Category Archives: Awesome Action

Report: Florida Teeming with Sleazy Bachelors Harassing Wholesome Housewives, Students

Lesbians Pool Celebrities Naked Sex

Wild Things (1998)       Directed by John McNaughton

Body Heat Movie Poster with Kathleen Turner Standing over William Hurt smoking

Body Heat (1981) Directed by Lawrence Kasdan

FLORIDA –  Miami police grapple with two painfully obvious crime cases labeled by local media outlets as Body Heat (1981) and Wild Things (1998). According to police records, these two cases bring Florida’s neo-noir problem front and center.

A perpetually wet personal injury lawyer, Ned Racine (William Hurt), and a high school counselor that drives a Jeep Wrangler, Sam Lombardo (Matt Dillon), went virtually undetected as slimeballs despite their disinclination toward wearing shirts and inability to speak to women in respectable tones.

Attorney Ned Racine reportedly told mild-mannered housewife Matty Walker (Kathleen Turner) that she “shouldn’t wear that body” and followed her to her marital home in Pine Haven on multiple occasions under the guise of “seeing her wind chimes” which was an obvious cover for stalking and possible murder.  Police refer to the well-known studies that show males under the age of 60 lack the capacity to identify wind chimes, lumping them all in together with “old lady stuff” like scented candles and birdhouses.

In the second case, high school counselor Sam Lombardo was seen driving  his low-tech meets low-brow Jeep Wrangler with student Kelly Van Ryan (Denise Richards) inside, ostensibly taking her home from high school. Especially damning reports label Lombardo as “blasting Third Eye Blind and Smash Mouth.” These offensive reports have not yet been corroborated.

Matt Dillon looks like a douche as he drops Denise Richards off at home in Wild Things

I want something else, to get me through this semi-charmed kind of life, baby, baby.

Detective Ray Duquette (Kevin Bacon) went on record to note that Van Ryan was so thankful for Lombardo’s kindness with the transport home that she went so far as to wash the Wrangler for Lombardo – without payment – in the course of her charity work for her cheerleading duties as a Blue Bay Buccaneer. Van Ryan gave Lombardo the “Full Service Plus” wash and even when, at the end, she found herself with no towels to dry off the vehicle, valiantly offered up her already soaking t-shirt and shorts. Sadly, she was later to have this generosity repaid with murder.

Matty Walker’s character has also been roundly lauded, primarily by neighbors in the town of Pine Haven for keeping a “lovely garden with a veritable orchestra of windchimes” as well as donating money on a weekly basis to the Pine Haven Tavern. All regulars at the Pine Haven Tavern will mourn the loss of Mrs. Walker’s presence, just handing out dollar bill after dollar bill once she finished her bourbons. “We really liked Miz Walker,” one swarthy bar patron offers, “she was somethin’ to look at, what with those all-white dresses that went total, like, see-through after an hour in this hot-ass dump. I didn’t even mind that some batshit weird atonal saxophone seemed to follow her around wherever she went.”

According to police investigations, both Lombardo and Racine live just above the poverty line and seem to funnel all of their discretionary income into douchey cars and high-waisted pants. Meanwhile, Walker and Van Ryan enjoyed comfortable upper-class lifestyles and loving relationships with the families that provided them their closets full of white linen garb and gun lockers.

Detective Duquette considers these open-and-shut cases, with both Lombardo and Racine as obvious stalkers that were in no way encouraged by the beautiful yet demure (in that femme fatale way) Walker and Van Ryan. Lombardo is facing murder charges while Racine is looking at arson. Both cases are stalled, however, at the insistent petitioning of  prosecutor Peter Lowenstein (Ted Danson) for the Racine case and high school student Suzie Toller (Neve Campbell) for Lombardo’s.

“Both Lowenstein and Toller have made exceedingly bad style choices,” Duquette opines, “and that is a sure mark of an untrustworthy source. Lowenstein is tooling around town in Junior Soprano glasses and floods. Toller won’t let go of the Craft multi-layered beaded necklace trend. Don’t even get me started on her mushroom haircut.”

Prosecutor Ted Danson reads book on couch as Peter Lowenstein in Body Heat
Obvious disreputable source.

Neve Campbell as vampy slut in Wild Things

                                                                                   And again.


This reporter was granted access to interview Lombardo and Racine while in their holding cells, the cells sans air-conditioning, because it wouldn’t be a Florida noir if everyone wasn’t sweating their balls off in every scene.

REPORTER: Hello gentlemen. I’ve come to discuss with you some of the more damning aspects of your cases as explained to me by HPI, the Hillbilly Police Investigators.

SAM LOMBARDO: I’m innocent! Goddamit.

REP: Fine, Mr. Lombardo, we’ll address your situation first. I see here that you secured world-famous comedian Bill Murray as your lawyer.

SM: Yes, that’s right.

REP: Can you tell me why you chose him?

SM: Based on his track record as a weatherman, a Ghostbuster, several mentally unhinged characters, his stint in the army, and then a few more repeats of the weatherman job, he seemed like the most seasoned attorney available. Plus, he had great style, what with his – seersucker suits, white fedoras, and pimp cane – which of course would heavily sway Detective Duquette’s professional opinion of the case since Murray comes across basically as a disabled pimp.

Bill Murray as Matt Dillon's lawyer in Wild Things, dressed in white pimp outfit

“You’ll watch me in anything, won’t you?”

REP: Fair enough. Now Mr. Racine, I see here that besides representing serious criminals in court you also fraternize with them in your free time? Teddy Lewis (Mickey Rourke), for example. He is a known arsonist that you kept out of lockup. Interestingly, Ms. Walker reported that her boathouse exploded after she had made it clear she no longer wanted any relations with you.

NED RACINE: The only reason – and I told Duquette this – that I hang out with Teddy is for his mind-bending song and dance performances. He is a struggling artist and has to hold all performances in his garage/apartment/bomb shelter. That is why Peter saw me exiting the premises looking especially soaking wet and sweaty the other day. Not because I had just procured a bomb and was nervous about it but because I had been joyfully grooving with Teddy as he exuberantly bopped around the shop.

REP: I see. And you both – you and Lombardo –maintain that the women in these cases – Walker and Van Ryan – were NOT perfect snowy white angels of virtue?

[Note: When visiting Walker and Van Ryan at their palatial estates this reporter was simply bowled over by the gracious manners and gleaming white teeth and clothing of these women. They were perfect hostesses at the pool parties, steak dinners, and boat rides we enjoyed at their husband’s and father’s expense. In fact, when I had had a little too much to drink, they were both equally kind enough to put me in a car and send me home. Whoops. Looks like I’m still missing my driver’s license and social security card. I’ll have Duquette get on that after the interview. But I digress.]

…and that is how, my friend, the femme fatale always gets her man. Me, in this case.

REP: Yes, yes, [clears throat, shuffles papers]. Mr. Lombardo, I see here that you enjoy driving an air boat in your free time. An air boat? Really? You should have taken a spin in Ms. Van Ryan’s yacht! Woo-baby!  And Ms. Walker really lets it out when we race down the coast in her red Ferrari.

[Both incarcerated men glare and squint contemplatively.]

REP: You know what? I just remembered. I forgot an appointment I need to be at. [Shuffles through messenger bag, finds sunblock, lovingly pats it, finds some Ferrari keys and jingles them. Reporter returns attention to incarcerated men.] “Gentlemen. It isn’t my place to pass any judgment but I have to say, it’s not looking good for you fellows.

NR: Sometimes the shit comes down so heavy I feel like I should wear a hat.

As both cases progressed, Detective Duquette dug up more damning evidence. Both Racine and Lombardo had been seen moodily smoking cigarettes while looking out windows into neon moonlight. The haunting sound of saxophones followed whenever they drove. Both had that squinty way of looking at you and wryly smiling. It was not very long before they were both locked up in the big house for their neo-noir crimes.


 Reporter stands by the window. His eyes are strangely dreamy and he is uncharacteristically drinking scotch far earlier than 5 pm. He watches Matty Walker breeze into the room.


Morning, Angel.

There’s a copy of the Sun-Sentinel on his desk. Walker points to it, grins.



Some men, once they get a whiff of it, they trail you like a hound.


(in a queer, tight voice)

Did you lead me astray, Matty? Was I wrong?


Your Matty’s been kicked around her whole life. And from now on, I’m kicking back.


(intense worry creeping into his face)

What the fuck does that mean? I printed those articles on the basis of your story. Are you telling me that you misrepresented the story?


I don’t go to church. Kneeling bags my nylons.


I’m not asking you to swear on the Bible. Just tell me – did you falsify your story? Because, Jesus Matty, this article really swayed public favor. It was a miracle – right? – that the jury wasn’t moved to a new county, or state, even!


The lie was in the way I said it, not at all in what I said. It’s my own fault if you can’t believe me now.


WTF! Stop talking in riddles and just come clean on your story! Matty, we essentially put two men away on murder charges for a looong time, honey. Wait, what? Where is that saxophone music coming from?


Just come meet me later at my new and improved boathouse set waaay far back from the road. I’ll leave you the key to our new life there. We can go away together, I just need to settle up a few matters first with Racine’s will.

 OVER SCENE the SOUND of the corridor door knob rattling. Walker sashays to the frosted window, squints through a crack in the door. The Reporter stands, leaden-faced, entranced by his writing hand.


(in a flat voice)

Ted Danson is here. He brought Demetri Martin with him.


I’m an unlicensed private detective ma’am.


Matty, get my gun.

Jason Schwartzman and Ted Danson in suits in Bored to Death

We are your new noir.

– Written by Kelli



Filed under "Thriller", Awesome Action, Bad Erotic Thriller, Breaking News, Loose Cannon Cop

Bear Grylls Launches New Line of Bottled Water: “Drink My Piss”

October 31, 2011 | Season 1 – Episode 5

Everglades, Florida—British writer/adventurer Bear “Edward” Grylls of Man vs. Wild fame has released his own line of bottled water and it is called Drink My Piss. “This water offers the weekend warrior all the calories, protein and energy available in my piss. I make about 1-2 bottles a day, dependent upon whether I had a lot to drink the night before,” said the international television star and survival instructor. “The flavor varies by bottle and the primary taste can be anything from mostly salty to only slightly salty. Later, I will release limited edition flavors where I only eat one type of food all day. Those’ll be things like Kiwi Piss, Green Tea Pee, and Wild Turkey. I have plans to later do a line of exotic frozen dinners that reflect what I eat on the show [Man vs.Wild]. I’m thinking carpenter ant larvae, tree frogs and of course, elephant shit. Uh oh, looks like I’m ready to make another ½ bottle. Excuse me.” At press time, Grylls had sold 1 bottle to Les Stroud.

All images from Know Your Meme.

Cat walking across tundra text = "Cat door jammed. Better drink my own piss."Bear Grylls head shot with "The Sun is Going Down. Better Drink My Own Piss."

Image of Bear Grylls in tundra with "Unable to Pee. Better Drink My Own...Oh God"Bear Grylls in Snow with "Lost Super Bowl Bet. Can't Drink My Own Piss for at Least 3 Months."

Written by Kelli

1 Comment

Filed under Awesome Action, Breaking News, Instructional, News

Jean-Claude Van Damme Saves Future, Runs from Past in Cyborg

Jean Claude Van Damme as Jesus in Cyborg

For God so loved the Earth.

Need evidence that Wikipedia is a tenuous source for information? The site’s page for Jean-Claude Van Damme’s “the fewchur is scary” film Cyborg (1989) includes an 850-word-plus* plot summary. Holy god; 850 words?! Considering the film must have set records for “Least Amount of Pages Included in a Script Since Octagon,” the essay seems dubious at best. In place of storyline, character development and dialogue Cyborg delivers the same 3 tedious flashbacks (always of the mostly silent, now-deceased woman who Van Damage couldn’t save, somewhere in the distant, sad past) in a constant loop, roundhouse kicks and a series of vaguely homoerotic grunts and growls as greasy, half-naked men wearing shoulder pads wrestle around with one another in water.

Here we have an excerpt from the script:

Hero: “Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”


Hero: “NnnnnnAAAAAAAAAAAarrrrrrgggggggggh.”

Villain: “OooooorrrrrryyyyyGGGGGGGGGsssssssssaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!”

And it goes on like this.

The semblance of a story involves a gang of futuristic pirates led by Fender Tremolo who is never afraid to slowly remove his cheesedick sunglasses in order to reveal his primary weapon: a pair of piercingly sensitive blue eyes that seem to look directly into your soul. So dreamy. When they aren’t rehearsing for a revival of Tremolo’s off-broadway musical, “Cats: After the Fever,” the pirates drift around the mostly vacant Eastern seaboard trying desperately to control the cure for a plague that has ravaged the countryside and forced Starbucks to close at least half of its franchises. When we meet them, the ruffians have scored very little in the way of booty beyond a few Mad Max wardrobe cast-offs and a cyborg whose futuristic brain is known to house the answer to how to solve a Rubik Cube in less than 5 minutes.

Fender Tremolo from Cyborg

It's just so frustrating. I can get the green side to line up, but this red side...Ugh!

Gibson Rickenbacker (Van Damme) is the mercenary who comes–begrudgingly–out of retirement to scrap with his old opponent, Fender, and humbly serve as a Christ figure before finally saving mankind from the future and etc. Oh, and, AHHHHHHHARRRGGGGGGGHHHHH…there’s this supremely awesome final fight scene:

At Rental Rehab, there’s nothing we love more than a good film-based drinking game as evidenced here, here and here. As such, we offer, The Cyborg Drinking Game. Rules are outlined below:

Gather your preferred post-apocalyptic beverage of choice. This could be a nice bottle of red to symbolize the blood Christ Van Damme shed for you, or a bottle of scotch to help you forget every time you have an extended flashback of your dead lover who, because of your small penis, you were unable to save. Got it? Great, you’re ready to begin:

  • Take a drink every time a cyborg is mentioned, shown or plays a pivotal role in the movie.

OK. That’s it. Game over. At this point, you are entirely sober and can drive yourself to the cinema to watch a movie that doesn’t completely suck all of the air out of the Thunderdome. You’re welcome.

Rental Rehab review by Tricia, with a special thanks to the Serba Sucky Sinema for hosting Cyborg as part of a recent reunion lineup of le’film terrible.

*Figure accurate as of 2:49 p.m. 8/14/11


Filed under Audience Participation, Awesome Action, Bad Movies, Contains Jean-Claude Van Damme, Future World

No Retreat No Surrender 2 Review: Special Guest Review by Vytautas Malesh

No Retreat No Surrender 2 Movie

A sequel? It's gotta be good!

I’ve been terribly remiss in not getting a review to the lovely ladies of Rental Rehab sooner – furthermore, I have thus far not delivered on my promise to complete the three-word-Segal-movie-trilogy by reviewing Out for Justice, though that’s coming soon.  They say once you’re in a hole, you ought to stop digging, and holding out for Out for Justice would only prolong my leave, so I had to one-up my own sense of expectation and dig a real stinker out of the cinematic crap-vault that was my adolescence. 

I knew that I would have to review a movie that not only have I not seen in nearly 10 years, but a movie I couldn’t see even if I wanted to, which I don’t. If you check the Wikipedia entry for the movie No Retreat, No Surrender 2, you’ll see that no video maker or distributor intends to release the film on Region 1 DVD, and I don’t blame them.  Neither should you.

However: the internet, like god, is capricious, cruel, and merciless.  While looking for screen captures of Cynthia Rothrock’s adorable karate boobs, I discovered that No Retreat, No Surrender 2 has been posted to Youtube under it’s alternate title “Raging Thunder” in 10 barely digestible installments by user “MartialArtsKO1.”  I guess I have him to thank, and by thank I mean track down, drown in a bathtub, swaddle in duct tape, leave by the roadside in a hefty bag, and then go party, get arrested, languish in jail for two years, say I was abused as a child, get acquitted of all charges, and then go party some more.

No Retreat No Surrender 2 Title Page

Press "A" to Start

The first No Retreat, No Surrender was a plucky 1980’s martial arts flick about a boy who had to defeat Soviet communism with karate.  Fuck you if you think I’m joking – it was the 1980’s: karate was the only weapon we had. Exhibit A: The Karate Kid, Best of the Best, American Ninja, Gymkata and, of course, Tootsie. 

The first No Retreat, No Surrender had everything you would expect: montage training sequences, a young martial artist out to avenge his father, an ebony-and-ivory friendship / training partnership à la Rocky III, Bruce Lee’s ghost, and Jean-Claude Van Motherfucking Damme.  That’s right – this was basically JCVD’s big breakout exempting the spy thriller Black Eagle, but that’s not what’s important.

What is important is that No Retreat, No Surrender 2 features none of the above.

Jack McBrayer Kenneth 30 Rock

Speaking of breakout roles, here's Jack McBrayer.

No Retreat, No Surrender 2 follows the worlds lankiest slack-jawed American around the drug-fueled sex-pits ofThailand, neatly avoiding all drugs and sex, in favor of some contrived plot about this gangster arms dealer guy who blah blah Russians yaketty yak his daughter kidnapping who-gives-a-shit. 

The first minute of the movie is just some guy screaming inThai.  He’s some sort of general guy, and there’s another army guy with him, and then a shady gangster looking guy behind them.  Think these people might be important?  The director didn’t’ – you can’t see their faces and so you have no way of knowing who anyone is.

After that there’s plane-flying stock footage, probably provided as a promotional consideration by Singapore Airways.  The plane breaks a cardinal rule of cinematography in that it is “arriving” from left to right.  Similarly, this movie breaks many rules of cinematography by even existing in the first place. 

Handy subtitles let us know that we are inBangkok.  We see the star of this movie, Scott Wylde, played by Loren Avedon.  He is conspicuously lanky for a leading man – I mean just absolutely gangly.

As Scott heads out of the airport to get a cab, the theme song, “Raging Thunder” persists.  This song is horrible.  It sounds like a porno soundtrack sung at a karaoke bar by a drunken castrato who has just been harpooned through the stomach.  The lyrics are nonsensical, the melody is bland, and the singer’s voice makes it apparent that she firstly knows how much shame she has brought to her family and second is about to kill herself over it.

Corey Yuen Director No Retreat No Surrender 2

At least now we know who to blame.

Once Scott finds a cab, hilarity ensues when Scott, the big tall lanky American, cannot squeeze into the tight confines of the motorcycle rickshaw.  Wakka wakka!

The motorcycle takes Scott to a Thai Dojo, or rather, an abandoned flea market that gets to dress up like a Thai Dojo for the day.  Inside, Cynthia Rothrock is beating the snot out of some poor boxer.  She is inexplicably rude to Scott, and tricks him into fighting another student at the gym.  Predictably, Scott mops the floor with him, and after some terrifically forced banter, Scott tells Cynthia Rothrock (I know the character has a name, I just don’t care) that he’s looking for Mack, his old teacher.

Cynthia calls Mack a “bag of foul wind,” thus confirming that this movie was made for weeaboos, by weeaboos.  It’s a fart, Cynthia – you’re trying to say “bag of farts.”  You are not Asian.  Saying “desu” on the internet will not make it otherwise.

Cynthia Rothrock No Retreat No Surrender 2


Regardless, this dialogue is more confusing than the Palin family tree.  Lines just come from nowhere, intertwine, fade into nothingness, and try to pass off babies as their own, and it’s only a minute long.  Scott heads off to his hotel, which is apparently also a brothel.  He’s bothered by a buck-toothed pimp – more comic relief, I’m afraid, and then flops down into his bed, which promptly breaks.  Ha ha ha – it’s funny, because he’s so big!  Big lanky American – you die, G.I!

In his hotel, Scott makes a date with his Thai girlfriend.  Don’t worry about her name – she doesn’t do anything through the whole movie.  They go to a Thai restaurant (boy I hope there’s a joke about exotic Asian cuisine in here), where she insults his clothes and then gives him sort of a cold shoulder.  She then makes all sorts of inferences about her dad being conspicuously wealthy, at which point I swear to god she says “My dad’s electronic, that’s all.”  Then the food arrives and it’s nothing but bugs, guts, lizards and testicles.  They kept me in suspense for all of 2 minutes on that one, but the payoff was worth it: comedy gold!

Scott takes girlfriend back to his hotel room, which is water-stained and plastered with torn-out centerfolds, and they turn off the lights so they can get it on and, presumably, catch a case of bed bugs. 

The scene switches to a relatively nice house, where a phone is ringing. Charlie Chan’s more offensive younger brother answers the phone, and insists on speaking English sort of.  I have no idea what he’s talking about, and he looks like a Thai John Waters, complete with creepy micro-mustache. Someone is either “there” or “dead.” 

Charlie Chan brother Thai John Waters

Horry go rightry do raundry.

Cut back to the hotel, where Scott professes to girlfriend that he enjoys putting his penis into her vagina.  She says she also enjoys this.  I’m not making this up.  Then two dudes bust in and kidnap girlfriend, then as soon as she’s gone, Scott goes on a berserker barrage and kills the two guys who stayed behind to kill him.  Good job, Scott – seems like you probably could have just turned into a homicidal maniac at any point; why wait until your girlfriend is gone?  Let’s take a moment to make some really obvious Freudian gay jokes.  Go ahead, I’ll wait.

There, now that that’s out of our system, we see that girlfriend’s family has been gunned down.  There is a lot of graffiti in Thai or Vietnamese, but since I am a big fat McDonald’s G.I. Joe American, I can’t read it. I think the film makers should have known this, but regardless, there are no subtitles explaining what the scribblings on the wall mean. 

Scott gets arrested, offering the best single legal defense ever invented, to wit:  “You can’t do this to me, I’m an American!”  He demands to be read his rights, but the arresting officer says, “This isThailand- you have no rights.”  That or “Diss tire and you hand hold fights.”  I know it’s really not funny to make fun of foreigners for not being able to pronounce English words, but come on, central casting; you’re not giving me anything to work with.

No Retreat No Surrender 2 Brothel

Exhibit A

In the interrogation room, we have more unintelligible, strained, and torturous dialogue.  Scott killed two guys, remember, and so the interrogator jokes “Do you mean to tell me they were just dying for a fix?”  I had to play that scene four times before I figured it out.

On the other side of the obligatory one-way glass, some white guy with a pedophile beard is talking to the Thai guy with a John Waters mustache from earlier.  They conspire to take him toSingapore for three months until this “thing blows over.”  Scott is taken under heavy guard to an airport, where he escapes by jumping a motorcycle over some conveniently placed ramps.  Then he’s off to find his friend Mack.

At this point in Scott’s arrival in the red light district, I feel I have to point out a huge discrepancy in video quality – it’s almost like no one gave the crew permission to shoot here, and so they had to make due with pointing a VHS camcorder out a taxi cab window. 

No Retreat No Surrender 2 Scott Red Light District


Scott goes into a titty bar – the kind of titty bar that only exists in movies, where girls in swim suits dance to music that isn’t actually playing. Mack is arm wrestling for money upstairs.  Scott fucks with him for a minute, nearly causing him to lose, and that’s when we see that they are arm wrestling over paired gas burners – the loser is going to be barbequed.  You’re a real friend, Scott. 

Mack wins, and the loser tries to stab Mack with a broken beer bottle, at which point I’m like “Sweet, end of movie,” but then Scott jumps in and saves the day, at which point Mack says “let’s get a beer,” and I agree.  I’m on my fifth tall boy of PBR at this point – I’m not even 30 minutes into the movie.

Mack sees Scott on the news, which of course leads to the one line guaranteed to show up in every single bad action movie ever:  “Come on, you know me better than that.”  Scott doesn’t miss his cue, saying exactly that, and the pair goes off to get some dinner.

They get ambushed and fight their way through some henchmen in, to be honest, a pretty interesting and well-choreographed fight scene.  Mack finally turns one of the thug’s guns against him, and just as they learn they have to go to Cambodia, another goon throws a plastic toy hand grenade at them.  The Foley artist didn’t even try to disguise the sound – they got this prop at Kay-Bee.  Mack and Scott throw the first goon on top of the grenade, run away, and then get showered with the dude’s chunks and gore before shooting off to Mack’s warehouse.

No Retreat No Surrender 2 Scott Mack Fight

Where ya gonna find a Kay-Bee Toy Store/where ya gonna find...Kay-Bee?

Mack is an arms dealer, and he explains to Scott that Girlfriend’s dad is some big guy in world affairs.  He’s planning a coup d’état or something, and blah blah blah MacGuffin.  The VC have the girl, it’s up to Scott and Mack to get her, and Mack’s got the hardware to do it, but, there’s a twist:

Cut to: SOVIETS!  Finally this movie has something in common with its predecessor.  You don’t get much sense of just why they’re there except, per Mack’s exposition, they have some interest in assisting this upcoming coup – but we do see that girlfriend is being held prisoner.  In one of the more memorable scenes, a guard feeds her some rice gruel through a long tube that I swear to god is even less sexy than it sounds.

No Retreat No Surrender 2 Torture

Oh yeah, take it all baby.

Like all good atavistic weeaboos, Scott finds a crossbow and starts fiddling with it. Mack suggests that Scott give up on Girlfriend and “find a new playmate,” but Scott is undeterred.  Mack and Scott hash out a plan and dress up like soldiers.  Scott, no shit, ties a red band around his head like Rambo. 

They get ready to depart when they discover that they are surrounded by a bunch of police who by way of a bullhorn demand that they surrender.  I think.  He might also have said “Coal hut wiff your man cup” – no way of knowing for sure.  Mack and Scott run through the jungle, the cops apparently having forgotten how to fire their rifles, and Mack and Scott catch a nearby helicopter piloted by, SURPRISE AGAIN:  Cynthia Rothrock. 

Cynthia Rothrock No Retreat No Surrender


Cynthia and Mack exchange some Han-and-Leia banter while Scott scratches his head and, in true bad movie fashion, demands to know what’s going on.  Egads, Scott, if you figure it all out first, please tell me. 

Next, there’s a two-minute scene with John Waters Charlie Chan and some police guy, but it’s all in either Thai or Vietnamese and, again, film makers: America McDonalds Coca-Cola no-speaky.  This scene is entirely too long, but then again: bad acting is its own language – if the director’s intent was to show me how bad these actors suck, mission accomplished. I don’t even believe they’re in the same room together, let alone carrying on dialogue.  

Our trio infiltrates Cambodia and puts down in a rice paddy near a commune. No sooner do they leave the chopper than they are surrounded by guys carrying AK-47s and wearing scraps of gingham table clothes around their heads.  I think this is supposed to look like rag-tag rebel militia, but it only made me hungry for cold fried chicken. 

They’re taken to a camp.  Mack assumes that he’s buddy-buddy with the rebel leader, presumably because of some arms sales or something.  This is a shot-for-shot remake of the Bespin reunion between Han and Lando, but only about half as convincing, and also barely in English.

Mack Scott No Retreat No Surrender 2 Movie

Mack, old buddy -- good to see you! Chewbacca you still hanging out with this loser?

As Mack’s buddy tells them about the Soviet training facility at Death Mountain, we’re treated to an improbable practice scenario where ambushers shoot bulls eyes, one handed, with machine guns, while hanging from trees and then we see a guy walking with a briefcase when, holy shit – this guy pops out of the ground and shoots him in the face. It’s all obviously done for schlock-shock value, but it raises some interesting questions.  Do they just kill people who walk into their camp with briefcases?  Or was this guy a volunteer, like a sparring partner? 

Is there a whole nearby village of these guys?  Is it a prank?  Like – “hey, take this briefcase over to the training camp” (snicker).  I’m just – wow…they totally kill people for practice.  This is why we lost, people, this is why we lost.

Just as Mack and the general wrap up their negotiations, someone starts shelling the village.  I don’t know who, I don’t care who.  Scott takes some shrapnel to the arm, and I think I’m supposed to care, but I can’t be bothered. 

Around a campfire, they trio plots its next move.  Mack and Cynthia Rothrock fight some more in lieu of the doinking they so obviously want to be doing, and Scott announces that they can do whatever they like as he is going to find the camp.  Scott and Cynthia Rothrock have a laugh at Mack’s expense, and we cut to the Soviet training camp.

No Retreat No Surrender 2 Army Man

At last -- the heavy!

A helicopter touches down to much pomp and circumstance – this is the Soviet end boss.  He is presented with two captives.  In true 1980’s villain style, when he learns that one of the men is a good fighter, he offers the man a chance to fight for his freedom, but then because he is a true 1980’s villain, the soviet shoots the man and then throws him into a pit full of crocodiles. 

Mack, Scott, and Cynthia Rothrock walk through the jungle until they find a Buddhist compound.  They are treated to some stock footage of monks in saffron robes going about their daily Buddha business.  Scott is a massive weeaboo know-it-all, so he bags up all their weapons out of respect for Buddhist blah-blah something.  Mack, that scoundrel, takes back his knife.  I wonder if THAT will come in handy later!

The head monk guy offers to show them the way, and then they are ambushed in an excessively elaborate and completely ridiculous fight scene.  The monks spend a lot of time snaring the three with ropes, complete with a totally manly synchronized split routine from Mack and Scott. They get snared, they get free, they get tied up, they cut themselves free with Mack’s knife and run away, then the a bunch of Viet Kong shoot machine guns at them, blowing out their internal organs and causing them to die slowly and painfully on the filthy ground.

No Retreat No Surrender 2 Monk Fight Scene

Scott, and Mack's stunt double.

God damn it, no they don’t.  The monks are nice enough to shoot movie machine guns which never hit good guys, even when the good guys are prancing around and doing cartwheels like ninnies, which is certainly the case here. Never mind that these super-elite VC commandos were, just three scenes ago, shooting bulls-eyes with fully automatic AK-47s at distances of over 100 yards.  Now they can’t even hit the world’s lankiest American ninja.

The recover their weapons and Cynthia Rothrock makes a run for a boat.  Turns out the boat was already full of VC, who proceed to shoot about 9,000 movie bullets at Mack and Scott while Cynthia Rothrock looks on.  The VC then shoot at the boys with a movie RPG which does nothing more than set fire to the hut in which they were hiding and forces them to dive into the water. 

Mack and Scott find the real monks, along with a cache of weapons luckily labeled “Made in USSR” in English.  They free the monks and take the weapons while Cynthia Rothrock is helicoptered away to the Soviet camp.  She fights her way free of the VC that brought her to the camp, then winds up in a sparring match with the Evil Soviet Heavy. The ESH gives Cynthia Rothrock a good beating and tells her that she’ll die if she’s not more polite.

As an aside, half of this movie is Cynthia Rothrock getting kicked in the titties.

Cynthia Rothrock No Retreat No Surrender 2

It's like the female equivalent of the ding-ding.

On the other side of town, we are treated to a long, long, long over-land sequence: Mack and Scott are climbing up a mountain stream.  It’s about 4 minutes of taught rope, splashing water, Mack and Scott struggling and then, finally, near the very top of the mountain, their ropes snap and they fall hundreds of feet onto sharp rocks below.  They don’t even have time for last words before they die, and the credits roll.

God damn it – why do I keep doing this to myself?  No, we don’t see Mack and Scott gored on the rocks. Instead we get about a full minute of Thai John Waters talking to some police guy, inThai.  I think they were probably just figuring out what they were going to order for lunch.  Thai John Waters walks away, and one of those VC guys pops up out of a sewer and shoots him in the chest – his life as nonsensical as his death. 

Thai John Waters No Retreat No Surrender 2

What's Thai for "I should have paid my SAG dues?"

Cynthia Rothrock is being interrogated by the Evil Soviet Heavy.  She goes into some sarcastic song-and-dance, trying to get his goat, when the ESH brings girlfriend into the room and tells both of the girls they’re going to die because girlfriend’s father left the country.  Oh no – a villain I don’t fear is going to kill heroes I don’t care about!

Mack and Scott scope out the Soviet camp from the top of a rocky hill and hatch a hasty plan.  That night, while Russians dance around a roasting pig, Cynthia Rothrock and Girlfriend compare plot exposition as they wait to be executed.  Scott sneaks up and stabs a dude through the heart – for a naive farm boy from Indiana, Scott has really taken a shine to murder.

Mack rings up some impossibly complicated booby traps using M-60 machine guns, wire, and beer cans.  The ambush is set, and apparently nobody notices the dead guard that Scott murdered.

The Evil Soviet Heavy dangles Cynthia Rothrock and Girlfriend over the crocodile pit, counter-balanced by sandbags, which one of the VC then shoots a hole through.  It’s actually a pretty ingenious death / torture, exactly the kind of thing I’d think the writer of this insufferable movie would think up.


No Retreat No Surrender 2 Airplane

No, please, take me instead.

Mack’s trap, it turns out, involves some remote-operated M-60 machine guns, which Scott sets off with some counterweight blah-blah-blah.  Alas the VC did not know that Mack and Scott ALSO have movie machine guns, and so despite not being aimed, or manned, or stabilized in any way shape or form, every bullet manages to hit a bad guy.  Furthermore, these are movie bad-guys, who cannot wait to do things like abandon cover, stand together in tight groups near hand grenades, or shuffle single-file into an explosive-rigged building.

I know, I’m a gun guy – but this is unconvincing if you’ve never even seen a shooting range… I digress.

More explosions, more guns, Scott zip-lines into camp, Mack gets both the girls out of the crocodile pit, gets shot in the process, and then Cynthia Rothrock shoots a guy in the head.  It’s about what you’d expect.

Scott shoots a crossbow bolt at a bunch of dudes, and there is an explosion. They aren’t even trying to not insult my intelligence at this point.  It’s like they decided: hey, if you watched this far into the movie, fuck you, you deserve it. What are you going to do, call us and complain?  You’re obviously only still watching because you can’t figure out the numbers on your remote control. 

Scott, at last thinking he’ll be reunited with Girlfriend, runs to join his friends.  Evil Soviet Heavy has other plans and tries to shoot him with a compact submachine gun, but Cynthia Rothrock jumps in front of Scott, unsurprisingly getting shot – yep, right in the cans. 

Cynthia Rothrock Dies

Did I lie? I did not lie.

 So exit Cynthia Rothrock.  Scott fights the big bad evil Russian guy in a long and drawn out fight sequence.  Scott is obviously overmatched despite his awesome Midwestern Tae Kwon Do education, but he manages to get a few lucky breaks, and ultimately kills the heavy by throwing a Soviet flag over his head, tying a rope around the guy’s neck, and dragging him with a jeep into the crocodile pit. 

Mack tells Scott that Cynthia Rothrock is dead.  The survivors walk away, and the US Government nukes the site from orbit, killing them all in a brilliant flash of light.

God damn it.

No Retreat No Surrender 2 End Fight Scene

That. Just. Happened. Did it blow your mind?



The producers want Mack to be Han Solo soooo badly.  He calls Scott “farmboy” and “kid,” and he even has this sort of hang-dog pout-slash-sneer thing that suggests he’s really riffing on Harrison Ford. It’s endearing to a point, but mostly you sort of wish someone would just stab him through the lungs.  Or, since I’m the one watching this, me.

No Retreat No Surrender 2 Harrison Ford

I got a bad feeling about this.

I studied Tae Kwon Do in a Midwestern dojang for ten years – they didn’t teach us any of the deadly shit Scott seems to know.  I got ten years of learning how to believe in myself, try hard, stay off drugs, and not be a quitter.  Scott’s not doing Tae Kwon Do – Scott is doing some sort of super deadly murder fighting that they only teach inFort Wayne. 

No Retreat No Surrender 2 Karate Kid

I got my black belt and also a Ninja Turtles pizza party.

Cynthia Rothrock may not be much of an actress, but she’s the only good thing about this movie.  Her lines might not make any sense, but she is plucky and cute and she’ll just kick your heart out.  In fact, it was looking for pictures of Cynthia Rothrock that started this whole thing, so it may as well be the thing that finishes it. 

Cynthia Rothrock 105 pounds of spunky blonde death

105 pounds of spunky blonde death.

I lied – here’s the phone scene with Thai John Waters Charlie Chan.

Written by Vytautas Malesh

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Filed under Awesome Action, Bad Foreign Romance, Bad Movies, Guest Review: Vytautas Malesh, Insulting to the Military, U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A!

4 Delightfully Crappy B&W Monster Films

Modern monster movies and creature features – unless we’re talking certain SyFy/Sci-Fi ventures – are for the most part, a denial of everything that is right with the genre. In our post-post-post modern/post-post-post ironic age, most monster movies are excessively over-the-top and self-aware, or boring as one of M. Night Shamalangadingdong’s later day travesties. At the risk of sounding like a stodgy old-timer, they did it better back in the day.

With that in mind, listed below are 4 black and white monster movies/creature features well worth your time, snark and the alcohol expenditure that is necessary when consuming such a pop culture bonbon. Come for the camp, stay for the cheese:

Creature From the Black Lagoon (1954) – The titular “gill man” falls in love with a prissy woman (grossly overdressed and under-useful for an expedition into the jungle) and attempts to snatch her from the arms of her equally prissy scientist fiance (of dubious sexual orientation) on repeated occasions as said fiance gives half-hearted chase. Highlight: Imagine a paper-mached Esther Williams doing somersaults, barrel rolls and Frankenstein arms in a murky pool on a Hollywood soundstage for roughly 70 minutes and you’ll get the idea.

Attack of the 50 Foot Woman (1958) – Bold feminist statement or misogyny cranked all the way to 11, this wacky tale follows the destructive path of a wealthy, booze-soaked woman who feels the radioactive touch of an otherworldly stranger in the desert and sets about tracking down the traitorous philanderer who broke her heart and left her for dead. Hell hath no fury like a mutant woman scorned. Highlight: That giant, lumpy hand–complete with manicure–as it reaches unsteadily into the windows of its victims. Did studios have a run on paper-mache supplies in the ’50s, or what?

Manster (1959) – Oh, eccentric Japanese scientists, laboring away in your hidden mountainside labs experimenting in ways to cure all of humankind’s ails by splicing their genetic codes with those of apes and bats – when will you learn? An entire lair filled with caged and sad-eyed malevolent genetic mutants and you still act surprised when your latest experiment tries to hump your leg off and then beat you to death with it. Highlight: The target of the scientist’s greatest folly is an American newspaper man whose employer routinely sends him around the world to cover interesting events while footing the bill for the finest rooms, food, booze and ass money can buy, all while covering for him with the wife/fiance/incapable-female-whatever back home. When it becomes clear the journo protagonist has gone off the deep-end and has fallen off the radar, rather than chalk it up to one less pink slip to fill out this year, his editor flies halfway around the world to come to his rescue.

Zontar: The Thing from Venus (1966) – Affable space invader propaganda stressing the dangers of having a big imagination, a sense of curiosity and a lack of respect for authority (as demonstrated by spitting in the eye of nature by having an improbably hot wife when you are clearly a “brain”). A socially retarded scientist engages in clandestine satellite signal convos with Zontar, inadvertently inviting the Venusian warlord to decimate the planet, one yokel at a time. Highlight: All the intergalactic flirting unleashes a swarm–OK, swarm is a bit generous; a handful–of tiny robotic flying creatures to do Zontar’s bidding, namely rendering the dullard townsfolk into slightly more animated zombies with a mind-controlling micro-chip implanting bite to the neck. Members of the little army fly and attack actors in captivating 180 degree arcs, almost as if attached to an off-camera stick by fishing line.

By Tricia

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Filed under "Scary" Monster Movie, "Thriller", Awesome Action, Bad Movies, So Bad It's Good, U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A!

Jai Alai is Decadent and Depraved

Editor’s Note: This is a fast and loose re-interpretation of Hunter S. Thompson’s “The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved” based on a recent evening the Rental Rehab ladies spent together. ~Kelli

Kentucky Derby Ralph Steadman Drawing Hunter S. Thompson

Ralph's Impression of the Derby

It was Saturday night, the night of the Big Game, and we were having pre-gambling drinks in a flimsy watering hole called The Hurricane Bar. The Jai Alai arena was just across the street. There were tables scattered throughout the bar but the quality of people huddled in the corners of places like those was less preferable than the company of the sots ringing the bar. The waitresses seemed to be suffering from “ugly light syndrome.” Ugly lights are the ones that get turned way up to maximum wattage when a bar wants to close at the end of the night. A person has ugly light syndrome when they avoid at all costs anything resembling natural light. They looked young and pretty enough but their whiskey-cracked voices belied their true forms. Every laugh birthed a cough.

Wolfie liked the dive because it had cheap suds. I preferred their “aperitif,” which was really Jaegermeister poured from a machine that chilled each shot individually. These shots came in glasses roughly the size of goldfish bowls.

Beyond Jaeger and lack of funds, our only real problem at that point was the question of access to gaming tables on the top level of the Jai Alai arena. Finally, we decided to go ahead and just crash the games if necessary, rather than bet piddlywinks on Diego and his Jai Alai ilk. This was the last coherent decision we were able to make for the next 4 hours. From that point on – almost from the very moment we stepped into The Hurricane – we lost all control of events and spent the night churning around in a sea of drunken foreigners. My notes and recollections from Jai Alai are somewhat scrambled.

But now, listening to my little recording device that I carried all through that scene, I see more or less what happened. The recordings themselves are somewhat unintelligible; some of it is garbled from inadequate recording instruction; some of it is garbled from inadequate consumption of water in-between shots of Jager, but taken as a whole, with sporadic jogs to the memory courtesy of Wolfie, the notes shall tell the tale. To wit:

Foggy all night. Can’t see. Christ, here we go, a nightmare of whizzing objects and lethargy…But no. Arrive at the Hurricane Bar and a friendly gent approaches us – entertainment at once, not a bit dull.

Wolfie is now worried about being accosted in the dark parking lot. The friendly gent has informed her that women LOVE to be approached in badly lit parking lots, alone. It has happened before. Will it happen again? Horrible idea. Trapped at a full bar with a lecher. Holocaust-levels of smoke. A hundred thousand people fighting for a drink. Just wait a minute! Can’t breathe, the smoke. Patrons of the bar all lechers with us fighting our way out to the car. Poor Wolfie is about to crack under the “accidental” swipes of the gent’s arm across her chest. Drinking heavily, into the Jaeger already.

Across the street to the arena away from that bar, avoid that awful clichéd bar talk. Women can’t read maps and men don’t listen. Paunchy middle-aged men with hero stories of their youth. Big red sign: MISOGYNIST, flagging down the young bartender with a wink and a grimace. “That’s fine girl, most women don’t know what goes in a Manhattan anyway, I’ll just take another GOOSE on the rocks.” Grease stain on his shirt sighs up and down with his labored breathing.

Arena is void of people excepting the tourists and miscreants clustered in packs across the theatre seating. Vagrants pouring pints into huge foam cups, old folks in falsely jolly Hawaiian shirts, bartender with a goiter…how the hell does a dude with a goiter get a bartending gig?

The air was still and dank in the hall of the athletes. Their shots echoed off the wall, very loud, very alone.  On our way out, in the upstairs poker rooms, we came across a Swede alone at the bar. He wore vacation clothes but claimed citizenship. Wolfie ordered a drink and I ordered an “international cheese plate.” I got the countries of provolone, Switzerland, and cheddar. Balls. The Swede slid down the stools to sit next to us and Wolfie eyed him nervously, “Can we help you?”

“No.” I answer for him but he ignores me. He launches direct into some hubris about Republicans and free market economy and how he runs a line of yachts now in the great old U.S. of A.  While he blathers on about how all the Swedes are layabout louses who live on the government dollar I remember the people I know who have lived off government funds and the three jobs they worked under the table in addition to that paltry handout.

The Jai Alai players pressed on behind us, behind their plexiglass cage stage so that the fans won’t be hurt by the 150 mph balls. 50 to 1 bets being won behind us. Many winners, more losers. What the hell. Hecklers in the audience try to jam up against the plexi, shouting curses at the players, led out by wrinkled guards. A Dolphins jersey gets wrestled out… “Diego you owe me a car payment, you bastard!” The Swede offers us a free round of drinks. Why not? Get it on. Not feeling very well, the weather is smoky with a touch of food poisoning. Can’t ever trust those damn weathermen.

Weathered faces with a gauche style, white pantsuits and big sunglasses. “Boca Face,” also known as “too much surgery,” or “doctor’s got a new ski lodge in Aspen.” Women cut up too early, or not cut up enough. Definitely no energy in the faces. No interest or curiosity. Suffering in lip-filler silence, nowhere to go after thirty in this life, just hang on and humor the children. Let the young enjoy themselves while they can. Why not?

The grim reaper comes late in this state…slowly withering under the sub-tropic sun, screaming for the pool boy beside that little 3-foot tall faux-butler to hold your drinks. Maybe it is the  butler that is screaming. Bad DT’s and snarls at the bridge club. Going down with the stock market. Oh Jesus, the kid has wrecked the new car, wrapped it around the big stone pillar at the bottom of the driveway. Broken leg? Twisted eye? Send him off to Harvard, they can cure anything up there.

I left Wolfie debating at the poker room bar and went off to place our bets on Cancio and Elizalde. When I came back she was staring intently at a group of retirees playing Texas Hold-Em not far away. “Jesus, would you look at the corruption in that face!” she whispered. “Look at the madness, the fear, the greed!” I looked then quickly turned my back on the table she was watching.

Wolfie wanted to see some decadent South Floridians, but she wasn’t sure what they looked like, I told her to go to the women’s rooms and look for ladies in white linen dresses vomiting in the disabled stalls. “They’ll usually have chardonnay stains on the fronts of their blouses,” I said. “But watch the shoes, that’s the tip-off. Most of them manage to avoid vomiting on their clothes, but they never miss their shoes.”

The Jai Alai games were progressing at a mad pace and we were definitely losing our money. We went all in we placed some trifecta bets. As the hour grew late I suggested to Wolfie that we spend more time in the arena. She looked a little hesitant about it but since discussions with the Swede were coming to a stalemate she shrugged and said, “Right, let’s do it.”

To get there we had to pass through the Smokers’ Lounge. Each step through that room felt like a step down in status, as we left the heights of the mezzanine to stumble through Mordor in order to get back to the game. Total darkness save for the few flashing neon lights, nobody could see each other… nobody cared. Bigger lines at the betting windows than in the seats, gamblers up so often they just hung about the windows, waiting for the numbers to flash on the big board, largest Bingo game ever.

Customer arguing with bartender about a pour; “Hold on there, I’ll handle this” (brandishes bottle of gin, dribbles a bit in); bored tourist families dragged along with dad while he tries to wrench an ounce of pleasure from their trip to visit nana, retiree sweatsuit with the words “Phat Farm” across the back (obviously no clue as to the broader cultural connotations of wearing a Russell Simmons item on her back), a huge fat drunk reeling over the handrail to the seats because he can’t sit down.

The matches themselves seemed only 2 minutes long and even with our choice of seats and a drunkenly scrawled spreadsheet we couldn’t really figure out what was happening.  We accost the lady at the window and are informed that Arregui and Arrieta have lost.

Once the matches were over, the crowd oozed its way to the exit doors. By this time we were both half-crazy from too much Jaeger, men fatigue and culture shock, lack of light and general dissolution. Chatting gamely with retired photographer on the way out, he informed us that he’d won $50 on tonight’s games. We bemoaned our losses and he slung an arm around us to cheer us up. He’d done his share of losing on New York teams, from where he hailed. He had photographed lots of New York detritus and decay in his day, he said. And then he added, with a big grin, “But the only bums I ever photographed were those damned Mets.”


Filed under Awesome Action, Bad Foreign Thriller, Crazy Person, Jaeger-friendly, U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A!

TRON: Legacy – Nothing but a shiny waste of a fanboy’s time

Olivia Wilde TRON Legacy

The fact that this is in 3D will not render you any closer to actually getting to touch a girl that looks like this.

Editor’s Note: This week, Rental Rehab welcomes guest reviewer and TRON super-mega fan Vytautas Malesh who is not wholly pleased with the Mickey Mouse approved re-imaging of his beloved childhood favorite (which hits theaters today). The review comes to us via Mr. Malesh’s always witty blog, Sardonic Shock Syndrome.

TRON: Legacy (2010)



I saw it.

Really, what am I supposed to say about it?  That it was a masterfully told story that fully exploits the capabilities of the medium?  That it is a wunderkind of montage, managing to stay true to its origins while pushing the boundaries of its own mythologies?  I do not like to lie, and so I must admit that it is none of these.  It shoots for “pretty popcorn movie” and, I’m afraid, even manages to miss that mark.

A little back story here:  I love TRON.  Thanks to my friend M. Sillystring, I have an original TRON movie poster from 1982.  It is only not on my wall now because I cannot afford the solid gold, jewel-bedecked, crystal-faced frame that it deserves.  TRON completes my trinity of fanboy infatuations (right after Robotech and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles).  TRON is one of the first movies I remember seeing in a movie theatre (at the Strand in Sturgis, MI – I remember it that well).

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Hot Tron Legacy Girl Olivia Wilde

And one more for good measure....

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