Stinker Madness - The Bad Movie Podcast

If you’ve ever wondered what happens when you strap an entire B‑movie budget to a shaky cam and christen it with Ice‑T’s name—then promptly hand the lead role to someone who isn’t him—congratulations: you’ve discovered 2001’s airborne atrocity Air Rage (or, as I like to call it, “Fly‑Hard But Wrong”). It’s exactly the kind of gleefully clueless cheese you’d expect from a Fred Olen Ray slash Jim Wynorski double feature, and that’s precisely why you’ll fall in love with its every misguided moment. From the opening explosions in a different movie—where our villain dreams of explosions in HIS movie—to the big reveal that Ice‑T only pops up about 45 minutes into the movie (playing a black ops infiltrator with the emotional range of a traffic cone), the movie instantly subverts expectations. You think you’re signing up for a hardcore, Ice‑T‑led thriller? Nope. Our real hero is...someone else (no spoilers). Plot? It’s basically “terrorists on a plane” meets “hey, why not throw in a top secret CD-ROM just for kicks?” And of course the whole scheme unravels thanks to dialogue so cheesily literal (“You're one dumb SOB, Sykes.” Sykes: "Yeah I know.") that you’ll swear the screenwriters were scribbling in crayon. The action scenes bounce along with the grace of a kangaroo on Red Bull: fists connect both when they should and should not, explosions happen in the background just to remind you they owned the footage, and the stunts range from “did they even plan that?” to “wait, a plane tube?” But the pièce de résistance is the physics—or, more accurately, the complete absence thereof. Gravity politely excuses itself for the runtime. Bullets seem to curve around heads. Planes nosedive, bank, and somehow still manage to land on runway-sized targets with millimeter precision. It’s like someone chucked Newton’s laws out the emergency exit hatch and never looked back. All of this adds up to a riotous, unintentional joyride. If you’re a fan of Fred Olen Ray’s gleeful disregard for coherence or Jim Wynorski’s unapologetic embrace of “that’ll do” effects, Air Rage is your new cult classic. Bad? Oh, undeniably. But in the grand tradition of so‑bad‑it’s‑good cinema, it’s a glorious, gloriously dumb flight you won’t regret taking.

A film that manages to accomplish nothing, makes us dislike the mains, but still makes us like the movie.... "Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man" is one wild, misguided ride that desperately tries—and fails—to turn its two lead dirtballs into lovable scoundrels. Instead of evolving into charming antiheroes, they remain gloriously repulsive, wallowing in a sea of their own filth, which only adds to the film’s bizarre, unintentional humor. The movie seems to have tossed the rulebook out the window. Physics takes a permanent vacation when bulletproof trench-coats, which resemble oversized garbage bags, inexplicably defy every law of nature. And let’s not even get started on the leads pulling off the 15-story jump, landing in a pool as if gravity were a mere suggestion. The relationship between the two HD and MM is as shallow as it is unconvincing—they barely share a shred of genuine care, leaving audiences to wonder if they even notice the people who care about them. Their nonchalant attitude toward life and each other underlines the film’s overarching failure to deliver the kind of dynamic, heartfelt camaraderie that makes buddy-adventure movies worth watching. Then there’s the so-called "Great Bank" and its cadre of villains. These bad guys are a mess of drug-dealing side-hustles and a squad of armed assassins who, in a twist that’s almost as puzzling as it is amusing, seem like kind of folks who jam out to Kraftwerk. Their quirky, half-baked villainy adds yet another layer of absurdity to a movie already drowning in its own incompetence. In the end, "Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man" is a complete failure as a buddy-adventure movie. Yet, in its relentless pursuit of over-the-top, ludicrous action and its blatant disregard for reality, it manages to stink it up just enough to be oddly enjoyable—a cult classic for fans of bad movies who appreciate a film that knows exactly how to be magnificently, laughably bad.

We really were losing a war to vending machines? Electric State might just be one of the most staggering wastes of resources and talent to hit the screen in years. Armed with a ludicrous budget and an all-star cast, this movie squanders every ounce of its potential in a messy, juvenile attempt at sci-fi storytelling that only children—or perhaps the most forgiving of viewers—could enjoy. Let’s start with the plot, or lack thereof. It's riddled with holes so large they could swallow entire scenes whole. Characters make inexplicable choices, key events seem to happen out of nowhere, and the emotional beats the film desperately tries to hit fall flat because nothing is earned. There’s no weight, no coherence, just a loose string of visuals pretending to be a story. But hey, why write a decent script when you can drown everything in licensed music? Electric State goes full “James Gunn cosplay,” stuffing every scene with pop tracks that feel completely out of place. Instead of enhancing the emotion or tension, these needle drops undercut every serious moment and reek of desperation—like the filmmakers thought if they just played enough familiar songs, we wouldn’t notice the soulless narrative underneath. Visually, yes, it’s slick—but when you spend what this film spent, that’s the bare minimum. The sad part is that behind the camera and in front of it are incredibly talented people. Directors, VFX artists, and A-list actors who should’ve known better are left adrift in a project that seems to have been greenlit purely based on aesthetics and IP potential rather than substance.   In the end, Electric State feels like the cinematic equivalent of handing a child the keys to a spaceship and hoping for the best. It's loud, shallow, and directionless, a bloated mess that burns money like rocket fuel and goes absolutely nowhere.

On this special episode the three of us sit down for a serious intervention - from bad movies! We discuss the Oscars winners that none of us saw. Wicked makes Jackie throw up. Sam praises Slow Horses and Gary Oldman's farting. We get an old staple of Pop Quiz, Hotshot. Sam complains about the supreme lack of Jello in our lives and Justin brings in a FilmStory about a dead director - WHO DUN IT!?   Enjoy and see you in a couple weeks!

Ah, Turbulence 3: Heavy Metal. A film so magnificently, obliviously ridiculous that it could only exist in the pre-9/11 era, where the greatest threat to air travel wasn’t terrorism, but satanic heavy metal concerts broadcast live from a 747. Yes, that’s the plot. And no, it does not get any smarter from there. Let’s start with the hero we never asked for: Slade Craven (yes, that’s his real name), a Marilyn Manson knockoff who looks like Hot Topic threw up on a scarecrow. This man struts onto the plane in full goth-rock regalia, sneering at everyone like he just walked out of a badly lit music video, but give him 30 minutes and he transforms from a moody poser into an airborne action hero, karate-kicking terrorists and saving the day with all the grace of a drunk dad at a Slipknot concert. Watching him go from “edgy Rockstar” to “Die Hard protagonist” is like watching Ozzy Osbourne suddenly pilot a space shuttle. It makes no sense, and that’s why it’s beautiful. The cast, if you can call them that, behaves less like humans and more like malfunctioning AI programmed by someone who thinks they understand human emotions. Dialogue is delivered with all the enthusiasm of a hostage video, and nobody reacts to anything with the appropriate level of concern. At one point, a terrorist hijacks the plane, and the reaction from the crew is roughly equivalent to someone realizing they forgot to pay their internet bill. And then there’s Joe Mantegna, who spends every scene looking like he wandered onto the wrong set and refused to leave. His job is to play an FBI agent trying to make sense of the madness, but he mostly just stares into the abyss, radiating the same exhausted energy as a substitute teacher dealing with a class that just discovered energy drinks. You can feel him asking himself, Why am I here? The answer: we don’t know, Joe. We really don’t. The villains? Well, they think they’re terrorists, but their actual motivation is so incoherent that by the time their master plan is revealed (summoning Satan via airplane concert???), you’ll have given up on logic entirely. There’s hacking, plane fights, a shockingly high number of fake Slade Cravens, and an ending so abrupt it feels like the film itself decided it had suffered enough. Turbulence 3: Heavy Metal is cinematic junk food at its absolute worst—and most entertaining. It’s a movie that doesn’t just jump the shark; it hijacks the shark midair, flies it into a storm, and then fights Satan on top of it. If you love bad movies, this one deserves a place on your shelf, right next to a can of expired Monster Energy and a broken Playstation 2 controller.