Zone Troopers (1985)

“Zone Troopers” is a charming little WWII movie about a small army regiment and their unusual run-in with aliens that crash-land on Earth. It's just as engaging as its concept would have you believe, it's well-directed for a B-movie, and it pulls you into its world right from the start.

Joey Verona (Timothy Van Pattern) is the heart of this movie. He is a happy-go-lucky, young solider from New York who is glad to have the continued camaraderie of his childhood friend Mittens (Art LaFleur). The two are led by the extraordinarily uptight Sergeant Stone (Tim Thomerson). As the movie opens, we find Joey giddily happy to meet Charley Dolan (Biff Manard), a legendary soldier and journalist assigned to help the two rookies in battle. Van Patten is exceptionally well-casted. You can truly feel the joy in Joey's soul as he shakes Dolan's hand, welcoming him to their squad. Unfortunately, Dolan doesn't live up to his “skilled warrior” image and the quartet quickly find themselves stuck behind German lines.

The group becomes more and more desperately lost in the forest. Dolan and Mittens are soon captured at a Nazi base. It is now Joey and Stone's mission to find and save their lost comrades. There is a little alien-based exposition as this plot point unwinds. As Stone and Joey finally find the Nazi camp, they discover one of their most memorable sights: a gargantuan spaceship crash-landed in said Nazi camp. This is a great little sequence, featuring a fresh slice of Joey's childishness naivety and truly-impressive visuals for an 80's era B-movie.

You know you've screwed something up when this is a
screenshot  from the most boring scene in your movie.

Unfortunately, for how much I've built “Zone Troopers” up, this movie has one fatal flaw: the aliens themselves. There is one short portion where the four soldiers have to camp out with a lone martian and it is very well-done. However, once the aforementioned martian leads the troops to another spaceship and introduces the two races, “Zone Troopers” truly crash-lands.

When the aliens take the form of human beings in an effort to communicate, it seems as though the writer suddenly had a heart attack. At this point in the movie, for literally 20 straight minutes, the martians say nearly nothing. The majority of the final third of “Zone Troopers” is spent on the aliens quizzically holding their translators to their ears, looking at the soldiers like idiots. They offer no explanation of where they came from, no explanation of why they're here, no explanation of what it is they've achieved with their species at all, nothing. This is a glaring flaw that made me subtract an entire star from my rating (And as you can tell, I am a very forgiving individual when it comes to “flaws” in film). There is simply no reason for “Zone Troopers” to have done as little as it did with what is arguably the very reason for its existence.

Despite this, “Zone Troopers” does manage to make up for this flaw with a slew of positive aspects. The casting is excellent; the actors all own their characters with amazing conviction. The action scenes are over-the-top to the point of perfection. The classic big-band soundtrack is used subtly to an incredible effect. Most importantly, Joey is the “heart” who is always there to provide light to “Zone Troopers”'s darker moments. Nonetheless, when you get right down to the main point of this WWII alien-visitation movie, the movie fails to deliver on a level that is unforgivable. I hated the aliens and truly wish that “Zone Troopers” would have done what it should have done with them.

To conclude, I will provide a very simple capsule review: “Good, good, good, good, good, good, good, SUCK MY MOTHERFUCKING DICK, good.”

Oversexed Rugsuckers From Mars (1989)

 Happy Valentine's Day, everybody! Although my VCR is the closest thing I have to a love interest (ba-dum PSH!), I still feel obliged to treat you to a little love story from B-movie land in honor of this cherished holiday.

A man and his vacuum cleaner. Can
you think of anything more endearing?
Actually, I can think of quite a few
things, but, uh... ...whatever.

From simply reading the name, you can correctly assume that “Oversexed Rugsuckers From Mars” is one of the most bizarre movies I own. The flick could earn this prestigious title with its premise alone. However, it also goes all out with scattered production values, strange characters, an irreverent sense of humor and more. The result of all of these factors is one very unique and downright absurd experience.

A B-movie connoisseur could watch this film and easily compare it to the recent cult hit “Rubber.” In “Rubber,” the introduction is a condescending pseudo-philosophical diatribe, stating that its world is ruled by the idea of “no reason.” Instead of taking this route, however, “Oversexed Rugsuckers from Mars” treats its audience with a vast amount of respect (!) by not informing them of this.

Without further ado, the curtain rises and we are inside an alien spacecraft. In cinema, there are endless routes that you can take in portraying extraterrestrial life and “ORFM” decides to take the claymation route. Conventionally “good” claymation requires two things: money and an extreme amount of attention to detail. This film lacks in both of those departments, so the result is... well, just look.  

These aliens add insult to injury with their grating high-pitched voices. The movie basically opens to a full-on visual and aural assault.

It turns out humanity is actually an experiment and the martians have come to check our progress. After a quick scouring of the planet and the discovery of a hobo named Vernon (Dick Monda) sleeping on the asphalt, the aliens decide that humanity cannot sustain itself as-is. The aliens have a quick discussion set to the backdrop of a JPEG-ified picture of Vernon's face. One of the martians boldly declares: “Hey, let's do a cross between a human and a vacuum cleaner!” Roughly two minutes later, Vernon, now under the influence of an alien aphrodisiac, has sex with a nearby vacuum cleaner, brought to life by the aliens. The theme from “2001: A Space Odyssey” plays as Vernon thrusts himself into the household appliance and, as the scene fades out, the vacuum squeals in ecstasy. Vernon takes to calling his new lover Dusty.

After this charming opening, we're introduced to Tom and Bev, a dysfunctional couple whose relationship is on the brink of both financial and psychological ruin. Bev explains to Tom that their vacuum cleaner is broken and Tom coarsely informs her that they can't afford a new one. Tom and Bev are among the many actors in this film whose portfolios include absolutely nothing else and it shows. Their argument escalates to a hilariously over-acted outburst with Bev breaking into sobs and finally screaming, “YOU'VE RUINED MY WHOLE DAY!!!”

To continue providing a meaningful synopsis of this movie would be virtually impossible without this review spanning at least five pages. Unbelievably, “Oversexed Rugsuckers from Mars” boasts eight (yes, eight) main characters who are all given equal screen time. A score of side characters are also examined. To make matters worse, this is all squeezed into a mere 85 minutes.

Causing even more confusion is the movie's approach to telling its multifaceted story. “Oversexed Rugsuckers From Mars” is less a cohesive movie than it is a compilation of “chapters” about the main characters' lives. This structure is comparable to the structure of the 1994 classic “Pulp Fiction,” except with double the main characters and half the screen time.

So, what happens when you take an exorbitant amount of characters, an unnecessarily complex storyline about a personified vacuum cleaner and attempt to squeeze it into 85 minutes? I'll tell you: absolute cinematic carnage. There is not one moment during this movie where each aspect in a scene makes sense. In fact, there is not one moment that truly makes sense. Period. Throughout your first viewing of “Oversexed Rugsuckers from Mars,” your mind will be ripe with questions about what is unraveling before your eyes. Singular statements of logic can destroy half of the subplots in this movie. (I guess that makes sense, since “ORFM” does take place in a world where the police will take you seriously if you report that you've been raped by a vacuum cleaner).

“Oversexed Rugsuckers from Mars”'s sense of humor is also a great example of its trademark cognitive dissonance. I can't recall a single joke in this movie that is “conventionally delivered” or not extraordinarily ridiculous. As Zeke and I watched this film together, certain jokes that went right over my head resonated with him in huge ways and vice versa. Hell, I could picture the entire movie going right over peoples' heads and its 2.5 rating on IMDB proves that. Nonetheless, there is a certain aspect of “Oversexed Rugsuckers from Mars” that I need to point out explicitly, an aspect that I believe a lot of people overlook: it is always fully aware of itself.

"Hey man, this car is sweet, but I
could get you a new car!" "...Could
you get me a vacuum cleaner?"
"Well, hell yeah, my man!"

How can a movie as ridiculous as I've just described not be perfectly self-aware? “Oversexed Rugsuckers From Mars” is stupid in such a bizarre way that it's difficult not to enjoy it. The movie has integrity far beyond what a few casual viewings would establish. As mad-libbish as the entire premise is, the movie sticks to its million subplots with the dedication of a monk. “Oversexed Rugsuckers from Mars” does not merely eschew conventional standards out of sheer incompetence; rather, “ORFM” seems to relish its flaws and bask in the glory of its utter imperfection.

Make no mistake about it: “Oversexed Rugsuckers from Mars” is a challenging watch. This review only covers a fraction of the weirdness contained within, and if what I've described alone is enough to deter you, your brain is not ready for “Oversexed Rugsuckers From Mars.”

Award time! Yeah, I know it's only been 2 weeks since the last award, but our schedule didn't really allow us any way to fix this. Whatever. Anyway, Cinemartyr is proud to give "Oversexed Rugsuckers From Mars" the ever-culturally-relevant "Downright Disorienting" award. This particular award is only given to films that are such insane feats of non-realism that they excuse themselves from conventional critique. Congratulations!

The Landlady (1998)

Hello, and welcome to cinematic hell! No, my friends, I'm not talking about the “terribly-directed/terribly-acted” type of cinematic hell where you feel like ripping your hair out with every poorly-delivered line, e.g. “The Room” or ”Birdemic." I'm talking instead about the type of cinematic hell where, by the end of the film, you feel disgusting, deprived of energy and completely aurally violated. Sound appealing? Great, let's dive right in!

Things start with a decently shot opening on a gloomy fall day in the middle of the quintessential small town. As generic minor-keyed piano music chimes in to establish that we are indeed watching a horror movie, we get a good look into the miserable life of our soon-to-be landlady, Melanie (Talia Shire). She enters the scene on an old, tottering bicycle and, shortly after, witnesses her husband having sex with another woman. The windows are inexplicably open, too, so we get the “treat” of watching two middle-aged actors having sex, complete with shots back to the curious woman's deadpan, wrinkled face as the other two actors reach release. While talking to herself feverishly, Melanie crawls onto her bicycle, riding away in her baggy, bizarrely patterned overalls.

After a few more disturbing scenes, Melanie moves into a dreary apartment complex that looks like it had crossed the space time continuum and is now simultaneously located in the worst part of downtown Detroit and the loneliest part of Montana. We're then introduced to a number of faceless side characters, including Patrick (Jack Coleman), a man who can only be described as the most average human being in the universe. Melanie immediately constructs an extremely convoluted plan to make Patrick hers, recklessly assassinating anybody she perceives to be standing in her way.

A hell of a setting to spend 95 entire minutes in, no?

If you already find yourself cringing in a mixture of shock and despair asking “Drew, why the hell are you subjecting us to this?” then you've already got a good idea of what this movie feels like. “The Landlady” is comprised of at least seventy-seven-thousand uncomfortable scenes and, strangely enough, what I've alluded to is just the tip of the iceberg. Another way that the flick establishes its dreary feel is through the scenery. The majority of “The Landlady” is spent in the abode that our frightening anti-heroine manages. Not only is the typical “poor-lighting, shitty paint job” deal there, but spending such a long time in this cramped setting creates an overarching sense of claustrophobia for the audience.

It's obvious that from the very start, this film's goal is to do little more than relentlessly hammer you with feelings of filth, degradation, and general manic disturbance, much in the vein of more successful cult movies such as “Combat Shock” and “Naked Lunch.” There are right and wrong ways to meet this goal, however, and that is where “The Landlady” falls hard.

“The Landlady” has a single fatal flaw that is so obvious, it borderlines on absolutely ridiculous: Talia Shire's character is the only interesting thing about this movie. Side characters, dynamic direction, pacing, and the story itself are all thrown right out the window as “The Landlady” sells you Shire's character with all its might. The lead actress is known for her roles in “Rocky” I-V and “The Godfather” I-III but she's surrounded by a cast of actors whose prime achievements go no further than prime time dramas. This shows as the movie progresses. The head director of "The Landlady" is a fellow by the name of Robert Malenfant and, as I look over his resume, it comes as no surprise that it consists almost entirely of straight-to-TV films. So when you take a seasoned actress and put her in the hands of a strictly unseasoned director, things are bound to take a nosedive.

Let me paint you the picture: Melanie is snooping through Patrick's apartment, talking to herself and wearing Patrick's clothes while staring longingly at his childhood photos. At this point, Patrick, unbeknownst to her, has re-entered his apartment. Melanie barely escapes being caught by taking refuge behind the wall leading to the hallway Patrick is standing in. Under the direction of someone with more talent, this scene would be great. However, this scene lacks a sense of tension, climax, and the fluctuations that would indicate that the director is attempting to create drama. There are a lot of scenes like this, many of which simply look like the crew didn't have the time to finish and edit them properly.

This is not what a person looks like
while being held at gunpoint.

The most unpardonable sin that this movie commits, however, is casting Melissa Behr as Liz, Jack's troubled love interest. Behr's acting credits [to the point of this movie] included nothing more than various TV spots and the occasional forgettable drama movie. The woman has the grueling conviction of Kristen Stewart. Behr's deadpan, zombified acting is coupled with Shire's over-the-top (almost Tommy Wiseau-esque) performance – an ultimate recipe for disaster. The result is so painful you're going to want to get off of your chair and scream at your television. Behr may as well have been sight-reading her lines. She has no emotional investment in her scenes whatsoever.

And let's not even get into the third act which pulls away from our anti-heroine completely. The ensuing half hour is nothing more than a pain in the ass to sit through. The secondary characters haven't been fleshed out at all, so asking the viewer to care about their boring, daily ordeals is pretty obnoxious. I don't care about Patrick's court job and how he has to represent a desperate, deadbeat mother. I'd rather be watching Melanie holding him in bondage in her apartment and whispering lines to him that are so fucked up, I have to grab my hair to keep from vomiting profusely.

As this review comes to a close, I have to re-emphasize the obvious: “The Landlady” is a flick that is drastically divided between its good aspects and its bad ones. Frank Rehwaldt (he wrote on “The Osbournes”, for Christ's sake!) creates a number extremely compelling scenes that are frequently ruined by the god-awful direction. Talia Shire creates a brutal yet cohesive character who is all but dragged face first through the dirt by horrific casting. When push comes to shove and Malenfant is given a final scene that isn't particularly great in the writing department, he is absolutely unable to redeem himself, shitting out an ending that exceeds the ending to the 2005 remake of “War of the Worlds” in suckality.

Don't get me wrong; “The Landlady” doesn't totally suck. Melanie is an exceptional character and the pervading sense of dread is quite impressive. Unfortunately, these two things are truly the only good things about this movie. The endless missed opportunities throughout “The Landlady” outweigh these aspects in spades.

.com for Murder (2002)

Dear God, where on Earth do I start with this movie? Let's just tally the damage here. Prepare yourself: “.com for Murder” is a direct-to-video horror flick about a cyberstalker directed by a 71-year-old dude of Greek descent that stars Roger Daltrey (the lead singer of The Who) and Huey Lewis (Huey Lewis and The News).

You may need to read that sentence multiple times in order to soak it all in.

Your natural response to that statement is probably “WHAT THE FUCK?” and “.com for Murder” delivers on that promise to a profound degree of “WHAT THE FUCK”-itude. Simple viewings of this film may cause grown men to weep tears of sorrow and flee the room like a little girl who had just witnessed her mother get executed.

Surprisingly, this isn't going to be an entirely negative review. It's certainly going to be a manic review, but “.com for Murder” does have a small number of redeeming qualities. However, when one watches “.com for Murder,” any sense of “bad” or “good” is instantly numbed away. This movie is hideously aggressive in how it sucks you in, hits you across the face with a 2x4, and renders you completely desensitized to reality as it drags you into its relentless world of “WHAT THE FUCK.” Don't believe me? After reading this, do you dare believe that “.com for Murder” is not nine million times worse than I'm attempting to describe?

Well, fine, let's dive right into a world of acid trip visuals, pointless poetry recitals and Satanic chat rooms. You asked for it, now here it is.

Picture this: a tacky high-tech mansion that looks like something Stephen Hawking would buy if he won the Powerball Lottery. The radio rambles off an advertisement for American Love Online as the camera pans out to the backyard of said mansion where Ben (Roger Daltrey) is pushing Sondra (Nastassja Kinski), his wheelchair-bound wife, out to the patio. "It's a beautiful evening. Don't spend it surfing the web,” Ben mouths off to Sondra. “If you get bored, watch a movie.” (HAH!! GET IT?!!)

After these establishment shots, a cut to something so drastically different I initially thought my DVD copy was damaged: dead fetuses in jars. The scene pans out and we are now in the abode of our antagonist, Werther (Jeffery Dean). The fact that we cut from a mansion to dead fetuses in jars is pretty indicative of who's going to be the show-stealer here. To clarify, none of the actors actually look like they're trying to act; however, among a slew of utterly under-acted characters, Werther is easily the funniest, most enjoyable character. The visual I've provided here is just the beginning.

Conveniently, Ben has a business meeting over the weekend, leaving his wheelchair-bound wife behind with only her sister Misty (Nicollette Sheridan) to help house-sit his completely artificial-intelligence-driven mansion. Instead of pointing out that she and her sister have no idea how to operate his billion-dollar cybermansion, Sandra shrugs it off and logs onto American Love Online to take a look at Ben's internet-sex habits.

Thus a central piece of the film's unintentional humor begins. As we watch the chat room unfold (the chat server seems to be hosted on some kind of Win95 prototype), every single text entry is dictated to us verbally by a slew of voices that sound as though they were recorded in a running washing machine. For those of you who know your audio jargon, the primary effects that are applied include heavy reverb, pitch-shifting and ring modulation. This humorous aspect of is better experienced by watching the movie, but the dialogue in the chat room is just as hilariously absurd on its own.

While attempting to learn more about an internet fuck-buddy Ben has, Sondra angers the (in-pursuit) Werther and he uses his hacker skills to bomb the room with a giant, superimposed “LEAVE HER ALONE.” Instead of realizing this is a glaring red flag, Sondra keeps going and, before long, discovers that Werther is a cyberpredator who broadcasts his crimes live online. Sondra and Misty take it upon themselves to stop him.

The rest of the movie is mostly comprised of typical underwhelming action/suspense sequences. Therefore, allow me to switch the focus back to the unintentional comedy angle. And as for the best of that unintentional comedy, let's do as the movie does and hone in a lot on Werther.

A clearly disturbed maniac (even by the standards of maniacs), Werther displays many psychotic mannerisms that come through as more amusing than anything. Obsessed with the poetry of the late Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), there are several scenes where the villain can be found monologing prolonged passages to both himself and others, often accompanied by dramatic piano music. On top of this, he is stricken with regret about his crimes, as characterized by a number of hallucinations he experiences while on the run. Even these are done with enough of an over-enthusiastic flourish to make anybody laugh out loud. Werther exists in his own little world in “.com for Murder,” and his sheer overacting is better watched than dictated to you. This is a character that you have to see to believe.

Yet another source of humor (and perhaps the area where this movie really shoots itself in the foot) is just how seriously it takes itself. For the duration of every laughable moment, you can tell that 71-year-old producer/director Nico Mastorakis genuinely believes he is creating something profound. I mean absolutely no disrespect to the man by saying this, but I firmly believe that “.com For Murder” is a video documentation of Mastorakis' rapidly deteriorating mental state in his old age. I know that this statement seems a bit below the belt, but honestly... how else could you describe a movie where twenty-thousand volts of electricity do not kill a man? How else could you describe a movie where internet chat rooms seem to be possessed by prepubescent demons? How else could you describe a movie where the antagonist inexplicably dons a freakin' Wishbone eye tattoo throughout? It's clearly evident that “.com for Murder” is a result of a combination of old age and extreme ignorance of internet culture.

Being the small niche that it is, the cyber-horror genre tends to churn out consistently excellent movies, such as: “Strangeland,” “Hard Candy” and “Untraceable.” However, “.com for Murder” is bull's-eye proof that if a movie's director has no idea about the true nature of the topic at hand, then the chances are that an unspeakably ridiculous work will ensue.

It absolutely confounds me that Daltrey volunteered to be in this. “.com for Murder” is a pinnacle of “lack of quality control” and when I think “quality control,” the very first person I'd think of would be Roger Daltrey. The man headed a pivotal 60's rock'n'roll group whose stellar recordings hold up to this very day – even in lieu of the other bands they had to compete with during that era (e.g. The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, The Grateful Dead, The Beach Boys, etc.) What the fuck is he doing in a movie where the most dramatic scene is nothing more than laughable?

I simply can't believe that “.com for Murder” was released as-is. Honestly? No quality control? Not a single person stopped Nico on the set to say “...Dude, can I have a word?”

As Cinemartyr gets off its feet, I'd like to introduce a new concept to the site: awards. Said awards will be given rarely, and not necessarily to the worst movies presented -- ".com for Murder" is a guilty pleasure, to say the very least. Rather, awards will be given to films that are riddled with unusual features that are absolutely impossible to ignore.

Thus I give ".com for Murder" Cinemartyr's very first award: the "What On Earth Were They Thinking?" award. This particular award will be given to movies that are explicitly serious and self-aware, yet are so brain-rottingly awful that their existence is incomprehensible. ".com for Murder" meets these requirements in spades, so I'd like to give my personal congratulations to all who were involved in the creation of this... ...film!! YAYYYYYY!!!!