I was at Casey’s the other day buying a pizza, and
guess who I ran into? Jeff Goldbloom’s mom. Man,
that’s an old joke. The fat jokes are funny, but they
hurt. The fat movies doubly so. I’m afraid I have
the usually-reliable Fangoria to blame for today’s
corpulent travesty. To be fair, it was more or less
as disgusting as they promised it would be, but unless
the only thing you ask from your movies is a chance to
exercise your gag reflex suppression, there’s not much
to recommend.
Philip is a tough Australian Interpol agent who
doesn’t play by the rules (just once I‘d like to see a
cop movie where the hero is a totally by-the-book
poindexter). His last case, involving the Wustenfeld
Maneater (go buy a Macabre CD RIGHT NOW!), got him
into some hot water with the boss. When he and his
partner Nigel discover a porn fetish website dedicated
to blubberiffic women who seem to be disappearing, he
wants to head to the states to discover who’s behind
it. Bossman says no, but he leaves anyway, and
discovers the heavy-duty perversions of a crazy named
Michael. He kidnaps women, feeds them until they
can’t move, and then posts their vital signs on his
website so people can bet on when they’ll die from
Hardee’s™ overdose. His latest meat bag, Dierdre, is
firmly convinced that they’re in love, and their
relationship goes deeper than him making a quick buck
on her death. When Philip arrives to save the day,
she’s not exactly thrilled. He and Michael square off
in Michael’s den of fatal tubbiness in a
calorie-packed duel to the death.
Remember when I said the fat jokes were funny, but
they hurt? After re-reading that last paragraph, I’m
not even sure they’re funny. I think they just hurt.
Kinda like this movie. It’s just one more in a long
line of good ideas ruined by shitty directors. I
probably should have known when the DVD case proudly
proclaimed “From the director of Lawnmower Man”. If a
crappy 12-year-old TV movie that hardly anyone
remembers is the best thing you can think of to
promote your new project, it’s time to re-evaluate
your career.
Michael is an interesting enough character, and
well-played, but he’s the only one in the movie that
you almost never want to impale with a fucking ice
auger. His logic for what he does is completely
wrong, but he’s insane, so what do you expect. The
only time I really really hated him was when he had
Philip completely at his disposal, then put his gun
down out of his reach and turned his attention to
Dierdre, allowing Phil to get the jump on him. For
what I sincerely wish but really doubt will be the
last goddamn time I have to say this, don’t make your
characters behave unrealistically stupid to advance
your crappy plot! Seriously, that should be the first
thing they teach in any writing class.
And speaking of Philip, let’s talk about him for a
bit, shall we? Remember the Shadow Fury review where
I talked about the formula for stupid, abusive jackass
cop heroes that everyone seems to find so compelling?
Well, apparently no one involved in this movie read
that review. Philip is even more loathsome, abusively
fucking his unbelievably obnoxious girlfriend until
she leaves him. And don’t you have to go through some
kind of physical training to become an Interpol agent?
Seriously, he lets the willowy crazy guy get the drop
on him and beat the shit out of him at least three
different times before a needlessly stupid “whoops, we
wrote ourselves into a corner” moment finally allows
him to regain control of the situation. Honestly,
when did everyone start subscribing to the Ayn Rand
school of character development? And more
importantly, when the hell are they going to stop?
I will give the movie some credit for a couple of
sequences that made even me feel a little urpy,
involving a funnel, some weight-gain powder, and
several jugs of melted-down human fat. Michael’s
ickiness is pretty damn icky.
And then there’s the ending. Oh, Jesus H. jumped-up
Zombie Christ, the fucking ending. I’m gonna go ahead
and spoil it for you, because it’s so goddamn stupid,
that when it comes, you’re going to want to boot your
TV into the street anyway. Philip, after shooting
Dierdre in the head (because she’s fucking annoying)
and kneecapping Michael (because he’s fucking crazy),
marries Michael’s sister and keeps Michael bound to a
wheelchair in his own lair so he can go there every
day after work and starve him to death, taunting him
by eating sandwiches and making Michael watch. How he
found work, got a visa, married Michael’s sister, and
bought a house all apparently within about 24 hours
after the climax is anyone’s guess. And that’s it.
He just gets away with it, all nice and clean.
Interpol doesn’t notice that one of its agents
disappeared on an unauthorized case and just wound up
staying in America? The DVD case hails Feed as a
cross between Supersize Me and Silence of the Lambs.
I’d describe it as a cross between Supersize Me and
Seven starring Mitchell with the ending of Manos:
Hands of Fate. Except all four of those movies are
much better than this one.
Actually, there’s an alternate ending in the special
features where Philip’s boss arrives with a sniper and
kills Phil to keep his actions quiet and retain the
integrity of Interpol. And why they didn’t use this
ending, which actually makes the movie make some
fucking sense, I have no idea. Like I said, good idea
ruined by a shitty directing job.
Judging from a couple other things I’ve read about the
movie, it’s supposed to be one of those soul-searching
morally ambiguous tales where you’re not sure who
you’re supposed to root for, because the theoretical
“good guy” is just as much of an ass as the villain.
This type of thing is tricky to pull off, because if
you’re not careful all you have is a movie full of
repulsive dickweeds who no one in the audience can
relate to and therefore no one gives a shit what’s
going on and just wants the movie to fucking end so
they can throw in a "Gilmore Girls" DVD instead. Stop
looking at me like that.
In fact, I’d like to call a stop to this kind of story
right now. It’s not that it’s a bad device. It’s not
that there have never been any good stories like this.
In fact, it’s because there’s already been one story
of that kind done so well that any other will pale in
comparison, so you might as well just quit while
you’re ahead. I’m talking, of course, about Devil’s
Rejects - one of, if not the best movie to be released
in the last 20 years or so. Maybe even ever. I never
ask that a movie reinvents the wheel. I’m perfectly
happy with just a really fuckin’ good wheel. But
since I already have the greatest wheel ever filmed
sitting on my DVD shelf, I really don’t need any more
wheels of this particular nature.
Next time you’re out looking for some wheels, roll on
past this one. It’s lumpy and rusty, the inner tube
is flat, the tire is bald, and it won’t fit on your
car.
Moral of the Story: Seriously, Ayn Rand fucking
sucks. She’s the female equivalent of Ernest
Hemingway. Only pretentious douche bags who want to
sound intellectual and important read Ayn Rand,
completely missing the fact that she’s one of the
worst writers the human race has, and is likely ever
to, produce. I’d rather be force to chew my own
testicles off at gunpoint rather than read a single
paragraph of any given one of her shitty novels. I’d
rather shove my head into an elephant’s ass and eat
all the shit therein while being disemboweled and
repeatedly bitten on the penis by rattlesnakes than
even clap eyes on something the pages of which have
been made from recycled paper that once had something
Ayn Rand wrote printed on it. I’d rather…well, you
get the idea. This could go on all night. Drive
safe. Sleep well. Don’t read Ayn Rand.
FEEDBACK
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