Like Snakes on a Plane and Hot Tub Time Machine before it, WolfCop is one of those titles where … well, where all you really need to hear is the title: Either you’re immediately in or forever out. I was so “in,” I was whatever the movie-watching equivalent of “DTF” is.

In a sleepy, snowy Canadian town overtaken by meth, Sgt. Lou Garou (Leo Fafard, until now an unknown entity) works (sometimes) to keep the peace. He’s one of the sheriff’s department’s three members, yet he barely counts since he’s perpetually tardy and decidedly alcoholic. So lazy is Lou that upon waking (hungover) one morning, he initially doesn’t notice the pentagram crudely carved into his upper body. Later, however, he does notice his human penis transform into an animal one, because that’s how you get a guy’s attention nowadays. In short order, Lou’s other parts shape-shift in goopy, gory pain, as a result of whatever the hell happened to him the night before.

Yep, this pig has become a werewolf — a WolfCop, if you will — and with the new way of life come distinct advantages, all the better to fight crime with: super strength, a keener-than-keen sense of smell, a bitchin’ modified police cruiser, a sidekick in the conspiracy-minded gun store owner (Jonathan Cherry, Final Destination 2) and — best of the best — the increased amorous attention of the town’s sex-on-a-stick bartender (Sarah Lind, Severed: Forest of the Dead), who’s not above a little Red Riding Hood role-play.

A big leap up for writer/director Lowell Dean (whose previous film, the 2013 zombie flick 13 Eerie, showed visual promise and not much else), WolfCop belongs to that rare breed of horror-comedy: one that’s truly funny. With game performances and confident control over tone, Dean strikes the proper balance necessary for delivering laughs without spoofing itself. Make no mistake: It’s in on its own joke, but thankfully free of winks to drive that point home. Dean even keeps the insanity restrained until it no longer makes sense to do so; at that point, he loosens his firm grip on the leash and lets the thing run wild. You’ll understand why and thank him for it.

Nearly start-to-finish rollicking, WolfCop is an instant cult classic. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

As the first film presented by the Dread Central website, Zombieworld would be expected to be a full-fledged horror film. Instead, it’s a collection of about a dozen shorts, most of which existed prior to this project, not to mention an outright comedy. That’s not a bad thing — just something its packaging takes great pains to hide.

Loosely tying the segments together is the ongoing newscast of anchorman Marvin Gloatt (Bill Oberst Jr., Abraham Lincoln vs. Zombies) as the world succumbs to a zombie apocalypse, himself included. In increasing states of decomposition, Gloatt and his toupee break away to reports from around the globe. These are the shorts, of course, involving everything from a convenience store to a mailman to a video game. One resembles found footage, while another a mock training film. The bit set in Australia contains no levity whatsoever, making it stick out for all the wrong reasons.

Doing so for the right reasons are the hysterical, over-the-top bookends by Spanish co-directors David Muñoz and Adrián Cardona: Fist of Jesus, which pits Christ and sidekick Judas against a horde of the undead, and Brutal Relax, following a mental patient on a beach holiday interrupted by an invasion of zombies from the sea. Gleeful in their goriness, both pieces seem like Mad magazine parodies adapted for the screen by Sam Raimi circa Evil Dead 2.

Representing the collective work of 14 directors, Zombieworld is not an all-star celebration along the lines of The ABCs of Death — unless you consider Wrestlemaniac influential or noteworthy (and I sure don’t, as that 2006 luchador slasher is barely watchable) — so approach it as an opportunity be exposed to the genre’s potential up-and-comers. All in all, the movie is as uneven as a vertiginous hunchback attempting to stay atop a rolling log, but the shorts that do hit merit the time invested. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

After delivering a few sharp efforts right out of the gate, writer/director Kevin Smith became as lax, predictable and increasingly off-putting as those hockey jerseys he wears like a uniform. For more than a decade, the bar for his movies has been set awfully low, yet along comes the bonkers Tusk to clear it with air to spare. Accounting for much of its success is that, as with 2011’s Red State, Tusk bears next to none of that Kevin Smith feel — one of pot worship, infantile humor and fanboy-pandering in-jokes.

Ironically, Tusk’s most Smith-y element can be found in the arrogant, immature, insensitive lead character. He’s Wallace (Justin Long, Drag Me to Hell), a podcaster with a porn ’stache who makes bank by tracking down and interviewing weirdos. His latest target to exploit takes him o’er the border to Canada, until an unforeseen turn of events leaves Wallace high and dry and desperate for content.

One plot-convenient urination in a bar bathroom later, he’s pissed himself into a lucky break by learning via handbill of local retired seaman Howard Howe (Michael Parks, Django Unchained), a crusty coot who has many weird tales to share about his ocean voyages of yesteryear. Wallace takes the bait … and a cup of drugged tea, waking up to learn Howard’s true intentions: to turn him into a walrus. Let the body horror begin!

Tusk is essentially Smith’s entry in the Human Centipede sweepstakes, yet explicitly a comedy. And with Parks chewing the scenery and a surprise A-lister all but unrecognizable as an Inspector Clouseau type, it is funny … just not to all tastes; dark humor rarely is, which is why it’s so often misunderstood. While the film shows seams of padding in its expansion from a literal joke in Smith’s own podcast to a lark of a feature, it’s the scenes between those seams that count, and Tusk has several you not only haven’t seen before, but won’t be able to unsee ever. Not that I would try, given the flick’s unexpectedly high repeatability factor. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

Comedies rarely come darker than Ben Wheatley’s Sightseers, written by its lead actors, Alice Lowe and Steve Oram. Both can be seen in The World’s End by Edgar Wright, who lends his name here as stamp of approval with an executive-producer credit. The British film doesn’t need it — it’s funnier than any of his works, for starters — but if it attracts more eyeballs to Wheatley’s little picture, mission accomplished.

Lowe’s Tina is dumpy, dowdy, living with her woe-is-me mother (Eileen Davies, Bright Star) and, for the first time in her 34 years, has a boyfriend. He’s the bearded, burly Chris (Oram), with whom she’s going on holiday via RV, over Mum’s passive-aggressive protests. Chris’ meticulously planned agenda covers national parks to museums (separate) celebrating trains and pencils, all leading to the area he grew up.

What he has not planned for — but should have — is the selfish disrespect of fellow tourists, both to one another and the sites of varying sacredness. When Chris senses the proper reverence is not being shown, Chris snaps and Ellen follows.

Sightseers‘ trick is that our travelers turns out to be hypocrites, as much of an intrusion as everyone else. It asks, “What if Clark and Ellen Griswold were psychopaths?” and the answer takes unexpected turns — not out of course correction, but deliberate defilement of viewers’ expectations. As with his previous film, the highly recommended shocker Kill List, at no point does Wheatley shy away from the edge of the ledge. Luckily, he and his star scribes know just how to play terrible acts — from dog puncture to potpourri sex — so that they come off as awfully, wrongly funny. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

Originally titled Lame Ducks until it was changed (likely to avoid planting the seed of negativity), Brain Donors is both a tribute to the Marx Brothers and an unofficial remake of the boys’ beloved 1935 classic, A Night at the Opera. One wouldn’t know it from the original theatrical poster, which name-checks seemingly every other legendary act of the era except the Marx siblings. Barely released in 1992, the well-meaning farce since has found a small cult following.

John Turturro (Barton Fink) is front and center as our ersatz Groucho, Roland T. Flakfizer, a part-time ambulance-chasing attorney and full-time man-whore who woos an elderly widow (Nancy Marchand, The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad!) in hopes of sucking up her millions. The departed’s will, however, makes Roland’s best bet at big bucks to vie for the $500,000 salary of whoever will head a yet-to-be-established ballet company.

For some reason, agreeing to assist Roland are an overweight cabbie (Mel Smith, National Lampoon’s European Vacation) and a Dodo of a man-child (stand-up comedian Bob Nelson) whose clothes conceal a closet’s worth of all-purpose props. Rat-a-tat-tat dialogue, groan-worthy puns and slamming doors ensue, but the filmmakers’ enthusiasm and intent for the bygone style often do not hit their Marx.

Either Brain Donors is hopelessly too old-fashioned or Dennis Dugan (Adam Sandler’s director of choice) exhibits wretched timing, or both. However wrong he is for the project, Turturro is worthy of commendation for giving it his all, while Teri Copley (Transylvania Twist) makes a sexy impression as the PG picture’s sole punch of eye candy. The animated opening credits offer more verve and invention than most of what follows, although intermittent bits of amusement are there for the picking. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Warner Archive.