Satanico Pandemonium (1975)

Back in my zine days, sometime in the ’90s, I traded ad space for a handful of VHS dubs, bootlegs of flicks not available in America legitimately. One of these tapes was the Mexican movie Satanico Pandemonium, a nunsploitation film with a moral message: to not make a deal with Lucifer.

It’s worked so far.

Comely Sister Maria (the oft-nude Cecilia Pezet) is picking wildflowers one afternoon, as nuns did in the days of the Inquisition, when she meets Lucifer himself (the oft-sleazy Enrique Rocha). After tempting her with a very red apple, he promises to make her Mother Superior if she gives in to his unholy caterwauling.

Of course, she does, seducing the town’s young goat herder, forcing a nun to hang herself, and strangling the O.G. Mother Superior after unleashing a torrent of blasphemies. As a celebration, the remainder of the nunnery strips down and dances around in a Satanic bacchanalia that would make a medieval woodcut artist justifiably proud.

With not one, not two, but three shocking endings, Satanico Pandemonium — subtitled La Sexorcista for reasons unknown — has gained notoriety in the past 20 years as being the inspiration for Salma Hayek’s vampire queen in From Dusk Till Dawn. But, beyond that name check, the film stands on its own cloven hooves just fine, a bloody gem from comedian Tin-Tan’s director of choice, Gilberto Martínez Solares. —Louis Fowler

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Reading Material: Short Ends 5/23/20

In the same vein as his book on sci-fi and horror films of the same era, Mark Thomas McGee covers a decade’s worth of JD and other teenage-targeted movies with Teenage Thunder: A Front Row Look at the 1950s Teenpics. After a meaty introduction to the subgenre, McGee gets to the main course: full A-to-Z reviews of enough movies to fill a few swell jalopies, with Elvis Presley, Mamie Van Doren and Roger Corman turning up everywhere. Rather than quoting other critics to give context on the films’ reception, McGee instead quotes the actual exhibitors, which yields some lines as vicious as any from a poisoned pen; says one of Teenagers from Outer Space, “better to leave the house dark for three nights.” The BearManor Media paperback squeaks through with a few glaring errors (one “Capital” Records is forgivable; multiple instances of Dick “Clarke” are not), but the book is so much fun, it’s nearly essential. To borrow the tagline from the poster for Rock, Pretty Baby!, it’s the most! The greatest! It’s crazy, man, crazy!

Where were you in 1962? If you were alive, perhaps in a theater watching To Kill a Mockingbird, The Manchurian Candidate or any number of landmark films the year brought. With Cinema ’62: The Greatest Year at the Movies:, Stephen Farber and Michael McClellan make the case for those 12 months being an absolute peak for Hollywood celluloid. We’ve all heard similar claims laid for 1939 and, more recently, 1999, but 1962? Nope, never — not until right now. They don’t convince me — every year brings its share of four-star winners — but they do succeed in crafting a credible, critical narrative of an art form in transition, with chapters covering the foreign-film revolution, the loosening of sexual morals onscreen, the increasing influence of psychoanalysis and, naturally, the move from black and white to glorious Technicolor. In hardcover from Rutgers University Press, Cinema ’62 registers as a brainier take on Peter Biskind’s style, but not nearly as breezy and boisterous.

Spoiler Alert!: The Badass Book of Movie Plots is part screenwriting manual, part humor title and part graphic novel. From the minds of Stephen Espinoza, Kathleen Killian Fernandez and Chris Vander Kaay (the latter two of whom co-authored 2018’s Indie Science Fiction Cinema Today), the Laurence King Publishing paperback is nothing if not colorful. But it’s more than that, too, breaking down the beats of 38 film subgenres — e.g., Teen Sex Comedy, the Disaster Movie, the Superhero Origin Film, the Erotic Thriller, the Animal Attack Horror and so on — in three acts. The result is like a bunch of Mad magazine parodies of movies that don’t exist … except they kinda do! The authors have nailed the hundreds of clichés still permeating the pictures produced today. While the book is well-designed, its cutesy-verging illustrations belie the mildly wicked humor to be found in the word balloons. —Rod Lott

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Gloria (2014)

WTFI’ve been in lust with notorious superstar Gloria Trevi since I first caught her film debut, Pelo Suelto, on a Spanish-language channel sometime in the mid-’90s. With her brazen sexuality and the willingness to exploit it, what better romantic icon for a lost boy with burgeoning erections and a love of catchy tunes?

What I didn’t know, however, is the hell she was being put through by her manager, Sergio Andrade. A music producer and sexual predator who ran his services like a religious cult, he constantly brought in scantily clad scads of young women to fill his hit-making coffers, as well as his eternal erotic pleasure.

The whole downbeat drama is documented in Gloria, featuring a highly praised performance by Sofía Espinosa as the acclaimed queen of Mexican pop. Starting as a street urchin looking for fame and fortune on the music charts, Trevi quickly comes under the spell of Andrade (Marco Pérez), grooming her into Latin America’s biggest star.

Eventually, it leads to a chaotic life on the run, filled with more perverse twists than a whole season of a telenovela, including dead babies, underage accusations and, ultimately, Brazilian incarceration. Answering many of the dirty rumors about what happened during this time, director Christian Keller does away with both sides of the story, instead telling Gloria’s version of the facts.

Espinosa miraculously becomes Trevi, with her raspy voice, torn shirts and intense demeanor; it’s horrific though to see this Mexican symbol of personal liberation and sexual freedom was actually a talented slave to the very life she sang both about and against. The film does her story absolute justice.

But, in case you’re wondering, she’s doing much better now, still making hits. —Louis Fowler

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The Mandela Effect (2019)

A psych-101 Reddit thread drives the plot of David Guy Levy’s The Mandela Effect, referring to the phenomenon of “remembering” something that has never been true, whether it’s Curious George having a tail or the Monopoly man wearing a monocle. However insignificant these false pop-culture memories are in real life, they’re bestowed with literal life-or-death stakes in this screen telling.

Video game designer Brendan (Charlie Hofheimer, an alum of Levy’s Would You Rather) learns of the theory from his brother-in-law (Robin Lord Taylor, John Wick: Chapter 3 — Parabellum). Perhaps because Brendan is grieving the drowning death of his daughter (Madeleine McGraw, Ant-Man and the Wasp), he latches onto the theory with an unhealthy fervor. Before long, he’s stalking a college professor (Outland’s Clarke Peters, obviously a Morgan Freeman stand-in) who believes Brendan is witnessing the result of alternate realities colliding, and whose quantum computer can allow them to alter the world’s “code” so they can bring the girl back to life. Or something like that.

Providing no shortage of Big Ideas, Levy and his Would You Rather collaborator Steffen Schlachtenhaufen have the makings of a Matrix-style head-tripper, but the pertinent information to transition into that all-important third act is delivered with such immediacy (as opposed to urgency) that the climax feels rushed — which truly may be the case, as the film clocks in at a brief 80 minutes, credits included. Had Brendan and the professor looked before they leapt, so to speak, The Mandela Effect might have resonated with its intended power. Lost in that sprint is a late subplot about the mental state of Brendan’s wife (Aleksa Palladino, The Irishman), although she does pop back up just long enough to contract what looks to be a medical condition known in the field as Jenga Face.

The fun of the film is all upfront, if viewers know to look for hidden-in-plain-sight examples of the Mandela effect before the narration alerts you to them; it’s like playing Life magazine’s Picture Puzzle feature, in which readers are challenged to spot the differences between two photos. With paranoia brewing stronger as the story progresses, one wonders what a director with demonstrated skill in this arena before — say, Pi’s Darren Aronofsky or Primer’s Shane Carruth — could do with it. —Rod Lott

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Commando Zorras (2006)

With an English title that basically translates to Slut Commando — my favorite kind of commando, natch — this shot-on-video movie from Mexico stars Jenny Lore as conservative teacher Brenda. When one of her pupils is kidnapped by a devil-worshipping drug lord — a narcosatanico! — she must go undercover to track this little girl down.

And where does her investigation lead her? To a strip club in some dude’s living room where no one ever actually gets nude, but there is an owner who snorts copious amounts of nose candy and forgives easily. Brenda, after singing a song of romance instead of getting naked, eventually tells the other dancers about her life before she was a teacher.

Seems that, as a child, Brenda and her brother were taken in by a highly secretive arm of the Texas Rangers that teaches things to children like martial-arts skills, computer hacking and I think medical training; even worse, while on a mission, her brother was killed by a narcosatanico — the very same one who has kidnapped said little girl!

After a montage of Brenda training the strippers to become expert ninjas and prime marksmen, they break into the drug lord’s barely guarded fortress — which resembles a theater-in-the-round, actually — and all hell breaks loose, literally. Thanks for nothing, Satan.

If you can get past the cheap-looking wipes and fades, there is a stupidly intriguing story here, one that is padded with so many watchable scenes of fully clothed sensuality and Luciferian spin kicks, it’s hard to hate it. Throw in the most miraculous ending ever — a cripple walks! — and Commando Zorras is guaranteed to bump and grind for a caustically throbbing 80 minutes. —Louis Fowler

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