Wisconsin filmmaker Bill Rebane’s movies have dealt with all manner of terrifying creatures, from giant spiders to Tiny Tim. Chronologically between them stands Bigfoot, in The Capture of Bigfoot. In the first line, the local redneck hunter Hank (Rebane regular William Dexter, The Demons of Ludlow) says, “We’ve only got one problem now.” Unfortunately for the viewer, that problem is the film itself, a lumbering snore of cryptozoological claptrap that reeks more foul than any sasquatch chassis.

Thanks to Hank being a dumbass, Bigfoot (Janus Raudkivi) is on the loose and looking for his child (Randolph Rebane). The local sawmill owner (Sixpack Annie’s Richard Kennedy), essentially the Carl Denham of this story, thinks there’s big money to be made in exhibiting Bigfoot to the public. The local game warden (Stafford Morgan, The Witch Who Came from the Sea) thinks Bigfoot should be left alone. The local sheriff (Wally Flaherty, The Devonsville Terror) thinks everyone want to hear his Humphrey Bogart impression.

You’ll think Bigfoot looks more like a yeti (or a grown-up Monchhichi), what with its all-white fur, and sounds like Wolfman Jack impersonating Dracula. The beast sure keeps busy, chucking snowmobiles and tearing apart skiers, but more of the movie is given to townspeople talking about it, arguing over it, looking for it or pointing at prints of it in the snow and shouting, “Them ain’t human!”

At the midpoint, Rebane offers what promises to be his pic’s pièce de résistance: a lengthy disco party suddenly interrupted by Bigfoot, who demolishes every dancer limb by limb. Only Bigfoot never shows up, so we get a lengthy disco party just for the sake of a lengthy disco party, I guess. If you manage to make it that far, marvel at the clothes and wonder where they found such fashions. Then wonder no more as the closing credits inform you: “Wardrobe and outfittings: K-Mart.” —Rod Lott

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Welcome to Pleasant Hill Hospital, a sanitarium. Location: out of the way. Atmosphere: cozy. Visiting hours: NEVER.

In other words, welcome to Asylum of Satan, from writer/director William Girdler, who would make Three on a Meathook that same year before moving on to Abby, Grizzly and an untimely death at age 30. This, his first film, proves he had a lot to learn, like not to open a horror movie with a country theme, especially one belted by your third lead.

Cute Lucina Martin (Carla Borelli, O.C. and Stiggs) wakes up in Pleasant Hill with zero memory. No worries, the Ruth Buzzi-esque nurse tells her, because she’s under the good care of Dr. Specter (Girdler regular Charles Kissinger). Lucina’s fiancé, Chris (one-timer Nick Jolley, the aforementioned shit-kickin’ vocalist), suspects she’s been kidnapped and involves the authorities.

Turns out, Chris’ gut — and he does have one, packed into high-waisted checkered pants — is right. Dr. Specter isn’t exactly on the up-and-up; in fact, as a police lieutenant (Louis Bandy, 1983’s The Act) tells Chris, “He was picked up several times for devil worshipping.” Specter is also known in “the journals” for his vague work in “pain experiments,” which we see play out as he locks “The Cripple” (per the credits, played by Scalpel’s Mimi Honce) in a purposely drafty room full of bugs, and gives “Blind Girl” (Meathook cheesecake Sherry Steiner) a secret swimming partner by dropping a venomous snake into the pool.

As all medical dramas do, the film climaxes with a satanic ritual in the basement, as minions shrouded in folded dinner-napkin robes watch as Specter summons ol’ Scratch … who looks to be sculpted from SpaghettiOs. Shot on the cheap in little more than one location, Asylum of Satan tells a simple story with a Don’t Look in the Basement quality … minus the quality. —Rod Lott

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For the ideal Thanksgiving-themed horror film, watch Blood Freak. Then, if you have room for seconds, go for Blood Rage. It tops your relatives’ at-the-table political bickering with the lead character dropping this bon mot: “Looks like you’re gonna get a chance to meet the rest of the family. My psychotic brother just escaped. Could you pass the green beans, please?”

That plot-establisher comes from the mouth of Terry (Mark Soper, The Understudy: Graveyard Shift II), who, 10 years prior, hacked a guy to death at a drive-in movie and blamed it on his twin brother, Todd, who was instantly rendered catatonic upon witnessing the murder. Now grown up and living in mental institution, Todd (also Soper, but with messier hair) remembers the details, throws a fistful of pumpkin pie in frustration and flies the coop to make things right.

Todd’s unannounced homecoming coincides with Thanksgiving dinner, where the boys’ mom (Louise Lasser, Frankenhooker) announces her engagement at dinner. It’s enough to make a jealous son lash out — but which one? Knowing a killer is on the loose (if not his true identity) at the apartment complex, what do Terry and his teen pals do? Oh, just hang out, go here and there, play video games, fuck on diving boards — that sort of thing.

Not always the case for slasher movies, Blood Rage makes good on its title, as director John Grissmer graduates from Scalpel to machete, cooking up a cornucopia of dismemberment and decapitation from which his camera never shies. As the crazed sibling puts it, “That isn’t cranberry sauce, Artie. That is not cranberry sauce.”

Meanwhile, Lasser, collecting a day’s pay in Shirley Temple curls, mostly sits on a couch or the kitchen floor. As she utters early in the film, “Well, I say this big bird is ready for carving.” Couldn’t agree more, Louise! Happy Thanksgiving! —Rod Lott

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