Take a Drink: for horribly stilted line reading
Take a Drink: whenever someone says something that is just pure nonsense
Take a Drink: for the one yellow filter the DP has
Take a Drink: for Dutch Angles
Take a Drink: every time a shot is repeated, intentionally or otherwise
Take a Drink: for each actor introduced via titlecard
Do a Shot: for cell phones
By: Henry J. Fromage (Six Pack) –
Every once in a blue moon, filmmakers with zero talent, vision, and resources are somehow able to convince real actors to take a trip down the yellow brick road of their unbridled, immense delusion. The results are invariably glorious.
I’d rewatch this over Iron Man any day of da week!
The Roller Blade Seven is one such film. I’m not even going to describe the plot, because nobody involved with the production of this Turkeyzilla even attempted to, before or while filming. I’m not joking in the least. I will say, this might be the most 1991 thing in existence.
– Haha, is that Martin… Emilio… fuck no, it’s Joe Estevez, the official black sheep of the family that gave the world Charlie Sheen. You have to raise your glass to that.
– So, this is where Oscar-nominee Karen Black’s career had gotten to by 1991.
– Frank Stallone… makes sense.
So, about that plot, or script… there literally never was one. It’s the first plot ever to cease making sense at negative one minute of its runtime. The reason? “Zen filmmaking” or “a style of filmmaking in which no scripts are used”. Yep, director Donald G. Jackson assembled every F-list actor he could blackmail into this project, gave them a bunch of community theater props, and let them make up their own lines.
One thing this production didn’t skimp on? The cocaine. This miasma of things Jackson and his cast thought were totally tubular include motorcycles, ninjas, priests, samurai swords, knights, 80s swimsuits, magic mushrooms, skateboards, rollerblades… faceless banjo players… kabuki mimes wearing backwards baseball caps and Members Only jackets wielding wiffle ball bats… wow, that got bizarrely specific, really fast. You know what it doesn’t have? Seven rollerbladers.
Lead actor Scott Shaw is what happens when a Nickelback song come to life. He looks like a low-rent Fabio, and acts like, well, what Fabio probably would if you had him improvise his own lines.
Predictably, the production values are shittier than a movie star-obsessed slumdog soon-to-be millionaire.
Jackson apparently thought he was breaching some proto-Zack Snyder new frontier of style with this, because he keeps returning to the one trick in his book, replaying scenes immediately after they happened from five or six equally shitty angles, sometimes in slow motion that is literally just the actors moving really slow. Who the fuck can’t afford slo-mo? Also: Dutch Angles, because of course.
The one thing that obviously involved some level of effort was the score, provided by… wait, Scott Shaw again? A regular Michelangelo, this one.
It’s basically John Carpenter synths meets Gregorian chants, meets Casio drum loops, but shines like a beacon of pure artistry when compared to the film it’s playing over. The problem is, it keeps insisting something epic is happening, which is never, ever true. Meanwhile, the rest of the sound mixing and dubbing must have been done in Jackson’s bathroom, and is often incomprehensible.
Many artists have used drugs to kickstart their creative process, but the trick is starting production after the drugs have worn off.