I don’t know about you, but the byproducts of COVID-19 isolation—soul-crushing ennui, crippling depression, nightmares in which Mike Pence calls me “mother” before sneezing in my face—has made the thought of writing a movie blogpost about as appealing as a nasopharyngeal swab.

Wrapping up our series on biological disaster flicks, we officially plow into the side of a mountain with a movie so bad, it’s good.
In 1944, in an attempt to bolster a British morale deflated by
You ever found yourself surveying the accumulation of detritus that is your abode, thinking: Christ, what a shit-show? And pledging to yourself that, come the weekend, all that bric-a-brac, all those bits and bobs, all that knick-knackery, will be donated to the Salvation Army so…help…you…God!
There are precious few times that one enters the darkness of a cinema only to emerge a few hours later transformed into a better human, one who has glimpsed the human condition as never before and, as such, achieved a certain enlightenment or—dare I say?—grace.
45th President of the United States of America, Mr. Donald J. Trump
There’s little doubt a mention in B-Movie Cult Classics Unearthed Watching Late-Night HBO in College™, the CFS’s ongoing examination of eminently watchable if sometimes mediocre (or flat-out bad) cinematic curiosities, is coveted by filmmakers beyond all else, Oscar/Palme d’Or be damned.
As revealed by my admission that the first laserdisc (RIP) I ever purchased was the documentary
This’ll be short and sweet, neither of which come easy to me.