At some point in March, I was concerned that I wouldn’t have any good movies for my monthly post to discuss because I watched too many bad films. It did work out in the end; here’s the list of suggested watchings, as well as the ones you can dodge.
Ones to Watch
Ones to Dodge
Some of the bad movies were due in part to Criterion Streaming leading the month with a curation devoted to the Razzies, and early on, I watched Cocktail (1988), a film I’d never seen as a kid but experienced vicariously through its poster, which continues to rattle around in a dusty recess of my brain. I was unsurprised the film was rife with toxic male behavior, mobs of female patrons drooling for that behavior, a panopticon-styled bar where wardens are the bartenders, blood-soaked boats, and over-written dialogue about aglets (the do-dads on the end of shoelaces) – that circles around them without ever identifying them by their proper name, and the discussion of which that served as a thematic stand in for a type of American success; i.e., think of that stupid thing that no one else has and retire. It’s not unlike Cocktail itself, the 8th highest-grossing movie of 1988. I had a long discussion with ChatGPT about the film and—somewhat sadly—read its claim that the tone-deaf montage set to the Beach Boys’ “Kokomo” was memorable. If anyone ever uses GPT to write something about Cocktail, I only hope it will cannibalize the information I’ve provided here to make a better word cocktail than Cocktail.
It quickly became apparent, however, after watching a couple of other Razzie awardees, that a Razzie can both be a signifier for a bad film or a misunderstood one within the contextual conversation of its moment, which brings me first to Freddy Got Fingered (1995). I doubt that defenders of this film will ever outweigh its detractors, but if a movie was ever ripe for a Lacanian analysis, this is it. Though it is easy to lump Tom Green alongside the likes of Jackass, his brand of humor was never populist, nor did he necessarily revel in his showmanship, he wallowed in it to the point that it became an absurd performance piece. The Bum Bum Song (“Lonely Swedish”) was purely an exercise in seeing how stupid something could be and still get traction while simultaneously squandering any goodwill Green had tapped into. Accordingly, Green went away; Jackass, on the other hand, became a brand. I saw Green’s mailed-in performance in Road Trip (2000) when that movie came out and thought Freddy was something along these Hollywood-ized lines. It’s not, and it’s baffling to imagine how this film was unleashed on the mainstream. What truly makes the film excellent, though, is Rip Torn, who plays Green’s father in the movie. If anyone can be a foil to Green, it’s Torn, not the barking cantankerous caricature he is known for playing, but the national treasure he is for hitting Norman Mailer in the head with a hammer in Maidstone (1970).
If Freddy Got Fingered isn’t for everyone, then Ishtar (1987), another Razzie winner, is, and while maybe not the unsung masterpiece that some have since claimed it to be, it is a work of art that has been unjustly maligned – and even worse – a film who’s irresponsible zeitgeist conversation irreparably damaged Elaine May’s brilliant career. Popular culture had me ignorantly operating under the assumption that this was the trashcan of filmmaking: bloated, pretentious, formless – but it was anything but. It’s hilarious, and I laughed and laughed at every turn, twist, and beautifully insipid beat; the performances are lovely, the direction is deft, the tone is unique, and not unlike Freddy Got Fingered, it is a film that can be understood as a pointed critique of the populist structuring of reality that Hollywood has too often traded on at the box office. Do yourself a favor if you were ignorant like me, and watch Ishtar. Even better, watch it with good friends and have some good laughs. It’s a film that deserves your appreciation.
Two other duds that weren’t even Razzies but for which I held high hopes were Crimson Peak (2015) and Someone to Watch Over Me (1987). Minus Crimson Peak’s aesthetic, which was very pretty and reminded me at points of Caelid in Elden Ring, the movie became a contentless exercise in style over substance. Accents were terrible, character motivation was zero, and in terms of story, don’t ask me; I thoroughly checked out until the somewhat entertaining bloody and snowy finale. It was a repeat performance with Someone to Watch Over Me. Sure, there was a Blade Runner (1982) feel to the film, but that doesn’t make it good, especially when everything else is uninteresting, bland, or just plain weird, like the giant party of cops at the top of the tale. Then there’s the central character, played by Tom Berenger, who seems to have a great and happy life until, on a total whim, he decides to cheat on his wife (Lorraine Bracco) after staring at the nape of Mimi Rogers’s neck for a bit. I’m not joking. I rewatched this scene again this morning, and you see Berenger make the acting decision of, “Guess I have to ruin my great happy marriage and sleep with this person because I cannot short circuit my primal inclinations with reason or logic.” My wife commented that he must be the worst or dumbest cop ever. Accurate. It wasn’t a total loss, though. I did laugh a couple of times during the movie: at the sound effect that was used when Bracco punches Berenger in the face, which sounded like a slab of meat getting smacked by a two-by-four, and then during a rain sequence, where the non-diegetic soundtrack features a saxophone, and then the photography shows a saxophone player on the opposite side of the street playing along in sync with the score. I love the sax, but this was not at all saxy.
However, the most disappointing movie I saw was The Bloody Judge (1970). I can’t even recommend Christopher Lee in the film, which might be classified somewhere between a historical epic about George Jeffreys, “the Hanging Judge”, and a sordid, squeamish exploitation picture. Assembled in some suspect supercut fashion out of elements sourced from multiple countries, everything about this was dreadful. Scenes never ended (they only slogged on, unjudged in some bloody purgatory), costumes looked like torn sheets, and the horror was less inspired than a sleazy haunted hay ride.
Thankfully, things did look up at the end of the month. The best film I rewatched was To Die For (1995). It was a delight with its commentary on media (McLuhan’s ideas loom large), innovative filmmaking, incredible cast, and twisting story. Around this time, I also had two decent theatre experiences, once to see John Waters speak and the second to see Friday Foster (1975) with a Q&A after with Pam Grier. I had no idea the Friday Foster starred Yaphet Kotto and Eartha Kitt, and I was thrilled to see them both. Grier’s Q&A was lively, and it was cool to hear her mention Corman. Water’s was fun as well. Though there was no film, he did give a small shout-out to Beach House (my favorite band), who, after they made it, set up shop permanently in Baltimore. Other highlights included a story of Divine’s mother picking up Divine and Waters and then commenting on something Divine was wearing looking like Jackie O’. To this, Divine venomously responded, “I am Jackie O’.” It was a fantastic show, reminding me how much we need people like Waters.
My discovery of the month was Dream Demon (1988). Like Lemora: A Child’s Tale of the Supernatural (1973), it is the type of film I wait for, wade through countless bad films in search of, and hope to discover. The Dream Demon(s) out there make it all worth it. While easily dismissible as A Nightmare on Elm Sreet (1984) knock-off, Dream Demon is not. The dream sequences are incredibly well executed, and even on a second rewatch, it was sometimes hard for me to pinpoint where dream time kicked in. The shots and lighting were consistently engaging, and while there were some spectacular practical effects, there was also the use of some simple effects like superimpositions and blurred motion deployed in narratively engaging manners. What I loved most about the film—its plot aside, which is convoluted at best—was the experience of the film itself. It ultimately becomes about two friends running from one insane dream sequence to the next and, rather awesomely, getting to enact bonkers stuff themselves in the dreams. I wish there were more movies like this, films that went off the rails with exciting and fun characters and structures.
