Now, I know this movie's going to hurt, but I'm going to watch it any way. Shit, with a name like Satan's Supper, it's chances of surprising me as the next Re-Animator or Evil Dead are as likely as Neil Patrick Harris falling through my ceiling with an intoxicated circus seal and handing me fifty grand to keep my mouth shut. The real question here is whether it's going to be an absolute train wreck worth watching because I get some kind of twisted bad movie survivalist kick from living through it, or if it'll be a complete and total bore, wasting a good 3 hours of my life (90 minutes to watch, 75 minutes to review, 9 minutes to post and 6 minutes of sticking needles in my leg meat to remind me never to watch it again) that I could've spent pulling kittens from burning buildings, romancing my long time Evil Dead Bride, fixing the lives of my broken friends or just convincing people I don't like that jumping off of a tall building is the only answer to the sucking chest wound that is their lives. How will we find out? Well, there's no better way than to just sit through it and watch...

Except maybe taking a time machine peak into the future two days from now and asking Two Days Later Anubis how it was. Yeah, I think I'll do that. Two Days Later Anubis, take it away!

Well, let's see, I watched Satan's Supper a few days ago. I didn't expect much, but with a title like that you hope there's going to be some kind of redeeming factor involved to let you know it was worth the time and money spent renting it, pirating it, carrying it around with you through three different changes of living space, transferring it to a DVD, then taking a day off from work just to watch and review it. Hey, when it comes to a roundtable, you don't fuck around with the little things. In the short of it, Satan's Supper is worth it's weight in "You Might Be A Redneck If..." jokes... whatever that means.

In the long of it though, Supper is another tale of those happy-go-lucky goose-stepping horrorists the Nazis and their wacky misadventures in the world of black arts. Abraham Weiss, a victim of the Nazi party years, witnesses one of his captors doing a TV interview and runs to his cop neighbor, insisting that he arrest the war criminal and make him pay for the death and torture his family suffered 35 years ago. Though the pig is willing to go along with the geezer and check things out, he immediately regrets is when he discovers this so-called killer looks far too young to have been an accessory to the Holocaust and there's no possible way (*cough*eternal Satanic life*cough*) that a twenty-something guy like him could be a fifty-something guy in even the world's greatest plastic surgery. Abe is dead-on insistent that he's right on this one though and, despite Detective Fuzz's insistence that Mr. Weiss not take any kind of crazy vigilante action, the ol' Jew grabs a gun from his sock drawer and heads out in favor of taking the law into his own hands. Does he not watch "The People's Court"?! Does he not know that Judge Wopner will exact holy righteous justice in favor of the victims 9 times out of 10?! Heil Wopner!

Discontent over the eternal devil gardener responsible for over pruning the Weiss family tree running around like some kind of demon-about-town Paris Hitler media whore, it's no surprise when Honest Abe stalks the mass murderer to his posh hotel hang-out. Gun drawn and loaded with 35 years of Hasidic Rage (not to be confused with Black Rage, Road Rage, 'Roid Rage or Streets of Rage™) and, uhm, bullets (of rage?), he's ready to exact... well, nothing, because something jumps out at him from behind a curtain and brings with it a rapid cut to the next scene.

Said scene introduces us to Nobel Prize winning Professor James Hanson (Richard "so THAT's what he looks like with hair!" Moll, credited here as “Charles Moll”) and his wife Claire as they engage in a night out at a fancy French restaurant so fancy that you need to know French to eat there. Lucky for them, Richard Moll seems to be fluent in the amphibian speak, or at least the reading of said speak as it appears in his script. So, what the Hell's so damn special about Jimmy aside from his usefulness as a middle man should you find yourself in the Moulin Rouge desperate for la poon? He wrote a book appropriately entitled "God Is Dead" denouncing the existence of a higher power (i.e. God). As for wifey, she's a devout Catholic (which should make for some interesting domestic squabbles) who recently received a phone call from a certain believer of Yahweh who reprimanded her and her husband for their lack of faith and complete misunderstanding of what it means to give your life and devotion over to someone else's imaginary friend. Why does this man have such faith in his beliefs? He survived a little something called the Holocaust... and nothing reaffirms the idea that there's a deity looking out for his followers like watching said faithful being tortured and slaughtered by the thousands around you everyday.

Religious people are stupid. They have stupid faces and the caliber of their stupidness makes me feel as if I'm being overwhelmed by said stupidness and thus becoming a stupider stupidhead as a result of their stupididididitty.

As for whom this Holocaust survivor was, if you say Mel Brooks, I'll eat your face and floss your teeth with my shorn scrotal hairs... and when you get swamp ass like I do, it's like a Brillo™ pad between my legs.

Since the incident with old Abe, Big C's had bizarre nightmares about Nazi war horrors (or "warrors" as the hip lads sporting yarmulkes call 'em these days) that she feels are premonitions warning her of the latest coming of Old Scratch, the Lord of the Flies, the Morning Star, that's right, Stan!... err, I mean, Satan! Sure enough, in a pseudo-reality that only movies can provide us, Claire spends her days as Dr. Hanson of the Holy Cross Hospital and is called upon to check out the faceless corpse of none other than Abe Weiss, whose concentration camp ID tattoo is now complemented with a stylish "666" ink when he was found dying in a parking lot. As for the rest of the movies, Lt. Sterne is left to unravel the puzzling final words of "Look at the wall", left by Abe before his demise, as Satan and his entourage take interest in James Hanson and his book, which are unknowingly supporting their cause through the "new plague" of self-actualization in which people prefer logic to blindly putting all their proverbial eggs into an imaginary basket. Personally, I prefer to hold onto my eggs with my own hands thank you. You are talking to the 37000 time Annual Underworld Egg Toss grand champion after all. Yep, nobody handles them fowl ovaries like the Anoob Doggy-Godd...

Professor James (let's call him "Pro-J" now...) is soon confronted in his office by a mysterious bearded fellow warning him of the consequences that will be brought about by his blasphemous writings, including Satan keeping a seat warm for him in the burning down-below. Yeah, we've got thousands of those guys around here, only we call 'em homeless people... or "the unwillingly re-located" if you're the kind who's concerned about the political correctness of saying "vertically challenged" instead of "midgets". The only difference between this Mr. Papini guy and the pile of sentient soiled clothing and feces that mumbles "Change?!" at me on the subway is the "666" tattoo he bears on his chest, other than that, it's pretty much the same rant and rave. You know there has to be something funny going on with this guy though if he's got the mark of the devil but is trying to convince an atheist in the existence of the Big Beard-O. I'm sure it'll all play out later...

The delicious blood-curdling irony that would be great here is Pro-J telling Pipi "You should write for the movies", then it turns out the same guy playing the loveable lice bag is really the guy who wrote this movie! But, as it turns out, the guy's never written for a movie in his entire stupid life, so what could be minor wit instead turns into another batch of sugar free word cookies; you anticipate enjoying them very much, but then realize that without the unhealthy addition of white gold ("Texas tea... sweetener") deliciousness it's a mouthful of cardboard.

Back at the apartment of the former Mr. Weiss, Sterne has a hilariously uncomfortable exchange with the building's landlady over the corpse's apartment. She wants to clean up the place and rent it out asap, while he threatens to toss her in the clink if she lays so much as a finger on the Omen sized collection of paper clippings Abe used for wallpaper, totally convinced that there's something in those clippings that will lead to the mystery unfolding around him. I don't have the tech (or ambition) to record this onto a computer file to share with everyone at home, but if ever you should come across this movie, this obscene little "BITCH! BASTARD! BITCH! BASTARD!" exchange makes whatever else might happen between now and the 90 minute mark almost worthwhile. Beautiful.

Back to Claire, she pays a visit to her shrink who tells her the thing with Weiss was all a coincidence and that she needs to distract herself. As such, he prescribes a night out at the disco! People criticize head doctors today for throwing pills at problems to make them go away, but at least they're not sending their patients out "clubbing"!

This club also happens to be the meeting point for every significant character in the fucking movie aside from the corpsed-up Mr. Weiss as Satan, Lt. Sterne and Claire's nephew Jimmy are all discoing the night away in these same walls. Glancing the club-hopping lord of hedonism causes Claire to trip balls of evil, he catches Sterne's attention as the guy who might be responsible for Abe's little face ripping incident AND he takes Jimmy's beloved waitress/girlfriend Ann back to his place to engage in some unholy insertions... though she's not all that thrilled by the demonic pretty boy when she discovers he's got the worst case of leg hair the world has ever known!... oh, and cloven hooves for feet, don't forget those. She's later rolled out of a car at the doorstep of the club, out of her mind and looking pretty violated. Sterne confronts goat boy at his suite, but with no evidence to pin rape or any other crime on the guy, it's up to Jimmy and his standard issue revolver (he is a parking lot attendant after all) to exact a load of steamy firearm justice on "Mister Olivier".

But, faring no better than a 60 year-old Jew with a limp, Jimmy gets the demonic pimp slap too, winding up in the morgue the next day. Another priceless piece of movie follows as Sterne interrogates Satan to no avail... aside from entertaining the crap out of me! Though not in the same hilariously intense vein as the prior exchange with the landlady, this scene is no less amusing, thanks to the cheesy "tough cop" lines by Sterne and the priceless replies by Santa... I mean, "Satan". Again, it's a brief moment of greatness, but for a movie titled "Satan's Supper" it's beautiful!

Blaming herself for not preventing Jimmy's death (typical Catholic), Claire seeks holy council in the halls of her church confessional. Instead of spiritual absolution, she instead gets advice from Pipi on what she has to do to destroy a demon and immediately seeks out a voodoo hoodoo guy recommended by the shaggy vagrant. The "nigger", as he so callously refers to himself, informs Claire that she's in no danger by the devil because she's so pure and filled with God's love, but should instead be concerned about Pro-J because he's the one vulnerable to a spiritual attack. Afterwards, Pro-J starts acting really fucking strange, telling Claire that they'll be sleeping in their guest room for the time being instead of the master bedroom. Not only that, but he goes the extra crazy mile by telling her to stay out of the master bedroom entirely, not even opening the door. Could this have something to do with the mysterious new organization that's popped up offering Pro-J unlimited funding for his anti-God projects? Either way, wifey can't leave well enough alone and investigates the room, getting trapped in her closet and attacked by a rubber demon hand before the door randomly opens for no reason and she can escape. Pro-J isn't around to reprimand her for breaking the rules of his house though, because he's off spreading the "God is dead" anti-gospel on a TV editorial. As for Claire, she acts like nothing happened later, no doubt fearing the reprisal of Richard Moll's backhand... or because this is just badly written and we're expected to believe that an incident like that isn't going to affect an already superstitious and frightened woman like Mrs. Hanson. I'll opt for the latter.

Pro-J's meeting with Satan Inc. the next day involves him going to an island and running around a badly lit mansion, jumping at shadows and trying to open locked doors while a typical horror movie Instant Thunderstorm™ ("Just add water!") is unleashed outside. The five minutes of frenzy culminates in Pro-J meeting Mr. O finally, rejecting the offer to let Satan have reign over his immortal soul (why should he believe in one form of imaginary friend if he's been so firm in disproving another?) and ending the scene on the floor with his face torn up. If Satan ever tells you to recant before his handkerchief touches the floor, try grabbing the handkerchief and putting it in your pocket. The Devil works on the technicalities of his words, so you don't need to recant so long as that demonic snot rag never makes time with the shag.

With Pro-J now dead, you'd think we'd have no movie left to cover. Claire failed, the Devil took her husband away from her and now there's no more James Hanson to spread the Nietzsche. But no, we've still got time to fill and film to roll, so the hands of the hero are now thrown to Pipi, who's determined to send Olivier and friends back to snorkeling in the lake o' fire. He confronts Claire about his holy mission, but his numerous hand motions and the slight ungluing of his fake beard are no use and he must confront the sinners alone. Not so eager to "swim along with the Snorks" as Pipi might've hoped, the devils kill the shaggy man like he was Scatman Crothers, only his uselessness ends at the hands of Satan's wind machine as opposed to Jack Nicholson's axe. Claire is brought in for questioning on this, her fourth dead associate in as many days. As for Sterne, he finally puts the pieces together with the help of Weiss's war wall, seeing images of none other than Olivier in news clipping from numerous wars throughout history, including World War II, World War I and the Franco-Prussian War. I'm not so amazed by the unveiling as I am by just how white and supple those newspaper clippings are considering they're so damn old...

Sterne's big reveal is pointless though, as he and his gumshoeing amigo are blown up in a car bomb courtesy of the Big D... so Satan's resorted to mafia tactics now?

But enough about all that, cuz it's now time for the hilarious climax boys and girls! Finally fed up with not doing her job as a Christian Soldier and killing Lucifer, Claire runs down Olivier with her car. A speeding Oldsmobile's not enough to kill the incarnation of the Fallen One though, so she and Anne pack the demon into her trunk and rush him to the hospital, where some hasty open heart dismemberment surgery and a medical microwave spell certain doom for the man from the dark side!... or does it? Far be it for me to spoil the ending... this time anyway.

Well, that wasn't nearly as bad as I was suspecting. This was later released on DVD courtesy of Troma as one of their "Hey! Here's three movies we bought the rights to! We'll sell 'em to ya on DVD for $15!" cinemasochist money saver bundles, and though I can kinda see why, don't go into is expecting 90 minutes of dicks, farts, mutants, wall-eyed titties or melting co-eds. For some that's a bad thing, for others a good but either way it'll turn off the Troma types and will wind up ignored by the Anti-Tromites. No wonder it was thrown into a bundle, there's no other way for Troma to make any money off of it.

Richard Moll is at the top of his game here. Yeah, I know, I was as surprised as you now are that I or anyone else not flowing opiates through their skull would ever admit to Dick Moll (sounds painful) having any type of "game", let alone being at the apex of said "game". Whether it's because he's actually capable of going beyond the roll of a brain dead bailiff engine of mass destruction or simply the fact that he's elevated to new heights of thespianism when reading his lines next to fourth-rate drama school drop-outs like is still to be seen, but at least for 65 or so shining minutes he's the star of the show and he doesn't have to be a berserker brute to do it.

As for everything else, meh, it's nothing to write home about... not even if you still live at home... in which case you better either be in college, taking care of your decrepit parents or the owner of a comic book/sports card/radio controlled car hobby shop... and if it's the latter, stop slipping your tongue through the homemade mouth slot of that life-sized Seven-of-Nine store display and use that corrugate tramp to give your throat and wrists history's greatest paper cut. Geek suicides aside, there's really nothing to make this movie stand-out from the thousands of others just like it. Satan's young and attractive, he seduces women, he's been seen at history's greatest sites of violence, there's a crazy old guy who litters his walls with newspaper clippings of said historic events, there's a skeptical cop, there's the squeaky clean religious woman whose faith will save the day, blah blah fuckitty fuck blah fuck. Yep, beyond the brief moments of golden government cheese they tried to pass of as dialogue and the acting chops of Richard Moll, all the rest is bad acting, predictable plotlines and completely uninspired, well, everything else. That's it, we're done, break the booze bottle over it's head and ship this bitch off to Davey Jones's Locker. Shazam.

Thanks for that review Two Days Later Anubis, you've saved me a lot of trouble... though if I choose not to watch this movie now as a result, will you still have seen it? If I throw this movie away right now, will this review cease to exist? Let's not chance it. I don't want to fuck something up in the Space-Time Continuum where I wind up with my face grafted to Joe Don Baker's left butt cheek or something.