Alejandro Jodorowsky is a transcendental madman. He’s everything a master of eclecticism who is consistently creating in this world should be, but, as the dollar reigns supreme over us all, sadly can’t be, no matter how hard he tries. That should be obvious given his scant track record of film, placated through other forms of art.

But the mercilessly beautiful tale of Santa Sangre took him from the realm of suspected hippie storyteller to proven grandfather of spiritual interpretation, as the film takes us not only on a journey throughout the life of Fenix, but the life of all of Jodorowsky’s obsessions and damnations, from holy cults and bosomy circus folk to maternal obsessions and the Invisible Man.

Jodorowsky’s sons Adan and Axel are Fenix, young and old, respectively. As a child in the circus, he sees far too much death and sex, and soon, they become intertwined, from his mother obsessively believing in a folkloric saint to his father’s demonic womanizing, all done under an American flag. After another night of bloated cheating, Mom throws acid all over Dad’s penis and, in turn, he slices her arms off.

Having been in an asylum where he is surrounded by mentally handicapped children for most of his life, Fenix sees his mother standing outside his window and escapes — and, in turn, becomes her arms. While I’m sure that’s healthy, it gets worse as Mom can’t stand Fenix thinking about any other women and kills them all, often in the most gorgeously giallo of ways.

A hauntingly challenging film consistently filled with beautiful darkness and feral wonder, I consider this to be Jodorowsky’s apex as a director, taking himself, Fenix and especially the viewer to the ultimate outreaches of religious ecstasy and unholy forgiveness, a combination few directors — if any — could truly present on screen. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

When people talk trailers, someone inevitably scoffs, “They show all the good parts.” As if that’s a bad thing? It certainly isn’t in the world that exists underneath mainstream motion pictures. From blaxploitation to sexploitation with a whole heap o’ horror in between, Film Trauma’s Only the Good Parts dishes out a feature’s worth of proof — 39 trailers in all, roughly organized in themes that include badass broads, possession pics, killer kids, Italian ick and sacrilegious sinners.

Like the pair of Colour Correct My Cock compilations, the general selection is noteworthy for overall naughtiness and alternative versions. For example, prepare those loins for the one-two pubic punch of the French trailer for Jess Franco’s Barbed Wire Dolls and the German trailer for Franco’s Love Camp. Those are followed by the Franco-adjacent rump romp Rolls Royce Baby, in which muse Lina Romay is so naked so often, you’ll have (to quote ourselves) “an image of her vagina so thorough and vivid, you could accurately draw it from memory.” Look for Franco’s less dirty-minded but no less nude Demoniac later in the program.

For other name-brand directors, we get Ted V. Mikels’ 10 Violent Women and Al Adamson’s Nurse Sherri, heavy on comparing itself to The Exorcist. A rung — if not an entire ladder — higher on the credibility ladder stands David Cronenberg’s The Brood and Larry Cohen’s creatively effective campaign for It’s Alive and It Lives Again, matched in advertising genius only by whoever wrote the tagline for the X-rated slasher Evil Come, Evil Go: “She’s a Man-Hating, Hymn-Humming Hell Cat!”

Finally, when it comes to the grail of coming attractions — I speak, of course, of obscurities — Only the Good Parts giveth and giveth. I wouldn’t swear on this in the court of law, but I don’t recall even hearing of the likes of The Johnsons, Alley Cat and Beware My Brethren. That goes quadruple for Parts’ greatest piece, She Did It His Way, a 1968 vehicle for seriously stacked stripper Kellie Everts filmed at the Miss Nude Universe Pageant. I’m still not sure what the movie’s about, but it looks life-changing.

All this plus Roger Moore as The Man Who Haunted Himself, the pencil-eraser nipples of Werewolf Woman, a whip-crackin’ Coffin Joe and so much more. And remember, “You’ve not seen all of Marilyn Chambers until you’ve seen Angel of Heat.” —Rod Lott

Get it at Film Trauma or Amazon.