The Dungeonmaster (1984)

dungeonmasterCharles Band’s attempt to cash in on the Dungeons & Dungeons craze is, well, crazed. Big computer dork Paul Bradford (Jeffrey Byron, Metalstorm: The Destruction of Jared-Syn) somehow gets warped into the underworld, where he must save his girlfriend (Leslie Wing, The Frighteners) by doing battle with Satan, logically played by Bull from TV’s Night Court (Richard Moll).

To win, Paul must emerge victorious in Satan’s seven challenges; each of the septet of segments is helmed by a different director, including Band, Ted Nicolaou (TerrorVision), John Carl Buechler (Troll), Peter Manoogian (Seedpeople) and stop-motion wizard David Allen (Puppet Master II).

dungeonmaster1Thus, Paul does battle with the following:
1. desert warriors;
2. a cave gnome;
3. mute midgets;
4. a stone creature;
5. frozen people;
6. a slasher; and
7. a horned demon puppet named Ratspit.

Unfortunately, there’s no suspense generated by these skirmishes, because all Paul has to do is punch a button or two on his computer wristband capable of emitting a laser, thereby taking care of anything and everything. Through it all, he spouts nerdy dialogue like, “I reject your reality and I substitute my own!” Them’s fightin’ words.

A hair over one hour long, The Dungeonmaster is a prime example of Band’s Empire Pictures catalog. Everything in the movie — the haircuts, the fashions, the effects, the art direction (but primarily the appearance of hair-metal band W.A.S.P.) — screams, “I am from the ’80s!” This is not a bad thing. In fact, I’m dying for a DVD. —Rod Lott

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Dr. Sex (1964)

drsexIn his second film, cult-crap director Ted V. Mikels (The Corpse Grinders) directs Dr. Sex, a nudie-cutie comedy that dares to combine exhibitionism with psychiatry. At last!

In preparation for a textbook project on which they’re about to embark, three shrinks — Dr. Sex, Dr. Schmutz and Dr. Lovejoy — swap tales of their oversexed, horndog patients. And speaking of dog, one is actually a poodle that gets its doggy kicks by watching its female owner undress and soap up in the tub. To each his own.

drsex1Another patient is a quite type who believes the mannequins he dresses for work are real, and thus, serves them coffee. The funniest patient — comparatively speaking, of course, as Dr. Sex is funny to no one, save perhaps your grandfather who jacked off to it in its day — is the fat guy who has naked ghosts cleaning his home, prompting some priceless facial expressions from the poor slob.

At the end, the docs throw one wild shindig — so wild that Schmutz turns into a poodle! Wait, huh? Exactly. Dr. Sex is impossible not to fast-forward through. The most interesting thing about it is that it’s co-written by Wayne Rogers of TV’s M*A*S*H, making him the Roger Ebert to Mikels’ Russ Meyer. —Rod Lott

Satan in High Heels (1962)

satanhighheels Satan in High Heels‘ titular devil isn’t really Satan; it’s just that, in 1962 (as in 2013), putting the C-word in a title was verboten.

And Stacey Kane (former pin-up girl Meg Myles) is certainly that. At the start, she’s a burlesque dancer for a two-bit carnival that can’t pay her what her 42-24-36 frame is worth. Salvation of sorts arrives in the form of her twitchy, supposedly sober, no-good ex-husband and his fistful of cash. She takes the latter and leaves the former waiting in her trailer, thinking she’s gone to gather her things so they can run off together. Whatta sap!

satanhighheels1Instead, Stacey takes her smoky (and smoker’s) voice to a New York club where she can perform with her chords, not her cans. And this is all before the opening credits! Upon arrival at said club, she wows its manager, Pepe (Grayson Hall, Dr. Julia Hoffman of TV’s Dark Shadows), with her pipes. And with her pulchritude, she also wows the club’s owner (Mike Keene, Violent Midnight) … and the owner’s son (Robert Yuro, The Shakiest Gun in the West). Not a problem; she can screw (over) both.

If it wasn’t director Jerald Intrator’s intent to shoot Satan in Bounce-O-Vision, he sure lucked out. (But since he also helmed Striporama, I’m guessing it was planned.) He has no discernible style, letting Myles’ figure do much of the work. Her tired face suits her character well, showing lots of mileage. While she’s not a great actress, she belts well; her most memorable musical number is singing “The Female of the Species,” all while clad in a leather get-up — complete with riding crop — that would satisfy many a fetishist.

Speaking of, the moral of the story seems to be that guys will put up with an awful lot for access to a killer pair of breasts. This is true. —Rod Lott

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Alien Zone (1978)

alienzoneAs a native Oklahoman, I long have fought the stereotype of the Okie as dumb hick. Not helping my case is the title of 1978’s shot-in-the-Sooner-State horror anthology, Alien Zone, which has no aliens. It can’t even be mistaken for science fiction. What were they thinking? Nothing clearly, if the entirety of its running time is to be judged.

Also known as Last Stop on 13th St., The House of the Dead, Five Faces of Terror and that DVD I already unloaded at Half Price Books, the low-budget film sees a cuckolding plumbing sales rep (John Ericson, Bad Day at Black Rock) being shown new “acquisitions” by an elderly mortician (Ivor Francis, The Night Strangler), who tells the tale of how each poor bastard ended up in a coffin.

alienzone1First, Miss Sibiler (Judith Novgrod, Nightwing), a whiny crabapple of a young teacher, is menaced in her home by someone or something. The sight of a Little Orphan Annie Halloween mask is the most unsettling thing in the movie. Second, Mr. Grosky (Burr DeBenning, The Incredible Melting Man) films the murders of three lady friends visiting his apartment. In his defense, they are pretty stupid.

Third, and painfully long, is a duel of wits between a celebrated American criminologist (Charles Aidman, 1973’s The Picture of Dorian Gray) and his British counterpart (Bernard Fox, 1999’s The Mummy). If you like conversations between people who love to hear themselves talk, you’ll be riveted. Fourth, a businessman (Richard Gates, Candy Stripe Nurses) — who’s so mean that he won’t accompany his co-workers to that new lunch place with 23 kinds of hamburgers — falls down an elevator shaft and struggles to get out.

You’ll know how he feels. With the exception the dueling-detective segment, no story ends with a twist. Including the dueling-detective segment, no story exhibits even a modicum of momentum. Its incompetency is such that viewers are unable to glean enjoyment of its awfulness. They’ll simply Zone out. —Rod Lott

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Euro Horror: Classic European Horror Cinema in Contemporary American Culture

eurohorrorA fine line exists between European arthouse films and European horror films, argues Ian Olney, and he makes a convincing case for it in Euro Horror, a paperback study for Indiana University Press.

Of course, many closed-minded people think no line exists between horror and pornography, so Olney also spends a great deal of time drawing one, while admitting similarities. In both instances, it has helped horror’s cause that lavish DVD editions have rescued the films from obscurity; such discs’ all-out-extras treatment have lifted the genre from the depths of the lowbrow to an artful respectability.

Throughout his book, the author forces the reader to think harder about these movies, to see that there’s more going on beyond mere exploitation. Yes, even in the seemingly tossed-off works of your Jess Franco and Joe D’Amato.

The bulk of Euro Horror divides itself into three “case studies”: the giallo, the “S&M horror film” and the ever-popular cannibals and zombies. Olney examines and deconstructs iconic films among these subgenres to address themes of racism, sexuality and otherwise. For example, with regard to women-in-prison pictures, “[they] not only privilege the lesbian gaze, but also invite viewers to adopt it themselves.”

Naturally, in studies such as these, how much of what the author proposes is shared by the filmmaker (at least consciously) is impossible to quantify; you either see merit in the argument or not.

bloodblacklaceI see plenty of merit, but then again, I’m predisposed to loving these films. Here, among dozens upon dozens cited and considered, some getting considerably more play include Mario Bava’s Blood and Black Lace, Lucio Fulci’s Zombie, Emilio Miraglia’s The Red Queen Kills 7 Times, Franco’s Eugenie de Sade, Dario Argento’s The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, D’Amato’s Images in a Convent, Ruggero Deodato’s Cannibal Holocaust and, yep, even Claudio Fragasso’s Troll 2.

It is with the latter film that Olney gives too much credence to bloggers (especially one who apparently can’t write a sentence without the word “fucking”) to back up his points, but thankfully, that’s the only time. Everywhere else, he draws from a wealth of credible sources that place him in solid company. His only other misstep is minor: believing that making the “New Releases” wall at Blockbuster Video has something to do with popularity, and not for simply being a new release. (Sadly, I speak from personal, retail-hell experience.)

A film professor at English at York College of Pennsylvania, the author is a smart guy with a smart book — too smart for casual readers of criticism, fascinating for those of us who don’t mind academia intruding upon our 90 minutes of anarchy.

For a wider-scoped, less-scholarly book on the same subject, I highly recommend Danny Shipka’s Perverse Titillation of 2011. When you’re done with that and ready for a graduate course, enroll in Euro Horror — time and money well-spent. —Rod Lott

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