All posts by Rod Lott

Mystery

Watch Me When I Kill (1977)

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watchmekillIn Watch Me When I Kill, his directorial debut, Antonio Bido pulls off a reasonable impression of Dario Argento in full-giallo mode, intentional or not. Seriously, when the murder sequences begin, so does the score, and your mind subconsciously anticipates the kick-in of a Goblin riff that never comes; I was tricked every time, and pleased to be.

When a dancer named Mara (Paola Tedesco, Battle of the Amazons) has the unfortunate timing of needing aspirin just after an elderly pharmacist has been brutally murdered, the killer assumes she may have seen too much and begins targeting her as well. Freaked out by the first attempt on her life, Mara flees her apartment and runs into the arms of old flame Lukas (Corrado Pani, Gambling City), who happens to be a private dick. Armed with curiosity and cheap cigars, he investigates.

watchmekill1Per the rules of the giallo, however, Lukas doesn’t investigate fast enough, meaning the body count rises as he pokes his nose around town. The list of likely suspects narrows so rapidly that the number of pawns Bido has to play with nears zero. When the identity of the culprit comes to light, the motive is weighed down by more serious notes than the subgenre usually calls for; your allegiance to certain characters may be upended by the revelations, but a wham-bam-slam cut to “THE END” could be designed to induce enough whiplash to keep you from overthinking such things. Or it could just be legendary B-movie producer Herman Cohen (Horrors of the Black Museum) cleaving away at the running time because he could.

Nevertheless, Watch Me When I Kill — a minor work, yet engrossing enough — finds Bido (The Bloodstained Shadow) not shying away from bloodletting … or face-ovening. (Get ready to welcome an aversion to meat-based stew!) Graphic as these scenes are, their most chilling aspect lasts for a literal fraction of a second: a subliminal close-up of an indeterminate animal’s eyes. —Rod Lott

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Horror

Horror Hotel (1960)

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horrorhotelWhen is not a good idea for a comely college co-ed (Nan Barlow, Day of the Outlaw) to take a road trip by herself to do research for her term paper?
• When her subject is witchcraft.
• When her all-too-eager professor who gives detailed directions to the town is played by Christopher Lee.
• When the inn where he suggests — if not demands — she stay is run by a hundreds-year-old witch.

In a twist similar to the same year’s Psycho, the girl gets killed — in an elaborate satanic sacrifice — halfway through, leaving her feminine brother and knucklehead boyfriend to come looking for her, only to discover the mysteries of the coven. And all this could have been avoided if the girl would have simply kept that ominous trapdoor in her hotel room floor shut! I don’t believe any college girl is this dedicated to academics, anyway — at least not any girl who wears that kind of lingerie.

horrorhotel1Unfortunately, Horror Hotel (aka City of the Dead) has no scene that even approaches the shocks or the scares of Psycho, although director John Llewellyn Moxey (Genesis II) does do a credible job of establishing a spooky atmosphere upfront. Maybe it’s me, but the flick might be more effective had it not revealed the plot’s “secrets” in the prologue. —Rod Lott

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Reading Material

Reading Material: August Means It’s Back to the Books

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grindhousenostalgiaIt’s a good thing that Edinburgh University Press has a paperback of Grindhouse Nostalgia: Memory, Home Video and Exploitation Film Fandom on the schedule, because the hardcover’s list price may put off some otherwise interested parties. And that’s too damned bad, because I’d wager true exploitation-film fans will appreciate this smart, swift volume. Although technically an academic tome, it’s hardly work when the subject matter is so fun, and David Church traces the history of grindhouse cinema from its dirt-cheap roots (when what was playing was largely secondary) to its corporate co-opting today as a catchall term. While Bill Landis and Michelle Clifford’s Sleazoid Express remains the definitive depiction of the Times Square moviegoing experience, Church’s book excels in examining the scene ever since: namely, the second wave ushered by Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez’s big-screen Grindhouse; the subsequent coattail-riding DVD reissues of B-, C- and Z-level fare; and now the faux-retro vibe of such titles as blaxploitation spoof Black Dynamite and women-in-prison romp Sugar Boxx.

musiccountercultureArguably, the films of the 1960s and ’70s yielded the best soundtracks of cinema history thus far, and The Music of Counterculture Cinema, edited by Mathew J. Bartkowiak and Yuya Kiuchi, supports that theory with 14 chapters on some of those seminal titles, although not necessarily the titles you’d expect (for example, no essay is dedicated to Simon and Garfunkel’s game-changing work for The Graduate). Your enjoyment of the McFarland & Company collection may vary, depending on your love for the subjects visual and aural. For example, examining Wendy Carlos’ Moog-tastic score for Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange and the squarely futuristic “now” sounds of Roger Vadim’s Barbarella appeal to me, yet I don’t give a damn about what Country Joe McDonald has to say, on Woodstock or anything. What I admire most about the book is how it encompasses such a wide swath of pics, from Roger Corman’s misunderstood Gas-s-s-s to the bom-chika-wow-wow of the X-rated Deep Throat.

joilansingNo question regarding the aptness of the title of Joi Lansing: A Body to Die For, as the actress indeed had that; Alexis Hunter’s unusual biography, however, does not inspire equal hyperbole. Available in hardcover and paperback, the BearManor Media release is not the full-life book many Lansing fans want and expect; instead, it’s a chronicle of the loving, lesbian relationship the author (aka “Rachel Lansing”) had with the B-movie bombshell after meeting on the set of 1970’s Bigfoot and extending until the 44-year-old actress’ untimely death two years later from breast cancer. I had never heard of their couple status (much less Hunter at all), and if shots of them together were not included in A Body to Die For’s generous-enough photo section, I might have doubted Hunter’s story outright, because it’s written with such over-reverence and awe that it often reads stalkery. From shrimp cocktails to silicone implants (say it ain’t so!), the tale is heavy with day-to-day details, but light on momentum.

deathraysTo talk specificity is to talk William J. Fanning’s Death Rays and the Popular Media, 1876-1939: A Study of Directed Energy Weapons in Fact, Fiction and Film. And as that unwieldy title makes known, it’s only fractionally about the movies, yet when I hear the term “death ray,” my mind immediately flashes to villainous Auric Goldfinger expecting James Bond to die by slicing him vertically with one, crotch first. Goldfinger is one of the titles discussed, barely, with the bulk of the 15 pages on film spent on serials and real obscurities. Because so little of the McFarland release concerns itself with the cinematic — and those 15 pages failed to click with me — I can’t recommend it to film buffs at all. Perhaps those with rabid interest for the intersection of history, science and warfare will be able to glean something from it. —Rod Lott

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Horror

I Drink Your Blood (1970)

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Arguably more famous for being the bottom half of a grindhouse-celebrated double bill with Del Tenney’s far-tamer I Eat Your Skin than actually being seen, I Drink Your Blood serves a cautionary tale for hippies who consume intentionally contaminated meat-based pastries. If only one viewer’s life has been saved, this film by writer/director David E. Durston (Stigma) has done its job. Never again, America! You hear me? Never! Again!

“Let it be known,” hippie cult leader Horace Bones lets it be known in I Drink’s woods-based cold open, “that Satan was an acid head.” Horace (charismatic India native Bhaskar Roy Chowdhury) tells this to his small circle of unwashed disciples during one of their nighttime rituals of devil worship, poultry sacrifice and full nudity. When he notices they’re being watched by a local girl, he orders the gang to beat and rape her for her God-fearing curiosity. She lives in Valley Hills, population 40 (down from 4,000 … and dropping significantly further within the next 80 minutes), a quaint and dinky town that plays home to one bakery, one veterinarian and much misery.

idrinkblood1When “that gang of savage hyenas” finds itself stranded in Valley Hills due to a broken-down groovy van (which Horace orders his free-spirited followers to push over a cliffside), they choose an abandoned home at random, move in, drop LSD and round up all the rodents they can to roast for hearty, stick-to-your-ribs meals. Take heed, society: These cats may worship pure evil, but at least they’re self-sufficient.

Meanwhile, eager for revenge for the hippie gang’s unholy treatment of his sis, whippersnapper Pete (one Riley Mills, never to act again) spikes his family bakery’s daily batch of meat pies with the tainted blood of a rabid dog. Going from gullet to gut, the bad blood turns the troublemakers into mouth-foaming zombies; the makeup for such is as if the infected guys paused their shaving duties after applying dollops of cream and forgot to finish. It even makes Horace visit a nearby snake farm, where he looses its star attraction: per the sign, a “GIANT BOA KONSTRIKTER.”*

Competently made by Durston, I Drink Your Blood is wholly deserving of its enduring cult reputation. Although the acting overall is lacking, the performances are delivered with such earnestness, you’re willing to overlook those deficiencies. In fact, unlike so many other B movies we watch to test our own tolerance, you’ll find yourself legitimately drawn into its semi-original spell. This is the rare gore film you want to hug, and it will hug you back. That’s not to say it “wusses out”; its initial X rating for violence wasn’t affixed by the MPAA without merit. —Rod Lott

*Flick Attack’s Joke-O-Matic: Pick Your Own Punch Line:
1. Konstrikter? I hardly know ’er!
2. Konstrikter? Dude, I had all their tapes when I was going through my hair-metal phase.
3. Konstrikter? Lemme guess … a dating app?

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Comedy

Ace Ventura Jr.: Pet Detective (2009)

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aceventurajrRemember how annoying the drama students at your high school were with their Jim Carrey impressions and no “off” switch? That’s nothing compared to the 12-year-old equivalent running for 93 agonizing minutes and passed off as an actual movie: Ace Ventura Jr.: Pet Detective.

Carrey’s comic creation — foisted upon an unsuspecting public in 1994’s surprise smash Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, then quickly followed up by the less grating Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls one year later — is nowhere to be found. But his chunky son, Ace Junior, is. As played by Josh Flitter (Big Momma’s House 2), the “meddling kid” (his own words, mind you) lives with his zookeeper mom (A League of Their Own’s Ann Cusack, for whom I feel sorrow, taking over the Courteney Cox role). I know what you’re thinking, because I thought it, too: deadbeat dad, right? Well, probably, but as Mrs. Ventura puts it, the official word is that Dad disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle.

aceventurajr1Like father, like son — not in the department of mysterious absences and related lousy excuses, but an undying love of animals and an undiagnosed social disorder. Ace Junior eats his meals from a dog bowl and drinks from a toilet bowl. The nominal story plops the brat in his first “real” case: locating the whereabouts of Ting Tang, the zoo’s stolen (man in an obvious, frightening) panda (costume). Until this mystery, the kid has made his rep tracking down lost household pets, from your average dogs and cats (“Yikes! Tabby’s been nabbied!”) to more exotic companions, like a skunk, which he attempts to subdue by farting in its face — one of three flatulence gags the movie offers in the initial 16 minutes alone.

Best known for 1993’s peculiarly beloved The Sandlot, writer/director David Mickey Evans practically dares us not to loathe his young star from first frame, saddling him with the lines, “I’ve got you now! That’s it, my little misunderstood friend! Nibble the powdery cinnamon bliss!” Fast-forward (hypothetically speaking, because you are not watching this one) to the courtroom scene in which Ace Junior appropriates A Few Good Men’s iconic “You can’t handle the truth!” speech, and Flitter is so amped-up insufferable, you’ve already dug out that old embossing label maker from the kitchen drawer, just so you can slap “TRYING TOO HARD” to his visage onscreen.

Poor Flitter was old enough to know what he was doing, but too young to know how it would play on our side of the camera: like a friggin’ train wreck. He was merely the caboose to Evans’ overencouraging engine, but — and I would never hit a child — you’ll want to punch him all the same. —Rod Lott

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