ByStabford Deathrage, writer at
Read hundreds of reviews of some of the worst films of all time at my blog. Sometimes a good film sneaks in, but I try not to make a habit o
Stabford Deathrage

After a car accident, a writer finds he has acquired some vaguely magical powers and stumbles upon a vast government conspiracy that's never fully explained in this astonishingly terrible film.

We have a lot to discuss.

The film opens, and someone wisely offscreen sprinkles glitter on a book. I'm not sure why. A ram's skull inexplicably moves by itself. A sudden fog moves in, but it's brief and unexplained. Two children discover a mushroom filled with treasure, and someone writes the phrase "It's wonderful day" in a little spiral notebook. I'm not sure why, even though I know what happens with it later in the film. Then the children awkwardly wave goodbye to one another for an uncomfortably long period of time.

After a closeup shot of pedestrians' feet, someone wearing ill-fitting shoes crosses the street, and the director, writer, producer, editor, caterer, and star of the film is hilariously hit by a car. Yes, that's one guy. While his blood drips down the grill of a Rolls Royce, and in spite of his grievous yet unconvincing injuries, he struggles to reach his flip phone while the siren of an unseen ambulance sometimes wails in the distance. Onlookers react unpredictably. Then there are more close-ups of shoes.

Suddenly, characters appear. I'm not sure who they are, but there they are. They over-emote at the hospital bed of the injured man, his face obscured by bandages and an oxygen mask, as the cameraman decides to focus on various hospital equipment, avoiding the bed-side drama, which is probably for the best. A doctor wearing a bracelet suspiciously familiar to one found in a mushroom takes the man's pulse, gives an unconvincing diagnosis that probably can't be diagnosed by heart rate, and then says she's not his doctor. After everyone leaves the patient's room, the patient removes his IVs, which appear to just be tubes masking-taped to his arm, and dramatically reveals the cannula taped to the outside of his facial bandages. After a closeup of a gurney, more shoes, window blinds, and one distressingly gaping hospital gown, the patient goes home and takes an awkward, inexplicable shower with his bandages on. His wife/girlfriend/partner/whoever gets in the shower with him and gets her dress wet, which isn't at all awkward, and nothing enhances your convalescent sexy shower time like a gory face bandage.

Turns out, the patient is a writer who never turns his computers on. You can tell he's a writer because he says, "I'm a writer. Of novels."

Then he asks for his pills and doesn't take them, and the thought of taking a handful of pills sounds better and better all the time.

If you're a fan of watching people swallow large quantities of pills, you're in luck, because people will do it in this film, but it isn't very convincing.

Since the writer won't take his pills and I don't have access to them, his girlfriend takes them. Once the writer discovers this, he dumps the pills into the bowl of the toilet in a completely different bathroom, but his girlfriend scoops them out and stares dramatically into the distance while clutching a fistful of pain relievers still dripping from potty-water.

Suddenly, the writer is sitting naked in some sort of cubbyhole covered in black plastic sheeting. I'm not sure why.

The writer goes to psychotherapy, and sits at an absurdly long conference table. Then people talk on phones, but they're probably just holding them and not having a real conversation. Then the writer unconvincingly spills his coffee on his computer, faints, then spills his coffee some more.

This takes a while.

Suddenly, the writer starts hacking into various governmental systems, and by 'hacking' I really mean 'enthusiastically banging on computer keyboards'. While having an awkward discussion about computer hacking, bank failures, and pill addictions, shirts get ripped and papers get thrown. I'm not sure why. Then his girlfriend's toenail polish breaks the 180 Degree Rule. I'm pretty sure why.

The writer has another psychiatric session with a completely different psychiatrist in a tiny room while sitting on folding metal chairs where they spout non-sequiturs about the wind, then there's an inexplicable barbecue where the writer's non-doctor shows up and drops the small spiral notebook that she been 'carrying for good luck' for the past couple of decades. Then someone knocks over corn, and someone takes a bubblebath but doesn't plug the drain. A creepy character gets shot, and there's some continuity-defying blood. Then books get thrown.

Just to keep you up to speed, only one hour of film has elapsed.

More movie happens, which includes inconsistent sound levels, shots of geese and bushes, lots of shouting, another scene featuring that mushroom sprinkled with glitter, more unconvincing pill gobbling, inexplicable spinach, and abrupt scene changes.

Then it's revealed that the writer has 'uncovered corporate and governmental cheating, lying, corruption, and hypocrisy on a massive level', and I'm completely shocked and aghast at these uncorroborated charges as no evidence of these shenanigans are shown onscreen.

Suddenly, an ominous fellow wearing an ominous hoody while carrying a not-particularly-ominous bottle of hydrogen peroxide standing in for chloroform does that old movie chestnut of knocking the writer's brand new not-his-doctor long-lost girlfriend out and kidnapping her. The writer goes home to find his all-of-the-above girlfriend has been kidnapped, and after finding the kidnapper's business card, says into his phone, "I'll find you!" four times as though he doesn't quite believe it himself. Then the movie ends in a badly-greenscreened WTF moment during an inexplicable press conference featuring a stock footage clip of news cameras shown repeatedly.

Fateful Findings is directed, produced, written, edited, and starring Neil Breen, who also wrote the music, but stay tuned through the credits. Near the end, it's revealed in a surprising twist that the companies listed in the credits having a B or an N in the name is a actually Neil Breen himself, so that means he also was responsible for the sound, casting, set design, wardrobe, props, locations, accounting, and craft services. It's a terrible film, and by 'terrible' I really mean, 'Whoa, holy crap is it ever terrible, it's deserving of mass cult appeal, and it's absolutely essential viewing'. While it's probably not the worst film ever made, it's probably one of the top ten worst films I've ever seen, which can only mean it's wholeheartedly recommended if you like stuff that sucks.


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