I’m All Right Jack (1959)

Twins John and Roy Boulting were the Coen Brothers of postwar British movies. They wrote, produced and directed their films, swapping credits so that sometimes Roy was listed as director and John as producer, and vice versa. Sometimes they worked with other writers, sometimes not.

In 1956, they burlesqued the British Army in Private’s Progress. That film starred Ian Carmichael (later Lord Peter Wimsey on TV) as Stanley Windrush, minor nobility and major boob, who learns what he needs to know to survive in uniform: the scams, tricks for time-wasting, disrespect for authority, etc. Three years later, Stanley returned in I’m All Right Jack, to learn the same lessons in postwar British industry.

He gets a job as an efficiency expert working for his uncle whose company has landed a contract to build missiles for a Middle Eastern principality. Problem is, Uncle Bertie (Dennis Price) wants to lose the contract, which he underbid, so it will go to his nefarious pal Sidney De Vere Cox (Richard Attenborough), whose company will make a fortune to be split between the schemers.

Bertie knows Stanley well, and he’s honest, good-hearted, incredibly inept and certain to piss off the workers so thoroughly they’ll go out on strike. Since the union leader is played by Peter Sellers with a brilliant Hitler mustache, and the human resources officer is Terry-Thomas at his smarmiest, it’s a done deal.

The Boultings didn’t like Sellers much — Roy once said, “As a man, he was probably his own worst enemy, although there was plenty of competition” — but he was such a terrific comic character actor before he became a movie star, they had to use him. You don’t need to know anything about working conditions in Britain in the 1950s to appreciate Terry-Thomas explaining, “We’ve got chaps here who could break out in a muck sweat merely by standing still.”

Gotta go. It’s break time. —Doug Bentin

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Warriors of the Wasteland (1982)

Nobody can rip off Mad Max quite like the Italians.

In Warriors of the Wasteland — taking place in a post-apocalyptic future, it should go without saying — a small band of peacenik survivors is tormented by the Templars, an evil gang that roams the desert (or the fringes of a construction site) on cool motorcycles and customized cars loaded with deadly gadgetry. They also have names like Shadow and One, sport Mohawks and mullets, and dress like George Lucas’ Stormtroopers as made over by the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy team.

Stepping up to right wrongs and challenge the Templars is Scorpio, a disillusioned former member who looks like a hunky Peter Riegert. He’s joined by a vacant female love interest, a rock-slinging, tow-headed ugly kid and, best of all, crossbow-wielding Fred Williamson and his girly headband, rightfully playing a guy named Nadir.

The action scenes are what make this movie, alternately known as The New Barbarians. People explode in slow-motion into bloody chunks, get screwed by the Swiss Army car implements and even decapitated by a slowly whirling blade on the lead bad guy’s go-cart. There are several chase scenes like this — all set to a cool Claudio Simonetti score — so you’d think the carmageddon would get old, but nope, never does! —Rod Lott

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Night of the Demons (2009)

When I popped the Night of the Demons remake into my machine, I did so with complete certainty that no matter how much it sucked, I would still prefer it to the 1988 original. Y’see, I came to the first Night late into the game, so instead of nursing fond teenage memories of that crazy film where that chick sticks a lipstick container into her boob, I instead think of it as 90 minutes spent with the most singularly obnoxious collection of horror movie assholes I’ve ever seen.

As the remake started, however, I found my faith tested. Once again, the screenwriters seemed to mistake having their characters insult each other for the first 20 minutes as a witty form of character development.

It isn’t, screenwriters. It really, really, isn’t.

Eventually, the demons appeared at the Halloween party and the characters grew less overtly hateful, and while I never actually found myself enjoying the film, it also never tortured me as much as the original. It is interesting to note that in the remake’s recreation of the infamous lipstick-in-the-tit scene, Diora Baird’s fake fake boobs look much more fake than Linnea Quigley’s original fake fake boobs, which suggests the art of fake-boob prosthesis is the one special effect that hasn’t advanced much in the intervening years.

Speaking of Quigley, she has a short cameo at the beginning. It made me sad. As did the performances of pretty much the rest of the cast, none of whom actually seem to want to be associated with the film — the worst offender being Shannon Elizabeth (completely miscast as Goth queen Angela), whose only remotely authentic moment comes in the scene where she fellates a wine bottle.

So, yeah, the terrible remake of Night of the Demons is pretty fucking terrible, but not as terrible as the terrible original, which I believe sets the terrible standard for horror movie terrible. Terrible progress? —Allan Mott

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The Headless Ghost (1959)

Producer Herman Cohen is perhaps best known for the 1957 one-two punch of I Was a Teenage Werewolf and Teenage Frankenstein, so he continued to ride the wave of teen-oriented horror as far as it would take him, which is about 15 minutes into The Headless Ghost.

The British pic focuses on three collegians — two debate team-looking dweebs and one meh Swedish girl whose boobs are so pointy, it wouldn’t surprise me if the brand of her bra were Isosceles — touring a supposed haunted castle. And it is, which they discover when they hide ever-so-sneakily past closing.

Then and only then do the spirits of the royalty leap from their paintings and converse with them. One of the ghosts is — and, oh, I do so hope the title of the film didn’t spoil this for you! — without a head. In order to bust an ancient curse wide open, he sure could use that noggin. The payoff scene finds the headless body running around like a loon as his melon hovers overhead.

The whole thing is over in an hour, yet you won’t remember much past the cartoon credits and a hot bit o’ belly dancin’. Harmless but hopeless, it’s one of those things that sets out to “wacky” and makes corny jokes. You half expect it to be laden with on-screen sound effects like ye olde Batman TV show. Actually, that wouldn’t be a bad idea. —Rod Lott

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