Fuck My Son!

Sprung from the irreverent imagination of Johnny Ryan, whose notorious comics have satirically provoked every sacred cow under the sun since the early 1990s, and copulating with the sensibilities of Todd Rohal (The Catechism Cataclysm), one of America’s most anarchic contemporary surrealists, Fuck My Son! is the most abject exercise in poor taste since Pink Flamingos. Akin to being sneezed upon by Dan Aykroyd’s penile nose from Nothing But Trouble (google it), this is an uncut, unclean geek show of odious viscosity and a gleefully depraved spectacle that will leave Midnighters gasping, gagging, and/or guffawing with infectious laughter — at least for those who have accepted their eternal damnation in Hell.🤘

Rohal hews faithfully to the source material as he depicts its nightmare scenario: Vermina, a geriatric, opera-loving hag (Robert Longstreet) kidnaps a young mother (Tipper Newton), and coerces her into making whoopee with Fabian (Steve Little), her mutant, wart-ridden manchild, lest the crone immolate the young woman’s prepubescent daughter (Kynzie Colmery). The entire cast commits magnificently to this malignant melodrama with Longstreet and Little smothered in meticulous make-up courtesy of legendary FX artist Robert Kurtzman, and memorably chewing the scenery with the appetite of the Sawyer family in the second Texas Chainsaw Massacre. But Newton is a miracle as our put-upon protagonist, grounding the absurd terror with genuine pathos and hysterical incredulity.

Feverishly framed by a pre-show that satirizes the corporatization of theatrical moviegoing, complete with freakish deployments of AI slop, and featuring musical reveries that precede every titular utterance, Fuck My Son! is an acidic indictment of both the perverts and the prudes.

PETER KUPLOWSKY