A general rule of thumb in identifying a bad movie: if two or more people in the credits go by a single name — say, Madonna and Prince — chances are it’s not Oscar material. In Three Sickxty‘s case, there are actually five: Aerletaree, Earthquake, Chocolate, Navangia and Lashaun. Plus, the director’s adjective-strewn moniker — Natural Drye — seems more appropriate as a ginger ale than as a filmmaker.
Three Sickxty strives to be an urban Fatal Attraction, with Krystal (T’erika Jinks) as the femme fatale, a manic depressive schizophrenic who killed her sexually abusive stepfather a few years back. She’s labeled as “possibly dangerous to approaching males” by her psychiatrist…and then promptly allowed to leave town un-chaperoned and start life anew in Atlanta. Cut to Ricky (Kelvin Williams), a player who spouts pickup lines like, “I couldn’t help becoming overpowered by your sensuous beauty” and still manages to pull the honeys. Krystal quickly becomes his latest conquest, their whipped cream lovemaking scene sporting all the sexuality of a workplace sexual harassment video.
Things turn sour, though, when Ricky stops calling. He returns home one night with another gal to find Krystal waiting…and pissed. He tries to break things off gently — “All you was was a fuck, alright?” — but for some reason, she doesn’t take it well. Krystal goes to see a hoodoo-inclined psychic, who gives the cryptic advice that “Your nectar shall be all that is needed to win his [muffled grunt].” (Note: the sound in Three Sickxty is as bad as it gets. If dialogue isn’t getting drowned out by background noise, it’s muffled to the wa-wa-wa-wa level of Charlie Brown’s teacher. Either way, when you turn the volume all the way up to hear a pivotal point, the scene will inevitably switch to one that starts on full blast, blowing out your speakers and your auditory canal.)
Crude scenarios ran through my mind as to what the psychic’s message meant, but I never thought that Three Sickxty would meet them, much less exceed them. But yes, it goes there. You see, Krystal cooks a spaghetti dinner for Ricky (who, for some reason, trusts her to serve him food) and spices up the sauce by reaching under her dress and wringing out her tampon. [Pause for retching.] Then things get silly.
Ricky starts writhing in pain (I know it was menstrual blood and all, but Drano would’ve caused a less violent reaction.), and Krystal begins yelling at him in tongues. The next thing he knows, Ricky wakes up in bed feenin’ for her. He goes to visit Krystal, but now all of a sudden, she rebuffs him, saying “What we had was physical. Nothing more, nothing less.” He leaves, despondent, and drowns his sorrow in jars of her “special sauce”.
The movie ends up as a pissing contest over who’s the craziest, as Ricky breaks into Krystal’s house and rapes her. THEN, somehow we jump to her seducing him again just so that she can — you knew it was coming — slice off his manhood. Twelve minutes of head-scratching insanity can’t save this otherwise dull, awful, cheap film, but you have to give some sort of perverse credit to a work that calls your gag reflex into play at least once.
