All posts by Louis Fowler

F.T.A. (1972)

Long hidden from the public eye for its supposedly controversial content, F.T.A. — translating to, in case you need to be riled up, “Fuck the Army” — is a documentary about the anti-military roadshow headed by Jane Fonda, already a controversial character in her own right, mostly for being a woman who dared to speak up against the war.

Filmed over a few years in the early ’70s, this alternate-universe Bob Hope special went right to the military bases — or as close as they possibly could — and performed dated skits and songs about America’s then-current war with Vietnam and this intense need to leave, featuring interviews with servicemen who have experienced racism and other ills while in the military.

Along with Fonda, Donald Sutherland and a team of somewhat-comic actors perform mostly unfunny comedy bits written by the likes of Jules Feiffer and others, but the musical interludes by folk singer Len Chandler are rabble-rousing enough to forgive the inane jokes and lackluster parodies; I guess it was the only live entertainment anti-war protestors had at the time.

But where the film really succeeds is not only in the interviews with disgusted military men, but with the citizens in Asian countries where America kept (keeps?) its bases, as the local anti-war movement marches against soldiers being in their neighborhood; especially sobering and particularly moving is a trip to a Hiroshima museum.

The thing about F.T.A. that truly surprises me, however, is just how dangerous the American government considered Fonda and this film to be at the time — and probably even do now — attempting to stop the concerts and even reportedly forcing the doc to be pulled from theaters a week in its initial release. It kind of proves what a farce the First Amendment is, especially for the enlisted people who die to fight for it. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

The Playbirds (1978)

If you’ve ever watched a Dirty Harry film and thought it needed some graphic sexual depictions as well as scummy violent content, I suggest Clint Eastwood in Tightrope. But, if it also needed some proper British comedy, I then recommend The Playbirds, starring the late sex goddess Mary Millington as a policewoman who goes way undercover.

And by undercover, of course, I mean fucking.

Here, she’s bobbie Lucy, a well-meaning copper working with some straight-laced detectives to find out who’s strangling the cover girls of the nudie mag Playbirds. Who could it be? Is it the horndog publisher? The anti-porn protestor? One of the policemen who called uniformed women into his office to arbitrarily doff their clothes for the case?

Agatha Christie, it’s not. Then again, I don’t remember Murder on the Orient Express having this much pubic hair.

Willy Roe’s directing style is the opposite of Millington: very flat. Still, you could tell he was trying to do something different with the British sex film and I guess it worked, man-cementing Millington as the ultimate Union Jack sex bomb. It’s something I can understand, but not necessarily endorse, as the blood flow to the penis is significantly decreased by the incredibly bleak ending.

Or even more increased, you vile pervert. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

The Blue Lagoon (1980)

WTFIf you ever needed proof that watching teenagers engaging in unmarried intercourse is actually quite boring, here’s The Blue Lagoon for you and your pervert eyes.

Because I vaguely remember watching it as a small child with my parents in the early ’80s, I have occasionally flashed back to various scenes throughout my life, most notably the ingestion of deadly berries on a boat. (I don’t know why Mom and Dad were watching it so often. I hope because it was there on HBO and they were too lazy to change the channel. I hope.)

Sometime in the 1800s, on a boat bound for America, a fire breaks out. Two kids and a salty-dog seaman escape, only to land on a barren paradise filled with plenty of coconuts and bananas, with only the ominous drumming from a nearby tribe to keep them company when the old man dies of bloated drunkenness.

Thankfully, he taught the young boy — who grows up to be Christopher Atkins — how to make shelter and fish while the young girl — who grows up to be a still very young Brooke Shields — learns how to pout when things don’t go her way. Of course, as they get older, sex is discovered — taking up just as much of the film as the waterlogged swimming scenes — and a child is had, leading to most hilarious scenes of terrible parenting.

Directed by Grease’s Randal Kleiser, The Blue Lagoon was the start of what I’m terming his filmography’s “sandy vagina” trilogy, which included the worse Summer Lovers and North Shore. He eventually executive-produced the 1991 sequel, Return to the Blue Lagoon, a movie starring Milla Jovovich that I’m sure is far worse unless, of course, some zombies show up. I seriously doubt it. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

Lapsis (2020)

Like many indie science-fiction flicks, Lapsis has a fantastical premise, but takes a lackadaisical way to get to the rushed ending. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about and have been there before.

Quantum computing, I guess, is the best thing going in this alternate present, with scads of people signing up to run cable through state parks. This seems like an easy enough way for Ray (Dean Imperial) to earn a couple of bucks for his brother who has some sort of made-up fatigue syndrome; after obtaining shady papers, Ray’s in the forest, running wire and dealing with the passive-aggressive jerks he encounters.

There are also robots that look like the mechanical spiders from Runaway — I was almost hoping for Gene Simmons to show up, but that’s how I feel about most movies — that compete with the humans as they lay cable as well, with an underground group of cablers trapping and destroying the robots. I didn’t fully understand the ending, as it just kind of showed up.

With Lapsis in a broken-down sheen that many indie flicks have had for about 20 years, its idea of cabling for a new internet source is honestly remarkable, and Ray’s meeting of the many skewed characters, interesting enough. I don’t know why the spiders were introduced and, by the final third, you give up caring.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this movie really needed Gene Simmons. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

Nosferatu in Venice (1988)

I’m very much a lover of Werner Herzog’s works, having seen most of his collaborations with Klaus Kinski except, oddly enough, Nosferatu the Vampyre. Though it’s highly acclaimed and critically loved the world over, I instead watched the lackluster sexual improprieties of the pseudo-sequel, Nosferatu in Venice, where the famed monster (still played by Kinski) goes on an Italian adventure! Pass the marinara, paisans!

Or not. Employing five different directors — including Starcrash’s Luigi Cozzi and Kinski himself — instead we’re left with a mostly drab and melancholy journey through the stench-filled canals of Venice, with grandstanding actors like Christopher Plummer and Donald Pleasence taking on questionable roles in their battle to not only take on evil at its root, but apparently stave off real-life hunger in the lean ’80s.

As an obvious Van Helsing knock-off, Plummer comes to a Venetian house filled with statuesque young women, square-jawed young men, wholly off-putting crones and, of course, Pleasence as a hungry priest who seems to have been paid in craft services. Somehow, they resurrect Nosferatu (Kinski), now with a bitchin’ haircut the ladies seem to lust after.

Apparently, the only way to destroy the suave creature is for him to fall in love with a virgin, which, if I might be blunt, is pretty stupid. Still, with large holes blasted in his chest by the cowardly lot of supposed heroes as they run, the film comes to an ending I’m sure is supposed to be meaningful, but honestly seems more like a quick shot of Kinski on the way to his plane as villagers go pheasant hunting.

Final writing and directing credit was dropped in the lap of Augusto Caminito, who I guess did the best job he could with the big ball of film stock he was handed. Still, the ultimate shocker of this horror flick is the music by Vangelis that, while it don’t class up the movie, at least attempts a sheen of sorts almost comparable to Chariots of Fire. Almost. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.