"Devil Fish"
Migrating up to the SOL and spawning
the floundering cinematic ooze that forces one and all to celebrate
Be Italian Day, Mike and the 'bots suffer through the workings
of those descendants of the Florentine Masters without a Medici
subsidy in sight, those kelp-brained sea bunnies, Friends and
Relatives of the Producer. And what a cast it is! My goodness,
there were so many characters in this film, all foaming at once
with desperation, it was like watching Tosca through a soda straw.
An ocean-going monster, resembling a used coffee filter constructed
from bubble-wrap, attacks Buddy Hackett and Tipper Gore as they
settle into a pasta dinner on the Bayliner of Boredom. This instantly
alerts Carly Simon, Chopin, Scary Spice and George W. Bush to
fiddle with test tubes, primitive Pac-Man sonar, dials, gadgets,
vacuum-tube modems, gurgling tape decks, mopeds, and FedExed explosives
while making blurry love in tide pools.
Hunting this rude and crude Mediterranean Swamp Thing, our heroes
and heroines float around in the Seaquarium, constructed from
pontoons and oil derricks, while frying Charles Darwin with a
defibrillator, guzzling even more beer, hiring Gloria Steinhem
to expound on the mysteries of Jurassic chum, and engaging in
recreational underwater fist fights which are about as exciting
as they sound.
Meanwhile, forgetful Mike is having an identity crisis, an unfortunate
welding accident, and disses a dolphin which leads to galactic
destabilization and an alliance of intrasolar electricians. Yeah,
I know, but you had to be there. Once again Pearl hijacks Beez,
that patient soul, who is reduced to munching gravel while Bobo
must be anesthetized after the trappings of authority go to his
head.
This import was directed by John Old Junior in blue, blue, and
blue, dubbed in Nebraska bubba-speak, and edited by a Benihana
chef. But, next to Space Mutiny, it had more LOL per gallon than
our most recent dose of wide-screen pain. I'll bet Gene 'The Leonard'
Ebert would give it three and a half starfish.