Some movies feel designed to test your tolerance, others to test your gag reflex. “F$&k My Son!” does both. Co-directed by provocateur comic author Johnny Ryan and Todd Rohal, this film is less a narrative than a full-on assault. It’s a John Waters by way of Gwar nightmare that’s simultaneously hilarious, revolting, and nihilistically committed to bad taste.
It starts with a terrific comedic bit that features a faux theater rules reel and hysterical pre-show guide that skewers modern moviegoing rituals with grotesque, absurdist flair. For a moment, you think you’re in for a razor-sharp satire (the opening bits are the film’s funniest). But once the feature kicks in, the descent is steep.
Vomit, bodily fluids, prosthetic warts, and buckets of bloody gore are hurled fast and furiously at the audience (it’s rated X for a reason). This is a movie that dares you to keep watching just to see how low it can go.
The story revolves around Vermina (Robert Longstreet), a geriatric crone who kidnaps a young mother (Tipper Newton) and forces her into carnal submission with her own monstrous, mutated man child, Fabian (Steve Little). Newton grounds this vile circus with something resembling humanity, playing her part with a desperate, exasperated sincerity that makes the insanity surrounding her all the more unhinged. Longstreet and Little go full-tilt into their roles, hiding behind makeup and devilishly chewing the scenery to excess.
I can’t stress how gross this nasty little movie is. It made me queasy on several occasions (check your gag reflex at the door), and some of the material is nothing short of heinous. My guess is that it will repel a large percentage of even the most “anything goes” audiences, with only the extreme fringe dwellers who seek the ultimate in taboo midnight entertainment remaining.
Reveling in its extremely poor taste, “F$&k My Son!” is outrageous, disgusting, and absolutely not for you — unless, of course, it is.
By: Louisa Moore
Screen Zealots 