Why aren’t there more restaurant-set horror films? The Menu is a psychological sizzler, and Blood Diner fits the bill, but the format still feels surprisingly underutilized. Industrial kitchens are filled with appliances and cookware that alone could sustain multiple Final Destination sequels. So why, since 2007, has no one tried to top Lloyd Kaufman’s zombie-fried […]
Why aren’t there more restaurant-set horror films? The Menu is a psychological sizzler, and Blood Diner fits the bill, but the format still feels surprisingly underutilized. Industrial kitchens are filled with appliances and cookware that alone could sustain multiple Final Destination sequels. So why, since 2007, has no one tried to top Lloyd Kaufman’s zombie-fried takedown of America’s obsession with branded franchising: Poultrygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead?
For those unfamiliar, Poultrygeist is a sing-along Troma splatterfest that roasts “Big Fast Food” culture under a double broiler. It’s a slimy and feathered undead spectacle about a knockoff KFC joint (American Chicken Bunker) that opens atop a bulldozed Indian burial ground. Moronic caricatures of Colonel Sanders and, sigh, Jared Fogle (years before his arrest) highlight everything that’s wrong with a nefarious breed of capitalism which has only intensified since the mid-2000s. Troma’s secret herbs and spices cut through the bullshit of bottom-line greed as hungry patrons morph into braindead chicken creatures, with an albeit abrasive approach that’s cemented Troma’s legacy.
Kaufman, Dan Bova, and Gabriel Friedman cram every imaginable fast food joke into a screenplay that’s as subtle as a frying pan to the face. It wouldn’t be a Troma film without crass generalizations, like naming the gay Mexican employee Jose Paco Bell (Khalid Rivera) or his Middle-Eastern coworker Humus (Rose Ghavami). This is a stupid, STUPID movie told from Arbie’s uneducated and infantile point of view, which bleeds into dialogue with more xenophobia than a Next Door community page. Points are made through self-inflicted mockery as a horned-up and spiteful protagonist keeps us gasping, which no doubt leaves the film’s moral compass in question—which is the point.
You’re signing up for a Tromafied—read: politically incorrect—take on justice for indigenous cultures with Poultrygeist. For some, that’s an incentive. For others, that should be a neon-lit warning.
It’s the most quintessential Troma opening, for better and worse. Arbie (Jason Yachanin) and Wendy (Kate Graham) are dry-humping in the sacred Tromahawk Tribe burial ground, which leads to exposed bare breasts and fornication. Arbie uses the “R” word, a zombie fingers his butthole while still mostly buried, and a pervert holding an axe is seen stroking his (fake) cock in full view. The voyeur sniffs Arbie’s tighty-whiteys before another undead hand reaches through his anus, out his mouth, and rips the teen’s underwear right back through as gore explodes from every orifice.
Why explain that in graphic detail? Because all of that happens in, what, the first five minutes? Poultrygeist launches into its tasteless brand of capitalist satire filled with “unnecessary” sex scenes, repulsive fecal gags, and the lowest-hanging food humor based on crude stereotypes. It’s Troma at maximum effort, and is not meant for audiences who’ve yet to dip their toes into Tromaville’s radioactive pool of independent horror mayhem.
Now, let me be clear. Poultrygeist displays some of Troma’s worst tendencies as an act of anarchistic exploitation. For all the aspects that make Kaufman’s slaughterrific musical a yummy, greasy-grim treat, a few choices were sour from the start. Arbie’s out-of-left-field appropriation of Black culture never plays favorably, including one song lyric that suggests the Prophet Mohamed would use the “N” word (by saying it). Or the twenty-fifth vulgar shot taken at CLAM protestors in a single monologue (standing for Collegiate Lesbians Against Mega-Conglomerates). Troma’s petulant need to push boundaries has always bothered its haters, but instances like these make them hard to defend. The portrayal of Chief What’s-His-Face (Martin Victor) as a drunk becomes a prevalent theme, you’ll have to stomach a Ron Jeremy jumpscare, and there’s your expected inappropriate Troma humor that blazes past common decency. I’m not here to excuse any of that—Troma’s gonna Troma.
But, in sticking to their guns, Troma also conjures some of the sickest and most twisted SFX horror fans can imagine. Poultrygeist is a gut-busting buffet of mangled bodies, zombie chicken transformations, and a whole lot of nauseating kitchen hazards turned against innocent parties. It’s the total package when considering culinary horrors, and everything’s practical. Who cares that you can see the rubber hose squirting fake blood from where Carl Jr.’s (Caleb Emerson) pecker used to be. I’d fancy Poultrygeist is one of Troma’s most violent and uproariously graphic finales, as American Chicken Bunker’s customers become one with a flock of possessed chicken-people freakshows.
Poultrygeist hardly recycles deformations and kill scenes, which spew as much originally as bodily liquids colored green to brown to red. Silvery steel food-service machines perform their tasks on human victims: face flesh slices like cold cuts, bubbling fryer oil crispy-coats severed testicles, and a meat pulverizer mashes Paco into a “Sloppy Jose” (that talks, à la Wet Hot American Summer). Brutality is cartoonish and loaded with extra toppings, exemplified by Humus’ cleaning jobs being immediately nullified by gallons more gore. It’s the special kind of low-budget gore that leans into its exaggerations no matter how goofy the scene becomes, which will forever look infinitely better than productions that cheat with computer graphics. Every possible themed demise is on the menu, and Kaufman doesn’t waste a single indulgent morsel.
Then there are the chicken hybrids, from full-on, head-to-toe mutations to something as silly as eggs bursting from a man’s chest to simulate breasts, which hatch evil chicks. The store’s manager, Denny (Joshua Olatunde), becomes a chickified version of himself with a bobbly prop head. American Chicken Bunker owner General Lee Roy (Robin L. Watkins) is pushed a step further, turning into this towering nightmare version of his own fowl mascot, erasing all human attributes. There’s so much to gawk at and laugh about as a cluckin’ rad massacre ensues, once again never repeating the same sight gag twice. Everything from beaked monster cocks to pulsating, veiny eggs unfit for consumption turns chickens into the ultimate horror focus, which keeps the gimmick fresh.
It’s a miracle that Poultrygeist works as well as it does. According to Fangoria Issue #283, many of the props and masks featured in the film were generous donations from SFX studios around the globe. The Buffalo, NY production was riddled with issues from pay disputes to premature set takedowns, delaying results. Yet, Kaufman pieces together this angsty puzzle of Duggie Banas’ romantic musical numbers about drive-thrus, repugnant creature-feature imagery, plus enough Mad TV-esque zingers about race, religion, and government to fill twenty seasons. Entire mainstream horror films fail to include as much kill sequence excitement as Poultrygeist fits into a few minutes (Troma’s bread and butter). They know what they’re doing and don’t care if you approve—chaos reigns in Tromaville.
It takes true creative fearlessness (and a dash of insanity) to come up with something like Poultrygeist. On the outside, it’s just juvenile shock-jock bullshit. A movie that ridicules “left-wing, lipstick lesbo liberals,” subjects burqa-clad Muslims to 9/11 fearmongering, and strips women naked for the cheap sex appeal. You have every right to switch off Poultrygeist the second you’re uncomfortable, nor will I shun anyone’s disengagement from Troma’s catalog. Poultrygeist boasts a pungent and divisive flavor profile, never with mass appeal in mind.
That said, I agree with Owen Gleiberman’s review for Entertainment Weekly. “It’s genuine sick fun, and there isn’t a boring moment in it … Poultrygeist is that rare and insane thing: an exploitation movie with soul.” Under Kaufman’s feather-ruffling hodgepodge of indigenous revenge through an off-color restaurant takeover is a legitimate call to action that’s aged into stronger relevance. You’re supposed to roll your eyes at a story filled with sexist, corporatist, and nationalist trash humans—that’s the point. Sure, maybe Kaufman pushes too far at times (once again, read above), but it’s never out of hatred. The doofiness on display is meant to cause outrage. Poultrygeist should make you angry and stir reactions, because it’s a representation of mid-2000s America in a bubble … and we’ve only sunk deeper into the dreary muck of conglomeration themes on display.
Poultrygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead is a 5-alarm dish served bleeding raw and with a wicked kick, because the only way the Troma team knows how to send a message is by making fools of themselves for our edutainment. Kaufman cuts to the disturbing, artery-clogged core of sleazy franchise cultures primed to turn America into Mike Judge’s Idiocracy. What’s interpreted as bad-faith comedy is actually (er, mostly) what the story needs, screaming its hypocrisies out of a megaphone. In a world where monopolies have ballooned even larger and billionaires have invaded the White House, where the class divide has only widened the last thing we need is subtlety. Poultrygeist is fine playing the villain, as long as it is exposes the real evils still tainting our country nearly two decades later.
