Featuring: David “Roommates” Weidoff , Kristyn “Doll Graveyard” Green , Tommy “Up In Smoke” Chong
Director: Charles “Trancers” Band
Writer: Domonic “Critters” Muir (as August White)
Sequels: Evil Bong II: King Bong / Evil Bong 3D: the Wrath of Bong / Gingerdead Man Vs. Evil Bong
Intro: Oh man, Evil Bong. Sweet Cleopatra’s cleavage. I was emotionally scarred by Demonicus to the point of impotent whimpering (THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED!), but at least Demonicus never beget Demonicus II: Demonicuster’s Last Stand , Demonicus 3D: Spies Like DemonicUs , or Demonicus Vs. Jack Deth Vs. The Head of the Family. When I first reviewed Evil Bong, it was a worthless throw away bag of garbage juice. I hated it, but it was harmless, and it gave some bad movie people I like a paycheck. Probably only enough to put a down payment on a General Tso’s Dinner Combo at the Wanton Won Ton, but some pocket change exchanged hands nonetheless. In the time since said review, the garbage juice has spilled from its bag and spread outward into the bad movie world, replicating itself in the form of three sequels. Comparing Demonicus to Evil Bong is like comparing getting your genitals obliterated with a chainsaw or having your hands and feet cut off via guillotine. Both are horrible things no sane person would want to ever experience, but on entirely different scales of awful.
So, while its initial crime may not be as abhorrent as that of Demonicus, the legacy it wrought has ensconced Evil Bong on my list of “things to go back and prevent once HG Wells finishes my damn time machine”. It’s right between The Great Chicago Fire and “American Idol”.
Anyway, here’s the original review in all its inebriated randomness. For those wondering, yes, I was actually stoned when I wrote this! And no, sadly I was not stoned for this updated re-reviewing. I’ll even pass a piss test after if you don’t believe me.
Note: this review is being typed while its writer has been infused with a sizable dose of THCs in the hopes of improving his outlook on this movie. Spell Check will likely pick up all the spelling mistakes, so hopefully this still makes sense when it’s over. If not, Microsoft will receive an angry letter from me when this chemical laziness wears off…
Note #2: I just had a five-minute conversation with my girlfriend (also high) about putting Cobra Commander on the “Don’t Tread On Me Flag”, because as G.I. Joe: the Movie taught us, Cobra Commander turns into a snake that “was once a man”, so he qualifies for the flag because he was once a man and now he’s a snake and he doesn’t want to be tread upon…
Man, fuck Charles Bond. He’s always bitching about how his brother James gets the mad bitches and takes what he wants and gets to drive all the best phallic objects and… oh wait, we’re talking about Charles Band? Oh jeez, not this douche bag again. Okay, a few years ago there was this new cartoon based on the original “He-Man and the Masters of the Universe” that was actually much better than the original. It didn’t last as long as the original, since cartoons these days are actually outlived by their merchandise rather then simply existing to sell it, but it was definitely of better quality than its predecessor. On the other hand, (and Spell Check just told me that “otherhand” is apparently not a word in itself, in case you were wondering), there have been numerous retreads on the original “G.I. Joe” and “Transformers” franchises over the last 10 years that have all sat firmly between my legs, chewing on the long nappy hairs of my dog-man crotch until someone finally put them out of their misery.
What’s this mean to you? Well, from the late ’70s to the mid ’90s, Chucky Band (son of the now zombiefied Albert Band) tossed a lovely bunch of coconuts to bad movie fans under his various production companies (Wizard, Empire and Full Moon) before his creditors caught up with him and he had to either go into bankruptcy or go into hiding for a few years till the “smoke” blew over. Whichever he chose, Band went away for a little while, popping his oddly shaped skull up from time to time to put out some softcore vampire flicks so the guys too embarrassed to rent actual porn could pick up some action at the local Cockblocker Video on those lonely Saturday nights. Amazonian grandma Julie Strain was in a couple of ‘em. Whether these movies made him enough money to pay off his financial predators, or his loan sharks were found with fatal doses of leeches/large drill holes/knife and hook gashes/12th degree burns/crushed heads one morning, Band apparently felt the time was right to bring back the new and “improved” Full Moon! There was a road show/traveling convention to promote it. William Shatner and Alex Band of The Calling were dragged along (likely to cover up their involvement in one of Band’s mass hooker orgy murder sprees), midgets and fire-eating chicks in their underwear tagged along for a freak show street performance, and the country was introduced one city at a time to what the next generation of Band sinema held in store – Crap.
Yes, crap. A big killer puppet shaped pile of it… made of some of Charles Band’s older craps that he’d been saving in his bread box for a special occasion. The special occasion of putting them all together in that aforementioned pile, then adding a few freshly squeezed ones too to adhere the old craps together, then further shape everything into what Full Moon would become today.
Everything from Full Moon has been totally thrown away in the last few years. There are no new stars of the industry, just cameos by washed up favorites from yesteryear and fresh faced youngsters who can’t figure out when it’s time to act or when it’s time to give a golden shower to the viewers’ senses. The great (or at least serviceable… most times) creators of the good ol’ days have long since departed, so we’re left with know-nothings (whose “artistic vision” has been blurred by disinterest and/or donkey ejaculate) and, sometimes worse, Band himself. The quality special effects, explosions, gore, and nightmarish marionette designs of the grand old times have been bait-and-switched with half-assed characters, cheap plastic toys, and home computer visual effects. The official final atomic bomb for Band’s proverbial Hiroshima was Puppet Master Vs. Demonic Toys. But, much like the people in those nuclear dystopia fallout movies, I stick around Full Moon to see what kind of glowing green ghoulies will emerge to vomit their blistered entrails on my feet in a desperate plea for help, only to be swiftly crushed in a splatter of digital blood and tiny plastic bones. It’s better for the poor things this way, so that they can get the truth and start to get over it as soon as possible, instead of suffering through less harsh pains for years, only to suddenly die one day because they’ve grown too weak and vulnerable from all the picking and poking…
Damn it, I’m sleepy…
Run, children! The crazy evil chipmunk man wants to fill your no-no places with his bad touch! Waaaaaaaaaaaaa!
Okay, that woke me up.
So then I saw Evil Bong one day. I wanted to rent Talladega Nights or Death Trance instead, but I only had one coupon and something told me Evil Bong was to be the one for me. I now regret that decision and wish I could go back in time, not to tell myself not to rent the movie, but to go back a bit further and choke Charles Band to death with a fish wrapped in barb wire before he could even make his first phone call to Tommy Chong, who I’m hoping did this movie simply because “That ‘70s Show” was canceled and he needed some quick cash to cover his recent legal expenses. Stupid government, forcing Tommy Chong to do Charles Band movies because you can’t leave the whole “water pipe” issue to your constituents…
Sorry, my girlfriend and I just had an exchange about cannolis (that had nothing to do with The Godfather before you ask) and I called them “coli-olis” and I had to stop and laugh about that for a few minutes… She’s asleep now, so I can talk again. Don’t tell her you and I meet like this, otherwise we’re both in for some real trouble! I’m talking, “Holy shit, we gotta hire the A-Team to get us out of here!” type trouble, and not the original A-Team that had the Mexican guy playing Face either, but the improved version that everybody recognizes with the guy from Body Slam!
Evil Bong came about because Charles Band was looking to do an “homage” to Little Shop of Horrors and his sons were talking to him about bongs. He said he doesn’t know why they know what bongs are, but when you’re a guy who has to pay people to hang out with you, I can guarantee he’s bribed his kids for some patented “Band Bonding” on occasion with a few tokes off his 3ft Tunneler Tower. Anyway, as we all know, “homage” is a legal term that everyone in Hollywood uses these days that means “if I mention the original material that I’m ripping off, no one’s allowed to sue me, because this counts as promoting the sale of said original material, and therefore the stealing of its ideas and characters is considered payment for making said promotion”. Yeah, Band kinda ran out of old horror comic books whose copyrights had expired to use as “inspiration” for his flicks, so he’s been relegated to the old “homage” trick.
As for this movie, a group of college stoners all live together in a studio apartment (because even adding a bedroom or two would require getting another set and it was expensive enough getting the velvet curtains and stripper stages for the hallucination scenes later on). The four guys each cover a different stereotype of the “college cinema” dichotomy: Larnell (John Patrick Jordan) is the charismatic fast talker leader bean whose only goal in life is entertaining himself; Bachman (Mitch Eakins, who’s totally not an Ekans) is the career stoner and preeminent couch decoration; Brett (Brian Lloyd) is the machismo oozing, protein guzzling, skank plugging, jock-of-all-trades; and Alistair (David Weidoff) is the four-eyed super nerd with a subscription to “Calculus Hotties Quarterly” and a t-shirt that says “Nerds do it to the 9th Power” is his “club wear”… by which I mean chess club. Please note that neither of those cool things are actually in the movie, so don’t go renting it in the hopes of seeing them.
These four guys order a giant cursed bong named Ebee from the back of an issue of “High Times” and one-by-one they start getting sucked into an evil strip club dimension inside of the bong where chicks wearing flesh eating bras (as sold on Band’s Monster Bras webpage… because Band’s a whore and isn’t ashamed of trying to disguise a commercial as a movie, then sell it to the few loyal followers he still has left) kill them upon arrival… after a quick (and extremely lazy) lap dance, of course. When Alistair’s new girlfriend Janet (Kristyn Green) gets sucked into the soul slurping paraphernalia though, he takes a hit and goes in to save the day while the bong’s original owner Jimbo (Tommy Chong) shows up to try and defeat his old enemy/water pipe for good. If I had a nickel for every time I watched Tommy Chong get medieval on a 4ft bong with a chainsaw, my pockets would be very quiet… much like they are right now.
The movie itself is shit. The actors don’t act so much as look like they’re trying to improvise all of their lines because they thought The Blair Witch Project was a “stroke of genius” (when it was really more a “stroke of penius” that was never washed properly and instead stained your daughter’s prom dress…). The sad part is that they apparently ARE trying to act for real and aren’t just “running with the camera”, as illustrated by one scene that finds Larnell playing Super Mario World on his old Super Nintendo, and somehow winding up in four different levels in the 2 seconds it takes for Alistair to walk across the room and turn off his TV! Is this the result of having to do numerous takes, or did they just not pause the game while the camera guys had to stop and relocate their single piece of equipment for each different angle?!
Of course the “special” effects are just the opposite, as practically inanimate puppets and props plague us for 90 minutes with little-to-no movement whatsoever. The entire thing happened inside the movie’s single set and I got real bored of this loser lair real quick. I may hate natural light and there being a world beyond my apartment, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like to be reminded of what it looks like from time-to-time. And what the fuck was up with the bloated padding being done near the middle of the movie?! There’s a pointless 10 minute scene involving Larnell’s wheelchair bound millionaire grandpa and the geezer’s new wife dropping by for a visit that doesn’t contribute to anything in the movie but the running time! I could’ve used that time for sleeping or showering or writing a letter to my congressman banning the sale and rental of any new Full Moon releases in New York and the surrounding areas! Sure, the rental was free, but it’s not like I can take Charlie to “The People’s Court” and sue him for wasted time!
Evil Bong is not just a horribly done movie, but it’s a lame commercial too. You can’t look up anything about the movie online without being bombarded with ads for the Monster Bras or the Ebee replica bong or Tommy Chong’s autographed jockey shorts. The fact that the deaths in the movie were all lame and all the same is bad enough, but having each death caused by the soon-to-be-released product of the movie’s director is shameless and just adds to the disdain. Which dain? Dis dain. Dis dain right here! And there it is. To further the proof that it’s all one big advertising campaign, the movie is packed to the rim job with weak cameos by the likes of Bill “The Devil’s Rejects” Moseley, Phil “Ghoulies II” Fondacaro and Tim “Trancers” Thomerson, as well as Full Moon characters like Ooga Booga from Doll Graveyard, Jack Attack from Demonic Toys (the really crappy inanimate face version used in Puppet Master Vs. Demonic Toys too, not even the cool original version) and the titular wonder of The Gingerdead Man.
They should change his name to Charles Banned and exile his ass from the director’s chair after this one! It’s over, Chuck. Just let it go. She was good to you, she took care of you, she loved you like no one else, and you fucked it up. She’s gone and you have to give her up. Maybe she’ll come back and find you again someday. Until then, you’ve gotta let her go. If not for yourself, then for the sake of all those poor mutilated bunnies. Come on Charlie, put the corkscrew down and leave the bunnies alone. They have families, Charlie. And though they’re likely to eat their own offspring sooner or later, that’s for nature to decide, not you.
So there you have it: Evil Bong isn’t just a movie, it’s Charles Band’s way of promoting animal cruelty. For shame on you and a hearty “go fuck yourself!” from me, Mr. B. Walk away, old man. Remember the good times and let them keep you warm on the cold nights while you’re sleeping in the streets. Just let the darkness take you. We’ll see you on the other side, tiny dancer. The Full Moon has set. KA-BONG!
At least it was nice seeing Sonny “Rabbit” Davis again. I missed that guy…
Xtro: As with every rerun review, I had to fight myself Ash Williams style to keep from editing the bejeezus out of the preceding opinion piece, but interest in authenticity won out. Moving on, my recent re-viewing of Evil Bong warranted addressing the following points. Moot as they may be, I thought I’d bring ’em up anyway just to kick the movie around some more while it’s already concussed and bleeding out, face down in a gutter.
Out of the gate? The soundtrack. The generic pot smoking tunes by some Sublime knock-off band (possibly Kottonmouth Kings?) aren’t made any easier to stomach when a full page ad for Sublime is prominently featured on camera while our stoner doofi peruse their copy of “High Times”, reminding us of what we’re NOT listening to. Beyond that, there’s also plenty of shitty rip-off wanna-be Insane Clown Posse and Cypress Hull music to drag barb wire over your eardrums… oh wait, that’s not a wanna-be ICP, that is ICP! Blart! It’s really too bad that the two things those clowns (literally) are best known for (their music and their fans) are also the things I hate them for, because as bad movie nerds and pro-wrestling geeks go, Violent J and Shaggy Too Dope are top notch. Oh well, just add contributing to the delinquencies of Charles Band to their rap sheet.
The cast didn’t really go on to do much beyond the Bong, and it’s no surprise given that the best they probably received from acting class was a certificate of participation. Jordan, Eikens, Lloyd, and Robin Sydney (whose patience immolating character Luann was omitted from my original review for what seem to be obvious reasons of sanity preservation, in hindsight) all returned for the sequels, and Sydney would later get high and fuck a corpse as DyeAnne in the new Tomb’s maiden voyage (and undisputed toilet bobber), Night of the Living Dead 3D: Re-Animation. Man, her agent really needs to point her in the direction of better quality casting couches. As for Weidoff and Green, they would fizzle off into relative obscurity, which is probably for the better on both accounts. The next year, Green would do another Band-Muir blumpkin in the shape of Dead Man’s Hand, which… did not end well… at all… for anyone… As for Tommy Chong, his playing Hot Wheels with topless women at the flick’s finale was the only thing work taking into the lifeboats from this sinking ship movie, and 10 seconds of that doesn’t come remotely close to removing the taste of the 80 minute diarrhea deluge force fed to me via fire hose before it.
In summary, after wading through this chronic-based cloudy discharge again, I feel far more ashamed admitting to being a pot smoker now than I ever did after ANY anti-drug public service announcement. If you held free public showings of Evil Bong for Colorado stoners, those marijuana legalization laws would be repealed faster than you can say “Pass me the Goldenseal!”. I may review the sequels someday, but I may also smash my talons with a claw hammer. Just don’t expect both… though I do have a finite number of talons, so never say never.
Moral of the Story: If I ever hear the word “bro” again, I’m gonna jam a 5ft bong up somebody’s cornhole. Or I’ll just have Bill Moseley work you over with a car battery and a grapefruit spoon. Maybe both.