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Rhett Beavers got drunk and forgot to mail in Michael Jackson concert extortion money, and so yesterday he left town trying to drive cross country to New York City to give Don King 120 bucks in person and ask him if he could have seat in Texas Stadium for the big convention of Jehovah’s Witnesses with trick knees and bad haircuts and then after that “Captain Kangaroo” got canceled by the network, and between the two of ’em Rhett got all depressed and couldn’t talk about anything except what was gonna happen to Dancing Bear.
Anyhow, none of that has anything to do with it, cause I had to take the Toronado down off the blocks anyway and haul buns out to Lubbock on this emergency rush job. They were showing a new art flick called “Human Animals” out there, and I could smell communist censorship before I even got halfway to Fort Worth. Somebody called up and told me the radio stations were refusing to play the “Human Animals” commercials because they sounded like a gang rape. So I tooled out there to police the mothers.
I’m kinda disgusted to report it, but what’s happened now is the guys in El Lay that own “Human Animals” have jerked it off the drive-in screens of America because of pressure from the national ugly people’s lobby, because the ugly people believe thet title includes them. Before I tell you exactly what we’re gonna do to put “Human Animals” back on the big outdoor screen where it belongs, let’s take a quick look at the beast itself. I’m talking plot.
The big nuke boys just got finished. Nothing’s on the planet except for three people: two guys and one bimbo. This is the movie that asked the question, “What would you do?”
They made this flick in Italy, so first thing you see is these three turkeys standing on the deserted beach in their tuxes and evening gowns and not saying anything and listening to the wind and watching the camera jump around and come up to two inches away from their faces. That’s how you know it’s Italian. In Italy, all the cameramen have bad eyesight so they make the actor’s pimples about nine feet high.
Here’s the best part of the whole movie: no talking.
Then there’s a killer crab attack, and the blonde porkchop has to rip off part of her pink dress to make a bandage on her toot. Now we’re talking trouble. Now we’re talking attack of the male hormones. As soon as this black-headed goonface with a Gene Shalit mustache finishes his crab sandwich he’s on her cookies like ugly on Lou Ferrigno. It’s OK, though, cause the crabmeat makes him do it.
Next thing, these people go to a lighthouse and meet a dog. The dog is the best actor in the picture. The dog leads ’em to water but he can’t make ’em think. The dog takes ’em to a lagoon where they get nekkid and play Marco Polo and then go kill some jackrabbits and skin ’em for breakfast.
In other words, you can see what we got here. We got Stupid Family Robinson.
Next thing, they all start building huts and planting earth-food and the dog helps gather firewood, and then one day Lady Godiva decides to strip down to her tutu and take a raft ride. But both guys make like Johnny Weissmuller and go after her and end up piking at each other with a knife. Blackbeard wins. The dog watches.
Then one day she goes off in the woods with the dog, and when she gets back Blondie and the dog go in the hut together.
This is the place where a lot of guys switched on their ignitions and drove straight home, and we haven’t even got to the winning combination yet. We’re talking 32 full breast exposures (the count is limited to two to a scene). Two dead bodies. Primitive kung fu. Two quarts blook. Killer crab attack. Three beasts. No talking to get in the way of dialogue. Excessive whining. The movie that gives a new meaning to the word “doggie-style.”
A totally disgusting three stars. — by Joe Bob Briggs