schlockvalue-blog

[schlockvalue-blog]

Schlock Value, Issue #2: Jersey Shore Shark Attack (2012)

Step over Speilberg and fuck off Jaws, your shit may be all classic and shit but bro, it ain’t got the abs this bitch is packin’.

An underwater mining exercise sends shockwaves through the water and calling a bunch of red eyed albino sharks of constantly changing design out of a cave barely dick deep in the waters off the coast of Jersey Shore, calling out like a proud stay at home mom that dinner’s ready, and Italian and silicon is on the menu.

This shit kicks off with as much patience as the cast has for keeping their shirts on — introducing the lip pouting cast with not a shred of subtlety. Winks and nudges all around as the filmmakers elbow you in the ribs for the next fifteen minutes, proudly spouting quick “Aye? Aaaaaye?” The lead Gueidette of this motley crew rocking up early with a license plate reading “Nooki”. Subtle is hardly the name of the game though, it’s all on display — literally — as the dude are muscle bound and the chicks ‘muscles’ less bound…“Aye? Aaaaaye?”.

Nooki kicks off confronting her skeezing ex-boi, “The Complication” (Aaaaaye?) the night after what this white suburban boy can only assume was a maaaaan rager bro. Red cups ahoy. Setting up a Boiz vs Bitches dynamic that spans most of the film. The Complication and his boiz Donnie and Balzac just want to enjoy waxing each other up, flexing all day and solving their need for some “serious A.S.S.: Alcohol, Sun, and Sex”. A noble venture. God speed boiz. The babes on the other hands are all about gettin’ their independent girl power on, proving they don’t need no man. Jersey Shore Shark Attack, tackling the big issues. Herein lies one massive fucking fuck up of the film. Not a single one of the Jersey Shore ripoff characters gets turned into chum by the horde of sharks turning their shore into a buffet. Let’s just rip that bandaid off early. See now, who the fuck is watching this not hoping to tune in and see Guido mince meat sprayed across their screen? The film makes a blatant attempt to humanise the meathead parade that makes up the cast of characters so I guess it’s aiming for cinema loving Guids out there (is that an actual thing?) but it’s also so incredibly obvious that it’s a piss take at the same time, poking fun at every aspect of Guido party life that its real life, shark-less) TV counterpart that you’d think it was giving every hater of the show their dream of seeing a Snooki wannabe get ripped apart from ass to the tip of her overly styled hairdo. Dear movie, MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MIND! This isn’t “The Misunderstood Souls of The Jersey Shore: A Lifetime Channel Special Edition” it’s JERSEY FUCKING SHORE SHARK ATTACK. Get with the program. Gimme silicon tits flying left right and centre! Is that too much to ask for?

Apparently so.

The shark attack portion of the title ain’t left for late though (thank fucking christ) as possibly the only pale skinned Italian in the entire cast — clearly some dude with a bad accent, a wife beater, slicked hair and given a cigarillo for a prop to complete the flawless and totally convincing transformation — gets offedby the freshly uncaved albino snappers while fishing in a dingy maybe two meters from the shore in. Why the asshole needed to be in a boat is a question for the screenwriter (I’m sure it had nothing to do with plot convenience).

The whole beach is going off in preparation for the arrival of the films token…*ahem*…‘celebrity’ cameo — former NSYC ‘not Justin Timberlake, one of the other guys’ guy, Joey Fatone. An excitement you better get used too because the film crams itself every ten minutes with a quick reminder in case you forgot you bought it in at least partial hope of seeing the NSYC alumni get his ass chomped by a bad CGI shark at some point. Spoiler alert, he does, almost immediately after being introduced (late) in the film. So we might not get Snooki or any of the 28 collective abs in the film gets chomped, we at least get that. Gee golly gosh.

The film spends a large portion of its early part half occupied with what it assumes is a ‘story’, trading blood and guts for a power struggle between the ever partying Guids and the sweater vest wearing, double collar popping, four syllable speaking, private school yacht club douches across the way. I swear, if Jersey Shore Shark Attack weren’t one of the best titles you could ever see staring back at you; in some distribution house somewhere out there, someone would have suggested releasing the film under the title of Guido’s vs Yuppies vs Sharks…not bad…I might have to copyright that. The good guys look like the musclebound bro bad guys from any other film and the bad guys are portrayed as assholes because they don’t want to listen to club music every second of the day. So, again, who the fuck is this thing supposed to be for? Cause I’m on Team Shark here. It’s hard to get behind walking wannabe cannon fodder with single digit IQs who use words like “drowneded”. You’ll be praying the whole cast gets their arses ripped out their mouths the moment they step on screen, and that they take the script with them.

The battle of the sexes enters a ceasefire when one of the many disposable and interchangeable bronzer snuffing pieces of cannon fodder washes up on shore. In a feat of literary originality, the mayor refuses to shut down the beach and The Complication’s father — the local Sheriff — doesn’t believe his son, seeing his actions as further proof of his disappointment in life — gee, wonder if that’ll resolve itself by the end of the film. Subplot ahoy. It all leaves our main pack of Guidos to take it upon themselves to hunt down the pigment deprived sea evil using fireworks and protein bars as bait. They also try to steal one of the ‘bad guy’ yuppies yachts “because he’s a douche” before Balzac fumbles one of the fireworks and blows the whole thing up (tell me again why we’re supposed to like these guys?).

At its core Jersey Shore Shark Attack is a Guido love story with a mayoral conspiracy giving the old reach around and wrapped up in just enough shark attacks to give its title enough credence. Everyone’s more pre-occupied with their own shit and getting occasionally distracted by a corpse or two. The climax of the film only comes in the midst of the customary blood letting beach side massacre when the head of the Yacht club tries to pull one over on the Guids by seducing Nooki and convincing her to join him and the his botchi loving conga line of talking pastel sweaters on a yacht out at sea for a party. The Complication reaches his character arc and realises he loves her (oh and y’know, that they need to take care of the sharks once and for all) and rounds up the Ab Club, stealing another boat and heading out to play cockblock while armed to the teeth with automatic rifles (and, I assume, more protein bars. After all; “Nothing’s going to resist 25 grams of power packed peanut butter crunch.”)

They shoot, pout and even nose kick the sharks on their way to rescue the yuppies and Nooki onboard their boat — which, of course, is broken down out of phone reception range — before returning to shore to save everyone from the shark attack which apparently a trained police department could handle on their own. Not enough protein in their diet I suppose. It all ends with hugs, cheers of “GUIDOS! GUIDOS!”, mended father son relationships — even though The Complication is still no less a party and gym obsessed meathead who will never leave the Jersey Shore. But hey, he does make peace with the yuppies, even though they just tried to revenge bang his girlfriend and gave off the impression that there was a roofie or two in her future if Plan-A went sour. But hey, water under the bridge right?

Jersey Shore Shark Attack is about as intelligent a parody as the dense fuckers it’s populates itself with. Every ounce of self aware writing makes you wonder if they themselves got the joke because other than The Complication and Nooki, the rest of the characters assume the completely pointless position reserved for cannon fodder to give people expecting some kind of delivery on the title and yet not a single person you want to see die actually dies. Hell, only once is any of them vapid “wait, what’s her name again” characters in any peril. The only other time anything happens is when Nooki’s trapped in the sinking boat, with a shark ripping its way through the hull, at the end of the movie in a scene replicated in damn near every other shark movie ever made and trust me, you’re rooting for the shark to get just a liiiiiitle closer. Just one more inch. Just rip off a leg! Just one goddammit. ANYTHING!

Drunk with a group of friends and a shameless love of self flagellation and if nothing else you’ll probably get a kick out of screaming at the screen for everyone to die. *Sigh* the love of communal hatred.

[schlockvalue-blog]

Schlock Value, Issue#1: Jack Frost (1997)

Put on your christmas hats, pour yourself a nice warm cup of coco, wrap yourselves in blankets and sit down for a christmas tale like no other. It has a brave hero, it has a dastardly villain, there’s much peril and intrigue, and even a dash of the magical. Oh, and there’s also a scene where a snowman slaps his carrot nose to his crotch and rapes the hot chick from American Pie to death in a shower…so…that’s a thing that happens…

…moving on. Our tale begins in the midst of one of the most fake snow storms depicted to film that wasn’t just a particle effect slapped on in after effects — a blessing that such effects weren’t a name-stay in the 90’s, forcing filmmakers to put some effort into making their work look marginally real, like throwing handfuls of white shit at an actor and screaming at them that they’re cold. It might not look all that convincing, but for the love of fuck would it kill you to throw some of that shit on the road in the wide shots? I know budgets are a thing, but we’re talking about shredded paper here for christ sake.

You know the score here. Infamous serial killer getting transported to be executed along a lone stretch of road by a questionably small number of ‘armed’ guards who are incredibly inept to the point of retardation. Serial killer manages to get the jump on the single guard left to ride with him in the back of the transport van. Van crashes into truck carrying experimental chemicals. KABOOM! Serial killer is doused in oozy shit and melts into the snow, combining the two and morphing the deranged son of a female dog into a giant, murderous, wit spitting snowman…y’know, standard fair. We’re treated to a thankfully quick backstory about the local sheriff who plays this thilling tales tortured Ahab. The man who arrested good old Jack Frost — which happens to actually be the killers name, the filmmakers attempt to attach their own narrative to the christmas fables namesake.

The funny thing is that the whole thing comes together with a bit of flare. It’s shamelessly self aware, and works well as a parody of Killer *insert increasingly more absurd inanimate object here* movies. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s three second from eating soap and finger painting the walls with its own shit, but you have to admire a film that throws the vacuous lead female character into enough parkers to make her look like a gender bent Michelin Man, and then throws on another just for good measure before telling you “SHE’S HOT! LOOK AT THE WAY THE SHY BOYS IN TOWN BUMBLE WHEN TALKING TO HER! SHE’S HOT!” Speaking of, the dong equipped in town don’t get off either. Resident hot boy, male love interest in this fable must drank the same koolaid as the rest of the movie judging by our introduction — lumberjack frat boy huuuurrrrrs his way into the film with a joke about snowballs before patting the chilly tits of a female snowman while staring at his crush, kicking off what is sure to be a compelling, chemistry filled romance story for the ages and won’t in any way meet tragedy over the course of the films 85 minute run time…unless…I mean, there is that rape scene…nah, they’ll be fine.

A local ‘killin’ sparks of the local Sheriffs squinty eyed, furrowed brow, “somethin’ just ain’t right bout this”-concerns. Jumping immediately to call the FBI and check that his white whale serial killer happens to be as dead as reports of the opening scenes crash claim to be. Ever suspicious of the answer give — but not the fact that he, a low rent po-dunk sheriff managed to get an immediate and direct line to the FBI’s Most Wanted task force — our intrepid hero sets off on his own investigation.

I’ll tell you what, the blood flies quick and fast and with a cold set of pillowy balls — Jack Frost sets up shop, tracking down the Sheriffs home and staking out in the front yard where the Sheriffs son unknowingly bestows upon the frigid killer all the trimming, nose, eyes and a creepy smile. Y’know, there’s something not quite kosher about a little kid slowly running his hand along what is essentially a murderers lips, however snowballed as he may be. The local sled gang — read that twice — shows up to bully the kid, a magnet for trouble with his bowl cut and borderline mentally tainted hinting — handing his mother a gingerbread man and proclaiming “I made a special”. Hell, even his own mother looks at the little dude with a look that makes you wonder if she dropped him on his head as a baby. But then most of the towns population has that small town appreciation for how hot their cousin looks, so I guess it’s part and parcel. Jack Frost goes and knocks the bully flat on his ass and in the path of a runaway sled, slice, dice. Body count up one and a little kids corpse lays cold in the drive way. Balls. Frosty balls right there.

Ten minutes later and Jack goes after the bullies traumatised family — as the rotund hot headed dad comes at Jack with an axe that second later makes its home in his head and the murderous snowman spitting mad catchphrases; “I only axed you for a smoke.” The mother gets garrotted by fairy lights and force fed a bag of shattered Christmas baubles and crucified on the family christmas tree while a cheery ho-down holiday tune plays in the background. It’s pretty fucking brutal.

The town goes into lockdown as the FBI invade and take it over — as is the FBI’s way — setting a curfew, threatening anyone in their way and king hitting the ever loving shitfuck out of a hysterical local man driven just a tad over the edge at the sight of a talking snowman. The “evil government agenda” subplot’s reeeeeal subtle with this one, as subtle as a killer snow man, only clad in sinister black, and even more sinister turtlenecks.

It’s smack bang around the fifty minute mark and time for the show stealer people — with the townfolk all rounded up in the local church for the curfew. Our totally not thinly written romantic subplot pokes its head back into the story like a thirteen year old in sex ed class. Ain’t nobody around, so little Miss American Pie and Snow Balls hottie himself decided to shack up in the Sheriffs empty house to play a game of hid the carrot (set up…). Why it needed to be the Sheriffs house and not any of the hundred other places in town, or any of the other empty houses is a mystery, one I’m sure has nothing to do with sheer plot convenience, as it also happens to be next stop of Jack Frosts soft serve slaughter-a-thon. There’s a whole minute long montage of the two stripping off layer and layer of clothing — see, told you this thing was self aware — before old mate pours them glasses of wine while she blow dry her hair (not…a typical pre-bang ritual…but it’s a small town, what do I know). Taking blue balls to new heights, ol Jack spears Snow Balls to the wall, who asks “what are you”, leading to Jack dropping the single best line ever delivered in a movie about a killer snowman…“Worlds most pissed off snow cone”…oh, god bless this movie. Seriously. Just marry me already you dog shit pile of deep friend genius.

Jack skewers the poor, horny bastard with icicles while Miss American Pie strips down and settles down in a bath, completely unaware she’s bathing in the body of ol Jack himself. What follows is one of the most ridiculous scenes ever committed to film…rumour goes that fans that ask her about it have been kicked out of conventions and signing booths. She straight up refuses to acknowledge her involvement in the film…can’t imagine why. Jack reforms himself around the hapless Miss American Pie and proceeds to…thrust?…hump?…move stiffly (sic) back and forth in an upright motion-her to death? I suppose that’s how snowmen have sex. Either way, Jacks carrot nose is conspicuously missing his face the entire time..he hid (…and payoff) it somewhere…you do the math.

When the last tomes of cinematic history are written, mankind will remember with great reverence ONE scene, ONE shower, ONE moment in history that changed the game.

The film…climaxes…with a showdown at the police station where the Sheriff, the stations sarcastic receptionist — y’know the type, always doing her nails, hates life — the FBI Agent Turtleneck’s there as well. Oh, and some scientist dude with the FBI who frankly doesn’t do shit the whole movie except explain everything everyone else already figured out, he isn’t important. They set about letting off aerosol cans all over the shop — it’s okay, global warming wasn’t a thing at the time — before realising they’ve locked themselves in a room filling with gas and the only window is padlocked with the key on the other side of the room with Jack Frost. Dun, dun, dun, someone must go get it, it’s the only way. Because apparently they all forgot that windows are made of glass and glass breaks when you fucking hit the fucking shit. The FBI didn’t teach this apparently, hell, it appears everyone in the scene having 35+ years of life, that nobody taught this. The Sheriff even batters his gun against the padlock a couple of times before residing to the fact that ain’t no other way.

After some more dumb shit, a couple a’ ‘the villains dead, oh no he’s not’ cowboy switches later and it all comes down to a good old fashion mano a mano between Jacky-Boy and the Sheriff after Sheriff crams Jacks mouth full of the Christmas fudge his son made for him earlier in the film and seeing it burn half of Jacks face off. Turns out the little brat went and put anti-freeze in the desert because “I didn’t want you to get cold”. If there was any question left if the kid’s a little touched in the fucking head, I think that mystery’s been put to bed. Either that or we have to deal with the fact that a 9 year old boy tried TO MURDER HIS FATHER BY FEEDING HIM ANTI-FREEZE!

The Sheriff concocts a plan to drop ol’ Jack into a pool of anti-freeze, which for some reason takes place at the local brothel — we’re going to ignore the fact that a town of fifty people has a brothel, because it sure seems like they’re all turning a blind eye. After a limp showdown between the two they take a tumble out the second story building into the anti-freeze pool below. Melting the killer snowman once and for all.

It all ends with the town folk burying the bottled anti-freeze/Jack mixture deep in the snow. Looking off in the distance at a new day, unaware as the camera zooms in underground at the bottles as they begin to bubble and boil. Jacks cackle bring the film to credits and somewhere out there, a sequel nobody asked for, Jack Frost 2 sits waiting — one day.

Look…Jack Frost is a far cry from being the most unwatchable piece of trash you’ll see on here over the next 364 days. It’s the right kind of shit; the kind that comes outs out clean, it doesn’t snap off and leave a mess, it doesn’t float when you flush, it only smells a little bit and there’s no worrying spots of blood in it that make you read up on the symptoms of every kind of cancer listed on wikipedia. I mean, it’s still poo. But who of us, I ask, didn’t walk past a pile of dog poop as a kid and laugh. Poo is funny, and Jack Frost is that poo.

If you’ve made it this far, a quick story…I actually remember, hopping in the way, way back machine for a moment. When I was a kid I stayed with my Aunt every other weekend. She lived in Turramurra — a suburb in North Sydney — and at 4am, she’d bundle me into the car and we’d drive aaaaaaall the way down to her work in Tempe at a Video Ezy. While she worked the counter, I’d patrol the aisle of that store, straightening VHS cases and spending hours upon hours sifting through the hundreds and hundreds of movies. God, the heyday of VHS and video stores was golden, it really was. I’d bundle a few movie and go into the back room and watch them for the rest of the day. Though, the horror section was the one area I was never allowed to pull from, so that’s where I’d spend most of my time looking at the covers and imagining what the movies were actually about. Making them up in my head only to have nightmares later when I went to bed. Jack Frost was one of those movies, the cover — a shot of snowman Jacks screaming, icicle toothed face (which was waaaay more scary than what was actually in the film (isn’t that always the way)). Years later I’d go back to that same store when I eventually moved to Sydney myself as an ‘adult’ and raided the VHS sale section — $1 a pop — and wouldn’t you know it, that very same copy of Jack Frost was right there waiting for me. It’s the same copy I watched not an hour before writing this sentence.

That’s a lot of sentimentality for a movie this fucking dumb.

Peace out, assholes!

[schlockvalue-blog]

Schlock Value 2: Electric Boogaloo || Welcome, Motherfucker!

Allow me a moment to introduce myself, with a tip of the hat and a sweaty handshake.

From 2006–2008 I was a writer for a website called “Icons of Fright” — I refrain from calling myself a critic because what I wrote bore little resemblance to a legitimate piece of literature or review of a movie, in great part because what I watched bore little resemblance to legitimate movies, and in greater part because the words I used even less resembled the English language. I was hired for my ability to string a series of expletives and overly long run on sentences into a seemingly scathing but, under the surface level, wholehearted loving embrace of trash cinema and all things of the “so bad, it’s good” variety.

In 2007 however I would be 19 and starting my first year at University to learn to make movies. Hopefully, but not expectedly, better than those I trash talked about. Though I tried for a year to juggle learning, drinking and writing, it was not to be and so the monthly column became a tri-monthly one (at best) until eventually I couldn’t keep up and had to wave goodbye like the owner of a dog that’s been taken away by the dog catcher in the second act of a boy meets dog flick on CBS — you know the kind. The ones better left less understood; it’s hard to enjoy the whimsical adventures of Milo and Otis when you know know many puppies and kitten they threw off that waterfall…still a cute movie though.

It’s now 10 years later and like all good pieces of trash, there’s an even worse sequel just waiting to be made…this is that shitty sequel (high expectations people, high expectations).

Over the next 365 days I’ll be dusting off the VHS tapes, busting out the DVDs, or scouring Netflix in an endeavour to devour a single slice of cheese a day and posting in gloriously long winded and crass form about it for all (if any) to read and follow suite — remember, tossed out needles and half smoked cigarette butts from the gutter are best shared in pairs, so let’s enjoy the ride together.

Welcome to a world of shit, kid. You’re innit dick deep now.

This is Schlock Value, now fuck off.