Sean Patrick Flanery’s Frank and Penelope wants desperately to be a midnight movie classic, the kind of pulpy cult fare whispered about in late-night dorm rooms after a few too many beers. Instead, it settles into a halfway zone: too bizarre to be taken seriously, too clumsy to be a grindhouse gem, and too earnest to fully embrace the trash it so clearly wallows in. The result? A film that’s neither terrible enough to mock mercilessly nor good enough to praise—just a bloody curiosity piece with a few flashes of style.
The story kicks off like a dime-store noir: Frank, a heartbroken everyman, hits rock bottom and wanders into a seedy strip club. There, he meets Penelope, played by Caylee Cowan, who is both the most beautiful thing in the film and, frankly, its most convincing special effect. She ropes him into her grift—first as a mark, then as a partner—and off they go into the great Texas unknown. The setup feels like Bonnie and Clyde on a two-day hangover, a love story scribbled in the margins of a diner placemat while the waitress rolls her eyes.
Then the film takes its hard left turn into horror territory, dropping Frank and Penelope into the ghost town of Terlingua, run by a family of cannibals. And here’s where the movie loses itself in a swamp of cliché. Cannibal cults have been wrung dry since Texas Chain Saw Massacre, and Frank and Penelope doesn’t add much besides overcooked dialogue, sweaty grimacing, and gore that teeters between nasty and laughable. The villains, led by Johnathon Schaech as Chisos, gnash their teeth and sermonize about sin, but the routine quickly becomes exhausting.
That said, the film isn’t entirely without merit. There’s a certain cracked energy to Flanery’s direction, and Lin Shaye pops up in a gloriously weird supporting role, reminding everyone that she can chew scenery better than any fictional cannibal. Kevin Dillon hams it up as the Sheriff, clearly in on the joke, while Donna D’Errico proves she still has presence.
The problem is tone. One minute Frank and Penelope wants to be a love story about two broken people finding solace in each other; the next, it’s an over-the-top gorefest with cartoon cannibals. Those halves never quite fuse, leaving the movie lopsided—half heartsick romance, half grindhouse parody, neither fully convincing.
And then there’s Caylee Cowan. It has to be said: she’s absurdly gorgeous, and the camera knows it. Her performance oscillates between earnest and campy, but she’s magnetic enough to carry long stretches where the script falters. In fact, Cowan is the closest the film comes to having a center of gravity. Every time the story threatens to collapse into nonsense, her presence at least gives you something to focus on, even when what’s happening around her involves people gnawing on each other like it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet.
By the time the final act descends into a carnival of blood, you may find yourself weirdly numb. Cannibal movies are inherently extreme, but here they feel more silly than shocking—over-the-top without the artistry or wit to make the extremity land. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a haunted house ride at a rundown fairground: loud, messy, occasionally fun, but ultimately too flimsy to leave a lasting impression.
So where does Frank and Penelope land? Somewhere in the middle. It’s not a disaster—you’ll find moments of style, a couple of campy performances worth noting, and, yes, the radiant Caylee Cowan. But it’s also not a triumph, hamstrung by tired tropes, uneven pacing, and a tonal identity crisis it never resolves.
If you’re into cannibal cult flicks, you might find enough here to chew on. If not, you’ll probably agree that this subgenre is just too over-the-top and dumb to justify itself anymore. Either way, Frank and Penelope is the kind of film you stumble across late at night, watch with bemusement, and forget the next morning…
