Ya know what movie I love? Beyond the Valley of the Dolls. It’s just such a balls out freaky movie. If you’ve never seen it, well, in a way I envy you. At some point in the future, you might be blessed to sit down and watch this unholy mess of a movie, this steaming pile of greatlessness, the ne plus ultra of misguided genius. Directed by the singular Russ Meyer, scripted by Roger ‘I never would have guessed he was such a freak’ Ebert, BVD is a movie that starts out immersed in out-of-control bizarreness, and rides the crazy train far past the point where the wheels come off.
If this were a movie review, instead of a misguided paean, I’d be forced at this point to try and describe the plot, or ‘plot’, to you. Thankfully, this isn’t and I don’t. Actually, I’ll give it a try: All-girl band goes to L.A., and hijinks ensue. Want more? Ok, there’s a lot of lip-synching, a chick with no rhythm pounding spastically on drums, wild parties, references to a wading pool full of mayonnaise, inferences that L.A. can be likened to a jungle, a plethora of large-breasted women, a freaky looking old lady in an orange wig, sex in a Bentley, Martin Bormann, eye-bleedingly bright set design and costumes, horny movie stars, a nefarious lawyer, a heavyweight boxing champ who never wears a shirt, lots of drug use, blood that looks like Sherwin-Williams paint, a beheading, and a guy with tits. My god, just thinking about it fills me with emotions I can’t adequately describe.
Don’t ask question. Don’t think about it. Just buy it, rent it, stab your sainted aunt in the leg to get it. Whatever. Just see it. Or don’t. I don’t actually care.
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