DANGEROUS MEN “YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGHAAAAAAARRRG—”

THERE ARE perfect films. The Third Man is a work of filmmaking that will last 1,000 years and define the era that made it.

Then there are great films, like Mad Max: Fury Road. 

Then after that are the good films (Mrs. Doubtfire). Then the inoffensive (Hope Floats). Then the slightly disappointing (Four Rooms). After that, we have the truly terrible pictures (any recent Transformers movie), and the worst of the B-movies and exploitation flicks (IMDb can help you there).

Now imagine the films that, by every possible metric, are worse than that. Here we've bottomed out with essentially unfinished schlock like Plan 9 from Outer Space and The Room. This is the fetid crevasse where filmic storytelling goes to die; this is the final loathsome triumph of incompetence over craft.

This is Dangerous Men, a feverish, tenuously connected montage of rape and rape-revenge fantasies featuring a cast of probably decent people who deserve better than to be remembered for this. Dangerous Men is the sort of thing you would watch on an "Everything Is Terrible" YouTube clip, stretched out to almost 80 minutes and with fewer redeeming qualities.

Initially shot in 1985 by enigmatic Iranian architect John S. Rad, Dangerous Men was later grafted, Human Centipede-style, onto an additional subplot filmed in 1995. Throughout, there's an element of enthusiasm and "we'll fix it in post!" bravado that I probably would've found endearing if people weren't constantly getting raped, which tends to throw off my "so bad it's good" meter.

As with all things, there is a market for this kind of screening, and I do not begrudge your unconventional appetites. If you like truly awful, ineptly made, and maliciously intentioned movies, you will love Dangerous Men. Everyone else: You've been warned.