Gilbey on Film: “Vampires Suck”? It really sucks

Why movie spoofs aren’t as funny as they used to be.

It may just be a coincidence that the recent US release of the Twilight send-up Vampires Suck fell on the 30th anniversary of the disaster movie spoof Airplane!. But if that's the case, then it's one of those tastelessly contrived sort of coincidences -- that is to say, not a coincidence at all.

I'm not claiming any sort of masterpiece status for Airplane!; the spoof from that period which I remember with greatest fondness is the more shambolic Top Secret!, which dates from when Val Kilmer was considered a comic presence, rather than a ridiculous one. (His sense of humour was recently spotted in the pleasantly dopey action-movie spoof MacGruber -- worth seeing for the knockout comic timing of the splendid Kristen Wiig -- but Kilmer's performance had about it the air of a penance for past on-set tantrums.) I'd also recommend Gary Sinyor's Stiff Upper Lips, which was as blandly beautiful as any of the Merchant/Ivory films it was laying into (though I prefer its working title: Period!).

Airplane! is not quite the laugh riot you might remember it to be -- the cast, which once looked comparatively deadpan, now seems primed for laughs. Maybe that's just the natural corrosion to be expected from watching two decades of reality-TV performers whose self-awareness levels are through the floor. (If in doubt, blame reality TV, eh?) But Airplane! did establish a new language for film comedy, one in which Mel Brooks, Ken Shapiro, Woody Allen and MAD magazine had all also had a hand.

So it deserves more than to have its memory desecrated by the tin-eared, wit-impaired writing-directing duo of Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer, who between them have been responsible for most of the lamentable, multiplex-hogging knock-offs with Movie in the title. They had a hand in all but the second of the Scary Movie films, with offences such as Disaster Movie and Epic Movie also littering their charge sheets. There's no horse left to flog now. The pine box over which they are bent, hammers held aloft, is more nails than coffin.

Critical antipathy toward the pair has never been higher. Over at the excellent In Contention, Chad Hartigan wrote:

The only thing less funny than a spoof movie made by Friedberg & Seltzer is the conceptual gag that America keeps playing where we ironically buy tickets to see them. Just to make fun of it, of course. Only problem is we're giving them real money and they are super-rich and successful, despite being the worst thing to happen to film-making since, well, ever.

In the words of The AV Club's box-office report from last weekend, "There is literally nothing you could do to prevent people from seeing Vampires Suck." That site's Sean O'Neal speculates that the film's barnstorming success (over $12m in its opening weekend) can be attributed partly to the fact that "teenagers need a cool, dark place where they can gather and text each other without the distraction of story, or even discernible punchlines". He's on to something there.

And if the audience members do accidentally notice what's on the screen, they are sure to connect with a fleeting image or reference (they are manifestly not gags) that chimes with their cultural landscape. Friedberg and Seltzer's Meet the Spartans was ostensibly a 300 spoof but its first tne minutes alone (confession time: I didn't get much further in than that) included references to Brangelina, Happy Feet, American Idol and Casino Royale.

The reason there aren't jokes in these flicks is that the jokes aren't the point. The audience is looking for familiarity. Getting the reference is enough: funny is irrelevant. From this meagre moment of recognition -- "That's from High School Musical!" or "That's supposed to be Lady Gaga!" -- comes the buzz of connection, however faint. We've all felt it, whether we're picking up on an allusion to the First Folio Edition of Hamlet, or recognising the jingle from the Cadbury's Fudge commercial.

It doesn't make the success of Vampires Suck any more heartening. (Perhaps it was to this that Simon Pegg was referring when he tweeted last Friday: "Sometimes the gulf between commercial success and genuine artistic quality yawns wider than can be jumped by even Jet Bike Steve.") But maybe America's teenagers (and the British ones who will flock to the film when it opens here in October) are just looking to nurse their barrels of soda -- their equivalent of the barfly's double bourbon.

Are Friedberg and Seltzer simply providing the succour that high-school counsellors cannot? There could be a movie in that.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

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How the radio stations reacted to Bob Dylan's Nobel Prize

For its part, Radio 1 was too absorbed by the Duke of Edinburgh’s Awards to mention the proclamation on Newsbeat.

Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize in Literature inspired a bewildering gamut of radio responses. At first, proof of his talent was abundantly forthcoming, Andy Kershaw yelling down the line for World at One from a motorway services on the M6 within ­moments of the announcement. (“I can’t understand why they didn’t give this to him 41 years ago!”)

However, a full six days after Talk Radio excitedly reported the event on its home page (“a pivotal part of the cultural revolution of the 1960s”), the online feature has yet to attract a single comment. That’s zero talk. For its part, Radio 1 was too absorbed by the Duke of Edinburgh’s Awards to mention the proclamation on Newsbeat, though Heart FM firmly quoted the chair of the English faculty at Oxford (“The Tennyson of our time”), and pencil-suckingly dissected lyrics (“Ain’t talkin’, just walkin’/ Up the road . . .”).

Is it poetry? Is it literature? You could tell it was doing everybody’s head in. But when, on Radio 4’s Front Row, Billy Bragg praised Dylan for “bringing a literary and poetic thread into pop music”, the argument sounded terribly old.

The whole battle about Dylan being as great a poet as Tennyson is a hangover from an ancient battle, from a time when it actually had to be pointed out that this pop-music stuff can be brilliant and clever. A time when boring people battled for respect and prestige for an obvious genius. Over on Radio 2, Mark Goodier cheerfully played “Tangled Up in Blue” (“Major, major prize for Bob today. If that isn’t a decent excuse to play a song, I don’t know what is”). But by Sunday, on Radio 4’s Broadcasting House, the gloves were off and guests were declaring that they couldn’t stand Dylan’s voice (cliché, pathetic).

By Monday Simon Armitage was saying that Dylan’s lyrics had no more sophistication than something composed by a child. Is it poetry? Is it literature? Well, it kind of is. But it kind of isn’t. And it doesn’t matter very much, except to the likes of Dylan – and only a long, long time ago. Now he hardly requires the approbation. The Nobel Committee has given the prize to the one writer in the world who doesn’t need it. 

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood