Forgive me for not sitting down to chat after such a long layoff, but I feel I’ve got a bit of a job to do here. You see, the world of cinemasodomy has changed in a very profound way since my last review, whenever that was. Ladies and gentlemen — and I can’t even express how much it stabs me in the face to write this — every single person I know now likes a Michael Bay movie.
I can’t say that I’m surprised by this development, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow this cocksnot-coated syringe. I see it on the faces of people around town, I see the box office numbers. Hell, it’s even palpable that the summer of Bay-love has even come to my own home website — My home! Where I rest my battle-scarred body after dismembering a god-awful movie … which I’ll get back to here in a minute if you’ll hold on.
It was bad enough that Spielberg and Bay were going to make enough money to end world hunger this year regardless of whether Transformers sucked balls or not. But through some twisted omission, their unholy incompetence was subdued just long enough to have the entire world licking their sacs and guaranteeing many a sequel to come —welcome to Hell my friends, they’re now green-lighting sequels of Michael Bay movies before the originals even hit the streets. As I mentioned, this movie was always going to be a massive financial hit, no matter how dumb it was. My only hope was that it would be bad enough that one flaming, premature ejaculator Transformers geek would be so furious over Bay’s massacre — of something they should have stopped jacking off to as soon as they were old enough to jack off — that they’d murder the bastard. Our only hope is the Law of Diminishing Returns holds true, Bay gets hired again and by the third or fourth sequel he fucks it up bad enough to eventually die of rectal trauma from being violated with an Optimus Prime action figure. Until then, you can bet Bay’s preemptive strike against good cinema will roll on, and on, and on.
Speaking of rectal trauma, this week’s revisiting to the mostly dreadful world of true crime horror both features and causes its share of it. Straight from the Pacific Northwest, it’s America’s favorite prostitute-strangling waste of life: Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer! I was disappointed that I never got a chance to finish my Macabre project from last spring — then I rented this movie and remembered just how bad most of these movies are. Anyway, Ridgway made his greatest contribution to the world back in 1989 when he was featured on Macabre’s awesome Gloom record in The Green River Murderer (He’s Still Out There). Of course, in 1989, Ridgway was indeed still out there. Despite being arrested in 1982 for solicitation of prostitution, he wasn’t actually arrested until 2001 when DNA testing linked him to the crimes. Ridgway murdered at least 48 whores — mostly by strangulation — making him one of our great nation’s most prolific murderers. That’s a double-edged sword: if you kill that many people, you’re probably going to end up on a Macabre record, but you’ll probably end up being featured in a horrid Lions Gate direct-to-DVD piece of garbage. His song was only 21 seconds, and that’s longer than this movie should have been.
To my great dismay, this movie plays out like the deformed, mongoloid offspring of Ted Bundy and The BTK Killer. If I were a competent reviewer, that would knock you flush on your ass, but I never finished my reviews of those turds. I probably should finish them, but that would require me to watch them again. If I had written those reviews, you’d never ask that of me. But you didn’t, so I can’t expect you to understand. In a nutshell, that means we get lots and lots of our hero having sex with and eventually strangling faceless women whom we never know anything about. That’s the Ted Bundy part, all without the joy of getting to see him get cotton balls shoved up his rectum. That’s all depraved and all, but there’s also a ton of annoying and nonsensical cutaways — pointless faux autopsy footage, interview footage with the real Ridgway (I think? I could be wrong, as this movie’s one triumph is that the guy playing Ridgway, George Kiseleff, does look like the real thing) and other inane imagery — to piss off even the most patent viewer. I suppose that’s because the real murders were all very formulaic: he picked up a hooker, took them back to his car or to a motel, had sex with them, killed them and dumped them in the Green River. Ejaculate, rinse, repeat.
The movie starts off with promise though, as the audience is promised a golden shower scene in the first few minutes. Then, it hints at possible scatology! Hooray! But nope, it’s all false hope. The only bodily functions you’ll get from this movie are dry heaves from its awesome boringness. I expected more from the man who inspired the band Green River’s name. (Here’s a history lesson for the kids: Green River was one of the seminal Seattle bands. After Green River split, members went on to form Mudhoney, Love Battery and Mother Love Bone, which later begat Pearl Jam. Yes, I’m still hopelessly in love with Seattle rock … don’t say the “G” word, kids.) As you’ve figured out by now, I have nothing interesting to say about this movie. So, I’ll go-ahead-on and pull the butt plug on this abortion of a review. The only positive thing I can say about this movie is that it’s only about 75 minutes long. Alas, like I said, that’s still 74:39 more than Macabre needed to tell the entire story of Gary Ridgway:
The Green River Murderer,
He’s still out there.
The authorities can’t find him.
A trail of bodies behind him.
Sadly, if this song had remained true, and he was still out there, they’d never had made this movie. Damn you, DNA testing.
