Poor Veronica Lake. The Hollywood icon starred in Preston Sturges’ classic Sullivan’s Travels, burned brightly opposite Alan Ladd in several films noir and earned screen-siren status thanks to That Hair. Yet her career ended as no one anticipated: looking 20 years older than she was, applying maggots to the screaming face of Adolf Hitler.
I speak of the ignoble Flesh Feast. Despite the title, it’s not the doing of H.G. Lewis; if it were, it wouldn’t be so forgotten. Flesh Feast is, however, the first film for writer/director Brad Grinter, who soon enough served up an even bigger turkey — in more ways than one — with Blood Freak.
Lake’s Dr. Frederick uses the aforementioned maggots as the Botox of the day. By manipulating the color spectrum or some bullshit like that, she’s able to make the larvae munch on that savory human skin, effectively de-aging her patients.
While most of the movie takes place in a house — Dr. F does her magic in the basement, as her lady clients bunk upstairs — but begins at an airport where some poor schmo in a phone booth is fatally stabbed by the end of a passing janitor’s mop.
Confused? You should be. It all ties to Dr. Frederick’s arms-dealing boyfriend, which is how the flaccid Führer eventually gets involved. Cadavers are stolen. Limbs get sawed. Corn liquor is suspected. Don’t try to wrap your head around it, because I don’t believe Grinter bothered to. This thing is as scrambled as eggs in a Category 5 hurricane. Let’s put it this way: It sure could use a turkey man-monster.
At one point, the good doctor is asked what a noise was, which she explains away with, “Oh, just alley cats and trash cans.” The same applies to Flesh Feast: That racket? Why, p’shaw, it’s nothing. Pay it no mind. —Rod Lott