REMINDER: I’m reading at the NYRSF Federations event tonight! Now, to business.

Sometimes I see a movie and want to write about it immediately, like when I walked out of Moon and wanted to ask everyone in the theatre to go talk about it in some 24-hour living room. (Except the dude who stank of cologne and sat right behind me. He’s not invited. Anywhere. Ever.)

And sometimes I see a movie, and it confuses and disgusts me so much that I go months without watching it again, much less being willing to write about it, because part of me thinks, “No one else needs to know about that movie, right?” Except that whenever someone starts a conversation about the worst movie ever (invoking, say, Transformers 2), I get this urge to shove the DVD box at them and scream, “Look at this! JUST LOOK!”

Which brings us to today’s movie, Octane! AKA Pulse or Diesel, depending on which direct-to-DVD region you live in.

Nutshell: Mischa Barton and Madeleine Stowe’s new wax lips are on a road trip for no reason, being haunted by truck-stop people who may or may not be real, but since they are blue-collar we know they must be evil no matter what, so we’re good. Mischa Barton gets recruited to a car-crash cult that parties in nightclubs inside empty gas trucks, and is taken to have sex with Jonathan Rhys Meyers because she’s a perfect virgin sacrifice to the car-crash gods. And that’s the part that MAKES SENSE.

Casting directors for the O.C. should have paid attention to that sign, no?

Oh, Madeleine Stowe. WHAT are you doing.
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