PHANTASTIQA

Let’s start this thing off with a bang: The Academy Awards are just a bunch of bullstuff and we all know it.

And yet, we tune in each year—like a bunch of rubes—just to see who wins the little gold dude that looks like a depressed dildo. I mean, seriously. How can we respect an organization that didn’t give Scorsese an “award” until The Departed? Remember how good Toni Collette was in Hereditary? Well, those rocket scientists at the Academy decided to snub her on a nomination because they don’t like genre films. And how about a piece-of-shit movie called Shakespeare in Love running an Oscar campaign—backed by Harvey-fucking-Weinstein no less—so that it could beat out Saving Private Ryan for Best Picture? In what world do they let that kind of thing happen? It boggles the mind.

All I’m saying, dear reader, is don’t let those hoo-has over at the Academy be your purveyor of good taste. You gotta make your own.

But what exactly is “good taste?” I’m the type of lass who likes movies like The Room, Miami Connection, and Samurai Cop. I’d put those alongside classics like Singing in the Rain or It’s a Wonderful Life on entertainment value alone any day of the week. What I’m trying to say is that I’d much rather watch Street Trash three times in a row—a film where they play keep-away with a detached penis—than watch Shakespeare in Love for more than minute.

Wasn’t there an old bumper sticker that said, “If it feels good do it?” I guess that’s how I feel about “good taste.” You gotta watch what makes ya happy. As long as it’s legal, that is.

Tammy and the T-Rex isn’t the kind of film that the fellas over at the Academy would even consider to be an actual movie. I think they’d use phrases like “disaster” or “you gotta be joking” or “get the hell out of my office and don’t come back.” But I think you and I know the truth, dear reader, it’s a cinematic masterpiece.

Let me lay the scene: a cheerleader (Denise Richards) learns that a mad scientist has implanted her dead boyfriend’s (Paul Walker) brain inside the body of a robotic tyrannosaurus rex. But being a cinematic masterpiece and all, the story is more complex than it sounds: we’ve got fights ending with dudes pinching each other’s gonads until one of them caves, a sex scene turned slaughterhouse, and Richards stripping in lingerie for her boyfriend’s brain in a jar.

Tammy is written and directed by cult filmmaker Stewart Raffill (The Ice Pirates, Mac & Me). Raffill’s idea of storytelling technique can be summed up in one word: WACK-A-DOODLE-DO. Scenes of carnage and mayhem are slammed up against tear jerkers. Richards and Walker are asked to play the scenes seriously while cops and other higher schoolers are cartoon parodies. The tonal shifts in Tammy are hard to swing with, but that’s what gives it its charm and accidental comedy.

Also, Richards eyebrows are everything. They look just like Brooke Shields. I’m super jealous. I forgot how much of a babe Richards was in the 90s. And Walker is cute and handsome and everything I want a man to be . . . ugh. Le sigh.

I got my copy of Tammy and the T-Rex from the good people over at Vinegar Syndrome and it looks amazing. They didn’t pay me to say that, by the way. I just like the movies they put out. If it wasn’t for Vinegar Syndrome, I wouldn’t have even heard about Tammy or the “gore cut” of the film. So, if you wanna support some good people doing the Lord’s work, head on over to the Vinegar Syndrome website and pick out something nice for yourself. Go ahead, dear reader. You deserve it.

In my piece about Rebeller Media, I talked about movies that deliver “the goods.” I’m proud to say that Tammy and the T-Rex definitely delivers “the goods” and should be put high on your “To Watch” list. But it’s the kind of movie that goes down better with a little herbal assistance, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Make sure you’re “ready to go” before diving into this one.

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Evelyn Jackson

Eve loves cats and doesn’t want to know you.

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