Spelunk this one where it belongs: A deep hole

Sure, the critters kind of look like “Alien,” “The Mummy’s”

bodyguards and your mother-in-law with billy-bob teeth. Toss in some

wings, vocalizations like “Predator,” plus a lot of drooling, and the

monsters in “The Cave” seem to have been designed by dysfunctional

committee.

Kinda like them Tinker Toys you put together back in high school.

You know you made something. You just didn’t know what it was.

Once upon a time, in a funny little Eastern European country, a

long, long time ago ...

Back in the days of commies and dictators, a motley bunch of icon

thieves on the prowl for a legendary church full of unimaginable loot

schlep their way up an abandoned road. The decrepit troop carrier

they’re traveling in, belching like Bluto Blutarsky, smokes its way

to a stop after being halted by boulders large enough to block John

Roberts.

Miraculously, this is directly below the church they’re looking

for. What luck! What a miracle! What a contrivance! Let the monsters

begin.

Showing all the delicacy of a one-eyed surgeon in a 10.0

earthquake, these meatballs attack the ancient relics of the church

the same way I like to fish -- with explosives. They’re looking for

the whole of the holies, and they find it. It’s down the hatch, the

walls fall in, they disappear like campaign reform, and

unfortunately, the movie doesn’t end.

Thirty years later, a new batch of nincompoops -- freshly coiffed,

stubbly-shaved and dimple-chinned -- appear on the scene. By this

point, it is painfully obvious -- even to those as dim as my readers

-- that the plot of “The Cave” is as holey as a rusting colander,

nowhere near as deep as the Santa Ana River in July, and slower than

a Yugo on three cylinders.

“The Cave” attempts to show the glories of spelunking and cave

diving, and to aficionados of those activities, I suppose it sort of

succeeds. To the rest of us shallow, vapid viewers, though, bring on

the monsters. We don’t want to see NASCAR; we want a demolition

derby.

The ensemble of “actors” seems to follow the old “Star Trek” mode.

Remember the guests on that pathetic old show? The least recognizable

seems to be the first to croak. And up the food chain the creatures

prey, but on a tight budget.

You hear the critters hunting, as their “Predator”-like

vocalizations Dolby across the sound system. Then some poor bugger is

grabbed feet first, hauled into a gap in the rocks -- eyes bulging,

cheeks puffed out, mewling at the top of his water-logged lungs --

never to be seen again. The creatures still haven’t been seen at this

point, which certainly saved some bucks in the special effects

department.

By this time, our resident geniuses have figgered out, as they

wander about a movie set that looks like Tom Sawyer’s Island in the

rainy season, something is hunting them.

Hey, it’s time to split, but guess what? Another convenient

landslide. They’re trapped! There’s no way out! They’re all gonna

die! So many fights break out among the survivors, you’d think you

were at a Raiders game.

Our hero, Jack, is scratched by one the critters. In the

time-honored tradition of vampire and werewolf movies, he starts to

acquire some attributes of the offending monster ... in this case,

pale skin, excellent hearing, heightened senses and a declining

ability to act.

Off our troop goes. They have deduced from their little pea brains

that the monsters don’t like several things -- sound, fire and bad

acting. While there’s nothing that can be done about the acting, and

I wonder if the monsters could hear the sound of feet leaving the

auditorium, our dubious half-dozen do rig up a flame thrower or two,

torching a monster or two like the old firefall off Glacier Point in

Yosemite.

Meanwhile, down down they go into a Dante-inspired but “Pirates of

the Caribbean”-appearing version of hell with fire and ice --

populated by conveniently placed propane torches and some

plastic-looking clear stuff.

Our hero, Jack -- his acting more wooden than teak and his

appearance as pasty as balsa -- is now seriously affected by the

monster-parasites slumming around in his blood. They’re making his

make-up run and his contact lenses change color. His movements are

Robby the Robot, and his continence that of someone in desperate need

of Pepto-Bismol.

Like the movie, this column has gone on far too long.

Yeah, there’s some survivors, and much like the viewers of “The

Cave,” they emerge gasping, bleary-eyed and eternally thankful to be

back in the real world.

Go rent “Alien vs. Predator.” It’s positively Mensa material

compared to this barker.

* UNCLE DON reviews B-rated movies and cheesy musical acts for the

Daily Pilot. He can be reached by e-mail at

[email protected].