From Planet Pluton (apparent surface area: three feet by five) a horribly mutated domestic pet is tele-ported into the tacky, fallout-bunkered suburban home of the swinging Puttermans. It would be a cold heart that didn't sing as the Puttermans become lunch for their uninvited guest. Contact-mag swingers and assorted freaks turn up at the door like guest stars in a sit-com and rapidly become pools of slime on the tiled floor of the 'pleasure den'. Apart from Grampa's enthusiasm for self-regenerating lizard tails as a food source, very little of this is as funny as intended. Yet the monster, a huge, wobbling regurgitated meal with several rotating eyes, is genuinely likeable, and the sight of Mary Woronov poured into skin-tight sky-blue leather seems destined to linger in the mind's eye.