I delay to call “The Greasy Strangler” a loathsomeness comic drama since it’s more dreamlike than diverting. The key refinement amongst silliness and surreality is regardless of whether a joke is played for chuckles. A large portion of the stiflers in “The Greasy Strangler” aren’t generally clever, yet rather ghastly, befuddling and irritating.
That is not a thump, yet rather a perception. This is, all things considered, a film where a disco-fixated more seasoned man (who resembles a shower tanned Spalding Gray wearing a Beethoven wig) rivals his terribly nebbish child (diminishing hair, inconvenient grandmother glasses, monstrous turtlenecks, noticeable gut) to win the warmth of the main lady sufficiently beguiled to be keen on them both (fuzzy Lucille Ball-style red wig, squat, overweight).