When he’s not practicing black magick, the “perfectly oiled killing machine” Ricky Valente fights the Mexican yakuza. They’re a cult of red-robed ninjas who deal coke and worship a shark god. Ergo, Narco Shark.

Lest ye think Gerardo Preciado’s $10K epic is yet another lazy exercise in microcinema’s put-on-a-shark-on-it obsession, the ocean predator is incidental, even removable. The flick would work just as well without it, being a gleeful genre parody informed by a lifetime’s consumption of direct-to-video Mexitrash action, half-assed kung-fu tapes, Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead II, Paul Verhoeven’s RoboCop and David Lynch’s Twin Peaks. And yeah, probably something with a shark.

Valente’s gift is neither his mullet nor his fanny pack, but his hypnotic pull on others by playing “the sexy sax.” Just witness the boiling horniness of his fully naked wife as he blows the instrument an inch from her Barbie-smooth ladyparts. (She’s played by a department-store mannequin.) Her brother, Tico Suave, desperately wants Ricky to teach him how to be cool instead of a bucktoothed, bespectacled, friend-free weirdo who, I suspect, collects orders from area grammar schools establishing acceptable radii. Ricky eventually relents; the lesson involves breakdancing.

Presented as a VHS cassette from 1989, Narco Shark opens with a (fake) note that Suave died during the film’s making, so Preciado has used all the tools at his disposal — alt takes, doubles, mo-cap recreations and other Furious 7-sounding tricks — to allow for completion. A title card promises, “You will not be able to tell the difference,” which of course sets up a running joke that never tires.

That goes for the movie’s whole as well. Usually these spoofs with few resources have one joke to tell and stretch it past a breaking point, often by the 10-minute mark. Remarkably, Preciado knows just when to quickly pivot to something else, whether cutting to commercial or even fast-forwarding itself.

No matter how lo the fi, Preciado isn’t dicking around; this is at least a couple levels up from that. So boneheaded and yet sharp-witted, it earns a spot in the same league as similarly minded ’80s pastiches Dude Bro Party Massacre III and Lethal Force. Narco Shark’s faux FBI warning orders in part, “Do not see this film by yourself. It is meant to be seen by a party of at least 4 people.” Although I endorse that thinking, I had a blast watching all by my lonesome. —Rod Lott

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Portions of Queen Kong are so cringeworthy, they should be illegal. And they were, with King Kong remake ringleader Dino De Laurentiis successfully prohibiting this UK comedy from a homeland theatrical run. Considering a theme song with “She’s my queenie-queenie for my weenie” among the lyrics, I believe the British populace dodged a bullet.

Written and directed by Frank Agrama (Dawn of the Mummy), the movie is an outright spoof of the 1933 classic King Kong, but gender-flipped, sanity-questioning and littered with musical numbers. Seeking a leading man for her jungle picture, liberated lady filmmaker Luce Habit (Rula Lenska, Alfie Darling) finds him in Ray Faye (Robin Askwith, Cool It Carol!), a mop-topped thief of toffee apples. With an all-female crew in tow, Luce takes Ray by boat to shoot at the all-female island of “Lazanga, where they do the conga” and where rose bushes pinch the asses of passing lasses.

The island’s luscious leader (Never Say Never Again’s Valerie Leon, speaking in ooga-booga) kidnaps Ray to offer him as a birthday sacrifice to Queen Kong, a 64-foot gorilla played by someone in a tatty suit presumably labeled “giant Monchhichi.” Rather than eat Ray, Queen Kong immediately falls in love with him, then defeats a dinosaur with a swift kick to its prehistoric penis.

Luce takes Queen Kong to Great Britain for exhibition, where prim-and-proper authorities force the animal to wear a bra. Naturally the big ape goes bananas to demolish (a Matchbox set of) London before climbing Big Ben. Look, the longer it goes, the more you wish to die.

Queen Kong quickly establishes its low-hanging kind of comedy. If you don’t grasp that from the screeching-breaks sound effect as the boat anchors, perhaps a Lazanga secretary’s bellow of “Tarzan, your wife, Jane, is on the other vine!” will.

With no offense meant toward Mad, that magazine’s marginalia approach fuels Agrama’s many sight gags, as well as (blessedly) brief parodies of The Exorcist and Jaws. I will admit the scene ribbing Airport 1975 made me laugh, all thanks to Blood on Satan’s Claw star Linda Haynes as a singing nun: “I like flying big planes / Little planes, medium-size planes / All kinds of planes …“

Somehow, I doubt the Golda Mier and Sacheen Littlefeather jokes were funny even in the spirit of ’76. Quips a crocodile in a quick cutaway, “Rubbish!” —Rod Lott

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Co-opting more than a cue from Mel Brooks’ The Producers, a studio mogul played by Tony Curtis faces debt so deep, his only hope is to make a movie guaranteed to fail in order to claim it as a tax write-off. In walks a nebbish kid filmmaker (Dean Jacobson, Child’s Play 3) with his latest opus, a 1950s-style sci-fi cheapie called Lobster Man from Mars.

As you can guess, Lobster Man tonally plays like the titular spoof of Amazon Women on the Moon. But that all-star comedy has the good sense to include about 20 other sketches. This sticks to its one, only occasionally cutting to the studio screening room where Curtis watches the mess unspool. The look on Curtis’ face is so pained, one can infer he’s thinking of the great works of art he used to be in, like Stanley Kubrick’s Spartacus, Billy Wilder’s Some Like It Hot and Janet Leigh’s cleavage.

In the movie within the movie, the red planet’s king (Bobby “Boris” Pickett of “Monster Mash” fame) sends the giant crustacean creature (S.D. Nemeth, RoboCop) to Earth to steal our air supply. Witnessing the alien’s crash-landing are an all-American sweater girl (Valley Girl’s Deborah Foreman, adorable as ever) and her British beau (Anthony Hickox, Foreman’s Waxwork director). Few believe their story, other than Tommy Sledge, P.I., played by comedian Tommy Sledge, which is to say he performs his stand-up routine parodying noir detectives. He’s also the best part.

I put off seeing Lobster Man from Mars for decades because I had my fill of its trailer while working at Blockbuster Video in college. For months on the store’s overhead TVs, management played a preview tape with a spot pairing the movie with Girlfriend from Hell, presumably due to their schlocky titles. With the opening notes of “Rock Lobster” announcing its arrival, I heard it multiple times a shift. To this day, any second of The B-52s’ hit elicits a Pavlovian shudder, although the flick uses a soundalike band in place of the real cosmic thing.

There’s a reason the radio version of “Rock Lobster” trims two minutes or more. I bring that up because here, Stanley Sheff (Vincent Price: The Sinister Image) and co-writer Bob Greenberg grossly misjudge audiences’ tolerance for their lampoon. It suffers from the same problem as Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!: The joke just isn’t good enough to drag into lollygagging territory, wearing my goodwill down so much, I turned on it. That leaves me without the patience to discuss Billy Barty in swami get-up, narration by Dr. Demento, a clown named Nose-O, former Playboy Playmate Ava Fabian, future Price Is Right model Mindy Kennedy, Robot Monster’s space gorilla or opening credits that feature scissors-cut faces of the actors next to their names. —Rod Lott

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Before Sinners was picking undead chords and From Dusk Till Dawn strummed along to a scantily clad Salma Hayek, 1986’s Vamp busted out massively bombed in empty theaters. With the statuesque domme Grace Jones bringing New Wave androgyny to the neck-biting role as a vampire demigod, Vamp set up the whole blueprint of the “vampiric whores” mythology. It’s a blood-caked piece of dark erotica with a pulsating electronic beat sequenced with shrill screams, grimy alleys and an artistic flair for the supernatural. 

On the other side of the churched-up coin, Vamp is a long-forgotten piece of semi-demonic trash that implies a much better movie, a conceit of both vampire lore and semi-nude ladies, one I still enjoy in all its low-budget, badly edited, completely rushed grandeur.

Released when horror-comedies were trying to get their foot (and other extremities) through the door, the movie starts with a trio of ’80s movie teens, Keith (Chris Makepeace, Meatballs), A.J. (Robert Rusler, Thrashin’) and Duncan (Gedde Watanabe, countless Asian stereotypes), trying to find strippers for their frat party. Craigslist hadn’t been invented yet, so they drive to the big bad city with a soundalike copy of Robert Palmer’s “Bad Case of Loving You (Doctor, Doctor)” blaring.

They enter the After Dark Club, a rough but serene establishment where white women with jiggly asses in spandex dance onstage. Then Katrina (Jones) performs a very arty, very kabuki, very unerotic striptease; think David Bowie meets Keith Haring at a downtown art show with fusion tapas and no lube, and you’ll get the vibe. Being a hungry vampire, she eats A.J.’s heart, drains him and, sadly, is put on ice for most of the movie.

That’s okay, though, because Keith meets a ditsy waitress (Dedee Pfeiffer, Michelle’s sister), eats some cockroaches and wars with an albino punk (Billy Drago). Eventually, the undead A.J. helps him save the day (night?). In the climax, Katrina flips the bird from beyond the grave.

The best part of Vamp is the casting. Even though she’s barely part of the movie and has no discernible dialogue, fresh off Conan the Destroyer and A View to a Kill, Jones casts an intimating shadow over the comedic proceedings, made all the stranger by the club managers who look like they came out of a Goodfellas casting call. What’s her story, I wonder …

The guys are also well cast. As the hero , once-a-nerd Makepeace holds his own, with ’80s mainstay Rusler doing his preppy-punk thing that, kudos, he does well. The biggest surprise is Watanabe, doing an Asian take on a W.A.S.P. that’s kind of groundbreaking when you think about the time.

What hurts Vamp is that it’s half-baked. It has a real storyline and some great characters, but does nothing with them. I could see someone wanting to remake this in the Sinners/From Dusk Till Dawn vein, but I guess that ship has been burned, most likely with a raised finger. Oh, well, at least Jones’s end-credits song, “Vamp”, is actually pretty darn good. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

If your bucket list line-items “Hear Barney Miller utter the phrase, ‘knee-deep in pussy,'” I come bearing great news: Micro Budget allows you to cross that off. It’s merely one surprise in a movie that qualifies as a surprise itself. After all, “improvised indie mockumentary” doesn’t engender confidence these days, and its generic, Google-challenged title further diminishes hope.

Give yourself over to it anyway, because here’s even greater news: Micro Budget is capital-F funny — enough to threaten triggering a hernia.

Speaking of do-or-die to-dos, Ohio nobody Terry (Patrick Noth) has always longed to make a movie. His ever-patient, exceedingly pregnant spouse, Erica (real-life wife Emilea Wilson), supports her hubs so much, she’s agreed to uproot their lives to L.A. so Terry can achieve his dream before their firstborn arrives to forever postpone such folly.

Naturally, in tackling an ambitious disaster film, Terry has bitten off more than he can chew, much less get his big mouth around. Lucky for us, his cousin (director Morgan Evans, who co-wrote with Noth) is around to document it all the behind-the-scenes chaos. While shooting in a rented Airbnb home in Malibu, the cast members inquire about their motivation, which Terry answers: “A big, scary meteor coming to Earth.” The dialogue he’s given them is equally clueless: “I can’t believe Toronto’s gone. I can’t believe Drake died.” A running gag hinges on Terry’s inability to understand movies don’t have to be shot in order.

If Terry has no idea what he’s doing, wait until you meet the intimacy coordinator, a skeevy guy (Neil Casey, 2016’s Ghostbusters) whose first question arriving to set is, “Now, who’s porkin’?”

Bawdy and boisterous without slipping into hateful, Micro Budget boasts a solid lineup of comedians both known (Chris Parnell, Maria Bamford, Bobby Moynihan, sitcom legend Hal Linden) and deserve-to-be (Nichole Sakura, Brandon Michael Hall, Carla Jimenez, Jon Gabrus), as well as a superstar cameo I won’t spoil. There’s not a weak spot in the bunch.

If you can’t handle cringe comedy, move along, little ones. Not for nothing does the “Lights. Camera. Asshole” tagline adorn its poster. While Micro Budget isn’t quite as successful as Christopher Guest’s Best in Show, it’s the next best thing. This isn’t Pulp Fiction, Scorsese. —Rod Lott

Get it at OVID.tv.