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  Liquid City 2: The Lockdown Buy this film here.
Year: 2003
Director: D. Sparky
Stars: Jada, Misty Mason, Mystikal, Angel Eyes, Monique, Maliyia, Honey, Ice
Genre: Musical, Sex, Trash
Rating:  5 (from 2 votes)
Review: Well, it looks as if the whole “wiggaz” thing has come full circle, hasn’t it? Wiggaz, as you may or may not know are little white kids – mainly middle class – trying to emulate the looks, sounds and attitude of the ghetto with particularly poor results – talking shit, looking like shit and acting like shit. Recently it would appear that disaffected white teens have ditched their gold chains for skateboards, and their MC Hammer records for Slipknot and Limp Bizkit, leaving a big hole in the market, so Revolver have managed to find a bunch of out-of-work black “actors”, “musicians” and “models” to act like sad-assed wiggaz for another instalment of their not-all-that-popular-anyway Liquid City series.

So, Liquid City 2 is a porno – allegedly. It details the “real” story behind The Lockdown; that is a bunch – less than ten, I think – of dickheads having a party in a sparse autoparts showroom doubling for a high-class LA mansion. The girls here aren’t ugly but one has to admit that they ain’t no oil paintings either. Whilst performing that time-honoured hip-hop ritual “shakin’ dat ass”, the wobbling masses of cellulite are like Netto carrier bags full of marbles. They have gold and silver teeth and often sport tattoos that make GG Allin’s look like Rembrants (one of them says “Ho Girl” for fuck’s sake!), and keep their high-top white trainers on during sex, woodenly mumbling the phrase, “Fuck my pussy.” The guys all keep their baseball caps on whilst shagging and receiving blow-jobs, all of which are shown from behind the head in a lame attempt to disguise the fact that the ho’s mouth is about six feet away from the guy’s dick. Yup, there’s no penetration here guys – even tits are comparatively rare occurrences and a glimpse of snatch is like finding a crack-rock in a salt-pile. Some Ali G wannabe called Jada tries to hold all this shit together, wearing a pair of tights on his head, a couple of Kinder Egg imitation gold chains and strutting from room to room with his kecks hanging off his arse talking typically trite ghetto gibberish.

And if any fun then is to be derived from Liquid City 2, then it is from this piss-poor rendition of gangsta culture. There are a couple of terrible numbers by Mystikal and Misty Mason that consist entirely of tired old clichés thrown together in a barrel of crap in the hope that something decent might float to the top. Misty looks like Coffy’s psychotic evil aunt – she’s not a bad looker actually, but one still gets the impression that her perpetual PMT might cause a harassed lover to chop her up and bury her under their Long Beach swimming pool. One of the members of Mystikal looks like a bastard hybrid of Eazy E and King Kong… with a chronic PCP habit, forever staring right into the camera, stepping backwards and forwards, and aggressively waving his arms about as if he’s doing the chicken dance. In fact, everyone on this flick does that to a certain extent in a concentrated, self-conscious manner, a literal parody of the gun-totin’ Compton gang-bangers they’re trying to emulate. Another annoying hip-hop trait these losers have is the irritating habit of talking shit… at the same time! – usually, again with flapping arms, echoing or repeating the last few words the lead-speaker has just shouted. Stereo just makes it worse. And there’s a couple of other superficial stars here. There’s the jailcell tattooed Ghetto Twinz for example (yeah, Ghetto Twinz in tha house man, Ghetto Sistaz… for Christ’s fucking sake just shut the fuck UP!!!) and some fat, monged-out, wannabe pimp sitting around doing, and saying for that matter, absolutely fuck-all, with a fur coat draped over his shoulders and wearing a white fake-fur flat cap (!!!). If I hadn’t spent the entire movie laughing at these creeps then I would have just turned it off.

Liquid City 2 is, quite simply, abysmal. The porno is as limp as a vicar on his best choirboy’s sixteenth birthday. The music is reminiscent of those community-led anti-drug road-safety songs local councils sometimes let local schoolchildren release. It’s fucking shit from start to finish. It’s sad, stale softer-than soft softcore crap for unhappily married losers, impotent new lads and frustrated teens to buy and show their friends when they’re too goddammed afraid to walk into the local sex shop and come out with some real wank-material. In fact, if you’re one of those people, then you probably deserve this, you know what ahm sayin’ ? Shit, it’s starting to get to me, too!
Reviewer: Wayne Southworth


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