...And now for the dramatic conclusion.
In the last Vidiot, I mentioned shoddy horror movies. The grossest example was the 2000 title A Crack in the Floor. Gary Busey (Point Break) and Mario Lopez (Saved by the Bell) in the same movie? Count me in ... if only so I can make fun. Sadly, even downing mixed drinks during the film couldn't make it palatable.
We couldn't make it all the way through this movie, partly due to its ridiculousness and in part because we never did quite get used to the four-hour time difference and passed out two-thirds of the way through. One thing I will note, however: Lopez makes a retort about someone getting his/her nose stuck in a part of someone else's anatomy during a sex act. It's classic.
The "pair of 'Gold' nuggets" I alluded to in Part I? I incidentally partook of a Tony Goldwyn-Whoopi Goldberg three-film double-feature in Hawaii. You remember Tony Goldwyn, even if you think you don't. He was in Kuffs, The Last Samurai and a hundred other things from the mid-'80s on, but we spotted him as the vengeful father in the new-to-DVD remake of the 1972 fright The Last House on the Left—which we rented from Blockbuster in hopes of getting some better horror. It was more like two hours of discomfort given the rape scene, bloody retaliation and the sheer villainous creepitude of Garret Dillahunt (HBO's Deadwood).
The next night called for lighter fare so we popped in one of the classics that came with the condo: 1992's murder-witness-hiding-out-as-a-nun situational comedy Sister Act. The acting was over-the-top, but Goldberg, Harvey Keitel (Reservoir Dogs) and Maggie Smith (the Harry Potter films) were top-notch, and Goldberg was way funny. I'd forgotten how entertaining she used to be.
The following evening called for a romance film. Having no idea Patrick Swayze was nearing his end, 1990's Ghost seemed a great choice. And there was Whoopi again. Maybe a previous tenant was a fan? Did you know Goldberg won an Oscar for her role in that Swayze-Demi Moore supernatural romance? This movie really was sweet, offering a perfectly prophetic suggestion of what may have been awaiting Swayze in the afterlife. And there again was Tony Goldwyn—this time as Swayze's double-crossing friend. He's pretty versatile, that Goldwyn, and a rather talented director, having helmed loads of TV shows and a 2006 favorite of mine, Zach Braff's relationship exploration downer, The Last Kiss.
Among the remaining films in our stash, we found one unmarked VHS tape. Staying in a destination popular among honeymooners, Mrs. Vidiot and I were at our own peril, of course, as we pushed said tape into the VCR, but we thought it worth the risk to find out the videos's contents. Relax, squares; it wasn't a sex tape. But it was an erotic thriller: 1982's Cat People that someone had recorded from the USA channel. It seemed a shame to watch an erotic thriller edited down for TV, so we Netflixed it instead when we got home.
In fact, I'm midway through it as I finish this column ... and it stinks. It's boring, and as fascinating as people turning into cats when they become aroused sounds, I'll be turning it off momentarily. Malcolm McDowell (A Clockwork Orange) and John Heard (Big) can't redeem this hokey premise—though McDowell's overgrown, 1970s-ish, side-parted coif is trying its best.
OK, I've had enough now. Heard, who played the dad in Home Alone, just groped the babe (Nastassja Kinski) from 1994's Charlie Sheen action flick Terminal Velocity. I can't handle this anymore; I'm shutting it off.
And I'm heading to bed—married, proud of it and sharing a home with Mrs. Vidiot, who is passed out on the other side of the couch.
I know I'm rather new to the marriage game to be dispensing advice, but if the Vidiot can give one recommendation when it comes to finding happiness, it's this: locate the best movie-watching partner you can—somebody who'll enjoy your company (and taste in movies) whether on an island getaway or on a random Tuesday night at home, and marry her. From where I sit, movie watching is like life. You want a happy ending? Find the right costar. I found mine. And if you'll excuse me, I need to wake my blushing—if not soon-to-be grumpy—bride to tell her it's time for bed.