Comments Off on Food of the Gods: Guest review by Tiger Sixon
Tiger Sixon was locked up in a secret desert base with only the government’s cache of weapons grade B-movies to keep him entertained. No one knows why the government locked up one of their best operatives, but it is rumored to involve aliens, a spaceship, and a hefty bar tab. He lost an eye in an accident with a lobster and pogo stick. Now here’s Tiger’s first b-movie review from the confines of his jail cell. Food of the Gods.
Any time a film starts with “based on a portion of a novel” you know yer in for somethin’ special. That’s the case with FOOD OF THE GODS. It is based on “a portion” of H. G. Wells’ book of the same name.
But what portion? A sentence? A paragraph? That would be like reading Moby Dick and making a movie based on the ship’s cook, but still calling it Moby Dick.
But let’s get down to brass tacks—FOOD OF THE GODS ain’t a cookin’ film. This ain’t no JULIA AND JULIA. Heck, it ain’t even ATTACK OF THE KILLER TOMATOES. This is a nature revenge film.
It is kind of like THE HAPPENING, except there’s no Marky Mark and it didn’t piss me off.
The film starts out with narration by our hero, “My name is Morgan, and I play football.” That reminds me of my last group psych evaluation here at the base: “Hi, my name is Tiger and I [CLASSIFIED].”
The opening credits at a snow covered football field feature bouts of freeze frame action—not to build tension, but to draw attention to the fact that the producers dropped some serious Loonies to shoot at a Canadian football field.
Morgan, who looks like the ‘70s version of Sean Penn, treats us to another voice over, going on to explain that his father, who was apparently a prophet, warned him that someday, nature would have enough and seek revenge. The only thing my dad could predict was the end of a six pack.
Morgan goes on vacation, probably because the rest of the team hates him. The movie doesn’t say so, but you can tell by the look in their eyes that they hate Morgan. Just like I could at my first grade graduation.
Morgan opts to spend a cold weekend on some island in the Pacific North-West with the team’s PR guy and another buddy in tow (does anyone ever say Atlantic North-East?).
On the island they hunt a deer on horseback with a team of foxhounds. Reminds of the last time I was invited to Camp David.
Things take a turn for the interesting when Morgan’s football buddy gets killed by a giant wasp—which is a combination of a giant puppet and a super-imposed photo doing the Cha-cha.
It took a mere seven minutes to get to the first kill of this film. Some folks ain’t got time to bleed; me, I ain’t got time for plot.
Morgan looks for inside a barn, and he finds giant chickens. Get the Colonel on the phone. The chickens proceed to ruin Morgan’s jacket, but his flowing locks remain unscathed. The chickens switch between giant puppets and a split screen of real chickens. Morgan then meets Mrs. Skinner and asks about the massive fowls in the barn.
Mrs. Skinner explains that the feathery behemoths are the result of normal chickens being fed the Food of the Gods. Huzzah. We have a title invocation.
We find out later that the Food of the Gods is thick custard that comes out of a hill in the Skinners’ backyard. If only BEVERLY HILLBILLIES had used the same plot device.
Speaking of the Skinners, Mr. Skinner went to the mainland in hopes of selling the Food of the Gods to a chemical company. He dies via a herd of giant rats when he stops to fix a flat tire. Never stop to fix a flat. CGI can never replace the charm of watching rats chew apart a toy Volkswagen.
Morgan returns to the mainland with the body of his dead pal. The PR guy comes to the football field, which days later is still covered in snow, and says their buddy was killed with enough stings for 250 Police concerts.
Morgan and PR guy return to the island and meet an unmarried couple in a Winnebago, and the lady is pregnant. Instant Drama! Just add a preggo lady.
A pair of folks from the chemical company Mr. Skinner visited also shows up, and hilarity ensues.
And by hilarity, I mean herds of giant rats eating everything in sight. The rats are THE reason to watch this film. They are a combination of puppets and split screen footage of real rats attacking model cars and houses. They run in slow-motion and growl like jaguars.
There is even a lone white rat in the bunch. Hey, maybe this film was based on a portion of Moby Dick too?
Morgan must of read the Anarchist Cookbook in high school, because he is quite apt at makin’ pipe bombs–which he uses to blow up a dam. He figures, while the rats can swim, they are not used to swimming at 150 pounds and will sink. Gravity is a harsh mistress. I learned that the first time I flew a [CLASSIFIED].
Morgan’s theory proves correct, and we’re treated to footage of rats in an aquarium.
But wait, just like my mother in law, the white rat shows up at the last minute. Morgan smashes its head in with the stock of his shotgun. That’ll learn it.
Morgan treats the dead rats to a Viking funeral, and muses aloud, “I guess that’s the end of them.”
Wrong. A jar of the Food of the Gods washes up near a group of cows, which promptly chow down. Said cows are then milked, and the film cuts to a scene of school children drinking milk. This is why I only drink the green stuff the base doctor says keeps me from screaming.
Looks like their mom’s are gonna be buyin’ XXXXXL sweaters this Christmas.
Tiger Sixon says, give this flick a watch—but skip it if growling rats running in slow-motion creep ya out.
Check out the trailer for “Food of the Gods”