Movie Reviews
‘F*ck My Son!’ Review: Can a Movie Be Gross Enough That AI Isn’t the Most Disgusting Thing About It?
The funniest thing about Todd Rohal’s “Fuck My Son!” — alas, one of the only funny things about this impressively sick but tiresomely self-amused celebration of bad taste — is that the most controversial aspect of the movie isn’t its title, or its demented story about a gun-packing mother who forces a random woman to have sex with her monstrous son (imagine if the Sarlaac from “Star Wars” had a baby with the alien from “Mac and Me,” nipples and boils everywhere, diaper oozing wet shit, just a gaping hole full of hotdogs where his dick should be), or even how brutally it treats the sex slave’s elementary school-age daughter, Belinda, who will be cooked in an oven if her mom doesn’t comply with their captor’s demands).
No, the most controversial aspect of “Fuck My Son!” is that it uses some very crude and obvious AI for what amounts to roughly 90 seconds of screen time. A number of festival viewers were outraged. I guess some things are just too obscene for audiences to stomach.
Like everything else in Rohal’s film, the AI-afflicted scenes are designed to triple-underline their own grotesqueness. A prologue modeled after an AMC theater pre-show (“No jacking off in the theater,” “Do not pee or crap in your seat,” “Our restrooms are now closed”) is filled out with inhuman crowds, while the characters from Bernice’s favorite show — a “Veggietales”-esque abomination called “The Meatie Mates” — pop up throughout the movie in increasingly artificial form, their every appearance better reflecting the ghoulish slop that today’s children eagerly consume on YouTube.
As in Radu Jude’s recent “Dracula,” the technology isn’t used as a shortcut (if anything, incorporating AI made Rohal’s work considerably more difficult), but rather as a commentary on the soullessness of modern “art.” Reactive to a world in which people have become more offended by form than content, “Fuck My Son!” exists to explore the efficacy of shock value at a time when image-making itself has become so repulsive and society has ingested its own memetic sickliness as a sign of the future.
Rohal wants to push back against the numbing dystopia of Project 2025, so he’s cooked up a collective experience — one that will tour across the country, advertising its lack of streaming availability as its greatest hook — designed to startle us back to our senses and restore the sheer joy of transgression. Little other joy is on offer (either within this movie, or outside of it), but “Fuck My Son!” feels like it was only made to indulge in the fact that it still could be.
So while I may not have particularly enjoyed the experience of watching it, I have no choice but to admit that it does, indeed, exist. Critics are raving “This is a real thing that people made.” Put it on the poster.
Of course, this material didn’t originate with Rohal; an idea as pure and profound as “Fuck My Son!” has to come from somewhere. Usually it’s from a divine vision or the liquid meth they sell at the front of America’s finest gas stations. In this case, it came from a graphic novel: Johnny Ryan’s “Fuck My Son: A Tale of Terror, Issue One,” which Rohal has faithfully adapted like a sacred text. And that’s just as well, because the movie has no interest in making such intellectual property more palatable to a wider audience.
Either you want to see a movie called “Fuck My Son!” or you don’t (“It’s just garbage,” the director has said. “It’s made by trashmen for trashmen”), and Rohal’s film is squarely targeted at the people who might conceivably pay for a ticket; the aforementioned pre-show offers viewers the choice of “Perv-o-Vision” glasses that make all of the characters naked, or a “Nude Blok” edition for those who pray to “fill their lives with blissful ignorance and intolerance” (the film’s spirit all but requires comparisons to John Waters, even if its execution cleaves a lot closer to early James Gunn).
The world of “Fuck My Son!” is a small and seedy place where every mote of innocence only exists as an invitation for perversion, or worse. We first meet Sandi (Tipper Newton, recalling Sarah Silverman in her ability to conflate innocence with repulsion) as she takes little Bernice (Kynzie Colmery) dress shopping, where — of course — a peeper is spying on all of the dressing rooms. Shot like an ’80s Z-picture but always self-indulgent enough to make clear that it’s in on the joke, the movie soon introduces its leading ladies to an overbearing mother (a Chris Farley-esque Robert Longstreet, growling in drag) who’s fallen and can’t get up.
But it’s a trap! The mother lures Sandi and Bernice to her van, knocks them out, and takes them to the remote farmhouse where she lives with her mutant son Fabian (Steve Little). There’s so much sex in the world, and she can’t stand the thought that her sweet child will never get to have any of it. The mother wheels Fabian in, places Bernice nearby with a front-row view, and — wait for it — demands that Sandi fuck her son. Bareback. “Person to Person” star George Sample III eventually shows up to round out the cast, but that’s really about all there is to it. As positioned to Sandi, the terms couldn’t be simpler: “The sooner you fuck my son, the sooner I’ll let your daughter out of the oven.” What’s a mother to do?
Rohal pays lip-service to the idea that parents will do anything for their children, but this movie is much less interested in developing its themes than it is in watching Sandi fish around Fabian’s innards for his Lovecraftian penis (spoiler alert: she finds it, and the massive appendage becomes a veritable character in its own right). Is it gross? Very.
But the grossness doesn’t scale at a particularly engaging rate, and while Rohal’s agenda required a certain amount of cheekiness to validate the fun of its own shock value, it’s hard to overlook the reality that “Fuck My Son!” is far less disturbing than the movie promised by its title. For all of its eldritch horrors (Fabian’s penis eventually penetrates almost everything you can imagine, with child rape being the most obvious red line that Rohal won’t cross), this heightened story is too “fun” to be even half as fucked up as the things we read in the headlines every day, and not funny enough for its increasingly whacked out “WTF”-ness to be enjoyable on its own terms. Things get wild because they can, and then slaphappy because they can’t be anything else.
When a title card pops up that reads: “The Ending: Part I,” the joke is that a movie with so little substance would require something as pompous as a multi-tiered epilogue.
What meaning there is behind “Fuck My Son!” is easy enough to understand: Enjoy this kind of garbage while you can, because it won’t be long before late night TV hosts are locked in jail, Donald Trump starts talking about Eddington as if it were a real town he saw on Fox News, and everyone who saw “One Battle After Another” is labeled as a card-carrying member of Antifa (the “A” in “AMC A-List” stands for “Anarchy”). Appreciate when slop could still be a display of defiance instead, and not just the visual language of cultural defeat. See “Fuck My Son!” not because it’s good, but rather because it refuses to pretend that it isn’t bad. If only that argument were enough to convince me that it shouldn’t have been better.
Grade: C-
“Fuck My Son!” opens at the IFC Center in New York City on Thursday, October 16, before traveling to other theaters around the country. Its full touring schedule can be found here.
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Movie Reviews
‘Project Hail Mary’ Review: Ryan Gosling and a Rock Make Sci-Fi Magic
In contrast to other sci-fi heroes, like Interstellar’s Cooper, who ventures into the unknown for the sake of humanity and discovery, knowing the sacrifice of giving up his family, Grace is externally a cynical coward. With no family to call his own, you’d think he’d have the will to go into space for the sake of the planet’s future. Nope, he’s got no courage because the man is a cowardly dog. However, Goddard’s script feels strikingly reflective of our moment. Grace has the tools to make a difference; the Earth flashbacks center on him working towards a solution to the antimatter issue, replete with occasionally confusing but never alienating dialogue. He initially lacks the conviction, embodying a cynicism and hopelessness that many people fall into today.
The film threads this idea effectively through flashbacks that reveal his reluctance, giving the story a tragic undercurrent. Yet, it also makes his relationship with Rocky, the first living thing he truly learns to care for, ever more beautiful.
When paired with Rocky, Gosling enters the rare “puppet scene partner” hall of fame alongside Michael Caine in The Muppet Christmas Carol, never letting the fact that he’s acting opposite a puppet disrupt the sincerity of his performance. His commitment to building a gradual, affectionate friendship with this animatronic creation feels completely natural, and the chemistry translates beautifully on screen. It stands as one of the stronger performances of his career.
Project Hail Mary is overly long, and while it can be deeply affecting, the film leans on a few emotional fake-outs that become repetitive in the latter half. By the third time it deploys the same sentimental beat, the effect begins to feel cloying, slightly dulling the powerful emotions it built earlier. The constant intercutting between past and present can also feel thematically uneven at times, occasionally undercutting the narrative momentum. At 2 hours and 36 minutes, the film feels like it’s stretching itself to meet a blockbuster runtime when a tighter cut might have served better.
FINAL STATEMENT
Project Hail Mary is a meticulously crafted, hopeful, and dazzling space epic that proves the most moving friendship in film this year might just be between Ryan Gosling and a rock.
Movie Reviews
Dan Webster reviews “WTO/99”
DAN WEBSTER:
It may now seem like ancient history, especially to younger listeners, but it was only 26 years ago when the streets of Seattle were filled with protesters, police and—ultimately—scenes of what ended up looking like pure chaos.
It is those scenes—put together to form a portrait of what would become known as the “Battle of Seattle” —that documentary filmmaker Ian Bell captures in his powerful documentary feature WTO/99.
We’ve seen any number of documentaries over the decades that report on every kind of social and cultural event from rock concerts to war. And the majority of them follow a typical format: archival footage blended with interviews, both with participants and with experts who provide an informational, often intellectual, perspective.
WTO/99 is something different. Like The Perfect Neighbor, a 2026 Oscar-nominated documentary feature, Bell’s film consists of what could be called found footage. What he has done is amass a series of news reports and personal video recordings into an hour-and-42-minute collection of individual scenes, mostly focused on a several-block area of downtown Seattle.
That is where a meeting of the WTO, the World Trade Organization, was set to be held between Nov. 30 and Dec. 3, 1999. Delegates from around the world planned to negotiate trade agreements (what else?) at the Washington State Convention and Trade Center.
Months before the meeting, however, a loose coalition of groups—including NGOs, labor unions, student organizations and various others—began their own series of meetings. Their objective was to form ways to protest not just the WTO but, to some of them, the whole idea of a world order they saw as a threat to the economic independence of individual countries.
Bell’s film doesn’t provide much context for all this. What we mostly see are individuals arguing their points of view as they prepare to stop the delegates from even entering the convention center. Meanwhile, Seattle authorities such as then-Mayor Paul Schell and then-Police Chief Norm Stamper—with brief appearances by Gov. Gary Locke and King County Executive Ron Sims—discuss counter measures, with Schell eventually imposing a curfew.
That decision comes, though, after what Bell’s film shows is a peaceful protest evolving into a street fight between people parading and chanting, others chained together and splinter groups intent on smashing the storefronts of businesses owned by what they see as corporate criminals. One intense scene involves a young woman begging those breaking windows to stop and asking them why they’re resorting to violence. In response a lone voice yells their reasoning: “Self-defense.”
Even more intense, though, are the actions of the Seattle police. We see officers using pepper spray, tear gas, flash grenades and other “non-lethal” means such as firing rubber pellets into the crowd. In one scene, a uniformed guy—not identified as a police officer but definitely part of the security crowd, which included National Guardsmen—is shown kicking a guy in the crotch.
The media, too, can’t avoid criticism. Though we see broadcast reporters trying to capture what was happening—with some affected like everybody else by the tear gas that filled the streets like a winter fog—the reports they air seem sketchy, as if they’re doctors trying to diagnose a serious illness by focusing on individual cells. And the images they capture tend to highlight the violence over the well-meaning actions of the vast majority of protesters.
Reactions to what Bell has put on the screen are bound to vary, based on each viewer’s personal politics. Bell revels his own stance by choosing selectively from among thousands of hours of video coverage to form the narrative he feels best captures what happened those two decades-and-change ago.
If nothing else, WTO/99 does reveal a more comprehensive picture of what happened than we got at the time. And, too, it should prepare us for the future. The way this country is going, we’re bound to see a lot more of the same.
Call it the “Battle for America.”
For Spokane Public Radio, I’m Dan Webster.
——
Movies 101 host Dan Webster is the senior film critic for Spokane Public Radio.
Movie Reviews
Movie Review: ‘Scream 7’ – Catholic Review
NEW YORK (OSV News) – As its title suggests, “Scream 7” (Paramount) is the latest extension of a long-lived horror franchise, one that’s currently approaching its 30th anniversary on screen. Since each chapter of this slasher saga has been a bloodsoaked mess, the series’ longevity will strike moviegoers of sense as inexplicable.
Yet the slog continues. While the previous film in the sequence shifted the action from California to New York, this second installment, following a 2022 quasi-reboot, settles on a Midwestern locale and reintroduces us to the series’ original protagonist, Sidney Evans, nee Prescott (Neve Campbell).
Having aged out of the adolescent demographic on whom the various murderers who have donned the Ghostface mask that serves as these films’ dubious trademark over the years seem to prefer to prey, Sidney comes equipped with a teen daughter, Tatum (Isabel May). Will Tatum prove as resourceful in evading the unwanted attentions of Ghostface as Mom has?
On the way to answering that question, a clutch of colorless minor characters fall victim to the killer, who sometimes gets — according to his or her lights — creative. Thus one is quite literally made to spill her guts, while another ends up skewered on a barroom’s pointy beer tap.
Through it all, director Kevin Williamson and his co-writer Guy Busick try to peddle a theme of female empowerment in the face of mortal danger. They also take a stab, as it were, at constructing a plotline about intergenerational family tensions. When not jarring viewers with grisly images, however, they’re only likely to lull them into a stupor.
The film contains excessive gory violence, including disembowelment and impaling, underage drinking, mature topics, a couple of profanities, several milder oaths, pervasive rough and considerable crude language and occasional crass expressions. The OSV News classification is O — morally offensive. The Motion Picture Association rating is R — restricted. Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian.
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