Rather than being a straight (no pun intended) adaptation of Oscar Wilde’s classic novel, Italy’s The Secret of Dorian Gray is credited as “a modern allegory based on the works of Oscar Wilde,” whose name the characters even drop. Ditch the Picture of Wilde’s title; give the greedy protagonist a Secret. Even more than one.

Set in London at the dawn of the ’70s, Dorian (Helmut Berger, The Damned) is a well-off, but level-headed 21-year-old who seems to have it all. He’s fallen in love with a virginal actress (Marie Liljedahl, The Seduction of Inga), doesn’t want for money, and enjoys his youthful good looks, which are freshly captured on an oil painting done by an artist pal (Richard Todd, Stage Fright).

When an arrogant art buyer (Herbert Lom, the Pink Panther franchise’s seven-time Dreyfus) admires the work and its shirtless subject, he notes, “one day, you will become an old and hideous puppet.” A suddenly overly vain Dorian responds that he wishes he could stay forever young while the painting ages, and lo and behold, that’s what happens … provided he delights in vice and immoral activity. The more he humps — no regard to either gender — the older his canvas visage gets, to the point where it resembles a zombie from an EC cover of Tales from the Crypt.

This is one big Piccadilly Circus version of an 1890 tale that only could have been made when it was, at the peak of the sexual revolution (just before the birth-control pill became available for all in the UK), but before anyone ever heard of AIDS. A gay club is not-so-subtly named The Black Cock, but the actual depiction of sex is less graphic than what the movie’s controversy (and porno-theater bookings) would suggest. In its swingin’, groovy, right-place-at-the-right-time world, this Secret is the finest interpretation of that Picture I’ve seen. —Rod Lott

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I’ve never seen a horror movie that makes me feel as anxious as having to walk past a group of unchaperoned teenagers, regardless of the situation or location. One on one, I have no problems with the adolescent set, but gathered together, I find they can be as terrifying as suddenly running into a pack of feral dogs. Hollywood has long understood the fear we “old fogies” have for those whippersnappers, and has been too happy to exploit it for excellent dramatic effect.

One of the best examples has to be Mark Lester’s Class of 1984, which has nothing to do with George Orwell’s book, but everything to do with all things awesome. In it, Perry King (TV’s Riptide) plays a handsome music teacher assigned to an urban hellhole of a high school controlled by a gang of psychopathic students whose extracurricular dabbling in drugs and prostitution are really just an excuse to indulge in what Alex DeLarge liked to call “a bit of the old ultraviolence.”

It takes about one class for King to get on the bad side of these ruffians, led by a gifted maniac played by Timothy Van Patten (Master Ninja). Unable to get any help from the school’s useless principal, the feud escalates an innocent student (a young Michael J. Fox) is stabbed and King’s pregnant wife is raped. King then proceeds to (understandably) freak the fuck out and go all Charles Bronson on the young punks’ asses in an insane showdown that’ll have you screaming “Fuck yeah!” more times than an unimaginative porn star faking her way to fame and fortune.

Definitely the best revenge flick from the ’80s that doesn’t star Linda Blair, Class of 1984 not only does for teenagers what Jaws did for oceans and Psycho did for showers, but it features a great performance by Roddy McDowell as another teacher pushed over the edge by his rowdy pupils, as well as a memorable theme song written and performed by Alice Cooper. —Allan Mott

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A brand-new groom strangles himself to death with his tie at his own wedding reception. A young woman running track experiences such a sudden jolt of speed that she literally can’t slow or stop until the bones snap out of her legs. On his wife’s 70th birthday, a man leaps through the window of their apartment building. Just before these acts, all three mention a “green monkey.” Call me crazy, but I think they just might be related.

Poison? No. Drugs? No. The Hypnotist? Hmmm … we may be on to something.

And for a while, this Japanese thriller is as well, as authorities attempt to draw the line that connects the three tragedies. What director Masayuki Ochiai does wrong is then steer the story from a procedural mystery to the supernatural element of the “creepy young girl” then so prevalent and in vogue among Asian cinema — and soon in American remakes. Even with accompanying surreal set design that suggests hiring Dr. Caligari as a contractor, what was interesting becomes unimaginative and tiresome. —Rod Lott

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Every time my wife leaves town, the house is dead silent. But in Death Game, as soon as George’s wife leaves town — on his 40th birthday, no less — two hotties knock on the door, looking for an address they can’t seem to find. George (Seymour Cassel, whose voice is obviously, horribly dubbed for some reason) lets them in, and they’re quite impressed by his digs: “Hey, that bathroom of yours is far-out!”

Seconds later, Jackson (Sondra Locke) and Donna (Colleen Camp) are stripped naked in his Jacuzzi bath, and approach him for a threesome. George protests, but they grab his crotch and, literally, the waka-waka disco music begins. ‘Tis a great night, but in the morning, a spent George is peeved they won’t get out of his house.

They have no intentions of going. In fact, they tie him up and “hold court,” pledging to kill him at the end of the weekend. Jackson goes all nom-nom-nom on his groceries like a brain-damaged pig (“You have the manners of an alley cat!” he screams), while Donna plays the piano horribly. Both fuck with his wife’s makeup so they look like they’re part of a troupe called Whore du Soleil, and cackle like the batshit-crazy loons they are. But, hey, Camp’s breasts.

This is Camp in her prime. She positively oozes sex, but the bland Locke oozes tapioca pudding. Death Game is all about punishing George for consuming two servings of underaged vagina, but the movie is ultimately pointless. However, with a bosom like Camp’s, who needs motive? The utter nonsense keeps you entertained, even when you want to throttle them. The final shot is a WTF howler. —Rod Lott

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I knew I was going to dig The Black Belly of the Tarantula from the opening credits, which depict a beautiful woman, fully nude, getting a professional massage under the unmistakable bed of Ennio Morricone music. To address the title, this giallo really should have used a wasp instead of a spider, given its subject matter and midway explanation. But hell, I get it: “Tarantula” sounds way cooler and way scarier.

Anyway, the movie: Someone is killing off Italy’s hottest naked women. We see little more than his (her?) mannequin-esque hands. This wasp (not WASP) fellow employs a one-two punch: first, a needle to the back of the neck of his victims to paralyze them, followed by a knife to the tum-tum for the kill. They’re alive and aware of the whole bloody ordeal, but physically unable to move. That’s hardcore!

Investigating the murders is Inspector Tellini, played by Giancarlo Giannini, whom I always get confused with Marcello Mastroianni, but that’s my problem, not the movie’s. Directed by Paolo Cavara (Mondo Cane), it has little wrong with it. Definitely near the top is Barbara Bach somehow managing to hide all her good parts, while all the other ladies in waiting (to die) have no such problem.

Interestingly, she’s one of three James Bond girls in the cast, alongside Thunderballer Claudine Auger and Barbara Bouchet from the 1967 version of Casino Royale. All are as Royale-y sexy as this thriller is twisted. The one scene with an actual tarantula and a pair of tongs gave me the shivers. —Rod Lott

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