PLOT: Loosely based on the 1984 cult classic, The Toxic Avenger stars Peter Dinklage as a terminally ill janitor named Winston Gooze who transforms into a mutant vigilante after a toxic accident. He then must rise from outcast to become a hero, battling corporate greed and corruption to protect his community and step son. But does it live up to the cult status of the original?
REVIEW: Let’s get this right off the bat. Director Macon Blair’s riotous remake of The Toxic Avenger might not win over the uninitiated, at first, but for those steeped in the radioactive grime of Tromaville, it’s a sludge-soaked triumph. A worthy spiritual successor to Lloyd Kaufman’s 1984 cult classic, this new iteration is less reboot and more reanimation—one that gleefully rips off its own limbs and reattaches them with the kind of DIY gross-out ingenuity only a Troma fan could love.
Once again, we follow a hapless everyman who becomes an eco-mutant avenger after being tossed into a vat of toxic waste. But here, that man is Winston Gooze, played with surprising pathos by Peter Dinklage. A janitor at a pollution-spewing chemical plant, Winston is a widower, a reluctant stepdad, and—thanks to a cold-blooded insurance denial—one very sick man. After a botched robbery and a dip in a glowing sludge bath, Winston re-emerges as a grotesque, one-eyed antihero with skin the color of expired guacamole and a mop that doubles as a head-splitting, intestine-yanking death tool.
That’s where The Toxic Avenger gets unexpectedly potent. For all its over-the-top splatter and comic-book violence, there’s real-world sting in the satire. In a country where navigating health insurance can feel like a horror movie in itself, Blair uses Winston’s predicament to take a not-so-subtle jab at a broken system. The horror here isn’t just mutant limbs or disemboweled henchmen—it’s being sick and poor in a world that doesn’t care.
Blair, whose directorial debut I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore showed an eye for righteous rage, approaches this remake with reckless abandon. While the gore is cranked to cartoonish extremes and the kills escalate into full-blown symphonies of splatter, Blair injects real heart into the ooze. Dinklage, voicing both pre- and post-mutated Winston, grounds the character in melancholy, letting the emotional weight bubble just beneath the surface like a slow-simmering toxic vat.
Kevin Bacon chews scenery with relish as Bob Garbinger, a morally bankrupt CEO whose chemical empire would make even RoboCop’s OCP blush. Hot off his slimeball performance in MaXXXine, Bacon is clearly having a blast playing another grotesquely charismatic villain, leaning into the role with a perfect mix of sleaze and swagger. And he’s matched beat for beat by Elijah Wood, who delivers a wonderfully weird turn as Garbinger’s ghoulish brother, Fritz. Wood, barely recognizable beneath prosthetics and makeup, channels an unhinged mad scientist vibe that feels equal parts The Penguin from Batman Returns and Riff Raff from Rocky Horror. Together, the two make for an unforgettable pair of corporate creeps, anchoring the film’s satirical bite with devilish glee.
Taylour Paige’s J.J. adds firepower and moral clarity to the chaos, and Jacob Tremblay, playing Winston’s stepson, delivers a rare horror-comedy performance that’s sweet without being saccharine.
Longtime Troma fans will find plenty of Easter eggs buried under the slime. Class of Nuke ’Em High gets a few sly nods, as does Poultrygeist for those with sharp eyes (and stronger stomachs). Even Motörhead—whose music has been synonymous with Troma’s punk spirit for decades—makes an appearance, hammering home the reboot’s deep-rooted affection for its radioactive lineage.
And none of this would have been possible without Legendary Pictures, who deserve massive credit for having the guts to back a movie like this. For a studio known for global mega-franchises like the Monsterverse, it’s refreshing—almost shocking—to see them champion something this raw, this punk rock, this unapologetically grotesque and relentlessly funny. When people say “they don’t make movies like they used to,” The Toxic Avenger dares to shout back, “Then we’ll make one ourselves.”
The town of St. Roma’s Village, a thinly veiled stand-in for Tromaville, is alive with madcap detail and constant background chaos. You can practically hear the chatter just offscreen: conspiracy theorists, shady cops, deranged newscasters—all part of the glorious, grotesque tapestry.
Is it for everyone? God, no. But The Toxic Avenger was never meant to be a four-quadrant crowd-pleaser. It’s an inside joke, yes—but it desperately wants you in on it. For fans of the original, for gorehounds, and for anyone who’s ever shouted “they don’t make movies like they used to”—look no further. This is the return of a cult icon in the most gloriously disgusting way possible.
