Tired of the Tinseltown shit that Blockbuster shoves down your throat?
Here are some of the weirdest films to pass through the pages of SHOCK CINEMA. Search them out, and enjoy.
THE ACID EATERS (1968).
Drug-addled sexploitation doesn't get more lovably idiotic than this colorful piece of shit (clocking in at a record 62 minutes), in which a bunch of bored 9-to-5'ers exit their dreary jobs, leap on cycles, and hit the rural highways in search of kicks. At first, it's nothing but '60s swill, including topless swims, body painting, and inane comedy. But this is one of those rare films that refuses to follow any law of narrative cinema, as you'll quickly realize when these Weekend Whoriers discover "the white pyramid", a 40-foot tower of giant LSD sugar cubes sitting in the middle of nowhere. They climb onto it, strip down, and finally go inside to meet the Devil, who comes complete with ill-fitting, red body stocking, limp horns and a pitch fork that has a block of 'acid' (a big chunk of Styrofoam) stuck on the end, which the leads chew on -- and who helps them indulge in their most lurid white-trash fantasies. This amazing, perplexing, T&A (Tits 'n 'Acid) delight will leave you wondering just how much the filmmakers took before production -- not to mention, where can we get some of the same?
AMERICAN BOY (1978).
We all know Martin Scorsese makes damned good films, but this 55 minute documentary is one of his weirdest, funniest, least known works. Remember the twitchy gun salesman in TAXI DRIVER? Well, his real name is Steven Prince, and this long-time friend of Marty's is even wackier in real life. He sorta reminds me a real-life, '70s version of a Steve Buscemi character, and Scorsese simply dumps the guy on a sofa and lets him tell stories about his checkered past, such as working at a gas station outside of Barstow and having to waste a speed freak with a .44 Magnum. It's no surprise his best tales are drug related -- like road managing Neil Diamond while strung out on smack, visiting a typical Village shooting gallery, and encountering a fully-grown, domesticated gorilla while stoned out of his gourd. His funniest story even has present-day resonance, because when Prince tells us about giving an O.D.'ing girl an impromptu adrenaline shot, you suddenly realize that his true story was ripped-off verbatim in PULP FICTION, right down to the tiniest details. A ragged, but totally compelling portrait.
APOCALYPSE POOH (1987).
This is four-star guerilla filmmaking, and the funniest ten minutes worth of video I've ever seen. T. Graham had the revelation to take clips from Disney's Winnie the Pooh cartoons and then dub dialogue from APOCALYPSE NOW over it. The result is perfect, with Piglet suddenly transformed into Dennis Hopper's mind-blown journalist, Pooh pulled by a runaway kite to The Stones' "Satisfaction", and Tigger popping up for the "Fuckin' Tiger!" sequence. This is sheer brilliance, and I must've watched this tape at least twenty times by now. Also includes "Blue Peanuts" (Charlie Brown meets BLUE VELVET) and The Archies doing a Sex Pistols ditty.
THE AWAKENING OF THE BEAST (1969).
Jose Mojica Marins has been cranking out his sadistic South of the Border horror pics since the '60s, proving himself a cross between Alejandro Jodorowsky and H.G. Lewis. This self-reflexive, drugged-out masterwork proves that drugs "stimulate perversity and promote corruption" (yeah!) -- with Marins playing a dual role as that top-hatted ghoul, Coffin Joe, as well as himself, a director besieged by critics for his violent imagery. It begins with several b&w nudie-roughie vignettes, showcasing pretty young gals smoking grass, shooting up, losing their inhibitions, stripping, and becoming crazed sex maniacs (this is a problem?). Add bizarre sojourns with Marins defending his beliefs and movies; then end it with an L.S.D. experiment, as volunteers dose up, experience rapid-fire hallucinations and are tormented by Coffin Joe. Marins expertly meshes fiction and reality, then whips it into a garish freak-out featuring some of the silliest trip sequences of all time!
BAD TIMING: A SENSUAL OBSESSION (1980).
One of the most unrelentingly grim films ever made about the "joys" of love. Nicolas Roeg's psycho-sexual tale uses a fragmented narrative structure to show us the dysfunctional (to put it mildly) relationship between womanizing louse Art Garfunkel and slutty, self-destructive Teresa Russell. From their first steamy encounter to the sick suicide/finale, Roeg pours on the liquor, pills, and emotional manipulation posing as love. In other words, this is NOT a good 'date film'. Though Roeg's obtuse eye almost overpowers the characters, it's a sleazeball, arthouse masterwork! Co-starring Harvey Keitel, who's drawn to these type of obsessive dramas like a fly to shit.
BEAT GIRL [a.k.a. WILD FOR KICKS] (1960).
Terrific British juvenile delinquent trash, filmed with a grimy, tough-as-nails energy that puts comparable U.S. teen angst flicks to shame. Gillian Hills stars as Jennifer, a pissed-off teen whose Dad spends more time with his new French floozy bride than with her. The answer? Hang out with all the lowlife Beatniks, go for joyrides, and dance your ass off in their "underground cellars and caves". Unfortunately, this sultry blonde dish also gets involved with strip clubs and murder. Ignore all the curdled family melodrama, because this rebellious gem perfectly captures the swinging Beat milieu, complete with dingy locales, wild slang, and appearances by real-life rocker Adam Faith as the local heartthrob, Christopher Lee as a sleazy strip club owner and a pre-stardom (not to mention, pre-liver damaged) Oliver Reed as a supporting social outcast. Without question, one of the coolest, dingiest flicks ever made about the London scene.
BLACK CAESAR and HELL UP IN HARLEM (1973).
Blaxploitation doesn't come much better than this pair of Larry Cohen grindhouse masterworks, which chart the murderous misadventures of Tommy Gibbs, as he rises from shoeshine boy to mob kingpin by killing all his old white bosses. And Fred "The Hammer" Williamson was born to play this macho role, strutting his stuff like he could hit out-of-the-part homers with his dick. CAESAR is a Harlem variation on the Warner Brothers gangster pics from the '30s, overflowing with cliched melodrama and sledgehammer social commentary. But Cohen pushes all the right buttons and kicks ass during a dizzying climax, as Williamson runs from torpedoes thru midtown Manhattan with a hole blown in his stomach! HARLEM, tossed together after CAESAR's unexpected success, is pure adrenalin in a film can -- a totally whacked actioner that tosses logic in the toilet and runs on high-octane, velour violence. Often copied, but never equalled, this pair set the tone for a years of shitty, 42nd street triple bills to come. The brightest gems from Williamson's CAESAR salad days.
BLOOD FREAK (1974).
There are plenty of bad movies. But every so often there comes a movie that's cosmically horrible. How else can you describe an inept, no-budget, anti-drug, pro-Christian monster movie that revels in gore and features a cast spawned from a century's worth of in-breeding? Director Steve Hawkes stars as a biker who smokes a laced joint, samples some experimental poultry, and promptly develops a taste for human blood and a ridiculous paper mache bird head. After savagely murdering the cast, he's finally saved by some "Faith in God" bullshit and a religious dish (subtly) named Angel. This film bites, but it's such a mind-roasting mix of genres that I'll never forget it.
THE BRAINIAC (1961).
Mexploitation at its seedy best -- so weird and ridiculous you'll choke on your warm beer. It kicks off in high gear when a 17th century necromancer is burnt at the stake and vows to kill all the descendents of his badly-dubbed inquisitors. Sure enough, the guy returns to Earth (via a comet, for Christ's sake) 300 years later in the form of a rubbery, claw-handed monster with an 18-inch-tongue that can suck the brains outta his victim through a pair of holes bored in the back of their neck. Oh yeah, he also has chameleon-like powers, which enables him to crash society events and make it with exotic babes. Believe it or not, even nuttier than it sounds. If you dig this one, check out DOCTOR OF DOOM, which even tosses female pro-wrestling into the stew.
A BUCKET OF BLOOD (1959).
I tend to rave incessantly about Roger Corman, but this, folks, is his finest film (even though it was shot in only five days). It's horrific, satirical and layered with subtext about Corman's own aspirations. Dick Miller is Walter Paisley, the ridiculed busboy at a beatnik coffeehouse, whose dream in life is to be an artist. Unfortunately, the guy's talentless. Fate plays a hand when Walter accidentally kills a cat, covers it with clay, entitles the work "Dead Cat", and is promptly acclaimed a genius by local Beats. Of course, then Walter has to move onto larger pieces, like "Murdered Man". Packed with enough hip slang and excruciating poetry to make you choke on your espresso.
CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST (1979).
Where would a SHOCK CINEMA Best-Of list be without Ruggero Deodato's Italian cannibal gut-sucker? When a crew of journalists mysteriously disappear in the depths of the South American jungle, a search party pieces together their fate, thanks to their crude, handheld film footage. It seems they encountered a tribe of half-naked savages and after chronicling lotsa atrocities (a fetus is ripped from a woman's womb, another woman is staked out in a field with the spike up her ass and out her mouth), the wacky natives finally get sick of having cameras shoved in their faces by the asswipe Americans and end the film with a four-star Entrails Orgy. Its high-fallutin' tone is particularly hilarious, in light of the gore-fest they're actually shoveling; and though utterly detestable, it's a beloved fave for the truly sick at heart. Add'l note: The Japanese laser print is the easiest available source, but all the frontal nudity is marred by optical hazing.
COMBAT SHOCK (1984).
One of the ugliest, nastiest, most depressing movies of the decade. Is it any wonder I love it?! A labor of twisted love from director Buddy Giovinazzo, it features a down-and-out vet and his pathetic, urban cesspool existence. No job. No money. Beaten by street thugs. Accosted by junkie pals. Waiting in employment lines. Roaming skidrow streets. Dealing with his shrewish wife and ERASERHEAD-esque mutant baby. Not to mention his graphic Nam flashbacks, complete with P.O.W. torture. The tone alternates between hallucinatory psychosis and a reality so grim that you'll wanna open your own wrists. Spectacularly rancid!
CREATION OF THE HUMANOIDS (1962).
An unforgettably cheesy futuristic parable that tackles BLADE RUNNER's themes with a $1.98 budget. Set after World War III, in a society comprised of aristocratic humans and "clickers" (pale humanoids robots who now make up the workforce), a Gestapo-like group goes ballistic when the subservient machines decide to better themselves. Almost totally devoid of action, but incredibly imaginative and ahead of its time, the literate script delves into inter-species love, intolerance, robotic religion, not to mention the entire nature of what it really means to be human.
THE CRIPPLED MASTERS (1982).
This chopsocky fest isn't for the easily offended. It's the type of movie that'll clear the room within 20 minutes, and wreck any chance of you getting laid that evening. But it's a total field day for twisted kung fu fanatics, with Li Ho and Tang Chu Sing starring as a pair of recent cripples (Ho has his arms hacked off by a vicious warlord, while Sing's legs are burnt into shrivelled sticks by acid). What makes this film disturbing is the fact these guys are actually handicapped, and for the first half we watch 'em tortured, teased and treated like shit. Of course, under the tutelage of a wise old fart, they're taught to work as a team, with the cheers coming fast and furious the moment the once-pissed-on pair begin kicking ass. These guys are fucking incredible, especially when half-pint Sing leaps on Ho's back and they become an unstoppable whirling dervish. Though no great piece of art, this demented pic will definitely stick in your memory (whether you want it to or not).
DARKTOWN STRUTTERS [a.k.a. Get Down and Boogie] (1974).
A beloved, brain-damaged grindhouse fave. This blaxploitation/musical/comedy/biker movie is unapologetically surreal and stooopid, featuring a female motorcycle gang decked out in threads that would've given Liberace wet dreams. Searching for the leader's missing mom, these funky femmes encounter cycle-straddling KKK'ers in red leather hip boots, a Colonel Sanders look-a-like who's into cloning experiments, plus more watermelon 'n' ribs jokes than you'll believe. Kudos to whacked scripter George Armitage (MIAMI BLUES) and set designer Jack Fisk, who mixes Willy Wonka with Ken Russell.
END OF THE ROAD (1969).
Director Aram Avakian twists John Barth's novel through a funhouse sensibility, and with the aid of always-whacked scripter Terry Southern, concocts a savagely comic look at alienation, insanity and middle-class mores. Stacy Keach stars as Jake Horner, who goes catatonic on a train platform and winds up at Dr. James Earl Jones' psycho-farm. There he's rehabilitated by way-too-modern methods and is sent back into the world, ready to disrupt the lives of a not-so-normal married couple. Indulgent, pitch-black, and one-of-a-kind, with superb Gordon Willis cinematography. For more Keach weirdness: THE NINTH CONFIGURATION.
THE EXECUTIONER (1981).
Director/star Dominic Miceli (a.k.a. Duke Mitchell, the Dean Martin clone from BELA LUGOSI MEETS A BROOKLYN GORILLA) brings us the most unintentionally hilarious tale of Mafia mayhem ever! Dom stars as Mimi, who takes over the mob with a non-stop barrage of bloodshed, extortion, murder, and extended monologues about the suffering of the Sicilian people (sniff, sniff). And any film with over a dozen murders in the first five minutes is a gem! Don't forget the groanable songs written by Micelli himself. Strives for the scope of THE GODFATHER, with a budget less than what Coppola spent on Brando's cannolis.
THE FALLS (1980).
Peter Greenaway has a rep of being one of the most visually dazzling, unapologetically pretentious directors on the planet. But wait until you see his first feature, which clocks in at nearly 3 1/2 hours and makes THE COOK, THE THIEF, ET CETERA seem as accessible as The Frugal Gourmet. This mock-documentary presents us with 92 short biographies of average people affected by the V.U.E. (Violent Unknown Event) -- a vague ecological upheaval that has something to do with ornithology and seems to be changing the entire nature of human civilization. Methodically constructed, frustrating as hell at times, but also strangely compelling for extremely intrepid filmgoers.
GHOSTS...OF THE CIVIL DEAD (1988).
This Aussie prison pic makes PAPILLON look like Fantasy Island. Based on actual incidents, there's no gloss on this bleak tale, set at a high tech, maximum security "containment" facility. And though the inmates are a scurvy bunch of felons and miscreants, the guards are even worse -- brutalizing the captives and casually stripping them of their humanity. It's a depressing slice of life, complete with grizzled lifers who've been in the clink since they were teens, gang rapes, terminal boredom, and acres of razor wire. But when the administration goes totally power-hungry (watch out for those cavity searches!) and begins trucking in full-blown psychos, it leads to self-mutilations, fires, hunger strikes, and a relentless finale. The cast is so realistic you'd think they were pulled outta some local lock-up, with Nick Cave (who also provided some music and co-scripted) a stand-out in his small role as a four-star nutcase. A heavy duty social message pic, steeped in sleaze and rage.
HOME MOVIES (1979).
Back in my younger days, when Brian DePalma could do no wrong (was I an idiot, or what?), I was one of the seven moviegoers in the country who laid out hard cash to see this screwball comedy. Filmed during a teaching stint at Sarah Lawrence, DePalma returned to his low-budget roots with this overdose of obscure in-jokes and slumming Hollywood pals. Keith Gordon stars as Denis Byrd, a teenager grappling with his dysfunctional family. Dad is cheating on Mom. Mom is continually threatening to commit suicide. And his Ego-Monster older brother (Gerrit Graham) is planning to wed a reformed bimbo (Mrs. DePalma herself, Nancy Allen, in her only likable screen moment), who Denis yearns to do the bonedance with. Let's not forget Kirk Douglas' overwrought antics as a college Prof chronicling Denis' pathetic life. Sounds silly? You betcha. Besides, what other film in recent memory can boast of gags about bikers, health food, voyeurism, and even a live sex act with a rabbit? A severely guilty pleasure.
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN (1973).
Alexandro Jodorowsky's most daring film, and well as THE celluloid mind-roaster of all time! An epic hallucination crawling with wall-to-wall mega-weirdness, in which Christ, The White Master (Alex), and a pack of symbolic thieves (each named after a planet, and each representing a different ill of society) link up to raid The Holy Mountain and steal its secrets. This pic would cost a billion dollars to make nowadays, and its first half hour of in-your-face imagery (crucified, skinned animals; storm troopers; cripples; flowers blooming from stigmata; exploding toads) is like prime Fellini on really prime Peyote. Outrageous, pretentious, unbelievable, and unforgettable. There'll never be another film remotely like it!
HUMAN HIGHWAY (1981).
One day, director/star Neil Young and a bunch of his equally stoned pals stumbled into the desert with a camera, and emerged with this mess. Part fantasy, part social commentary, part slapstick comedy, part concert film, and all so wrongheaded that I loved it! Most of the film is set at a roadside diner near a leaky nuclear power plant, with Dennis Hopper as the psycho cook, Dean Stockwell as the new owner, Russ Tamblyn as a dim-witted gas pump attendant, Sally Kirkland as a waitress, and Devo as glowing nuke workers. Neil himself gets the biggest laughs mugging like a reject from HEE HAW. As for a plot? Your guess is an good as mine. But you'll definitely dig all the mutant-age moments, like the wild "It Takes a Worried Man" music number featuring the entire cast dancing with shovels! It's no wonder this nuclear comedy was never released.
IN A GLASS CAGE [Tras El Cristal] (1985).
Director Agustin Villaronga's sick-assed drama will best stick in your memory as an oppressive masterwork of dread in the guise of an art film. Gunter Meisner stars as a Nazi war criminal who experimented on boys during the war, now living safely in Spain. But when he becomes trapped in an iron lung, a mysterious young man is hired on as his nurse -- and just by coincidence, this kid was (1) violated by the bastard years earlier, and is (2) totally out of his fucking mind. He starts slowly by reading aloud from the Nazi's graphic journals, but soon progresses to killing the old dude's wife, recreating atrocities with the (unwilling) assistance of local urchins, and taking control of the entire household -- eventually turning the incapacitated swine's dark past back on himself for a surreal revenge-fueled finale. Though lacking in hardcore explicitness, this grim, pedophilia-fueled flick focuses on the true horror at the core of human nature. A shower afterward is optional, but recommended.
JONATHAN (1970).
This Kraut take on Stoker's Dracula is endearingly half-baked art-sleaze on par with Herzog's NOSFERATU. It looks like your typical costumed bore, it's filled with trashy horror tidbits like cheap sex and dead nuns, but director Hans Geissendorfer's main objective is a two-ton metaphor about those evil Nazis and man's unending capacity for evil. Downtrodden 19th century peasants come up with a plan to destroy their fiendish ruling class oppressor, The Count. But first, they enlist the town bonehead, Jonathan, to infiltrate the vampire's clan meetings. And wait until you get a gander at this sinister Count, who's got a hairdo just like ol' Adolph H. himself and barks orders to his minions like he just left a touring company of "Springtime for Hitler". A schizophrenic joyride, greatly aided by the Robbie Muller's (BARFLY, DOWN BY LAW) lavish cinematography, which provides the appropriate stench of rural life.
LOVE IS A DOG FROM HELL [a.k.a. CRAZY LOVE] (1987).
Directed by Belgian Dominique Deruddere, this drama blends a trio of stories by the late, great Charles Bukowski into a heart-wrenching tale of sexual awakening, loneliness and true love. The film follows everyman Harry Voss through three stages of his life. First, as an infatuated 12-year-old. Then as a severely acne-scarred 19-year-old. And finally, as an alcoholic adult who finally finds the woman of his dream in the form of an angelic (albeit stolen) corpse. Impeccably directed and without a hint of pathos, this is a masterpiece of truth, despair and the unexpected forms love can take. One of the best films of the '80s, and the perfect double bill with BARFLY.
MAN ON A SWING (1974).
I was just a kid when I first saw this police thriller, and it creeped the hell out of me. Now realizing that it was directed by Frank Perry, behind such equally eccentric pics as THE SWIMMER, PLAY IT AS IT LAYS and RANCHO DELUXE, I'm not surprised. Based on a true story, Cliff Robertson is a small town cop obsessed with the murder of a local girl and Joel Grey is Franklin Wills, a clairvoyant who's hooked into the case a little too deep -- until the cops begin suspecting Wills of the crime. The film initially works its way under your skin with its stark style, then transforms into a psychological study which continually bolts from viewer expectation. Backed by unusually unsympathetic performances (Cliff and Joel are both pretty slimy), it's no surprise Paramount dumped the thing.
MASSACRE AT CENTRAL HIGH (1976).
On the surface, this looks like another empty-headed, low-grade teen murder romp, especially when you spot Andrew Stevens and Robert Carradine in the credits. A quartet of wealthy jock-thugs keep the nerdy students of a 'typical' high school terrorized, until a creepy new kid (Derrel Maury) is crippled by their Gestapo-like tactics and begins systemically murdering the neanderthals. Sounds a bit like HEATHERS? Well, in addition to the cool revenge fantasy (complete with bloodthirsty demises and hideous '70s fashions), director Renee Daalder sneaks in pitch black comedy and a radical allegory about abuse of power and the corruption of revolutionary ideals. You see, the moment the school misfits are empowered, they turn into as big a bunch of jerks as the original leaders -- that is, until Maury gets his hands on 'em. Though ripe with drive-in level acting, this is sleazy, smart and altogether subversive fun.
MY BREAKFAST WITH BLASSIE (1983).
Years after his untimely demise, Andy Kaufman is still getting press, with everybody and their barber now praising his innovative "performance art". What they forget to mention is that when the poor guy was alive, almost no one got the joke. When I saw him in person, he was nearly booed off the stage; and when I first caught this BREAKFAST, it emptied the theatre. Andy was a pure, geek genius, and this hour-long flick is a perfect intro to his acid eccentricity, with Kaufman and ex-wrestling king Freddie Blassie trading anecdotes over a low cuisine breakfast at Sambo's. Depending on your Kaufman Quotient, this (semi)improvised hoot will seem either brilliantly stupid or just plain stupid, as the two mega-egos swap personal hygiene quips. Directed by Linda Lautrec and Johnny Legend, this put-on will fly right over most people's puny minds. It's their loss.
NIGHT WARNING [a.k.a. Butcher, Baker, Nightmare Maker] (1982).
From its cheesy veneer, you'd probably peg this as yet another no-budget slasher-rama, but Susan Tyrell's psychotic, white trash performance (on par with her work in FORBIDDEN ZONE) makes this a hoot. Looking like she escaped from a Bellevue production of WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE?, Tyrell plays teenage Jimmy McNichol's over-protective aunt, who's perpetually on the verge of raping the poor kid. But when Jimmy becomes old enough to move out and screw his perky blonde girlfriend (Julia Duffy), his independence sets Tyrell on a murder spree. A twisted subplot involves homophobic Police-Ox Bo Svenson, who thinks Jimmy is queer and committed the murders himself. Bluntly directed by William Asher, who should've been castrated years earlier for fouling drive-ins with his Annette & Frankie Beach Party abominations.
9 LIVES OF A WET PUSSY (197?).
What's a generic '70s porno flick doing here? 'Cause I love uncovering celebs in their early career potholes. This time around, it's BAD LIEUTENANT-director Abel Ferrara, who actually stars in one of the sex scenes. Produced by Navaron Films (also responsible for MS. 45), an opium-stoned hostess introduces several sexual vignettes, and though slightly classier than the usual cum pageants, it's impossible to achieve a Lady Chatterley-like decadence when you're saddled with an Al Adamson-like cast. But wait. Because halfway in, we get a 10 minute flashback featuring a Christian "Old Man" and his two virgin daughters who are so horny that a Bible quote gives 'em the idea to get Pop drunk and then fuck him while he's passed out. Sure enough, that's Abel himself under the cheap white wig (credited under the moniker Jimmy Laine, which he also used in DRILLER KILLER), being raped in his sleep by his comely (emphasis on the come) offspring. It's all rather pathetic, with the distinct possibility Abel had a Dick Double for the scene, since director Jimmy Boy L. (another Abel nom de plume?) never gives you a long shot of nekkid Ferrara. Nevertheless, a must-see embarrassment!
OUT OF THE BLUE (1981).
Needing some fast cash during his lean years, a pre-detox Dennis Hopper signed onto a Canadian domestic drama named THE CASE OF CINDY BARNES. But when first-time director Leonard Yakir quit, Hopper took over the reigns, rewrote the entire script, and came up with an urgent, nihilistic masterwork. This glimpse into family dysfunction features Hopper as an alcoholic, ex-jailbird father; Sharron Farrell as a slutty mom; and Linda Manz as a 14-year-old rebel who likes hitchhiking, grass and dead rock stars. This is a truly nasty pic, full of twisted family ties, seedy realism and despair. After watching this rancid gem, you'll want to kick Hopper in the head for wasting his talent on shit like SUPER MARIO BROTHERS or WATERWORLD.
PSYCHOPATH (1972).
This terribly-made movie has with an incredible concept and an ultra-creepy star turn from Tom Basham, who plays a crazed TV Kids Show host named Mr. Rabbey. After meeting one too many battered children, Rabbey burns out a bearing and begins slaughtering abusive parents! The violence is tame, the message heavy-handed, but I forgive its flaws, since this is a rare horror movie where you can cheer the murderer. Rabbey's a cross between Pee Wee Herman and Norman Bates, peddling around on his cool bike, babbling to his puppet pals, and even running over a Bad Mommy's head with a lawnmower! A guilty pleasure.
RAT PFINK A BOO BOO (1966).
There's is NO WAY to adequately describe this Ray Dennis Steckler jaw-droppingly-inept gem. A glorified home movie featuring crime fighting cretins Rat Pfink and Boo Boo (a Batman and Robin rip-off, wearing wool ski masks and ill-fitting long underwear), who don't even officially show up until halfway through the movie. After a half-hour b&w intro of pool parties and inane rock 'n' roll, two characters suddenly walk into a closet and emerge as our costumed clods (complete with tinted photography) in order to save a kidnapped beauty. Unbelievably surreal and one-of-a-kind (thank god). Plus, be sure to check out Steckler's legitimately good films, like THE THRILL KILLERS and SINTHIA.
THE REFLECTING SKIN (1990).
Without question, this is one of the sickest studio releases since BLUE VELVET. A film utterly barren of hope, which offers us childhood at its most fucked up and foul. Yes, that's my kinda movie, folks! On the surface, it looks like a sweet little rural tale about a boy, complete with lush heartland locales. But director Philip Ridley is one grim bastard, exposing the insanity and death lingering just under the surface of adolescent life. It's no surprise young Seth is unstable -- his Mom is certifiably nuts, Dad douses himself with gasoline and torches up, and an ominous carload of greasers cruises the backroads, kidnapping young boys and leaving their corpses stashed about town. Believe it or not, when his older brother Cameron (Viggo Mortenson) returns home from a tour of duty in the Pacific, things get even worse, with Seth convinced that his female neighbor is a vampire, while stashing a mummified baby under his bed, believing it's an angel. A movie so ghoulish and uncompromising that you can ignore its more pretentious moments. This one sticks with you long afterward.
ROSELAND (1970).
Without question, one of the most hilariously demented sexploitation pics ever made, overflowing with sub-Fellini surrealism, convoluted psycho-babble and some of the homeliest leads in sex pic history. Leading to the $64,000 Question: What the hell was director Fredric Hobbs (ALABAMA'S GHOST) thinking?! E. Kerrigan Prescott stars as a bearded old fart obsessed with stealing porno films, and in between his visits to a shrink, gabbing to a priest and his eventual Loonie Bin stay, we're privy to flashbacks of his spiral into perversity. Highlights include the Busby Berkeley-inspired musical number "You Can't Fuck Around With Love"; a fantasy sequence with a bunch of frolicking nudists constructing a giant, ritualistic penis; and Heironymous Bosch even crawls out from under his bed at one point! Pretentious, inept and jaw-droppingly bizarre -- you'll never forget this crock of shit.
RUBIN & ED (1993).
The ultimate Crispin Glover movie. Period. In which rabid fans can watch The Weird One at his most extreme. And that's saying a lot. Crispin gives an Oscar-caliber performance (yeah, right) as a long-haired dweeb whose '60s-throwback wardrobe includes plaid bellbottoms and immense platform shoes. His mission: To journey into the desert and bury his long-dead cat (which he's kept on ice), aided by unwilling salesman Howard Hesseman. Director Trent Harris gives us terrific sights, like Crispin drinking the melted ice water that his rotted cat has been floating in, plus another apocalyptic performance from Karen Black. As comedy teams go, Hesseman & Glover are the Hope & Owsley of the '90s. Supremely strange.
RUNAWAY NIGHTMARE (1982).
I defy anyone to watch this idiocy without going numb from its sheer incompetence, with director/writer/star Michael Cartel proving that he may be a man of many hats, but none of them have a brain underneath. It begins when two Death Valley worm 'n' snail farmers are kidnapped by a cult of psychopathic dames, who initially plan on torturing the pair (how? By making 'em watch the dailies?). Instead, after much witless repartee, the guys are voted into the ragtag gang, and when they're not being seduced by their not-particularly-attractive captors, help 'em retrieve some stolen platinum from the Mob. It's hard to believe that a movie could reach such uncharted depths of boredom, but be sure to remain awake for the hilarious nudity. You see, to hide the fact the lead actresses didn't strip, the phlegmmakers edited in clips of Body Doubled bare tits. The only problem? The movie was shot on film, while all the nudity is grainy, faded camcorder footage! You have to hand it to Cartel for never attempting to hide the artifice and stupidity -- instead, he forces it on the viewer like a dose of the clap. So tremendously wrongheaded that you'd think these folks had never seen an honest to goodness movie before.
THE SADIST (1963).
Arch Hall Jr. (who normally plays goody-goody dorks) shatters all previous conceptions as giggling thrill-killer Charley Tibbs -- one of the nastiest nutcases in screen history. Accompanied by a wrap-around teen-aged tease, this Charlie Starkweather-styled sadist is in the midst of a multi-state murder spree when he runs into a trio of mild-mannered school teachers at an isolated gas station and proceeds to terrorize them for the remaining hour. Director James Landis ladles on the violence and anti-social behaviour, while pushing the '60s envelope for on-screen bloodshed. An early classic in Psycho Cinema!
SCORPIO RISING (1962-64).
One of the coolest underground shorts ever made. Kenneth Anger mythologizes the biker lifestyle (years before Hollywood discovered its commercial possibilities) in a quasi-documentary that combines motorcycle gang footage with songs like "I Will Follow Him" and "Blue Velvet" (pre-dating MTV-style videos by two decades). As the bikers buckle their leather, rev their engines and go through their pre-battle rituals, Anger intercuts clips of Brando, James Dean and Jesus Christ (ripped off from some cheapjack Sunday School flick), while accentuating the violence, idolatry and homo-erotic nature of their fellowship. Without question his most accessible work.
SONNY BOY (1992).
What can you say about a movie that features David Carradine in drag throughout, and no one in the pic seems to notice? Absolutely brilliant? Utterly twisted? Barely released? All three! This tale of a kidnapped baby, whose tongue is cut out and then raised like a rabid animal by the ultimate dysfunctional family (Papa Paul Smith, Mama Carradine, and wacko Uncle Brad Dourif) is a cross between RAISING ARIZONA and TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE. When is director Robert Martin Carroll going to make another film? I'll be first in line.
SQUEAL OF DEATH (1986).
If you enjoyed Alex Winter and Tom Stern's feature debut, FREAKED (and you'd have to be an idiot not to), you'll piss all over yourself during this short student film, perpetrated by these two madmen-in-training. It's a Tex Avery cartoon come to life (on a ten-dollar budget), telling the tall tale of the most asinine crime spree in history. Winter stars as Howie, a sniveling moron whose screwy family leads him to a life of ridiculously anti-social tendencies. Crammed with crass, cheap humor, this "rebel without a clue" is a solid chunk of underground dementia.
SUPERSTAR: THE KAREN CARPENTER STORY (1988).
Todd Haynes' home-made short takes a look at the life and death of pop princess Karen Carpenter. What makes this 45 minute excursion into soft rock and weight loss so memorable is that all the lead characters are portrayed by BARBIE DOLLS! It would've been easy to turn this into a spoof of the white-bred duet, but Todd plays it totally serious -- following the dolls through record contracts, concerts, anorexia nervosa, and Ex-Lax addiction, while portraying Karen's life with more intelligence and tragedy than any make-a-buck live-action TV movie possibly could. This is pure guerilla brilliance, though difficult to locate since Haynes was sued by surviving-shitheel Richard Carpenter for using their tunes without permission.
SWEET MOVIE (1975).
Dusan Makavejev is a certifiable madman. Once embraced by arthouse critics and best known for lobster epics like WR: MYSTERIES OF THE ORGANISM, this crazed Yugoslavian is the Eastern Bloc's answer to Jodorowsky, mixing lumbering politics with sexual silliness. And while exiled in Canada, he cranked out this highly erotic, absurdist satire that celebrates sex, food and life in all its most deviant forms. When Dusan isn't sledgehammering us with revolutionary rhetoric about the fall of socialism (Zzzzz...), the good parts involve the perverse antics of lovely Carol Laure. From her marriage to Texas bazillionaire John Vernon and his gold-plated dick, sex so hot she and her partner need to be pried apart by doctors, and a steamy masturbation scene while coated in chocolate. Laced with piss, vomit and anti-social behavior, it doesn't make a lick of sense most of the time, but confirms Dusan's whacko status.
SWITCHBLADE SISTERS (1975).
Jack Hill is one of the unsung geniuses of drive-in cinema. And this is THE definitive street-slut epic, featuring trash temptresses Joanna Nail, Robbie Lee and Monica Gayle as members of The Dagger Debs, who dump their useless men and take over the town. It's non-stop action (complete with street rumbles, catfights, a juvie slammer, a roller-rink massacre, and even a dick chomping). Toss in polyester Tony Danza- clones, Black urban guerillas, and plenty of hot chicks with M-16's, and you have a skidrow masterpiece!
TOKYO DRIFTER [Tokyo Nagaremono] (1966).
After cranking out 40 movies in only a dozen years for Nikkatsu (the Japanese equivalent of AIP), including BRANDED TO KILL and GATE OF FLESH, director Suzuki Seijun is finally getting the recognition he deserves. This is his tastiest, most excessive treat. A garish blast of widescreen color and style -- and like no other gangster film you've ever seen, featuring Tetsuya Watari as Tetsu, an expert hitman. While aiding his old boss, Tetsu has to hit the road, from the snowy countryside to the "Saloon Western", while continually warbling his melancholy Tokyo Drifter Theme Song and proving his reputation for a "charmed life" by avoiding assassins at every turn. It's the typical convoluted Yakuza storyline, laced with honor and manipulation galore, but Seijun pares away all the unnecessary bullshit (leaving it a lean 80 minutes), while adrenilizing the flick with his love for hyper-stylized costumes (Tetsu's powder blue suit), sets (a blindingly yellow nightclub) and photography -- not to mention, a cool level of self-parody and glorious bursts of violence that instantly earn him the title, God of Arthouse Carnage. Amazing.
TOUGH GUYS DON'T DANCE (1987).
A remarkable piece of hyper-pretentious trash. Director Norman Mailer adapts his own book and turns it into a wildly overwrought thriller, with a narrative structure like a Gordian Knot and enough heavyhanded symbols to make David Lynch look like a neophyte. Ryan O'Neal stars (yes, that's how wrongheaded it is) ss a drifter involved with lost love, liquor and murder. Laced with absurd humor and quotable lines, and featuring incredible support from Lawrence Tierney as O'Neal's pop and Wings Hauser as a psycho sheriff. This flick is utterly ridiculous, as well as being one of my most beloved guilty pleasures.
THE WIZARD OF GORE (1970).
No one can dispute the fact that Herschell Gordon Lewis is one of the first maestros of cine-malignance, and this pic combines his butcherblock effects with a savage concept. Ray Sager is hilariously overwrought as Montag the Magnificent, a magician whose favorite 'tricks' involve eviscerating female volunteers, taking a punch press to rib cages, and turning faces into "human ravioli". But though his assistants look fine when they leave the stage, they tend to fall apart (literally) hours later. Oops. Lewis lingers lovingly on all the gore 'n' goopy organs, and the ending is a trippy mindfuck when Montag goes network. A landmark in gross-out dementia.
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