Tag Archives: Entertainment

The Videogres Ponder the Shells in Demolition Man

It’s funny how life works sometimes.

The first time I watched Demolition Man, I hated it. Now, twenty-four years later, after watching it a second time, I think it’s fair to say that I saw a completely different movie this time around. The question, then, is which of us changed? Me, or Demolition Man?

I’m gonna go with me on this one, though I wouldn’t put it past our Lizard-People overlords to alter Demolition Man just to mess with me.

Maybe it’s age? Maybe I’ve learned to see the world through new eyes. Maybe I’ve learned to love. Maybe I’ve danced in the rain, like no one was watching. Maybe it’s ironic, don’t you think? Maybe I’ve fallen in love again, for the first time, for the second time, for the first time. Maybe I’ve learned to let my smile change the world, but to never let  the world change my smile. Maybe, just maybe, during those times when there was only one set of footprints on that beach, the Demolition Man was carrying me.

Side question: Who was the Demolition Man, anyway? Was it Snipes or Stallone? I mean, Snipes blew up more shit, but Stallone was wiping his ass with foreign objects and falling in love with rat-meat burgers. Shouldn’t the movie have been called Demolition Men? I digress.

Upon second viewing, I saw beyond the veil and into the deep, throbbing core of Demolition Man. You know what I saw? It might surprise you. I saw a movie that was an even bigger piece of shit than I had initially thought. I saw through the shittiness and saw even more shittiness behind that first shittiness. I’ll bet if I live long enough to see through that second level of shittiness that I’ll see even more shittiness. I’ll bet it’s shittiness all the way through.

You can download our commentary for Demolition Ma(e)n at out Libsyn page, or via Itunes. So go do that already.

P.S. The Deathstalker contest is still on, you fucking monsters. Stop withholding your affection from us.

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A Brief Message From Android Cop

Guys, please stop comparing me to Robocop. You act like the world only needs one cop robot. There’s plenty of room for all. Frankly, I’ve got a tremendous amount of respect for RC. The guy was a legend and he paved the way for the rest of us.

I mean, people will go out on a Friday night and pay to hear some asshole sing Willy Nelson covers, but we can’t have one other robot cop without people drawing frivolous comparisons?

My god you humans are a test.

Download the Videogres commentary for Android Cop on Itunes, or via our Libsyn page.

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The Videogres Go Down Under

Crikey! The Videogres are watching Crocodile Dundee this week. You’d be wise to check it out.

Also, tune in to next week’s episode for some news on an exciting new contest we’re hosting. It just might change your life*.

Find our exploration of Crocodile Dundee here, or on Itunes.

 

*It will not change your life.

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The Videogres Start a New Satanic Panic

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They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Here are 1039 words about this picture.

Let’s start with the guy on the left, because what the hell is he doing anyway? He looks like the love-child of a circa 1970’s porn star and The Ultimate Warrior. He’s wearing what appears to be a candy-necklace of some sort, along with the scraps of fabric that he’s tied around his arm. One thing you should know about Satanists from the 80’s is that they loved to accessorize. And look at the guy’s moustache for Christ’s sake. It’s like he’s not even trying. If you’re going to be a Satanist, facial hair is important. You can’t just have a moustache, okay? It’s not appropriate. And if you absolutely insist on having a mustache, you’d damn well better wax it or something. Has he waxed his? I don’t know. Maybe. You can’t tell. Maybe one day, when they finally release Black Roses in high-definition, we’ll know.

Then you’ve got this next guy. Is he even in the band? It looks like he’s on his phone, but given that this movie is from 1988, we know that’s not the case. Unless he’s got one of those Swatch phones that flashes when it rings and someone is calling him at the exact moment the picture was taken. He was maybe about to smile or something, then the phone rang and the flashing caught his eye and he’s like “Look at that. Worth every penny,” and he thinks about his dad, who was with him when he bought the phone, and who said “The doctors told us you were part girl when you were born, Jimmy, and I feel like this is directly related.” Now this guy, Jimmy, is like “yeah, sure dad. But I can answer it, even in the dark.”

The next fellow, leaning against the wall, is probably also watching that phone. A second later he’s like “Bro, you were totally right on that phone. Fuck your dad.” And the other guy is like “I know, right? Look at that flash. Not that it matters, because Damien hypnotized me and made me beat my dad to death when I joined the band anyway. Maybe one day I’ll see him in hell and I can tell him how wrong he was.”

Now we come to the big show. Damian. He’s leaned over the table, wearing his football pads and the artisan leather harness that he bought with his first paycheck from the record label. He’d probably dreamed of it for weeks, maybe sketched it out on a notepad by his bed. “What’s that you’re working on, Damien?” “It’s my dream, boys. It’s the perfect article of clothing. It looks total gnar, it’s metal as shit, and it’s cut in such a way that it makes my man-jugs thirty-five percent more bodacious than they are on their own.” Then he gives his hair another dousing with Aqua-Net.

The look on Damien’s face is not what you’d expect. It’s definitely not he look of a ruthless Satanist, dead set on turning the youth of Mill Basin into Satan Soldiers. It’s a look of satisfaction. It’s a look that says “guys, I love that I can always count on you to make the best possible pentagram with the materials at hand. Other guys would have phoned this in, maybe made the pentagram with a sharpie or, worse yet, something as laughably clichéd as blood. Not you guys. You put this shit together with tape and candles, because you’re professionals.

“And you know what else, as long as we’re on the subject? I don’t say it enough, but I love you guys. We’re out here on the road, working in Satan’s name, corrupting the youth and transforming kids in to monsters, which makes it easy to lose sight of the fact that before we started working for Satan, it was just us and the music. Just four guys, and maybe also that one girl—because let’s face it, the script for this movie is so incomprehensible it’s damn near impossible to know who’s really in the band—best friends til the end, shredding like our lives depended on it. And guys, our lives did depend on it.

“So here we are. Doing it. Really living it. I’m just so happy that our dark lord blessed me with such a swell group of friends. So there. I’ve said it, you sonsabitches. I love you. Forever.”

Then he leans in, even closer, hoping that the angle of the picture and the dim candlelight will hide the tears on his face.

Last but not least, we find a man with a bass guitar. He’s leaned against the wood paneling, completely impervious to the electronic temptations of the swatch phone ringing only feet from where he’s currently standing. He’s bored. He’s seen it all. There’s only one thing on his mind right now, and it’s solo album.

Why should Damien get to hog the spotlight? Why should Damien get to transform in to a glorious dinosaur demon, when all the rest of us just transform in to a group of zombies that look like grandfathers coated in gray paint? And you know what else? Why is it that when we transform on stage, that one guy – the lovechild of the 1970’s porn star and The Ultimate Warrior—loses his facial hair? You mean to tell me that in the midst of all this magical transformation, we can’t carry forward a moustache? Because if Satan’s magic is that weak, that ineffectual, that he can’t wizard that moustache from one form to the next, then what in the hell are we doing serving him anyway? Listen, guys, I love Satan as much as the next guy, but think about it. Just think about it. He can make us in to fucking lizard people, but he can’t keep the mustache?

You’re kidding me, Frank. What do you mean, ‘it’ll burn off in Hell’? We’re not in Hell. We’re in Mill Basin, playing a thirty day run of shows. There’s no hellfire here to burn a moustache off. And speaking of, why in God’s name are we playing here for so long? The venue is like half the size of a gym, and we’re big enough to be on the news…

Subscribe to us on Itunes. Or, if you’re less fun, download the Black Roses episode here.

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The Videogres Suffer a Double Impact

Many years ago, a man named Sheldon Lettich walked in to the desert to have a vision quest. With the bitter taste of Peyote lingering in his mouth, he found a spot of shade near a an outcropping of rock, and sat down to meditate.

Over the course of that afternoon, the sun crawled across the sky, burning down on Sheldon, forcing every trace of spiritual impurity out through his pores. As darkness fell, he heard a lone wolf howling in the distance and opened his eyes. In the clear night sky, a spectral vision coalesced. A man. Two chairs. The man doing the splits between those two chairs.

As Sheldon watched, the spectral figure descended from the sky to sit and join him in his meditations.

“I am the Celestial Van Damme” the spectral figure said. “Why are you in my desert?”

“I’m a director, Mr. Spectral Van Damme,” Sheldon replied. “I’ve come for inspiration.”

“If it’s inspiration you want,” the Spectral Van Damme began. He never finished his thought. Moving like a viper, he threw a handful of gravel in Sheldon Lettich’s eyes and proceeded to assail the poor director’s face with a series of interlocked roundhouse kicks.

When Sheldon woke, Celestial Van Damme was standing over him. Sheldon’s eyes, clogged with dirt and swollen from roundhouse-kicks, allowed him to see only the blurriest outline of Van Damme’s figure as it split and doubled in his unfocused eyes.

“Take from this what you will,” Celestial Van Damme said, mounting a wolf the size of a Clydesdale and riding it into the stars.

The vision was clear. Sheldon Lettich ran all the way from the desert to Hollywood, then on across the ocean to Hong Kong, writing a script as he went. When he arrived, he made history by filming a movie with 200% the Van Damme of any movie that came before it.

Join the Videogres as we go on our own vision quest with Sheldon Lettich’s celestial Van Damme masterpiece, Double Impact.

You can find the podcast here, or subscribe to us on Itunes.

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The Videogres Visit The Danger Zone

That’s right, Ice…man. I am dangerous. -Maverick

Some relevant Top Gun haiku:

 

Burning through the sky.

It’s time for a flyby, Goose.

Buzzing the tower.

 

The loss of control.

Loose cannons in the jet-wash.

Goose ejects. Goodbye.

 

Coffee spills, chest burns.

You’re a real pair of cowboys.

Got me good, fucker.

 

Greasy men glistening,

in testosterone contest.

Top Gun Volley-ball.

Join the Videogres this week as we watch Top Gun. You can find the episode here, or subscribe to us on iTunes.

In other news, we’re accepting movie-suggestions. Contact us at videogres (at sign) Gmail dot com.

 

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The Great Videogres Relaunch

We’ve been down, but we’re not out. After nearly two months of nothing, the Videogres Podcast will relaunch this weekend, bigger and better than ever. And by that I mean it will be pretty much the same, though this time around we promise to keep up with our posting schedule and our blog-posting.

Come back and visit us on Saturday, October 8th. You just might catch a glimpse of the man in the pants with the diamond-gusseted crotch.

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The Videogres Draw First Blood

If you haven’t already noticed, our newest commentary is now available on ITunes. This week, we watched the Sylvester Stallone opus, Rambo: First Blood Part One.

Sylvester Stallone, as well-groomed, feather-haired, knife-toting galoot John Rambo, versus drifter-hating, buckskin-coat wearing, calm-keeping officer Will Teasle. What’s to say that hasn’t already been said in the pages upon pages of critical analysis devoted to this film? Not much. Not much indeed. But somehow, some way, the Videogres manage to sound the depths of this deep water and find the hidden threads of wisdom and whimsy that only John Rambo can offer.

Please note: We’re open for film suggestions. Contact us at Videogres (At) Gmail (dot) com, if you’ve got a film (available online on Netflix or Amazon streaming) that needs watching. We’re ready. We’re strong. We’re the Videogres.

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