When the definitive text of whacked-out, THC-friendly, somewhat-visionary, somewhat-fringe cinema is written, there may be a chapter on eggs. On one side will be Edith Massey’s caged ovum-loving granny in John Waters’ Pink Flamingos bellowing “thank you egg-man!” and at the other end of the spectrum is Samuel L. Jackson’s mostly-immortal criminal The Octopus, an evil mastermind who reserves a special hatred for the common breakfast food going anywhere near his face.
Read the rest of my review at UGO.com.
