ENDING THE MONTHLONG "Giant Tubs of Mayonnaise: In Search of a Trailer Trash Aesthetic" series with a toxic bang is this 1995 cult obscurity, the first and so far only cinematic enterprise by writer-director-editor-producer Steve Ballot, a.k.a. Escalp Don Bladé. It's a one-hit wonder if there ever was one. Frank ("played" by all-too-convincingly-wino-looking Frank Meyer, a presumed "found object" preserved here for posterity) is a decrepit guy of bad hygiene, indeterminate age, and unknown but no doubt downtrodden past. He works as a night watchman and stock "boy" at a trucking-company warehouse where they let him sleep in the office. His Archie Bunker-esque coworkers fondly (and accurately) describe him as a ringer for "that first ghoul in Night of the Living Dead." Frank is clearly a man with many problems – for one thing, his speech is so mumbly that subtitles are required – but his mates decide that he just needs to get a girlfriend. Deciding that a little fibbing can't hurt, his buds place a personal ad that suggests an available bachelor considerably more desirable than the real item, who has bluntly noted just one prerequisite ("big tits") and can offer date banter like "Yoo ga ah nize ath." As a result, several bachelorettes (and one pushy drag queen) respond, most meeting violent ends beyond the wildest reaches of Grand Guignol when they express their revulsion in no uncertain terms. As one Internet fan observed, "This is probably the only movie that lives up to a character threatening to 'cut off your head and shit down your neck.' " After so much splattersome mayhem, the movie springs perhaps the only possible shock left to it, becoming an actual romance. Bride of Frank will definitely send many viewers screaming from the room. But if you can make it past the last-word-in-offensive initial set piece (no doubt the reason this motion picture was reportedly banned in Australia), these may well prove the most hilariously crass 89 minutes you've seen in aeons. It's like early John Waters set in deepest New Jersey, with a little Trash-era Paul Morrissey and a lot of Herschell Gordon Lewis-Street Trash-style homemade gore thrown in for good measure. But Ballot's film is not entirely comparable to anything else before it, or since. The in-ya-face photography, headlong editing, and zestily crude performances all add up to a comic aesthetic that's as fine-tuned as Lubitsch's – in its own very different way, of course. This sort of exercise can easily grow condescending or outright insulting toward the on-screen yobbos (as did this series's sub-Harmony Korine opener, Trailer Town), but Bride is one flabbergastingly tasteless joke that all participants seem joyfully "in" on – even if a few do appear rather brain-damaged. See Rep Clock for show times. (Dennis Harvey)