You’ll never guess what happens in this one. It doesn’t matter because I’m telling you anyway: those deeply irresponsible scientists are at it again, monkeying about with alien sex monster DNA in a way I believe is expressly forbidden by the bible. That’s the thirteenth commandment – Thou shalt not unleash violent tentacle death on unsuspecting horny guys. Look it up if you don’t believe me. God frowns on sex, but God frowns even frownlier on sex ending in fatal head wounds. Not only is it sinful, it leaves twice the amount of stains.
Species III picks up the story where Species II left off. Somewhat unhinged professor Dr Abbot (Robert Knepper – T-Bag off Prison Break) steals the sprog created during Eve’s crazy naked alien sex at the end of part two, then sets about studying her in his basement in an ill-advised bid to prove how awesome he is at science. This guy is practically begging for trouble (the government couldn’t control two of these hormonal sex bombs in their multi-million dollar containment
facilities, so trying to keep new hybrid Sara in the same place he stores his spanners and stacks of old newspapers is clearly not going to end well) and trouble is exactly what he gets when other hybrids start showing up (fuck knows from where) for help with their degenerative illnesses.
Natasha Henstridge’s boobs are, I’m deeply saddened to report, not in this film at all. Natasha Henstridge is in it, but she’s killed off within the first ten minutes, allowing her to fulfil her contractual obligation to appear in three Species films before getting the fuck out of Dodge as fast as she can.
To ease the pain of this devastating loss, Species III has several new hooters to show us, mostly courtesy of Sunny Mabrey (bizarrely billed as ‘Introducing Sunny Mabrey’ even though she’d been acting for several years at the time – maybe what they meant to say was: ‘Introducing Sunny Mabrey’s lady lumps’). She’s pretty enough, I suppose; but she’s no Natasha Henstridge, and she has one of those unappealing too-tight boob jobs that look like someone shoved coconut halves up her chest.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. It’s a harsh fact of life we all have to accept that not all boob can be as awesome as Henstridge boob, and if there are other jugs
on offer I might as well take a look. But I spent most of this film mourning the loss of the good stuff – those top of the line puppies only Henstridge can provide – like a small child mourns the loss of its first pet. Which soured me on this film a bit.
Species III isn’t bad, though. The inevitable decline in quality continues as the series progresses, but the drop off as it shifts into DTV territory is nothing like as steep as it was for Anaconda. The story, like the cans, is watchable enough without being anything special, and my only genuine complaint is that the film builds toward a girl-on-girl alien sex monster catfight – the ultimate battle for the boobweight championship of the universe – which really ought to rival part two’s climactic tentacle orgy in terms of sheer awesomeness, but it turns out to be a bit shit instead.
If I had to describe this film using only one word, that word would be solid, and that’s not meant as any kind of innuendo. Solid story, solid acting, solid production values, solid effects, solid boobs. Species III isn’t as legitimately good as part one, or as hilariously awful as part two, but it’s solid.
Ah, who am I kidding? Of course I meant it as an innuendo.
He he. Boners.
Failing to fill Natasha Henstridge’s bikini top tomorrow: Species: The Awakening.
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