Deadly Harvest: Part Five
Mar. 16th, 2005 09:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsosWhen we last left Deadly Harvest, practically all of the innocuous and/or pretty characters with no faults got killed, except for Kim Cattrall, who now has to go home all alone to her own farm and eat hamhocks and bread loaves all by her lonesome. (And for anyone not keeping score until now, I bring you parts one, two, three, and four.
And now, field trip!
Dad walks into the garage as Geraint Wyn Davies is filling up the gas tank. "You take care of your sisters," Dad says. "You can count on me," Geraint Wyn Davies says, as if he hasn't spent the rest of this movie acting like an asstard and shooting his mother. Dad says that maybe Geraint Wyn Davies can snap Kim Cattrall out of her catatonia. Dude, the love of her life died on their wedding day. Let her establish residence in catatonia for a while. Hell, let her run for president of catatonia on the Soap-Opera-Writers-Fucked-Up-My-Life ticket.
Wool Hat, who's sitting in the back of the pickup, asks if Dad's going to the city. No, honey, Dad's going to go see a man. And KEEEEEEEELL him. Wool Hat gives him the ribbon she won for Trick Cow at the 4-H show for luck, and Dad stuffs it in his jacket over his heart. Oh, if that deflects a bullet later on, I'm picking up my ball and I'm going home. He gives her a hug, and before she goes into the house, she says, "Don't worry about us. We'll be okay until you get back." "Sure you will," he says, in a tone that implies he expects to drive half a mile and see a mushroom cloud in his rearview mirror.
The Wailing Moan of Synthesizer Themes For Dead Characters Who Found Mass Starvation Giggleworthy plays on the soundtrack as we get our first montage. Yay! A montage! I've been waiting for a ... hey, wait, where'd it go? You can't just cut away to a couple of shots of Mom being annoyingly ethereal and then ... Kim Cattrall now?! Gyah. You know, up until now, this movie just had jaundice, but so far this montage has Tourette's and jaundice. Also, when we're not being flashed pictures of the female characters on an almost subliminal level, Dad is driving to the city. And when I say "driving to the city," what I mean is, "Driving to the underpass three fields down from his, and then, CITYCITYCITY."
Now, if this drive has taught me anything, it's that a city consists of this -- two exit ramps, an A&W, a deserted mall, a hay storage facility, and five bajiziilion factories. Oh, and one apartment complex that looks like the tenants got desperate for food and ate the creamy caramel center. Dad picks up his gun from the passenger seat and looks at it. Yes, Dad, that's a gun. You brought it with you, or don't you remember? (A quick note: I paused the movie to type this, and right now, Dad looks terrifyingly like Freddie Mercury. I want to see this movie with Freddie Mercury in the lead! Dad being confronted with his dead wife and bursting into "Another One Bites the Dust"? That, I could get into.)
Dad drives down a four-lane highway into The City, which has no name and I'll be damned if I can figure out where the fuck it is. We flash back to Mom taking one in the chest, and I suddenly find myself wondering how a woman who's been shot in the heart isn't bleeding all that much. Did the store run out of strawberry jam? Ketchup works just as well, and afterwards, they can make sandwiches. Oh, wait, I forgot. Sandwiches are a sign of evil. Never mind.
And just when you think the film couldn't get any more yellow, Dad's driving through the industrial parks again, and well, either the film's darkened for some deep and meaningful purpose or some chemical plant's leaking something. Oh, if Dad comes out of this whole experience with an extra arm, I'll be highly amused.
Meanwhile, back at the farm, Geraint Wyn Davies crouches in front of Kim Cattrall and tries to get her to talk. "I know you can't forgive me," Geraint Wyn Davies says, and I almost wish she'd reach out and smack him one for that. 'Cause, seriously, you asked for it. He grabs onto her upper arms, moves in close, and says her name, and in any more progressive film or on certain TV shows where they'd always known they were stepsiblings, these two would be kissing right now. He says her name again, and she just glares. Hey, dude, she doesn't want to talk to you right now. Go feed the facehugger a sandwich and throw a temper tantrum and give her a minute, all right? Sheesh.
Dad drives through the city at night and comes to a real roadblock. You know, with a real bar that goes up and down and real flunkies and real guns and uniforms. Somewhere, Wilcox guzzles his milk and tears into a peanut butter and M&M sandwich out of pure jealousy. Roadblock Manager asks for Dad's identification and his reason for being in the city. Dad says it's personal. The gun lying on the passenger seat says nothing, although if it could, I'm sure it would have shouted out, "I'm gonna shoot me some lying banker!" and ruined Dad's whole nefarious plot. You know, unlike what laying down your gun on the passenger seat will do.
Roadblock Manager says there's an eight o'clock curfew and all non-residents have to say what the hell they're there for. Oh, come on, Dad, tell him you want to make a supersonic man out of him. I'm sure he'd be thrilled! Roadblock Manager says people are moving from city to city trying to hoarde food. Well, those Pop-Tart gnomes are wily devils.
Finally, Roadblock Manager spots the rifle and asks for a permit. Dad argues it's only a hunting rifle. Well, that's the point, dumbass. Roadblock Manager orders Dad out of the truck, presumably so that their mustaches can duel to the death. Dad whacks him one with the driver's side door and drives through the roadblock, because the raised bar is up. And what did we learn today, boys and girls? That even the roadblock flunkies with all of the fancy toys can still be rock stupid about the running of them. See, Roadblock Manager? That's what you get for coasting along in Roadblock College on your daddy's money.
Charles stands in his office, checking his watch. He sits down at his desk to look through paperwork, then turns to type something onto his ... oh, my God, is that his computer? Bwahahahahahaha. Just looking at that thing makes me want to play a round of Solitaire, finish typing Monsters of Minooka, record something on a CD, check my email, IM someone, download music and look for hardcore porn on the Internet. Because I can. Charles types something into the computer, and I should not be this fascinated watching a character type for five minutes. Not because it's interesting, but because that computer has to be run by gerbils.
Wait, is he seriously going to do this for five whole minutes? I guess so. And look, he's typing in grain futures! I know this will come as quite a shock, but there are none. Sorry. No more corn muffins, no more McGriddles, no more salted bagels, all three of which are losses that officially spell the end of humanity. Creepy Guy arrives with Hans the Burly Arm-Crossing Bodyguard, who it just struck me was the dumbass driving the World's Crappiest Hunters's van. Well, I suppose when you put on gigantic lapels, it changes a person.
Creepy Guy has Hans dump a plastic bag full of food on Charles's desk. Creepy Guy bitches that the farmers suck because they shot one of his food-robbing flunkies, and wait a second ... is Creepy Guy Pudgy Leader? Oh, I'm so confused. Charles thought there would be more food. Well, Charles, they could have just dragged the corpses back, too, and then you could have resorted to cannibalism. If it's good enough for rugby players, it's good enough for you. Creepy Guy swears vehemently that he is going to kick Dad's ass and clean all of the farmers out. Hey, what's with the emotional speechifying? What, was he in love with the guy who got shot? Did he have to nurse him back to health and cuddle him at night and soothe away his nightmares with soft, gentle kisses?
... I'm sorry, where was I?
Creepy Guy swears once again to attack the farmers. "They want rough? I'll show them rough!" he yells. Uh, if you don't want that slashy romance in my head to continue, Creepy Guy, you might want to lay off the euphemisms. Charles leaps up before they can leave and says he still gets half. Creepy Guy tells him to fuck off and die, except in the starving future, they don't curse, so replace "fuck off and die" with "get a gun and get your own damn food, you tool."
Depressed, Charles goes back to sit at his desk just for the gerbils in his computer to finally tell him that the death rate is currently at 22%. Only twenty-two percent? I think the gerbils might be softening the blow. Charles pounds away at the keys frantically. Sort of like me, if I had a guy standing in my bedroom as I type this occasionally hitting a loud, sad note on a synthesizer.
Cut to Dad driving down the road. Hey, filmmakers! You're interrupting Charles's hardcore typing ACTION!!! for this? For shame!
And back to Charles typing. Yay! It turns out the same figures yielded the same results, which now that I get a closer look at it, is twenty-two percent of the population dead in twenty-seven days. Daaaaamn. I'm impressed. Way to fuck up your food stores, fictiional America/Canada/London/downtown Berlin! Charles resolves to type in the same numbers again and again expecting different results, thereby assuring himself a place in the Old '70s TV Movie Clips dictionary under "extremely batshit fucking insane."
Into the middle of all this fast-paced, edge-of-your-seat typing ACTION!!! comes Dad, his gun, and his sneaky, silent-as-the-grave mustache. He yanks Charles from his seat and flings him against the wall. Dad shows him the map Geraint Wyn Davies found and asks if he drew it. Charles stammers, "I-I had to have food," so Dad sucker-punches him. The mustache applauds and drops a Milky Way into his mouth as a prize. The best thing is that Dad hit him so violently he flies across the room and slams his head against the far wall so hard you're pretty sure he would have flown around the room if he didn't have all of that fugly office to protect him.
Dad throws him across the room again, and Charles yelps. Oh, this is just sad. This is just like watching The Rock beat up Anthony Michael Hall, circa 1985. "You would have done the same thing!" Charles yells. "My family had to live!" Oh, Charles. That's a neat trick. How do you find the exactly wrong thing to say in every conversation and blurt it out? And of course, Dad goes into his speech about his wife and his son-in-law and blah blah dead relative-and-a-half cakes. Charles says, "What are you talking about?"
So now it's time for the Blame Game! It's like tennis, but without the kicky skirts. It goes like this:
-- Charles killed Dad's family giving Creepy Guy that map.
-- Charles only wanted to feed his family, and Dad took his food back.
-- Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?
-- "Your murdering offspring and his cohorts forced my thousand-year-old father with the cane and the weak voice to have the heart attack he'd probably been waiting for for years!"
-- "Yeah, well ... you're a poopyhead."
They both sag to the side, having unloaded their guilt and suddenly realizing that their problems would probably be solved if they'd just stop inadvertantly killing each other's family members. "Here, [Dad]," Charles says as he sits at his computer, "look at this." Dad looks down at the computer with an expression that makes me wonder if he's trying to hold back as much laughter as I am. Charles shows him the "22% dead in 27 days" thing, then says, "Don't you understand? It's the end of the world." With only 22% dead? Oh, you're just not trying hard enough. Charles says that Creepy Guy and his minions are off to get revenge on the farmers for his woundedlover ... uh, coworker. Yeah, coworker. Named ... uh, Patrocles. Yeah, that's the ticket. No, wait ...
Dad tries to call home, but Charles snaps, "It's no use. The phone is dead!" Oh, my God, you killed the phone, too?! Which one of you did it this time? Dad races out the door with his rifle, with weird New Age waterdrop music playing on the soundtrack. What, synthesizer guy, you couldn't spare a peppy "To the rescue!" song?
Next up: Twenty-two percent of Charles's family dies. Meanwhile, in an effort to save twenty-two percent of his family, Dad shaves the mustache and shoots the wool hat.
And now, field trip!
Dad walks into the garage as Geraint Wyn Davies is filling up the gas tank. "You take care of your sisters," Dad says. "You can count on me," Geraint Wyn Davies says, as if he hasn't spent the rest of this movie acting like an asstard and shooting his mother. Dad says that maybe Geraint Wyn Davies can snap Kim Cattrall out of her catatonia. Dude, the love of her life died on their wedding day. Let her establish residence in catatonia for a while. Hell, let her run for president of catatonia on the Soap-Opera-Writers-Fucked-Up-My-Life ticket.
Wool Hat, who's sitting in the back of the pickup, asks if Dad's going to the city. No, honey, Dad's going to go see a man. And KEEEEEEEELL him. Wool Hat gives him the ribbon she won for Trick Cow at the 4-H show for luck, and Dad stuffs it in his jacket over his heart. Oh, if that deflects a bullet later on, I'm picking up my ball and I'm going home. He gives her a hug, and before she goes into the house, she says, "Don't worry about us. We'll be okay until you get back." "Sure you will," he says, in a tone that implies he expects to drive half a mile and see a mushroom cloud in his rearview mirror.
The Wailing Moan of Synthesizer Themes For Dead Characters Who Found Mass Starvation Giggleworthy plays on the soundtrack as we get our first montage. Yay! A montage! I've been waiting for a ... hey, wait, where'd it go? You can't just cut away to a couple of shots of Mom being annoyingly ethereal and then ... Kim Cattrall now?! Gyah. You know, up until now, this movie just had jaundice, but so far this montage has Tourette's and jaundice. Also, when we're not being flashed pictures of the female characters on an almost subliminal level, Dad is driving to the city. And when I say "driving to the city," what I mean is, "Driving to the underpass three fields down from his, and then, CITYCITYCITY."
Now, if this drive has taught me anything, it's that a city consists of this -- two exit ramps, an A&W, a deserted mall, a hay storage facility, and five bajiziilion factories. Oh, and one apartment complex that looks like the tenants got desperate for food and ate the creamy caramel center. Dad picks up his gun from the passenger seat and looks at it. Yes, Dad, that's a gun. You brought it with you, or don't you remember? (A quick note: I paused the movie to type this, and right now, Dad looks terrifyingly like Freddie Mercury. I want to see this movie with Freddie Mercury in the lead! Dad being confronted with his dead wife and bursting into "Another One Bites the Dust"? That, I could get into.)
Dad drives down a four-lane highway into The City, which has no name and I'll be damned if I can figure out where the fuck it is. We flash back to Mom taking one in the chest, and I suddenly find myself wondering how a woman who's been shot in the heart isn't bleeding all that much. Did the store run out of strawberry jam? Ketchup works just as well, and afterwards, they can make sandwiches. Oh, wait, I forgot. Sandwiches are a sign of evil. Never mind.
And just when you think the film couldn't get any more yellow, Dad's driving through the industrial parks again, and well, either the film's darkened for some deep and meaningful purpose or some chemical plant's leaking something. Oh, if Dad comes out of this whole experience with an extra arm, I'll be highly amused.
Meanwhile, back at the farm, Geraint Wyn Davies crouches in front of Kim Cattrall and tries to get her to talk. "I know you can't forgive me," Geraint Wyn Davies says, and I almost wish she'd reach out and smack him one for that. 'Cause, seriously, you asked for it. He grabs onto her upper arms, moves in close, and says her name, and in any more progressive film or on certain TV shows where they'd always known they were stepsiblings, these two would be kissing right now. He says her name again, and she just glares. Hey, dude, she doesn't want to talk to you right now. Go feed the facehugger a sandwich and throw a temper tantrum and give her a minute, all right? Sheesh.
Dad drives through the city at night and comes to a real roadblock. You know, with a real bar that goes up and down and real flunkies and real guns and uniforms. Somewhere, Wilcox guzzles his milk and tears into a peanut butter and M&M sandwich out of pure jealousy. Roadblock Manager asks for Dad's identification and his reason for being in the city. Dad says it's personal. The gun lying on the passenger seat says nothing, although if it could, I'm sure it would have shouted out, "I'm gonna shoot me some lying banker!" and ruined Dad's whole nefarious plot. You know, unlike what laying down your gun on the passenger seat will do.
Roadblock Manager says there's an eight o'clock curfew and all non-residents have to say what the hell they're there for. Oh, come on, Dad, tell him you want to make a supersonic man out of him. I'm sure he'd be thrilled! Roadblock Manager says people are moving from city to city trying to hoarde food. Well, those Pop-Tart gnomes are wily devils.
Finally, Roadblock Manager spots the rifle and asks for a permit. Dad argues it's only a hunting rifle. Well, that's the point, dumbass. Roadblock Manager orders Dad out of the truck, presumably so that their mustaches can duel to the death. Dad whacks him one with the driver's side door and drives through the roadblock, because the raised bar is up. And what did we learn today, boys and girls? That even the roadblock flunkies with all of the fancy toys can still be rock stupid about the running of them. See, Roadblock Manager? That's what you get for coasting along in Roadblock College on your daddy's money.
Charles stands in his office, checking his watch. He sits down at his desk to look through paperwork, then turns to type something onto his ... oh, my God, is that his computer? Bwahahahahahaha. Just looking at that thing makes me want to play a round of Solitaire, finish typing Monsters of Minooka, record something on a CD, check my email, IM someone, download music and look for hardcore porn on the Internet. Because I can. Charles types something into the computer, and I should not be this fascinated watching a character type for five minutes. Not because it's interesting, but because that computer has to be run by gerbils.
Wait, is he seriously going to do this for five whole minutes? I guess so. And look, he's typing in grain futures! I know this will come as quite a shock, but there are none. Sorry. No more corn muffins, no more McGriddles, no more salted bagels, all three of which are losses that officially spell the end of humanity. Creepy Guy arrives with Hans the Burly Arm-Crossing Bodyguard, who it just struck me was the dumbass driving the World's Crappiest Hunters's van. Well, I suppose when you put on gigantic lapels, it changes a person.
Creepy Guy has Hans dump a plastic bag full of food on Charles's desk. Creepy Guy bitches that the farmers suck because they shot one of his food-robbing flunkies, and wait a second ... is Creepy Guy Pudgy Leader? Oh, I'm so confused. Charles thought there would be more food. Well, Charles, they could have just dragged the corpses back, too, and then you could have resorted to cannibalism. If it's good enough for rugby players, it's good enough for you. Creepy Guy swears vehemently that he is going to kick Dad's ass and clean all of the farmers out. Hey, what's with the emotional speechifying? What, was he in love with the guy who got shot? Did he have to nurse him back to health and cuddle him at night and soothe away his nightmares with soft, gentle kisses?
... I'm sorry, where was I?
Creepy Guy swears once again to attack the farmers. "They want rough? I'll show them rough!" he yells. Uh, if you don't want that slashy romance in my head to continue, Creepy Guy, you might want to lay off the euphemisms. Charles leaps up before they can leave and says he still gets half. Creepy Guy tells him to fuck off and die, except in the starving future, they don't curse, so replace "fuck off and die" with "get a gun and get your own damn food, you tool."
Depressed, Charles goes back to sit at his desk just for the gerbils in his computer to finally tell him that the death rate is currently at 22%. Only twenty-two percent? I think the gerbils might be softening the blow. Charles pounds away at the keys frantically. Sort of like me, if I had a guy standing in my bedroom as I type this occasionally hitting a loud, sad note on a synthesizer.
Cut to Dad driving down the road. Hey, filmmakers! You're interrupting Charles's hardcore typing ACTION!!! for this? For shame!
And back to Charles typing. Yay! It turns out the same figures yielded the same results, which now that I get a closer look at it, is twenty-two percent of the population dead in twenty-seven days. Daaaaamn. I'm impressed. Way to fuck up your food stores, fictiional America/Canada/London/downtown Berlin! Charles resolves to type in the same numbers again and again expecting different results, thereby assuring himself a place in the Old '70s TV Movie Clips dictionary under "extremely batshit fucking insane."
Into the middle of all this fast-paced, edge-of-your-seat typing ACTION!!! comes Dad, his gun, and his sneaky, silent-as-the-grave mustache. He yanks Charles from his seat and flings him against the wall. Dad shows him the map Geraint Wyn Davies found and asks if he drew it. Charles stammers, "I-I had to have food," so Dad sucker-punches him. The mustache applauds and drops a Milky Way into his mouth as a prize. The best thing is that Dad hit him so violently he flies across the room and slams his head against the far wall so hard you're pretty sure he would have flown around the room if he didn't have all of that fugly office to protect him.
Dad throws him across the room again, and Charles yelps. Oh, this is just sad. This is just like watching The Rock beat up Anthony Michael Hall, circa 1985. "You would have done the same thing!" Charles yells. "My family had to live!" Oh, Charles. That's a neat trick. How do you find the exactly wrong thing to say in every conversation and blurt it out? And of course, Dad goes into his speech about his wife and his son-in-law and blah blah dead relative-and-a-half cakes. Charles says, "What are you talking about?"
So now it's time for the Blame Game! It's like tennis, but without the kicky skirts. It goes like this:
-- Charles killed Dad's family giving Creepy Guy that map.
-- Charles only wanted to feed his family, and Dad took his food back.
-- Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?
-- "Your murdering offspring and his cohorts forced my thousand-year-old father with the cane and the weak voice to have the heart attack he'd probably been waiting for for years!"
-- "Yeah, well ... you're a poopyhead."
They both sag to the side, having unloaded their guilt and suddenly realizing that their problems would probably be solved if they'd just stop inadvertantly killing each other's family members. "Here, [Dad]," Charles says as he sits at his computer, "look at this." Dad looks down at the computer with an expression that makes me wonder if he's trying to hold back as much laughter as I am. Charles shows him the "22% dead in 27 days" thing, then says, "Don't you understand? It's the end of the world." With only 22% dead? Oh, you're just not trying hard enough. Charles says that Creepy Guy and his minions are off to get revenge on the farmers for his wounded
Dad tries to call home, but Charles snaps, "It's no use. The phone is dead!" Oh, my God, you killed the phone, too?! Which one of you did it this time? Dad races out the door with his rifle, with weird New Age waterdrop music playing on the soundtrack. What, synthesizer guy, you couldn't spare a peppy "To the rescue!" song?
Next up: Twenty-two percent of Charles's family dies. Meanwhile, in an effort to save twenty-two percent of his family, Dad shaves the mustache and shoots the wool hat.
