Recommendations: What I've Been Watching, and So Should You! Well ... Maybe. Or Not.

The directorial debut of F/X wizard Douglas Trumbull, the outer-space fable Silent Running (1972) concerns a future Earth where the only foliage and (non-human) fauna left in the entire galaxy is sequestered in a caravan of space greenhouses. And this being the dystopian 1970s, the orders soon come to abandon the project and nuke the cargo. Here, astronaut-gardener Bruce Dern cracks up, kills his shipmates, and with the help of his two trusty (and adorable) drone robots, efforts to keep these precious bio-spheres ticking. Conservation is the main thrust of this tale about the last Eden, but when all is said in done the true message, sadly, is perhaps Mother Earth would be much better off if mankind was removed from the equation altogether. Hea-veeee.

Poor Humphrey Bogart. First he loses out as my favorite Philip Marlowe to Dick Powell, and now Warren William dethrones him as my favorite Sam Spade. Yeah, forget this Ted Shane nonsense as Satan Met a Lady (1936) is William Dieterle's thinly veiled take on The Maltese Falcon. Here, William plays Shane/Spade as a delightfully smarmy cad who always seems to be one step ahead of everyone -- except for the wily femme fatale, as several parties step over a succession of dead bodies while trying to get their hands on a bedazzled horn. And as magnificent as Bette Davis is in this thing, heavens to Murgatroyd, but, I'm kinda crushing on Marie Wilson right now.

They say a creature feature is only as good as its monster. Well, if things work both ways, with Gorgo (1961), the movie surrounding her should probably have been a little bit better. BUT! It's good enough, with passable melodrama, outstanding kaiju chaos, all in glorious British technicolor. I also adore the fact that the happy ending is basically owed to director Eugène Lourié's daughter being so upset over her dad killing off the 'lovely' monster in The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms. I'll also add a wish that all DVD and BluRay releases were as extravagant and well-executed as this VCI disc.

Speaking of that Rhedosaurus, before they teamed up to produce The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, producers Jack Dietz and Hal Chester collaborated on a different kind of exploitation piece, Models Inc. (1952), where ball-breaking grifter Coleen Grey, after bleeding her last consort dry, sets her hooks deep into the head of a modeling agency (John Howard), which culminates in a whirlwind romance and marriage. Meantime, her old partner (Howard Duff), recently paroled for a crime he took the fall for to keep her on the loose, catches up with her; and together, they snog on the side and set up a racket by funneling several of the dupe's stable of beauties into a seedy *ahem* 'photographic gallery' and escort service, resulting in the death of a model at a drunken 'swimsuit convention.' This effectively derails any legitimacy of t'woo wuv that might have been brewing between Grey and Howard, even though the movie goes the extra mile to pound some sympathy into Grey's character that she simply does not deserve. An entertaining enough spin on the old road to ruin trope, helped immensely by the cast, which had me sticking it out to the bitter end even though the streaming print was horrid and the sound completely out of synch.

On the subject of the imminent fall of mankind, cinematically speaking, World War Z (2013) is less your average zombie flick and more of a disaster movie homage to Irwin Allen (-- minus the celebrity cameos and the insufferable "I told you so, but you wouldn't listen" protagonist), as the film hits the fan from the get go with civilization pushed to the brink by an outbreak of rabid ghouls. And like Allen, director Marc Forster tries to personalize, humanize and ground this tale of mass-extinction by showing it through the eyes of our globe-trotting hero, doing his best to find a solution and save the planet as all his tools and companions are stripped away, by keeping him firmly tethered to his family. There p'rolly could have been a few more nods to the source novel, but debriefings make for lousy cinema. As for the changes, well, I can live with them -- and I especially liked the salvation through camouflage angle because, surely, if one can accept a reanimated corpse one can also accept it being picky on what it eats. I had feared the worst going in and wound up pleasantly surprised. Take that for what it's worth and go forth.

Aside from the robot dog -- that stupid, stupid, robot dog, almost everything else about Saga of a Star World, the pilot for Battlestar Galactica (1978), holds up remarkably well -- hats off to the cast, who really bring these characters to life, and to John Dykstra and the co. The Cylons truly were a great and menacing presence. Had completely forgotten about the initial love triangle between Starbuck, Athena and Cassiopeia. And, oh yeah, Ray Milland was in this, too. I know the series quickly went off the rails due to the abuse of recycled F/X footage and borrowed plots, but this revisit has got me itching to go through the whole saga again.

If you tune into FM (1978), this tale of Q-SKY disc-jockeys versus corporate suits over how to divide airtime between music and advertising boils down to little more than Animal House in a radio station -- or an expanded episode of WKRP. A killer soundtrack and solid performances (--including Martin Mull, Cleavon Little, and the late Eileen Brennan, whose character is fed up with her nightly ego-trips and obsessed fans) overcompensate for the faint smell of bullshit emanating from some of the over-cooked dialogue and familiar situations. Still, oddly prophetic in this day of satellite radio and canned muzak stations. I still dig it, but your wattage may vary.

Though the whole cavalry prologue and Josey Wales subplot still needs to go, once he gets to Mars, John Carter (2012) is completely amazeballs and held up just fine on second viewing. Never understood why Disney threw this one under the bus or the hate for it. Does justice to Burrough's cosmic whiz-bangery of the highest order. Forget what you've heard and give it a (first or second) chance.

A highly effective proto-slasher that also presciently predates the likes of Humongous and Anthropophagus,Tower of Evil (1974) kicks off with a couple of sailors who find the remnants of a brutal massacre on an isolated island/lighthouse station. From there, we join the follow up expedition to find out what exactly happened, which only leads to more bloodshed. Ancient ritual macguffins, graphic dispatches, and a ton of equal-opportunity nudity abound but the middle definitely drags after a fantastic opening, the non-linear structure is a bit discombobulating, and the twist at the end was probably one twist too many. Still, I found lots to like. As always, my enthusiasm tends to get people killed on occasion. Well, a lot, actually. So, watch it but wear a helmet, maybe?

Renown for a performance by James Brown, which truly is amazing, one tends to overlook all the other acts who tear it up in The T.A.M.I. Show (1964), the first of two fantastic concert movies courtesy of American International Pictures, filmed during the Teenage Awards Music International festival hosted by Jan & Dean. Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, the Beach Boys, the Supremes, and the Rolling Stones to name but a few. But I think my absolute favorite part was the closing moments when the entire bill flash mobs the stage to polish off the Stones' 'It's Alright.' YouTube it as soon possible, folks, and watch as Mick Jagger and Diana Ross bump 'n' grind together.

All over the place talent wise, but, it doesn't matter because all the music in The Big T.N.T. Show (1965) is just great if a tad bit eclectic in this follow up concert movie from AIP. Special shout-outs to Bo Diddley and Ike and Tina Turner, who brought the house down. Also big shout out to The Big T.N.T. Show dancers, who worked their asses off in this thing. Saw things I'd never thought I'd see, including David McCallum directing an orchestra to rousing cover of 'Satisfaction' or Joan Baez covering the Righteous Brothers or Roger Miller sandwiched between The Byrds and Donovan. Also strange to think that all the young folks in the audience are in their 70s by now. Weird. Beyond that, good times and great tunes. 

At first glance, Cover Girl Models (1975) and Fly Me (1973) kinda cover the same ground; they just take different routes to get there. We've got spies, espionage and smuggling (microfilm / drugs, human trafficking) and a trio of girls (models / stewardesses) completely in over their heads; and neither made a whole lot of sense if you thought about them too long. The difference? Cover Girl Models is great as a study in tedium, making it a complete waste of time. However, even though it was plagued by the same drastic tonal inconsistencies that plagued New World's Filipino output of this era, and blew a golden opportunity of a having a kung-fu yenta save the day, I kinda dug Fly Me. Was pleasantly surprised to find both films in their original aspect ratios as part of The Lethal Ladies collection on one those delightful Roger Corman Shout Factory discs (along with The Arena, which I'm saving for an expanded write-up). Fair warning: these prints are as is -- and Fly Me was beaten to an absolute pulp; but I found that oddly charming in a sleazy kind of way, just like the movie. 

 

Favorites :: Pulp Covers :: Monarch Books Brings the Purple Sauce Most Savagely.

Monarch Books was a subsidiary branch of the Connecticut based Charlton Publishing. Known more for their comics and magazines, Charlton briefly branched out with a series of full length pulp novels, most notably a string of film adaptations that were destined for infamy. Infamy that had nothing to do with their inspirational monsters or their individual reigns of terror but for the consistent addition of saucy and salacious passages and implicit sex scenes -- and being taken by a "savage lance of manhood" doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of the prose gone purple found, in great abundance, inside (and under) the covers, stirring up some non-Comic Code approved biological urges in many a unsuspecting reader. Don't believe me? Then read an excerpt from Dean Owen's liberal take on Konga:

"She ran a zipper down and the dress became a heap of limp black material on the floor. She pulled off a half slip, tore the strap of her bra in her anxiety to rid herself of these trappings of civilization. She ripped the panties and garter belt, peeling off her stockings, ignoring the fact that she tore them to shreds.

"Decker was aware that the chattering of Konga had ceased. He turned, giving the little animal a thoughtful stare. Konga was watching the white-fleshed woman…. "




"Later, on the familiar bed with its rose-colored spread, Decker possessed Margaret with a violence that frightened her and, at the same time, aroused her to a frenzy of passion such as she had never known. His hands and mouth roved her naked, perfumed flesh, stirring hidden fires within her and she clutched him to her, arching her body wantonly to take the savage spear of his long-starved need.

"'Don’t give this to anyone else,' Margaret said when the tumult and frenzy of their love-making had subsided and they lay quietly together, their senses lulled and content, their bodies sated."

Anyone else remember this scene from the movie? Yeah, me neither. Believe it or not, things get even saucier with Carson Bingham's, uhm, dramatic liberties taken in Gorgo:

"I was conscious only of the fact that the shreds of the shirt had parted over her breasts, and that one of them lay completely exposed, its white softness before my eyes. Then I touched her breast with my hand, and she closed her eyes, moaned softly and turned her head from me. The flaming red hair moved against my nose, tickling it. I held her to me, trying to forget what a slob and bastard I was to get her into a situation like this. But she would have none of my excuses.

"'Take me, Somhairle,' she whispered, 'I demand to be taken.' She clutched my hand in her and I pressed her body, warm and quivering, to mine. Somehow I found the buttons to the dungarees she wore, and unbuttoned them, and slipped the clothes off her trembling flesh until there was nothing between us but the warmth of our bodies.

"She strained and twisted and clutched at me in the ecstasy of her stabbing, tearing pain, and with the unfeigned sincerity of innocence, she abandoned herself to me. And for me it was like dying and being reborn. It was a dizzying climb to a cloud of ecstasy such as I’d never experienced before.

"When the tumult and madness between us finally subsided, we lay there, breathless and sated and content, surrounded by the essence and magic of our love."

Bingham was a pseudonym of Bruce Cassiday, who, at the time, was serving as a copy editor for Argosy magazine, so, obviously, some of the lewd and lascivious nature of the Men's Magazines and Sweats of the day were leeching over into these adaptions. And even if that explains the how, it doesn't really explain the why for its inclusion in something clearly targeted at tweeners -- not that they were complaining, I'm sure. This was the story of a young boy discovering and befriending his pet lizard after all -- and the wrath of dear sweet mama when he tries to play with it. Yeah, I'm reaching there. And so was Cassiday, who wasn't done embellishing Gorgo yet:

"I felt her soft flaming hair pressing against my face, and I felt the warm soft curves of her body warm against mine, and I forgot all about the reason I had come to Nara. I kissed her again, and she closed her eyes, holding me to her with her arms twined about my neck. It was warm in the sand, and I gently slipped off her dungarees and unbuttoned her shirt so that her breasts fell free and gleamed in the starlight above us.

"She lay there naked on the sand, a study of voluptuous curves and gentle planes, and her moist lips gleamed. She touched my belt with her hand and released its clasp, and then her hands were around my waist, clawing at my back, crushing me close. We struggled against one another, moving our bodies into the age-old position of duality and completeness, and her lips tasted of salt and tears and I touched the taut nipples of her breasts and she cried out in the night and dug her head into the sand, arching her back to me. She seemed to reach outward with every fiber of her being, and surround me, and then she twined her legs about me in one terrible last shudder of emotion and the world whirled about us and the sea pounded on the beach and the skies opened and we seemed to be in the middle of space somewhere, with absolutely nothing else in the universe but us, our two bodies, and the one love that held everything, universe, planet, and us, together forever.

"Spent, we lay there naked in the sand, staring up at the clear night and the stars twinkling there, and we touched each other without a word, and let our sated, bruised, glowing bodies drink in the nourishment of our remembered pleasure."

Sure, I remember that part. That was right before the big Gorgo Jr. parade, right? Yeah, well, that ain't nothing compared to what happens in the novelization of Reptilicus. I mean, if you thought the monster was patently ridiculous, wait until you read about what was happening in between sock-puppet attacks -- according to Owen, that is:

"Then, hands on the gentle slope of her hips, she turned and faced him, her dark head tilted to one side. He stared open-mouthed at the rose-tipped breasts, the flat stomach, the perfectly formed thighs.

"He flung down the blanket and dumped her on top of it. She giggled, drew up her knees and bit his ear, pretending to fight him desperately.

"'You — you’re the most delightful female I ever met,' he panted.

"She squirmed away and he forced her back, his desperate hands on her knees. All the time she laughed shrilly.

"Suddenly she drew his face to her breasts, reveling in the touch of his lips. His mouth could not get enough of those hard, firm breasts and his fingers trailed all over her satin-smooth flesh, seeking and caressing, until desire was a hot blade in her insides and she pulled him closer.

"Expertly she guided him, her body accommodating itself to the savage lance of his manhood while the world spun around them in a riot of sensation. After a long blissful moment, she whispered in his ear, 'Have you ever been loved by a gypsy?'"

"'No.'

"'Then it’s a new experience.' Her body slammed furiously against his, arching and straining, alive with passion, sweeping them both into a vortex of renewed feeling."

Author Owen, one of the many alter egos of Dudley Dean McGaughy, who had a rather prolific career in the western pulps but also dabbled in lurid crime fiction, with titles like Three for Passion, Deuce for Death, and No Empty Bed for Her. And Owen's over-heated take on the only Danish kaiju-eiga was a large part of producer Sidney Pink's counter-suit against American International's breach of contract claims over the complete lack of watchability of Pink's film as completed. Want more evidence? Okay...

"He put his face between her breasts. 'We don’t know how long it will be before Reptilicus is sighted over Copenhagen, but until he is, let’s make every moment count.'

"She was stroking his back. For only a moment did she playfully resist, then she brought him close, hugging him to her, reveling in the riotous sweep of his hands on her naked flesh, instinctively shifting and moving her body to accommodate him.

"It was as if he had touched something electric deep within her. For now her whole body seemed to come alive. He felt himself completely enveloped and from his mind fled all thoughts of Reptilicus, of danger, of everything save this woman who was all female, all savage wanting, bringing him to a fruition of pleasurable feeling such as he’d never known."

There's more, believe me, with Grayson, Svend, Karen and Lise all happily boinking away, making one wonder which *ahem* spitting lizard was more dangerous, here. And for my sanity, and yours, I think I'll skip the not one, but two, attempted rape scenes during the battle for Copenhagen.

So ... Was it good for you, too?

Credit where credit is due: Many thanks to Steve Bissette, namely his blog, where most of the quotes for this tribute were cobbled from. And for more on the history of this sordid chapter of B-Movie-dom, click on over and read his exhaustive 8-part take on the same.