All posts by Louis Fowler

Kitchen Sink

Butterfly (1982)

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It’s hard to believe there was a time when the name Pia Zadora was on everyone’s quivering lips. For one moment in history, she was lauded as our nation’s highest female ideal, a growth-stunted pixie with a mischievous, Lolita-esque twinkle in her eye. She was the Megan Fox of her time — a time when our country was less judgmental about its objects of sexual fantasies. Today, she’s nothing more than another cultural oddity, a punch-line name best left for Trivial Pursuit questions and cameos in John Waters flicks, but she got her masterpiece in the Depression-era, depression-inducing melodrama Butterfly.

Zadora is the bee-stung-lipped Kady, a seductively wanton tween who surprises her estranged pop, Jess (Stacy Keach), one afternoon and proceeds to turn his life upside down as she offers him her own downside up. Yes, she teaches this gruff loner to love again — not in the life-affirming, “I want to be a better father!” kind of way, but more in the “I want to massage my daughter’s nubile breasts while I bathe her!” kind of way. To Kady and Jess, incest is the best way to pass time as they mine for ill-gotten silver. I personally would’ve just stuck to singing old slave spirituals, but then again, Zadora isn’t my nympho daughter.

Orson Welles shows up as a drunken judge and bloats all over the screen, delivering a wonderfully unintelligible performance that is so bitter and careless and drunk on Paul Masson, I doubt he knew the cameras were rolling. But maybe that’s just Matt Cimber’s charmingly free-flowing directorial style which, coincidentally, made him the Razzies’ pick for worst director that year. (That’s okay, Matt, the Razzies have been the stupidest award show since … well, ever. Consider the source.)

Watching Butterfly, you’re filled with wistful visions of Zadora’s unrealized promise. I say it’s about time for this little spitfire’s comeback, if only for a feature-length realization of her post-apocalyptic video for “When the Rain Begins to Fall.” I’m sure Jermaine Jackson would be down for it. And probably Cimber, too. —Louis Fowler

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Comedy

Soul Plane (2004)

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So I just saw Soul Plane, aka Let’s See How Far We Can Set the Civil Rights Movement Back and Throw Tom Arnold in There as Well: Da Movie!

In a premise that makes the Wayans brothers’ White Chicks look like Roots, a lovable loser (Kevin Hart) whose dog is sucked in to the propeller while he gets diarrhea on an airplane, sues and is awarded $500 kajillion. Therefore, along with his cousin, Method Man, he opens the first black-themed airline.

It kind of sounds like Airplane!, and I feel like it earnestly tries to be, but it’s so bogged down in its own ineptitude that it just becomes an exercise in pure tedium. Not even John Witherspoon (the dad from Friday) could get a laugh out of me. The jokes are all pretty much unfunny shit-and-ass gags and the aforementioned Arnold is a guy named Mr. Hunkee (pronounced “honky”). That’s about as clever as it gets, folks.

Snoop Dogg takes over the Peter Graves role, but we get no classic lines like “Do you like movies about gladiators, Billy?” Instead, Snoop smokes some weed. Surprise! There was some actual potential in this idea, but as my date said, it seemed more like a “made-for-UPN movie.” And I’m surprised it weren’t. —Louis Fowler

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Sci-Fi & Fantasy

Almighty Thor (2011)

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As fun as Marvel’s big-screen Thor is, you can always rely on The Asylum to make a movie that’s more fun, even if only in terms of sheer cinematic insanity. For a few years now, these straight-to-video kingpins have been churning out “mockbusters,” suspiciously similar, low-budget rip-offs (for lack of a better word) of current blockbuster theatrical releases. Did you like Transformers? You’ll love Transmorphers! Did Paranormal Activity give you the shivers? Paranormal Entity will make you crap your pants!

Almighty Thor, a mind-numbingly loco version of the classic Norse myths, features a pale, menacing Richard Grieco as Loki, and in the world’s biggest middle finger to classically trained actors like Anthony Hopkins, former wrestler Kevin Nash as Odin. The Thor depicted here is far from Chris Hemsworth’s muscle-bound hero; instead he’s a whiny, petulant, wannabe warrior prone to crying jags. Lots of them. Every time anything goes the slightest bit wrong, Thor starts to weep and emote and hang his head low, usually forcing the bo staff-flinging Jarnsaxa (Patricia Velasquez) to take up the slack and dispatch of whatever CGI baddies come their way.

Loki escapes from Hell with a handful of dragon dogs and heads up to Asgard, which, awesomely enough, looks a lot like the lush forests of Southern California. He wants the Hammer of Invincibility — basically a sharp rock tied to a stick — so he can rule the world, or at least a cost-effective portion of it. Odin gets his ass slayed, and the Hammer is sent to another dimension. Thor must man up and find the Hammer in modern-day California alleyways. He’s taught how to use a Uzi and … well, that’s something I’ve always wanted to see my entire life. God bless you, The Asylum. Monsters attack the city, Thor forges a new Hammer, and Grieco gets to eat for another week.

Cody Deal manages to be the greatest and worst Thor of all-time, giving such an emotionally chaotic performance that it should be studied by drama students for years. Then again, you need such a stirring performance for a movie that plays like a pre-teen’s creative writing assignment, a piece of Thor fan fiction that is so wildly creative and tonally manic that, if given to a school counselor to read, the kid surely would be prescribed some sort of ADHD drug.

Oh, yeah: It’s directed by Christopher Douglas-Olen Ray, son of legendary B-movie director Fred Olen Ray. There’s gotta be something in the genes, because dude’s every bit the mad genius his dad is. Maybe together they can make their own mockbuster superhero crossover? I look forward to seeing Metal-Head, Gamma-Beast, Sgt. Patriot and the Almighty Thor coming together in Vindicator Force 3000. Don’t let me down, The Asylum! —Louis Fowler

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Comedy

Gold (1972)

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Watching, absorbing and trying to stay awake during Gold, you not only realize why Kent State happened, but why it was also fully justified. As a matter of fact, I was so charged up after viewing this musty, shot-in-1968 relic that I went down to my local college campus and shot three kids playing Hacky Sack.

Okay, not really, but I did kick their sack into the sewer just to spite them, and to spite this movie. Like many lost-film obsessives, when word hit that Gold was going to get a proper DVD release, I was excited, picturing an Alejandro Jodorowsky-lite countercultural epic, possibly a pre-indie, all-hippie take on the well-documented American Dream of the ’60s, complete with multicolored acid trips, psych-rock freak-outs and plenty of flower-power pubic hair. At least that’s what I was promised, dammit.

Instead, I got a fifth-rate group of stoned community theater rejects/draft-dodgers — led by “comedian” Del Close — dressed as famed mass-murderer Che Guevara, rolling around in the mud while espousing anti-war sentiments and aimlessly driving sputtering jalopies. Improvised elections are held on a train, The MC5 blares on the soundtrack, and everyone remains happily unemployable. If this is what the young people were doing while our boys were dying face-down in the Vietnam jungles, sign me up to the Ohio National Guard and hand me a bayonet!

With no rhyme, reason or proper editing techniques, it’s as if the school from Billy Jack made a movie and decided to write the screenplay after the thing was already in theaters. Never clever, funny nor enlightening, Gold is a total, unwatchable mess. It’s the Altamont of free-love flicks with every frame a pool cue to Meredith Hunter’s skull. And this Del Close guy: In every book about comedy, every tastemaker to come out of Second City or The Groundlings raves on and on about this so-called “father of improvisational comedy” as “the funniest man you’ve never heard of.” If Gold is any inclination of his talents, there’s a reason for that.

Gold: You blew it, man. —Louis Fowler

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Sex

Aphrodisiac!: The Sexual Secret of Marijuana (1971)

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Is marijuana an aphrodisiac? While I know some women who would easily fellate you for a dime-sack of high-quality, hydroponic sticky-icky with no hesitation, I have a feeling that has more to do with low self-esteem and the lack of a positive male role model than it does any type of magically seductive ingredient laced within those tenderly pungent pot buds.

Sadly, I personally have never been privy to such THC-leazy doings — although it hasn’t been for a lack of trying — nor have I ever been to a swanky cocktail party wherein a joint is casually passed around and eventual inhalation of the demon weed leads to a spontaneously nude encounter group session wherein pock-faced, fully-bushed cuties are told to stare at your bathing-suit area and gently caress your mons pubis, as I am repeatedly promised in this 1971 sexploitation relic.

Sorry, Aphrodisiac!: The Sexual Secret of Marijuana, but while you dubiously proclaim that cannabis is an ancient sexual enticer that will lead even the most frigid broad to drop trou and let you plow, in my experience, it’s typically just two or three dudes chafing it up on a Goodwill couch, barely watching Aqua Teen Hunger Force and, almost ritualistically, going to sleep, alone, with a belly full of Salsa Verde Doritos, depressed they can’t even maintain the most pathetic of erections for some tearful self-stimulation before passing out to side one of Jefferson Starship’s Red Octopus.

Your visual dissertation just doesn’t hold (bong) water, Aphrodisiac! It does, however, hold other, thicker fluids. While I’m sure in their heart-of-hearts, the filmmakers thought they were presenting a strong case for the use of marijuana as a sexual aid, all that hard work and scientific research is pretty much lost entirely the first moment onscreen penetration occurs between two of the saddest, most unphotogenic, low-rent porn actors the Bowery-based modeling agency could rustle up.

And, you know, I kinda liked that, actually. The idea of a director trotting out to the nearest homeless shelter, paying a belligerent morphine addict $10 to mime the most reptilian of sexual encounters with an equally uninterested, possibly dead hooker, using every diseased thrust as an opportunity to feel something other than the lifetime of mind-numbing regret and stomach-growling hunger … well, that’s some sexy shit. It makes me feel like a shadowy Italian businessman who just paid $5,000 to sit in a hotel room with other equally shadowy businessman — mostly Japanese — to watch a Bolivian snuff flick. I’m sure we can all relate. —Louis Fowler

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