Good grief. What an incomprehensible and disjointed mess. And nothing about it makes you care enough to figure it all out. Like all tornado films, there's an idiot who tries to film the twister in order to get killed. This guy has a brat kid who follows him, wanting to get killed too I guess. The dad (but not the brat) gets a one-way ticket into the funnel cloud. Whatever script there was to this thing apparently got vacuumed up with dad; there's certainly no plot on the screen after that. Cut to 30 years later, the kid is now a big square jawed TV cameraman clod who still can't act. He encounters gypsies, cults, gratingly phony accents, psychos in wards having bad-hair-days, sinister conspiracies, demonic cloud-faces, legends, directors who are as untalented as he is, script writers who are even worse, and yawning audiences. Occasionally, a tornado shows up. Tornadoes chase people in this movie. No, really. In one cult meeting, there's a guy with a Yoda hood, who sounds like he's moaning "Fe-Fi-Fo-Fum." (I think that's Latin for "I'll get you, my little pretty, and your little dog as well.")
Clumsy nonsense that tries to throw a hundred things at a dartboard, hoping that something sticks. Nothing did.
