As a cash-in fad parody, this comes off inferior to 1967's Casino Royale.
Jokes include: Kenneth Williams is gay; ladies have boobs; guns shoot people; and foreigners are so silly! Pinewood stars as Vienna and Algiers. A man in brownface pre-empts Octopussy's nailbed gag. A moderately good lair, monorail and femme army briefly feature.
The witty orchestral score riffs on Rule Britannia. The satire more resembles The Third Man and Thunderbirds than Bond. Though not at all funny or sexy, this film may offer historical interest to... someone?
If any japish hint will do, and you favour Beatles in-jokes especially, watch this I guess. Your extensive 'Fab Four' trivia knowledge should provide dividends in half a dozen faint chuckles of recognition.
John becomes 'Nasty' (Innes), but tellingly, Yoko gets replaced by Hitler's daughter. Queerphobic jokes fuel several scenes. Bill Murray screams. The Rutles repeatedly assert Gentile heritage.
This film pioneers a format but lacks teeth. Okay visual gags accompany songs more pastiche than parodic. Splendid 'Cheese and Onions' animated section and energetic LP mock-ups aside, expect a bland hour of Python and SNL sketch B-sides.
Disney covers for wartime shortfall by farting out lofi beats to snooze or make out to.
This 'film' constitutes nine boring segments, with little animation or voice work. They each resemble either Fantasia B-roll or unfinished shorts.
Anti-Italian and anti-Irish stereotypes get their own starring roles in Casey at the Bat. Sterling Holloway humorously narrates Peter and the Wolf, though not in his best style. I like the opera whale. Some of the singing charms, especially by the Andrews Sisters during the Johnny Fedora cartoon. Sign my petition to instate Alice Bluebonnet as a Disney Princess.
Wow, this batch of dorky men all desperately want me to fuck Alejandro Jodorowsky.
Jodorowsky makes striking films, but here merely projects his hideous ego dully from his living room. He has no patience for collaborators prioritising execution over vision. This mindset is anathema to competent project management. What doofus signs divas Welles and Dalí at any cost, including hiring their lovers and chefs?
Giger and Moebius' art should star, alongside Foss' designs. Instead we rehearse incantations of Jodorowsky's 'genius', while he says seriously dumb shit. The unmade twelve-hour movie would have sucked and flopped at the box office.
The apogee of 007 mania produces a long snoozefest.
We linger in an all-white Bahamas, on a lovely new aspect ratio. Bond kills a cross-dressing assassin, then flies a real jetpack. A masseuse, a villain, and a gamine, each function as a sex prop for Bond. An eyepatch features. Connery actually narrowly avoids predation by a plexiglass fugitive. Happily, a minion 'tortures' Bond by rapturously shaking him on a rack in a massage parlour.
My pleasure surged only when it ended, after 30 minutes of plodding underwater footage. The boat-based climax sucks less. All the other scenes? Lost at sea.