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The Last Drive-In with Joe Bob Briggs | SUITABLE FLESH Drive-In Totals

Editors Note:  Readers are advised that the opinions of guest writers on this website may occasionally diverge from the infallible wisdom of Joe Bob Briggs, and in such cases, Joe Bob cannot be held responsible for any resulting confusion, enlightenment, or existential crises.  Enjoy.

This week, we’re diving deep into Joe Bob’s rundown of “Suitable Flesh,” the latest offering from director Joe Lynch.

First things first, let’s address the elephant in the room – or should I say, the director in the hot seat. Joe Lynch, the maestro behind “Mayhem,” apparently tried to take down our beloved Joe Bob after some *ahem* less-than-flattering comments about his directorial choices. But as we all know, you can’t keep a good drive-in critic down. Joe Bob, ever the gracious host, invited Lynch onto the show, presumably to give him a chance at revenge. Spoiler alert: Lynch’s attempt at vengeance was about as successful as using a broken plastic spork to fend off a horde of fast moving zombies.

Now, onto the main event: “Suitable Flesh.” Joe Bob, in his infinite wisdom, describes this flick as “some of Joe’s best work.” Coming from a man who’s seen more celluloid carnage than a film preservationist with a Thanatology addiction, that’s high praise indeed. But don’t go thinking this is some highbrow arthouse fare – oh no, my friends. This is a tale of psychoanalysis gone wild, body-swapping shenanigans, and enough sexual tension to make Freud himself say, “Well shit, that probably isn’t just a cigar”.

The plot, revolves around a psychoanalyst who finds herself inexplicably drawn to a young patient. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill May-December romance, though. The kid bursts into her office, begging her to unalive his old man because daddy dearest has apparently gone all “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” on him. Our intrepid analyst, instead of doing the gold durn sensible thing and calling the local Five-O, decides the best course of action is to fantasize about the kid while getting frisky with her husband. Because nothing says “professional ethics” quite like inserting your patients into your own sexual fantasies, am-I-right?

But wait, it gets better. Our protagonist, clearly gunning for a malpractice suit, breaks into the kid’s house. Her mission? Well, that’s a bit unclear. Maybe she wants to save him, maybe she wants to unravel the mystery of his father, or maybe – just maybe – she’s hoping for a little extracurricular MILF action. It’s like a choose-your-own-adventure book, but every choice leads to more shock therapy, horribly ruined orgasms and possibly an exorcism or two.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Haven’t we seen this shite before?” Well, sure, if you’ve been binging on a steady diet of Lovecraft, back alley pornography, and coke fueled fever dreams. But have you seen it with a gender-swapped H.P. Lovecraft sex demon hopping from body to body like a frat boy at an all-you-can-drink kegger? I think not, my friends. I think not.

Speaking of body-hopping, let’s talk about those drive-in totals. Brace yourselves, because this is where things get really wild. We’ve got one breast. Yep, you read that right. One. Singular. Titty. In what amounts to a 98-minute skin-a-max soft core porno. Joe Bob, ever the connoisseur of cinematic chesticles, couldn’t help but question Lynch on this creative choice. “Have you been to the drive-in?” he asked, presumably while clutching his pearls in mock horror. “Have you seen a Shannon Tweed movie!?” Ah, Joe Bob. Always asking the important questions.

But don’t let the lack of mammary glands fool you – this flick delivers in other departments. We’ve got three dead bodies, because what’s a horror movie without a semi respectable body count? There’s also a demon octopus, which I can only assume is what happens when you cross Cthulhu with a hentai artist’s sickest (and stickiest) dreams.

For those of you who like your violence with a side of specificity, we’ve got a bullet to the forehead (with artistic splatter, naturally), a ceremonial dagger to the throat, and another to the cranium. There’s also a Russki-style unscheduled window exit, which Joe Bob helpfully informs us is technically called “defenestration.” See? You come for the horror, you stay for the vocabulary lessons.

But wait, there’s more! We’ve got multiple frenzied stabbings, a crawling mangled corpse (because why walk when you can crawl?), and an anxiety ridden Miskatonic student. There are multiple out-of-body orgasmic meltdowns, which is undoubtedly what happens when you cross tantric sex with astral projection. Oh, and let’s not forget the smoke ring blowing and implied Necronomicon reading. Because nothing says “sexy fun time” quite like puffing on a cigarette while perusing the mad ravings of Abdul Alhazred.

The special effects get a nod from Joe Bob, with “excellent body swap transformation effects” and “head rolls.” I’m not entirely sure if that last one refers to decapitation or just some really intense neck exercises, but either way, color me intrigued.

Now, let’s talk about the performances. Joe Bob, in his infinite generosity, has handed out some unofficial Drive-In Academy Award nominations. Heather Graham gets a nod for “kinking it up with her husband, her patient, and a demon.” Talk about range baby! Judah Lewis is recognized for “kinking it up with everything that moves, including himself.” Self-love is important, folks. Don’t let the high sheriffs tell you anything different.

Barbara Crampton, horror royalty that she is, gets a nomination for producing and “going medieval in the final act.” I don’t know about you, but the mental image of Barbara Crampton channeling her inner Joan of Arc while facing down Lovecraftian horrors is enough to make me want to pre-order ten copies of this film.

Joe Lynch himself gets a nomination for being a “pervert with a camera.” In the world of drive-in cinema, that’s about as high a compliment as you can get. Finally, Dennis Paoli gets a nod for writing this script for Stuart Gordon many years ago and then updating it. It’s like finding an old love letter in your attic and deciding to spice it up with some emojis and references to cringe TikTok dances.

In the end, Joe Bob bestows upon “Suitable Flesh” a coveted four-star rating. That’s four stars of pure, unadulterated, Lovecraftian lunacy, folks. A film that makes you question your sanity, your sexuality, and possibly the structural integrity of the universe itself.

So there you have it, mutants. “Suitable Flesh” is a wild ride through the twisted landscape of cosmic horror and sexual awakening. It’s got body-swapping, demon octopi, and more inappropriate doctor-patient relationships than a season of “Grey’s Anatomy.” This flick would make H.P. Lovecraft himself sit up in his grave, take one look at the screen, and promptly lie back down muttering, “Nooooooope.”

In conclusion, if you like your horror with a heaping helping of sexual tension, a dash of cosmic dread, and just a pinch of “what the hell did I just watch,” then “Suitable Flesh” is the movie for you. Just remember to keep your wandering tentacles to yourself during the screening, and maybe bring one of them fancy super-absorbent towels. You know, just in case.

Until next time, keep it weird, keep it wild, and don’t forget to check your closet for interdimensional sex demons before you go to sleep. You never know when one of those slippery fuckers might be looking for a new flesh suit to slide into.

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