Shot on film, Dear God No has the greasy, dirty feel of the great drive-in exploitation films of the 70s. It includes everything that made these scummy opuses so great, upping the cheap thrills ante to include more blood, more boobs and more bizarreness than a daisy chain of Herschel Gordon Lewis, Dave Friedman and Andy Milligan could ever dream of. But Dear God No is hardly an artsy homage to 70s exploitation. It's the real thing, more extreme, more twisted, sicker, funnier and crazier than nearly anything that's ever botch-slapped the silver screen before. Unlike a lot of 70s grindhouse fare, though, Dear God No never has time to be boring or get stale. Long biker montage scenes are creatively shot so they never devolve into the kind of tired filler that Corman biker epics were known for. A seemingly endless scene with topless dancers in Nixon masks is still too short for my money. The characters are so sleazily fascinating that you never get tired of any of them, and deliver some of the most politically incorrect dialogue you'll ever hear. And the girls are all good-looking, so what do you want from life?
Dear God No is the farthest thing from slick modern horror movies you'll find. It's a grubby, sweat-stained experience that makes special effects spectaculars like Saw seem like an episode of Mr. Bean. Viewing it feels like a violation. You'll want scald yourself in shower afterwards, but that's not going to help. There's only one thing you can do to power those shocks out of your brain, and that's watch it again. Listen to the sidesplitting commentaries. Explore the "Special Shirt," and find the Easter Eggs. Dear God No not only puts out, it will buy you breakfast in the morning.