Robert Longstreet stars as a deranged psychopath on a mission to make a woman sleep with her son.

Courtesy of Fuck My Son

Just when you thought the possibility of fighting with your uncle during Thanksgiving dinner was the most gut-churning thing you’d experience this week, the Texas Theatre has a late-November cinematic chaser for you.

Playing on glorious 35mm this weekend, Todd Rohal’s Fuck My Son! is less a movie and more a cinematic dare. After rattling cages and stomachs at its U.S. premiere at Austin’s Fantastic Fest in September, this unflinching adaptation of Johnny Ryan’s transgressive comic book arrives in Dallas to ask one simple question: How much can you take?

The answer, for most, is probably not this much.

The plot, if one can call it that, is a masterclass in depravity. A mother named Sandi (played by Tipper Newton) and her daughter Bernice are kidnapped by a demented old woman (Robert Longstreet) who has a simple, horrifying demand. “You’re gonna take my son’s penis,” she explains to Sandi with unnerving calm. We’ll let you surmise the rest. From there, we descend into a filthy, absurd nightmare that makes The Texas Chain Saw Massacre look like a pleasant family getaway.

We’re thankful for you. Are you thankful for us?

We feel thankful for our staff and for the privilege of fulfilling our mission to be an unparalleled source of information and insight in Dallas. We’re aiming to raise $30,000 by December 31, so we can continue covering what matters most to this community.
Help us continue giving back to Dallas.

Rohal, a filmmaker who clearly delights in shattering every conceivable boundary, throws everything at the screen. We get grotesque practical effects from genre legend Robert Kurtzman (From Dusk Till Dawn), musical numbers that feel like a Rob Zombie fever dream and a son who looks like a melted version of Sloth from The Goonies. It’s a film that thrives on its own filth, proudly announcing its intentions from the jump with an AMC-style preshow that warns, “Absolutely no jacking off in this theater,” before featuring full-frontal male nudity.

Rohal always imagined this film would be enjoyed by audiences at independent theaters, rather than by major distributors.

“Distributors don’t have the patience for that, even the best ones don’t, and it needs to have a long life, some patience and the hope in humanity that there’s still an appetite for communal experience, of seeing something disgusting and shocking and weird and unpredictable,” the director told Variety. “Not just a corporate product. Gimmicks and exploitation have saved film over and over. I want to find the 2025 version of that.”

This is a movie designed to be a cult object, a cinematic virus you feel compelled to spread, Ring-style, just to see the look on your friends’ faces — think John Waters-adjacent intentional shock value. The performances are committed to the point of insanity, as Newton deserves a medal for navigating the film’s escalating horrors, while Steve Little and Longstreet embrace the grotesque with glee. You get the sense that the cast and crew will wear this film on their résumés like a badge of honor, and frankly, they should. It takes a special kind of courage to create something this relentlessly vile.

However, there’s a specter haunting this grimy carnival: artificial intelligence. Rohal used AI tools to generate the bizarre “Meatie Mates” cartoons that Bernice watches, as well as the “Perv-O-Vision” audience shots. For many cinephiles, this is a line in the sand. In a film that revels in its handmade, practical grotesqueries, the inclusion of generative AI feels like a digital stain on an already soiled canvas. It’s a debate raging in the industry, and its presence here adds a layer of modern controversy to this slice of retro exploitation.

Fuck My Son! is not for everyone. (It’s not for most people, probably.) You might vomit, you will almost certainly squirm, and you’ll likely question the life choices that led you to the Texas Theatre on a cold November night. But for those who appreciate cinema that pushes buttons until the whole console breaks, this is an unmissable event. Rohal didn’t set out to make a film you’d like; he set out to make one you could never forget. In that, he has succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest, most disgusting dreams.

Tickets for the 35mm screenings on Friday, Nov. 28, and Saturday, Nov. 29, are available on the Texas Theatre’s website.