For a long time, Troma has been one of the Iron Chefs of independent film. They have canvassed the globe looking for those debauched delicacies and Gobsmacking goodies that will weed and feed your need for non-Hollywood humoresques. The problem is, for every terrific truffle they unearth, they've also come across a few stale malnourished butt nuggets. And let's not even discuss the variety meats of mindlessness they've uncovered as well. Nowhere is this noxious notion more prevalent than in Brentwood's reissue of some of Toxie's earliest entrees into the motion picture meal plan. However, after sampling the swill offered up in Toxie's Triple Terror #3, you may need a gross of Pepto, a Brioski or three and an eight-hour stomach pumping just to make it to the next repast.

The DVD:
Presented in a cardboard slipcase with each disc enclosed in its own mini-keep case, the third in Brentwood/Troma's Toxie's Triple Terror boxsets contains a wealth of wasted opportunities. From murderous amphibians to a sleepy little hamlet filled with most of Dione Warwick's psychic friends, this collection of oddball entries into the world of independent horror runs the gamut of ridiculousness. Individually, we are treated to the following straight-to-video fiascos:

Croaked: Frog Monster from Hell (1975) a.k.a. Rana: The Legend of Shadow Lake
When Kelly was just a precocious little imp, living on an island sanctuary with his park ranger papa and tending to his various and sundry critters (he was kind of like Ellie Mae Clampett, except without all the overt sexuality), he had a really horrible experience. Perhaps "horrible" is the wrong word to describe it. "Dull", "tedious" or "scientifically unproveable" may be better. Seems that Shadow Lake is home to the Mohican version of King Midas – a man-frog fiend who loves precious metals and keeps a secret stash of some valuable ore in his hidden underwater lair. Native Americans used to give the gangly gill-man golden showers and, as a result, it has achieved some manner of immortality. Either that, or no one has figured out how to kill it yet.

There have been those who've tried though. Crazy old coot Charlie has been battling the beastie for years, feeding it livestock in hopes he will reap some of the ingot rewards. All he's managed to come across is a baby bog monster skeleton and some silly drawing of the deep denizen demon. Local loggers have also staked out the island, hoping to locate the long buried loot. But Rana has other ideas (that's its name, don't wear it out...or laugh too hard). He's going to destroy all who would decimate his habitat, and then throw in a few more maulings for good measure. It will take the ranger, his ratty son and a couple of comely lab lasses from the local university to battle this bullion hording hermit crab.

Croaked is classic Bill Rebane, a mediocre movie man best known for foisting the arachnid atrocity The Giant Spider Invasion and the bizarre Blood Harvest (featuring the inconceivable casting of 60s savant Tiny Tim as a clown-faced serial killer - ???) on an unsuspecting public. The redolent Rebane must have thought he had hit the Boggy Creek bonanza with this tired take on the Loch Ness/Swamp Foot creature feature conceit. This tedious toadstool of bullfrogsh*t wants to be a serious action adventure tinged with terror and speckled with just a smidgen of environmental activism. Sadly, Woodsy Owl is more memorable and in tune with nature than this nonchalant nonsense.

Part of the problem with Croaked is that it never really gives us a good glimpse of its title trauma. While it may actually be a wise move on Rebane's part - his creature looks like a Sleestak with some unfortunate skin issues – this directorial deception really undermines the movie. Indeed, whenever swimmers are stuck in the lake without a way to defend themselves, the arrival of our submersible villain (in the form of massive surface breaking bubbles) makes the flailing floaters look like they're having an usually productive bout of intestinal gas. Our landlubbing heroes are equally poot-worthy. Dad is just a dunce, getting his butt kicked constantly by timid trappers in faux flannel foolishness, and filmic fate has been cruel to little Kelly, leaving him more emaciated than an underfed supermodel. With a chatty Kathy scientist and her far too buxom niece along for the brackish Brigadoon, Croaked just bloats in the sun, eventually exploding under the pressure of its own preposterousness.

Let's face it: Hell Comes to Frogtown this isn't. Heck, it's not even Frogs (the Ray Milland misstep from 1972). Instead, Croaked is a lot like licking a series of Cane Toads, only to learn that the unpleasant taste you've been experiencing is not a hallucinogen, but acrid amphibian whiz. Had Rebane instilled some of the stilted science he crammed into The Giant Spider Invasion, or gone cuckoo in the casting like placing Mr. "Tip Toe Through the Tulips" in the slaughter seat, this cockamamie case of Cuisses De Grenouilles could have been a silly, succulent treat. Instead, the taint of ptomaine poisons the proceedings, making them almost completely indigestible. Croaked is an appropriate title indeed. It perfectly describes what will happen to your bad b-movie tolerance levels once you've witnessed this tadpole trash. Score: 1.5/5

Horror of the Hungry Humongous Hungan (1992) a.k.a. The Hungan
When a couple of dopey doctors buy a rare bottle of voodoo ritual reanimation fluid, they decide to do some grave robbing and create a modern Prometheus all their own. At the same time, a weird witch is casting cruel spells from her basement shrine. And to top it all off, an incredibly irritating girl is having nightmare visions of her own death. Well, our medical madmen manage to make a monster, who is supposedly a throwback to the Haitian horror known as the Hungan. The fiend comes to life and goes on an 80 minute killing spree (almost ALL of which we witness OFF SCREEN), eventually ending up in the local woods.

In the meantime, we witness a gathering of inebriated idiots awkwardly dancing to a really rotten hard rock combo. Most of the motley Jell-O shooter crew are going bivouacking in the AM, so it's time to party like it's 1989, or 1:49 in the morning. And wouldn't you know it, our scream queen night terror tramp is one of the morons about to camp out in the forest. And these yahoos are her sex-obsessed friends. Talk about portents of evil and omens of awfulness. No wonder the Hungry Humongous Hungan bags his limit during a tedious tent pole massacre.

Looking like some home movie made by a bunch of friends and featuring at least 50 characters (and one crappy pop metal band), The Horror of the Hungry Humongous Hungan is about 14 films wrapped up into one. It employs dreary dream sequences, some miserable mad doctoring and enough shirtless Midwestern men to make many a Branson babe swoon with sinewy delight. Imagine Frankenstein crossed with some half-assed hoodoo voodoo, add in a little Re-Animator style science and a gratuitous Pee Wee Herman impersonator (yes, it's THAT kind of film) and you have one unhinged, unhealthy horror happenstance.

There's even a voice-over cameo by none other than Academy Award Winner (and one armed push up champ) Jack Palance. The artist formerly known as Curly from City Slickers recites some routine lines about bringing the dead back to life and secret serums, and for a while, as he's articulating, you hold out hope for the film. Then you see the title terror and your genre jones dies, just a little...STRIKE THAT! It perishes like a medfly drenched in Malathion.

The Hungan, which is an actual Haiti witch doctor thingy, looks like a much sprier version of your grandfather, except he has Charlie Pride's hair and a bizarre crab nipper for a left hand. Now, this awkward appendage goes directly against two logical issues in the film: (1) according to Hungan lore – if there really is such a thing - the reanimated being must be made out of HUMAN body parts and (2) no seafood cemeteries were disturbed when our crazy scientists were crafting the creep. So how the Hungan became hampered with a crazy crustacean claw in just one of the numerous noggin-scratchers provided by this film. Indeed, you'll be itching your pate in paralyzed disbelief so often you shouldn't be surprised if you require scalp reconstruction surgery after this ordeal is over.

From the sonic stool of an incredibly lame bar band called Cry Wolf (why would a group named after an a-ha song sound like ninth generation Bon Jovi?) to the baffling battle of half-wits between a security guard and a janitor (it starts out with verbal taunts, and ends up with buckets of water and garbage cans of trash being dumped on each others' heads) this is a movie more interested in its unnecessary ancillary issues than crafting a creepy creature feature.

And then there is the overabundance of talent doing their best/worst living room thespian routine. The Horror of the Hungry (strange, he doesn't eat) Humongous (actually, he's quite petite) Hungan (okay, we'll give you that one) must have been made in part because of donations from dozens of the filmmakers friends, enemies, confidants, co-workers, probation officers, life partners and hard-up homies, since that's who populates the people in this picture. There are no characters here – sure we get names and basic ID info – but there is nothing remotely three-dimensional. The oversexed teens that make up the vast majority of Friday the 13th fodder have more memorable personalities and personas than the peons pretending to be Hungan hamburger helper in this film.

The direction is dire, the production value void and the effects are neither special nor successful. And still, this lunacy is so light and effervescent, so completely committed to being an inventive, original shock phenomenon (come on, have you ever even HEARD of a Hungan before???) that it's possible to give it the most minor of passes. Though it pales in comparison to other Troma titles, The Horror of the Hungry Humongous Hungan is a baffling, buffoonish goof. Score 2/5

Video Demons Do Psychotown (1989), a.k.a. Bloodbath in Psycho Town
Eric only has two days to complete his video project, or he'll flunk out of Male Model Beauty College. Grabbing his god-awful girlfriend Karen and a state of the art freestanding VHS over the shoulder camera (with carry-along recording unit and oversized hand microphone) he sets out for the sleepy community of Casa Della to finish his film. Seems the eerie alcove is home to 360 mentalists, palm readers and psychics, and Eric wants to feature this freak show in his narrative. Taking up residence in a creepy old house owned by his father (whose refurbishing the place into a basic bed and breakfast for the paranormal), the constantly copulating couple goes about some decidedly non-diddling business.

Most of the town is unhappy with their point and click presence, and it's not because of that horrible 80s hair helmet Eric has. Seems the townsfolk are keeping a deep, dark, deadly secret, the kind of "we killed an old man because he was an evil moneylender" kind of arcanum that really shouldn't be publicized. So they recruit a couple of the local whackos and a few red herrings to protect their conspiratorial cabal. It will take a strong will, some supernatural swaddling and a tacky music video to save the day (isn't that always the case?).

Perhaps the best thing that can be said about Video Demons Do Psychotown (more on that HORRENDOUS title in a minute) is that it manages, somehow, to keep you engaged for nearly all of its 87 minute running time. Using a rather peculiar premise and just enough gradual hint dropping to tantalize and tease you, there are a couple of possible reactions one can have once the ending arrives. First, you can fess up that, with the limited budget, lack of time and complete convolution of most of the plot elements, this was the best finale the filmmaker could come up with. You'll be accepting, but not really sated. Or, you could get all antsy and irritable, knowing that you trudged through all the unanswered questions, allusion of horribleness and underwhelming gore just to get to a rather rote, routine conclusion. Or you could be like this critic, who gave up at the 70-minute mark, instinctually believing the movie could NEVER pay-off and shouldn't really have tried. He was right.

For all its portents of possible precariousness, Video Demons in Psychotown is a major disappointment, from actual movie to misleading moniker. Though the original name, Bloodbath in Psycho Town, isn't much better, at least it doesn't have us imagining Video Dead style boob tube zombies, or Italian horror sprites springing out of the camcorder. That heinous miserably disingenuous title just screams for a techno-babble boo-fest that never ever arrives. When a 2 head VCR is the most sophisticated element in your advanced science folly, your film is fundamentally flawed. Still, Video Demons Do Psychotown does manage to keep you connected, at least initially. Though the college kid couple who seem to use casual sex as a way of getting from one scene to the next create more than enough entertainment ennui (we see these puffy pink prigs porking far too many times – maybe that's the macabre that supposed to exist in the narrative?) the mysterious aspects of the community of clairvoyants actually draws us in.

And naturally, where there is a weird town, there is always a spooky old domicile. The hostel-in-the-making setting is actually pretty creepy, as is any building laden with scaffolds and covered in garbage bags. And since it is constantly inferred that the video camera is picking up some manner of hate crimes from Hell, the times when the tapes are played create a minimum of suspense. Yet for every element that director Alessandro DeGaetano gets right – the oddball residents of the town, the old dark house haunting qualities - there are portion of this production that reek like an incontinent Grannies' underthings. Our hero and heroine are dorky, unattractive morons who spend more time whining and worm burning than actively participating in the mystery machinery. Our female lead is particularly unsettling, making Debralee Scott, Ellen Foley and Pat Benatar look like Paulina Porizkova. And since DeGaetano wants to film her in near constant close-up, we get to witness every bucktoothed pore in her chaffed chipmunk face.

Yet, oddly enough, Video Demons Do Psychotown kind of works. It's heavy on the necessary atmosphere, convincing us of the disturbing nature of the town, and we do want to figure out what's going on with the non-tracking videotapes and ghostly images/voices blowin' in the breeze. But the end result is very unsatisfying (as is the identity of the senile serial slayer) and leaves us holding a lot of unresolved issue cards with nowhere to play them. Score: 2/5

As a set, the third go-round for the Toxie's Triple Terror box set ideal is substantially less successful than previous installments. All the films here suffer from an underdeveloped mentality, never exploring their possibilities or making use of what they've got. Our hungry Hungan is a splendidly ludicrous idea, and for a while, the film it's featured in resonates with an 'everything but the kitchen sink' strategy. But it never pays off. Just like our Frog fiend. Rebane keeps most of the mayhem off screen (or in the case of this life aquatic, underwater) so we miss out on any menacing murderousness. Croaked has other issues as well, most of them dealing with the lackluster ancillary characters that apply their hobbled histrionics like wheezing warts all over everything. At least Psychotown has interesting outside individuals to keep us guessing and intrigued. It's the main cast that sucks bowel movement bran muffins.

The Video:
Each film is presented in a pre-DVD, retrograde 1.33:1 full screen sampling that suggests low-end VHS variables. The transfer for Croaked looks sufficiently swampy, overly soft and detail obliterating. Occasionally too dark for its own good and marginalized by digital "tweaking" (some of the greens blatantly solarize) Rebane's dull diorama still deserves better. Psychotown looks markedly better, having a direct to video clarity that's missing from the other attractions. Colors are correct and the available contrasts mean we can see every awful aspect of the sex scenes (EW!!!). The worst image by far belongs to the Hungan. When stuck in its indoor locations, we get some semblance of clarity and sharpness. But the minute we travel into the great outdoors, the picture turns to puke. Faded, indistinct and littered with home movie grain, the exterior elements of Hungan are just atrocious. And since the last half of the film occurs in some sleepy woods, we're in for a tough visual ride. None of the movies here will win an award for home theater reference quality. Indeed, they are some of the worst in the Toxie's Triple Terror collection.

The Audio:
The Dolby Digital Stereo presentation on each DVD is acceptable, if sonically shrill and rather flat. None of these movies makes an attempt to create outright atmosphere out of their aural attributes. Everyone in Psychotown must be wearing a supersensitive body mic, since we hear all manner of ancillary noises (jacket ruffling, jewelry jingling, cassette rewinding) in combination with the conversation. Sound recording was obviously the last thing on Rebane or the Hungry Hungan's mind. These nebulous, non-descript soundtracks are hard to hear and even worse to endure. At some points, you just want to turn down the terrible sound and watch the image – not that the pictures alone offer any manner of entertainment or enlightenment themselves.

The Extras:
Unlike standard Troma fare that features founder Lloyd Kaufman lewding it up with various toilet humor and sophomoric rants, as well as other bonus content goodies, the individual DVDs here are very bare bones. There are no trailers, no filmographies, no basic information on the casts or crews, and even the plot descriptions on the back of each keepcase are decidedly deceptive. While it's hard to imagine what manner of extra material could be used to bolster some of this stupidity, it would have been interesting to see Brentwood try. While getting three films for a decent price appears like a definite deal, something as tenuous as Toxie's Triple Terror could perhaps use a little help in the product-puffing department. A lack of context here is not that obliging.

Final Thoughts:
Unlike previous installments of this series, it is hard to outright recommend Toxie's Triple Terror #3. It's definitely not the worst three course cinematic snack you'll ever experience, but in light of the wealth of heartier fare in the previous installments, this paltry plateful is really a letdown. Perhaps a rental would satiate your appetite for frowsty fermented film fromage. In the pantheon of grade-Z picnics and the coffee shop of crappy pictograms, most of the moments in Toxie's Triple Terror wouldn't warrant an entree on the ala carte menu. If you feel the need to nutrify your neurons with some quality motion picture offal, there are better places to dine than this disappointing box set. Troma has a really good reputation for knowing how to trim the fat from the lean. Sadly, this set is all suet, with very little meat on its movie bones.

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