mlh1138x
Joined Jan 2001
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Reviews2
mlh1138x's rating
There's a little gem of an eighties film collecting dust in your friendly neighborhood mom and pop video operation that deserves a better fate. Jocks, a 1987 entry into the then-rapidly dying eighties film movement is exactly the way to go out.
The film epitomizes the 80s-college-boys-looking-for-kicks genre; it's unapologetically formulaic, crude, misogynistic, and campy. It features slovenly, under-achieving protagonists, all-too-dastardly villains, a road trip to Vegas, blasphemy, and of course, that staple of all 80's flicks staples: tits. And lots of them.
The lean, mean, air-tight, joke-a-page script is bolstered by one of the most eclectic casts ever assembled. What other movie out there can boast names like Christopher Lee (the guy IS Dracula, okay?) and the TRUE John Shaft himself Richard Roundtree?! You'll also see familiar faces like Stoney Jackson--jheri curls and all--whooping it up on camera to great effect. Don Gibb as the maniacal Ripper is in top form, giving a tour de force performance that nearly surpasses his masterful turns as Ogre in "Revenge of the Nerds", and Ray Jackson in the martial arts watershed "Bloodsport."
If that isn't enough to sell you on Jocks, you've got a young Tom Shadyac hamming it up deliciously as one of the snide, weasely, trust-fund baby villains before he sold his soul to Satan (or Jim Carrey, anyway) and went on to become Hollywood comedy lenser du jour. "Big Wednesday's" Perry Lang is in this mother too--hey, if Milius cast him, he MUST be that damn good (and guys named Perry just rock!). And last, but certainly not least, is Trinadad Silva, Mexico's greatest export to the U.S. in the role of Chito "The Human Backcourt."
All the shilling in the world can't do this movie justice. Seek Jocks out--it's the truth, and it shall set you free. Until the next time, save us those goddamned aisle seats.
The film epitomizes the 80s-college-boys-looking-for-kicks genre; it's unapologetically formulaic, crude, misogynistic, and campy. It features slovenly, under-achieving protagonists, all-too-dastardly villains, a road trip to Vegas, blasphemy, and of course, that staple of all 80's flicks staples: tits. And lots of them.
The lean, mean, air-tight, joke-a-page script is bolstered by one of the most eclectic casts ever assembled. What other movie out there can boast names like Christopher Lee (the guy IS Dracula, okay?) and the TRUE John Shaft himself Richard Roundtree?! You'll also see familiar faces like Stoney Jackson--jheri curls and all--whooping it up on camera to great effect. Don Gibb as the maniacal Ripper is in top form, giving a tour de force performance that nearly surpasses his masterful turns as Ogre in "Revenge of the Nerds", and Ray Jackson in the martial arts watershed "Bloodsport."
If that isn't enough to sell you on Jocks, you've got a young Tom Shadyac hamming it up deliciously as one of the snide, weasely, trust-fund baby villains before he sold his soul to Satan (or Jim Carrey, anyway) and went on to become Hollywood comedy lenser du jour. "Big Wednesday's" Perry Lang is in this mother too--hey, if Milius cast him, he MUST be that damn good (and guys named Perry just rock!). And last, but certainly not least, is Trinadad Silva, Mexico's greatest export to the U.S. in the role of Chito "The Human Backcourt."
All the shilling in the world can't do this movie justice. Seek Jocks out--it's the truth, and it shall set you free. Until the next time, save us those goddamned aisle seats.
Stricken with a mad Sith Flu and confined to my lair, I was jockeying the remote control like a 4-foot Arabian twerp on a hoof-thumping steed, scanning the wasteland that is cable in search of some mid-afternoon programming. I came upon a bunch of scantily-clad, buxom, perfectly-primped young women and thought to myself, "S**t, since when do I have the Spice Channel?"
But once I saw Melissa Joan Hart's all-too familiar, poorly-lit countenance mug up to the screen, I surmised that this must be some disposable teen comedy flick that deserved at least ten minutes of my time. Sure enough, I wasn't disappointed for this flick fell into convention faster than you could say "Chicken Little". The hacks who wrote the novel, adapted the screenplay, and committed said prose to film should be hung with the negative itself. Then set both ablaze and kill two birds with one stone.
How can anyone play s**t like this straight? Drive Me Crazy is a dumbed-downed version of the 1987 Steve Rash classic Can't Buy Me Love, if you can believe that. At least the latter film was anchored by a strong performance from Patrick "Clown College" Dempsey. And Gerardo is masterful, chewing scenery like a pair of rug-munchers in heat. If this farce can be considered a teen film, then my home-made kung-fu flicks deserve Oscar consideration.
What ever happened to the teen flick genre? It's bordering on child pornography, er, actually let me retract that. IF these "teen" movies actually starred teens, then I might have a point when I say that. But since Drive Me Crazy's teen cast's medium age is about 26, I am totally in the wrong. Mea cupla. But in the interest of being fair, I must laud the costume designer(s) of this little opus for they NEVER falter here. As the ridiculously precotious teen girls wade there way through scene after scene of even more ridiculously staged melodrama, you can almost see bush. Morning dew. The good stuff. I love the fact that the filmmakers never give you TOO much...
Anyhow, stay as far away from this tripe as humanly possible. If you want to gain a true appreciation for the teen genre, I highly recommend The Breakfast Club, Weird Science, and Sleepaway Camp I. That's it until the next installment, till then, save us those goddamned isle seats.
But once I saw Melissa Joan Hart's all-too familiar, poorly-lit countenance mug up to the screen, I surmised that this must be some disposable teen comedy flick that deserved at least ten minutes of my time. Sure enough, I wasn't disappointed for this flick fell into convention faster than you could say "Chicken Little". The hacks who wrote the novel, adapted the screenplay, and committed said prose to film should be hung with the negative itself. Then set both ablaze and kill two birds with one stone.
How can anyone play s**t like this straight? Drive Me Crazy is a dumbed-downed version of the 1987 Steve Rash classic Can't Buy Me Love, if you can believe that. At least the latter film was anchored by a strong performance from Patrick "Clown College" Dempsey. And Gerardo is masterful, chewing scenery like a pair of rug-munchers in heat. If this farce can be considered a teen film, then my home-made kung-fu flicks deserve Oscar consideration.
What ever happened to the teen flick genre? It's bordering on child pornography, er, actually let me retract that. IF these "teen" movies actually starred teens, then I might have a point when I say that. But since Drive Me Crazy's teen cast's medium age is about 26, I am totally in the wrong. Mea cupla. But in the interest of being fair, I must laud the costume designer(s) of this little opus for they NEVER falter here. As the ridiculously precotious teen girls wade there way through scene after scene of even more ridiculously staged melodrama, you can almost see bush. Morning dew. The good stuff. I love the fact that the filmmakers never give you TOO much...
Anyhow, stay as far away from this tripe as humanly possible. If you want to gain a true appreciation for the teen genre, I highly recommend The Breakfast Club, Weird Science, and Sleepaway Camp I. That's it until the next installment, till then, save us those goddamned isle seats.