If Herschell Gordon Lewis had tackled a mystery, I believe it would resemble Massage Parlor Murders! (exclamation point theirs), a Big Apple-born slice of sexploitation by first- and last-time directors Chester Fox and Alex Stevens. Credited as assistant director is character actor George Dzundza (Basic Instinct), who briefly appears as a suspect in the case, a portly john dubbed by a trick as “Mr. Creepy.” Which among these three men is most responsible for the static camera and odd cutaways is anyone’s guess.

Budweiser and Schlitz men, respectively, detectives Rizotti (George Spencer, If You Don’t Stop It … You’ll Go Blind!!!) and O’Mara (John Moser) investigate the string of homicides of several masseuses/prostitutes around town by a pair of shaky hands in rubber gloves. One girl is smashed face-first into a mirror; another, smothered with a towel before being doused in acid. It’s the work of a Jack the Ripper of jack-off joints, or, as Rizotti puts it in one of the many scenes of voice-over, “Man, there’s sure a lotta sick weirdos in this town!”

That particular line is spoken during a montage of glorious, dangerous Times Square at night, where the 42nd Street marquees hawk such psychotronic fare as 5 Fingers of Death, The Young Seducers, Seven Golden Men, Blood of Dracula’s Castle and Black Belt Jones. Yes, if nothing else, Massage Parlor Murders! is quite a curio — both the film itself and everything in it.

Luckily, “if nothing else” does not apply. The flick has plenty to offer, being packed with nudity as gratuitous as the wallpaper is gaudy; a naked pool party/orgy, complete with balloons and streamers; rambling “comedian” Brother Theodore as an astrologer; and a car chase that completely outdoes The French Connection … provided we’re only talking about the number of fist-shakin’ fishmongers and mismatched sound effects, and we totally are.

I should note that Massage Parlor Murders! is not porn, although it sure feels like it should be. There’s just that much ineptitude riding behind the camera and uncredited script, which inversely makes the movie that much more interesting and watchable. Rizotti and O’Mara don’t so much as solve the mystery as Fox and Stevens realize they have about three minutes left ’til the closing credits, resulting in an absolute howler of an ending that’s really Quite Something to See. —Rod Lott

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From its first scene set at a rock quarry, My Dear Killer certainly knows how to grab your attention: with a decapitation via construction equipment. The prime suspect is, naturally, the crane operator, but he has no prior criminal record and soon is found hanged. The police prepare to close the case, but Inspector Peretti (George Hilton, Blade of the Ripper) has a hunch it’s murder, and proves it.

Taking only a little time out to romance his doctor girlfriend (Marilù Tolo, Marriage Italian Style), Peretti throws himself into his investigation. He finds that the case bears geographic ties to a still-unsolved one involving a little girl who was kidnapped and subsequently found murdered along with her father post-ransom. Peretti believes the cases, while separated by roughly 52 weeks, are linked, and is determined to bring closure to both.

In the process, a black-gloved killer is busy knocking off virtually everyone Peretti questions. Quips a fellow officer, “Soon, they’ll have enough bodies to make up an ice hockey team.”

Directed by Tonino Valerii (My Name Is Nobody), the Italian-made film is more of a police procedural with a touch of giallo vs. the other way around, title and cover art be damned. Aside from the opening beheading (rather tame, to tell the truth) and one character’s unfortunate encounter with a circular saw, few elements dare take that path. The Ennio Morricone score helps guide viewers through the semisolid, but admittedly minor mystery. —Rod Lott

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As the seventh in the utterly splendid, 14-film series that paired Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, 1944’s The Spider Woman is one of the most purely entertaining. It’s also as close as the franchise got to adapting Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Adventure of the Speckled Band” story — a perennial favorite.

In a lively opening montage, London is abuzz about the rash of “Pyjama Suicides,” so named because people have suddenly killed themselves in the middle of the night, with neither rhyme no reason. But as Holmes notes, suicides are apt to leave notes, which these unfortunate souls didn’t; therefore, he suspects murder, my dear Watson, murder.

He’s right, of course, especially since the victims were catching Zs behind locked doors. Before the midpoint of the film, both Holmes and the viewer already know the culprit — the titular female, Miss Adria Spedding (Gale Sondergaard, The Mark of Zorro) — but not her methods. One can surmise from the title that spiders may be involved, and they are, but there’s more to it than that.

With arachnids, Holmes’ presumed death, a creepy mute boy and a nerve-wracking finale at a carnival shooting gallery that presages Saw‘s devilish traps, The Spider Woman throws lots at the wall, and nearly all of it sticks. It helps the running time is 63 minutes, period, but a greater emphasis on comedy keeps proceedings from even nearing the realm of dull, as well. —Rod Lott

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You know that segment of the German population that refuses to acknowledge the existence of the Holocaust? Perhaps they should focus such futile energies on the Krauts’ kraptastic Midnight Cop instead.

It’s a dull, dreary, thrill-free thriller starring Armin Mueller-Stahl (The Game) as Alex Glass, a sloppy and depressed jazz-loving, turtle-owning, pickle-eating police commissioner out to bust a serial killer who slathers Vaseline on the faces of the young women he’s killed.

Weaving in and out of the supposed mystery are Frank Stallone, Sly’s brother, as Jack, a drug-pushing heavy who wears a towel far higher on his waist than any man should; Michael York (Logan’s Run) as Armin’s close pal Karstens, whom York has chosen to play in “sleep” mode; a late-night cafe owner with some kind of funky bloody nub on his shaved head; and Morgan Fairchild (whom I’m slept with) as Lisa, a high-class hooker who falls in love with Glass and sports one incredible behind.

Trust me: Armin’s hands are all over it in several scenes, and I do not blame him; she’s a gorgeous woman.

You’ll have the plot figured out before what little actually happens happens. Mueller-Stahl is typically a fine actor, but you wouldn’t know it with this half-assed German production. You haven’t seen a Terrible Acting Showdown until you witness Stallone and Fairchild go airhead-to-airhead. And the ending is jaw-droppingly terrible on so many levels that I’d almost recommend watching the movie just to see it. Easy there, horsey, I said “almost.” —Rod Lott

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Edgar Allan Poe, father of the detective story, plays detective in The Raven, neither based on the iconic poem nor a remake of the 1963 Roger Corman adaptation. Instead, the box-office bomb from V for Vendetta director James McTeigue draws on a handful of the master of horror’s work to weave a “what if?” tale depicting his final days.

In 1849 Baltimore, a double homicide is discovered bearing uncanny similarities to the locked-room puzzle of Poe’s “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” At first, Poe himself (John Cusack) is suspected — then another deadly crime occurs, this one to the razor-sharp tune of “The Pit and the Pendulum.” With Poe helping lead detective (Luke Evans, Immortals) to crack the clues, the case gets awfully personal when Poe’s beloved (Alice Eve, She’s Out of My League) is kidnapped by the killer.

For Poe fans especially (provided they aren’t purists so picky about many liberties taken), the premise is irresistible, also incorporating elements of “The Masque of the Red Death,” “The Premature Burial,” “The Cask of Amontillado” and “The Tell-Tale Heart.” Cusack portrays Poe as a man whose raging ego is matched only by his alcoholism — a bit over-the-top, but more lively than the expected timid take.

The Raven‘s overall effectiveness is clouded by an elongated second act, but production design and costuming are all appropriately Gothic and, therefore, tops. McTeigue appears to have recycled all the obviously CGI blood directly from his equally misunderstood Ninja Assassin. —Rod Lott

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