his is the first film I’ve watched from my Andy Sidaris 12-film box set (aptly titled Girls, Guns and G-Strings) and if I had any sense it would probably be the last (sadly, I have very little nous when it comes to my choice in film, so it looks like I have my work cut out for me). Sidaris’s formula is simple: dumb action films with dumb heroes and sexy women. The men boast big ‘taches, big guns and big muscles; the women sport big hair, big tits, and unfeasibly tiny outfits. But while this might sound like B-movie heaven, in Sidaris’s hands, it all proves rather tiresome, the deliberate trashiness becoming really boring, really quick.
The plot to Malibu Express comes second to the macho posturing and female nudity, so I won’t go into detail, other than to say that it’s about industrial espionage and it’s crap—not that the action is much better, consisting of poorly choreographed fight scenes, unconvincing shootouts, and the occasional car chase. Even worse is the comic relief, which comes in the form of a family of obnoxious, obese hicks who repeatedly challenge cowboy private eye Cody to drag races—imagine Enos from The Dukes of Hazzard, crossed with Sheriff J.W. Pepper from Bond, the Beverly Hillbillies, and those bikers from Every Which Way You Can, and you still won’t come close to how inane and irritating these characters are.
The women are, of course, all attractive (fat hillbilly mother and wheelchair-bound matriarch aside), all over-sexed, and all over the hero, meaning that there are regular bouts of soft-core sex. With such regular titillation on display, it soon loses its novelty factor. Who would have thought that big tits could become tedious? I had more fun keeping a mental tally of the shower scenes and marvelling at the treasure trove of now defunct technology that is on display throughout the film (Cody drives a Delorean, and is mighty proud of his pager and micro-cassette Dictaphone; bad guy Shane opted for Betamax to record his sex sessions).