"We are no longer doing movies with women in the lead," Warner Bros. president of production Jeff Robinov reportedly decreed after Jodie Foster's The Brave One sank like congealed lard in the gut of domestic box offices last year. Just like that, half of the population is banned from headlining films, with no mention, of course, that Foster had headlined two blockbusters in the past five years.

But for those looking to plant the proverbial horse's head under Robinov's pillow, a copy of Teeth (out now) will do nicely. Son of Roy, Mitchell Lichtenstein's indie gore-fest—about a pristine young girl (Brooklyn local Jess Weixler) who discovers strategically placed mandibles in the holiest of places—turns centuries of female-power lore into a horror-flick gimmick. But the fact that it was made, bought, and distributed at all can help soothe fears that the only women we'll see onscreen from now on will be in aprons or bondage gear.

Not to mention the fact that the film itself is pretty damn fun.

The biggest question among the sold-out opening-night crowd was, "Is this thing really gonna take itself seriously?" In the first three minutes, we got our answer: Not a chance. Labia-shaped tree trunks, stumpy smokestacks, and unsubtle innuendos flow freely ("Don't worry, I won't bite you," says the unsuspecting gynecologist), and the resulting laughs are always intentional.

The second question, of course, was, "How much are they really gonna show?" While that one took far longer to answer, the eventual payoff was worth it. Once the heroine discovers her unique powers, the male extremities start flying, with no detail spared. Hapless appendages are chomped off sans pity or dignity, while the (predominantly female) audience howled and guffawed ("That's not funny!" a guy in the back row kept snapping).

Lichtenstein doesn't trouble us much with explanations—the teeth are "a mix between a shark and an eel," and a smoky factory nearby seems to imply that air pollution can make you grow chompers down there. But Weixler carries the film so well that it doesn't matter. Her luminous and expressive face fills in an unseen blanks—including the biggest blank of all, the creature itself. Viewers are left with a monster movie in which the monster is never once revealed. It's a bit ironic that a film about the ultimate execration will gladly devote close-ups to severed penis stumps, but won't ever show the face of the beast. Even in the land of dentata, some things are apparently still taboo.