Joe Bob Briggs

Drive-In Movie Critic of Grapevine, TX

So I was checking into this motel room in Galveston with Vida Stegall--don't even ask, I don't wanna go into it--and as soon as I flipped on the light switch, she starts complaining about how everything is "not right."

"This room is not right," she says.
And I'm looking at the room, and I don't see anything wrong with the room, and she says: "There are no extra blankets in this closet. There aren't enough towels. There's supposed to be shampoo in this little wooden doohickey."

Now lemme stop here for a minute. We're talking about a woman who lives in a pig sty. The last time this woman scraped the tar stains off the linoleum in her Duotone kitchen was 1932. There are little hairy tumbleweeds in her closet the size of Australian footballs. If you'd ever like to see 732 copies of People magazine in one place, just go to Vida's house and look at the glossy mountain next to her La-Z-Boy recliner.

So here we are, standing in a room that's clean, with beds made up and empty trash cans, and suddenly she's a goldurn interior design critic.

Why is this? The only people who ever complain about hotel rooms are the people who live in apartments that look like Bengali refugee shelters.

I know a country music singer named Travis--and while I'm thinking about, why are so many country singers named Travis?--who lives in Mount Pleasant, Texas, in a house that looks like it was built by blind surrealists with Parkinson's disease. Travis has pieces of wood so rotten, with so much stuff living inside 'em, they can carry on conversations with the Federal Express guy.

Anyhow, Travis shows up at a hotel room and immediately starts complaining about how the sheets are tucked in too tight on the bed--even though the only five seconds Travis ever spends in a clean room are the five seconds when he enters the hotel room.

In other words, why don't people like Vida say: "You know what? It bugs me that the faucet in my bathroom has been spewing out at a cockamamie angle for the past 12 years"? They just live with it. But if the same thing happens in a hotel room, they wanna file a dang lawsuit?

Ask me if I had a fun weekend. Just go ahead. Ask me.
And speaking of vacations from hell, Making Waves is the story of three couples who go off on a yacht, Alan Alda-style, to help their friend, the manic-depressive schizophrenic, stop talking to his invisible stuffed dancing bear, "Oswald," and go back to his gynecology practice. Meanwhile, a nekkid new-age angel is sent from heaven by angelic drill sergeant Mickey Rooney to teach everybody the true meaning of love, only the angel turns out to be hornier than Mickey counted on.

Sure, we've seen it before, but have we seen it with talking water fowl serving as an aquatic Greek chorus?

I think not.
From the mind of the always amazing George Saunders--who writes, directs, stars, sleeps with all the beautiful babes in the cast, and carries the movie around in film cans trying to sell it at international markets--comes a waterlogged sex comedy that seems almost painfully serious at times as these "thirtysomething" rejects play Musical Significant Other.

You kinda have to see it to believe it.
One dead body. Fifteen breasts, including two stunt breasts. (Shame on you, George.)

Multiple aardvarking. Jewish talking seals. Jungle-sex dream sequence.
Telepathic talking fish. Gratuitous sunset montage, featuring the song "Tonight I'm Gonna Have My Way With You." Gratuitous sunrise montage, featuring the song "I Should Have Said Yes."

Multiple slow-motion flashback fu.
Drive-In Academy Award nominations for...
* Mickey Rooney, as Gabriel, the cigar-chomping head angel, for saying, "We don't mention the loins and the lust thereof up here."

* April Breneman, as the cute love interest who left her man at the altar 12 years ago but still likes to spend weekends with him, for saying, "I love you to death, Trish, but you're still a gold-plated, sex-crazed bitch."

* Eden Young, as the troubled gynecologist's wife, for saying, "Give true love a chance."

* Betsy Monroe, as the blonde nympho with the two enormous talents who says, "Right now I feel the need for speed; take me, Tarzan."

* Nicola Kelly, as the gorgeous nekkid new-age angel who says, "Never stop believing in magic" and other pieces of new-age folk wisdom.

* Jake Adams, as the token alcoholic, who says, "I like drowning my fear in beer."

* And George Saunders, the writer, director, and sexually exhausted poetry-spouting star who says, "Having sex 14 hours a day is not my idea of relaxation" and, "You must think I have the morals of a guinea pig."

Three stars.
Joe Bob says check it out.

Joe Bob's Find That Flick
This week's temple tickler comes from...Randall V. Head of Louisville, Kentucky:

"I can remember watching an old movie that was way over my head at the time, because I was 6 or 7 years old when I saw it on TV.

"The only thing I remember about it is that this old woman is accused of murder, goes into some sort of catatonia, wrings her hands like Pontius Pilate, and sings, 'There is no blood, my hands are clean, so hey, non-nonnie nonnie!'

"Oh, yeah, and she didn't do it...I think. Heck, how do I know? This was 30 years ago. Thanks for any help you folks can provide; it's been bugging me for 20 years now trying to figger this one out."

A video will be awarded for the correct answer. (The winner chooses from our library of titles.) In the event of a tie, a drawing will be held. Send "Find That Flick" questions and solutions to Joe Bob Briggs, P.O. Box 2002, Dallas, Texas 75221. You can also fax them to (213) 462-5982 or e-mail them to Joe Bob on the Internet: 76702.1435@compuserve.com. (E-mail entries must include a postal mailing address.)

©1996 Joe Bob Briggs (Distributed by NYT Special Features)

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