Film Review – Screw My Son! (2025)

      Fuck My Son!, 2025.

      Directed by Todd Rohal.

      Featuring Tipper Newton, Robert Longstreet, Steve Little, and Kynzie Colmery.

      SYNOPSIS:

      A mother’s frantic quest ensnares an unsuspecting bystander in a bizarre and disturbing ordeal that descends into madness and dread.

      Few films deserve a one-star review more than Todd Rohal’s Fuck My Son!, a so-called midnight movie meant to provoke, that gets stuck somewhere between exploitation tension and hollow tribute. It ultimately feels like a tedious test of endurance: a film that believes it’s transgressive and comedic, while in fact it’s as flat and stale as the jokes it incessantly recycles. It exhibits fatphobia, transphobia, sexism, and ableism, but at least it has the decency to forewarn you of its egregiousness from the outset.

      The film begins with its much-hyped “Perv-o-Vision” gimmick: an instructional video asking viewers to wear cardboard 3D glasses during certain moments. The outcome is a muddled blur that obscures rather than enhances the experience. It’s not that the effect fails; the filmmakers simply never intended for it to succeed. The presence of the gimmick is seen as enough, as if the concept alone justifies the lack of execution. In this way, it serves as a fitting metaphor for the film itself: a series of half-baked provocations displayed as subversive, with little interest in their actual effectiveness.

      The story revolves around a kidnapped mother and daughter held hostage by an elderly woman (Robert Longstreet in drag) who demands the mother to deflower her monstrous son. While the premise has transgressive potential, its execution is simply uninspired. Rohal opts for a mix of references—Silence of the Lambs here, Texas Chain Saw Massacre there—lacking the creativity to reinterpret or expand upon them. The “monster”—a sticky, skinless being brought to life by effects expert Robert Kurtzman—teeters between pitiable and grotesque, but Rohal never fully commits to either extreme. Instead, the film attempts to straddle both sides, stretching every sequence until it crumbles under its own weight.

      Much of the film's 94-minute duration is padded with recycled humor and familiar exploitation cliches, including the irritating stereotype of a protagonist wielding a gun yet refusing to use it. While the original Texas Chain Saw Massacre was groundbreaking in 1974 (and 11 minutes shorter), Rohal’s revisit of its disdain for “southern yokels” now comes off as stale and unimaginative. Even references to cinematic classics—like a doorway shot reminiscent of The Searchers—feel less like homage and more like superficial allusion.

      Rohal appears to believe that sharing his disdain for characters with the audience, along with borrowing from more skilled creators, amounts to groundbreaking cinema. In reality, it’s just laziness. What is marketed as shocking feels juvenile, what is deemed daring is mundane, and what is presented as humorous barely qualifies as a punchline. Even the monster, poorly conceived, appears less like a nightmare and more like a result of the effects team's compromised effort.

      I can commend the movie for exploring themes I never expected to witness in a crowded theater. In those moments, Tipper Newton, Kynzie Colmery, and Robert Longstreet deliver their performances with a campy conviction typical of B-movies. However, their dedication makes it clear how little effort the film exerts around them. Meanwhile, a claymation-inspired subplot underscores just how ineffective the film's humor is.

      Fuck My Son! attempts to thrive on shock value but lacks the wit or direction to deliver. The boldest feat of watching it is the audience's endurance. With repetitive jokes, prolonged sequences, and a redundant double ending trimmed, it may qualify as a late-night dare, but until then, most of the enjoyment of experiencing the film begins and ends with its title.

      Flickering Myth Rating – Film: ★ / Movie: ★

      Will Hume