They say a good thing never dies. Well I have no idea why I’m back then. But I am, so deal with it. The return of Icons means the return of Schlock, and while I’ve been monster busy having just finished studying the wonderful art that is Television making and then going straight into the world of freelance anythingwithapaycheck, I’ve found time to come on back to this corner of the site they’ve given me so I can keep screaming at that brick wall until my face is red and my lungs have long since said “fuck this”. You know the drill…


You may think – witnessing the plot for Gingerdead Man 3 – that you yourself are in fact the fleshy guinea pig of a government social experiment to discover just how preposterous a films plot has to be before the human brain explodes from sheer stupidity. Mind you we’re talking about a killer here who gets resurrected by a bum eating his dead…carcass? The first couple of minutes alone are enough to send your brain into overdrive; opening in a mental asylum for the – get this – all them psycho pastries out there, when one night the place is attached by greenies (or is that golden brown…ies) looking to free the oppressed baked goods from their unjust treatment. Bread is people too, you know. The Gingerdead Man of course escapes and even more of course escapes to the part of every mental asylum that surely comes standard; a time travel research facility. Yes, you read that right. The Gingerdead Man hops on in and takes that bitch for a spin back to the heyday of flare pants, colourful everything and shoes with little wheels on them; the badass 70’s. Thus begins the opus that is The Gingerdead Man 3: Saturday Night Cleaver.

Thus also begins one of the truly, outstandingly odd so bad it’s good movies I’ve ever, you’ll ever or your withering grandmother will ever see. It’s also shamelessly derivative, which is a roundabout way of saying; THIS MOVIE STOLE SO FUCKING MUCH IT’S A MYSTERY YOU HAVEN’T SUED IT YET. I kid you not, the makers of this movie owe Stephen King royalties for making the Z-Grade equivalent to a Carrie remake by way of Zanadu; beginning with the black sheep, geek chic babe at school to her winning the converted roller queen competition AND THEN BEING DOUSED WITH A BUCKET OF BLOOD. But before you get the impression that I’m hating on it, allow me to double back and say a quick; WHO CARES? Because quite frankly, if a movie featuring a psychopathic cookie wants to jump on the back of Bruce the shark and recycle its way from Jaws to The Dirty Dozen then it can bloody well do so. Seriously, how freaking cool would that be though? Gingerdead Man in the old west!

I’m deviating here. The movie at hand is quite frankly stupid as all hell – in that deliciously good way, of course – I can’t believe I’m going to say this about the third part in a series of movies called The Gingerdead Man, but dammit if they didn’t get the feeling of a cheap, fun Friday late night flick down right, with enough balls to the wall stupidity to remind you what you’re watching. One scene sees the bastard cookie rock up at a bikini car wash fundraiser only to spoil the bouncy fun with a hydrochloric bath and plenty of dead bitches. Such is the life of a killer dough boy.

And then, when it wasn’t bizarre enough. The our heroine, who by the way just happens to be psychic (that scratching sound is the sound of another settlement check being written by the way) uses her powers and the wonder that is time travel to bring a whole bunch of histories baddies out of time to help defeat Mr. Gingerdead Man. Because yes, you need someone like ADOLF MOTHERFUCKING HITLER AT A ROLLER RING TO HELP YOU KILL A PIECE OF FUCKING DOUGH.

See this. I’m just going to leave it at that.


Often when watching a movie from the two dollar bin I find myself wondering how a film like this ever got made, you’d think by now I’d have stopped questioning it. But I still can’t help but wonder where it all went wrong. And Drive Thru is most certainly wrong, it’s very wrong. But for all the shoddy, stapled together filmmaking, Drive Thru has a lot going for it…well, maybe ‘a lot’ is stretching it. It certainly looks great for what it is – at least someone knew what they were doing – but that’s kind of like cruising down to the street corner, pulling up next to a hooker and saying “not bad”, she’s still going to give you a venereal disease if you put your DVD in her player.

But in case you were wondering, Drive Thru is the epic tale of sweet young Leighton Meester and her ramshackle friend group being stalked and slashed by the psychopathic mascot of local burger food chain “Hellaburger”, named Horny the Clown. Which makes me wonder further still…how the hell did they fuck this one up? It’s solid gold trash, hand delivered in a greasy burger wrapper. It’s got a killer clown the likes of with a horror movie starring the entirety of KISS could only dream of.

But fuck it up they did, and something special. Aptly beginning at the first scene I found myself experiencing that special kind of bad where you genuinely feel embarrassed to be watching it. It’s like having someone walk in on your masturbating… hypothetically, of course. The first scene is a perfect showcase of the tour-de-force acting you can expect to sit in awe of for the next hour and a half of your life; wannabe gangsters rock up at a Hellaburger restaurant spouting out raps that sound like they were made up on the spot by a 16 year old, hat backwards and calling himself D.J. Kickass. Caps gonna git busted, yo! Seriously, some of the lines in this thing are painful; “Employee of the month is about to fuck you up!”, or whilst the budding photographer is attacked “beginning to get the picture!?”, and my personal favourite “fast food kills, fucker!”.

To quote one of the characters in the movie; “I don’t know where to begin.” I can’t help but sympathize. To piece together this sorry excuse for a plot is like trying to solve a Rubik cube when someone’s re-arranged the colours. It’s just cruel and unusual punishment, not to mention derivative as they come. Freddy Kruger himself should take to the stand to sue the mask off of Horny the Clown for stealing his back-story. The kids are being punished by Horny because their parents went to town on the original Horny the Clown back in the day, oh and he’s supernatural. Yeah, there’s that too. From the realm of makes no sense comes the most non-sense making everything. Half the time Horny is teleporting from here to there, he can set up bizarro head in the microwave torture devices like it’s nothing and still find time to spout out agonizing quips at Leighton Meester.

It cannot possibly be just me, half the film feels like it was written on the spot, like someone didn’t have time to finish the script. Or maybe it’s just a case of someone giving the actors just a littttttlllleee toooo much spare time. The character of the janitor is set up to be a red herring one minute and killed off in the next scene. It’s completely pointless. Plot threads are thrown about like rice at a wedding, sometimes, and only sometimes interweaving to make a licking of sense the rest of the time treating you like a five year old. Reoccurring jokes like mispronouncing the fat mustached cops name as “Crackers” instead of “Crockers”. It was probably funny in theory but did nobody bring up the fact that all the jokes we shit!? COME ON!!

By the end nothing is answered, in fact I’m pretty sure there aren’t any answers to be had. In an early scene Horny taunts Mackenzie through her magic eight ball (that isn’t a euphemism…but dammit it should be) and then later they find a magic eight ball in Horny’s lair to which Mackenzie will announce “well this explains a lot” to which I announced “BULLSHIT!”

The actual ending is stupider then the rest of the film that preceded it. It ends with Horny burning to death (“YOU’RE HONOR, HOW HAVE WE NOT WON THIS CASE ALREADY!?”) but lo and behold “it’s not over” (yep, someone say’s it. They always say it) and all I can say in response is… duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh. Before everyone can hug and kiss and scream happily ever after; Cracke – ahem – make that, Crockers, pulls up to Hellaburger (because after everything that’s just happened, why the fuck not) only to have the still alive Horny simply waltz on past his car, leap onto the hood and announce “Surprise!”. Cue credits.

This movie is just plain stupid. It’s not even a joke – well okay, it’s a bit of a joke – it’s embarrassingly bad, I don’t know how it was made, I don’t think I want to know because somehow I think it’ll just leave me saddened by the quality control that this industry clearly does not have.


I cry afoul. Psycho Shark is not the movie you’d expect – that said, I’m not entirely sure what I expected from a movie that implied a mentally unstable shark, but goddamn I want THAT movie! Psycho Shark is a thinly veiled soft-core porn flick masquerading itself as some sort of oriental art house skin flick. The opening scene is little more then someone video taping cute Japanese girls frolicking about on the beach and posing for the camera. Then there’s a scene of some Japanese girl WATCHING said videotape; twice the smut at half the price. Fuck I love the Japanese.

It doesn’t take long before you start to wonder if the clerk at the video store pulled a cowboy switch on you, because after 20 minutes of this pair of Japanese girls finding every way to show off their mindbogglingly large Japanese chesticles, the filmmakers appear to have finally decided that a plot would be necessary (because the majority of the audience aren’t already reaching for the nearest box of tissue by this point). It’s about the time when one of our amply sized heroines decides to have a shower that it becomes apparent…they are not alone…dun, dun, duuuun! Someone is keeping a watchful eye on the jiggly young las- wait a minute…isn’t this movie called Psycho Shark? Psycho SHARK! Not Psycho Stalker.

I sense a miscommunication with the advertising peeps in that crazy ol’ place they call Japan. Because – spoiler alert – there’s no fucking shark in this movie for well over an hour. And I’m not talking about how you barely see the shark in Jaws for ages, I mean there is literally no real shark in this fucking movie for over an hour. Which is all good and well if RedTube or Spankwire are down for the night, but god forbid I expect a little of the vi-oh-lance in my shark flick. But we’re getting to that.


After half an hour of bewilderment and confused wonder you will come to realize that Psycho Shark is quite obviously a very confused slasher flick. From the ominous owner of the resort hotel that the girls are staying at to the fact that someone is running around with a camera of their own, recording the girls having their fun. This fucking movie is nothing short of uneventful though. It become plainly evident that the director couldn’t care less about making a movie and had his mind set on ogling as much tit as his camera lens could possibly fit in frame. Which is a lot in this case. Sprinkled between the gratuitous shots of bust, a plot is trying to gently motorboat its way into the movie. The plot takes a slight bend when we see whomever been taping the girls delivering the tapes to a shady group of badly framed individuals who make the trade with a small silver talisman of a shark. Then it’s back to monotonous, teeth grinding boredom and mind numbing pretention. Every second shot is something straight out of a film student’s first film. Oddly angled shots, purposefully framed badly, long takes of nothing, close ups of camera lenses, dramatic slow motion, extraneously long moments of black between scenes; it reeks of a movie that shouldn’t have this much tit in it.

So misguidedly stupid and confused is this fucking waste of time that throughout the entire thing it appears that one of the girls is having some sort of acid trip, seeing visions of her friends deaths. When in actual fact she is legitimately having flashbacks, because a good portion of the movie is taking place after her friend’s deaths. It’s not a fucking plot twist, it’s just so poorly constructed that it feels like the editors rushed his way through post, making the cinematic equivalent of a kid eating crayons and farting out pretty pictures.
An hour into the movie, and it finally happens. Like a long winter, the wait is finally over. Rising out of the water like the king of all monsters, accompanied by gratuitous slow motion and oddly placed metal music; the most horrendously computer generated shark you have ever seen, rises out of the shallowest waters it could never fit in and proceeds to…fly out of the water!?

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No bullshit, this actually happened in the movie. I have no idea how or why this happened. Beyond the physics of it all I’m not sure how the shark fits into the whole thing, maybe it was summoned by the talisman which is not seen again since the five seconds it had on screen, maybe it wasn’t real and merely a figment of our survivor girls imagination, maybe this, maybe that, maybe the director was a fucking horny crackpot. No matter which way you cut it, nothing will be gained from watching this movie except for a nagging sense of saddening confusion and a deep desire to take to your temple with a drill.

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