You know the term “Stream of Consciousness”? Scarlet Warning 666 might be the first Stream of Unconsciousness movie. It is the mad cinematic ramblings of a filmmaker who has no idea what he’s doing and just keeps filling the picture with more… stuff. It’s a movie so befuddling to an audience that it probably only makes sense to one person: Director/writer/star/musician Palmer Rockey.
Say what you will about Neil Breen and Tommy Wiseau. Even though their films are largely ego-stroking diasterpieces, they still can make a movie that has a plot that goes from A to B (more or less). The same can’t be said for Rockey. You never know who’s doing what or where they are in conjunction to other characters or even what’s going on with the plot (or what passes for plot in this movie). So please excuse me if I refrain from featuring the customary plot summary in this review as words like “plot” only exist as the vaguest of notions in Rockey’s world.
I have a spray bottle by my couch that I use on my cats. Whenever they do something wrong like claw the furniture or try to jump on the bookcase, I squirt them. If I sprayed the movie every time Palmer Rockey did something wrong, I would’ve short-circuited my television and flooded out the Man Cave before the second act.
The behind-the-scenes drama is a lot more interesting than what occurs on screen. Apparently Rockey mooched off his wife so he could make this thing. When it was laughed off the screen at the premiere, he went back and re-edited it and added new footage along with narration insulting the critics who dared to… uh… criticize his lack of talent. (“Flick you!” “What’s that mean?” “It means knock it off, Cletus!”)
Since Rockey kept adding bits over the course of a decade, he visibly ages and changes from scene to scene. He also plays his own twin brother, but it’s all so incoherent you probably won’t even pick up on it till the movie’s halfway over. Sure, there’s some genuinely strange imagery along the way, like when the cult of bikini-clad women tortures our hero on a spiked wheel. You might not make it that far though.
The movie also boasts that this was the first time that the star performed “54” roles on screen and off in a motion picture. To say Rockey was spread thin is a massive understatement. Yes, he did 54 jobs on the film, but he did a terrible fucking job at each and every one of them. I guess if you’re in the record books, they can’t take that away from you; even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.
I’m giving this NO STARS mostly as an attention-getter. For sheer entertainment value, it’s probably worth a *** rating as it’s ultimately too long (107 minutes) and can’t consistently maintain its WTF momentum. Be sure, I laughed long and hard during the film and doubted my sanity at least four or five times, which is quite a feat in itself. However, believe me when I tell you that speaking strictly in terms of technical merit, screenwriting, acting, direction, and general competence, Scarlet Warning 666 is the worst movie I have ever seen.
AKA: It Happened One Weekend. AKA: It Happened One Sunday. AKA: Love is Deep Inside. AKA: Rockey’s Style. AKA: Scarlet Love. AKA: Scarlet Love 666.
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