Queasy grime feels like something that was birthed in Florida, abandoned in the mud and then adopted by a slave laborer with a short fuse and syphilis. It’s my kind of ugly! A doctor (Frosta, who looks like the kind of doctor that operates in a back-alley and is no longer welcomed amongst his peers) works hard to prove his theory that death is just a minor roadblock and there’s more after those lights go out. So the man collects corpses and attempts to resurrect them with the added bonus of controlling their minds on top of giving God and his plans a big ol’ middle finger. Sadly, the dude keeps on failing and that’s causing an influx of dumped corpses in a nearby swamp. Swamps are disease-pits on their own but now that the rancid corpses are polluting the place, things are getting weird and the ravens (or vultures) are gathering. Frosta’s lady is done with him and decides to call it quits, returning to the arms of her ex-lover, an American lounge singer who is somehow a step down from a cold-hearted scientist that spends all his time with dead bodies and has vapid conversations that may seem deep if they were being heard by some emo teenager who just got in a fight with their parents. Shockingly, the mentally unwell man who collects corpses and discards humans like week-old trash does not take being spurned all that well. This is bad news for his former gal. Hopefully the sheriff who looks like what I imagine Ron Jeremy’s insides look like nowadays is on his heels and may be able to put a stop to the mad man before the lady becomes another corpse on the slab. It’s doubtful. Severed bits of humans are found and the sheriff (Fernando Sancho who you have definitely seen before) is exhausting all his options… and by that I mean he hopes that the newspaper lost and found can bring him some leads… yeah, he’s really good. The lounge act involves the teenage-lookin’ hair-helmeted American singing to a mannequin and is far more disturbing than anything that goes on in Frosta’s laboratory. There’s also an actual autopsy (I assume. The visual effect is way too good considering the movie it’s in) to make you question what the hell productions in Ecuador were like. Frosta’s questionable stability is faltering more and he’s beginning to see the ghosts of his victims rise from the swamp to stare at him. No, don’t get excited, there’s no vengeance-minded zombies shuffling up from their water-logged graves to get their rotting hands on the not-so-good doctor. Inadequacies shine in front of and behind the camera, merging together to create a vibe that feels like the sickly offspring of regional trash from Florida and a lazy fever dream born in the head of an ailing Jess Franco after forgetting how horny he was and falling asleep reading Frankenstein.
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