So, remember all that nonsense about Trioxin-5, the top secret chemical that reanimates dead tissue? Yeah, well, after all the mishaps and fuckups resulting in the zombie pandemics of the first three films, the government ordered all of it destroyed. Only trouble was that Russia had a few canisters lying around... kept in the Chernobyl sarcophagus for safekeeping. Doesn't really make any sense but whatever, the director's Russian. Enter Uncle Charlie, a devious research assistant for HybraTech, the cheap Orwellian plot device you're repeatedly bludgeoned with throughout the film, and purchases the canisters from the Russian mafia.

Enter the Breakfast Club: an uninteresting and trite group of racially diverse high school seniors. You've got Julian, the protagonist and nephew of Uncle Charlie. You've got his girlfriend Katie, who happens to monitor security feeds at HybraTech. You've got Carlos, the Mexican. You've got Cody, the African-American computer hacker. You've got Becky, the dorky pigtailed girl. You've got Mimi, the “triple-jointed, Sagittarius gymnast” and all around slutbag. Um... Oh, and Zeke, the rebel. Plus, for what it's worth, you have Julian's younger brother Jake, nicknamed Pyro because he made his own blowtorch.

Certainly, none of these skills will serendipitously come into play later on... Fucking hell. Was this shit written by inner-city third graders?

For reasons that are never fully explained, the gang is into motocross and everyone has their own dirtbike. Zeke takes a dive and is knocked unconscious and taken to the hospital. But when Julian goes to visit him, the doctors explain that he has died. But Katie, who as you'll recall works for HybraTech, spots him being wheeled into the medical research labs. This looks like a job for the Superfriends! The clever little scamps get together and hatch a scheme to infiltrate HybraTech and rescue Zeke. They hop on their dirtbikes, backpacks full of spelunking gear and two-way radios, and go to it. Without needlessly indulging the absurdities that ensue, it turns out that HybraTech has hundreds of zombie subjects locked away in a top secret research lab, and, through a computer error, all of them are released. Brains are eaten, blood is spilled, and the friends face the greatest ordeal of their lives to date. Next week on “Dawson's Creek”: Dawson kills Joey but brings her back to life for one more carnal ride.

This movie fucking hurts! It is like the bastard spawn of Scream 3 and Hellraiser 3: Hell on Earth. It's as if the writers, chimpanzees dwelling deep within the Congo, only had access to Carson Daly and “TRL” when developing their characters. It's one of those movies where you fall to your hedonistic, atheist knees and pray to God that each and every last obnoxious character will die a horrendous death and depart from the screen forevermore. Even Peter Coyote, the talented star of Roman Polanksi's Bitter Moon, looked as though he had begrudgingly accepted the project only to help pay for his overwhelming crack habit.

But who really pays attention to the living in a zombie film, right? Well, from five minutes in, it becomes apparent that they have abandoned the mythology of the previous films in favor of Romero's shoot-em-in-the-head formula. Fine. Whatever. Trouble is, they don't even stick to that. Sure, at first when there are only a few zombies around, you have to shoot them in the head or they'll keep coming (like a pornstar). But once the Necropolis has gone to hell and zombies are coming from all over (like a pornstar), the logic simply breaks down.

Inconsistency breeds anarchy and suddenly zombies are killed from wounds that aren't even fatal to the living. It's as if the crew had finally given up, acknowledging what each of us knew from the start: this film is retarded bullshit and the careers of all involved are over.

To put it frankly, there is no god.