I am guessing that if we continue to call movies about idiot white kids “black comedy” and “satire”, we will eventually unleash the wrath of the dead. A time will come when the feeble ghost and decaying corpse of Richard Pryor and Sam Mendes, respectively, will be pissed off to the point of taking action. Shortly thereafter we will live in an unholy world of racist-cop jokes and shit-for-brains symbolism not unlike that of "Cannibal Holocaust", but with a Russell Crowe voiceover and without a Director’s Cut escape route… Maybe not, but if Hollywood doesn’t maintain constant vigil over these distortions, SOMEthing is gonna give and we may never see the preordained Katie Holmes-Nicole Kidman-Brooke Shields blood orgy during The Academy’s celebration of the 25th anniversary of “Risky Business.”, psychically induced by Tommy Cruise as he levitates across the stage. Crowning himself Christ II, he will attempt a reading of Dianetics in its entirety, not knowing that the “running late” light has been rigged by Rebecca DeMornay to switch itself to “Kill” mode on the first note of “Old Time Rock n’ Roll”. At least, that’s the way I see it, and, as Deniro said to Liotta in The Goodfellowship of the Ring: (squints, nods, smiles, and shrugs) “muhdefiluhgratooty?” (translation: We can’t have that. Can’t have it. Can’t.).

Back on point- "Teeth" is unfunny, un-black, and scores a “Robin Williams as Popeye” on the satire-o-meter. It is more like something Roger Corman and Judy Blume might have come up with between psychotic episodes at a hashish bar (if only they could stop spitting on each other and masturbating to “Superfudge”). That is to say: something galactically stupid. Yessir. As the title oh-so-subliminally suggests, a phony celibate-case finds out that, beyond being the sweetest, most gracious, girl-next-door-to-the-nuke-plant, and the best kid who ever preached shit against the tide (save the hymen!) to her peers while her mom lay dying, she's also got the fucking Pit of Sarlaac in her drawers. Talk about your textbook side-splitter! I about wet myself during the “feeding” scenes. And that’s why I choked off the blood supply to my glans with my thighs for the rest of the grotesqueries. So I wouldn’t pee. Really. I wasn’t scared. Not at all. HAHAHAHA! See? And once the big secret was let out of its “bag”, I watched in hysterical delirium as the legend of Vagina Dentata incarnate morphed from Seymour Krelboin into a cross between David Banner and the psycho-lesbian in “Monster” inside of three non-boating accidents. Tee-hee! Boy howdy, is that ever… Fuck this. What in the hell kind of message is the dismembering of multiple penii by a mutant hypocrite supposed to send? Well, I can sure as shit tell you to WHOM it is sent. To me. And, if I am to glean anything from the compulsive anal-only action her Depeche Mode-groupie-looking stepbrother lays on Miss White Trash America, that message is "Turn gay."

Anyhow, the real insult that this shitfest hurls at its audience is the idea that the biological homologue of an ancient Greek myth could be spawned spontaneously via random genetic mutation. Please. Without going into a biology lecture, let’s just call that leap Vagina Retarda. On the other hand, a much more plausible, and therefore satirical, explanation might be that the NSA has been experimenting on these people all along and that mom and daughter are the prototypes of a new breed of passive-attack soldier (The KY-Vagilante). "Oh, help me, kind follower of Islam, black man, Jew, Hillary, etc. (Aid is given) How can I EVER repay you?” (Flashes thighs. Chewing and screaming ensue. Hillary’s lips and tongue are torn apart.) I can only surmise that the meth-coated Cuisinart tip-attachments are on the way for the gaybots that will invade San Francisco and the Focus on The Family cult. In any event, it seems that the boys wisely upped the rads on the old lady in order to free the daughter (who will either give birth via C-Section or to Fruit Smoothies someday) from any sort of moral anchor. This is a crucial facet to all vengeance flicks, (e.g. "Beaches"). You must kill off the love interest in order to trigger the murderous revenge sequences while simultaneously setting free the conscience of the audience. At least, that’s how it used to go. I am not sure that it is necessary to render viewers guiltless anymore since Lucas went from whacking human stormtroopers to toy robots and Spielberg switched from eating fishermen and teens to torturing Nazis and Tom Hanks. We’re all meta-murderers now.

Not that it fucking matters. The Tijuana donkey-act subtlety of “Teeth” is impervious to softening, and all of the fluoride douche in the world won’t change that.

--michael3b