Roger Corman never met a Hollywood blockbuster he couldn’t rip off (and I mean that lovingly). With Munchies, the legendary producer didn’t just ride the coattails of former employee Joe Dante’s Gremlins; he doubled down, hiring the editor of Gremlins, Tina Hirsch, to helm this quickie, and casting Dante regulars Wendy Schaal, Robert Picardo and Paul Bartel in bit parts, perhaps hoping for quality by association.

None of that made any difference. Carnosaur, this ain’t. (To composer Ernest Troost’s credit, his score doesn’t steal from Gremlins. Because it’s too busy pilfering Pee-wee’s Big Adventure.)

Anyway, in Munchies (not based on the Frito-Lay snack), archeologist Simon Watterman (Harvey Korman, Mel Brooks’ good-luck charm) returns from Peru with a gremlin ghoulie critter troll spookie hobgoblin squatty little creature that he smuggles into America via gym bag. Before a screwballian round of sex with novelty props, Simon’s loser adult son (Charlie Stratton, Summer Camp Nightmare) and his girlfriend (Nadine Van der Velde, Moving Violations) justify the title by calling the, er, thing a “munchie,” on account of its voracious, fridge-be-damned appetite, and naming it “Arnold,” because it’s 1987.

When Simon has to leave town, his slimy brother, mini-golf magnate Cecil (also Korman, but with a Bob Goulet mustache), tries to steal Arnold. Cecil’s scared stoner stepson, Dude (Jon Stafford, Full Metal Jacket), stops playing hacky sack long enough to slice Arnold into pieces, which only makes more Arnolds (à la The Gate). Ergo, Corman gets his PG-rated plural Munchies; havoc, ye shall be wreaked!

Provided it sounds fun at all, it is not as much fun as it sounds — the primary reason being this immutable fact: The munchies were designed without points of articulation, which qualifies as more stuffed animal than puppet; a sock slipped over your hand displays more action. Someone just out of frame moves the mini-monsters left and/or right and/or up in the air — whatever slapstick gag the script (by Barbarian Queen II’s Lance Smith) calls for, whether trying to shotgun an old lady or peering up young ladies’ skirts. Unrelated to their shenanigans, the comedy is desperate at best, and from Starsky & Hutch to S&H Green Stamps, the typical joke feels stale by half an acid-washed generation. —Rod Lott

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White nerds like to loudly announce that the Marvel Cinematic Universe is the greatest self-contained film series in movie history, but, you know, I’ve always found Tyler Perry’s Madea-verse to be a far richer tableau of real-life heroes and villains, with plenty of Christian-based dramedy-heavy life lessons sprinkled throughout the course of these 11 films, as well as plenty of stage plays set in the same continuity.

In A Madea Family Funeral, the supposed final film, Madea (Tyler Perry) and elderly friends Aunt Bam (Cassi Davis) and Hattie Mae (Patrice Lovely), as well as pervy Uncle Joe (Perry again), in between bragging about smoking weed and whoring around, walk in on the dead body of a family friend in the middle of coitus, leading to many, many jokes about the deceased’s engorged member.

But, really, that’s only the initial premise for this relatable morality play about familial deception and brotherly jealously, alternating between lowbrow comedy and high-heavens preaching which, in Perry’s films, always works well, even if the movies have continued on with diminishing returns, at least plot-wise — I mean, have you seen Boo 2! A Madea Halloween 2?

Probably not.

For me, though, Madea is still in top comedic form here, fucking with everything in her way from racist white cops high on pulling the trigger to the stereotypical length of most black funerals; it’s a self-made formula that has commercially pleased audiences for about 15 years now, except for white nerds, of course.

To paraphrase a once-popular saying, make mine Madea! —Louis Fowler

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