Clambake (1967): Elvis Presley as an oil heir who becomes a water-ski instructor.
“That cannot be a real movie,” says Rupert. “That’s a collection of random words!”
“This from you?” says Nikki. “The professional diver/nightclub singer who schemes to find pirate gold?”
“All of that makes perfect sense in context,” says Rupert. “Um, doesn’t it?”
Nikki shakes her head.
“Oh no,” says Rupert, in dawning horror. “No!” A guitar falls into his hands; attractive girls in retro bikinis wheel palm trees onto the set.
“Why?” sobs Rupert, hips already jerking.
“The King is dead,” coos Nikki. “Long live the King.”
“You said you’d never watch a Guy Ritchie movie again,” laughs Dee.
“My words!” cries Rupert. “They’ve come back to haunt me!”
“These aren’t ghost words,” growls Nikki. “They’re zombies!”
Rupert’s got a machete; Nikki loads shells one-handed. “Head for the pointy part of the speech bubble,” says Dee. “Maybe we can barricade it!”
Nikki fires, gets lucky, takes out Ritchie and I’ll with one shot. Rupert swings at what he thinks is Never’s head. The machete sticks.
“No!” screams Dee as he stumbles. Nikki’s dragging her back, lips tight. Never moans, and its teeth lean in toward Rupert’s neck.
Friday, September 23, 2005