
What a ship captain thinks is cotton below deck is actually nitroglycerin — Dangerous Cargo, if you will. This Greek-language picture of peril takes place almost entirely on the potentially doomed boat, but is far more interested in explosions of another sort. And with Body Double femme fatale Deborah Shelton aboard, who can blame it?
Resplendent in Crystal Gayle hair and a rainbow-sherbet dress when she first appears, the gorgeous Shelton plays the wife of the captain (Nikos Verlekis, Land of the Minotaur) on his maiden voyage. She used to be a thing with the ship’s first mate, which gets a little confusing since both men look the same: as the Greek James Brolin. The only one you need worry about, however, is the lead pirate (Minotaur alum Kostas Karagiorgis) of the group that smuggles the nitro on before departure (in a container labeled “DANGEROUS NITRO” in — no joke — peel-’n’-stick letters) for eventual ship takeover and subsequent destruction of oil wells.
The graying, bloated pirate has eyes — and hands and crotch — for Shelton, all of which he employs in multiple rape/sex scenes that uncomfortably teeter toward the near-gynecological, hairy ass cracks and all. An entirely different Kostas, last name Karagiannis, is the director of this clumsy, double-drachma enterprise, proficient only in zooming in to his fellow Kostas’ constant groping and squeezing and suckling of the most unfortunate American leading lady.
Dangerous Cargo may be a shaggy-dog precursor to the Cinemax-ready erotic thrillers that kept Shannons Tweed and Whirry busy for most of the 1990s, but imagine if the Andrew Stevens/Marc Singer role were filled by, say, Dennis Farina. (No offense, Dennis, and R.I.P.) —Rod Lott






H.P. Lovecraft’s short story “

If man could talk to the animals, what conversations would we have? Personally, I’d like to engage my family’s nearly blind, nearly deaf Shih Tzu, Emmy, in a discussion of the hole she has scratched into the side of her neck. We didn’t notice it until the smell of death wafted from across the living room; upon closer examination, we discovered a nauseating, John F. Kennedy half-dollar-sized crater of flesh and blood and gunk of unspeakable coloring, with a newly burst abscess that screamed infection. Frankly, four rounds of antibiotics later, I’d like to ask her what the hell she was thinking. 


Made for television just before the disaster subgenre began to collapse, 