Pam Grier, Mostly Nekkid Avenger
March 20th, 2008
In Coffy (1973) the great Pam Grier makes her debut as a star, shooting up large numbers of creeps in the process.
And shooting up is what it’s all about. Coffy is a nurse whose little sister is strung out on heroin. Enraged, she acquires some armaments and proceeds to take out those responsible.
And she does all this while mostly naked.
Her victims, blinded by gazongas, are mostly unaware of the terrible fate that awaits until it’s too late. (Nate.)
Think about it. You’re a drug kingpin, your jacket has enormous lapels and you wear it in public without the slightest bit of self-consciousness, you’re thinking everything is cool and you’re about to horse around with this nice-looking lady and - BOOM!
It would be a particularly nasty way to go.
The plot isn’t as idiotic as it sounds. Coffy’s investigations eventually lead her back to her low-life politician boyfriend, who is in the sleaze up to his neck. She lets him have it in an extra-sensitive area, but hey, he told the bad guys to kill her not two hours earlier. Plus he had another girl upstairs. Fair’s fair.
An even dozen hooters. Cat fight between hookers, with food. Incredibly Jewish actor pretending to be an Italian mobster, with mixed results. Heavy-handed political satire, with mixed results. Intensely cheesy soundtrack, with lots of wah-wah guitar, with poor results.
As good as it gets in the blaxploitation genre. Four coils.
Video clip of hooker catfight.
The Giant Sucking Sound of Jess Franco
February 25th, 2008
Jess Franco’s Killer Barbys vs. Dracula is an unadulterated piece of doo-doo. It fails on every level: inane rock video, puerile vampire spoof, cure for insomnia.
An exploitation film can and should be many things, among them: Disgusting, tasteless, shocking, revolting, shameless, prurient, bestial, idiotic, and poorly lit.
Once in a while a schlocker is actually pretty good; very occasionally close to brilliant.
But an exploitation film cannot be boring.
And this is.
The only item of note is that hanging around with Jess Franco hasn’t done Lina Romay any good, as a look at her in her Transylvanian KGB outfit demonstrates:
Killer Barbys vs. Dracula is the suckiest movie in the entire history of suckinessdom.
Zero coils.
FEH
The Name Is Blacula!
February 24th, 2008
Scream Blacula Scream (1973) answers one nagging vampire-related question: if a vampire can’t see himself in a mirror, how can he adjust his cape?
Answer: He gets his vampire pal to check it for him.
Pam Grier plays Lisa, whose grandma, the high priestess of a voodoo cult, dies without leaving clear instructions as to who is to keep things running. The hot-headed and impetuous Willis, angry that he has not been chosen, does the obvious thing: he buys a bag of vampire bones (that come with instructions) and performs a ceremony to bring the vampire back to life to do his bidding.
This last bit backfires, as Blacula (aka 18th century African prince Mummatumma) turns Willis into a loudly-dressed, jive-talking vampire assistant.
Blacula, played with as much grace and dignity as humanly possible by the late William Marshall, wants Lisa to exorcise the demon from him so he can go back to his people in Africa. Lisa agrees, but the ceremony is interrupted by the clumsy entrance of Lisa’s dumb boyfriend, his equally moronic police lieutenant pal, and a bunch of hapless motorcycle cops, armed with pieces of picket fence that just happened to be lying around.
There is no nekkidity in this film, but lots of early-70s booty-shaking. Exceptionally bad music. (Imagine the possible cheese if a young and struggling KC and the Sunshine Band had been recruited.) Violent lesson in ethnic pride from Blacula to two pimps. The widest lapels in the 20th century. Pretty decent bat-into-Blacula stuff, given the technology of the time and the likely budget for special effects (about $11.38 in today’s terms). Good hissing attack vampires in the climax. Special notice for William Marshall’s performance, especially when he has the dopey boyfriend by the throat and says “The name is BLACULA!“
Automatic one-coil deduction for no breasts. Another coil off for way too much talking and other vain attempts at writing.
The Cinema - Count Yorga, L.A.’s Finest Vampire
February 12th, 2008
I was so excited by picking the Super Bowl right and getting the chance to vote for Sen. Obama (and thereby stick one in Mrs. Evil’s craw*) I forgot to extol the virtues of Count Yorga, Vampire.
This 1970 film broke new ground. Never before had a VW bus played such a pivotal role in a horror movie. An entire generation of hippies had to blink and say “Darrr?”
The flick opens at a seance, presided over by the Count himself, who sticks out like a sore thumb in his evening dress next to the tweed-jacketed and turtlenecked geeks at the shindig.
The seance itself is a bit of a fizzle, but it suits the Count’s purpose just fine - identifying his next batch of victims.
Specifically, Erica, who feels a little wonky after her first encounter and goes to see the chain-smoking, whiskey-swilling quack, who advises she eat lots of rare steak.
Which she does. Unfortunately, she uses the family cat.
Then there’s an immense amount of plot and blah blah blah and walking around Los Angeles until the guys decide to go bust into the vampire’s hilltop manor, which doesn’t work out too well in general but does finish off the Count.
I remember seeing this as a kid and being scared to death at the VW bus scene. It strikes me as slightly comical now, but what doesn’t?
Good oily lounge lizard vampire, correctly dressed. Dumb male leads who deserve everything they get. The briefest hints of nekkidness, cleavage, lesbianism. Chain-smoking medico who wears puke-yellow shirts and therefore deserves everything he gets. Gratuitous voice-over narration. Bulgarian lackey with the best dentistry then available behind the Iron Curtain. A big piece of cheese. Two coils.
* In case you are wondering about the oblique reference to Sen. Clinton as “Mrs. Evil,” consider this:
- Using numerical values for the alphabet (A=1 and so on to Z = 26), the total for “Hillary”, 157, divided by the mystic number 23, results in 6.826. The value for “devil,” 52, divides by 23, is 6.872. I, for one, am not going to turn over the leadership of my beloved country to someone whose Mystic Value is a mere .038 away from The Devil.
The Cinema - Another Fine Film From Franco
January 31st, 2008
Stupid reporter, left, about to get the treatment from the Countess.
The first thing I noticed about the imaginatively titled Female Vampire (1973) was the insipid music. (Actually the first thing I noticed was the nekkid lady in the forest.) The musical motif re-occurred throughout the picture, driving me almost insane in the process, until I remembered where I had heard it before - in the immortal Zombie Lake!
Phew.
Countess Karlstein lives on an island in Spain and is a sexual vampire. It’s a little confusing, as she operates in broad daylight and with none of the usual vampire trappings - coffins, Transylvanian dirt, fangs.
She does have the ability to turn herself into a bat, though.
But mostly she has the ability to walk around mostly nekkid and have sex with people, which is shown in fairly graphic detail.
So she backs a farmer against the fence and bites him in a highly personal and sensitive area at a highly personal and sensitive moment in their encounter.
The Countess also seduces (and, ergo, kills) the lady reporter who comes to ask her questions while wearing the world’s largest white patent leather knee-length platform boots. Did I mention the Countess is a mute? This was not an especially bright reporter.
And the hotel stud. And a couple of whips ‘n’ chains lesbians. And some guy who wears eye liner, Edwardian shirt cuffs and spends his days on the balcony staring into space.
Meanwhile the director, schlockmeister supreme Jess Franco, plays Dr. Roberts, Nebbish, who is determined to get to the bottom of these weird and savage killings. He eventually makes his way into the Countess’ bathroom, where she is writhing around in what appears to be unformed cherry Jello.
And she just croaks, for no apparent reason at all.
We’re talking massive nudification and sexotology here. Solo and group sex with farmers, reporters, poets, mean lesbians, pillows, bedposts, and a bathtub full of alleged blood. One dead mute manservant. One blind idiot who performs a rather clumsy post-mortem. Lots of slobbering. One fat vampire hunter who does nothing. Atrocious dubbing. Theme music from Zombie Lake. Gratuitous voiceovers from the Countess during shots of the car’s hood moving along, with a flying bird hood ornament (the wings flap).
An outstanding, if at times tedious, piece of doo-doo. Three coils.
Further readings from geek academics: