Not so much a movie as it is an 80-minute montage, Bimbo Movie Bash cobbles together footage from about a dozen Z-grade sex-minded sci-fi flicks from Charles Band’s Full Moon catalog. The new “story” is nonsensical, only nominally about female aliens taking over the world. Even with added supers and overdubbing, that goal is never quite achieved, but disorganization may be part of the point.

Borrowing largely from Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death, Test Tube Teens from the Year 2000 and Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity, this Bash finds unwitting stars in video vixens Shannon Tweed, Michelle Bauer, Morgan Fairchild and Adrienne Barbeau. Nameless breast-baring semi-beauties dot the supporting cast, and the pathetic Joe Estevez is skewered with no mercy.

Although it comes off as a fairly juvenile experiment, co-directors Mike Mendez (Big Ass Spider!) and Dave Parker (The Hills Run Red) manage to create a few real laughs. Some jokes are tired, others futile, but the spliced result — like a living Mad magazine parody — offers just enough hits to compensate for its misses. —Rod Lott

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A good quarter-century after the Gremlins knockoffs had run their course, prolific Canadian filmmaker Brett Kelly (Konga TNT) unleashed Ghastlies. Regardless of time period, it’s consistently unamusing and unimaginative.

A UFO drops the Ghastlies (aka thrift-store puppets) in the woods, near a cabin rented for the weekend by some sorority girls (aka four women in their late 20s to mid-30s). Before too terribly long, Ghastlies gotta Ghastly (aka positioned stationary or moved by someone out of frame).

They number a scant three, but at least each is unique: a five-eyed purple dragon, a green gator with a Mohawk and an orange rectangle with downturned horn. (By comparison, they make the hobgoblins of Rick Sloane’s wretched Hobgoblins look like frickin’ Jim Henson.) They murder the bitchiest woman with a plastic spoon. Also killed are a pizza delivery guy, two bicycle cops and other things (aka your valuable time). —Rod Lott

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A shapeless mishmash of surrealism, absurdity and all bodily fluids, the way-way-out anthology Fat Fleshy Fingers comes loosely linked by the appearance of the film’s mascot: a toothy pink parasite that looks like a dildo Clive Barker might design. If you’re a fan of the bizarro fiction movement, this experience — and it is that — was made expressly for you. Segments range from inspired to inane; its closest analog may be Japan’s Funky Forest. Regardless, drugs were drugged.

With The Greasy Strangler himself, Michael St. Michaels, as a grandfather to a dying girl, the first bit is the funniest and most successful. He shares a story about an ancient mummy’s curse, which involves “touchable, delicious, fuckable worm juice.”

From there, the law of diminishing returns kicks in as the parasite passes person to person — you know, like It Follows, but with far more consumption of fecal matter and insertion of inhuman things into human holes. From a pirate orgy to a severed finger, shock value is the point for all 10 directors. If the application of “sex perfume” portion isn’t the nastiest thing you can recall seeing of late, I don’t even want to know.

The very definition of “your mileage may vary,” Fat Fleshy Fingers could be called an un-thology for breaking all rules of convention. Its weirdo cartoon interstitials don’t quite qualify as transitions, plus stories aren’t present to be told as much as exploited to an extreme. “Whether you’re a scalawag or a swashbuckler,” to borrow one character’s phrasing, a viewing isn’t likely to endear you to check out the music of the Elephant 6 collective’s Neutral Milk Hotel, whose lo-fi psychedelic tunes inspired each piece. —Rod Lott

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Corpulent rocker Meat Loaf (Wayne’s World) stars as Mr. Big Jake Grizzly in the Canada-lensed, kid-friendly comedy, To Catch a Yeti. Big Jake and his donut-dreaming sidekick, Blubber (Richard Howland, TV’s Lost Girl), attempt to catch a yeti. ’Tis a noble pursuit.

Eschewing the true definition of a yeti, the film gives us not an abominable snowman or a super-sized cryptid, but an abomination of a puppet: a furry, rat-tailed, buck-toothed gnome who giggles like a hyena that somehow survived being hit by a BFGoodrich tire.

Escaping Big Jake’s sweat-mitted clutches, this so-called yeti seeks refuge in the backpack of a hiker who unknowingly brings the little scamp home. The hiker sticks the thing in the fridge, feeds it frankfurters and calls him Hank. The scene in which Hank discovers toothpaste may be the most pornographic thing you will see outside of pornography.

Without fail, the man’s precocious daughter, Amy (Chantallese Kent), quickly loves Hank like she would any other mutated, decidedly unvaccinated creature brought home by her parents, so it’s only a matter of time before Big Jake and Blubber chase her and Hank all over town. Unfortunately, at film’s end, the yeti is released into the wild, not drawn and quartered. Given a scene depicting little Amy and Hank sharing a bed, I will not write off the possibility of the legacy sequel, To Birth a Yeti. —Rod Lott

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Instead of watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation again this holiday season, make a new annual tradition with its Canadian counterpart, Coopers’ Christmas. A should-be cult classic from Trailer Park Boys director Warren P. Sonoda, it has what the Chevy Chase sequel really lacks: the Lampoon’s anarchic humor and a hard-R rating to match.

Starring real-life spouses and The Daily Show vets Jason Jones (who co-wrote) and Samantha Bee, the film captures one crazy Christmas in 1985, all via a barely used VHS camcorder Gord (Jones) gives to his wife, Nancy (Bee). She’s pissed he spent their Orlando vacation money on it, but their youngest son (Dylan Everett) is so enthused, he tapes most of the day and night, often surreptitiously.

Each family member is royally screwed-up. Big brother Marcus (Nick McKinlay) is Star Wars-obsessed, socially inept and suicidal; teen niece (Hayley Lochner) seems well on her way to a career as a stripper and/or prostitute; and elderly Nana (Jayne Eastwood, 2004’s Dawn of the Dead) is perpetually sour-faced and would rather be dead. Then there’s Uncle Nick (co-scripter Mike Beaver), this film’s Cousin Eddie, as channeled through the Danny McBride blend of obnoxious and inappropriate — mullet included!

Then the real problems start: Gord’s brother, Tim (Ginger Snaps’ Peter Keleghan), arrives. See, rumor has it that Tim may or may have not have slept with Nancy on her and Gord’s wedding night. What is Christmas if not a time for dysfunction?

Known as Coopers’ Camera in its native country, this comedy has plenty of familial instability. It’s refreshingly politically incorrect, raunchy and, to my pleasant surprise, hysterical, as such adjectives don’t necessarily go hand in hand. It’s not all scatological humor, either, although even those instances manage to be funny. For example, when Marcus throws up Pine-Sol on the living room floor after a failed suicide attempt, Gord offers some fatherly advice: Clean it up. “It smells like egg salad and blue spruce.”

Daily Show devotees wanting to see Jones and Bee in action should know both are more than willing to ugly themselves up for a laugh. Dave Foley of The Kids in the Hall has a small role, as do his, um, ornaments. To borrow Christmas Vacation’s original tagline, yule crack up. —Rod Lott

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