Brawlin’ Broads

Brawlin’ Broads

Hosted by the Boone Brothers

Mayhem Productions, Inc.

Now this is more like it, a film that doesn’t pretend to be something other than it is. No high art conceits, no reaching for a broader audience. Just pure alcohol-fuelled trash. Trash is a good thing. A good thing.

The Boone Brothers (Martin and Mitchell) are two funny as hell white-scumfuck deviants, who live for nothing more than booze, bongs, speedfreak rock and roll, and broads who don’t say no, as well as perhaps the most insidious, secretly self-deprecating sense of humor since Larry David, though it’s couched in honky-punk covering. The jokes might be offensive on one level, but damned if they aren’t vicious and effective. And fucking funny. Like the bit where one of the Boones fondly reminisces about how he wanted to be a dancer (complete with belt-whipping flashback and gratuitous legwarmer wearing). Goddamn, they’re alright with me.

They sort of emcee the evening, giving out background “stats” and bad blood between the ten fighters we will meet in the course of the video. The snide asides are worth the price of admission alone, that’s some fucking vitriolic commentary on the state of society today. Also offered forth are beer ratings, i.e. how many beers it would take for each of the Boone Brothers to “hit that shit” — I about fell out of my chair when one count reached 25 beers with a bourbon back.

The fights themselves are an altogether stranger proposition. It’s plain to see that this isn’t staged, but the matches are still so weird and disjointed. They lack both the va-va-va-voom quotient of Apartment Wrestling (I only counted one leg scissors, goddamnit) and the high drama and brutality of shoot-fighting (okay I’m probably being unfair).

The image quality is surprisingly crisp, but the lighting is weird and fluorescent/clinical, and the presence of a blue sheet walling in the fight area is distracting — RAGE IN THE CAGE, ALREADY!

The hands-down most bizarre thing about the tape is the fact that, with the exception of the last fight, the combatants say nary a damn word to one another. Maybe I’m just superimposing male standards of fighting unfairly, but soundless punching, clawing, and jabbing, with the silence broken only by exhausted panting and blow impact is pretty unnerving. Where’s the trash talking and the verbal anger? Trash talk is half the battle! The second most creepy thing is that some of the girls here have, I guess, fight coaches or family members who shout out encouragement and orders (such as “Kick Her!” and “Get Your Hair Back!” and more) in the most grating Southern accents EVER. Wow, how embarrassing.

For the price of admission you get a clothed fight, a sports bra fight, a lingerie match, a bathing suit fight, and of course, a topless fight. Yee ha. And, of course, a pumpin’ (heh) soundtrack provided by the scum rock kings Glucifer. That’s good pickins. And a damn hoot to watch.

Unfortunately, the titillation factor remains at -16.,

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