Worst Movies Ever Blogfest

LYRIC O’ THE DAY:

All of the sudden, I found myself in love with the world.

And so there was only one thing that I could do,

was ding a ding dang my dang a long ling long.

--Jesus Built My Hotrod, Ministry

Fun times on the blog today!  I am participating in Alex J. Cavanaugh's Worst Movies Ever Blogfest, and I must admit, picking just a few was a little difficult.  I didn’t even include any Rob Schneider or Van Damme movies.  I actually love bad movies, especially this time of year when the B horror flicks hit the airwaves.  So my list is dedicated to movies that I personally find cringe-worthy.  Warning:  snark ahead.

Roadhouse.  Patrick Swayze had great moves and even better hair.  In this flick, he tried to toughen up his romantic leading man image by playing a professional bouncer who cleans up a rowdy bar while defeating an evil small town overlord.  It’s a movie trying to be tough, but ends up cheesy as hell thanks to lines like:  “Pain don’t hurt,” “I sure ain’t gonna show you my d**k,”  and my personal favorite, “I used to f**k guys like you in prison.”  Those are screenwriting gems, I tell ya.  Still, I watch it every time it comes on CMT.  I never could get my hair to feather like that.

Howard the Duck.  I want to point out that I was 13 and sheltered when I saw this so forgive my flawed judgment for choosing to see this in the first place.  This is the tale of a duck from an alternate universe accidentally trapped on Earth where he must manage a girl band and save humanity.  It was produced by George Lucas, who clearly was having a bit of a dry spell after Return of the Jedi.  Lea Thompson has big hair and falls for a lecherous, cigar smoking water fowl.  I don’t care what planet you are from, duck/human sex is wrong.  And that's all I have to say about that.   

From Justin to Kelly.  So remember when American Idol was in its infancy and not the corporate machine it is now?  These two had dreams of stardom, and apparently some forward thinking production company wanted to be there to ruin it by casting them in this poor attempt at a beach blanket film redux.  This is a musical set in Miami and people dance with balls.  At that point I DNF’d.  Although it may have been because that Justin dude reminds me of Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons.

Point Break.  FBI agent Keanu Reeves learns to surf and tries to take down a group of gnarly bank robbers led by a Zen Patrick Swayze/Robin Hood.  The chick from Tank Girl is in it, and watching her with Keanu is a lot like watching my grandfather peel potatoes.  Maybe less exciting.  The good thing about this movie is I learned to do tequila shots from it.  Which factored strongly into me ending up naked in a closet one night.  Actually, now that I think about it, this is a damn good movie.  

Couples Retreat.  Four couples go to a resort expecting fun in the sun and instead get lessons on marriage.  Hijinks ensue.  This is one of those new movies that try to be so irreverent that they think it’s funny.  Thing is, cliched yoga instructors, unhappy marriages, and beautiful beaches just don’t make a movie.  Even Guitar Hero can’t save it.  I wanted these people to get divorced, and to be sterilized.  Not necessarily in that order.

Meet the Fockers.  I actually liked Meet the Parents.  Seeing De Niro do comedy was great, and I do love me some goofy Ben Stiller goodness.  But this one fell flat.  You see, the dude’s last name is Focker.  As in one vowel away from expletive-ville.  Hilariousness ensues.  Oh, and Barbra Streisand is a sex therapist for the elderly.  I’m laughing on the inside, really.

Shallow Hal.  I like the crass humor of the Farrelly brothers, but this one just wasn’t funny, it was cruel.  Synopsis is something like this: a pre-GOOP Gwyneth Paltrow is fat, y’all.  Like Orca fat.  Like underwear the size of a hammock fat.  And Jack Black, who is the pinnacle of the masculine ideal with his chiseled jowl and one pack abs hates fat chicks--until he’s hypnotized to only see what’s on the inside.  Then Gwyneth becomes--well, Gwyneth in his eyes.  And he’s all in love, although, golly gee, she keeps breaking chairs wherever she goes.  This movie was a series of fat jokes, and more embarrassing than the broken chair gag.  Thank God Gwyneth now just chooses to lord her superiority over educate us plebes via the internet.  Any more lessons on human goodness like this film and I might have to shove a Skinny Cow Truffle Bar stick in my eye.  Those are really good, BTW.

G.I. Jane.  Hollywood often tries to make a statement, and with this movie I’m sure there was something in mind about sexual discrimination and military politics and maybe celebrating bald being beautiful.  Demi Moore joins the Navy Seals and shaves her head.  She does impressive calisthenics and despite psychological and physical torture, triumphs over those evil oppressive menfolk.  And screams suck my d**k at Viggo Mortensen.  Because that’s what a strong, intelligent woman does when faced with misogyny.  And then they marry Ashton Kutcher.  

Basic Instinct.  I know, I know.  This was good 90s cinema.  My main issue is that there is no chemistry whatsoever between Sharon Stone and Michael Douglas.  I can guarantee no one wants to see that man’s naked behind, especially after he rocks a lesbian bar in a V-neck sweater.  And speaking of which, this movie just confirms what every red-blooded American already knew--lesbians exist only to titillate men.  And they don’t wear underwear, even after Labor Day.  Go figure the dudes who wrote this also did my number one worst movie, too.  

Under Siege.  It had Steven Seagal.  Tommy Lee Jones.  A Baywatch starlet.  But not even Gary Busey in drag could save this naval thriller from sinking.  From the minute Erika Eleniak popped topless out of a cake looking stoned on Dramamine, I knew this one was a winner. 

Showgirls.  This film makes my eyeballs bleed.  I have no idea where to begin, except to offer detox to Elizabeth Berkley--see what happens when you keep taking those caffeine pills, Jessie Spano?  This flick helped me to find valuable parallels between artistic manicures and female empowerment.  It also taught me that to get ahead, you should push people down the stairs--but only if you bond with them over eating doggy chow and discussing your mammaries first.  Then they’ll understand.  But the education aspect of this film was over when Jessie morphed into a flailing, shrieking spin cycle of OH-MY-GOD-SHE’S-GOING-TO-BREAK-HIS-PENIS in a swimming pool sex scene with Kyle Maclachlan.  I laughed so hard I nearly peed.

Have a beautiful day!  Big thanks to Alex for creating such an awesome blogfest--see his blog to keep hopping to other participants!  I leave you with a little Patrick Swayze, who I actually do love, despite harshing on his movies.