Horror

The House That Dripped Blood (1971)

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Well, you can’t hit one over the fence every time at bat. The House That Dripped Blood is the third of Amicus Productions’ portmanteau horror anthologies, and it’s at best a shaky single achieved as the result of a fielder’s error.

The script is by Robert Bloch and based on four of his short stories: “Method for Murder,” “Waxworks,” “Sweets to the Sweet” and “The Cloak.” The last two are classic Bloch, but here, the scripts are weakened, especially in “The Cloak,” by producer Max Rosenberg’s insistence on putting humor onscreen and keeping the horror off.

The cast makes the film sort of worth watching. Denholm Elliott stars in the first story, about a writer of horror stories who begins to think that his creations are coming to life. Peter Cushing and Joss Ackland are in segment two, about a creepy wax museum and the nutjob who operates it. Christopher Lee tops a tale of a man trying to live with an adolescent witch, and Jon Pertwee and Ingrid Pitt finish off with a comic vampire yarn.

The film contains no thrills or chills — not even a weak shiver — and is for Cushing/Lee fans only. Note that Vincent Price was originally offered, but turned down the role of the snotty, egotistical horror movie star eventually played by Pertwee. Price got his chance to burlesque hammy actors two years later in Theatre of Blood, and that one’s a must-see. —Doug Bentin

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Thriller

Bunny Lake Is Missing (1965)

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The title says it all: Bunny Lake Is Missing! But we’ll fill you in anyway.

Having just moved to a new neighborhood in London, single mom Ann Lake (Carol Lynley) becomes alarmed when she goes to pick up her little girl, Bunny, at school, and the tot is nowhere to be found. Not only that, but no one at the school remembers ever seeing her. And not only that, but they think Ann to be somewhat of a loon.

And not only that, but the authorities — led by Newhouse (Laurence Olivier — pardon me, Sir Laurence Olivier) — think about giving up on the search, because there’s no evidence Bunny ever existed. Or at least none that Ann and her brother, Steven (Keir Dullea of 2001), can present, as Bunny’s personal items at their apartment have vanished.

Director Otto Preminger deliberately toys with the viewer, making you question whether Ann is telling the truth or off her rocker. (It doesn’t help that Preminger cleverly has a cuckoo clock sound off in the background a couple of times — a clue or a joke?) And does that creepy bastard of a landlord (Noel Coward) have anything to do with it?

Although it could stand to lose a couple of scenes that go nowhere, this is a tight, black-and-white thriller with an awfully bizarro final act that’ll have you wondering if you weren’t drugged. It holds up pretty well today, minus the repeated songs of The Zombies. —Rod Lott

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Action

Machete (2010)

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Talk about putting the cart before the horse — and getting away with it. Robert Rodriguez’s Machete has the rare distinction of being a movie that stemmed from a fake trailer, the latter being something Rodriguez devised for Grindhouse, the terrific 2007 schlock homage he did with Quentin Tarantino. Thankfully, Machete proves its drive-in bona fides.

Featuring more dicing and slicing than Benihana, the movie isn’t so much a send-up of 1970s-era exploitation cinema than it is a star-studded (if kitschy) revival of it. The pitch-perfect cast includes Robert De Niro, Lindsay Lohan, Jessica Alba, Don Johnson, Jeff Fahey and Steven Seagal, whom we discover, if you put sunglasses on him, is a dead ringer for Jim Belushi. Oh, and Michelle Rodriguez’s bare midriff deserves a special credit of its own (and maybe even an Oscar).

The titular character, though (what, you didn’t know Machete’s a name?) is played by familiar character actor Danny Trejo, a big, thick slab of a human whose real-life travails (ex-con, ex-boxer), are etched on a face seemingly swiped from Monument Valley.

Machete is a former Mexican federale whose life has fallen apart after a drug kingpin brutally murdered Machete’s family. When an oily goon hires Machete to assassinate an illegal immigrant-bashing Texas state senator (De Niro, wandering in and out of accent), the scheme sets off a flurry of crosses, double crosses, bare boobs, slashing, gunfire and as much political subtext that Rodriguez can shoehorn in without incurring the wrath of Arizonans.

Machete maybe goes on a bit too long for its own good, but you have to respect its trashy heart. —Phil Bacharach

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Horror

Shock-O-Rama (2005)

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I’ve never been able to stomach more than a minute of ei Independent Cinema’s softcore efforts, like Spider-Babe, The Lord of the G-Strings, Kinky Kong and Play-Mate of the Apes. Not being 13 years old, I don’t see the appeal. Surprise then, to see one that’s actually kinda clever, at least by their low standards: Shock-O-Rama.

It helps that it’s interested in a lot more than simulated lesbian sex scenes. Writer/director Brett Piper (perhaps most notable for They Bite) pays loving tribute to horror anthologies in a joyful, drive-in style. It’s like asking, “What if Grindhouse were made for $7.49? Plus tax?”

In the wraparound, Misty Mundae practically plays herself: a Z-grade movie actress. She’s fired by her producers, who then have to screen other films to find a new starlet to fill her void. Cue the stories, one involving aliens in a junkyard; the other, skanks undergoing a scientific experiment (that’s where most of the T&A lay, FYI).

The wraparound becomes a story in itself as Mundae resurrects — and then is pursued by — a zombie. The proceedings never take themselves seriously, which is wise considering the bar for acting is set pretty low. Piper pulls off some good effects, too, on an apparent Big Lots! budget. —Rod Lott

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Comedy

School Spirit (1985)

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Ask any priapic teenage boy with an ounce of imagination what he would do if he could become invisible, and chances are, he’d blush so hard he’d actually achieve an ironic moment of flaccidity.

It’s a shame, then, that the filmmakers responsible for School Spirit didn’t ask a teenage boy to write their script, since it is as impotent an example of the teen titty comedy as the ’80s ever produced.

Made by the same East Indian investors who gave us the insane Sho Kosugi fiasco Nine Deaths of the Ninja, the film tells the tale of Billy Batson (Tom Nolan), a college cut-up who becomes the titular spirit when an emergency-condom run leads to a seemingly fatal car crash. With just a few hours left before he has to follow his spirit guide uncle into the light, Billy’s tangible ghost makes a valiant effort to get laid one last time — first with the frosty Elizabeth Foxx (in a performance that is the very definition of “leggy”) and then with convent-raised, French girl Daniele Arnaud — while also making an effort to honor the sacred college tradition of “Hog Day.”

Sadly, the movie’s chief gimmick is little more than an afterthought and Billy spends far more time as a regular douchebag than an invisible voyeur. The boredom is occasionally relieved by a fun performance from Marta Kober, who seems to be channeling Tatum O’Neal in her role as the dean’s braless jailbait daughter, but she alone can’t overcome everyone else’s lethargic disinterest. —Allan Mott

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