All posts by Rod Lott

The Mountain of the Cannibal God (1978)

Judging from the opening credits of this juicy helping of Italian sleaze, you’d think this would be called When Animals Attack the Shit Out of One Another, as the film introduces us to the laws of the jungle via real-life, mondo-style footage of how the food chain works. These bits are sprinkled throughout the film at random moments as well, allowing you the full-color spectacle of, say, a snake swallowing a monkey whole.

But there’s a story here, too, albeit a sketchy one. The Mountain of the Cannibal God stars Ursula Andress as Susan, a woman in search of her husband, unheard of for months after his jungle expedition. She and her brother hire Prof. Foster (Stacy Keach, who looks coked out of his mind) to take them into said jungle to locate him, although few doubt her spouse remains alive.

The group encounters poisonous spiders, venomous snakes, arm-hungry crocodiles and spike-laden booby traps. Eventually, they come across natives wearing freaky masks, prompting an admission from Foster that he has been partaken of their unusual rituals before: “You never forget the taste of human flesh!” he screams.

Eventually, Susan does find her husband … dead and partially liquified, with a Geiger counter sticking out of his tum-tum. The cannibals strip her naked, paint her orange and tie her up. One cannibal tries to rape her, so the lead cannibal cuts off the eager man’s penis. In more deviant footage, female cannibals masturbate and a man fucks a pig. I leave it to you to determine whether that’s a recommendation or a warning. —Rod Lott

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Bates Motel (1987)

Complain all you want about the sequels and Gus Van Sant’s shot-for-shot remake, but in reality, the made-for-TV Psycho spin-off known as Bates Motel does more damage to Alfred Hitchcock’s classic film than anything else. Cross Psycho with The Love Boat and you get this utterly miserable, hour-and-a-half comedic thriller.

Bug-eyed, open-mouthed Bud Cort (Harold and Maude) stars as Alex, the best friend of Norman Bates during all their institutionalized years. Upon death, Norman has left the Bates Motel to Alex, who plans not to level it, but reopen it. Upon his release, he has to contend with all sorts of crazy things that confuse and puzzle him so, like fast food drive-in speakers and Lori Petty in a chicken suit.

Adding a café and fountain, Alex reopens the place to quite an eager crowd. First, suicidal writer/aerobics instructor Kerrie Keane (The Incubus) shows up with plans to off herself in the tub. Then Khrystyne Haje (that tall redhead from TV’s Head of the Class) intervenes and drags her to an impromptu sock hop with all her friends, where she’s hit on by a career-nadir Jason Bateman. This all prompts Keane to reconsider the value of life, although she’s been hit on by Jason Bateman and has come into contact with Lori Petty, chicken suit or not.

Bates Motel offers one ray of hope when it appears that Mother Bates — in a Scream-like outfit — has come back to kill off the guests, but that quickly becomes a double Scooby-Doo ending. Absolutely, profoundly pathetic. —Rod Lott

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Hot Rods to Hell (1967)

If you’ve ever wondered what Cape Fear and/or Duel might have been like by way of Leave It to Beaver, by all means check out Hot Rods to Hell, a hilariously outdated, candy-colored creed against juvenile delinquents and their red jalopies.

Dana Andrews (Airport 1975) and Jeanne Crain (Skyjacked) portray the Phillips family heads who decide to buy a motel after Mr. Phillips injures his spine in an auto accident. En route to their new home, they’re menaced by three clean-cut youngsters in a red hot rod who don’t like the idea of such squares taking over the motel at which they hang. (Hanging out at a motel? Who’s the square?)

First, they bean the little boy with a thrown beer can, prompting him to scream, “All girls are nuts!” Then, they try running the Phillips clan off the road several times, as well as engage in games of chicken. The crotchety highway patrolman gets in a speech: “These kids got nowhere to go, but they want to get there going 150 miles per hour.”

Andrews is certainly no hero; every time he springs into action, he has a back spasm. Plus, everything he says sounds drunk. Crain overemotes at every opportunity, but she’s hot in that middle-aged, snotty, redhead-housewife way, so I’m cutting her slack. —Rod Lott

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