One of the most original horror flicks of the eighties, about a little six-year-old yard monster who gets a talking Chucky Doll for his birthday and finds out it's possessed by the soul of a psycho devil-worship murderer. Most of the time Chucky is a great pal. It's only occasionally that he decides to do something like knock the babysitter through a sixth-story window with a ballpeen hammer, or hide in a mental hospital so he can clamp shock-treatment head-pinchers on a doctor, flip the switch, and watch his face turn into a bacon bit. But the mean old adults think that little Andy is doing all the grisly murders, but BLAMING it on Chucky. Fortunately, Andy's mom is Catherine Hicks. If she could save the whales in Star Trek IV, she can probably save Andy from a demon-possessed unkillable walking, talking, strangling, snarling, cussing, biting, stabbing, cute little toy doll. Chuck is VERY insincere.|
Six dead bodies.
Exploding toy store.
Exploding South Chicago urban renewal house.
One excellent out-of-control motor vehicle chase, with Chucky trying to kill a cop in a car traveling 90 through The Loop.
Gratuitous devil talk.
Ballpeen hammer Fu.
David Kirschner used eight puppeteers to operate Chucky The Doll. With Alex Vincent as the six-year- old.
Directed by Tom Holland, of FRIGHT NIGHT renown.
Child's Play (1988) was last seen on Monstervision 10/11/97 and on 100% Wierd 12/4/99
© 2000 Joe Bob Briggs.com All Rights
Reserved. Not an AOL Time-Warner Company in this lifetime.
Child's Play 2
Chucky the Killer Doll, a recommended Christmas present for any nephew
"Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-In" for 11/23/90
By Joe Bob Briggs
Drive-In Movie Critic of Grapevine, Texas
Most of yall know that I been looking for a decent job for years.
I know I know I know, I'm world famous as a drive-in movie critic, and if I ever changed jobs, thousands of people would find a huge void in their lives. But I'm talking about a job where I could reach MILLIONS of people.
I wanna be a Catholic priest.
They're BEGGING people to take this job. They've got 75 million Catholics in the USA, the churches are getting huger and huger, and the number of priests is getting smaller and smaller, and now they got Holy Fathers out there on the recruiting trail, showing film strips to high school seniors, asking new priests to "bring a friend" down to the office and "try on this here dog collar." They're desperate.
Up in Chicago, they're even willing to pump up the salaries a little bit, because priests have been dropping like flies. They've lost so many priests up there that they now have Catholic MP's that patrol up and down Michigan Avenue on weekdays, rousting runaway clergy out of advertising agencies. Ever since Pope John Paul the Sequel got into office, it's been crystal clear that the number one priestly rule-change was NEVER gonna get past the Holy Unified Committee of Senile Bishops. You know which rule I'm talking about:
Back in the sixties and seventies, it was starting to look good for the old ecclesiasticus aardvarkus, if you know what I mean and I think you do. The priests and nuns figured, "We'll swing with this a few more years, and maybe they'll at least let us marry some ugly Pakistani women or something."
But John Paul His Polishness pretty much wiped that out when he said: No nookie for priests. No abortion. No birth control. No pre-marital sex. And the guys in Chicago tried to reason with him, but they got an idea of just how serious he was when he ordered several countries in Southeast Asia to be spayed and neutered.
So that's a drawback. That's uncool.
But not for me--because I NEVER HAVE SEX ANYWAY.
You see the beauty here? Through the majesty of God's plan, you take something that's EMBARRASSING and it becomes an ASSET. You can say stuff like, "See that Raquel Welch lookalike over there with the high heels who's wearing the bra on the outside of her dress? Yeah, her--the one that's working the Etch-a-Sketch with her thighs. Now, see the Kevin Costner lookalike who just walked up to her and is now touching her waist? I want you to know something: That no longer bothers me--because I COULDN'T HAVE HER ANYWAY."
Isn't this great?
Okay, what's the next one?
Perfect. I love poverty. The church pays for the food. You wear the same clothes every day. And you still get a check! But you don't have to be responsible. You don't have to save up for the little rug-rat's college education. You don't have to buy party dresses for the wife. That leaves the WHOLE CHECK for beer, topless bars, and entry fees when you wanna run your Nissan Hardbody SE Four-by-Four in the weekend drags.
Then we got--oh yeah--obedience. Or, as we say in Latin, "shutta yo mouth." This is the easiest one of all. Here, I've been practicing:
"Yes sir, Mr. Archbishop Sir, I do believe, Sir, that the Pope is infallible. I know this because, in 1870, the Pope decided he was infallible. He told everyone he was infallible, and so, if he WAS infallible, then he couldn't be wrong DECIDING he was infallible, because that was his first infallible act, to declare himself infallible. . . . Of course, in 1869, the Pope was full of dog doo."
"Yes sir, Mr. Archbishop Sir, I think God did intend for us to use the rhythm method of birth control. Yesterday I counseled one of my parishioners to mark his calendar and set his alarm clock to throw caution to the winds and rip his wife's clothes off on the 24th at 9 p.m. They're quite looking forward to it."
And, of course, I've been preparing for this job for years. I saw the original "Exorcist" 34 times. I watched every single Bing Crosby movie where he was a Catholic priest who sang ballads. And I was the first person on earth to review the most famous drive-in double feature ever programmed--and, I can see now that it was a Roman Catholic twin bill: "I Drink Your Blood" and "I Eat Your Skin."
I'm ready. Take me. Bless me, Father, for I have written this column, and I won't be able to go to Chicago for at least eight years.
And speaking of blood in Chicago, Chucky the Killer Doll is back for "Child's Play 2," even though the toy-company stockholders are a little jittery about keeping a toy on the market that's been accused of being a serial murderer and stealing the souls of children. But they figure, "Hey, if the federal government says it's a safe toy, it must be a safe toy." It's just a bunch of NEGATIVE publicity. And so they step up mass-production of the little freckle-faced talking demon rug-rat with the filthy mouth.
Unfortunately, Andy's mom, who witnessed Chucky's murders in the first movie, has been hauled off to the loony bin, and Andy is sent to a foster home. Meanwhile, Chucky is being reassembled by the toy-company engineers, who try to figure out what went haywire, and then turned over to a mushmouth p.r. guy who's on the way to see his girlfriend when--well, you remember the LAST time Chucky got into a car. Hijack City. And before you know it, Chucky is hanging around the foster home, assassinating other dolls, hitching rides on the school bus so he can write obscenities on the teacher's papers at Andy's school, and murdering several adults who can't seem to figure it out.
The only two people who see Chucky for what he truly is--a maniac killer toy--are little Andy and his teenage foster-sister. Remember when you were a kid, and you would get this sudden urge to rip the little doll-baby's head off? Or maybe just see if the doll-baby's head WOULD come off? And you'd get in trouble with your mother?
By the time Andy and his sister decide to rip little Chucky's head and arms and legs off, they don't care WHAT Mama says.
Excellent goo-fest at the end.
Eight dead bodies.
Two dead dolls.
Two motor vehicle chases.
Bicycle pump through the chest.
Plate-glass window Fu.
Hot bloody wax Fu.
Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Alex Vincent, the same kid from the first movie, for attacking Chucky with an electric carving knife; Christine Elise, as Andy's big foster-sister, for pitching Chucky through a station wagon windshield; Don Mancini, the writer, and John Lafia, the director, for having Chucky use a cellular phone and saying "Now it's time to play 'Hide the soul.'"
Three and a half stars. Joe Bob says check it out.
MonsterVision host segments for Child's Play 2 and Joe Bob's "Nair Witch Project"
JOE BOB'S ADVICE TO THE HOPELESS
Communist Alert! The Palmdale Family Drive-In in Palmdale, Calif., last drive-in in the Antelope Valley, went quietly after 30 years. One night they were showing "Wizard" and "Family Business." The next night, nada. Empty. Vanished. Dave Wallace of Mokelumne Hill, Calif., was spooked by it. He reminds us that, without eternal vigilance, it can happen here.
To discuss the meaning of life with Joe Bob, or to get free junk in the mail and his "We Are The Weird" newsletter, write Joe Bob, P.O. Box 2002, Dallas, TX 75221, or call his comedy line and leave your name and address: 1-900-4-JOEBOB ($1.50 first minute, 75 cents each additional). Joe Bob's Fax line: 214-368-2310.
Dear Joe Bob,
Many of the lesser known drive-in films never reach drive-ins here. Some high sheriffs have made Canada--Ontario especially--as close as you can get to Communism while still being called democratic. Did you know about Ontario's censor board? Up here a horror film can get an "R" rating (equivalent in terms to an "X" rating in the states) and the high sheriffs CAN STILL CUT THE FILM TO THEIR BABTIST LIKING! At least the board is much more lenient than before.
The drive-in will never die!
Milton, Ontario, Canada
Censorship in Canada? If the Canadians are gonna insist on speaking French, the least they could do is be as DISGUSTING as the French.
Joe Bob, dear one,
Who designed your black leather jacket with fringes and white leather motifs?
By God, you're gettin' close to yuppiedom. It makes me nervous--all your trips to L.A. (and possible visits to RO-DAY-OH Drive. Also possible visits to the Hefner mansion). I know you're sneakin' around in low/high circles because of your famous Christmas card with Dennis Quaid. No protests. You've gone Hollywood! Just like Phyllis Diller, you're sneakin' in a slow-growth image change on us--seepin' up through the floorboards--seepin' up through the surgeon's scalpel and other skullduggeries. Next (God forbid) you'll be drinking Heinekens Beer. The ultimate betrayal of your Grapevine, Tex. roots!
You wouldn't do a scurvy thing like that, would you? Or have you just gone "high-hat" on loyal fans?
Read my lips,
As I was saying to Frank and Liza the other day, you can never forget your roots. I agree with you completely. We discussed it in the limo on the way to the Vegas airport.
Hey Joe Bob, or should I say Dear Mr. Briggs?
I've been wanting to write you a letter for a long time, but I'm just a lazy bum. Besides, I am somewhat intimidated by your cynicism (see, I can't even spell, and I'm far too lazy to look it up in a dictionary). You see, part of me wants you to respect me, part of me thinks that if you respect me my image of you will be blown, and the other part of me just wants free junk.
I guess you could say I'm a fan, because I don't hate yer guts.
Ready to hear something really funny? I'm sitting here at midnight watching Ronnie Reagan's testimony at the Poindexter trial. I keep hoping a sickening mutant woman dressed in pink spandex will jump through the wall, rip the judges' head off, say "Okay, Ron--yer guilty as the public that elected you. Even though you're not on trial, I sentence you to become a regular on the Pee Wee Herman Show."
A joke for you: "A man is at a bar ordering shots of whiskey. After each shot, he looks in his shirt pocket for a minute, shakes his head and orders another shot. After repeating this about 10 times, he gets ready to leave--but the bartender has to ask him, 'Why were you looking in yer pocket?' Well, there's a picture of my wife in there--so I drink until she's pretty, then I go home and ------ her."
Oh hell, my goal was to give you a good laugh--quite a challenge, I imagine. If I've failed, I'm sorry. No I'm not.
Iowa City, Ia.
I'm almost too intimidated to write you back. Actually, you're MORE cynical than me--or is it just an act? Are you TRYING to be more cynical than me, because you think a cynic wouldn't like anything LESS cynical than his own nature? That forces me into a position of saying something incredibly cynical right now, so as not to be shown up by your own cynicism.
Maybe, in our heart of hearts, we're both pathetic insecure weenies.
I also must add my vote for Frank's Chicken House as one of the top-ten topless bars in the U.S. of A. Where else can you go enjoy a show featuring an attractive Penthouse Pet (yeah, there actually is such a thing!) and then have a Polaroid taken with her (buck nekkid, of course) and her two amazing talents for a mere $10. To top it all off, the photographer was her mother. America--you gotta love it!
See you at the drive-in,
Don't tell me. Her father is the guy with the microphone who says, "Kamikazes half price during the next two songs--it's time to PARTY!"
Dear Joe Bob,
I am in the Army (temporarily, thank Buddha) stationed in Germany. I eat food that any self-respecting catfish would refuse to stomach.
To me, laughter is the most precious commodity available to mankind today, and it nigh makes the hair 'pon my toes tingle to know one so uniquely humorous as yourself is a champion of this cause. Your article lauding the Dice-Man and decrying his plight was right on target. That kind of censorship smacks of a Banana Republic dictatorship, not a country that boasts more freedoms than Ernest Borgnine has chest hairs. Party on, Joe Bob.
Seventh Army Training Command
If they start censoring the Dice-Man, they'll have to start censoring 90 per cent of the Army. You guys have told me stuff in letters that would gross HIM out.
© 1990 Joe Bob Briggs All Rights Reserved. Click here for more reviews by the artist formerly known as the host of MonsterVision
A pregnant woman is brought into the hospital. She waits patiently for help but suddenly starts saying, "Shouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't, didn't, won't, can't..."
An orderly rushes over and a nurse says, "We had better hurry, she's gone into contractions."
Elvis has left the building, and he took Joe Bob with him.