It's not so much that John Tucker must die . . .

Last night I had the enjoyable privilege of meeting up with the Cartoonist, the Pianist, and the Mathematician for two movies at Haar's Drive-In, a mid-state institution located just off U.S. 15 North in Dillsburg, Pennsylvania.

I hadn't been to a drive-in since maybe the late '60s or early '70s, when I went with my father and two brothers to see a marathon of John Wayne movies (The Fighting Kentuckian and The Wake of the Red Witch, among others) at the Marine Drive-In (or maybe it was the Cinema Drive-In? the North 17? the South 17?) in Jacksonville, North Carolina. If my memory serves me--and let's face it, it's been a looooong time ago--we drove up to the drive-in in our early '60s "blue bomber," this great Dodge station wagon that served as a reliable and funky second car through a series of indifferent and nondescript first cars (this was during my parents' Mercury and American Motors phase, if I recall correctly). We had blankets and provisions, although being the youngest by five years, I am sure that I whined enough that we made multiple trips to the snack bar on my Dad's dime.

I don't remember much about the movies (didn't John Wayne get attacked by a giant squid at some point?), other than the thrill of being able to stay up way past my bedtime as part of this male-bonding moment.

Oh but how could I have almost forgotten the "incident"?

During intermission, they showed previews of coming attractions. Being that this was the pre-enforced-family-friendly era and Jacksonville, the home of Camp LeJeune, was a veritable cuckoo's nest of carnally crazed Marine recruits, apparently there wasn't much thought given to the ratings of the previews being shown. (This was probably still in the era when films were rated "M" for "mature" rather than "R" for "restricted" or "XXX" for "X-ceptionally blue.") So they ran a preview of some Hell's Angels hoochie-mama extravaganza, something like Hell's Fallen Angels, Hell's Dirty Angels, Hell's Arched-back Angels, whatever, which featured dancing, breasts, and rock music, the Unholy Trinity of Evil among Southern Baptists of the time (and today, for that matter).

Nowadays, I'm sure some of the families in attendance would draw and quarter the projectionist for inflicting such celluloid lewdness upon the impressionable minds of their little innocents--even though said little innocents in just a few years' time would be playing slap-and-tickle with their dates at the very same drive-in. But I must confess I really don't remember much about this incident, other than details filtered to me through family members. The only memory I have of the incident is a very vague recollection of some motorcycle mama gyrating her hips so vigorously that her jeans slid down to reveal a rather ruffly pair of undies. I probably thought that was funny, wonderful even, kind of like something you could make a toy do. I'm sure I went home with this in mind, and over the next few days, practiced making my sister's dolls perform this very trick to entertain an appreciative audience of G.I. Joe and pals at Barbie's "Live! Exotic Dancing!" Nightclub.

Perhaps this young innocent was impressed by his surroundings more than anyone ever realized. All I seem to remember about my trips to Jacksonville as a child was the Ronco Hobby Show at New River Center and the wealth of "Oriental massage parlors" and palaces of "exotic dancing" along LeJeune and Marine boulevards.

Ah, me loathe you long time.

* * *

Anyhow, no one lost their trousers in a fit of exotic dancing at the drive-in last night. Not even me, dammit. And more's the pity, because it was strictly family fare (Barnyard) and teen comedy-trauma (John Tucker Must Die).

For the record, being that all parties involved are childless and over 30--and in some cases over 40--I think it's safe to assume that the evening's bill was not the thing any of us would have normally chosen to see. But it was late in the summer drive-in season and rumors abound that Haar's won't last another year, despite the crowds there last night. Thus, we figured we better take our chances, bring out the deck chairs, and settle in to enjoy the kitschy glamour-of-yesteryear experience, if not the movies themselves.

And a good thing, too, that we approached the evening's entertainment with this sort of ethos, as Barnyard was pretty horrendous, if I do say so.

We arrived late, greeted in the dark by a looming, giant cow (or, rather, a bull), which freaked us all out until we realized it was a movie, only a movie, and that a parking lot in Dillsburg hadn't been taken over by 50-foot-tall cattle-aliens from outer space. Nevertheless, maybe the combination of bovine fear and loathing coupled with tardiness distracted us from fully appreciating the pastoral Barnyard experience. Still, it all seemed pretty hackneyed and fecund-smelling, like something dreamed up by businessmen with a bottom line in mind rather than animators with a creative vision in their mind's eye. In other words, the same ol' celluloid cud.

Before we even made it to the theater, before even the evening was a gleam in anyone's eye, the Cartoonist was already ticked off as all the bulls--the male cows, as it were--were drawn with udders. Now, granted, human males have nipples as do some other males of various species, but it seemed pretty clear to all of us, even with severely limited calf-roping and cattle-ranching experience among us, that bulls do not have udders.

Perhaps this is a bit of Hollywood sleight-of-hand, an example of how Pixar and Friends are "out of touch" with mainstream America, with Barnyard representing a blatant attempt to promote a transgendered agenda to God's Chosen People (i.e., Americans, second in line after the Jews). However, we suspected a more basic (or, if you prefer, base) agenda was at work here, a corporate one concerned solely with making money, with the the udders illustrating the producers' point that Americans are too stupid to recognize animated cattle as such without benefit of teats. Even if said teats resembled the plugs on European appliances more than the real thing.

It's sad for all of us, really.

I questioned the animated reality of various other plot points as well. However, the Cartoonist wisely surmised that already we weren't dealing with a full 52-card deck of truth. "I'm pretty sure barnyard animals can't talk, even when no one else is around," he comforted.

It's hard to determine which was the most egregiously awful turn of events in the story--the barn burnin' parties that the animals threw when the farmer was asleep (replete with riverdancing horses--"a joke that's at least ten years old," noted the Cartoonist--and twangy techno music, a la "Cotton-Eyed Joe" by Rednex, again another decade-old gag), the fact that the farmer is a Vegan (um, so he's just raising the animals for entertainment value--and vaguely defined "animal husbandry" purposes?), or the inevitable romance between manchild (i.e., bullcalf) Otis and single-heifer-to-be Daisy. (The Cartoonist: "Wait, did I miss something? Did Otis knock her up?" Me: "No, I think her cow husband died in a storm. That or we'll have to wait for the DVD to see the deleted scenes of Otis and Daisy's trip to the abortion clinic and Daisy's tearful realization that she does, indeed, want this calf.")

* * *

Nevertheless, as bad as Barnyard was, it wasn't quite as diarrhea-inducingly terrible as John Tucker Must Die. Maybe the movie was made worse by comparison--after all, the animated characters in Barnyard lack free will to say no, I don't want to be in this piece of film flim flam, while the actors in John Tucker are, as far as we know, not under threat of mob hits, variable rate mortgages, or community service obligations, inducing them to participate against their will and better judgment.

Here's the story in short: John Tucker (played by Jesse Metcalfe, the hunky-horny teen gardener from Desperate Housewives) is a high school football player and a high school playa. He's broken the hearts of various senior-year female stereotypes--the sassy, trick-hipped cheerleader, the foxy technogeek, and the hemp-bra-wearing, vegetarian slut. C'mon, every high school has one of each, right?

Along comes the heretofore plain-'n'-simple good girl, Kate (played by Brittany Snow, formerly of American Dreams, or as the Cartoonist kept asking, "So which one is she, Mary Kate or Ashley?"), who is encouraged to play hard to get to bring down superstud John Tucker for girlkind everywhere. Meanwhile, Kate sacrifices her soul to the Satan of Popularity and (almost) loses the boy of her dreams, John's brooding, indie brother (whose name I can't remember nor can be bothered to look up--it was probably Heathcliff or Mister Darcy, something like that, as every teen movie since Clueless can't get made without at least one reference to the Brontës or Jane Austen--call it The Norton Critical Anthology of English Literature School of Filmmaking). While Kate tries to work her difficult-by-design charms on John, the no-good-nik, never-went-to-the-barber Brother Tucker bonds with Kate over chem lab and Cheap Trick song lyrics.

Funny, no one in these movies ever bonds over lyrics by the Leather Nun or Throbbing Gristle.

Suffice it say, the movie is like a bad parody of Not Another Teen Movie that doesn't get that it's a bad parody of Not Another Teen Movie, which is already a parody in the first place. Besides, I think I saw the same plot on an episode of Square Pegs, like, twenty years ago with much of the same music--originals and remakes of Cheap Trick, Elvis Costello, and The Cure, et al. Who knew that '80s acts had such street cred among the youth of today--or at least among the movie producers of today?

It's hard to believe any teen would take this turkey seriously, but no one ever went belly up underestimating the intelligence of people who insist on wearing flip-flops in the winter.

In conclusion, perhaps it's not so much that John Tucker must die, rather that he, the entire cast and crew, and the producers, should just suffer horrendously, publicly, and eternally. I envision a South Park-ian Hades full of fire, brimstone, earnestly cheery Mormons, and Saddam Hussein's cabinet of "marital aids" for the lot of 'em.

Thanks to the magic of cinema, the talent and technology behind this cinematic drudgery will indeed suffer for all time, as film--not to mention, the Internet Movie Database--will preserve its awfulness for eternity.

But in a tragic, ironic twist of fate, the same medium that humiliates them will cause us, the viewing public, to suffer as well--at least if we travel coast-to-coast on a U.S. air carrier anytime in the next six months and pay the $5 for the headphones for the in-flight movie.

When you put it that way, snakes on a plane don't sound so bad.