I knew better. I knew better. I knew better. I knew that watching a movie called
Cleavagefield would be a bad idea. I knew it would suck. I knew that there would be a lot of nudity and that, my dear friends, was the only reason I stuck around. Earlier in my film career I was dealt a horrific blow. Being young, broke and semi-retarded, I flew to the beautiful shores of
California to be in a good friend of mine’s feature film. We were shooting a monster movie and, in my naivety, I thought this would be the greatest film ever made. It was not, in retrospect, but we did have fun and I made friends that have lasted in upwards of a decade. Nevertheless, during the production of this epic I learned a hard lesson. I had thought, due to my participation in boobie-filled masterpieces like
Shower of Blood, that nudity of any kind was not only good, but necessary. I discovered, much to my own chagrin and completely by surprise, that there is such a thing as bad nudity. I know the twenty-somethings out there just sucked in a shocked breath and the sixty-somethings, bereft of mammaries of any kind for a long time, just shook their heads in shame. You thirties through the fifties, though, you know. The pair of ‘breasts’ that graced that film were not only horrible, but resembled two fly strips stapled to Alice Cooper’s chest. The title of the film will, of course, remain nameless, but the mental scars remain. These scars were re-opened by
Cleavagefield and, not content to make me go fetal and sob like Jeff at a Chinese buffet, the bastards shot salty fluids into the wounds. Aargh.
Review By: Rob Sibley