All posts by Rod Lott

Sci-Fi & Fantasy

Cosmos: War of the Planets (1977)

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In the late 1970s, sci-fi flicks popped up like mad, because producers wrongly assumed any space-themed film would be the next Star Wars. Italy made scads of them, including Cosmos: War of the Planets. If a plot exists to its first half, it skipped the translation process.

For 45 minutes, the members of a spaceship push buttons, take orders from a computer named Wiz, go on a spacewalk where acid seeps into the suit, and have virtual sex in the “Cosmic Love” room (which has two settings: “violent or gentle”). Because they all wear red cloth helmets that obscure a majority of the head, it’s extremely difficult to tell the characters apart. Okay, so one has a beard, one is black (and gets the whitest voice-dub of them all) and a couple of them have breasts, but other than that, baby, they’re the same.

Then they visit a mysterious planet, where a semblance of a story takes shape. Our heroes come across a Stonehenge-like structure that, when walked through, zaps them underground to a cavernous dwelling housing a race of mostly naked slaves who look like Blue Man Group with Mr. Spock ears. As these slaves explain via telepathy, they’re lorded over by a boxy slot-machine robot that suspiciously resembles that non-threatening educational toy Tomy put on the market around the time.

The last few minutes is one of those endings that makes you go, “What the—?” for several reasons, not the least of which is a crew member who inexplicably turns into a rabid, pustule-faced monster. With the flick’s low budget, expect a goofy electronic score, rudimentary optical effects and cardboard direction by Super Stooges vs. the Wonder Women‘s Al Bradley (aka Alfonso Brescia); ironically, don’t expect the one thing that costs nothing: lucidity. —Rod Lott

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Action

Death Journey (1976)

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The first of four low-budget vanity productions starring former pro football player Fred Williamson as alter ego Jesse Crowder, Death Journey was directed by Williamson as well. According to the credits, he also served as “producer and executive producer,” suggesting the Hammer’s ego was way out of control.

Crowder is an ex-cop hired to escort a mob-snitch accountant (Bernard Kirby) from Los Angeles to New York in 48 hours. Killers await at every turn; Crowder punches them out. In one instance, he throws a punch that clearly doesn’t even make contact, but the would-be recipient falls down anyway. The witness is a fat, perspiring slob who unwraps and eats four candy bars at once. Yes, this is a case of “laugh at the fat honky.” You just might.

Williamson spends the entire movie with his shirt unbuttoned (when he’s wearing one at all, that is), presumably for easy-on/easy-off access, as no fewer than four women throw themselves at Crowder for casual sex. One of them attempts a post-coital hit on Crowder’s tubby charge, and begs for her life when Crowder thwarts her plans.

“I’m not gonna kill you, lady. You’re too good in the sack for that. I’m just gonna bruise you up a little,” he says. So he throws her off a moving train with a toodeloo line of, “Happy landing, bitch!”

Williamson shows even less talent behind the camera as he does in front of it. Scenes go on and on (sometimes in excruciating slow-motion), as if he were determined to use every frame of film shot. And there are so many needless scenes of people driving cars, you’ll wonder, “Hey, where are Jim Nabors and Dom DeLuise?” —Rod Lott

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Horror

Bloodbeat (1983)

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Fabrice A. Zaphiratos’ directorial debut and swan song, Bloodbeat, is confused, yet unique. Name one other regional horror film in which rednecks encounter a woman possessed by the spirit of an ancient samurai warrior. Why such a setup? “Why the eff not,” Zaphiratos seems to answer.

It’s Christmastime, and at a rural Wisconsin home just good enough for indoor plumbing, the grown children of artist Cathy (Helen Benton) — she of the ever-present rainbow shawl — have come for a visit. Ted (James Fitzgibbons) has brought along his new girlfriend, Sarah (Claudia Peyton), to whom his mother takes an instant dislike. Sarah reciprocates, telling Ted that she feels like Cathy is invading her mind. Later, Cathy confesses she swears she’s met the girl before: “It’s more than déjà vu.”

What it is remains unclear, but an armored, helmeted samurai who glows blue and brandishes a sword starts killing countryfolk, including an overweight man who wears a dirty CAT Trucking cap to bed. As the samurai penetrates flesh, Sarah is wrapped up in the sheets, writhing in such orgasmic bliss that her pelvis would practically touch the ceiling fan, if the family had one. In Cathy’s home, lights flicker, windows open, groceries shake; her live-in hunter beau, Gary (Terry Brown), is nearly killed by flying packages of Lipton Tea and Quik.

Zaphiratos displays some serious bravado by daring to score the film’s climax with “O Fortuna” from Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, a staple of action-film trailers. Make no mistake, however: Bloodbeat is no work of operatic tragedy. Amateurish on all levels, it has more in common with the deer entrails Gary pulls out with his bare hands: messy, smelly, something you’d rather not see. —Rod Lott

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Reading Material

Sexytime: The Post-Porn Rise of the Pornoisseur

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Hard as it may be for you to believe from a guy who named a book-review site after an orgasm, I don’t watch porno movies. However, this dared not stop me from picking up Sexytime, which rounds up poster art from the X-rated genre’s porn-chic heyday of the 1970s and VHS breakthrough of the early ’80s.

That’s only because it comes (tee-hee) from Jacques Boyreau, whose previous exploitation-art exhibits in book form, Trash and Portable Grindhouse, have earned permanent placement on my shelf. The guy has a knack for picking images; much like Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart and hardcore porn, Boyreau knows it when he sees it.

And luckily, he shares it, this time from the visual-presentation experts of Fantagraphics Books — a match made in poster-art heaven. Whereas FB’s packaging of Portable Grindhouse was appropriately the size and shape of a VHS tape, this hardcover book measures 14 inches tall, and that’s … well, you know.

Writes Boyreau in his balls-out introduction, “The idea of Sexytime is that these posters are more satisfying than the movies they advertise.” And the results suggest that’s for damn sure.

Presented in full-color, naturally, they range from photography to paintings to cartoons; from purposely artful and well thought-out to crude and thrown-together. They carry straightforward titles like New Wave Hookers, Blazing Zippers and Flash Pants; they also boast more eyebrow-raisers like Hugo’s Magic Pump, That’s My Daughter! and Librianna, Bitch of the Black Sea.

Little Orphan Dusty apes Farrah Fawcett’s iconic bikini poster, right down to a lookalike startlet. American Sex Fantasy is a “red, white & BLUE movie” whose cartoon image is meant to be the squeaky-clean teen star of Archie Comics. With its looming dinosaur, One Million AC/DC could be mistaken for an AIP sci-fi cheapie of the ’70s, until you notice the bare-breasted beauties underneath the beast.

Some are really classy; I’d frame the cutout composite image of Scorpion ’70, if not for the explanation I’d have to give to every visitor. While several are gaudy, only a select few are disgusting; in that latter category falls Juice (“It’s Suck-U-Lent!”), whose bloated red title appears to be dripping in spermatozoa.

Arguably the most clever poster of all turns out to be a fake; see if you can spot it. Here’s a hint: It focuses on a woman’s crotch. What, that doesn’t help? —Rod Lott

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