Kingpin is but the latest manifestation of the so-stupid-it’s-smart lowbrow gag-film, that venerable tradition inaugurated by National Lampoon’s Animal House.
Feeling Minnesota doesn’t really go anywhere unexpected. Worse, the characters are said to have interesting backgrounds, but you never find out what they are.
Allow me to shriek a hymn of praise to the quarter-century re-emergence of America’s own cinematic Sleazehenge, the cross-dressing, merde-munching, pullet- humping Godfather of celluloid atrocities, John Waters’ Pink Flamingos.
Before Foreman pitched mufflers; before Ali lit the Olympic torch; and before Don King redefined big hair, they all made history in a 1974 boxing match.
True to the dark, contrary nature of J.G. Ballard and David Cronenberg, Crash has far more complicated things on its mind than mere titillation on wheels.