Arguably more famous for being the bottom half of a grindhouse-celebrated double bill with Del Tenney’s far-tamer I Eat Your Skin than actually being seen, I Drink Your Blood serves a cautionary tale for hippies who consume intentionally contaminated meat-based pastries. If only one viewer’s life has been saved, this film by writer/director David E. Durston (Stigma) has done its job. Never again, America! You hear me? Never! Again!

“Let it be known,” hippie cult leader Horace Bones lets it be known in I Drink’s woods-based cold open, “that Satan was an acid head.” Horace (charismatic India native Bhaskar Roy Chowdhury) tells this to his small circle of unwashed disciples during one of their nighttime rituals of devil worship, poultry sacrifice and full nudity. When he notices they’re being watched by a local girl, he orders the gang to beat and rape her for her God-fearing curiosity. She lives in Valley Hills, population 40 (down from 4,000 … and dropping significantly further within the next 80 minutes), a quaint and dinky town that plays home to one bakery, one veterinarian and much misery.

When “that gang of savage hyenas” finds itself stranded in Valley Hills due to a broken-down groovy van (which Horace orders his free-spirited followers to push over a cliffside), they choose an abandoned home at random, move in, drop LSD and round up all the rodents they can to roast for hearty, stick-to-your-ribs meals. Take heed, society: These cats may worship pure evil, but at least they’re self-sufficient.

Meanwhile, eager for revenge for the hippie gang’s unholy treatment of his sis, whippersnapper Pete (one Riley Mills, never to act again) spikes his family bakery’s daily batch of meat pies with the tainted blood of a rabid dog. Going from gullet to gut, the bad blood turns the troublemakers into mouth-foaming zombies; the makeup for such is as if the infected guys paused their shaving duties after applying dollops of cream and forgot to finish. It even makes Horace visit a nearby snake farm, where he looses its star attraction: per the sign, a “GIANT BOA KONSTRIKTER.”*

Competently made by Durston, I Drink Your Blood is wholly deserving of its enduring cult reputation. Although the acting overall is lacking, the performances are delivered with such earnestness, you’re willing to overlook those deficiencies. In fact, unlike so many other B movies we watch to test our own tolerance, you’ll find yourself legitimately drawn into its semi-original spell. This is the rare gore film you want to hug, and it will hug you back. That’s not to say it “wusses out”; its initial X rating for violence wasn’t affixed by the MPAA without merit. —Rod Lott

*Flick Attack’s Joke-O-Matic: Pick Your Own Punch Line:
1. Konstrikter? I hardly know ’er!
2. Konstrikter? Dude, I had all their tapes when I was going through my hair-metal phase.
3. Konstrikter? Lemme guess … a dating app?

Get it at Amazon.

Soon after the opening title screen of Jess Franco’s The Erotic Rites of Frankenstein, Dr. Frankenstein (Dennis Price, Vampyros Lesbos) has just gifted his monster (Fernando Bilbao, Mr. Hercules Against Karate) with the ability to speak. This is neither here nor there, because the hulking creature rarely talks in the film, and why should he when there is so much flagellation and fornication to get to?

Not to mention, Dr. F barely gets to enjoy his giant scientific leap for madmankind, as he is attacked and killed, because being “torn to pieces” is hardly survivable. Enter his daughter, Vera (Beatriz Savón, Frankenstein’s Bloody Terror) to avenge his death. Those responsible are the bug-eyed Cagliostro (Howard Vernon, Zombie Lake), a supernatural being with a pubic thatch of a goatee, and his sidekick (Anne Libert, A Virgin Among the Living Dead), a chirping bird-woman who wears nothing but green feathers and metal talons. Like Hitler before him, Cagliostro wishes to establish a new race; using Dr. Frankenstein’s secret rejuvenation recipe, he begins by creating the “perfect being” from body parts of various women he’s had murdered.

Erotic Rites entertains both because of and despite its limitations — or rather, those of Franco. For starters, the film is not always in focus. For another, the spray-paint job on the monster is inconsistently applied and, depending on the angle and scene, appears to be either blue, green, silver or gray. No matter — with science-class skeletons, access to a castle and the buy-in of his regular players (including muse Lina Romay), Franco appears to be having a ball, in a “let’s put on a show” fashion befitting of Andy Hardy. Chock-full of Franco’s trademark full-frontal nudity, the ensuing production is colorful as a comic book — one that would give Dr. Fredric Wertham a coronary he’d never forget or an erection he’d never acknowledge. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Pulse barely has a beat of its own. An inferior American remake of the 2001 Japanese hit, this Wes Craven adaptation fails as a cautionary tale for the Internet age. Kristen Bell (Veronica Mars) is Mattie, a college student whose semester, like, really sucks when her hacker boyfriend (Jonathan Tucker, The Ruins) fatally hangs himself with a phone cord. Not long after, she and her circle of friends receive the same string of instant messages from his computer, all reading, “helpme.”

With the help of the grease monkey (Ian Somerhalder, TV’s The Vampire Diaries) who bought the departed dude’s computer, Mattie learns that her BF accidentally had loosed a virus that unleashes pixelated specters that suck souls and/or leave its victims with an inky skin fungus. The damage is not consistent, nor the use of the Ring-esque clips that terrorize those who log on to the web, causing mass suicides across campus and beyond.

The best sequence has one unfortunate supporting player melting into an apartment wall; a runner-up gives us a human spider emerging from the laundry. However, these scenes and others are purposely too dark or too quick-cut, as to hide the budgetary seams. Directed with pallid blue-greens by debuting Jim Sonzero, Pulse overall presents its effects as lousy as it does exposition. The finale in particular, which lifts a plane crash directly from its source material, looks more green-screened than a leprechaun-managed Rent-A-Center.

One of Dimension Pictures’ last gasps at prolonging its post-Scream gravy train of teen-oriented horror pics, Pulse flopped, but somehow expelled two direct-to-DVD sequels in 2008, Pulse 2: Afterlife and Pulse 3. It’s tough to imagine anyone wanting to revisit the scene of this cybercrime. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

From the Marble Hornets web series most responsible for popularizing the Slender Man character as the YouTube generation’s go-to bogeyman, Always Watching expands the paranormal construct into a feature-length film. From first-timer James Moran, the found-footage horror pic also unfolds in an environment more frightening than its villain: the Great Recession’s housing crisis!

While doing a story about foreclosed homes for the local news, a WZZC reporter (Alexandra Breckenridge, TV’s American Horror Story), producer (Jake McDorman, Live Free or Die Hard) and cameraman Chris Marquette (The Girl Next Door) enter an abode vacated by its residents, yet the place still looks lived-in. Within a stairwell hidey-hole, our TV news crew finds a box of videotapes.

Naturally, those tapes tell the tale behind the Whitlocks’ vanishing act, as well as pin the blame on a blank-faced, well-dressed figure (Doug Jones, Hellboy’s Abe Sapien) who cannot be seen with the naked eye. Only by looking through a camera lens can this mute creep be seen. As audience members, we’re either watching the Whitlocks’ home videos or the WZZC cameraman’s footage; regardless of the source, whenever the ghostly figure is about to appear, the picture jumps with static or other distortion, which is as much a warning to scaredy-cats as it a suspense-killer.

Admittedly, the idea of Slender Man is creepy. He looks creepy. But Always Watching is a little too like him, in that his movie just kinda stands there and wants you to do all the work, Where’s Waldo?-style. It’s not enough to sustain a feature — at least not this feature. It’s simplistic, but not in a way that Moran would dare trot out the ol’ cliché of “cat suddenly leaps into frame” just for a cheap jump-scare. He’s too smart for that.

Nope, he uses a dog. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

There is one thing I liked about TBK: Toolbox Murders 2, and although it arrives at the end of the movie, I’m going to reveal it. Skip this paragraph if you must, but c’mon — we all know the sequel is and always was going to be as formulaic as a 12.5-ounce canister of Enfamil. Anyway, having survived days as a serial killer’s hostage, our heroine is told she forgot something … and is handed her cellphone. Still charged, the device has something like 150-plus missed calls on it. D’oh! Trust me: That’s the only horror cliché TBK:TM2 dares subvert.

A belated follow-up to Tobe Hooper’s Toolbox Murders, which itself was a remake of the notorious 1978 grindhouse “classick,” TBK:TM2 turns out to be awful, and not even in a fun way. Hooper’s 2004 redux is, to me, a memorable gem unearthed from the Walmart $5 DVD bargain bin, so I was all for another trip to its historic Hollywood hotel setting. Hooper was not, apparently, so in steps Dean C. Jones, graduating from the makeup department to the director’s chair. Since Jones also comes credited as co-writer and a producer, he gets the blame for turning in work that screams made-for-TV, yet is full of gory (and good) effects the tube wouldn’t touch.

Stuntman Chris Doyle reprises his role as the mute Coffin Baby, the Darkman-looking dude who does all the stabbing, slicing and cooking; he’s like, says a cop, “Jack the Ripper, Jeffrey Dahmer and Richard Ramirez, all rolled into one,” and it’s obvious from some of the framing choices that Jones is trying to turn Coffin Baby into a “thing.” No need — if the rights holders can’t settle on a name (see the title moniker of “TBK,” a tasteless pun on/anagram of Wichita’s real-life BTK Killer), fan-favorite status is well out of reach.

The cannibalistic psychopath kidnaps a previous victim’s sister (Chauntal Lewis, Séance), cages her like an animal and makes her watch as he tortures other prey with this tool and that. But at least he cooks her a tub of Jiffy Pop so she’ll have something to snack on while spectating. Toward the finish, she encounters another captive, played by poor Bruce Dern (Nebraska), for whom I felt sorry — not for his character, but the two-time Oscar nominee himself. I know a man’s gotta eat, but geez, Bruce! There’s always ramen.

I’d like to think it’s not coincidence that this return to the Toolbox leaves us with this message: “If you can’t be something great, do something terrible.” Mission accomplished. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.