Someone should either be charged with fraud or given a Congressional Medal for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Mindfucking because the actual movie isn’t half as interesting as this cover art.

Donkey: Since the three of us began this epic journey into the Land of Dreams, Magic, and Flying Splits Kicks lo those years ago now, we’ve frequently been asked what kind of effect it’s had on our outlook on movies in general. As you can imagine, the influence of this ordeal has been rather profound, but not quite in the way that most people seem to think. Rather than growing to hate the seamy underbelly of the cinematic experience, more than ever we have come to love the rampant hilarity of a truly shitty movie. That goes without saying; otherwise this exercise would have resulted in a glorious suicide pact involving dynamite, cyanide capsules, or possibly John Tesh albums long ago. But after all we’ve seen and heard there is one kind of movie that drives us into a bloodthirsty rage: the unrelentingly mediocre. You see, a truly great movie, or even a pretty good movie, can pull you in and deliver a spectacular experience for the senses, while the wholesale failure of an epically shitty movie can deliver laughs like no other. But it’s that middle ground, where a movie is neither good enough to be remarkable nor bad enough to be funny that simply manages to suck a couple of hours out of your life without a single reward other than unbridled rage upon realizing what happened. It’s kind of like being tricked into watching someone do a series of unimpressive and uninteresting card tricks for a couple of hours, just to turn around and realize that it was just one big distraction while someone has raped your cat.

As is usually the case, we had to learn the hard way. Much like TMNT III: Turtles In Time gave us an early lesson in how certain categories of movies simply don’t belong in our rotation, seeing as pointing out that the story in a kids’ movie is stupid is about as obvious and therefore relevant as finding that same fault in a porno, Alien Apocalypse taught of that unabashed monotony can destroy an evening faster than a cold sore at a swingers convention. And while this is a trap that we would inevitably fall into again and again since monotony can be hard to spot – I’m looking at you, Hellboy II – this was the movie that truly defined our hatred.

The Plot:

Donkey: Do you remember the movie Planet Of The Apes? And I’m not talking about the Tim Burton remake starring Marky “Pumping cinder blocks and looking perpetually constipated might cover for my lack of discernable talent” Mark, which was a blight on humanity so severe that I’m surprised it didn’t damn near wipe out the Irish. No, I’m referring to the original Charleton Heston feature, one of the most parodied, sub-referenced, and clever films in the history of science fiction. If you take that movie, with its suspense that led to one of the most memorable endings of all time, and replace those elements with Bruce Campbell and bad CG, you’re left with almost the exact plot of Alien Apocalypse and a vacuum which will suck in both your will to live and your faith in humankind.

Bruce Campbell plays Dr. Ivan Hood, the medical officer of a small band of astronauts whom, after Van Winkling their way through a pleasant 50 year cryo-nap in space, return to Earth to find the world has been enslaved by wood-seeking aliens so poorly crafted that it’s hard to believe that they could take over the fry station of a fucking Burger King, let alone an entire planet. It seems that all hope for both humanity and the slightest shred of plausibility is lost. But when fate makes a collect call, Bruce accepts the charges, leading a rebellion against the extraterrestrial overlords that will send them back to the 8-bit plane of existence from whence they came.

The Case for Greatness (aka The Lowlights):

Donkey: The best part of this DVD by far is that it plays the trailers for Evil Dead and Evil Dead II before getting to the title menu, and quite lengthy trailers at that. It’s almost as if the movie itself was trying to give you one last warning that you could be watching something much more entertaining than what’s about to come. Trust me…it’s a warning you should heed. Other than that, there is quite literally nothing in this film that’s noteworthy, so much so that each time it clearly faded in and out for what would have been a commercial break I was hoping that it just wouldn’t bother coming back. So as there are specific points to discuss, I thought it might be more insightful to detail the actual experience of watching it so that you know what you’d be in for should you fall into the same trap. Behold how the horror unfolded:

8:37 PM: Arrive at Blombo’s house. Spirits are high as drinks and snacks are dispersed. Gastro-intestinal stability intact.

8:44 PM: Blombo finishes details of latest conquest. Highly suspect that sharing a couch with him is giving me gonorrhea. Mental note to pick up penicillin tomorrow as we begin evening’s film.

8:47 PM: Bruce Campbell makes triumphant entrance in opening scene, promising clever dialogue and razor sharp delivery. Time to sit back and wait for the hilarity to punch our brains right in the penis.

9:05 PM: Still waiting.

9:10 PM: Mind begins to drift. Check companions to see if they’re actually enjoying this so far. Milobar looks like he’s about to shit out a 4 slice toaster. Blombo looking like he’s not sure where he is. Looks about right. Enjoy a long swig of my delicious Dr. Pepper and remember where I am: Flavor Country.

9:12 PM: Something smells like soup.

Whatever.

9:16 PM: Really try concentrating on the movie. Aliens too badly created to be taken seriously, but not sock puppet level of poor animation that we’ve come to expect. Boredom becoming too intense. Vice-like grip of oblivion slowly wringing will to live out of body. Briefly consider smashing Blombo’s wall in hopes of finding health restoring pot roast inside.

9:20 PM: Bruce talking about something so uninteresting that he might as well be reading phone book. Look down at my tasty Dr. Pepper. Wonder if it’s as tasty as could be. The guy at the 7-11 who sold it to me looked like he was laughing to himself. Coincidence?

9:24 PM: Goddamn there are a lot of dead animals in this room. And who the fuck kills a mountain goat and puts its head on a wall, anyways? Blombo’s dad bragging that he actually thought to eat this thing, or paying homage to his sporting victory in a life or death struggle against an opponent nearly as vicious as a goddamn pony?

9:30 PM: Blombo proclaims that this movie sucks. Milobar assures him, “your mom sucks.” A vote is held. By a margin of 14-1, it’s agreed that Blombo’s mom does in fact suck. Blombo demands a recount, but I assure him that both Milobar and I officially represent 7 people. The motion passes and it enters into official record that Blombo’s mom does in fact suck.

9:37 PM: Something about the President still being alive or some shit like that. Apathy prevents me from retaining sounds and images long enough for my brain to process them. Looking for something, anything to laugh at. Milobar sneezes. I giggle hysterically. Both look at me like I’m insane. Motherfuckers. Don’t they know I’m the Rat King of Extroverted Corduroy? Feeling lightheaded. Steady, champ. Steady. Concentrate.

9:40 PM: Stomach starting to roll. Possible deficit of deliciousness in my Dr. Pepper wreaking havoc on my insides. That dude at the 7-11 has something to do with this, I’m sure. He could see I was in need of genuine refreshment. Saw to it otherwise. That son of a bitch.

If gay was contagious, this actually would induce a fever.

9:43 PM: Spirits continue to sink, nearing rock bottom. I haven’t wanted to cry this badly since Schindler’s List or possibly seeing the cover of that Travolta album.

9:49 PM: Blombo comments on how bored he is. Promptly begins cursing at me for buying this DVD. Milobar assures him that, “your mom’s a DVD.”

9:52 PM: The black pit of nothingness continues to envelope all. Dr. Pepper is almost finished. Putrid bile at this point. That fucking 7-11 guy has prevented both my thirst and my desire for unadulterated deliciousness from being quenched. I’ll burn down that fucking store, dance on his grave.

9:59 PM: Nothing. I feel nothing now. Time has stopped. One moderately clever line is uttered by Bruce when he kills someone, despite their protests of him being a doctor and therefore obligated to care for them, saying, “Your stupidity was terminal. I just cured you.” Too numb to even smile.

10:03 PM: Final battle as epic as two preteens slap fighting over the next turn on Dance Dance Revolution. Pray to Craig T. Nelson that nuclear device destroys entire planet. Stomach churning. Advanced calculus equations tell me that I should probably run to washroom lest a five alarm chili explosion stain Blombo’s couch before the movie finishes. Too lethargic to stand. Can’t seem to bring myself to care.

10:08 PM: Movie finishes. No one speaks. Light slowly seems to filter back into consciousness. What just happened? Did someone slip me a roofie? Check front of pants. All closures seem untouched. No matter. Something deep inside mind has been touched inappropriately, scarring me for life.

The Verdict:

Donkey: Fuck. I’m at a loss for words with this one. Trying to find something in this movie to laugh about couldn’t be much harder if you swapped it for real-time footage of a kidney transplant. It’s so clearly a TV movie in every possible facet of its production values that you might as well be watching three straight episodes of Xena: Warrior Princess, and so boring that it would be a three episode mini-series of Xena tending to a garden to keep her mind off the pending results of an AIDS test. What a waste of Bruce Campbell’s considerable talents. If you want to bathe in the glory of what may be the greatest B-movie actor of all time, I’d recommend watching his brilliant Old Spice commercial on YouTube instead of this garbage. That is unless you always wanted to know what a persistive vegetative state was like, in which case feel free to pop this shit in, hook up a feeding tube, and prepare to shake hands with the Sultan of Dreamland. I give it zero moments of comedy out of five yawning chasms of aggressively overpowering tedium. Sorry Bruce, not even you could save this one. And thanks for reading the site, by the way. That’s mighty swell of you.

What We Learned:

Donkey: Pet Cemetery wasn’t fucking around. Sometimes dead is beddah.

Don’t forget to check back every Sunday for a new fresh review! Next week shittymovienight.com presents: A former football player battles a former android for the title of Most Ridiculous Character Ever Conceived in…STONE COLD.

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