Judge David Johnson wants to place-kick this DVD into the North Atlantic.
Is this movie any good?
No, this movie is not good.
Facts of the Case
Troma has a new release for you masochists out there. Meat Weed Madness tells the incoherent story of a young girl named Jessie Bell and her encounter with some deranged Southerners who are hooked on a narcotic called meat weed. Apparently, this is a kind of plant-flesh hybrid that, when inhaled, causes unattractive girls to shed all of their clothes and run around swimming pools.
Uh, let's see, what else happens. I covered the meat weed and the naked girls and the swimming pool. Hmmm. There's also a poorly costumed bull-man constantly menacing the females and a strange old guy who chops up the meat and makes it into the titular drug. There's another weird guy who hangs around a pond and wears lipstick. Oh, and a papier-mache cow.
This is pretty worthless, even as far as Troma movies go. Heralded on the disc cover as Alden Dillard's Meat Weed Madness, this 90-minute brain aneurism is apparently Mr. Dillard's debut feature film. Previously, he had submitted a short film to Tromadance, Troma's festival of indy schlock, and for whatever reason, his craftsmanship was deemed up to snuff to warrant a full-blown release. Meat Weed Madness certainly blows.
From start to finish, I never felt this flick was anything more than an assemblage of Dillard's pals screwing around with rudimentary special effects work and aping for the camera. They scream and dance around and shove their hands into deli meats and stifle their laughter and look at the camera and, yes, take their clothes off. None of it makes sense, none of it is funny, and none of it is entertaining. In fact, the only possible compliment I can drum up for this incredible waste of time is that the film has energy. No matter how stupid and annoying each and every one of the characters is, they're into what they're doing it and bouncing around with glee to spare. That offers little in the way to compensate any poor viewer hapless enough to stab his or her eyes on this thing, but there you go.
As for the story, the less I tell you, the stronger your brain cells will grow, but space needs to be filled, so here we go: apparently, this bull-person, creatively named "Bullpucky," needs to be married to a virgin to free him of his murderous behavior or something. Jessie Bell happens to be that virgin, and she ends up at "Meatweed Manor," along with three trashy girls, and what unfolds is nudity that shouldn't be viewed on a full stomach. One by one, these girls are ushered into the Manor's kitchen where they are killed by "extreme-close-up-on-Chef-Boyardee" and transformed into topless cow/human zombies. Jessie is left to fend for herself, she screams a lot, runs a lot, and then the final 20 minutes is comprised of a bunch of people (presumably Dillard's high school lunch friends) screwing around in a field for Jessie's "wedding" to Bullpucky.
ARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!! MY NEURAL SYNAPSES ARE CEASING TO FIRE!!! I NEED TO END THIS REVIEW!!! NOW!!!
Anyway, there's more fake blood and Jessie lathers herself up in it half-naked and roll credits. And 85 minutes too late, I might add. Do not see this movie. Even for crazy Troma fans I fail to see the appeal. However, if you truly want to flush an hour and some change down the toilet, fine, go for it. Maybe there's some kernel of enjoyment that you can excavate from this mess and if you can, congratulations—you're a far more perceptive person than I can ever hope to be.
If you do take the plunge, you will be met with a cornucopia of moronic extras: Dillard delivering his commentary in a highly grating voice, his 30 minute short film "Battle of the Burps and Farts," which is even more out-there than Meat Weed Madness, a load of trailers, a few classic Troma introductions, highlights from Germany's version of Tromadance, "Tromanale," a how-to special effects demo, and a pair of book spots.
Here are a list of things that I would rather attach to my groin with a hot-glue gun instead of watching Meat Weed Madness again: my car keys, nine rusty hex screws, an empty bottle of Sprite, a Radio Flyer wagon, a feral cat, the two-disc special edition of I, Robot, the American Heritage Dictionary, a scoop of garlic mashed potatoes, the Declaration of Independence, a spark plug, and my left foot.
Seriously, do you have to ask?
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