All posts by Louis Fowler

Comedy

Claudine (1974)

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The blaxploitation boom of the 1970s was called many things by many people, but “sweet,” “romantic” and “heartwarming” were not the descriptors typically used. That’s one of the reasons that the socially conscious romantic comedy Claudine is held in such high regard by film enthusiasts.

I vaguely remember catching it at 3 in the morning as a preteen, forever intrigued by the titular single mother (Diahann Carroll) who starts dating the local garbageman (James Earl Jones) and encounters plenty of problems along the way, such as rats in the apartment, asshole social workers and, of course, a small-scale riot that ends with the entire family being carted away while happily waving from the back of the paddy wagon.

Still, I have to admit, my young brain probably didn’t understand the movie and I’m sure I was misremembering most of it.

Turns out I wasn’t. The groundbreaking Claudine, directed by former blacklisted filmmaker John Berry, is an anomaly in the blaxploitation cycle, with Carroll portraying a realistic mother of six kids, forever tired and not willing to put up with too much bullshit, from her teen daughter’s pregnancy, which she attempts to beat out of her, to her older son’s vasectomy, railing against him for destroying his “manhood.”

With a soundtrack by both Curtis Mayfield and Gladys Knight & the Pips, Claudine was a minor hit when originally released, yet somehow has been relegated to virtual obscurity in the ensuing years. A gritty but loving entry in the cinematic Black boom of the ’70s, it deserves to be rediscovered or, you know, just plain discovered. —Louis Fowler

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Horror

Primitives (1980)

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At a time when the notorious Italian cannibal flicks were making un sacco di soldi the world over, Asian countries decided they, too, wanted some of that bloody lucre and started to churn out many man-eating titles, with one of the most popular — Primitives — hailing from Indonesia.

It’s kind of odd, however, as there is only somewhat implied cannibalism, but, to be fair, there are plenty of onscreen animal cruelties, including komodo killings, alligator atrocities and, most traumatic of all, monkey manglings. If you can look past that or, even worse, are a sociopath who actually enjoys that, Primitives is an engaging grotesquerie from the future filmmakers of Satan’s Slave.

A trio of stereotyped college students — the cool guy, the nerdy guy and the reserved love interest — are deep in the jungle trying to discover a new tribe of Indigenous peoples to write their term paper about. If I were the professor, I probably would have given them a B+ just for getting on the plane or, here, the flimsy wooden raft quickly destroyed in the basest of rapids.

Separated and captured by a wholly offensive tribe of “ooga-booga” natives, the cool guy (Barry Prima) and the love interest are chained to a rock and almost stripped down to their skivvies by people who apparently don’t understand the concept of clothing. Eventually, though, they escape and fall into troublesome quicksand.

Although this so-called “video nasty” gained a notorious reputation as a terrible film — mainly for the acting, writing or directing — it’s still mind-munchingly entertaining. Filled with plenty of stock footage — not to mention what I’m sure has to be a copyright-violating use of Kraftwerk’s “The Robots” over the opening credits — Primitives is a tummy-troubling entry in the celluloid cannibal phase. —Louis Fowler

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Sci-Fi & Fantasy

Flash Gordon (1980)

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Comic book movies are, for the most part, stupid. Sadly, as our society has become a bleak pit of absolute despair, so have the recent ultra-gritty four-color adaptations that have hit the screen. Those that, in the past, wallowed in their inherent camp were often mocked and relegated to various “worst movies” lists, with one of the most infamous being the comic-strip flick Flash Gordon.

Unfairly, I might add, because this Flash is a lot of fun, reminding us that comic books are supposed to be speculative blasts for kids instead of introspective dirges for grown-ups. As a childhood filmic obsession of mine, it’s really one of the few films that holds up — possibly better! — today.

As Earth comes under violent atmospheric attack — look out for the hot hail! — New York Jets quarterback Flash Gordon (Sam J. Jones) and travel agent Dale Arden (Melody Anderson) find themselves on a deco rocket piloted by supposed loon Dr. Zarkov (Topol), headed to the planet Mongo, the source of the recent cosmic disruptions.

The crew finds a highly stylized society of warmongers and slaves, led by the somewhat problematic Ming the Merciless (Max von Sydow), a flamboyant despot with a taste for sadomasochism and broad Asian caricatures — something that the red, white and blue all-American Flash ain’t having no part of, befriending various races, including birdmen, arborists and so on, into defeating the merciless Ming.

The film is full of so many scenes of colorful camp that it’s amazing this never became the Rocky Horror of nerd culture, but it’s no surprise as the script was written by the great Lorenzo Semple Jr., one of the few screenwriters to truly get Batman, James Bond and Sheena. At least I think so.

Luckily, he got Flash, too: an affable Joe with only his athletic ability and charming demeanor to take down an evil empire. And let’s not forget the heart-pounding score by Queen, a soundtrack that would remain unrivaled until a few years later when they were assigned to compose the epic music for … wait for it … Highlander. —Louis Fowler

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Thriller

Cruel Jaws (1995)

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I have never seen Steven Spielberg’s Jaws, but I have seen Bruno Mattei’s Cruel Jaws close to 10 times. While I know that might make me a terrible cinephile, I have to counter with this question: Does Jaws end with the mayor getting pushed into a body of water by a wisecracking seal?

I didn’t think so.

As that famous John Williams-esque theme song plays in the background — Star Wars — a shark made up of mostly stock footage is killing the residents of Beach Town or some other wholly generic name. Shark professor Billy shows up in time to help the police solve these murders, with help from a Hulk Hogan look-alike and his handicapped daughter who run a dolphin park.

Unfortunately, the mayor and his son aren’t buying these terrific tales of shark murder because the big sailing regatta is coming up. When all hell breaks loose, he’s forced by the sheriff to offer a reward for the head of the shark, which leads to a mad, mad, mad, mad chase for this underwater monster. At one point, a character quips, “We’re gonna need a bigger helicopter!”

Did I mention that the mafia is in on this, too, somehow?

Titled Jaws 5: Cruel Jaws overseas (this time … it’s economical), this is famed director Mattei’s rude Italian hand gesture to both the sharksploitation genre and international copyright laws, with characters who scream a badly translated script at each other, usually while pretending to look at a shark.

And so, after hearing all that, once again I have to ask: Does Jaws have that? —Louis Fowler

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Sex

Je T’aime Moi Non Plus (1976)

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Serge Gainsbourg is held up, by me, as the undisputed master of Parisian perversity, audibly in his music and visually in his films. With titles like the exhibitionist Stan the Flasher or the incestuous Charlotte for Ever, he’s one of the few directors who continually lived up to the devious promises of his first flick, Je T’aime Moi Non Plus.

Warhol himbo Joe Dallesandro is the über-trashy Krassky, a homosexual garbage man who dumps refuse with his clingy boyfriend, the homicidally jealous Padovan. When they stop for lunch at a run-down diner, he meets Johnny (Gainsbourg’s then-wife, Jane Birkin), a noticeably androgynous waitress desperate for some sort of human connection.

In many beautifully filmed scenes of raw attraction put to a gorgeously lush soundtrack, the two fall in inseparable love, but when it comes time for hetero-intercourse, Krassky can only perform one way, and I’m sure you know what that is: wholly stereotyped searing anal, of course, causing absolute pain for Johnny, whose dry screaming gets them thrown out of every motel in town.

They eventually find sexual solace in the back of his garbage truck.

While some have called Je T’aime misogynistic — the brutal finale makes it an absolutely hard accusation to fight — this un-love story shared its title with the notorious Gainsbourg/Birkin tune of the same name, a lust-filled romp that, though not as sweet, is a cynical view of diseased love like many of his songs. With a pedigree like that, it’s strange his films aren’t held up as the sleaze-filled treasures they should be. —Louis Fowler

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