While saddled with a meaningless title that could be grafted to any ol’ thriller, Italian or otherwise, Cold Eyes of Fear stands above the fray from the start. Its beginning bears the kind of fake-out sequence that Brian De Palma soon would use as his bread and butter, yet it’s hardly the only cinematic trick director Enzo G. Castellari (The Inglorious Bastards) has in store.

Late one night, solicitor Peter Flower (Gianni Garko, Devil Fish) brings home a hot-to-trot woman (Giovanna Ralli, Sex with a Smile) for some sure-thing sex. The swanky pad really belongs to his uncle (Fernando Rey, The French Connection), but the elderly judge is stuck at courthouse working on a big case, giving Peter the privacy to put his, well, peter to use.

Unfortunately, Peter is doomed to spend the night blue-balled, because having a corpse fall beside you tends to throw water on the fire of ladies’ loins. Knife extended, a leather-clad killer is skulking about the house, seeking a file from the judge’s past. It’s all part of a plot to blow the man up with explosives.

A couple of twists are worked into the story, but I was more surprised by Castellari’s playtime with lighting and editing, which livens up both acts of violence and more routine stretches. For example, in one scene, he pushes the camera forward in fits timed with punches Peter takes to the stomach. Late in the film, Castellari dabbles in hallucinatory imagery; while it is out of place, it excites.

Ennio Morricone’s terrific-as-usual score ranges from playful (during an early arcade montage, shot handheld) to disturbing. The latter does most of the heavy lifting in building anxiety, as Cold Eyes of Fear is not particularly graphic. The blood in this one looks like smeared lipstick after a rather passionate make-out session — the one poor Peter never gets to complete. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

In the mid-1990s, when erotic thrillers were all the rage, Playboy’s production group made a handful of direct-to-video movies to get in on summadat milky-white-behind action. First out of the gate from the House That Hugh Built was Cover Me. For coming from a nudie mag, it has far too much Elliott Gould.

Devilshly cute Courtney Taylor, who most notably vamped it up in Prom Night III: The Last Kiss, plays Holly, a gorgeous female cop who goes undercover as a centerfold model (and then, logically, a stripper) to snare Dimitri (soap regular Stephen Nichols), a serial killer who has cottoned to murdering gatefolds. Stranger than that, Dimitri seduces and then offs these torso-stapled beauts while he’s dressed in drag, replete with dripping makeup and bubbly voice.

Dimitri commits such acts because, as we are shown in grainy flashbacks, his momma used to force him into girls’ clothing as a child. Meanwhile, Holly won’t quit stripping because, as we are shown in slow-motion dance sequences, she realizes she actually likes having a wad of dirty dollar bills shoved into her panties by the hands of greasy strangers, dammit.

Directed by Michael Schroeder (Cyborg 2 and Cyborg 3), Cover Me is as laughable as Taylor is perky and scorching. Ironically, the film often garners its biggest inadvertent chuckles during its sex scenes, which feature intricate light shows, rear-projection images (not the anatomic kind of rear, mind you) and, when Schroeder feels like it, booby.

The Terminator’s Rick Rossovich was the lucky man who nabbed the role of Bobby, Holly’s cop boyfriend. Plumpy Paul Sorvino (Goodfellas) yuks it up as Bobby’s partner until he gets strangled while sitting in his car. Corbin Bernsen (The Dentist) plays a porno king, and thoroughly convinced me of his oily nature. But it’s Taylor who rules the show, making it worth the watch. (Well, okay, just parts of it.) Whatever happened to her? —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

Purportedly based on actual events occurring on the sleazy streets of El Lay, the gripping, grimy Vice Squad depicts one wild night of police and prostitutes in the era of tube tops, hot pants, cornrows and clubs bearing names like The Balled Eagle.

Princess (Season Hubley, Escape from New York) is a businesswoman by day and hooker by night. After her friend and fellow trick-turner (MTV VJ Nina Blackwood) is vaginally — and fatally — mutilated by a “psycho honky” pimp who goes by the name of Ramrod (Wings Hauser, The Carpenter), Princess agrees to wear a wire so the cops can nab him. She does and they do, but he gets away, and thus begins Ramrod’s pursuit to sniff out and snuff out Princess, as the police in turn seek him.

While an exploitation film at heart, Vice Squad takes itself rather seriously. As a result, director Gary Sherman (Poltergeist III) gives it a good amount of grit. It’s as raw as a knee sliding against asphalt and may leave the viewer with the feeling that a shower is in short order — and not the golden kind Princess negotiates over with a client.

Much-needed levity arrives in the form of dialogue as Princess discusses transactions with the would-be consumers of her wares; “Does a teddy bear have cotton balls?” she rhetorically asks one, while another inquires of her, “You’re looking at one horny conventioneer. I’ve seen more ass than a cowboy’s saddle. Think you can handle me?”

Hauser steals the show with his unhinged performance of a wacko in a Western shirt. As evil as Ramrod is, Hauser is a wonder to behold. But so is Gary Swanson (Sniper) as Det. Walsh, Vice Squad’s true leading man. Unfortunately, because he’s so grounded by comparison, not to mention sympathetic, he gets none of the enormous credit he’s due. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

As Johnny McFarley, the psycho preteen of The Paperboy, Marc Marut gives what may be the single worst performance ever by a child actor.

He’s cursed with Alfalfa freckles and the range of a dime-store water pistol, and everything Marut says or does as he obsesses over single-mom neighbor Melissa (Alexandra Paul, Christine) is downright laughable, thus negating any “horror” that Whispers director Douglas Jackson’s film purports to contain.

In one scene, Melissa comes home to find Johnny in her kitchen:

Melissa: “What are you doing here, Johnny?”
Johnny: “Apples! I’m peeling apples!”
Melissa: “Get out!
Johnny: “Aw, c’mon, won’t you make me an apple pie?”

Annnnnd scene. Later, Johnny flips his proverbial lid as he spies Melissa getting down ’n’ dirty with her boyfriend (William Katt, 1986’s House), and it’s an absolute riot, cementing Marut’s footnote status in modern North American cinema. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

To mention the word “masterpiece” in the same breath as “Jess Franco” is like pairing “Chef Boyardee” and “gourmet.” Yet 1969’s Venus in Furs is often cited as the über-prolific director’s finest hour (and a half) — one awash in atmosphere, not acumen.

What happens to a beautiful woman after she’s murdered at a swank party? As the song goes, she’ll be waiting in Istanbul. On that Turkish city’s Black Sea shores, the corpse of Wanda Reed (Franco fave Maria Rohm, Eugenie) washes up in purple garters, her chest deeply sliced above the left breast. Finding her, jazz musician Jimmy Logan (James Darren, TV’s The Time Tunnel) immediately flashes back to the night before, when he discreetly watched her get stripped, whipped and stabbed by three fellow partygoers (one of whom is a millionaire playboy played by Nosferatu himself, Klaus Kinski).

The shock sends Jimmy fleeing to Rio — and to the bed of local club singer Rita (Barbara McNair, The Organization). Just as he’s able to take up his trumpet again, who should walk through the door but Wanda herself. Barring supernatural forces, how can that be? To Franco’s credit, you’ll want to know, but the answer is secondary to seeing Wanda exact her sexy revenge.

Venus in Furs’ strength lie in the unfailing hallucinatory vibe it exudes. While Jimmy’s sparse narration recalls pure pulp gumshoe, Franco employs every ’60s trick in the book: primary color gels, wavy screens, slowed-down film, sped-up film and so on. And then there’s Rohm, his most special effect of all. Despite her character being an instrument of death, she’s a captivating, sultry presence. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.