You gotta admire a filmmaker with a record as perfect as Rod Amateau’s. Between 1970 and 1987, the former TV sitcom director made eight movies, all of which are awful. Beginning with Pussycat, Pussycat, I Love You (a What’s New Pussycat? “sequel” I personally wouldn’t know existed, if not for the IMDb) and ending with The Garbage Pail Kids Movie, his filmography serves as an impressive tribute to failure (I mean, I haven’t even mentioned 1978’s Son of Hitler).
So when I say that Lovelines is probably the best film he made, that probably shouldn’t be taken as an endorsement. Fact is, Lovelines sucks. Hard. But by managing not to make me never want to see another film ever again, it has to be consider Amateau’s greatest triumph. It’s another Romeo and Juliet take-off, with the Montagues and Capulets traded in for rival bands, The Firecats (all hot chicks) and The Racers (all dudes), from feuding high schools. Serving as their priest is promoter/manager/hustler/entrepreneur Michael “Police AcademyPolice Academy sound-effects guy” Winslow, who runs the vague communication service that gives the movie its nonsensical title.
Beyond Winslow, the rest of the characters comprise an amazingly forgettable lot that range from the bland to the obnoxious to the blandly obnoxious. The fact that there isn’t a human alive capable of giving a fuck about its two lovelorn protagonists (Days of Our Lives’ Mary Beth Evans and Skatetown USA’s Greg Bradford) definitely hurts the central romance, which takes up the bulk of the third act.
Fortunately, a work like Lovelines easily can be redeemed by a decent soundtrack. Unfortunately, the music the rival bands play is so joylessly rote, your ears are incapable of even registering it. When Joe Esposito contributes the least-instantly dated song to a soundtrack, you know you’re in trouble.
In summary: For Amateau completests, Lovelines will serve as a welcome respite after the misery of The Statue and Where Does It Hurt?, but for everyone else, it’ll make you want to kick William Shakespeare in the nuts. —Allan Mott