The Spanish word camino translates to “road” in English, which is a very apt title for this primo action flick, as it travels down many bloody South American streets, all of them barely lit by a flickering streetlight as stuntwoman extraordinaire Zoë Bell tries to make it out of a green inferno with her life.
Bell is prizewinning photojournalist Taggert, who is sent on assignment to follow a group of heavily armed missionaries through the dense jungle. At first glance, the team seems as nice as a group of guerillas possibly can be, with leader Guillermo (Oscar-nominated director Nacho Vigalondo) providing much of the group’s capable bluster as their likably annoying leader.
However, in a drug deal that is witnessed by Taggert — and photographed, no less — Guillermo slits the fucking neck of a small child for fun. Spotted, she goes on the run as the charismatic leader and his soldiers are after her, wherein she unleashes her masterfully choreographed martial arts capability on much of the offending party.
With Camino mixing important social critiques with blistering ass-kicking potential — the best way to get any kid to learn, if you ask me — Bell is at the top of her B-movie game, with a surprising turn from Vigalondo, helmer of films like Timecrimes and Colossal, portraying a truly despicable general who, at times, is kind of likable.
Camino is a road I’d definitely like to travel again, even if it means pulling over to get kicked a couple of times. —Louis Fowler
If nothing else — and that’s indeed the case — shot-on-video titan J.R. Bookwalter’s production of Chickboxer resolves a question that has baffled mankind for decades: “How long is too long to lace a pair of shoes?” The answer, per the activity sloooooowly happening underneath the insufferable opening credits, is 4.5 minutes. Now you know.
In a needless fourth-wall demolition that’s like the Cryptkeeper in a Dress Barn sweater, a sour lemon wedge named Kathy (one-and-doner Julie Suscinski) intros her own small-town story and promises a real doozy: “You can keep your Knots Landing!” And in hindsight, you really should, because compared to this, the infamous High Kicks is Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.
A good-girl student at an Ohio high school of maybe four or five people, Kathy enrolls in a $41 karate class after hearing about the video store’s recent stickup, in which Bookwalter cameos as the unfortunate clerk. Her tight-ass mother (Barbara Katz-Norrod, an on-the-reg Bookwalter player) is aghast at her daughter’s decision: “They karate people in there!” Uh, hardly. In a class of six, Kathy proves a natural in (this movie’s idea of) martial arts, despite participating in a Hard Rock Cafe sweatshirt — Chicago, in case you were wondering.
Meanwhile, the robbers (Maximum Impact’s Ken Jarosz and Ozone’s Tom Hoover) are actually full-blown criminals who blackmail Mayor Cornblatt (one-timer Dennis K. Murphy) into picking up a suitcase filled with $5 million in cocaine. In an imperfect storm of clubfooted plotting, their felonious follies tie into the disappearance of Kathy’s karate classmate (Melanie Todd, Robot Ninja) and the accidental overhearing of nefarious plans by Kathy’s effeminate BMOC crush (James L. Edwards, Her Name Was Christa).
Luckily, Kathy has the solution: Only Chickboxer can help!
Oh, looks like I failed to mention Chickboxer, the TV show within the movie. It’s Kathy’s fave; she’s obsessed with it to an unhealthy degree. So she calls Chickboxer actress Greta Holtz (scream queen Michelle Bauer, Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama, showing her comedic chops in the movie’s best scene and showing her other attributes on its cover art). Now, if Kathy isn’t supposed to be touched in the head, I’d like to know what frequent Bookwalter collaborator Scott P. Plummer, in his directorial debut and death, was thinking. Someone made a choice and committed to it; whether said someone told anyone else remains a mystery. (What’s not a mystery is why so many characters wear shirts emblazoned with the logos of various Bookwalter titles.)
With Greta too busy trying to keep her breasts contained within her skimpy outfit, it’s up to Kathy to become, in her own words, “a superhero.” Although her karate experience amounts to one class — and her kickboxing experience unquestionably nil — she nonetheless chickboxes murderous adults twice her size into submission. The end.
Shoelacing included, all this occurs within a pat 61 minutes. Also crammed into that hour is an unrelated coda with a fully nude Bauer — but not as Greta — in bed, grinding on some dude’s crotch as guest director David DeCoteau (who footed Chickboxer’s $2,500 budget) can be heard telling her to cover the lucky guy’s penis. She must not have heard — and DeCoteau must not have wanted to purchase another blank Maxell — because the unit is unobstructed and, befitting of everything else in the movie, limp. —Rod Lott
On the South American penal colony known as Devil’s Island, it’s “every man for himself.” Unless you’re renowned artist Steve Duval (Hideous Sun Demon Robert Clarke), the newest arrival. The prison commandant (Niles Andrus) asks Steve to give art lessons to his headstrong adult daughter, Marlene (Dorothy Haney), seeing how’s she’s “a little stubborn.”
Overhearing this plan, Marlene then and there decides to help Steve, a total stranger, escape — ordinarily a pie-in-the-sky goal; then again, most prison camps don’t have escape tips literally posted to the commandant’s office door like this one. Thus, two safari pith helmets for disguise later, as the guards booze up, she sneaks Steve and pal Whorf (Robert Christopher, Frankenstein Island) out of the colony …
… and into the surrounding jungle, where a vicious primitive tribe rules, to justify the film’s title, Terror of the Bloodhunters. Said tribe is seen in stock footage, with tied-up white women shot specifically for the picture — in other words, just the sneaky kind of cinematic rug schlock filmmaker Jerry Warren used to pull.
Lo and behold, it is Jerry Warren! For Bloodhunters, he brought along a couple of hairy tarantulas, responsible for damn near a third of the modicum of actual action. So dull that most public-domain collections usually go without it, Terror of the Bloodhunters certainly isn’t the worst B jungle flick you’ll ever see, but it’s more certainly not the best — not even if it’s the only one you let into your eyes. —Rod Lott
I had the ultimate pleasure to meet director Jack Hill in the early 2000s, when he was a at a local college campus showing a double feature that included Switchblade Sisters, a film that gained new prominence once Quentin Tarantino’s Rolling Thunder Pictures reissued it to theaters.
One of my favorite films since a rental in the early ’90s from a now long-gone video store in Oklahoma City, it was thrilling to see it on the (somewhat) big screen and even more thrilling to meet the soft-spoken man who made it, a film that he described as a modern (as modern as the ’70s can be, I suppose) take on Othello.
Switchblade Sisters tells the story of blonde Maggie (Joanne Nail, in short shorts and high-heeled boots), a streetwise teenager who, after a scuffle in a local burger bar, ends up in a girl gang called the Dagger Debs, led by Lace (Robbie Lee, who has always reminded me of a Depression-era youth). When her boyfriend, the leader of the Silver Daggers, dies, they become the Jezebels, the meanest bunch of teen troublemakers in town.
However, when high school sleaze Crabs (Chase Newhart, channeling his evil Eaglebauer) tries to take full control, the Jezebels team up with a Black militant squad led by Muff (Marlene Clark, who really should have had a spin-off flick) and take the dirty motherfucker and his boys down, by any means necessary, which, thankfully, includes plenty of machine guns.
A box-office dud upon release, Switchblade Sisters effectively killed Hill’s career, but, even watching it now, the amount of guts on display here proves that he was far ahead of his time, delivering a movie that would probably make at least good money at Redbox, capitalizing on all the things that have made movies in general great over the years: rowdy girl gangs, dark violence, black humor, Black nationalism and, I guess, Shakespeare.
Well, at least all the things I love in a movie. —Louis Fowler
At just 61 minutes — and not a minute more! — Maximum Impact appears built upon minimal effort. Shot on video in Ohio, the movie even makes a case against itself from the start with opening credits slowly unfolding atop more than three minutes of burning paper.
Huntsacker Industries insurance salesman Jerry Handley (Ken Jarosz) lives the life of Riley, what with a job, a pretty(-enough) fiancée named Jan (Jo Norcia) and an operational Ford Taurus; judging by the needless footage of him driving it — and smiling while doing so — he sure seems to be pleased. He’s traveling to a big corporate meeting held in a rather tight room, where he reconnects with his estranged best bud, Phil (Scott Emerman). Post-meeting, the dudes reconvene at a diner to reminiscence over chips and queso about that great time when they went skinny-dipping. Together. Just the two of them. At age 12. (Note this odd conversation takes place under a sign reading “Snacktacular!”)
Their bonding sesh is interrupted by a scar-faced, ponytailed Huntsacker heavy (Bill Morrison) who invites them to a company-paid prostitution party later than night at HQ. Phil accepts, not realizing he’s being set up to star in a snuff film. At least he gets a little bra-and-panty action with his reluctant scene partner, Tonya (Christine Morrison), before being murdered. Being suspicious and nosy, Jerry witnesses the whole thing going down through the cracked door. When the cameraman (Michael Cagnoli) steps out to meet the pizza deliveryman, Jerry steps in and flees with Tonya.
In doing his best to keep this total (but fairly curvy) stranger alive, Jerry fails at affording his future wife the same fate — oops! Jerry’s loss is the viewer’s gain — assuming said viewer hasn’t checked out by then — as he takes revenge with an armory’s worth of loaded weapons.
Maximum Impact is, as you’ve guessed, a mess — one acknowledged by its makers, who hide behind pseudonyms. Most notable among them is director Lance Randas, actually DIY diehard J.R. Bookwalter, whose second-made feature, Robot Ninja, can be seen on Jerry and Jan’s TV screen (as can the reflection of a crew member holding a blanket in a failed attempt to block incoming light for day-for-night deception). Bookwalter made the woefully underfunded Maximum Impact as best as one can with a paltry $2,500; nearly every penny is onscreen. After all, chips and queso aren’t free! Nor is makeup, and the scar on the Huntsacker muscle’s face looks just like the one my younger brother had applied at our 1980 elementary school fair for three whole tickets.
I’m thankful for each shortcoming on both sides of Bookwalter’s camcorder, because without them, Maximum Impact would be unwatchable. I’d say you could skip it entirely, but then you’d never hear this line of dialogue in your life: “His schlong fell off! Who knew?” —Rod Lott
The Spanish word camino translates to “road” in English, which is a very apt title for this primo action flick, as it travels down many bloody South American streets, all of them barely lit by a flickering streetlight as stuntwoman extraordinaire Zoë Bell tries to make it out of a green inferno with her life.
