Force: Five (1981)

After you’ve made the best and worst Bruce Lee movies — Enter the Dragon and Game of Death, for the record — where is there left to go? One failed Jackie Chan flick later, director Robert Clouse did the math, and the result was Force: Five.

The Rev. Rhee (Bong Soo Han, The Kentucky Fried Movie) runs an island cult full of trust-fund babies and silver spooners who sign over their inheritances. After a hired assassin fails to kill him, a wheelchair-bound U.S. senator approaches poufy-haired tuffie Martin (kickboxer Joe Lewis) to rescue his daughter (Amanda Wyss, A Nightmare on Elm Street‘s Tina) from Rhee and his 50 guards. Martin says he can do the task with the help of five … Force: Five!

They include poncho-clad Billy Ortega (kickboxer Benny Urquidez); big, black cyclist Lockjaw (Sonny Barnes, Gymkata); Aussie pool hustler Ezekiel (The Octagon‘s Richard Norton, here looking like Hulk Hogan dressing as Matthew McConaughey’s Dazed and Confused character for Halloween); and Laurie (Pam Huntington), the one with the tits, all the better to distract evil minions. Each is introduced with his own fight scene, karate-kicking an entire group of thugs, except for Laurie, who appears in an open silk robe. For Clouse, this counts as character development.

After busting ace chopper pilot Willard (Ron Hayden) out of prison to join the covert mission — wait, wait, wouldn’t that make this Force: Six? — the team infiltrates the Rhee compound — home to an underground maze complete with live bull! — and proceeds to beat the living shit out of everybody. One guy gets it with a saw blade, prompting Ezekiel to quip, “Thank God for Black & Decker!”

This is not as much fun as it sounds. I actually got bored with all the punching and Wilhelm screams. Ultimately, it’s too Clouse for comfort. —Rod Lott

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Murder Obsession (1981)

For some R&R after wrapping a movie, mustachioed prick actor Michael (Stefano Patrizi) takes his girlfriend, Deborah (Silvia Dionisio), and select fellow cast and crew members to the spooky, middle-of-nowhere mansion where he grew up. His ailing mother (Anita Strindberg) still lives there, despite the home being the spot where Michael, as a child, fatally stabbed his maestro father for beating up Mom.

Mom’s happy to see Michael (take a drink every time you feel an incest vibe; you’ll die before the end) and wishes he’d visit more often, but he refuses: “I’m always on the move, you know. Like a gypsy.” That’s probably a good thing, because Michael’s friends start getting killed. Who’s the black-gloved killer? It may be tough to tell at first, because everyone but the dog wears black gloves.

The final film for The Horrible Dr. Hichcock director Riccardo Freda, the so-nasty-it’s-nice Murder Obsession colorfully plays with all the elements that make a giallo great, from a bloody beheading to showcasing the nude body of Black Emanuelle herself, Laura Gemser, no less than three times, including her first encounter with the unknown psychopath, who attempts to drown her in the bathtub.

The best scene, however, is an extended nightmare sequence, which we see as Deborah relates its surreal details to her uncaring boyfriend. Among other things, she runs into a giant spider web, complete with giant spider; gets her chest scratched by bushes she pushes her way through; finds snakes at her feet; becomes tied to a post by some white-robed crusty faces who vomit green froth; and then is felt up by that oversized arachnid — all while she’s wearing a tissue-thin nightie. That’s commitment, kids. —Rod Lott

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The One Armed Executioner (1983)

It’s hard to hate a movie whose first scene depicts a tough guy trapping a Filipino midget in a phone booth and throwing it into the bay. As the box goes splash, the film freeze-frames to announce its awesome title: The One Armed Executioner. That’s so promising, I forgive it for not including the hyphen it so sorely needs.

Said title refers to Ortega (not related to the taco shells), a man who seems to have it all: a job with Interpol, a good head of hair, both arms, and a blonde American wife (Jody Kay) who writes children’s books, sleeps with a doll and basically acts as if she’s been kicked in the head. Yes, for Ortega (Franco Guerrero), life’s a pretty sweet fruit. Then coke-dealing, Caucasian crime boss Edwards (Nigel Hogge) wants his diary back from the cops, and orders Mrs. Ortega dead; his pantyhose-masked minions stab her fatally, then take Ortega’s left limb just for shits and giggles.

As spoiled by that title, Ortega isn’t about to take his handicap lightly. Trained by the Philippines’ equivalent of Tommy Lee Jones, he becomes a ruthless warrior, albeit one with a sleeve flopping around. Ortega then goes hunting for Edwards (“What balls!”), whose boat bears a swastika and who keeps a henchman on staff whose sole purpose is to act as a human thesaurus. (His lone African-American henchman is dubbed by a redneck.)

In this thrilla from Manila, everyone points and looks greasy sweaty. On one hand (pun not intended), it isn’t exploitative like, say, Hong Kong’s infamous The Crippled Masters, because in real life, Guerrero doesn’t park in handicapped spots. On the other hand (pun still not intended, pinky swear), one wishes it were, so it’d be a ton more fun. As is, it’s just a-little-more-than-passable fun. —Rod Lott

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Hobo with a Shotgun (2011)

I don’t know whether Hobo with a Shotgun qualifies as an homage, a genuine grindhouse masterpiece or just the goriest, most degenerate Canadian film to ever play in decent theatres. But once you see it, you won’t forget it. And I wouldn’t want to; this tale of a homeless man pushed too far is worth it just for the line, “I’m gonna cut welfare checks outta your skin.”

An expansion of a fake trailer entered in a contest for the enjoyably unhinged Quentin Tarantino/Robert Rodriguez pair-up Grindhouse, Hobo operates on a budget that wouldn’t have paid for Kurt Russell’s pomade. Using most of its cash on an actual actor, Rutger fuckin’ Hauer, the movie apparently spent the rest on blood and entrails. There isn’t one area on the human body that isn’t brutalized in Hobo’s 86 minutes; there isn’t one obscenity in the English language unmuttered; there isn’t one depravity unseen.

But you also get a surprising amount of flair. Director Jason Eisener is a real talent, using a grittily gorgeous color palette that recalls giallo at its most vivid, and if his script is intentionally silly, it also has a sly wit (at one point, a newspaper headline reads, “Hobo Stops Begging, Demands Change”). While the movie is constantly cranked to 11, Eisener takes everything to another level altogether with The Plague, a pair of armor-clad hit men who may or may not have killed Jesus Christ (if a freeze-frame of their lair is any indication).

Finally, we have Hauer, a pro relishing every moment and owing the screen. It’s his show, and he is glorious. His impassioned speech on the troubles of life, given to a hospital-room filled with newborn babies who get more and more terrified as his rant continues, is some sort of classic. —Corey Redekop

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Nancy Drew … Reporter (1939)

As the title so blatantly gives away, Nancy Drew … Reporter finds America’s sweetheart sleuth giving journalism a try. Not for altruistic reasons, but for the local newspaper’s prize of “$50 and a gold medal.” Leave it to Nancy (Bonita Granville) to pull a switcheroo so she can cover a front-page murder investigation.

Ignoring all journalism ethics, Nancy throws the concept of being unbiased out the window so she can work to free the woman she’s just sure is wrongly imprisoned: “Isn’t it a whopper?” In doing so, Nancy gets in a fender-bender, drives dangerously, meets a boxer named Soxie, and even eats breakfast cereal annoyingly. You know, come to think of it, Nancy’s kind of a manipulative nag, but boy, she sure can solve a mystery!

The second of the four-film series proves as frothy and accessible as the first, if you can get past the Asian stereotype who pops up at a Chinese restaurant where Nancy and friends are short by 65 cents. Thus, she, Ted (Frankie Thomas, whose character is suddenly no longer named Ned), Ted’s little sister and her pal Killer literally sing for their supper, and the crowd digs Killer’s killer Donald Duck impression.

The sequence serves no other purpose than to wedge in a musical number, which audiences of the era apparently ate up. Crack open the Flick Attack fortune cookie for my verdict: “I’ll allow it.” (Also, your lucky numbers are 07, 16, 33 and 84.) —Rod Lott

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