See also:

Alucarda
Bizarre
Runaway Car

By Lupe Bensonhurst

What follows is a simple plan for converting friends over to the shining glories that are B-movies. The method recounted here may seem tedious, but it is the most effective method found to date for successful conversion. Monitor the acolyte periodically to make sure she’s not backsliding. She should view mainstream movies only under direct supervision, and even then she should be warned away from paying full rental or ticket price. The key to the program is a carefully designed system of ridicule, subterfuge, exposure, reinforcement, and rewards. These are the basis of any good relationship, including that of Movie Mentor to Mentos. Erm. Mentee.

It works.

One: Tell her B-movies are awesome. Mock her for not having seen anything terribly interesting or horribly amusing since she was eight-years-old, and her Crazy Uncle David (a dead ringer for Jack Nicholson in The Shining) made her watch Dracula vs. Frankenstein on the Late Night Movie. Insist that Crazy Uncle David was not, in point of fact, crazy, but actually rather keen. And if he was crazy, it was crazy in a good way – the way that ought to run in families but tragically so rarely does.

Two: Place an order on eBay for Bizarre, and have it shipped to her.

Three: Set the mood. Light a few dozen tealights. Open a bottle of white wine. Mention how you’d really like to smoke some weed with her, but that you don’t have any since your neighbour began a stint as a guard at a maximum security prison a year ago and hasn’t dealt since. Open the bag of tortilla chips and stir the guacamole. Promise to watch as many episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer as your friend wants. (After all, that Nicky Brendan is goofy and sexy.)

Four: Smile disarmingly when Bizarre shows up. Act like you didn’t know it’s the first time someone other than her mother has ordered and shipped something to her. (And feign disinterest about the Tupperware Ma sent, making a mental note to cabbage onto the smaller storage pieces and the devilled egg tray.)

Five: Remind her of all the Buffy you’ve watched. Pretend you’re tired of those wacky hi-jinks.

Six: Light some more tealights. Laugh about your neighbour-the-guard and her weed again. Stir the leftover guacamole and open another bag of tortilla chips. Pop Bizarre in the DVD tray.

Seven: Relax. Let the movie work its magic.

Eight: Spend the next five weeks cracking each other up by talking like a Stentorian Mummy: “Imagine you were making love to this girl. Imagine you were making love to this girl. Imagine you were making love to this girl. Imagine you were making love to this girl. Imagine you were making love to this boy. Imagine you were making love to this boy. Imagine you were making love to this boy. Imagine this boy were making love to you. Imagine this boy were making love to you. Imagine this girl were making love to you.”

Nine: Introduce your friend to cockfighting and nunsploitation. Watch her eyes gleam and dance.

Ten: Ready yourself for the coup de grâce: the Made-for-TV Movie. Ignore your friend’s protests. You’ve been very good about not buying movies off of eBay these past few months (barring the cockfighting, nunsploitation, Coffin Joe, zombie Templars, et cetera – all of which she enjoyed and even encouraged you to buy). Who knew the move to deny your office access to the internet would have such an effect on your bank account?

Eleven: Settle in for an afternoon of Runaway Car, starring Judge Reinhold. Watch her laugh herself to tears. Quietly acquiesce when she requests that you back up to the part with Willie Mae. Three times.

Twelve: Try not to look too smug.

Thirteen: Suggest she order the next bloody awful movie™. But steer her away from Vampyros Lesbos. Jess Franco could only hurt your cause.