Munchie Strikes Back (1994)

Munchie strikes back in Munchie Strikes Back, in which the butt-ugly alien introduced in 1992’s singular Munchie is now voiced by a thoroughly desperate Howard Hesseman (Private Lessons). In this third entry in Roger Corman’s plural Munchies franchise, Munchie is sent by the gods to befriend Chris, a boy whose dad is dead and whose mom (Lesley-Anne Down, The Pink Panther Strikes Again) just got fired after refusing the sexual advances of her boss, Carlisle. Points to her, considering Carlisle is played by The Seduction’s Andrew Stevens, playing a character different from his Munchie role, yet in the exact same way.

Munchie and Chris (Trenton Knight, The Skateboard Kid 2) become instant pals, even though Munchie — given the ineptness of his puppeteers and the limitations of a Corman budget — stays partially hidden behind beds and in trash cans. Together, they play a Death Race 2000 video game, rig a lawnmower to run amok and cause counterfeit money to rain from the sky. When Carlisle starts nosing around, Munchie sticks firecrackers down the man’s pants, while Carlisle retaliates using potatoes.

In this kiddie film, returning director Jim Wynorski (Sorority House Massacre 2) teaches his young audience some 1990s-style values:
• Money is everything.
• Destruction of personal property is okay if it’s your next-door neighbor’s.
• Car wrecks are really way cool.
• Prune-faced gnomes are to be loved.

In the end, Munchie is sent to help Bill Clinton, as the credits threaten a fourth installment that never came to be: Munchie Hangs Ten. The series should be commended for its commitment to its own mythos, in that each movie contains a scene in which Munchie is captured in a garbage bag. —Rod Lott

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Baphomet (2021)

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

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Puzzle (1974)

Puzzle’s title refers to the amnesia of Peter (Luc Merenda, Shoot First… Die Later), a man who recalls nothing about himself eight months after a car accident. Shortly after the film begins, he’s fortunate enough to learn that he:
• has a wife named Sara (the splendiferous Senta Berger, Killing Cars)
• was a con artist who pissed off a lot of people
• is in possession of something for which said people are willing to kill

But whom and what? The movie’s very name clues viewers in that the best way to experience Puzzle is to go in knowing as little as possible, so you can investigate as much as Peter. To encourage that, I’ll reveal no further plot. Besides, you already know Chekov’s principle that if a chainsaw is left carelessly on the kitchen table in Act 1, it’s going to come in handy in Act 3, right?

Hitchcockian on paper, Puzzle comes well-constructed by co-writer Ernesto Gastaldi, who’s penned more great gialli than you have fingers, including Torso, All the Colors of the Dark, The Strange Vice of Mrs. Wardh, et al. If the screenplay can be faulted for anything, it’s that having so few characters makes the perp obvious sooner than director Duccio Tessari (The Bloodstained Butterfly) may have liked. Still, the film’s best sequence arrives after the reveal, with suspense simmering toward a strong boil as three separate elements in a room rather ingeniously threaten to place Sara in mortal danger. Tessari pays it off with intense slow-motion shots that make up for questionable close-ups of mouths (complete with crumbs on lips) early on.

Co-stars include Anita Strindberg (Lucio Fulci’s A Lizard in a Woman’s Skin); Bruno Corazzari (Fulci’s The Psychic), whose allergy-ridden character dispenses Kleenex as he does story points; and child Duilio Cruciani (Fulci’s Don’t Torture a Duckling). As usual with the giallo, the setting is so magnificent, Puzzle appears to have been made with the assistance of Italy’s tourism council. —Rod Lott

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Perdita Durango (1997)

From a dark and dirty novel by Barry Gifford, Perdita was originally a minor character in David Lynch’s Wild at Heart played by Isabella Rossellini. In Alex de la Iglesia’s dark and dirty film Perdita Durango, however — originally released in the States as the heavily edited Dance with the Devil — it transforms her sweltering story in a diabolical masterpiece that, like many of his films, deserves a rabid cult surrounding it.

Rosie Perez stars as the double-dealing Perdita, a damned soul who wanders south of the border looking good in her Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! outfit while searching for — and always finding — sex, drugs and murder. She meets her infernal match when she comes upon — and on — drug dealer and cult leader Romeo (Javier Bardem). After a rather bloody Santeria service, looking for hardcore kicks before their next score — a semi full of aborted fetuses to be used for cosmetics testing — they kidnap two white-bread teens from America.

Going further than Lynch probably ever could or would — and fans know how far he’ll go — de la Iglesia’s wicked hand fleshes out, in more ways than one, the black soul of the title character, never excusing her inner darkness like any filmmakers probably would have done, giving her a heart of gold. The casting of Perez is perfect for the film and, probably, for de la Iglesia himself, maiming and killing for laughs and looking good while doing it.

Bardem as Romeo, of course, is absolutely loathsome as you’d expect, a terrific foil with an evil glimmer in his eye for an equally filthy — and wholly diverse — supporting cast that includes James Gandolfini, Demian Bichir, Alex Cox and Screamin’ Jay Hawkins. It’s a collection of actors as dark and wild as the world of Durango herself. —Louis Fowler

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Strike Commando (1986)

Strike One to SAT Eagle! Strike One to SAT Eagle! As Sgt. Michael Ransom, Strike Commando star Reb Brown establishes a four-step schtick for not only his wronged-soldier character, but for the apex of his filmography. It goes a little something like this:
1. Walk a few steps before halting with purpose.
2. Recite the first name of thy enemy with anger.
3. Emit a scream as prolonged as possible …
4. … as you unload a machine gun in a back-and-forth motion to an excessive degree — ideally in equal time to item No. 3.

It works every time. He executes this bit several times throughout Strike Commando because it’s what Sly Stallone’s John Rambo would do, and Strike Commando could not exist without that big bowl of First Blood Part II. As staged by Italy’s primo cinema imitator, Bruno Mattei (Cruel Jaws), Ransom vows revenge on his traitorous superior, Radok (Christopher Connelly, 1990: The Bronx Warriors), for sabotaging a midnight mission in Vietnam that left all Ransom’s buddies dead.

“They all demand justice!” Ransom cries, clearly in a presumption on his part.

Radok thinks Ransom is no longer alive, either, but our hero somehow survives and somehowier slowly floats his way under miles of dirty water to the safety of a village whose populace greets him in mass whiteface. There, Ransom befriends a “Frenchman” (Luciano Pigozzi, the Italian Jack Elam, reuniting with Brown after Yor: The Hunter from the Future) and gains a li’l buddy in the boy Lao (Edison Navarro, Mattei’s Double Target). Lao quizzes Ransom on all things Disneyland; the American tells his young charge that at the park, popcorn and ice cream grow on trees. The fuck they do!

As with everyone Ransom so much as glances at, these poor saps soon are drained of their lifeblood as well, with Lao’s expiration an absolute classic of ’80s he-man cinema. With these deaths at the doing of Russian meat slab Jakota (Alex Vitale, Beyond the Door III), Ransom gains two opponents, and our one movie is all the better for it, affording us a thrifty montage of Ransom undergoing various acts torture; as viewers of the DVD-multipack-bin “favorite” The Firing Line know, these are the type of scenes in which Brown gives it his all.

While he lacks acting skills, Brown gives the movie something — something I failed to notice until watching Mattei’s 1988 follow-up, Strike Commando 2, in which Ransom is played instead by human blank Gwendoline’s Brent Huff. With this switcheroo, the sequel is such a snore, it needs a CPAP machine. Venture no further than original-recipe Strike Commando and all of its Rebness. As Joni Mitchell warned — and we ignored, so Counting Crows and Cinderella had to remind us — you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone. Also, there’s cockfighting. —Rod Lott

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