Like Fred Olen Ray’s Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers, David DeCoteau’s Sorority Babes at the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama is one of those titles that told a potential VHS renter everything he (or she, but let’s be real) needed to know: Will there be blood? Will there be boobs? Although both concerns were legitimate, answers were not needed, thanks to an unspoken contract of trust.

Tri Delta pledges Lisa (Michelle Bauer, The Erotic Misadventures of the Invisible Man) and Taffy (Brinke Stevens, the Mommy movies) are in the midst of hazing rituals dealt by the paddle-clutching hands of Babs (Robin Stille, The Slumber Party Massacre). The final piece of their initiation puzzle is to break into the bowling alley at the local mall to steal a trophy. Three Peeping Tom frat guys accompany Lisa and Taffy, who happen to arrive at the alley as a punky thief named Spider (Linnea Quigley, Witchtrap) performs a little B&E on the premises herself.

As luck would have it, the six knock over the one trophy containing an imp (played by a rubber monster voiced in an urban patois by — ahem — Dukey Flyswatter, aka Michael Sonye of Surf Nazis Must Die). Uncle Impie, as he’s called, grants each a wish for letting him loose — the most obvious placing Bauer in (and then out of) incredibly sexy lingerie for the movie’s remainder — but his acts of kindness are merely a cover for plans of flagitious intent.

The premise of DeCoteau’s Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama is no smarter than DeCoteau’s A Talking Cat?! — in fact, it may be more stupid — yet the difference between the two is significant, and I don’t mean the 25-year gulf between them. It’s effort and spirit — both of which the 1988 cult classic possesses, to be clear. Today, it’s as if he doesn’t even try, because the free element of fun has disappeared.

For all the production’s limitations, Sorority Babes does so many things right. In typical Charles Band style, most of the movie takes place in a single location, but a bowling alley is engaging. The imp barely moves beyond his mouth, but Flyswatter gives him a personality. Scripter Sergei Hasenecz’s human characters are one-note, but the actors’ performances have gumption. By embracing its trashiness, this early work of DeCoteau radiates a silliness and sexiness that tickle all the buttons video-store exploitation should. —Rod Lott

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Grandma’s gone missing. She lives alone, and the neighbors report not having seen her in days. So her granddaughter (Bella Heathcote, The Neon Demon) and daughter (Emily Mortimer, Shutter Island) make the drive to her home, find it empty and wait. Because all they can do is wait.

When the elderly woman (Robyn Nevin of the Matrix sequels) finally does return, she’s safe, but definitely not sound. In fact, she’s not like herself at all. She’s … different.

One wishes Relic were as well, especially since all three actresses are superb. In her first feature as director, Natalie Erika James demonstrates an assured eye for composition, but I’m afraid the slow-burn story, which she co-wrote with Christian White, is a little too fatigued for suspense to build.

As much as I like the metaphorical use of the matriarch’s moldy and decaying house to parallel her dementia-ravaged brain, the obvious isn’t left alone, so viewers are hammered over the head with it to ensure we get it. We do. —Rod Lott

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Perhaps a more fitting title for the German horror flick Horrors of Spider Island should be Hard-Ons of Spider Island, as in between the scant spider-man — with great power comes great perversity! — there are fantastical amounts of Teutonic skin, sex and sand to keep even the most passive of viewers somewhat intrigued.

Hot-shit nightclub producer Gary (Alexander D’Arcy) is planning a big song-and-strip showcase in Singapore, hiring a dozen or so sexy sirens with names like Babs, Nelly and Gladys. But, wouldn’t you know it, their plane goes down somewhere in the Pacific; as they’re arguing over water rations, a large island is spotted in the distance.

After finding an old scientist drained of his bodily fluids in a big spider web, Gary is bitten by the uranium-enriched spider and becomes an amazing spider-man. But instead of dealing with this monstrous blight of subhumanity, for the next few weeks the gang frolics and fornicates with a 1960s-style sensuality that shouldn’t really titillate but, boy, does it ever.

Also released in the U.S. under the name It’s Hot In Paradise, the lack of sturdy spider-scares is more than ably surrendered by the statuesque skirts that lounge about in garters, girdles and other essential tropical island wear, so much so that about 45 minutes into this, I forgot this was supposed to be a horror flick.

But, you know, I’m guessing the filmmakers probably did, too. It’s like the old saying goes: When life gives you lingerie, make linger-ade. Or something like that … —Louis Fowler

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Lonely teen Tomi (Fachrul Rozy) may live in a wealthy-ish home, but his stern father is always working; his good-time sister is always at the discotheque; and his recently deceased mom has just come back from the dead as an unholy apparition of pure evil. While most kids would experiment with sex or drugs to cope, he instead reads horror movie magazines, a direct path to the Unholy One.

The family, having lost their faith in God, becomes bewitched under housekeeper Darminah (Ruth Pelupessy), a diabolical agent of the devil who will inadvertently kill anyone who dares interfere with her plans to turn the children into slaves, presumably of Satan; this includes gruesomely resurrecting the woefully asthmatic groundkeeper and the daughter’s cracked-skull boyfriend.

These demonic forces of absolute malevolence are spooky as hell, with their pale white skin, pinhole-pupiled eyes and newly formed pair of vampire teeth ready to bites the blasphemous necks of the scared family. And even though this clan is offered chance after chance to get in good with God, they constantly turn it down, right up to the very end when a holy man shows up at their door with an army of spiritual warriors.

While not as downright bizarre as other Indonesian flicks — have you seen The Queen of Black Magic? — Satan’s Slave is far more atmospheric, with genuinely creepy moments that almost feels like it should be viewed on a 10th-generation VHS dub at 3 in the morning. It’s a personal style that has me believing director Sisworo Gautama Putra was an unheralded master of horror, in Indonesia and beyond. —Louis Fowler

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Alternately released as The House That Cried Murder and, more notoriously, Last House on Massacre Street, Jean-Marie Pélissié’s The Bride is an unassuming horror thriller worth a trip or two down the aisle.

Head over heels in love, Barbara (soap star Robin Strasser) can’t wait to marry David (Arthur Roberts, Midnight Movie). She’s even designed and built them her dream home, a midcentury modern number that looks like a semester’s worth of geometry homework. So what’s the problem? Well, David works for her doting dad (John Beal, Amityville 3-D), who looks unfavorably on her choice of suitor: “What I’m saying is,” he tells his daughter, “I think he stinks.”

Father indeed knows best, because at their wedding reception — repeat: at their wedding reception — David ducks upstairs for a tryst with another woman, Ellen (Iva Jean Saraceni, Creepshow). Finding them in flagrante delicto, Barbara impulsively wounds David with scissors and flees the scene. Two weeks later, she’s still off who-knows-where, while David is looking to get divorced and already shacking up with Ellen. That’s when the eerie phone calls and eerier acts of aggression begin …

Popular opinion has it that any horror movie with an MPAA rating below the R bares no teeth. While that may be true for today’s offerings more often than not, it’s stunningly narrow-minded for product from the early 1980s and on back. The Bride is the perfect example why. Affixed with a whistle-clean PG, it may be a simple story told in a frugal 76 minutes, but it hits the right buttons as it does so. The script by Pélissié and John Grissmer — who went on to give us the incredible Blood Rage, which features snippets of this film playing at the drive-in — thrives on a macabre sense of humor, while Pélisse — in his one and only directorial chore — proves he can stage suspense effectively; one shot in David’s dream sequence, with Barbara poised like a spider waiting to pounce, stands out as chilling.

Although Saraceni is a bit shrill, the no-name actors do Pélisse proud. As shameful as it is that he never helmed another feature, even more so is that Strasser goes unheralded for a strong, layered performance. —Rod Lott

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