Joel Potrykus, the Michigan-based maestro of “metal slackerism,” is a lo-fi indie provocateur whose films ooze with grimy authenticity. His debut, Ape (2012), was a raw portrait of a pyro-obsessed comic, followed by Buzzard (2014), a cult hit about a slacker conman that introduced Marty and Derek, Vulcanizadora’s tragic duo. The Alchemist Cookbook (2016) and Relaxer (2018) cemented his rep for blending existential dread with dark comedy, earning him monikers like “The New King of Underground Cinema.” As writer, director, editor, and star, Potrykus crafts Vulcanizadora with his usual DIY crew, including longtime collaborator Joshua Burge and cinematographer Adam J. Minnick. Shot on 16mm, this micro-budget gem, distributed by Oscilloscope Laboratories, premiered at Tribeca 2024, with Burge snagging a Special Jury Mention for his performance. Potrykus’ work is personal, uncompromising, and gloriously weird.

In Vulcanizadora, two middle-aged fuckups, Marty Jackitansky (Joshua Burge) and Derek Skiba (Joel Potrykus), trudge through a Michigan forest on a cryptic mission that feels like a suicide pact with extra fireworks. Their bickering, Derek’s manic goofiness clashing with Marty’s stone-faced gloom, hides a darker purpose, revealed through cryptic chats and a homemade helmet straight out of a Saw fever dream. When their plan implodes, one friend is left to face the surreal fallout back in civilization. This 85-minute black comedy thriller, shot on gritty 16mm, blends juvenile antics with soul-crushing despair. Potrykus delivers a raw, unsettling tale of friendship and failure, punctuated by death metal, opera, and a defiant DIY vibe.

Vulcanizadora is a grim middle finger to the myth of “growing up,” dissecting the male psyche’s festering wounds with a rusty scalpel. It’s about midlife crises, guilt, and the kind of loneliness that makes you want to set shit on fire just to feel something. Marty and Derek, aging slackers from Buzzard, embody arrested development, guys who never outgrew their teenage nihilism, now crushed by life’s indifference. The forest symbolizes their isolation, a liminal space where society’s rules don’t apply, and their pact reflects a desperate grab for control in a world that’s moved on. Philosophically, it’s a Beckettian scream into the void: life’s a pointless slog, and redemption’s a fairy tale. Culturally, it nails the “male loneliness epidemic,” showing men too emotionally stunted to save themselves, let alone each other.

Adam J. Minnick’s 16mm cinematography is a love letter to imperfection, with lush forest shots and grainy close-ups that feel like peeking into a bad dream. The soundtrack, blasting Slayer and opera, mirrors the film’s tonal whiplash, swinging from absurd to tragic. Potrykus’ script is sparse but biting, with improvised dialogue that’s equal parts hilarious and heartbreaking, like Derek’s unhinged monologue about eternal anxiety as hell. The DIY helmet, a grotesque prop, symbolizes their futile attempt to engineer meaning from chaos. Yet the writing can feel too cryptic, leaning on ambiguity over clarity, which risks alienating viewers who don’t vibe with Potrykus’ punk-rock ethos. It’s a film that dares you to sit with its discomfort, reflecting a society that leaves its lost boys to rot.

Vulcanizadora is a weird, daring beast, but it’s not without its stumbles. The performances are its beating heart, Burge’s Marty is a stoic trainwreck, his mullet and neck tattoos screaming “I peaked in ’99,” while Potrykus’ Derek is a jittery man-child whose antics (glow-stick karaoke, anyone?) are both cringe and endearing. Their chemistry is electric, selling the tragedy of a friendship too toxic to survive. The 16mm visuals are a standout, with wide forest shots evoking Old Joy and tight close-ups that trap you in the characters’ despair. A mid-film scene involving a Saw-style contraption is a horrifying, hilarious gut-shot, blending gore and absurdity in a way that’s pure Potrykus. The metal-opera soundtrack is a stroke of genius, amplifying the film’s chaotic soul.

But fuck, the pacing drags in the first half, with too many scenes of Derek dicking around (unzipping cargo shorts for way too long) that test your patience. While the slow burn builds dread, it feels indulgent, like Potrykus is jerking off to his own quirkiness. The characters, while compelling, are thinly drawn. Marty’s a cipher, and Derek’s a caricature until late revelations add depth. The horror is more existential than visceral, which works for me but might leave gorehounds bored. Originality is a double-edged sword: the premise is fresh as hell, but echoes of Buzzard and influences like Gerry or Taste of Cherry make it feel like a remix of Potrykus’ greatest hits. The second half’s surreal shift is bold but muddled, leaving some emotional threads dangling.

Vulcanizadora is raw with uncompromising weirdness and gut-wrenching performances. Potrykus and Burge deliver a bleak, funny, and haunting dive into male despair, shot with gritty 16mm beauty. The pacing sags, and the narrative’s ambiguity can frustrate, but its thematic depth, loneliness, guilt, and the futility of redemption, hits hard. It’s not for everyone, but for fans of atmospheric, original stories, it’s a twisted treat. This is a middle-aged punk anthem that screams authenticity. Potrykus proves he’s still the king of underground oddities, even if the film’s a bit too in love with its own strangeness.

TL;DR: Vulcanizadora is a dark, funny, and haunting indie gem about two losers on a doomed forest trek. Potrykus’ lo-fi brilliance and Burge’s raw performance shine, despite slow pacing and cryptic vibes.