Triloquist
Reviewed by Edward Larsen Terkelsen

USA, R, 90 m, 2008
Directed by Mark Jones. Stars Rocky Marquette, Paydin LoPachin, Katie Chonacas, et al.

Triloquist is a horror comedy made in the quick and dirty style of Jackie Kong, which if you know a thing or two about B-movies means that it sucks big, fat elephant dicks. (Don’t take that earthy slight to mean that I’m dropping my standards; any film freak worth his salt should be aware that it’s a nod to Joe Pesci in Raging Bull.) Directed by Mark Jones, the former TV hack who went on to pollute our beloved Bijou with the likes of Rumpelstiltskin and Leprechaun (the latter was his theatrical debut and remains notable for also introducing the world to the very yummy Jennifer Aniston), Triloquist is big on four-letter words and scatological silliness, but virtually bereft of laughs or scares.

I hate creepshows that use sexual abuse to generate cheap shocks, but I especially hate the ones that try to work us up by depicting the ruination of children. The twisted sisters at Dimension Extreme thought it was all so much fun ‘n’ games to see a zombie rip the fetus out of a lady’s womb and eat it in Automaton Transfusion, so I shouldn’t be surprised that they didn’t think twice about putting their stamp of approval on something like Triloquist, which has lotsa fun ‘n’ games with child molestation. Following the pointlessly “soulful” and downright excruciating cover of “Billy Boy” by Katrina Abrahemian that plays under the opening titles, Triloquist wastes no time in trying to turn our stomachs (or just piss us off) with its unashamed ickiness. Preteen Angelina and her little brother, Norbert (!), find themselves left in the lurch when their washed-up ventriloquist mom ODs in a seedy Las Vegas motel. Now wards of the state, the kids are turned over to their uncle, a pedophile. You know he’s bad news from the get-go: Not only does he waddle around in a dirty wife beater and smoke cigarettes, but he’s photographed from low angles in granular black and white. (You know, the kind of tricks that Oliver Stone used to amplify the crudeness of Rodney Dangerfield’s asides in Natural Born Killers.) Thankfully, their uncle’s sick shenanigans (such as forcing Angelina to give him oral sex in front of Norbert) come to a stop when dear departed mom’s puppet sidekick, Dummy (voiced by Bruce Weitz), comes to life and smothers the old perv with Saran Wrap.

Years pass. Angelina, Norbert and Dummy are now a trio of malcontents living life off the grid. Angelina (Paydin LoPachin) has grown into a slattern with an ugly mouth and eensy weensy breasts (I think I’m justified in goofing on her mammary glands because she’s always trying to sell us on how mouth-wateringly plump they are, and yet a glass eye in a dog’s ass can see that this little snot has all the curves of a ten-year-old boy), while her dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks brother, Norbert (Rocky Marquette), hasn’t spoken a word since their mother gave up the ghost. Or was it since he was forced to watch his sister engage in unspeakable acts with their uncle? I dunno. Anyway, after taking the wrap for Dummy’s gruesome assault on a mouthy trick-or-treater, Norbert is enrolled in the nearest laughing academy. Of course, Angelina and Dummy find a way to spring him, after which they all head out on a cross-country killing spree. Here are a few lowlights: Dummy whacks actor Larry Manetti (Rick from “Magnum P.I.”) for his flash ride, Dummy bites off the winkie of a strip club owner, Dummy slips a noose around a black janitor’s neck and drags him to his death… Wait a sec. Did I just write that? I tell ya, just when I thought the filmmakers couldn’t sink any lower, they do something to make a complete, er, dummy out of me. 

As the narrator of Triloquist, our woodenheaded leading man reveals himself to be no great shakes as a wit; he uses irony in a thick and derivative and obvious way. He’s probably just following his director, who appears to be an even bigger dummy. Jones uses blithe ditties for contrasting effect, but the masters of that technique—Fosse, Kubrick, Lynch—would have this poseur for lunch. Worse, Jones has no rapport with his actors; they all come off as a bunch of ham-handed boobs. The only real talent aboard this tumbling garbage scow is Mark Melville, the cinematographer. There is a crispness, a lucidity to his pictures that transcends the mindless action he’s being paid to shoot. I guess sometimes even the most gifted among us have to work the corner to bring home the bacon.  

July 31, 2009 

© Copyright 2009 by Edward Larsen Terkelsen. All rights reserved.