I love bad movies. Even though my “serious” film viewing is
often neglected (much to my ever mounting anxiety) in favor of films that
ultimately seem… less than important, I keep coming back to the Bad Movie.
Recently, when the urge to watch a bad movie comes knocking on my door, I’ve
given in without much of a fight because bad movies are just so much fun. Not only that, they are also simply
astounding, logic-defying and incredulity-challenging. Can a set look that fake?
How can a line of dialogue be delivered so
badly? Can a plot hole be that vast?
If nothing else, bad movies inspire in us a kind of
terrifying awe (an ailment best treated by viewing them with a hardy group of
friends). Just as the great paintings of the past draw admiration and
contemplation; just as the grand edifices of skyscrapers inspire in us a sense
of wonder; just as the immensity of the pyramids or the exquisite detail of
classical sculpture make us marvel at the ingenuity of a more distant time – a
bad movie brings to mind the same root of fascination, the same realization
both mundane and mysterious, horrifying and humbling: someone made that.