8 by a dickshark

In June last year, the day after the people of the UK voted to leave the EU I decided to cheer myself up by writing a quick review of a bad film called Dickshark.

Seven months later the House of Commons has granted the PM permission to officially begin the process of leaving the EU and we’re on to part 8 of that review and, to paraphrase Charlies Darwin, I now hate the dickshark more than any man ever has.

If you’d like to read the review from the beginning then it starts here. In summary, it’s a film whose wafer-thin plot revolves around an ill-advised use of experimental penis-enlargement cream that has turned a man’s genitalia into a shark, which was then shot off, into a toilet, and now roams free, looking for young women to terrorise.

The holey plot is accompanied by ad libbed dialogue, bad acting, a garage-band soundtrack, an editor whose only function seems to be to put as much of the film into slow-motion as possible, and is overseen by a man who calls himself Bill Zebub.

Bill is to directors as Donald Trump is to political orators; technically it’s an accurate description of what he does, but to use it cheapens all other purveyors of the same art and fails to plumb the fathomless depths of ineptitude they bring to the profession. His film is a transparent attempt to use the flimsiest excuse to film naked women, but even using flimsy excuses to film naked women is a long and proud cinema tradition that Bill, in his own ham-fisted way, manages to, against all odds, cheapen.

Case in point, we pick up the story with one of his actresses complaining, “I don’t understand why I have to be naked.”

Bill’s explanation is roughly what you’d get if you put a gun to the head of a totally stoned guy and said you’d shoot him in the fucking face if he didn’t explain evolution to you. Although, unlike Bill, they probably wouldn’t explain hemispheres of the brain by massaging your left and right breasts in turn.

By now I need surely not explicitly reference the misspoken lines and huge missed cues/pauses while Bill pulls the next line of dialogue out of his blow-hole. They’re there, though. Oh yes.

Having extracted all the information about the latest shark attack from the naked lady he then strangles her. Honestly, it’s like a 1960s “Pot makes you a killer” public information film, made entirely from the sweepings on Russ Meyer’s cutting room floor.

The heavy metal soundtrack kicks in an we’re treated to 20 seconds of a snow-covered landscape, which then cuts to Bill and Colin meeting, with no snow in sight. Editing, hell yeah!

Colin watches on as Bill acts out ‘romantically’, I swear I’m not even making this shit up

Colin delivers a 30 second monologue on that horror film staple – whether sexual fantasies constitute unfaithfulness – while, the whole time, Bill dances around miming blow-jobs. Fun fact: if a print of this film touches a print of The Godfather it would create a matter/anti-matter explosion that would destroy the entire Earth.

Bill responds with his own monologue, on why lottery winners aren’t happier and then the risks of being self-employed versus being a 9-to-5 guy, during which he starts doing the hand motions for a hula dance.

OK, Bill is baked.

Colin talks about life-after-death, Bill talks about the great work that Colin was doing with “artificially flavoured intelligence” (yes, really), follow by more pot-inspired thoughts on speed-boats, how to create AI and whether they’ll also be able to create “artificial retardation” and…well, that’s quite enough of two men talking to each other, without a naked woman in sight, so we crash cut to a woman doing her make-up.

Gosh, she’s not wearing much. What were the chances of that, eh?

The heavy metal boys are back as well. Oh good.

If you imagine she’s safe from aquatic penis attack just because she’s indoors and away from open water then you haven’t counted on the abilities of a papier-mâché shark to back her into her bedroom before being thrown on top of her. I bet you feel pretty stupid now, eh?

We’re treated to another slow-motion rape scene, before we cut to the woman relating her experience to Bill (having put on her knickers, but nothing else, because she has a visitor).

“To be honest,” she explains, “I thought the ad in the newspaper was a joke, but, er, now that I was attacked I see you really shouldn’t read a book by its cover.”

I hope you’re jotting down these life lessons, reader.

It turns out the shark can now fly, which Bill describes as, “uncanny, but not unbelievable”. We’ll be judge of that, Bill, and it couldn’t be less believable if Sean Spicer was reading it out to incidental music provided by Milli Vanilli. To be fair even Sean Spicer would probably feel ashamed delivering this bullshit while fondling a woman’s boobs “for science”.

What follows could be a new late-night gameshow, where the participant can feel up a woman for as long as he can keep taking nonsense. Bill would be world champion, because he moves  smoothly from postulating a helium filled shark, to homosexual fruit-flies, to government-issued fake shark-repellent, whether wearing a condom would result in electrical brain-waves being disrupted and who the ‘they’ are in ‘they say’ (it could just be two guys!).

Let’s play Boobs for Bollocks!

On the plus side, at the end of this stream of crap the actress’ character is actually treated to a name, Lydia. Having bestowed her with this honour Bill lays her on the bed, so he can lie next to her and continue his fondling while explaining the function of the shape of the head of the penis to her.

Having mocked everything about Bill I’m strangely starting to feel sorry for him. He’s clearly a tragic mansplainer, who wants only to off-load his pseudo-scientific facts and half-formed philosophy onto women. Because of this tragic personality defect the only way he can get any actual contact with a woman is to seduce them with offers of roles in his films. Maybe this film isn’t about dicksharks at all, maybe it’s a documentary about Bill’s fruitless search for a woman who loves having her tits clumsily mashed so much that she’s willing to put up with any amount of education retarding nonsense from a man who can deliver such.

While I was busy being struck by that insight I note that we’ve moved to Colin dragging a length of chain through the woods while Vanna, who died like 3 scenes ago, dances. That enigma can only be solved, sadly, by Dickshark IX…

The review continues here


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