Now, while most people are okay with arriving to a film after the trailers, you and I know that the trailers are where it's at. Except not now; it's okay to miss them today, they're all shit bombs—just pick your slingshot (Jennifer Aniston or Bradley Cooper will do just fine, thank you). But if you're like me, you A) usually wait for the Blu-ray, and B) only come out of your cave for an old 35mm at the Nuart (or, if you're Canadian like one of my YouTube besties, The Bloor). And when it comes to the latter, you don't want to be late for the trailers. The Beyond, with trailers for The Evil Dead and Cannibal Ferox. The Evil Dead, with a trailer for City of the Living Dead. You feel me.
So when my 14-year-old Eighties boy stumbled upon Mad Ron's Prevues from Hell, he screamed and clapped like a 36-year-old woman imitating a 14-year-old girl at a Bieber gig.
|Got 82 minutes? Fill them with awesome.|
This 1987 gem (it looks like it was made years earlier, before it picked up a distributor, but that's just my opinion. My dad used to say that opinions were like assholes—everyone's got one. Anyway, I digress.) was just released on DVD last year by Virgil Films and Entertainment, and it's one of my new Favorite Things Ever (Oprah's Favorite Things be damned—she never put Pepperidge Farm's chocolate cake, the Rhythm Method or "Garth Marenghi's Darkplace" on her stupid list).
Along with his sidekick Happy, ventriloquist-presenter Nick Pawlow delivers trailer after gloriously sick trailer with enough straight-man charm and committed Ned Flanders nerdiness to make me think that I would indeed grab some Zimas, meet him in the projection room and let him hit that (or, I dunno, lightly tap it, Sandals style? I'm old) if I were single. And if you know me (and have seen my sub list on YouTube), then you know that I go weak for the trailer geek.
Mad Ron's Prevues from Hell has everything you could ever want, minus the Funyuns. This film's got enough blood, body count and boobs (tip: those old 3D glasses will come in handy around the half-point; my husband and I tested ours out, then we hit pause for a while and came back to it later) to keep you happy—until it ends. Who says boys don't cry? My 14-year-old Eighties boy did.