It’s Friday the 13th and we have ourselves a supermoon, whether you see it or not. It’s also hot as Hades and I have a migraine.
In my brain addled state, I thought it was a good idea to watch Return of the Moonwalker, a 2011 film that had a petition with 105,000 signatures seeking to prevent its release. Apparently, these people thought the movie sullied the legacy of the King of Pop, Michael Jackson.
The movie is certainly a parody, but among the folks that got insulted in it, Michael Jackson was one of the least insulted. Either way, he’s unlikely to watch the movie and memories are oblivious.
Low budget and bizarre is not something I shy away from. If that kind of movie is a problem for you, you aren’t reading this.
If you are feeling existential right now, put that feeling aside. The King of Pop has risen from the grave, with help from the Magician Cagliostro, and he’s leading a revolution.
I’ve been smelling revolution boiling up out of the sewers lately. It smells like durian flavored lube, melted credit cards, and conceit.
This film is the kind of zany that defies explanation. There is a plot, of sorts, but it hardly matters. Viewers are assaulted by scene after scene of tasteless, but marginally funny, ridiculousness.
Freaks of all sorts converge on Cagliostro’s Punk Circus, where undead MJ starts his revolution. It turns out to be an apocalyptic zombie sort of revolution and nobody wants that, not even Cagliostro.
Dicks explode, kinky sex is had, clowns cavort, blood is drunk, Hitler’s ghost haunts, a crucifixion is called for, and the Illuminati are functionally impotent. Undead Michael Jackson smokes a blunt. Everyone gets skewered by this film and rightly so.
Maybe this movie sucks. I laughed anyway. Sometimes that’s enough.
If you think exploding dicks are a bridge too far, you’re not alone, but it’s too late to sign that petition.
[The trailer is NSFW. You should have expected that. Grab a big fat doobie and check it out.]