The only other picture directed by The Severed Arm’s Thomas S. Alderman, the sexploitationer takes place on the grounds of Farouk University — oft referred to as “Farouk U,” geddit? — where “world-famous gynecologist” Dr. Maurice de Sade (Ray Dannis, The Undertaker and His Pals) teaches sexuality classes, offering to assist all the female students himself with hands-on instruction. One new student (Diane Patton) is a virgin, and she’s named Virgie — geddit?
Her house mother gets naked and gets busy with several men throughout the film, including a fat guy dressed as Kentucky Fried Chicken founder Col. Sanders. At an alumni dinner, guests are shocked — shocked, I tell you! — by the topless girls’ choir (of which Digard’s “Miss Melons” is a member) and by Dr. de Sade treating them all to his dance rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
Oh, and Virgie dies when she falls from a hospital window. Now that’s comedy!
More boring than titillating, Coed Dorm is such a rarity that Something Weird Video’s print doesn’t even have credits. To make up for it, they include their usual generous helping of nudie-cutie shorts, one of which — Double Trouble, in which a guy mixes up twin sisters — has more plot than the feature. —Ed Donovan
Any vampire film carrying the tagline “In space, the sun never rises” should be approached with considerable caution. After all, the sun doesn’t need to rise, because where but space does that flaming ball of gas sit? Dracula 3000 is that film, but other reasons exist that encourage avoidance, not the least of which is Casper Van Dien’s name leading the credits.
The Starship Troopers himbo stars as Abraham Van Helsing, captain of the spaceship Mother III. After his craft locates a ghost ship missing for years, he decides to investigate; you know how that’s gonna turn out. He and his crew members — stock roles filled by Tiny Lister (The Human Centipede III [Final Sequence]), Erika Eleniak (Tales from the Crypt Presents: Bordello of Blood) and Coolio (China Strike Force), who is saddled with the not-at-all-racist moniker of “187” — accidentally end up resurrecting Dracula (here called Count Orlock) from the ashes.
As played by Langley Kirkwood (Dredd), this Drac is one of the shoddiest-looking Dracs to grace the screen. He looks like an in-costume dad/ financial adviser beamed in from your local church’s “fall festival.” Spend five bucks at your local Halloween supply store, and you’re every bit his equal.
187 is the first among the crew to get bitten, and if you can imagine the rapper fitted with red contact lenses and a pair of fangs, you may have a hint of the kind of unintentional comedy that results. And if you do not, this kind: “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about ejaculating on your bazongas?” a vampiric 187 asks Aurora, before proceeding to talk about “stroking my anaconda.” More people are bitten, while others are staked, and yet you’ll be the only one reeling in pain.
Do not insult the comparative genius of Wes Craven Presents Dracula 2000 by mistaking this as a 2000 sequel. Dracula 3000 looks as if director Darrell James Roodt (Dangerous Ground) shot it in the lower level of a South Africa franchise location of Jiffy Lube. Considering he managed to find a way to include a scene of Coolio taking bong hits, but failed to get Eleniak to strip out of a sailor suit while emerging from a giant cake, Roodt deserves as much scorn as you can muster.
Just when I thought I’d finally found a genre movie with a muscular African-American man who doesn’t exclaim, “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout!,” Lister pops up in an end-credits stinger to utter those very words directly to the camera, then punctuates them with a slap to Eleniak’s ass. —Rod Lott
Damn, who knew there were so many Z-budget found-footage films and direct-to-sewage shark movies? Kim Newman, obvs. Culled from the pages of his long-running column in Empire, the UK movie magazine, Kim Newman’s Video Dungeon: The Collected Reviews gives the what’s-what on 500-plus what-the-fuck flicks you’re better off not watching (at least those from The Asylum, the quality-deprived suppliers of Sharknado and othershitshows). Ever the professional, Newman calls ’em like he sees ’em — and he has seen a lot of ’em. Although the real pleasure of time spent in the Dungeon is witnessing the author’s wit of evisceration, that’s not to say good films are not to be found. Thanks to sections on dangerous games, serial killers and spies, I emerged with a healthy to-see list I’ll likely never complete, making this 2-pound guide essential. Note that the subtitle’s operative word of “collected,” not “complete”; here’s hoping Titan Books issues an equally meaty sequel posthaste!
From Radley Metzger to Russ Meyer, Elena Gorfinkel recounts how economic and legal shifts (among others) permitted the emergence of Lewd Looks: American Sexploitation Cinema in the 1960s. Initially, the book is an interesting recounting of court cases involving such now-quaint films as The Garden of Eden; Not Tonite, Henry!; Barry Mahon’s faux compilation doc, Censored; and Meyer’s own Vixen, which attracted the hypocritical wrath of future federal fraudster Charles Keating. Ironically, these legal victories eventually snowballed into an avalanche that allowed for the hardcore likes of Deep Throat to put the soft stuff out of business. Dry in parts (no pun intended), the University of Minnesota Press release nonetheless proves to be a crucial sexploitation study for what no longer is a short shelf.
Following other recent radiated-and-related McFarland & Company texts as Giant Creatures in Our World and The Kaiju Film to shelves is Apocalypse Then: American and Japanese Atomic Cinema, 1951-1967. Penned by Mike Bogue, the paperback is a fond critical review of genre pics that exploited Cold War fears, directly or otherwise, from AIP to Zero (as in Panic in Year). Separated into alliterative-friendly sections on mutants, monsters and mushroom clouds, the films are covered chronologically and dived into with a surprising amount of depth. Just as you don’t have to be a member of the “Duck and Cover” crowd to appreciate those films, same goes for Bogue’s judiciously illustrated book. (But it sure as hell won’t hurt!) —Rod Lott
Many a 1980s teen comedy chronicled the wacky lengths to which horny teens would go on their quest to lose their virginity. Today, those boys and girls — and the real-life boys and girls who viewed those movies on HBO and VHS, often surreptitiously — are adults and have become parents of their own sex-crazed children, so it makes sense for 21st-century Hollywood to turn the well-worn trope on its, um, head. In fact, Blockers may be the first film to focus on Mom and Dad’s efforts to rein in the young ones’ genitalia.
It’s senior prom night for a trio of lifelong besties, and the blondest, whitest one (Kathryn Newton, Paranormal Activity 4), wants to make the special event extra-special by popping her proverbial cherry at the hotel after-party. Her pals (relative newcomers Geraldine Viswanathan and Gideon Adlon) decide they want in on the action as well. As millennials are wont to do, they make it official by christening it with its own hashtag: “#SEXPACT2018.”
Intercepting the girls’ emoji-laden group text of penetration plans, their respective parents (Vacation’s Leslie Mann, Trainwreck’s John Cena and Sisters’ Ike Barinholtz) aim to cock-block their daughters and their prom dates. Can you blame them? As a father myself, I cannot, especially since one boy ingests enough drugs to fail a month of pee tests, while another wears a fedora.
Blockers is one of those raunchy mainstream comedies rendered nearly superfluous by its tell-it-all trailer, which chronologically ticks through many laugh-baiting scenes like a highlight reel — most notably, a butt-chugging beer competition between young and old. Other audience-pleasing bids are saved for the actual feature, but all share a troubling element: They’re not as funny as they should be. Each lacks the payoff that first-time director Kay Cannon sets up, over and over. From in-limo vomiting to blindfolded sex play, the sequences end abruptly, like a DJ fading out a Top 40 pop hit before the song reaches its bridge. The Pitch Perfect movies she wrote contain more laughs, not to mention bite, so long as you do not confuse R-rated talk with, er, balls (and you shouldn’t).
To be fair, Cannon didn’t pen Blockers, which is credited to brothers Brian and Jim Kehoe. If the siblings’ script amuses, but is hardly a gem sparkling with wit, our three grown-up leads do their best to give it a polish. Mann, Cena and Barinholtz may not operate with clockwork timing, but they’re likable one and all. Cena shines in particular, deliberately railing against the pro-wrasslin’ persona that made him a star by playing a goofball whose heart is larger than both biceps. Although you wouldn’t know it from his extended cameo in winter’s Daddy’s Home 2, he continues to be something of an American treasure in the big, dumb American comedy genre. Here’s hoping his next starring role leans into his charm, and away from his big, dumb anus. —Rod Lott
Shot in Oklahoma City, Offerings, um, offers a brazenly transparent imitation of John Carpenter’s Halloween, but one in which Michael Myers is replaced by someone who resembles a grown-up version of 1970s wunderkind Mason Reese, the Underwood Deviled Ham spokeskid. Additionally, his face looks as if he settled down for a nap, but had no access to a pillow, so he made do with a plugged-in toaster oven and its frayed cord.
The slasher in this slasher bears the terrifying name of Johnny. While in grade school, Johnny (Josh Coffman) found himself the frequent target of bullying by his peers, who one day forced him to hop atop a water well in the park and circumnavigate its bricks. Little Johnny’s reward for successful completion of this daunting task? A backhanded compliment (“Not bad for a retard!”), followed immediately by a plunge down the well that renders him unwell, earning Johnny permanent residency at Oakhurst State Mental Hospital.
Ten years later, now a beefy adult, Johnny (fight choreographer Richard A. Buswell) escapes the sanitarium to exact revenge on his tormentors. One gets his head stuck in a vise, then hammered for good measure; another is hanged to death the front yard while his parents laugh their asses off (to cartoons on TV, but still). The only student saved from Johnny’s reign of terror is Gretchen (Loretta Leigh Bowman), the peroxide blonde who was actually nice to him Way Back When. In fact, he brings her hence-the-title gifts — unfortunately, they’re of the nonreturnable kind: crudely carved body parts of his feather-haired, acid-washed victims.
This leads to Offerings’ most notorious scene, in which Gretchen and friends not only eat a pizza left at her front door, but are unable to distinguish the difference between sausage and bloody human flesh. The pie becomes a bona fide plot device, like a frickin’ Maltese Falcon topped with extra cheese. In a move that predates the self-reflexive nature of Scream, Gretchen and her BFF (Elizabeth Greene) discuss the dumb decisions made by characters in horror movies, as if doing so retroactively excuses the colossal stupidity they already have displayed (with more yet to come).
Nice try, though, on the part of debuting director Christopher Reynolds (whose only other feature in this creative capacity was Lethal Justice, a 1991 obscurity also shot in the Sooner State). Multitasking as Offerings’ writer, producer and editor, Reynolds gave himself a small part as an Oakhurst physician more hypocrite than Hippocratic in saying of patient Johnny, “Every time he takes a crap, he thinks he’s had an abortion. Let me tell you, he’s had some ugly kids.”
My gut instinct upon seeing the film’s ad in my newspaper’s local listings three decades ago was dead-on correct: Offerings is a terribly told piece of B-horror trash on a Z-level budget. Reynolds could not have chosen an actress more skill-impaired than Bowman to anchor a national theatrical feature, nor a more ineffectual Donald Pleasence stand-in than G. Michael Smith as the belt-straining, biscuit-doughy Sheriff Chism, who, speaking of his name, busts a tween boy (Chasen Hampton, They Crawl) for “reading” used porno mags in an abandoned house. And yet, there is something about its aggressive incompetence that makes Reynolds’ ugly kid easy to love. Not bad for a … oh, hell, you know. —Rod Lott