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May 13, 2007 | Comments ()


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Make a Run for the Gringo Border

Delta Farce / Agent Bedhead

Film Reviews | May 13, 2007 | Comments ()


Oh, hell. Before I begin the generally lofty conversation of a film review, let me tell you what you already know about Delta Farce. This so-called movie was composed of 90 minutes of arbitrary footage and dialogue that obviously has no justification for existing, aside from drawing in the redneck audience of Larry the Cable Guy. With that said, I will verify that Dustin was correct when he said I would wish for another breakdancing flick in my future. In the opening sequences of Delta Farce, we are expected to feel poorly for nice guy restaurateur Larry, whose Denise Richards-lookalike girlfriend (Christina Moore) tells him she is pregnant. A thoroughly excited Larry announces to his diners that he is going to be a father and immediately drops down on one knee and utters that terribly misguided question. Girlfriend is exasperated at this point and sticks her face into the loudspeaker to tell Larry he is not the father. Larry immediately insults a customer and gets his ass fired; discriminating viewers will shudder concerning the vague similarities to Stripes’ opening moments. The thing is, this ain’t no Stripes, and since the concept of allusion is entirely lost on this movie, Bill Murray fans will find relief that at least one shallow grave was left undisturbed.

Larry’s good buddies Bill (Bill Engvall) and Everett (DJ Qualls) complete the misogynistic circle. Bill is a career litigation plaintiff who lives from lawsuit to lawsuit out of his trailer park home, and he just doesn’t understand why his wife keeps bitching at him to mow the lawn. Similarly, Everett lives in a storage unit where he works the security shift between frequent stints of flashing his wang at the female clientele at the nearby Denny’s. All three believe that women exist either to nag men to death or cheat on their well-meaning yet utterly revolting boyfriends. These guys are representative of the lowest common denominator of non-felonious American men: They’re racist, and homophobic to boot, but at least they’re pretty fucking harmless, out of sheer laziness and ineptitude at any process more complicated than popping open a beer can. Their weekend stints with the Army Reserves involve tossing shit up in the air and shooting it, interrupted only by extended lunch breaks at Hooters and conversations about irritable bowel syndrome. Due to an imminent military shortage in Fallujah, these guys are accidentally deployed to Iraq by the stereotypical militant black Sergeant Kilgore (Keith David). Somehow, Larry, his buddies, and Kilgore end up getting dumped in what they believe is Iraq but is really desert area 500 miles outside of Mexico. Kilgore is mercifully knocked out and buried in a shallow grave, and the three fools set off to mistake Mexican people for Iraqi citizens by repeating the same joke: “Are you a Turd or a Shitite?” Somehow, a village gets liberated in the process, not that it matters.

Danny Trejo (star of the Machete faux-trailer in Grindhouse), who of recent years has proven himself to be a sort of Mexican-American Christopher Walken, stands out as the only celluloid flicker in the entire miserable film. Trejo helms a troupe of banditos as the evil yet unfortunately named Carlos Santana, who takes pleasure in karaoke in his spare time, and watching Machete belt out Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” was pretty fucking funny. The juxtaposition of Trejo’s prototypical badass with his take on a Delta Farce character serves as evidence of his clever artistry, but his limited screen time only makes the other characters’ flatulence and urination jokes even more insufferable. Their dialogue is largely made up of “git ‘er done” variants and ineffective jokes that aren’t amusing the first time, let alone in repetition. One wonders how many times the phrase, “Don’t ask, don’t tell” can be crammed into 90 minutes, and the answer is far too many. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the script was written on a roll of Bounty paper towels in dry-erase marker and reused when convenient.

Throughout it all, the endless bigoted streaks are tempered by ill-advised attempts at humor, and these themes dissolve fairly easily because of the filmmaker’s desire not to truly offend someone. It all passes off as pure idiocy, which breeds a mutant soup of politically correct racism and homophobia, but it’s harmless because, hey, these guys are mongoloids and candyasses. The characters are seemingly inept at everything they do and even incapable of offending audience members, which would at least be an accomplishment of some sort. This brings me to my major problem with Delta Farce — if studios are going to spend millions making mindless drivel that doesn’t even entertain in the slightest, then the least they can do is give me something to grab onto (besides Larry’s love handles) that will really piss me off. Otherwise, frustration abounds, because here I sit, infuriated about absolutely nothing other than the waste of audience time and money and the fact that films like this are allowed to exist, while more credible directors are busting their asses unnoticed out in the ether.

The flick somehow ends with a dedication to the men and women of America’s armed forces, and considering the film wasn’t complimentary in the slightest regard, this doesn’t make a lick of sense. Whatever one’s politics are concerning Iraq, it’s impossible to deny the hard work and dedication of the actual soldiers who do serve our country. So after an hour and a half of an amateurish and ineffectual storyline that presents soldiers as complete idiots, the consolation of “Oops, we really didn’t mean it” is supposed to wash all that desert dust away? It really all feels a lot more like a camouflaged rim job.

Agent Bedhead lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and tries to avoid reality at all costs. She also insults pop culture daily at agentbedhead.com.







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