In the vast, seemingly endless cinematic universe of quirky horror-comedies, few premises could feel quite as niche as Murdaritaville. Yes, that’s the actual title – a punny riff on the iconic Jimmy Buffett song “Margaritaville” that also doubles as a sly warning. This deliriously bizarre indie romp from writer/director Paul Dale takes the cult of Buffett fandom, specifically the devoted “Parrothead” followers, and warps it into a delightfully deranged slasher setup. What if there existed a feathered, part-avian creature hellbent on violently weeding out anyone without sufficient reverence for the trop-rock troubadour’s oeuvre? The results are about as nutty as you’d expect.
From its gloriously nonsensical opening text describing the film as “a weird love letter to Jimmy Buffett and his music,” Murdaritaville establishes its tongue-in-cheek bona fides. This is a movie that isn’t just knowingly self-aware about its B-movie pastiche leanings, but actively revels in them. It wears its frayed, low-budget aesthetics and anything-goes narrative logic like badges of honor. There’s undeniable schlocky charm in the film’s willingness to go quite literally fowl in its homage to all things Buffett.
Whether that niche appeal can translate for broader audiences, however, is another question entirely. Murdaritaville is very much a love-it-or-hate-it proposition – a film so insistently, almost confrontationally bizarre that it’s destined to inspire equal amounts of admiration and utter bewilderment. For those not already inclined to groove along to its askew wavelength, the thinly-sketched characters, wildly uneven tonal shifts, and overall scraggly production values may simply register as bottom-of-the-barrel amateur hour…
Whether that niche appeal can translate for broader audiences, however, is another question entirely. Murdaritaville is very much a love-it-or-hate-it proposition – a film so insistently, almost confrontationally bizarre that it’s destined to inspire equal amounts of admiration and utter bewilderment. For those not already inclined to groove along to its askew wavelength, the thinly-sketched characters, wildly uneven tonal shifts, and overall scraggly production values may simply register as bottom-of-the-barrel amateur hour.
And yet, if you can manage to get on Murdaritaville’s peculiar frequency, there’s an unmistakable punk rock spirit to Paul Dale’s feature that’s pretty infectious. From the inspired opening credits sequence that cheekily lists fake crew titles like “Armorer: Alec Baldwin,” it’s clear we’re in for a genre love-letter determined to have fun while also gently roasting its subject of obsession. The plot, thin as it may be, follows a group of Buffett devotees headed to a Jimmy impersonator contest who run afoul of a mysterious half-man/half-parrot creature. This winged menace has taken it upon itself to violently purge the world of anyone less than fanatically devoted to the singer’s laid-back beach lifestyle brand.
It’s an utterly ridiculous slasher movie premise that Murdaritaville leans into with admirable full-throttle commitment. The film swings wildly between sophomoric stoner comedy moments (a viral opera singer getting swallowed whole by a shark), music video-esque frat party debauchery, and surprisingly vicious kills at the hands (or talons) of the parrot man villain. Dale’s direction has a scrappy, unpolished energy that keeps things engaging even when the seams are showing. The wildly divergent tones don’t always blend seamlessly, but you can feel the mania bubbling behind the camera.
While the characterizations are one-note and the non-monster visual effects are cheesy in that micro-budget midnighter way, Taylor Fisher’s design of the snarling, feathered slasher is a true jaw-dropper. From its first shadow-drenched appearance to its full grotesque unveiling in the final act, the parrot man is a wonderfully ludicrous creation. It gives Murdaritaville the kind of memorable boogeyman that instantly emblazons itself into low-budget horror iconography. Just try and get that squawking death knell out of your head after watching.
If the film has one shortcoming, it’s perhaps being a bit too enamored with its own anything-goes ethos…
If the film has one shortcoming, it’s perhaps being a bit too enamored with its own anything-goes ethos. The tonal whiplash and lack of narrative cohesion ultimately keep Murdaritaville from fully gelling into the deliriously deranged midnight movie experience it’s aiming for. There are simply too many swings and misses amid the scrappy ambition.
And yet, much like a Jimmy Buffett concert itself, it’s hard to emerge from Murdaritaville without a goofy smile plastered across your face. This is a film that throws absolutely everything at the wall – horror, comedy, musical numbers, you name it. While not all of it sticks the landing, the sheer punky, live-wire energy is impossible to resist for fans of energetic low-budget lunacy.
For better or worse, Paul Dale has crafted something that is unmistakably, deliriously his own weird vision fully realized. It’s a loving ode to Buffett’s trop-rock escapism that also doesn’t let the man’s cult of fandom off the hook. By the time the delightfully deranged final act rolls around, you’re either all the way onboard with the gonzo antics or have jumped ship entirely.
For the converted, Murdaritaville is a an utterly unique experience – a sort of crazed cinematic embodiment of a long, hot, booze-soaked night of overindulgence. You’ll be just as likely to wake up the next morning wondering what the hell you just witnessed as you will be eager to re-live the unhinged festivities. It’s the sort of berserk ode to Jimmy Buffett that its subject himself would either love or be utterly baffled by. And really, isn’t that the highest compliment?
Overall Score: 5.5/10
