"Blood Cult"(1985) d/ Christopher Lewis

The first time I saw this image staring back at me from a clamshell VHS on the shelf of a mom n' pop joint ( that probably had a zeroxed sketch of me behind the counter that read "Do NOT rent to...") at a point when I was also exploring the possibilities of translating genre fare on Beta video(spoiler: it doesn't very well at all.), and seeing that someone had actually gotten their work on the shelves right next to Fulci, Argento, Romero, and the rest of my favorites had proven to be very reaffirming to me. My expectations for the flick weren't bad out of the gate, either, the giallo-esque black glove and meat cleaver on the sleeve promised me I wasn't in for a cookie cutter slasher padded out with mile upon depressing mile of dialog delivered by line-flubbing amateurs and hacked prop limbs spattered with stage blood, all shot with the ambience of a vintage Ginger Lynn DP scene. One would assume that was the case, and that night in front of the big floor model tv in the parlor, I discovered that it couldn't be farther from it.

"Alright, alright ! Maybe we could use a fine set of encyclopedias ! "
Some hacked n' slashed sorority gash has the local small town sheriff(Charles Ellis) baffled in his investigation into the mysterious black gloved fiend, who isn't the least bit opposed to ktfo meddling roommates with severed eighties bimbo heads when he feels so inclined, leaving as always, a cryptic dog's head medallion at the scene of the crime in place of heisted body parts. Luckily, the sheriff's daughter happens to sort out the card catalogues at the college library, and with a little effective Nancy Drew-age, turns up an antique book on the occult that illustrations of the medallion appear in, and may even tie the recent slayings to a coven of eighteenth century witches.

And then, the only military service that would have her was the arm-y. Sorry...
After what seems like at least ten more dialog scenes than in real estate nail biter, Glengarry Glen Ross, the Dean of the school sends the sheriff out to respond to alleged poachers making a racket and setting fires in the nearby forest disturbing the evening's peace, and he brings along his daughter's bookworm-esque boyfriend(James Vance) for reasons only he could explain, knowing full well it couldn't be the blood cult out there, sacrificing future Saved by the Bell extras in diabolical black rituals, and more importantly, the whole infernal occurrence would never end in a ludicrous twist, like so many slasher copies before and since, would it? To cut to the chase, the correct answers in this case are : "Why, yes, yes it could" and "It most certainly would". Just the way you like it!

This broad's neck has just experienced what the newsmedia would probably refer to as 'a brief moment of political unrest'...
You might also remember the director's other release the same year, as covered right here at the Wop. Despite how snore-producingly bland and un-great this one no doubt is, in comparison to later SOV genre efforts like Cannibal Campout and Wally Koz's  555, it may as well be a Leone epic. Retro videophiles and crap cinema enthusiasts alike will be able to dig more merit out of it than I have just now, I'm sure. Still, it deserves a place in genre history as a victory for independent filmmakers everywhere, turning significant home video profits that were once reserved for the studio giants alone. One wop.

He especially likes the part of the song where Glenn Danzig says, "We are 138" eight times in a row. Almost knows all the words, now.

"The Life and Death of a Porno Gang"(2009) d/Mladen Djordjevic

Any comparisons between tonight's movie and 'A Serbian Film' beyond their mutual country of origin should be readily dismissed by discerning film buffs straight away. Serb tackles unspeakable atrocity with strokes of flair and dark wit, while Djordjevic's effort plays like a clumsy 'Multiple Maniacs'(1970) clone with heaping gross-out dollops of explicit gay sex, rape, bestiality, and faux snuff in place of the subversive black humor of the aforementioned cult fave. I often thought about breaking the frame around my vintage Mark of the Devil earl bag and putting it to good use during this one, kids, and that doesn't happen too often, believe you me.

Auntie Slavna's gonna cream you when she sees what a mess you've made of her raspberry preserves...
Marko(Mihajlo Jovanovic) dreams of directing a horror/fantasy genre piece but settles for the next best thing, which in Serbia, is taking to the dreary countryside in a tacky-looking bus full of ugly, misshapen drug-addled sex-freaks to put on live porn shows in front of small crowds of  grinning, toothless rural folk, apparently. Where else was he gonna find the young transvestite that'd would, besides causing a lover's spat between the two gay performers,  fellate a horse dick on stage? The theatergoers had grown quite weary of the dirt-fucker, fat chick, and even he and his gal pal horizontal boppin' , as evidenced by the gang rape-by-posse that follows, but hell, even that gets the porno gang laughing hysterically, mid-rape. Oh, the wacky adventures these guys are having!

"SMILE! You're on Rancid Camera...."
Unfortunately, heroin costs more than the admission of a live porn show, and Marko soon turns to snuff movies to pay the pusher. Luckily for him, in Serbia there's no shortage of miserable suicidal fucks willing to let him gruesomely whack them on camera in exchange for monetary security for their families, post-mortem. A cutter tears into himself with a straight razor, then a shell-shocked soldier gets dome-mugged by a giant mallet, and  a rapist gets his top piece removed with a chainsaw(not complaining here, all of the gore looked the shit). Pretty soon, the porno gang is dropping faster than its many victims; getting shot by the cops, hanging themselves, car accidents, really, you fuckin' name it. If it's gross, it probably happens here. In the end, it's even too much for Marko and his girlfriend, as they open their veins to die in a nice scenic place together. Flush...

" Cervical vertebra! Errr, ummm Timber, I mean. Timber."
The film may have succeeded if the director gave me characters I could relate to on some level, but all I saw on the screen was a miserable Mystery Machine full of miscreants that I not only didn't give a shit about("Oh, I hope the horse-blowing transvestite goat killer ends up okay," said nobody ever, including not this guy),  I couldn't wait for every last one of them to die horribly on camera for subjecting me to such a disgusting mess.  The only two things Porno Gang really handled effectively were the ultra-realistic gore pieces(the grainy war atrocity vid looked pretty straight up at certain points), and also,  moving Serbia further down towards the bottom of the list of places that I'd ever grace with my presence. Not for all the Newport's, petite brunettes, and Green Crack you could muster up. Solo wop-o.

With a resounding crash, Pavle knew the world's record for juggling hula hoops and red paint while nude, wrapped in X-mas lights, and attempting a Superman seat grab, had just slipped through his fingertips.

"Up in Smoke"(1978) d/ Lou Adler

Examining the debut effort from counterculture comedians, Cheech and Chong(Happy belated 75th birthday, maaaaan), 1978's Up in Smoke, brings back a whole mess o' memories for me, not all of which involve hallucinogenic high-jinks, surprisingly enough. I first encountered the movie as a nine or ten year old kid who'd yet to even smoke a cigarette to that point, but I still managed to secure myself  kicks a plenty with it, regardless of what a little fucking square I was at the time. You don't have to be a hardcore doper to get most of the gags, but a few crispy bong hits later, you'll relate to the goofy absurdity of it all like never before, maaaaan, as your mother tries to talk to you, telling you how to live, with your newly sieve-like head. Along for the ride are genre regs like Tom Skerritt, Strother Martin, Cheryl "Rainbeaux" Smith, Louisa Moritz, and perhaps most memorably, Stacy Keach as a starchy drape of a narc who couldn't catch mononucleosis playing 'Spin the Bottle' with Madonna.
 
Puffing a hog's leg fulla Labrador like this while driving leads to excessive low riding.
Man (Chong) cuts out on his nagging folks (Strother Martin, Edie Adams) for greener pastures in his convertible VW Bug, and is forced to impersonate a hitch hiking chick with big chachabingos to secure himself a ride with Pedro(Cheech), the low rider nearsighted/baked/stupid enough to pick him up.After smoking a fatty bomber packed with Maui Wowie and dog shit, the duo get arrested for parking the 'Love Machine' on a traffic median, but beat the charges when Man accidentally chugs the judge's vodka(!) in court. While trying to score some smoke from Pedro's 'Nam vet cousin, Strawberry(Tom Skerritt), the place is raided by the local narc unit, led by Sgt. Stedenko(Stacy Keach), and the pair find themselves deported to Tijuana with most of Pedro's family, who called La Migra on themselves to get a free bus ride home for an upcoming wedding. Meanwhile, a chick blows shneezers of Ajax and Strawberry wigs out on one of his crazy 'Nam trips and shoots his own Mynah bird. Sounds like one of our old parties...

"I wasn't lookin' at his neck, man."
In Tijuana, the fellas pick up the wrong van for delivery back to Los Angeles, and it just so happens to be one fabricated entirely from 'fiberweed' whose leaky exhaust provides for some spirited munchies from a highway patrolman later on, after the boys pick up two hitchhiking doper chicks on their way to the Battle of the punk Bands at the Roxy later that evening. Stedenko and his associates arrest and search a carload of nuns, shoot out their own tires, and manage to set the weed van on fire after finally arresting the responsible dealers outside the venue. The hallucinogenic vapors travel into the gig through the vents, where the boys' band, Alice Bowie, is too wasted to even set up their instruments after Man gets slipped a 'lude before their set. Naturally, the once angry crowd gets the instant munchies and begins to groove on the makeshift band's immortal classic, 'Earache My Eye'. The victorious duo sets off on the highway to ponder the future and burn a frags chunk o' hash, when it drops in Pedro's lap and sets the seat on fire, as they swerve off the road, a smokestack billowing from the windows. Alright, let's all go get high.

Bathsalts?? In our day you had to blow shneezers of Ajax to trumpet like an elephant at parties. 
Ellen Burstyn(!) made an uncredited appearance here, while Harry Dean Stanton's contribution ended up on the cutting room floor. C & C would follow this one up with Next Movie(1980), Nice Dreams(1981), and Things Are Tough All Over(1982),  Still Smokin' and Yellowbeard (both 1983), not to mention 1984's massive flop, Corsican Brothers, after which the seventies icons would pursue separate interests until the late oughts saw them reconcile and reunite for a comedy tour, and innumerable cameo appearances in commercials and television thereafter. It's gotta be in Amanda Bynes' Top Ten, I'm thinking. I dunno, I'd blow some kgb with her, wouldn't you? Tonight's review is a cult comedy of the highest/lowest order, one that seemed more dated before the current advent of cannabis-related culture and late seventies style, and for that, I bestow upon it three wops; a raucous laugh-filled party blast that only drug-free wet blankets won't enjoy, and especially apt since ol' Dub's previous three attempts to tackle this one this week all went up in a massive head-cloud of the titular stuff, of which I foresee another about to be expelled any minute now. Bubblebubblebubblecoughcoughrighteous.

"I'm so bloody rich! And I only know three chords! Watch me burnnnnn!!!"