Even Hitler Had a Girlfriend

Visual artist Ronnie Cramer's sophomore video feature is his crowning achievement. Fans of Danny McBride and weirder Will Ferrell movies need take note, this is a cringeworthy but side-splitting tale of a romantically pathetic security guard who's decision to try 1-900 numbers results in a downward spiral of paid debauchery. That something so bawdy and low budget could be this sly and masterfully balanced is a cause for loud celebration. One of the shining examples of an artist using the then exploding home video medium to create truly unique and exciting movies.

A fat, schlubby security guard can't get women to date him, so he sits around his apartment in his underwear watching porn channels. He branches out to hiring prostitutes, and soon ends up spending every last cent he has on them. I'd be lying if I said that this film isn't mostly a thin excuse to have half-naked women dancing on camera, but this extremely low concept, shot-on-video oddity derives more than a little charm from Marcus Templeton's funny, naturalistic performance in the lead. He's not exactly a good actor, but he has a lot of dialogue that he mostly delivers in narration, and he's funny and kind of appealing. Nobody else in the film is any good at all, but it's certainly not a complete waste of time.

I recall that Joe Bob Briggs picked this flick out as one of the best drive - in movies of the year, if not the best. JBB knows whereof he speaks, although I suppose the term " drive - in " means little to nothing to current audiences. This movie is a contemporary exploration into the pure alienation of a modern man and his efforts to integrate into a society that refuses to accommodate his needs and desires outside of a capitalist system that can only last as long as the cash does. The movie features some scenes of gyrating women in dishabille which initially seems like straight exploitation that will not significantly add to the story, but these shots ultimately prove to be strangely hypnotic images, especially when played against stark images of power lines and quickly moving ominous clouds. There's serious danger and implications of terror lurking underneath the surface of this painful dark comedy. This is a much more sophisticated offering than a lot of the recent high budget Hollywood stuff that gets off with a rave review because it's allegedly symbolic and darkly allegorical and everyone wants to act like they " get it " when there's really nothing to get. If there's a genre for existentialist comedy, then this movie should be at the top of the list.

Comedy about a very pathetic lonely guy that blows all his money on porn and eventually hookers, you won't believe how sad this guy's life becomes. It becomes so sad it's funny and that was intended. We get a real sense of "the day in the life" of a guy who's a true loser with women as the main character narrates his mundane antics in such a mundane voice. The humor gets pitch black and sleazy at moments, like an uncensored episode of "Married With Children". Best part of the movie is the soundtrack and the guy eating beef jerky while watching cable porn. Some of the scenes where women strip kind of drag, but the killer soundtrack will occupy and entertain during those times.

There are so many great scenes in this movie. The drama that is the rise-and-fall of Marcus Templeton is engaging and believable; Andren Scott hits the nail on the head as the archetype of the good-natured, clueless, pathetic sap. Like Homer Simpson and George Costanza, everyone knows a Marcus, and will probably recognize a little bit of Marcus in themselves.

I can honestly say that this movie has some of the best tragically comic, pathetically poignant one-liners of any movie: "Can I at least touch your breasts? Well can I at least see them for a minute? Would you like to go home now?"

It's unfortunate then, that the bad scenes (i.e. the "sexy stripper" scenes) are so prolific and long. You will ask yourself "were hot girls really that lame and homely in the late eighties?" These seemingly never-ending, awkward strip teases will have the whole room uncomfortable, and the god-awful, noodle-doodle electric guitar accompaniment will serve to heighten the pain.

But then again, that's what the remote control is for...