Concorde Affaire ’79 (1979)

Ruggero, old friend! Listen, the Americans are all so crazy over these Airport pictures. First there was one, then there was two, and now they do four! It is called The Concorde, then ‘dot dot dot,’ then Airport ’79. Dramatic, no?

“Well, listen, we want to do what the Americans do right away, so you, my friend, Ruggero, will direct. We like the sound of this Concorde, so we will call ours Concorde Affaire ’79! Sexy, no?

“Here is what I think, Ruggero: We start with the Concorde crashing into the Atlantic Ocean. Then we introduce our hero. So the audience knows he is the hero, we will give him a hero’s name. Something biblical, perhaps, like Moses. This Moses character will be a journalist covering the crash. He will work for Ladies Day magaz– no, I don’t know why a women’s magazine would print such an article, but we can figure that out later.

“Anyway, where was I, Ruggero? Ah, yes: the crash. The plane will sink to the floor of the ocean so we can do some underwater things with the scubas. The Americans seemed to like that in the Airport ’77 with the Jack Lemmon. We need someone stronger, a man’s man, someone the women watching would want to kiss with the passion of a thousand suns, like Charlton Heston in Airport 1975. A-ha! He would be playing Moses again, yes?

“Well, too bad, Ruggero. I cannot afford his American salary. But this I will tell you: I believe James Franciscus would work for our picture. After all, he was good enough for starring in the talking-monkey movie after Charlton, so he is good enough for our film! To go back to the Airport 1975, though, I think I would like to have a real sexy American pin-up like the Lee Grant or Brenda Vacarro. Perhaps you get me Mimsy Farmer? Also, my friend, we need an old movie star who used to be big, big, big, but now will work for cheap, like the Joseph Cotten– oh, you say you can get Joseph Cotten? Grande!

“Now, Ruggero, last thing, my friend is we need to make Concorde Affair very, very boring. I trust you can do that, no?” —Rod Lott

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Attack of the Super Monsters (1982)

Whoever is ultimately responsible for Attack of the Super Monsters has to have been that kid at the convenience store or fast-food restaurant who fills his soda cup with a little bit of Pepsi, then a little bit of Mountain Dew, then Dr Pepper, then orange and on down, leaving no spigot unspat. How else to explain the Japanese import’s incessant roulette-wheel use of live-action footage, cel animation, stop-motion animation and miniatures, sometimes all in the same scene? It’s a combustible, schizophrenic mix that will wring the brain of anyone who no longer expects applause for a bowel movement.

When our 21st-century world needs defense from reawakened prehistoric foes, our collective fate rests in the hands of the four-person Gemini Command, 50% of whom are ineffectual. Siblings Jim and Gem Starbuck are kinda cool, what with bionic chips that allow for temporary body-merging (!) and shape-shifting and all. But Jerry is pudgy and, therefore, clumsy, while Wally is a scaredy-cat nerd with a mullet and a literal sloth for a best friend. These two are the Far East’s response to Zan and Jayna.

Thrill to the Battle of the Planets-style exploits of Gemini Command as the team embarks on four separate, seam-showing episodes adventures, scripted Mad Libs-style:
• a Tyrannosaurus rex uses a laser to command cartoon dogs to “DESTROY! DESTROY!”
• a pterodactyl telepathically commands rubber bats to “KILL ALL HUMANS!”
• a stegosaurus telepathically commands cartoon rats to “ATTACK! ATTACK! USE YOUR TEETH!”
• a triceratops doing things for himself wreaks havoc and barks, “DIEEEEE!”

Please note that in all the above, our heroes are animated, while their opponents are men in kaiju suits. Also please note that from a management standpoint, the stegosaurus gives the most clear and actionable direction to those under his employ.

Attack of the Super Monsters is not wanting for action, that’s for certain, and the amalgamation offers images you’ve never seen before, such as a T. rex laughing maniacally. But some things aren’t meant to be viewed — I’m putting this up there with, say, the sun — and any initial sugar rush quickly slows to a diabetic coma, leaving one longing for the heady wit and deep pathos of Turbo: A Power Rangers Movie. —Rod Lott

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Teenage Mother (1967)

WTFClaremont High has a new health teacher: Erika Petersen, straight from Sweden. As played by Julie Ange (in her only other role besides Girl on a Chain Gang), she shakes up the classroom, not only because she’s one juicy Swedish meatball, but because the class is now known as “anatomical biology.” You don’t need an A in spelling to know that means S-E-X!

Although Ms. Petersen is set up to be the main character of the film (and introduced to the students by Fred Willard, in his movie debut!), she isn’t. In fact, she seems to exist in her own plotline, almost entirely separate from the other. After all, Teenage Mother isn’t called Teenage Mother for nothing. Somebody’s gotta get pregnant, right?

Enter Claremore’s cutest student, Arlene (Arlene Farber, I Drink Your Blood) she of the low-cut blouse, leather skirt and big ol’ go-go boots. She’s going steady with the prudish Tony (Howard Le May), but he’s more into stock cars than her stacked curves. Enter — ahem — Duke (Frederick Riccio), the school bad boy. You don’t need an A in math to know that three’s a crowd, and it takes two to tango!

Meanwhile, back at the class, Ms. Petersen’s noble intentions of educating the kids meet an immovable force in the stereotypical crone of a librarian bothered by “vulgar illustrations” in books on the birds and the bees. You don’t need an A in physics or zoology to– okay, I’ll stop. Just know that this moral war boils over with the intensity of a tantric orgasm, leading to planted pornography, attempted rape, a successful runaway and, finally, the scene that got audiences in the theater out of curiosity, only to send them fleeing in horror: the birth of a baby.

Those few minutes constitute the only part of Teenage Mother that notorious producer Jerry Gross (The Dynamite Brothers) didn’t write and direct. Making good on his name, he spliced in medical footage of Dr. Anthony Miseo’s “Universal Obstetric Forceps” in action … as they graphically play claw machine to pull an infant from its mother’s graphically splayed-and-pried vagina. Seeing what is done to it via metal contraption is terrifying, in ways that the goriest horror films are not, because you know those are pretend.

That clinical demonstration aside, Teenage Mother plays pretend in an otherwise sanitized sandbox not dissimilar to more sugar-coated tenpins of the era, where camp value outweighs artistic demerit. With Gross throwing crime into the mix, we get one primo JD flick that, like the aforementioned vagina, is surprisingly tight. —Rod Lott

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Horrors of Spider Island (1960)

Perhaps a more fitting title for the German horror flick Horrors of Spider Island should be Hard-Ons of Spider Island, as in between the scant spider-man — with great power comes great perversity! — there are fantastical amounts of Teutonic skin, sex and sand to keep even the most passive of viewers somewhat intrigued.

Hot-shit nightclub producer Gary (Alexander D’Arcy) is planning a big song-and-strip showcase in Singapore, hiring a dozen or so sexy sirens with names like Babs, Nelly and Gladys. But, wouldn’t you know it, their plane goes down somewhere in the Pacific; as they’re arguing over water rations, a large island is spotted in the distance.

After finding an old scientist drained of his bodily fluids in a big spider web, Gary is bitten by the uranium-enriched spider and becomes an amazing spider-man. But instead of dealing with this monstrous blight of subhumanity, for the next few weeks the gang frolics and fornicates with a 1960s-style sensuality that shouldn’t really titillate but, boy, does it ever.

Also released in the U.S. under the name It’s Hot In Paradise, the lack of sturdy spider-scares is more than ably surrendered by the statuesque skirts that lounge about in garters, girdles and other essential tropical island wear, so much so that about 45 minutes into this, I forgot this was supposed to be a horror flick.

But, you know, I’m guessing the filmmakers probably did, too. It’s like the old saying goes: When life gives you lingerie, make linger-ade. Or something like that … —Louis Fowler

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Hollywood High (1976)

Straight from the Liberal Household Arts Building and into your lap come the four girls of Hollywood High. Their names are unimportant, because the girls are interchangeable, save for the only one (Rae Sperling, Game Show Models) who would earn a second glance from Russ Meyer.

This toke-and-poke sex comedy is lewd, crude and best left unviewed. The only directorial effort from beefy, prolific character actor Patrick Wright (Cannonball!, Graduation Day, Savage Harbor, et al.) carries no credited writer, which makes sense because it also carries no story. The movie is simply a string of interminable, music-backed scenes of the quasi-foxy foursome driving in a jalopy, jumping in the surf, making out, getting defiled, incorrectly chugging beers and having a food fight at that drive-in spaghetti joint.

Wandering into the picture are a screamingly gay teacher (Hack-O-Lantern’s Hy Pyke) who teaches Greek (get it?), a greaser named Fenzie (get it?), a little person named Big Dick (get it?) and a Mae West caricature named June East (get it?). For the record, the other three girls are played by Susanne Severeid, whose credits include Don’t Answer the Phone!; Sherry Hardin, whose only other credit is Ted V. Mikels’ 10 Violent Women; and Marcy Albrecht, who has no other credits, which is the way it should be.

In the final shot, each girl looks at the camera and takes a turn pronouncing one word apiece from the line “This is the end.” Enough, we get it. —Rod Lott

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