Irascible, unkempt coot Snakey Bender (Les Tremayne, 1953’s The War of the Worlds) loves only one thing more than marching bands, and it’s certainly not baths or combs. It’s snakes, which he finds and sells for a living.

In his tiny Texas town, Snakey may be known by everyone, but not necessarily beloved. In fact, he’s perpetually castigated by the cartoonish-looking pastor (Marvin Kaplan, Hollywood Vice Squad) for feeding “God’s creatures” (mice) to the snakes.

Every Wednesday night, Snakey’s schedule is packed. First, he and his farmer pal, Burt (Richard Kennedy, The Capture of Bigfoot), get drunk and dance to slabs of vinyl by John Philip Sousa … until Burt lands a hussy wife (Janet Wood, The Centerfold Girls).

Second, he brings his biggest and most phallic snake, Lucifer, to the home of the single school teacher (Bebe Kelly, If You Don’t Stop It … You’ll Go Blind!!!), who gets off sexually by wrapping the serpent around her muumuu-draped body … until she’s blackmailed by the sibling grocery store owners (C.B. Hustlers’ Bruce Kimball and Pee-wee’s Big Adventure’s Alice Nunn, Large Marge herself) into a threesome, lest word get out of her fetish and she loses her job.

With rural life suddenly against him at every turn, Snakey does what any viewer of Fangs waits impatiently for him to do: Take slithering, hissing, rattling revenge, letting his scaly pets serve as “judge, jury and executioner.”

The only turn as director for Ted V. Mikels collaborator Art Names, Fangs isn’t the all-out reptile-attack picture as the Harry Novak production Rattlers or William Grefé’s Stanley. It’s more like a morality tale with a herpetology twist and dialogue that suggests Tennessee Williams ghostwriting Sordid Lives. Consider such dialogue as Snakey’s “Aw, horsefeathers!” and “Where in thunder you hidin’ the pork ’n’ beans?” — not to mention Nunn’s taunt of “What’s a-matter, Snakey? Don’t ya like my taffy?”

Take this with a drop of neither venom nor sarcasm: Tremayne is awesome in this. The part probably paid no better than the canned goods his character buys — on credit, mind you, because he’s dirt-poor — yet Tremayne doesn’t treat the drive-in material any differently. During the “band session” with Burt, he gives a monologue as devoted to his craft as Lawrence Olivier or Marlon Brando, never minding what he’s saying just amounts to an All Music Guide entry on Sousa.

Having grown up watching Tremayne mentoring TV’s Shazam! every Saturday morning, it’s not much of a stretch to imagine him getting drunk, kicking Billy Batson out of the RV and taking a hard right, only to end up deep in the dark, dark heart of Texas. Enjoy! —Rod Lott

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When anthropology professor Nugent leads five students into the forest to find Bigfoot, well, bad things happen. We know this because the whole of Night of the Demon is presented as a flashback, with the professor (Michael Cutt, Hider in the House) spilling the cryptozoological tea to doctors and the sheriff from the confines of his cheap hospital bed.

What he conveys is — and isn’t — your typical sasquatch tale. Yes, all the expected elements are present and accounted for (such as the camping collegiates hearing strange sounds at night), along with ones you wouldn’t (like, oh, stumbling onto a sex cult). Yes, Nugent and his pupils eventually meet Bigfoot — and how! — but also a local yokel known as Crazy Wanda (Melanie Graham). Used and abused by her fundamentalist father (“I’m saving your soul, you ungrateful bitch!”), Wanda’s a simple-minded, Sissy Spacek-esque waif whose baby is the product of Bigfoot rape.

With the unasked question of “What would Bigfoot’s face look like at the point of orgasm?” answered, it’s safe to say Night of the Demon ventures miles and miles beyond Boggy Creek.

The coupling is hardly all the craziness contained, as Nugent relays many an episodic cutaway to explicitly gory Bigfoot encounters for which he was not present. Some of these find the 6 feet of Crisco-enabled mange:
• yanking an old man’s arm clean from the socket
• whirling a poor sap in a sleeping bag overhead, ‘round and ‘round like a goddamn pinwheel until the sack of meat is impaled on a tree
• slamming two knife-wielding Girl Scouts together in a manner that they inadvertently saw one another’s arm
• giving a woodsman a shoulder massage with his own ax
• and, most famously, rudely depriving a bush-pissing motorcyclist of his penis

Nugent’s group is hardly untouched, starting with one student having his head smashed against a tree, leaving what appears to be the remains of a meatball sub with extra sauce. It all culminates in a cabin siege that tops, well, everything to which your eyeballs have been privy up to now. Here and there, porn director James C. Wasson (What the Big Boys Eat) puts the audience in Bigfoot’s POV, visually marked by red around the frame’s edges, giving Bigfoot the most bloodshot eyes possible without stepping inside Matthew McConaughey’s man cave.

Despite a title paving the expectation for Ol’ Scratch instead of a sasquatch, Night of the Demon is the Bigfoot movie you wish every Bigfoot movie had been. —Rod Lott

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Not every horror film begins with a baboon being bagged. Because honestly, how many does South Africa make? Public-domain mainstay House of the Living Dead is one of the precious few.

In the plantation home of the wealthy Brattling clan, the snooty, elderly matriarch (Margaret Inglis) lives with her two adult sons. Michael (Mark Burns, 1974’s Juggernaut) is engaged to the lovely Mary Anne Carew (Shirley Ann Field, Horrors of the Black Museum), against his mother’s wishes. His brother, Breck, is a doctor working to prove his belief that one’s soul can be kept alive outside the physical body.

Ol’ Breck conducts his experiments in the attic. Ever since he was injured by a horse, Breck and his sideways Frankenfoot rarely leave the room, so you know he’s going to be the most inhospitable of guests when the ginger Mary Anne travels to town to meet her impending in-laws.

The motherland’s attempt at a Roger Corman-style big-house horror, sans the Poe leaping point, House of the Living Dead isn’t close to dreadful as reviews would lead one to believe. Less-than-lackluster prints and a misleading coattails rider of a title are likely to blame for negative reaction, but the film from Virgin Witch crafter Ray Austin is a capable Gothic yarn with a twist that, while easy to guess, is well-played. —Rod Lott

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