Nowhere To Go But Up.
There are a lot of things I could have done today. I could have worked on the screenplay for my next project, which by my producer’s count is already exactly 256 hours late. I could have signed an online petition protesting the death of Ted Kord, the Blue Beetle. I could have finished the computer program I’m running to try and mathematically determine exactly when it’ll be safe to make the first Hurricane Katrina joke. Instead, I watched the worst movie I have ever seen. Think about that for a moment. Not the procrastination, that’s par for the course. It stands to reason that someone who spends a significant amount of his day making 800 word posts about how he doesn’t like movies or race-mixing is an expert at avoiding productivity. But just think about the movies I’ve written about, the quantity, and the quality, in just three short months. Imagine that, but spread out over the last 2 decades of my corporeal existence. I saw xXx: State of the Union in theatres. I watched a video copy of Nightfall all the way through. I saw Catwoman. Twice. Then I bought it. And yet, I feel comfortable with my assertion that Killer Barbys Vs. Dracula is not only the worst film I’ve ever seen, it’s the worst film that’s ever been made. I pride myself on never, ever leaving a movie unfinished, no matter how terrible it is. And I’ve stuck to that, except for a brief slip during a theatrical screening of Species back in 1995. However, this particular set of moral principals has never been tested quite as sorely it was during the 86 minutes of this movie. It felt like swearing an oath of marital fidelity while living above a strip club, or staying 100 yards away from children at all times. Possible, and legally necessary in the case of the latter, but exceedingly difficult. I prevailed, but I’ve never tried so hard to busy myself on the couch while a movie has been playing. I did the crossword, both the New York Time version and my paper’s regular idiot puzzle, I triple checked the TV guide to make sure that the Apocalypse was indeed coming and a two-hour show about C-level celebrities ballroom dancing was in fact playing in a prime time slot, and I actually answered the phone, something I haven’t done in about 5 years. Nothing made the time go any faster and, as I feared, once I finished the movie I was not only angry, but sapped of all strength. Like Samson, hair shorn, or Radiohead without ProTools, I was powerless.
A waste of valuable Gigabytes.
First of all, they spelled the title of the movie wrong. How does this happen? And this is not just me being picky about grammar, which is a neat internet trick I’ve picked up that helps deflate other people’s written arguments without providing some of your own. Not only is “Barbys” an incorrect pluralization of “Barbie”, that’s not even how you spell the name of the bad rock band the movie is about. Do you know how I know that? Because a) I’ve heard of the band before, sadly, and b) they spell it correctly on posters in the movie. That’s right, not only could I barely finish the film, the guy who made it clearly didn’t get far enough into watching the final cut to accurately spell the title of the movie. If that isn’t representative of the complete ineptness of the people involved, on par with Homeland Security Secretary Chertoff calling Louisiana a city, I don’t know what is. I don’t want to tell you what this movie is about. Doing so would relive traumatic memories best left buried alongside the time I saw a prostitute throw up semen in an alley outside a bar, or when I accidentally saw Good Charlotte live. Suffice it to say that the movie was literally filmed on a video camera cheaper than the one I use to videotape the 40 year old lady across the street from me through her window while she drinks bottle after bottle of red wine and masturbates to work-out videos.
The film is directed by Jess Franco, who has made more movies in his career than I’ve taken breaths today, though it should be noted that I’ve taken a lot of sedatives to get over the shock of Jordis getting kicked off Rock Star INXS. Franco, a Spanish exploitation filmmaker, has acquire a bizarrely positive cult reputation over his many years of churning out cheap trash, despite the fact that none of his films are watchable. Mainly, this is due to the fact that his older films have titles that are vaguely recognizable to neo-horror punks who think that 50s and 60s schlock is cool just because every second Misfits song references a drive-in B movie. Sure, The Awful Dr. Orlof seems like it might be fun, and Vampyros Lesbos sounds like the kind of porno you can get away with renting by telling your girlfriend it’s a horror movie, but trust me, you don’t want to travel down that road. The path is long and tiresome, filled with creaky, muffled dialogue, visible boom-mikes, and bad day-for-night photography probably accomplished with a lens filter made from blue tissue paper. One has to be discerning in their choice of titillating camp. Your best bet is to avoid anything that’s trying to be campy, like Harry Knuckles films and anything that John Waters has ever even seen, and to focus entirely on films released by Harry Novak or anything sampled in a Mortician song. Either that, or go visit my neighbour with a bottle of Merlot and Buns of Steel.