'Flesh Eating Mothers' (1988) - James Aviles Martin.

The singularly unsung name of Trash movie titan James Aviles Martin should be accorded the same veneration as fellow good taste transgressors, and zealous envelope pushers, Jackie ‘Blood Diner’ Kong, Wayne ‘Microwave Massacre’ Berwick, Don ‘Fiend’ Dohler and that perfidious pair Bill Leslie and Terry Lofton, those big-thinking, micro-budget maniacs behind ‘The Nail Gun Massacre’ and yet, bafflingly, Martin’s laudable cinematic legacy is nigh on forgotten and his sadistically satirical ‘Flesh Eating Mothers’ (1988),  if mentioned at all, is summarily dismissed with all the lofty ceremony of a dysenteric stool!  

While the eminently boorish entertainment value to ‘Flesh Eating Mothers’ joyfully comes not from any narrative subtlety, since Martin’s unrepentantly muck-headed opus has all the refined taste of an especially ruinous restroom floor, but his permissively prurient, ceaselessly yucky splatter movie has plentiful guts, and we finally get to enjoy these recently restored, proudly glistening entrails in all their HD, fully unspooled 16 mm gory glory! Much like Bob Balaban’s twisted ‘Parents’ (1987) ‘Flesh Eating Mothers’ also boisterously pilfers the more exploitative, sanguinary tropes of B-Horror in order to bluntly satirize the myriad hateful hypocrisies and internecine intrigues simmering sickly behind the ostensibly immaculate white-picketed fences of small-town suburbia; and one can be quite sure certain that errant appendages infinitely more distressing than mildewed chicken bones lie buried beneath these murderous matriarch’s ostentatiously groomed lawns! 

The contrived conservative domesticity of white bread suburbia is unceremoniously thrown into a retrograde, anthropological apocalypse as multitudinous, murder-mad mommy’s become violently afflicted with a hitherto undocumented, virulently destructive, amorously transmitted virus which rapidly engenders an unprecedentedly pervasive desire in mommy dearest to gruesomely cannibalize her progeny’s irresistibly sweet savoured flesh!  

Splatter movie god James Aviles Martin’s delightfully crude celluloid ode to explosive chode has innumerably insane highlights, not least being its bafflingly eclectic, super-schizoid score by the truly maverick Hayley Moss which bounds histrionically from deliciously cheesy Casio elevator-core to some righteously grooving didgeridoo-ing! The cast’s bravura acting choices, while not always entirely competent are frequently hysterical and the fiendishly unrestrained final act of ceaselessly carnivorous, body-violating cannibal carnage has a vintage John Waters piquancy that makes this luridly gore-glazed, low budget flesh-fest a bourgeoisie basting B-Movie masterclass of blissfully bad taste!

'There's much gore to this mother-loving splatter movie than meats the eye, man!' - Ralphus (Bloodsucking Freaks).

 

 

'I dig a broad who actively disdains foreplay and goes straight for the meat!'

'I preferred it when 'face-time' had a far deeper meaning!'

'Darkthrone!'

 

             'Desperate Housewives was NEVER this much fun!'

                  'Thriller's for twerp's and tater tots!'

           'Kevin Bacon regrets his last cosmetic procedure!

           'HRT gave me wings, honey!'
 

        'You can take yer hinkey meat analogue an' shove it!'

                          'The drugs DO work!'