This movie is a total gas; there’s absolutely nothing to it except gore and skin and bad ’80s fashion (which is not intentionally bad, of course, just perfectly documented). The acting is abysmal, the effects are awesomely over the top (my favorite is the cut-in-half-psychiatrist), and the blood splatter is plentiful. Terry’s bloody romp through his mother’s apartment complex could be the structure for an anthropological study of late-’80s American suburbia, complete with Atari games, Izod shirts, tequila lessons, and Creme de Banana liqueur.
“It’s not cranberry sauce …”