Where does one begin with a film so sublime, so subtle, so tender and so good-natured? Well, one would *not* begin, were the subject of one's meditation this film. One would be stuck. One would stumble right out of the gate when writing about this travesty, this weirdly unintentionally brilliant piece of garbage called "Demon Cop." This is doubtless an entertaining little piece of horror bombast, but it is highly suggested that you imbibe copious amounts of illegal drugs or cheap wine before viewing, so that something else can be attributed to the inevitable destruction of your precious brain cells. It might also make it even more enjoyable viewing. Or at least tolerable. Or else you will be able to forget it quickly. Would that I had planned ahead. Seeing it as I just have, in the stark raving mad light of day, without benefit of mood- or cinema altering substances, soberly I was unable to consider the glittering, decadently awful "Demon Cop" for the peculiar gem it perhaps might be. More rather, for the gigantic train wreck of a waste of celluloid (rather, video) it most certainly is.
For all eternity, I will never know the plot, nor will I understand the motivation behind wasting the money to commit this to eternity and to an eternity of late, late night cable runs (although, in my case, not nearly late enough). But it has something to do with a cop, who is a demon because his blood is bad, and an understanding girlfriend. There appears to be a script, but nothing stands out that I can point to. To the writer's credit, tasteless AIDS jokes abound. There is a savage murder rampage then, several savage murderous rampages and voice-overs later, there is a girl in a wheelchair; several cops who don't wear uniforms; strange, suburban Los Angeles ranch style housing; and a laughably awful demon latex costume that is topped by a Geri-curled wig stolen straight out of an early LaToya Jackson video. Spirit gum must have gone missing, because that darned demon latex costume keeps peeling off. All of the above combines to create a vivid impression. At least it would be vivid, if the video quality weren't so bad. The hyphenate behind this production, a madman named Rocco Karega, perhaps walks our streets even this very night. Be afraid. Be very, very afraid. But in that Ed Wood way, one does admire him. And by "admire," I mean stand very, very far away and observe from a distance, hopefully with bars between you, and a security detail. The earnest, "like me, please, oh, God, like me" quality that permeates the performances throughout are nowhere matched in their, well, permeability, than the stunning central, electrifying one of writer-director-producer-star-costumer-caterer Rocco Karega. There is nothing in film that this man thinks he cannot do. Alas, writing, directing, producing and starring are not any of them. To his credit, I am sure this film was catered adequately, as everybody seemed reasonably well fed, if not mostly pale. The costumes were provided by the cast, and it looks like everybody has washing machines. So there's that. Wherever you are tonight, Rocco Karega, rest well, knowing your 1991 masterpiece continues to enchant future generations, bringing joy and AIDS jokes to countless admirers. God bless you, Rocco Karega. God bless you richly.
