We all grew up believing that Jurassic Park was the best dinosaur movie of all time. But, as becomes abundantly clear when weighing their merits in this titanic testicular stand-off, it’s not even the best dinosaur film of the early 90s. That honor goes to Tammy and the T-Rex, one of cinema’s greatest treasures.
There’s not a wasted frame in Stewart Raffill’s gleeful Frankenstein cocktail of a flick, replete with a mesozoic twist and robot garnish. When we see the wheels under the T-Rex in the reflection of a car, it’s dripping with auteurist intent. When we see Denise Richards, we witness the arrival of one of Hollywood’s greatest stars. When we see Paul Walker, we don’t grieve. Nay! Instead, we celebrate an unparalleled career reaching heights never fathomed. We celebrate a man that will forever live on in our hearts and in an animatronic dinosaur.
The only problem with Tammy and the T-Rex is that it has to end. Because what do you do after you’ve glimpsed perfection? How do we live? How can we?
We pick ourselves up off the couch. And we resume our search, one that began years and childhoods before we ever discovered Tammy and the T-Rex. We embark once more on our never-ending journey to find the next Tammy and the T-Rex, to one day amass the bravery to create our own Tammy and the T-Rex, because otherwise, we may never find another.
Regardless: we must try. It is the only way we get up in the morning.