The Asylum: Where Have All the Good “Bad” Movies Gone?
When most of us think about “bad movies” in 2013, the images that swim to the forefront of our minds are roughly the same. We see giant—even mega—sharks, crocodiles and snakes, blatant image and property theft of current Hollywood blockbusters and starring roles in the hands of washed-up former TV and music stars. Those elements are to most Americans the calling cards of modern schlocky film, and it’s all because of The Asylum.
I would use “schlocky cinema” as a descriptor, but that wouldn’t really be accurate. You’re never likely to see a movie from American film studio/distributor The Asylum in an actual cinema. They are the preeminent makers of low-budget genre fare, which they produce with a very specific medium in mind—your television screen. Whether you’re seeing their films on TV or via DVD/streaming, that’s how these movies are meant to be consumed, if only because the special effects would be even more galling on the big screen.
To someone who is actually passionate about “bad movies” as an ideal, The Asylum is a curious case. They dominate the landscape of cheap genre movies and “mockbuster” film parodies, but their work invariably lacks in genuine innovation or “interesting” badness. In fact, most of these films manage to take an outrageous premise and transform it into the most bland and sterile possible result. In doing so, the company has built itself into something unique, a sort of Wal-Mart of terrible, passionless movies that aren’t even enjoyable as a joke.
It really is a lack of passion that is one of the chief issues. The “best” bad movies are usually made by somewhat unhinged but intensely passionate and self-confidant auteur filmmakers. The Room, 2003’s cult classic melodrama, will always be the perfect example of this case. Its creator, Tommy Wiseau, carried that entire project on his back to both its great detriment and ultimately great (if unconventional) success. To look at the film is to gaze directly into the wounded soul of its creator; the world’s most transparent, clumsy but sincere ode to a broken heart.