Every so often, filmmakers suffer a mental aberration which causes them to go down to the American swamplands. Few of the resulting movies have proved less than ludicrous and most, as here, are about people who seem to be as potty as the films themselves. Shy's hardly the word, for sure, for Barbara Hershey and her sons, a less civilised version of Ma Barker and her killer brood. Mentally deranged from too much time in the bayou, perhaps, but hardly shy. The catalyst that turns their bizarre lives into a series of violent confrontations is a visit from townie cousin Jill Clayburgh and her nymphet daughter Martha Plimpton, who seduces the son who's kept in a cage in the yard. Yes he is and she does. What can have attracted Hershey and Clayburgh to two equally unsuitable roles in this frenzied farrago is a matter for them and their agents to ponder. The scenes in the swamps have a predictably weird beauty, though, even if they add layers of lethargy to an already slow-moving film.

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