I’ve never been sold on the concept of destiny. Until now.
Sometime during the first half of the twentieth century, identical twins David and Robert Story were born. Unexceptional on the surface, it was quickly noted that the Storys displayed a preternatural facility for Kicking Ass. Scientists, though impressed, dismissed this trait as nothing more than a passing curiosity. Like the rest of us, David and Robert appeared to be bound for the routine, the unremarkable, workaday pattern of American life, never to realize their full potential for punching people in the face. But then, destiny called.
The Ice House answered. Two lives were instantly changed. Yours may soon follow.
The Ice House is all aflutter with the exotic. Large breasts. Orgies. “Hip” 60s slang (“Ya dirty dighty!”) in “hip” 60s sex joints (“The Magic Mushroom”). A rotund man in plaid swim trunks with a poodle sleeping on his stomach. Yet, they’re all but distractions on the road to a higher pursuit. And that pursuit happens to be Storys beating the shit out of people. It’s a birthright. And a talent.
As the tangled plight of twin goons Rick (a killer who hides his victims in The Ice House) and Fred (a real nice cop) unfolds, you will be subjected to a not-so tangled plot of artless exploitation. The Ice House concentrates solely on domesticated sex and violence. It never goes too far. Yet, it goes far enough. The film flies by in a crusty siege of hysterical fisticuffs, 1.5 second rapes, and welcomed ’69 psychedelic culture. It’s Just for the Hell of It with most — but not all — of the boredom removed and a few softcore scenes thrown in.
Just think. David and Robert Story were born to star in The Ice House and that’s it. There may be hope for us all. The Ice House is a simplistic, entertaining exercise in slight sleaze that you should throw on the heap. Indifference may creep up during the motorcycle chase, but don’t tell the Storys that I said that. I don’t feel like getting my ass kicked. Again.