For what it is -- whatever in the hell it is -- Deep Africa might be the best addition to your cult/alt/fucking-weird shelf this year.

The cast of blow-up dolls delivers better performances than some live actors this reviewer could mention, aided by the retarded vocal stylings of Deep creators Steve Hall and Cathee Wilkins. The dolls are also supplied ingenious movement: hands pick up phones, legs walk, weapons are wielded - without visible wires or manipulation. Magic.

Here's your theater of fag cruelty: à la Dunaway and the wire coat hanger in Mommie Dearest, sadistic camp floats the plot (this is not to suggest the plot is water-logged) and ties your intestines in grody, in-trouble knots. At the same time, it makes you wet your Calvins laughing... or reacting in whatever way that would make your Calvins damp, i.e. don't be surprised if you get turned on. But don't admit it either, you sick fuck.

The non-human star of that little Spielberg film from 1982 -- and I'm not referring to Henry Thomas -- returns to the screen in this sex-and-horror show. Nexus for life-altering epiphanies in the Flagstaff cemetery at NAU Summer Music Camp (do you remember, Jenny Martin?), the glow-fingered one is bloodied, made to perform degrading, menial tasks (not the least of which is shitting on a living room rug) and given a new appendage: huge wood, which fills the sweeter of the roommates-he's-living-with's service portals nicely-nicely. He blows his wad proper in her intestinal tract, and an ant-farm-like sectioned depiction provides the viewer with possibly the first ever visible internal pop shot in porn history.

The box copy says it all: "Two sex-starved girls, the hard-working African hunter, a sadistic Koran tattoo artist, one slimy, exploitative agent, America's favorite extraterrestrial, one bloody tampon and a huge dick... PRESS PLAY!" This in under 30 minutes. Sure to be a breakout at Sundance.