All posts by Rod Lott

Comedy

Deathrow Gameshow (1987)

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Following a production logo outlining a breast with a nipple pointing north, Deathrow Gameshow begins with its own quasi-rap, sax lick-flavored theme song unfolding over cartoon footage of knives and jail cells: “Deathrow gameshow / It’s the only way to go / But if you lose / You’ll be no more.” Despite evidence presented by these deep lyrics, let me pause to tell you that this is a comedy.

The title refers to the chintzy TV show Live or Die, where felons scheduled for execution compete in quizzes and challenges for a reprieve or other rewards, but not necessarily for themselves. Typical scenario: If a contestant’s guillotined head falls into the basket face up, his family nets thousands. Hosting this trash is Chuck Toedan (John McCafferty, who also starred for Deathrow director Mark Pirro in Curse of the Queerwolf, A Polish Vampire in Burbank and, um, Rectuma), he of the 47 death threats a week and occasional busty groupie showing up in his bed.

Opposing him is cute blonde feminist Gloria Sternvirgin (Robyn Blythe, a former Brady Bunch Variety Hour Kroftette), who wonders if he’d stoop so low to air Raping for Dollars. She eventually becomes his ally when Chuck’s life is in danger by Mafia hit man Luigi (who looks like a fat Richard Simmons and is played by a man credited only as Beano) for 86ing mob boss Guido Spumoni on a prior episode. Won’t Luigi be furious when his elderly mom accidentally gets on the show, thinks she’s going to win a fridge, and is instead killed? Hee-haw!

I’m sure some day, the future imagined by Deathrow Gameshow will become reality, but this isn’t to be mistaken for the highbrow works of Paddy Chayefsky. It is, however, awfully fun to watch in spite of / because of its extreme stupidity, what with Blythe’s incredible boobs, Debra Lamb’s “Dance of the Seven Boners” strip number, a nightmare presented as a movie trailer, end-credit commercials that tastelessly defile corpses, and one old lady explosion. —Rod Lott

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Horror

CreepTales (1986)

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In this absolutely dreadful, no-budget horror anthology, two seemingly mentally retarded boys try to get to the video store before closing time to rent CreepTales. They don’t, so they raid the grave of Uncle Munger, who was buried with a copy of the fine, fine film. Then they take it home to a house full of monsters to enjoy a viewing. This passes for a wraparound story.

The amateurish tales — ranging from an unbearable three minutes to an unbearable 20-plus — begin with “Warped,” in which a young woman goes to visit her crazy cousin (“Oh, Mama, you’re making my gall bladder act up!”) and her even crazier mother. Entering into the story are the screen’s fattest cop in history and an entirely predictable skeleton baby. “Snatcher” — about a killer purse — is notable only for the presence of Tom Kenny, the voice of SpongeBob Squarepants, and the stupid song he sings about his houseboat.

“The Closet” is about a monster in a closet, every bit as original and exciting as its title. “Groovy Ghoulie Garage” is just as stupid as its title would lead you to believe, about a gas station populated by ghosts. “Howling Nightmare” is about a werewolf, “Sucker” is about a unique vacuum cleaner, and the entire film itself is about 88 minutes too long.

The aforementioned creatures watching the films within the film pop up between segments for alleged comic relief, shown eating popcorn (with rats in it, ho-ho!) and ordering pizza (and not paying, hee-hee!). You don’t need to sit through all six stories to realize you will hate yourself for watching this. —Rod Lott

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Action

Policewomen (1974)

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Let’s get one thing straight: my penis Despite the plural title of Policewomen, Crown International Pictures’ playful drive-in actioner is really about a singular police woman, and it’s not Sgt. Pepper Anderson. It’s Lacy Bond (Sondra Currie, star of Al Adamson’s rape-revenge Western, Jessi’s Girls), and after thwarting a prison riot, she’s recruited to bring down a gold-smuggling operation run by an old racist coot (“Who’s the black?”) and comprised of babes in bikinis.

The cops give Lacy some gadgets that would make Q semi-erect, and in she goes, using her martial-arts skills to kick various baddies into submission (and one ally in the balls, just for fun). All the while, she rarely wears a bra, but does squeeze her curvy hips into a pair of very 1974 pants whose pattern presages the AIDS quilt.

Speaking of STDs, writer/director Lee Frost (The Black Gestapo, The Thing with Two Heads) packs in some loose love scenes for Lacy, including a partner who post-coitally orders her when the shit starts to hit the fan, “Get me some white pants!” This is actually the flick’s second-best line, behind the aforementioned coot’s insistence that “Nobody gives a shit what happens to an old Volkswagen!”

But they do give a shit about Policewomen. At least I do. It’s hard not to when the screen is set ablaze by Currie’s ridiculous, redheaded hotness. —Rod Lott

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Documentary

Grizzly Man (2005)

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Many things of beauty exist that man simply was not meant to fuck with: thunderstorms, fire, waterfalls, Jennifer Lopez, grizzly bears. The latter proved the last of Timothy Treadwell. As Werner Herzog’s wildly acclaimed documentary Grizzly Man proves, the self-appointed bear protector/failed actor knew this — absolutely knew he could be bitten, decapitated, eaten, shish-kabobbed, what have you — and yet put himself in harm’s way, on purpose, for 13 years, until one of the bears finally got tired of him being around.

Sporting a haircut that screams “Jeff Daniels in Dumb & Dumber,” Treadwell shot his own field movies, which show the drama queen hanging out with the bears in a proximity that humans should do only when friggin’ zoo bars exist between the two. He talks to the bears like a would-be Dr. Dolittle, granting them them cutesie names: Grinch, Aunt Melissa, Mr. Chocolate, Freckles. (Ditto for foxes, i.e. Banjo.) I can guess how Sgt. Brown got his moniker; he’s the bear that defecates a lot while fighting with one Mickey Bear.

Speaking of poop, Treadwell is shown touching a fresh, steaming pile because he thinks it’s beautiful it came from the butt of his beloved Wendy. If you think that’s weird, wait until he sheds tears over a dead bee. Yes, there’s something that wasn’t right with the man; apparently, he drank too many brain cells away to think he had forged some relationship with them that they understood his words. He’s like The Crocodile Hunter without the cable contract.

That makes Herzog’s doc fascinating and infuriating. If you’re looking to get off on grizzly footage of Treadwell’s death by furry creature, you’ll be disappointed; seek solace in your Faces of Death collection, perv. (You will, however, find an extended story about exploding soup, if you’re into that sort of thing.) Still, the movie is unsettling, and not just because of an unblinking mortician. Moral of the story? Please do not feed the bears. —Rod Lott

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