(Ron Switzer, 1989)
A montage prologue, quite obviously manufactured by the blessed maniacs who actually chose to distribute this thing, tries to convince us that the comic impact of this staggeringly incompetent bit of nothing is entirely deliberate. Don't you believe it: this is to Lloyd Kaufman as Andy Warhol is to Herschel Gordon Lewis. It is so thoroughgoing in its project of torturing its hypothetical audience that it seems like some kind of misanthropic negationist art installation, only it can't be because it is so completely bereft of self-consciousness. As obnoxious and ugly as "Things" or "Frozen Scream", this manages to up the ante by recycling itself with a maddeningly bald insistence that has to be seen to be believed. A Hitchcock-style shot-by-shot analysis of, say, the attack on the cardio girls might yield twenty edits and perhaps three minutes of footage - only the sequence is ten minutes long! You WANT to believe that this started life as a slightly more bearable short subject, except if you took away the repitition what's left would be far less fascinating: eg. when the 'fiend' does enter the room, he only inspires extended, highly apathetic, utterly blank stares from his imminent (offscreen) victims. Repeat this scenario about four times, in marginally varied settings; bridge these with perhaps thirty lines of dialogue total; offer up actors even more hateful and lethargic than those in the above mentioned classics; and grace us with a monster comprising gauze, ketchup and one yellow Spock ear, and you've got a movie too mind-boggling to refuse, a working definition of bad. I'm proud to own it!