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

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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

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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

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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

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With his Psycho-tic tendencies intact, Robert Bloch puts enough of his stamp on 1962’s The Cabinet of Caligari that it feels less like a remake of the German Expressionist classic of four decades prior, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, and more like an in-name-only extension of the earlier work’s themes.

Written by Bloch, but directed by workmanlike TV veteran Roger Kay, the thriller switches genders to make a woman the focus. While on a carefree drive, Jane (Glynis Johns, The Vault of Horror) experiences a flat tire and is forced to walk miles to the nearest home. It’s a beaut, too — an architectural marvel belonging to one Dr. Caligari, a weird-looking dude with Abe Lincoln-style facial hair, a revolving door leading into his office, a penchant for peeping and many, many probing questions about Jane’s sexual life, history and desires.

If she could up and leave, she would, but she’s trapped on his gated estate. She finds a sympathetic ear in Caligari’s friend, Paul (Dan O’Herlihy, RoboCop), but no means of escape. The place even has a garden maze with a fierce dog for a Minotaur. It’s enough to make her think Caligari intends to drive her insane.

The 1920 Caligari is remembered for its surreal sets, which Bloch and Kay do without until a third-act nightmare sequence; to no one’s surprise, it proves the highlight. With an assumedly low budget and first-time feature director, this update literally can’t afford to submit fully to the abstract visuals, so the amount it does offer is welcome without embarrassing itself.

Thus, the film stands on story (and a thoroughly amusing performance by Johns, who was far from the typical Hollywood starlet). It may not always click, but at least it’s about something — and about as far as they were allowed to take it for the times. That alone is admirable. —Rod Lott

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