Troubles abound in the San Francisco nightlife scene, as a trail of bodies left by an unknown serial killer bears one peculiar calling card: The victims’ brain cavities have been sucked dry, emptied through the eye sockets. While the police are left in quite the pickle, the murders are like gold to magazine journalist Jean (Kate Alexander, From a Whisper to a Scream), who’s writing an article on “the atmosphere of fear” when she’s not enjoying the FWB setup with her roomie, Bryan (Caleb Dreneaux). The snot-nosed punk rocker — a member of the local phenom Disease — appears to be young enough to have exited his lover’s womb.
Because Bryan once was involved in a fatal incident of ODing groupies, the long arm of the law extends his way. Police detective Alonzo (Deadly Desire’s Jonathan Zeichner, heavily perspiring a mix of ’80s tough guys Nick Mancuso, Steven Bauer and Joe Piscopo) is crazy-suspicious of Bryan (“Saying Disease is just a band is like saying Hitler was just an overzealous politician!”) and clearly will end up soiling the sheets with Jean, even though he repeatedly and dismissively calls her “Reporter Lady” to her face. (When the inevitable sex scene arrives, ’tis a real Sophie’s Choice to determine which is grosser: that he keeps his necklace on or that his arms are so hairy, viewers might think he’s still wearing a shirt.)
Despite Alonzo’s public investigation, literally brainless bodies keep turning up. Perhaps the neighborhood’s facially disfigured hobo everyone refers to as The Creeper (Robert Duncanson, looking like Manos’ Torgo swallowed a whale) has something to do with it? Whatever, man, cuz danger ain’t gonna keep Disease (collectively billed as The Nuns) from spreading its aural infections, e.g., “Slit your wrists / Fuckin’ bitch / My suicide child / My suicide child!” Other than Disease’s sporadic performances (one at a house party where a guy walks around with a python draped around his neck, no big whoop), music in Night Feeder amounts to producer James Gillerman’s tin-eared score of seemingly random buttons pushed on a Little Virtuoso teaching keyboard.
For all of the movie’s ridiculous wrongs, its most glaring misstep among VHS-shot oddities is most unexpected: having ambition. Yes, freshman (and still that today) feature director Jim Whiteaker remains constrained by underfunding, yet proceeds with Linnea Due and Shelley Singer’s whodunit-procedural script as if it were slated for airing on PBS’ Mystery! They try hard, even aiming for scientific accuracy in a gory autopsy sequence depicted so meticulously that it feels real-time. Many members of the cast actually can act; while leads Alexander and Zeichner are unable to elevate the material, maybe it doesn’t need elevating. After all, the movie never reaches monotony.
Special commendation goes to Cintra Wilson (So I Married an Axe Murderer) for scene-stealing through general spaciness. Everything out of her mouth emerges with an “Oh, wow” quality, no matter what is being said. That I cannot ascertain how much of this is performance only adds to Night Feeder’s appeal. Don’t let anyone spoil the ending! Even if they do, there’s still plenty of 1980s video-horror fun to be had by soaking in all the aerobics, overly teased hair, cordless phones with antennas and so so so much leather. —Rod Lott