Earlier on this week I stumbled across this film:
Obviously that is too classy a film not to watch, and today – the most politically depressing day I’ve ever known – I need cheering up. Hence I’m going to attempt to review it, based only on this preview of its contents.
Description: A romantic couple get more than they expected after the husband’s experiments with penis-enlargement cream go awry. Wait, this is not a porn story. Rather, it is an absurd science-fiction movie that features a curious new species, the Dickshark. In some ways this story asks the same questions that Mary Shelly did when she wrote “Frankenstein.”
Science fiction with a dash of the modern Prometheus, eh? Who could resist? And so I proudly present…
Dickshark: The review
And we’re off. With no credits or opening titles or even an establishing shot we open with a metal soundtrack and a woman lying on a bed wearing heels, stockings & suspenders and her pants. Less than three seconds in and I’m already starting to doubt the “Wait, this is not a porn story” element of the review.
As she adjusts her suspender strap the music abruptly stops and her partner – who reminds me far too much of Julian Assange – pokes his head out from the bathroom and asks, “Can you believe that my enlargement cream already started to work?”
He delivers this line with the professional screen slick of a member of one those tribes that believe cameras capture your soul, but the director cunningly compensates by getting the shot as close in to his face as possible…although not quickly enough to disguise that the action is taking place in a Premier Inn-style hotel room.
“I really don’t care about the size of your dick,” his lady friend assures him. Less reassuringly she continues, “Even if you were enormous I probably wouldn’t orgasm anyway.”
Not put off by this in slightest, or at least incapable of conveying such through the medium of acting, her Assange-alike (who, naturally, is fully clothed…this isn’t a porn story, after all) gets her in the mood with some smooth talking.
“Anyway, I think this cream has some sort of side-effect. My dick is kind of clay-like.”
“What do you mean, ‘clay-like’?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. My dick is exactly like clay.”
Brings a whole new meaning to “he’ll be like putty in your hands”, I guess.
“Well sculpt it into something useful, then!” his lady-friend commands.
Julian Don Jaun says this may take him a while and adds, “Take your panties off while you’re waiting. Let’s not waste any time.”
I’m torn between marvelling that the only two people in the world who wouldn’t treat “clay-like dick” as a barrier to immediate sexual intercourse have managed to hook up, and wondering if Mary Shelley cut the chapter where Doctor Frankenstein pondered over into what “useful” shape he should sculpt his monster’s little monster.
The heavy metal soundtrack resumes as the lady clay-fetishist gets up from the bed, removes her suspender belt, then her knickers and then puts her suspender belt back on, apparently unaware of how they work…all in slow motion.
You’re now wondering if I’m typing this one-handed.
Believe me, I’ve seen Farage’s face too many times today to ever be able to experience sexuality again. It’s like that episode of Friends where Ross gets Rachel to dress as Princess Leia – I can see only Farage’s gurning features on every human’s face. There’s going to be some proper therapy involved in getting over this, Dickshark isn’t going to cut it.
Moving on. Our hero returns and we discover that of all the “useful” shapes he could have chosen for his clay penis he’s gone for ‘shark’. There it is, just poking out the front of his jeans like a waxy bath-toy. The only way anybody could be sexually excited by this is if they’d been involved in some bizarre psychology experiments conducted in Toys-R-Us during puberty.
Suspension of disbelief is one thing, but would any man, anywhere, ever, upon finding they could mould their gentleman bits into that shape think that it was appropriate to seek sex, rather than, say, medical advice?
Fortunately the suspender-illiterate isn’t at all put off and, smiling, tries to give him a blowjob…a task made much more complex by the extensive props team not checking the size of her mouth before constructing their shark-penis “special” effect. So there’s a great deal of moving around and repositioning as she tries to get her mouth around something that is clearly not human-mouth-sized.
Fortunately we’re distracted from her difficulties – and spared the pain of these two lovers trying to deliver dialogue – by the soundtrack, which has become a sort of grunge-ballad about being sick of it all. It was picked, I’m 103% certain, on the basis of somebody involved in the film being in the band playing it or knowing the band. It certainly wasn’t picked because it was in any way suitable for a sex scene…not even one involving a clay penis moulded into the shape of a wax shark.
Giving up on the blowjob, but with the Nine Inch Nailers still playing, they seem to decide to proceed straight to sex; because every woman knows that if it won’t fit into your mouth it will be just fine up your foof.
We, the audience, wait with baited breath as we wonder just how far this film will go. Using the old BBFC maxim, “Outer labia may be in, but inner labia are definitely out” this isn’t quite a “porn story” yet, but it’s heading that way. Fortunately he seems happy to prod at her pubis with its hammerhead and after about a minute of doing so he unexpectedly wanders off. I’m starting to suspect that his girlfriend was dead right, and that his penis-size has nothing to do with her lack of orgasms.
In the bathroom our hero is complaining that when he put more cream on his dick bit his finger off.
WHY WERE YOU PUTTING MORE CREAM ON, JULIAN? THE DAMN THING IS ALREADY TOO BIG TO FIT ANYWHERE, AND IS ALSO A SHARK! IN WHAT WAY WAS MORE FUCKING CREAM TO RESOLVE EITHER OF THOSE ISSUES!
Rachel (yes, the girl is really called Rachel…I honestly didn’t know that when I wrote the Friends thing) sees his predicament and using her medical degree from Trump University shoots Julian in the crotch, apparently believing there’s a universe where this will make things better.
“You shoot my dick, you shoot me!” gasps Julian, as we see his now detached sharkdick splash into the toilet, still accompanied by music that sounds like something you listened to at 1996 goth parties. Rachel, ignoring both the dick in the toilet and fingerless and dickless Julian, pours the hand-labelled penis enlargement cream down the sink. Finally we get a title, “Dickshark”.
I’ve spent 1,100 words to get 7¼ minutes into a 2½ hour-long film and covered one scene, so I feel I need to stop. I will return to the film, it’s…remarkable and, after the BBC News headlines this morning, undoubtedly the second most ridiculous thing I’ve see all day.
The review continues here.