by Ike
Why is the Gingerdead Man there? I’m not really sure. He’s delivered to the set by a MILF-y caterer (scream/porn queen Michelle Bauer) who I can only assume decided to pick her pastries up from the Gingerdead Man-stricken bakery from the original.
No, it still doesn’t make sense. But who cares? It’s all a big excuse to make fun of Full Moon in every way possible. From the company’s fetish for pint-sized horror chicanery (the studio is filming the latest in its Tiny Terrors series – a hokey hodgepodge of Demonic Toys and Puppet Master series but, you know, with more haunted dildos) to its penchant for re-using the same directors, writers, and actors (John Carl Buechler and David Decoteau both play themselves) to the absurdities of the company’s most rabid fans/detractors (you’re hitting a little close to home here, Butler).
To put it simply, it’s a Full Moon flick about Full Moon flicks for lovers/haters of Full Moon flicks. It really has nothing to with the Gingerdead Man aside from the fact he sort of pushes the set pieces along. Yes, there’s a very Child’s Play-inspired subplot about him having to collect a certain number of kills in order to transfer his soul into a human body, but its paper thin. This movie could easily be made without him and was possibly written as such; the character feels arbitrarily plugged into a lot of scenes. Then again, the film features him rewiring and taking control of a Mech-style droid, complete with laser beams. So I’m not going to complain.
Gingerdead Man 3: Saturday Night Cleaver, on the other hand, you’re not going to get by on the same good will. Faithful readers, before your head starts spinning at the shock of a critic dismissing the third entry of a cookie-based horror flick, allow me to explain my frustrations in detail:
William Butler returns to write and direct part 3. While he isn’t credited as the director of the second entry, the credited name Sylvia St. Croix sounds suspiciously like a pseudonym to me (a namesake shared with a character from an obscure, off-Broadway musical [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruthless!]). Also, Full Moon’s website credits him as the director of the film, so let’s go ahead and assume he passed on a credit due to DGA obligations or some such nonsense. This is a shame as Butler did a remarkably solid job on Gingerdead Man 2 and deserved to take credit for his hard work. He does take full credit (not a pun) as the auteur of Gingerdead Man 3, which makes sense except for the fact that the film seems like a step backward for the guy.
Okay, that isn’t fair. There isn’t anything wrong with the direction of the third entry; Butler’s style goes above and beyond the normal point-and-shoot parameters of your typical indie horror film. He has a talent for using sets and props to their fullest potential and, as a veteran actor himself (Friday the 13th part VII, Leatherface: Texas Chainsaw Massacre III, Ghoulies II) pulls some memorable performances out of both sequels’ fresh-faced casts.
No, it isn’t Gingerdead Man 3’s direction that frustrates me. It’s the script. Where its predecessor goes a creatively meta route that feels like a loving ode to fans, Saturday Night Cleaver goes to gonzo extremes that feel more in line with the Zucker brothers than a Charles Band production.
I’m not talking the old Airplane! Zuckers, either. I’m talking the Scary Movie sequels-era Zuckers. The weird, out-of-touch, pop-culture-referencing Zuckers.
The film begins with FBI Agent Clarice Darling (I wonder where this is going) visiting the Gingerdead Man in an institute for homicidal desserts (which, admittedly, is a nice touch) to figure out the method to his madness. When a group of PETA-styled extremists free the sugary psychoes, G.D. finds his way into a research/development wing and accidentally sends himself hurtling back through time to 1976. There he goes toe-to-toe with mousy telekinetic Cherry (oh, boy) in a roller rink disco that’s about to go under.
Or something. If there’s any issue I have with Gingerdead Man 3 is its lack of direction. Every aspect of the storyline has to do with parodying popular horror films that came before it, fine, but why is it set in a disco? Why begin with an (admittedly impressive) Silence of the Lambs parody? If we’re just making fun of the time period, why milk the plot line of Carrie for laughs? Why does the Gingerdead Man confine himself to the stupid disco? Why does the Gingerdead Man’s voice (this time by Butler himself) flit back and forth between a thick Southern accent and a gravelly Busey voice, and why does it seem like he’s kind of just profanely narrating certain scenes? Why do a group of historical serial killers appear at the end of the film to do battle with the Gingerdead Man? Why is anything happening in the movie at all?
The answer is that it doesn’t matter. It’s a spoof, a lark, a bad horror movie perfectly suited to beer-and-pizza movie nights with a cabal of B-movie-loving friends. That’s what the first two were, why not go all out with the third entry?
Well, the first two films seemed to have some sort of overall goal. If nothing matters within the frame of the story, then none of the jokes matter much either. Sure, some of them hit pretty hard, but more of them fall flat thanks to the arbitrary directions the film steers itself in – at least for this reviewer.
Saturday Night Cleaver is not a Gingerdead Man for Full Moon fans. It’s a Gingerdead Man for the Family Guy-set. If you dig Seth MacFarlane’s wacky brand of pop-culture humor and enjoyed the first two films, you’ll get a lot of mileage out of this one. For me, though, it was an exhausting barrage of jokes and set pieces that, while inspired in spots, never quite gelled or met my expectations as a fan of these types of movies.
Then again, the fact that I live in a world where there is a trilogy of films centered on a killer ginger bread cookie should make me fall to my knees and praise whatever fantastic phenomenon brought humanity to such a point. All we have to do now is cure cancer and it’s all down hill for the human race from here.
Don’t believe me? Pick up the trilogy for yourself from Full Moon’s website. It’ll give you a nice set of films for your friends and loved ones to ridicule you for owning when they visit (thanks Mom) and help contribute to little Jake Busey’s college fund. Visit Full Moon Direct and tell ‘em Yell! Magazine sent ya. They’ll stare blankly into their monitors upon reading the added message only to then shrug and accept your credit card number, but that’s okay – it’s all part of the foreplay, baby.
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