When
I started writing this review, I was drunk. I mean hammered. And I know that may have been
a bit unprofessional of me. As such, I've gone over this review and rewritten most of it.
Nothing too drastic, mind you (I like to think I'm fairly adept at holding my
liquor...thanks, dad), but I did add a few thoughts and arrange the thoughts that were
already there into a more, shall we say, cognizant manner. And I took the liberty
of removing all references to the makers of Six-String Samurai in conjunction with
words such as "fudge packer" and "boob goblin."
Reviewing a movie while inebriated is a bit unfair to all involved. These people bled and sweated to make their movie. And Lord knows I've given lesser movies my full, sober attention. But, you know what? It was been a hard damn day here at Casa de Chosis, so screw it. Barkeep, gimmie another. No ice this time. And keep 'um coming.
Where was I? There was a joke I had all lined up for this paragraph. Ah, here it is: If this movie had a more troubled production history, it would've been a Korean International Pictures production. Just check out the flick's website. Co-writer/director Lance Mungia goes into great detail about lengths God went to to fuck his movie up. Six-String Samurai's production suffered everything from equipment failures, to arrests, to getting barred from their filming locations, forcing them to shutdown production for a full six months.
(My personal favorite is the story of Mungia and crew filming around the habitat of the "infamous Death Valley Saltwater Snail," and posting lookouts a mile away from filming in both directions to watch for park Rangers.)
But that's all hype. Let's talk about the flick, shall we?
It begins (like most--as in "all"--Post-Apocalypso movies) with a big bang. Oh, but here's the twist. On this parallel Earth, the bombs dropped in 1957. While this is an interesting twist on sub-genre conventions, it creates a few very strange paradoxes, which we'll talk about later. In the meantime: the bombs dropped in 1957, and then those Dirty Commies moved in, conquering whatever was left of the United States. The one bastion of freedom left in the world was Las Vegas (re-named Lost Vegas; another good touch), where a kid named Elvis was crowned King. And you can bet your ass that party rocked the house.
So Elvis reigned as King over a Kingdom that was no doubt filled with opulence, drug abuse, heavy drinking, and people who ate peanut butter sandwiches rolled in fried chicken crumbs for breakfast. Forty years later (so the pre-credits inform us), Elvis dies. This sends every guitar playing, sword swinging Waste Lander on a mad dash for Vegas. First one there will claim the crown and become the King of Rock N' Roll...and, ya know, America.
But that's all exposition. Let's talk about the flick, shall we?
The action starts with a little kid (Justin McGuire) and his mom, both dressed in rags running through a filed (an astonishingly lush field, compared to the barren wastes we'll see in the rest of the movie). They're running from a band of mutants (at least, I think they're mutants--they're dirty as hell and dressed in rags...but so is everyone else, for that matter). The mutants (or whatever) get mom, and stand ready to eat The Kid when, out of nowhere, comes Buddy (co-writer Jeffrey Falcon), a Hollowbody in one hand, a samurai sword in the other, slicing and dicing like a Hong Kong action hero (which, actually...oh, it can wait, there've been too many parenthetical assides in this paragraph already).
After carving up the mutants, Buddy sheathes his sword (which is duct taped to the back of his guitar) and just...keeps on walkin'. The Kid, deprived of a mother and all, decides to follow Buddy on his quest, no matter what the Rock N' Roll Kung Fu fighter says. Their quest is the movie, and on the way to Vegas they meet up with psycho bowlers, cheerleaders, a family of cannibalistic Leave it to Beaver clones, and the Red Army. All the while, the two are pursued by Death Incarnate, who looks suspiciously like Slash. (You think, maybe, that could mean something?)
On the surface, Six-String Samurai is simplicity itself. An old-school quest story wrapped inside a nice, chocolatey package of rock music and <Carl Douglas>kung fu fighting</Carl Douglas>. Your basic style over substance, no-brainier crapfest for us Bad Movie lovers to turn enjoy. Hey, guys! This is your movie! Rent it!
But, for the love of God, don't try to think about it too hard. That way lies, not madness, just a very, very annoying headache. The plot oddities alone are enough for me. Just how is Buddy powering that guitar? It's electric, so one would think it would need electricity, right? Which means batteries...but where the hell do you recharge your batteries in the middle of the desert? And, what, are there no amps in the future? Does everyone's guitar just magically produce those oh-so-sweet melodies on demand, or was Buddy's mutated by atomic radiation? We can assume Death's guitar is not governed by our laws of physics because, well, he is Death and all. But Buddy...
And speaking of whom--why does Death even care about being King of America? America is
a bit of a bombed out wasteland. Wouldn't it be more logical to seize control of a less
irradiated country that could crush the weakened America beneath its mighty boot heel?
But if that happened there'd be no story. And, besdies, Death doesn't want to be King of America; Death wants to be king of Rock 'N Roll. (You think that could, I don't know, mean something?)
Acting is slipshod because it can be. Hong Kong action star Falcon (who's made a career out of playing villainous round-eyes) turns in an uncanny Clint Eastwood impression, right down to his strained line delivery. Buddy is a archetype of every lone gunslinger on the block, except he's carrying a sword. Buddy is...well, Buddy Holly by way of The Man With No Name by way of Kurosawa. And props go to the co-writers for displaying true originality and putting such different ideas together into this radically twisted vision of a guitar playing sword slinger. In fact, Buddy's so damn cool I wish we could've spent more time on him; on his character and the Mysterious Past the movie keeps hinting at. That we don't is my only major beef with this movie. All the rest is dressing.
The Kid is, for most of the movie anyway, mute. Praise be. Though, despite it all, I found myself enjoying his few character scenes. If only because Buddy was in them. I'd almost call their character scenes (after the Kid learns to speak) the best scenes in the movie. Almost, because those sword fights just kick so much ass.
Director Mungia (who obviously studied at the MTV School of Direction) labels this movie a "rock n' roll fairy tale," which is as good a description as any. Like any fairy tale, the movie's short on character, long on action and heavy with symbolism. And I'm not just talking about the self-conscious winks and nudges this movie throws at The Wizard of Oz. The fact that Our Villain plays for Guns N' Roses and Our Hero dresses like Buddy Holly represents the Eternal Struggle between the old school rockers and the heavy medallists. Well...it could. You'll have to ask Mungia.
In the meantime, you have Six-String Samurai: a weird little indy flick that's short on character, long on action, and just weird enough to give you a fun ride. Don't expect the height of story telling, because this movie is too busy trying to knock you on your ass. While it doesn't pack enough punch for that, you'll probably walk away with a smile. Just don't think about it too hard, for God's sakes.
