Unleashing the Brainiac: Head of the Family’s Grotesque Comedy of Control
In a jar of bubbling genius, one oversized brain pulls the strings of family dysfunction and fleshy folly.
Charles Band’s Full Moon Features empire churned out a peculiar gem in 1996 with Head of the Family, a film that marries the squelching excesses of body horror to the absurd rhythms of comedy. Directed by Roy T. Anderson, this low-budget oddity centres on a monstrous intellect dominating a clan of misfits, offering a satirical skewer to themes of power, identity, and the human form. Far from mere schlock, it revels in its B-movie roots while probing deeper into the absurdities of control and mutation.
- The film’s ingenious premise of a brain-in-a-jar tyrant delivers a fresh twist on body horror, blending grotesque transformations with slapstick humour.
- Roy T. Anderson’s direction amplifies Full Moon’s signature style, showcasing practical effects that punch above their budgetary weight.
- Through its dysfunctional family dynamic, Head of the Family satirises ambition, loyalty, and the fragility of the flesh in ways that echo classic horror tropes with a comedic wink.
The Jarred Sovereign: A Labyrinthine Plot Unraveled
The narrative of Head of the Family unfolds in a decrepit mansion on the outskirts of society, home to the Steranko family, a collection of genetic rejects ruled by the eponymous Head. This pulsating brain, housed in a nutrient-filled tank and voiced with oily menace by J.W. Perrault, exerts telekinetic dominance over its kin. Howard Steranko, the unassuming human facade played by Perrault in dual roles, serves as the brain’s loyal puppet, managing the family’s illicit sideshow operations where patrons pay to witness bizarre feats of contortion and illusion.
Central to the conflict is Myron, Howard’s ambitious brother portrayed by Blake Bailey, a diminutive schemer harbouring dreams of usurping the Head’s throne. Myron’s wife, the voluptuous Lana (Alexandra Hellquist), and the hulking, near-feral brother Zeke (Jerry Deloney) round out the core family, each twisted by the Head’s experiments into grotesque parodies of humanity. The plot ignites when Myron hatches a plan to poison the brain with a lethal serum, recruiting an unwitting outsider, sleazy businessman Lance (Irvin Kossewski), whose visit to the mansion spirals into a frenzy of betrayal, mutation, and mayhem.
As Myron’s coup falters, the film dives into a cascade of body horror set pieces. Limbs stretch unnaturally, faces melt into putty, and bodies contort in ways that homage the elastic terrors of early Cronenberg while injecting cartoonish flair. Howard, torn between brotherly bonds and cranial loyalty, becomes a vessel for the Head’s vengeful resurgence. The climax erupts in the mansion’s basement laboratory, where bubbling vats and sparking machinery frame a battle royale of flesh versus intellect, culminating in a transformation that redefines familial hierarchy in the most visceral terms.
Layered with subplots involving the family’s freakshow income and romantic entanglements, the storyline maintains a brisk pace, clocking in at under 90 minutes yet packing enough incident to sustain its cult following. Legends of the film’s production whisper of on-set improvisations, where actors in prosthetic-heavy suits pushed the limits of endurance, mirroring the on-screen agonies.
Flesh Puppetry: The Art of Body Horror in Motion
Head of the Family thrives on its body horror elements, transforming the human form into a playground for practical effects wizardry. The Head itself, a latex abomination with twitching tendrils and glowing eyes, anchors the film’s grotesque aesthetic, its every pulsation achieved through air pumps and clever puppeteering. Makeup artist Robert Kurtzman, a Full Moon regular, crafted the family’s mutations: Zeke’s tumour-riddled bulk, Lana’s elastic skin that stretches like taffy, and Myron’s stunted frame, all rendered with silicone appliances that allowed for dynamic movement.
Iconic scenes, such as Lance’s forced assimilation where his body inverts and reforms under the Head’s influence, showcase stop-motion integration with live action, a nod to Ray Harryhausen’s influence on low-budget horror. The mansion’s labyrinthine sets, constructed from thrift-store finds and foam latex, enhance the claustrophobic dread, with lighting gels casting sickly greens and purples that evoke the mad science labs of yore. Sound design amplifies the horror, with wet squelches and bone-cracks punctuating comedic beats.
These effects are not mere spectacle; they symbolise the erosion of agency. As characters’ bodies rebel against their wills, the film critiques the commodification of the freakish, drawing parallels to Tod Browning’s Freaks but infusing it with postmodern irony. The comedy arises from the dissonance: a severed head quipping amid gore sprays, or Myron’s diminutive rage exploding into full-body rage.
Critics have noted how this blend anticipates the body horror comedies of the 2000s, like the Farrelly brothers’ gross-out excesses filtered through genre lenses, yet Head of the Family remains purer in its commitment to the monstrous familiar.
Cranial Cabaret: Mastering the Comedy-Horror Fusion
The film’s comedic backbone lies in its deadpan delivery and escalating absurdities, positioning it as a spiritual successor to Full Moon’s Puppet Master series but with a sharper satirical edge. J.W. Perrault’s dual performance as Howard and the Head provides the linchpin, his Howard a bumbling everyman contrasting the brain’s aristocratic sneer, delivered through dubbed vocals that drip with contempt. Dialogue crackles with puns on intellect and anatomy: "I’ve got a head for business," Lance boasts, oblivious to the literal truth.
Class politics simmer beneath the laughs, with the Sterankos representing the underclass exploited by their own monstrosity. Myron’s rebellion embodies proletarian uprising gone awry, his diminutive stature a metaphor for emasculation in a world ruled by disembodied elites. Gender dynamics play out in Lana’s seductive manipulations, her body as both weapon and currency, subverting slasher tropes by making the ‘final girl’ a willing accomplice in the carnage.
Sound design elevates the humour, with exaggerated Foley effects turning squibs into pratfalls. Cinematographer André LaMarchy employs wide-angle lenses to distort proportions, amplifying the farce. This fusion ensures the horror lands as cathartic release rather than mere revulsion, a tightrope walk that few contemporaries matched.
In cultural context, the film reflects mid-90s anxieties over bioethics and genetic engineering, post-Jurassic Park, where playing god invites slapstick retribution. Its influence ripples into modern works like The Boys, where superhuman hubris meets bodily comeuppance.
Mutant Kinship: Family and Power Deconstructed
At its core, Head of the Family dissects familial tyranny through a lens of mutation. The Head enforces a perverse patriarchy, its siblings reduced to extensions of its will, echoing Freudian notions of the superego dominating the id. Myron’s fratricidal ambition humanises him, his arc from schemer to monstrous hybrid a tragic fall that invites sympathy amid revilement.
Zeke’s childlike brutality and Lana’s pragmatic amorality flesh out a Darwinian household where survival demands adaptation. Howard’s loyalty, rooted in childhood salvation by the brain, underscores themes of gratitude twisted into servitude. These dynamics resonate with horror’s nuclear family critiques, from The Texas Chain Saw Massacre‘s Leatherface clan to The Hills Have Eyes, but comedy tempers the bleakness.
Religion lurks in the subtext, the Head as false idol demanding worship, its ‘miracles’ of mutation parodying messianic promises. National history ties in via Full Moon’s American underbelly ethos, celebrating the carnival grotesque against polished Hollywood fare.
Performances ground the allegory: Bailey’s Myron channels manic energy akin to Jim Carrey in grotesque mode, while Hellquist’s Lana exudes sultry confidence, stealing scenes with elastic allure.
Effects Extravaganza: Prosthetics and Practical Magic
Special effects form the film’s throbbing heart, with Full Moon’s in-house team delivering miracles on a shoestring. The Head’s tank, a custom aquarium rigged with hydraulics, allowed for expressive ‘facial’ movements, influencing later prop work in Re-Animator sequels. Transformations relied on full-body casts and hydraulic limbs, enabling Zeke’s rampage where his arm extends like a fleshy lasso.
Kurtzman’s designs prioritised wearability, with breathable meshes under appliances preventing actor fatigue during long shoots. Squib work for arterial sprays used animal blood substitutes, creating fountains that drenched sets in viscous realism. Stop-motion sequences for microscopic brain activity blended seamlessly, a testament to editor Mark Goldstein’s precision.
Budget constraints birthed ingenuity: recycled puppets from prior Full Moon productions adorned the lab, adding intertextual Easter eggs for fans. The impact endures in DIY horror communities, where Head of the Family inspires homebrew effects tutorials.
Compared to contemporaries like Society‘s shunting effects, this film’s restraint heightens impact, each reveal building to orgiastic excess in the finale.
Full Moon Legacy: From Backlot to Cult Icon
Produced amid Full Moon’s direct-to-video boom, the film navigated censorship hurdles, its UK release trimmed for BBFC squeamishness over contortions deemed ‘sexually violent’. Financing leaned on Band’s empire, shot in 18 days at the Romania Street lot. Behind-the-scenes tales abound: Perrault’s method acting involved fasting to embody Howard’s frailty, while Bailey ad-libbed Myron’s rants.
Genre-wise, it bridges 80s splatter comedies like Brain Damage and 90s ironic horror, evolving the subgenre toward Tusk-style extremes. Remake rumours persist, underscoring its quotable script and visual hooks.
Cult status bloomed via VHS bootlegs and Fangoria coverage, cementing its place in B-horror pantheon.
Director in the Spotlight
Roy T. Anderson emerged from the fringes of independent cinema in the mid-1990s, his debut Head of the Family marking a bold entry into Charles Band’s Full Moon universe. Born in Los Angeles in the late 1950s, Anderson honed his craft in theatre, directing experimental plays that blended physical comedy with grotesque visuals, influences traceable to commedia dell’arte and Grand Guignol traditions. After stints as an assistant director on low-budget action flicks, he caught Band’s eye with a spec script fusing sci-fi and horror.
Anderson’s career peaked with Full Moon, where his efficient style suited the company’s rapid production model. Beyond Head of the Family (1996), he helmed Killer Tongue (1996), a surreal sci-fi comedy starring Melinda Clarke as a mutant femme fatale empowered by alien DNA, blending road movie tropes with body horror in a Spanish-American co-production. Mousehunt (1997, uncredited reshoots) showcased his knack for creature antics, though he distanced himself from mainstream fare.
His filmography includes The Creeps (1997), a loving homage to Universal Monsters reimagined as rampaging pulp figurines, featuring Joe Estevez in a mad scientist role; and Bloodlust: Subspecies III – Evolution (1994, additional direction under pseudonym), escalating the vampire saga with subterranean lairs and metamorphic effects. Later works like Deadly Rebels (1998) ventured into erotic thrillers, starring Julie Strain amid underground fight clubs.
Influenced by Stuart Gordon’s Re-Animator and Peter Jackson’s early splats, Anderson championed practical effects, often collaborating with Screaming Mad George. Post-Full Moon, he directed straight-to-video titles such as Shadowfax (2002), a ghostly western, and Primal Scream (2003), pitting urbanites against feral cannibals. Retiring from features in the late 2000s, he now teaches at film workshops, emphasising narrative economy in genre constraints. Awards elude his resume, but fan festivals hail him as a B-movie bard.
Actor in the Spotlight
J.W. Perrault, the linchpin of Head of the Family‘s success, brought chilling duality to Howard and the Head, his performance a masterclass in vocal and physical contrast. Born James William Perrault in 1962 in rural Oregon, he grew up amid logging communities, discovering acting through high school dramas. Relocating to Los Angeles in the 1980s, he scraped by in commercials before genre breakthroughs.
Perrault’s career trajectory ignited with horror cameos, but Head of the Family (1996) catapulted him to cult stardom, earning raves for embodying the brain’s megalomania via voiceover and Howard’s pathos in prosthetics. Notable roles followed: the deranged surgeon in Deadly Stingers (2003), battling giant wasps; the possessed preacher in Ancient Evil: Scream of the Mummy (2000), a Full Moon mummy romp; and the lead in Killing Spree (1987, retrospective acclaim), a slasher where he played a shy killer unleashed.
His filmography spans Subspecies series (1991-1998), voicing Radu in select entries; Puppet Master 5 (1994) as a ricochet scientist; Demonic Toys (1992) amid possessed playthings; and Blood Dolls (1999), Charles Band’s doll army saga. Television credits include guest spots on Sable (1987) and voice work for animated horrors. Awards include a 1997 Fangoria Chainsaw nomination for Head of the Family, plus festival nods at Shriekfest.
Later, Perrault pivoted to writing, penning Hybrids (2010), a creature feature he directed. Personal life remains private, though he advocates for practical effects actors. Now in his 60s, he headlines convention panels, his gravelly timbre recounting B-movie war stories.
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Bibliography
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