Aug 3, 2014

TWO GUYS, ONE QUIP: THE RAY BRADBURY THEATER: THE TOWN WHERE NO ONE GOT OFF

A joint effort between The End of Summer and Exploitation Movie Review, “Two Guys, One Quip” is a venture to honor the cheesiest, oddest, and most unheralded crop of films we can stand. Some films can be tackled solo and some cannot. Some films are so excruciatingly unusual that multiple parties are needed to catch every single solitary weirdity. "Two Guys, One Quip" is a free-for-all, back-and-forth, "I'm-just-gonna-say-whatever" approach to double-teaming an easy target in the unsexiest way possible. You will find nothing close to actual, legitimate film discussion, but instead sarcasm and douche-bag superiority flying fast and furious. Profanity will be immense, constant, and unyielding. No on-screen target is safe. No incompetence will pass by unmocked. And no punches will be at all pulled. Some films are asking for it. These are some of them.




Exploitation Movie Review (EMR): So, our good friend Barry Cinematic invited us to take part in his Goldblum-a-thon. You can travel here to find out more about that, and to read some of the good work that Barry himself is doing.

There was some to’ing and fro’ing here at the 2G1Q torture box as to what we should review. Eventually we settled on an episode of ‘The Ray Bradbury Theatre’ called ‘The Town Where No One Got Off.’ I know an extremely limited amount about this show, but the title really makes it sound like it’s gonna be some freaky porn with a twist. I hope it’s not, because the first thing I’ve seen is this old guy in a room full of crap and it seems like he’s getting off on looking at Jack the Ripper dolls and pictures of dead sailors or whatever. He says it’s for ‘inspiration.’

Yeah, whatever, buddy…

AKA, Salt Lake City

The End of Summer (TEOS:) Though I am and will remain a life-long devotee of Ray Bradbury, even I’ll admit the man’s acting skills leave a lot to be desired. He certainly doesn’t have the “OH MY FUCKING GOD!” response usually reserved for Stephen King’s scenery-chewing and primate teeth gnashing, but he also doesn’t share the Playboy robe sophistication of Alistair Cooke. Granted, this is only the corny intro stuff preparing us for the “feature” soon to come, but holy October Country, Bradbury, get back behind your typewriter with your grandma sweater and start making me cry again with your prose instead of your halting annunciation. (This will be the last bad thing I say about Ray Bradbury during this diatribe, and probably ever. I actually feel a little ashamed. But, it had to be said. RIP, BTW.)

Read the whole thing.

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