Fabutrash: 'Shock Treatment' quintessential bad sequel

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Some may say "The Godfather Part II" is the best sequel of all time. Well, I beg to differ.

OK, so when I say "best," you know I mean "so horrible that it's the most wonderful thing in the world." That sequel comes in the form of the 1981 gem, "Shock Treatment."

The story follows Brad and Janet Majors, who apparently got married despite all the cross dressing, cannibalistic, gay alien monster sex they endured/enjoyed in 1975's "Rocky Horror Picture Show."

Well, the night of sweet transvestites and time warping must have had some effect because "Shock Treatment" shows the married couple in trouble--and looking for help.

So who else would they turn to than the local television studio? In almost a decade before reality TV became, well, a reality, "Shock Treatment" puts a whole town inside a studio and turns the camera on them as they eat, sleep, sing and make generally racist remarks ("Your father doesn't like Mexicans!).

And the whole cast from "Rocky Horror" returns! Well, except for Tim Curry, Barry Bostwick, Susan Sarandon and Meatloaf, of course. But hey, Richard O'Brien, Patricia Quinn, Nell Campbell and Charles Gray all make their returns--and none of them are playing the same role. Or are they?

Only diehard "Rocky Horror" fans will see the connection between O'Brien & Quinn's roles as Drs. Cosmo and Nation McKinley and their RHPS characters of Riff Raff and Magenta. The two play "character actors" who had a "series" in another country, and their little "groupie" Nurse Ansalong bears a quirky resemblance to Columbia.

But all that aside, it's the horribly wonderful story I like to focus on.

The plot is so convoluted that even Gregory Maguire would call for some clarification. (If you don't know who Gregory Maguire is, then count yourself lucky. If you're just that curious, please feel free to read my review on his awful, awful, awful books.)

Brad and Janet need counseling. So they go to a television show. But the television show is really just a ruse. But the ruse is also a ruse. And... what the HELL is going on? Oh well, at least it's full of catchy tunes like "Me" and "Little Black Dress!"

This film is the epitome of unintentional kitsch and accidental bad taste. It's wonderful. I'm rating it five out of five fabutrashes! Good job Ricky O'Brien! I'm crossing my fingers for a trilogy before you die!

Wigs Are Nature's Prozac - By Matty Jacobson

THE SKEWED REVIEW | ARTS & ENTERTAINMENT | HEALTH & WELLNESS | COLLEGE LIFE | ACTIVISM 


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I recently came upon a two-for-one deal that I couldn't pass up: I found a box set of "Rocky Horror Picture Show" and its lesser known, lesser appreciated sequel, "Shock Treatment."

While the merits, casting, songs and coherence of "RHPS" far outweigh those of "ST," I still can't help but love the kitschy follow-up because, naturally, I simply adore horrible cinema.

But while annals of Skewed Reviews could be dedicated to the joys of B-movie awesomeness, this particular review is not about so-bad-they're-good films. This review was sparked by the first line of the first verse of a song called "Little Black Dress" from the aforementioned "Shock Treatment."

Dr. Cosmo McKinley is trying to convince Janet that she's fabulous, so he starts to sing a song about using apparel to make the world see how beautiful she really is.

He sings, "Ever since I was a little boy, dressing up has always been my greatest joy."

Well, yours truly could have sung this without a hint of irony, and anyone who's known me for even an iota of a moment would know it's the truth. Why, my closet dedicated strictly to wigs is always a threat to anyone who walks past it; the sheer volume of cheap, synthetic hair contained within is just waiting to burst and topple out on some unsuspecting passer-by.

OK, so it's not ALL wigs,
some of it is costumes and
a few styrofoam heads.

While it's true that I do have a few female wigs from Halloweens gone by, the majority of my dress-up stuff is male-oriented. I have tons of different guy wigs that I love to wear frivolously for no reason other than it's fun to have a different, extreme hair style for a few hours at a time.

There have been a few articles on the lows of depression and the stresses of anxiety, but, extreme circumstances withstanding, I've found my bluer moments can be alleviated by simply chucking a temporary coiffe atop my head. There's literally no other purpose to my owning a Broadway show's worth of hair than for my own personal enjoyment.

And what's so wrong about that?  Besides my going broke on buying bobs, of course.

The little kid in us is bred out, nay, destroyed as soon as we're able to recognize responsibility. Whether or not it's intentional, our parents, families, friends, neighbors, and society in general makes imagination a crime by the time a child becomes a teenager. It's almost as if adults simply put up with a kid's pretending to be an astronaut or a cowboy (or in my case, Glinda) until the time presents itself when the adults can call such behavior "childish."

I say damn the adults! I may be 31 years old on the outside, but I'm pretty sure I'm regressing in age on the inside. The older I get, the younger I feel. The more wrinkles that appear on my face, the more I want to defy age by dressing up. The more responsibility that's dumped in my lap, the more I want to put on a cosplay wig, pick up a magic wand, and make magical tinkling noises while I turn my dogs into dragons.

I may be in a rest home sooner than most of you, but dammit, I'm going have a lot of fun getting there.