When a film school student messes himself, wipes the resulting effluence on a strip of celluloid and hands it in as his master’s thesis, you are not supposed to give it a commercial release. And yet, with this piece of shit of a movie, that’s exactly what happened. It is so awful, so painfully tortuous, that I wanted to pull an Elvis and shoot my TV so as to never unintentionally put myself in the direct line of fire of such pure awfulness again.
What’s it about? Kate (Kelly Lynch, trying hard to be like David) tries to commit suicide because “It felt like the thing to do” (I am not making this up). She fails, though, and ends up walking out of the hospital (careful suicide watch there), hopping on a Greyhound to “As far this [money] will take me… [in] that direction,” paying the bus driver $6 to let her out in the middle of the desert (after telling a fat kid whose face is covered in chcoloate not to eat his mother – it’s only vaguely related) where a pseudo playboy (Barry Tubb) in a dingy tux and stolen convertible tries to pick her up, eventually meets up with her at a random bar, and gets knocked out by a dead iguana. The next morning, Kate wakes up in bed next to the stranger (whose name, by the way, we never find out, not even in the credits where he is listed as “Guy”), discovers they somehow got married by the random preacher who was last seen dancing with a weird native American lady around the stranger’s passed-out body, and proceeds to alternately whine, cry and not-so-erotically fuck the stranger’s brains out before their sex causes a fire that burns down the abandoned tarpaper shack they decided to call home. At some point, he steals a baby, but after it cries incessently for a whole, Kate tells him to take it back.
I’m sure the writer/director thought this thing was full of all kinds of great, meaningful symbolism, but that was just the peyote. At one point I thought I got it. I thought, “Oh, they’re in the desert… he says he killed someone… we saw her try to kill herself… they’re both dead and they’re in hell/purgatory! Got it!” Nope. I’m sure the desert was somehow meant to symbolize that, but God only knows how. And it ended in a simpering, sappy and, above all, totally unrealistic and thoroughly lame way that made me want to hunt down the director, tie him to a chair and throw darts at him for a day or so. I don’t think I have ever had such a vitriolic reaction to a movie. I want my two hours back.
Bottom line: “Warm Summer Rain”, a title better suited to a brand of air freshener, is a piece of shit. If you happen to meet the writer/director Joe Gayton walking down the street, do me a favor and smack him upside the head for me. Very, very hard.