The Cannon Film Guide: Volume I, 1980-1984

Look, here is everything I dislike about Austin Trunick’s The Cannon Film Guide: Volume I, 1980-1984:
• Volume II is not yet available.
Volume III is not yet available.

Otherwise, this book is B-movie gold.

Anyone who has seen Mark Hartley’s amazing 2014 documentary, Electric Boogaloo: The Wild, Untold Story of Cannon Films, knows that when it comes to The Cannon Group — and Israeli cousins/co-owners Menahem Golan and Yoran Globus — no shortage of great stories exists.

Whereas Hartley was limited to a manageable running time, print carries no such burden, and Trunick takes full advantage of that freedom — as if the behind-the-scenes book being broken into a trilogy weren’t already a dead giveaway. For example, Hartley’s doc recounted Golan and Globus’ decision to flip the order of the first two films in Chuck Norris’ Missing in Action franchise, but Trunick shares the full, more complicated details. While he may not have A-list access in terms of interviewees, he has the luxury of getting to plumb the depths of the deets … and strikes the mother lode.

Starting with 1980’s The Happy Hooker Goes Hollywood, Golan and Globus’ first release after purchasing Cannon, Trunick devotes a chapter to each movie they theatrically released in the United States. Yes, that means The Last American Virgin and Ninja III: The Domination, but it also means such forgotten oddities as Seed of Innocence and Over the Brooklyn Bridge — the latter of which was advertised and opened with the wrong iconic bridge, the Manhattan, which Golan brushed off thusly: “Eh, a bridge is a bridge.”

While the standout chapters are — no shock — about the making of Cannon’s bread-and-butter classics (those referenced on the book’s cover tagline: “Ninjas! Breakdancers! Death Wishes!”), I confess it may be even more fun to read about Cannon’s legendary failures and the misbehavior that contributed to their downfall. For example, That Championship Season’s legitimate awards-season bid goes up in flames at the premiere when notorious alcoholic Robert Mitchum decides to hurl a basketball into a woman’s face. Then there the diva demands of Brooke Shields’ mother, Teri, “working” as a first-time producer on the flop adventure Sahara with bold displays of ego strokes — and swaths! — bested only by John and Bo Derek on the ill-fated sex romp Bolero. (And that’s really saying something when we also have Faye Dunaway at play, as The Wicked Lady.)

The misbehavior extends to Golan and Globus, of course, particularly in getting a Hercules sequel out of Lou Ferrigno under the guise of reshoots, so they wouldn’t have to pay him!

The book is well-researched, with only a few factual nits to pick, from incorrectly identifying the boxing drama Body and Soul as the first time Leon Isaac Kennedy and Jayne Kennedy shared the big screen (don’t forget Death Force!) and the campus comedy Making the Grade as the movie that gave us Andrew “Dice” Clay (it was Wacko), to denying poor Robert MacNaughton his due by giving credit for his role as the big brother in E.T. to Sean Frye. (Elsewhere, I’ll let the misspelling of Jon Voight’s name slide since the man has become a lunatic.)

When available, Q&As with key players supplement the film discussions. Again, Trunick may not have landed interviews with above-the-title talent, but everyone he did get adds considerable insight and value, including The Apple’s Catherine Mary Stewart, frequent helmer Sam Firstenberg (Revenge of the Ninja) and uncredited Exterminator 2 director William Sachs.

Published by BearManor Media and numbering more than 525 pages, this first Cannon Film Guide is as thorough as you’d hope it would be. Initially, I thought I might skip reading about the movies I disliked or had no interest in seeing, but that proved futile, because Trunick’s work is excellently entertaining. Less than 48 hours later, I had devoured every word. Given that Volume II promises to spotlight Cannon’s golden age, I cannot wait for more. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon or BearManor Media.

The Couch (1962)

Psychotherapy has existed for centuries … and yet so has its stigma. Perhaps it’s because films like The Couch, where the emphasis is on the suffix — something bound to happen when you hire Psycho scribe Robert Bloch as your screenwriter.

In the first scene, a young man named Charles Campbell (The Incredible Shrinking Man himself, Grant Williams) calls the police to report a murder — one that’s about to happen, as the clock strikes 7 p.m. Sure enough, he’s absolutely correct, because at the top o’ the hour, Charles inserts an ice pick through the back of a random person on the street. More homicides follow, all with the “1900 hours” gimmick.

But, hey, other than that, Charles is a normal dude! He lives in a dingy boardinghouse, works as a lowly stock clerk in a paper factory and regularly attends therapy with Dr. Janz (Onslow Stevens, Them!), whose secretary (Shirley Knight, Beyond the Poseidon Adventure) he romances. This culminates in ol’ Chuck stealing scrubs and running loose in a hospital, prepared to perform surgery on somebody to keep all his killer secrets from being exposed.

If director Owen Crump (an Oscar-nominated documentarian who dreamed up the story with that S.O.B. Blake Edwards) intended for Charles to be sympathetic, he failed. Pouty and inclined to perspiration, Charles is no Norman Bates, even if his backstory is equally unsavory. Williams’ choice to overplay the histrionics further alienate him from audience goodwill, raising those scenes — and flashbacks to Charles’ childhood — to a level of camp to which the remainder of The Couch is ill-prepared to scale. All of that leads to one good question: Why couldn’t William Castle have made this instead? —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Planet Wax: Sci-Fi/Fantasy Soundtracks on Vinyl

As a first grader, I distinctly remember sitting by my dad in front of the stereo cabinet, as he recorded a friend’s borrowed Star Wars soundtrack LP to reel-to-reel tape for my brother and I to listen to whenever we wanted, which was always. My only regret at the time is I wouldn’t — and didn’t — have the cardboard sleeve to gaze at while reliving George Lucas’ movie through John Williams’ instantly iconic score. (This was before the VCR invaded American households, folks.)

Aaron Lupton and Jeff Szpirglas would understand. That’s the experience Planet Wax: Sci-Fi/Fantasy Soundtracks on Vinyl exists to commemorate and celebrate. A sequel to their last year’s Blood and Black Wax, Lupton and Szpirglas pivot from the music that fuels famous horror films to the tunes of that misunderstood genre’s more beloved big brothers of science fiction and fantasy. This follow-up is every bit the keeper.

Once again from 1984 Publishing, the full-color hardcover looks sleek and gorgeous. As with the previous volume, Lupton and Szpirglas give each featured album a page to itself, with a brief (but highly knowledgeable) essay running underneath the cover art commanding the space from left margin to right. Some discs earn extra pages, such as the multiple releases of the big Star franchises — Wars and Treks. Peppered throughout are sidebar interviews with select composers, from Stu Phillips (TV’s Battlestar Galactica) to Brad Fiedel (The Terminator).

SF fans will be delighted with the such soundtrack behemoths represented as Vangelis’ Blade Runner, Jerry Goldsmith’s Planet of the Apes, Basil Poledouris’ Conan the Barbarian (and the Destroyer) and John Williams’ Close Encounters of the Third Kind (not to mention Superman and Raiders and E.T. and Jurassic Park and …). The story behind the classical gas that is the 2001: A Space Odyssey LP is almost worth the purchase alone.

What those fans may not be as enthused about are the oddball choices the guys throw readers’ way, which actually kicks the book up several levels for me. This includes the accidentally kitsch disco rock of Cannon’s The Apple, Queen’s anthemic and unconventional Flash Gordon score, the largely electro compilation for The Matrix, the library cues used by the Spider-Man cartoon series of the late ’60s, Harry Nilsson’s much-derided Popeye songs and, of course, the chart-topping funkster known throughout the Milky Way as simply Meco. All hail Meco.

Hell, speaking of, there’s even a spread on Star Wars novelty albums! (As someone who wrote an article on the subject for issue #13 of the late Cool & Strange Music Magazine, I can attest a galaxy’s worth of those puerile platters could fill an entire book.)

You don’t have to be a vinyl collector to appreciate the wonder of Planet Wax. But if you are, do your damndest to seek out the Record Store Day edition dropping Aug. 28. Only available through participating stores, that limited edition of 1,000 copies includes a bonus 7-inch of Christopher Young’s two-part theme for Tobe Hooper’s Invaders from Mars, on an exclusive, slime-green slab! (You also get a numbered bookmark signed by both authors, but I wouldn’t attempt to play that.)

Whatever these two tackle next, my eyes — and ears — eagerly await. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

White Fire (1984)

Say the words “flamethrower” and “Robert Ginty,” and I’m excited to watch The Exterminator and/or Exterminator 2. But those words also apply to White Fire, a European action film that ultimately will extinguish your desire. For starters, Ginty isn’t the one who throws those flames, but he does get to rip into the flesh of his attackers with a Stihl chainsaw — a great element that, unfortunately, comes front-loaded with all the good stuff.

Ginty’s Bo is in the diamond-smuggling business, thanks to his loving sister, Ingrid (Belinda Mayne, Alien 2: On Earth), being employed by a mining company and using her assets to manipulate the CEO (Gordon Mitchell, Frankenstein’s Castle of Freaks). The siblings’ scheme is discovered by sleazy people who want in on it, just as a random miner lucks upon the fabled million-year-old White Fire diamond, a 2,000-carat rock so named because it’s radioactive, burning the hands of all who touch it.

What will burn your eyes, however, are the incestuous overtones between Bo and Ingrid, such as him freeing her towel from her nude body after she emerges from a swim, and voicing what a shame it is he’s her bro when she has a rockin’ bod like that. If you think that’s icky, just wait until he starts living with the prostitute Olga, who’s Ingrid’s spitting image — so much so that she’s also played by Mayne. Then again, White Fire comes written and directed by skin-flick filmmaker Jean-Marie Pallardy (Erotic Diary of a Lumberjack), for whom this kind of thing is NBD.

Shot in Istanbul (not Constantinople), White Fire introduces Fred Williamson (The New Gladiators) in the second half as a foil for Bo — a case to file under “Too Little, Too Late.” Ginty’s mealy-mouthed appeal is a peculiar one, with him forever in motion like a coke fiend. That he’s sold as some kind of sex symbol is hard to swallow; that’s he also sold as a guy who can karate-kick his way through a circle of heavily armed men is even harder. Nearly every backup goon looks like a Turkish Tom Savini, but only one gets bisected by a table jigsaw, testes first. —Rod Lott

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Terror Night (1987)

Commercially available under the alternate, slightly more generic title of Bloody Movie, Nick Marino’s Terror Night gathers a bunch of D-list has-beens ripe for the dispatching, including Alan Hale Jr., Aldo Ray, Dan Haggerty and Flick Attack Hall of Famer Cameron Mitchell.

But don’t worry — the usual 20-somethings playing teenagers get killed, too.

The murders go down at the abandoned mansion of silent matinee idol Lance Hayward, your rough-and-tumble Douglas Fairbanks type. The star hasn’t been seen in years, so the night before his condemned casa is to be torn down, several young couples sneak onto the property to check the place out. Someone is already there, however, and he dons a different costume from Hayward’s most famous film roles, complete with appropriate prop to kill. Because Hayward played Robin Hood, Zorro, pirates and other swashbucklers, you can expect death by arrow, sword, hook and whatnot.

This is a great gimmick for a slasher movie, making it more original than most — and apparently legally problematic, because with each murder, Marino splices in a few frames from the appropriate old film of Hayward’s. However, since Hayward doesn’t actually exist, the movies tend to be actual Fairbanks flicks, like The Thief of Bagdad.

Word on the street is this is why the 1987 film went unreleased until oh-so-quietly hitting 21st-century DVD. Word on the street also is that Marino, who never directed before or since, had uncredited “help” from one-eyed House of Wax helmer André De Toth and porn director Fred Lincoln (star of Wes Craven’s The Last House on the Left).

What we know for sure is this: The kill effects are pretty impressive, and VHS scream queen Michelle Bauer (Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama) ditches her biker leather to run around fully naked. And even if she didn’t, Terror Night deserves to be better-known. Copyright issues aside, it’s the single slasher most likely to be tolerated by your Paw-Paw next time you visit the nursing home. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

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