Those who admired how Mitchell Lichtenstein’s horror flick, Teeth, rewired vagina dentata mythology could be distracted from its failings: lackluster writing, leaden satire, a nagging sense that the film’s misanthropy existed simply for its own sake. But no such saving grace exists in Lichtenstein’s repugnant follow-up; what you wouldn’t give for an ill nana with incisors to draw attention from the hate on display. Jayne (Posey), a neurotic nouveau riche wife, returns home to relieve her salt-of-the-earth sister (Moore) from caring for their deteriorating dad (Torn). Cue geriatric fecal clean-ups, the single worst caricature of a crackhead ever, Juliet of the Spirits–style dream sequences and a ridiculous subplot involving buried treasure that you pray is merely metaphorical. (Spoiler alert: Your prayers will not be answered.)
Not even the reliable Posey can salvage this slag heap, and fans of the iconic Indiewood starlet—Poseyphiles? Parkerheads?—will be especially crestfallen. She’s reduced to relying on frazzled grimacing or flighty grinning in lieu of anything deeper; only a tiny, intimate gesture in which she rests her head on Moore’s lap gives you the slightest suggestion of humanity. After that blink-or-you’ll-miss-it moment, the movie quickly reverts to cartoonishness, and cacophony returns with a vengeance. This film will make you cry tears. They won’t be happy ones.