In an apocalyptic future world, a young upper class couple is visiting an exhibition of surrealistic paintings, presented by a group of young anarchists in their loft flat where they trap and torture their high society guests.
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The last thirty get batty and the jam to usher the credits is a sugary volume that melts in your mouth. Gleaming in cardboard no-wave neon, and yet lets loose with hysterical triggers, these mid-80's Eckhart's are flatline histrionic sleeper cells until they crack into runny ugly yolks of surprisingly welcome palatability. Shit gets weird, violent. Early on an unappreciative patron is submitted by a large painting.