For two days and two nights it has been raining — raining! — in Rattlesnake, TX. The Spinster HQ yella Lab puppy, Francine, is young enough that she has never seen rain before, on accounta the relentless drought which has been droughting since before she was born early this summer. Rain, however, has quickly ascended her Top Ten Fave Raves list. She lost no time in locating the one spot outside where the gutter leaks. She stations herself thereunder, digging frantic holes in the wet gravel. When the novelty of digging wears off — and who among us has not, when digging, thought to herself, “This digging project isn’t quite living up to the hype”? — she tears inside and throws muddy skidmarks all over the clinical white accouterments of the laboratory. Nobody has figured out how she contrives to get them on the ceiling.
But this isn’tt a cute puppy post.
OK, yes it is! I don’t wanna blame today; the rain is pretty exquisite.
No, wait, I’ll pull myself together. For the children. Here goes.
The pleasure of pointing the Auntly Digit of Doom at “Now, Voyager” yesterday has put me in a kind of a film-critic mood. You’ll never guess in a million years what I watched last night. Go ahead. Guess.
Hint: it stars David Carradine as a transvestite named Pearl, and the guy who played Bluto in “Popeye” as Pearl’s redneck sociopath thug significant other Slue. Together they raise a kidnapped baby, chained in a grain silo, upon whom Slue visits unspeakable tortures in order to turn him into a feral “secret weapon” whom he looses on townsfolk who bum him out.
Did you guess obscure 1989 gonzo-cult-horror-comedy “Sonny Boy”? Ding ding ding!
“Sonny Boy” aired in the wee hours of the night under the auspices of TCM’s “Underground” series. As far as I can make out, “Underground” is a synonym for cheezy softcore exploitation films suitable only for males suffering from arrested development and the occasional spinster aunt plagued by hot flash-induced insomnia. I deduce this having noted that everyone else would either be out infesting clubs and bars like normal people, or snoozin’ (those cows aren’t gonna milk themselves tomorrow morning.).
Whereas males with arrested development will undoubtedly find (and actually have found) “Sonny Boy” to be a unique work of demented genius, perhaps even a sensitive-yet-disturbing commentary on child abuse, or an argument for regular dental checkups, the hot-flashing spinster aunt can only guffaw wordlessly at its surreal dystopic camp.
— angry mob à la Frankenstein led by a hot babe with black nubs for teeth
— Slue shooting at’em with a cannon
— Sonny Boy clinging to a giant crucifix like a stuffed animal after he has murdered a priest for no apparent reason
— Carradine slipping the hungry feral kid some kind of roasted roadkill through a hole in the silo
— Conrad Janis, the soused MD who lost his license for transplanting monkey parts onto humans, sewing a new tongue onto Sonny Boy (Slue has cut out his original tongue, of course), etc.
Except to point out the obvious (that the dominance/submission motif is pretty persistent), this flick is so bizarre, so nightmarishly hilarious, that it’s beyond my superpowers to radfeministically critique it. I can only scrawl that, despite “Sonny Boy’s” unrelenting brutality, surprisingly there’s not a single rape scene. Such a freakish synergy erupts between the various cinematic elements that I can actually recommend this appalling sicko-romp to fellow 2 AM hot-flash sufferers if they’ve a sense of humor, or if they’re tired of infomercials selling fishface exercisers. Spinster aunts have fishfacets, but there are limits.