Crazy Nights (1978)

As the story surrounding Crazy Nights goes, French sex symbol/disco queen Amanda Lear thought she was shooting a documentary about herself. Instead, she was tricked into hosting a mondo movie of most prurient interests.

Why was she targeted? Her ideal last name notwithstanding, one guesses Lear represented the perfect mix of naïveté, narcissism and affordability. How strange to think a director as upstanding Joe D’Amato (Deep Blood) would engage in such chicanery when just a year before, he advanced the art of cinema by filming a woman masturbating a horse. Ethics? Neigh.

The finished product — Crazy Nights, not a wrist coated with stallion semen — is a look at either “sordid pleasures from around the world” or “the wild, wicked world of night.” Take your pick; either way, its bits are obviously staged and embarrassing enough for Lear to bring legal action — an act that earned the picture scads more attention than it deserves, then and now.

After a cape-clad Lear performs her hit song “Follow Me,” we’re supposed to do just that, and believe me when I say strap in, because the ride will be bumpy. By definition, mondo movies are supposed to be weird, but when Tokyo frickin’ Japan is the site of the most “normal” activity of all — a woman and man bite strips of newspaper from the other’s unclothed body — you know something is seriously off. Mondon’t.

Our globetrotting tour of kink, mink and stink begins at a Vegas stage show, where one lucky audience member is bamboozled into fucking a goat. Next, in an underground cavern located in a country I didn’t catch (like it matters), a couple copulates atop an altar, prompting the men watching to hike their numbered black robes up just enough to form a human millipede. Much later, a ballerina act in Stockholm proves to viewers once and for all that, by gum, blue is the warmest color.

An S&M hotel in Berlin affords an unclothed elderly man his fantasy of getting nailed. Oh, I don’t mean intercourse — I mean a woman in leather hammers a metal spike into his genitals. (To each his own, recht?)

Meanwhile, in Beirut, a witch demonstrates her ability to levitate things: first, a toupee (yes, of course the string is visible); then, penises. Move over, Peter Popoff!

Do you like magic? Wait, don’t answer yet! A magician in Marseille produces live doves, colored hankies and more — all from the vagina of his assistant. Okay, now answer.

I have neither the wherewithal nor fortitude to talk about the panther, the suspenders, the gender-switcheroo box, the necrophile or the excruciatingly explicit blowjob. I will tell you that Lear appears in between segments to show off her property. Finally, in a gold jumpsuit and on a motorcycle, she returns at the end to sing another hit, “Enigma (Give a Bit of Mmh to Me).” Then, as the credits roll, she tries on wigs. —Rod Lott

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The Terror Within II (1991)

All I recall about 1989’s The Terror Within is that I’ve seen it. Going into The Terror Within II, retention doesn’t matter, were you so worried. The opening titles fill in any narrative blanks with broad, questionably need-to-know strokes: Biological warfare beget an apocalypse and “grotesque genetic mutations.”

Andrew Stevens (Munchie Strikes Back) isn’t one of those, but he’s back toplining as David — not to mention making his directorial debut and writing the screenplay. Roaming the post-apoc desert where everything, per all of Roger Corman’s Concorde Pictures, is uncomfortably too orangey, David and his glue-on beard spear a lizard for chow and communicate with his peeps back at Rocky Mountain Lab. There, scientists (including Stevens’ mom, Poseidon Adventure victim Stella) rush to formulate a vaccine to combat an unpredictable virus, but conspiracy-duped parents upend school board meetings they lack key ingredients David hopes to find. Until then, Full Metal Jacket’s R. Lee Ermey — and you’re not gonna believe this — shouts orders.

This being a Terror Within movie, there’s a terror, all right — but since it’s prowling the sands, it’s not yet within. It’s also not yet seen, depicted only by an arm swatting into frame and, for the rare POV shot, a completely blue screen. (Folks, in just three years’ time, cinematographer Janusz Kaminski would go from blue to black and white … and win the cinematography Oscar for Schindler’s List.)

Soon, David witnesses a young man and woman grappling with the creature. Following a fruitless attempt at subjugation by boomerang, the man dies, but David pledges to watch after the poor sap’s sister, Ariel (Clare Hoak, Cool World). Not even a day passes before Ariel thanks David with a guided tour of her uterus.

Ariel does not afford the terror within this same pleasure; it simply takes her from behind — but tastefully, y’know, because Stevens shows us just one thrust. Later, at the lab, when she’s scanned for pregnancy, we get a hilarious animation of a lone white sperm (David’s) peacefully flagellatin’ its way into her egg … momentarily followed by one black sperm (the terror’s), spikes and all, aggressively shoving in for sloppy seconds. The resulting infant is so hideous, not even principled YouTube influencers would hesitate to rehome it.

Somewhere between the crawling in the air ducts, the “Come to Papa!” quip and especially the reveal of the monster looking like a grown man dipped in marinara and sporting a head hernia, you realize you’re watching a simultaneous rip-off of Alien and Aliens … and then asking yourself, “Why?” —Rod Lott

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The Crowded Sky (1960)

A Technicolor template for the Airport franchise, The Crowded Sky gets its title from two planes headed straight for one another: a California-to-D.C. Navy jet and a D.C.-to-California airliner.

The two-man military jet is flown by Cmdr. Heath (Efrem Zimbalist Jr., Hot Shots!), shortly after his hot, estranged wife (Rhonda Fleming, The Nude Bomb) eschews accountability for the fact penises not attached to his body tend to make their way into hers. Add in that Heath was responsible for a midair collision a few years prior, and one understands why an enlistee (Troy Donahue, Palm Springs Weekend) is hesitant to take the passenger seat, but being pressed for time, has no other choice.

Piloting the Trans States flight is past-his-prime Dick Barnett (Dana Andrews, ironic considering his eventual plot function in Airport 1975), who’s none too pleased archenemy John Kerr (Roger Corman’s The Pit and the Pendulum) has been assigned co-piloting duties. Meanwhile, Kerr’s distracted by his affair with the lead stewardess (Anne Francis, TV’s Honey West), who’s pushing for a ring with rather unconventional, that-settles-that justification: “I’m the ex-champ of tramps, and ex-tramps make the best wives.” Incidentally, her name is Kitty.

While much of the movie is devoted to flashbacks detailing these turbulent relationships, Crowded Sky director Joseph Pevney (Man of a Thousand Faces) and writer Charles Schnee (The Bad and the Beautiful) make a choice to grant their most notable passengers a backstory as well — exposition via voice-over. A TV scribe (Keenan Wynn, Bikini Beach) hits on his seatmate (Jean Willes, Abbott and Costello Go to Mars) without realizing they used to be lovers. On the other side of the aisle, a sad sack (Louis Quinn, Superchick) wants to hit on his seatmate (Hollis Irving, Frogs), but has no game; she’d welcome the attention, but tells herself, “Too bad I’m a dog.” Rough!

Pevney moves among these internal monologues so quickly, they unintentionally carry comic beats, as if the characters are popping out of hidey-holes within Laugh-In’s “joke wall” just long enough to deliver their lines. Although Airplane! exists because of 1957’s Zero Hour! (which also plopped Andrews in the cockpit), the parody clearly cribbed its thought-bubble bit from the Sky.

Speaking of bubbles, this one’s full of soap — like Peyton Place at 20,000 feet, back when commercial air travel was considered a novel, even glamorous venture. So why not have a society’s worth of trouble play out above the clouds? With Airport a decade on the horizon, the disaster portion is secondary — if even that high — on The Crowded Sky’s ladder of importance; had Pevney and Schnee excised the threat of physical danger, audiences still would be left with an outmoded riot.

Having said that, wow, am I thankful they didn’t! With the movie making good on its titular promise in the home stretch, the collision and aftermath are a marvel of miniature work — a sequence well worth a rewind. Inside the cabin, preparing passengers for a crash landing, Kitty instructs them to remove their false teeth. As many periled-plane pictures as I’ve seen, I’ve never seen that. —Rod Lott

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Midnight Matinees: Cult Cinema Classics (1896 to the Present Day)

I was looking forward to reading Douglas Brode’s Midnight Matinees: Cult Cinema Classics (1896 to the Present Day so much, I didn’t realize until after reading that its main title is — like “jumbo shrimp” and “military intelligence” — a true oxymoron. Intended or not, this catchy term operates in the spirit of many of the movies featured, from absurdist to rebellious. I welcome that attitude of levity.

What the world doesn’t need now — or tomorrow — is yet another introduction on what makes a cult film. At least Douglas Brode frames his intro with his personal experiences growing up, so we get it from a specific POV vs. a one-size-fits-all overview. That’s one of the three things I like about the book from BearManor Media, which published his 2015 appreciation of the movies’ femme fatale, Deadlier than the Male. Before we get to the other positives, let’s get the negatives out of the way. They number a few.

As mentioned in my review of Deadlier, Brode has a chronic spelling problem with names; for example, witness “Caesar” Romero, Frank “Miler,” “Cybil” Shepherd, “Rickie” Lake and, as noted in his entry on The Cabin in the Woods, that star Chris Hemsworth soon joined the Marvel Cinematic Universe as the superhero “Thorn.”

It’s especially disheartening to see the errors spread to the headers for some of the featured films’ reviews. For example, the piece on Requiem for a Dream botches the first word as “Requium.” Meanwhile, Tangerine becomes “Tangarine” and Teaserama becomes “Teasearama.”

Maybe that’s why Brode chose to abbreviate titles after first mention? While not present in the two Brode books I’ve previously read, such a practice is perfectly understandable when those abbreviations are known and logical, like “ID4” or “T2” (neither of which are in Midnight Matinees, for the record). But, for example, has anyone ever referred to When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth as “W.D.R.T.E.”? And abbreviating single-world titles is just lazy, such as “F.” for Fitzcarraldo. Not even people are immune! Just ask “S.T.” (Oh, Shirley Temple.)

More baffling to me is the way each film is rated, which is to say multiple, complicated and overly specific ratings on the five-star scale. No description would better convey what I mean than just showing you. Here are his ratings for The Doors:

Val Kilmer Fan Rating: *****
Jim Morrison Fan Rating: ****
Doors (The Band) Fan Rating: ** 1/2
Oliver Stone directorial Rating: *

And for Hard Candy:

Ellen (now Elliot) Page Afficionado Rating: *****
General Cult Rating: *

In either case, I’m unsure what purpose the ratings serve. Since they’re rarely directly explained in the reviews, I started ignoring them. Or maybe I just became more distracted by several of Brode’s picks: a lot of Oscar bait. Marriage Story is a cult film? Little Miss Sunshine? Hugo? Roma? Crash? (Haggis, not Cronenberg.) Really?

deadlierthanEnough complaining. Now for the rest of Midnight Matinees’ positives. As I already knew from Deadlier than the Male (as well as Brode’s Fantastic Planets, Forbidden Zones, and Lost Continents: The 100 Greatest Science-Fiction Films, not from BearManor), Brode is fun to read. Although he’s taught film at the collegiate level, his writing doesn’t reflect hallowed halls — meaning it’s neither pompous nor stodgy; in fact, it may not curry favor in the academic world, especially when it’s as zero-fucks-given as his recounting of Andy Warhol’s Bad: “Hideous looking females slowly stab adorable dogs to death and toss innocent babies from rooftops.”

Speaking of Warhol, the artist’s eight-hour shot of the Empire State Building, Empire, is among the 500-plus titles chosen for inclusion. Yes, so are the usual suspects — basically almost everything on the cover — but he also tosses in the unexpected, such as the 1945 musical Ziegfeld Follies, the Spanish snuff thriller Tesis and the 1901 short What Happened on 23rd Street, New York. Those types of picks are the discoveries one hopes to get from such books. He also throws a couple of curveballs in the form of the critically reviled box-office bombs The Dark Tower and Welcome to Marwen. He may be before the curve there, but at least he’s taking a risk. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon or BearManor Media.

The Dark (1979)

Originally to be directed by Tobe Hooper, this John “Bud” Carlos joint stars a haggard William Devane as Roy, a disheveled ex-con who, thankfully, happens to be a bestselling author. When his daughter is ripped limb from limb walking home late one night, it starts a killing spree down the scummiest streets of Los Angeles, which is most of them.

Besides routinely harassing the mostly useless cops on the case, Devane also finds time to bed reporter Cathy Lee Crosby, so at least he’s got his priorities straight, right? Meanwhile, the killer slices up a few more pedestrians, always with a low-rent light show beforehand, which tells me that this murderer ain’t a typical Angelino.

Turns out he’s actually an alien and, in the Star Wars-esque prologue, he’s here to test out his extraterrestrial camouflage, or something to that effect. Either way, Predator 2 did it better, which is really nothing to brag about.

While the space monster, when we finally get to see it, is less than impressive — most of the time he’s just got laser eyes to differentiate him — but at least that’s something entertaining. Otherwise, for the rest of the running time, it’s just a somewhat all-star cast of Devane, Crosby, Richard Jaeckel and Keenan Wynn — and look, it’s Casey Kasem as a coroner! — standing around arguing, flirting or both.

And let’s not forget the strange subplot about an aging psychic named — and named only — De Renzy.

According to Cardos, in the original Hooper treatment, The Dark was supposed to be about a mentally handicapped shut-in who roams the streets murdering whoever gets in his way after his abusive parents die in a fire; here, it’s just about a space monster, with no real rhyme or reason for the killing, with the exception of that bit about camouflage.

To be fair, that other bit sounds terrible as well. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

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