"Blood Stalkers" (1975) d/ Robert W. Morgan

After seeing his familiar, inquisitive bald pate turn up in Bigfoot: Man or Beast? (1972), Monsters: Mysteries or Myths? (1974), and Mysterious Monsters (1975), cult audiences were surely wondering what was next for Robert W. Morgan, a "tough, hard-driving man". Tonight's review should answer that question for most.
The familiar stench permeating the air this time around doesn't roll off the hairy back of a sasquatch per se, but rises instead as a fervid reek from the theater's projector, a foul reminder of what can happen when you set out to make a movie, but aren't exactly certain how to accomplish it. It goes like this...


"...you folks have any spare Antiseen tickets?", queries Pip (David Farris Legge).
Two couples station wagon it down to the swampy goodness of Bumblefuck, Florida for a two week lovers' getaway (Really?). There's Mike (Jerry Albert), an obnoxious, pudgy "performer" (translation: homosexual, as evidenced by his polyester slacks and miniature schnauzer),  and Jeri (Celea Ann Cole), a ginger brick shithouse with zero chemistry towards her ahem...man, as evidenced by the way she smothers him with forced Grandma kisses and plays with his face meat during their overly long, poorly lit, dramatic dialogues. There's also Kim (Toni Crabtree), a happenin', skinny dippin' chick who ties off her tops just the way we like it, and Daniel (Ken Miller), a pock-faced war hero who may or may not have blown up a house full of civilians, according to Mike, who claims he doesn't know the whole story, but then relates the whole story, anyway. They're warned against further road trippin' hijinks by an ornery, busted straw hat wearin' gas station attendant who resembles a rural methed out Lance Henriksen, and warns of their impending arrival in "Blood Stalker country".


"Oh noooooo! Jeri found my candy dish and all my Joan Crawford postcards!"
They run into Jarvis, Lester, and Pip (Morgan himself, John Meyer, and David Farris Legge, respectively), and though these cats look as though they're about to break into a lower tier regional wrasslin' promo, they're actually the poach-crazy bad guys. Also, it should be mentioned that there's a wandering loon who communicates with pops, whistles, and wild hand gestures. Yeah, pop pop pop pop to you, too. Some weird muddy footprints, studio-enhanced panther growls, and a mutilated lap dog later, Daniel leaves the girls in Mike's protection (good luck with that) while he slo-mo runs for help over what fluctuates from a repetitive gospel soundtrack to something you'd hear while Buddy Ebsen lays the shoulder on a fleeing purse snatcher on network tv. Meanwhile, something hairy emerges from an upstairs room at the cabin...is it a blood stalker stalking his daily blood? Is it the most man-like...human gorilla that you've never seen? I won't spoil it for you here, not even in pops and whistles, but mainly because the expiration date on this one came and went over forty years ago,  by now.


I always wondered how you soulless gingers got your hair so red.
Interestingly enough, Morgan also penned the script for Mako: The Jaws of Death (1977), a movie by William Grefe', a regional cult director I actually appreciate. You'll no doubt remember Toni Crabtree as "Hooker" in The Greatest (1977), or "Mona" in 1981's Eyes of a Stranger. She also turned up in Police Academy 5: Assignment: Miami Beach (1988). Ken Miller was a silver screen veteran by the time of his appearance here, having nabbed credits as an extra in things as far back as East of Eden (1955), I Was a Teenage Werewolf (1957), and Attack of the Puppet People (1958). Celea Ann Cole was known as Cissie Colpitts when she made her acting debut in 1971's Billy Jack, but she later moved on to projects like Porky's II: The Next Day (1983) and tv gigs on shows like Laverne and Shirley, Love Bat, and Too Close for Comfort. Anyway, I applaud the "twenty-four countries" that saw fit to ban Morgan's departure from groovy Bigfoot documentaries, and only wish I followed suit by skipping out on the weatherbeaten Vidmark vhs copy I snagged from a long defunct mom and pop outfit, in which case, I wouldn't be here laying the old single Wop down, playing the same harmonica melody over and over again...


I was gonna axe to see yer tits, but somebody beat me to it.

"Fangs" (1974) d/ Arthur Names

Disregard the misleading sales pitch on the groovy one-sheet of tonight's movie, as it's instead packed with less bite than a fucking earthworm. If William Grefe's drive-in rattlesnake eco-opus Stanley (1972) was a bowl of Froot Loops, then Fangs, or Snakes, as it's alternately known, would be a see-thru generic bag of Silly Circles...if it were directed by the sound man from Ted Mikels' Corpse Grinders (1971), that is. My copy of the movie is the murkiest imaginable, from the old Video Gems vhs, as any clearer quality might only make it more obvious that there isn't a poisonous snake within miles of the camera, and not even Les Tremayne's estate would be pulling for a blu-ray release of it, at any point in time. It's like this...

 
"Here, let this one wriggle around in your pants a spell.", offers Snakey (Les Tremayne).
Snakey Bender (Les Tremayne) is the local grizzled, old, snake-gathering coot who buys his beans from the general store, as run by a barrel-shaped lesbian named Sis (Alice Nunn) and her semi-retarded brother Bud, on credit. He also encourages the local fourth grade boys to supply him with mice and lizards for his snakes, which perturbs the local alcoholic preacher, Brother Joy (Marvin Kaplan), and enjoys listening to marching band records with his pal, Burt (Richard Kennedy), every Wednesday night. Wednesday nights also see a number of visits to the fourth grade teacher's place, where Cynthia (Bebe Kelly) sexually grooves on one of Snakey's scaly pets named Lucifer. Weird as it may all sound, this delicately balanced routine keeps ol' Snakey from abruptly losing his mind, and going on a vengeful snake-based kill-crazy rampage. Wouldn't you know it, the preacher convinces the teacher to disallow the boys to further deliver prey items to the old man, and the shopkeep's brother eagerly smashes Snakey's favorite pet on orders from the frumpy fish eater. To make matters worse, Burt runs off and marries a stripper named Ivy (Janet Wood), and puts an end to the duo's music appreciation during the week on her suggestion. Ol' Snakey ain't a-gonna stand for this sorta thing, no siree.


"The Video Gems vhs print of "Fangs" is too shabby, we need a blu-ray remaster!" - Nobody
As it stands, they don't call Snakey "Snakey" for no good reason, and he's soon doling out fang-injected retribution on any no good feller what wronged 'im. First Burt eats a brick bludgeoning, and is dumped off a nearby cliff in his car, and Ivy is then taken prisoner, and forced to watch as Brother Joy is offed in his underwear by Snakey's serpents, his corpse-laden car also dumped off the same cliff. In fact, the cars pile up at the bottom of said cliff, and nobody seems to notice or care in these here parts. Bud fails to pop the heads off of incoming rattlers, and he joins the others at the base of the drop off. Sis flunks the "Is it a king snake or a coral snake at the bottom of the fifty-five gallon drum she's being lowered into via makeshift trapeze (they were all coral snakes, stupid!) and her pick up truck is soon added to the junkyard under the cliff. Snakey even schedules a reptile rendezvous with the herpetology-horny Cynthia, and while she's writhing orgiastically under the coils of several colubrids, ol' Snakey throws in a copperhead to the oblivious deviate. You can guess where her car is about to end up. What happens in the final reel, I leave for you to discover, though, in the odd chance you let your curiousity get the best of you, and snare a copy.


"As I die here on this dirty floor in my drawers, I'm leaving my car to you, Snakey...never push it off a cliff..."
For a murky mutt of a drive-in movie such as this one, the cast is interesting enough. Les Tremayne was a busy actor, right up to his death in 2003; appearing in everything from Monster of Piedras Blancas (1959) and North by Northwest (1959) to King Kong vs. Godzilla (1962), and working on popular soap operas like General Hospital and One Life to Live along the way. His portrayal of Snakey Bender here probably wouldn't make his lifetime highlight reel. Janet Wood, who you'll no doubt remember as Sweet Li'l Alice in Russ Meyer's Up (1976), also appeared in Terror House (1972) and The Centerfold Girls (1974). Alice Nunn, well, she was only "Large Marge" in Pee Wee's Big Adventure (1985), though she also scored genre credits in things like The Fury (1978), Dark Night of the Scarecrow (1981), and Trick or Treat (1986). Richard Kennedy was a native Pennsylvanian who turned up in Invasion of the Blood Farmers (1972), Delinquent School Girls (1975), Candy Tangerine Man (1975) and even Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS (1975). On the scale, Fangs barely manages a bite with the potency of a single Wop. There are far better snake movies out there.


"You're a dead ringer when I sting you with my stinger, 'cuz ev'ry queen needs a kiiiiing!", sings Snakey.

"Faceless" (1987) d/ Jesus Franco

As we enter the second month of 2016 our thoughts quickly turn to love and romance, and the great lengths we go to prove it to our significant other, usually spending vulgar amounts of cash around the middle of the month, just to save face. In the world of cult cinema, saving face can take on entirely different connotations, and in the case of tonight's review, a late eighties gore-packed variation on his initial effort, director Jess Franco does an awful lot of it. In fact, he also ruins some faces, removes a few, and throws in a chainsaw and a power drill just for kicks. You've got to appreciate the man's unwavering dedication to capturing intimacy between the sexes on celluloid. The Richard Marx-esque late eighties synth pop soundtrack that (constantly)accompanies this one? Not so much. Not so fucking much at all. Still...


It's not often that we see Brigitte doing the poking. Just sayin'.
Dr. Flamand (Helmut Berger) witnesses his sister, Ingrid (Christiane Jean), block a vial of acid that was meant for him, chucked by a disgruntled, partially scarified former patient, with her own beautiful face, leaving her with a permanent Manwich grill, and leaving her brother to spend every resource available to him to restore her former beauty. Nathalie (Brigitte Lahaie) helps out by kidnapping unsuspecting donors from the Paris nightclub scene of the late eighties, locking them naked in cells in a private wing of their clinic, and subjecting them to the advances of Gordon, an especially creepy subordinate with a perm-ullet and no fucking eyebrows. When they abduct Barbara (Caroline Munro), a coked-out model, right from her photo shoot, her father (Telly Savalas) enlists a cat named Morgan (Chris Mitchum) who comes off as a skinny, less imposing Dirty Harry,  to fly to Paris and find his daughter. When Flamand and Nathalie consult Dr. Orloff (Howard Vernon) for helpful face transplant hints, he suggests they bring Dr. Moser (Anton Diffring), an escaped Nazi surgeon who specialized in such operations at Dachau, on board.


Also just sayin': I'd wrap those legs around my head like a turban.
Luckily for Flamand, Moser is seemingly available for work almost immediately, but he shows up and fumbles the first attempt, destroying a young whore's face, and forcing Gordon, chainsaw in hand, into action, as he beheads her with it. Meanwhile, Morgan is bullying Barbara's last employer (sort of a French Charles Nelson Reilly) for answers, leading to a ham-fisted comedic scrap with a muscle-bound gay named Doudou, and copping cheap feels from the headless corpses piling up at the morgue, to the dismay of the French authorities. In need of new face, Flamand and Nathalie come upon none other than Florence Guerin (as herself) in the dance club, talk her into some menage a trois action, and kidnap her for impending facepiece surgery. Don't sweat it, Flo. Can't be any worse than appearing in Bruno Mattei's Caligula et Messaline (1981). As Morgan traces Barbara's credit card to the clinic, where he also notices Nathalie sporting the jewel-encrusted watch that Babs was wearing when she went missing in the first place. Will he rescue her before Ingrid can adopt her good looks? Will Dr. Moser fumble the dermal mask again while staring at Nat's ample pornographic charms? Will Gordon get a decent haircut and grow his eyebrows out? Did Telly Savalas just speak French? The answers to these questions and more await you, once you've bagged yourselves a copy and screen it personally.


"I've eaten all the strawberry preserves, but that Florence Guerin face roll up looks appetizing."
Besides playing more than his fair share of archetypal Nazi villains over a film career that spanned nearly fifty years, Anton Diffring turned up in a few horror movies along the way, usually as an unhinged plastic surgeon, like this Jesus Franco update of his own pioneer genre effort, The Awful Dr. Orloff aka/ Gritos en la noche (1962), where he plays a nazi and an unhinged plastic surgeon. Faceless, which marked the second last role for Diffring before his death in 1989, would also be the last big screen appearance of Telly "Kojak" Savalas, but they're not the only recognizable names in the credits, as British scream queen Caroline Munro, Visconti regular Helmut Berger, Robert Mitchum's son Chris, Lina Romay, and even French porn goddess Brigitte Lahaie all make the scene. If you can manage to ignore the awful soundtrack, and some of the horrible eighties fashions on display, as hard as that is,  you'll probably enjoy Faceless, though it isn't nearly the best of it's kind, or even the best Franco approach on the subject matter. On the scale, a modest two Wops sounds fitting here. Give it a look.


"Don't be silly, darling...you're still very reverse-beautiful."

"Mr. Sardonicus" (1961) d/ William Castle

Tonight we return to the wonderfully gimmicky world of William Castle, the B-Movie King of the 50's and 60's, the filmmaker responsible for such beloved genre schlock as House on Haunted Hill (1959), The Tingler (1959), 13 Ghosts (1960), and a driving inspiration/cinema idol for later directors like John Waters and Robert Zemeckis. His publicity gimmicks were legendary; from life insurance policies in case theatergoers died of fright with Macabre (1958), to "Percepto", shock buzzers fastened to the bottom of theater seats, in The Tingler (1959), to the "Punishment Poll" of tonight's feature, where audience members held up card with glow in the dark thumbs to vote whether or not the titular fiend, Sardonicus, should suffer further or not. Of course, legend has it that no audience ever voted to pardon him for his crimes, bypassing the kinder, gentler ending that Castle himself said was filmed and screened a few times... however unlikely the existence of such footage is, say I.

 
"I misplaced the Twister mat, we'll have to play Leech-face again, instead...," quips Krull (Oscar Homolka).
Enter Sir Robert Cargrave (Ronald Lewis), a David Hasselhoff lookalike/eminent physician in 1880's London, whose groundbreaking work with tissue massage (pronounced MASS-age, of course) and proficiency with experimental instruments such as the "hypodermic needle" have traveled as far as Gorslava, a central European region beset with dry ice and miniature landscapes, where a certain mysterious Baron named Sardonicus (Guy Rolfe) has requested the good doctor's presence through an urgent letter penned by his wife, Maude (Audrey Dalton), a former flame of Cargrave's. Robert is deftly carriaged off  past crappy set pieces to the carshole by Krull (Oscar Homolka), not to be confused with the British big budgeted sci-fi adventure of the same name, rather, he's a one-eyed grinning underling of the Baron, who gets his kicks laying live leeches on the faces of screaming servant chicks who've effed up. How difficult is it to hire good help these days, indeed.

 
"Del Shannon! Delllllllll! Oh my GODDDD!!! I LOOOOOOOOVE YOU, DELLLLLL!"
 At the aforementioned carshole, Sardonicus proves an enigmatic chap, draping his grill in an emotionless Ben Cooper-looking mask at all times, and sickeningly slurping slop in secret in his chambers like Michael Moore on a bottomless vat of chicken rice soup at Old Country Buffet. He relates his tragic tale to the physician, in hopes that it will sway him to lend his talents to the Baron's current facial dilemma. It seems he was once a humble normal-faced Euro-peasant married to a hypergamous greenback-crazy harlot, when a winning lottery ticket is mistakenly buried with his father, forcing him to explore the definition of "ghoul" on a personal level, by digging up his dad's corpse and rummaging through his pockets for the winning numbers. Only, he's shocked to find his father's remains locked in a sardonic death-grin, and so shocked, in fact, that his own facial muscles are frozen in the same expression, leading to his current state of lonely solitude, save for that infrequent call from Hollywood, asking him to stunt double for Cesar Romero. Will Cargrave give the Baron's rotten puss a revitalizing rubdown? Will Maude make off with her former flame, who's never enjoyed the company of another woman since? If you're not sure of the answers to these and other questions, I suggest you pick up a copy of Sardonicus, and answer them for yourselves...

 
That new Whiskey toothpaste has done wonders for your bicuspids.
Castle, a favorite of mine since I was knee high to my old man's 1930's shoeshine box, may have been the last of the true Hollywood showmen, always adding mirth and mayhem to his low budget productions with goofy gimmicks and corny cameos, and tonight's review is no exception to any of these concepts. Speaking of my old man and regarding Sardonicus, he'd often tuck his upper lip up into his face and stare at you until you mentioned something, back then. Yeah, Dad, yeah. Mr. Sardonicus. I know. I blame the Famous Monsters of Filmland cover art by Basil Gogos on Issue 126 for the frequent annoyance. He also did a horrendous imitation of Peter Lorre that we won't elaborate further upon. Sardonicus is available in a five movie box set collection of Castle cult classics that's inexpensive enough that you've got no good excuse for failing to see it. Two Wops.


"If they don't get the joke...pull the rope and let them choke! Ooh, hoo, haa-haa, haa-haa! How delicious!"

"Brain Damage" (1988) d / Frank Henenlotter

If you happen to enter my media room (you're either a hot chick or a member of my inner circle, congrats, either way), you'll notice that the German poster for tonight's review that I've had since the nineties,  hangs, right next to my German print of Carpenter's Halloween (1978)...I never dreamed I'd get this snobby in my old age, really, but here I am, running down my Henenlotter pedigree. No stopping now. I spent sixty-four ninety-five on the Media VHS of Basket Case (1982) when it first came out (I was fourteen), and though I could never stabilize the tracking the whole way through on the big floor model tv in the parlor ( Mr. Bradley's nose always looked like Margaret Hamilton's, as he walked slowly down the cellar stairs on my copy), I was instantly a huge fan of Frank's work. His next film, 1988's Brain Damage, I also saw upon release, and liked even more. Where Basket Case suffered from budgetary restraints in areas, Damage handles the same dilemma, and pulls it off; a more polished, funnier, more generally effective film than his previous effort.


Next week on "When Keith Moon and Syd Barrett Play Hide n' Seek at the Junkyard"...
An elderly couple (just as worldly, judging by their culture-laden digs) seeks out their family pet at the outset, to show him the nice calves' brains they've gotten him, but he's flown the coop, causing his captors to obsessively, haphazardly needle through all of their belongings to find him, until they're both left spastic and foaming on the floor. Elsewhere in the building, there's young Brian (Rick Hearst), who's bedridden with a headache, only to end up on a mind blowing trip of psychedelia and colors, thanks to the mouth parts of Aylmer, a phallic, wisecracking parasite who sort of resembles a smug brussel sprout that attaches itself to the host's neck and shoots a blue euphoria-inducing fluid into their brain. In return for the experience, the host must provide him with a steady diet of brains, preferably human, and fresh out of a living skull? Why, that's even better...


"The waitress, a vampire named Perkins...was so very fond of small gherkins, while she served the tea, she ate forty-three...which pickled her internal workin's! Ho! Ho! Ho!"
Brian is instantly hooked on Aylmer's juice, and willingly strolls out into the New York night with the lump on his neck, unaware that, while he trips his face off, the talking shillelagh will be claiming victims; first a night watchman at a junkyard, then a wasted chick at a punk rock show willing to get her knees dirty. Meanwhile, his relationships with his girlfriend, Barbara (Jennifer Lowry), and his brother, Mike (Gordon MacDonald), become so strained that she ends up waxing his brother down instead, when he blows off their dates, often for a splashy party in the tub with Aylmer (!). It's only when Brian tries to take charge of their symbiotic partnership that Aylmer tells the young man his historic back story, and, in a battle of wills, refuses to juice him, while holed up in a flea bag hotel room. I won't ruin the ending for you here, it's one you need to see to believe. Snag a copy.


It's not the face you fuck, but the fuck you face, except for this fatal face fuck.
Two years later, Henenlotter would revisit Belial and Duane Bradley in Basket Case 2 (1990), though it should be mentioned that they make a cameo here in a hilarious subway standoff with Brian and Aylmer that I never saw coming the first time around and left me laughing. Fellow Basket Case alum, Beverly Bonner, also makes an appearance here. The first time I heard Aylmer's distinct voice, I knew it was New York Horror Host and Chiller Theater regular, John Zacherle, uncredited, though how I fished his name out of the dark recesses of my memory is still puzzling, seeing how I'd only caught Zacherle's act a few times during my childhood (probably the last being his 3D presentation of Gorilla at Large on WOR-TV 9 six years earlier), which belonged exclusively to Dr. Shock, and to a lesser degree, Uncle Ted, during his Ghoul School days. Man, I wouldn't trade growing up in my era for anything. So much good stuff, which happens to be what Henenlotter is synonymous with: good genre stuffs a'plenty. Damage scores a perfect four Wops, as an urban horror/comedy/fantasy about addiction, as gritty as it is urbane. My highest recommendation comes along with it.


Ear's looking at goo, kid.

"The Babadook" (2014) d/ Jennifer Kent

Tonight we'll roll with a recent Aussie shocker of some significant renown, at least from my indie vocalist buddy, Smith, whom I'd remembered suggested that it had gathered a lot of buzz on the Tennessee cult scene in between many sips and bips one recent visit. Having watched a lot of movies with Johnny over the years, and appreciating the difficulty it must have given him to tell us about the movie and keep his cheeks sucked in like Terrence Stamp on a wire the whole time, I had to give it a screening in my own personal V.G.S. (vault of genre stimuli), and thus, finally cover it here at the Wop for your reading pleasure. It's like this...


"See? Roman Polanski isn't in there."
Amelia (Essie Davis) is a young widow struggling to pull it all back together in the years since her husband ate car death, leaving her to tend to their son, Samuel (Noah Wiseman), on her own. No one would blame you if you thought she'd done a shit job of it all, unable to drag herself from crippling depression that makes the simplest tasks nearly impossible for her to execute, and then, there's that boy of her's, who hasn't had a voice raised to him in his short life, the non-existent discipline that might have prevented him from becoming the whiniest, poutiest, teat-suckingest emotional retard in the civilized world, and the primary evidence for the necessity of spanking your kids.Add to the maddening mix, a mysterious pop up book that pertains to a mythical, shadowy bloke named Mister Babadook, after the noise he makes when he comes knocking, which is not a good thing, more often than not. Especially when Amelia almost eats glass for dinner, blamed on Babadook by her son, who's definitely not making it any easier for her, breaking her sister's daughter's schnoz when he pushes her out of a treehouse. Maybe you can take up a collection and get this top hatted rascal to rid you of your motherly misery. Nobody'd blame you at this point, lady.


"The Tawny, Scrawny Lion couldn't make it, so he sent me in his place."
The sinister storybook, it seems, cannot be destroyed or disposed of, returning,  repaired, to the boy's shelf, with new pages, new taunts and threats, and new pop up visions of destruction where she's offed her son, the family dog, and herself, which terrifies Amelia into going to the police with her fears. When they ask to see the book in question, naturally, she's unable to produce it, having destroyed it again. Amelia begins to see the Babadook herself, along with visions of her dead husband who vows to return if she gives the boy to him. Crazy, man, crazy. Be careful not to let the Babadook possess your body, girl, otherwise, you may suddenly feel inclined to break the dog's neck and try to strangle your son. We can understand you wanting to snuff Sam's candle, but what'd the dog ever do to you, sick bitch? Leave it alone. I won't ruin the finale for you, woprophiles, but let's just say it fits into the fairy tale blueprint that it'd followed up to that point. Check it out.


He's gonna start singing "Street Fighting Man" any second now, just watch.
For a limited time, you could buy a pop-up book like the one in the film, the first two thousand copies were signed by first time director, Jennifer Kent, for eighty clams. However you feel about the movie, that sounds like a pretty choice collectible to get your mitts on, regardless. Personally, I liked it, I just can't help thinking how much more I might have, had it strayed from the pedestrian possession angle (nearly as played out as zombies by now, folks), and perhaps fleshed out Mr. Babadook considerably more. I look forward to further genre work from Kent. As it stands, despite it's flaws, it manages to remain engaging enough to merit two Wops on the ratings scale. It's definitely worth checking out once or twice, if you're looking for something decent to fill an hour and a half or so. Give it a look, you may like it more than I do.


"For the last time, my son did not order the five dollar foot long, Jared!"

"The Legend of Hell House" (1973) d/ John Hough

In the late sixties and early seventies,  lots of folks were tuned in on the far out, such as witchcraft, ghosts, the occult, and paranormal investigation. Tonight's movie, for example, is a classic haunted house movie, full of creepy atmosphere, shadows and whispers turning to screams at midnight, and spectral, otherworldly presences up to no good, indeed,  in the gothic locale of Blenheim Palace, with familiar genre faces like Roddy MacDowall and Pamela Franklin among the ranks of the mortals setting out to endure a week inside the estate investigating the malevolent spirits who call it home. What really elevates this one above it's standard plot, besides several gripping performances from the cast,  is an engaging screenplay full of tense moments by the one and only Richard Matheson, based upon his own novel, Hell House.


Keep your hundred grand, I'd live here for free.
Mr. Deutsch hires a team of experts to spend an entire week inside the fog-enshrouded Belasco House, which has come to be known as "Hell House", and "the Mt. Everest of haunted houses", thanks to the previous failed attempts to do the same that resulted in death, disfigurement, and loss of sanity in all takers save for one: Ben Fischer (Roddy MacDowall), a physical medium who's willing to give it another try for the hundred thousand dollars that Deutsch promises anyone who survives. Also along for the ride are a young spiritual medium named Florence Tanner (Pamela Franklin), and a haughty disbeliever of a psychologist named Dr. Barrett (Clive Revill), who plans to use the seven day experience to disprove the existence of life after death with a bulky machine that will negate rogue electromagnetic energy, which he surmises is the true culprit behind the house's phenomena, and finally, his sexually frustrated wife, Ann (Gayle Hunnicutt), who's thumbing a ride to planet Orgasmo.


Somebody pack Dr. Barrett (Clive Revill) a bibbity, he's having a rough week.
Instantly, Florence believes she's made contact with the restless spirit of Belasco's illegitimate son, Daniel, and the medium is used during readings to manifest physical phenomena like objects moving on their own and as a lightning rod for materializing ethereal presences that float in the air around her hands and face. Fischer, who's seen it all before, remains tight lipped save for several desperate warnings to everybody to vacate the premises at once, while they're still able, as evidenced by the skeptical Barrett's getting beat down with every dangerous object in the room as it hurls at him, unexplainedly. While Mrs. B repeatedly throws herself at Ben, her husband hurls accusations at Florence, while malevolently misleading poltergeists serve her up the roughest invisi-rape this side of The Entity, while hurling huge, deadly crucifixes down upon her. After Barrett runs his machine, Ben declares the house is clean, but the psychologist succumbs directly to another psychic attack, leaving only the medium and the new widow to solve the mystery of the homicidal home before they're added to its legendary body count...


"...and the music was soothing, and they all started grooving...yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah!"
Whether you're talking about genre classics like William Castle's House on Haunted Hill(1959), The Haunting (1963), or tonight's entry, or even later things like Rose Red (2002) or John Carpenter's Prince of Darkness (1987), the haunted house premise remains pretty interchangeable. Experts risk life and limb to prove or disprove the existence of ghosts for a great reward. Like I mentioned earlier, it's Matheson's meaty dialog as acted out here by the late great MacDowall, who purveyed fear in his eyes like few actors before or since, in my opinion, and even Franklin, who's always had a beautiful scream for horror movies, I think, that really sets the production apart from the rest. Director Hough, no stranger to the genre himself (Twins of Evil, Escape to Witch Mountain, The Watcher in the Woods, The Incubus, to name just a few),  handles the eerie material well, as always. Hell House earns Three Wops, and comes very highly recommended. See it if you dare...


"I'm so excited that I'm experiencing great difficulty in trying to hide it," notes Emeric Belasco (Michael Gough).

"Blueblood" (1973) d/ Andrew Sinclair

The first time I saw Ollie Reed, in Ken Russell's Tommy (1975), I didn't like him. Looking back, it was probably his greasy Teddy Boy haircut combined with his awful singing in the movie that put me off, but over time, I earned great respect for the man's approach to acting, partying, and life, in general. Tonight's review, a gothic tale of witchcraft and horror set in extravagant Longleat House, country seat of the Marquis of Bath (who co-wrote the often clever script),  is a great example of Reed, from frivolous to sinister in record time and back again, all the while affecting an accent that is as hilarious as it is unintelligible. Sharing the lens with Ollie are the likes of Emperor Cl-Cl-Claudius himself, Sir Derek Jacobi, the ever-scrumptious Fiona Lewis, and Anna Gael (who's also the wife of the aforementioned Marquis).


"Aristocrat or not, I've a lot of balls for wearing a coat like this."
Beate (Meg Wynn Owen) is a frumpy, traditional German nanny, the latest to be employed by foppishly decadent aristocrat, Gregory (Derek Jacobi), whose predatory wife, Lily (Fiona Lewis), is often elsewhere on singing gigs, and whose looming butler, Tom (Oliver Reed), is a subject of growing unease and mistrust for the new nanny. Her two young charges being the result of Gregory's efforts to provide a male heir to inherit the sprawling estate, with a private section cordoned off for the family, and a public one that includes a drive thru wildlife park(!) for the constant influx of gawking tourists, Beate soon finds her dreams have gone all witchy with a red tint, and Tom as centerpiece, decked out in red cloth, dramatically palming a sacrificial dagger, and so on.


"Lighten up, Ilsa. 'Ave a bang of this Moony Kush."
The nanny finds that her cautionary chat with her employer is for naught, as he's no more concerned with his children's welfare than he is with his own deviant perversions or growing dependence upon his equally deviant manservant, who has taken control of the estate and all within it through his late night, red-colored voodoo. While Gregory carelessly parties away upstairs with a gaggle of upper-class twits, Tom follows suit with the staff, drinking booze and blowing jibbers, doing pretty much whatever (and whoever) he bloody well pleases, even slapping a stifling headlock on his fey boss in front of his mistress (Anna Gael) with no repercussions to fear. It all ends badly for the spineless aristocrats, as the male heir eats a sacrificial shiv and Gregory is no less deceased himself, and all with Tom gloating over the spoils, with an obedient Lily by his side.


'Cor, Fioner. You're giving me a...great deal of pleasure while admiring this screen cap.
The film sat for two years before opening to few theaters and fewer positive reviews in 1975, but that's not a deserving epitaph for such a movie, I think. If you're a fan of Reed and Jacobi, both of whom are excellent here, or just enjoy well-crafted British horror, and you haven't caught this one yet, do so immediately. Novelist/Director Sinclair, who also wrote an episode of Hammer House of Mystery and Suspense, aptly blends elements of anxiety and comedy into an entertaining visual romp full of sex, blood, drugs, and magic; all the necessary ingredients to earn this particular witches brew an impressive score of three Wops on the rating scale. Recommended.


"I'll only take a ceremonial dagger-stirred Bloody Mary, y'know..."

"Night of the Comet" (1984) d/ Thom Eberhardt

Ahhh, 1984, I remember you well. Unfortunately, there was no Orwellian "Big Brother" watching me, otherwise he'd have told me to lose the sleeveless Chams de Baron shirts I thought looked cool, and to shave that dirt on my upper lip that I'd been trying to pass off as a mustache since puberty. I rocked the Chachi haircut and dated chicks who got naked anywhere and still somehow left me with blue balls on a nightly basis back then. The price of the average movie ticket was $2.50, while a pack of smokes set you back something like eighty cents here in the Keystone State. Oh yeah, tonight's review dates from '84, too...


Let me just slip outta these Guess jeans and we can cut footloose together, baby.
Sixty-five million years after it's last pass left Earth dinosaur-less, a comet leaves most of the planet's human inhabitants as nothing more than piles of red dust and dated mid-80's gear. Some are transformed into flesh-eating zombies before dissipating into powder. Except, that is, for a pair of Valley Girl sisters named Reggie (Catherine Mary Stuart) and Sam (Kelli Maroney), who manage to avoid the comet's homicidal rays; Reggie by sleeping with her boyfriend and fellow movie usher, Larry (Michael Bowen), inside the theater's steel projection booth overnight, and Sam by dozing off in a metal shed outside their house. After Larry gets et up by a zombie (beats having your ass handed to you at the prom by Nic Cage, right?), Reg, who's also no slouch in hand-to-hand combat or wielding a Mac-10, and Sam, who's just a bubbly little pom-pom chick, head to a nearby radio station on the hopes of the deejay they hear also being alive, but he's only an automated recording. While her sister shmoozes with Hector (Robert Beltran), another survivor, Sam broadcasts her voice live over the airwaves...


Comets kill dinosaurs, and Merry Go Round shoppers...
...and is heard in an underground government facility run by scientists (Geoffrey Lewis, Mary Woronov, among others) desperately seeking survivors to farm their uncontaminated blood and slow the process of their own degeneration into zombies, dust, etc., as they'd left the ventilation open during the comet's pass themselves. While Hector goes off to see if any of his family survived, the girls...naturally go shopping at the mall, and find themselves under attack by some zombie stock boys until a rescue team from the compound drops in, in the nick of time. Dr. White (Woronov) feigns euthanizing Sam, whose itchiness leads the team to believe she'd been exposed to the dust, then kills her colleague and euthanizes herself, instead, but not before explaining the whole situation to Hector, who's just returned to the scene. Together with a revived Sam, he heads to the facility to rescue Reg, who's already rescuing some unwilling blood donors, herself. After vacating the premises, and blowing the comet-zombies to high Hell, our survivors have the run of the city, which has been cleansed of space toxins by rainfall, and even little Sam finds herself a potential boyfriend, whose choice whip has customized plates that match the initials of the kid who famously bumped one of Reg's scores off of an arcade game at the theater in the opening reel...


"You 'Thriller' motherfuckers need an extra?"
What can a guy say about a cult icon like Mary Woronov, who's appeared in everything from Warhol's Chelsea Girls (1966) to Paul Bartel's Eating Raoul (1982). She's always classic. Maroney, who also appeared in Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982), would show up in 1986's Chopping Mall and 1988's Not Of This Earth, while Catherine Mary Stewart would appear in 1987 horror/sci-fi flick, Nightflyers. Interestingly, the zombie stock boys were portrayed by Chris Pedersen, who you'll probably remember as Jack Diddley in Suburbia (1983), and Dick Rude, who turned up in Repo Man(1984), among other things. Aside from Valley Girl (1983), Michael Bowen has appeared in lots of television, and several Tarantino films. If you haven't seen this one by now, what are you waiting for. On the scale, Comet streaks across a pair of Wops, a decent little flick that's entertaining even after multiple viewings.


"Who is this 'Mont Rules!' ? He keeps topping my Breakout high score..."