My dear readers, though I endeavor at all times to keep to my areas of expertise and studiously remove any accidental reference to our current political climate, I do find there are some issues upon which I cannot remain entirely silent. I find, for example, that anyone who demonstrates a stubborn unwillingness to believe in climate science or the terrifying vengeance of Gaia for our trespasses upon her tends to get me a little hot under the collar. The subject forces me to reflect on a cousin of mine that I used to see with some frequency in my primary school days. Cecil Hauntedhouse had a fondness for pursuing wild game that outweighed all other interests. No one thought to discourage what was considered to be a healthy, youthful bloodlust until he returned one day, his hunting coat in tatters, mumbling incoherently about some chimeric monstrosity with the body of a deer and the head of a much larger deer.

Morgan (Marjoe Gortner) has firsthand experience with the wrath of nature. After narrating a grave prologue with portends of environmental doom, he and a few of his football chums take off for an island getaway, hoping to get in a spot of hunting themselves. The men, however, do not fell so much as swallow before one of them succumbs to an attack by a strange creature, instantly turning the poor sod into a bloated corpse. When the dead man’s body is examined on the mainland, the authorities conclude that he died from the equivalent of one thousand wasp bites. Though this explanation might appease your average fellow, Morgan isn’t entirely satisfied and decides the matter warrants further investigation.

He discovers that this island is home to a pair of chicken farmers who have stumbled upon an all-natural food source, bubbling up from the ground like edible “crude.” This new diet has done absolute wonders for their stock, who now stand at twice the size of a full-grown human. The farmers aren’t at all alarmed by this notable growth spurt, nor are they much bothered by the fact that the newly enlarged poultry consumed the regular-sized ones in some sort of orgiastic cannibal feast. This general lack of concern is perhaps how grub worms, wasps and rats also manage to gain access to their stash, benefiting as the chickens did from its wondrous properties. As one might expect, large populations of freakishly large pests get a bit out of hand after a while and Morgan is joined by a scattering of other interested parties, all of whom do their best to responsibly handle the flourishing abomination population. 

With but two short weeks to go until the peak of the holiday season, one is expected to put some time aside for children and their various needs and those sporting a little stripling of their own may have to sit through a number of films considered to be acceptable for younger viewers. What a delight it is, then, to uncover a film such as this that comes so heartily approved by the stern matrons of the ratings board. Though it bears the humble “PG” rating, The Food Of The Gods is absolutely full of graphic on-screen violence. Animals murdering humans, humans murdering animals and back round again. Not only is this shrieking bloodbath age appropriate, it is also based on a “portion of the novel by H.G. Wells,” establishing that while giant rubber-headed chicken monsters did not comprise the entirety of Mr. Wells’ vision, the movie’s literary pedigree is still undeniable. If more films were as suitable and culturally enriching for youngsters as this, I would have had a sizable brood of my own by now. 

Food Of The Gods runs 88 minutes and is rated PG.