for consumption.  There are no disappointed customers. I wonder what Cliff Claven tastes like.

Vincent’s brother is the local sheriff who takes a liking to a young blond woman who survives a motorcycle crash caused by the smoked meat specialist right after the opening credits.  Unbeknownst to her, her much older boyfriend, the driver, is being prepared for forbidden deliciousness.  Vincent makes her think he’s buried in his makeshift graveyard.  She might be blond but she knows better.

Oddly, she falls hard for Vincent.  (She really does have a jones for seniors.)  And when she makes her move while being nakedly beguiling he shuts her down.  Not until we’re married first, he asserts.  Big red flag, toots.  Should’ve called his bluff.

Meanwhile, Ida (Nancy Parsons from the Porky’s trilogy), his seemingly gay sister, who alternates between wearing pigtails and braids like she’s still a young schoolgirl, views her as a unwanted distraction that needs to be eliminated. Why wouldn’t she try to make a move on the blonde herself?

The sheriff, who in one early scene Ida jumps on for some unknown reason, knows what’s going on (there’s a funny moment where Vincent reveals to the blond that his brother is “the biggest cannibal in the county”) but it isn’t until he falls for the blonde babe that it’s suddenly a problem.  She does not reciprocate those lustful feelings. He’s too young.

If you haven’t gathered already, Motel Hell is actually a black comedy and a spotty, reluctant one at that.  Perhaps because it’s aiming for the occasional side splitter, it’s less interested in truly terrifying you as it normally would be if it was more serious in intent.  Hybrid horror films are notoriously tricky to get right and this one doesn’t find the right balance.  It doesn’t help that there’s a lack of an ominous feel. The result is a film that’s neither funny nor scary enough.

Wolfman Jack plays two roles, himself on the radio and a local preacher who employs the Laz-E-Boy laidback approach to soliciting donations on his TV show.  He is uncharacteristically mellow as a man of the cloth whereas another unnamed evangelical small screen ranter is always pacing and loudly maniacal.  In a prescient nod to future real-life scandal, minister Jack confiscates a Hustler magazine from the creepy sheriff but doesn’t throw it away.

Released 40 years ago during the start of the golden age of TV evangelism, Motel Hell is better than you would expect despite not being an artistic success. 

The film gets a double laugh from the Hustler bit.  First, the sheriff’s flimsy excuse for having it in the first place and the revelation that Vincent’s sister Ida has the same issue.  (She’s looking at the same pictorial.)  There’s a humourous picnic discussion about how unappetizing dog meat is. And Vincent’s very funny regretful confession about what else is in his smoked meat might be the best joke in the entire film.

Unfortunately, the planted heads gag is too strange to be funny as are the age-gap swingers who are ok with bestiality but draw the line at being gassed unconscious and cultivated into the dirt. They seem so open to any crazy idea you would think this would be their latest turn-on. (Why does the woman whip everything in her room?)

Once the blond woman, curiously reluctant to believe anything bad about kind, smiling Farmer Vincent despite knowing instinctively that her old boyfriend is very much alive, learns firsthand what this demented bro-and-sis team is really capable of, she has no choice but to hope to be rescued by the sheriff, a weirdo with his own problems.

It’s an ironic revelation that the man that saves her from that meat-slicing conveyor belt is the same man who sexually harasses her while they watch an old drive-in horror film from a distance through binoculars. And she was going to marry a serial murdering cannibal?

This chick needs a lot of therapy.

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Thursday, October 22, 2020
4:00 a.m.

Sydney White

Instead of a vainglorious queen, we get a self-absorbed Mean Girl.  Replacing the seven dwarfs are seven ostracized dorks.  And rather than Snow White herself, we get a modern day tomboy.

There have been many cinematic adaptations of Snow White going all the way back to the silent era, most of which maintain the distant setting of the original source material.  Sydney White aims to modernize the story by setting it in a contemporary ritzy college and reworking it into a routine misfit comedy.  An extremely misguided approach, as it turns out.

Sydney, played by Amanda Bynes, has grown up since the age of nine without her mother.  (Once again, an off-camera cinematic death goes unexplained.  Hate when that happens.)  Raised by her well-meaning plumber dad (John Schneider), she’s more comfortable on a construction site than anywhere else.  Thanks to a scholarship, she’s going to a college well out of her dad’s price range.

The place has special meaning for her mom.  She made lifelong friends at the exclusive sorority house now run by Rachel Witchburn (Sarah Paxton).  In a letter written before her death and saved just for this special occasion, she hopes the same for her daughter.

The unsubtly named Witchburn lives up to her name.  In fact, she’s too mean.  From the fat-shaming to the slut-shaming alone, the character feels grossly out of place in a comedy.  There’s literally nothing funny about her.  And, as it turns out, she’s easy to beat.  Unfortunately, it takes the entire film for the student body to realize that.

Instead of asking a talking mirror who the fairest dame of them all is, Witchburn obsessively checks her ranking on a Hot Or Not website which analyzes the looks of every woman on campus.  She improbably remains at number one right until Sydney knocks her down appropriately to number two.

Recognizing the immediate threat Sydney poses to her meaningless title, when the new girl pledges to her mom’s old sorority she looks for any reason to reject her. 

Watching vulnerable young women demean themselves just to be accepted into high society by some powerful, insecure bitch is a strange viewing experience.  You wonder what they expect to get out of this when the whole thing feels so icky and empty.  Any goal that involves being a dick or a victim can’t be worth it. Did Sydney’s mom have to do any of this bullshit?

During the graduation ceremony for new pledges, Witchburn humiliates her rival and evicts her from the sorority house.  Thoroughly crushed and ashamed to be exiled by the same community that warmly embraced her mother, on a rainy night she is taken in by the seven lonely dorks at The Vortex, a rundown house for young men unable to form bonds outside their peer group.

The place really is a dump.  There’s a big hole in the wall where an electrical explosion happens every so often and dust is so plentiful you’re surprised there’s only one Sneezy.

Grumpy is now a conspiratorial blogger; long-necked Doc is a frequently experimenting scientist who graduated four years ago but stubbornly remains to attain more knowledge; Sleepy is an African transfer who can’t tell day from night hence his constant snoozing and yet is an exceptional student; Dopey is an always smiling, easily distracted manchild who can’t tie his own shoelaces (God bless the inventor of Velcro); Bashful talks through a hand puppet, Happy is a virgin (isn’t that an oxymoron?) and Sneezy himself is a bespectacled nerd who befriends Sydney only to be treated horribly as part of her ill-fated initiation into the high-falutin’ sorority.  Once she’s forgiven for that (a little too easily and without proper compensation, it should be noted) and welcomed indoors, she becomes the de-facto house mother for these sadly charmless outsiders.  (I wanted real characters here, not fatiguing, predictable archetypes.)

The Vortex nerds can’t upgrade their living conditions because Witchburn is also the Student Council President and she wants the property demolished and replaced with some bullshit cultural centre for her fellow Greeks.  Her bland ex-boyfriend, Tyler Prince (a not-so-charming Matt Long), makes the mistake of telling her he thinks the place should be condemned having spent time inside mastering Grumpy’s version of a first-person shooter.   He’s also dating comic book-loving Sydney who gets pissed off once the seven dorks are evicted and relocated to a cheap motel.

The Prince character is presented as the atypical fraternity bro, kind, friendly and not a rapist, but is really an annoying paradox.  He likes working with the homeless even though originally that was his punishment for some unmentioned misdeed by his house of dudes.  (Where are the rest of his frat pals?) 

He prefers the clutzy, nervously overtalking Sydney over his calculating, articulate ex who dumped him in middle school but now wants him back.  However, thanks to their aligning families (who are jointly financing the cultural centre project), he’s just as responsible for what is happening to The Vortex as she is. It’s his suggestion that makes them suddenly homeless. How can he be a true babyface when he hasn’t completely disentangled himself from this project?

Sydney White retains some of the key moments from the Snow White story but with modern twists.  The poison apple bit is now a hacked Apple computer, resulting in a lost term paper.  And Prince kissing Sydney is not to break a coma spell but to wake up her exhausted self for an important event after pulling an all-nighter.

When Doc becomes ineligible to compete against Witchburn for the Student Council Presidency (seeing his goofy photo shown on campus TV is the only time I laughed), Sydney rounds up the deflated dorks at their temporary new location, riles them up and vows to run herself.

One Tree Hill had a funny episode involving a similar campaign in high school complete with satirical attack ads.  Sydney White could’ve used some of that edge in what turns out to be a foregone conclusion.  We learn that the Greek system only makes up a fifth of the entire student population so Sydney and the Vortex nerds seek out marginalized student groups like drag queen poets and Hassidic Jews to beef up their support base.

Their debate, happening outdoors for some reason, is just a promofest.  Witchburn asserting that nothing needs to change (surprised her last name isn’t Biden) while Sydney wants better representation for everybody else without explaining how she will achieve that. 

Not a lot of policy proposals are thrown out there but there is a collective moment for certain characters to proudly admit something that makes them a dork in the eyes of haters.  Not sure a bro confessing he was once the top male figure skater in New Jersey fits that criteria.  Conquering the ever competitive world of figure skating is fucking difficult and a real athletic accomplishment. Try as they may, none of these characters can successfully redefine the word in a positive way. The whole spontaneous enterprise feels forced.

Despite being publicly humiliated at Prince’s frat party, two of the dorks eventually find love, a third might actually get laid with a visiting foursome (sure), another gets rich (A fortune telling theory? Come on.) and of course, Sydney finds her Prince. 

Witchburn faces a revolt that feels deeply and belatedly unsatisfying.  Her popularity is strictly the result of her blonde, privileged stature and her iron fist, and it’s just not convincing that she would reign unchallenged for so long when you consider she’s outnumbered from the start and all it takes to oust her is a unanimous, spontaneous impeachment.

Sydney White is depressing dreck.  When it’s not being deeply unfunny, it’s cloying and sentimental.  There’s no earnestness, no reality, no real substance at all here.  We don’t care about any of these characters. There’s nothing sweet about them. This story is so familiar we’re not shocked at all by the outcome.

Long before the election finale, there’s a scene where a professor sets up a class discussion about democracy and what the founding fathers of America actually intended. It’s an us vs. them moment, the 99% vs. the elite 1%, or in this case, the 80% vs. the 20%. Witchburn is very much in favour of the oligarchy while Sydney channels her inner Bernie.

A smarter film, one far more sophisticated about student politics, would’ve known how to mine this rich, unexplored territory for better jokes while simultaneously updating this ancient fairy tale beyond just changing some names and adding technological advancements. How sad that the quickly tiresome Sydney White is completely disinterested in such an ambitious proposition.

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Thursday, October 22, 2020
3:02 a.m.

She’s The Man (2006)

There’s an illustrative moment very late in She’s The Man that perfectly sums up the sheer stupidity of its overall premise. It happens during the obligatory Big Game which really isn’t that significant since there’s no championship on the line (it’s just a grudge match between rival high schools), but whatever.

Amanda Bynes plays long-haired Viola, a teenage girl who wants to play soccer. But her high school has cut her team due to lack of interest. Not enough young women have signed up. (This is very hard to believe considering the mass popularity of women’s soccer in the US which has only grown since.) So, after being rejected without a tryout for the boys team she finds an opening elsewhere.

Her short-haired brother, Sebastian (the other James Kirk), is buggering off to the UK to try to make a name for himself as a rock musician. We never hear him play a single note but the chicks dig his lyrics. Let’s just say he’s no Bono.

He’ll be gone for two weeks which gives Viola an idea. What if she imitates her brother and maybe finagle her way onto his private high school team? (He got expelled from her school for skipping too much, hence the transfer to a new one. Their divorced parents are loaded.) The problem is after she gets her gay hairdresser pal to transform her into Sebastian she does not look at all like her brother. She looks more like a girl trying to pass herself off as a 10-year-old Beatle.

Back to the Big Game. Viola accidentally sleeps in and misses the kick-off. The real Sebastian, who has come back a day earlier to dump his bitchy girlfriend and has never played the beautiful game at all, somehow gets thrown out onto the pitch as a first-stringer. He can’t even dribble.

He looks and sounds very different from his sister, noticeably different. For one thing, he’s much taller and muscular. (They’re supposed to be twins but never mind.) When the team takes the pitch, they’re all wearing face paint: red on the right side, black stripes on the left, the school colours.

After Viola arrives right near the end of the first half she eventually gets a hold of Sebastian right before the second, puts on his uniform (how in the hell does it fit perfectly?) and just trots out there with her oblivious teammates and coach (Vinnie Jones) who at no time notice 1) she’s not wearing the face paint and 2) looks and sounds nothing like the real Sebastian.

Before the secret switcheroo, overly friendly principal David Cross interrupts the first half play to embarrass himself by announcing through a megaphone to all in attendance that the real Sebastian, the one who can’t play soccer for shit, is actually a girl. He, too, does not clue in until those shorts come down.

After Viola replaces him on the pitch despite her brother being benched at the end of the first half, not only does the coach not notice the change he suddenly throws her back into the game. It isn’t until she removes her fake sideburns, glued-on eyebrows and little boy Beatle wig (and flashes everyone) that the truth is finally revealed.

If any of these characters had even a lick of intelligence this transparently pathetic ruse would’ve been exposed far sooner. But no one is intelligent. No one at this private school can tell the difference between a tall cisgender guy and a tiny teen girl in drag. No one calls out Viola when she repeatedly outs herself before quickly recovering. No one finds it odd she never takes her shirt off. No one expresses incredulity about that phony voice she uses.

Speaking of that, I once dated a young woman who worked as a telemarketer. When she got bored with a call she used her low guy voice to amuse herself. It was pretty funny because, well, she sounded a hell of a lot more convincing than Amanda Bynes. (And yeah, she was fired.)

When fake Sebastian gets hit in the crotch with the ball during practice, she has to fake being in pain, but there’s a suspicious delay before she reacts that no one acknowledges. When her tampons fall out of her shoe, her male teammates believe her when she says they’re for nose bleeds. In order to get them to like her in her new identity (she’s initially seen as an awkward weirdo), with the help of some friends, including her gay hairdresser, she cooks up a scheme where she looks like a shallow, womanizing asshole in public. Only then do they warm up to her.

Very loosely based on Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, She’s The Man is a screwball soap opera with no believable romances and not a single genuine laugh. It’s one of the dumbest movies I’ve ever seen. A better example of an Idiot Plot you will not find.

Viola, who dumps her jerky goalkeeper boyfriend after he doesn’t support her athletic ambitions, soon develops a crush on her new roommate Duke (the very thick-headed Channing Tatum).

But Duke likes Olivia (the equally dopey Laura Ramsey), the dream girl he’s been pining for throughout high school. However, after meeting the fake Sebastian, unwittingly she falls for the incognito Viola. In order to get the imposter interested she uses Duke to get Viola jealous which only makes her angry because now she’s being cockblocked by Olivia.

To her good fortune, Duke and Olivia can’t even make small talk on their one and only date. And this is his dream girl? He’s way more comfortable opening up to fake Sebastian. He never pauses to wonder why that might be.

Meanwhile, Olivia has an obsessed admirer who has a picture of her on his pillow case. He eventually puts two and two together but, like everybody else, he still can’t tell the difference between the two Sebastians until their sexual organs are visible.

She’s The Man wants to be some kind of female empowerment fable where the heroine proves all the sexists wrong by independently excelling against so much toxic male adversity. But even as the fake Sebastian, Viola can’t handle the training and is not added to the starting line-up right away. She can’t advance without the approval and support of multiple males but only, of course, while in disguise. Yay, feminism?

It’s only after she makes a deal with Duke that her skills improve enough which Jones conveniently observes at the right time. (Duke will help her fix her fundamentals while she’ll try to convince Olivia to give him a shot.) Even so the idea that this tiny young woman, who plays better against her girlfriends, can somehow compete with aggressive, tall, masculine men who possess a far higher skill set, including her dicky goalkeeper ex, after just a little bit of extra preparation is wishful thinking in the extreme. (In the real world, she’d be tackled in two seconds.) The ex is truly humouring her when he says she’s better than half his own squad. She’s no Christine Sinclair.

Besides all the expected moments of the insignificant Big Game, including the pivotal one where Viola, no longer hiding her identity, gets to stick it to her ex, there are the usual soap opera entanglements where characters act according to the rigid whims of the screenplay and not their own hearts.

After Duke kisses the actual Viola at a school carnival it makes no sense why he still lusts for an indifferent Olivia, not that Tatum has any chemistry with either of them. Duke is supposed to be this sensitive hunk who wants more than just physical interactions with a girl but it takes him literally the entire movie to realize he has nothing in common with his dream girl. Once he lets his guard down he’s much more relaxed with Viola but only when she’s fake Sebastian. Did I mention this movie is very stupid?

One of his teammates has a crush on the weird girl with braces who watches fake Sebastian sleep but waits until the very end to finally make his move. Why does he need to see her with Viola in order to find her attractive again? Why does he care what people think of his tastes in women? He’s on the fucking soccer team.

The real Sebastian’s bitchy ex gets dumped twice, the first time by Viola in disguise (she never actually sees her face which is strange because she can’t tell the difference between the two Sebastians, either). Why does she want to stay in this relationship when she doesn’t appear to even like him?

You can pretty much predict the eventual pairings, although I thought the real Sebastian’s bitchy ex would’ve settled for Olivia’s obsessive pursuer. At least he would give her all the attention she craves.

There isn’t a single genuine moment here, nor any big surprises or even basic accountability. Duke aside, Viola is instantly forgiven for pretending to be a boy because her team needs to break a scoreless tie and own their rival. (Not buying Jones’s sudden embrace of gender equality.) Her ex quickly finds another partner despite being humiliated on the pitch. And while it takes a confused Duke quite a bit longer to put his hurt feelings aside and his own desires ahead of the demands of the story, he too ultimately gives Viola a pass for not being honest from the start.

From accepting her as a guy to angrily believing she’s a cockblocker in her own right to fully embracing her as a teammate is quite the impossible journey for a improbably naive character right at home in this fictional world of morons.

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Tuesday, October 20, 2020
4:25 a.m.

Blade II

I have this annoying habit.  I often start franchises without finishing them.

It’s been 9 years since I last screened The Godfather.  I still haven’t gotten to the rest of the trilogy.  It’s been sixteen years since I had a look at Barbershop.  I only recently watched the sequel.  There’s a spin-off and another follow-up still to come.  It’s been the same amount of time since I saw the first two Harry Potters.  When will I finally finish the rest of that series?  Who the fuck knows?

Thankfully, I’m changing.  In recent years, I went back and finished off the remaining Supermans, Star Treks, Exorcists, Ice Ages, Underworlds, Resident Evils, Terminators and Halloweens among numerous other previously incomplete sagas.  Regarding 007, I’m now down to just the Daniel Craig section.  And I’m happy to report I’m just one entry away from getting completely caught up with Star Wars.

Thanks to my recent screening of Blade II, I’m only one film away from concluding that particular trilogy.

If you recall the 1998 original (which I enjoyed nearly 20 years ago on VHS), through circumstances beyond his unborn control, Blade becomes a daywalker, a half-human vampire who hunts his fellow bloodsuckers without any fear of being incinerated by sunlight.  However, he doesn’t feed like other vamps.  Thanks to the ingenuity of Whistler (crotchety, sometimes humourous, but always loyal Kris Kristofferson), his mentor and protector, Blade is never tempted as long as he keeps injecting himself with that strangely helpful black fluid.  I guess that’s the vampire version of methadone.

Cold and detached by necessity, as played by the troubled Wesley Snipes, he is as charismatic as he is deadly.  Cursed with his half-and-half status, he nonetheless makes the most of his physical gifts.  He’s as quick with a sword as he is with automatic weapons.  And he can kick your ass.  A shame that the real-life actor isn’t as cool as the characters he plays.  (Ask Halle Berry about that.)

At the end of the first film, it appeared that old Whistler had offed himself.  (He got bit.)  But Blade learns in number two, he’s still alive (barely) and being held captive by a gang of abusive vamps.  He eventually finds his father figure floating in a giant container of blood, Luke Skywalker style.  One needle injection later and he’s fine, except for that bum leg.

Along for the ride this time is Scud (The Walking Dead’s Norman Reedus in a good performance).  A surprising fan of The Powerpuff Girls, he’s the Q of this story, the gadget man.  Of course, he doesn’t get along with Whistler who feels he’s been temporarily replaced with a younger, scuzzier model.

Blade has to set aside his rage for the Vampire Nation once they offer him a truce.  A new type of vampire, a Reaper, far stronger than the usual model, has begun assembling an army.  (Imagine a sick-looking bald guy having a really bad day with a mouth like The Predator.)  He’s not only after humans, he’s gunning for his fellow bloodsuckers, as well.  Matched with the expected ragtag group of disagreeable, undead grunts supplied by the Nation (grumpy Ron Perlman being the standout), the plan is simple.  Hunt down the Reapers before they turn everyone.

It’s a trap, of course, but thanks to writer David S. Goyer the enticing truth unspools bit by bit hooking us right from the start and after the final revelation, we understand completely.  I’d be pretty pissed off, too.

Blade II was directed by Guillermo Del Toro, the Mexican auteur who was four years away from unveiling Pan’s Labyrinth and 16 years away from snagging his two Oscars for The Shape Of Water.  His strength has always been character-driven, visually-arresting horror as demonstrated by his elegant and creepy Crimson Peak.  To combine that with the exhilaration of hyper-kinetic action is to expose a true talent who can do more than make you uncomfortable.  He can also make you smile with delight.

The violence is both brutal and strangely poetic.  Imagine being bruised and battered with beautiful choreography.  Clearly inspired by The Matrix and Crouching Tiger: Hidden Dragon, bones may be broken and villains instantly disintegrated but it’s all performed confidently with a stylish flourish.  Del Toro and Goyer must be pro wrestling fans because there’s a distinct WWE influence, as well.  It would explain all those character turns.

One of the Reapers literally leaps high up on the wall and drops a flying Macho Man elbow on our sprawled hero below.  (He throws a couple more on the ground after he lands.)  When’s he not delivering a whiptastic arm drag or a back body drop, Blade himself finds time to deliver a devastating vertical suplex.  Davey Boy Smith would’ve been proud.

Blade doesn’t exactly have a love life but there is a vampire dame for him to quietly pine for.  You know she’s gotten to him when he suddenly stops shooting up his medicine.  The closest thing to a love scene between them is the moment when she’s in serious trouble and needs to feed.  If you want a longterm relationship with a cute bloodsucker to last, though, your first date probably shouldn’t involve watching the sun rise.

The film is not flawless.  Not every joke lands and not every member of The Bloodpack, the colourful team of armed vamps, is as developed as the smoothly cantankerous Perlman and Nyssa, the babyface dame.  But there really isn’t a dull moment in its near two-hour running time.  Del Toro believes in high energy and even the dramatic scenes sparkle with tension.  He makes the familiar elements here feel fresh and quite enjoyable.  The open mouths of those Reapers are freaky.

The overrated X-Men often gets credit for kickstarting the comic book movie revolution in American cinema after many years of frustrating starts and stops.  But it’s the darker-edged Blade that truly deserves that accolade.  Released by New Line Cinema two years before the Fox film, its success didn’t just pave the way for white superheroes.  Even Black Panther owes a debt of gratitude.

Del Toro had nothing to do with the first Blade so consider Blade II, both in structure and in circumstance, his Aliens, a chance for him to take on an existing fictional universe with clearly conceived characters and plug them into a more uncertain environment, one with far more reasons to be skeptical and weary, and where your initial instincts must not be ignored.

There’s a clever moment where Whistler questions Blade’s motives.  The daywalker gives him the old “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” routine.  It’s clever because we think we know who he’s talking about.  It’s not until a, shall we say, explosive pay-off in the final act that we find out the real answer.

Bring on Trinity, hopefully sooner than later.

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Thursday, October 15, 2020
3:16 a.m.

Superstar (1999)

What is the worst movie inspired by a Saturday Night Live sketch?  If you selected A Night At The Roxbury, good guess, but no.  How about The Ladies Man?  We’re getting warmer.  No, the correct answer is Superstar.  Why is it the worst?  Zero laughs and too much cruelty.

Superstar is the catchphrase of Mary Katherine Gallagher, Molly Shannon’s kissing-obsessed weirdo who speaks in psychotic whispers and tragically employs inanimate objects as substitute boyfriends.  She’s supposed to be a Catholic teenage schoolgirl but because Shannon was in her mid-30s at the time she looks and acts more like a disturbed cosplay fanatic.  You’re surprised she’s not escorted off the property.

Unnaturally committed to memorizing speeches from old TV-movies (and snippets of theatrical ones, as well), those large chunks of dialogue sometimes replace her own thoughts, mostly spoken or shouted during impromptu confessions.  She has an unrealistic dream to help realize a more achievable one.  In order to be kissed by a fellow student (Will Ferrell who is also too old to be in high school), she feels she needs to become a celebrity to draw attention to herself.

But her crush already has a bitchy girlfriend (Elaine Hendrix) who routinely mocks her.  Gallagher’s response is to repeatedly punch her in the tits.  And make fun of her stupid name.  Actually, no one likes Gallagher except her fellow Special Ed. classmates including the silent, misunderstood Harland Williams (also not a teen) who clearly fancies her.

Raised by her strict grandmother (Glynis Johns) who opposes her show business aspirations despite being a retired Broadway hoofer herself, Gallagher continually prays for impossible stardom and that not so elusive kiss.  (Her parents died when she was young and not for the reason she thinks. Neither reason is funny.) 

When she’s not pining for a not entirely indifferent and socially accessible Ferrell, she’s rewinding tapes at the local video store.  A couple comments about that.  Does no one do their due diligence before sliding their movies down that chute?  (No fines at this place?)  And she knows that you don’t have to watch the tapes in reverse, right?  In fact, rewinding goes a lot faster if the TV is off.

Because this is a misfit comedy, there has to be a redemptive third-act competition of some kind.  In this case, it’s a high school talent show where the winner gets a crummy prize.  They get to appear as an extra in a movie that exhibits “strong moral values”.   Man, I was hoping there’d be a screw-up and Gallagher ends up in a porno by mistake.  But strangely, there’s no pay-off to this at all.  We never even learn the name of the non-existent movie.

Superstar was directed by Bruce McCullough, one of the founding Kids In The Hall.  His colleague Mark McKinney, also an SNL alumnus, plays the Neanderthal-looking Principal, a priest just as concerned with his crunchy, burnt toast as he is with combating venereal disease.  (Along those lines, there’s a tedious running gag involving Gallagher’s mean girl nemesis constantly doing fundraising for important causes, like “Chocolate Bars For Bosnia”.) Just like everybody else, neither are able to wring laughs out of this thoroughly exhausting screenplay.  The movie runs barely over 80 minutes but it’s dead on arrival. It doesn’t deserve the repeated, merciful presence of The Go-Go’s hooky reunion cut Beautiful.

Gallagher is too unbearably eccentric to root for.  Those scenes where she tongue kisses a tree and a stop sign smack of extreme comic desperation.  Shannon commits to these insane bits but gets no reward.  The moment she reveals how badly she wants to make out with someone is the moment you realize this isn’t going to happen until the very end of the movie.  And the audience already knows who she’ll end up with before she does.

Superstar is awfully mean-spirited for a comedy.  There’s an early scene where Gallagher is walking down the hall and all her schoolmates, including a young, clean-shaven Tom Green, pelt her with an onslaught of succinct ridicules.  She responds with the old I’m-rubber-and-you’re-glue routine which results in dead silence and not just from her bullies.

Later, when she walks into the cheerleader lounge (it’s not a sin to smoke in a Catholic high school?), she’s prevented by Ferrell’s gal from signing up to audition for the talent show.  This results in a physical fight where once again we witness unnecessary tit punching.  At the end of her eventual audition, Gallagher gets humiliated in front of the same students who loathe her.

Even after the expected moment when she gets to kiss Ferrell there’s a bitter aftertaste.  All that build-up just for rude disappointment?  “It was okay.”?  “Blech.”? Fuck you. You don’t exactly have great alternatives, toots. For once, the high school jock (Ferrell’s a football player) isn’t a jerk (he actually dumps his mean girl gal pal after witnessing the fight in the lounge) so this sudden dismissal of him is needlessly harsh.

Ferrell also plays Gallagher’s sub-conscious hippie version of God for some reason.  He only exists to motivate her and Williams who makes the wise decision to jump on his Harley and bolt only to be convinced to suddenly show up at the high school event and finally make his move.

It’s been so long since I watched Shannon’s Gallagher skits on SNL that I don’t remember whether I laughed or not. All her signature tics are recycled for the movie: the constant “Superstar!” declarations, the domino bump against those steel chairs, and of course, the smelling of her armpit sweat. Most of this is instantly annoying but the finger gag is genuinely disturbing.

Instead of simply rehashing the same jokes from the original TV appearances, how welcome it would’ve been to see something different here. Take some risks, for God’s sake. The curious thing about Superstar is that were it not for its SNL origins, it could’ve easily been a horror film. (Carrie is one of Gallagher’s cinematic obsessions.) All the ingredients are here except creative courage.

Most paradoxical is Shannon herself. I’ve always found her sexy and yet here she is playing her grossest character (who still looks cute), a hormonal degenerate dying to be seen as sexual and desirable (albeit through PG limits; she only wants to kiss) but astonishingly picky about who her make-out partner should be. That’s hardly endearing and not at all amusing.

Tom Green, who as I mentioned plays one of her tormentors, loudly shouts “You suck!” during her talent show performance. It would’ve been a lot funnier if Kurt Angle had said it.

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Sunday, October 11, 2020
6:53 p.m.