A Novelty War Film

I watched the 1991 flick Toy Soldiers last night, which is yet another one of my all-time favorite terrible movies.  And since more people have probably seen the Mini-Me sex tape than this movie, I’m gonna give you the short and stubby on what it’s all about.  First, you have Louis Gossett Jr. – who nobody recognizes as that fighter pilot who has saved the world at least two or three times.  The dude who used to be in the Smucker’s Jelly ads is hanging around as an FBI director instead of as a representative for a sweet, breakfast condiment manufacturer – and by condiment, I’m not talking about a latex penile sheath with peppermint flavoring.  Then you’ve got you’re Sean Astin, who was not only one of those pointy-eared, toad things from Lord of Rings, but Rudy Ruettiger to boot.  He was the first hobbit to ever play for Notre Dame, and it’s like nobody is picking up on it; I figured at least one person would ask him what it was like to hang out with the Hunch Back or Elijah Wood.  I refuse to believe a bunch of rich prep school kids couldn’t figure out the celebrities amongst them.  Currently before me is a scene where the guy from Stand By Me (the one who had his testicles latched onto by a leech), and some other guy that never went anywhere after this flick, get into a scuffle in their undewear.  They soon squash it, and then engage in a handshake that could only be goofier if it involved masturbatory and Masonic actions.

Another weird, yet highly entertaining part of this movie is the butler from Trading Places being cast as a teacher.  This guy had already been through a weird ass social experiment propagated by two rich ole fogies, made a ton of cash after hornswaggling the real crop report from Clarence Beaks, and then he decides to teach a bunch of misfit rich kids?  Oh my god.  I forgot the dude from one of the strains of Law and Order and/or Baby from Dirty Dancing’s dad was in this movie too.  I think he plays like a mob boss or something.  His son gets kilt, and the Mob becomes a benevolent society much like the apparent purpose of the Laity Lodge, or whatever that tragically named Howard Butt Jr. is always floggin’ on the FM dial.  Right Wing radio in the morning.  Good stuff.

The head terrorist has what he claims to be a control for the explosives placed all around the campus electrical-taped to his wrist.  It looks kind of like a bigger version of those silver watches with the calculator key pads that were all the rage in the nerd communities in the 80′s.  This dude would have been pure, uncut hell with cellular technology.  I doubt he could have strapped a bag phone to his wrist, and you know a terrorist ain’t going to carry what appears to be a purse around a bunch of fewls he’s terroristically threatening.  The boys who eventually Reynold’s wrap the terrorists devise their plan by using their school yearbook.  Every year when you signed your friend’s annuals, and made all those goofy comments about them being cute, a lunatic or your BFF, did you ever think to keep your copy because it might one day help you defeat Al Queda?  If you say you did, you’re lying like Oliver North at the Iran-Contra hearings – which until I was older, thought had something to do with that badass Nintendo game.  If you really thought it would come in handy when trying to defeat terrorists, you would have signed it: “There’s an uzi in locker 435, bottles of water in the cafeteria, and you can use the rolls as yeast grenades.  BFF.”

The whole theory of this movie was so freakin’ stupid, I can’t imagine how it’s production got funded - or how the actors could keep a straight face during filming.  Think about pitching this to a producer.  “Alright, so there’s a bunch of rich kids who get taken hostage by the armed rejects from El Chico.  One guy has a remote control strapped to his wrist that will blow the joint up; so all of the misfit students revolt using a remote controlled airplane as a distraction, and the pregnant alien guy from Enema Mine saves the day.”  You would get yelled at like you just took the last drink of Russell Crowe’s Fosters Oil Can.  But somehow, some way, a film more ignorant than Simple Jack got funded, made, and is still somehow commercially viable enough to run on cable movie channels.  Whoever pulled all of this off should get an award. I can see it now, “The Oscar for Most Ignorant Movie of The Year Since Ishtar goes to….”

I ain’t got anything else, and I ain’t even going to proofread this, so deal with it in all its naturality like Adrienne Barbeau in The Swamp Thing.  Tig ole bitties.  That’s all I’m typin.