Man oh man, do I ever love a movie in which an olive-complected hospital attendant gets caught literally red-handed, because he’s chomping on a heart freshly plucked from an on-the-slab body! But man oh man, do I ever love more a movie that then has that shamed, swarthy man hurl himself through a plate-glass window and to his death several floors below, the impact of which pops one of his arms clean from his torso. No worries — it’s back attached for his close-up, Mr. DeMille.
In other words, man oh man, do I ever love Doctor Butcher M.D. (Per its infamous ad hype, those initials stand for “Medical Deviate.”) Yes, this film by “Frank Martin” (Marino Girolami, The Fury of Achilles) is also known as Zombie Holocaust, but I prefer the Butcher moniker because the Italian flick is more a cannibal movie than an undead one. Either way, it’s a heap of grindhouse trash, in the best meaning of the phrase.
Plot is incidental. A few educated and attractive white people go to a tropical island inhabited by dark-skinned primitives who are not. The tribesmen wear only a modicum of fabric and feast on the blood and guts of others. One of those others — but he’s not English, so it’s okay, the movie seems to say — is impaled in multiple spots, thanks to a jungle-floor booby trap, and then has his neck turned into a sanguine spigot. Another other unwittingly becomes a live buffet, complete with “eye”-petizers.
Following all this carnivorous cannibal activity time, a few zombies shamble into frame, not to mention a fully nude Alexandra Delli Colli (The New York Ripper) as the hot-honky sacrifice the subgenre demands, and a thankfully clothed Donald O’Brien (Ghosthouse) as — spoiler not spoiler — the evil Dr. Obrero (né Butcher, one assumes), working on a way to extend the human life span by 100 years. He fails. —Rod Lott
So in 
Things get more twisted as Mary-Kate and Ashley search for a pig to roast. This essentially being a short film, they quickly come across one, sleeping. “Is it alive?” asks Mary-Kate (or maybe it was Ashley). “I don’t know! Let’s see,” replies Ashley (or maybe Mary-Kate; it does not matter). A cartoon light bulb appears over her head and she spots — and then grabs — a nearby stick that conveniently ends in a pencil-sharp point, which she then jabs into the swine’s where-the-sun-don’t-shine hole. As the animal jolts awake and squeals in equal parts terror and pain, the girls again just laugh and laugh. 
Matching in ambition, Pete Schuermann’s 
A former juvenile delinquent who never quite grew up, the bisexual Savage (who died in 1975) hustles and schemes and cheats his way through life and into grandiose dreams of Hollywood fame. That he has no discernible talent outside of fleecing others and abusing his long-suffering wife (Jodi Lynn Thomas, TV’s 
Presumably without knowing, the sheer campiness of the beloved 
And yet, for how purposely and appropriately silly it all is, it left me cold. Wally Wingert may have Frank Gorshin’s Riddler laugh down pat (assuming it’s not sampled straight from the old show), but Return of the Caped Crusaders feels more like a fan film than a real-deal reunion, as if it exists purely to wring dollars from nostalgia rather than because there was a new story to be told. It’s not bad — it’s certainly not drawn that way — but I quickly grew tired of its unrelenting need to poke me in the ribs. To be reminded of the TV series this much, I’d rather just watch the TV series. —Rod Lott
As promised, the tape’s third and final distinction: It came packaged with a 10-question trivia quiz on a single card; the idea was to tackle it after the show came to a close to see if you were paying attention. It would tax no one. No classic of compilations, Creepy Classics is for Price completists only. —Rod Lott