The Gospel According to Prisco

The Casualties of Retail

Saw this one at the DGA.  There was a steady flow of chuckles burbling up from the folks in the crowd.  It was the best terrible movie I’ve ever seen, even when things were stupid they were good.  Go figure.   Definitely a renter.  

I figured this’d be a limited comment column.  And to the first question posted:  I guess the fact that the action takes place in a grocery store probably escaped you, but yeah, totally, I’m a great big fat body.  Just tremendously huge.  

When You’re Building Your Own Creation, There’s Nothing Better than a Real Imitation

It’s Classics Week at Pajiba, and we’ve been handling the 1970’s.  It’s been an impressive listing, but I had to put forward my favorite Mel Brooks film of all time.

When she was a kid, Higginbottom watched this movie pretty much every week for a couple years.  We got a chance to meet Gene Wilder (he was made of candy) when he came to the Barnes and Noble to sign his book, My French Whore.  He’s been through a bout with the Big C, and he looks worse for the wear, but he’s still such a warm guy.  It was so incredible to meet him.

Hop on over to the Jiba to give it a gander.

I’m Tired Of Your Bitchin’ About What’s In My Kitchen
I went to see this screening on Friday night, which was the Los Angeles premiere at the Laemmle Sunset 5.  I love the Laemmle Theatres, because they screen all the independents, and not just the Oscar darlings or the ones getting a little boost, but pretty much anything.  

Most of the cast was there, but of course I didn’t know that.  I found myself making idle crowd chitchat with a dude who later in the movie stood in a graveyard clutching and axe and jerking off with what I sincerely hope is a rubber cock.  In fact, since I got there early, I tried walking in, and who should I come across but Lloyd Kaufman himself, who looks vaguely like Mel Brooks in his heyday.  I said, “Hey, I just read your book.  It was fascinating.”  He said, “Thank you.  I’m writing another one, you should read that!” 

The crowd was pretty much what you’d expect for a Troma crowd.  Overweight goth girls and guys in tight pants that they shouldn’t have been wearing, hipsters fresh from their shifts at Amoeba, with their plaid hats and ironic t-shirts, pierced freaks and tattooed oddities.  My people.  We were trying desperately to make our way in the theater but we were turned away repeatedly by the manager. 

Eli Roth was there, and his street cred immediately went up in my eyes.  He wasn’t making a big deal of himself, he was there to see the movie and support his friends.  Apparently, his brother, Gabe, and the screenwriter, Gabe Friedman, used to work at a fried chicken restaurant back east, where one of the Gabe’s stuck his dick in mashed potatoes and the other fucked a chicken.  He became obsessed with the concept of zombie chickens, and thus the film was born.  Also, neat fact, Eli Roth originally tried to pitch Cabin Fever to Troma, but they rejected him, for various reasons.  But this makes Eli’s entire career make perfect sense.  He’s essentially trying to make big budget Troma films, hence the scenes with big breasted gals shaving the skin off their legs in a backwoods bathtub. 

I love Troma films for what they are, which is the kind of movie where you get drunk with friends and laugh and cackle at all the grossness.  The special effects kids said they made over 30 gallons of blood and various fluids each day for the shoot.  It shows.  This one was easily the finest film, while maintaining all the glorious Troma insider jokes.  The Toxic Avenger and Sergeant Kabukiman made brief cameos.  The Penis Monster from Tromeo and Juliet made an appearance, only this time as a beaked critter.  The giant triffid pod larva looking deal was also in this, standing in for a freshly fucked chicken. Joe Fleischman, the 500 pound legend, played Jared from Subway, and I have now seen a side of him that I never want to see again.  It was the only time I’ve ever seen censor bars across a Troma film.  They even used the car-flipping accident that appears in every one of their movies, and it was just as funny this time.  And yes, Virginia, someone done got their head stomped.

It was such a family atmosphere, it was brilliant.  The love that these people feel for Lloyd Kaufman, and the love he gives back is awe-inspiring.  Here’s a guy who is constantly fighting to get his shitty little pictures made and sold.  He fights for all independent filmmakers, and even purchases non-Troma films for distribution.  And he truly is a lecherous old man.  He was hitting on all the nubile young girls, and would only call on any woman who raised her hand. 

I’m really curious to see what this means for Troma, because I truly feel that this could be a huge breakthrough hit on the level of The Toxic Avenger for the studio.  There will be no sequel, but it shows that they’ve gotten to a point where they can get talented actors, they can get a decent script, and the climate is right for online, gore-filled distribution.  Blockbuster can’t use their cock-blocking non-rated powers anymore to stop Troma from getting seen. 

Anyway, it will not play a theatre near you, but do rent it and watch it.  You’ll be disgusted.   

I Get No Kick From Champagne

Back in the ol’ Hangover Theatre saddle for a time.  I decided on the Transporter duo, enjoyed by Higginbottom, and available at Target in a gift box for 9.99, thanks to the inability of people to figure out what to get their fathers for Father’s Day.

I’m pretty sure my wise cohort TK will agree (even though we’re currently fighting until Sunday — when the Celtics twist the knife), Hangover Theatre’s are infinitely more fun to write than straight-up reviews (where he opts for classic and I opt for spastic), because you get to pander directly to the audience.  And pander I do. 

I can’t help I’m a shameless attention whore.  But, this weekend, I get a rare treat.  I finally get the cinematic equivalent of  NOFX record, or TK’s glorious review of Zombie Strippers.  I get to do the Troma films, Poultrygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead.

I Don’t Have A Problem Wit You Fuckin’ Me, But I Have A Little Problem Wit You Not Fuckin’ Me

I expounded on my review from here for Pajiba, and filled it with a lot more profanity.  Finally, I have commenters deriding my use of naughty words.  Particularly fuck.  In a review of a book about a woman who tries to break the gangbang record.  And they think that MY review is dirtier than the book. 

Bwhahahahaha!  Oh, my god, that’s so fucking rich, it just has to be fattening.

Actually (mini-tirade) the commenters on Pajiba have been rather douchey as of late.  We sort of traded in the whole “constant flirtation on sex and zombies” for “trolls bitching about everything”.  I know, complaining about people being bitchy and snarky on a website that’s tagline is “Scathing Reviews for Bitchy People” is kinda of like yelling at a retarded kid for being retarded.  Or President for two terms.  But it’s this weird vibe that’s made me not want to mark it up with my usually scintillating commentary.  You know, the fart jokes, and sexist diatribes.  Which is doubly unfortunate, since I’ve been honored with the task of picking the ten best comments of the week each week.  

Anyway, Snuff blew like donkey porn.  Or you can read my profanity laden rage over at the Jiba.

I Be Tossin, Enforcin, My Style is Awesome

Do not worry about supporting the all-encompassing cup of this film, for it is merely the heralding of what shall come with Judd Apatow et al for the future of comedy.   But if you want to see what you’ve got coming down the pike, in the name of facepunchery, it’s all yours.

Sometimes I Try To Do Things And They Just Don’t Turn Out The Way I Wanted To

That’s right, chilluns.  I gots to review Postal up at Pajiba.  And to be truthful and honest, I really, really, really wanted to like this.  I own the motherfucking videogame.  Right before the screening, I went back to the Paradise Mall and shot up Gary Coleman in his tiny white Scarface suit.  

One thing I forgot to mention in the review that’s been garnering most of the controversy is the scene with the cat silencer.  The Postal Dude sticks a gun up a cat’s ass and uses it as a silencer to shoot one of the Taliban in the head.  I hadn’t realized that people tossed such a hissyfit because frankly, that’s direct from the videogame.  You use cats as silencers.  They don’t die afterwards, which is even funnier.  In a game full of horrible things, including gunning down your own dog because you step in the dogshit, they keep the cat alive.  Actually, Boll actively made the choice to keep the cat alive after it gets used as a muffler.  So if anything he was avoiding PETA levels of tormenet.  

I just want him to remember that when he’s punching me later.  

I’m Bad! I’m Bad. You Know It. You Know.

Kudos to Mister Ritzen for the killer title.  Trying to find the appropriate song lyric can be difficult.  That pretty much summed it up.  I was going to call it SYT (Shitty Young Thing) but that would violate the sanctity of my spirit.

Also, I figure I’ve already riled up enough Pajibans with my defense of Romero, when I went and slammed Harmony Korine.  I know, beating up on Harmony Korine for making a terrible movie is like yelling at a fat kid for eating birthday cake.  It’s just going to happen.  Those words, and probably zombies since I’ll have no busty AlabamaPink to protect me, will come back to bite me in the ass.

Anyway, fuck Harmony Korine in the eye.

Boredom’s Not A Burden Anyone Should Bear

I really wished this movie was better.  But it had been shelved for two years, after taking four years to shoot.  I just didn’t care for it. 

I Am A Man Who Will Fight For Your Honor

The latest review is up at Pajiba.  This was the middle feature in our three movie-adventure day at The Grove.  It was sandwiched nicely between Iron Man and Forgetting Sarah Marshall. 

David Mamet does an arthouse movie about mixed-martial arts.  Or as I cleverly describe it, martial artsy-fartsy.