The Making Of that accompanies this orgiastic splurge of nightmarish cut-and-paste psychosis begins in a deceptively sane manner. “Richard Elfman here, director of The Forbidden Zone,” our cheeky auteur announces, fat stogie above his right ear. Almost instantly, the mask slips, as the most diabolically shit-guzzling grin imaginable flickers across his frankly insane expression. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the asylum. The Forbidden Zone is to ‘quirky’ what the ocean is to ‘moist’. It makes absolutely no sense. Whatsoever. Not that this matters one iota: writhing with smacked-out burlesque camp, it’s an extended non-sequitur that flits feverishly between ‘30s music-hall farce and Gilliam-inspired, roughly-animated acid frenzy.
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