As a bad-movie fan, I find myself conflicted by the cult phenom Birdemic: Shock and Terror. I certainly can appreciate why so many people would choose to celebrate it as a jaw-dropping example of cinematic incompetence. Even if you ignore its innumerable and somewhat mind-blowing technical failures, you’ll easily find yourself captivated by the “performance” of leading man Alan Bagh.
The first actor I’ve ever seen who cannot even be counted on to walk convincingly on camera, Bagh’s fidelity to writer/director James Nguyen’s incoherent script is nothing short of remarkable, especially since much of it makes him sound like an Asian man speaking in a second language he has yet to fully master: “I’d love to see you in those lingerie,” indeed.
That said, I am hesitant to rank Birdemic among such truly classic “bad” movies as Manos, the Hands of Fate, Plan 9 from Outer Space, Rock ‘n’ Roll Nightmare and Troll 2, because they all have in common a kind of dreamlike insanity that combines with their technical incompetence to create wholly original works — something you can claim truly to have never seen before.
And I’ve seen Birdemic before — not just because I’ve seen The Birds or the countless other animal-attack movies that Nguyen laughably riffs on, but because YouTube is filled to overflowing with similarly terrible homemade efforts, any one of whom could arouse the same cruel mocking laughter Nguyen’s folly inspires. Ultimately, Birdemic is every bit as terrible as you’ve heard, but unlike other memorably terrible movies, it lacks that crucial spark of misplaced demented genius. And without that spark, it ends up just being a really badly made movie I pitied rather than loved. —Allan Mott
Something of a minor cult classic, 
Much to the consternation of Virginia’s cop boyfriend (Clayton Rohner), the murders begin to play out in the real world. No one believes Virginia when she tells them it’s the work of this fictional Dr. Kessler, especially since he’s described as wearing a cloak over half of his face, and the scalp of a redheaded victim over his bald head. 
Which begs the question: Does Leigh have some sort of hooker-role punch card? There’s this, 
The late Blake Edwards is probably one of the last filmmakers you’d ever think would dip his toes into the murky waters of post-modernism, but it’s impossible not to notice the meta qualities of 
Unlike the film within the film, the sight of Julie Andrews’ breasts didn’t cause anyone to rush to the box office, but that doesn’t mean S.O.B. isn’t a classic satire of early ’80s Hollywood culture. While occasionally overly broad and at least 30 minutes too long (I would have cut most of the last 20 minutes and everything to do with Loretta Swit’s gossip columnist), the movie is often laugh-out-loud funny and features an amazing cast doing what they do best.
This being based on two Clive Barker stories, all is not well. Writing appears all over the walls of the upstairs bedroom, warning not to “mock us.” Plus, flesh carving (just how rough does it Barker like it, I wonder?) and forbidden sex, in which Ward’s nipples are so erect and pencil-eraser elongated, her partner risks ocular trauma.