Rock ‘n’ Roll Nightmare (the Edge of Hell)

If Jesus performed only one miracle would he still be considered God? Bodybuilder turned musician turned writer/actor/producer, Jon Mikl Thor, hammers on with a searing vibrato NoOoOoOoOOO!!

Filmed (coincidentally?) in seven days with a budget disputed between 53 and 100 grand, the aptly titled Rock ‘n’ Roll Nightmare is a 90 minute infomercial for the 15 seconds of fame enjoyed by Canadian Hard Rock group Thor & The Tritonz. As literal as the title translates it hides much. Take, for example, the viscus montage of Jon Mikl Thor’s pet conversion van, Ducker, that hilariously dams the movie’s post title screen inertia. I doubt it is different than any other first date with Jon Mikl Thor: equal parts tongue chugging and flexing once you get past the baby pictures of Ducker: here with hazy, Canadian sun setting, here on a routine trip to the comic book store, and here, flying 55 through a school zone, cassette deck nearing melting point, hair whipping madly, aflame with wind, Thor atop the hood of the van, his pulpy, billowing thighs in a firm straddle. “She’ll also have the sausage platter,” he says before turning slowly to you, and winks, ignorantly with both eyes, your last chance of escape. Too ditsy and starstruck by his karaoke fame you soon find yourself exposing your breasts, worse, exposing his breasts, being faux humped in the shower and going straight to video. “You’re a movie star baby!”

The movie quietly begins its reenactment of The Real World using a worse, more innocent cast, interspersed with the freshly shredded mozza of band rehearsals which love interests bop and sew along to out of beat. The most distinguishing aspect of the first two-thirds of the movie might be one character’s confused Australian accent that makes the Outback Steakhouse look like Alec Guinness.

I’m not here to give you a boob by boob, just don’t give up on the movie as it plods around the house with a Go Pro on the cat’s head. Every time he says he wants to go, “work on that new love song,” keep in mind he’s also cooking up a but wait, there’s more! Ron Popeil would kill to deliver. We’re talking, triple your knives, deep fried and freeze dried M. Night Shyamalan, vacuum sealed to eternal freshness.

Once you get done shouting gleefully and spinning horns out like a Rock ‘n’ Roll Dreidel (if anyone would like to Kickstarter that into a reality please email me), and you sit, a smile yawning dreamily across your face, fatigued as by a bout of strange love making (and there was plenty of that), think back on what this now makes of the boring yet circuitous events of the movie. A subtle fin yet rock on. (!Asterisk * Asterisk *Asterisk!)

“I set my goals and I pace myself and I plan out all of my moves,” Mikl Thor claims in the song Energy. I’m not sure what his goal was, but this movie is about as counter productive for Thor & The Tritonz as buying street cred from Wal-Mart (spinners for Ducker!). If seven hours of shooting is Thor pacing himself I’d love to see what he’d do in a rush. Ninety minutes of unique footage shot in less than an hour? That’s right, I’m not putting time travel beyond Jon Mikl Thor. It might be the kind of time travel that transforms any shred of joy to be found in your suburban existence into a walking motley Frankenstein of post apocalyptic communism, where your son, quite frankly, is a dick; but it’s time travel folks! The man is a bodybuilder-actor-musician, the very definition of triune. When Bo Jackson dies I’ll simply be bored by the obituary. Facts are, when Jon Mikl Thor gets a new hobby, he produces. If only he were stimulated by the plight of the United States government. We might not have a balanced budget, but we’d sure as hell have a fiscal plan. Everyone over the age of 12 daily flexing the national anthem, as ineffectual as it may be, far exceeds  our current swamp of minutia and cocksmanship. Er… the minutia would be gone! Alas he’s a proud Canuck: “Cuz Toronto is where it’s happening man; the music, the film industry, the arts,” and why shouldn’t he be? Canada is the country where such great men as Jon Mikl Thor were born! This presents a dilemma. Which came first, the idea of Canadian pride or Jon Mikl Thor’s Canadian pride? Much like the chicken or the egg, the answer is an obvious Jon Mikl Thor! Have I mentioned how fun it is to say his name?

In a day and age where everything has been done before, the internet vibrating in the pocket of your conscience at ready to prove it, it’s nice to be reminded that “you can suck and still rule,” as school teacher turned indie rock star Robert Pollard puts it. So your physique is a Cro-Magnon opus of teased hair and sequin man panties; your music a merely tolerable, watered down W.A.S.P;  and your movies, poorly edited trapper keeper doodles come to life, shots hovering and held to the eternal of a Nebraskan horizon; so what. I honestly love you for it.

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