All posts by Rod Lott

Satan in High Heels (1962)

satanhighheels Satan in High Heels‘ titular devil isn’t really Satan; it’s just that, in 1962 (as in 2013), putting the C-word in a title was verboten.

And Stacey Kane (former pin-up girl Meg Myles) is certainly that. At the start, she’s a burlesque dancer for a two-bit carnival that can’t pay her what her 42-24-36 frame is worth. Salvation of sorts arrives in the form of her twitchy, supposedly sober, no-good ex-husband and his fistful of cash. She takes the latter and leaves the former waiting in her trailer, thinking she’s gone to gather her things so they can run off together. Whatta sap!

satanhighheels1Instead, Stacey takes her smoky (and smoker’s) voice to a New York club where she can perform with her chords, not her cans. And this is all before the opening credits! Upon arrival at said club, she wows its manager, Pepe (Grayson Hall, Dr. Julia Hoffman of TV’s Dark Shadows), with her pipes. And with her pulchritude, she also wows the club’s owner (Mike Keene, Violent Midnight) … and the owner’s son (Robert Yuro, The Shakiest Gun in the West). Not a problem; she can screw (over) both.

If it wasn’t director Jerald Intrator’s intent to shoot Satan in Bounce-O-Vision, he sure lucked out. (But since he also helmed Striporama, I’m guessing it was planned.) He has no discernible style, letting Myles’ figure do much of the work. Her tired face suits her character well, showing lots of mileage. While she’s not a great actress, she belts well; her most memorable musical number is singing “The Female of the Species,” all while clad in a leather get-up — complete with riding crop — that would satisfy many a fetishist.

Speaking of, the moral of the story seems to be that guys will put up with an awful lot for access to a killer pair of breasts. This is true. —Rod Lott

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Alien Zone (1978)

alienzoneAs a native Oklahoman, I long have fought the stereotype of the Okie as dumb hick. Not helping my case is the title of 1978’s shot-in-the-Sooner-State horror anthology, Alien Zone, which has no aliens. It can’t even be mistaken for science fiction. What were they thinking? Nothing clearly, if the entirety of its running time is to be judged.

Also known as Last Stop on 13th St., The House of the Dead, Five Faces of Terror and that DVD I already unloaded at Half Price Books, the low-budget film sees a cuckolding plumbing sales rep (John Ericson, Bad Day at Black Rock) being shown new “acquisitions” by an elderly mortician (Ivor Francis, The Night Strangler), who tells the tale of how each poor bastard ended up in a coffin.

alienzone1First, Miss Sibiler (Judith Novgrod, Nightwing), a whiny crabapple of a young teacher, is menaced in her home by someone or something. The sight of a Little Orphan Annie Halloween mask is the most unsettling thing in the movie. Second, Mr. Grosky (Burr DeBenning, The Incredible Melting Man) films the murders of three lady friends visiting his apartment. In his defense, they are pretty stupid.

Third, and painfully long, is a duel of wits between a celebrated American criminologist (Charles Aidman, 1973’s The Picture of Dorian Gray) and his British counterpart (Bernard Fox, 1999’s The Mummy). If you like conversations between people who love to hear themselves talk, you’ll be riveted. Fourth, a businessman (Richard Gates, Candy Stripe Nurses) — who’s so mean that he won’t accompany his co-workers to that new lunch place with 23 kinds of hamburgers — falls down an elevator shaft and struggles to get out.

You’ll know how he feels. With the exception the dueling-detective segment, no story ends with a twist. Including the dueling-detective segment, no story exhibits even a modicum of momentum. Its incompetency is such that viewers are unable to glean enjoyment of its awfulness. They’ll simply Zone out. —Rod Lott

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Euro Horror: Classic European Horror Cinema in Contemporary American Culture

eurohorrorA fine line exists between European arthouse films and European horror films, argues Ian Olney, and he makes a convincing case for it in Euro Horror, a paperback study for Indiana University Press.

Of course, many closed-minded people think no line exists between horror and pornography, so Olney also spends a great deal of time drawing one, while admitting similarities. In both instances, it has helped horror’s cause that lavish DVD editions have rescued the films from obscurity; such discs’ all-out-extras treatment have lifted the genre from the depths of the lowbrow to an artful respectability.

Throughout his book, the author forces the reader to think harder about these movies, to see that there’s more going on beyond mere exploitation. Yes, even in the seemingly tossed-off works of your Jess Franco and Joe D’Amato.

The bulk of Euro Horror divides itself into three “case studies”: the giallo, the “S&M horror film” and the ever-popular cannibals and zombies. Olney examines and deconstructs iconic films among these subgenres to address themes of racism, sexuality and otherwise. For example, with regard to women-in-prison pictures, “[they] not only privilege the lesbian gaze, but also invite viewers to adopt it themselves.”

Naturally, in studies such as these, how much of what the author proposes is shared by the filmmaker (at least consciously) is impossible to quantify; you either see merit in the argument or not.

bloodblacklaceI see plenty of merit, but then again, I’m predisposed to loving these films. Here, among dozens upon dozens cited and considered, some getting considerably more play include Mario Bava’s Blood and Black Lace, Lucio Fulci’s Zombie, Emilio Miraglia’s The Red Queen Kills 7 Times, Franco’s Eugenie de Sade, Dario Argento’s The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, D’Amato’s Images in a Convent, Ruggero Deodato’s Cannibal Holocaust and, yep, even Claudio Fragasso’s Troll 2.

It is with the latter film that Olney gives too much credence to bloggers (especially one who apparently can’t write a sentence without the word “fucking”) to back up his points, but thankfully, that’s the only time. Everywhere else, he draws from a wealth of credible sources that place him in solid company. His only other misstep is minor: believing that making the “New Releases” wall at Blockbuster Video has something to do with popularity, and not for simply being a new release. (Sadly, I speak from personal, retail-hell experience.)

A film professor at English at York College of Pennsylvania, the author is a smart guy with a smart book — too smart for casual readers of criticism, fascinating for those of us who don’t mind academia intruding upon our 90 minutes of anarchy.

For a wider-scoped, less-scholarly book on the same subject, I highly recommend Danny Shipka’s Perverse Titillation of 2011. When you’re done with that and ready for a graduate course, enroll in Euro Horror — time and money well-spent. —Rod Lott

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Anna Nicole Smith Exposed: Her Fantasies Revealed (1998)

ANSexposedFollowing her Playboy heyday, billionaire wedding and many, many Drake’s Cakes, Anna Nicole Smith showed us just how far starlets can fall and how pathetic they can really be (yet still be alive), in a softcore quasi-documentary that’s one of the least sexy things the year 1998 had to offer, along with the Nairobi Embassy bombing and the last ski trip of Sonny Bono. If there’s anyone who could make sex a turn-off at the time, it was Smith, in what could be called the Schafer’s Honey-Glazed Ham era of her career.

Interspersed with demonstrations of Anna’s uninspired fantasies are semi-interviews with Anna herself, in which she says things so stupid, you wonder why she had to read them off cue cards. (Example: “My favorite place to masturbate? Definitely the tub. I get the shivers just thinking about it.”) Serving as a framing device, Anna poses for a calendar that never hit the market.

ANSexposed1Clearly, Anna Nicole Smith Exposed: Her Fantasies Revealed does not feature the early-’90s Anna that made her a household name; here, her face is all puffy and her once-celebrated breasts look bruised from excessive beatings. (“With a body like this, who wouldn’t want to masturbate?” she asks, and I assume rhetorically. “What a great way to start the day.”)

Nevertheless, several guys were (paid to be) eager to join her for some simulated sex, including Darren, a houseboy who gets his RDA of calcium from a morning romp with his bloated employer (“Darren, wonderful Darren. I pay him a lot to do nothing but please me. … Oh, and he also has a pretty good butt.”) Also falling prey to her scripted wiles is Jason, a shirtless pastry chef who moves like an animatronic robot on the fritz. (“I see Jason pounding out some dough on that hard, cold marble counter with his bare hands. … I just get sooo excited.”)

Coming to an end, Exposed presents some of Anna’s nude scenes from her starring roles in the action films To the Limit and Skyscraper. In theory, this would save you from having to rent them, but they’re even funnier than this misbegotten project. —Rod Lott

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Possessed by the Night (1994)

possessednightSaddled with writer’s block, novelist Howard Hansen (Ted Prior, Sledgehammer) makes his way into a Chinese curio shop, where he plunks down big bucks on a jar containing a one-eyed brain monster floating in icky water. Naturally, this wise purchase helps him to concentrate so he can finish knocking out his latest book.

It also makes him want to have sex with his secretary, Carol, played by 1981 Playboy Playmate of the Year Shannon Tweed. (Hey, jar monster or no monster, especially after watching her exercise scene in a half-shirt.) One might conclude that Howard is … how you say? … Possessed by the Night.

possessednight1Every time the jar bubbles, somebody gets horny or murderous — sometimes both. During one particularly heated round of intercourse, Howard and Carol start slapping the crap out of each other. The boom mike makes its way into the frame once.

Who knows what mystical powers lie within this creature in the jar? The end hints at an evil Chinese curse, as if director Fred Olen Ray (Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers) knew all you wanted out of his film wasn’t story resolution, but tits. Touché, Fred, touché.

Also starring in this watchable weirdo thriller are Sandahl Bergman, Chad McQueen and Henry Silva, because, well, “directed by Fred Olen Ray.” —Rod Lott

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