Griffin
Marks, the ingenious filmmaker behind the low-budget motion picture, Beer
Muscles, is a riot. In the film, he shows that he has a flowing sense of
writing comedy, always sustaining enough jokes that will tickle his
audiences in each scene to overpower the stinkers. His sense of humor is
comprised of a beautiful variety of subjects. In Marks’ script, one will
find gutsy satire and one-liners, alongside a lot of loveably stupid gags.
He also shines, acting in the film as M. Pinot Grigio, a beer-hating winery
owner, who plans to lead the extinction of the cheaper, less-sophisticated
form of alcohol. Marks had me laughing, and in this type of micro-budget,
independent feature, that’s usually all that matters.
With that said, I think he should quit making
movies and try standup comedy, instead. As a director, Marks fails,
miserably. At times in Beer Muscles, I felt like I was watching some
type of pornography. As Mr. Grigio joked about sex with his employee, and
the half-techno-half-elevator-music-style soundtrack reached its crescendo,
I seriously thought that the two would soon take off their clothes and
invite a group of girls into the room. Tonally, Beer Muscles crashes
and burns; every frame of it is devoid of a sense of feeling or atmosphere.
Marks’ tremendous bits of other work are all put to shame in the execution
that is certainly abysmal and almost insufferable.
I must be joking, right? Why does a movie about
beer need artistry? Because all films’ success is reliant upon their
awareness of their intentions. They exhibit such primarily through the mood
that a director creates.
Later on in Beer Muscles, the bartending
protagonist, Bob Drummond (Bill Booker) drinks a magical formula of his
favorite beverage, which makes him strong, giving him the power to defeat
the evil, grape-infested mind of the nerdy Gigio. Instead of Marks making
the feeling of Bob’s adventures of revenge ridiculously triumphant, he turns
them into a simple showcase of straightforward comedy. There’s nothing
incredibly bad about this bland technique, but it feels generic, and
certainly will not resonate with many viewers.
Marks definitely isn’t the only one who should be
blamed for the ultimate failure of Beer Muscles, though. He is, after
all, the motion picture’s greatest asset, even if his obvious mistakes
aren’t exactly ignorable. For the most part, the supporting cast behind him
is awful. In the leading role, Bill Booker is flat out terrible. Being the
beer-loving idiot that Bob is, it was necessary for the actor to bring a
certain amount of sympathy to the character. Instead, he plays the
stereotypical underdog of a jackass, and this will result in the audience
not caring about the outcome of the plot. I can’t say much for Matt McGuire
or Carmen Jessee in their roles, either. But, they seem to be more of
miscasts than bad performers (just because the options for cast-members were
understandably limited does not excuse this). At least Mark Zimmerman is
hysterical as Chet Toodles, M. Pinot’s brother, who has been condemned to
hard work.
Beer Muscles doesn’t pretend to be anything
short of a dumb, little movie, and I suppose that’s honorable. But, its
writer/director/actor/editor/producer’s potential to make something
fantastic kept me longing for much more than it turned out to be. Is the
film worth seeing? Probably not, but it does have some ambitious elements
that are rather amusing to watch. However, crude humor doesn’t always come
off as only good fun when there isn’t the proper tone or performances
backing it. I can respect whatever hysterical elements there may be in
Beer Muscles, but I cannot go as far as recommending it. Maybe next
time, Griff.
-Danny, Bucket Reviews (8.11.2004)
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