When new friends discover my obsession with b-movies they often ask, “Why would you waste your time watching bad films?” It’s a good question. My answer: I don’t like bad movies; I like schlock. Schlock films are so-bad-they’re-good, not just bad. Granted, they are an acquired taste. In Exploitation Celebration, I will explore such films in search of endearing qualities.
This time I take on Doublecross on Costa’s Island.
Tagline: The more you push him, the more dangerous he becomes.
Year: 1997 Runtime: 88 min
Director: Franco Columbu
Writer: Franco Columbu
Starring: Franco Columbu, Barbara Niven and Frank Stallone
Arithmetic Summation: (Jean Claude Van Damme – Height – Skill – Acting Talent) + Barbara Niven [slightly less manly Helen Hunt] + Action Movie = Doublecross on Costa’s Island
Franko Columbu is a renaissance man: writer, director, star (read: multiply not talented). When a film is driven by such a man, it’s got to be good. Or fattening.
I could not tell if Columbu was just a stiff actor or if his awkward acting was due to him being a hybrid midget (4’8”). I am sure it was the former, but the latter did not help. To make matters worse, just to prove he is All Man™, Columbu takes off shirt for final scene. He not deformed. Actually he has a nice build. The problem is there is no fight. Bad guys say, “Let’s be friends.” Costa (Columbu) agrees.
OK. So, we just sat through 75 minutes of build up to the final boss scene and… nothing. Sure. Why not?
Speaking of the build up, the whole movie is one big continuity error. Mostly having to do with weapons. Costa’s Island is a floral enigma. Guns actually grow on trees, in rock quarries and in bushes. Literally. Whenever Costa is, he has but to reach out and grab a gun.
They are the damnest things, too. The guns vanish inexplicably. In one scene Costa is chased by thugs (well, most of scenes have this, but whatever). He runs into a building for cover. He jets out the backdoor to grab a bush uzi. While he is doing so, the thugs shoot a bazooka rocket into building. As the building explodes, Costa runs back in, catches on fire and mysteriously looses bush uzi.
Not only is the movie a continuity error, it rarely makes sense.
Speaking of, did you know that every Senator has a $500,000 fund with which to spend, burden-of-proof free, on whatever illegal activity she/he/it might be involved in. Typically this money is used to assassinate ex super agents, but hookers and blow are a close second.
This was not surprising to me. Those of us who have pulled the wool over our own eyes have know for centuries. What I did not know was who to call to assassinate ex super agents. If you ever need to exterminate an ex super agent, call said ex super agent’s landlord. Landlords are some sinister fuckers. Underestimate them at your peril.
(Did I mention Costa is an ex super agent? I would be remiss if I didn’t.)
Where the movie is a continuity error and lacks sense, it excels in being smarmy.
In the interest of keeping good on our diplomatic relations, I am not going to say that Italians are greasy and wear gold chains. Yet, the milk squirting scene smacks of the stereotype. The scene I refer to is the point in the film where Costa and the Less Manly Helen Hunt™ have just spent a grumpy evening in separate corners fuming about how terrible the other is. Costa wakes Less Manly Helen Hunt™ by squirting goat’s milk in her face.
Rappers like to spray expensive alcohol on their bitches. R&B singers like to piss on their bitches. Italian Jean-Claude Camille François Van Varenberg Midgets™ like to squirt goat’s milk on their bitches. Stone’a cold’a pimps squirt straight from the teet. It’s a machismo!
It may just be that I’m Uhm-tarded, but if an Italian Jean-Claude Camille François Van Varenberg Midget™ squirted anything in my face, I would smash flaming hot human feces in his eye.
Until next time, happy viewing.