One of the more frequent robocalls I receive promises a “free” fabulous vacation as a thank-you for recently “staying at one of our resorts! Press ‘1’ to be connected to an operator …”

Even if I had stayed at any resorts of late, which I have not, I’m smart enough not to fall for this scam. My teenage daughter, on the other hand? She fell for it. She pressed “1.”

I tell you this because, God love her, my daughter is basically Regina, the main character of Terror at Red Wolf Inn. As played with total golly-gee-whiziness by Linda Gillen (Black Rain), Regina is a college student majoring in advanced gullibility. In her dormitory mail slot lands a letter informing her she’s won a trip to the site of this film’s title. Despite having entered no sweepstakes, she gleefully accepts the sketchy invitation — made even more suspect by its must-leave-today catch — and celebrates her good fortune by exclaiming to all fellow dorm residents within earshot, “I’m a winner, everybody! I won something!” (Alas, if only the prize were a brain-to-mouth filter.)

The Red Wolf Inn is a quaint bed-and-breakfast establishment run by the kind, doddering old couple Henry (Arthur Space, The Bat People) and Evelyn Smith (Mary Jacobson, Audrey Rose). Per the inn’s guests already there, Evelyn is “the world’s greatest cook,” to which Regina replies, absent of irony or sarcasm, “I’m the world’s greatest eater!” (Stupidity loves company, as a guest played by The Centerfold Girls’ Janet Wood introduces herself to Regina with a smile and these three words: “I’m a model!”)

Evelyn’s secret recipe? Well, it’s hardly a secret when the poster gives it away, not that a delicate touch ever was listed on the film’s call sheet. The surprise of Terror at Red Wolf Inn is not its cannibalistic theme, but how much of this B-grade obscurity will remind you of a certain drive-in classic that arrived two years later: The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Like Tobe Hooper did on that terrifying touchstone, director Bud Townsend (Nightmare in Wax) milks his movie’s most unsettling moments out of its dinner scenes, with rib-chewing, soup-slurping, lip-licking, corn-on-the-cob-smacking mastication depicted in revolting close-ups.

Fish is also on the menu, albeit when the Smiths’ weirdo grandson, Baby John (John Neilson, Sharks’ Treasure) unleashes some serious rage on a baby shark he’s reeled in. After hitting the life out of it on the beach, he turns to Regina and offers the only logical explanation for such a bonkers display of unjustified animal cruelty: “I think I love you.” Being as dumb as the piece of wood Baby John beat Baby Shark against, yes, of course she’s smitten.

The events within The Terror at Red Wolf Inn may not exist on our plane of reality, but I’m glad the film does; it’s a bit different from the horror norm, including by having its token black character (future Oscar nominee Margaret Avery, The Color Purple) be the smartest character. Although it possesses a devilish sense of humor, it is not a comedy, much less a parody as some critics have claimed. Now, if its innards contained the literal wink at the audience that closes the credits, that’d be a different story. As is, Townsend’s spookhouse of a picture straddles the Hollywood hagsploitation efforts that had been in vogue and the teen slashers that were about to be, and gives you a hearty slap on the back to let you know it’s all in good fun. And to quote Regina, “I love parties!” —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Deep within the Grand National Forest live – well, for the time being – three redneck brothers: Larry, Darryl and Darryl Monroe, Ezra and Benny. They’re about to be displaced, thanks to a new campground opening in time for the July 4 holiday weekend. Monroe (William Kerwin, Blood Feast), the only sibling literate enough to read the sign that indirectly serves as their eviction notice, has other plans: “Ezra, we’re gonna run ’em off. This time, we ain’t leavin’.”

Efficiently, that’s the first scene of God’s Bloody Acre, and should be all the plot a hickspolitation flick needs: hillbillies vs. capitalists, as Monroe, the old one with suspenders; Ezra (Daniel Schweitzer, of the director’s 1977 follow-up, Tomcats, and nothing else), the one with facial hair and neck hankie; and Benny (Sam Moree, ditto), the Afro-sporting, simpleminded mute who sheds tears when tree limbs are felled, band together to take their revenge. Part of their plan involves chucking rocks at the guy operating the Caterpillar bulldozer. Part of that plan does not involve said operator getting bisected by the blade, but that’s what happens. Upon this grisly discovery, one of the dead guy’s hard-hatted colleagues asks if this means they “can knock off early.”

Curiously, director Harry E. Kerwin (Barracuda) and his co-writer/co-producer, actor Wayne Crawford (aka Jake Speed), dilute the film’s initial intent of pure, unfiltered revenge by adding buckets of subplots — one of which even overtakes that of the Monroe clan: the one featuring Crawford.

Under the nom de plume of Scott Lawrence, Crawford plays Scott, a proto-Jerry Maguire who impulsively quits the white-collar job he doesn’t believe in and hops on a motorcycle, searching for an America he doesn’t find anywhere. But, after his ride breaks down, he does find love — or at least lake sex — with Leslie (Jennifer Stock, Shriek of the Mutilated), a young woman in a VW Bus, fleeing an abusive relationship. Viewers see their individual backstories, as we do for the two occupants of an RV: a virulent racist (Robert Rosano in his lone credit) and his long-suffering wife (Suzanne Robinson of the director’s adults-only Sweet Bird of Aquarius).

We expect not all of these travelers will make it to the final reel; we do not expect to get to know them more than the siblings. As God’s Bloody Acre progresses — rape, murder, it’s just a shot away — Monroe and company becomes less like characters and more like faceless villains. File Harry E. Kerwin’s decision to do so not under “abject failure,” but “missed opportunity.” The finished film is unique enough in that its Greenpeace-friendly themes give us a glimpse into what might have happened if Rachel Carson had made The Hills Have Eyes instead of Wes Craven. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.