Monstervision's Joe Bob Briggs Looks At

Dinosaur Island (1994)

The finest prehistoric Amazon-bikini-babes-on-a-desert-island flick ever made

Who Monsters

"Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-In" for 2/11/94
By Joe Bob Briggs
Drive-In Movie Critic of Grapevine, Texas

poster What are people talking about when they say, "Well, you know, it's the nineties"?
I have no idea what this means.
I mean, what do they expect me to say? "It is NOT. It's the SIXTIES." There's a movie out right now with a poster that says "A Love Story For the Nineties."
Well, I HOPE it's for the nineties, because the goldang movie is coming out in 1994.
Just exactly what idea is supposed to pop into your head when you hear the words "The Nineties"?
Are there really this many people into NUMEROLOGY? Has everyone turned into a New Age rock-worshippin loonie who thinks that when the date goes from December 31, 1989, to January 1, 1990, something in the sky moves and we go into a different MIND ZONE or something?
And even if we ARE gonna talk about "The Nineties," what the hell does it mean? After all, we've just barely started in on 1994. We had three years with a Republican, one with a Democrat. We had two years with a bad economy, two years with a recovering economy. We had homeless people the whole time. We had the same bad TV shows over and over again the whole time. We had one real war, but it was over so quick we forgot about it. We had two years of Communism in Russia and two years WITHOUT Communism, and it's too early to tell which one was better.

In other words, what the hell ARE the Nineties, and what do people mean when they say that? We've got everything from "a car for the nineties" to "a fashion statement for the nineties" to that favorite of the news magazines--the "Woman of the Nineties." And I get the impression, when people say "You need this new CD Player For the Nineties," that what they're really saying is that it's BETTER than something you could buy in the eighties.
But that's not really the way people say it on the street. They always SHRUG when they say it, like, "Oh well, you know, IT'S THE NINETIES." If you say "It's a Nineties Thing," a lot of people mean, "It's all screwed up, it doesn't make sense, we'll never fix it, and they're all crooks anyway."
So which is it?
Does The Nineties mean new and different and special and modern?
Or does it mean crummy and cynical and broken-down and stupid?
It can't be BOTH things, right?
And if it IS both things, why do we say The Nineties at all? Why does it matter what the NUMBER of the year is? Why don't we just say "Today"?
Am I thinking about this too much?
I don't think so. I think people are really screwed up on this one.

Anyhow, I got your movie for the nineties. Isn't it about time for a flick about prehistoric bikini babes wearing nothing but furry loin cloths and animal-skin tops, running around a desert island being chased by giant dinosaurs and ripping off their clothes for some stranded Army guys who wash up on shore one day?

Of course it is, and who better to bring it to us than the can't-miss ultra-low-budget directing team of Jim "Remove Your Tops, Please, Ladies" Wynorski and Fred Olen "That Looks Good Enough For Me" Ray.
The idea of this movie is to cross Jurassic Park with "Monster on Party Beach," and so it's got everything--virgin sacrifice, Amazon river bathing, jungle hot-tub massage, cheesy dinosaur attacks, catfights, pterodactyl-hunting, purple cave monsters, and, of course, primitive pesticide laboratories. That's not to mention all the people making the sign of the twin-pronged rutabaga all over the landscape.
In other words, there's no doubt about it:
This is a feminist statement for the nineties.

Four dead bodies.
Three dead dinosaurs.
Twenty-four breasts.
Exploding dinosaur head.
Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Nikki Fritz, as the blue-bodied high priestess who dances around like a dancer from Goldfingers Topless who's done too much acid;
Ross Hagen, as the grizzled old Army veteran who lands on the island with three goofball prisoners;
Richard Gabai, as the private who washes ashore and says "Please, God, let it be Club Med";
Griffen Drew, as the prehistoric bimbo who says "Teach me page 34!";
Toni Naples, as the Amazon queen;
Michelle Bauer, as the catfighting virgin, for her two enormous talents;
Peter Spellos, as the obligatory fat guy, for saying "It's time to kick some monster ass!";
Tom Shell, as the brainy one, for finding a giant blue dinosaur egg and saying "My God, think of the cholesterol";
and Antonia Dorian, as the dimwit soothsayer who could be a B-movie star of the future.
Four stars.
Joe Bob says check it out.


Victory Over Communism! The Bel Air Drive-In Theatre and Big M Restaurant on Route 22 in Churchville, Md., had one of its best years in a decade, thanks to its regular schedule of Saturday-night antique car shows and the eternal vigilance of owner Bob Wagner, who has worked at the 12-acre, 300-car site since 1968 and still lives in a trailer on the property. (Four other family members also live in trailers at the drive-in.) Roland S. Sweet of Alexandria, Va., Melissa Darwin of Baltimore, Biff Dorsey of Portland, Ore., and Tony Wilds of Baltimore remind us that the drive-in will never die. To discuss the meaning of life with Joe Bob, or to get free junk in the mail and the world famous newsletter, "The Joe Bob Report," write to Joe Bob Briggs, P.O. Box 2002, Dallas, TX 75221. Joe Bob's Fax line is always open: 214-368-2310.

Dear Joe Bob,
In a recent column of yours occurs the following:
"I do distinguish between actual breasts and the dreaded STUNT BREASTS."
I assume that by "stunt breasts" you mean breasts that belong to some back-up bimbo rather than to the top-billing bimbo. But let us reconsider. Why are a back-up bimbo's breasts any less actual than the top-billing bimbo's breasts? Are they fake breasts or prosthetic breasts? Those back-up bimbo breasts may well be just as nice as, maybe nicer than, the top-billing bimbo's breasts. So why should they be "dreaded"? Shouldn't we be accepting of all breasts? (I realize you said "distinguish" not "discriminate," but your use of "dreaded" entails disparagement.)
Perhaps you think you are warning against some kind of consumer fraud. But we are only looking at the breasts, not actually purchasing them. Indeed, we are not even looking at actual breasts in any case but only at a cinematic illusion of breasts. Are you not the man who eloquently defended Milli Vanilli's use of artistic illusion? (By the way, the only intelligent comment I have yet seen on that affair.) Come on, Joe Bob, lighten up. It's tough enough being a back-up bimbo without having one's breasts, one's only two talents perhaps, labeled "dreaded stunt breasts" and denying their actuality.
Your linguistical friend,
Eric Hyman
Fayetteville, N.C.

Dear Eric:
I certainly did NOT mean to disparage the technical accomplishments of professional stunt-breast experts like Shelley Michelle, of "Pretty Woman" fame. When we watch a film, we should never forget the little people (or, in this case, enormous people) who made it possible.
But the excessive use of stunt breasts deprives us of the more aesthetically pleasing full-body shot, not to mention the lingering downward tilt from the face to the lower torso.
As the Russian film theorist Sergei Eisenstein once put it, "The important thing is not the isolated breast per se, but the total flesh package."

Dear Sir:
I have noticed in myself a number of disturbing trends since I began reading you regularly. I find myself setting the VCR to record movies like "Assault of the Killer Bimbos" and "Amazon Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death." I find myself frequenting the low-budget section of the video store. But a recent experience was the last straw. I bought a copy of "Losin' It." I watched it. I enjoyed it. I will watch it again. I think that pretty much says everything, doesn't it?
I am no longer surprised that "The Oregonian" refuses to carry any of your columns. Twice recently they have censored Dave Barry. While, unlike you, I am not necessarily opposed to censorship, but Dave Barry! "Dangerous" and "subversive" are not words that come to mind when I think of Dave Barry.
James Isaak
Hillsboro, Ore.

Dear Jimbo:
You didn't think that Dave Barry column about his dirty laundry went just a LITTLE BIT over the line?

Dear Joe Bob,
There is one unsolved mystery that has puzzled me for quite a while now. Whatever happened to the chair that broke Geraldo Rivera's nose? Do you think there is a conspiracy here? I cannot believe that a chair can disappear without a trace. Maybe you can shed some light on this subject.
Jaime Iglesias
San Francisco

Dear Jaime:
The chair that broke Geraldo Rivera's nose is in the Smithsonian Institution, of course, right between Archie Bunker's chair and the chair that Indiana basketball coach Bobby Knight hurled across the court.

To Joe Bob Briggs,
Re: Your suggestion of an "American Sports College."
It already exists, and has for several years. It is known as the United States Sports Academy, and it is located in Daphne, Alabama. Undergraduate, Masters, and Doctoral programs are awarded in just about every area mentioned in your article, and then some.
Just thought you may want to know!
Frank Ibieta
Baton Rouge, La.

Dear Frank:
Thanks for the info about the USSA. Now my question is, Why don't they have the greatest sports teams in the country? I've never even seen a score for one of their games.

Joe Bob,
Dateline Miami--Hyman takes a vacation. Several observations.
Postcards depict perfect 10's--bare-butt buxom bimbos in string bikinis, well hung hunks of undetermined sexual preference with perfect pecs. But all Hyman saw were Canadian and American snowbird swine with gargantuan bloated bellies (also wearing bikinis). It looked to this reporter like a Niagara Falls of flab, a shoreline full of out-of-shape sumo wrestlers. Lots of trendy bistros on Ocean Drive populated by genuine and wannabe Europeans dressed in obligatory Edgar Allen Sassoon funereal black and sporting the ubiquitous "Cochise Whiz" hairstyle (like who's yer barber, Mr. Oil Change?).
How bout it, Luigi, lose the pony tail . . . and get a life!
Between the tourists and the fact that Miami is Fossil Central, driving can be a challenge. Traffic copters don't report traffic jams in Miami, they report heart attacks. "Yeah, we got a baby blue Rolls just jumped the guard rail on I-95 South and heading north at high rate of speed--possible coronary arrest. Proceed with caution." Or "We got another stroke victim on the MacArthur Causeway, looks like they're gonna have to saw that biddy out. Please use alternate routes."
Took the tour boat around the Miami Harbor, a breath-holding view of the Miami Beach rich and famous. Saw where Vanilla Ice lives. Saw where Gloria Estefan lives. Saw where Flipper's widow and Gentle Ben live. Nice condos on Fisher's Island, modest but tasteful. Went to the famous Rick's on Key West, just long enough to be barfed next to by some local who decided it would be a good idea if she took a shot of every hard liquor in the bar. Somewhere between the gin and the Cuervo she projectile-vomited all over the nice 300-pound biker to her right. Hyman was up on his barstool like a circus elephant. Takes the blush right off the rose.
There's so much more, but this is Hyman ... goodday.

Dear Hyman:
You didn't even get a flamingo ashtray?

1994 Joe Bob Briggs All Rights Reserved

For more of Joe Bob's pre-TNT reviews in Grapevine, Texas, go to his Drive-In Reviews Archive over yonder at www.Joe Bob

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