Showing posts with label Shark Week. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shark Week. Show all posts

Friday, August 02, 2019

Sharktopi vs. Various Things: Best of Syfy Shark Movies Part 2


Summer always brings three old familiar film re-binges back to casa de Acidemic: Marlene Dietrich-Von Sternberg films, Val Lewton horrors, and bad shark movies. For reasons known only to them, Syfy isn't deluging us with their Asylum and Offshoot giant and mutant shark movies this summer. Maybe because they don't have a Deep Blue Sea 3- Blewing Deeper, or an Arctic Sharktadon vs. Lobsterdamus (the visionary lobster who predicts a scalding, buttery armageddon), or Sharknado 7 - Drowning Around. It doesn't matter, as no fan of this genre would remember having seen all their back catalogue, even if they had. And most are still either Syfy 'on demand' or Amazon Prime. So just play catch up and leave it to me to make the notes, together we'll remember everything worth remembering... which is nothing. Isn't it (finally) wonderful

Last summer I wrote startling capsule reviews for: EMPIRE OF THE SHARKS, PLANET OF THE SHARKS, OZARK SHARKS, ZOMBIE SHARK, TOXIC SHARK, TRAILER PARK SHARK, MISSISSIPPI RIVER SHARKS, 5-HEADED SHARK ATTACK. This year we have seven more: 6-HEADED SHARK ATTACK, 2-HEADED SHARK ATTACK, SHARKTOPUS VS. PTERACUDA, SHARKTOPUS VS. WHALEWOLF, DEEP BLUE SEA 2, DAM SHARKS, and ATOMIC SHARK!

And believe me, like the talking head oceanographers themselves, I've only plumbed about 10% of what's down there in the depths/dregs, so am likely to be 'swimming' in it for Julys to come.
--

As before, my ratings are all relative to a certain level of badness and audience indulgence. And though sure, the effects are usually bad CGI, it's not always the case. For example take a close look at the shot above: the excellent shadows cast on the beach, and the heads on each other, the glistening shark skin reflection off the unseen (lighthouse?) light source. Details like that take some amount of care and patience to get right.. Sneer away! These sharks were made with some amount of love and you can feel it - there's effort and low-key talent afoot!

Still, the criteria for quality here is how well the film fits in with the Platonic ideal of the lazy Saturday afternoon half-nap, the ultimate set/setting for shark sci-fi. If it's the kind of thing you want ona rainy Saturday afternoon after a strenuous week, where you really earned a day of total indolence. There should be a certain level of dry wit (i.e. deadpan cool rather than doofus snickery clowning), good pacing, a game cast, beachy vibes and Bechdel professionalism, i.e. women (as per the Corman tradition) capably playing professionals--sheriffs, scientists, grizzled shark hunters, unscrupulous corporate mongers--as well as the usual lifeguards and screaming bathers. 

The ideal ratio, as per baking (literally and figuratively) is just enough thrills to keep you watching but not enough to wake you all the way up or stress you out. It should be witty without getting puerile and sexy without being vulgar. 

Tough order? Not for (most of) these Syfy/Asylum shark bytes! Pull up a 'tube!

SHARKTOPUS VS. WHALEWOLF
(2015) Starring Catherine Oxenburg
***

The third best Casper Van Dien movie (after Starship Troopers and Modern Vampires), Sharktopus vs. Whalewolf is further proof the Casp is on the joke but knows how to play it dead straight. Here he's a hungover charter boat captain, operating out of the scenic and tropical Dominican Republic. His first mate / drinking buddy Pablo (Jorge Eduardo De Los Santos) is ever at his side. Troubles begin when Capt. Casper wakes up after a deep bender to find his boat is hosting a funeral at sea. One of the bereaved mourners is grabbed and sucked under by a malicious clawed tentacle, and Van Dien is blamed and jailed by his ex flaca, Inspector Nita Morales (Asylum regular Akari Endo). But what Casper mainly worries about is that the other prisoners stay quiet long enough for him to sleep (that hangover's a mother);  This here is the kind of drinking movie when Casper might get his leg bitten down to the bone, but his main concern is whether or not he spilled his beverage.

We here at Acidemic salute such thee! (or, as we say in AA, I really related.)

In a refreshing (and very Corman) gender update, the divine Catherine Oxenburg mysterious and unscrupulous geneticist / mad scientist named Dr. Reinhardt. Her 'undetectable' doping clinic is a front for her crazy genetic hybridizing plans, which include turning a has-been Dominican baseball player (Mario Arturo Hernández) into a force of nature via radical gene therapy that involves splicing him together with wolves and whales. Fans will remember Oxenberg as the girl who was almost sacrificed to Dionyn 30 years ago in Ken Russell's Lair of the White Worm. Here she is doing the sacrificing - on the altar of science! She can really deliver science-flecked lines like "I merely inquire so I can coordinate the correct gene sequence for your physiology" as if they trip off her tongue.

 That said, her flat Arianna Huffington-impression German accent quickly wears on the nerves; and when she feeds her devoted and very sexy nurse (Jennifer Wenger) to the ensuing monster we get pretty pissed. Especially after watching her walk to work in a very groovy slow-mo strut through the DR streets 

Pros: Caspar Van Dien and De Los Santos' drunken rapport as Pablo and Ray is very lived-in and dryly hilarious. I love that their approach to finding the sharktopus (in order to please the local voodoo priest who demands they deliver its heart for his juju) is to just hide out and get drunk. Genius!. Meanwhile his ex-novia shoots at both the wolf and the sharktopus; a local live dating competition show is compromised by monster attacks right onscreen, but it's all up to these two drunks and a lady cop to save the whole island! A highlight is their chasing Whalewolf through all sunny sights the DR has to offer, from their state-of-the-art docks and shopping malls to their brand new baseball stadium. That the pedestrians crowding the streets don't even look up from the phones while these giant monsters race past them makes it all extra surreal. Clearly, they had no idea they were even being filmed. That's how it should be. 

Cons: As usual, the quality of the CGI seems to steadily devolve as the film goes on, as if the animator's wrist is getting tired. Once the climactic fight supplants Dien and Ray's drunkenness and the hammy nonsense of the crazy juju priest, we're like 'okay, what's next?' 

Extra Props: Casper recognizes who the Whalewolf is (or used to be) by his baseball swing!

SHARKTOPUS VS. PTERACUDA
(2014) Starring Katie Savoy
**1/2

Naturalist Lorena Christmas (Katie Savoy) has a tight bond with Sharktopus, having raised it from a pup at a Sea World-style water park/aquarium in the DR. But Sharktopus isn't ready for display to the general public, despite the nagging of her cash-strapped boss. Sharktopus especially gets irritable when black budget spook Robert Carradine puts a chip in his brain and sets loose in the ocean, hoping he'll fight the amok Pteracuda, the last hybrid monster he tried to control. But then a snarky Russian spy hijacked the signal and then Pteracuda rips the chip out of Sharktopus' brain during one of their tussles. Who could have predicted that?

Pros: Robert Carradine seems to be having fun here in B-movie central. I was never a fan of him in things like The Big Red One - way too ordinary, but here his ease and comfort in this slippery agent role is very refreshing. Naturally the three of them--Carradine, his muscled security guy, and Lorena, will have to work together to reign in the collateral damage - which is ever worsening. The Dominican Republic's approach to monster control, meanwhile, is to just go about their business; there's never a thought of calling in any national guard or riot squad. They leave it all to a CIA analyst and his hostage. Akari Endo (the cop in Whalewolf) is the TV newswoman who disseminates information. In this case it's all very current events as the real enemy is an evil Russian hacker trying to program one or more of the monsters to attack the nuclear reactor. 

Pros: The first thing one notices is the animation -- a slight but notable step above the norm, with extra care taken to get the lighting right in both the fuzzy underwater and surface breeching; all the tentacles and fluttering wings sending water beading out in all directions, glinting in the sunlight as the monsters rise from the depths of the ocean to high in the sky. Harryhausen would be proud!

Cons: By the time they beast finally start to settle down to one plane animators, nearly exhausted, are phoning it in. Who can blame them?

Cameo: Conan O'Brien appears as a jerky preppie yachtsman, clearly doing Tony Curtis doing a Cary Grant impression in Some Like it Hot. His head is bit off and used as a volleyball! That never stopped Conan before! 

Cons: Almost no women characters, except Katie Savoy, who is ignored in her pleas for this or that but at least is allowed to show a keen level of intelligence that cuts through the mansplaining and condescension, at least as far as we're concerned. 

It makes me pretty mad when Robert and his man get the drop on the KGB spy but then turn their back on him so he can get the jump on them. Oy mios dios! What kind of shitty agents are you?

SIX-HEADED SHARK ATTACK
(2018) Dir. Mark Atkins
**1/2

A lot of the South African lunatic fringe are back! Mark Atkins' cast from EMPIRE OF THE SHARKS and PLANET OF THE SHARKS return to the Syfy screen in glorious salty dreadlocked white hippie beach bum realness.   Sexy-ugly gutter-voiced Brandon Auret is William, a scruffy islander hosting  a couple's therapy action vacation on a remote, uninhabited island off the coast of South Africa. His credibility as a marriage whisperer is called into question by his pending divorce. Also lacking credibility is the CGI of the shark, aside from some good deadness in the eyes and some great moonlight glistening on their grey skin in the night scenes (top image). A 40 year-old floating lab offshore is no doubt is responsible for the mutation. The six-heads, I mean. 

Pros: Jonathan Pienar (the marvelous "Mason Scrimm" in in EMPIRE) evokes the holy power of Timothy Carey as he blows off one of the shark's many heads with a 'boom stick' (a tribute to Hemingway). Megan Oberholzer is very cute as the hippie meteorologist who lets them all know a hurricane is coming and the whole island is about to be underwater. She calls her dim but gorgeous blonde hippe boyfriend (Chris Fisher), "the smartest guy I know." And says things like "that this has SIX heads, we have EIGHT heads! We ought to be able to outsmart it!" ("That's your reasoning?" says the smart freaked out black comic relief). 

Yes, there's time for hilariously over the top acting - Atkins gives most of the actors a chance to really lose their shit before they're eaten. The Timothy Carey lunacy of Jonathan Pienar; the crazy "I make good decisions!" shouting of the blonde couple, lapsing into Dutch, working each other up ("we got this!" / "we got this! It's GONNA BE OKAY!") Great stuff. The shark animation eventually grows on one, especially when the beast gets out of the water and starts walking around on its heads like a scorpion (the sunlight glistening and reflective shadow work is pretty good and--rare for a shark movie--the animated sharks seem to incorporate real shark movement - it's pretty close in rare moments to crossing the Uncanny Valley of sharkiness.

Cons - James, the redhaired bearded idiot is ridiculously miscast - it's unbelievable that this dipshit middle-aged ginger would be with a Strong Black Woman or that she would put up with his mess one bit. The idiot hero, after chopping off a shark head with a giant threshing blade, immediately drops it so so the shark can escape, and/or come back and kill him now that he's defenseless. Nothing like getting rid of your one effective weapon in the midst of an all-out battle to just scream 'hero.'

Meta - the weird sight of this tween in glasses talking about looking for his forever soulmate on eharmony. That this kid has found his soulmate already at his age is too disturbing - so is the idea of some of these couples being together -especially James -good lord! 
--
Conclusion-  In South Africa, the Syfy filmmakers give a shit. And as the body count mounts and the survivors get crazy desperate, the music stays deadpan --even when one of the shark's heads rips off another and tosses it up at the top of a lighthouse to knock out a jealous raging ginger sniper. 



ATOMIC SHARK
(aka SALTWATER)
(2016) Dir. A.B. Stone 
***

Weirdly there's another Atomic Shark movie out there (I wish there a dozen!), also from 2016 - so this one was changed in some markets to SALTWATER which is what imdb calls it. But to me it's SIN JAWS because of the nifty poster above.  Either way, it's a cheeky web-savvy thrill ride that centers around a cadre of lifeguards who use drones to rescue bathers and track sharks. The boss of the lifeguards is a douchebag who makes the hottie lifeguard go swimming to encourage bathers to go in the water. He also doesn't approve of the use of drones, and so is made fun of by the smartass who hides the fact he can't swim by using  one to bring lifejackets out to them who've drifted out on riptides.  Then the giant irradiated great white comes rolling in, setting people on fire if they swim within range. It glows rather nicely, if generically.

In addition to the use of drones, this very environmentalist and social media savvy employs all sorts of web based communication to spread the word. "We're nowhere near where we need to be yet - we're not even at four million viewers!" Jessica Kemejuk is a vain lifeguard selfie enthusiast with "87,000 followers and counting" and the silvery-gray eyed Maria Bonner is Felice, the camerawoman for the edgy environmentalist channel in scenic San Diego.

Pros: When he finally does go in the water, the drone nerd gets creamed by a pair of literally flaming parasailers after the hot shark belly flops up on their boat. The sight of a lip of flame shooting slowly up the rope to a parasailer, before turning the chute itself into a flaming radioactive meteor is pretty badass. 

And who amongst us doesn't love seeing the piercing blue eyes and hearing the centering growl of Jeff Fahey? Here he's driving around and drinking and trying to get cops to believe him. He's only in the film three minutes but he still helps bump the score up 1/2 a star. Another half goes to the well-showcased abs of Rachel Brooke Smith (far left) as the environmentalist lifeguard Gina. "What would radiation do to a shark?" asks the far-left underground environmentalist TV host, "make it glow?" "This shark would be radioactive - and emit very intense heat," notes Gina. They rendezvous at a beachfront joint called "Tales from the Dockside", where the bratty food critic Skip Forte eats a radioactive fish and bursts into flame - as does everyone else who ordered the catch of the day - or prepped it. Uh oh. Lots of funny throwaway gags meanwhile help keep the suspense and laughs evenly mixed.

Cons: Folks vaporize in clouds of laughable FX. As with 5-HEADED SHARK ATTACK, there's way too much time spent with the tool head lifeguard. These tools need to get eaten faster! The pervy slob they steal the drone from, for example, needs to be fed to the shark sooner too. 

TWO-HEADED SHARK ATTACK
(2012) Dir. Christopher Ray
**

There's a certain schlock director who long befouled the lines of Corman's libsploitation trawler. But this is made by his son, so it's paradoxically more mature, less 'augmented' and relatively less puerile. It's got bad editing but enough bikini clad heroines (young and natural, relatively) in professional jobs to make it almost worthwhile, the photography and scenery are good too. The story involves a large schooner hosting a semester-at-sea (though they're more like some shanghaied community college) who winds up crashed at an ever-shrinking island, circled by a two-headed shark. 

Pros: Carmen Electra earns a day's pay for lounging around on a yacht, pausing to help some of the kids on board when they're hurt. Brooke Hogan conveys a vividly realized characterization of the cliche'd, slightly 'out-of-her-element' shy girl, the sort able to fix a boat and load guns or whatever as the boys snicker and to to hit each other in the nuts, like they used to do in dad's films. 

Cons: Theres's still way too much shouting and douchebaggery and--as with so many of these films (such as 5-HEADED SHARK ATTACK)--the douches don't get eaten until it's way too late to care.  

DEEP BLUE SEA 2
(2018) Starring Daniel Savre
**
"Tradin' dreams for nightmares / drownin' in the deep blue sea" goes the interesting (low bottom synths) coupled score, with long vowels held in a style seldom heard outside out of Fast and Furious end credits. Danielle Savre is a sanctimonious sharkitecht named Misty, hired by eccentric billionaire Michael Beach (doing his best Denzel impersonation) to wrangle sharks for more underwater brain boost tests.

Everything in the film seems like shitty CGI - even, hilariously, and sadly enough, the dressing room.

The eccentric Denzel drinks some unnamed nootropics and they make him see geometry problems; Jeremy Boado and Kim Syster are married science partners with trepidations about signing on ("we'll be rich."/ "we didn't go into science to get rich"). Throughout, the girls are the idealists and the boys are the practical ones (what a twist!), but at least these two do seem like actual scientists vs. the one-channel bitchy shark conservationist Misty, whose sole expertise seems to be acting all bitchy because "bull sharks are not lab mice!" (I don't think the sharks feel the same way about you, Misty). She's very pretty but it's like she forgot to make her character either interesting or appealing. Her complexion/make-up scheme seems to be straining against some long digitally-removed blemish; her hair tells the story of a stressful shoot. Meanwhile the Scott Walker (RIP - you beautiful himbo) role is filled Rob Mayes, a kind of hybrid Mark Wahlberg and Collin Ferell. And.. that's about it, man. 

Pros: Always good to see illegal 'finners' get eaten. There is a memorable death in a flooding phone booth while the guy's buddy watches horrified from atop a bunk bed that's right at the water line. Cool. 

Smart Tip: Never threaten the boss when you're alone with him while trying to escape a flooding complex.

DAM SHARKS
(2016) Directed by a pair of Kondeliks
**1/2

When a pair of nature photographers dive below the water line to check out a beaver dam, it turns out it's really a shark dam chock full of human corpses! It all takes place in a single long day along the long river, which works very well for its 'flow' as everyone farther upstream is heading right towards this climactic corpse pile.  Jessica Blackmore is Kate, the game warden who teams up with Craig, an irascible fisher outdoorsy poacher, played by the familiar-seeming Robert Craighead (he once "saw a one-armed man fist-fighting a hare krishna"). An outdoorsy team-building software company's meanwhile, upriver and dwindling. Jason London is their smarmy stereotype software CEO, the type whose whole company seems to be an excuse for him to make people like him. Most everyone is eaten in fairly short order, no matter how much we like them. We hope London's shit-for-brains CEO be first on the menu. But his kind never are.

Pros: My favorite new (to me!) sharkstar, Kabby Borders (TOXIC SHARK) is here as London's eager beaver assistant, fluttering with clipboard, foxy in her outdoorsy and executive assistant garb with an open midriff displaying her magnificent abs. And Blackmore is great as the game warden who knows how to be no nonsense without being a dick about it. Her begrudging rapport with her longstanding old salt nemesis is pretty endearing in its gruff way. I also like the sheer grim spectacle of a dam made of human corpses, though it's hard to believe those sharks wouldn't have eaten every scrap long ago. Then again, why would anyone suspect 'believability' with a title like "Dam Sharks"? 

Because bull sharks can survive in fresh water, that's why.

Cons:  When the game warden girl lets out a scream of rage after having to shoot a man getting ripped up by sharks, it's this weak high-pitched thing like she done seen a mouse in the kitchen. It gets pretty gross when Kabby has to endure the sweaty come-ons of the limpid uber-nerd (who won't be swayed in his ardent wooing, despite a buddy warning him off with a frank talk about staying in his league), I've hung out with girls of that same hotness level who've had to endure the same thing, as if their beauty requires them to endure one lame stuttering amateurish overture after another, which is why I hte John Hughes and Cameron Crowe movies (1).  Even more insufferable than this dweeb parade is smarmy Jim and Pam of the office (Matt Beyond the Gates Mercer and Neka Zang). Will they ever get over their shyness to become more than close work buddies? Of course they will, but their passive-aggressive smirks and overly-indoor pallors are not appropriate for shark-bashing final girls. Why can't they be eaten first, so Kabby can live to fight another day?

Moral: When a hungry shark is in the water and you're safe on land - stay there. Then again, would there even be a movie if they did? Kabby!


See Also:
+
The Old Man and the Feminist and the Sea: ORCA (1977)
Blu Summer: BLUE CRUSH, INTO THE BLUE, MIAMI VICE (7/10)
Great Acid Movies 1/300: MOBY DICK (1956)
Prime Post-JAWS finds (up from the Amazon): SCREAMERS, GREAT ALLIGATOR, HUMANOIDS FROM THE DEEP, UP FROM THE DEPTHS, PIRHANA

PLUS:
Part 1: EMPIRE OF THE SHARKS, PLANET OF THE SHARKS, OZARK SHARKS, ZOMBIE SHARK, TOXIC SHARK, TRAILER PARK SHARK, MISSISSIPPI RIVER SHARKS, 5-HEADED SHARK ATTACK


NOTE:
1. Hughes teaches geeks that if you really love the prettiest girl in school (i.e. your naive enough to mistake your crush over her beauty for something unique to yourself) of course you'll get her, because you are special! So there is a constant parade of dumbass dorks and wallies, totally unconscious of their stepping out of their own class, hitting on her day and night, hoping their stuttering imbecile awkwardness will charm her with its mealy-mouthed sincerity, as John Hughes and Cameron Crowe promised. 

Thursday, June 30, 2016

SHARK WEEK Cools Me


It comes every year, with the same self-aware post-macho summertime cachet that James Bond week used to carry in the late 90s on TNT (even getting a name check in American Beauty). We never have to worry what's on--no matter where we are- during this precious time. We have a resource (presuming we have cable and get the Discovery Channel) what will chill us out before going off to a date or put us in the mood while canoodling at the Ramada, or cooling our stressed brain and body after work or a workout or a beat-down or a fascist rally or a night on the town. Whatever we disenfranchised Straight White Men aged 20-50 need to recover from (I mention my demographic because most of the commercials during shark week feature 20-something white males with beard stubble, a dog, and khakis. The Independence Day-Twizzlers tie-in, for example, or the smug endomorph talking about how car buying was always supposed to be [this is Tru-Car]). We straight white males age 20-50 can still cultivate detachment instead of fury as our watch as the dominance we never knew we had is suddenly pointed out to us so compoletely that we know we'll never get an invite to the Eyes Wide Shut masquerade. Luckily, as some of us learned from our dads in the 60s-70s, when the bombs come there's no point in hiding. Just go up on the roof with lawn chair and a cooler of beer, and watch the show...

World War Three never happened, but the graveyard whistle is still up there and for now we're still number one on the top ten most-dangerous, biggest bite-radius countdown!

Heil yeah, boyy! We Flava Flav 90s catch phrase co-opting white dudes are worse than lionfish, or sargassum. Say, anyone still listen to Kid Rock? I've noticed ZZ Top have sashayed their way out of the valley of oblivion (between the 'new charts' and the 'retro-cool') so can Bob Segar be far behind? Speaking of which, that Blake Lively is a real honey and supposedly rocks it in THE SHALLOWS at a theater in a mall in a town near you! Hell yeah, man! I am reeled in. 

Do you have a time to fill out a small response card based on your reaction to my previous paragraph? Don't try to escape me, dear reader! Millions of years of evolution have made my fins react with lightning speed to the tiniest glimmer of consumer dissatisfaction. Aus Kommen der Hai Woche!


Shark week: Now that we all have giant HD TVs of the sort our ancestors only dreamed about, the deep blues like a 3D aquarium, Shark Week is the best next thing to being there, on some gorgeous remote Australian beach, pink sand and waves lapping from clear aquamarine slowly into deep indigo and purple--wait, purple? Where is all the red coming from to mix with the.... Oh right, your leg's missing. Shark week! And with at least two channels (DISC and NGEO) running two different sets of shark-related programming (on Nat-Geo it's "Sharkfest".... not as cool, Burger King!). I like to pretend my TV is a window into the pool behind my James Bond villain lair; the camera man in the water with the sharks was dropped in there through a secret door because the one thing SPECTRE will not tolerate is failure!

It used to be just a hodgepodge of dull oceanographers tagging and mapping trans-oceanic migrations, puncture-aided by AIR JAWS, which was three or four great "strikes" of a whale-sized Great White breaching up and clomping down on a stack of seal-shaped tires, over and over, which is bound to be aggravating for the shark, wasting much energy (I always feel bad - were the sharks compensated for their effort? Were substantial fish subsidies paid from the stern?). But the whole week has been getting better every year, with shit aimed so close to me and stoners of a certain age group that it's like Discovery Channel has been reading our dinosaur minds or admiring the numbers on SHARKNADO. Every year there's more cool shit--including endless tie-in advertisements and cross-channel synergy-- aimed so precisely at my demographic that I feel like I'm getting high with all of America. Eli Roth hosts shark talk shows. Andy Samberg does weird trickster post-modern count-downs. SHARK CITY chronicles dishy encounters between a few residents of the local food chain in and around a sunken freighter. Mmy favorite so far: SHARKS OF THE SHADOWLAND and its trio of badass New Zealand government conservationist divers subjecting themselves to the ceaseless group attacks by weird-looking sharks called sevengills, all in the name of battling sea weed plagues! 

Finally there's a sense of a real danger, of something's at stake other than the usual marine biology-cloaked quest for samples and footage, tagging and abducting sharks and releasing them back into the water to deal with their cover memories, nightmares, disbelieving friends ("they pulled me up on a big craft and  poked me with an implant rod, I swear!") and constant surveillance beeps screwing with their ampules of Lorenzini. None of that, bro! These sevengill sharks are killers and this is New Zealand, where official government conservation teams consist solely of two cool Kiwis with dreads and a cute girl with a North American accent. Man, I love these guys!!


Knowing at least one government in the world is so chill and keeping itself pristine really cheers me up, because I've been suffering from too much excess empathy for our imprisoned creatures and the natural world, which seems now to be almost as trashed as I am. I've been writing lots of stuff that I can't seem to finish. I just keep making it longer, and longer and always it winds back around to my personal issues, the various dead ends of middle age, the realization of everything that's holding the world back from utopia, The Great White... Straight... American... Male. I'm the Ahab of the future Waterworld, the broken consul passing out under the super volcano. I only know of one place that hasn't heard of my kind of empathy-plagued freak, the deep ocean, where the great white, the sevengill, the tiger and the bull still think they're King frickin' Apex Kong. Time to fuck 'em up.... without hurting them.... from the safety of our A/C couches.

I hate summer in general -- too disgusting in the city, too buggy in the country. If I go somewhere like a cookout or camping, either I'll be totally miserable or have such a good time that coming back to my apartment afterwards fills me with antsy despair. I've never loved summer except for the air conditioning. I love it and I'll seize any chance to use it. I'm too big to enjoy flying coach, legs crushed in a torturous pen for six hours just to go through sweaty customs, all to relax on a beach. The best I can do is either drink myself into a tizzy or, if sober, take a long AC-nap in the hotel as soon as I arrive, just to get me back to par, to get the stress of the plane ride and airports out of my system so I'm as relaxed as I would be if I never left in the first place. If I do achieve some kind of deep relaxing on the trip, it's gone by the time I've arrived home, after flights and shitty airports all over again. It's sisyphusian! 

 But I do like to travel from the safety of the AC at home, to 'visit' other realms and far-off shores via the transdimensional consciousness that is HD TV these days. Old movies are a solace, but alas TCM often fritters away the 5-7 PM slots of the week with saccharine musicals from the post-code era --movies so white and bland you can feel the PBSD (Post-Boredom Stress Disorder) of a generation of captive Sullivans and children dragged to their seats by churchy matrons who just love nonthreatening squeaky kids MGM musicalzzzz, the type so white and fascist innocent they freeze the blood. Yikes, TCM, this week thou art losing me to the sharks! 


If you're a gloomy Swede with a dark sense of humor, no Faro to call your own, and you need something else, to cool down from der werkaus and are too tired to surf, and you want to find something with some bite that's not going to trojan horse in bad vibes (like the news), something you can detox to and soak up a kind of sense memory vacation via, then scroll your way to the sharks. Boom, you're out of the city, out on the ocean, swimming with photographer Andy Casagrande and a bunch of sharkologists. You don't have to smell any chum or brine or get sea sick or bored and ansty with that kind of trapped feeling one may get when they can't just escape to their car the moment things get too iffy. You don't have to stay, you don't have to go, the footage is reusable, the biological tidbits imparted throughout cross the boundaries of the shows, no need to wonder. 

Take a trick I learned from JK Huysmans-- put a dab of cocoanut suntan lotion on your nose and cheeks, sit where you can catch some rays of setting sun through the window, and put on the sharks. Seeing the HD deep-blue water, smelling the cocoanut oil, you might suddenly feel the ocean beneath you or around you, that bobbing and dragging forward and back through the waves as you lay back on the couch and let yourself drift into a nap. The sharks are there.... they are eating anyone who tries to remind you you're not Australian, or that it's trash night... and dishes... and commercials showing us starving kids in Africa one minute and factory farming atrocities the next, not getting the realization that the two cancel each other out - you can't save both. That's what we need the sharks for, chum!

Oops, see I went there again, urban socialist environmental angst boiling over, all this excess projected empathy for the suffering - I can't get the suffering of "Sophia in the shoe" out of my brain, useless empathy suffocating me, the exhaust fumes of my futile rage weakening the senses of my Zen coordination, so once again it's time to paddle back ceaselessy against the tide, to the Shallows, to the Deep Blue Sea, to the Shark Week.. The next red you see won't be my anger.... because if they're showing endangered shark eco-atrocities one one channel, the other one's gotta have Eli Roth showing shark attack re-enactments, and the thought of anything eating us back cools my misanthropic rage like a blast of endless Swedish night.

Blake Lively, coaxing my demographic off our recliners and into THE SHALLOWS.

Saturday, August 16, 2014

Micro-Manager Munchausen: THE STRAIN, SHARKNADO 2, and a little bit THE LEGO MOVIE


Heroes used to dread their appointed hour. They'd dart around town begging help from civilians instead of saddling the heroic measure. They'd turn away from the call, citing 'reasons' like poor marksmanship or their Quaker faith, or Ingrid Bergman sticking them for the cost of a train ticket back in Paris, or all the droids or cows needing repair back on Uncle Ned's farm. But now, in today's crowded sci fi/horror climate, well, just try and stop him from rescuing you, no matter how safe you are, or how much you'd prefer to wait for a qualified professional. Cops, parents, ex-wives, children, all regard our new brand of hero as a Munchausen Chicken Little, especially since he's nearly always a deadbeat dad with a history of micro-management heroism that's already cost him his wife, house and perhaps even joint-custody because, even if he just passes a crying kid or distraught mom on the street on the way to divorce court (proximal morality), he has to force his help upon them instead. These new crazy 'heroes' run around like William Shatner with gremlins on the plane, grabbing lapels of bewildered pedestrians, blocking ambulances, yelling "Don't you get it?!" at overstretched EMTs. They've only ever been the villain in two movies: STRAW DOGS and THE LEGO MOVIE. And in one most people presume he's the hero since he's played by Dustin Hoffman, and in the other he eventually lightens up. But in two major TV events this summer--THE STRAIN (the new FX show from the mind of acclaimed sci fi horror maestro Guillermo del Toro) and SHARKNADO 2: THE SECOND ONE (the Syfy original sequel that's far inferior compared to the original [see here])--these micro-managing ex-husbands are just obnoxious. Even as the world ends or CGI sharks fly through the air, they run around with humorless unshaven urgency, saving everyone in sight, whether they like it or not.

THE STRAIN begins with the story of NYC health officer Dr. Ephraim Goodweather (the usually bald Corey Stoll) refusing to listen to his superiors when a plague-infested plane lands at JFK. Most passengers are dead. Four survivors are anxious to get home and start spreading the 'news' and he wants to contain them in a makeshift hazmat lab. Meanwhile a savvy old Jewish pawnbroker tries to advise him on what's going on, but Goodweather has the man arrested for having a sword in an airport terminal. Almost immediately, our urge to see the world wiped out just to spite this twit is insurmountable.


It doesn't help that the bad guys (led by Thomas Eichorst, left) are far cooler: they honor their deals, pay in cash, do their research, invest heavily in make-up and black market organs; their urge to see the world end is indicative less of greed and more of simply of being turned on by chaos. Hell, I say let these long-tongued vamp zombies have a crack at planet custodianship --they couldn't possibly leave it worse off than they found it.

Goodweather disagrees, or rather hasn't thought that far ahead, being obligated by his little taste of power as a CDC agent to grab those passing lapels. He's so self-righteous and negligent that he even ignores the edicts of his superiors and winds up under arrest, yet still invites himself to tromp all over the rights of others as he attempts to be on time just once to his hearing over joint custody for his 'yawn' little son. There's a word for this type of guy, Munchausen by-proxy, or rather, as I call them, 'dad of great adventure'. They can't admit their insecurity and ambivalence about their roles as second class citizen in the modern family unit, and so refuse to either leave the family unit or stay with their wife; they can neither stand to be with or to abandon their kid, and are more determined with each passing missed court date to convince mom and child that he wants to be with them more than anything but you know, um.... he has to force himself on a world that doesn't want saving, or at least it doesn't want to be saved by him, and who can blame it? So wait right here, judge, somewhere a child is crying.

Naked white/grey monsters are always played by limber, sinuous dancers. 
Anyway, we know from the start that Goodweather's showing good sense in trying to quarantine these survivors but at the same time, we would hate to be unable to get home after a lengthy cross-Atlantic flight, forced to wait in a sterilized plastic cube for weeks while he tinkers with our blood samples and stammers excuses to the court stenographer. Plus, why would we root for Goodweather to stop the spread of a plague when that's going to be the whole show? I love a lot of del Toro's art design and I admire his willingness to kill children, but I've always winced when he goes too far with his saintly Catholic family mi madre es mi vida bullshit and the whole business with the giant worm tongue leaping out of the monster's faces is too familiar, thanks to his already using it in MIMIC and BLADE II that even Paul W.S. Anderson it used it in RESIDENT EVIL. We've seen it, bra.


Meanwhile there's this idiot woman whose husband is infected and he's barking at her to run away while she can; their dog's blood is dripping from his mouth and she just stands there like a moron, frozen in 'terror', well within striking range of his forked tongue. He's telling her to run, and we're screaming at the screen for her to run, and she just stands there, until we wonder how she ever lived past the second episode. But the next scene she's burying the dog and after the neighbor complains because he still hears growling she pushes him into the shed to feed her now-chained husband so we're back into thinking she's awesome. It's that kind of show, and typical of del Toro, for every corny Mexican soap moment there's two kickass touches, or vice versa.


Last year, The Asylum (the offshoot of Concord which was the 80s version of New World which was the 70s version of AIP) gave us the surprise meme hit SHARKNADO (see: Wronger than the Storm). Now we got the the sequel, bound for much tweeting, and therefore of great interest to fading actors in need of being seen by the young 'constant-texter' generation. Aye, matey, to trod bravely before the green screen curtain and be eaten in style, knowing for sure your every flubbed line will earn a hundred winky tweets...

But there's the rub, for in intentionally courting camp, what crap may come?

Chickens Little of the Sea

We start off right in the thick of it as Fin (Ian Zering) and his re-united family (ex-wife Tara Reid and his son and daughter) get stalked by sharks on a plane. Fin, ever the hero, gets the plane down safely, but no one bothered to tell him that NYC is blessed with a stalwart network of first responders, and anyone who mentions needing to build a bomb to a deli owner in Times Square should be turned into Homeland Security, not helped in his mission. Unlike most sensible people, Fin doesn't find shelter, or take an Ambien and go to sleep 'til it's all over; he runs around trying to find the other members of his traveling party and components for his homemade bomb, which he plans to throw into the wind to save us all. Dude, this ain't California, you can't just drive anywhere throwing bombs around. And what's more, traffic is at a standstill anyway, add a flood and a tornado and....

As Dennis Weaver put it in Touch of Evil: it's a mess. It's a stinkin' mess.

I know our cops have problems with quick response in certain neighborhoods but not, my friends, in midtown, so their lack of presence as Fin amoks around Broadway is suspicious. No one is attacked unless seen first by Fin as he races past, clocking them for B-list celeb status (included in his posse, slightly used versions of: Vivica Fox, Kelly Osbourne, Judd Hirsch, Judah Friedlander, Biz Markie, Downtown Julie Brown, Billy Rae Cyrus, Rachel True, Andy Dick, Mark McGrath) at which time they're either devoured by a passing shark or rescued by his quick thinking and thus obligated to join the panicky parade running down his errant brood as they run around trying to find him. Matt Lauer, Kelly Ripa, and Al Roker look on from the TV screen, rolling with the sharknado concept as a fact barely worth an eyebrow raise (just avoid making seal-like movements).

Fin's hero complex was perfect for LA in the original because it made sense.  He had to protect the valuable clientele of his beachfront bar, and it's at a beachfront bar just like it, we can imagine, that the notion of a sharknado first developed. Who amongst us hasn't drunk deep from a sandy beer after a long day body surfing and imagined how badass it would be if sharks came through the window and started chasing people around the pool table, or swam in the air, or that the rec room floor was water so you had to jump from couch to couch? All these things and more, SHARKNADO had.

That Fin was an ex-lifeguard gave him an excuse for his chronic rescuing out west. His idiot desire to rescue his family before they're in danger was offset with a Hawksian sense of real time and tidal surge momentum. We followed the incoming flood from Fin's bar on the beachfront to the boardwalk, the parking lot, downtown, and inland and up into the Hills. A tangible rainy vibe was to be found in their impromptu getaway car; the windshield wipers and radio traffic delays meshed perfectly with the conversation on where to go from there, creating a vibe familiar to anyone who's ever left a drunken party with a new maskeshift tribe piling into the car to head off to a second location.  We had John Heard as the comic relief, bashing sharks with his barstool; barmaid Nova (Cassandra Scerbo - above left), the stealth warrior, brandishing a shark scar (with its own Quint backstory) and a shotgun; wingman Jason Simmons helped with the heavy lifting; Finn doing the driving and moral high ground posturing. Together they raced with the inward tide as it filled the streets and stalled highway traffic with sharks and flotsam, leading to exit ramp winch rescues, and various members of his party being eaten, such as his daughter's douche bag boyfriend as the shark water filled his ex-wife's living room but left the driveways merely damp as if from a distant rain machine.

And as Fin's UV-damaged ex-wife, Tara Reid was perfectly cast. Embittered, hungover but still with some vague torch for old Fin, she veered the Hawksian dynamic towards a weird comedy of remarriage, with Nova as the Marilyn Monroe and Reid as the Ginger Rogers (in Hawks' MONKEY BUSINESS).


In short, SHARKNADO had a lot of things going for it the sequel lacks. As a Corman-affiliated film it conjured up the good old days of movies like ATTACK OF THE CRAB MONSTERS; it turned its budgetary limits into an asset, which SHARKNADO 2's NYC location simply will not permit. Gone is Nova, the badass barmaid with the sexy scar, so there's no interesting sexual dynamic (that Fin's too noble to sleep with her provided the previous film's emotional core in ways lacking with his old flame here), and there's no bar, no tide rushing in-- the way the tidal surge in the original. The first film had a flood first, then the tornado, so it made more sense -- there was a build-up --from the ocean sharks to the beach sharks to the flooded rain gutter sharks and so on. Here sharks start hitting up in the cruising altitude of a 747 and just get less credible from there. New York is too real a place, too concrete, there's no time for grandstanding or defying gravity (vs. fantasy unreal LA); when Fin drops into the city to find his family, he's indignant at having to wait in traffic --surely there's something Jud Hirsch as his cabbie can do! This is important! He has to run to Queens to rescue his family from the baseball game.

If you're a NYC resident, his grandstanding is painful. Without the setting of surreal LA enhancing the CGI phoniness, this sequel is less like a surprise so-bad-it's-great entry amid a deluge of crappy CGI monster/bad weather hybrids and more a 'too aware everyone is tweeting about me to not make duckfaces' shitshow --as prefab and empty as a string of commercials for Shark Week during a Jay and Silent Bob film edited for content and watched on TNT by a mid-life crisis-having unemployed divorcee pothead after coming home, buzzed and alone, from lunch at the Wal-Mart parking lot Hooters... again. 

Oh well, we still have the original, and the great untold shark story present in Tara Reid's weary face. As the wife who steps back into the eye of the Munchausen storm, booting the far more interesting Nova out of the sequel, she leaves not a single extraneous breath of sexy air. While Fin runs around building bombs and leaving suspicious packages on subway platforms, it's Reid who provides the real scary story here. You can read it in her skin, an epidermal horror story, in slow mummifying motion, about how a hundred young and glowing B-list actors went into the sun twenty years ago and came out looking like bad taxidermy. Botox and collagen took the rest.

Anyway, they delivered the bomb.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Wronger than the Storm: SHARKNADO, THE REEF

If November persists, talk to do your doctor.

If the 12 month cycle was Dr. Moreau's island, November would be the House of Pain: "there's no twilight in the tropics," Moreau says, "darkness falls like a curtain." So does night in November. The hushed chill of dying leaves rustle around in the corners of streets like packs of shuffling Bed-Stuy crackheads during the walk home from work at five PM! You absorb their shoulder-ache withdrawal and the cold of their torn feet from the corner of your glazed thousand yard stare as you sweep past, muttering incessant vile oaths (you, not them). November: the New York marathon ends on a cold Sunday evening after Halloween is over --and thus all that is good in fall. You obligingly weave your way to the finish line to meet them, your wobbly friends in their reflecting mylar disposable ponchos shining against the foggy grey afternoon; your pride in them is a little flicker of warmth in your freezing jitters. Going out to a bar to celebrate, sitting at a long table of celebrants with pitchers of beer and drams of Wild Turkey, none of which you can have as you're on the wagon, but you know that one shot--one single gulp-- and all that ache and misery would melt into an amber glow, all the pain converted to heaven in the time it take your leviathan blood to swim an arterial league. But No... No No November. Daylight savings begins like a long slow wet dog shudder; now it gets dark before you have a chance to emotionally prepare, the curtain that falls in Moreau's tropics. Suddenly the couch is extra cozy and every fibre of your being says "Let's not go out tonight. Or this weekend. Or ever." The sight of those shivery runners, high with endorphins (and later whiskey) they're the last you see of your crew. But with each missed party, another nail in the social coffin. But are you trembling? No. Why?

SHARKNADO.

Apparently it was all the rage in "Twitterverse" but I saw it later, or 'just now' on Netflix. After work. Alone. I'm not going to pretend I was in on its "trending." But I will confess I needed it. Didn't want no boring bits or glum nonsense the night I first saw it, just now, under lots of Brooklyn stress and soggy socked sinking from the weight of atmospheric conditions. There was none, and soon I was feeling warm and dry while watching Los Angeles get flooded with CGI sharks, in what plays out like almost like real time, snapping-up spoiled Beverly Hills brats and swimming along the freeway or raining from the sky with a rare-for-Syfy propulsive inland-rushing tidal energy. Rather than blithe news cutaways there's long car rides with fellow drunks, looking out from behind rainy windows as confused news reports crackle on the FM radio. Life goes on; even as LA falls apart under the rain of sharks, assholes still bicker and hardcore surfer exes overreact and have to save every endangered chum.


November. The bitterest, crushingest month demands a city (not mine) fall in totem if its to spare us its crushing measure. We watch LA drown in sharks the way barleycorn huskers watch their effigies burn, before family obligations rise like a prematurely buried Usher to wrest even the highest of kites back down to the beige carpets of a vacuumed earth, at least that kite will fly, and the husk will burn. The darkness will creep up towards the end of lunch and by the walk home we'll be snared in the trawling net of cold autumnal night. Relationships will crumble, jobs melt away, the windows shutter, the air conditioner will be taken hurriedly from the window... like a reverse burglar. But first, the fire.

The point is, SHARKNADO comes along, and a Ferris wheel rolls into the side of a four story international style apartment building like it's no big deal. Charlton Heston might drag that Ferris wheel roll out to three hours, but this film rushes along past it. Sharks in the bar, sharks in the traffic jam; "It's like old faithful!" as water shoots up from the sewers. "We're gonna need faith to get through that" over a flooded dip under an overpass. A douchebag boyfriend of the sulky daughter says: "Even if it is the storm of the century, Beverly Hill's rescue services are second to none!" And then he looks out the window, sees a shark in the swimming pool and before he can react a wave crashes through into the living room and his head gets bit off. And there was much rejoicing. If you ever played the game as kids where you had to be halfway up the stairs or on a chair or couch to avoid getting eaten by a carpet shark then yes you are in bad movie heaven. If the leader of the survivors, Finn, is a typical bleeding heart idiot who has to stop to help everyone, even school buses that look empty. "This is your problem, Finn!" bemoans the weary ex-wife (Tara Reid) - and we kind of agree, but then Boom! Turns out --there's scared kids in there, and a TJ Miller-ish bus driver way out of his depth! You saved another busload from the shahks, Finn!

What a man that Finn, what a tool. The real rooting interest is in his barmaid Nova (Cassie Scerbo) who wants to be more than a maid to Finn, but he's not into it (What a mensch Finn is! He has to stay loyal to an ex-wife who's already got a mule of a boyfriend literally kicking in his stall). As the loyal hardscrabble Nova, Scerbo proves the most interesting and non-cliche'd character. And she's also the source of larger-than-life wit and humor; a combination Brody, Quint and Indiana Jones, in the Goldilocks Zone of mild hotness (i.e. down to earth and accessible), toting a shotgun, and actually pulling off the kind of lame in-joke lines ("Sharks.... why did it have to be sharks?") that would make lesser actors crumple up in defeat. Later she even has her own 'Quint on the USS Indianapolis' style monologue as to how she got that sexy thigh scar. There's also John Heard as a dissolute bar regular, using his stool as a shark bashing device, and others that come and go and are gone in a flash of dark CGI blood spatter.

Effects are serviceable without worrying too much about perfection. Sharks fly in the wind but there are no other fish nor even a shred of seaweed in the wind, not even a wood splinter, and best of all, this apocalypse of sharkiness seems to follow Fin and friends alone -- other cars continue to drive by, unaware of any problems, even ignorant that the Hollywood sign is down to " Hol  o d". And even the biggest disaster of all: cell phone reception is gone is handled. Would it be half as funny anywhere else than LA? Car rental agencies are still in business, cops are cordoning off areas of downtown for no particular reason. There's no cause to panic unless you've been attacked, but meanwhile half a block down they're still waiting in line at the liquor store. Priorities.


There's been a ton of similar junky films from the SyFy-Asylum complex: Corman Y-generation ripoffs of Italian ripoffs of JAWS' rip-offs, which in turn reach back through cocktopus tentacles into the era of the 50s bug movie (ripping off Corman's originals). Most of them are pretty weak, effects wise, acting wise, script wise. But this one, it's different. It's like it overheard every excited kid hanging out on the beach in 1974-78, every kid wistfully imagining sharks flying out of the sky. 'NADO took notes like these kids were holy prophets. And let Tara Reid stand as a lesson against growing up under too much sun and peroxide. Yea.

In the end, it's Scerbo's Nova who really stands out, who makes it work as more than a high concept stunt. With her Jersey girl hair and raspy voice, way with a gun, and foolish crush on the one guy too self-righteous to get with her, she's a unique new creature in these sorts of movies, and may SyFy remember to keep her in the sequels; and remember too the uniquely comforting sound of a car radio giving out updates low amidst the conversation about what LA shortcut to take and who to rescue first. And remember too that--unlike the Dads of Great Adventure movies--this one is more wryly critical of unwelcome meddler Finn's bad habit of problem of having rescue everyone he meets, all the time, whether they want his help or not. The critique, Nova, and the gentle flap of wipers, sound of rain and the roof, and shotguns being reloaded --these are what makes this film so good. I worry those very things won't survive in the sequels to come, in favor of crazy cameos, wacky synergized marketing tie-ins, product placement, stoner dumbness, has-beens the producer owes a favor to crowding onto the Fin-boat, and all the other stuff sequels accrue like barnacles when something this low on the totem pole hits viral on Twitter. And there will be sequels. They already have the sharks in the disc drive, after all, just waiting to be used again.

Unlike real monsters--or people, or seasons--they don't go bad.

It's not just that these barometric eating machine projections have hit such a comforting firelight-style chord, it's that all these decades later and we're still happy to be reminded we were once afraid of the water. We can project our darkest unconscious fears right into the murky dark, right there as we lounge around under the beach sun. We all know the hard truth, even kids: the ocean takes it all. Soaks it all up it does, like a combination stress pillow and life jacket around your albatross neck, to make room for all the misery November has to offer.



Netlfix told me to watch THE REEF next, so I did, anxious to stay in the zone. Well, of course it's not as fun. Maybe it's something in their accents and cheery disposition but it's hard to distance oneself from a single Aussie in distress as easily the entire city of Los Angeles. The clear blue water under blazing sun is divine, but the money shots in THE REEF all occur under the surface. The story of a jaunty weekend boating expedition to some reasonably far away Aussie island in the a clear blue inlet (?) that ends up sinking and leaving the boaters dog-paddling around trying to make it to the island in one piece, it's not even the attacks themselves that rivet or make the gut sink, but the sight of great whites slowly materializing out of the crystal blue blankness around our frightened water-treading castaways. Like a distant rider in LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, they circle and you can't tell if they see you or not, their dead eyes betray no sudden interest. They just orbit lazily, then Bam!

But there's only so many times you can do that and have the same groovy effect. After awhile all you have is a lot of anxiety and monotony commingle even if you're glad to be relatively dry. There's so much damned blue between the sky and the sea, you pray for red just to liven up the palette.

The other problem is the sheer stupidity of the outdoorsman captain. Why, if you're sailing in a really remote area with a bunch of people, wouldn't you have some kind of radio or distress signal? Or goddamned lifejackets! A goddamned flare gun. Anything!! Australia is crawling with sharks, so wouldn't you have something? Maybe shark repellent? Magnets? Life vests??!! Why if you are all in the water and completely vulnerable would you swim towards the friend of yours being eaten? What are you going to do to help, gather his falling limbs? You're just going to spread more blood in the water.

I doubt even SHARKNADO would argue that THE REEF (2010) is a better film, quality-wise. But aside from the stark blue scenery, it's a wee bit of a bummer, with wayyyyy too much acting. Do we see shark movies to get bummed out? No, we don't. (Though for me, I haven't even seen BLUE WATER for the same reason). SHARKNADO understands this. Actors need to be either confident enough to understand that too much screaming and hyperventilating in irrational panic can bum us out rather than make us scared, or be incompetent enough that it becomes fun to see them try to do either one. Here it's that they're good but not good enough to be bad enough that it's enjoyable.

The Aussies have a great advantage when it comes to monster movies: their country is lousy with great white sharks and giant crocodiles, and god knows what nameless evils lurk in the Outback, including all manner of Dundee-esque outdoorsy-worsy walla big knifed WOLF CREEK-ies, but they should never forget what we want out of a monster movie, laffs, mate! There's a baller Aussie croc film called ROGUE (2007) with the new queen of B-movie monsterdom, Rhada Mitchell, for example, that works a similar territory to REEF and is better for being so much hipper to our needs. And it's based on a true story, too. Take a note, November Netflix: THE REEF is just blue water and screaming, but SHARKNADO is deliverance from the cold dark depths and up into the sweet, sweet shallows. We can finally stand.
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