Horror

The Last House on the Left (1972)

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Attention, The Last House on the Left: Your reputation as a horror landmark is at stake. I call shenanigans! “Keep repeating: It’s only a movie …” and not a good one.

Yes, it has blood. Yes, it has rape. Yes, it has scenes of more unrelenting violence. But it also has slapstick comedy with rednecks, complete with “wacky” music. And a near-toothless African-American woman who would seem at home on a MADtv sketch. And dare I even mention the banjo-pop soundtrack with songs about the villains? Bad guys’ themes should not be played on the instrument most associated with TV’s Hee Haw.

But onto the story, which marks the screenwriting and directorial debut of Wes Craven, who later would birth terror icons in Freddy Krueger, Ghostface and whoever Meryl Streep played in that violin movie: Virginal 17-year-old Mari Collingwood (Sandra Cassell, Teenage Hitchhikers) and her best pal (Lucy Grantham) have the unfortunate experience of trying to score pot, but instead running into a felonious foursome led by Krug (David Hess, instantly typecast).

Krug’s so evil, he got his own son (Marc Sheffler) hooked on heroin. Weasel (Fred Lincoln) is a child molester, and Sadie (Jeramie Rain, later Mrs. Richard Dreyfuss) is merely a psycho bitch from hell. Rape and murder ensue, then the tables are turned when car trouble puts Team Krug as guests in the Collingwood home.

Craven and company’s absolute amateur-hour efforts kill whatever power was intended. That’s not to say what Krug and f(r)iends do isn’t horrible; it is. But torture of characters doth not a good movie make, and there’s nothing offered — original or otherwise — to elevate Last House. I even think some of its many rip-offs do the same story far better — Italy’s Night Train Murders, for one — and Hollywood’s vastly superior 2009 remake boasts suspense and style. Yeah, I said it. —Rod Lott

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Action

Extreme Ops (2002)

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In Hollywood’s first extreme-sports-inspired action film (seemingly existing only to have a movie with “extreme” in the title), a group of crazy kids shooting a camcorder commercial in the Austrian mountains are mistaken for CIA agents by Serbian war criminals hiding out in the unfinished resort where they’re staying.

That’s just one of many of Extreme Ops’ glaring gaps of logic wider than the space between star Bridgitte Wilson-Sampras’ eyes. But sure enough, this criminal mastermind who could not be toppled by entire governments is foiled with X Games stunts; this terrorist is taken down by beer-guzzling, snot-nosed sports freaks. If that’s the case, shouldn’t we have sent Tony Hawk to Iraq?

Dark City’s Rufus Sewell leads the team and has the hots for gold-medal downhill skier Bridgitte Wilson-Sampras-Gums-Teeth. The others dare you to like them, debuting with such lines as “I’m cramping and bleeding like a stuck pig!” and “Wassup, bitches?” That includes the rather unappealing Devon Sawa (Final Destination), whose baby teeth and bloodshot eyes suggests “reeks of skunk weed.” They’re so nutty and anti-authority that they’re always doing things like skateboarding atop moving trains and snowboarding off hotel roofs and laughing about it like it’s the funniest thing on earth. Why wasn’t Matthew Lillard in this?

It’s hard to side with the Extreme Ops team over the bad guys. And how do we know they’re bad? Because they’re bald and play chess … with bullets — how hardcore! The stunts are excellent, but that leaves no excellence for other aspects of the film. At least one character’s voice has been redubbed in its entirety. Directed by Screamers’ Christian Duguay, the flick has more falling snow in it than Chris Farley’s last party, and appears to have been made only for guys who use the word “bro.” Extreme Oops may be a more apt title. —Rod Lott

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Thriller

Young, Violent, Dangerous (1976)

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Three adjectives apply to all three men at the center of Young, Violent, Dangerous, a ’70s Italian police drama from the mind of the great Fernando Di Leo (The Italian Connection). However, he yielded directorial duties on this one to Romolo Guerrieri (Johnny Yuma). I, for one, could sense the absence of Di Leo’s sure touch, and greatly missed it.

Louie, Paul and Joe and the troublemakers to whom the title refers. Joe’s the one in a Fritz the Cat T-shirt and overalls who plays hopscotch, just for the record. Louie’s the one whose girlfriend, Lea (Eleonora Giorgi, Inferno), rats them out in the first scene, letting the authorities know of the bored, pampered boys’ plans to rob a gas station.

That felonious act leaves four men dead, which excites constant gigglebox Joe as they escape from commissioner Tomas Milian (Cop in Drag): “You gotta admit, guys: It was better than OK Corral!” The trio immediately robs a bank of $5 million, then, after a round of group sex where someone farts, a grocery store. One long and winding car chase later, they’re fleeing with Lea to the country, where innocent campers await to be murdered for the hell of it.

Crime sprees usually make for can’t-miss concepts in films, but Young, Violent, Dangerous — while amusing in its first act — is too off-target to register for greatness. Milian’s a fine hero, naturally, but his screen time is limited, given over to the three punks you really don’t want to hang out with. Eurocrime can offer much worse, but it also can offer much better. —Rod Lott

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Martial Arts

Black Samurai (1976)

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Al Adamson movies often mean slapdash editing, piss-poor blocking and lots of offscreen overdubs. Black Samurai has all that, plus Enter the Dragon’s Jim Kelly as the most-certainly-black-but-to-be-honest-technically-not-a-samurai Black Samurai.

As an agent of D.R.A.G.O.N. (which could refer to Adamson’s pacing problems: “drag on,” see?), Kelly ends his Mexico vacation early when fellow agents inform him of the kidnapping of his Asian girlfriend Toki (as in “token,” I guess). She’s been nabbed by an evil white guy who’s deeply into the occult and the black arts. Kelly seeks to infiltrate this dude’s immense castle fortress, and his move of choice seems to be inflicting pain on other people’s scrotums. Seriously, I haven’t seen this much ball-kicking since Sly Stallone made that soccer movie with Pelé.

Strangely, the occult guy has a high dwarf population among his teams of henchmen. I counted six of the little guys. And while it’s not fair, politically correct or even logical, it sure is funny! To infuse a bit of Bond-age, Kelly gets a great scene where he jetpacks through the sky. He also romances the ladies, like the mean prostitute named Synne (subtle!) and gets his own theme song, although this one sounds created at a piano bar.

Black Samurai gets so ludicrous, Kelly ends up trading punches with a giant bird! And then there’s some rattlesnakes thrown in for good measure, as well as vintage Adamson touches like the sound effects of an owl in a scene of broad daylight. All the while, you’ll be laughing and scratching your head, asking yourself, “Wait, this was based on a novel?” —Rod Lott

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Sex

The Mermaids of Tiburon (1962)

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“Won’t you believe in me? If you do, there will always be mermaids.” So beckons a sexy, near-breathless female voice at the beginning of The Mermaids of Tiburon. Before you answer, let me tell you the fish-femmes in this strange breed of nature film (the exploratory-earth kind) and nature film (the nudie-cutie kind) are far more well-endowed than that cartoon one on the tuna label.

As the title has it, the film takes place on Tiburon, a Mexican island in the Gulf of California, where marine biologist Dr. Samuel Jamison (George Rowe) embarks on a “most extraordinary adventure.” Calm down, however, because it has to do with finding riches of pearls. Old man Steinhauer (John Mylong, Robot Monster‘s professor) proposes a partnership: “You can be astounded at what you find down there.”

At no point, however, does he say, “And by that I mean, mermaids with tits as big as my head.” Because that’s what the island’s “100 miles of dry sand and granite” gets you: topless, top-heavy mermaids — some with fins, some without, who needs continuity with cans like that? — who swim about and have no problem showing their, um, gills. It’s so innocent by today’s standards that it’s as harmless as a National Geographic special.

Whoever thought pulchritude could be so … well, deathly boring? The women playing the mermaids are lovely, especially Playboy Playmate Diane Webber, but beauty only gets you so far (and that includes the terrific underwater photography). The basically plotless flick spends so much time on scenery that the barking of sea lions counts as action, so when the man-eating shark shows up, you’re praying for blood. According to Tiburon, “Time has no meaning to these creatures,” and we experience that. Painfully. —Rod Lott

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