The dedication of independent filmmakers to the execution of their visions is nothing new to readers of these pages. We've all heard the oft-told tales recounting months of sleepless nights and weekends; disrupted careers and educations; decimated credit card accounts; equipment, film stock or videotape begged, borrowed and/or stolen; on-again, off-again projects that absorb years, even decades of people's lives - all for little or no promise of fame or financial reward. That being known, it should come as no surprise that the ambitious enterprise I'm about to describe became an inseparable component of one dedicated artist's life for more than fifteen years. That in itself is astounding, but it's not the strangest part of our story. What's really damn unsettling about the epic, all-consuming quest to bring PLUCKED! to completion is the film's subject matter.

What earth-shaking concept, pray tell, needed so desperately to be expounded that the holy mission to bring it to the screen monopolized one man's creative life (not to mention those of his family and friends) for a decade and a half? The Civil War? Nah, we covered that with a documentary that lasted longer than the war did. Unified Field theory? Too dense for most viewers... hell, opening a box of Junior Mints is too dense for most viewers. Adapting the next "unfilmable" Great American Novel? These days nobody reads anything more complex than their latest IM message heralding the great panty shot they caught at the bus stop. No, folks, Texas-based writer-producer-director (and several other hyphens) Michael Green chose to set his sights higher. So high, in fact, most of us won't see the top of the artistic Everest he so bravely chose to tackle, at great risk to his sanity and digestive health.

Why that last part about digestive health, you ask? Because the tale that must be told - the story that, at long last, has found its storyteller - is the ultimate, nay, the definitive film about dead chicken puppets.

The above is not a misprint. About two-thirds of the cast of PLUCKED! is comprised of dead cockerels and pullets turned into whimsical marionettes.

I know what you're thinking: "Why, O God, has no one found the vision to realize this amazing concept before? Have none of cinema's greatest creative souls - besides the guy who made that Peter Gabriel video, that is - found the aesthetic fortitude to bring the sacred art of poultry puppetry to the screen in this modern age?" I don't really have the answer to that. After all, I'm usually too wasted to find my keys. But hey... why should we dwell on what might have been, when our hunger for dramatic bird-carcass manipulation has at long last been satiated?

Fresh off a "Midnight Madness" premiere screening at the sophisticated but goofy-sounding Bearded Child Film Festival (they primarily screen shorts, but Green's feature was so suited to their "Weird" category, they made a special exception), PLUCKED! has arrived at the DVD arena in all its brain-damaged glory, preserving the mystery and grandeur of this lost art form for all to see. Explaining the nuances of this film - hell, explaining ANY part of this thing - is kind of tricky, as even multiple viewings fail to ground the audience in any sense of comprehension. But, considering it's my sworn duty to explain these things to our lovely readers, I will endeavor to recount what I have witnessed upon sliding PLUCKED! into my DVD player. You're welcome.

The tone is pretty much set right out of the gate with an opening credits sequence in which grainy still images of barnyard fowl turn subtly menacing (underscored with a musical theme that sounds like mid-'80s John Carpenter after a three-day bender at KFC), followed by a storybook prologue complete with somber narrator, who expounds the tragic tale of the Great Fast-Food Chicken Wars - a globe-spanning conflict between restaurant giants determined to breed the ultimate fryin' bird.

One enormously well-financed competitor decided to trump their rivals once and for all by employing space technology to achieve this goal and shoot a live, pre-marinated rooster into orbit, but the experiment goes horribly wrong, resulting in... well, let's just say the elaborate animated sequence which follows is comparable to watching IMAX's "Cosmic Voyage" while quaffing a fifth of Jagermeister and four Popeye's giblet combos.

After the charred shell of spacecraft "A Pollo 13" (one of the first of seventeen thousand poultry-flavored puns guaranteed to make your eyes bleed) splashes down in a park in West Texas, the test subject emerges from the still waters alive, but changed: he's lost his head, feet and feathers, but he's gained human thought, speech and self-awareness. In short, he's turned into a walking, talking $4.99 butcher-shop broiler, which the filmmakers manipulate as a grisly - but surprisingly functional - marionette. Green and his co-conspirators make no attempt to conceal the operating strings; point of fact, they are rather proud of them, even incorporating them into the film's title logo.

Herein lies the film's viewer litmus test: if the notion of a clammy chicken-carcass on quite-visible strings as your protagonist is just too much to - ahem - stomach, then the next 75 minutes or so will offer absolutely no relief. Just give up and forget the whole thing, because this film was not made for you. This film was made for people who think a dead chicken puppet is fucking hilarious. Sadly, I am one of them, and I really need to consider professional help.

But enough about me. Let's return to our disease-ridden but charmingly well-spoken and optimistic hero (I refuse to call him "plucky"), who christens himself "Fred" and sets out for the big city on the first of many demented adventures.

His first human encounters involve a deranged survivalist (Terry McManus), who believes Fred to be the product of a high-tech Mexican espionage mission, a well-intentioned bum (Noel Hurst) who tries (and fails) to keep him from harm, and a not-so-well-intentioned hooker (Boise X. Matthews) who attempts to use her questionable seductive charms to maneuver Fred into the toaster oven. Barely escaping her final murder attempt (she ditches the charm and comes after him with a knife), Fred escapes down the toilet into the city plumbing. Popping up in a nearby bathroom, Fred again crosses paths with the survivalist, who is relaxing in the tub after indulging in perhaps the goofiest sexual fetish ever depicted in any filmed medium (except perhaps in Japan). After a brief skirmish in which we are thankfully spared a peek at the naked guy's groceries, Fred escapes.

After briefly reuniting with the friendly bum (who frolics with his pal in a hilarious slow-motion sepia-tinted montage), Fred decides to find his own way in the world, and sets up housekeeping in an abandoned warehouse.

Lonely, afraid and unaware he's still being tracked by the survivalist, Fred seeks solace in junk food and TV. A late-night creature feature inspires him to create his own bride - building a device which replicates the same cosmic radiation that infused him with unnatural life. The experiment is eventually successful, and Fred finds wedded bliss at last (illustrated by a sex scene sure to send many viewers into convulsions of laughter and/or projectile vomiting), but as is usually the case in films like this (are there ANY films like this?), his earthly pleasures are fleeting, and his bride meets a horrendously messy end beneath the wheel of an SUV. Word of warning: don't watch this scene during breakfast.

Fred's resulting rage at his loss drives him to use the reanimation device to create an entire army of plump, pink avengers bent on destroying the human race. Unlike their naked creator, these zombie chickens get their own cute little costumes - top hat and tails, ninja outfits, serial-killer hockey masks, vampire capes and un-PC Indian headdresses, to name but a few. (Some even get their own theme music!) Whipped into a murderous frenzy by their imperious leader, the pudgy army marches forth on their first military campaign, targeting the patrons of an amusement park for an afternoon of whimsically gory mayhem.

Their debauched victory celebration is cut violently short by the arrival of the machete-wielding survivalist, who reduces nearly all of them to nuggets before meeting an elaborately choreographed end - thanks to Fred's strategic use of eggs, flour and the world's largest frying pan.

Still bent on murder, Fred seeks his next random victim, only to discover that he's attacked his only real friend, the kindhearted bum who helped him earlier. His ensuing guilt triggers a religious experience wherein he sees the face of God (who bears a striking resemblance to a certain Kentucky-born restaurant founder), who sets him on the path to redemption, and inspires Fred to begin a new life... as a faith-healing tent preacher. But this charming epiphany is not meant to last, and Fred becomes a martyr for the cause of... something. I guess.

Sounds pretty straightforward, right? It's a classic tale: undead chicken goes to the big city, finds friendship and love, gets laid, suffers hardship and tragedy, seeks revenge, finds redemption, and breeds millions of diarrhea-inducing microorganisms along the way. (That last part isn't actually depicted in the movie. I'm extrapolating.) Sure, having seen that, I figured I could die happy - or at least die. But behold! There's so, so much more to be seen within this DVD's hot and crispy banquet of bonus features.

We're talkin' two feature-length commentary tracks, some goofy bios of the "hero chickens," a clever ALIEN-inspired trailer, several deleted scenes, a polka-scored outtake reel, and a few hidden treasures (calling them Easter eggs seems a tad trite, so I won't), all wrapped up with slick menus and deranged artwork, all culled from the dark recesses of our filmmaker's twisted, batter-fried psyche. In summary, there's plenty of horribly wrong entertainment for your buck (ba-gawk).

I'll forgive you for having interrupted your rapt attention to this review if you chose at some earlier point to skip over to www.pluckedmovie.com and order your copy, or at least log a complaint at the film's alleged "protest site" (www.unplucked.com, natch) to leave the director an angry e-mail blaming his magnum opus for turning you into a strict vegan. If you haven't yet, rest assured... the nagging desire to see Fred and his pals cavorting messily across your TV screen will come to you when you least expect it. Probably as you tuck in to that bucket of original recipe and find yourself performing a little tabletop playlet starring three self-righteous wings, a couple of slutty thighs and one oh-so-voluptuous breast... damn, where's my camera?