Dir.: Peter Jackson
You may have heard of Peter Jackson. I'll assume you have.
We take for granted that creators of works of art which we consider classics have always been masters of their art. It is almost inconceivable that a renown artist was once simply a gifted amateur with a passion and a dream. Even more incomprehensible; an amateur showing little talent for the genre. Peter Jackson has been gracious enough to show us his early days as a budding director. He has a few slasher/horror movies to his credit, and stomach-churning gore was his canvas of choice. Bad Taste marks a moment is his career when money was nonexistent, plot and script were almost after-thoughts, and special effects producing the maximum amount of reaction from the viewer were high on the list of priorities. I won't criticize Jackson's muse; there is a huge fan following for such films and I am not going to judge the taste of others. What I will say is that Jackson the Auteur was still groping to find his way at this stage. There is a distinctive style, but the brush-strokes are broad and brutal.
Jackson doesn't make a narrative story so much as speak to you while throwing bricks at you, so to speak. The true star of this film is the gross-factor. At one point a hero of the movie has fallen to his seeming death over the side of a truly horrific cliff sprouting rocks and boulders like a Chia pet sprouts, well, sprouts. After a few scenes this hero, who was last seen sprawled across the rocks as a lifeless corpse, flails away the luckless seagulls and pulls himself back together; quite literally. A brilliant piece of cheap make-up has the back of the hero's skull hanging open like a trap-door, and bits of brain are falling out in a heap. He tries to shake the fuzziness out of his vision, feels the pangs of his missing brains, spots the stuff he is missing in a small gelatinous pile behind him; and proceeds to scoop it up and stuff it back into the open cavity, gravel, stray scrub-grass, seagull shit and all. A handy top hat found in a nearby wrecked car serve to keep his brain-flap closed until he can find his companions.
The movie is tongue-in-cheek, the budget consisted of pizzas and soft-drinks, and the script was likely written on the backs of tavern coasters. The special effects and make-up are pretty impressive, considering the amount of money going into the production, which is likely the truest testament to Jackson's genius. He made a bad film, but obviously wasn't aiming high, so it works. I am not a fan of this genre, but I could still appreciate the crafting of this piece of art. I didn't enjoy it enough to watch it again and again, but enough to have seen it once.
What really stood out for me was watching the formation of a truly great director who is finding his way. His use of guerrilla cinematography and cuts that make little sense for the viewer are tell-tale signs that he was still an amateur finding his way. His creativity, though aimed at producing a desired reaction, still shines like a lighthouse beacon through the fog of the film's other limitations. I had more fun comparing what he produced then and is able to produce now than I had actually watching the film for what it offered on it's own.
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