Life on the Edge

You know those cheesy movies they show on the USA-TV channel overnight? Those barely coherent, tittering, smutty, “mine's-bigger-than-yours”-type gag-fests? Well, Life on the Edge would be in really swell company if it were ever to make it that far. Simply put, this is one of the worst movies I have ever in my life seen. It gives me no pleasure to say this. I am not trying to be coy or provocative or argumentative. And I know that, for the most part, people try not to make bad movies. But sometimes these things happen. At that point it's best to cut one's loses, acknowledge the stillbirth, get an urn and cremate the thing. Life on the Edge is a silly and sophomoric look at southern Californian ways and wayfarers. Along the way it pokes fun at hip fads and mysticism. As much as I could figure out, the plot revolves around Ray (Perry), a daydreamer who hopes to make a killing in real estate. He and his wife (Holmes) attend a faddish party during which a monster earthquake strikes. Now all the attendees who had previously seemed merely dazed and dim-witted become utterly and uncontrollably brain-damaged. Let's see. There's also Roger, the party's host and a survivalist. There's Roger's wife, Joanie, who flashes her breasts at anyone and everyone. When things lag more than usual, Life on the Edge tosses in an utterly irrelevant and gratuitous peek at two women in bed together. The night goes on and on and people continue to stumble, brain-damagedly around the party. Then dawn comes and things straighten themselves out. Sort of. None of it ever really makes much sense. You find yourself wishing that all these silly characters had been buried in the earthquake. The Richter scale has not been made that's capable of measuring the totality of this film disaster.