Girls have boobs, on their chest. That's where they are.

Ever since some young dude drank a gourd-full of hallucinogenic wasp paste and stumbled out into the barren tundra to become a man, he alone against the cruelty of nature, people have been subjecting themselves to uncomfortable extremes in the name of self discovery. People free climb sheer rock faces. People run hundred mile races through the desert where they’re pretty much guaranteed to poo themselves and not even have enough sauce in their body to cry about it.

I go to Midnight Madness.

10 movies, 10 nights getting punted out of a downtown theatre at 2:30 in the morning to wander through the concrete heck that is Yonge and Dundas square. It teaches me about myself. Time dilates and contracts. Sometimes I feel really tired. They won't let me bring in food so I get kind of hungry. I find myself cheering Kevin Sorbo. I don’t like Kevin Sorbo. Why am I cheering. What is happening. The room smells cheese poured on microwaved nerd.

Rajo, my movie-going partner, flipped over the promo card for Bitch Slap as we sat in line, looked at the gun, the boobs, and said “I’m excited… this could be good.”

“No, it couldn’t”, I said.

I learned something about myself. I’m a genre movie pessimist. I believed then that it’s not impossible to theoretically make a well-made, enjoyable Russ-Meyer-and-Foxy-Brown-inspired chicksploitation movie with big boobs and tough babes in 2009, it’s just impossible that it had actually happened. Possible to do, impossible for someone to have done it, now. The circumstances that the original movies were made under were too weird, the people were too fetishistically dedicated to their odd craft. These people, these Kevin Sorbo people, they couldn't have done it.

I was right. They hadn’t. Bitch Slap isn’t very good, at all. It’s a movie about killer babes that have shootouts and water fights and chaste lesbian make-out scenes in the desert. The story is a muddled pastiche of action movie tropes and half the film is purposefully bad green-screen stuff in front of gaudy backdrops, and the other half or more happens in the same 10 feet of sand in front of a trailer. Two of the villains have amped up their performances so much, going so far over the top (the baseline established by the rest of the film already fever-pitch heaving-bosom sky-high) that it becomes literally and without exaggeration impossible to understand what they’re saying. The actors are emoting so hard, at such a pitch that all that grinds out of their mouths is a strangled series of grunts and whistles. It’s awful, its unpleasant, it’s gaudy and worse, it’s boring.

I may be a pessimist, but I’m right I guess. The boob glass is half empty and the space in the glass that’s not boob juice or whatever isn’t even air, it’s terrible poison air that will make you feel sad about yourself if you try to drink in the small meager amount of boob juice in the glass. 3/10.

www.thesubstream.com/article-midnight-madness-review-5-bitch-slap.html