the true face of cinematic horror
All those people who are enthusiastic about the reunion of the Bee Gees should immediately be forced to three back-to-back screenings of SGT. PEPPER'S LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND.
I swear to God, this movie is coming very close to utterly stripping me of my crush on Peter Frampton - hell, it's pretty fucking close to stripping me of any love of anything 70s. I've been so carefully shielding myself from the wretchedness of the era by hiding in Scorsese movies and Krautrock and a persistent fondness for Farrah Hair, but I can no longer escape. This movie is not just one of the most unnecessary films ever made (hell, it might be THE most unnecessary, except maybe to hammer the nail in the coffin) but it's a torment-filled rape of the Beatles' music, AND incredibly boring. Add to that non-stop unconscious commentary on how the film is going - from Barry Gibb utilizing a barf bag in the first ten minutes to characters snoring through other scenes - and you have a recipe for "WHAT THE FUCK? WHY DIDN'T THEY JUST STOP IN THE MIDDLE AND SAY 'WE REFUSE TO BE A PART OF THIS PIECE OF SHIT'?"
I forgot so much about this movie in the intervening 20-some-odd years since my last viewing - like, there's no dialogue. Like, the oh-so-clever ironic captions. Like, Maurice Gibb's horrifying visage. Like, the persistent air of complete and utter sleaze. Like the robots singing "She's Leaving Home". Like the ballooning sequence. Like Steve Martin, doing his screen test for LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS. Like the incessant comedy sound effects. Like, the gratituous butt shots of the remarkably undeserving BeeGees. "Beatles Group" indeed. KILL!! Please, someone, tell me that Frampton was coked to the tits when he made this movie. He's a talented guy; he knows his way around a guitar. He did "Do You Feel Like I Do?" Please, help me not to remember. I want to keep loving him, but I don't know if I can anymore.
Only a few things come close to this level of pain. The STAR WARS CHRISTMAS SPECIAL. Like "33 1/3 Revolutions Per Monkee". shudder. BOXING HELENA. Why am I putting myself through this? Is this what I've reduced to - Saturday nights alone, not even particularly drunk, slogging gamely through SGT. PEPPER'S and clinging to the promise of the Alice Cooper bit later in the movie?
Save me from myself. This might be the lowest descent into self-punishment that I've engaged in since hunkering down to watch TERMINATOR 3. I much prefer to watch extremely terrible movies with company and vast quantities of alcohol.
(I did, however, accurately spot EveryBaddie Donald Pleasance, so I don't feel as bad. It's bamboo splinters under only nine of my fingernails.)
I swear to God, this movie is coming very close to utterly stripping me of my crush on Peter Frampton - hell, it's pretty fucking close to stripping me of any love of anything 70s. I've been so carefully shielding myself from the wretchedness of the era by hiding in Scorsese movies and Krautrock and a persistent fondness for Farrah Hair, but I can no longer escape. This movie is not just one of the most unnecessary films ever made (hell, it might be THE most unnecessary, except maybe to hammer the nail in the coffin) but it's a torment-filled rape of the Beatles' music, AND incredibly boring. Add to that non-stop unconscious commentary on how the film is going - from Barry Gibb utilizing a barf bag in the first ten minutes to characters snoring through other scenes - and you have a recipe for "WHAT THE FUCK? WHY DIDN'T THEY JUST STOP IN THE MIDDLE AND SAY 'WE REFUSE TO BE A PART OF THIS PIECE OF SHIT'?"
I forgot so much about this movie in the intervening 20-some-odd years since my last viewing - like, there's no dialogue. Like, the oh-so-clever ironic captions. Like, Maurice Gibb's horrifying visage. Like, the persistent air of complete and utter sleaze. Like the robots singing "She's Leaving Home". Like the ballooning sequence. Like Steve Martin, doing his screen test for LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS. Like the incessant comedy sound effects. Like, the gratituous butt shots of the remarkably undeserving BeeGees. "Beatles Group" indeed. KILL!! Please, someone, tell me that Frampton was coked to the tits when he made this movie. He's a talented guy; he knows his way around a guitar. He did "Do You Feel Like I Do?" Please, help me not to remember. I want to keep loving him, but I don't know if I can anymore.
Only a few things come close to this level of pain. The STAR WARS CHRISTMAS SPECIAL. Like "33 1/3 Revolutions Per Monkee". shudder. BOXING HELENA. Why am I putting myself through this? Is this what I've reduced to - Saturday nights alone, not even particularly drunk, slogging gamely through SGT. PEPPER'S and clinging to the promise of the Alice Cooper bit later in the movie?
Save me from myself. This might be the lowest descent into self-punishment that I've engaged in since hunkering down to watch TERMINATOR 3. I much prefer to watch extremely terrible movies with company and vast quantities of alcohol.
(I did, however, accurately spot EveryBaddie Donald Pleasance, so I don't feel as bad. It's bamboo splinters under only nine of my fingernails.)