That a good chunk of A Night to Dismember’s climax takes place in daylight should surprise nobody fluent in the slasher film’s director, Doris Wishman.

Years ago, Vicki Kent (Samantha Fox — the porn one, not the music/model one) axed a couple of neighborhood boys to death. The act earned her a lengthy stay at a sanitarium. As she’s released into the real world — or as real as living with one’s parents can be — Vicki attempts readjustment to “normal” life. However, her brother (South Bronx Heroes director William Szarka) would rather she not be free to murder again, so he attempts to scare her back into hospitalization by going to the store to buy “a hideous mask.”

Also, the crudely depicted killings begin anew, which private detective Tim O’Malley (William Longo Jr.) investigates and narrates … and narrates … and narrates. The events constituting Dismember — including one death by car rollover — are told to us this way because Wishman didn’t film with live sound; even if she hadn’t dubbed everything in post, viewers still would require narration for a base level of comprehension, especially with an untold number of family tree branches thrown at us in the opening minutes. God bless her, Wishman held a unique approach to filmmaking — one in which the written word was never secondary, because it was always tertiary.

Further throwing your grasp on lucidity are shots that look to come from different stock, if not entire decades. With the occasional photograph or negative image spliced in, A Night to Dismember resembles the result of a particularly tricky filmmaking challenge — one in which Wishman either compiled the entire movie from existing footage to fit Judith J. Kushner’s script, or edited an entire movie and then asked Kushner to fashion a script around that. Honestly, the movie is so disorienting, disorganized and discombobulated, neither is out of the realm of possibility. It could use a couple of Deadly Weapons. —Rod Lott

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The tagline for the existential teen horror flick The Dead Ones is “High School Is Hell,” which almost immediately should give you an idea where we’re going with this whole thing: to hell.

A quartet of thoroughly irritating teens with slight mental issues are taken in the middle of the night to clean up their high school, I’m guessing as punishment. As they barely scrub the dirt and debris that seems to have settled in, they gripe, complain and cut themselves. Meanwhile, a second group of teens heavily into Slipknot cosplay attack the sleeping school at the same time.

But as the time periods constantly shift — and more monsters and other horrific visions start to appear — it becomes heavily evident where the teens are and why. Apparently this is the devil’s detention hall. (Detention hell?)

After living through 20 or so years of some of the more nightmarish of school shootings, it’s a bit shocking to see director Jeremy Kasten — he of The Wizard of Gore remake fame — present the teens’ backstories of abuse and whatnot as a means to garner these kids a little sympathy, but it’s an attempt that falls painfully flat once they strap on masks and a few guns.

I do have to wonder though how a group of teens were able to afford masks with state-of-the-art voice changers and boss leather jackets and pants, not to mention the high-powered assault rifles. Scratch that last one — this is America, after all. —Louis Fowler

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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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Thirteen years after his Satan-worshipping grandfather (Hy Pyke, Hollywood High) secretly slipped him a satanic necklace on Halloween, Tommy Drindle (Gregory Scott Cummins, Blood Games) is all grown up and ready to commit his soul to the devil — or something like that — in Hack-O-Lantern.

Three things are certain:
1) Tommy’s room has a bitchin’ poster for Levi’s Cords.
2) Tommy’s mother (Katina Garner, Cannibal Hookers) hates — and I mean hates — her father for his obsessive hold on Tommy. And also for having her husband murdered 13 years ago. And also for molesting her on her wedding day before that. (I’m told those things tend to stick in the craw.)
3) So many people in Tommy’s circle are going to die today, many even before the town’s Halloween party gets started.

Open House director Jag Mundhra was kinda asking for it by titling his second horror film Hack-O-Lantern, as a name like that invites viewers to prepare for a subpar experience. Then again, Mundhra’s satanic-panic shocker is a subpar experience; his gifts were in erotic thrillers, not slashers.

The only thing more out of place than the MTV video in Hack-O-Lantern’s first half is the impromptu Thanksgiving-themed stand-up routine in its second. The latter — built upon turkey and stripper impersonations — comes courtesy of “Party Comedian” Bill Tucker. Today, the Vegas performer bills himself as “Wild Bill Tucker” and, based upon the unedited promo copy at his website, might not have survived filming unscathed:

“Wild Bill’s arsenal of urban sounds effects blended into his punch lines is rare. The sounds he makes are amazingly funny & at the same time accurately fascinating. It seems, when God was creating Wild Bill he splurged with the odd ball talents that are placed so perfectly throughout his act. Now the sign language Unique? Tucker Tap Dances to his Cell Phone Ring. Warning: Wild Bill leaves pictures in your head.”

The movie leaves pictures in your head, too, including an ass cheek tattooed with a pentagram and more 30-something-looking teens the screen has ever seen, but no image more memorable than Pyke’s ugly mug. Organically creepy even before the incest angle is introduced, Pyke sounds just like you would expect, with a gravel-gargled voice that suggests he graduated summa cum laude from the Sling Blade School of Diction. Mundhra establishes the Grandpa character as the lead, only to play musical chairs throughout, with Tommy, Tommy’s mommy and Tommy’s virgin-but-not-for-long sister (Carla Baron, Terror Night) all vying for the spot willy-nilly. Not coincidentally, your attention span may do the same. —Rod Lott

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Glenn Danzig may be an icon of metal, but he’s a pariah of movies — judging from his first feature as writer and director, Verotika.

Based on stories from Danzig’s own adults-only comics imprint, Verotik, the horror anthology holds one surprise: that the horned woman introducing each segment is not named Verotika, but Morella. Played by porn star Kayden Kross (Manuel Creampies Their Asses 3), Morella begins the film by pushing her thumbs through a woman’s eyeballs until those sockets are pitch-black.

In hindsight, I think Morella did the poor woman a favor.

First up in this triumvirate of train wrecks is “The Albino Spider of Dajette,” in which a Frenchwoman with a pink Wonder Twins hairdo (porn star Ashley Wisdom, My Stepsister Squirts 3) has a problem: Her giant breasts have eyeballs where areola should be, which scares off would-be sexual partners. “Not again!” she pouts as another guy bolts from her apartment. A single tear from her eye somewhere causes a tiny white CGI spider to morph into some sort of naked spider-man (Scotch Hopkins, Virus of the Dead) coated in Liquid Paper and keen at snappin’ necks of sex workers.

In “Change of Face” — it’s a pun! — one of the star strippers at Pussy Kats is Mystery Girl (Rachel Alig, The Cleaning Lady). She’s earned this nickname because she keeps her hideously scarred face covered throughout her routine. Off the stage and on the street, her hobbies include killing pretty ladies, peeling off her victims’ faces and tacking those skin masks to her bedroom wall.

Finally — repeat: finally — Danzig goes historical in “Drukija, Contessa of Blood.” Obviously based on the 16th-century royal serial killer Elizabeth Bathory, Drukija (Alice Haig, Chillerama) orders her village’s virgins to be rounded up so she can slit them open and bathe in their blood for supposed rejuvenating properties (“In my skin, there is tingle, Sheska!”). By the end, Drukija is lugging around a sacrifice’s head that looks lopped off a RealDoll — one perhaps retired from the Danzig tour bus.

Although the cast numbers many adult entertainers, everyone looks like a porn star, thanks to barren sets no better than a school play and mostly amateurish performances that unknowingly teeter the bar toward self-parody. In horror, hideous acts are all part of the show, but Verotika is all about those acts; the film has no other purpose or point. “Albino Spider” is the only segment — note I don’t call it a “story” — with anything resembling a conclusion, whereas the other two simply call it quits after subjecting viewers to an agonizing amount of screen time spent watching repetitive tasks.

I’d like to think even fans of the man’s music hold a higher standard for what qualifies as a movie. Yet somewhere, someone is not only watching Verotika, but enjoying it — and possibly even masturbating to the part where tabloid fixture Courtney Stodden loses her phony, polycarbonate visage. —Rod Lott

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