Much of this energy comes courtesy of Robert Englund, who stars as the MC at an endless post-apocalyptic rave called the Doom Room.   You would think that rebellious twenty-somethings in a Mad Max-ian existence wouldn't respect the authoritah of a fifty-something with greasy hair.  Apparently, you'd be wrong.   He commands the screen in every one of his scenes, cackling and delighting in his role.  He tears into his lines and gives them a validity they really don't deserve.   This is all the more impressive when one notices how often he's flanked by two naked women.

And while we're on the subject of naked women, wow: there are a hell of a lot of breasts in this episode.  I lost count at twenty-four.  This could be a commentary on how desensitized everyone has become in the wake of civilization falling apart.  More likely, Hooper is a man who likes boobs.   I won't hold that against him (science teaches us that guys like boobs), but I will say that it's kinda distracting after while.  Mostly because I suspected all those knockers were put in to distract me from understanding the plot.

I've made a conscious effort to avoid discussing the story thus far, but I guess I should warn you: it sucks.  The premise is an intriguing one: in the wake of World War III, in which battle tactics involved Russia ruining birthday parties (?), a seventeen-year-old named Peggy (Jessica Lowndes) and her mother try to act as though life is normal in their quaint little diner.   However, discord appears in the form of rebel, and Jake Gyllenhaal stand-in Jak (Johnathan Tucker), who offers her a trip to the Doom Room.  You know he's a rebel, because he took the C out of his name.  Whoa.

 Peggy : Well, where'd it go?  You have to have a C.   What'll you do if you have to say 'cat' or 'California?'

Ja(c)k: There is no more California.

Me: So you're still kinda screwed on 'cat'?

The rest of the episode has dialogue just as silly and purposeless.  A real howler involves a scene where a "hardcore" druggie recites dictionary definitions of post-world-war drugs.  Like, genuine dictionary definitions.  Including their word origins.   Which officially makes this guy the nerdiest druggie in history, edging out that guy on my dorm floor who got stoned all the time and talked about Full House.

The original short story by Matheson's father (Richard Matheson) was a quick, evocative story.  This adaptation isn't.   I don't know what provoked the third World War.  I don't know how the airborne, acidic 'blint' is related to the dead.   I don't know how long ago it happened – a radio mentions that New York and Los Angeles just now lay in ruin, but the time frame suggests the war started well over five years ago.   And the movie doesn't provide any answers.  It's usually too busy going after wacky camera-swish-pan-zoom effects that sometimes freeze the action altogether.

Had Hooper put a tighter leash on his visual style and on Richard C. Matheson's writing liberties, I could easily recommend it.   All of these Masters of Horror episodes are interesting works worthy of analysis on some level.  But this movie is an incomprehensible mishmash of nonsensical plot, bright colors, and thin characters.  Dario Argento does that much better, and his episode is next week.