This film transcends mere slasher fare; it's a grotesque ballet of need and deprivation. Pooh, robbed of his saccharine ambrosia, reveals an essence darker than the shadows of the Hundred Acre Wood. The very camera becomes implicated, confronted by his primal gaze and the blunt force declaration, 'It's poohing time.' This isn't mindless splatter, but a commentary on appetite. Pooh's desperate quest recalls Goya’s Saturn devouring his son; an icon of parental rage contorted by loss and want, here refashioned into an icon of abject longing.