It’s not Buffy and it’s not The Evil Dead—but it is the closest fans of either of those franchises are going to get to a feature film in the foreseeable future, so enjoy…

Indeed, if Sunnydale High looked more like a community college, and Ash had an anger-management problem and a Bruce Wayne-ish backstory, you’d get something that started to resemble Jack Brooks.  Or if Ray Harryhausen had grown up in the 1980s instead of the 1930s… Or if…

You get the idea.  The point is, every moviegoer who sees Jack Brooks could coin his or her own analogy along these lines.  In fact, one of the reasons the movie is so likable is that it was evidently made by folks who don't simply know genre films and schlock culture, but who revel in them.  It’s as if a bunch of fans got together in the food court at a con and started brainstorming a plot that might work for a mainstream Troma movie, a cult TV show for those who recall the ‘80s nostalgically, or perhaps an off-beat comic from Dark Horse… and then actually persuaded Robert Englund to jump on board and finally made a highly professional film out of all these fun ideas.

But that’s part of the problem with Jack Brooks.  It’s not wholly original—which is fine, because genre fans are used to seeing recycled ideas to some degree—but then the thrill of the ride itself usually needs to compensate for this.  The good news is that Jack Brooks provides the kind of breathtaking fun that a 360-coaster does; you’ll scream, spill your snacks, and look forward to the next time you get to strap yourself in.  The bad news is that, as at many theme parks, you’ll wait on line for a long time before the ride even starts and then, before you know it, it’s over.

So what’s the final verdict?  Is fence-sitting all that’s really possible here…?

Well, yes and no.  I firmly believe that the trick to getting the most out of Jack Brooks is to experience it in it all its grindhouse splendor—on the big screen with a full house, or down the road on home video with a living room full of Fangoria readers.  It’s a participatory movie in which the humor will seem that much sharper, the gore that much more outlandish, if you can share it with someone, preferably a ravenous pack of someones.

Part of the reason the fun is infectious, even throughout the interminably talky sequences (of which there are many), is that director Jon Knautz has done a great job of enrolling his cast in the merriment.

  In the title role, Trevor Matthews falls just short of a star-making or breakout role, but what’s remarkable is that he’s so winning that you wish he had succeeded on these counts.  As for the supporting cast, it actually keeps Jack Brooks afloat during the long stretches where the energy level flags.  Rachel Skarsten as the female lead, Eve, simply has great timing and comedic delivery.  Another standout is James A. Woods, whose line readings turn what could have been a tedious character—Matthews’s airheaded romantic rival—into a major source of humor.  Similarly, the behind-the-scenes talent—from the in-camera f/x to the musical score and the foley work—all consistently exceed expectations.

The big problem, I’m sorry to report, is Robert Englund’s absent-minded professor character.  And the problem is certainly not Englund himself.  I’m tempted to say that he plays against type, but he’s done that so often and so successfully in recent years that I think he’s finally broken away from his most famous role.  Nor does the fault lie with the character himself.  Rather, it’s the amount of screen-time that’s devoted to him.  We’ve certainly all seen the friendly-neighborhood-guy or the man-of-science who gradually morphs into the monstrous over the course of a movie.   But the difference is that in a film like The Fly, Jeff Goldblum’s character is the protagonist, so chronicling each incremental change he undergoes makes sense.  In contrast, imagine how the pacing of Men in Black would careen off the tracks if we got a blow-by-blow account of Vincent D’Onofrio’s character’s every move.  The important thing is that he's a (very funny) badass who's becoming badder and has to be stopped, period—you embellish any more than that as a filmmaker, and your material better be flat-out captivating.  Now, of course I can’t presume that the script here was actually tinkered with in order to give Englund more of a central role, but the point is that the movie feels that way, which is a shame.

What Jack Brooks's audience really needs, frankly, are more monsters and more slaying of them.  The terrific cyclops who starts off the movie with a bang is dealt with in an unsatisfyingly elliptical manner.  And the werewolf-like “forest troll” who figures so prominently in Jack’s psyche is dispatched in what feels like a matter of seconds.  So will I be watching eagerly for the release of a Jack Brooks sequel?  You bet I will.  I just wish part of my motivation wasn’t the nagging feeling that this first film won’t truly feel complete until one appears.