I continued the Bad Film Festival with a partner in crime. It's quite a feat to drag my boyfriend down to my personal level of sordid taste, so we went with classically bad films - aka camp. Last week's entertainment included Barbarella, One Million Years B.C. and Zardoz. I thought that the widespread prevalence of breasts might help him in his personal transition from his critically-acclaimed film preferences down to the worst of the worst. Several months ago, he almost finished Deathsport before falling asleep, which I consider a personal victory. And on a dark and stormy night he perused my video library and watched The Van all alone - one of my all-time favorite terrible films. He even learned to play the film's theme song 'Chevy Van' on the guitar, which was proof that this man is my soul mate.
But the sensory overload of low-budget scenery and stilted performances sent me reeling back to the VHS room, where I secretly grabbed my beloved copy of Citizen Kane and snuck into the bedroom alone. There I watched the most perfect American film in a fetal position. Sometimes my soul craves the unsnarkable.
NTD
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