Trailer Park :: Why Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore :: Joel Anderson's Eerily Effective Lake Mungo (2008)

In the small city of Ararat, Australia, the Palmer family, father Russell (Pledger), mother June (Traynor), and son Matthew (Sharpe), several months after the fact, are still reeling from the accidental drowning death of daughter Alice (Zucker), made worse by numerous nocturnal visits and sightings of the girl caught on film after she died. With this evidence, thinking she might still be alive, the mother, lost in a spiral of denial, pushes to have Alice’s body exhumed to settle if it was really her body recovered from the lake. When the DNA tests prove positive, the only other explanation for the photos and video, then, has to be supernatural, causing the Palmers to turn to a renowned medium (Jodrell) for some answers to these ghostly phenomenon, which also draws the attention of a documentary film crew; and together, through several harrowing twist and turns, this slick after-action report unearths long buried family secrets and skeletons as the harrowing (and unsettling) truth about Alice finally comes out… 

  Video courtesy of Lake Mungo.

Though purported as such, Joel Anderson’s Lake Mungo (2008) really isn’t a found footage fright flick in the vein of Paranormal Activity (2007) or The Blair Witch Project (1999) – to its betterment, as far as I’m concerned. 

No, despite the horribly misleading promotional art for its DVD release and being lumped into Lionsgate’s annual, and more visceral, 8 Films to Die For After Dark Horrorfest line-up, what we have here is film presented as a faux news documentary about a girl who tragically drowned and her family’s struggle through the grieving process that is hamstrung by an apparent haunting by the deceased, made manifest by spectral visitations and apparitions of the girl showing up on several photos and videos of family, friends and complete strangers.

Thus, Lake Mungo is a haunting film about haunting things. And it’s not what you think or were led to believe as the film unfolds, rather brilliantly, unveiling all kinds of details and secrets that no one knew about through bread-crumbs both real and unreal (-- most notably unraveling a very elaborate hoax and a skeevy sex-tape involving the underage victim and some scurvo neighbors she was babysitting for). 

Writer and director Anderson wrote the film in 2005, penning something that could be shot on a lower budget when he couldn’t raise enough funds for another script with a larger budget demand. (The majority of the film was eventually funded by a grant from the Australian government.) According to Anderson, he did not set out to make a supernatural thriller but rather an exploration of grief and how technology is used to track memories, and how these recorded memories mediate a lot of our experiences. For the cast, Anderson wanted a group of unknowns to maintain the documentary illusion. And to add another layer of verisimilitude, all of the dialogue was improvised to follow the outline of the story, with Anderson serving as the off-screen interviewer during the testimonials.

The cast is uniformly solid and plugged into a well-layered pastiche of film, (fake) news footage, video, and photo montage that leaves the audience struggling to remember that they’re actually just watching a movie. I’m telling ya, Lake Mungo gave me a HUGE case of the drizzles as these elements played out. But fair warning; this film is not about spring-loaded things jumping out at you or CGI creepy-crawlies but startling images coming into focus in the background or the opposite corners from where you’re supposed to be looking; and the one and only real “BOOGA-BOOGA!” moment in the whole film, when we see the footage on Alice’s recovered camera, is startling effective. And be sure to stick through the closing credits as the “filmmakers” go through some of the footage one last time to show you what we missed.

Less about a haunting and spectral revenge from beyond the grave, then, and more about dire premonitions coming full circle and a tragedy that no one saw coming except, apparently, for the victim, Lake Mungo isn’t very scary but it is very creepy; very, very creepy; and a very slow creep at that. And when the whole thing comes full circle, in the end, you might just find something in your eye.

Lake Mungo (2008) Mungo Productions :: Screen Australia :: SBS Independent :: After Dark Films / EP: William Coleman, Gilbert George, Robert George / P: Georgie Nevile, David Rapsey / AP: Joel Anderson, John Brawley / D: Joel Anderson / W: Joel Anderson / C: John Brawley / E: Bill Murphy / M: David Paterson / S: Rosie Traynor, David Pledger, Martin Sharpe, Talia Zucker, Steve Jodrell

RePost :: Trailer Park :: Saddle Your Hogs for One Final Ride to Glory, Man! An A.I.P. / R.I.P. Tribute to Dennis Hopper.

When The Black Souls rumble up on the leader of their bitter rivals, the Glory Stompers, who picked the wrong time and the wrong, secluded spot for some private snoggin' with his old lady, the skuzzy bikers proceed to stomp him into the earth. Thinking they've killed him, and with no other witnesses, they decide to kidnap the girlfriend, sneak her into Mexico, and sell her off to white slavers for some much needed drug money. However, turns out our hero wasn't quite dead, and he's soon in hot pursuit to get his girl back from this pack of degenerates before it's too late!

 

 Video courtesy of Haley Zero.

As an actor, director or producer it would take all of your (-- and several of your friend's --) fingers and toes to count off the films of Dennis Hopper that are better than American International's The Glory Stompers.

But, yeah, by no means a great film, it still ranks as one of my favorite performances by Hopper as the psychotic Chino, leader and head guru of the Black Souls. And his restrained efforts and barely-bottled manic intensity definitely vaults this film into the forefront of Jim and Sam's Outlaw Biker flicks; as the studio and its producers could never quite get the handle on the difference between the counter-culture hippie movement and the seedier biker scene.

As the old saying goes, you can take a cat out of the jungle but you can't take the jungle out of a cat (-- and a better metaphor for Hopper's modus operandi I'm hard-pressed to type). And Chino is one such cat, with the sharp-end of several pointed plot-sticks poking at him -- the pursuing Stompers, protecting his brother, and dissension in the ranks, who all want to pull a train on their captive, to name but a few -- which brings these pressurized contents to an inevitable outcome. And then, when we reach the climax, and things go all to hell on him, Chino finally explodes in perhaps Hopper's greatest freak-out in a long and storied career of freaking-out on camera that's worth the price of admission alone.

However, there's plenty more on The Glory Stompers' menu to bring you to the table, including some stellar supporting scurve-o's provided by the likes of Robert Tessier and a barely recognizable Casey Kasem. I was pretty sure that was Kasem under Mouth's helmet and grubby beard, and this was confirmed when he cranked up some yells that reverberated into some familiar "Holy Super-Friends, Batman", territory. Kasem also served as an associate producer on this and The Cycle Savages, which is probably the worst AIP biker flick ever; and that's REALLY saying something.

Behind the camera, after serving as an editor for the majority of Arch Hall Sr./Jr.'s output, Anthony Lanza makes his directorial debut, here, and he wasn't afraid to get down and wallow around in the dirt with his characters, so to speak, and took things as far as the censors would allow at the time. For the script, a tandem effort by John Lawrence and James White hits all the perquisite notes. And speaking of notes, one cannot fail to compliment the kicky-n-scratchy low-fuzz guitar soundtrack provided by Dave Allan and The Arrows.

Now where was I? Oh, yeah. Before the Outlaw Biker Cycle ran out of gas,  Lawrence and White would hash out over a half-dozen genre flicks over the next few years with the likes of Helles Belles, The Hellcats, and The Mini-Skirt Mob. Also of note: Lanza, Lawrence, White and Kasem would also later team up again for The Incredible Two-Headed Transplant.

Sadly, out of all those old AIP biker flicks released on those wonderful Midnite Movie double-discs, The Glory Stompers remains maddeningly elusive. Therefore, it will take some effort to track yourselves down a copy but I think it's well worth your time. But if you're still not convinced consider this:

Despite everything already mentioned, perhaps the trippiest thing about The Glory Stompers lies with misplaced beachnik Jody McCrea as the hero, meaning one can't help but also draw parallels between this film and William Asher's Beach Party series. Seriously. Before they're attacked, McCrea and Chris Noel are having one of those Frankie and Annette fights, where she won't put-out and threatens to dump him if he doesn't put his motorcycle away and grow up.

Thus, if we extrapolate further, that would make Hopper's character a surrogate for Erik Von Zipper, with The Black Souls standing in for the Ratz and Mice, who finally gets the upper hand on those surf-bums (The Stompers), and makes off with Annette with every intention of selling her as a sex slave somewhere south of the border. And that, my friends, is almost too damned hilarious to contemplate any further. 

Dennis Hopper

(1936-2010)

 Other Points of Interest:

Poster campaign for The Glory Stompers at the Archive.

Newspaper ads for The Glory Stompers at the Morgue.
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The Glory Stompers (1967) Norman T. Herman Productions :: American International Pictures / EP: Arthur N. Gilbert, Maurice Smith / P: John Lawrence / AP: Mike Curb, Casey Kasem, Paul Stevenson / D: Anthony M. Lanza / W: James Gordon, John Lawrence / C: Mario Tosi / E: Len Miller / M: Davie Allan, Mike Curb / S: Dennis Hopper, Jody McCrea, Chris Noel, Sandra Bettin, Jock Mahoney, Robert Tessier, Casey Kasem

Trailer Park :: Up Bluff Creek Without a Paddle in Bobcat Goldthwait's Willow Creek (2013)

When an amateur Bigfoot enthusiast cons his girlfriend into a weekend expedition into the California wilderness, hoping to retrace the trail that Roger Patterson and Bob Gimlin took back in 1967, which netted them the most infamous 30 seconds of footage since the Zapruder film, this cryptid-rom-com quickly loses the rom and the com, squashed flat by whatever else is lurking in the woods around them, leaving the audience to decide who is really stalking who.

 

Video courtesy of Film Festivals and Indie Films.

Though Willow Creek (2013) doesn't really break any new ground in the Found Footage Horror genre, Bobcat Goldthwait (yes, THAT Bobcat Goldthwait) and his limited cast walk a fine line but, in the end, overachieve, rather deftly, despite the inherent limitations of this kind of first person shooter, resulting in an extremely effective chiller.

He's an earnest believer, but kind of an idiot (Johnson). She's adorable, but also skeptical and a bit of a buzzkill (Gilmore). And with a camcorder rolling the whole way, this couple grind through some or their relationship issues while making their way through the usual Sasquatch tourist traps first, then ignore several warnings to stay away from Willow Creek (where the Patterson film was shot) -- some sincere (due to their lack of experience in the woods), others sinister ("Go back and have some pie at the F@ck Off Cafe"), and head out into Six Rivers National Forest where a night of terror awaits as the couple huddles inside their tent as some thing circles ever closer.

Is it the locals screwing with them? Is it a bear? Or is it the ever elusive cryptid? I won't spoil it, but the final resolution was AH-mazing. And kinda hilarious.

Always the provocateur, Goldthwait has been very hit and miss with me. His flicks are very subversive and darkly twisted, and I found folks either buy into what he's selling or reject them completely. Personally, I dug the hell out of Shakes the Clown (1991), his debut, and feel World's Greatest Dad (2009) is one of the greatest black comedies ever made. God Bless America (2011), however, was a big portentous pile of crap. So much so, I was a little hesitant on this one. However, the siren call of the Sasquatch cannot be ignored.  And while it would've been easy for Goldthwait to shred this fringe subculture, instead, there seems to be some respect for it.

Fair warning: there a couple of make or break sequences in Willow Creek, where, one, you get on board with this couple and find them either endearing or annoying (kudos to Gilmore and Johnson for making them a believable combination of both); and two, when you realize the filmmaker has been holding the same static shot for nearly twenty minutes while the characters (and the audience) just sit, frozen, and listen to what's going on outside the tent in the darkness. And whether you find that creepy or tedious, or brazen or idiotic, will go a long, long way on your personal assessment of the film. For me it worked, making Willow Creek a morbidly good time and highly recommended.

Willow Creek (2013) Jerkschool Productions :: Dark Sky Films / P: Aimee Pierson, Bryce Johnson / AP: Jason Stewart / D: Bobcat Goldthwait / W: Bobcat Goldthwait / C: Evan Phelan / E: Jason Stewart / M: Matt Kollar / S: Alexie Gilmore, Bryce Johnson, Laura MontagnaPeter Jason

Cannon Fodder: The Roundtable :: Trailer Park :: Charles Bronson Forgets What's Legal and Does What's Right for The Go-Go Boys in J. Lee Thompson's 10 to Midnight (1983)

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"When anybody does something like this, 

his knife has gotta be his penis." 

___  ___  ___  ___  ___  ___  ___  ___  ___  ___  ___

When Lt. Leo Kessler (Bronson) identifies and arrests a ruthless psychopath, responsible for the brutal switchblade slayings of several women, thanks to some legal red tape, this serial killer goes free. And when his next target strikes a little too close to home, the clock is soon ticking and time is running out for our hero, who must now take the law into his own hands...

Video courtesy of MOVIECLIPS Classic Trailers.  

"If you make an American film with a beginning, a middle and an end, with a budget of less than five million dollars," said the late movie mogul, Menahem Golan, "You must be an idiot to lose money." Born Menahem Globus, the Israeli native's first exposure to filmmaking was working as an assistant for Roger Corman while he made The Young Racers (1963). After learning all he could from the low-budget shlockmeister, Golan teamed up with his cousin, Yoram Globus, and formed Noah Productions in 1964 and never looked back. And when Dennis Friedland and Chris Dewey's financially strapped Cannon Films came on the market in 1979, and Golan and Globus, affectionately known as The Go-Go Boys, bought them out and took over, the 1980s, cinematically speaking, had no clue what was about to hit them. 

For, even though several films they had produced, dating back to their Noah days, had garnered them several Academy Award nominations for Best Foreign Film, and things like Cassavette's Love Streams (1984) and Konchalovsky's Runaway Train (1985) germinated under Cannon's banner, what really buttered the Go-Go Boys bread were their exploitative A-Budgeted B-Pictures, which helped fill the gaping void left when American International went tits up and Corman's own New World Pictures, which had thrived so brilliantly in the 1970s, dried up as the market for this kind of picture shifted from the disappearing grind-houses and drive-ins to the multiplexes and home video. Basically, for every Barfly (1987), there was an Alien from L.A. (1988), Gor (1987) and The Happy Hooker Goes to Hollywood (1980); and for every Hanoi Hilton or Street Smart (both 1987) there was a Detective School Drop Outs (1986), Firewalker (1986), Ninja Hunt (1986), Schizoid (1980), or Bloodsport (1988). 

Developing a formula that soon found them producing and distributing nearly 30 movies a year, Cannon Films had the knack for cashing in on current fads both in film and popular culture, resulting in a catch-all catalog of urban and oddball musicals (The Apple, Breakin' and Breakin' 2), sword and sorcery (The Barbarians, Lou Ferrigno's Hercules movies), raunchy comedies (Making the Grade, The Last American Virgin), soft-core sleaze (Bolero, The Wicked Lady), martial arts (Enter the Ninja, Revenge of the Ninja), serial slashers (New Year's Evil, X-Ray), sci-fi misfires (Masters of the Universe, Lifeforce) and franchising out with The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (1986) and Death Wish II (1982), which brought Charles Bronson into their stable for three more sequels and a whole lot more. 

If Cannon Films had three crown jewels in their film empire, Bronson would be one of them, Chuck Norris the second (Delta Force, Invasion U.S.A., and the Missing in Action series), and Sylvester Stallone would be the third (Over the Top, Cobra). Maybe four jewels if you wanna count The Dudikoff (Avenging Force, Platoon Leader). And who wouldn't? 

Anyhoo, as I said, Bronson's first reprisal of vigilante Paul Kersey marked the beginning of his collaboration with Cannon Films. Seems Golan was so pleased with the box-office of Death Wish II and the draw of its star he immediately sent out feelers to producer Pancho Kohner and Bronson, offering to help finance or distribute whatever they wanted to do next. Kohner and Bronson had been working together since St. Ives (1976) and they had been trying to secure the rights to author R. Lance Hill's The Evil that Men Do for several years and pitched that to Golan. However, Hill asked for too much money and Golan withdrew the offer. But while one hand pulled away, another was extended. He still wanted to make a movie with Bronson, just not THAT one. 

What followed next was a somewhat dubiously comical sleight-of-hand at the Cannes Film Festival, where Kohner pulled a potential title, 10 to Midnight, completely out of his ass, and then he and Golan, with just a mere notion of a film, started belching out buzzwords to impress potential buyers until the right combination of 'action', 'danger', "breasts', 'revenge' and 'Bronson' sealed the deal. Now all they needed was a script -- any script, and they found one lying around back in Los Angeles called Bloody Sunday, penned by William Roberts, and just scratched off the title and scrawled 10 to Midnight over the smudges. Roberts had penned The Magnificent 7 (1960) but had recently fallen flat on his face with The Legend of the Lone Ranger (1981). He'd also worked with Bronson before, writing the deliriously wonderful Sushi-Western, Red Sun (1971), which co-starred Toshiro Mifune. To direct, Golan brought in another frequent Bronson collaborator, J. Lee Thompson, who had helmed the equally delirious JAWS knock-off, The White Buffalo (1977), and would go on to fire off most of Bronson's Cannon output.

Aside from his close association with Bronson, Thompson was probably best known for The Guns of Navarone (1961), Cape Fear (1962), and for polishing off The Planet of the Apes franchise with Conquest of (1972) and Battle for the Planet of the Apes (1973). (Thompson had been slated to direct the original POTA but scheduling conflicts with Mackenna's Gold scuttled this.) Before making 10 to Midnight, Thompson had just finished filming the Stalk 'n' Slash staple Happy Birthday to Me (-- where legend has it his producers had to rein him in when their director went a little gore-happy during the signature kills). And while I was keenly aware of the Slasher Movie overtones in the similar Chuck Norris vehicle, Silent Rage (1982), where our hero basically takes on Michael Myers and battles him to a draw, it wasn't until this most recent viewing where I finally realized how much of a genre mash-up 10 to Midnight was. Even more so than Silent Rage, really.

Yeah. On the surface, 10 to Midnight is a Bronson revenge piece, but Thompson and cinematographer, Adam Greenberg (who had been with Go-Go Boys since the Lemon Popsicle days and would shoot The Terminator next for James Cameron), shot and cut the film like a horror movie to great effect. Mind you, this 'great effect' was unabashedly and extremely sleazy, as the film is highly misogynistic, jammed packed with equal-opportunity nudity, with helpless, cowering women (either sluts or pure innocents) begging for their lives before being carved up like flank steak by our knife-wielding psycho.

Speaking of which, though he appears to be just an off the rack, Poor Man's Jan Michael-Vincent, Gene Davis is actually quite good as our mentally disturbed serial killer, Warren Stacy. Inspired by real life monsters Ted Bundy and Richard Speck (the character even drives a VW Bug), the decision to have Stacy commit his atrocities in the buff was most probably done to add another layer of sleaze to the proceedings as the audience becomes intimately familiar with every square inch of Davis' posterior; but, if you think about it, in the days before DNA testing, the move is actually pretty savvy, forensically speaking, leaving no blood spatter or trace elements to link him to the crime -- unless, say, somebody planted some. Say, hypothetically, some veteran, world weary cop who believes the law no longer serves to protect the public but to provide loopholes for people like Stacy and their skeevy lawyers to exploit. And, say, he steals some of the victim's blood from the lab, breaks into Stacy's apartment, and smears it on some of his clothes. 

"You go in that courtroom and forget what's legal and do what's right," says Kessler, who kinda reminded me of Lucas Davenport, the lead character in author John Sanford's Rules of Prey and its sequels; Davenport is also veteran cop, who was willing to bend the rules and plant evidence on the obviously guilty party to get them off the streets before they kill anybody else. (To be fair, both in the movie and the novels, the omnipresent audience/reader is keenly aware of the undeniable guilt of the perpetrator. In real life, things are never quite that concretely simple.) Thankfully, Bronson hadn't quite gotten around to mailing in this kind of role yet. And he brings a touch of humanity and cynical levity to the role, especially when he gets to spout out Freudian twaddle on the perverted modus operandi of the killer or wave Stacy's Ronco Pocket Vagina under his nose, hoping to rile him into a slip up during an interrogation.  

Saddled to this old warhorse, new partner Paul McAnn (Stevens) is smeared with a liberal brush (-- his father is a sociology professor at Berkeley, for cripesake), who is only there to, one, be completely spineless to help justify Kessler's tactics, and two, provide a love interest for Kessler's daughter, Laurie (Eilbacher). One of the genuine pleasures of the movie is the battered and weathered but still standing relationship between the Kesslers. (The scene in the hospital cafeteria with the quiche/pie conundrum is a hoot.) Luckily for Laurie she wasn't our hero's love interest because their life expectancy in a Bronson movie is even shorter than a Federation away team. Daughter or lover, in the end, it really doesn't matter because the main reason she's even here is to give the killer something personal to focus on and amp up the tension for the climax. 

See, thanks to the efforts of Stacy's lawyer (a wonderful glorified cameo by Geoffrey Lewis), who bluffs and bullies McAnn into investigating his client's claim of a frame-up, the blood evidence is tossed, the charges against Stacy are dismissed, and Kessler resigns in disgrace. It is interesting that even though McAnn discovered the truth and confronts Kessler, we never know for sure if he would've perjured himself to protect his partner. Judging by the script, odds are he would have, but before he can or is forced to, Kessler falls on his own sword and fesses up to the DA and the judge. But in true B-Movie fashion, this turn of events backfires on our villain. Because now, freed from things like due process and jurisprudence, Kessler is now in full vigilante mode, turning the tables on Stacy as he, in effect, stalks him just as he had stalked his victims. 

Tragically, also in standard B-Movie fashion, stirring Stacy up like this also triggers another horrific murder spree with a staggering amount of human collateral damage when he goes after Laurie at the nurses dormitory, slashing all of her roommates to death in a salaciously brutal fashion. (One of them played by Kelly Preston, billed as Kelly Palzis, another by that gal form Michael Jackson's Thriller video. One should also note at this point that Golan and Kohner seemed to be more than happy to let Thompson fling around as much blood and grue as he wanted to. Which he did. A lot.) When Laurie manages to escape this bloodbath, Stacy runs after her; and this harrowing foot chase comes to an unintentionally hilarious conclusion when Kessler, somehow, manages destroy the laws of physics, bending both space and time to his will, to not only catch up with them, but to somehow get ahead of them! Thus, with Laurie safe and the killer caught red-handed, Kessler listens, horrified, as Stacy gleefully lays out his insanity defense that will eventually get him back into society where he'll start all over again. What happens next, when Kessler objects, should come as a surprise to no one. 

Bronson's quip as he *ahem* punctuates this objection, and the gob-smacking execution of it, helped pave the way for the tongue-in-cheek, .475 caliber urban renewal of Death Wish III - V. And lets face it, this entire movie is a flimsy, rambling and ramshackle concoction of stacked circumstances so Bronson can eliminate the villain with justifiable prejudice. Of course, the audience isn't repulsed by the execution of his prisoner, they're too busy cheering. And given the context of the slayings, it's hard to call this film fun but it kinda is, morbidly so, for all the wrong reasons. And on top of the Death Wish franchise, the Go-Go Boys would send Bronson and Thompson back to mine this same vein in Murphy's Law (1986), Messenger of Death (1988), and Kinjite: Forbidden Subjects (1989). 

I believe it was Keith Allison over at Teleport City who first wistfully pondered the notion that all of Cannon Films output was part of the same cinematic universe, meaning Paul Kersey and Leo Kessler occupied the same urban streets as Ozone, Turbo and Special K; where James Braddock might've served with Jeff Knight and Mike McNamara; or Matt Hunter shared a city with Joe Armstrong and John Eastland; and while space vampires were invading London, a super ninja was massacring a shit-load of cops on a golf course somewhere in America. This, is the greatest idea of ever. Alas, this notion was never explored cinematically. What I do know, however, is Mark Hartley is following up his wonderful behind-the-scenes documentaries, Not Quite Hollywood (2008) and Machete Maidens Unleashed (2010), which focused on Australian and Filipino exploitation movies respectively, with Electric Boogaloo: The Wild, Untold Story of Cannon Films (2014), which takes a look at the rise and fall of the Go-Go Boys and their film empire. 

Yeah, sadly, by the close of the decade, after a couple of high-profile flops and over-extending themselves with the purchase of Thorn-EMI Screen Entertainment, Cannon Films broke apart against the breakers of bankruptcy. At this time, personal beefs also found Golan severing ties with Globus, as well. And after several failed attempts to start a new solo production company in the 1990s (where he most notably failed to get a Spider-Man movie made but, even more sadly, managed to get Albert Pyun's Captain America made and released), and a brief but doomed reunion with his old partner, Menahem Golan was still at it, producing films up until 2007, and then kinda faded away until his death earlier this year. 

Long criticized for his emphasis on quantity over quality, I think Richard Kraft, a music supervisor for Golan and Globus, summed things up best when he compared Cannon's production pipeline to a bowel movement, and whether what fell into the toilet sunk or floated was irrelevant because the Go-Go Boys would just flush it and make another one. It's an absurdly appropriate metaphor. Yes, they made shit. And it was wonderful. Gloriously so. 

This post is just one part of Cannon Fodder: the Celluloid Zeroes latest Roundtable Tribute to mark the recent passing of Menahem Golan by celebrating The Go-Go Boys, Cannon Films, and all the Cineturds they left in sandbox that clogged the video aisles back in the 1980s. Please follow the linkage below as this tribute continues: 

Checkpoint: Telstar :: Delta Force.

Cinemasochist Apocalypse :: Exterminator 2.

The Terrible Claw Reviews :: Lifeforce.

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10 to Midnight (1983) Cannon Group :: City Films :: MGM / EP: Menahem Golan, Yoram Globus / P: Pancho Kohner, Lance Hool / D: J. Lee Thompson / W: William Roberts / C: Adam Greenberg / E: Peter Lee-Thompson / M: Robert O. Ragland / S: Charles Bronson, Lisa Eilbacher, Andrew Stevens, Gene Davis, Geoffrey Lewis, Wilford Brimley