Blood Nasty (1989) Richard Gabai

Blood Nasty seems to be one of those films that has gained somewhat more cachet among the 80's trash fiend crowd than it really deserves, mainly because few people have actually seen it. It got a VHS release in Canada, and Greece (from which I saw a rip, complete with trailers for Kadaicha and Innocent Prey, both of which it seems I should track down post haste), but a decidedly minimal one in the US, such that before viewing I could only find a couple of reviews of it. The sad thing is that it really could have been classy stuff and it even has some pretty cool scenes, but overall is weighed down by hysteria that lacks an appropriate level of gore to balance it out. The plot is somewhat inspired, a loser type is killed by his partners during a grave-heist in Mexico, then the plane he was supposed to be fleeing the country on explodes mid air (for no reason) and a spark contrives to fall to his grave site and wake him up again. Unfortunately he is now possessed by the spirit of the owner of said grave,  a serial killer called Blade. Also even though his double crossing partners were out to steal an apparently valuable ring from Blade (and go to the length of cutting the poor stiffs finger off to get it), our hero wakes up with it on. And he also has a pipe sticking through his chest, although I could have sworn he was impaled with a shovel rather than a pipe. Anyways, he eventually returns home, where his white trash stereotype family are not best pleased with him nor his newfound fondness for killing, as they now have the benefits of a fat insurance settlement from his death. Oh, and Linnea Quigley is in on the whole business as well. So everything is assembled plotwise for a great horror comedy of murder, greed and good old fashioned American family values, but generally it never quite comes together. The women are all perma-set on shrill, with  a mother (Cathrine Grace just a few hateful brush-strokes short of an Andy Milligan character, Allison Barron as a notionally sympathetic daughter who keeps moping that "It's all my fault" and Linnea Quigley as a brassy and mostly boring stripper (we do at least see her tits one time) and the men are all dreary dopes, with the occasional exception of Todd McCammon as the possessed lead, he conjures the odd spark of pathos and is mildly menacing when in evil Mexican mode. There's a certain nihilistic fun to watching a film where pretty much every character is either loathsome, an idiot or both, especially in a film from 1989, back when being loathsome and or an idiot in singular or family unit form was less of a mainstay of popular entertainment, but the film is never terribly well written and the obnoxious vibe doesn't take long to become a bit of a drag. There are a few good chuckles and affairs stay just about the right side of boring but its a stretch at times, the film really needed Milligan-esque misanthropic venom or more heart and less obvious straining to crudity.I could have forgiven these problems, but then there's the pesky lack of much gore. A few violent moments yes, but far less in the way of general bloodshed than there should have been, in fact just one scene stands out in that department, mostly the nastiness is offscreen. Probobly due to the low budget, but even the crudest of effects would have elevated this one enormously. Sadly no dice. Ultimately this is a definite thumbs down, but it didn't make me want to jam them through my eye sockets so that's a definite plus. Probobly a bearable one time watch if you happen to be one of those who just has to watch films like this, everyone else should stay away.

Black Noon (1971) Bernard Kowalski

Black Noon seems like many of its made for TV horror brethren to have laid lasting impression upon the tender psyches of those who saw it at a young age. This of course does not mean much to those of more contemporary age, especially those such as I weaned on the up front violence and silliness that became prevalent in the genre since the 80's. Which is not to say that Black Noon doesn't work, just that it isn't some lost classic that can realistically live up to the hushed reminiscence of the older generation. The great problem with Black Noon is not age, but the fact that if you know anything about its plot and the genre preoccupations of its era it is from start to finish predictable as the seasons, and even if you enter it blind the very first scene gives a pretty clear indication of what the situation is going to be. So rather than say anything about the plot I'll just get straight to the actors driving the thing. Roy Thinnes is a fair hero, sympathetic in his way but somehow a bit too low key and gullible, a bit too much of an obvious patsy to really get behind. Ray Milland on the other hand holds the attention very nicely as a warm, helpful host, every bit a good old fashioned gentleman. Henry Silva is a bit underused but still good fun as a one dimensional hissable villain, a vicious outlaw cliche who entertains through an entirely unselfconscious, unforced turn. Lynn Loring is at times too hammy as the heroes wife, Gloria Graham has a small but pleasant role as a nice old lady, but best of the women is the lovely Yvette Mimieux as a teen mute adept at crafts. Her clammy allure is a class act and lights up every moment in which she appears, which fortunately are many. Everyone gels pretty nicely and the pacing is fair, offering a steadily mounting atmosphere and sense of ill omen, though things are hardly surprising there's some nice imagery and a sense of commitment to the tale which belies its ultimate predictability. The short runtime (just over 70 minutes) really works in the films favor, as one can watch the pieces all slot into place with gratifying speed before the finale, which when it comes is creditably unnerving. No great shocks, but a little different from the standard model and appropriately downbeat and mean. The direction is pretty perfunctory (from Bernard Kowalski, who gave us killer sleeping bag classic Attack of the Giant Leeches) but keeps everything together and pretty watchable. Really this one isn't strong or strange enough to be a real contender, but as far as time filler chillers go its perfectly acceptable. Worth a watch if you have a horn for this sort of thing, but otherwise not one to make to much effort to watch I'd say.

The Devil and Miss Sarah (1971) Michael Caffey

The western has never been a genre that particularly entices me, and as a consequence I have seen little more than ten or so of them, though in recent years I have become marginally more interested, the deserts and open skies an apt contrast to the struggles and deep crevasses of man. I have on the other hand been somewhat noted as a horror fan by those that know me, and have in that regard always been a fan of films mixing horror and any other genre. This interest led me to The Devil and Miss Sarah, a film that while of no great import as horror (being chiefly a western with supernatural overtones), is still a rather fine watch and thus worthwhile to the more eager of genre fans. The set up is simple, farmer Gil and his wife Sarah encounter a wounded Marshall escorting a particularly tricky prisoner by the name of Rankin, a gentleman suspected by the local American Indians to be the Devil himself. When the sheriff expires Gil takes it upon himself to take Rankin to his intended destination, despite the better judgement of his wife who possesses powers of premonition and suspects Rankin may indeed be more than the average outlaw. And so begins their trek, and combat of wills, which by the by is joined by a couple of businessmen who take a rather more pragmatic outlook than the driven Gil. It's rather slim stuff truth be told, lacking any grand revelations or especially macabre manifestations, a low key and ambiguous piece that relies on its players and well spun writing. James Drury makes for a good stolid hero, a small man and aware of it, and a reasonable one too, even though the metal he finds inside to keep him on his mission is just a little iron. The lovely Janice Rule is subdued but powerful as his wife Sarah, conveying the right sorts of far off dimensions of soul. Gene Barry is really the star as Rankin though, charming as much as cunning, menacing but not malicious, sinister yet rakishly likeable in his way. He knows just when to be soft and when to put weight into his lines, when to be quiet and when to let invigoratingly loose. Donald Moffat and Logan Ramsey are somewhat less effective as businessmen Holmes and Appleton, but they provide the necessary counterbalance well enough. Long running TV regular Michael Caffey directs well, pitting the splendid isolation of the Utah desert and overwhelming sky against well handled facial close ups, the lines of time and effort etched into his characters a tiny mirror of the rugged terrain. Sadly the script does not often go the for psychological jugular and the action is pretty restrained until the exciting two punch finale, but things move along pretty nicely with only a couple of lapses in interest. No blood, gore or nudity on account of it being made for TV, but the film never feels bland or lacking, its ambiguities are intriguing enough and its characters bear them well. I doubt this is a film that will really impress many, but personally I found it a very solid affair, and for those who can deal with restrained and classy approaches to their genre fare this is definitely worth a look if you have a dull afternoon to spare. 

Another Son of Sam (1977) Dave Adams

Well, that was a strange one. With Another Son of Sam multiple threat Dave Adams (writer, director, producer, editor and stuntman) here journeys so far beyond the realms of cinematic sanity that he ultimately achieves a kind of mesmeric effect, though dull his film is so damned loose and weird that its difficult to look away. The plot is simple proto-slasher cum police procedural stuff, a guy escapes from an asylum and goes on a killing spree, law enforcement set out to stop him. And there are mummy issues, resolved in suitably unhinged fashion. Mostly bloodless despite a fair bodycount, Another Son of Sam works mostly because its fathomless ineptitude becomes anti-art. Freeze frames without logic or reason, drawn out and dislocated POV sequences and insistent close ups on our killers eyes, a beneath banal sub-plot involving stolen money and swathes of police ineptitude permitting ever more death, even a spot of pointless filler (the film is less than 70 minutes long and still feels the necessity to open with a water skiing sequence and a nightclub number by low rent wailer Johnny Charro, who apparently is still an active presence to this day). To be fair one or two of the blink and miss 'em strangulation kills have a minor jolt (also I think someone gets stabbed with a hatstand though I'm not 100% on that one), and the climax is authentically bonkers as opposed to merely ineptly bonkers so it isn't completely devoid of conventional worth. Also some of the assorted ladies of the cast are pretty attractive in a bright mid 70's kinda way. But by and large this is a film that I would absolutely only recommend to absolute devotees of vintage era bewildering junk, by any other standards we're talking absolute nadir cinema here. As far as such work goes its among the more enjoyable I've seen even though the essential plotting was too straightforward for my tastes and it really could have done with stronger material in terms of violence and skin. So by way of summary, if you're the sort of person who needs to see this one, go ahead since you might just love it. But if you're the sort of person who still places much value on your time, sanity and so forth, stay far, far away.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

The Shaman (1987) Michael Yakub

Merriam-Webster defines a shaman as " a priest or priestess who uses magic for the purpose of curing the sick, divining the hidden and controlling events". The titular villain of one shotter Michael Yakub's The Shaman seems to operate on a lesser known fourth definition, that of being a complete fucking bell-end. He chooses a successor for no discernible reason  other than the guy being a frigid workaholic, kills several innocent people, hypnotises several to do his bidding and terrorises a couple of children. Perhaps the film was attempting a critique of European exploitation of the Americas, since the evil shaman is a northern European guy who acquired his powers from a legitimate shaman, elects an Italian American to use as his successor and hypnotises an African American couple, but I'm pretty sure no such thought was actually involved. Anyways, said shaman emerges from snowy woods to wreak his evil upon a community which seems to consist solely of three couples, and eventually they figure something wrong is going on and get their act together to stop him. The basic plotting of the film is fairly interesting, but the execution sorely lacking. White haired Eivind Harum comes across ok as the villain, a quietly vicious type with a certain cold authority, but everyone else is lacking. Michael Conforti wields neither appropriate pathos now power as his potential successor, and as his good natured friend Paul, James Farkas tries in vain to conjure up any kind of energy or chemistry but appears as nothing more than an awkward void. Nothing really to be said for the rest of the cast, other than that none are very good despite one or two at least seeming to try to act. The supposedly exciting moments are staged with little ability and include no bloodshed to speak of, so even the bits that should be mindlessly entertaining fall flat, and while children do appear to be in danger the film never pushes that envelope to worthy territory. Fortunately the pacing isn't too bad and people frequently say comically stupid things (and there's a nice joke about penguins), so as far as awful films go this is relatively watchable, and it does make something of an effort even if it usually fails. An often fretful synth score helps, laying faux drama upon the overwhelming mundanity in a fashion that if not exactly convincing is at times fun as a sort of idiots salvage job. I really didn't have too much of a bad time with this one, though it should be mentioned that it did send me to sleep the first couple of times I tried to watch it. There are a couple of moments of nice weirdness and at times an interesting sense of strangeness usurping the regular order of things, but really these pluses amount to little more than a vapour of vibe, a slight interesting tinge that hasn't much effect on the overall crapulence of the affair. All in all then, not something that made me want to hurt myself or others, but strictly one for lovers of truly bad horror films. BW out!

Wendigo (1978) Paul Kener

Well, I finally watched it. I've long been fascinated by the legend of the Wendigo (cursed by a witch to be a perpetually hungry cannibal giant), and so I first became aware of the existence of this little doozy a few years ago. Not long after that I saw director Paul Kener's only other opus, the brain-sucking proto-slasher disasterpiece Savage Water and from then on knew that Wendigo and I were destined to meet. And for a couple of years I would check on Amazon to see if it was available and at what price, watching it fall on and off the market as people seemed to buy and just as easily resell it, never jacking up the price as if out of some tender mercy for whichever curious foolhardy soul might buy it next, until finally the price actually dropped (I have a slight suspicion bootlegging may be involved, but what the hey!) and it was time for me to swoop in and make the buy.

And by golly it was worth it! A brazenly wretched affair even by the decidedly relative standards of low to no budget regional horror of the late 70's, Wendigo nonetheless possess a certain compelling crooked allure. A slim cast and trim runtime helps tremendously, though the pacing is poor, the cinematography shoddy (especially in the dreadfully lit night scenes) and the action inept, there is at least some sense of drive to it and the characters do raise a reaction of sorts. There's Mike for example, helicopter pilot and claimed adrenaline junkie of sorts who communicates with all the attention grabbing verve of a travelling insurance salesman who hasn't been excited about anything since the time when he was 7 years old and found out that Santa Claus wasn't real. There's Connie, naive city girl and something of a hoochie who memorably uses apple sauce in a metaphorical and borderline opaque discussion about flirting. On one occasion she is nude, but we only see her back Boo!!! Smarmy photographer Eric is appropriately punchable and Connie's husband Frank is a slate so blank you can virtually see through him. The real winner of the film is guide Defago, his idiotic dialogue submerged in a near incomprehensibly thick faux French Canadian accent that virtually necessitates a good pair of headphones to understand. Actor Van Washburn Jr. deserves recognition for his work here, and I like to think that there's a parallel universe out there in which he went on to reprise the character in a series of unrelated sequels. Aside from the value of such asinine characters, the scenery is nice and despite the direction coming from a realm where the only flair is what signals rescue flights and the photography ranging from murky to outright shit, occasionally it comes through for isolated evocative moments. And then there are the few moments of action, which carry a certain weird charge through being mostly so brief and poorly handled one could almost mistake them for misfiring synapses in the brain itself, the very structure snarled up by the viewing. Actually I'm almost certain that the few second climatic appearance of the Wendigo itself was either the result of possibly cause of brain damage. That's what comes of dedication to watching terrible obscure horror movies, they terminally fuck with your programming. C'est la vie...

So basically you should all totally watch this film, because it's awesome. BW out!

Robowar (1989) Bruno Mattei

There was very little chance of this film not being supremely badass. A combined rip-off of Predator and Robocop directed by hack trash grand wizard Bruno Mattei and starring veritable Colossus of kick-ass charisma Reb Brown in the Arnie role, along with Massimo Vanni looking like Chuck Norris and the always reliable Jim Gaines, and a script by husband and wife super-scribes Claudio Fragasso (Troll 2, Zombie 4: After Death)) and Rosella Drudi. Oh and our Claudio is also the guy in the robot suit, credited under his regular pseudonym of Clyde Anderson. Anybody reading this already knows whether this film is for them or not, people generally are either Mattei fans or have shitty taste. But for your sake dear reader I shall go on, lest you not be quite convinced. The pacing is the only drawback here, the film takes a little while to really get into the groove so during the first third there's mostly the dialogue to go on. Fortunately the dialogue is worthy of Mamet, my favorite line being probobly "You walk like a ruptured duck" . Clearly a film that should be shown to screenwriting classes as an example of how to get this sort of thing right. The action is pretty steady when it gets going though. Things tend to alternate between people and trees being shot up real good, and trees and huts being blown up real good, with occasional people being blown up real good for varieties sake. Oh and there is a bit of knife work, but I don't know that I'd describe it as real good. It's ok though.Basically if you like films full of people walking around in the jungle and shooting at trees with occasional explosions and a robot that speaks in comically mangled digital gibberish then this is a film for you. I like all of these things, so Robowar was definitely a film for me. It even musters up occasional pockets of genuine excitement and suspense in amongst the hilarity and repetition, with a climax that is more affecting than one might expect. There's no gore other than mangled corpses and a severed limb, and no sleaze which definitely hurts things, but as far as goofy action trash aimed at the undemanding goes this is definitely a winner. Not as good as the classic Strike Commando mind you, but in Mattei rip off terms this is pretty darned decent. Way better than Shocking Dark at any rate. So watch it folks!