"Willie Dynamite" (1974) d/ Gilbert Moses

Pimpy day

keepin the johns well-laid

On my way to where the macks are sweet

Can you tell me how to get, how to get to

Willie Dynamite's street?

...Yeah, sorry, I couldn't resist.


Quit eyein' up the fabric, Henson...you ain't makin' muppets out the muthafucka!
Out of all the New York pimps, Willie Dynamite (Orman) is number two, though if one gauged a pimp's mackaframalama by the loud threads he wears or the chromed down purple Caddy he drives, then Willie D. is a pimp among pimples. Motherfucker's clothes are so loud, if you spend too much time looking at one of his outrageous get up's, you'll get a p.s.h.(permanent shift of hearing, can you dig it?). With the pigs comin' down hard on the city's players, a mackin' committee convenes over the heavy situation where the pimpin' King and Willie's main rival, Bell (Roger Robinson), suggests the flesh peddlers all share turf to lessen the economic blow, but Dynamite chooses to face the heat directly, pimpadocious cat that he no doubt sho' nuff do be.  As the old saying goes, pimpin' ain't easy, and Willie learns first hand the truth behind such a sentiment when his Caddy gets towed, Pashen (Joyce Walker), his afro-wigged trick, gets pinched, and to make matters worse, Cora (Diana Sands), the local social do-goodnik, lays a heavy moral trip on our trick-slappin' daddy, who tells her he'd rather rape a watermelon (!!) than her self-righteous ass.


Only five of these tricks is Oscar's, the other's up in this bitch for his pet worm.
Things go from bad to "You gotta be shittin' me, Jack!" for Willie, as his whole stable of bitches get collared and herded into a box truck. Save the paddy wagon for those two bit hamburger pimps, baby. With the D on the ropes, Bell tries putting the mackin' squeeze on him, and ends up naked in the Bronx (talk about revolting developments...) for his efforts. Despite his best attempts, karma puts it's good foot straight up Willie's polyester-clad ass sideways, anyway in the end. When Willie's top money earner, Honey (Norma Donaldson) tries to muscle some of Bell's girls off of Willie's turf, she gets a neck-mouth for her troubles, and Cora gets all of D's bank accounts frozen like an old cat's stroke-ridden grill. After the local detectives chase Willie all over the Bronx (firing their weapons indiscriminately, mind you) and his bitches get arrested again, with Pashen taking a natural prison ass whooping, some of Bell's homeboys beat the shit out of the luckless player, who gets arrested himself afterwards! Finally, after his heartbroken moms keels over dead at his arraignment (!!!) and he watches a tow truck remove his pimped out set of wheels, he briefly joins in on some neighborhood kids' football toss, and walks off towards a new, less stressful future.


"Why you escalatin' the price of cognac on a brothah, Mr. Hooper?"
Once you've exhausted all the Sesame Street and wardrobe jokes you could possibly make about tonight's effort (don't look at me, man,  I NEVER run outta cornball jokes. They say some of the things I write should end up as dialog in movies, but they're wrong, as anyone with half a mind could tell you: It all should. Haha!), you'll end up with a fairly gripping urban drama, with little if any glorification of the prostitution/pimping biz to be found within. In fact, after you're finished screening Willie, you might come to realize you didn't just watch the run of the mill 70's blaxploitation flick, and see it for the highly watchable downer it really is, well deserving of three big ones. Recommended.


When Willie (Roscoe Orman) ain't  pimpin', he doubles as a baton in a marchin' band, dig?

"Age of Consent" (1969) d/ Michael Powell

One surefire cure for Monday that might have you dreaming of faraway posh locales and sun-soaked goddesses is tonight's entry,  from British director Michael Powell who gave us the excellent Peeping Tom nine years earlier, and starring two of my favorites, James Mason and Helen Mirren, a statuesque blonde in her first major role, who really strikes a fatal blow against my 'brunettes are better' argument here in a significant way. Not usually the type of thing we'd normally look at, but as someone who confessedly has been into Helen's work for a long time I can say without reservation: If you're a big fan, this film will make you a bigger fan. Nudge, nudge. Snap, snap. Grin grin, wink wink, say no more?


There's a Moray Eel joke I'd make here if I were a lesser man...
Celebrated artist, Brad Morahan (Mason), jaded by his success in the Big Apple, returns to his native Australia to re-ignite the passion he once had for his craft on the suggestion of his agent, but after a week long roll in the hay with a lady friend (Clarissa Kaye, who would later become his wife), his old buddy Nat (Jack McGowran) who's well behind in alimony payments makes the scene, borrows money, and tries to siphon Brad's cool to pull a few birds, to boot. Deciding that isolation is key, Brad sets up in a dilapidated shack on the far end of a sandbar of a small, mostly uninhabited island on the Great Barrier Reef with....Godfrey, his...dog.....of course. (You're gonna have to insert your own breathy dramatic Mason pauses from here on out, folks, the novelty has already worn thin for me). It isn't long before his beach combing, barefootin', n' boatin' is interrupted by Cora Ryan (Mirren), a wild, young blonde (who fishes the reef with her big tits and sticky fingers) who's pilfered his groceries and more recently, a neighboring spinster's chicken, and when Bradley's suspected as the culprit, he pays for the poultry on the promise that Cora not steal anymore. As an added incentive to help the girl realize her dreams of being a hairdresser in Brisbane someday, he pays her to model for him, as well. Half a dollar an hour, too.Imagine, renting Helen Mirren for eight hours for four bucks. You know, I'm not Edgar Cayce, but I'll bet this passionate young creature is exactly what ol' Brad needed in the first place...


The Great Barrier Reef is home to great big tits, errr, triggerfish. Triggerfish.
At this point, Nat shows up on Brad's shackstep looking for a loan to keep the cops off his back and ends up staying. When he tries to seduce the spinster next door for money, she goes for it, after which he expeditiously breaks camp, jacking Brad's money, and even some of his ...drawrings, as well(There I go again). Things get worse when Cora's gin-sucking hick grandma catches her posing in the buff for the older man, accusing him of getting Nugent with her until he parts with the last of his cash to make the accusations disappear like her granddaughter's clothes. When Cora finds out that 'Ma' (Neva Carr-Glynn) has found her tucked away hairdresser bucks, a chase ensues and then a struggle, and finally, drunken old sot tumbling down the hill and eating broken neck death. After the notorious lush's death is ruled accidental, that night Cora goes to Brad's shack but when he shows only professional interest in her, she disappointedly dashes out into the water. He follows her, and in the end, sees her for what she really is...


"I wish I could see how Brad's painting is turning out," said nobody ever.
Dame Helen Mirren, as magnificent a physical specimen (you may need a lobster bib while watching this one) as she is a gifted actress, surely steals the show; director Powell's take on Shakespeare's The Tempest with Mason opposite Mia Farrow was to follow, but lack of funding marked it's premature end. Though Mason's Aussie accent here sounds mostly artificial, overall, he's good as always. Even if this mid-life crisis-turned-unlikely romance stuff sounds like a lotta hooey to ya, at the forty-five minute mark, there's a scene that makes it all worth while, even to callous-hearted sons a' bitches like ol' Woppo. "Coragio, bully-monster, coragio!" Three biggies.


Frankly, even the Sand-Helen has my pulse racing, folks.

"Demon of Paradise" (1987) d/ Cirio Santiago

Filipino director Cirio Santiago produced a prolific number of genre movies out of his native Manila during the seventies and eighties, tackling everything from blaxploitation (Savage!, T.N.T. Jackson) to W.I.P. flicks (The Big Doll House, The Big Bird Cage) during his heyday, and the guy wasn't exactly averse to Jaws rip-offs, either, having co-produced the awful Up From the Depths in 1979, before duplicating that same movie himself in the director's chair eight years later with even worse results.For Paradise, Santiago replaces Depths' surfboard with teeth for the baggy, rubbery bastard stepchild of ZAAT and Godzilla. If your appreciation for Bud Westmore's Gill Man from Creature From the Black Lagoon(1954) has lost enthusiasm over time, just compare it to the embarrassingly corny, ill-fitting monster suit from tonight's review, thirty-three years later.

He looks pretty content. "Dismemberment by prehistoric lizard-man" must've topped his bucket list.
After some foolhardy dynamite fishermen awaken Akua, a carnivorous lizard-man from the Triassic Period, as lazily explained by Annie (Kathryn Witt), the resident herpetologist, the saggy-looking denizen of the deep stakes a rubbery claim off the waters of Kihono, Hawaii...or the Philippines,  if you have functional eyes. She claims the light-sensitive beast, a missing link between reptiles and man(!), feeds nocturnally, which would explain the first two attacks occurring in broad daylight. Keefer (William Steis) is the new tackle vest-wearing sheriff in town, burnt out from the 'psychotic bullshit' he was forced to deal with in Reno, now forced to deal with the smiling corpses of Hawaiian (translation:Filipino) fisherman that have been turning up. Standing in the way of the investigation is a resort owner (translation:home owner with an abundance of cheap lawn furniture) named Cahill (Laura Banks) who not only scoffs at the notion of a monster terrorizing her Flip busload of tourists, she exploits the legend with the help of an obnoxious journo with an afro named Ike (Frederick Bailey, who wrote this nonsense), when she isn't overacting her way through gem dialog like, "Take a hike, spaz ass!".


Everybody's all smiles when the boobs come out.
Despite doing little more than popping out of the water and limply clawing/waving at people from a safe distance, Akua does possess the uncanny ability to make things explode, like boats, makeshift dynamite factories on the waterfront, and even full-size helicopter replicas full of National Guardsmen (translation: extras in outdated army gear) who light sticks of dynamite off of cigarettes in an air assault against the watery demon. There's a skinny cokehead model (Leslie Huntly) who breaks her bobblers out, overused fog machines, a Filipino Charlie Sheen lookalike, a police shootout with some dynamite dealers, and a 'Monster Egg' hunt at the resort before our expressionless heroes corner Akua outside a cave, where Annie fires tranquilizer darts into the monster's rubber yap from an impossibly hokey-looking gun contraption, but ultimately, soldiers well-placed grenades blow the beastie into pieces. Annie remarks about lizards regenerating their tails as the end credits roll. They wouldn't dare...


"Keep still, Kardashian, this penicillin  is for your own good!"
You'll remember Kathryn Witt from several television appearances and roles in features like Looker (1981), Star 80 (1983), Philadelphia (1993), and wonder what the hell she was doing in this rancid pile of shit. Laura Banks was uncredited as Khan's navigator in the second Star Trek picture, if that means anything to you. The unintentional laughs here are numerous, as you'd expect, but the whole affair crawls along like a worm on the hot sidewalk in mid-July. If it has any value whatsoever, it's probably the feeling it'll give you to go off and watch a better movie to help you forget it. One wop.


Not too shabby, and by that, I mean just shabby enough.

"Jason X" (2001) d/James Isaac

A glimpse across the almighty interwebz tubes will tell you that a lot of critics and Friday the 13th "purists" (Save yer blind fanboy backlash, I know where you're coming from. I, too, was thirteen once...) hate this entry, the tenth in the series,  for a myriad of  reasons, the most 
preeminent being how far from the franchise formula the movie deviated. If you're unfamiliar with said formula despite having read my previous nine F13th reviews,  it involves sex-starved teenaged morons poking around a certain lake where any number of murders have been committed by an indestructible deformed mongoloid zombie in a hockey goalie mask. That's just about it, in a nutshell. And, if  by chance you weren't paying attention at the outset of the review,  X means 'ten'. I'll let you think about that while we get to the syn-wop-sis.


"Now you've got the same range of facial expression as Keanu Reeves!", sez Jason (Kane Hodder).
In the future year of 2008 (when a horrible band named Coldplay would become inexplicably popular), the American government has finally captured the prolific maniac, Osam-uhh, Jason Voorhees (Hodder), holding him at a research facility built on Crystal Lake itself. Two years later (music's gotten worse, too), they decide upon freezing him to further study his inhuman cell regeneration rate when he busts the fuck loose like Janet's nipple at the Super Bowl, killing soldiers and David Cronenberg-in-a-cameo in inventively brutal ways before a young scientist named Rowan (Lexa Doig) lures the lumbering monster into a nearby cryogenic chamber, getting herself shanked and frozen in the process. Fast forward to the year 2455. The members of Coldplay are all finally dead. Unfortunately, so is Earth, whose polluted soil is visited upon by a field trip of students (from 'Earth Two', naturally) with their professor, who stumble upon the ruins of the research center and the frozen scientist and her giant hockey masked attacker, which they bring back to their ship for further inspection. Upon the 'Grendel' are a few more horny, stoned teenagers and a hot redheaded android with no nipples named Kay-Em14 (Lisa Ryder). You see where they're going here, don't you?


"No, no, I wanted  you to have nipples, Kay-Em14 (Lisa Ryder)! It's the vocal chords I wanted you to get rid of..."
The crew of misfits manages to thaw out both the young woman and Voorhees, who proceeds to plough through victims in his typically inventive and violent m.o. ( liquid nitro-frozen faces smashed into pieces on counter tops, skewering on giant screws, etc.), destroying two ships and forcing the survivors to take refuge on a rescue shuttle, until a weapon/skill updated Kay-Em finally blasts him into an unrecognizable pile of smoldering flesh. Of course, the corpse lands atop a medical station, which malfunctions, sending nanites out to repair the serial killer's remains, and wouldn't you just know it, the result is the new and improved muscle-laden cyborg Uber-Jason who punches Kay-Em's head off for her folly. After breaching the hull with his fist(!) which sucks one poor chick screaming out into space, the remaining crew create a virtual Crystal Lake, complete with topless bubbleheaded e-victims(!) to pacify the killer, while they repair the damage to their craft from the outside. A pantoon explosion hurls the chromed-out psycho through space at the survivors, but he is intercepted by the resilient sergeant-in-space suit, and both plummet into Earth Two's atmosphere and burn up. On the planet's surface, two teens watch a falling star, as the charred Uber-mask sinks to the bottom of the lake. Cue: Ki ki ki ma ma ma...


As absurd as it is, you gotta admit this is pretty cool.
So what, if anything, have we learned from all this? Apparently, Jason Voorhees should stay on present day Earth, slaughtering interchangeably stupid people in inventive ways on the same tract of land around the same lake, forevermore. And woe to James Isaac and company for injecting slightly new bloody, sexy life into the series, undervaluing itself through humor and cleverly acknowledging it's own many flaws, but mainly because they didn't do the exact same thing with the same exhausted material that the previous crews did. Except that, I actually dug it, and found myself more entertained with it than any F13th flick dating back to Part Six, giving it the respectable deuce for it's effort. Those of you who like your horror franchise flicks the same way that McDonald's processes the pink meat paste into McNuggets will disagree, no doubt...


"There's one or two things missing from this picture", said my hands.
 

"Martin" (1977) d/ George A. Romero

One of my favorite modern vampire movies, hands down. For anyone interested in seeing George A. at his most powerful and effective as a filmmaker, they should probably cue tonight's review up first. Boasting of an outstanding script full of tumult and irony strengthened by top shelf performances by a cast led by Romero regular, John Amplas, who really shows his formidable dramatic reach here, and solid support from Christine Forrest (who would later become Mrs. Romero) as his symapathetic cousin and Lincoln Maazel as his hardline uncle, Martin would also mark the very first collaboration between George and sovereign Splatter King Tom Savini, whose gore has never looked more wicked, adding to the already gritty authenticity of the low budgeted film's western Pennsylvania locations. Every shot is meticulously framed throughout the brisk ninety-five minute running time , edited down from the original lost two hour and forty-five minute print, entirely in black and white. And just when I think the film can't get any better, there's the final reel...

If the real thing don't do the trick, Martin (John Amplas) better make up something quick, gonna burn into the wick, awwww, Tateh Cuda (Lincoln Maazel)! 
On an overnight train, we meet Martin (Amplas) as he subdues a young woman with a syringe full of sedatives,before opening her wrists with a razor blade, and feasting upon her lifeblood until she's dead. Martin is convinced he's a vampire that is dependent on the red stuff for sustenance, and his old school Lithuanian uncle, Barracud- uhh, err... Tateh Cuda (Maazel), who's awaiting his arrival at the train platform in Pittsburgh, is convinced he is, too. So much so, in fact, that he sets bell traps and hangs garlic all over the homestead where Martin will be residing, forbidding him any discourse with his cousin Christina (Forrest) and warning him that if he preys upon any Braddock residents, he'll go Peter Cushing on his ass and drive a stake through his heart. He teases the superstitious old man's safeguards against him with a cape and phony plastic fangs, telling him: "There's no real magic...ever." A man of his convictions, Cuda still isn't buying it.


"Don't kill yourself, baby, I got you the Leif Garrett tickets afterall..."
Martin gets a job delivering groceries from Cuda's butcher shop and develops a friendship with a frustrated  customer named Mrs. Santini (Elayne Nadeau) after she unsuccessfully tries to seduce him. His bloodlust eventually bests him in the end, and he travels to the city in search of new victims. After stalking a woman at the supermarket that he believes to be alone, he breaks in to discover she's entertaining a lover in bed, and is forced to drug the adulterous couple; feeding on the man, and raping the woman while she's unconscious before slipping away undetected. This leads to Martin phoning in to a local talk radio DJ as 'The Count' and confessing his crimes to the glee of the show's listeners. Trying to resist his psychological blood urge, he enters into a physical relationship with Santini, but another Pittsburgh hunt turns sour when he targets a couple of stumblebums, narrowly escaping the law, by ducking into a drug shack. Back home, Christina moves in with her boyfriend (Savini!) when Cuda's persistent harassment of Martin with crucifixes and prayers become too much for her to bear. Meanwhile, Martin visits his lover only to discover she has committed suicide by slashing her wrists with a razor in the bathtub. Cuda assumes that his nephew is responsible, and pounds a wooden stake into the sleeping man's heart, burying him in the backyard afterwards, where we finally see him, tending the garden as the credits roll to the sounds of radio listeners calling into the station, curious as to whatever happened to 'The Count'...


"I missed an episode of 'Baggy Pants and The Nitwits' and there's no point in going on now."
Fans of 80's synth pop duo, Soft Cell, will remember the group's tribute to this one on their 1983 Art of Falling Apart release. Next up for Romero would be 1978's legendary Dawn of the Dead, where Amplas, the film's casting director, would get shot off a rooftop as a Puerto Rican ("Jesus Christ! There's a thousand pigs!") in the memorable opening sequence, also playing a biker and zombie along the way. He'd later work in Romero's Knightriders (1979), Creepshow(1982), and Day of the Dead (1985), as well as Bloodeaters (1980) and John Russo's Midnight (1981). On the scale, four beedubs oughta cover the undeniable magnificence of tonight's review, one that comes with my highest recommendation. A true genre classic.


Eating Stake-Him's for breakfast can really exact a toll on one's heart.

"The Sentinel" (1977) d/Michael Winner

Brooklyn residents nowadays will tell you: Hell isn't underneath one of it's brownstones, it's affording the rent for one. Still, you have to admire the originality and intelligence of the premise of tonight's feature, a well creepy little flick from the guy who brought you 'Death Wish'(1974). I remember the tv spot for this one giving me the creeps at the time, and that creepy vibe only carried over into the Jeffrey Konvitz novel (with the cool open-up cover) that my old man brought me home afterwards. Come to think of it, the whole damned affair is a memorably unpleasant experience, but in this genre, that's a compliment, isn't it. There's an all-star cast along for the ride, too, with names like Burgess Meredith, Jose Ferrer, Martin Balsam, Ava Gardner, and Arthur Kennedy topping the list, a soundtrack by Gil "Night Gallery" Melle, and one or two seriously painful-looking effects from the maestro himself, Dick Smith.


"I no care about Burgess Meredith. You sed there wud be cheezburgrs I can haz..."
Alison Parker (Cristina Raines) is a troubled model/actress who's just moved into one of New York's historic brownstones, below an elderly reclusive priest named Halliran (John Carradine) who sits in front of his top floor window like a blind, arthritic piece of furniture, at all times. Then there's kindly old Mr. Chazen (Burgess Meredith) who holds birthday parties for his cat, Jezebel (that's odd, cat people, you can't tell me it isn't!), and a pair of oversexed lesbians named Gerda and Sandra (Sylvia Miles, Beverly D'Angelo)...Or so it would seem. Meanwhile, her clingy lawyer beau, Michael (Chris Sarandon), is getting hassled by a local detective (Eli Wallach) who's not so convinced that he wasn't involved in his ex-wife's death. Alison starts suffering from insomnia, compounded by horrifying memories of interrupting her father and two hookers during a food fetish ménage à trois involving cake (!), and her prior two failed suicide 
attempts. The noisy oddball neighbors lead the troubled girl to take matters up with her new 
landlord,  Miss Logan (Eva Gardner), who informs her that, besides the blind priest on the top floor, she is alone in the building!!!  Cue: creepy 50's theremin here.


In a kid-free environment, Ellen Griswold shoots sexy catcher signals at Clark.
...turns out the building is situated atop the gates of Hell afterall (I'd be after a rent rebate, personally, but that's just me) and owned by a secret order of excommunicated Catholic priests, from which one is chosen to rectify his mortal sins by becoming the overseer and guardian, protecting the portal from any stray demons with designs on entering our realm of existence and it just so happens that our heroine's failed suicides make her the perfect candidate to replace ol' Halliran upstairs. She squares off against Chazen, who reveals his true evil nature, and a gaggle of lost souls (translation: actual deformed circus freaks) that includes her murdered boyfriend Michael, who had been damned for all eternity for offing his spouse. Chazen offers her a blade to finish herself off, and avoid all the unnecessary responsibility, but she chooses to relieve Monsignor Franchino (Arthur Kennedy, as an Italian, really??) and Halliran of a large burdensome cross and take her place in the window seat, instead. After the brownstone is demolished and replaced with a new apartment building, we see Miss Logan showing a young couple the place. When they ask about neighbors, she tells of only two: a violinist, and an old blind nun on the top floor...

 
You should think about exchanging your reading glasses for a monocle, pal.
Even if the controversial finale of tonight's review isn't your gruesome cup o'tea, you have to admit it was more interesting than Won Ton Ton: The Dog That Saved Hollywood, director Winner's effort from the previous year. Nearly as many celeb cameos as that flick, too, when I think about it. Wallach, Berenger, Walken, Goldblum,  Orbach, D'Angelo...even a post-Jaws Richard freakin' Dreyfuss, ferchrissakes. I'd need  a separate post altogether just to tag 'em all. By no means anything exceptional here, but an enjoyably moody old school good time, none-the-less. Two big ones.
 

Blinded by the light, he was revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night.
 

"City of the Dead" (1960) d/ John Moxey

Tonight's entry is a beauteous little British number, an early atmospheric Psycho-esque horror piece known as 'Horror Hotel' in America; boiling over with artificial fog, witches' covens, and human sacrifice set in New England, as evidenced by the odd forced regional dialects affected by the British actors, with iconic genre baddie Christopher Frank Carandini Lee providing the most serviceable of the lot. As Lee has always been tops among my favorite actors, I've always gotten special satisfaction from repeated screenings of this one, whether it was on late night cable in the seventies or recently on the big plasma screen , with much more dialog than he was afforded later in his career once he'd been typecast as that Count fellow. In addition,  British television staple Patricia Jessel is memorable as Newless/Selwyn, and sexy blonde Venetia Stevenson  is an eyeful during her scenes. Vulcan Productions would later become Amicus, probably the steepest competition for British genre giants Hammer during their heyday.


This look means you're failing Witchcraft class. I know, I had him for French in college.
After we see a witch named Elizabeth Selwyn(Jessel) burned at the stake for witchery in 1692, we fast forward to present day and a young coed named Nan (Venetia Stevenson) who ditches her winter vacation to research her senior paper on witchcraft in a creepy little burg named Whitewood, upon the suggestion of her professor(Lee), and against the wishes of her boyfriend, Bill (Tom Maitland). C'mon, what's the worst that could happen, old man? It's not like she's gonna get marked by a coven of ancient witches for sacrifice on Candlemas Eve or anything. Well, actually, yeah, it is exactly like that. Among the hooded cultists at the altar are Mrs. Newless(Jessel) from the Raven's Inn (Newless... Selwyn, don't you ever watch vampire movies, chick?) and Professor Driscoll himself! Hopefully he'll give her posthumous extra credit towards her final grade for her troubles, eh.


"Kookie, lend me your comb. Kookie, Kookie?"
When Nan is a no-show at the party held at her her brother Richard's (Dennis Lotis), he and Bill decide to investigate her puzzling disappearance, leading them both inevitably to Whitewood, where the blind reverend's daughter(Betta St. John) has been marked for sacrifice on the witches' Sabbath. The soupy fog proves too much for Bill, who wrecks his wheels on the drive into town, while Richard gets snatched up by hooded cultists in the graveyard as they wait for the thirteenth toll of the clock's bell to plunge the hulking dagger into the chest of their unwilling offering. A busted up Bill finally makes the scene, and gets said dagger thrown into his back for the effort, but he manages to loosen a cross from one of the graves and set the witches aflame with it's shadow, as per required. Selwyn escapes the righteous judgment only to age hundreds of years and slump dead underneath the plaque commemorating her burning at the stake on the Raven's Inn, to the dismay and horror of our surviving protagonists...

 

"Watch me dissect this hooker, Driscoll. Her blood is well groovy."

Moxey also helmed 'The Night Stalker' (1972), genre-wise, during a long career in television, while it would be another seventeen years before Lee would turn down the role of Sam Loomis in John Carpenter's Halloween and take his place in horror history as the narrator in the unforgettable Meatcleaver Massacre(1977). While you're laughing at that, try to remember that the immutable 91 year old has only appeared in over two hundred movies to date, and counting. You can't expect farcical cgi light saber battles with Yoda, every time outta the gate, y'know. Three wops.

"No, no, of course I don't fault you, seeing how 'pail of water' sounds like 'oversized cross' when you think about it, old chap..."