A young Bram Stoker is captured by a vicious cult of thong-clad women (looking like they’d be more at home in a Roger Corman barbarian flick… he did executive produce) who take it upon themselves to punish evil men with the help of flesh-eating rats. Now, if I were enslaved by a gang of bikini-rockin’ man-hating pissed-off women with a penchant for vengeance, I would just sit back and do as I was told. Helps that Adrienne Barbeau holds the mantle of group leader (Queen of Vermin or the Pied Piper’s Twisted Sister) and plays a mean flute with rat-controlling powers. She could tell me to go give Lindsey Graham a deep tissue massage and I’d obey. Bram wishes to escape but he also falls hard for one of the women (and she seems to have a soft spot for the wannabe author) so he finds it difficult to just up and flee. It’s bombshell Maria Ford, so I sympathize with our dopey hero. She looks great carrying a sledgehammer. Bram’s papa, who managed to escape with his life when the ladies attacked, is working hard to find his son and save him from the feminine clutches of the French Amazonians. Barbeau likes how horrifying Bram’s writings are about her gang’s murderous deeds, she encourages him to keep on putting pen to paper so the world of man can be terrified by their actions. Perverts and scumbags (anyone with a dong, really) end up stripped to the bone by the ravenous vermin and one of the chickadees (Olga Kabo, lookin’ fantastic and having a blast) gets jealous that her blonde darling is spending so much time with Bram and the man is being given special treatment. Bram begins helping out on the man-killing raids but unfortunately his special-lady-friend gets apprehended by French authorities. Completely stupid and totally wonderful, it’s all so hornily innocent that I was grinning like a dope the whole time. The script matches the cinematography in its late-night Cinemax vibe and this material is so far below Barbeau that it somehow ended up on top of her ridiculous nobleman wig. There’s a little Linnea Quigley but not nearly enough Linnea Quigley and even at a brisk 78 minutes it feels just a little bit longer than it should be. Of course, that wasted time is spent with naked women dancing for the pleasure of the Rat Queen or smoke-shows sword fighting, so who am I to complain?
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