Horror

Death Nurse 2 (1988)

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deathnurse2Thirty seconds is all it takes for nurse-school dropout Edith Mortley (Priscilla Alden) to kill her first victim in Death Nurse 2. As viewers of its previous year’s predecessor know, timing is not among writer/director Nick Philips’ strong points. Hell, I’m not sure he has any strong points, thereby resulting in an auto-accident watch made more difficult by being shot on video.

This sequel offers more of the same: more of Edith grousing, “You nosy old bitch”; more scenes from Philips’ Criminally Insane/Crazy Fat Ethel films passed off as her dreams; and more minutes, yet this still fails to hit an hour by a handful of seconds.

deathnurse2-1Plot? Edith continues to kill patients, but at least DN2 offers a twist: This chapter’s new admissions are indigents the mayor finds pesky, from the alcoholic Brownie (Philips’ wife, Irmgard Millard, playing a different drunk from DN1) to some crazy guy who spouts rhetoric in front of City Hall about the country being headed toward socialism. (Yes, Philips apparently predicted the establishment of the Tea Party.)

Still, Death Nurse 2 is so lazy that it even reuses scenes from its big sister. This follow-up easily boasts the saga’s best sequence, when Brownie and her butcher knife chase Edith ’round and ’round the living room furniture — so cartoony, it lacks only a Carl Stalling score.

Once more, the movie just ends by petering out mid-scene. Oh, how were all the loose threads supposed to conclude? —Rod Lott

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Reading Material

Fatal Visions: The Wonder Years 1988-89

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fatalvisionsThis very website serves as an extension for a DIY magazine I produced for a dozen years, beginning in 1993 around the height of zinedom. Titled Hitch: The Journal of Pop Culture Absurdity, the more-or-less quarterly specialized in reviews of films — the more outré, the better — which took up the better part of each issue’s back half.

While I’m glad to be out of the zine scene (it’s a ton of work to put out anything of quality), I hold affection for those times, partly for the movies and subgenres to which I became exposed. I feel like I have found a counterpart of sorts in Australia’s Michael Helms, whose Fatal Visions zine celebrated “sleaze, violence and sexploitation in the cinema” for a decade.

Fatal Visions: The Wonder Years 1988-89 collects the first six issues in paperback, complete except for the excision of reader letters. Each issue among the dirty half-dozen is devoted almost exclusively to reviews of flicks then new to theaters, via VHS rentals or airing on Melbourne TV stations.

A majority of the films are United States productions, so the Down Under viewpoints of Helms and his review crew grant an added level of interest to their rough-and-tumble criticism. While you’ll find all-American blockbusters like Tim Burton’s Batman covered, titles lean heavily on sequels, horror, Troma, Jackie Chan, Roger Corman and assorted trash.

Longer pieces include a Q-and-A with gore king Herschell Gordon Lewis, memoirs of an X-rated paperback novelist, a brief look at Bruceploitation and, better yet, a three-part series that “reviews” the local porn palace theaters, then near-extinct. Only an extended essay on Aussie censors comes off as a little too “had to be there,” yet it’s always nice to see intelligent voices fighting the good fight against those who wish to legislate their own religious beliefs onto the populace.

Much of Fatal Visions‘ nostalgic charm stems from the wealth of clipped newspaper ads — a lost art dearly missed in this online-ticketing era of Fandango and Moviefone. Charming, too, is Helms’ writing style, built more on passion than polish. Readers should be warned that this book hasn’t cleaned up the original errors, which number many, coming from a cut-and-paste zine and all. Those who used to send stamps or a few bills in the mail in return for such homemade publications won’t care. —Rod Lott

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Action

Firewalker (1986)

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firewalkerChuck Norris does his best Harrison Ford (which isn’t good enough) in Firewalker, the Cannon Films answer to the Indiana Jones franchise. Give Chuck credit for trying something different, but it doesn’t work. Call it Texas Ranger and the Temple of Dumb.

Norris is adventurer-for-hire Max Donigan, hired by Flash Gordon‘s Melody Anderson (as the ersatz Kate Capshaw) to guide her to a horde of Aztec gold located in a cave supposedly guarded by a cyclops — so says the ancient treasure map which has come into her possession. Iron Eagle‘s Louis Gossett Jr. is Donigan’s minority sidekick, and stepping into John Rhys-Davies’ Raiders of the Lost Ark role is John Rhys-Davies, because what else does the guy have to do but eat?

firewalker1Finding the cave is simple; getting the gold is another matter. Chuck sums up the plot as best as anyone: “OK, you’ve got gold, human sacrifice, a dagger and the sun.” He and his cohorts get into all sorts of wacky, Central American pickles, from puttering around the jungle in a camo-painted VW Bug to hopping aboard a train disguised as Catholic clergy members.

Firewalker begins in a semisolid state, as old-fashioned serial fun. It ends that way, too, but dumber. The problem is its meandering, near-torturous midsection, made worse by Norris and company’s inability to handle the script’s reliance on comedy. The movie might have worked better in the less-wrinkled hands of a younger, livelier director, whereas J. Lee Thompson (The Guns of Navarone) was nearing the close of his long career. Besides, didn’t he receive his first Social Security check somewhere between chapters six and seven of Radar Men from the Moon?

Our heroes take so many photographs during their journeys that you’d expect to see the shots during the end credits, but Cannon budgets didn’t allow a line item for Fotomat developing. Also, no one walks on fire. —Rod Lott

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Horror

The Dunwich Horror (1970)

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In Grease, when they sang about Sandra Dee being “lousy with virginity,” I’d like to believe it was a direct reference to The Dunwich Horror, an H.P. Lovecraft adaptation from AIP. In it, Dee plays Nancy Wagner, a college virgin lured to the sleepy, strange town of Dunwich by its least favorite son, the creepy-eyed Wilbur Whateley (Dean Stockwell, Blue Velvet), sporting a porn-star mustache.

Wilbur lives with his freaky-ass grandpa in a big, spooky house. He’s also the son of the devil and has recruited Nancy as his virgin sacrifice for a ceremony that will open the gates of hell. Meanwhile, just what in the hell is that thing in Wilbur’s closet?

This could have been some half-assed, thrown-together horror effort, but surprisingly, it’s pretty classy, like Roger Corman’s Edgar Allan Poe pictures. Although some dialogue is dry, the look and feel of Dunwich is top-notch. Die, Monster, Die!‘s Daniel Haller does a terrific job with the direction, especially in the latter half when things get really weird; the tricks he pulls with quick cuts and color flashes help intensify the film’s jolts.

Dee looks rather puffy-faced in this one, but does turn her image on its head by doing a nude scene. Stockwell pulls his patented weirdo character out of his sleeve, but hey, it works. Everything gels in this one; I find it somewhat of a minor classic. Dig that ending! —Rod Lott

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