This was Alberto Sciamma's first film, and it won him a Best Director award at the Fantafestival. I don't know what he was aiming for, but he hit something.

While her boyfriend (Jason Durr) is in the cooler, Candy (Melinda Clarke) hides out in a nunnery. Not your ordinary nunnery, but one that runs a gas station in the New Mexico desert.

After some alien magic, Candy grows a long tongue and her poodles are turned into flamboyant drag queens (one is Jonathan Rhys Meyers). This are certainly getting interesting because this isn't just a long tongue, it's a killer tongue. It craves meat! While Candy is getting used to her new tongue, her boyfriend is being tortured by none other than Robert Englund, who is the Chief Guard at the jail.

The nuns don't go away from the story after Candy leaves. One (Mapi Galán) is wandering the desert and comes on some alien rock that gives her healing powers, and another has been transformed by the transvestites.

The huge tongue - we are talking 6+ feet here - transforms and talks! Candy tries to commit suicide, but the tongue heals her just like the nun in the desert heals her boyfriend.

That nun was doing some special healing to Johnny later on, and they barely escaped with their lives after Candy caught them.

Anyway, Candy finds out that a six foot tongue can do things that Johnny can't.

This is one strange movie. It would have been more interesting if the only nudity wasn't two men's butts.

In his calculated bid for cult status, director Alberto Sciamma makes Killer Tongue as weird and wacky as possible, throwing in such outlandish ingredients as a talking extraterrestrial tongue that inhabits the mouth of a female bank robber, a group of poodles transformed into drag queens, a nun given a sexy make-over by the aforementioned poodle people, a fascistic wig-wearing prison guard with a pet dove, and all manner of bloody deaths including lots of full body explosions; the result is a predictably garish, gaudy, gory and extremely camp exercise in cartoonish excess (think John Waters' films/Earth Girls Are Easy/Priscilla, Queen of the Desert mixed with any other outrageous nonsense that crosses your mind), but it is one that frequently falls flat on its outlandish ass, not just by being dreadfully unfunny and extremely irritating at times, but for simply for trying TOO hard.

The cast, clearly believing that this film would become a favourite with the B-movie crowd, thus immortalising them in the pantheon of cult cinema, put in embarrassingly OTT performances, desperately trying to inject a manic sense of fun into proceedings but failing spectacularly. Robert Englund is particularly cringe-worthy in his role as the jack-booted guard who leers at photos of hunky men in the john, but everyone else gives him a good run for his money. Meanwhile, Sciamma ladles on almost every vulgar and ostentatious camp cliché possible, only drawing the line at delivering a musical number involving gay dwarfs in sequined tutus and a troupe of fire-breathing gimps.

About the only people who deserve any praise for this mess are Bob Keen and his Image Animation team, who don't let the inanity of the whole project prevent them from providing some impressive animatronic tongue effects and quite a bit of nice splatter.