Gather round, I have something unimportant to say.
Once upon a time—long before Marvel’s Infinity Saga brought the multiverse to suburban multiplexes and streaming screens—a scrappy little studio called Full Moon Features quietly cobbled together a cinematic shared universe. It wasn’t made with nine-figure budgets, CGI wizardry, or comic book lore. Nope, it was stitched together with duct tape, rubber monsters, questionable acting, and the kind of reckless creativity that could only thrive in the sticky aisles of your local video rental store. This wasn’t the mainstream multiverse of Tony Stark and Thor. This was Demonic Toys, Dollman, Dollman vs. Demonic Toys, and, uh, Bad Channels—a tangled fever dream of low-budget horror, sci-fi, and pure 1990s absurdity.
For a kid growing up on the holy trinity of USA Up All Night, Fangoria magazines, and weekends spent begging for another “just one more” VHS rental from CropDuster Video, this was catnip. Forget the highbrow critique of Scorsese or the meticulous world-building of George Lucas. Full Moon spoke directly to the VHS generation—those of us who worshipped at the altar of Charles Band, worshipped in basements, living rooms, and after-midnight cable blocks where anything seemed possible.
The connective tissue of Full Moon's universe wasn’t a Tesseract or a multiversal incursion—it was sheer audacity. Take Demonic Toys (1992), where an evil toy factory becomes a slaughterhouse for a ragtag band of victims. Killer dolls? Check. Over-the-top gore? Double check. Zero apologies? Absolutely. It was the kind of film that felt dangerous as a kid, like you were watching something you weren’t supposed to. But the real magic? It wasn’t alone.
Enter Dollman (1991), starring Tim Thomerson as Brick Bardo—a hardboiled, spacefaring cop whose only problem is being 13 inches tall when he crash-lands on Earth. Yeah, 13 inches. It’s as absurd as it sounds, yet somehow, Thomerson leans into it so hard that you believe every ridiculous moment. You weren’t just watching a movie; you were peeking into another reality where bad dialogue was a virtue and camp was an aesthetic choice.
And then came Bad Channels (1992)—arguably the weirdest entry in Full Moon’s misfit universe. Aliens hijack a small-town radio station and shrink human women into jars because… reasons? Part horror, part sci-fi, part MTV fever dream, it even boasted a faux hair-metal soundtrack, featuring legit bands like Blue Öyster Cult. You didn’t rent Bad Channels because it made sense. You rented it because the cover art promised something bizarre—and you never left disappointed.
When these worlds collided in Dollman vs. Demonic Toys (1993), it felt monumental in a way only a kid raised on $1.99 rentals could understand. Sure, the “crossover event” was really just a lot of reused footage from earlier movies, but who cared? Brick Bardo was fighting homicidal toys, and it counted. Marvel might have given us the Avengers, but Full Moon gave us a gum-chewing, doll-sized action hero squaring off against a satanic baby doll named Baby Oopsie Daisy. Guess which one felt more punk rock.
Full Moon’s multiverse wasn’t polished or meticulously planned—it was a glorious mess of gore, camp, and imagination. It didn’t try to impress critics; it aimed straight at weird kids with worn-out library cards and an insatiable appetite for the strange. And for those of us who grew up worshipping it, it was more than just movies—it was a gateway into a world where the absurd reigned supreme, and anything seemed possible.
Today, with Hollywood throwing billions at cinematic universes, the Full Moon era feels like a beautiful fever dream—something too pure, too scrappy to ever truly return. But for those of us raised on VHS spines and late-night cable marathons, those low-budget gems will always be our multiverse. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade Baby Oopsie Daisy for Thanos any day.
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