Horror

Killer Workout (1987)

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If there’s one thing I love more than fads-ploitation (movies based on short-lived and instantly dated cultural obsessions) or a good slasher flick, it would have to be terrible amalgams of both. Thank writer/director David A. Prior (Sledgehammer) for making me so happy with Killer Workout (also released with the much better title, Aerobicide), which is as wonderfully bad as a late-’80s movie about a maniac killing attractive people in an aerobics studio ever could hope to be.

Unlike other wannabe horror auteurs, Prior doesn’t feel beholden to such traditional cinematic crutches as suspense, character or plot. He’s happy instead to merely intercut random murders of folks we don’t give even the teeny-tiniest fuck about with extensive footage of hot, busty babes exercising enthusiastically in the kind of minimal outfits only the very fittest of us should ever be allowed to wear in public.

As fads-ploitation, Killer Workout is literally nothing more than 30-plus minutes of absurdly sexualized workout footage. As a slasher film, it’s a catastrophic failure. The secret identity of the scarred killer is obvious as soon as she appears onscreen and is the only one dressed in the aerobic version of a burka; nameless victims are introduced in the same scenes where they’re killed; and the hot instructor with the best butt and highest thong is clearly established as the probable protagonist until the screenplay suddenly forgets all about her and decides to kill her off-screen instead.

Combined, however, the result is almost hypnotic in its base appeal. Bouncing boobies. Kill. Thong-clad buttocks. Kill. Random karate fight. Kill. More boobies. Kill. More buttocks. Kill. Kill. Kill. And all I can say is, if you don’t understand the appeal of this, why the heck are you even reading this? —Allan Mott

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Sci-Fi & Fantasy

Almighty Thor (2011)

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As fun as Marvel’s big-screen Thor is, you can always rely on The Asylum to make a movie that’s more fun, even if only in terms of sheer cinematic insanity. For a few years now, these straight-to-video kingpins have been churning out “mockbusters,” suspiciously similar, low-budget rip-offs (for lack of a better word) of current blockbuster theatrical releases. Did you like Transformers? You’ll love Transmorphers! Did Paranormal Activity give you the shivers? Paranormal Entity will make you crap your pants!

Almighty Thor, a mind-numbingly loco version of the classic Norse myths, features a pale, menacing Richard Grieco as Loki, and in the world’s biggest middle finger to classically trained actors like Anthony Hopkins, former wrestler Kevin Nash as Odin. The Thor depicted here is far from Chris Hemsworth’s muscle-bound hero; instead he’s a whiny, petulant, wannabe warrior prone to crying jags. Lots of them. Every time anything goes the slightest bit wrong, Thor starts to weep and emote and hang his head low, usually forcing the bo staff-flinging Jarnsaxa (Patricia Velasquez) to take up the slack and dispatch of whatever CGI baddies come their way.

Loki escapes from Hell with a handful of dragon dogs and heads up to Asgard, which, awesomely enough, looks a lot like the lush forests of Southern California. He wants the Hammer of Invincibility — basically a sharp rock tied to a stick — so he can rule the world, or at least a cost-effective portion of it. Odin gets his ass slayed, and the Hammer is sent to another dimension. Thor must man up and find the Hammer in modern-day California alleyways. He’s taught how to use a Uzi and … well, that’s something I’ve always wanted to see my entire life. God bless you, The Asylum. Monsters attack the city, Thor forges a new Hammer, and Grieco gets to eat for another week.

Cody Deal manages to be the greatest and worst Thor of all-time, giving such an emotionally chaotic performance that it should be studied by drama students for years. Then again, you need such a stirring performance for a movie that plays like a pre-teen’s creative writing assignment, a piece of Thor fan fiction that is so wildly creative and tonally manic that, if given to a school counselor to read, the kid surely would be prescribed some sort of ADHD drug.

Oh, yeah: It’s directed by Christopher Douglas-Olen Ray, son of legendary B-movie director Fred Olen Ray. There’s gotta be something in the genes, because dude’s every bit the mad genius his dad is. Maybe together they can make their own mockbuster superhero crossover? I look forward to seeing Metal-Head, Gamma-Beast, Sgt. Patriot and the Almighty Thor coming together in Vindicator Force 3000. Don’t let me down, The Asylum! —Louis Fowler

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Action

Men of War (1994)

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Meet Nick Gunar (Dolph Lundgren), a former mercenary who wears a palooka beret and drinks from a flask. He’s approached by two yuppie maggots about going to the tiny island of South China Sea and making the native give up their mining rights.

Because his former superior tells him that “The art of war is the art of life” or whatever, Nick assembles of team of expendables from all over the nation to stick the business end of their guns, rocket launchers and other weapons in the faces of the islanders to convince them to give up what’s theirs. Of course, they encounter resistance, but what really sways Nick’s soul and mind to the other side are the terrific bared breasts of Charlotte Lewis (The Golden Child). That’ll do it.

Directed by actor Perry Lang (Spring Break), Men of War also features Catherine Bell of TV’s JAG as part of Nick’s team. Unlike Charlotte, she doesn’t take off her clothes. However, this may be a good thing, because here she looks like a man. In fact, her role is so butch, my genitals wept.

Shit blows up in this Thai-shot actioner. And by “shit,” I mean people, mostly. There’s even a bad guy with a burnt face who has what looks like a vulva where his right ear should be. What it lacks in story, it makes up for in mindless violence and Dolphitude. Judging from the credits, I believe the crew may have been locals forced to work for free, under threat of Dolph. Just look: Special effects assistants? Lek, Niphon and Kob. Electrician? Jakkrid. Dolly grip? Meng. —Rod Lott

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Comedy

Deathrow Gameshow (1987)

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Following a production logo outlining a breast with a nipple pointing north, Deathrow Gameshow begins with its own quasi-rap, sax lick-flavored theme song unfolding over cartoon footage of knives and jail cells: “Deathrow gameshow / It’s the only way to go / But if you lose / You’ll be no more.” Despite evidence presented by these deep lyrics, let me pause to tell you that this is a comedy.

The title refers to the chintzy TV show Live or Die, where felons scheduled for execution compete in quizzes and challenges for a reprieve or other rewards, but not necessarily for themselves. Typical scenario: If a contestant’s guillotined head falls into the basket face up, his family nets thousands. Hosting this trash is Chuck Toedan (John McCafferty, who also starred for Deathrow director Mark Pirro in Curse of the Queerwolf, A Polish Vampire in Burbank and, um, Rectuma), he of the 47 death threats a week and occasional busty groupie showing up in his bed.

Opposing him is cute blonde feminist Gloria Sternvirgin (Robyn Blythe, a former Brady Bunch Variety Hour Kroftette), who wonders if he’d stoop so low to air Raping for Dollars. She eventually becomes his ally when Chuck’s life is in danger by Mafia hit man Luigi (who looks like a fat Richard Simmons and is played by a man credited only as Beano) for 86ing mob boss Guido Spumoni on a prior episode. Won’t Luigi be furious when his elderly mom accidentally gets on the show, thinks she’s going to win a fridge, and is instead killed? Hee-haw!

I’m sure some day, the future imagined by Deathrow Gameshow will become reality, but this isn’t to be mistaken for the highbrow works of Paddy Chayefsky. It is, however, awfully fun to watch in spite of / because of its extreme stupidity, what with Blythe’s incredible boobs, Debra Lamb’s “Dance of the Seven Boners” strip number, a nightmare presented as a movie trailer, end-credit commercials that tastelessly defile corpses, and one old lady explosion. —Rod Lott

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Horror

CreepTales (1986)

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In this absolutely dreadful, no-budget horror anthology, two seemingly mentally retarded boys try to get to the video store before closing time to rent CreepTales. They don’t, so they raid the grave of Uncle Munger, who was buried with a copy of the fine, fine film. Then they take it home to a house full of monsters to enjoy a viewing. This passes for a wraparound story.

The amateurish tales — ranging from an unbearable three minutes to an unbearable 20-plus — begin with “Warped,” in which a young woman goes to visit her crazy cousin (“Oh, Mama, you’re making my gall bladder act up!”) and her even crazier mother. Entering into the story are the screen’s fattest cop in history and an entirely predictable skeleton baby. “Snatcher” — about a killer purse — is notable only for the presence of Tom Kenny, the voice of SpongeBob Squarepants, and the stupid song he sings about his houseboat.

“The Closet” is about a monster in a closet, every bit as original and exciting as its title. “Groovy Ghoulie Garage” is just as stupid as its title would lead you to believe, about a gas station populated by ghosts. “Howling Nightmare” is about a werewolf, “Sucker” is about a unique vacuum cleaner, and the entire film itself is about 88 minutes too long.

The aforementioned creatures watching the films within the film pop up between segments for alleged comic relief, shown eating popcorn (with rats in it, ho-ho!) and ordering pizza (and not paying, hee-hee!). You don’t need to sit through all six stories to realize you will hate yourself for watching this. —Rod Lott

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