I present a fictional live-blog of Terrordactyl (2016), wherein I record my stream of consciousness – or what should have constituted same – while watching Terrordactyl.
Remember those news reports of the duck keeping up with the boat because it imprinted on the boat owner?
This doesn’t end as well.
OK, it’s dark and it’s a rig pulling into a rest stop – the only flat face in this lot of snouty rigs. Guy stumbles out, Arts Editor calls him a Neanderthal. Seems unfair. What? Is he just finishing off that bottle of whiskey? Oh, he just threw it >crash!< and opened a new one, how can he possibly have been driv –
Wow! Something just hit his rig and shattered it. Shitty special effect, though. Ooops, that’s one long snout poking out of the flames. Fire doesn’t seem to bother whatever it is.
It flies!
Mr. Whiskey’s spotted it and sort of running around at random. Hey, dummy, hide under someone else’s truck! You look like a mouse in a maze –
Oooops, and off he goes in the clutches of … yes, I can make it out. It’s clearly that plastic model of a Pteranadon I built from a kit 45 years ago! And it has a G. I. Joe doll in its clutches! Too bad, Mr. Whiskey.
Hey, it’s light out and there’s a guy doing yard work. Name is Lars. Pro equipment. And another guy with a, ah, shovel with an umbrella taped to it. And he’s sleeping on the job, and the other guy is giving him serious shit. And the bikini lady poolside is teasing both of them. Looks like California. This is a bit painful, not clever, stereotypical. Except for the shovel.
Now a jump to a bar, the yard work boys are tossing them back but Mr. Shovel clearly has problems talking to the ladies, with a badly done stutter just to prove it. That’s a bad special effect, too. That lady bartender falls into the ‘cute’ category. There’s this barfly, he’s a yapper, well, the women in your bed are all in your mind, friend – and why do you look like a cross between Jesse Ventura and Robert deNiro? Sampson, heh. I’ll bet you die early.
But the TV is reporting astronomers are excited by a ‘surprise’ meteor shower, oh, and she (the bartender) knows about meteors – ok, now she’s a bit sexy. Claims they’re worth money, and now Mr. Shovel’s paying attention as he gets his change, grabs his buddy Lars and they scurry out to Lars’ truck to do some meteor hunting. Downed power tower? No problem, we’ll just step carefully over the live high-tension wires!! – these actors should do a PSA after that crap. Well, Lars isn’t so happy, he just wants to sleep and do hard honest work, and up and out in the hinterlands he walks off in a huff and >thud!< lands in a crater. Meteor!
Heading back, meteor in the back, Lars asleep, Mr. Shovel discovers the bartender gave him her ph#, so he calls her up. Ooops, it’s 7:30 AM, she’s had 4 hours sleep, but she gives him an opening to ask her out. “Can I show you my space rock!?” he shouts. Well, it’s better than etchings, I suppose, but she’s still put out. Gives her address.
And on the way over something buzzes them, then lands on the truck. It’s big, bigger than me. Wings, snout, well, he’s back, apparently. Wants another G. I. Joe? Oh, my, Lars has a lot of profanity, but nothing particularly shocking. But it does have that Gen-X’ self-absorption thing going on. Which is just a myth. Heck, why does the TV channel even trouble to blank the profanity out? Is this PuritanTV? And why is Lars SO attached to his truck? OK, so your windshield is shattered, but Mr. Shovel finally figured out – gad, he’s slow – to drive like a madman, stomp on the brakes, and then hit the damn thing while it’s down. Think of 9 foot long roadkill, and they aren’t stopping to collect a sample.
Aaaaat Aaaaand they’re at the girl’s apartment now. Turns out Mr. Shovel is a “wuss” about elevators, so they’re hoofing up ten floors, Mr. Shovel shaking, meteor in hand. Bartender Candice (had to look it up) lets them in, looks at the spacerock, turns out she does a bit of geology too, woo hoo! A couple of good lines, too. But what’s that outside –
Hundreds of flying Snouties? Well, this special effect isn’t quite so bad.
Maybe it’s an attempted blessing.
Oh, and they’re looking in the windows! Definitely that uncomfortable feeling when you catch a stranger staring at you at the mall, so close the shades and… that shadow suggests this is a pushy stranger, perched on the balcony. With wings. And a snout. And a surprise roommate pops out and screams and the window shatters (her scream or his snout?) and in it comes! Oh the roommate is so dead, just so – wait, what’s Mr. Shovel doing with that rubbing alcohol bottle? Really? Lighting it up and tossing it – hold it, that other Mr. Snouty didn’t care about fire, why is this one writhing and saying bad things in a loud voice? And building management’s not going to be happy about this!
Hey, the roommate’s not dead!
And on their way to the elevator there’s the aforementioned management, giving them a bad time. Enter Mr. Snouty – oh, ouch, that’s gotta sting. Down the elevator they go, out the door, just in time to see poor Lars’ truck get crushed. He’s having a conniption over his truck, while the critters are tearing the city apart – away go people in the clutches of more Mr. Snouties! OK, let’s run over to Candice’s car – we need to head for a good bomb shelter. Flying down the road, good lines for the boys and Candice, roommate’s just a wallflower, while they dodge Snouties and other cars and once a burning jet liner memorably flashes through the pic – nice touch.
This reminds me of spring break in Ft. Lauderdale.
Where are we going? Hey, remember Sampson the bar fly? Bang Bang Bang! Oh, you finally came to share my bed! Wait, a threesome – oh, the yard boys – well, he’s open minded. What do you mean what’s going on? OK, now he’s seen and knows, it’s time for a drink, a check-in with his Marine buddies (they seem to be in the midst of dying bloodily), and now let’s open the Armory. Armory? Oh, yeah, Candice knows how to shoot. She just gets better and better. The other three? Lars isn’t too bad. Mr. Shovel has to have his hand held in this EXCRUCIATING SCENE … it’s like passing an anvil. Crash! Hey, that was an awful segue, did they chop that up for TV? Anyways, there’s a Snouty in the bunker and NOW the roommate’s bought it. There’s a principle here: if you don’t get good lines, you die early. Sampson’s gone, no doubt to be dinner. So much for my principle, he had some weirdly good lines. And he left toothmarks on the scenery.
More Snouties, a firefight, one gets locked in the Armory where it triggers the timer on the bomb. “A parting gift from an old boyfriend” – Sampson. Yeah, I’ll bet she tried to ram it up your ass. Uh oh, everyone out, just in time! Oh, well, what to do ne- ooops, there’s goes Lars, still carrying the meteor (these guys are so into having things), snatched by a Snouty. So much for- wait, why are you running AFTER him? You can’t keep up with these Snouties, they’re FLYING – oh, I see, we need to hear Lars shouting PROFANITIES. That’s important, gotta stay in character, right? Profanities and insistent defiance. Izzat Gen-X like?
Well, I’m sure that tower with all the Snouties flying around it is famous, but I dunno what it is. And, hey, is that – is that where Lars is still screaming profanities? Doesn’t he ever get tired of mouthing off? Oh, here comes the meal, looks like a formal affair with ten or fifteen guests as Lars gets slung INTO the tower through a big gouge in the side. One of them gets into a stare down with Lars, and Lars calls him Barbecue. What? Oh, is that the one Mr. Shovel lit up with the alcohol? Looks like some mild peeling. When’s the munching start?
Meanwhile, the iconic meteor gets added to a pile of them. Baubles of the Snouties, maybe they wear them on their heads after some drinking. Watch out, another guy gets tossed in! His suit’s a mess, call Men’s Wearhouse! Although the big Z wouldn’t sell to this guy, given how he cares for his suit. And hysteria!
Oh, and look at that. The meteor is an egg, and oh the miniature Snouty is so damn cute you just want to hug it. However, our new guest star in the bad suit doesn’t last long as he is fed to the new kid. Lars doesn’t understand the social etiquette of the moment and buries his head in embarrassment.
Meanwhile, Candice and Mr. Shovel are working on a plan to save Lars, which is a bit sentimental of them. Seems to involve a gun, a leaf blower, and some tough talk. But first they have to deal with the ground floor guard detail, who fly about a bit while dying, and the last one is offed most unpleasantly by putting a flagpole through him. Ouch. Oh, and the American flag then unfurled. Would a super-pat cheer, sneer, or pass out from ‘roid-rage? Up the elevator and into the formal dining area, where Lars is menaced by something no larger than his head. Well, OK, and Barbecue. The shooting starts, we have a home made flamethrower (think leaf blower) and the dinner party is chased away, with the last one, probably Barbecue … well, remember Mr. Shovel? This involves an umbrella and, I think, a shovel. My Arts Editor shakes her head in deprecation. It’s the wrong shade of blue.
In no doubt a tasteful display of trophies, we see a number of human heads, including, for the love of something large and scaly, our bar fly Sampson. Remember him? Drunk, tasteless, Ventura-like? Tsk tsk- AUGH, it moved and smiled! He’s alive, but not like in Aliens (thank goodness). How about the rest? Never find out. And what’s that whooshing noise?
Sheeeeeit. That’s one big motherfucking Snouty. I mean, my Arts Editor and I shout simultaneously, It’s a dragon! Turns out, the Snouties are like bees or ants. It’s the queen, apparently, because it’s come to protect the eggs. Now, let me ask: which one of these little Snouties is going to have the balls – so to speak – to actually have intercourse with this monster?
Maybe it’s like Praying Mantises. One sex experience is all you’re good for.
Anyways. Mr. Shovel, ever inventive (remember that, Candice, since now you’re kissing him), comes up with a bomb made of various vintages of whiskey, bourbon, etc etc. Arts Editor shakes her head and mutters, but on they soldier, eventually luring big old Snouty into sticking her head into the gouge, at which point Sampson rolls the bomb into its mouth, going along for the ride (a little like Hellboy in his fight with one of the Ogdru Jahad – gulp gulp gulp BAM!). No more dragon head, thud goes the body.
And, like a bad ex-spouse, Sampson climbs out of the wreckage and rushes off to do interviews as an expert. Expert something.
Wait, is that another meteor storm?
I wanted to hate it, to loathe it, to refuse to believe such a piece of trash could be released. But I actually thought it was fairly funny, in that way movies that blur genre tropes can be funny. I probably wouldn’t watch it again. But it reminded me of Shaun of the Dead. Which we hated. But we liked this.
Go figure.
