Ah, the 1970s. It was a time when leisure suits were appropriate camping wear, Leslie Nielsen was a dirty racist and any future environmental problems could be a rousing source of bloody entertainment, most notably in William Girdler’s Day of the Animals.

As a nameless town’s rural cops sit around playing cards, gaining weight and bitching about the ozone layer, Christopher George and his steel jaw lead a handful of city folk into the California mountains for a camping excursion. As the collection of white stereotypes — and one Native American played by Middle Eastern actor Michael Ansara, natch — walk the mountain range, a large bird follows them, watching their every move.

Apparently that’s all it takes, because after the opening night’s wolf attack, the animals go crazy, especially the birds, the cougars, the dogs and a rather docile bear. They attack in rather subdued ways that seem more like everyday maulings as opposed to CFC-inspired murders which, we are supposed to believe is the cause of their temporary insanity.

To be honest, the real wild animal here is a shirtless Nielsen, leading a pack of campers in the wrong direction while swinging a large stick around, slapping small children, calling old women “bitches” and plunging a spear into the chest a young Andrew Stevens, unaware that, many years later, his hands will be gently cupping the bare breasts of a willing Shannon Tweed in straight-to-cable flicks.

Nielsen, thankfully, meets his end when, in the rain, a bear attacks him in the middle of trying to rape a woman. (Now that I think about it, maybe these animals aren’t all that bad after all …)

While many people consider Grizzly to be Girdler’s magnum opus of animal-on-man killings, I highly suggest checking out Day of the Animals, much like my own dog did, watching the screen with one eye on the screen and one eye on me, licking his slobbering chops and mesmerized by every minute of it. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

Satan is a truly unholy pain in the ass, but many times I feel that homegrown satanists are even worse; white trash teens brandishing their stepdaddy’s antique .22, mishearing things on heavy metal albums and wreaking irritating havoc like shooting squirrels in a constant need for pathetic attention. Because that’s real life, right?

In movies, however, satanists always have Eurotrash accents, wear expensive clothes and are followed by an army of silent drones to do their bidding. “If only,” I found myself saying as I watched Baphomet, a film released by Cleopatra Entertainment, the long-standing Goth record label that, I guess, is now fully entrenched in the movie business.

A pregnant woman (Rebecca Weaver) is staying at her family’s ranch when a slimy dude comes by, looking to buy the property — the guy, by the way, is the son of a high-ranking Satan-lover. When they tell him no, the devil worshippers get wicked-horny on them, killing the son-in-law in a shark attack (!) and the mother in a rattlesnake attack (meh).

The expectant woman decides to contact Cradle of Filth rocker Dani Filth — by instant messenger, natch — who in turn hooks him up with a movie-approved good witch who helps them take down the flippant satanists when they suddenly appear at their ranch, in a shootout sequence that eats up much of the film’s short running time.

There’s also a demon who suddenly appears at the end — I’m guessing that’s the titular Baphomet, but don’t quote me on that. He’s only onscreen for a few scant moments to strangely kill the cult leader, which seems pretty counterproductive if you ask me, but maybe he’s … a good guy?

For a horror film from a Goth record label, it does about as well as it can, which, sadly, is not very. It’s far too talky and — in the case of Dani Filth — far too silly to ever be believable, at least for me. But, you know, make a movie about a couple of kids throwing rocks through a church window and setting the Bible on fire in the woods while rocking out to Megadeth, then you guys might have a good movie. Might. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.