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Bikini Bloodbath Christmas (2010)
Starring Rachael Robbins, Dick Boland, Phil Hall,
Matt Ford and Margaret Rose Champagne
Written & Directed by Jonathan Gorman & Thomas
Edward Seymour
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How does one review a movie like Bikini Bloodbath Christmas? Do you critique the acting or the direction? How about the sound or the lighting? When a five year old runs into the room with chocolate on his face and yells, "Look, I've got poop on me" do you critique his delivery or do you laugh at the sheer stupidity of it? Such is my task with reviewing Bikini Bloodbath Christmas.
Picking up where the last movie left off, our heroine Jenny... fuck it, it doesn't matter. The plot and storyline don't matter. No one watches this movie for the plot or the story. They watch it for the boobs, the blood, the shit spewing anus and the creepy little blonde chick with the even creepier bugged-out eyes. Oh yeah, and Debbie Rochon.
When I reviewed the first two movies in the series I said that they were the cinematic version of a band that doesn't really know how to tune their guitars or write good songs, but because they're so damn retardly (yes, I know that's not a real word) entertaining and fun to watch, people always come out to see them. Upon really watching the whole series, I've come to realize that not only was I wrong, but I was doing a disservice to the series as a whole. Are they retarded? Yes. Are they amazingly amateur and immature? Proudly so, but only because they want to be. They are exactly the movies they want to be. They bill this film as "the third film in one of the stupidest film trilogies in history" for God's sake.
This movie is an exercise in stupidity. It's like the directors and writers, who happen to be the same people (Jonathan Gorman & Thomas Edward Seymour), figured out how to stuff ten pounds of dumb into a five pound bag. The very attractive, very bikini-clad Margaret Rose Champagne plays a (male?) jock named William Defoe. Why? Who the fuck cares, it's funny. The same question could be posed about the funny yet incredibly off-putting Phill Hall's character Gina Davis. Is he supposed to be a chick or a dude? It doesn't matter? Again, why? Because that lingering question is really fucking funny. I dare you not to giggle everytime his/her name is said. And, why the hell are Prince Colwyn and Rell the Cyclops selling Glaives door to door? If you've seen the movie Krull you'll find it hysterical, and if you haven't, you'll find it ridiculous that a Cyclops and a weirdo in a bad red wig are pushing magic ninja stars as a home defense system.
The Bikini Bloodbath folks have essentially made a bulletproof (or Glaiveproof, if you will) movie. You can't negatively review it because it's intentionally bad. You can't make fun of it because it makes fun of itself. The acting is purposely terrible; every line is delivered in either an incredibly stilted style or with an overdone accent, whether foreign, lispy or butch. Thankfully, this does nothing but enhance the overall deliberate absurdity of the movie. No one here is going to win an Oscar, but no one is trying to.
Luckily, and this is what keeps the movie from being easily dismissible, is that from a technical and professional standpoint, the movie is a success. The sound and lighting, a general weak point in most no-budget movies, are solid here. All the dialog and ambient sound is clear and understandable and everything is well lit, even the night scenes. The direction is spot on; the dual directors obviously understand their jobs and therefore keep things moving at a quick pace. The movie moves from joke to joke and gross-out to gross-out at just the appropriate speed; slow enough for you to laugh at the jokes, but fast enough to keep you from really thinking about what you're laughing at. And the writing, for all its juvenile and sophomoric lunacy, the writing is what carries the movie. It's dumb, it's puerile, it's just about perfect. That is unless everything was improvised, in which case these people are bigger geniuses than mortals such as you and I can fully comprehend.
Now before you think this review is nothing but me blowing the filmmakers so they'll keep sending me free movies, here's two faults:
1. Debbie Rochon. She's only in it for about five minutes. Also, is it just me or is she getting hotter and hotter?
2. Monique Dupree. It feels like she was in the movie just so they could stick her picture on the cover. She's in it for all of 45 seconds and she cannot deliver a line. At all. She neither acts nor overacts; she simple says stuff and has ridiculously huge boobs.
There it is, the latest installment in one of my favorite series of movies. While not quite as entertaining as Bikini Bloodbath Carwash (how could it be, that film was b-movie Nirvana), this slice of heaven is a solid win for the creative minds at Bloodbath Pictures (bloodbathpictures.com). It's got lots of boobs, lots of blood, lots of shit, and lest we forget, a spewing anus. It's like a Troma movie but good.
Later.
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jamie