Oh, holy balls.
Hemmingway said, “All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know.” Okay, Ernest, here it is: Upon watching this for the second and absolute final time, my suspicions were confirmed that this is without a doubt one of the most god-awful things I have ever borne witness to. And that includes multiple fatalities, which can actually be kind of funny depending on the nature of their demise and which boy band we’re talking about.
Our first encounter was on a late-stage MST3K, and if you’ve had the great misfortune of seeing it that’s probably the same with you. When the battle was over I decided that when I finish my time machine I’m going to skip giving myself winning lottery numbers and go kick the shit out of Mike Nelson before he can trick me into watching this pile of hematozoic fecal matter.
Yeah, there are a lot of movies arguably worse than this one, but before you declare shenanigans, let me explain my vetting process. There is, of course, a world of cinematic flotsam I hate with all my heart and soul. I remember getting dragged to see Pretty Woman and leaving the theatre praying for a drive-by shooting. Hulk Hogan movies are only slightly more fun than Hulk Hogan wrestling matches, which puts them at about the same level as getting a prostate exam from a zombified John Wayne Gacy. When I put Meet the Spartans in my DVD player it slagged a hole through the floor and down into the bowels of the earth where I am forced to assume it still lurks, eating kittens and swapping jokes with the Morlocks about how furry its poop is.
None of those were considered because I’m supposed to hate them. I’m not the target audience. I’m obviously not going to enjoy Steel Magnolias for no other reason than the fact I have a dong. I gave up on the Star Wars franchise the second I found out the Force is a bad case of space crabs. Some people swear by Friedberg and Seltzer’s barf fetish films that are starting to make 2 Girls 1 Cup look like the pinnacle of classy erotica. Hell, it’s gotten to the point where any time I see some combination of the words “teen” “sex” or “comedy” I put the movie down and run like a raped ape.
No, for a movie to be considered the worst it had to be something I’m supposed to like. So with that narrowed down I moved on to the next step, which was deciding why I hate a particular movie. Once you get down in the lowest tier the water gets murky; is Rock n’ Roll Nightmare really worse than Gingerdead Man 2: Passion of the Crust? Does Uwe Boll deserve to be strung up by his entrails more than Andreas Schnaas? (Hint: Yes he does.) When you make a hobby of unearthing bad movies there’s no way to avoid the balls-out stinkburgers, so you have to do some sorting.
It couldn’t be just boring and inept. That’s a passive level of badness and I knew if I was ever going to grow up to be a genuine talentless hack I needed something aggressive and downright mean to work with. I had to go out swearing that I’d watch A.I. on endless loop until my brains leaked out my nose before I’d endure it again (granted, that would only take three-quarters of a viewing, but that’s still like what, twelve hours or so?) The final requirement was that it be insidious – a booby trap on film. We’ve all seen them; flicks that lull you into a false sense of security before slithering up from the netherworld to spend ninety minutes having rough butt sex with your innocent, unsuspecting gray matter.
Don’t ask me, I don’t know either. I haven’t ruled out the possibility that I need professional help.
The legendary Plan 9 From Outer Space was out because it rules. Batman and Robin was too easy an answer and I don’t go after already wounded prey. I even gave serious consideration to the oft-mentioned and thrice-damned Day of the Dead remake, so mull that over that the next time you feel unloved. But in my heart I knew I was kidding myself. There was only one real choice, and that was the one that I’d been actively avoiding writing about for years. I really tried to ignore it but it sat in the back of my head laughing at me, sneering that I needed Mike and the ‘bots to help me get through it. The bitch was that it was right and I hate it when a movie beats me. Hell, I once blew a perfectly good buck-fifty on Leprechaun 4: In Space just to wipe that smug look off its face.
So this is the review for you if you’ve ever wondered what happens when Nimrod encounters something truly vile (well, you know, besides my going on public discussion boards and swearing like a sailor who just got his wang shot off by a cannonball). I’m going in without backup, no talking silhouettes in the foreground and no friends. I haven’t the heart to inflict this nightmare on anyone else – I’m watching this so you don’t have to.
But man oh man I really want my mommy.
Hobgoblins (1988)
This is only the second piece I’ve done where I had to steel myself before tackling it, and the first was the supervillain of rape-revenge flicks, the fiendishly brilliant I Spit On Your Grave. I dug every horrible thing out of my collection I could find and queued up a stack of Italian cannibal zombie movies. This was my run up the museum steps. I even pulled the blaxploitation sci-fi “musical” Space is the Place out from where it’s been sliming up my shelf, and that’s one where I’m never sure if what I’m feeling is a headache or all my sensory organs trying to make a break for it at once. If you think I’m just being goofy, here’s a transcript of an exchange that took place in the middle of it, as close to verbatim as I can get (I was slaphappy by this time):
“What the hell are you watching?”
(Helpless whimper from the couch)
“If it’s that bad you don’t have to watch it.”
“…I’m… getting ready for… Hobgoblins…”
At that point in what could only have been an act of self-defense she went back in her room and didn’t talk to me for the rest of the night.
I mentioned in my review of Blood Feast how a movie can be so awful as to transcend its own wretchedness. Well it can go the other way too; there are films so mercilessly loathsome that they actually become offensive. And I don’t mean “he-said-the-N-word” offensive, I mean “how-fucking-dare-you-make-me-watch-this-ungodly-crap” offensive. These are movies that physically hurt in a way that makes you want to buy a copy just so you can destroy it in the most elaborate way possible. This one makes you want to track down every copy just so you can shove them up the creator’s ass. Sideways, all at once, preferably in front of his family.
Okay, here we go. On a final side note, at least the distributors of the flick were kind enough to include an introduction short featuring naked women (sure sign of a classy movie). Although all the implant scars may be traumatic to younger children.
The first character we meet is Dennis, a newly hired security guard at an abandoned film studio, and the tone for the movie is set thirty seconds in. Firstly, I don’t know how many long-abandoned studios hire a team of security guards, and secondly, I hate Dennis. I’m not kidding around, I really fucking hate Dennis. He has the charisma, acting talent, personality (and I suspect the anatomical correctness) of a Ken doll. Plus he just looks like a pedo, not to put too fine a point on it. Then again, a second look at his immediate superior McCreedy indicates this may be the required skill set for a job in security. I’m sure as hell never trespassing again, at least not without a good supply of chloroform and a set of 320-volt genital clamps.
Per movie tradition, Dennis is warned never to go into the vault and so takes all of fifteen nanoseconds to check it out. After opening a two-foot thick steel (and unlocked) vault door he suddenly breaks into a musical number - well, a musical number in the same way Dirty Love was this generation’s Casablanca. We’re graced with what seems an eternity of teeth-grindingly tuneless caterwauling accompanied by a moron flailing about like he’s been electrocuted. Eventually, in what I am forced to assume is an effort to get the hell out of the movie as quickly as possible, he does a ridiculous looking pratfall off the stage and that’s mercifully the last we see of him. At this point I gave a sigh of relief, but after meeting our main characters I was looking back at Dennis like he was my cheerleader prom date who carried her own personal supply of roofies.
Okay, now we get our protagonists, so from left to right: Dillhole, Bitch, Alpha-Male Cockmonger, Bigger Bitch, and a Virgin Pervo who in a just world would have celebrated his twelfth birthday by signing up for the local sex offender registry. I know despicable characters are the industry standard, but (and yes, I’m going to spoil it for you) this greasy lump of cinematic detritus doesn’t even have the decency to kill any of these assholes. So unless you count Dennis’ much appreciated stage dive out of the movie, we have a death toll of exactly zero. This means we spend the entire running time in the company of people who are collectively the biggest argument for forced euthanasia since Pauly Shore.
Well guys, welcome to the wonderful world of characterization. It’s okay to cry, and this is about where I got started just to avoid the rush. To kick things off proper, Virgin Pervo (clad in bright red daisy dukes, and trust me when I say his ass is NOT that great) calls a phone sex line, arguably to prove he’s not gay. I’m not convinced, especially considering this is the worst sex line I’ve ever heard… uh, I mean the worst my friend Justin ever described to me, really. Don’t know about you, but nothing makes me want to pinch one off more than seductive dialog like “Wave that lunar eclipse until you block the projection screen”. Exactly what I want to pinch off sits a good two feet above my genital region, but that’s already a given.
Enter Alpha-Male Cockmonger, on leave from the military (I think his name’s Nick, but that isn’t nearly an adequate representation of this individual – plus I really don’t give a shit, I just want this over). He volunteers to teach Dillhole some moves, so the next five or six minutes are devoted to a most exciting fight with garden tools. This doesn’t sound so bad by itself, but allow me to give you the entire sequence verbatim:
Dillhole and Cockmonger silently knock their makeshift weapons together. Cue a loud and way overdramatic musical sting. Then and only then is a light tapping sound foleyed in a full second after the fact. Repeat. And repeat and repeat and repeat. And repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat.
And repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat.
When Cockmonger finally gets around to thrashing Dillhole some ice ages later, he grabs Bigger Bitch for a celebratory boning. This consists of 14 seconds (yeah, I timed it) of his van ‘humorously’ bouncing in the background while Run-Of-The-Mill Bitch mocks her boyfriend for losing. Bear in mind this is the “nice girl” and the heroine of this story. Well, maybe she’ll die… oh wait, no she doesn’t. Fuck.
Anyway, in the interest of getting this fucking movie over with, it turns out that Dillhole is Dennis’ replacement, so he leaves for work at the movie studio. After scaring off a James Dean type with a magic gun that makes a gentle “pow” sound several seconds after being fired, he naturally strolls straight for the film vault. According to him this is going to make Run-Of-The-Mill Bitch proud, even though she’s nowhere in the vicinity. To make her even prouder, he immediately releases the titular Hobgoblins who despite being imprisoned for 30 years never got around to checking to see if the door was locked.
Okay, the Hobgoblins. Now I have no problem with hand puppets. From Yoda to the Penis Monster, some of the greatest movies of all time have prominently featured hand puppets. Here however, we have one single lonely puppet constructed with two points of articulation, and the rest of the demonic hordes are plush dolls. Every once in awhile they’ll shove a stick up their ass so they can bob up and down (I honestly didn’t mean that to sound perverted) but for the lion’s share of the running time they’re just randomly scattered around making Teddy Ruxpin look like a miracle of lifelike artificial intelligence. And just to make sure no retarded stone is left unturned, old man McCreedy shifts into flashback mode to describe how these nightmare creatures showed up in two hubcaps taped together… I mean a flying saucer.
By the way, apparently Lewis-style colored filters were outside the budget. Nighttime is simulated with a single blue light bulb and the Hobgoblins’ ship is lit with a red light bulb. And yes, on more than one occasion said light bulbs are given prominent on-screen cameos. At this point I realized my bottle of whiskey was half gone, so I figured the closing titles had to be coming up soon. Then I looked at the DVD counter and wept like a small child for a few minutes.
Back to our principle cast, who in one of the great injustices of the world have yet to meet with horrific fates. Instead, they punish us with dancing that makes Dennis’ look like a Cirque du Soleil extravaganza. Naturally Virgin Pervo takes time out to call his phone sex line again, though I have completely repressed the memory of this particular bit of dialog for no other reason than I’d like to enjoy a few more years of having a sex drive. Bigger Bitch goes outside to look for Cockmonger and is beset upon by one of the non-articulated monsters. To quote a Calvin and Hobbes strip, I’m not sure which is weirder: That she’s fighting a stuffed animal or that she appears to be losing. She finally does it in with a hoe and (of course) a series of dreadfully ill-timed musical stings.
Then Virgin Pervo goes outside (I’m sensing a pattern here) and meets not a plush toy but the phone sex operator he’s been wanking to, who bears an eerie resemblance to Gary Busey in hot pants. What’s this bullshit about, you ask? Well, don’t.
Oh, all right, fine. Turns out the Hobgoblins are able to give people hallucinations of their innermost desires, and Virgin Pervo’s is apparently a galapagos land iguana with two-foot wide eighties hair. They head out to Reputation Road (clearly marked as such), whereupon the hallucination attempts to push him off a cliff. There is a delirious moment where it seems we might actually be rid of a cast member, but Dillhole comes to the rescue at the last moment before stock footage of a car crashing and burning is queued up. The light bulb makes another appearance, this time really stretching its acting chops by flickering to represent firelight. That thing really should have gotten top billing; it’s far more talented than the rest of our cast, and infinitely more likeable.
Well guys, it’s been pretty easy going up until now. But now we face the gates of Hell itself as Run-Of-The-Mill Bitch decides to pursue her innermost desire by heading out for a classy establishment with the oh-so-subtle sobriquet of Club Scum. No, I don’t know either, and I didn’t bother to try to figure it out. All I care about is there’s only a half hour of this sensory clusterfuck left, and I’m quickly running out of both brain cells and controlled substances.
Okay, welcome to the hottest spot in town, the nearly vacant Club Scum. Maybe it’s just me, but if I hit a strip club where dancers in thrift-store prom dresses crafted from Teflon meander around giving out-of-sync spoken monologues to bubblegum pop, I’d be a little pissed off. The prostitutes with three-foot beehive hair don’t help matters. If you were hoping for a little nudity as a reprieve from this festering toxic spill, you can forget it. For the capper, a band I’m quite sure no one has ever heard from before or since (proving there IS a God after all) gift us with the entirety of what I am sure was their hit single, meaning your eardrums merely commit seppuku rather than immolating themselves.
Club Scum (sheesh) plays host to the climactic fight scene against the cute fuzzy dolls. I’m going to be honest, by this point I was absorbed in hooking battery cables up to my testicles so I’ll have to summarize. Cockmonger is suddenly transformed into a Rambo action figure complete with headband, and chucks some grenades around that trigger itsy-bitsy flashpots. Run-Of-The-Mill Bitch proudly displays a magical vanishing tattoo while snogging a greasy bouncer who makes Ron Jeremy look like he belongs in GQ (remember, she’s the heroine). Dillhole chases the Hobgoblins by crawling on the floor while the three patrons inconspicuously tip their tables over with their knees once he’s passed them by a good two yards. And when the aforementioned Hobgoblins aren’t being drug around the room on fishing line, they seem inordinately proud of the pieces of wood shoved up their asses and never miss a chance to show them off.
Will the evil monsters from the stars be recaptured and safely imprisoned once again? Will our heroes overcome the supernatural madness these creatures invoke and become merely loathsome caricatures once again? Will McCreedy get shitcanned for failing to lock one goddamn door for thirty years? Does anyone give a rat’s ass? To that I answer yes, yes, yes, and you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. It’s over and my copy of the DVD served as a perfectly adequate bog roll, if not terribly absorbent – I guess there’s only so much ordure one disk can hold.
Is Hobgoblins really the worst thing I’ve ever seen? Truthfully, probably not, but if any part of this review indicated some sort of entertainment value let me disabuse you of that notion right now for sanity’s sake. Odious cinematic atrocities I can handle (hell, I’ve made a lifestyle of it), but rarely if ever have I encountered something so unrelentingly abhorrent that my breaks from it consisted of gazing longingly at the fork drawer wondering if it would hurt that bad to stab my eyeballs out. When MST3K can’t save a movie, you know you’ve encountered something legendary.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a couple death threats to write.
Final Rating: Nothing a nice shotgun blast to the head wouldn’t fix.