It takes a special kind of lunatic devotion to remake The Toxic Avenger—a 1984 splatter-comedy so proudly grotesque it made most of its audience feel like they’d contracted something. But writer-director Macon Blair, long-time collaborator and protégé of Jeremy Saulnier (Blue Ruin, Green Room), clearly didn’t just grow up watching Troma films—he absorbed them like toxic sludge through his veins. And his version isn’t some glossy studio sanitisation; it’s a full-throttle, fan-made fever dream that somehow manages to respect the filth while upgrading it to something absurdly cinematic.
This is, against all odds, the best-looking film ever to emerge from the Troma universe. Shot with the sheen of a high-end comic book movie but still drunk on the same irreverent, bad-taste energy that defined the original, Blair’s Toxic Avengerdoesn’t clean up Tromaville—it gives it a 4K restoration and then sprays blood all over the lens. The result is gleefully demented: outrageously funny, gruesomely inventive, and more self-aware than the genre deserves. It’s a film that feels like it was made by fans, for fans, with a kind of reverence that never once slips into irony.
Peter Dinklage as the new, mutated hero is a stroke of genius—both a complete reinvention and an oddly moving tribute. His take on Melvin (or Winston Gooze, in this iteration) gives the green mutant heart and soul—something the originals never pretended to have. Beneath the oozing prosthetics and dismemberments, Dinklage brings a touch of melancholy, reminding us there’s still a human buried somewhere under the mop and muscle. It’s the rare Troma character who’s not just hilarious or disgusting, but weirdly sympathetic.
And then there’s the supporting cast: Kevin Bacon chewing the scenery like it owes him rent, Elijah Wood in full gremlin mode, and Jacob Tremblay (yes, really) grounding the madness with genuine warmth. It’s an ensemble that understands exactly what film they’re in—no one’s playing it straight, but everyone’s playing it smart.
What makes this new Toxic Avenger work isn’t just its faithfulness to the gore and chaos—it’s how Blair uses that chaos. The film skewers superhero tropes with a chainsaw, mocks corporate greed with slime, and still finds time to throw in an actual emotional arc about power, corruption, and self-worth. It’s not going to win any Oscars for screenplay (unless “Most Inventive Use of a Mop” becomes a category), but it’s got a surprisingly coherent story structure beneath the madness—a minor miracle for something so gleefully insane.
Where Lloyd Kaufman’s original films were anarchic and proudly amateur, Blair’s version feels like the product of someone who studied the cult trash and decided to evolve it without taming it. It’s still camp. It’s still crude. It’s still ridiculous. But it’s artful in its stupidity. Blair’s Tromaville isn’t a relic—it’s a rejuvenation.
The gore is plentiful, the jokes land with atomic impact, and the practical effects will have fans grinning like lunatics. There’s an infectious joy to the carnage, a sense that every splatter, scream, and severed limb was crafted with genuine affection for this filthy little corner of film history.
In the end, The Toxic Avenger feels like what happens when you hand a superfan the radioactive keys to the franchise and they somehow don’t screw it up. It’s the perfect paradox: a remake that honours its trashy roots by being too good for them.
A gloriously revolting triumph of tone, texture, and toxic love. Tromaville has never looked this beautiful—or this wrong.
8/10
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