Roses Have Thoughts

Larry Cohen’s The Stuff is a film that proves, once again, that B-movies can carry A-grade ideas. Released in 1985, at the height of Reaganomics and rampant consumer culture, this gooey, gleefully bonkers horror-satire manages to be both ridiculous and razor-sharp. And though it’s hardly flawless, with wobbly effects and uneven pacing, it still earns a solid rating as one of the smartest, stickiest cult horror films of the 1980s.

The premise is both ludicrous and brilliant. A strange white substance bubbles up from the ground; it tastes delicious, has zero calories, and quickly becomes the must-have product on supermarket shelves. The public can’t get enough of it. Quite literally. Enter Michael Moriarty as David ‘Mo’ Rutherford, a wisecracking ex-FBI agent turned industrial saboteur, hired to uncover the truth behind this edible invasion. Moriarty’s performance is pure off-kilter charm, part Columbo, part snake-oil salesman, and he anchors the film with a sly, sardonic wit.

Around him, Cohen assembles a game cast: Andrea Marcovicci as the advertising executive who helped launch “The Stuff” before realising she’s unleashed hell; Garrett Morris as a disgruntled ex-jingle-singer turned truth crusader; and Paul Sorvino, gleefully chewing the scenery as a paranoid militia leader who sees communism in every corner but decides consumerism is the greater threat. It’s a gallery of eccentrics, each more exaggerated than the last, yet it all fits Cohen’s cartoonishly broad but politically pointed canvas.

What makes The Stuff stand out is its tonal juggling act. On the surface, it’s an exploitation horror film about killer yoghurt. But peel away the schlock, and you’ll find one of the most biting satires of American consumerism ever committed to celluloid. Cohen weaponises the language of advertising, branding, and mass marketing to show how easily Advertisers can manipulate the public into literally consuming themselves to death. It’s satire, so on-the-nose it almost breaks the nose, but that bluntness is part of the fun.

Of course, being a Cohen film, the execution is joyously scrappy. The practical effects range from ingenious to laughably bad. One moment, you’re watching a jaw-dropping sequence of a man’s body hollowing out as he gets consumed from within; the next, you’re sniggering at an obvious set on hydraulics spewing marshmallow fluff. But that’s part of the charm: it’s anarchic filmmaking, full of invention and rough edges, much like Cohen himself.

The Stuff epitomises the ethos of passion over polish. It’s a film made with conviction, powered by a director who knew exactly what he wanted to say, even if he didn’t have the resources to make it slick. That conviction bleeds through every frame, satirising advertising, lampooning brand loyalty, and gleefully biting the hand that feeds the corporation.

Is it scary? Not particularly. Is it silly? Absolutely. But is it worth watching? Without question. The Stuff remains a cult classic not because it’s perfect, but because it’s unashamedly itself, messy, mischievous, and memorable.

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