“We are no longer doing movies with women in the lead” Warner Bros. president of production Jeff Robinov reportedly decreed last year, after Jodie Foster’s The Brave One sank like congealed lard in the gut of domestic box offices. Just like that, half of the population is banned from headlining films (with no mention of the fact that Foster headlined two mega-blockbusters in the past 5 years. Go figure).

But for those looking to plant the proverbial horse head under Robinov’s pillow, a copy of Teeth on his Malibu doorstep will do nicely. Mitchell Lichtenstein (son of Roy)’s Indie gore-fest about a pristine young girl (Jess Weixler) who discovers her strategically-placed mandibles is silly in places, and turns centuries of female power lore into a horror gimmick. But the fact that it was made, bought, and distributed at all can help soothe fears that the only women we’ll see onscreen from now on will be in aprons or bondage gear.

Plus, the film itself is pretty friggin fun. The biggest question the sold-out opening night crowd had was, “Is this thing really gonna take itself seriously?” In the first three minutes, we got our answer: Not a chance. Labia-shaped tree trunks, stumpy smokestacks and unsubtle innuendos flow freely (“Don’t worry, I won’t bite you,” says the unsuspecting gynecologist).

The second question, of course, was, “How much are they really gonna show?” While that one took longer to answer, the eventual payoff was…kindof worth it. Once our heroine discovers her powers (which takes a while, since she’s an abstinence activist – nice twist, right?), the penile extremities start flying, with no detail spared. All those poor appendages, chomped off sans pity or dignity—all while the (predominantly female) audience howled and guffawed (“That’s not funny!” a guy in the back row kept snapping).

Lichtenstein doesn’t trouble us much with explanations — the teeth are “a mix between a shark and an eel,” while smoke rises constantly from a factory nearby, presumably implying that air pollution can make you grow chompers down there. But Weixler carries the film so well that it doesn’t matter. Her luminous and expressive face fills in all the blanks that the camera doesn’t show – including the biggest blank of all, the creature itself. Which is the crux: It’s a monster movie in which the monster is never revealed. It’s a tad ironic that a film about the ultimate execration will devote close-ups to severed penis stumps, but won’t ever show the face of the beast. Even in the land of dentata, some things are apparently still taboo.

This review was originally published in Radar Online.