This mind-numbingly odd product from the Gator State has so many moments of absolute mania it practically exists in a genre of its own: the Sunday-School-Horror-Rock-N-Roll-Biker-Anti-Drug-Message flick. The vague suggestion of a plot is narrated (i.e. interrupted, editorialized and hacked upon) by producer/director/lunatic Brad Grinter, who comes across as a bizarre gene-splicing of a tent preacher and a raving bus-depot derelict who smokes like a chimney and has to stop periodically to cough up what's left of his lungs. ...
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This mind-numbingly odd product from the Gator State has so many moments of absolute mania it practically exists in a genre of its own: the Sunday-School-Horror-Rock-N-Roll-Biker-Anti-Drug-Message flick. The vague suggestion of a plot is narrated (i.e. interrupted, editorialized and hacked upon) by producer/director/lunatic Brad Grinter, who comes across as a bizarre gene-splicing of a tent preacher and a raving bus-depot derelict who smokes like a chimney and has to stop periodically to cough up what's left of his lungs. When able to complete a sentence, Grinter presents his wacky morality tale of an Elvis-styled biker named Herschel (Steve Hawkes, who shares some of the guilt as co-producer) who gets caught up in a duel between good sister Angel and her devilish sibling Ann. Hersh winds up toking off a little of Ann's devil weed which, when combined with a heaping helping of dad's experimental poultry, transforms him into a rampaging turkey beast. Horrendously fake gore murders ensue when the fowl freak goes for the throats of the local dope pushers, until the aptly-named Angel prays the dumb cluck back to normal. Despite the occasional hint that this entire exercise might be an elaborate, straight-faced put-on, the most blood-curdling aspect of this movie is the notion that its backers were probably sincere. Cavett Binion, Rovi
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