Sherman: UP All Night -- "Bad Girls From Mars"

In my last review I found that I had prophetically typed the words “... I've found my stinker to beat.” As the self-fulfiller of prophecies that I am, I decided my next movie was to be “Werewolf in a Girls' Dormitory” -- "was" being the operative word, because the movie arrived broken, so I was forced to watch the other cinematic excrement that came via Netflix. It definitely had promise. The title alone gave off a repugnant stench of celluloid failure.

“Bad Girls From Mars” was the title and Fred Olen Ray was the man responsible -- the very same man who gave us “Star Slammer.” Suffice to say, my flesh crawled with anticipation. Oh, my friends... had I only heeded the warnings of my DVD player. Indeed, modern technology itself tried to save me from my hubris by refusing to play the movie by flashing a “Disc Error.”

Sadly, for you and me, the player eventually relented to its true master, which loosely translates into me wiping the disc on my shirt, blowing into the DVD player ala 1980s Nintendo revival technique and opening and closing the DVD tray numerous times. That exercise out of the way, it was time for the hell to begin... and boy did it. Try as I might, there was no way I could fight this surround-sound hell, even with my sidekick, Samuel Adams, by my side to numb the pain. It wasn't enough my friends, IT WASN'T ENOUGH!

What would you say if I were to tell you that there exists a movie that has an average of two tits every three seconds? Mind you, that's a rough estimate -- could be less, or possibly more, but we'll go with that estimate... and it doesn't even matter. IT DOESN'T MATTER! The movie is one giant black hole to anything remotely entertaining. I denounced humanity as a whole at least twice during this nightmarish experience.

I know, I know... you're saying: “Okay Jeremiah, we get it, it sucked, but what was the movie about?”

What was the movie about? Go fuck yourself, that's what the movie was about.

Sorry, I was little angry there... with myself more than anyone.

So where were we? Ah, the point of this torturous, tedious, hell. It is, in point of fact, a movie within a movie. (Ha-ha! Double the hell!) A bad, softcore-ish, sophomoric, Z-budget movie about making a bad, softcore-ish, sophomoric, Z-budget movie. As fate would doom it, the movie within the movie is entitled... (Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?) “Bad Girls From Mars.” That's right. And beyond that, it's a supposed sequel to Ed Wood's “Plan 9 From Outer Space” -- historically, one of the worst movies ever made.

To reiterate, the shit within the shit is actually a sequel to an even bigger pile of shit, throw it all together and... EWWWWWW!

The movie concerns itself with the fact that production of “Bad Girls From Mars” is fraught with peril, disaster, and muuurrder. The main actresses (actressi?) can't seem to keep their tops on... or their heads (wah-wahhhh). One of the precious few saving graces of the film is the amount of deaths it contains.

I know it's a movie, and I know those are actors playing a part, but I took a certain sadistic glee in imaging that the actors themselves were being slaughtered -- with the exception of Oliver Darrow, who plays director T.J. McMasters, and his secretary. They're the only two things about this movies that kept me from applying for a gun license. Darrow seems to be the only actor on screen with a modicum of talent and his secretary was the hottest girl in the movie, because she looked comparatively realistic. Then again, that could be the Boston Lager talking, so don't hold me to it.

I could tell you more about the movie, but I just don't care enough. Quite frankly, neither should you. Movies like this make baby Jesus cry. Fucking Piece Of Shit.

/ 5

Yours Until Hell Freezes Over,
Jeremiah