Whether inherent or learned, every bit of my being should revolt against something like Microwave Massacre, but refuses to do so. Oh, it’s a terrible, terrible, terrible movie, but among all the flicks the general public would find unwatchable, it’s one of the most watchable. Consider its opening scene: An incredibly stacked blonde (Marla Simon) risks nipple splinters by sticking her generous breasts through the conveniently tits-shaped hole in a construction site’s fence.
Why? Two logical reasons: First, because boobs. Second, it introduces us to Donald (Borscht belt comedian Jackie Vernon), our slobbish, hard-hat hero forever henpecked by May (Claire Ginsberg), his harpy of a wife who hasn’t had sex with him since 1962. She’s just bought a huge microwave oven, which she hopes will refine “my Q-zine”; Donald dismisses it as a “deranged toaster.” (That put-down is as witty as the movie gets, unless this tickles your funny bone: “I’m so hungry, I could eat a whore!”)
May’s cooking remains terrible, however, and during an argument over it, Donald bludgeons her with a pepper grinder. He then cuts her body into pieces, places them in the deep freezer and later, while hungry, accidentally gnaws on his dead wife’s arm and discovers her meat is oh-so-sweet. In order to feed his frenzy, he continuously must lure ladies over to his house to kill them. This proves to be no trouble at all, because suddenly, attractive women flock to the slovenly, unkempt, late-’50s lard bucket like flies to feces. If that analogy strikes you as disgusting, wait until you see Vernon’s hammy mitts allowed near naked, nubile flesh.
Aside from its opening and abrupt end, 1983’s Microwave Massacre has next to nothing to do with microwaves, just then becoming “a thing” in the commercial appliance world, just as made-for-VHS no-budgeters like this were in the realm of home entertainment. For this infamous gore-comedy opus à la H.G. Lewis and The Little Shop of Horrors, director Wayne Berwick (The Naked Monster) eschews rhyme and reason in favor of jokes — to be fair, semblances of jokes — about STDs, hemorrhoids and other things Vernon can deliver with a modicum of investment in the material.
Is “material” too strong a word for a dream sequence in which a nude woman is slathered head-to-toe in mayonnaise? Or a scene that has a sexy neighbor gardening with a vibrating dildo? I know the answer to both is “yes,” and yet you know I cannot wait to watch them again. —Rod Lott