My Take: The Negative Movies

The placement of this film on this list will be overanalyzed by many. I expect several snarky posts. I turn myself in. This movie is not meant for me. I have no angle of approach to this material. I am not a drug dealer, hit man, or a hooker. I have never pondered a cheeseburger for longer than it takes to place my order. The jokes are lost on me. This marks the first time in my life that I realized a newer generation had replaced my own as the dominant force in pop culture. (Alas, it would not be the only time this has happened since.) When this movie exploded at theatres in 1994, I remember saying to myself, "When did I get old? Is this what generation gap means? It does? Well, it sucks." It's an important lesson to experience. It changes you. It should. I resent this movie not because of what it did to a generation of filmmakers, but because of what it did to me. Its mere existence pushed me towards the front of the line, if you know what I'm saying.

This was a Christmas release in 1984. The trailer starting running in February, 1973. It says something that I cannot recall a time during my early teens when, it felt, the trailer for this film was not playing in theatres. Is it possible to see a trailer so many times that it makes you NOT want to see the film? So many times that you grow to hate the movie? That you feel angry the moment you recognize the opening image? JOHNNY DANGEROUSLY is the first movie that I hated in advance of having seen it, not that I ever would. It was the first time that I realized that, yes, movies can be overmarketed, and that's not the same as raising false expectations, which is something different, and a topic I'll later address. No, I'm talking ad-by-ad coverage here. Not only did I hate the movie, I wished a foul, terrible fate to befall it. On-set accidents, fire, famine, and plague. I wished that THE COTTON CLUB (another Christmas 1984 release) would obliterate it, even though I had no intention of seeing THE COTTON CLUB, either. It was competing against JOHNNY, and that's all that mattered. Eventually, JOHNNY became a fantastic box-office dud, and I was very happy. To this day, I have never seen it and I never will. My life is no worse for it.

ALIENS (1986) is one of my favorite movies of all-time, but the callous and brutal deaths of Hicks and Newt showed utter disrespect toward those of us who loved Jim Cameron's story. This marks the first time in my life when I hated a director (David Fincher, who should have stepped away from this folly) for ruining my love of a franchise. Before that, if the director wasn't named Spielberg, I never paid attention. I learned my lesson. Directors matter. I have never left a theatre hating a movie more than this one. I almost stopped liking movies because of ALIEN3.

I saw MOULIN ROUGE with a group of friends while on vacation at Universal Studios in Orlando. Twenty minutes in, I knew I was trouble. Why, oh why, did I agree to see this film? What voices in my head compelled me to purchase a ticket? The best musical I have ever seen is THE BEST LITTLE WHOREHOUSE IN TEXAS (1982). That's my style. But the Moulin Rouge is no whorehouse and Nicole Kidman is no Dolly Parton. What to do, what to do? I finally left the theatre and took a seat on a bench on the boardwalk and chain-smoked for an hour. It was the first time I'd ever walked out of a movie. It was the first time that I didn't care about my movie-going manners among friends. I hated the film and refused to support it and I proved it by walking out while my friends watched. It was liberating.

No film released during my high school years caused more debate between me and my friends than PEE-WEE'S BIG ADVENTURE. They thought it was brilliant. I thought it was the stupidest thing I'd ever seen, and I didn't mind telling them they were stupid for liking it, which was unimportant anyways, because they were all gonna end up polishing tokens over at that X-rated bookstore in Abilene, because that's the cruel hand that fate dealt to stupid people who liked stupid movies like PEE-WEE'S BIG ADVENTURE, right? They didn't think so. In fact, they thought this guy, Tim Burton, might have a long career ahead of him in Hollywood. And what would they know about Hollywood, I argued, having recently spent the summer in Los Angeles to visit my mother, and still clutching my souvenir guide to the Universal Studios Backlot Tour? Nothing, absolutely nothing, I told them, because Tim Burton wasn't mentioned at any point by any person of importance during my stay at Universal, that's why. They said it would someday happen. They were right. It was the first time in my life that I hated a movie so much, it eventually got the better of me. Was I so arrogant in those days? Probably. So many of us were. To this day, I cannot think of the Alamo without also thinking about that silly red bicycle. Tim Burton became...well, Tim Burton, whom I will forever despise for not having the good sense to prove me right. Whenever I hear that he's releasing a new picture, it makes me feel better imagining there is now a 30-acre mall devoted to X-rated bookstores in Abilene, Texas. If this isn't true, please don't tell me.

MEGAFORCE was a cruel, sick punishment on 13 year-old boys who read comics or watched cartoons in 1982. If you were a teenager in those days, there was no way of escaping the juggernaut marketing campaign surrounding this film. It promised cool cars and guns, explosions, a hot babe, and a hero who wore a then-trendy pink headband. What more could you want? Join us, the ads cooed. And so we did, those of us who believed in the promises we heard on television. Or read on the back covers of The Amazing Spider Man. Without having seen a single frame of footage, I knew I had to own all of the action figures and diecast vehicles. (My mother refused to comply and, because of this, I realized she was evil and would never understand my needs.) In earnest, I sent a $5 money order in the mail so that I could join the official Megaforce Fan Club. In exchange, they sent me a five-cent iron-on decal and a cheap business card that I carried in my wallet, and which identified me as a God-lovin' member of MEGAFORCE. (Remember that scene in A CHRISTMAS STORY (1983) with Ralphie and the Little Orphan Annie Decoder Ring? It was like that, except that I was 13 years old, and Orphan Annie was sporting a gnarly pink headband.) Do you recall what I earlier wrote about marketing that raises false expectations? Welcome to MEGAFORCE. What naive fools we were. I remember us leaving the theatre, all of my middle school friends, feeling dumbstruck. It was a new sensation for us. We'd been suckered, badly, and it hurt. MEGAFORCE was the first time I understood how exploitation worked. Very effective, it was. If adults in the 1970's had Watergate to blame for their loss of innocence, 13 year-olds in 1982 had MEGAFORCE. Nowadays, I know that I cannot watch movies about transformer robots, garbage pail kids, or turtles who mutate into ninjas because of the cold, hard lesson I learned in 1982. They're out to get you. They will take your lunch money. Resistance is peurile.

NEIGHBORS had the biggest standee I'd ever seen in my life. It was a beauty to behold. It covered an entire wall of the movie theatre at the Mall of Abilene, from one side of the concession stand to the entryway where the usher tore your tickets. It was life-size, and its facade towered several yards over my twelve year-old head, or so it seemed. I thought NEIGHBORS looked swell, but there was a teeny, tiny problem. It was rated R. Somehow, I didn't think my mother would take a shine to my seeing NEIGHBORS. She had a peculiar sense of humor. Peculiar, meaning that she didn't appreciate my generation's sense of humor. Too crude, for her taste. (Many years later, alas, I would understand how she felt.) But when you're a twelve year-old boy staring at a giant brick house made of cardboard with John Belushi himself blocking the door, what could your silly mother possibly know about funny? The cashier who sold me the ticket never asked, just took my $4.75. NEIGHBORS marked the first time in my life that I saw an R-rated movie without an adult in tow, expecting to see some extraordinary sights and, instead, feeling bitter disappointment. Such a shame that the film didn't live up to my twelve year-old expectations. To this day, I can not tell you the plot of NEIGHBORS, or what happened, nor even if anyone dies. What I can remember is that there was no nudity in that film, and that was disappointing. Another sad lesson learned, another childhood belief crushed: Not all R-rated films are pornos.

I never saw the original, but I knew going-in that this was a remake of an old Jimmy Stewart (?) movie. Here's an example of a film with a decent cast, good FX, production values, etc...and I still couldn't care less if they all starved to death in the desert. Annoying characters doing annoying things, if you know what I mean. Why is it on this list? It marked the first time in my life that I shut off a video in the last 20 minutes of the film without the slightest interest to see how it was resolved. Poof! Don't care, not in the slightest. I'd rented it for full price at Blockbuster. $4.99 plus tax was a lot of money for a rental in those days. PHOENIX was the first time that I realized that, yes, I can walk away.

...And here's an example of non-offensive fluff that I shut-off after LESS than 20 minutes. Hated the dialogue. Hated the situations. Even hated the opening credits. It marked the first time I recall feeling grateful to have reached an age (36 at the time) and financial status where I didn't have to watch a movie past its first reel just because I had all ready paid for it.

It's probably unfair to put this film on this list, but whatthehell. It's the first time I ever hated a movie through association. Association, you ask? I got a speeding ticket on my way to the theatre, had to sit alone on the front row because the venue was oversold, and my date stood me up. (Later, she told me she'd stood me up because she thought I was an idiot. It's taken years for me to reveal that detail without clenching my jaw.) I sat marinating in pure rage for 3 hours. Effect: Every time I think of this movie, I get shaky. FORREST GUMP is, to me, the equivalent of your best friend's buddy whom you hate for absolutely no reason. They're a constant reminder that life isn't fair.

I had absolutely no reason to see DEADTIME STORIES. I'd never heard of it. Didn't even know of its existence until I saw the ad in the paper. My buddy and I decided, what the heck, let's give it a chance. We drove 40 miles to the Mall of Abilene and settled down with our tubs of popcorn and large cherry slurpees. First of all, DEADTIME STORIES is an anthology film, like CREEPSHOW, but without any of that film's clever touches. Secondly, it's a low-budget film, like HALLOWEEN, but without any of that film's scares. Lastly, it's in color and its dialogue is in English, like CARRIE, and that's the nicest comparison I can make between those films. When it ended, I stomped into the lobby and demanded to speak to the manager. It was the first time in my life that I had demanded to speak to someone in authority for a movie refund. How, I asked, can such a terrible film be allowed to screen in his theatre? (Oh, naive youth. How I miss you.) The manager, who must have been a human being in another life, was a polite troll, to be fair, and explained that there was nothing he could do for me. I'd purchased the ticket. I'd watched the movie. The film hadn't broken, nothing went wrong during the presentation. That I didn't enjoy the movie was my own tough luck. He may have smirked a bit. I reteated, but only to regroup. The next morning, I telephoned the entertainment editor of the Abilene Reporter News and described my experience, in loving detail. He ran the story, what a nice man. It read: "Irate Customer from Sweetwater Demands Movie Refund." A few days later, I received two free movie passes in the mail. Lesson learned: Publicity works both ways and numbers count. If complaining to the theatre manager doesn't get you free movie tickets, try complaining to 250,000 of his patrons and see what happens. That, and I love seeing my name in print.

How could we, those of us in our mid-teens during the summer of 1984, take BUCKAROO as anything but a terrible misfire, the cinematic equivalent of a dud bottle rocket at the conclusion of a grand 4th of July show, especially since that show had seemingly lasted all summer? What a great school break we'd been given. We'd battled the Stay Puft Marshallow Man, seen a gremlin explode in a kitchen microwave, been chased through lava-ridden caverns aboard a runaway mine car, watched the Starship Enterprise explode, defeated all those white, bubble-wrapped Russians invading America, and been taught some snazzy life lessons by a crusty-but-spry Okinawan. BUCKAROO BANZAI arrived in late-August, just a few days before school started and, by then, we were adventured-out. I watched it a year later on HBO, never realizing it would become a cult classic, and feeling blindsided when it did. Until BANZAI, I'd been a statistical part of every one of my generation's cult classics, even the ones, it could be argued, where my sole vote hardly counted as a statistic. BANZAI was the first time where, I believed, my own generation betrayed me by embracing a film that was no fun, whatsoever. Its sense of humor, I felt, was beneath me. I dunno, maybe I was getting too old for this type of silliness; a feeling I also felt toward THE ICE PIRATES, by the way. Coincidence? Probably not, Doctor. Here, I argued, was a film meant for our baby brothers, not that I had a baby brother. If I did, however, I would have mocked him, insufferably, for possibly enjoying this movie. To this day, I am unable to watch BUCKAROO. To me, it represents a lapse in judgment on my own generation's otherwise good taste.

I saw this arthouse film about miners in West Virginia(?)---or was it Kentucky, who cares!---while pursuing my film degree in New York City. What lofty, egocentic aspirations I had back then. I still believed that my instructors knew best, and that if I was to succeed in the film business, I had better learn how to appreciate films that weren't filled with explosions, nudity, and the occassional werewolf. Seeing MATEWAN was the first time I realized that many film professors are stupid. It's all subjective, my dear. I snuck out the back door of the room as soon as Dr. Weiss left the class. Years later, I watched MATEWAN and thought to myself, "This is one of the dumbest movies I have ever seen." I am now a successful film festival programmer in NC, so that film degree came in handy, but I could have done without MATEWAN.

Have you ever seen a movie poster that made you not want to see the film it advertised? A poster that made you recoil in such distaste that you distrusted your own opinion? Maybe it's not simply a bad movie. Maybe it takes some garrish image, some repressed memory from childhood, to make you react so strongly. I remember staring at the one-sheet for TOYS and feeling an immediate dislike for the film, without ever having seen a single frame of footage. I once read that certain colors can trigger a Pavolvian response which makes you feel hunger. If a combination of such colors exist that can make you feel repugnance, then the marketing geniuses for TOYS should file a patent. What a relief it was knowing that the makers of TOYS didn't care whether I purchased a ticket, realized that I wasn't part of the demographic they wished to lure into theatres, and possessed the common sense to warn me of such in advance by creating the most truly ugly poster I have ever seen. I almost felt compelled to thank them. TOYS marks the first time in my life that I hated a movie based solely on its one-sheet. Let's face it, I must concede that the marketing team has done its job. If the poster for TOYS fails on every other level, at least it works as a stop sign.

The trailer for NEAR DARK looked awesome. I could not wait. Then I saw the film...and was frustrated. What was this? Existential horror? Does the world really need this? No, my mind rebelled. Horror movies are supposed to be fun...not angsty. Not this. Please, not this. It was the first time in my life that I rejected a film, not because it was necessarily bad, but because its directorial style clashed with my own beliefs on what horror movies were supposed to be. Before NEAR DARK, I didn't even realize that I had preconceived beliefs. (I sometimes kind of wish I still didn't.) Twenty years later, I programmed NEAR DARK for a film series. Although I more clearly understood what Kathryn Bigelow was attempting, I liked the film no more than I did in 1987. I still resent the idea that some people think this is an important film.

Confession: I don't have a memory of ever having watched this film. For reasons of interest only to my therapist, I have always despised it. This is the first movie I can recall that I disliked, even as a toddler. The cinematic equivalent of my first baby steps. I must have just been out of diapers, if at all. I still ask myself, why do I hate JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR? I'm not anti-religion in the slighest. I don't dislike musicals. I have nothing against Biblical stories. It's just plain odd. The treatment of some subject matter appeals and others do not. This movie is like that. I hear its title and think, "Terrible film." Was there something in my crib, Doctor?

I made a fool of myself in 1988 because of this movie. I was 19 years old, living in Nebraska, and had just completed my first year of junior college. I had also just completed my first year in a fraternity. Elsewhere that summer, an animated rabbit was being framed for murder, Tom Hanks was getting big, terrorists were shooting at Bruce Willis atop Nakatomi Plaza, and the Brits were eating fish named Wanda. Any of these movies would have been fine choices, I swear, with my easy-going bros; but no, it was my duty, I believed, to bring culture to the unwashed, beer-guzzling mates who were my fraternity brothers. Comedies and action flicks were so bourgeois, I told them, failing to mention I'd been raised in West Texas and believed pesto pasta was the height of French cuisine. No, we would see a drama; something with substance. You take a group of rowdy teen men into a movie like MILAGRO and what happens next is a movie-going memory of such jaw-dropping dread that it still haunts me, all these years later. I remember sitting there, growing sweatier by the minute, mentally preparing an excuse to explain why I'd suggested this film in the first place, but knowing my goose was cooked, and all I could do was accept my fate, even if the price I paid was very high. Why, oh why, had I had insisted on dragging half my fraternity to see this folly about Mexican beans and holy water? Surely, Robert Redford didn't direct this? It was the first time in my life that I went into a theatre, feeling superior, and came out, happy in the realization that I could be an unwashed, beer-guzzling idiot, right up there with the best of them. That my fraternity brothers were good sports and only mentioned MILAGRO in every other conversation for the remainder of my college career was a testament to their good faith in me to pick better movies in the future, and that's what I did. I learned my lesson. When my brothers finally allowed me to suggest another movie, I chose PHANTASM II, the one with the little silver balls that burrow into people's brains. I made-up some ground, I'd like to believe. All these years later, one or two of my brothers still speak to me on Facebook.

NYC Premiere. Celebrities. Paparazzi. Spotlights. Posh, posh. Special invitation and all that what-have-you. I was invited, and what an ego I must have had about the whole event. Except for one tiny thing: I HATED this movie. It's the first time in my life that I recall being trapped in a high-security setting and whipping my head around every 20 minutes to see if the projectionist was loading another reel. God help me, yes, he is! I have never recalled wanting to leave a movie so badly...and being unwilling to do so because I wanted to later tell others how important I was. Another life lesson learned the hard way. Just because you're watching it at a high-class event doesn't make it any better.

If you were old enough to see movies during the summer of 1982, I can almost guarantee you don't remember hearing about BLADE RUNNER in advance of its release. There were seemingly hundreds of great movies that summer, and my 42 year-old memory has to open quite a few of locks to now recall those films, but that particular summer was indeed one to remember. It was the summer we learned that extraterrestrials can phone home, Vulcan funerals are accompanied with bagpipes, Mr. T sure could box, and girls named Carol Anne should never, ever run toward the light. I have not a single memory of a positive discussion with my friends about BLADE RUNNER, a film which I did indeed see at a drive-in in Los Angeles, and one which didn't much impress any thirteen year-old boys in my school. And why should it have? Most of the reviews for this film were mediocre at best. It makes no difference these days how many "Best of" lists BLADE RUNNER now frequents; I'm telling you as someone who was there in 1982, this film was not well-received. It was a non-event. It took a full decade before people started claiming it was a misunderstood film, ahead of its time, and all that what-have-you. My original opinion? I thought it was a stylish but boring film, filled with nifty special effects, and Harrison Ford having no fun, whatsoever. For having such a cool plot involving replicants and flying police cars, BLADE RUNNER sure didn't have any breath of adventure, especially not after witnessing Spock give up the ghost and E.T. sail across the moon. Yes, I understand that good science fiction does not necessarily need to be mindless entertainment, and not every sci-fi movie desires to compete with the high-water pop culture marks created by Kubrick, Lucas, and Spielberg, but give me a break. What frustrates me most about BLADE RUNNER is not its newfound reputation as a brilliant piece of filmmaking but, instead, this revisionist history that suggests it was considered a classic in 1982, always had been, no matter what those of us who lived during that time period say to the contrary, because we were fools who didn't recognize a masterpiece when we saw one, being so blithely hypnotized that summer by shiny, insignificant movies about poltergeists, light cycles, Texas whorehouses, and hard-luck life lovin' ginger-haired orphans. BLADE RUNNER marks the first time in my life that a movie I deemed unworthy arose, Lazarus-like, from its own ashes to become another generation's phenomenon. To re-evaluate the unwise decisions made by our parents was, so we felt in the early 1980's, our own generation's hard-fought right, especially after Watergate and Vietnam. Now that it's happened in turn, to us, by our own children, I wish we'd kept that right to ourselves because, I'm being honest here, having your opinion second-guessed by someone younger than yourself plain sucks. (Alas, if this hasn't all ready happened to you, just wait. It will.) Do I hate BLADE RUNNER? Not at all, never did. It has one of the prettiest one-sheets ever made, just magnificent. The score by Vangelis is beautiful; I own the soundtrack on CD. And yes, the special effects are indeed quite impressive, pure artistry for its time. And yet, to me, the film is cold. This is one of the few films from the early 1980's whose revisionist reputation, I believe, is undeserving. Instead, I'll stick to my guns when I write that we, those of us in 1982, gave BLADE RUNNER the reception it deserved, considering what was screening in theatres that same summer. I resent when members of my own generation go turncoat over BLADE RUNNER, claiming love for a film they first overlooked, just to feel in tune with modern times. It renders an entire generation into hypocrites.

I understand there are certain people who love the plot of this movie, especially its twist ending. I am not one of those people. Does that mean I hate THE USUAL SUSPECTS? Absolutely not, it's an average film. No more, no less. What I can't comprehend is why certain people speak about this movie is hushed, breathy tones usually reserved for selling CIA secrets to North Korea, as if its mere mention is akin to participating in Holy Sacrament. It's a competent, little thriller with a few good scenes. It's not the consecrated elements of the Eucharist, not even close. And yet, over and over in numerous "Best of" lists, I see this film's title. It annoys me. Why this particular mystery-thriller? Why not a thousand others that preceded it? Like 1987's MASQUERADE or 1982's EVIL UNDER THE SUN? Either of those films have much worthier twists, at least to me, than SUSPECTS. Why did this particular film garner such reward while those others have been forgotten? Dumb luck, I reckon. I see no other reason. This is the first film in my life that I've slowly grown to despise, if only because so many others insist it's a masterpiece. To each his own, I suppose. I much prefer a Hercule Poirot-style reveal with all the suspects gathered into the parlor. Friends of mine insist SUSPECTS is a clever film, that it's deserving of the praise it's received. I disagree. This film is a gimmick, stretched to feature-length. Was I fooled by the ending? Sure, I'll admit, I was. Here's the rub: Being fooled is not the same as being impressed. Rather than feel joyous surprise, I remember thinking, "That's it!?" SUSPECTS is that rare film that brings out the worst in me, and that's unfortunate, because I don't particularly enjoy being such an egoist. Each time someone mentions this film, I feel an immediate urge to belittle their taste in movies. I'm sure that everyone feels this way about a particular film, sometimes without the slighest provocation. At least I hope that's true because SUSPECTS is mine.

This is a film that has stuck with me for more than 25 years. I recall watching it on HBO and thinking, "This is stupid. In real life, people would never act like that." It's the first time that I recognized that, well...some plots are full of crap. I was 16 years old. A naive 16 year-old, you say? Perhaps. To that point, I always thought that dramas were meant to be serious. You know, like SILKWOOD and REDS. Adult-stuff with a message. (Yes, yes, I know that TANK hardly qualifies as an adult drama in the same category as REDS, but I was 16 at the time. What did I know?) It was a shock to realize that this isn't always so. Watching dramas rather than horror movies doesn't make you smarter. Still, I have carried the memory of the this film's ending ("Tank! Tank! Tank!") with me throughout my life to the point that---if I should ever see it again---I would probably now love it for its sheer corniness.

Once again, I confess: I've never seen this movie and I never will. And yet, I'll never forget the first time I saw its trailer. All that music, noise, flashcuts, and earnest dialogue. ("When you dance in these types of competitions...you risk everything!") Sitting in a darkened theatre with a group of friends, I turned and whispered, "Thank God, I'm 40." I felt grateful to not be part of the target demographic for this movie, not even part of the generation for which it was meant. It was oddly comforting, this feeling; knowing that I was irrelevant. My approval was not required. My disapproval was inconsequential. It was the first time I felt, clearly, that a film didn't need me, not in the slightest. It would succeed or fail without my input, whatsoever. (The older I get, the more I feel this way about certain movies.) Much like PULP FICTION in 1994, I realized that I'd passed through another set of gaps in the generations. Except, this time, I wasn't upset about feeling older. This time, I embraced it. STEP UP 2 was not meant for me, and I was 100% okay with that.