Reading Material

Regional Horror Films, 1958-1990: A State-by-State Guide with Interviews

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I’m not sure whether to be proud or ashamed that I’ve seen so many of the movies covered in Brian Albright’s Regional Horror Films, 1958-1990, a state-by-state reference guide to fright flicks made independently of the studios, major and minor. I just assumed that the titles covered would be completely obscure.

To a majority of moviegoers, I’m sure they are. Yes, they include Sam Raimi’s The Evil Dead, Tobe Hooper’s The Texas Chain Saw Massacre and Troma’s The Toxic Avenger, but those are exceptions to the rule — one populated by the likes of Zaat, Terror at Tenkiller, Dungeon of Harrow, Don’t Go in the Woods and Mardi Gras Massacre. Home video may have extended their audience greatly, but rarely so far to have penetrated the mainstream.

But before Albright gets to those, he gives a great introduction in “I Hear America Screaming,” offering a quick overview as he establishes the definition and criteria for the films covered. Why stop at 1990? Because the explosion of digital video and iMovie would have necessitated something the size of the Yellow Pages for the greater Los Angeles area. That’s a smart decision, because in my view, the luster seems to have been lost when the technology is no longer something people had to work to get.

Blood, sweat and tears inform these films — not trust funds, iPhones and Kickstarter campaigns. That’s not to say the end results are all good — heavens, no; in fact, the opposite is often the case. And it’s refreshing to hear the filmmakers admit their own faults in the 13 Q-and-A-style interviews that compose roughly half the trade paperback’s 336 pages. Among the most notable are, in order of ascending talent, J.R. Bookwalter (The Dead Next Door), William Grefé (Stanley) and Lewis Jackson (Christmas Evil).

The back half contains the state-by-state rundown (ignoring California on purpose, save for one), with the flicks presented in capsule format, but not as reviews. To his credit, Albright doesn’t pretend to have seen all of them, especially when one considers how difficult many are to acquire. His entries make me want to see scads of them.

With poster art galore, this is a reference book that horror-film fans didn’t know they needed. —Rod Lott

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Sci-Fi & Fantasy

Terminal Invasion (2002)

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During a blizzard, a group of people is trapped inside a tiny airport. As a felon named Jack (Evil Dead icon Bruce Campbell) learns following a trip to the men’s room, some of the airport’s inhabitants are really aliens disguised as humans. Thus, the group has to simultaneously trust each other and figure out who among them isn’t the real deal. If it sounds like John Carpenter’s The Thing meets the TV sitcom Wings, you’re right!

All the stock characters are present in Terminal Invasion: the kindly old woman, precocious kids, harried businessman, insensitive husband, nagging wife, scaredy-cat security guard — right down to the token black guy who says things like, “This is whack!” and “Yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!”

Campbell is the bad guy who is forced by circumstances to become the good guy, and Star Trek: Deep Space Nine starlet Chase Masterson is a feisty alpha-female pilot. They try to find out who’s got the alien inside them by taking turns going through the X-ray machine, and not one of them brings up the sterility issue. Kids, don’t try this at home!

The first half of this straight-to-cable movie is actually pretty decent. It’s not until it becomes the standard cat-and-mouse game that things get … well, standard. Friday the 13th‘s Sean S. Cunningham directs better than usual, while Campbell is, as always, terrific fun to watch, even when mired in dung. —Rod Lott

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Comedy

Toga Party (1977)

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The deservedly obscure broad ’n’ bawdy comedy Toga Party begins not at a toga party, but on a farm, where Purvis, an easygoing guy with a ‘fro, spends his days strumming the guitar, boning Betty Jo in the barn and dreaming of becoming a singer. One day, he up and decides to go to New York in search of stardom, so he does.

Upon arrival, he roams the streets, not in search of a toga party, but a club that’ll let him play. No one will. On a chance meeting, he is discovered by a sleazy, two-bit agent named Suzy Starmonger. She books him not at a toga party, but at an obnoxious bar where a pie fight is liable to break out at the drop of someone’s pants.

Now redubbed “Pelvis” because of his vocal likening to the King and because of his large penis, Purvis becomes a minor star singing hits like “Nazi Girl,” “I Know a Man Who Screwed a Chicken,” “Suck My Way to the Top” and “Maria, My Little Wetback.” He also gets mixed up in hard drugs and loose woman, but nary a toga party.

Other than a spoof of the infamous crying-Native American litter PSA, there’s nothing really funny about Toga Party, but it’s fairly painless. In case you hadn’t figured it out by now, at no time does anyone go to (or even talk about) a toga party. —Rod Lott

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Action

Action Jackson (1988)

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Why was Action Jackson denied its own franchise? With such macho-flick pedigree — Lethal Weapon’s Joel Silver as producer, stunt man Craig R. Baxley as director and, of course, Apollo Creed himself in the starring role — it looked like Carl Weathers was poised to jump from the Rocky series to his own soon-to-wear-out-its-welcome character.

I blame The Pointer Sisters being on the soundtrack. But I also blame a stupid screenplay and Silver/Baxley for allowing it to dip itself into the pool of ’80s excess.

Weathers is Sgt. Jericho “Action” Jackson. This cat is so cool that the first words we hear out of his mouth are “Mellow out.” Plus, as we learn in the opening minutes, he can run as fast as a speeding taxi. Repeat: as fast as a speeding taxi. Because the boss’ wife has a Parcheesi game, Jackson is asked to attend a Man of the Year dinner for Peter Dellaplane (Poltergeist pops Craig T. Nelson), who happens to be the father of the sexual psychopath who got Jackson demoted, despite his ability to run as fast as a speeding taxi.

Jackson and Dellaplane naturally exchange words at the frou-frou event, as our Harvard-educated supercop sees right through the sleazy auto magnate’s do-gooder public persona. Sure enough, Dellaplane likes to deal with his competition by truly eliminating them. Catch my drift? (Murder, yo.)

For every kick-ass element to Action Jackson, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Example: Sharon Stone nude in a steam room; Herbie Hancock’s “wacky” sax licks. Another: Vanity; Vanity. But the worst of all is the dialogue, presumably written as a string of intended catchphrases, particularly in its third act. Following one character busting in on trouble with a hearty “Hello, I’m Mr. Ed! You called about a paint job?,” you get Jackson setting an enemy aflame after cracking, “Barbecue, huh? How do you like your ribs?” Oooooh, burn! —Rod Lott

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