According to Ponty, he’s already got several of his worst film reviews typed up. I wish I could claim to be so prepared. My methodology has been to watch a bunch of movies, and to select those that are particularly bad for review.
That might be a lackluster way to go about this process, but it’s how I picked this week’s film, The Pit (1981). I’ll strive for a more intentional approach as we get into the truly terrible stinkers, but I hope readers will still appreciate the badness of the movies selected.
Ponty really pulled out all the stops with his #8 entry, going after some real, big budget badness. I feel as though I should follow suit, but that will come all in due time.
Instead, my #8 for my Top Ten Worst Films is, naturally, an indie cult flick that was a critical darling, which means you know it’s a stinker: the psychological horror asbestos removal film Session 9 (2001).
Ponty keeps the train wreck a-rollin’ with his eighth installment of Ponty’s Top Ten Worst Films (here are #9 and #10, in case you missed them). This week, he’s going for one of the big boys: 1984’s Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom.
I used to take the contrarian position that I liked The Temple of Doom. As a kid I loved the whole opening sequence—Short Round, riding an inflatable raft to safety, etc.—and who could forget that quasi-Aztec Indian dude pulling the heart out of people’s chests?
Then I grew up and, as is often the case, the rose-tinted glasses of childhood gave way to the jaded monocle of experience. While I still don’t think the movie is that bad, the love interest is incredibly obnoxious. And as Ponty points out, the artifact is quite lame compared to THE HOLY GRAIL and THE ARK OF THE COVENANT!
Of course, how are you going to top those? Unless it’s a piece of the True Cross or Noah’s Ark, there’s nothing else that really competes.
But don’t let me steal Ponty’s thunder. I don’t want him ripping my still-beating heart from my chubby chest.
Here is Ponty’s review of his eighth worst film, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984):
Here’s hoping everyone had a wonderful Easter weekend. I’m pretty sure my foot is broken, but I’m hoping to see an orthopedist this week. I’m also borrowing an orthopedic boot from my mom, who had foot surgery back in January. The boot works pretty well, and makes me feel like a cyborg—a low-rent, non-threatening RoboCop (1987). I’ll keep y’all updated, but I think I am going to be fine.
Speaking of mild tragedies, my #9 pick for my list of my Top Ten Worst Films is 1984’s Rocktober Blood, a visually low-quality, goofy film with great songs.
Good old Ponty is keeping the lights on at this blog with his submissions. They are welcome at a particularly busy season for yours portly, and especially after traveling to Indiana this past weekend for my older brother’s wedding.
Ponty and I share a love of horror movies, but especially a love of bad movies generally. I tend to be much more forgiving of bad movies, as many of them possess entertainment value in their own right (a premise so crazy the film is interesting, even if the parts don’t fit together; or a film that is “so-bad-it’s-good”). I’m also just not that discerning—or, perhaps, I just like trash.
Whatever the case might be, Ponty doesn’t share my ecumenical approach to films. He calls a spade a spade—and a pile of crap a pile of crap.
As such, he’s submitted the first of a list of ten films he regards as the worst films of all time. I’m dubbing this gloriously long miniseries Ponty’s Top Ten Worst Films. The tentative plan is to post these alternating Mondays in lieu of the usual Monday Morning Movie Review from yours portly. The non-Ponty weeks will be my list of the worst films of all time.l
I’ve kept all of Ponty’s colorful commentary intact; I’ve just added in years for the films, and italicized the titles. I’ve also provided some useful hyperlinks for those looking to learn more about the subject of his ire.
With that, here is Ponty’s review of Dead Snow 2 (Død snø 2, 2014). I don’t know if this is his tenth worst film or his first worst film; either way, he makes it sound pretty bad:
The Van Allens live in an opulent Louisiana town, one that apparently is constantly hosting parties in a kind of never-ending Great Gatsby cycle of good times. Vic designed the guidance chip in drones, and now lives in comfortable retirement with his insane wife and his precocious daughter, the latter of which sports the unfortunate name “Trixie.”
Melinda constantly and flagrantly carries on flirtations and affairs with younger mother, often quite openly during the various high-life soirees the couple attends. Vic begrudgingly allows his wife to carry on in this manner, even as his friends express concern. His philosophy is to let his wife make her own decisions, a philosophy he also extends to his daughter (who opted to attend a—gasp!—public school, rather than a tony private one).
Of course, there’s only so much humiliation one man can take, and despite his Hosea-esque patience with his wife’s adulterous shenanigans, Vic finally—in his own, quiet way—snaps.
I love the idea of robots being an everyday part of our lives. And, yes, before some wag points out that everything we use is probably made in a factory consisting of robots, let me hasten to add that by “robots,” I mean something more along the lines of lovable Star Wars droids, or like a Roomba with more personality—like Rosie from The Jetsons.
As such, I tend to like movies about robots, although that’s a pretty slender subgenre. One film in that subgenre that I enjoyed, though it was not a good movie, was 1984’s Runaway, starring a mustachioed Tom Selleck as a police officer charged with disabling malfunctioning robots.