Episode 109 – Shark Exorcist (2015)

or “Your Mother Sucks Fish Sticks In Hell!”

Featuring: A cast of people who each lost a day’s pay from their jobs at the local mall in order to shoot this.

Director & Writer: Donald “Vampire Cop” Farmer

Origin: USA

Review_____

“We’re gonna need a bigger cross!”

Hey kids and kooks, your favorite textual predator here, with a long overdue feature review. It’s a new year (I’m on to you, big calendar!) and that means making empty promises to ourselves to alter our lifestyles for the better! As stated in my Quickie for The Conjuring (check it out after reading this if you haven’t already!), one of the top declarations of short-lived resolve is to exorcise more. As such, here’s Shark Exorcist!

…and if you’re one of the folks unfortunate enough to have suffered that pun twice now, I make no apologies. Voice your disdain in the comments section provided below!

If you think a bad pun (it’s seriously not that bad, stop) counts as genuine suffering though, you’d turn off Shark Exorcist within the first five minutes. You’d be correct to do so, too. It would be a good sign that your inherent survival instincts are, in fact, functional and you may just survive the horrors the world holds for us all in the year ahead. Being a card carrying member of the Cinemasochism of the Month Club (yes it’s real and no you can’t join), the mental melting pot that is my gray matter will not allow me to follow through with such self-preservative maneuvers. Much to the lament of my few remaining sane brain cells, I did indeed sit through the entirety of (and I say this without a single shred of overreaction) THE worst movie I’ve ever seen. How seriously serious am I about such said seriousness? Prepare to wilt in terror at the digital purgatory I now recount!

The conceptual foundation upon which this castle of soiled cat litter is constructed is actually made of incredibly solid stones: a heretical nun sacrifices people to summon Satan, who takes a great white shark as His unholy vessel. The hell-beast torments the innocent citizens of a small fishing town until His ultimate showdown (of ultimate destiny) against a priest who will sacrifice everything to put Mefishstopheles back into the lake of fire, where He belongs!

YES! UNHOLY HELL! BY LORD ARIOCH’S BILE DUCTS, GIVE ME THIS IMMEDIATELY!

Though the needles of doubt perforating my medulla oblongata warned me that this was yet another installment of The Asylum’s collection of shark fetish movies they keep under their bed, I cared not. As it turns out, I would’ve been better off if it had been. Shit, I would’ve been better off with my eyeballs dunked in Clorox and my ears stuffed with those giant poisonous jungle centipedes, but that doesn’t help me now.

Anyway, beyond this incredible initial impression, the express bullet train to Existential Agony that’s been chartered for the audience leaves right on time. Within mere minutes of its inception, the piss poor production values cut down my eagerness considerably. We’re a long way from The Asylum and their mockbuster-of-the-week Syfy letdowns. Think handi-cams (possibly even 3rd generation iPhones) and an audio crew/person that doesn’t know what a windscreen is. If you love the sound of a strong breeze blasting through your auditory canal, then this is the movie for you! Come to think of it, if given the option, I may just opt to go deaf by wind tunnel (rather than by temptation) than listen to this cast reading their lines. I intentionally said “reading” rather than “acting”, because referring to any of these off-the-street amateurs as “actors” would be insulting actual actors. And yes, that includes such luminaries of the art as Eddie Deezen, Tommy Wisseau, the fat henchman from Miami Connection that says “Bye byyyye!”, and the “This can’t beeee! You’re deeeeaaaaaad!” guy from Riding with Death. If you know nothing of these things I speak, get thee to a nunnery… and ask if they’ll let you use their WiFi.

On first blush (or flush), I was almost positive that Shark Exorcist‘s casting consisted of an ad on a Tennessee Craigslist site. Something along the lines of “Wanted: body confident blonde women between the ages of 18 and 25 willing to appear in bathing suits and bikinis for a globally distributed horror film. NO ACTING EXPERIENCE NEEDED! NO PROFESSIONAL MODELS! Payment based on amount of skin you’re willing to show.” Probably with less grammar and more misspelling, but you get the gist. Now, if IMDB is to be believed, this movie had a budget somewhere in the realm of $300,000 and doesn’t credit a casting agency. As such, I’m sticking with my initial hypothesis that the women featured were employees of the local Sunglass Hut, and I presume that whatever criminal organization is secretly running Paris, Tennessee laundered about $290,000 through this digital Heretic Fork.

Technical, production and casting misery not withstanding, what about the story? Sorry children, but put your optimism for a fun movie back into your hope chest and lock it away in your closet for another day because the weather forecast calls for a 100% chance of disappointment. Hurricane Donald made landfall and left total destruction of even the most modest expectancy in its wake. ‘Tis a clusterfuck to be sure. Rather than give us a nice, traditional, Point A to Point B to Point C(redits) story, Farmer chose to mix his crops and hope for the best. The result is a quintet of unrelated stories that never intersect outside of their common location!

The ignoble penguin who invoked the bedeviled beast of the bay only appears in the opening and closing segments. In the first, she strolls barefoot through a cemetery (accompanied by the labored breathing of the person behind the camera) before declaring to no one “The world has betrayed me! So, the world will taste my vengeance!” in a vocal performance that sounds like she’s auditioning for a part in The Room 2: Don’t Worry About It. Sister Stabby’s then accosted by a random blonde who, rather than informing 9-1-1 to the whereabouts of a woman wanted for the suspected murders of 13 children, opts instead to harass the behabited bitch, telling her that she’s going to pay for the atrocities she’s committed. Blondie’s choice of words over actions is her downfall, ending up the final blood offering that jimmies the lock on the gates of Hell for Sister Slays-a-lot, who asks Lord Satan for an avenger. She doesn’t get Iron Man or Hulk or even Hawkeye though, as the Prince of Lies instead blesses her with a 15 second loop of a red tinted CGI shark with glowing yellow eyes, which WebMD tells me could be symptoms of Nuclear Jaundice or Atomic Cirrhosis. You’d imagine her 13th sacrifice would’ve been the one to do the trick, but that’s just a test to see if the freshmen devil worshipers will give up when their first project bares failure fruit. Regarding Nunny’s latter appearance, that brown jewel of a scene will be mined later.


($300,000…)

The bulk of this pain parade's runtime is dedicated to our main story, which picks up a year after the opening and follows a trio of friends whose road trip to lakeside sun and fun runs afoul of Satanic Jabberjaw. We have: Allie – the naive southern good girl blonde whose boyfriend Bobby's been cheating on her with Lauren; Lauren – the intolerable bleach blonde who spends all of her time bitching or not-acting her lines, and deserves to end the movie with the Sally Hardy treatment; and Emily – the leader of the trio, mostly because she's the only one not fucking the aforementioned douche nozzle boyfriend, she's the only one with her own car. Since her only blonde attribute is highlights, science tells us she's likely the smartest one among them.

Skull splintering anti-acting aside, when the three arrive at their final destination (if only) Emily declares that she’s going to lay out her towel and saturate herself with delicious cancer inducing solar radiation, to which deadpan Lauren instantly clings like a barnacle. The pair proceed to plant themselves IN A SHADED SPOT, facing AWAY from the scenic body of water that was the whole reason for them to drive TWO HOURS to get there, then faceplant straight into their phones. If the intention is to make these the most tooth-grindingly obnoxious protagonists a horror movie has ever presented, at least it’s a success!

Allie heads straight for the lake and barely gets her bikini wet before Tron Jaws… just kinda swims around in its little animation time loop… Al goes into spasms as if a jellyfish had just swam up her crack (because there’s sure as shit NO SHARK anywhere near her), but is pulled ashore by Em, telling her “you’re my best friend” and begging her to “stay with me” over and over again. With what looks to be watered down catsup on her mouth, throat, and thigh (she even got some of that nasty congealed crapsup that dries on the rim of the bottle. ewwwww), Al spasms for all she’s worth. Or, at least as much as a $20 payday will cover.


(At least it didn’t end up on her cheeseburger. **barf**)

Al's rushed to the local hospital (well, there's GoPro footage of the inside of a hospital) so medical professionals can rinse off that catsup and she’s required to stay and recover from her “shark attack wounds”. Within mere days she’s released, magically healed and hankering to go swimming. Em is concerned and confused by such recuperative wizardry while La is off somewhere not giving a shit and doubtlessly thespianizing about as well as she can. The rest of their portion of this anthology-put-through-a-wood-chipper mostly follows Allie as she seduces strangers, lures them into going swimming with her, then murders/eats them because she’s been possessed by BeelzeBruce(Jaws behind-the-scenes joke. Look it up.) and must do the Devil’s deeds. Agonizing scenes that make me genuinely question my life decisions include the secret Street Shark inveigling a mentally retarded brunet into an uncomfortable, sexually tense, above-ground pool sequence; what feels like a 40 minute scene of Al stalking Bobby and Lauren around a carnival; and a luau exorcism finale where a local priest tries to Father Karras the no-budget Megalodemon (even I’m ashamed of that one), only to have it swim-fly from a black hole in the sky and attack them?! I’m getting an ulcer just thinking about it. BLART!


(Two girls, one pool)

Other portions of the movie (if that’s what you want to call it) involve a second trio of women (all blonde) who go to the doomed lake as part of a sorority hazing; a third trio of women who hold a seance in an alley as a redhead in her nightie runs screaming and undulating through a graveyard (this may have been footage from a homemade music video she shot for her then boyfriend’s goth-metal garage band); a guy out for his morning jog only to end at the lake shore where he sees a dead body, vomits on himself, and says “I’d still do her” to himself; a female ghost hunter and her rotund cameraman investigating the recent rash of shark attacks (from which the local law doesn’t feel the need to barricade the public) only to find herself “possessed” by the evil before coming into conflict with a local skeptic determined to debunk said bullshit; a muscular lady whose sunbathing becomes the subject of a dirty old man’s voyeuristic intention (and who becomes another victim of the killer nun in one of the worst cases of two entirely unrelated scenes being edited together to make us think they’re interacting, complete with one of film history’s WORST screams); and a dialogue devoid post-credits, “we need to pad the runtime so let’s just shoot some random nonsense and pretend it makes sense!” scene of either a girl who’s been collecting Marlboro Miles the hard way since birth or a 35 year-old woman Hard Candy-ing herself to look like pedo bait as she eagerly loiters around an aquarium gift shop before rubbing herself with what I think is a vibrator disguised as a rubber shark toy and finally vomiting up the Valu Time alternative to Linda Blair’s regurgitated pea soup lunch.

Again, NONE of these stories have a common denominator outside of taking place around the same shark inhabited lake (because if there’s one place salt water murder monsters love to inhabit it’s a fucking fresh water body of hydro). A lake that, despite claims from local news sources to the contrary, there’s isn’t a single visual piece of evidence to prove that the local police are doing ANYTHING to keep the public they’re tasked to “protect and serve” from becoming Satan Shark’s diarrhea-to-be! No cruisers, no extras in costumes bought at a Spirit Store clearance sale (nor a couple of discount StripperGrams off of Groupon), not even a few strands of yellow police line tape! I’ve said it a few DOZEN fucking times on this site, but when I see horseshit like Shark Exorcist, I’m always reminded that it bears repeating – DO NOT WRITE A MOVIE YOU CAN’T AFFORD! WORK WITHIN YOUR LIMITATIONS! MAKE THE MOST OF WHAT YOU HAVE, NOT THE FUCKING LEAST OF IT! LLOYD KAUFMAN HAS WRITTEN BOOKS AND MADE VIDEOS ABOUT HOW TO DO THIS! FUCKING LISTEN!

If it sounds ridiculous for a grown man-dog to risk a Myocardial Infarction by going on a tirade over something as trivial as a grade school level movie production whose own creator, cast and crew couldn’t be bothered to put a third of said same effort into making, well, you must be new around here because I live on the edge, baby. I didn’t choose this life, cinemasochism chose me. We all die sooner or later, some of just go out like rockstars… in a dimly lit room, in front of a computer, face grotesquely contorted in a death mask of rage and agony, surrounded by crumpled Burger King wrappers and empty cans of “CITRUS X” flavored energy drink.

Speaking of tirades, for any of you who aren’t fans of the bits where I go on a seemingly endless Möbius band of barely-coherent moaning over how much an irredeemably garbage juice balloon of a movie still gives my brain hemorrhoids after twenty years of doing this (1999-2019, baby!), then I invite you to FF>> down to “The Moral of the Story” as I need to exorcise the chestburster that this movie has impregnated me with. It’s cheaper than therapy and doesn’t come with the “do not operate heavy machinery” side effects of heavy-dose pharmaceuticals, which would prevent tonight’s weekly ride through the town square on Killdozer. I don’t want to disappoint the local children… again… today…

Having recently waded through the glorified clip reel Puppet Master: Blitzkrieg Massacre (or PM:BM, which makes it sound like the last trip to the loo before bed), I thought it would be good to watch an actual movie again. Something that at least bears the basics of a movie, complete with a structured story and cohesive scenes. Not only did Shark Exorcist fail to provide either of those, but hurled me into valleys of misery from whose escape was tantamount to Blade’s “ice skating uphill” metaphor. If I could turn back time, if I could find a way, I would choose my own adventure and instead marathon an entire non-stop barrage of the absolute bottom-of-the-barrel clips from every Charles Band production/excretion, full on, double-rainbow, A Clockwork Orange style if it meant never stepping in the puddle of poodle vomit presented here.

If you ask any cinemasochist what the worst movie of all time is, you’re likely to get a wide wingspan of answers, running the incompetence gamut from Manos: the Hands of Fate to Birdemic to Plan 9 From Outer Space to Troll 2. I have seen most of whatever you can conjure up, and my next statement is 100% bereft of hyperbole: Shark Exorcist is the worst movie I’ve ever seen. Whatever you may think can limbo beneath this new personal lowest of low bars, by all means contact me about it. If I haven’t seen it already, I will watch it, then give you bullet points on why Shark Exorcist is worse. It’s so bad that I can one day see myself pointing to an abuse doll in front of a jury of my peers, showing them where the movie hurt me.

After all of these harsh barbs, Shark Exorcist couldn’t possibly live down to the expectations I’ve established in this article, right? Clearly I must be exaggerating the toxic levels of loathing I’m giving off, correct? This is all a joke piece amplified for the sole sake of entertaining excess, si? Nein. Donald Farmer and his cast of… not “actors” so much as “persons bereft of a solitary molecule of dramatic ability between them”, have left such scars in my figurative flesh that, although not breaking me, have managed to forever alter the state of The Tomb’s millenniums old justice system! The very existence of Shark Exorcist has initialized a Big Bang in these hallowed halls, creating a rift of anti-matter in the fabric of our reality from which a new horror has clawed its way into our world to spit in the face of all creation. I give you…

“The Shartk” – a repulsive monument to the septic depths that only the lowest aspects of movie-making can plumb. So toxic that it poisons even the lead-lined digestive tract of mighty Amut, racing through the beast's Hershey highway and leaving a big brown shark-shaped splatter all over the floor.

In a different time, in a different place, and with an entirely different creative team and cast, Shark Exorcist is a seed that could have grown into a mighty milestone of trash movie greatness. 1970s Bruno Mattei on an oily archipelago off of Italy? YES! Lloyd Kaufman in the ’80s guerrilla filming on the medical waste laden New Jersey shoreline? YES! A hot and humid editing suite in Hong Kong circa 1989, where Godfrey Ho labors to super glue two unrelated horror movies together while simultaneously wedging in ninjas decked out in brightly colored pajamas for nothing more than a marketing gimmick to make a few bucks off of the American VHS rental market? YES! I would gladly move space and time to bring one of these instances of surrogate sinema screaming from the dilated cervix of creation so I could watch it destroy our dimension’s edition of Shark Exorcist a la The One.

Now, to distract me from the bout of mental erosion Sharxorcist (aka “the 11th Plague”) has afflicted me with, I’m going to isolate myself in the ol’ Cone of Silence so I can spend the rest of the day working on my spec script for Twinkie the Kid Vs. Chocula. General Mills and Pizza Hut both shot me down last time over my Pizza Pete Meets Frankenberry’s Daughter presentation, but I’ve got a good feeling about this one! Wish me luck, skid marks!

Moral of the Story: Sam Quint died for our sins. But his soul now lays trapped within a pair of Donald Farmer’s tighty-whiteys and subjected to all manner of stains that can never be washed away. Maybe if we Mxyzptlk his name while facing toward Kansas twice a day, we’ll be able to exile him back to his home dimension, never to be heard from again. Remraf Dlanod! Remraf Dlanod! Remraf Dlanod! REMRAF DLANOD!

Screenshots_____


There is such a thing as loving cherry syrup too much.


The new viral sensation the kids are all into? The Christ Walk Challenge! You dress up in religious-themed attire then see how far you can walk across a body of water! I think it’s meant to raise awareness of crucifixion disease or stigmata or whatever.


Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to the modern day iteration of the “frozen shark attack” scene from Jaws III.


“Hello, police? I’d like to report the theft of my outfit’s midriff! No, I don’t know my shoe size off hand, why?”


The change over to HD damaged a lot of TV news persons’ careers, but none more so than that of freshman reporter Bill Ugly from Channel 9. He’s only 27!


“Ghost Whackers”? Sounds like one of those gay porn parodies of “Ghost Adventures”.


I’m not sure if this actress is trying to convey “possessed by the refuse of Hell” or “fell on her keys”.


Sadly, when young Karen lost her thumbs in the cigar cutter factory explosion, the hospital’s only available replacements were an elderly woman’s index finger (shown here) and, well, half of a deer hoof ended up on the other hand.


Father Banks works on his sermon for Sunday’s service, “Deuteronomy, Where’s My Corinthians?”.


“You call that a summoning circle, Sherry? I’ve seen better painted streaks of blood on the toilet bowl of the ladies’ room at Hot Topic!”


I sympathize. I had the same reaction to the Dustin Diamond porn the first half-dozen times I watched it too.


I feel bad for fish when they break the fishing line and have to spend the rest of their lives with a lure hooked into their head. I like the feathers though!


If this camera had heat vision, this scene would take on a wholly different tone…


THIS guy knows what I mean!


Here we see Cousin It’s daughter, Cassie It, preparing to “Snicker Snag” on one of her sorority’s latest batch of initiates.


“And why the fuck are you both sitting up front?! I don’t care if you tied calling “shotgun”, I can’t afford another ticket after the last time!”


“Looks like you’ve got egg on your face, nerd! Hahaha!”
(I was going to make a Face/Off joke here, but I brain farted ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )


Gah! Those have to be some of the scariest teeth I’ve ever seen in a horror movie! At least the top row seem well taken care of.


What the Hel is that?! It looks like someone just gave birth to triplets right on the concrete!


I questioned whose terrible idea it was to cast Nicole Richie as the lead in this new Exorcist remake, but it could really open up some doors for her career! Preferably ones marked “EXIT”…


And that is exactly how I reacted after the second half-dozen times watching the Dustin Diamond sex tape.


The last thing Jerry Garcia saw on his death bed.


In case you’re wondering, yes, sometimes a rubber figure of a goblin shark IS just a rubber figure of a goblin shark. But not here. This is absolutely a sex thing.


I’m not quite sure what Sunny D is hoping to accomplish with this new ad campaign, but it’s making me thirsty… for some purple stuff.


“Contrenchis”? I think I had to get an inoculation for that before my trip to South America for that The Ruins theme cruise I took last year.

———————————————————
———————————————————

Anubis will return next time in
“The Last Vatican Hero”

Enjoy the review? Hate the review? Have a movie you’d like to see judged in The Tomb? Fill out the feedback form! Never has it been easier to make contact with a deitic being!

All materials found within this review are the intellectual properties and opinions of the original writer. The Tomb of Anubis claims no responsibility for the views expressed in this review, but we do lay a copyright claim on it beeyotch, so don’t steal from this shit or we’ll have to go all Farmer Vincent on your silly asses. © October 1st 2013 and beyond, not to be reproduced in any way without the express written consent of the reviewer and The Tomb of Anubis, or pain of a physical and legal nature will follow. Touch not lest ye be touched.

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