Critic's Grade: B

Frank's film tip: Rats! I was actually entertained by Glen Morgan's delightfully off-the-cuff psychological creepy-crawly thriller WILLARD. No exterminators are allowed to come near this delightfully warped rodent-infested scarefest!

Director Glen Morgan finds an eerie comfortable way in the manner for which he parlays the disillusionment of a disconnected adult misfit who eventually bonds with a hoard of cringe-worthy rodents. In the seriocomic wincing psychological story Willard, we are confronted with the harrowing if not unsteady hilarity of a depressed and sheltered individual sleepwalking through that miserable episode known as the uneventful existence. Morgan's somber and intense narrative is an updated version of the 1971 original film that starred Bruce Davidson as the pathetic pushover. This time, we are treated to the exceptionally whacked-out eccentricity of Crispin Glover playing the titular role of Willard Stiles. Morgan's frightening and frivolous fable has an entrancing hysteria that teeters between a mocking macabre and a nail-baiting social commentary on the indelible makeup of a young man's piercing alienation. Willard is a menacing and hypnotic creep show that has perverse fun tantalizing its voyeuristic audience.

If anything, this contemporary showcase of mayhem and mishap is surprisingly superior to its 32-year old predecessor. As a filmmaker, Morgan obviously knows how to enhance the tension of his ruthless scarefest thanks to being aided by an assortment of advanced computer-generated flourishes and special effects trickery that properly manufactures the inescapable chills down one's unprepared spine. But more so than just having the ability to make this movie look aesthetically mauling, Morgan is also quite adept at turning up the untapped anxieties of his human antagonists and giving us the inner fear regarding these startled, misguided participants. Sure, the four-legged furry vermin that run around and terrorize unsuspecting victims are completely out of control. But the sardonic argument that Morgan crassly emphasizes is that the two-legged upright human creatures aren't exactly far off the map from being just as vile and wild.

Glover's Willard is in a perpetual malaise that's just strangling him to no end. His sorry excuse for a crippling personal and professional life is sadly apparent but he reluctantly continues on with the charade of pretending to "survive" the grueling everyday wind-and-grind. At home, the sullen loner lives in a dilapidated mansion filled with unpleasant vibes. We learn that Willard's father had passed on a few years ago so there's the on-going obstacle of him trying to contend with the ghostly presence of his departed and conflicted old man. Willard's mother (Jackie Burroughs) is truly one unbelievable and slovenly so-and-so that takes pride in taking down her tormented son a few notches. She is hardly to be mistaken for Harriet Nelson (or Lily Munster for that matter) in that loving motherly tradition. When this harsh opinionated woman is not browbeating Willard verbally or emotionally, she finds it in her twisted heart to suffocate the poor guy by latching onto him. This, of course, deprives the fragile man of whatever miniscule freedom he has left to explore.

At his place of employment, Willard isn't regarded as the prototypical privileged son of an absent owner. He does have the advantage of being permanently part of a company that his late father created. And his perks include the concrete promise that he'll never be terminated or admonished for bad conduct (constantly arriving late for work, etc.). Working at the drab Martin-Stiles Manufacturing Company doesn't invite any prestige whatsoever but it does provide yet another hostile venue for Willard to sulk around in. His animated and deeply insensitive superior Frank Martin (R. Lee Ermey) is flustered by the incompetent introvert and puts him through the hellish hoops courtesy of more toxic tongue-lashing. It's safe to say that Willard has reached his boiling point and can no longer tolerate the berating he is constantly subjected to on a recurring basis.

When tending to a rodent-infested problem down in his old massive mansion's basement, Willard strangely befriends a white rat he labels Socrates and then proceeds to make a reliable sidekick out of him. Of course this isn't considered an odd thing for Willard to do--after all, Socrates is an innocent and welcoming companion that passes no judgment or has any reservations about Willard's awkward functioning as a harried and hapless human being.

In a matter of time, other randy rats start to gather then eventually gravitate toward Willard where he literally becomes the Pied Piper of these deadly pests. Not only does this ensure a peculiar sense of belonging that Willard was sorely missing from the distant "human world", bonding with these gnawing critters has its inherent advantages of sweet revenge. And so in the process of getting even with the bastards that psychologically screwed him up to the point of uncertainty, Willard methodically trains his hairy slithering pals to wreak havoc on those who caused so much pain in his eyes (translation: pure justice--Stiles style!). Although the agenda for getting even is plainly geared on the predictable side, there's a repulsive yet riotous anticipation that we feel (along with Willard) for wanting to see the dismissive jerks get their calculating comeuppance. Hmmm, guess this will teach the likes of Mommy Dearest Stiles and the abusive windbag Mr. Martin to mess with the likes of weird whipping boy Willard, huh?

Morgan, who incidentally co-wrote the script with James Wong, has a tremendous time delivering this freaky sideshow to the point that this spooky spectacle consumes itself in what amounts to be a mesmerizing meditation of ghoulish grandeur. When the roguish rats add to the "fingernail-scratching-the-blackboard" jitteriness by scurrying in all sorts of directions as they look to swarm over the living and inanimate objects in range with their skin-crawling nastiness, you have to appreciate the subversive and sadistic verve that Morgan effortlessly champions in this delightfully fiendish flick. It's a stroke of impeccable movie magic when the moviemakers successfully combine the real, animatronic and computer-enhanced squeaky furballs to do the villainous dirty work of convincingly turning this furious fantasy into warped, wily escapist entertainment.

One of the reasons as to why Willard is such a marvelously depraved display is the precisely pepped-up performance by Crispin Glover. Glover, who some would argue wasn't the sharpest knife in the kitchen draw to begin with, is indeed the perfect foil as the perturbed man-child trying to confront a new kind of nefarious and nagging angst. As Willard Stiles, Glover skillfully instills the right kind of mixture involving broad strokes of viciousness and vulnerability. Solidly, the crafty actor balances on the proverbial tightrope by portraying a caustic clown who gradually gets sick and tired of having the umpteenth pie slammed in his face or gallons of seltzer water being sprayed on him at random. Glover's humiliation is fascinating to witness because it methodically opens up an explosive wound that allows this film to freely wallow in its drastic albeit campy and delirious bravura. Cleverly, Glover embodies the hybrid spirit of a youthfully deranged Marlon Perkins crossed with the disturbing Oedipus complex of a millennium-brand Norman Bates of Psycho fame.

The supporting players definitely contribute to the loathing and frantic pace of this brilliantly absurd exposition. Ermey (Full Metal Jacket) is devilishly potent as the harassing hard head that doesn't have a darn clue in realizing he's flirting with an unhappy active junior volcano about to uncork its ominous lava. And Burroughs is enjoyably blunt, self-absorbed and untouchable as the mawkish maternal force whose indifference and resentment fans the flames for Willard's ultimate deviance and disenchantment. Even the numerous crawling long-tailed animal thespians were quite decent in the scheme of things and slithered their way into our jumpy mindsets. Most notably when a thick, Italian sausage-shaped white mega-rat named Ben (yes, the very same rat who starred the 1972 sequel of the very same name) with an envious streak and bad attitude figures into the fold of Willard and Socrates's blossoming friendship, the film quickly takes on a darkly witty and surreal turn that sends this whole schizophrenic proceeding out on another amusingly high-wire tangent.

Willard is a black comedy of sorts and doesn't mind rejoicing in its queasy and cynical snappiness. The plot is rather thin and unoriginal but the frothy irreverence more than compensates for this revelation. There's certainly something cheesy going on in this ridiculously overproduced B-movie and its off-the-wall hold will seize your imagination much like the grip of an overgrown rattrap.

Frank rates this film: *** stars (out of 4 stars)

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