CampBlood Gay Horror Reviews: Senseless Rants from a Picky Sissy


Anacondas: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid Dwight Little 2004

The Treasure Trail

Don't get me wrong: this film fucking sucks. A crappy sequel to a crappy original, Anacondas is somehow able to slide further down the B-list from Eric Stoltz and Kari Wuhrer into complete and utter obscurity in this boring, predicable, mercilessly plodding crapfest. The effects are horrendous, the cinematography is embarrassing, and the acting is for the most part pure shit. And yet somehow I found myself able to forget all of this and keep my eyes on the screen for the film's excruciating running time.

That somehow is called Johnny Messner.

Let's forget for a moment that the entire film looks like it's filmed in the San Diego Zoo (that the filmmakers can make actual Fiji shooting locations look like the Gibbon House is absolutely amazing). Let's overlook the plot (it was stolen from Deep Blue Sea anyway, so it shouldn't really be considered an integral part of the film). Let's ignore the fact that the entire cast is out-acted in several scenes by a plucky spider monkey, who is able to convey more emotional range than all of the model/actors combined. Instead, let's focus on the heavily-muscled, slouching form of Messner, who manages to lumber through the film essentially unscathed (his performance is pickled with amusement that he has ended up in the film at all), and boasting an impressive display of... well, arms.

Considering that Johnny's biceps are both larger than the snakes and more captivating, the film should have been called Pythons. Whether peeking out from below the wrenched-up cuffs of a scoop-neck thermal or showboating brazenly below the cautious extremities of a cap-sleeve tee, Johnny's beefy pipes are truly a sight to behold, and essentially the only thing on screen worth watching in a film that aims for mediocrity and fails miserably.

Johnny even has the well-appointed task of carrying the film's only topless scene. In a few delightfully lingering shots, Johnny shaves with a knife at a wishing-well, the orange light from nearby torches licking the curves of his muscles like the tongues of so many randy salamanders. Even the silly fake tattoos aren't enough to diminish the beauty of what should really be considered a holy moment: this man's body is the spiritual center of the film, and it should be viewed as such: with reverence, awe, and a bucket of popcorn in your lap.

But enough about Johnny Messner's body; let's talk about his face. Chiseled, gruff, and yet oddly soft and beautiful, his Marlboro Man visage plays host to a pair of sparkly, devilish eyes that belie his amusement at the stupid script and lame acting. It is the face of a dirty angel, a Colt model, a soap star slumming at turnpike truckstops for handjobs. Beautiful and well-suited to his bulging form, Johnny's face would launch a thousand ships. From Fire Island.

Some of the other guys are pretty too, but there's really not much to say about them. Nick Gonzalez is handsome in a Santa Monica hustler sort of way, and resident baddie Matthew Marsden looks a bit too much like Sloth from the Goonies to really turn heads (check out his eyes… weird…), although they both also sport pretty impressive pipes. Their acting is not up for discussion, as it is instantly overshadowed by bad CGI and the damned monkey, and of course our dear friend Johnny.

One issue, though: where is the hair? If you find Johnny's complete lack of body hair as alarming as I did in his shirtless scene, you might wonder why the film isn't called Anacondas: The Hunt for Johnny Messner's Missing Treasure Trail (I find the whole "blood orchid" thing a little vaginal, anyway). Considering that his shape is not unlike a toned silverback gorilla, you might expect that he would boast a little fur, and the sight of his bare, metrosexualised chest makes one wonder if the effects budget went into waxing instead. Aside from this, though, Messner joins the ranks of hot men in aquatic thrillers that proudly boasts Thomas Jane of Deep Blue Sea, Daniel Travis of Open Water, and my personal favorite, Andres Garcia of Tintorera. If you have no interest in seeing a good film but could stand to watch some yummy maleness for ninety minutes, you could do worse.

Rating (out of 5):