"The Catcher"

Kill Count: 7
Review by: Giggles

(3/5)

With regards to the craft of acting, Joe Estevez's favorite screen-business is the gesture of pointing. Not just any gesture, but a full-fledged violent gesticulation. He brings a whole new meaning to the extension of the pointer finger, and I, for one, would hate to meet up with him in a region that doesn't cite this as illegal. The emotional damage would be infinitesimal. This much I have learned.

So here we are again, in the midst of another stinky-plopperoo, this time known as "THE CATCHER." It has a ludicrous storyline, shotty acting, and has absolutely no knowledge of the actual sport in question. Not that the filmmakers would really need to be combing through the giant Baseball Encyclopedia to research this movie (although it's always fun to find Moonlight Graham's entry), but one can't help but cringe when you hear the team's manager say, "We're going to cancel your contract." Cancel? Really? You mean this poor guy doesn't even get a softer version of the same: "Your contract won't be renewed." It seems so much nicer, like it indicates that at one time the contract was new. This may borderline on picky, considering this is a slasher movie with a killer in catcher's gear, but what the hey.

The angry father, Joey Estevez, throws at his own son and causes the squeaky-voiced youth to fall back into a flying jump kick pose.

Damn.
Looks like a clansman of the cavebear.

Oh what still-pictures cannot show you. Here we've got the boy (who we already know will become the CATCHER) being beaned in the back by another of Joe's chicken-winged tosses.

"Pick up the ball, son. PICK IT UP!"

Enough, enough, ENOUGH with the pointing, Joe. Christ man, you'd think he'd have nerve damage in his knuckles by now.

Resembles Emilio after a few benders.

The boy kills his overbearing father, striking him once in the back of the head and more than once in the orbit of his eye. When the killing ends, the movie drifts into the future and we meet our enigmatic main character...

J.C. Walker, or Jerry Curl Walker, whichever you prefer. He says call him JC if your nasty!

The heroine of the movie, with the face of a woman Satyr, shows up and is told that Walker will be having his contract canceled. She hastily replies, "Canceled? What the fuck does that mean? We can't cancel his contract... we'll be in breach of contract if we cancel his contract. You sick-fucks!"

Pops the Manager doesn't like being called "Pops." He says that the next time he gets an erection you can call him whatever you want, but in the meantime shut the fuck up about his limp-cock syndrome.

The first victim is savagely beaten with a baseball bat, spraying a just-washed jersey hanging up nearby. That fake blood doesn't come out easy either.

This bald dude, who looks like a shorn version of Mike Piazza's brother, is shown here with his fuck-mate. They will both fornicate in this movie every six minutes, so be ready.

This is a particularly disturbing scene. A ballplayer is tied up and then the Catcher proceeds to ram him in the ass.

The guy dies-- hope we didn't spoil it for you-- but just when you're thinking, Holy shit, the Catcher just butt-fucked this guy to DEATH, the kill scene takes on a different shape completely.

I bet that guy only wished that the Catcher actually used his penis to rape him. Stripped of your dignity and destined for some hellish visits to the bathroom for a week would have small compared to getting one up the butt all the way to the pine-tar. OWWWIE!

In another place in the dark stadium, the Stick and the Cue Ball are having belly-laughs over startling people as they stumble from one fuck-point to the next.

Here the Catcher, who, if you've gathered so far, does very little catching, introduces Pops to what we call, "The Hanging Slider." This pitch is only possible with a thread sewn into the baseball and a lot of patience as you spin it around.

Walker and the Elfish Women's Tennis Player try to access a state of the art computer system to look deeper into the R.B.I. virus.

I had to include a picture of this five-inch floppy drive. I thought they had all been sent to landfills by now. The antique dealer must have given them a hefty price for this one. That, or they hawked their AMIGA for it.

Nothing more romantic than this. Ah, the days of making out while hovering over a shit-stained bowl of cold yellowish water. Toilet paper is nearby for clean-up and everything.

The Catcher makes certain that nobody blocks the plate when he's coming home!

"Jason has his hockey-mask, so why not?" cried someone with money and empty creativity.

I don't know why the Stick is so afraid of the Catcher. Why doesn't she just use that conveniently placed escape pod behind her. It worked for C3PO and they're about the same build I'd say; well, 3PO's a little more beefy but that's of little consequence when the Catcher's after you. No more speed, darling, Jack Skellington wants his undershirt back.

This is, no lie, a shot of the long-running fantasy the Catcher's has about being an actual professional catcher. He likes his position so much that he even wears his mask to the batter's box. Talk about devotion, folks. Though I don't want to be too harsh with the guy, if I was fantasying about being a good baseball player, I would have actual fans cheering in the stands. Just me, but I'm weird like that.

Catcher on Catcher action!

It's a kooch shot, boys and girls! I'll leave this woman a mystery because I don't want to ruin the end of this movie. No, now that is a lie. I really really want to ruin this movie for most people, but it does a good job on its own.

You could do a lot worse, however, when searching around for a bad movie about a killer Catcher, and that's saying a lot because you know how many of those movies are out there-- like tons (don't they have a section for that at Blockbuster?). Anyways, while I can't say that this movie was scary or intensely entertaining, I do admit to have had nightmares about Joe Estevez's finger ever since. And when you look down the barrel of his cuticle and see that blur of frizzy hair blowing beyond in a roiling gray mass of hate, you have to take a step back, get your bearings, and laugh your fucking ass off.