Said many times by many people, I am a rapturous apologist for many movies that most people consider “bad,” “unwatchable” or “sheer slights against God.”

After all, one person’s trash can be another person’s treasure and, many times, I can find a sliver of gold among the absolute dreck, especially that irregular drumbeat plaguing rock-music films like Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, The Who’s Tommy or Can’t Stop the Music.

That being said, Who’s That Girl is complete shit by all accounts and, sadly, I totally agree. Although not her film debut, it became the absolute model of motion pictures to be associated with Madonna and, after 92 minutes, I can see why.

With her constantly braying, ample whines and a high-pitched squeaky-voice that screams “Ain’t I a bad gurl?” to the masses, this modicum of lame humor ingrates from the very beginning. The cartoon opening credits set up Madonna’s whimsical character, who will take stuffed-shirt Griffin Dunne into will-they-or-won’t-they pieces for the movie’s duration, all of them forced and vapid.

Dunne is assigned to get Madonna, a newly released jailbird, on a bus to get some evidence to exonerate her character. On the way, though, she participates in shoplifting and other criminal activities, including buying weapons on the black market and taking charge of an endangered wildcat that, I believe, she doesn’t once feed.

All the while, she speaks in a stupid inflection that’s like nails on a chalkboard.

Now, to be honest, I truly liked Susan Seidelman’s Desperately Seeking Susan when it premiered on HBO, and I also was somewhat enamored with Madonna’s rotating videos on classic MTV … but following it up with the one-two cinematic punch of Shanghai Surprise and Who’s That Girl was too much, even for me.

As a director, James Foley has had a few hits like the Madonna-soundtracked At Close Range and Glengarry Glen Ross, but also misses like Marky Mark’s Fear or Chow Yun-Fat and Marky Mark’s The Corruptor. Turns out, screwball comedy is not in his wheelhouse; hopefully, he burned that wheelhouse down to the ground.

Madonna had her recording career to fall back on, but she’s only part of the problem. Lead actor Dunne (After Hours) is just as blameworthy, because he should had known better. Unacceptable!

While the soundtrack has a few toe-tappers — especially “Causing a Commotion” and the title track — the movie really is one of the worst in the world. Even I can’t come up with a case for it! Playing like a screwball comedy without the screws or the balls, this is not a Girl I want to find. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

When a group of bikers kill an occultist during a satanic ritual, the occultist transfers his spirit into a damaged motorcycle left behind by the bikers, creating the titular vehicle. Why is the occultist’s spirit a vampire? “Why not?” the filmmakers retort. This movie isn’t exactly meant to make sense so much as make you laugh and entertain you, goals it achieves in spades.

Written by Mycal Miller and John Wolskel, and directed by Dirk Campbell, I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle centers on Noddy (Neil Morrissey), who buys the possessed bike, unaware of its vampiric tendencies. Noddy lives with his girlfriend (Amanda Noar), whom he lies to about its price, establishing their relationship as totally healthy.

The motorcycle’s first victim is Noddy’s friend Buzzer (Daniel Peacock), who steals its fuel cap for unknown reasons (perhaps he’s simply a kleptomaniac?). The motorcycle doesn’t take kindly to this theft, and makes a bloody mess of Buzzer in retribution. This leads Noddy to contact Inspector Cleaver (Michael Elphick), a man who reeks of garlic — a gag that, without giving too much away, pays off in the end). It also leads to a nightmare Noddy has about Buzzer and a talking turd (really).

It should be clear Vampire Motorcycle is more comedy than horror, but that doesn’t mean it’s lacking in horror elements. Namely, the film is super gory, as the bloodsucking bike racks up a higher body count than Christine or any other possessed-vehicle movie could ever dream of. It also features an ass-kicking priest played by C-3PO himself, Anthony Daniels, that predates Peter Jackson’s iteration of the character in Braindead (aka Dead Alive) by two years. If you’re a fan of that film, as well as the Evil Dead movies — or any other pictures that trade in splatter for laughs — you’ll no doubt love I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle. —Christopher Shultz

Get it at Amazon.

Looking like Oscar the Grouch made from your Memaw’s discarded fur coat, an alien named Chuck lands in the backyard of the Howie Jankins family. Chuck’s made this pilgrimage to save the human race because he says Earth is up for auction to the highest celestial bidder. He simply needs to swap bodies with Howie (Chillerama’s Ward Roberts, dressed in full Bespoke Church Bro mode) for a couple of hours to secure the planet.

Simple, right? Not when Chuck’s also being pursued by a dreadlocked conspiracy theorist/influencer (Sarah Lassez, The Clown at Midnight), a religious nut from animal control (Jeremiah Birkett, CB4) and two nitwit intergalactic bounty hunters (Office Space’s Richard Riehle and The Mortuary Collection’s Mike C. Nelson) in — wait for it — Hawaiian shirts! Ho-ho, let the wackiness begin! 

Despite its kid-unfriendly title, Invaders from Proxima B is a family-friendly sci-fi comedy, what with its cartoon sequences, ninja lizards and the ALF-esque Chuck. As Proxima’s writer and director, Roberts overloads his passion project with lowest-hanging-fruit jokes on farts, poop and Howie’s wife (Samantha Sloyan, 2016’s Hush) having boobs. I don’t mean to imply the movie is offensive; it’s not.

But it is strikingly unfunny. Like the puppet at its hollow center, Invaders bares no teeth. While its attempt at satirizing YouTubers suggests an intended bite, the overall comedic vibe is physical and slapstick. When Chuck and Howie swap bodies, Roberts’ worst impulses to manifest Jim Carrey circa 1994 are not only realized, but cringe-inducing.

Rugrats might be more open to such silliness, as well as the effects and action — well-staged, if a bit too Sam Raimi-cribbed. However, children also may be confused trying to keep track of all the swapping, as everybody trades bodies with everybody else. It’s like the movie’s grooming youngsters for key parties.

That last line’s a joke, to be clear. But this is not: In terms of enjoyment, I expected Proxima B to at least surpass Nukie. That shouldn’t be so much to ask. —Rod Lott

Even if you’re a such a cryptid-cinema completist that you’ve subjected yourself to the likes of Bigfoot Goes to Hell or Bigfoot vs. D.B. Cooper, I guarantee you’ve never encountered a Bigfoot movie quite like Sasquatch Sunset. I say this already having seen the one in which he goes hog-wild at a nudist camp, the one where his nipple inflates from excitement and the one where he tears off a urinating man’s penis.

From indie-pic iconoclasts David and Nathan Zeller (Kumiko, the Treasure Hunter), the film depicts a year in the life of a four-member family of skunk apes. No dialogue is spoken beyond grunts and howls as they go about their way, foraging for food and shelter, and stumbling into one strange, dangerous situation after another.

Only two bits stretched too far into sketch comedy, like mimicking humans’ cellphone usage with a turtle standing in for the tech. Otherwise, ignoring the laws of nature dictate the shenanigans. It’s as if the “Dawn of Man” prologue in 2001: A Space Odyssey were remade as a ribald comedy. Mel Brooks’ History of the World, Part I took first crack by opening with Kubrick’s apes masturbating; the Zellners expand that into feature-length, covering all the bases of bodily functions.

It’s filthy, funny and — not referring to bowels here — oddly, oddly moving. To say such a style will polarize audiences is an understatement. Decidedly unconventional rather than experimental, Sasquatch Sunset is likely to prompt a flood of early walkouts. Whenever I witness such a hasty response — e.g., at every Paul Thomas Anderson or David Lynch screening — I consider it a badge of honor for the film. Congrats, Zellners! You’re in excellent company.

Expertly selling the inhuman illusion, the actors disappear behind first-rate makeup and prosthetics, to such a degree that I couldn’t determine whether Jesse Eisenberg (Now You See Me) or Nathan Zellner played the patriarch. No ID issue exists with Riley Keough (2019’s The Lodge) or Christophe Zajac-Denek (Tales of Halloween), respectively being the only woman and little person among the quartet. Each is excellent, gelling as a true ensemble.

Technically, the landscape shots are stunning, thanks to Oscar-worthy cinematography from Michael Gioulakis (2019’s Us). In its sixth screen collaboration with the Zellners, The Octopus Project delivers a beautiful score that, while different from the Texas trio’s alt-electronic albums, is no less melodic.

Detest Sasquatch Sunset all you wish — and many will — but its enigmatic energy clicked with me right away. The best moment arrives in a final shot that conveys irony, craft and an otherworldly power that registers that deadpan frame as an all-time great. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Director Gus Van Sant was on the top of the film world in the 1990s, with the semi-wistful Good Will Hunting heralding a true rags-to-riches story. Then, the 1998 shot-for-shot/pretension-to-pretension remake of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho barreled its way though the floppish door, with its brain-numbing thunderclouds, bleating sheep and other l’artiste touches.

So, yeah, I didn’t like the lousy remake.

But I was pretty much in love with Van Sant’s early work, especially To Die For. I saw it opening night in 1995, mostly because I was hoping to score some time with a private school girl I was very smitten with. Of course, she stood me up — I was a 15-year-old jerk who invited girls to Van Sant movies because I liked My Own Private Idaho and Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. (To be fair, I think my Film Threat subscription had more to do with my fandom.)

Even sitting alone in the movie theater, I recall really liking the movie. Why wouldn’t I? Not only was it Van Sant’s new flick, but I also liked the Buck Henry script and, even more, I was entranced with the style of tabloid journalism that started with O.J. Simpson, Tonya Harding and Lorena Bobbitt. (Boy, no wonder I was often alone at the movies. *tear*)

In the black comedy, we meet the über-perky Suzanne Stone (the únter-perky Nicole Kidman). She is obsessed with being a “famous” television journalist. Told in flashback form, her life plays out like a John Waters movie with an L.A. snarky edge.

Suzanne believes the self-empowerment mantras about how television is the one great provider — one that doesn’t mesh with her new husband, Larry (Matt Dillon). Over the year, she becomes consumed with making it big, sans Larry. Soon, she finds a trio of white-trash true believers (including a young Joaquin Phoenix) in her cause, and she creates a teen cult of prepubescent murderers.

Being the near-spiritual dry run to Alexander Payne’s Election, To Die For is revelatory for the sleazy ticks and upselling tricks that now seem commonplace with reality TV becoming the status quo. Although things were different on 1995, To Die For is still a prescient movie. That being said, the one actor who holds it together is Phoenix, with Kidman and Dillion being too cartoonishly evil and dumb, respectively. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.