In Ancient China, discovered skeletons of massive, prehistoric beings were coined "dragon bones." In 1676, more enormous bones were discovered by English archaeologists, starting a frenzy of research and fascination for these "terrible lizards" from the past. Through the years, these "dinosaurs" flourished as a phenomenon, boosted in cultural currency through guest-starring in Arthur Conan Doyle's revered 1912 fantasy adventure The Lost World. This boiled into a frenzy point with the release of Steven Spielberg's beloved Jurassic Park, which thrilled kids of all ages, and pushed boundaries of cinematic effects.
But all of these discoveries and breakthroughs of science and art were all merely stepping stones towards a singular purpose. A guiding light of purity and vision that would revolutionize and reshape our world as we know it. I speak, of course, of the reality-bending brain stew that is Tammy and the T-Rex.
For what are centuries of scientific innovation and curiosity in the face of a script (probably) cobbled together by drunken teenagers in response to the creative prompt, "Okay, we have a $100 t-Rex suit - what can we do with it?" A script that toddles from almost manically nonsensical plot point to brain-boiling cliché and back again with the gleeful sense of 'f*ck it' abandon that lurks in only the most fearlessly stupid Z- movies. A script bonkers enough to make Roger Corman choke, mid-joint-puff, in incredulous disbelief at its brazen schlockiness. A script where it's implied that Denise Richards had sex with an animatronic dinosaur isn't even the most jaw-dropping moment. Let's begin.
Yes - centuries of paleontological exploration pale in comparison to teen heartthrob Paul Walker, dopey grin plastered on like a tranquilized yak, strutting around in a lilac crop-top sweater, knocking over every foreseeable piece of furniture, and triumphing in a genital-squeezing "testicular standoff" with the local bully by wearing a cup (always wear protection, kids). His lady love? Ms. Richards, who oscillates between sultry fawning at her gentleman caller, or dementedly screeching "Leave me alone!" at him, stomping away with no provocation. And this is all before he becomes a dinosaur. Yes. Pay no attention to the contours of reality warping slightly amidst the sheer shrieking lunacy of this film which exists, amidst all odds, expectations, or even boundaries of human decency. Watch on, babies - you ain't seen nothing' yet.
The best worst movies are always little more than the sum of their parts, and Tammy does not disappoint in its montage of what-the-f*ckery. You want brain transplants (orchestrated by the outrageously campy, perennially boob-fondling Terry Kiser)? You want lion attacks (free-range, Midwestern suburban lions, to boot)? You want the local African-American police chief ("Sheriff Black," natch)'s shockingly homophobic police force continuous attempting to solve crimes by slapping the victims? Surely you asked for a woman grieving the death of her boyfriend by going to party with the insanely psychopathic party of big-haired '90s-stereotypes who murdered him? How about a robotic t-Rex dialing a pay phone, bellowing into it, then checking for change, all with its astonishingly free-roaming Mr. Fantastic stretchy arms?
No? Well, how about non-sequitur revenge sequences of incongruous extreme gore, where villainous lackeys are flattened like Looney Tunes cartoons or have their genitals eviscerated, but the lead antagonist's death is treated like an accidental afterthought? And don't forget to YouTube the even-more-legendary 'Italian cut,' which graces us with about five extra minutes of gratuitous massacre that, strangely, fill in at least two of the plot holes more gaping than the t-Rex wounds left behind, and roughly 15 more seconds of pointless striptease. You're welcome.
Oh - you didn't want all of those things? Well, you've taken the wrong train to crazy-town, my friend. Cry me a river of t-Rex tears. Watch out for Nic Cage riding a rainbow unicorn dressed in bondage gear on the way out (not really - though now I feel guilty for disappointing you. Don't worry - Tammy is still worth it!).
The most truly astounding thing about Tammy is that, amidst the ludicrously incoherent sequences of howlingly deranged, campy madness, director Stewart Raffill (of Mac & Me fame, naturally) corrodes enough of a hole into audiences' brains that bits start to actually work. The second act, as Tammy and her robo-dinosaur beau go 'shopping' for new bodies to transplant his brain into at the morgue is so voraciously stupid a mash-up of The Bachelor and the Home Shopping network that its inherent satire is bound to be an accident. The animatronic t-Rex suit itself exceeds the hazy cheapness of the film ensconcing it, so, naturally, Raffill forces it to perform ravingly nonsensical feats to highlight its artificiality - throwing a barbell at Terry Kiser's bodybuilding henchman with its tiny t-Rex arms, or streaming tears, awkwardly lurking at the periphery of its human counterpart's own funeral - like a grotesque parody of Jaws, reaching heights of delirious comedy gold. And that ending - taking the term 'climax' to phantasmagorical heart? Let's just say if your jaw hasn't already hit the floor, look out, neighbours below.
Still, there's something to be said for the fact that a premise that would've easily settled into a stale revenge monster-horror flick in more studio-produced hands instead perseveres as this flamboyantly surreal, brain-baking road-trip-fairy-tale- fantasy-sci-fi-comedy. There are worse films (believe it or not). There are many, many, many better ones too. But even had Spielberg reworked Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park screenplay with Jeff Goldblum beat-boxing his "ha-ha-ha-hrarr" laugh, wearing triceratops horns, lifting up literal dinosaur skirts for two hours, it would not have resulted in a film as unforgettably, ravenously wacky. Behold: Tammy and the T-Rex - the eighth wonder of the 'any film can get green lit; believe in your dreams, kids' movie world. Life finds a way.
-2/10
But all of these discoveries and breakthroughs of science and art were all merely stepping stones towards a singular purpose. A guiding light of purity and vision that would revolutionize and reshape our world as we know it. I speak, of course, of the reality-bending brain stew that is Tammy and the T-Rex.
For what are centuries of scientific innovation and curiosity in the face of a script (probably) cobbled together by drunken teenagers in response to the creative prompt, "Okay, we have a $100 t-Rex suit - what can we do with it?" A script that toddles from almost manically nonsensical plot point to brain-boiling cliché and back again with the gleeful sense of 'f*ck it' abandon that lurks in only the most fearlessly stupid Z- movies. A script bonkers enough to make Roger Corman choke, mid-joint-puff, in incredulous disbelief at its brazen schlockiness. A script where it's implied that Denise Richards had sex with an animatronic dinosaur isn't even the most jaw-dropping moment. Let's begin.
Yes - centuries of paleontological exploration pale in comparison to teen heartthrob Paul Walker, dopey grin plastered on like a tranquilized yak, strutting around in a lilac crop-top sweater, knocking over every foreseeable piece of furniture, and triumphing in a genital-squeezing "testicular standoff" with the local bully by wearing a cup (always wear protection, kids). His lady love? Ms. Richards, who oscillates between sultry fawning at her gentleman caller, or dementedly screeching "Leave me alone!" at him, stomping away with no provocation. And this is all before he becomes a dinosaur. Yes. Pay no attention to the contours of reality warping slightly amidst the sheer shrieking lunacy of this film which exists, amidst all odds, expectations, or even boundaries of human decency. Watch on, babies - you ain't seen nothing' yet.
The best worst movies are always little more than the sum of their parts, and Tammy does not disappoint in its montage of what-the-f*ckery. You want brain transplants (orchestrated by the outrageously campy, perennially boob-fondling Terry Kiser)? You want lion attacks (free-range, Midwestern suburban lions, to boot)? You want the local African-American police chief ("Sheriff Black," natch)'s shockingly homophobic police force continuous attempting to solve crimes by slapping the victims? Surely you asked for a woman grieving the death of her boyfriend by going to party with the insanely psychopathic party of big-haired '90s-stereotypes who murdered him? How about a robotic t-Rex dialing a pay phone, bellowing into it, then checking for change, all with its astonishingly free-roaming Mr. Fantastic stretchy arms?
No? Well, how about non-sequitur revenge sequences of incongruous extreme gore, where villainous lackeys are flattened like Looney Tunes cartoons or have their genitals eviscerated, but the lead antagonist's death is treated like an accidental afterthought? And don't forget to YouTube the even-more-legendary 'Italian cut,' which graces us with about five extra minutes of gratuitous massacre that, strangely, fill in at least two of the plot holes more gaping than the t-Rex wounds left behind, and roughly 15 more seconds of pointless striptease. You're welcome.
Oh - you didn't want all of those things? Well, you've taken the wrong train to crazy-town, my friend. Cry me a river of t-Rex tears. Watch out for Nic Cage riding a rainbow unicorn dressed in bondage gear on the way out (not really - though now I feel guilty for disappointing you. Don't worry - Tammy is still worth it!).
The most truly astounding thing about Tammy is that, amidst the ludicrously incoherent sequences of howlingly deranged, campy madness, director Stewart Raffill (of Mac & Me fame, naturally) corrodes enough of a hole into audiences' brains that bits start to actually work. The second act, as Tammy and her robo-dinosaur beau go 'shopping' for new bodies to transplant his brain into at the morgue is so voraciously stupid a mash-up of The Bachelor and the Home Shopping network that its inherent satire is bound to be an accident. The animatronic t-Rex suit itself exceeds the hazy cheapness of the film ensconcing it, so, naturally, Raffill forces it to perform ravingly nonsensical feats to highlight its artificiality - throwing a barbell at Terry Kiser's bodybuilding henchman with its tiny t-Rex arms, or streaming tears, awkwardly lurking at the periphery of its human counterpart's own funeral - like a grotesque parody of Jaws, reaching heights of delirious comedy gold. And that ending - taking the term 'climax' to phantasmagorical heart? Let's just say if your jaw hasn't already hit the floor, look out, neighbours below.
Still, there's something to be said for the fact that a premise that would've easily settled into a stale revenge monster-horror flick in more studio-produced hands instead perseveres as this flamboyantly surreal, brain-baking road-trip-fairy-tale- fantasy-sci-fi-comedy. There are worse films (believe it or not). There are many, many, many better ones too. But even had Spielberg reworked Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park screenplay with Jeff Goldblum beat-boxing his "ha-ha-ha-hrarr" laugh, wearing triceratops horns, lifting up literal dinosaur skirts for two hours, it would not have resulted in a film as unforgettably, ravenously wacky. Behold: Tammy and the T-Rex - the eighth wonder of the 'any film can get green lit; believe in your dreams, kids' movie world. Life finds a way.
-2/10