The Garbage Pail Kids Movie Comes to DVD
The unabashed desire to watch all of the Friday the 13th sequels in a row, for the unspoken romance of summer camp terror, doesn’t make one a bad person; it simply states something about their character, rather than their taste. The choice is to watch, not to treasure. Yet, most cult fanatics seem to get the two more confused than high school kids in high school love.
The Garbage Pail Kids Movie has come to DVD after gathering dust in MGM’s vault since 1987. One of two films based on a line of trading cards (see Mars Attacks! also), it brings to life the evil, deformed doppelgangers of the 80s Cabbage Patch Kids toy line, and completely sends mixed messages to fans of the macabre everywhere.
Its only charm -and I insist, ONLY- are the look of the animatronic puppets themselves. They are midget, bobble-head versions of every vice that neighborhood children seem to advertise: boogers, vomiting, farting, urinating on one’s self, and a talking alligator thrown in for reasons I’m not even sure the director understood himself. We are talking about Rodney Amateau after all, a Gilligan’s Island alum.
And I’m sure anyone who had to direct Dobie Gillis -and The Skipper, too- must’ve missed a few storytelling classes in film school along the way. The ‘Kids’, who should be easy, generic fodder for sight gags, often fall short on delivering all of the gross-out factor that the ad campaign boasted about.
To mention ‘under-developed’ and/or ‘under-designed’ characters is a complete understatement: they’re supposed to be so one-note about their foul antics throughout the movie, but never rise to their complete, revolting potential. So, you’re left with a tease without the perks of having a bad taste in your mouth. If one of your heroines’ names is Valerie Vomit, than vomit like it’s going out of the bulimia style-guide, she should. Alas, it only happens fifteen minutes before the closing credits.
The acting is sub-par, to be generous. Featuring a young Mackenzie Astin as the newfound friend of the ‘Kids’, who has a crush on the local bully’s girlfriend. And Anthony Newley as the magician -slash- antique store owner -slash- third cousin of Christopher Lloyd’s ‘Doc’ from Back to the Future.
Both attempt to maintain a level of Me-Decade naivety in their performances, but aren’t doing much more than succumbing to hitting their marks in front of the camera. And to think the star of TV’s Malibu wasn’t ready to share his close-up with snot-riddled foam dummies…
There is a sequence that is redeemable enough to merit a rewind, and it is the musical number. Yes, there is a musical number. Its attraction coming in three facets: 1) The prompt timing with which it cuts into the film is so awkward, that it will awake the bed-ridden viewer to confirm they didn’t hallucinate the misappropriation of timing; 2) the melody and lyrics alone sound so ghastly that, for a moment, the mind will regress into a totalitarian wave of stupidity that feels very similar to having too much sugar; and 3) you’re watching visual terrorism.
You know it was supposed to be organized, yet the blast and chaos that followed was so distracting, that it not only dominated your television, but also dominated your attention away from life around us as you know it. It’s the reason people slow down to peruse car accidents on the side of the highway. It’s a mess that seduces the eye.
The purchase of the film, in my own defense, was made in the name of nostalgia. Memories of watching it at the impressionable age of 8 intertwined with flashes of hideous things serenading the screen. We saw adults at the time, removing it from the video store and I remember that urge of wanting it, simply because I shouldn’t have.
The temptation one mulls over after countless warnings to go the other way. I couldn’t wait to see it again. Now, I can’t wait to forget it.
