There are bad movies. There are so-bad-they’re-good movies. And then there’s Killer Rack (2015), a film that confidently barrels past both categories into the unknown territory of so-bad-you-lose-faith-in-humanity-but-can’t-look-away. Directed by Greg Lamberson and written by Paul McGinnis, it’s a musical horror comedy about sentient, murderous breasts created by a Lovecraftian plastic surgeon. Yes, that’s the actual plot. And no, not even H.P. Lovecraft, master of cosmic terror, could have imagined something this cursed.
To call Killer Rack “low budget” would be an understatement. It looks like it was shot for the cost of a pumpkin spice latte, edited on Windows Movie Maker, and performed by a cast of local theater enthusiasts on Ambien. But here’s the thing: it knows it’s ridiculous — and that’s what makes it even harder to watch.
The Plot: Breast Intentions
Our heroine is Betty Downer (Jessica Zwolak), an insecure office drone who’s tired of being ignored by men, belittled by her boss, and overshadowed by women who can afford better bras. Her solution? A breast augmentation surgery, because apparently therapy wasn’t an option in the budget.
Enter Dr. Cate Thulu (Debbie Rochon), a surgeon whose name is only the first Lovecraft pun in this movie. Cate worships the Elder Gods, specifically Cthulhu, and — because why not — decides to give Betty a pair of chest monsters connected to some sort of interdimensional boob deity. After the operation, Betty’s new breasts develop a mind of their own, demanding blood, flesh, and eventually world domination.
It’s The Fly meets Little Shop of Horrors, if both films were remade by someone who learned filmmaking through memes and late-night infomercials.
When Breasts Attack
To be fair, the film doesn’t skimp on its premise. Those breasts really do kill people. They bite, they lunge, they roar. They even sing. The movie’s title isn’t misleading — it’s literal. There are killer racks, plural, and they’re the most ambitious part of this otherwise lethargic production.
Unfortunately, the joke wears thin faster than Betty’s self-esteem. The first attack is absurd enough to be funny, but by the third or fourth time the film zooms in on puppet boobs with fangs, the novelty curdles into cringe. Even the soundtrack — a series of Broadway-lite numbers about body image and cosmic horror — starts to sound like karaoke night at the world’s worst burlesque club.
It’s a musical, yes, but one where every song feels like it was written in a single take by someone who really misses Rocky Horror but doesn’t understand what made it work.
The Cast: God Help Them
Jessica Zwolak deserves an award for sheer bravery. Not for her performance — which ranges from wide-eyed confusion to gleeful hysteria — but for agreeing to star in this thing at all. She throws herself into the role, screaming, singing, and emoting like she’s auditioning for a community-theater version of Carrie. You can almost see her inner monologue saying, “I can’t believe I went to acting school for this.”
Debbie Rochon, as the deranged Dr. Cate Thulu, seems to be the only one having actual fun. She plays her role with the manic glee of a mad scientist who’s just discovered espresso. Rochon’s commitment is admirable, but it’s like watching Meryl Streep do Sharknado 5.
Lloyd Kaufman shows up in a cameo because, of course he does. This is exactly the kind of chaotic nonsense that feeds the Troma Entertainment spirit — boobs, blood, and bad jokes stitched together with questionable lighting.
And then there’s Brooke Lewis as the voice of the Killer Rack itself — sultry, sinister, and occasionally self-referential. If your breasts start talking, you’d hope they sound like Morgan Freeman. Instead, Betty gets the voice of a phone-sex operator possessed by Nyarlathotep.
Tentacles and Tedium
For a movie about cosmic horror and carnivorous cleavage, Killer Rack is surprisingly dull. Once you get past the initial shock of the premise, it settles into a repetitive loop: joke, gore, awkward song, repeat. The pacing drags like a tentacle through molasses.
Greg Lamberson clearly loves practical effects, and to his credit, there’s plenty of goopy prosthetic work here. Unfortunately, it’s the kind of “practical” that looks like it was crafted out of rubber gloves and regret. The stop-motion animation by Brett Piper is charmingly awful, like something a high schooler would make for a science project titled “Why God Has Abandoned Us.”
The chroma key compositing (read: green screen) is so rough it might qualify as a new form of performance art. There are scenes where characters appear to float slightly above the background, like digital ghosts haunting an early 2000s PowerPoint.
A Message About Body Image… Maybe?
Beneath all the boob-based carnage, Killer Rack tries — tries — to deliver a message about insecurity and societal pressure. Betty’s transformation is clearly meant as a metaphor for how women are consumed by unrealistic beauty standards. The problem is, the metaphor is wearing fishnets and belting out bad show tunes while eating people.
There’s an argument to be made that the film is a satire, mocking both horror clichés and sexist tropes. But satire requires precision, and Killer Rack wields its point like a chainsaw made of latex. By the time the Elder Gods show up, any message about empowerment is long buried under boob puns and plastic blood.
If Lovecraft were alive to see this, he’d either faint or sue.
A Cult Classic in Need of a Cult
Some movies are destined for midnight screenings — this one might not even make it past brunch. It wants desperately to be a cult classic, but cult films are lightning in a bottle; this is more like static electricity in a bra.
Even the humor feels outdated, as if it was written by someone who still thinks calling a woman “stacked” is edgy. The jokes land about as gracefully as a tentacle in a blender. And yet, somehow, it’s not offensive enough to be shocking or clever enough to be subversive. It just… exists, like a weird fever dream brought to you by bad lighting and leftover silicone.
The Best Thing About It: Charity
The most redeeming part of Killer Rack is that the profits from its promotional stickers were donated to the Lynn Sage Foundation for breast cancer research. That’s right — the movie’s marketing materials did more good for humanity than the film itself. Somewhere out there, real scientists are curing disease, while Killer Rack cured absolutely nothing except the notion that “boobs + horror = genius.”
Final Verdict: A Cup-Sized Catastrophe
*Killer Rack* is what happens when a pun becomes sentient and refuses to die. It’s a film that dares to ask, “What if breasts were evil?” and then proceeds to answer, “They’d be boring, actually.”
To its credit, it’s ambitious, bizarre, and occasionally funny — but only in the way that falling down a flight of stairs is funny once you’ve stopped bleeding. It’s not the worst horror-comedy ever made, but it’s definitely the most nipple-centric.
If you’re the kind of viewer who finds joy in campy absurdity, you might get a few chuckles. But if you’re looking for scares, wit, or coherence, you’ll find yourself yearning for the sweet release of the Elder Gods.
Rating: 1.5 cursed cup sizes out of 5.
File it under “Movies Lovecraft Wouldn’t Touch With a Ten-Foot Tentacle.”
