LSD: Psychedelic Trailers & Shorts (2020)

WTFHey, man, at your next happening — people still have those, right? — don’t stick a sugar cube atop a single tongue until you have the proper atmosphere for your guests.

And by that, I mean the two-hour compilation LSD: Psychedelic Trailers & Shorts. Where else can you be terrified one minute by Sal Mineo’s suggestion of being trapped in a refrigerator, then amused the next as grown adults romp amid a groovy bedroom set with “LSD” spelled on the wall in letters insinuating it’s all going down on the shadiest corner of Sesame Street? (And does it help that the second scenario unfolds to a score that sounds like a 3-year-old dicking around with a theremin?)

From the pushers at dvdrparty, the clip comp begins with the infamous animated chicken from the hysteria-stirring docudrama The Weird World of LSD, which isn’t even the strangest sight here for your bloodshot eyes. That honor goes to the Lockheed-funded classroom scare film LSD: A Case Study, in which a young blonde hallucinates that the hot dog she’s about to eat is screaming and has the face of a Troll doll.

Other scenes shove aside the acts of tuning in and dropping out to emphasize turning on. If it’s not dancing with abandon to dancing between frat-house sheets (Stephen C. Apostolof’s College Girls Confidential), it’s outlining your sex partner’s naked body with whipped cream (Neon Maniacs director Joseph Mangine’s Smoke and Flesh).

Elsewhere, a dozen trailers advertise all sorts of cinematic trips, including Roger Corman’s The Trip, Russ Meyer’s Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, the Lana Turner-starring The Big Cube and even the made-for-TV adaptation of Go Ask Alice. Whether taken in doses or all at once, the no-frills, far-out party disc presents some of the wackiest depictions of lysergic acid diethylamide ever to make their way to the bijou. —Rod Lott

Get it at dvdrparty.

Karzan, Master of the Jungle (1972)

Not that you needed it, but for further proof Italy never saw a movie trend it couldn’t rip off, I give you Karzan, Maitre de la Jungle, aka the Tarzan wannabe Karzan, Master of the Jungle, starring “Johnny Kissmuller Jr.” (actually Loaded Guns’ Armando Bottin) as the illiterate lord of the loincloth.

The setup Xeroxes the premise of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ legendary literary hero to a T (or should that be “to a K”?), as the male child of a well-to-do family is orphaned by tragedy and subsequently raised by apes in the African wild, acquiring formidable vine-swinging prowess as the years progress. In Karzan, the pith-helmeted, J&B-fueled members of an expedition go looking for this “fabulous creature.” Among them are the beautiful Jane Monica (Melù Valente, Blindman) and, serving as guide, a towering mute named Crazy (Attilio Severini, Viva! Django).

Much of the film by Coffin Full of Dollars’ Demofilo Fidani is taken up by the expedition traversing the harsh mistress known as nature. With every step, they teeter on the precipice of doom, with expository dialogue constantly reminding the viewer: “We haven’t got a chance,” “One bite means instant death,” et al. Most memorable among the close calls are Crazy’s use of a blow dart to kill the (obvious toy tarantula they call a) black widow atop Monica’s chest, followed by Crazy making good on his nickname by wrestling — and then biting — a poisonous snake. Of presumably less threat is the native tribe whose leader’s foreign-tongued babbling is dubbed to sound like Looney Tunes’ Tasmanian Devil.

When they finally meet Karzan (who looks not unlike the Samurai Cop himself, Mathew Karedas), they find him shacking up with the subservient Sheena-esque Shiran (Simone Blondell, Frankenstein’s Castle of Freaks), who’s literally so stupid she can’t even drink from a coconut without its milk judiciously spilling down her bare midriff.

Now is a good time to open the floor so I can answer your burning questions:
• “Does Karzan do the Tarzan yell?” If you consider every third note changed to avoid intellectual-property litigation and delivered with less confidence than Carol Burnett, then yes, you may.
• “What about the animals? I like the animals. Mommy takes me to the zoo for going potty. Can I see lots and lots and lots of animals?” Oh, heavens, yes! Prepare to see such exotic stock-footage sights as the giraffe, zebra, water buffalo, elephant, lion, rhinoceros and crocodile. Or is that an alligator? I get those two confused. You also will meet a chimp named Cika, credited as playing itself.
• “Pray tell, does the climax involve Karzan wrestling a man in a shoddy ape suit?” As a matter of f– wait, how did you know? —Rod Lott

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Enter the Devil (1972)

Warns the poster of Enter the Devil, “it’s too late for an exorcism!” But let’s give credit where credit is due, because director/co-writer Frank Q. Dobbs’ regional feature beat The Exorcist to theaters by a year — not that the movies are remotely similar, because this pic lacks possession, but a true exploitation filmmaker knows to use every trick in the book. (One of those tricks is retitling, which accounts for the alternate moniker of Disciples of Death, but don’t confuse this Enter the Devil with the Italian one better known on our public-domain shores as The Eerie Midnight Horror Show.)

After yet another hunter disappears in Brewster County, the sheriff (John Martin, The Tell-Tale Heart) sends Deputy Jase (co-screenwriter Dave Cass, Smokey and the Bandit Part 3) to sniff out some answers, what with it being an election year and all. That task takes Jase to a cabin outpost run by good ol’ Glenn (Joshua Bryant, A Scream in the Streets). It sits near the ol’ iron ore mine from the pre-credit sequence — you know, where the robed religious nutsos sacrifice the most recent missing hunter by tying him down with barbed wire, then flame-roasting him after piercing his heart with a big, black crucifix? Yep, that’s the one!

Shot in and around the Texas town of Lajitas (rhymes with “fajitas”), Enter the Devil has both the misfortune and fortune of making the UK’s “Video Nasties” list, presumably from the title alone — misfortune because the PG picture sheds hardly any blood, fortune because the notoriety helps keep the little film alive, which it deserves. With talk of border walls and acts of sexual assault factoring into the plot, it’s arguably (and accidentally) more relevant now than upon release.

Not to overpraise this venture from Dobbs (Uphill All the Way), but its homegrown Lone Star spirit and flavor grant it character a Hollywood treatment would likely polish beyond recognition. Rattlesnakes and rock formations carry automatic production value, as do members of the local-yokel cast. They speak a dialect too authentic to be fake, helping give the viewer a contact buzz from the cheap canned beers they slurp. You also can practically smell their acrid breath from their constant smoking, and feel the omnipresent dust leaving a grimy coat on your skin as it does theirs. When the robed cult members finally show the skin of their faces, you’ll hardly be surprised, but you’ll be satisfied. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

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.

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