Skip to main content

Not Even Terrible.

In other news, I ignored all the warnings and omens and actually watched Disaster Movie the other night. When can I have my sight back? I've taken to watching a lot of bad movies recently--always enjoyed them since I grew up on MST3k--and I thought I was prepared. I thought I could handle any bad movie. I thought I could have fun with it.

I was wrong. Very very wrong.


Like, there's bad movies and then there's bad movies. Like, you and a friend are looking at some movies on IMDB's bottom 100 for something to watch (we all do that...right?) and your friend will point one out and laugh, "Oh God! That movie's so bad!! Hahaha!". That is one kind of bad movie. The "good" kind of bad. I refuse to use the phrase "so bad it's good" because those movies are still bad, they're just hilarious, too, but not by any intention or effort to be hilarious. But this is the kind of movie that I imagine falls under that annoying cliche; the kind you or your friend point out and laugh "It's so bad!"/

Then there's the other kind of bad movie. Unwatchable wrecks on ice. The kind your friend points to and says with deadly seriousness "That movie is just terrible.". No giggles. No recountings or re-enactments. Just a shudder and declaration "terrible".

Disaster Movie ought to define this kind of "bad". It wasn't funny. It wasn't really watchable--I felt almost sickened at points. I couldn't even add MST3k-esque commentary--my running line was nothing more than an incredulous "really!?". It's almost as if its utter dearth of tastelessness & competence were verging on artistic. Like, it's almost like they  took "badness" as a medium, and then refined it with all manner of increasingly, pathetically tasteless embellishments to make it to such a hideously unwatchable blob of FAIL. But, then, that would imply some competence on the filmmakers' part.

It's the kind of movie that leaves you wondering if any of the actors--and some of them seemed surprisingly capable as actors, really--could have actually read the script before shooting each scene, nevermind before signing on to the project as a whole. I can't imagine anyone sober actually agreeing to be in this movie. I can't imagine this movie actually being made. It defies all sensibilities. Someone somewhere should have said something, tried somehow to keep it from getting passed even the earliest stages of scripting (come to think of it--was there ever even actually a script? or was it more just a series of ideas and things thrown together with rough, forced improv?)

I'm not sure exactly what was bad about it. Nor whose fault it must be. One area of pain is that everything--every fucking scene, every pathetic failure of a "joke"--drags on much much longer than should be even conceivably possible. It's like the script writer drafted a bunch of different ways any particular joke could go with the intention of whittling it down to an actually funny one or two bits, but then got drunk/died. Then the director, possibly an indecisive badger, decided to film every goddamn one with every goddamn possible permutation or alternative angle or delivery intending to see what worked and what didn't, but then got drunk/died. And then the editor just up and used it all because no one was left to tell him otherwise/he hated all things living and decent in the world.

Like, I almost laughed at the Amy Winehouse/saber tooth tiger. Don't even know why. It just seemed marginally amusing. And then she goes through her bit, pulls out a monster handle of hard liquor, chugs it all, and then it should have ended with an "Ahhhhhh, that was good stuff, luv. Cheers!" or something. But it didn't. She proceeds to burp. For, like, 5 solid fucking minutes.
Or like when Hannah Montana gets hit by that meteor. And won't fucking stay dead.
Or how the main character keeps screaming like a girl (it was barely funny the first time, assholes. Stop it now.)

It's like you stumbled upon a clump of mumbling potheads obsessively watching adult swim, MTV, E!, and I don't know... and gave them a couple mil' and said "make a movie! have fun with it!" and they somehow actually did.

Ugh--I'm ranting, and it hasn't gone anywhere useful for at least a good paragraph or two. I'm gonna stop.

I love bad movies. Picking them apart has taught me a lot about story telling and good writing. Besides that they can be just so goddamn funny, especially when you add amusing commentary to point out everything that's bad or absurd or whatever. Beyond that I can't really say why I love them so much. And much the same I can't say in what exact ways and how Disaster Movie fails to...to.... I don't even know. My hatred for this bad movie goes beyond my comprehension in so many ways--but I think, ultimately, I'm as much baffled as offended by its existence.

Comments

Other things that might interest you...

On aging, and fear.

To begin with, I’m not sure you’re aware of it, but I’m middle aged. Oh? What gave it away? Using a blog as my primary literary medium?¹ Hm. But in fact, the APA defines 35 years as the end of “young adulthood.” Yeah. I found out via some shitpost on twitter when I was already 35, so it didn’t sit well with me then either. But my worries about aging began much sooner than that. See, even in my 20s, I feared I’d been wasting my life. I’d struggled with school and life and everything since graduating high school, arguably sooner, and nothing seemed to be going anywhere meaningful . I felt I had a limited social life, a dead-end job, no money, no great travels, a limping love life; I was, generally, a loser, wasting away... There were none of the usual hallmarks of success or happiness. And that scared me. Would my life have been worth it if I continued in this direction? Would it have been a “life well lived” by the end? So, this is my existential struggle. Even now, as I lurch ever nea

Changing lanes.

I was driving home in some traffic last night when I drifted, in my mind, a long way back (about 20 years) to high school. I was caught in one of those periodic traffic slowdowns as I floated back; you know, those waves of congestion that seem to pass backward through the columns of cars in each lane. (I've heard they start because someone switches lanes, and in response, a rippling emergent slowness travels backward and outward as the cars behind it accommodate the change, one by one.) What drew me back to those younger days was that, back in high school, similar phenomena of congestion took place in the halls between classes, when eddies of young humans would get caught in and around those clumps of those chatting by lockers or retrieving books. Occasionally, backups would occur when groups of people got caught in these eddies, or collided with other groups by the lockers, and slowdowns would ripple back from there. Maybe it's not exactly the same, but as I drove it seemed si

On phases and fixations.

My fixations are powerful, but they can also be maddeningly ephemeral and fleeting. And I hate that; about them and, honestly, about myself. But I’ve never really  asked why I feel that way... I'll commit immense amounts of time and energy and even money to a fixation for a few weeks, maybe even a month or two, sometimes rebranding my whole personality around it, then just...move on. I'm not sure when I first noticed this pattern—if it was always there or if it emerged and intensified over time—but it's been part of me for a long while. And every time I do, I feel such guilt and shame. Who even am I if I can't be consistent, dedicated, substantive? How disingenuous is it that nothing I care about lasts? I’ve always just accepted those feelings; I’ve never poked at them in earnest. If you can’t tell from the recent flurry of activity on this blog, I have been fixated on blogging; I mentioned in a recent post about this blog that I had a compulsion to revamp the whole bl