In the 1970s, movies about paranormal and/or cryptozoological phenomena were all the rage, from Chariots of the Gods to The Legend of Boggy Creek. Boy, did they keep Leonard Nimoy and Peter Graves’ electricity running.
Not as prestigious is Blood Beast of Monster Mountain, produced by adult-film theater owner (and, if one believes the onscreen credits, world traveler, lecturer and psychic investigator) Donn Davison. Basically, Donny inserted hilarious pseudo-documentary footage about Bigfoot into the even more hilarious 1965 family film The Legend of Blood Mountain, which has next to nothing to do with Bigfoot.
After opening with a country song about Bigfoot, Donn tells us that for years he has told producers “no” to taking part in a Sasquatch picture, but changed his mind when the director promised to make “a lighthearted movie, while still adhering to the facts.” Enter the original film, which opens with a hunter tripping about and screaming, ending up with blood all over his face.
So far, so good, right? Well, you haven’t met the film’s “hero,” Bestoink Dooley (Moonrunners’ George Ellis), a newspaper copy boy who dresses like a vaudevillian Sam Kinison and looks like Buddy Hackett after a night of lovemaking with Otis, the drunk from The Andy Griffith Show. As he begs his editor for the Blood Mountain story, a guy who looks like Moe Bandy hits something in his truck, but this is never followed up, because it immediately cuts to Bestoink’s dream — a bizarre sequence about him being a good reporter and making his editor look like a doofus, as if a guy named Bestoink could do that.
After that, things get really confusing, as scenes constantly switch from day to night, women walk through in bikinis for no reason, and Bestoink get his hands on a flamethrower. Bestoink is the most appalling human being I’ve even seen in a movie (and that includes everything with James Spader); furthermore, Blood Beast of Monster Mountain is shot with a technical expertise that would even have Eegah director Arch Hall Sr. shake his head and say, “Geez, that was shitty.”
Overall, a most entertaining hour-and-a-half. —Louis Fowler
Why isn’t more softcore porn as educational (or gossipy) as this? 
Somewhere in Argentina, a doctor — a curious doctor, if you will — is up to no good. At night, he sends out his pasty-faced, failed-conceptual-art experiments to round up various lovers in different states of doing it. From a teen couple and busty ’60s lesbians to a drunken nympho and couple at a weed orgy, these monsters are the very definition of coitus interupptus, always attacking before the sex gets hot and heavy — damn you, Dr. Humpp! (In between all this, a monster walks into a bar, orders a drink and watches a burlesque show … and no one bats an eye.)
It’s hard to believe there was a time when the name Pia Zadora was on everyone’s quivering lips. For one moment in history, she was lauded as our nation’s highest female ideal, a growth-stunted pixie with a mischievous, Lolita-esque twinkle in her eye. She was the Megan Fox of her time — a time when our country was less judgmental about its objects of sexual fantasies. Today, she’s nothing more than another cultural oddity, a punch-line name best left for Trivial Pursuit questions and cameos in John Waters flicks, but she got her masterpiece in the Depression-era, depression-inducing melodrama 
Orson Welles shows up as a drunken judge and bloats all over the screen, delivering a wonderfully unintelligible performance that is so bitter and careless and drunk on Paul Masson, I doubt he knew the cameras were rolling. But maybe that’s just Matt Cimber’s charmingly free-flowing directorial style which, coincidentally, made him the Razzies’ pick for worst director that year. (That’s okay, Matt, the Razzies have been the stupidest award show since … well, ever. Consider the source.)