Serious Movie Reviews

Title, Dialog Contribute Next To Nothing
-A serious movie review by
Pissenger Padgeins-

“Rear and Pleasant Danger,” the first installment of Cory Elon’s three-film threadbare-arcadia serial, is densely peppered with random acts of coitus, pulpy money-shots, and painfully obvious hotel-room scenery. The human struggles of connection and acceptance are staples of American culture––evidenced by the last six years of ‘The Gilmore Girls’––but Mr. Elon’s character’s tap into something different, acting more like sex-crazed zombies with endless slews of crotchal moisture.

The film begins in medieval England, at least that is what one is led to think when Paige Patella––the only female lead––appears wearing a corset gown and tiara. She is told of her father’s stress in dealing with the defiant rouge factions in Ireland. Worry is splashed across Ms. Patella’s face like paint, heavily and deliberately glob-like. The young male messenger who brought the news ends up having to catch her from fainting; obviously the stress levels of the father of Ms. Patella’s still-nameless character affect her deeply. Next you know, the messenger is naked, standing with eyes closed, while Ms. Patella, now very conscious, seems to have found a cure for her worry in the form of swallowing again and again the young man’s machismo. How this strong connection came to be, how their clothes mysteriously disappeared is part of Mr. Elon’s elaborate trickery. While the camera focuses on more buttal and tittal angles, it’s almost like the story already doesn’t matter.

Next we find ourselves in what looks to be a modern-day apartment, if today was 1985. The couches are screened in plastic; the art looks like Max Headrum just sneezed on the wall. But Ms. Patella is there, this time dressed in nothing but a Mickey Mouse t-shirt. The plumber shows up, which she seems to be expecting. What happens next can only be described as elbow-pit copulation, with the bearded plumber repeated asking, “You want my pit slice?” or “Are you watching that flesh wrinkle?” Yes, Mr. Plumber, many of us are watching, and wondering. Ms. Patella’s character can only respond to such metaphysical questions with a very poignant, “Fill my trapper-keeper with your college-ruled!” Education is indeed flexing itself here.

It can be hard to keep track of everyone within such an intricate plot, but things start to almost make sense when, for whatever reason, Ms. Patella visits an apparently near-by quarry. She watches the men work away at the limestone, in their plaid working shirts and hardhats, while thoughtfully chewing her upper lip and, in a moment of self-reflection, warms her hand in-between herself. Here we get the only real insight to Ms. Patella’s character’s motivations: natural landforms and the harvesting of rock remind her of her own sexual valley and the work she’s put into forming it. She is obviously proud and as the scene proceeds to fade out, we are left with a small sense pride ourselves having pieced together some aspect of plot and character drive.

We fade back in to Ms. Patella, obviously high from her introspective trip to the quarry, engaging yet again in genital activity while holed up in a very sterile hotel room. This time she’s quiet, just throwing looks of confusion-mixed-with-inattention back at her now-sixth partner of the film. He’s the loud one this time, deploring her to enjoy his “Mendous Member” and to be affected by his “Mazing back-u-puncture” technique. These words (Tremendous and Amazing) are obviously said wrong to show the audience that this partner has trouble, like some of us, expressing his inner thoughts and feelings. Unfortunately, Ms. Patella’s character doesn’t seem to care and we are left to ponder her all-too-realistic choice of just exchanging bodily fluids with the random man and not helping his phonics. She leaves him deflated and sleeping.

The crescendo of the work occurs after this random-room encounter. Outside of the hotel Ms. Patella’s character runs into two little people. Referring to themselves as “honest, vage-loving midgets,” and after an exchanging of very bare and basic dialog, we find out that they are on the run. Ms. Patella, possibly making up for the lack of compassion in the hotel room, seems to be over flowing with empathy in the parking lot. She’s obviously affected and motions them behind a car were we are led to believe that Ms. Patella’s character somehow stuffs them inside of herself. She stands up, straightens her skirt, and walks casually away. In a moment of directorial genius, Mr. Elon then shows us the two little people, tucked away in Ms. Patella’s character’s neither-regions. They are all smiles and happy, relieved to thwart the threat that plagues them. So jubilant, in fact, that they themselves begin to engage in sensual action, right there surrounded by the pink and soft of Ms. Patella’s supposed birth canal. This, of course, affects Ms. Patella and while she is standing in line at what looks to be a Subway, she collapses to the floor in mysterious ecstasy. Their hidden love-making has brought about similar results upon Ms. Patella’s character. The metaphor here is a touch forced, but still relevant: She can harness any love she wants, but the inner love is what swings the heaviest hammer.

The end of the movie is confusing, but I think so on purpose. As we fade out from Ms. Patella grinding a bag of Sun Chips against her pleasure-pot, we fade into the future, 45 years from now. The Earth is barren, the moon broken into shards, and people seem to have morphed into marsupial-human-mix-type creatures called at one point “Kangavites.” Two of them hop toward each other and proceed to massage each other’s pouches until plastic fruit explodes from their furry honches. Humanity has lost, sensuality has abandoned. And we, the audience, are left understanding: Ms. Patella’s nameless character, a presence more then a person, wanted all the love she could get. She was a prophet and knew the future was effete and bleak. Neither the dialog nor the title contribute to this only-possible conclusion, which is a testament to the director’s aptness, but still leave you a bit confused. Which, if you think about it, is how life portrayed as art framed through life made with artistic tools really is.