The Malibu Beach Vampires

Was it worth the pleasure?

Year of Release: 1991
Genre: Comedy
Rated: Not Rated
Running Time: 75 minutes (1:15)
Director: Francis Creighton


Kelly Galindo ... Chairperson, Malibu Vampires, Inc.
Christina Walker ... Vice-President, Vampire Affairs
Mimi Spivak ... Vampire In Charge of Federal Budget
Marcus Frishman ... Congressman Terry Upstart
Rod Sweitzer ... Colonel Oliver West
Gretchen House ... Pammy Faye Fakker
Francis Creighton ... Rev. Fakker
Anet Anatelle ... Wannabe Cher


In addition to the traditional bloodsuckers, there are other kinds of vampires, you know... such as some politicians, military people, and evangelists.


Malibu Beach Vampires, remindin' us that under certain circumstances, dedicatin' a movie to somebody can be considered assault.

And speakin' of the continued decline of social etiquette, can somebody tell me when we got so cynical as a society that it became taboo to go rummage salin' with another guy's girlfriend? Seriously, all you people out there spreadin' nasty rumors about my perfectly platonic relationship with Roxanne Bigelow needa lay off the Danielle Steel novels and Dear Penthouse letters for a while and consider the possibility that two people of the opposite sex can enjoy a shared interest in junk that isn't attached to each other.

I'm not sayin' Roxanne isn't a desirable woman, 'cause any chick that can open a bottle of beer with 'er armpit's obviously gonna be highly sought after - I'm just sayin' that *I* would never go after a friend's tomato, and even if she WERE single, I don't feel like I'm mature enough to comply with the dress code that accompanies datin' a gal with a 14-year-old daughter. Jeannie's a nice kid'n all, but a man's gotta have the freedom to ditch his Rustlers when it starts approachin' 86 in the house, ya know?

I used to go yard salin' with Sadie Bonebreak until she got P.O.'d about me payin' $8 for an A&W napkin dispenser and threatened to report me to A&E for accumulatin' too much "worthless crap," but Roxanne and me're like kindred kipple spirits. It don't hurt that the woman has exquisite taste and seems to know where to find all the best stuff either. Take yesterday, for example - the time, 9:14am - the place, Mabel McGarnagle's garage.

"Kodak Kolorkins, original '80s series! You want?" Roxanne shouted loud enough to startle Shirley Gimlin into bobblin' and nearly droppin' an Avon Santa Claus candle holder.

"Which ones?" I yelled back, jostlin' Clovis Skidman as I negotiated the heap of jigsaw puzzles and "antique" pop bottles separatin' me from Roxanne's find.

"Zoom and Click. But Zoom looks like he's been violated by an amorous Shar Pei," she clarified, pointing at what may or may not've been dried slobber.

"Guess ya gotta do whatcha gotta do when there's a six-foot chainlink fence separatin' you from the skanky poodle next door," I rationalized, recoilin' from the crunchy plush toy. "I'll take Click, though."

That's typically how our treasure hunts go - obnoxious broadcasting of discoveries interspersed with vehicular small talk between stops - perfectly innocent stuff.

"Neon pink bowlin' ball!" I barked after movin' on to Wilbur Carnagie's house and unzippin' an old gym bag that smelled distinctly of 1979.

"How big and how many fingers still lodged in the holes?" she hollered back.

"10lbs and... oh, thank cripes - it's just a french fry!" I replied.

"Too small! Pac Man trash can over here - minimal urine damage!" she posited.

"Grab it!" I answered.

"Ozzy Osbourne: Bark at the Moon?" I offered.

"8-track or vinyl?" she replied.

"Vinyl!" I answered.

"Gimmie!" she squealed.

"You're such a hipster," I chided.

We'd been hittin' all the prime sales every Saturday for about six weeks until an "anonymous source" saw fit to drive over to Furry Mountain Stuffing and tell Cleave Furguson that his main squeeze was out cavortin' with a strange man, and in an especially unfortunate twist of fate, as I was about to learn, that was also the day Roxanne was plannin' to ask Cleave to move in with 'er.

"You think Cleave and I make sense?" she blurted out casually and completely at random while I was diggin' through my tapes in search of Ratt's "Out of the Cellar."

Fortunately she grabbed the wheel and kept the Topaz from drivin' through Boyd Tibbets' front yard when I jerked my head sideways seeking confirmation that I'd heard the question correctly.

"Listen lady, I know the guy's uglier'n the jewelry counter at Lunk's Trunks of Fantastic Junk, but if you'd ever seen the way he looks atcha when you're tryna punch out the Double Dragon cabinet at the Gutter Bowl you'd know he's head over hinder for ya. I dunno what he did butcha gotta give 'im another chance, 'cause if ya dump 'im he might just dive off his workbench and reenact the Linnea Quigley antler scene from Silent Night, Deadly Night," I asserted with as much pseudo-expertise as I could manage.

That wasn't really what she had in mind and fortunately she was able to keep 'er bladder buckled after a fit of hysterical laughter forced 'er down into the floorboard where she purt'near uncorked the 72 oz Dr. Pepper she'd bought at the Jiffy Mart that mornin'. In the meantime, I had the privilege of sittin' next to 'er feelin' like the world's biggest non-Kardashian ass till she got ahold of 'erself.

"Thanks, that's all I needed to know. He's been living in that taxidermy shop for eight years and I was thinking maybe he could use a change of scenery," she clarified.

"Oh... yeah! Totally. Might... um... do 'im some good to wake up next to somethin' alive for a change," I mumbled in agreement.

'Course Cleave nearly queered the whole deal when he showed up at Wally Tonkin's estate sale with a recently used eye hook and a head fulla fake news, but I managed to save 'im from 'imself before he did anything stupid and hadda go back to depressin' the talent at Walleye's Topless Dancin' & Bait Shop on Christmas Eve.

"Get away from my woman," he demanded, stoppin' briefly to scrape a detached retina onto the deceased's rock wall.

"Your what?!" Roxanne whirled around with just enough shock and disbelief to stay her claws from turnin' Cleave's face into a wiffle ball.

"You. You're my wo--" he started to repeat before I could cut 'im off.

"Cleave, there's still time, so listen carefully - if we act now we can still extract your head from your ass in time for you to hear the VERY important question Roxanne wants to ask you," I suggested as politely as possible before mouthin' the words "she wants you to move in."

"Say, Roxanne, why don't you tell this ridiculous man - whose pathetic insecurity and unwavering devotion to you caused a temporary misfire in his thought center - what you told me a minute ago?" I suggested before mouthing "we do this sometimes - give him a break" at an angle only she would see.

I don't wanna go into what all was said after that 'cause it's so sappy it'd prolly make you puke, but the short version is next week I gotta help Cleave get his stuff together in a non-metaphorical sense, 'cause it all worked out.

I'll tell ya somethin', though, if even half the women people *thought* were in love with me actually were I wouldn't be able to walk straight. I've also just this moment discovered that it's possible to experience relief and depression simultaneously but it's alright 'cause attachments like that just get in the way of a guy's assessment of avant-garde cinema. I guess it's a sacrifice I'll just hafta continue makin' for the greater good. 'Cause it's definitely my choice that I've voluntarily made. Just so we're clear on that.

I was in such a lousy mood by the time I got home that I put on this flick called Malibu Beach Vampires so that anybody who stopped by would suddenly remember someplace they hadda be and split, 'cause I'll give it one thing - it can clear a room faster'n Shankles' fish gut farts. I'm tryin' not to exaggerate here, but this might be the worst thing to come outta California since the pornstache. I ain't kiddin' - this flick had less chance of findin' an audience than Caitlyn Jenner in the California Republican gubernatorial primary, it's absolutely pitiful. It WILL change your life, just not in any way the guy in charge had anticipated. To show ya what I mean though, I'd like to present a few of life's dark truths you're likely to become intimately acquainted with should you choose to stray from the path of self-preservation and actually try watchin' this thing. First, the assurance that "no animals were harmed during the making of this film" rings hollow after said animal develops an existential crisis and slips into an irreversible clinical depression. Second, when you begin to identify with the grifters, liars, and corrupt officials being roasted on the basis that it was not *they* who subjected you to a tedious reenactment of their greatest shits, the satire has failed. And third, if you must commit your most embarrassing beach experiences to film, keep in mind that Girls Gone Wild at least caters free booze.

The movie begins with 12 minutes of rejected Saturday Night Live audition skits lampooning the various religious/political scandals of the late '80s/early '90s that lead into what appears to be a "last known whereabouts" video from Unsolved Mysteries featurin' four Beach Blanket Bimbos who went missing after a talent search at Chuck Traynor's house - though they are, in actuality, the Malibu Beach Vampires (Morgan, Dottie, and Christy). First thing that happens is this guy growin' carpet samples on his chest (Col. Ollie West) shows up on the beach and offers to teach Morgan how to ride the waves without a surfboard till she hasta explain that she's been sent from the underworld to punish the users, liars, pimps, cheats, skeevs, and dweebs from Atlantic City tryna hustle counterfeit Beanie Babies to middle-aged women with Empty Nest Syndrome. She and the Bod Squad're gonna accomplish this by injectin' truth serum through their fangs and into the jugulars of politicians, door-to-door salesmen, and every guy who never called the mornin' after a tender evenin' with a naive young woman who was temporarily star struck by the leather interior of a cherry Dodge Challenger. Ollie decides to roll with it in spite of the likelihood she bites 'im and causes 'im to declare his love for a guy named Demetri that he met in boot camp over the karaoke machine at a bowlin' alley. Next thing, Tim and Pammy Faye Fakker heal a paraplegic black man who gets possessed by the Holy Spirit and forced to tap dance until the thought of openin' a Snapple makes ya wanna stick an air compressor nozzle in your ear and blast your brains out your nose like a Play-Doh Fun Factory.

Then the Fakkers lend their collection platial estate to the vampires who showed up for filmin' that day so they can discuss their hopes, regrets, and all the other stuff they usually reserve for the bathroom of the Twerkin' 9 to 5 Club while they're tryna decide whether to settle for the tool with the barbwire tattoo or wait around to see if an emotionally tormented dork carryin' a Kurt Vonnegut novel slinks in and tucks 'imself into an isolated corner of the smoking section. After that Morgan decides to bite Ollie right before a press conference and he ends up givin' up all the dish on the situation in Nicaragua and assurin' everyone in attendance that there was no way Uncle Ronnie knew anything about the contras 'cause by that time mosta his meetins were over by the time he was able to remember where The Situation Room was. Then Tim and Pammy sing a gospel song that you can't understand 'cause their Speakeasy pianist goes rogue and all the tap dancers start tryna Bojangles every cockroach in Los Angeles County to death with their high heel Orkinmania pest pulverizers. Then Dottie bites Congressman Terry Upstart and he goes to a campaign fundraiser and tells everyone he's a big phony and that he's rescindin' his invitation to the White House press corps to follow 'im everywhere he goes 'cause it's gettin' harder and harder to find a chick who's willin' to engage in extramarital affairs in front of his chauffeur and the P.I.s from Hard Copy simultaneously. Really not a lotta movie left, but even though there's prolly no way any of ya's ever gonna watch this thing it'd still be a breach of etiquette to tell ya how the Revered Fakker gets his. So if ya wanna find out for yourselves, and God help ya if ya do, don't say I didn't warn ya.

Alrighty, well, tide comes in, tide goes out, vampire beach bunnies fuel political satire via truth serum injected through their fangs - you can't explain that. After the first ten minutes or so you *think* you've got it figured out, as all signs point to community college film school project, only to later realize the director/star is hoverin' around 40. I guess you can't completely rule out the student film hypothesis, particularly given the "Dedicated to Thomas Patena and those Fighting Irish" message that appears during the closing credits, but it's quite a drive from South Bend to the nearest palm tree even before you consider the guy prolly hadda hock his mama's Buick to purchase pregnancy simulation stuffing. Really though, to try rationalizin' this celluload away as just a student film (even if that were the case) ain't fair to student films, 'cause 40 years later I STILL remember Jake Steinfeld banzai droppin' onto the hood of that Mercury Marquis and choppin' Don Edmonds in half in Home Sweet Home. Nah, the best way to explain Malibu Beach Vampires to somebody who's just surfed over to the public access cable station in Jackson Hole at 4am and is unsure whether to watch it or click back to Disco Beaver from Outer Space is to say that, basically, it's like D.C. Follies if it were made by community theater actors who were moderately more wooden than the Krofft Puppets and thought narrative structuring was for sellouts. Your first instinct will likely be to assume that this flick started out as a collection of skits that somebody tried linking together with the vampire nonsense, but it's all so absurd that you really can't assume anything because the folks who made it were obviously not operatin' on the same brain frequency as the rest of us. Nonetheless, I hope everyone involved in the production crew found their true calling in life, and I'd just like to say, on behalf of the carnival-going public of America - we appreciate your hungover efforts to supply the kind of loosely-regulated thrills we've come to expect from the minimally maintained Ferris wheels and games of deep fried chance you've dedicated your lives to providing.

Anyway, I prolly oughta quit sugar-coatin' this turd and give it to ya straight, so I'd recommend that anybody who doesn't wanna be party to an assault by word processor close their browsers right now, otherwise I'm gonna assume you've already seen the movie and're just hangin' around to watch it get what's comin' to it. Normally I'd tell ya about all the stuff the plot got right and wrong, but applying the term "plot" to the narrative aspects of this flick doesn't really seem fair to all the movies that went through the trouble of tryin' to tell a story. That said, I will grant that the movie has a plot *device* that serves as the catalyst for what you're bein' subjected to, and it's roughly in line with somethin' you might hear durin' Imagination Time at a Romanian pre-school. "Highlights" from the opening montage replay later as part of the complete skits from which they were sampled, scenes drag on forever in a bid to pad the running time, and because you can't tell if the events are supposed to be linear or not it's impossible to say whether the editing is a mess or whether the writer was simply unacquainted with the concept of a segue. Admittedly, it is, in the strictest technical sense, a movie. But the closest comparison I can make regarding the story is that it's parodying current past events the way a flick like The Kentucky Fried Movie parodied late-night television programming - only with such a limited number of ideas that it comes off as a bandwagon-hopping hit-piece targetting people who'd already been destroyed by far more talented writers. To put it another way - I'm experiencing feelings of regret over my decision to make zero the lowest score a movie can earn.

The acting ranges from "man-on-the-street" to "community theater understudy," with Francis Creighton, Rod Sweitzer, and Gretchen House being the least deserving of assault by picnic leftovers following a performance of Shakespeare in the Park in Butte, Montana. I'm not gonna single people out because most of the folks involved were untrained and likely had no interest in pursuing acting as a career, but it's important that you understand what you're gonna see when debating whether to stick this thing in your VCR, and what you're gonna see is a lotta people who couldn't get cast in their own home movies reading lines like, "Look at me! I am fat! I'm gross! I'm unpopular! I am totally pregnant!" I'd also like to know who decided to cast Jeannie Pepper, Becky LeBeau, and Angelyne and then thought - "Nah, I shouldn't try to raise enough money to get one of 'em to take their top off." And yes, I fully understand that jugs of this magnitude don't come cheap, but these people may've made the only post-Funicello beach movie in the history of mankind that features zero breasts. Makes you wanna break out the Ouija board and summon the ghosts of Doris Wishman and Russ Meyer and just watch 'em beat the crap outta these people.

Here's who matters and why: Kelly Galindo (Return of the Boogeyman, Wonder Woman 2011), Rod Sweitzer (Freak in the Basement, House of Deadly Secrets, The Cuckoo Clocks of Hell, Zombie Infection, Tumors, Psycho Cop Returns, The Invisible Maniac), Jeannie Pepper (Las Vegas Serial Killer), Becky LeBeau (Attack of the 50' Cam Girl, Munchie, Munchie Strikes Back, Dinosaur Island, Transylvania Twist, Not of This Earth 1988, School Spirit), Angelyne (Earth Girls are Easy), Titus Moede (Feast 1992, The Thrill Killers, The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies, Visit to a Small Planet).

With regard to the special effects, it wouldn't be fair to expect much given that the movie is intended as a Comedy, so I'll keep it short and state that the Dracula fangs acquired across the border at Peso General give ya the distinct impression that the prop master was ripped off. On the upside - because no effort was made to include any, the special effects are one of the film's strongest assets.

The shooting locations are modestly elevated by the inclusion of beach photography filmed on the sly, but all the indoor sequences were shot on tiny insert stages in front of a black backdrop, a dance studio, or what I'd assume were the residences of people attached to the production, and each of them speaks to the film's impoverished budget and lack of imagination. The cinematography's alright as long as they keep the camera locked down on a tripod, but the moment it gains mobility the proceeding footage becomes indistinguishable from the video your dad took of your 9th birthday party where the petting zoo donkey kicked the clown in his chucklers. Admittedly, due to the nature of the film's format, it must be acknowledged that, pitiful though they may be, the shooting locations aren't nearly as problematic as the acting or the absence of any real plot, but they paint a picture of a movie that probably cost less than $5000 to make, and going into any further detail about their faults just seems cruel.

The soundtrack runs unnoticed throughout the flick and includes an updated take on the classic sound of '60s beach movies, as well as a generic "spooky" track, standard televangelist accompaniment, patriotic medleys, and a cover of Donna Loren's "Beach Blanket Bingo" that somebody was obviously very proud of given the amount of air time it gets. There's absolutely nothing special here, but between the score's inconsequential nature and the fact that you'll likely be too bored to notice how overused and recycled the music is, the soundtrack is probably the movie's greatest strength on the basis that it isn't actively damaging to the film's... ambitions.

Overall, no title that I've reviewed to date can match the inanity of The Malibu Beach Vampires. Nathan Schiff can sleep a little easier tonight because as of now, Weasels Rip My Flesh (the $400 opus he produced at age 16) has been relieved of its position at the bottom of the charts. I'm telling you this as somebody who actually understands the references and jokes being made in what is an incredibly nitch period picture. The vast majority of people under 40 won't, and that's just as well because it all falls flat anyway. Even if you can find your way past the work print time stamps popping up and the dialogue track going AWOL, this is a movie with zero redeeming value - accurate though the criticisms it's levying might be. I'm not gonna tell you to skip it because I know the hyperbole has already piqued your interest to the point that that would be pointless, but by the time it's over you will BEG for The Creeping Terror and develop a new found appreciation for Manos: The Hands of Fate. Live or die - make your choice.

Rating: 5%