UNCLE DON’S VIEWS OF NIL REPUTE:

Hey, was that a great Friday the 13th last week or what? Sun was shining, new horror flicks at the theater and went in for my annual checkup. Vet said I was good to go for another year. Guess them shots cured that flaking rash the CDC was so concerned about.

So what to do with the rest of a classic SoCal day? Walk in the park? Smell the roses? Play some catch? Or spend some time in a dark room with a bunch of other losers watching torture porn?

The thought of the usual immense paycheck from the Pilot motivated me in that direction. So there I sat with other sick puppies who should’ve been wearing out shoe leather looking for a job. No doubt they figgered like I did that a matinee only cost an hour or two of work. Spinning doesn’t pay that well.

For two hours I sat through the cinematic equivalent of a mullet. It was stupid, dated and just plain ugly. Ain’t taking about my editor here. Maybe.

I guess “The Last House on the Left” is a remake of “The Last House on the Left.” I don’t recall any screaming demand for this occurrence, but I’d like to make a screaming demand for my bucks back.

Instead of Ned Beatty squealing like a pig, we’ve gotta couple of teenage dopers, along with their blow-dried tormentors squealing like mafia rats. For nearly two hours.

It’s the insipid, violent, murderous ne’er do wells versus the nice, decent, wholesome yuppies in a fight to the phlegmish in a film shallower than the Santa Ana River in July.

The guitar picks a tune. The wind blows. The strings cut in. Someone’s probably foreclosed cabin. Roadside lodging that cockroaches stay away from. A bad guy sprung from custody. A happy couple off to their lake house. What do you think are the chances they’ll meet up? What are the chances I just blew two hours that I want back?

There’s a bit of a plot here. A couple of airhead babes meet up with a “Deliverance” reject who talks said airheads into going to his luxury suite at the local Motel Buckandahalf for some weed. But back early and spoiling the fun are Yabba, Dabba and Doo. The dim bulb’s dad (the chief bad guy), the bad guy’s intellectually underprivileged brother and some Ritalin-deprived mama who graduated cum laude from the Sean Penn school of overacting. They all seem to be suffering from PTSD.

Post traumatic stupid disorder.

The boring, stilted dialogue is rarely interrupted by two syllable words, the sum total one could count on one’s fingers, all 11 of them, and still have change.

It’s off to the races as the chicks escape, get caught, escape, get caught, escape again as the tension builds like a broken spring. Airhead two gets pin-cushioned by the brother who’s wearing more rings than a dirty bathtub. Airhead one escapes, again, diving into the lake, swimming fast, being chased by faster bullets. Michael Phelps she isn’t. Superman she sure isn’t.

The bad guys eventually croak in various and sundry ways. Claw hammer in the back of the skull, bullet in the eye. Yawn.

The chief bad guy ends up with that brick he considers a head stuck in a microwave. The good guy turns on the offending appliance.

Said head blows up like a prom queen’s zit. Now that’s something I’d like to see the “Mythbusters” test.

UNCLE DON reviews B-rated movies and cheesy musical acts for the Independent. He can be reached at [email protected].