Bad Taste

Long before he was the master of Middle-earth and the shepherd of the most expensive trilogy in Hollywood history, Peter Jackson was a young man in Pukerua Bay, New Zealand, who spent his weekends doing something quite peculiar. While other blokes his age were out playing rugby or grabbing a pint, Jackson was in his mother’s kitchen, literally baking latex alien masks in the family oven. He spent four years of Sundays filming a chaotic, blood-drenched sci-fi comedy with a group of friends who were essentially working for the promise of a good time and maybe a few sausages at the end of the day.

I first encountered Bad Taste in a dusty corner of a rental shop in the early 90s. The box art featured an alien in a blue shirt giving the world a middle finger, and I remember thinking that if this movie was even half as rebellious as its cover, I was in for a treat. I watched it while trying to fix a leaky kitchen faucet that eventually sprayed me right in the face—an oddly fitting baptism for a film that feels like it’s constantly trying to douse its audience in various unidentified fluids.

The Sunday Roast of Splatter

The plot is gloriously absurd: an intergalactic fast-food chain called Crumb's Crunchy Delights has landed on Earth. Their mission? To harvest the entire population of the small town of Kaihoro and turn them into the galaxy’s newest burger sensation. Standing in their way is the Astro-Investigation and Defense Service (AIaDS), a four-man team of government misfits who look less like "Men in Black" and more like guys who would lose an argument with a lawnmower.

What makes Bad Taste so infectious isn't the story—the film’s plot is thinner than the cardboard masks the aliens wear in the background shots—it’s the sheer, unadulterated enthusiasm on display. Jackson plays two roles: Derek, the bumbling, slightly psychotic AIaDS member, and Robert, a slow-witted alien. Watching a young, bespectacled Jackson tumble down a cliffside or literally hold his own brain inside his skull with a belt is a joy that modern CGI simply cannot replicate.

The DIY energy here is staggering. Jackson didn't just direct; he handled the cinematography, the editing, and the makeup effects. He even built his own camera crane and steady-rigs out of scrap metal and old pipes. It’s a testament to the "No Budget" ethos of the 80s, where if you didn't have the money for a prop, you went to the hardware store and invented one. The film is a grubby, blood-soaked handshake to every kid who ever owned a Super 8 camera and a dream.

Practical Effects and Sheep Hazards

Being a horror fan in the 80s meant worshipping at the altar of practical effects, and Bad Taste is a high mass. Since Jackson was financing the film himself from his salary at a local newspaper, he had to get creative. The alien makeup—those sagging, grey, humanoid-reptilian faces—was all sculpted and cast in his parents' home.

The gore is frequent and cartoonish, leaning into the "splatstick" subgenre that would later define his follow-up, Dead Alive (also known as Braindead). There’s a particular sequence involving a sheep and a rocket launcher that remains one of the most hilariously offensive uses of taxidermy in cinema history. It’s gross, yes, but it’s done with such a "can you believe we’re doing this?" wink to the audience that it’s hard not to laugh.

The cast, including Terry Potter, Pete O'Herne, and Mike Minett, aren't professional actors, and it shows in the best way possible. They bring a frantic, sweaty energy to the screen, treating the alien invasion with the same level of annoyed competence you’d expect from a crew trying to clear a clogged drain. They are clearly having the time of their lives, and that sense of fun is the secret sauce that prevents the film from feeling like a mere exercise in revulsion.

A VHS Relic with a Heart of Latex

By the time the New Zealand Film Commission finally stepped in with some late-stage funding to help Jackson finish the movie, Bad Taste had evolved from a short film into a feature-length calling card. It eventually made its way to the Cannes Film Festival, where it became a surprise hit, proving that there was a global market for Kiwi-flavored carnage.

On home video, Bad Taste became a rite of passage. It was the kind of tape you’d pass around at sleepovers, a forbidden artifact of low-rent genius. Watching it today on a crisp Blu-ray almost feels wrong; this is a movie that lives in the tracking lines and slight hiss of a well-worn VHS tape. It belongs to an era when the "Home Video Revolution" allowed weird, fringe visions to bypass the gatekeepers and land directly in our living rooms.

Is it a masterpiece? By traditional standards, absolutely not. The pacing is as jagged as a broken beer bottle and the acting would be considered "over-the-top" in a pantomime. But as a piece of film history, it’s indispensable. It’s the origin story of one of our greatest living directors, proving that you don't need a studio backlot or a hundred-million-dollar budget to make something memorable. You just need a Bolex camera, a few willing friends, and a mother who doesn't mind if you ruin her oven.

Bad Taste is a masterclass in resourcefulness and a celebratory explosion of practical effects. It’s messy, loud, and frequently disgusting, but it carries a soul that many polished blockbusters lack. If you’ve ever wanted to see a future knight of the British Empire wear a piece of carpet as an alien costume, this is your cinematic holy grail. Put it on, grab a burger (maybe not a human one), and enjoy the madness.

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