All posts by Rod Lott

The Big Switch (1968)

After a decade of directing such saucy shorts as For Men Only, Pete Walker finally cracked the hourlong barrier with the Carnaby Street crime caper The Big Switch.

One night, professional ad exec and unprofessional blue-eyed fuckboy John Carter (Sebastian Breaks, The Night Digger) leaves a London discotheque with a lovely bird (Erika Raffael, Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush). They head to her pad for a proper shagging. Whilst Carter first goes ’round the corner to grab some cigs for post-coital smoking, she’s shot dead by a hitman hiding in her shower. Talk about a case of the blue balls, mate — when Carter finds her body, no wonder touches the gun left behind and vamooses without phoning the authorities.

Which is exactly what local gangster/club owner Mendez (Derek Alyward, Walker’s School for Sex) counts on. He blackmails Carter into a secret assignment with a beautiful model named Karen (Virginia Wetherell, Walker’s Man of Violence). Neither Karen nor Carter have a clue what they’re in for — and I ain’t telling, either — but they hope it doesn’t involve their deaths.

This sleek, quick pic is a real fanny-slapper, like a men’s pulp paperback come to life. On cheap paper, those hard-charging, easy-bedding heroes could trot through formulaic exploits dozens upon dozens of times. The Carter character could have fronted an equal amount of adventures, yet went no further.

I enjoyed Walker’s first true feature from start to its photo finish, a marvelously fun sequence that places its climactic chase and shootout within a boardwalk arcade and ghost train attraction. After the baddies are dispatched or discombobulated, the po-po show up and invite Karen and Cater to the station for a cuppa tea.

“Sounds groovy,” Karen says earlier in the film, to which Carter coldly replies, “It is.” They may as well be talking up The Big Switch. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

The Manhandlers (1974)

When her uncle is gunned down by the mob, Katie (the utterly ravishing Cara Burgess) inherits his business, the Loving Touch “massage parlor” offering “special handling,” if you get the drift. (And if you don’t, maybe the photo of W.C. Fields on the wall helps? No?)

Kicking the working girls and their johns to the curb, Katie vows to turn the fleapit brothel into a legit rubdown provider. For help, she recruits two gal pals: a sexually harassed secretary (Judith Brown, Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off) and a failed vaginal-spray commercial actress (Rosalind Miles, Shaft’s Big Score!). They reopen the place as Soft Touch — a terrible name, if you ask me, but their matching caveman-cheerleader outfits accentuate enough cleavage that I’m willing to let it be.

At any rate, the syndicate tries to muscle its grubby paws back into Katie’s honey pot of a biz, even enlisting the kingpin’s nephew (Vince Cannon, 1967’s Trackdown) to seduce her into submission. Each woman gets a romantic subplot, none more entertaining than Miles’ cherry-popping a virgin customer (Peter Fitzsimmons, 1987’s The Principal) so inexperienced, his response to her kiss is, “Sure was slippery, wasn’t it?” (Moments later, as she doffs her top, his agog line is, “Breasts!” And it’s stated not with joy, but with the shock one might reserve for stumbling across a corpse.)

Lee Madden, whose career would crater two films later with Ghost Fever, directs The Manhandlers with little to no verve, opting for about two angles unless it’s time for a sex scene, which suddenly sees him get all dark and arty. At least he knows the ol’ exploitation-pic axiom of when in need of production value, shoot the climax at an amusement park. Or perhaps he’d just already had his fill of paisley and wicker, and needed to get outside.

Cribbing elements from soaps and sitcoms to pad the running time, the movie rides the Ms. magazine wave of feminism by presenting its leads as take-no-guff ladies with sharp minds … except when they fail to comprehend the true intentions of the gregarious and gargantuan Texan bursting through their door as their inaugural patron, with all the hypothetical bluster of Joe Don Baker invading a Hometown Buffet on Fried Shrimp Fridays. Oh, well, girlbosses gotta start somewhere, as Burgess does here in her first film. Unfortunately for us, it’s also her last. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Queen Kong (1976) 

Portions of Queen Kong are so cringeworthy, they should be illegal. And they were, with King Kong remake ringleader Dino De Laurentiis successfully prohibiting this UK comedy from a homeland theatrical run. Considering a theme song with “She’s my queenie-queenie for my weenie” among the lyrics, I believe the British populace dodged a bullet.

Written and directed by Frank Agrama (Dawn of the Mummy), the movie is an outright spoof of the 1933 classic King Kong, but gender-flipped, sanity-questioning and littered with musical numbers. Seeking a leading man for her jungle picture, liberated lady filmmaker Luce Habit (Rula Lenska, Alfie Darling) finds him in Ray Faye (Robin Askwith, Cool It Carol!), a mop-topped thief of toffee apples. With an all-female crew in tow, Luce takes Ray by boat to shoot at the all-female island of “Lazanga, where they do the conga” and where rose bushes pinch the asses of passing lasses.

The island’s luscious leader (Never Say Never Again’s Valerie Leon, speaking in ooga-booga) kidnaps Ray to offer him as a birthday sacrifice to Queen Kong, a 64-foot gorilla played by someone in a tatty suit presumably labeled “giant Monchhichi.” Rather than eat Ray, Queen Kong immediately falls in love with him, then defeats a dinosaur with a swift kick to its prehistoric penis.

Luce takes Queen Kong to Great Britain for exhibition, where prim-and-proper authorities force the animal to wear a bra. Naturally the big ape goes bananas to demolish (a Matchbox set of) London before climbing Big Ben. Look, the longer it goes, the more you wish to die.

Queen Kong quickly establishes its low-hanging kind of comedy. If you don’t grasp that from the screeching-breaks sound effect as the boat anchors, perhaps a Lazanga secretary’s bellow of “Tarzan, your wife, Jane, is on the other vine!” will.

With no offense meant toward Mad, that magazine’s marginalia approach fuels Agrama’s many sight gags, as well as (blessedly) brief parodies of The Exorcist and Jaws. I will admit the scene ribbing Airport 1975 made me laugh, all thanks to Blood on Satan’s Claw star Linda Haynes as a singing nun: “I like flying big planes / Little planes, medium-size planes / All kinds of planes …

Somehow, I doubt the Golda Mier and Sacheen Littlefeather jokes were funny even in the spirit of ’76. Quips a crocodile in a quick cutaway, “Rubbish!” —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Die Screaming Marianne (1971)

By name alone, Pete Walker’s Die Screaming Marianne sets you up to expect one of his signature horror films that pushed boundaries in Great Britain. Instead, it’s a crime thriller, but it does contain a Marianne — in the shapely shape of Straw Dogs’ Susan George, no less. Bikinied and barefoot, she go-go dances her way through the opening credits, demonstrating why she’s billed as “The Hips” by the nightclub employing all her parts.

On the cusp of turning 21, Marianne has been estranged from her family for more than a half-decade when father (Leo Genn, Walker’s Frightmare) hires her freshly spurned boyfriend to retrieve her. Marianne believes dear ol’ Dad and Sister (Judy Huxtable, Scream and Scream Again) are plotting to kill her for her portion of her dead mother’s inheritance. Which they absolutely are.

And yet, brought against her will to the family’s oceanside estate in sunny Portugal, Marianne accepts an invitation to join her sibling in the sauna. What could possibly happen? A line Marianne gives her lover-cum-kidnapper (Christopher Sandford, Walker’s also comma-less Cool It Carol!) could be thrown right back in her face, not to mention the uneven film itself: “You really are quite unstable, aren’t you?”

Die Screaming is not “The Ultimate in SUSPENSE” as its poster proclaims. Heck, it’s not even the ultimate in Susan George vehicles by any measure. In Walker’s first three years of making features, from The Big Switch to Marianne, what he gained in production values, he lost in storytelling tightness. For example, I’m unable to work in Barry Evans’ (Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush) role as the ostensible second lead because the mechanics of his character’s introduction are so convoluted, it would take more space to share than you’re willing to read. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Seven Snipers (2026)

Seven Snipers is one of those movies where you just know the first line of dialogue telegraphs — if not DMs — how the climax will play out. That’s standard op procedure for a setup so plain and simple: With a $10 million bounty on her head, former sniper Voodoo Child (Radha Mitchell, Silent Hill) is targeted for death by people from her past.

Having 116 verified kills over your career is bound to do that to a girl. Since leaving that particular skill set behind, Voodoo’s lived off the grid in the picturesque Australian countryside with a daughter (Annabel Wolfe, My Pet Dinosaur) bratty enough to skip school to bang boymeat.

One morning, a supposed real estate developer (Ryan Kwanten, Flight 7500) shows up at packin’ more than a fancy business card. One shootout — and bulldozer attack — later, Voodoo knows the next person to turn up for revenge will be The Dragon (Tim Roth, 2022’s Resurrection), so she calls former co-workers for reinforcement. Dropping in via helicopter, they also have stupid codenames, such as Milk (Ioan Gruffudd, San Andreas).  

I wish I could say Seven Snipers has more to offer than exchanges of gunfire while Roth scurries around in a shaggy grass suit for camouflage. But that’s all it is. Although it’s nice to see a woman, The Dustwalker’s Sandra Sciberras, in the director’s chair of something as male-coded as gun porn, the Oz action film is predictable, right down to trained experts exhibiting perfect aim … except when presented with the easiest, clearest shots, of course. Like everything in the characters’ sights, you see each beat coming from a mile away. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.