Sisters in Leather (1969)

Zoltan G. Spencer was nothing if not efficient. His softcore Sisters in Leather ends up running a curly hair over an hour, and the plot is set in motion before the opening credits. It helps, of course, that said plot is as twisty as a Popsicle stick. As white-bread, white-collar, whiny-ass Joe (utterly amateur Dick Osmun, A Sweet Sickness) marvels at the hottie he’s just picked up in his convertible before they mack their way toward third base, “I’ve heard of free love, and here it was, sitting in my car!”

Ah, but just as there’s no such thing as a free lunch, this supposedly “free” love comes at a price: $2,000, to be exact. That’s because the all-too-eager passenger, Dolly (Karen Thomas, The Secret Sex Lives of Romeo and Juliet), is underage, and their nude shenanigans have been photographed for blackmail. If he doesn’t cough up the dough, Dolly’s fellow girl bikers — aka the Sisters in Leather — threaten to send prints to his lovely, lonely wife, Mary (Kathy Williams, Love Camp 7).

Anxious to find out more about these “hungry hellcats,” Joe spots the girls’ emblem on a male biker and follows him to a bar (where $1.50 would score you a “PICHTER” of beer, per the sign). What he should be doing instead is keeping an eye on the wife he ignores, because Dolly and her gang rat Joe out to Mary in an effort to “recruit” the square, suburban spouse into their lascivious lifestyle of lesbianism … and it works! At a rather unconventional ladies-only picnic, clothes become optional and the Sisters in Leather become the Sisters on Leather for a nude ride. I’m no biker, but I imagine that can’t be good on the seats.

Sisters marks a step up from Spencer’s The Satanist the year before, in that this has recorded sound — all the better to hear Joe complain, “They have my wife and they’re doing a pretty good job of turning her into a dyke!” The moral to this shady, skinflint skin flick? Zoltan should be thankful Twitter didn’t exist in ’69. —Ed Donovan

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The Night the Bridge Fell Down (1983)

Shot four years before it actually aired, The Night the Bridge Fell Down is easily the least entertaining of producer Irwin Allen’s disaster pics made expressly for the tube. That said, I believe it is the only film — theatrical or televised — in his illustrious career in which a character is shown picking a booger from her nose and then rolling it between her fingers as if in consideration, before discarding it. This act is hardly the work of some corner-of-the-screen extra caught by the camera, but takes place in the foreground. Great decision, director Georg Fenady!

That’s about the only thing the movie has going for itself, although the requisite introduction of many soon-to-be-imperilled characters promises at least mild decency. There’s clean-scrubbed newlywed Johnny (Dezi Arnaz Jr., House of the Long Shadows), who robs a bank while his clueless wife (Char Fontane, 1989’s The Punisher) sits in the car, leafing through travel brochures. There’s Paul (City on Fire’s Leslie Nielsen, whose name is unceremoniously misspelled in the opening credits), a corrupt businessman juggling a feverish infant, a mistress (Barbara Rush, Can’t Stop the Music) and Xeroxed stolen bonds. There’s Terry (Eve Plumb, aka Jan of TV’s The Brady Bunch), a hair-impaired young woman who gets thee to a nunnery and, while home-delivering a freshly adopted orphan girl, cannot choose between love of the cloth or love for a cop (Richard Gilliland, Star Kid). There’s a Mexican landscaper (Gregory Sierra, Allen’s The Towering Inferno) who fulfills the telepic’s slot of “token minority.”

And then there’s city engineer Cal Miller (James MacArthur, Hang ’Em High), who declares something wrong with the Madison Bridge’s expansion joints after a third fatal accident occurs on its asphalt. Post-inspection, his dire, or-else warnings that the bridge needs to be shut down immediately fall on the deaf ears of a government bureaucrat (Boogie Nights’ Philip Baker Hall) whose secretary provides the aforementioned scene of nostril-spelunking. (A note, while we’re on the topic: Fenady also directed Allen’s Cave-In!)

Indeed, as the title makes clear, something does go wrong, 45 minutes in: Tremors in the earth chop the bridge off at both ends, stranding the above characters in a life-threatening situation that Johnny only worsens with his hothead and handgun, while Cal attempts rescue efforts from ground level. Every now and then, more pieces tumble to the water below, depicted via obvious miniatures. This Night’s biggest problem isn’t unconvincing effects, but sheer length, clocking in at a little over three hours. While Fenady and Allen managed to make Hanging by a Thread work just fine within that bloated sum, the idea-bereft Bridge shows wear. The last half could be titled The Night Viewers Learned Real-Time Lessons in Girder Climbing and Knot Tying, while the wire-strung climax comes straight from The Towering Inferno. On this smaller scale, the stakes simply aren’t high enough to justify it. —Rod Lott

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Empire of the Dark (1990)

Twenty years after beefy cop Richard Flynn (Steve Barkett, Bikini Drive-In) saves a baby from being sacrificed in a satanic ritual, the middle-aged man is no longer on the force. Now he’s a self-employed bounty hunter who takes weekly swordplay lessons from a female instructor he can’t help but sexually harass.

Then, because movie villains rise only like clockwork on round-numbered anniversaries, the cult leader, Arkham (Richard Harrison, Evil Spawn), resurfaces, either to drive a wedge between Flynn and his Hungry-Man dinner of Chipotle BBQ Sauced Boneless Chicken Wyngz, or to claim the now-grown child (Christopher Barkett, Steve’s real-life loin fruit). Although no longer beholden to the badge, Flynn and his bushy mustache protect the kid from Arkham and his army of ninjas, not to mention an eventual stop-motion monster cast in the Equinox mold. Like it or not, Flynn has found himself smack-dab in an Empire of the Dark.

In his second (and so far final) film as writer, director, producer, editor and lead (following 1982’s post-apoc The Aftermath), Barkett comes to the card table with a low budget and disproportionately high hopes. Ambition in making his bonkers fantasy a reality is not Barkett’s liability — talent is. Just because one can think it does not necessarily translate to doing it. Being visible, his work in front of the camera obviously demonstrates this theory best, beginning with his atypical action-star visage, more Ron Swanson than Indiana Jones. Donning denim jackets and lumpy-dumpy pants, Barkett appears to be a hero in the eyes of no one but himself and the regional manager of Hometown Buffet. Even more so, he wears a disconcerting amount of sweatpants throughout Empire’s two-hour reign.

Behind the camera, his style of editing boils down to the most editing. For example, how many establishing shots of a church are needed for the viewer to discern Flynn has arrived at a church? The reasonable answer, of course, is “one,” especially since you can allow that big, lowercase T outside to do the talking. Barkett’s answer, however, numbers four to six, even upon return visits! There is padding, and then there is ignorance. —Rod Lott

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Bats (1999)

Bats is like every other animal-attack flick that fortifies the Syfy broadcast lineup, except that this one somehow hit theaters first. It’s bad.

Really bad.

Lou Diamond Phillips bad.

Because of a “secret government project” — a device all screenwriters employ when they wish to weasel their way out of credible explanations — a Texas desert town is overrun with thousands of lethal, hideously deformed bats. They don’t look so much like bats as they do Ghoulies with wings. Not that viewers get to see them all that well, as during scenes of supposed action, director Louis Morneau (Werewolf: The Beast Among Us) shakes the camera as violently as drunk nannies do with babies.

Cleavage-baring Dina Meyer (Saw) has all the answers as resident bat expert Dr. Sheila Casper, while Cliffhanger’s Leon — just Leon, thanks — serves as her minority sidekick, saying lots of things that we’re supposed to find hilarious, like, “I’ve been doin’ some thinkin’ … and this shit is fucked-up!” Together, with big-belt-buckled Sheriff Kimsey (Phillips, 2000’s Supernova), they get into predictable, laughable, CGI bat attacks and grapple with predictable, laughable lines of dialogue (courtesy of eventual Skyfall scribe John Logan), including:
• “Wait a minute! You’re telling me a bat did this?”
• “But bats don’t kill people. This can’t be!”
• “We’ve gotta evacuate this entire town!”

Early in the movie, we get a brief and decidedly out-of-place cutaway shot of Phillips visibly grimacing, as if the camera caught him messing his britches, and Morneau opted to keep it. I’m glad he did, because it’s a moment most priceless and thereby, unlike the bulk of Bats, engaging. I’ve been doing some thinking … and this shit is fucked-up. —Rod Lott

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Killzone (1985)

Having burst into the straight-to-VHS scene with the 1983 shot-on-video “classick” Sledgehammer, director David A. Prior upgraded to actual 35mm film for his sophomore effort, Killzone. The man-on-moon leap in image quality is its only superior element to Prior’s prior engagement.

With opening credits complete, Killzone zones in on an Asian military leader (Daniel Kong, Surf Nazis Must Die) teasing a bunch of white American soldiers with drinking water. It’s a hot day, see, and they’re bound to wooden poles, like prisoners of war. This, however, is no war — it’s a mere training exercise, but either someone forgot to tell McKenna (Fritz Matthews, Prior’s Killer Workout) or the man just has snapped. (Considering viewers aren’t privy to this info for a long while, I think it’s a toss-up.) The scenario prompts McKenna’s Vietnam flashbacks to feel like Vietnam here-and-nows, so he starts fighting back and killing for real.

This deviation from the rules doesn’t sit well with the cigar-chomping Col. Crawford (David James Campbell, Scarecrows); rather than just bitch-slap McKenna back into reality, he orders his men to shoot to kill. But this plot begs the question: Are McKenna’s flashbacks of Crawford killing our hero’s wife and child legit or phony?

Actually, I take that back; I don’t need to know. If Prior doesn’t aim for clarity, why should I ask for it? Viewers of his Deadly Prey will note Killzone’s eerie resemblance to that 1987 flick’s look, feel and cast (including Prior’s bro, Ted, and the aforementioned Campbell, who plays the same part in everything but name), but this one is missing that one’s overall shot of cutout-bin adrenaline. Only in the third act, when McKenna booby-traps the jungle (including the world’s most perfectly and conveniently timed death by boulder), does Killzone catch up to Prey’s pervading sense of fun. —Rod Lott

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