All Rise...

Judge Adam Arseneau has the munchies for terrible movies.

The Charge

What the hell did I just watch?

Opening Statement

Whatever Meat Weed America is, it isn't good. No sir, not by a long shot. I can't quite call it a "horror" film, or a "comedy." The most appropriate adjective that comes to mind is "stupid," but that's not an AFI recognized film genre.

Facts of the Case

The Meatweed family has reemerged from their southern paradise to defend America! When Meatweed Manor is attacked by the terrorist Bin Smokin', Lord Meatweed must rally the troops and some horny nuns against the evil Jihottie terrorists…

No. You know what? @#$% this, I'm out of here. I'm not summarizing this crap.

The Evidence

The sequel to Meat Weed Madness—a review in which esteemed Judge David Johnson delivered his precedent-setting Groin-with-a-Hot-Glue-Gun symposium—Troma has offered up festering, fecal-stained seconds. This is quite possibly the most redundant sequel ever. Obviously, the first film didn't have enough time to tell the critically important and socially relevant story of naked girls hanging around the pool humping paper mâché cows, so a sequel was needed—nay, demanded—by our cultural zeitgeist. Do you hear that sizzle? That's the glue gun heating up, baby.

There is no plot to be had here. Oh sure, there's a plot synopsis on the back of the DVD case, but this is a simulacra at best, a cruel imitation; imagine space aliens hundreds of years in the future finding copies of Survivor episodes and deducing all of human culture based on its contents. When you break it down to brass tacks, Meat Weed America is a bunch of naked people covering themselves in various liquids, hanging themselves from suspension rigs, defiling religious iconography, making out, and humping paper mâché creatures. This goes on for over eighty minutes…and then you attempt suicide.

One assumes desperately (because if not for this reason, then abandon all hope we must) that Meat Weed America is attempting some cultural form of subversive cinema, a glorious John Waters-esque abandoning of sexual taboos and horribly amateurish filmmaking. This is a feral and vicious insinuation, a disgusting accusation to sully the good name of a lie. The mere suggestion that there is merit behind such a catastrophic failure of celluloid is like making the argument that Babe Ruth and your six-year old tee ball-playing nephew are both baseball athletes.

Honestly, I could go on. It is so gloriously easy to write a review in this fashion—you just crack open the thesaurus to the "terrible crap" entry and go to town. Even writing this much gives unintended respect and attention to a film that should never be seen by human eyes. It's as if my very words give the evil beast satanic strength; each typographic letter a hooded, velour-clad worshiper starts chanting and drawing ever-closer towards the ultimate dark sacrifice of my will to live.

Like the film, the DVD is a mess. Shot on a budget of fast food and methamphetamines, Meat Weed America looks to have been recorded, edited, and released on a cell phone. Full frame, stereo presentation, terrible film, etc. As for extras, we get a behind-the-scenes feature, an uncut introduction from director Aiden Dillard and his massive wang, a trailer, some short films, and a "sexy" slideshow.

The Rebuttal Witnesses

A selection of pierced and tattooed naked girls who look like rejects from Suicide Girls: The First Tour prancing about for eighty minutes might—might—constitute a tiny, microscopic check in the "pro" column.

Closing Statement

The cinematic equivalent of having your mother beaten up and sugar poured in your gas tank, Meat Weed America should not exist for human consumption. Even for Troma, this is just abject cruelty towards its fanbase.

The Verdict

Ugh.

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