Doctor at Large

The Mask of Fu Manchu (Charles Brabin, 1932)

Came to the shocking discovery that I had not seen Boris Karloff's turn as the diabolical Dr. Fu Manchu before. It could be because I might have mixed Karloff with another of his roles where he's caked up in highly problematic, ethnic make-up, like his private dick Mr. Wong, or more worryingly, the shite I tend to watch has given me brainrot and given me early dementia. My earliest introduction to the character of Fu Manchu were the Harry Allan Towers productions, starring none other than the legendary Christopher Lee as the moustachioed fiend. Loved the first two entries, but they got increasingly worse afterwards. Now, after seeing Karloff's portrayal of the evil genius in Charles Brabin's The Mask of Fu Manchu (1932), I'm kicking myself even more for the confusion, as it's the most outrageous pre-Hays Code films I might have watched thus far.

"I'm a Doctor of Philosophy from Edingburgh. I'm a Doctor of Law from Christ's College. I'm a Doctor of Medicine from Harvard. My friends out of courtesy call me Doctor."

The character of Dr. Fu Manchu was the creation of English author Arthur Henry Ward, under the unfathomably badass pseudonym Sax Rohmer. 'The Yellow Peril', a racially charged example of fear-mongering propaganda from the early 20th century, which implied violent retribution towards Western Imperialism, would appoint Fu Manchu as the chief architect of an epic race war. The mastermind would become the archetypal Bond villain well before Ian Flemming even put pen to paper. The success and popularity of Rohmer's books would result in numerous adaptations, ranging from radio programmes, episodic serials, and prior features such as The Mysterious Doctor Fu Manchu (1929). Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer studios would deliver the biggest budget and most mainstream effort yet, and it would star the great Boris Karloff, hot from his iconic role in Frankenstein (1931).

"May the curse of the gods descend upon him and is forever who dares enter herein! I don't like to mar the beauty of these doors, but I have my orders, it's got to be done. Mack, give me the axe!

The plot to The Mask of Fu Manchu concerns a British archaeological expedition searching for the tomb of the legendary Genghis Khan. They aren't the only ones looking for the conqueror's final resting place, however. The diabolical doctor seeks to possess both the scimitar and mask of Genghis Khan in order to prove to the horde armies of the East that he is the reincarnation of the ancient ruler. With both these artifacts in his taloned grasps, he'll be able to wage an epic war against the white race. With the news of the dastardly villain abducting, the expedition's leader, Sir Lionel Barton (Lawrence Grant), by Fu Manchu's goons (disguised as Egyptian mummies), British Intelligence agent Nayland Smith (Lewis Stone), arch nemesis of the fiendish mastermind, is dispatched in finding the legendary artifacts with the team and stop Fu Manchu.

 "I have brought you here for great tidings. I am the most unfortunate of men; I have no son to follow me. Therefore, in shame, I ask you to receive a message from my ugly and insignificant daughter."

Not unlike Steven Spielberg's Indiana Jones films, Fu Manchu's devilish torture chambers bring a horror element to what's otherwise a straight laced adventure tale. From being tied to a seesaw above an alligator pit, and to being caught in the middle of metal spikes, these ingeniously sadistic sequences make up for some of the film's obvious plot holes. Sir Lionel Barton's refusal to reveal the location of Genghis Khan's tomb results in him being strapped beneath a giant bell. Karloff utters with sadistic glee to the unfortunate captive, "Seems harmless, doesn't it? Just a bell ringing. But the percussion and the repercussion of sound ringing against your eardrums will soften and destroy them until the sound is magnified a thousand times. You can't move, you can't sleep. You will be frantic with thirst. You will be unspeakably foul. But here you will lie, day after day, until you tell." After what feels like an eternity of torturous campanology to poor old Sir Lionel, the sadistic doctor offers water to the unfortunate archaeologist. It's filled with salt, however. The rotter!

"He is not entirely unhandsome, is he my father?"

"For a white man; no!"

A great rapport exists between Karloff's Fu Manchu and his daughter Fah Lo Suee (Myrna Loy). Both play complete sadists experiencing joy whilst their victims suffer in agonising pain. When the film's rugged hero Terrence Granville (Charles Starrett) presents a fake scimitar to Fu Manchu, he is stripped of his shirt, hung from the ceiling and whipped to orgasmic ecstasy of Fah Lo Suee. Both Karloff and Loy were constantly receiving new dialogue to learn, even whilst in the make-up chair. This would subsequently result in their performances coming across as tongue-in-cheek, attempting to outdo each other. Their shared scenes are some of the highlights of the film. After Terrence's torture, Fah Lo Suee is caught by her father going to kiss the unconscious do-gooder. His hilarious response to her question over Terrence's attractiveness, hints at Fu Manchu possibly being attracted to him too.

"You will think as I think! See as I see! And do as I command!"

Constantly, the film visually impresses with its copious eye catching sets and exotic costumes. Despite how much it reeks of a mere exploitation film, The Mask of Fu Manchu is a surprisingly breathtaking film to look at. Both Karloff and Loy seem to be dressed in a different, patterned silk robe in every scene they're in. At one point, Karloff wears a ridiculous fruit-looking hat that's more fitting for Carmen Miranda, whilst delivering a speech full of hate to an army of Asian and Middle -Eastern fanatics. Favourite set design is the room where Terrence is humiliatingly wearing an adult diaper and strapped to an operating table. It's a vast room with Fu Manchu in surgical garments, administering a mind control drug to him. Standing on pedestals are black subordinates in loincloths resembling Oscar awards. This looks like it belongs in a science fiction set in the future. The sci-fi aesthetic can also be witnessed in another sparse room, featuring the previously mentioned giant metallic spikes. Further evidence, is the room which houses a powerful death ray, turning out to be ever so handy for the final moments in the film.

"Kill the white man and take his women!"

Undoubtedly, the most glaring issue in The Mask of Fu Manchu is its racist content. Ninety years later, it's equally as uncomfortable for lefty pearl-clutchers as it once was for authoritarian conservatives in the past. Horseshoe Theory in full effect. For this humble blogger, one who's watched a veritable smorgasbord of depraved films, and frequented the metaphorical Wild West of early 2000s Rap message boards, The Mask of Fu Manchu is a treasure trove of derogatory stereotyping and blissful ignorance, which could never realistically be replicated today (in the First World at least). Sure, Karloff in garish prosthetic make-up looks like an offensive caricature of an Asian; and yes, both Asian and other non-white racial stereotypes are also featured in the film. However, there's also a strong anti-white sentiment in the film that would even have Netflix execs deeming it extreme, even for them, which at the very least, balances the scales for me. In true racial equality, it offends everyone equally. And even if it didn't, it still wouldn't compel me into spewing some obligatory defensive apology like some over on Letterboxd. I found The Mask of Fu Manchu entertaining and funny.

The Mask of Fu Manchu is an outrageous, yet amusing gem from the pre-Code era. Like one of Fu Manchu's concoctions, the fact that it's over ninety years old and still a potent mix of sex, sadism and racism, makes it cinematic gold for me. A very strong recommendation from me.

Saints and Mostly Sinners

Shanty Tramp (Joseph G. Prieto, 1967)

Respect to Nicolas Winding Refn for curating and restoring a bunch of lost films from the dingy annals of B-movie cinema. Joseph G. Prieto's extreme slice of Southern Gothic melodrama, Shanty Tramp (1967) is one such forgotten entry. Bereft of a modest budget, and a cast possessing an ounce of acting talent, the film is a riveting viewing experience, thanks to its gritty atmosphere and a sleazy plot that chaotically descends into unexpected and shocking direction. This exploitation cinema of its era that still packs some potency today.

Emily Stryker (Eleanor Vaill; credited as Lee Holland) is the titular scrubber in question, and much like the the Rising Sun, has been the ruin of many a poor boy. From the God fearing simpleton to the corrupt and sleazy minister; Emily gets a kick out of teasing men and having them lusting over her. Bizarrely, she hardly looks the southern belle type like Daisy Duke, therefore, it's both equally amusing and perplexing watching men fawning all over her. Despite Vaill's only landing the lead for her nonchalance in getting her kit off. She's surprisingly convincing delivering the odd line or two.

The film's opening titles has the titular character strutting her stuff while a bombastic rendition of the hymn When the Saints Go Marching In is sung. Sardonically, it sets the tone of the film, as male bar patrons ogle at Emily's round derrière. The song gets rinsed again once it jumps to Preacher Fallows (Bill Rogers), the travelling minister, swindling his geriatric congregation to chip in some dough for his collection basket. Unsurprisingly, the conman evangelist has carnal desires for the flirtatious floozy attending his night time sermon and wants to show her "the power and the glory!" in the back of his caravan.

Despite warnings from his religious mother, country bumpkin Daniel  Smith (Lewis Galen) falls victim to the tawdry thirst trap. Like a knight in shining armour, he rescues the wicked wench from a potentially serious encounter involving the Chuck Connors-lookalike biker Savage (Lawrence Tobin). Unbeknown to Daniel, there's a revenge attack at his home while he's busy gooning for the salacious stop-out. Succumbing to Emily's temptations in a barn, he quickly regrets slapping cheeks with the heinous harlot as the pair are caught by her drunken white trash of a father (Otto Schlessinger; credited as Kenneth Douglas). "Blasphemy!" he yells. Falsely crying she was raped, Daniel is now on the run. Since Daniel is black, and Shanty Tramp is set in a Dixie town, you can put two and two together and see where this is headed.

Worth noting Shanty Tramp was released in the same year as other and more familiar Southerns: the racially charged In the Heat of the Night and the prison drama Cool Hand Luke. The micro-budgeted Shanty Tramp isn't anywhere near the level of competency of those two films. However, it does have them beat with a whole array of Southern preconceptions of the region. Nearly every southern film cliché is check marked: the trashy temptress; the inebriated and abusive patriarch; rampant racism; the innocent black victim; the police manhunt, replete with tracker dogs; the bible thumping evangelist; the moonshine distillery in a rickety shack; the elderly eccentric with an Old Testament sounding name, like Ichabod or Jeremiah. All of those elements are herein, painting a rich canvas.

Some flaws, like the unprofessional actors' bad performances, don't inadvertently lend to the film's charm. An important loose end involving Savage's biker gang is left completely unresolved. Without giving away too much, it's a crucial element, which was either edited out, or completely forgotten about during the writing process. Much of the dialogue sounds like it was recorded in a bathroom during post-production; it's out of sync with the actors' lips. There are also noticeable jumps in some of the dialogue scenes, which suggests that some of the derogatory racist language might have been edited out, although, according to Refn's restorationists, there doesn't seem to be a stronger cut of the film in existence. It is jarring in the film, however.

The cast might be relative unknowns, but Shanty Tramp's director is a name I'm somewhat familiar with, having seen Joseph P. Prieto's feverishly bizarre horror Miss Leslie's Dolls (1973). What's puzzling about this director is he might be an alias to Joseph P. Mawra; the director who helmed the notorious Olga roughies from the sixties. Although, there's no solid confirmation available online to confirm this, Google and MUBI lists Mawra instead of Prieto as Shanty Tramp's director. What is for certain is Shanty Tramp's second unit director is none other than Bob Clark; who went on to direct personal faves Black Christmas (1974), Murder by Degree (1979) and Porky's (1981).

Unsurprisingly, Shanty Tramp never earned any plaudits for its handling of social political issues; especially ones engrained in America's turbulent racial history. Realistically speaking, the film was made to court controversy in the aid of getting bums on seats. Almost sixty years on, and it still packs some punch to the easily offended today. However, for those of a less sensitive disposition, Shanty Tramp excels at weaving an entertaining exploitation romp; comparable to southern trash masterpieces Two Thousand Maniacs! (1964) and Mudhoney (1965). For this reason alone, Shanty Tramp is an uncouth, yet beguiling film that is definitely worth checking out.

The Moment I Feared: Part 9

Watching a bootleg copy back in the day of James Glickenhaus's classic vigilante thriller The Exterminator (1980) at a mate's house might have been the first X rated film for your host. Didn't get to see the whole film the first time as my friend's older sister turned off the VHS player so she could watch Little House on the Prairie (1974 - 1983) on TV — the Philistine! It was too late, The Exterminator poured enough nightmare fuel into my mental tank to leave a fearful impression for decades.

The pre-credits PoW camp sequence featuring a gruesome decapitation was frightening enough, but it was mafioso boss Gino Pontivini being lowered into an industrial meat grinder and ending up as potential spag bol that brought pure terror to a young Sparty. The screams are still haunting.

It was also the sequence where Robert Ginty uttered the line "If you're lying, I'll be back!". Heads like myself have often pondered whether Arnold Schwarzenegger's famous quote might have been lifted from The Exterminator. The infamous line would also appear as text on some of the film's promotional posters. What is an absolute certainty is Robert Ginty never looked anywhere near like the Mad Max style biker on the posters. Regardless, The Exterminator will always be a B-movie classic and deserves its spot in the vigilante movie hall of fame

Lost in Reincarnation

Black Magic Rites (Renato Polselli, 1973)

Many moons ago, I foolishly bought a Danish DVD of Renato Polselli's follow-up to his ultra sleazy giallo Delirum (1972) without realising there weren't any English subtitles for it. Black Magic Rites (1973), AKA The Reincarnation of Isabel, was way more obscure back then, and your host was desperate to check it out on account of its reputation of being completely insane. With complete naivety, I figured I could at least cobble together a semblance of the film's plot according to the actions on screen. No chance! Gave up very early into the film as I didn't have a clue what the hell was going on. Fast forward to the present day and Indicator Films has released a very lavish 4K UHD of the film; more importanly it has English subtitles! Turns out the film gods struck their cruel blow upon me once more as Black Magic Rites is still an incomprehensible film even with the subtitles.

I wasn't alone in finding Black Magic Rites a confusing experience, both critics, David Flint and Kim Newman, were equally perplexed by it when I rewatched it with their commentary. It became all the more amusing with them trying to keep their professional composure during the film's excessive moments of unbridled sleaze and gory sacrificial goings on. Stephen Thrower, AKA Jess Franco's #1 Stan, who can talk a good one regarding the Spanish pervy midget's softcore Eurotrash films being neglected cinematic masterpieces, was equally as befuddled with Polselli's opus as the rest of us. What is an absolute certainty, is the unified acknowlegment that Black Magic Rites is a thoroughly entertaining psychedelic acid trip for die hard fans of Italian exploitation cinema.

I wonder if Peter Strickland's fictional movie The Equestrian Vortex from Berberian Sound Studio (2012) was inspired by Black Magic Rites.

As far as the main plot goes, Black Magic Rites appears to revolve around a collective of vampires performing Satanic sacrifices to resurrect a buxom witch and Dracula's beloved known as Isobel (Rita Calderoni). With the aid of choppy editing, the viewer is repeatedly transported from the fourteenth century to the modern day (the 1970s, in this case), to the point you're flummoxed with what time period certain scenes are set. Equally confusing are the cast (many from Delirium) appearing in both eras as reincarnated descendents of the angry mob who witness Isobel's burning at the stake. Extremely out there seventies clothes and hairstyles also muddy the waters as you're still left wondering if the scene you're watching is set in the Middle Ages or the decade that taste forgot.

Despite all these bewildering factors, Black Magic Rites is a deeply alluring oddity for anyone vested in Italian horror: on the one hand it starts off as a retread of Mario Bava's The Mask of Satan (1960), AKA Black Sunday; while on the other, it's a hallucinogenic departure form any sense of normality. You're never really sure whether the red body stocking clad vampires are performing their sacrificial rituals in a dungeon below the film's gorgeous castle - the same one from Massimo Pupillo's Bloody Pit of Horror (1965) - or in some kind of dimensional limbo. They're my favourite scenes from the film; gruesome as they are, they look gorgeous thanks to their technicolour lighting and jet black backgrounds; bizarrely reminding me of a school disco. Stylistically, the film evokes the ethereal and erotica vibes found in Jean Rollin's works, and also the influence of celebrity Satanist Anton LaVey. Coincidentally, LaVey used to mingle with the actress Jane Mansfield, who was once married to the film's male lead Mickey Hargitay.

Italian horror tends to be perceived as part of the wild and wacky side of horror cinema, and in Black Magic Rites' case it's more than undeniable. I've seen more than my fair share of utterly batshit Italian horror and Polselli's film has to be one of the more out there offerings. Much of it is inexplicable, e.g. why does one of the characters have a hilarious facial twitch? Even the film's dialogue, which was also written by Polselli, is abstract; lines like, "Vampires need blood that's not contaminated by human semen" doesn't make a shred of sense. The only real restraint is Gianfranco Reverberi's melodic, yet tame score. Imagine if the ritual scenes had a similar dark hippie vibe like what Bruno Nicolai delivered for the cultist scenes from Sergio Martino's All the Colours of the Dark (1972).

It's not often when a genre film I can barely understand wins me over this way. Most tend to fail and come off as pretentious art house in sheep's clothing. Black Magic Rites is a phantasmagoric and captivating entry in genuine Italian horror canon, which explains why it's so appealing despite its incoherentness.

The Sisters of No Mercy

A Gun for Jennifer (Todd Morris, 1997)

Travel back in time with me to the mid-nineties, where lads mags reigned supreme and feminist pop anthems were tailor made to gullible young girls by corporate fat cats, but for fellow psychotronik film heads, they might have chanced upon the mere whisper of A Gun for Jennifer (1997). Part of the New York underground film scene, Morris' film is a grimy faux-grindhouse actioner that harkens back to Abel Ferrara's early films and Jim Van Bebber's Deadbeat at Dawn (1988). A Gun for Jennifer is a punk, feminist fantasy that's far removed from the attractive doll squads you might find in a Ted V. Mikels or Roger Corman production. What we have here are the spiritual daughters of I Spit on Your Grave's dick-severing protagonist, Jennifer Hills. A Gun for Jennifer is a mean and scuzzy film that embodies the dirty New York grunge from the seventies and early eighties.

Co-written by its titular lead, Deborah Twiss, who you might recognise as the hot for teacher Mrs. Zane from Kick-Ass (2010), she managed to include her personal experiences when she worked as a dancer in a strip bar into the film. Additionally, these were followed up with her personal fantasies of beating up unruly and way too handsy patrons. One scene in particular creatively shows where to put a pool cue where it doesn't belong. Based on interviews by Twiss, much of the screenplay was written by her, other than the cop scenes which were penned by Morris. The end result is a staggeringly violent vigilante film.

Abused runaway housewife Alison (Deborah Twiss) comes to the big city of dreams and finds out everything in New York ain't always what it seems when she's assaulted by a couple of low lifes intent on raping her.  She's saved by a vigilante squad of women led by their misandrist and psychopathic leader Jesse (Freida Hoops). She's forced to pull the trigger on one of her muggers and become part of the murderous crew, otherwise it's a similar fate for her. Thus, Alison adopts the name Jennifer as her new reborn incarnation and adjusts to life working as a strip bar waitress in The Widows' Den. Her extra curricular activities involve going to punk gigs where a top less band singer pulls out a prosthetic dick from her pants that she mutilates with a knife, and constantly being caught in the crossfire of her gal pals' escalating shooting sprees. The finale involves an ultra bloody shootout with some big time Jeffrey Epstein type villain and his heavies.

Revisiting this film in a post #MeToo world has brought about two interesting observations I hadn't noticed before: A Gun for Jennifer goes against the popular belief held by various prominent film critics that the vigilante subgenre is tailored towards a right wing audience; also, how crazy is it that a crude and thoroughly cartoonish indie film from the nineties contains a better grasp of female character writing than the indestructable Disney princesses who undeservedly reign today?

Despite its notoriety, A Gun for Jennifer is a relatively obscure film, but it seems like the movie gods have smiled upon your host's wish list with another accurate prediction as Deborah Twiss spilt the beans over a forthcoming release from Vinegar Syndrome (although, she was wrong about the July release date, sadly). Either way, it's more a gift than a curse, as it's one of those really sought after films that I'm thankful I still own on DVD. Cue a massive influx of horrendous attention seeking reviews by social media narcissists when the eventual rerelease does occur, however. 

A Gun for Jennifer (Trailer)

Todd Morris, 1997

A Gun for Jennifer is very much a rough diamond, but essential viewing for anyone that might be interested in nineties indie film and bloody violent cinema.

Juke Box Fury

Dada Debaser hasn't compiled a Best Films of the 1960s list, but it's a safe bet it wouldn't be like the predictably boring ones by elitist cinephiles.

There's a one word answer why Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (1965) is on my shelf, and why my copy of La Dolce Vita (1960) is probably in some third world landfill site; soulful!

In the meantime, here's a furious compilation of vintage jams I'd put in the juke box if I ever ran a fleapit dive for all the beat girls, motor psychos and astro-zombies:

The Executioners - The Guillotine (1965)

The Night Beats - Night Beat (196?)

John & Jackie - Little Girl (1958)

The Genteels - Take it Off (1962)

Andrew Williams and His Orchestra - Sweet Little Pussycat (1966)

Roger & The Gypsies - Pass the Hatchet (Part 1) (1966)

The Majestics - Riding By (1962)

Jack Hammer - Wiggling Fool (1962)

Wiley Terry - Follow the Leader (Part 1) (1965)

The E Types - Put the Clock Back on the Wall (1967)

Steve King and The Echelons - Satan is Her Name (1962)

Bob Kayli - Tie Me Tight (1961)

Donna Dee - Nobody's Gonna Hurt You (1961)

The Go-Rillas - I Go (King Kong) (196?)

B.B. Cunningham Jr.  - Trip to Bandstand (1959)

The Hollywood Vines - When Johnny Comes Slidin' Home (1961)

The Surfmen - The Ghost Hop (1962)

The Frantics - The Whip (1960)

The Velaires - Sticks and Stones (1961)

Link Wray & The Wraymen - Jack the Ripper (1962)

Bob Landers with Willie Joe and His Unitar - Cherokee Dance (1956)

The Phantom - Love Me (1960)

Billy Mure's Super-Sonic Guitars - Supersonic (1957)

The Sonics - The Witch (1964)

Most of these songs were sourced from a bunch of old compilations, particularly from the Strip label. Regret not copping more of them back in the day as they go for a hefty price these days. In any case, I'm thankful for the ones I have.

DL in the comments.

Juvenile Hell: Part 5

The Sadist (James Landis, 1963)

If there was a film equivalent to the Infinite Monkey Theorem, then James Landis' brutal crime thriller, The Sadist is a valid candidate. A diamond in the rough from producer Arch Hall Sr; a man synoymous with giving the world the prehistoric, trashfest Eegah (1962) and a multitude of other time wasters.

At the risk of it sounding like a cliché, what makes The Sadist such a remarkable film, is how ahead of its time it is. Its bleak tone and subversive nature come across as anachronistic in comparison to other crime thrillers from the early sixties. If anything, The Sadist displays the nihilsim and savagery from notorious seventies pictures, à la Wes Craven's The Last House on the Left (1972) or Tobe Hooper's The Texas Chaisaw Massacre (1973). 

The film introduces a trio of school teachers whose car has broken down at a remote desert garage en route to a Dodgers baseball game. We learn about each teacher's background and motivations, while simultaneously discovering something is amiss at the garage / junkyard. This setting is the only location for much of the film's run time until the climactic finale.

Loaded in the favour of its volatile psychopath, Arch Hall Jr plays the titular, denim-clad Charlie Tibbs. He has plenty of bullets to spare, is able to second-guess his wholesome hostages, and toys with them with such a level of sadistic cruelty, he would make Krug Stillo proud. In one particular scene he reveals how he'll grant one of his potential victims fifteen minutes of extra life if they can repair a vehicle. They're going to die by his hand, it's just a case of when. Despite mainly whispering in his ear, Tibbs' girlfriend, Judy, is also something of a dangerousn wild child. They really compliment one another and make for a convincing psychotic couple.

For what is essentially an exploitation movie, the biggest surprise is just how well it's made. The Sadist makes excellent use of its limited location, along with it being blessed with some stylish camera work by Vilmos Zsigmond, whose credits include Deliverance (1972), Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977) and The Deer Hunter (1978). This keeps the film looking and feeling fresh. Of course, fancy camera work is meaningless without a compelling story and competent performances, which the film has in abundance. Since Hall Jr's dad produced this picture, it reeks of nepotism like his other films, but given that this is a thriller made on a relative shoe-string budget, it's fairly forgivable. In any case, Hall Jr's performance is exceptionally good in the film, and he doesn't chew scenes like Sofia Coppola did when she was miscast in The Godfather Part III (1990).

The Sadist would be the first feature film to be based on real life spree killer Charles Starkweather and his accomplice girlfriend, Caril Ann Fugate. Eventually, Terrence Malick's Badlands (1993) and Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers (1994) would also follow suit in in adaptating the notorious young couple to film. Sadly that's left the The Sadist to fall by the wayside, which is a shame since this film doesn't deserve to be forgotten for laying down such an archetypal psychos in love template.

One of those films that I've heard about for many years, but never really got around to watching until this month. Fortunately, The Sadist lived up to my expectations. Not only is it a great film in its own right, but given its historical legacy, it's perhaps an important one, too.

Pulpit Pit Stop

Candy Land (John Swab, 2023)

Taking into account that we're in the period of the winter duldrums where the only movies on offer tend to be Oscar bait contenders and tax write-offs, it's a pleasant surprise to have a genuinely good film coming out during this traditionally sparse time.

John Swab's film, Candy Land is a successful blend of artsploitation and faux-grindhouse. Considering it was produced in 2021, rescued from festival limbo, and then finally made available this year, it's a welcome movie for this humble blogger. It's a blessing in disguise too, since its festive setting isn't another shameless alternative Christmas cash-in, but serves as a reflective period for its characters. Perhaps the least exploitative aspect of this film, in hindsight, since it's otherwise a winning example of capturing the mean-spirited and sleazy tone of genre cinema from a bygone era.

Set at a remote truck stop location, where a collective of sex workers eke out a miserable existance peddling their services, a dramatic curveball occurs when Remy (Olivia Luccardi), a young woman from a religious cult, is left abandoned at the truck stop. Lizard lot camaraderie takes poor Remy under its wing. From there we learn about this gang and witness the dangers of the profession that's as old as Methuselah.

What sets this simple film apart from most other grindhouse throwbacks is its no f@cks given over modern day sensibilites; which is altogether refreshing, in my opinion. It makes it a more sincere effort and an obvious stand-out from all the plethora of faux-exploitation films lacking authenticity and just apeing it aesthetically. Thus, Candy Land is a rare success in this department. Despite being conveniently set in the year 1996, the film has the raw punch of seventies genre cinema. It does not hold back. Some scenes are really brutal, while quiet moments are an obvious calm before the storm.

Of course, the film benefits greatly from its cast: Olivia Luccardi's lead performance is an obvious major highlight, but the supporting cast are also very effective; particularly Sam Quartin and Owen Campbell as part of Remy's adoptive family. William Baldwin is a strange casting choice as the thoroughly callous Sheriff Rex, but he's also good here. All in all, the performances are a core element providing this drama turned horror with a level of maturity that's sadly lacking in many of its peers.

Swab's direction is very competent and mature for a film with this subject matter. It's also beautifully shot at times, which is a surprise when you consider it's filmed in crummy motel rooms and public restrooms. There's also the additional factor that it makes the most of its refreshingly short run time by switching things up very early on and revealing the killer's identity. This might be detrimental to some, but the motives and actions of its killer are no less compelling to witness unfolding on screen. In summary, Candy Land is an enjoyable and brave throwback to a style of film that's been hard to replicate well in modern times and a fine one to get this year rolling.

Juvenile Hell: Part 4

Girl Gang (Robert C. Dertano, 1954)

Tooting on the old devil's lettuce has long been associated as the gateway to hard drugs, and in the case of Robert C. Dertano's Girl Gang (1954), it supports this sentiment to the fullest. Like many exploitation films from the fifties, Girl Gang purports to serve as a cautionary moral tale, but its true purpose is to titilate and sensationalise. The film follows the three basic fundamentals of vintage juvenile delinquency films: sex, drugs and rock & roll (that's four, innit?).

Girl Gang's selling point is in its title, which is about as faithful as its sincerity in social commentary. The film chiefly focuses on Joe the Big Boss, played by Timothy Farrell; a drug peddler who turns young teens into drug addicted slaves, with them resorting to crime inorder to fund their next fix. June and Jack appear as junkie lieutenants in Joe's criminal empire. They're versitile figures: from floggin' stolen cars, blackmail scams, to recruiting new blood, they help create drug addled slaves while being addicts themselves. There's also Doc Bradford, played by Buster Keaton's younger brother Harry; a struck-off doctor who oddly appears ashamed of his actions at times, yet that still doesn't stop him from being a sleazy lowlife and taking advantage of the girls.

Of course, being an unrealistic film, the things young jezebels would do for some wacky baccy is hilarious to see on screen. Any route causes for drug addiction such as poverty, trauma or mental disorder, are wholly ignored and simply conveyed by our juvenile junkies being nothing but complete morons. Take youngsters Wanda and Bill embarking on their first steps into becoming chronic weed heads, by getting caned on Joe's flea ridden sofa and press ganged into a petrol station robbery (it's always a petrol station); on a Sunday, of all days. Requiem for a Dream this ain't, but it's these unrealistic examples of youngsters being led astray which makes Girl Gang so much fun and charming. However, what Girl Gang does offer are surprisingly graphic instances of heroin use, which must have struck audiences back then as very transgressive.

Stand out scenes include a the dingy, shindig, where the teens are caned and a Jerry Lee Lewis wannabe is hammering on the piano in some dank looking garage. Hilariously, they start bustin' moves until they're  knackered and want to spark up again. A couple of them wind-up making out on some old piss-stained looking mattress; how ghetto is that? One of the girls forces one poor sod to a back room so she can get "initiated". Once in the room, an occupied light starts flashing.

As one would expect with most films involving a robbery, the heist doesn't exactly go smoothly, and our poor ruffians become fatal casualties in Joe's bumbling endeavour. The final moments of the film consist of a hilarious chase sequence where two armed cops shoot a fleeing and completely unarmed Doc Bradford in the back. Oddly reminiscent of Gene Hackman's shot in The French Connection (1971), but with a fraction of the budget and none of William Friedkin's expert direction.

Seen a few of Dertano's films and other than some recurring cast members (e.g. Farrell and Keaton), they tend to follow a familiar template: the awkward ogling over women scenes; a seedy boss pulling the strings from his den; the inevitable double-cross, a heist that goes wrong, and a righteous monologue via an authoritarian / elder to justify its intentions. These are far from honest social commentaries, but then again, neither are some of today's offerrings like Bodies, Bodies, Bodies (2022), which portrays today's youths in a similarly pathetic and dishonest manner as of those from seventy years ago, but all the more insufferably annoying due to social media culture. Girl Gang is a favourite for being Dertano's most enjoyable film watched so far in his catalogue, which marks this as another notable entry in the canon of juvenile delinquency movies.