THE APPLE is the story of a world in chaos. In the far-flung futuristic year of 1994, the BIM, or Boogalow International Music, controls the world. Its fiendish leader, a shrunken-head of a man named Mr. Boogalow (Vladek Sheybal - yes THAT Vladek Sheybal!) rules over all the world with a sequin-clad iron fist. If you want to play a game, you must play BIMball. If you’re sick, you get BIMmuinzed. As ordered by BIM, everyone must dress in BIM paraphernalia, mostly lots of glittery robes and eye shadow for the women, lots of hideous suits and eye shadow for the men. Yes, the horrific world-gone-made of THE APPLE is totally corrupt, devoutly corporate, and dressed like it’s Saturday night at Studio 54.

Everyday at 4:00 PM, the world stops for mandatory exercise set to the shrill, disco-lite sounds of the BIM. Firefighters put their hoses down and bust a move. Surgeons relinquish their scalpels and get loose, followed immediately by a brisk rotation of getting funky. Health-conscious citizens already in a gym adhering to their own regiment of light cardio must cease their exercises and join in with the BIM’s preferred step aerobics technique.

The political dissent against the jiggling totalitarianism of the BIM regime are two earnest and talented folk singers from Moose Jaw, Canada named Alphie and Bibi. As far as I could tell, their only “talent” was in coaxing bass and drum sounds from an acoustic guitar. Otherwise they’re just as annoying and dumb as all the other musicians in THE APPLE. Anyway, their treacly song “Love, the Universal Melody” nearly steals the 1994 Worldvision Song Competition from the BIM’s Dandi and Pandi, so Mr. Boogalow tries to seduce them into joining his heinous alliance. In one of the worst musical numbers in cinema history, Dandi (Alan Love), a tone-deaf Brit with an impressive afro, seduces Bibi (Catherine Mary Stewart) into eating “The Apple,” and signing a BIM contract. The line that convinced me that BIM was the tops was, “It’s a natural, natural, natural desire! / Meet an actual, actual, actual vampire!” What the hell does a vampire have to do with eating apples and signing record contracts? And why is Alan Love costumed in a tiny golden thong when he says it? The entire situation is baffling: why did the producers hire an unattractive guy who can’t sing to play a rock musician who busts a move with his unshapely ass cheeks hanging out?

Bibi is transformed into a rock star by BIM (curiously, she ends up looking and sounding a lot like Pink) and heads off on tour, while Alphie mopes around in his apartment and feels up his fat, stereotypically Jewish landlord. You can’t make this stuff up, folks!

THE APPLE’s final hour is a nonstop parade of tragically bad music, including an earnest ode to the drug use, and, in particular, methamphetamine (“America the land of the free, is shooting up with coke energy / Pumping power, by the hour: SPEED!”) and a sex jam that would have made Marvin Gaye and Barry White write their congressperson and demand a ban on offensive music. I’d share a little, but I’m already in enough trouble with the FCC. (It is recommended you watch the DVD with the subtitles on so you can appreciate the rampant dirtiness of these words).

THE APPLE is, in a nutshell, a nonstop barrage of terrible music set to adequate dancing performed by an army of gay stereotypes. By the time half the cast is ascending to heaven led by a ghostly white Cadillac, you have to admit it to yourself that there never has been, and potentially never will again be, a movie as absurd and pathetic yet compelling and entertaining as THE APPLE. If this isn’t the greatest camp musical of all time, it should be; anything more absurd than this would probably give me a stroke.

Oh look at the time; 4:00. You know what that means:

HEY HEY HEY!
BIM’S ALL THE WAY!

HEY HEY HEY!
BIM’S ALL THE WAY!
HEY HEY HEY!
BIM’S ALL THE WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!