Santo in the Vengeance of the Mummy (1971)

There’s a reason Mexico’s masked wrestler numero uno, Santo, never wrote a business book titled Who Moved My Queso? or The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Luchadors: He was a terrible leader.

Seriously! In Santo in the Vengeance of the Mummy alone, the man proves time and again that he was a master of the ring, but not HR. Within an hour and half, consider that he:
• adheres to a dress code different from everyone else
• values looks above lives
• shows that violence is always the answer
• mandates a 3 a.m. clock-in
• tells his followers, “I can assure you horse meat is very tasty.”
• has a child perform manual labor
• and, when the child’s grandfather is murdered, consoles the kid with these words: “Men don’t cry.”

Despite that, his 31st star vehicle — directed by Santo regular René Cardona Sr. (El Vampiro y el Sexo) — is quite fun, provided you skip the wrestling matches that bookend it. Outside the ring, Santo is recruited by professor Romero (César del Campo, The Exterminating Angel) to join an expedition to the jungle crypt — and its expected treasure, so says a freshly deciphered codex — of Nonec, an Apache prince from thousands of years ago.

Also aboard are an engineer, a photographer, a secretary (and her notepad) and another scholar, professor Jiminez (Carlos Ancira, The Living Coffin). Looking not unlike he’ll be fiddling on the roof any minute, Jiminez is present for “comic relief”; from wondering how to milk a horse to mistaking a menu being in French, when he’s merely holding it upside down. Har-de-har.

Guided to the tomb by local boy Agapito (Niño Jorgito, Santo’s real-life son), the group discovers the mummified Nonec draped with an ornate necklace threatening death for removal. They take it anyway, so a resurrected Nonec takes revenge on their camp. Bread-crust face aside, he’s not your everyday mummy, skilled as he is at archery.

Of course the silver-masked Santo will defeat the thing by close of business, just as he does everything else thrown at him, from a black panther to Buffalo — not an animal, but a wrestling opponent. Santo in the Vengeance of the Mummy makes for a semi-lively Mexploitation adventure into terror, from the storied Cinematográfica Caldéron, S.A. Ask for it by name. —Rod Lott

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Deadly Lessons (1983)

En route to a ritzy boarding school, naive good girl Stefanie (Diane Franklin, Better Off Dead) says to the cabbie, “I hope the girls are friendly.”

They are not. In fact, most are total bitches, simply because Stepfanie comes from a farm, not a trust fund. Despite being there on a scholarship, she’s abruptly put in her place as their inferior; after all, what kind of weirdo brings a board game? Headmistressed by It’s a Wonderful Life legend Donna Reed (in her final movie role, albeit made-for-TV), the institution teaches French, horseback riding and … homicide!

In templated one-by-one fashion, the girls are killed, each in a different way, at the hands of … well, therein lies the mystery. Needless to say, CHiPs’ officer Larry Wilcox investigates.

I’ll say this for Deadly Lessons: The reveal of the killer’s identity arrives as an absolute surprise. Clearly, this was ABC’s attempt to grab Voorhees-craving viewers, yet the limits dictated by Standards and Practices cripple efforts by director William Wiard (This House Possessed) to achieve a passing grade of terror. As a result, the bloodless movie belongs to the genre of suspense, however light.

The characters are stock, but for a story like this, they should be. So I’ll also say this for Deadly Lessons: Wiard and casting sure had good taste, snagging not only the likable Franklin, but others on the verge on breaking big — notably, Ally Sheedy, Bill Paxton, Rick Rossovich and, in the role of Fat Girl Who Eats Four Dozen Donuts, future Bart Simpson voice Nancy Cartwright. —Rod Lott

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Honeymoon of Terror (1961)

Just married, young lovebirds Marion and Frank drive straight to Las Vegas — the city limits of which are denoted by a yard sign — for what will turn out a true Honeymoon of Terror. Their luck doesn’t run out right away; the worst that happens in Sin City is that Frank (Doug Leith) takes his bride to see a sort of Hee Haw-themed stripper act, while later, the virginal Marion (Dwan Marlow) forgets her PJs and attempts to blue-ball the hubs until he falls asleep.

Wishing they could be truly alone, she expresses a desire to go to “a deserted lake.” Frank, in his clothespin-nasal voice, just so happens to know of such a place: Thunder Island, where no one has lived for 15 whole years! And hell, he’s even got a map for it in his suitcase!

Come morning, they boat over and set up camp. Frank has to run into town for supplies, leaving Marion on her own — a perfect opportunity to skinny-dip. Her tan lines are so high-contrast, her rear looks like shorts from a brief distance. As promised, the of Terror portion arrives as she’s being watched by an unshaven old slob with a noticeable limp. The way he rubs his stubble, we know he wants to tumble.

Will Frank return in time to save her? Will Marion spend roughly the entire second half running and screaming? Will writer/director Peter Perry Jr. (Kiss Me Quick!) pause at halftime to give us a greatest-hits reel of the prior 30 minutes?

These questions are more are answered in the affirmative by Honeymoon of Terror (aka Ecstasy on Lovers Island), an amateurs-only psycho-thriller/nudie-cutie combo that comes close to crossing into roughie territory. Even with Ms. Marlow’s limited nakedness, the movie rings fairly innocuous by today’s standards — and equally as fun. I’d rub my stubble to see it in color. —Rod Lott

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School for Sex (1969)

Giles Wingate is in a pinch. Relieved of his sizable inheritance through a revolving door of gold-digging wives — including his former maid, who cunningly moves from housework to ho’work — he strikes upon a jolly good idea to replenish the coffers: opening a School for Sex.

Written, produced and erected — er, directed — by Pete Walker (For Men Only), this British bird-watcher takes place at the estate of Giles (Walker regular Derek Aylward), where he teaches young women how to use their built-in wiles to win, win and win, hearts be damned. Each libidinous learner among his initial class of four appears to be as horny as Times Square at rush hour.

Classes cover everything from bikini calisthenics to spotting the millionaire. Regardless of the syllabus, a peering, leering cop (Bob Andrews, The Soldier) practically on loan from Keystone is ever so eager to observe, what with being married to a woman whose shape isn’t curves, but an isosceles trapezoid. While clothing for the nubile pupils is often optional — and taken — School for Sex is rather chaste, being all about the look, not the act.

Nudity aside, Walker’s script sways more toward actual female empowerment (no, really!) and away from sleaze. This is crucial, because if Aylward and/or Giles weren’t likable, School for Sex wouldn’t be approachable, and Walker all but acknowledges this with his light touch. Both its sexiest woman and most valuable player is Thunderballer Rose Alba as the middle-aged countess-cum-headmistress. (Speaking of 007, the women’s costumes are credited to “Pussy Galore.”) Always clothed, yet never a wrist’s length further from a cocktail, Alba gives a strong comedic performance in a movie that doesn’t even ask her to. —Rod Lott

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