American International Pictures: A Comprehensive Filmography

To cut right to the chase, as many skinflint movies of the studio in question did, any AIP fan is going to want to own Rob Craig’s American International Pictures: A Comprehensive Filmography, and their desire will not go unrewarded. Ignore the off-putting cover, because the hefty McFarland & Company paperback delivers the proverbial groceries, thereby earning that penultimate word of its subtitle.

In nearly 450 pages, more than 800 projects are discussed, whether AIP made the movie from scratch or merely picked it up for quick-buck distribution. Although the studio was known for biker, beach party, sword-and-sandal and Poe pictures, it also dealt in European spy thrillers and Mexican kiddie matinees, in kaiju and mondo, in Larry Buchanan and Larry Cohen, and even S-E-X, from Dagmar’s Hot Pants to Deadly Weapons.

I’ve been mixed on Gutter Auteur author Craig’s previous books on B movies, but with this behemoth, he’s done the Lord’s work. All but a scant few of the titles are reviewed in full, which is quite an undertaking when you think about it (and I do). While reading a paragraph that goes on for more than half a page can start to play tricks on your mind, at least his write-ups don’t waste time with rehashing the entire story; plot synopses are limited to a line or two, straight from the AIP pressbooks.

For every name familiar to film fans (Roger Corman, Jess Franco, K. Gordon Murray, Doris Wishman, etc.) are several who never got close to such status. The mark of this kind of movie guide is whether you’re exposed to titles you haven’t heard of, and that’s where Craig’s book pays off big, putting me on the hunt for Bring Me the Vampire, Slave Girls of Sheba, The Hong Kong Cat, The Wife Swappers and so many, many more.

In mining so deep, Craig occasionally shares an opinion so contrarian and aggressively, as if there were no room for debate, it seems calculated. For example, the Joan Collins vehicle The Devil Within Her is “far superior” to “the pompous, humorless Rosemary’s Baby,” while Dario Argento’s Suspiria is summarily dismissed outright as “that artfilm bore.” Of Ivan Reitman’s Cannibal Girls, he writes, “Hard to believe this was produced and directed by the same guy who bored us to tears a decade later with Ghostbusters.”

A book this colossal is bound to have a few errors, with perhaps the most egregious being three spellings of The Ghost in the Invisible Bikini starlet Deborah Walley (Wally, Whalley). Ditto a few miscalculations; Hallucination Generation’s Daniel Steinmann is noted for having moved from acting “to direct a very few obscure features,” which makes one wonder in which world is Paramount Pictures’ hit sequel Friday the 13th: A New Beginning considered obscure?

On the mitigating side, Craig does offer the most apt description of Al Adamson’s work I’ve run across yet (“the viewer is advised not to attempt to understand, but to experience”), as well as a standalone chapter on AIP’s ventures into television programming, which is so oddly fascinating, I gladly would have accepted a book on that, too. —Rod Lott

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The Great Buster: A Celebration (2018)

One can see why ’70s hotshot director Peter Bogdanovich chose to make a documentary feature on the legendary silent-film comedian Buster Keaton. The two share parallels across Hollywood’s classic three-act structure:
1. heralded as a genius for early successes
2. career collapse marred by personal tragedy
3. respect regained late in life

For Keaton, redemption arrived as an honorary Academy Award and international fêtes, while Bogdanovich has settled nicely into an elder-statesman role as a bona fide film historian, and The Great Buster: A Celebration his latest document, one of pure delight.

Bogdanovich narrates, interspersing clips of his subject with excerpted interviews from gushing admirers, including Mel Brooks, Bill Hader, Carl Reiner, Leonard Maltin and Dick Van Dyke. Among other participants, Jackass Johnny Knoxville comes off as more knowledgeable and insightful than Quentin Tarantino, and the only thing stranger than the head-scratching presence of Cybill Shepherd is the surreality of Werner Herzog’s, which I gladly take.

After one hour of sharing Keaton’s cradle-to-grave story, The Great Buster spends its final third more closely examining his 10-movie run made with zero studio interference and infinite creativity. The stunts and set pieces — still influential today, most notably in the work of Jackie Chan — flat-out amaze with their bravado and inventiveness. If the AIP Beach flicks of the 1960s didn’t exactly make the best use of Keaton among their crowded casts, at least he wasn’t being forgotten.

With his doc, Bogdanovich aims not only to ensure Keaton is remembered, but to restore luster. It’s a nobel pursuit, worth each and every perfect pratfall. —Rod Lott

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The Five Man Army (1969)

At the time of The Five Man Army’s release, Peter Graves was roughly midway through his run on TV’s Mission: Impossible. As with that classic series, this Western finds him assembling a group of experts to complete a mission, but director Don Taylor (Damien: Omen II) trades high-tech wows for a lot of dirt and dust.

Graves’ character, The Dutchman, assembles a crack team of rebels to help steal half a million dollars in Mexican Army gold from a train that’s not only moving, but heavily armed. In on the plan are a level-headed buddy (James Daly, 1968’s Planet of the Apes), a cocky local who aims a mean slingshot (Nino Castelnuovo, Strip Nude for Your Killer), a brutish circus acrobat (genre staple Bud Spencer, They Call Me Trinity) and a silent swordsman named, um, Samurai (Tetsurô Tanba, You Only Live Twice).

Memorably, the Dutchman uses burritos to explain his master plan to his amigos. Once that plan is put into practice later, Army becomes a winning effort. Before then, the film is light on action and heavy on conversation (with a script co-written by Dario Argento, one year shy of switching career gears to the giallo), but all that talk serves a purpose in setting up the bickering ways among the quintet. This Army ends shy of being great, but its spy-esque exploits make it a good contender for converting the Western-averse. —Rod Lott

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Fight Club: Members Only (2006)

WTFFor me, at least, Fight Club is a wholly overrated movie. On the other hand, the Bollywood remake (reimagining?) Fight Club: Members Only, is a woefully underrated flick.

Definitely my preferred vision of Chuck Palahniuk’s novel, mostly because it has little to nothing to do with Chuck Palahniuk’s novel, Members Only starts off with a group of chill dudes hanging out at a college student union or possibly a mall food court, getting sudden inspiration to start an underground fight club after seeing a rather mild argument on campus.

Additionally, one of the guys tries to sing “Happy Birthday” to his dad, but dad rejects him in favor of his high-powered corporate work, which I completely understand — he’s right in the middle of a meeting, kid. To deal with this deserved rejection, his buddies take him to get down at a nightclub where the DJ plays them their own smartly choreographed theme song, conveniently preserved on scratchable wax for such occasions.

After staging a couple of these smartly choreographed fights, at different empty warehouses and abandoned pools around town — where they charge a hefty fee, mind you — they get busted by the cops, much to the dismay of various relatives, including the old uncle who runs a nightclub that’s being bullied by the local gangsters.

The guys suddenly decide to open up a Western-themed club in the middle of nowhere — still within the first 45 minutes or so of a 147 minute film — the movie buoyantly goes from Fight Club: Members Only to Road House: Members Only, which I’m still very good with, probably more than I should be.

In addition to all the catchy songs and infectious dance moves by the gang and the assorted starlets they have romantic subplots with — so many subplots — there are other great scenes that the original Fight Club could’ve deftly used, like when the guys are setting up their new nightclub to a hilarious montage of wacky behavior; I know that I didn’t see Tyler Durden accidentally spilling a can of paint on Robert Paulson’s head, and let’s be honest, it sure could’ve used it. —Louis Fowler

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The Swinging Barmaids (1975)

After nearly 15 years of steady work as a character actor, Bruce Watson (This Property Is Condemned) finally landed a starring role in The Swinging Barmaids. His villainous performance as Tom was so good, so convincing, I wonder if he inadvertently doomed his job prospects as a leading man. Although he racked up credits for another half-decade and then some, he never appeared in a movie again.

Look, I’m no Lee Strasberg, but the lesson for tomorrow’s thespians? If you’re hired to play an exceptionally odious serial killer of seriously sexy cocktail waitresses, maybe you should half-ass it.

Director Gus Trikonis (Moonshine County Express) wastes little time in setting up the bar. Tom takes offense to a casually demeaning remark by a waitress named Boo-Boo (Dyanne Thorne, a few months shy of Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS), so he does what any sexually frustrated woman-hater would do: Follow her home, tear off her clothes, commit rape and murder. Because Boo-Boo’s fellow Barmaids (including Supervan’s super-cute Katie Saylor) may have caught a glimpse of him at her apartment, Tom decides they’ve gotta go as well — not then and there, but soon.

Meanwhile, as a detective (William Smith, Terror in Beverly Hills) investigates Boo-Boo’s bye-bye, the wiry and wily Tom puts his plan in action by getting a job. At the bar. As its bouncer.

Hey, you’ve gotta fill 90 minutes somehow, and screenwriter Charles B. Griffith knows just how to do it. As the man who wrote several of Roger Corman’s most beloved productions, including A Bucket of Blood, Death Race 2000 and The Little Shop of Horrors, he has experience balancing the unpleasant exploitation with admirable economy and actual entertainment. It’s as if one of the segments of The Centerfold Girls had enough meat on its bones to merit extension to feature length, and hell to the yes that’s a compliment. —Rod Lott

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