Andy Warhol had a dream: Why can't "fine art" be crap like everything else? Somewhere along the line he decided to apply that to a Frankenstein movie, and to give credit where credit is due this does have a bunch of gore and tits in it. The problem is that it thinks it's soooo fucking clever. Well don't dislocate your spine sucking your own dick yet, Andy, because you may have gotten the ingredients right, but you mixed them together all wrong and now everyone has food poisoning and the trots. First off, except for the female monster (who is pretty impressive) the broads in this movie are fucking rogue. I'd rather walk in on my grandpa doing it. With my dad. The gore is a little better, but it's mostly rubber body parts flying around; it's not like we haven't seen this shit before, and done much better I might add. The worst thing about this movie though is all the missed opportunities. Take this part for example: Frankenstein's wife is banging some dill on the side, and she decides to rub it in Frankenstein's face by hiring the guy to serve dinner. Frankenstein one-ups her though: he brings two monsters to dinner, a female one that he's screwing, and a male one that used to be the dill's best friend before Frankenstein cut his fucking head off. It's the most fucked-up dinner party in history and I kept waiting for something completely insane to go down, but absolutely nothing happens. Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously, you really couldn't think of one interesting thing to happen in that situation? Fuck you, Andy Warhol; fuck you and die. Oh, wait, you already did. Ha ha! Loser.

Next: Why Salvador Dali sucks shit.