Meat Cleaver Massacre (1977)

Albeit via all-American trickery, British horror icon Christopher Lee bookends the ultra-cheap chiller Meat Cleaver Massacre by appearing as himself. Sitting in his home library with what looks like the robot owl from Clash of the Titans behind him, Lee spouts a four-minute snore of a monologue on the occult. One wonders how many of Meat Cleaver’s scant few moviegoers sat through all the final credits like today’s trained Marvel movie fans, only to be greeted with Lee continuing to drone on and on: “One day, at a shaman convention …”

In his first and last (comparatively) legit film, X-rated vet James Habif (Female Chauvinists’ “Sperm Donor with Mustache,” per the IMDb) plays Valley College professor Cantrell, who teaches his class about one Morak, a vengeance-obsessed demon he calls the “destroyer of destroyers,” presumably because once you hire him, you can’t fire him. This STFU lecture irks sullen nonbeliever Mason (Larry Justin, Female Chauvinists’ “Doctor at Sperm Bank”) enough to round up three pals, stick a panty on his head, break into Cantrell’s house, whack him on the noggin with a candlestick and thrill-kill his wife and daughter. Connections to Chuck Manson cannot be coincidental.

Only here’s the deal: Professor Cantrell survives! And although he’s paralyzed, cranially fractured and comatose, he summons Morak to get his revenge. Let the Meat Cleaver Massacre begin, right? Wrong. Nary a cleaver can be found (afforded?), so let’s just chalk up the pic as Death Wish meets Patrick, plus with a dog named Poopers.

With the advantage of adequate optical effects and “disgusting makeups” (per the credits), one-time director Evan Lee gives Mason and each of his co-conspirators a unique demise, like being slammed to death underneath the hood of a car. Meanwhile, police investigate all this “mystic mumbo jumbo.”

Rumor has it Lee is a nom de plume for none other than terrible-movie titan Ed Wood, but Meat Cleaver Massacre’s incompetence feels of unknown origin. Although still a Hydrox to other horror films’ Oreo, its grime carries a viscosity impossible for Wood at this stage of his gimcrack career. Then again, after learning they failed to off Cantrell, members of Team Mason have this irony-free exchange:

“He’s just lying in that bed. Like a carrot.”
“I never did like carrots.” —Rod Lott

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Where the Boys Are ’84 (1984)

Professedly a remake of 1960’s Where the Boys Are, Hy Averback’s final film as director, Where the Boys Are ’84, does retain the simple premise: Four college girls drive to Fort Lauderdale for spring break. Whereas the original was a bubbly comedy with a serious streak of date rape painted across its middle, ’84 dumps that paint on the floor — and flings it on the walls and ceiling — as an all-out, balls-out, R-rated parrrrrtyyyyy!

So why isn’t it any fun?

The short answer may boil down to a combo of “producer Allan Carr” and “cocaine,” but hey, you’re here already, so let’s talk.

Among our four leading ladies, top-billed Lisa Hartman (then on TV’s Knots Landing) is such a pure cypher as the studious one, she may as well be invisible. A lemon-mouthed Lorna Luft doesn’t stray far from her Grease 2 role, while For Your Eyes Only’s Lynn-Holly Johnson runs hornier than the loot from an Africa safari. Finally, in her first movie since 1977’s Record City, Wendy Schaal plays the stuffy straight arrow. Only one of the women exudes true sex appeal, and here’s a hint: It’s Schaal.

Individually and/or collectively, their characters pounce from man to man while bouncing from party to party. One is arrested for driving drunk. Drugs are taken. A gigolo is bedded. A “hot bod” contest entails suggestive motions with a sizable cucumber. And in a scene that actually provoked mild controversy at the time, the girls take a moment of respite to take turns engaging in foreplay with a blow-up doll.

With debauchery but no discernible fun, Where the Boys Are ’84 hovers just above zero. Averback (Chamber of Horrors) doesn’t quite build a story as much he does stack scenes atop one another until all the songs needed for a soundtrack album had found a home. Due to that — and especially T&A abounding from anonymous actresses — Carr’s final comeback attempt post-Can’t Stop the Music finishes as little more than a massively overfunded Hardbodies. —Rod Lott

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Crash Course (1988)

Crash Course, NBC’s teen-dream melding of Moving Violations and Summer School, pulls in with the shakiest of premises: Hamilton High School’s sports program is endangered due to tanking grades in driver’s education. The principal (Ray Walston, Fast Times at Ridgemont High) gives the class’ blithering, scaredy-cat teacher (Charles Robinson, TV’s Night Court) six weeks to steer it into shape, with hired muscle (and sass) from Jackée Harry (TV’s 227): “This is supposed to be driver’s ed, not a Bananarama audition!”

The crazy classroom comes culled almost exclusively from hit sitcoms of the time, including:
Mr. Belvedere’s Rob Stone as an Ivy League-bound senior, if only he can pass the class;
• soap star Brian Bloom and his eyebrows as a juvenile delinquent with two failed tries;
Who’s the Boss?’s Alyssa Milano as a transfer student enrolling against her mother’s wishes;
Family Ties’ Tina Yothers as the not-so-great Santini, daughter of a cement truck driver;
The Wonder Years’ Olivia d’Abo as the token hot foreign exchange student;
• and eventual Jurassic Park employee BD Wong as the token Asian who raps.

Somehow, every one of these otherwise functional young humans treats the automobile as alien and Gordian as performing open-heart surgery using a construction backhoe while on the nose of the Space Shuttle at launch. Accelerator versus brake, curb versus street, left versus right — never before has a movie contained so many scenes of motorists letting go of the wheel and shrieking “AAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!” in the face of opposing traffic, fire hydrants and fruit stands. To quote Bloom’s tough-talkin’ Riko, “There’s a lot you don’t know, diaper head.”

Bustin’ Loose helmer Oz Scott navigates this flat, vanilla-pudding mayhem with all the story intricacies of a Trapper Keeper. In place of jokes are a Wang Chung shout-out, a clumsy Chariots of Fire bit and Dick Butkus in a chicken suit. Harvey Korman (Munchies) says it all when his sabotage-minded faculty member yells at himself in frustration, “Why do you do things like this? Why me?”

Because a paycheck’s a paycheck, I guess. Movie drinking games are stupid, but if you were to do one during Crash Course, you’d have a Cadillac-sized liver for imbibing at each rap number, mention of “symbiosis” and usage of a rubber-plunger dart gun. You might even experience the tremors before the big closing song, “We Be Drivin’.” I not be kiddin’. —Rod Lott

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Strange Aeons: The Thing on the Doorstep (2005)

At feature length, Strange Aeons: The Thing on the Doorstep is based on H.P. Lovecraft‘s well-known — but not always well-liked — 1937 story “The Thing on the Doorstep.” I was looking forward to seeing this adaptation … but that’s because I had it confused with “The Outsider,” for some reason.

Once that misunderstanding was cleared up, it was obvious that director Eric Morgret’s film follows the original plot pretty closely, even retaining the occasionally odd character names — Asenath, anyone? — despite being set in the present day. Its hero is bearded, mild-mannered college professor Dan Upton (J.D. Lloyd), whose graduate assistant Edward Derby (Erick Robertson) falls under the spell of the mysterious and beautiful Asenath (Angela M. Grillo).

And no wonder: He has magical sex with her, during which she implants all sorts of weird-ass thoughts and tentacled visions directly into his brain. That kind of thing tends to set a girl apart from the rest of the pack, especially when she does so while naked.

Seriously, though, this relationship marks changes in Derby’s personality, thus driving a wedge in his friendship with the professor, thus creating a bizarre love triangle that can’t end well. At all. (And you know that even without the appearance of that infernal Necronomicon.)

While Doorstep has no shortage of freaky-deaky imagery, it also sports a few sound issues and performances that bend toward the amateur level. Its main problem, however, is even with the benefit of variances from Lovecraft’s source material, simply not enough ideas are present to sustain it for an hour and a half.

It might help if its characters seemed more real. For instance, when someone shambles into your house on a dark and stormy night, saying nothing, their head tucked down and hidden under a hat, hell, yes, something is wrong! Be. Fucking. Scared! —Rod Lott

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We’re All Going to the World’s Fair (2021)

WTFAt the age where teens tend to feel most alienated, the short, spunky Casey (Anna Cobb) is further alienated by living in a dreary small town. Entertainment provides her escape. In fact, she loves scary movies so much, she’d like to live in one.

Wish granted.

Casey tells this to the camera — both the one on her phone and the one employed by Jane Schoenbrun to make We’re All Going to the World’s Fair. In doing so, Casey broadcasts every brooding thought of her boring life, often painfully and in real time, to the world — or, more realistically, about 50 followers.

The DIY ADD horror show opens with her taking “the World’s Fair challenge.” What it involves — a Candyman-style chant, a pricked finger and a trippy video — is of no importance against its supposed consequence: a gradual loss of self-control. Indeed, as she reveals via chat to a total stranger (predator?) known only as JLB (Michael J. Rogers, Beyond the Black Rainbow), she’s starting to feel … changes.

Cobb makes quite an impression and an assured screen debut as Casey, best exemplified when dancing to a pop song and … well, I won’t spoil it, but the moment is terrifying. Throughout, to say Schoenbrun implies more than shows or tells would be an understatement. Their picture is itself a challenge — so aggressively unconventional in all regards, it seems to dare viewers to like it. Given the fervent cult already forming around it and its experimental narrative, enough have taken that dare and urged others to do the same.

Feeling empty at its closing, I wondered: What had I failed to see? Turns out, a transgender subtext. As a heterosexual male, that completely escaped me, yet I still found chunks of the movie to be fascinating: the clip-based ones between the parts cast (purposely, no doubt) in a heavy shade of blah. The videos Casey lets play at random possess a peculiar, near-narcotic pull to her and us, knowing we can’t wait to see what might confront us next. —Rod Lott

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