Monster Fest 2019: TAMMY AND THE T-REX & COME TO DADDY

For Australian genre fans – whether it be sci-fi, horror, thriller or whatever’s in-between – Monster Fest is an absolute blessing. Touring the country with the latest offerings from both Australia and the world (often giving films their only chance at screening theatrically here), this annual event had an absolutely action-packed line-up this year; opening with Rob Zombie’s Three From Hell and closing with Richard Stanley’s much-anticipated Color Out of Space, the three days of consecutive sessions guarantees something for everyone. This year, I had the pleasure of covering two very different entries – both united by their glorious flashes of gore and their genuine madness: Tammy and The T-Rex and Come To Daddy.

Tammy and the T-Rex (Stewart Raffill)

After The Disaster Artist hit in 2017, James Franco’s tongue-in-cheek tribute to the low-fi insanity of The Room, it felt like Tommy Wiseau’s so-bad-it’s-good accidental masterpiece had finally had its day in the sun. With the central mystique gone and every aesthetic, narrative and technical error dissected into oblivion, it felt like it was time for midnight crowds to discover other “best of the worst” titles; Birdemic and Samurai Cop managed to meme themselves into belated, strained sequels, Troll 2 had its magic usurped by Michael Stephenson’s heartfelt documentary about it, which forced hungry audiences to delve deeper for more cinematic punching bags. This is where Stewart Raffill’s infamously buried 90’s teen rom-com Tammy and The T-Rex enters the picture.

After finessing a large animatronic T-Rex for a brief two week period, Stewart Raffill, the madman behind Mac & Me, scribed a bizarre E.T. meets the Beverly Hills 90210 comedy – about a cheerleader (Denise Richards) whose dead boyfriend’s brain is placed into a robotic dinosaur by a scheming scientist. That succinct plot description might sound demented enough, but what was actually shocking (especially in 1994), was the amount of gore that was infused alongside its myriad of gay panic jokes and Zucker Brothers‘ rapid-fire gags. The film was promptly censored, cut to pieces and dumped on VHS, another forgotten gem deserted in the vast library of tape-only titles.

But in a world where lost Orson Welles‘ films can be resurrected from the dead, it was due time that the “gore cut” of Tammy and The T-Rex would eventually be restored and brought back to its former glory – and boy what glory it is. Whilst tame compared to the bounty of other blood-slicked offerings playing at Monster Fest this year, this head-scratching genre blend leaves jaws hanging wide open for a variety of outrageous reasons; its blatant homophobia, its absolutely questionable premise, the obvious low-budget nature of it all and the one lingering question that hangs outside every soft-lit frame: is this a great comedy because it makes you laugh (albeit unintentionally) or is it a failure saved by its imperfections? However you may take in this rollercoaster of 90’s cliches, this is a genuine crowdpleaser – where else can you watch Paul Walker being mauled by lions?

Come To Daddy (Ant Timpson)

In a film filled with genital mutilation, orgy conventions and receipt spike assaults, it’s the emotionally taxing task of reconnecting with an absentee father in Ant Timpson’s Come To Daddy that hits the hardest. Don’t get me wrong, when the carnage comes in the prolific New Zealand producer’s directorial debut, it arrives thick, fast and surprisingly brutal, but these intense pockets of savagery won’t be the only moments that make the audience squirm, it turns out all you need is just some awkward, strained domestic intimacy to do the trick.

When fashion-conscious DJ hipster Norval (Elijah Wood) receives a mysterious letter from his estranged dad – his first form of contact in over 30 years – his curiosity compels him to journey to the secluded premises of Gordon (Stephen McHattie). The forgotten father’s half-in-the-bag composure shows no signs of reconnecting with the son he abandoned, nor is he willing to divulge the reasons as to why he even bothered to contact him in the first place. These deep-seated tensions boil until they burst – literally, with Gordon dropping dead at his child’s feet by a sudden heart attack. For a William Wyler drama, that would be the end of the story, but for this bloody horror comedy, this is only just the beginning for Norval’s troubles.

To say anymore would ruin the various surprises that Toby Harvard has riddled throughout his Matryoshka-doll-structured script – stemming from an idea of Timpson’s – baiting the audience with red herrings and claustrophobic deceptions before springing its ghastly bombshells like a baited trap. Wood naturally carries the film on his shoulders, fluidly adapting to each new insane scenario that is thrown his way, eschewing his cursory cosmetics until we eventually meet the man behind the four-digit wardrobe: a wounded boy, in the eternal search for his father’s acceptance – it might just take witnessing brutal finger nail remove to get to that stage though.