My Year Of Flops

I love bad movies. There's something weird about it -- because it's not like I love bad music, painting, or sculpture. But a bad movie is a special slice of heaven. Whether it's watching a celebrity commit artistic seppuku, the ridiculousness of the plot, the shoddiness of the special effects, or whatever other kind of fuckery might bitter the batter -- a bad movie can be many times more fun than a good one.

Which is probably why My Year of Flops -- a comprehensive bad movie review/appreciation series by Nathan Rubin is so much fun. Especially when he gets to skewering movies you've actually found a way to suffer through yourselves.

The guy has such a zest for tearing movies up that it's hard not to lose hours at a time reading the recaps -- which is good because there are scads of them. Plus, it's not everywhere on the web you can find quotes like this (from his review of the Stephen King crapfest Dreamcatcher):
..It seems that for 25 years, the United States Government has been battling a secret invasion of malevolent space aliens that grow in the human body and exit out the rectum, but not before leaving a whole lot of toxic flatulence in their wake.

This development poses some unique acting challenges for [Timothy] Olyphant. How do you respond, for example, when an alien ass weasel chomps on your genitalia and you try to extinguish it by dry-humping an open fire? That’s the kind of shit they don’t teach you at Juliard.
To be honest, what I think really works about this series is that as much as he bashes the films, you kind of get the sense that Rubin secretly wishes he didn't have to -- that somehow the Delgo's and Exit to Eden's of the world would have worked as they were envisioned to, instead of crashing to the ground in a fiery blaze the way they actually did.

Besides, Ebert only gets pissed like once a week, so it's a good way to keep up.

1 comment:

Satorical said...

Oh my god, you're right. I am going to lose a lot of hours to prose like this:

When you've got goddamned, cock-sucking motherfucking Superman, the real pimp of the century, do you really need the kiddie appeal of Ducky or Mariel Hemingway's gorgeous gams? That'd be like owning an amusement park and thinking, "Man, you know what would finally make this attractive to children? If I reunited O-Town."

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