My quick rating – 3.8/10. You ever stumble across a sequel and think, “Wait, how the hell did the first one even get made?” That was me with Unspeakable: Beyond the Wall of Sleep, a title that sounds like a Lovecraftian nightmare but delivers more like a dream filmed in someone’s garage. Naturally, I had to track down the original Unspeakable—and oh boy, what a beautifully miserable time that was. The good part was seeing that Troma intro at the beginning.
Chad Ferrin’s Unspeakable is what happens when a revenge horror flick meets a Troma distribution deal, gets left in the sun too long, and forgets that Troma movies are supposed to be, you know, fun. There’s nary a wink, nudge, or Toxic Avenger to be found here, just middle-aged misery, mutilation, and a metric ton of grimy existential dread.
Meet James Fhelleps (played with the emotional range of a sleepy tree stump by Roger Garcia or Cline, depending on who you ask), who has lost everything in a car accident. His daughter Heather is dead, and his wife Alice is now a shrieking puddle of flesh with the bedside manner of a chainsaw. So, naturally, James does what any rational grieving father would do: he grabs a knife and goes on a no-budget rampage through L.A., killing hookers and junkies like he’s collecting stamps.
The camerawork looks like someone duct-taped a camcorder to a Roomba, the acting is so wooden you could build a shed with it, and the dialogue makes you yearn for the sweet release of silence. And yet, Unspeakable commits the most unspeakable crime of all—it takes itself completely seriously. This is Troma, people! Where’s the slime? Where’s the slapstick? Where’s the pervy chicken mascot?
The only breath of fresh air (if you can call it that) is Timothy Muskatell as a deranged home nurse, injecting the film with just enough twisted energy to remind you this isn’t an industrial safety video. His performance teeters on the edge of comedy and horror like he’s not sure which side he’s supposed to land on, and that confusion is somehow the most entertaining part.
And for a movie that wears the Troma name (if only as a distributor), it’s shockingly tame in the shock department. Sure, there’s gore and a generous helping of poop (it is still a Troma-adjacent project), but nudity is practically nonexistent, which feels like a clerical error.
Still, I had to do it. I watched Unspeakable purely because I knew Unspeakable 2 existed. And yes, I watched them back-to-back, which should probably qualify me for some kind of veterans’ discount or at least a group therapy session.
Final verdict: Unspeakable is like watching someone pour hot tar over their trauma while deadpanning their way through a snuff film. It’s not fun, it’s not clever, but it’s undeniably grim. A curiosity at best, a punishment at worst. But hey, if you’ve ever wanted to see a man try to hug his dead daughter by stabbing drug dealers to death, here’s your ticket.
Misery loves company, and apparently, sequels.
Troma Now is the place to stream this from, along with a couple of freebies.