What better way to celebrate the most macabre month of the year than to watch a grotesque comedy about Hollywood and the funeral business (guess which one is worse…)?
Strange, hypnotic doom and gloom Southern cult classic, a modern-day Hatfield and McCoy feud underpinned by a violent, fatalistic melancholy.
Your typical Elvis musical stripped of all the on-camera performances, the bikinis, the laughs (except when Guy and Nan start sniping at each other)…and then heavily medicated for severe depression.
Please, sir…may I have some more filth?
Slam-bang, lightning-fast, crude, vital actioner…with something on its mind.
“Some men…you just can’t reach.”
Take that, Mrs. June Cleaver!