Fuuuck, bad movies are the best. Bad movies are so much better than good movies. Not in terms of goodness (good movies rule at goodness!), but in terms of bestness—bad movies have a transcendental bestness that makes goodness look like badness (the bad kind of badness). You know? Watching a bad movie with a funny friend releases some kind of brain chemical that feels exactly like your fucking Hawaiian wedding if you are marrying crack cocaine AND HE LOOKS EXTRA HANDSOME THAT DAY AND THERE IS CAKE. And then you get to have sex with him and smoke him. (Because he's crack! I hear it's great! Mahalo! I don't do drugs.)
Jason Miller hosted the first installment of BadMovieArt, his better-living-through-bad-cinema series, in June 2008 at the dearly departed McLeod Residence. The inaugural film was From Justin to Kelly (an awe-inspiring choice), and the series continued—Chopping Mall, Who's That Girl, a Grease 2 sing-along—until McLeod Residence closed last October. Sad.
But it's back! It's back! Early this spring, Miller struck a deal with the Rendezvous JewelBox Theater and has been screening his very favorite pieces of cinematic poo every month since. Miller isn't wedded to full-on camp (though next month's installment, on August 26, is a truly magnificent 1989 mullet-porn/white-guy-with-a-sword/B-movie classic called Samurai Cop)—he gives equal attention to bad cinema of the brain-grindingly boring variety, enhanced by loving snark in Miller's pillowy Mississippi drawl. Last week, Miller screened Joe Eszterhas's boring-bad "erotic thriller" masterpiece Sliver.
Sharon Stone's original face stars as Carly Norris, a "book editor" who moves into a big tall building full of funny business. And monkeyshines. AND MURDER! It turns out, you see, that some dead lady used to live in Sharon Stone's apartment, and she kind of looked like Sharon Stone, and then some old dude falls down, and Billy Baldwin is secretly watching everybody masturbate, and someone MIGHT have committed MURDER! "It's been like 45 minutes, and all that's happened is an old man fell in the shower," someone noted. Oh. Yes. You make an excellent point, someone! I love you, Joe Eszterhas!
The audience participation kicked off during the opening credits ("Martin Landau? This IS sexy!") and continued with gleeful abandon and the kind of vomiting-through-your-tears disbelief that only Eszterhas can inspire (actual dialogue: "You've been spending too much time with your vibrator." "I have! I'm getting a plastic yeast infection!"). Sharon Stone gets weirded out by her creeping Baldwin and her dead doppelgänger, and she starts pokin' around ("Oh! Microfiche scene! Look for a clue!"), and sometimes some detectives show up and do some stuff ("You guys, if I ever get murdered, call C.C.H. Pounder," Miller hollered). It's amazingly pointless. It's beautiful. It's art.