Mark of the Witch (1970)

As all cinemaniacs know, not every bad movie is created equal. Some steal time from viewers and offer nothing in return. Others, such as Mark of the Witch, present a more equitable bargain. Those willing to give this terrible movie 84 minutes of attention are rewarded with entertainingly cheesy performances, endless kitschy ’70s texture, and hilariously stupid storytelling. Mark of the Witch is that special kind of bad movie made by people who surely thought they were making a good movie. (Note that director Tom Moore gave up directing after this debut effort and embarked on a respectable career as a TV producer—he knew when to declare defeat.) Mark of the Witch opens in the 1600s, when a witch curses her accusers before getting hanged for heresy. Three centuries later, one of her tormentors’ descendants is a college professor who unwisely leads his students in a séance. The witch’s spirit enters the body of girl-next-door coed Jill (Anitra Walsh), who then—well, it’s hard to say exactly what she does. Instead of wreaking havoc, the witch politely asks for instructions about how to navigate the modern world, leading to a demonstration of how a coffee percolator works. At some point, Jill has a supernatural freakout while the witch inside her summons Satan, who apparently needs to see Jill’s breasts to know the witch is serious. Eventually, the teacher and Jill’s boyfriend perform what can only be described a s disco exorcism, complete with flashing lights and swirling camera moves. It’s all quite goofy, and for some reason the picture is mostly shot in the bright, flat lighting style of a TV sitcom. Yet there’s a certain sincerity here, as demonstrated by this unusual text in the opening credits: “Title rune written by Anitra Walsh.” From start to finish, Mark of the Witch is endearingly ridiculous.

Mark of the Witch: LAME

The Hitchhikers (1972)

Another odd exploitation movie from married filmmakers Beverly and Ferd Sebastian, The Hitchhikers mixes the distasteful little-girl-lost subgenre with the equally tawdry criminal-cult subgenre. Oh, and the movie also features an extended scene of a gruesome illegal abortion. On some level, perhaps the Sebastians thought they were engaging with serious social issues, and, indeed, some scenes in The Hitchhikers feel sincere. Yet the movie also contains catfights, topless shots, and vignettes of sexy girls standing on the sides of country roads and flashing their panties to get the attention of male drivers. Only the most sophisticated filmmakers can get away with blending exploitation-flick sensationalism with social-drama heaviosity, and the Sebastians have never been accused of demonstrating sophistication. The movie starts in the usual way, with a pretty young girl leaving home because some boy got her in trouble. Maggie (Misty Rowe) has the requisite ugly encounter with a trucker when a dude plies her with food and transportation before demanding sex and raping her when she refuses. Eventually, Maggie falls in with a group of hippies who reside in a ghost town—deliberate shades of the Manson family—and participates in their scheme of robbing men gullible enough to stop their cars when girls show a little skin. Painfully slow and thematically void, The Hitchhikers nearly holds the viewer’s attention simply because it seems as if the plot threads might eventually converge in an interesting way, but of course they never do.

The Hitchhikers: LAME

Where’s Willie? (1978)

          Wholesome family entertainment somewhat in the Disney style, low-budget action/comedy Where’s Willie? tracks the adventures of an eight-year-old computer genius during a time when computers were still novelties. The movie is drab and obvious and saccharine, but it’s also fairly imaginative, and, in a bumbling sort of way, it expresses the worthy theme of parents learning to recognize their children as individuals. So while most contemporary viewers would find this picture a tough sit thanks to the cutesy vibe and the weak leading performance by juvenile player Marc Gilpin, folks of a certain age might enjoy the film as a throwback to a simpler time. What’s more, although the onscreen gadgetry requires a significant suspension of disbelief, Where’s Willie? is more palatable than some actual Disney movies with similar themes because it doesn’t edge into ridiculous fantasy. (Translation: Nobody transforms into an animal or travels through time.)

          In generic small-town America, kindly Sheriff Charlie Wade (Henry Darrow) and his wife, Beth (Katherine Woodville), raise their son, Willie, who becomes more of a handful with each passing year. Thanks to his natural affinity for electronics, he constantly invents gadgets, some for practical purposes (e.g., a self-driving lawnmower) and some for pure boyish mischief. Willie confounds neighbors by messing with traffic lights, causing a huge traffic jam, and by tweaking the clocks at school, triggering an early dismissal of students. Willie’s parents try imposing discipline, but the boy misinterprets their reactions as a message his parents don’t want him, so he runs away, the first of many misadventures.

         Nothing in Where’s Willie? generates much in the way of narrative surprise, but of course that’s not really the point of a movie like this one. The idea is to reaffirm such concepts as family values, the importance of imagination, and the need for civic responsibility. It’s all quite vanilla, to the extreme that at one point during Willie’s prolonged absence from his hometown, a neighbor says to Charlie: “Everybody loves that boy in spite of his computer tricks.” It feels callous to criticize a movie of this sort unless it becomes sanctimonious or stupid, which Where’s Willie? never does. Accordingly, the fact that Where’s Willie? never becomes anything truly special seems almost irrelevant.

Where’s Willie?: FUNKY

Terror at Red Wolf Inn (1972)

A common complaint about horror movies is that plots often hinge on stupid protagonists. Rarely will you encounter a character dumber than doomed coed Regina (Linda Gillen). One day, she receives a letter indicating that she won an all-expenses-paid vacation. Without telling anyone where she’s going, Regina boards a private plane for a trip to Red Wolf Inn, a beachside mansion where the only other guests are two other young women. The proprietors are friendly seniors Evelyn (Mary Jackson) and Henry (Arthur Space), who receive help from their handsome grandson, Baby John (John Neilson). Life at the Red Wolf Inn is dull but relaxing, marked by epic meals at which everyone eats till they’re nauseous. How many red flags does Regina ignore? Consider a moment she shares with Baby John on the beach. He spots a small shark in the tide, grabs the fish, and bashes it repeatedly against a log, yelling “Shark!” with each stroke. Finally he drops the dead fish onto the sand and punches it several times before turning to Regina and saying, “I think I love you.” Regina also overlooks the fact that Evelyn and Henry prevent her from peeking inside a giant walk-in refrigerator. If you can’t figure out that the proprietors are cannibals fattening up their victims, then you’ve never seen a horror movie. Yet the folks who made Terror at Red Wolf Inn seem to think they’re preparing the audience for a shocking surprise, because the movie is halfway over before the bloodshed begins. Although the picture benefits from imaginative cinematography, the music is anemic, the performances are uneven (Jackson and Space are enjoyably creepy, but the young ladies underwhelm), and the climax is ridiculous. Do yourself a favor and skip this meal.

Terror at Red Wolf Inn: LAME

The Love Butcher (1975)

Employing the familiar device of a killer with two personalities, low-budget horror flick The Love Butcher has enough campy elements that some scenes achieve a pleasant so-bad-it’s-good frisson. After all, it’s hard to completely dislike a picture in which a stud says to his latest conquest, “You’re going to make love to me. Satiate me. Fill me with nymphoid satisfaction. And then you’ll lie at the foot of my altar and adore my godly beauty.” James Lemp plays Caleb, a bald, semi-deformed gardener with Coke-bottle glasses and rotted teeth. He tends greens for middle-class families, methodically identifying where pretty housewives reside. Then he switches to his other identity, Lester, a hunk with a thick head of hair (courtesy of various wigs), to seduce and kill the housewives. Between murderous episodes, Caleb/Lester engages in weird one-sided arguments, his Caleb personality challenging Lester’s virility while Lester mocks Caleb’s ugliness. The Caleb disguise isn’t convincing, so every character who buys into the illusion seems like an idiot. Also coming across as dim are the folks investigating the murders, including cops and a reporter, because Caleb is obviously the common denominator at the crime scenes. Still, most folks don’t watch schlocky horror movies for logic, so it’s more damning that The Love Butcher fails to generate thrills. Blame the clumsy filmmaking and dopey script, as well as Lemp’s limp performance(s). In one scene, Lemp looks up and the film cuts to an insert of a cloudy daytime sky—even though the scene in question takes place at night. And during what’s supposed to be an emotional high point, the film repeatedly cuts to a painting of a dog for no apparent reason. Perhaps the editor was overcome with nymphoid satisfaction.

The Love Butcher: LAME

Romance of a Horsethief (1971)

          One lesson every professional critic learns early is to compartmentalize personal reactions, because the way a critic responds to art should be just one component of a review. Just as important is consideration of intentions. Part of the critic’s job is to imagine how the people most sympathetic to the type of art in question might respond. Case in point: Romance of a Horsethief. I didn’t dig the movie, but I recognize how other people might. A multinational production set in early 20th-century Poland, the movie has a little bit of everything, because some scenes are adventurous, some are comedic, some are dramatic, and some, as the title promises, are romantic. The acting and production values are respectable, and there’s an appealing humanism to the way the film treats its characters. Yet the story is so diffuse that I couldn’t engage with the film on any meaningful level.

          The title character is Zanvill (Oliver Tobias), who steals horses alongside the older Kifke (Eli Wallach). They live in a small Jewish village. One day, regional military official Captain Stoloff (Yul Brynner) orders the seizure of all the village’s horses for military use. Doing so triggers intrigue and reprisals. Meanwhile, unrelated strife results from parents in the village trying to manage their kids’ love lives. Then wealthy Naomi (Jane Birkin) returns from travels abroad with ideas about rebelling against authority. Once all the storylines converge, Naomi’s dalliance with Zanvill escalates the conflict between villagers and Captain Stoloff’s troops into a mini-revolution.

          Tracking all the comings and goings of the plot is exhausting, and it’s no surprise Romance of a Horsethief was adapted from a novel. The book was penned by Joseph Opatoshu, whose son, the fine  actor David Opatoshu, wrote the script for this movie and plays a supporting role. It’s tempting to conjecture that he felt obligated to use everything his father created. Be that as it may, only some of what happens in Romance of a Horsethief is interesting, and it’s hard to tell whether the appeal stems entirely from the presence of charismatic actors. Not a single participant in this movie delivers exemplary work, though many—Brynner, Opatoshu, Wallach, costar Lainie Kazan—elevate individual scenes. That all of the Birkin-Tobias scenes fall flat says a lot, seeing as how they’re the movie’s least interesting performers. Viewers interested in the experiences of European Jews may find Romance of a Horsethief illuminating from a historical perspective, but viewers craving standard-issue period romance will be disappointed. While not a bad movie by any measure, Romance of a Horsethief is thoroughly underwhelming.

Romance of a Horsethief: FUNKY

The Incredible Sarah (1976)

          Not long after winning two Oscars for Best Actress in quick succession, Glenda Jackson agreed to star in a biopic about Sarah Bernhardt (1844–1923), often described as one of the greatest actress who ever lived. To be fair, Bernhardt led an eventful life suitable for cinematic treatment, but undoubtedly some folks interpreted Jackson’s assumption of the role as a tacit declaration that she considered herself Bernhardt’s equal or even her superior. Watching The Incredible Sarah today, however, one isn’t struck by any sense of Jackson indulging an artistic ego. Rather, one is struck by the overall mediocrity of the movie. Jackson is excellent, though perhaps not as transformative as one might have expected given the synchronicity between singer and song, metaphorically speaking. However, the film around her is formulaic and pedestrian. Nonetheless, a brisk script, competent supporting performances, and lush production values—in tandem with Jackson’s work—keep the film palatable.

          The Incredible Sarah begins with the title character as a young woman in Paris, making her first audition to the legendary Comédie-Française theater company. Right away, she stands out by reciting prose instead of playing a scene, so she earns a place in the company. Soon afterward, Sarah clashes with the company’s resident diva, Madame Nathalie (Margaret Courtenay), who insists on using blocking and line readings that have been in place for years. Sarah’s desire to reinterpret text leads to an onstage shoving match. And so it goes from there. During Sarah’s early years, her willfulness infuriates small-minded people and inspires true artists. She offends royalty, scandalizes her parents, and generally becomes a notorious figure. She also demonstrates eccentricity by keeping pet monkeys and napping in a coffin. Sarah’s love life proves as tumultuous as her temper proves volcanic, so the dramatic line of the picture involves the question of whether the public can forgive Sarah’s offstage extremes long enough to savor the magic she creates onstage.

          If there was any pointed parallel to be made between Bernhardt’s life and the difficulties of contemporary strong-minded actresses, the makers of The Incredible Sarah failed to recognize the opportunity. At its worst, the movie is a clichéd underdog story reducing Bernhardt to a collection of moods and quirks—even though the clarity of Jackson’s characterization elevates the picture, there’s only so much she can do. It’s an obvious remark to note that Jackson fans will enjoy The Incredible Sarah more than other viewers, so perhaps it’s more useful to note that fans of showbiz stories in general might enjoy the picture, even though it’s shallow and trite.

The Incredible Sarah: FUNKY

The Swinging Barmaids (1975)

          When collaborating with producer Roger Corman, writer Charles B. Griffith often infused B-movies with an offbeat brand of social satire. When operating beyond Corman’s influence, however, Griffith frequently succumbed to lesser impulses. And so it goes with The Swinging Barmaids, a befuddling exploitation flick revolving around sexy women who sling drinks at a joint called the Swing-a-Ling. The movie is perplexing because it has aspects of respectable filmmaking, inasmuch as nudity is kept to a minimum and lip service is paid to workplace issues. The barmaids fret about grabby customers and sore feet, and one barmaid notes that she’s been able to put her boyfriend through medical school by letting drunks objectify her. Yet The Swinging Barmaids—a misnomer of a title, since none of the women sleeps around—isn’t about the plight of put-upon women. It’s about a nutter who gets off by killing them and photographing their corpses.

          The Swinging Barmaids gets darker and darker as it goes along, which is saying a lot seeing as how the picture opens with an uncomfortably lengthy real-time sequence of a dude stalking and slaughtering a busty blonde. (This first victim is played by sex-movie queen Dyanne Thorne.) Once the plot gets moving, B-movie stalwart William Smith joins the mix as the lead police detective on the case, though he doesn’t do much of anything until the grim climax. Receiving most of the focus is curvy waitress Jenny (Laura Hippe), the one with the boyfriend in medical school. Griffith’s script gives Jenny a fair amount of dimension, at least compared to the non-people one normally encounters in this sort of picture, but Griffith’s efforts are not sufficient to create any sort of emotional involvement.

          In lieu of proper drama, the picture becomes a ticking-clock scenario while the killer works his way through other victims on his way to Jenny. Even scenes of the killer covertly interacting with the barmaids once he talks his way into a job as a bouncer at the Swing-a-Ling feel like filler between murders. Regarding those murders, they’re rendered in a fairly restrained fashion, excepting the nasty opening kill. So even though it would be a huge stretch to describe The Swinging Barmaids as worthwhile cinema, the picture isn’t as relentlessly hateful as the usual women-in-peril grindhouse offering.

The Swinging Barmaids: FUNKY

Runaway, Runaway (1972)

          Given how attitudes toward the LGBTQI experience have changed for the better in the decades since this movie was made, it seems appropriate to offer two different reviews of Runaway, Runaway, sometimes known by the more succinct title The Runaway. From a 2017 perspective, the picture is problematic because it conveys a “straight is great” perspective. But from a 1972 perspective, the movie seems fairly sensitive. What’s more, I confess affinity for any film in which singular B-movie actor William Smith plays something other than a cretin. He’s only about the third-most-important character here, but he approaches a tricky role gently, adding a welcome nuance of evolved masculinity. To be clear, none of these remarks should suggest that Runaway, Runaway is something other than what it is, a low-budget melodrama with sensationalistic elements. The point is merely that it’s a better and more humane picture than it needed to be, despite trashy advertising materials suggesting something just shy of porn.

          After Ricki (Gilda  Texter) leaves her home in some ghastly Southwestern trash heap of a town, she hitches rides and gets abused and molested until meeting Frank (Smith), an East Coast private investigator traveling to California for work. He empathizes with her desire to find herself, and he never makes a pass at her because Ricki says she’s got a guy waiting for her in Los Angeles. Upon reaching L.A., Ricki searches for her boyfriend and falls in with various hippies until accepting an offer of lodging from Lorri (Rita Murray), a sophisticated prostitute. They embark on a hot-and-cold relationship that culminates with Ricki acquiescing to Lorri’s aggressive come-ons out of curiosity. How the story evolves from there further complicates the movie’s statements about gender identity.

          Writer-director Bickford Otis Webber, who never made another movie—instead embarking on a career as a Hollywood music editor—doesn’t evince any special cinematic skill here. Nonetheless, he approaches elements that might have been sleazy with taste, for instance shooting a scene of Lorri and Ricki frolicking nude on a beach from a distance with a long lens. And while the story’x conclusion hits the aforementioned “straight is great” note in a disturbingly definitive way, Bickford otherwise avoids judgmental rhetoric. So even though this is far too minor a film to merit a place in cinematic history, Runaway, Runaway is refreshingly open-minded in many of its particulars—from a 1972 perspective.

Runaway, Runaway: FUNKY

Maxie (1973)

Whatever happened behind the scenes of this oddity must be more interesting than what happens onscreen. Writer-director Paulmichel Mielche, who never made another fiction film, attracted some of the folks from Francis Ford Coppola’s filmmaking collective to work on his crew, and three respectable actors—Talia Shire, Vic Tayback, and Robert Walden—appear in the picture. Perhaps Mielche talked a good game about the picture he intended to make. Or perhaps some in the American Zoetrope crowd dug the idea of playing with exploitation-film elements. Whatever the case, Maxie—later sensationally but not inaccurately renamed The Butchers—is interminable. The story revolves around Maxie (K.T. Baumann), a young girl who cannot speak but helps make money for her small family by delivering newspapers. One day, she spots neighborhood butcher Smedke (Tayback) and his simple assistant, Finn (Walden), taking delivery of human corpses. Finn and Smedke spend the rest of the movie debating whether they should be worried about what Maxie saw. In a subplot, Shire plays a social worker eager to get Maxie into a speech-therapy program. Riddled with confusing transitions and pointless scenes, Maxie trudges along so slowly that it’s incorrect to describe the film as badly paced—it has no pace whatsoever. Shire and Walden play a few moments sincerely, and Tayback incarnates a stereotype loudly. But by the zillionth time Mielche cuts to weird shots of chickens and meat grinders, you’ll be more than ready for Maxie to end—that is, if you haven’t taken the wiser course of avoiding the movie entirely.

Maxie: SQUARE

Joyride to Nowhere (1977)

Yet another entry in the seedy little-girl-lost genre that flowered in movies and TV during the late ’70s, Joyride to Nowhere hits the trifecta of rotten acting, rotten production values, and rotten storytelling, so the only viewers likely to enjoy this dreck are those who relish cinematic ineptitude and/or those who enjoy watching the degradation of young women. Curvy high-school girls Cindy (Sandy Alan) and Leah (Leslie Ackerman), both of whom sport terrible Farrah Fawcett hairstyles, leave their turbulent homes for an adventure on the road. First they have a comical encounter with Charlie (Len Lesser), a lecherous potato-chip salesman, and then they tangle with Tank (Mel Welles), a rotund mobster. (Lesser is mildly amusing; Welles is not.) After he plies them with drinks and expensive food, Tank brings the girls home expecting carnal payback, but they distract him long enough to steal one of his cars—which just happens to contain $2 million in cash. Had someone like Roger Corman produced Joyride to Nowhere, the getaway scene might have happened 15 minutes into the running time, transforming the rest of the picture into a zippy chase. Alas, the folks behind Joyride to Nowhere—including costar Welles, who helped write and direct the picture—overestimated the entertainment value of their predictable situations and vapid characters. There’s only so much fun to be had watching dumb people do dumb things. Oh, and good luck figuring out why Joyride to Nowhere stops dead for a lengthy muscle-car exhibition.

Joyride to Nowhere: LAME

The Stoolie (1972)

          Usually the presence of two directors in the credits for a movie is a sign of trouble, unless the directors are siblings or spouses, because it’s likely someone got fired partway through the process. Yet every so often, there’s a movie like The Stoolie, which bears no obvious traces of behind-the-scenes friction despite being helmed by John G. Avildsen and George Silano. (Best guess: Established filmmaker Avildsen replaced Silano, a cinematographer making his fiction directorial debut.) Anyway, The Stoolie includes the first starring role for stand-up comedian Jackie Mason, also the film’s executive producer. Although never a major screen star, he’s been a beloved figure on the comedy circuit for decades, and The Stoolie is a perfect vehicle for his deadpan shtick. It’s interesting to contemplate what path Mason’s career might have followed if The Stoolie had found an audience.

          He plays Roger Pitman, a low-rent criminal/informer in New York City. Normally, Roger gets paid by the NYPD to rat on fellow crooks, but one day he pulls a fast one—after swiping $7,500 in NYPD front money, Roger skips town for Miami. This doesn’t sit well with his handler, Sgt. Alex Brogan (Dan Frazer), who vows to track down Roger and recover the cash. But first Roger, to whom life has never been kind, enjoys a brief adventure. Hanging out at Miami nightclubs and resorts, he tries to score with ladies, most of whom tell him to drop dead, until he ends up in a diner next to the equally melancholy Sylvia (Babette New). An unlikely romance begins, though Roger is hesitant to explain his background. (“I don’t want to tell you too much about myself,” he says. "I don’t want to lose you this early in the relationship.”) Eventually, Brogan discerns Roger’s whereabouts, and that’s when the story takes an unexpected turn.

          Grounded in solid character work and infused with low-key humor, The Stoolie isn’t for everyone’s taste. Some will find Roger too mopey, Sylvia too naïve, and Brogan too one-dimensional. All true. Yet for those who lock into the movie’s groove—which is really Mason’s groove, all “why does everything happen to me?” kvetching—The Stoolie is quite enjoyable. Some nasty things happen, some sweet things happen, and through it all, Roger struggles to grab whatever dignity and happiness he can. So while this movie is hardly on par with the great offbeat character studies of the ’70s, it at least communicates with roughly the same idiom as those films. And despite the split director credit, it also ranks alongside Avildsen’s most satisfying comedies. Go figure.

The Stoolie: GROOVY

Savage Weekend (1979)

It’s hard to say which scene epitomizes Savage Weekend. Is it the moment when a woman gets aroused while pumping milk from a cow’s teats? Or is it the vignette of a gay man getting such a twisted thrill by watching straight people have sex that he grips barbed wire till his hands bleed? Although lots of vaguely provocative things happen in Savage Weekend, the movie as a whole is befuddling, dull, and even a little bit pretentious. Like most pictures with similar subject matter, Savage Weekend—also known as The Upstate Murders—contains many ugly episodes of violence against women, as well as a generally perverse fixation on brutality. Yet unlike, say, John Carpenter’s Halloween (1978), this flick isn’t made with sufficient aptitude to merit either close examination or righteous indignation. It’s just another hack job by folks who, conceivably, could have made something worthwhile if they’d pulled their minds out of the cinematic gutter. Oh, well. The plot involves a group of friends, all professional people well into adulthood, trekking from New York City to an upstate forest for a weekend getaway. As they play out various psychosexual dramas, a crazed killer with a penchant for weird masks murders them one by one. A generous viewer might say there’s novelty here, since the victims aren’t kids and one of the characters is gay, but such generosity seems wasted given that Savage Weekend is a shapeless compendium of gore and smut, none of it exciting to watch. But, hey, maybe you like the idea of seeing future Newhart star William Sanderson portray a rural psychotic. In that case, however,  you’re better off watching him in 1977’s race-relations potboiler Fight for Your Life, which is even sleazier and a whole lot more coherent.

Savage Weekend: LAME

The Redeemer: Son of Satan! (1978)

          Those who enjoy the bizarre horror movies of Don Coscarelli (especially 1979’s Phantasm) might also enjoy The Redeemer: Son of Satan! Fitting the overheated title, this peculiar low-budget shocker has both allegorical and artistic elements, suggesting that writer William Vernick and director Constantine S. Gochis envisioned something deep and metaphorical, rather than just a parade of bloody kills. That they didn’t achieve their goal is almost beside the point. Like one of Coscarelli’s strange pictures, The Redeemer has lots of interesting (if half-baked) ideas, as well as a generally surrealistic vibe. It’s perhaps giving the filmmakers too much credit to say The Redeemer feels like a transcript of a nightmare, since some plot components are straightforward, but I found myself paying fairly close attention simply because I was curious to see whether everything came together in the end. It didn’t, at least not in any way I could recognize, but the journey was somewhat interesting nonetheless.

          Broadly, the story has something to do with a supernatural figure punishing a bunch of people who were jerks in high school by luring them back to the school for a reunion and murdering them, one by one, in elaborate ways. There’s also some weird business about a supernatural child who emerges from a lake, as well as a recurring motif tracking how the moral scales are rebalanced with each successive death. Parts of The Redeemer resemble a standard-issue gorefest, as when a knife drops from a ceiling and stabs deep into a victim’s head. Other parts are symbolic, like the sequences with a killer who wears a skull mask and swings a scythe. And then there are moments that seem not to make any sense at all. (Watch out for a frozen corpse and maggots and other unpleasant images.) The acting is meh, not a big deal given the shallow characterizations, and the fact that Gochis never made another movie correctly indicates the limitations of his skillset. Still, in a cinematic landscape filled with pointlessly ugly horror movies, anything with a hint of serious intent deserves praise for treating the genre as something more than a vehicle for cheap thrills.

The Redeemer: Son of Satan!: FUNKY

Thank You!

Greetings to readers Roger B., Jeffrey R., Greg L., Matthew M., and Peter R., all of whom recently made much-appreciated donations to Every ’70s Movie. This money goes toward tracking down hard-to-find titles and helping to realize this blog’s goal of reviewing as many films from the ’70s as possible. (The donors’ last names have been withheld in order to protect them from spammers.) As I mentioned in a special post earlier this month, this blog recently entered its final stage after celebrating seven years of continuous publication. The current seven-reviews-a-week format, in place since October of 2010, will run its course by March of next year, perhaps sooner. Meantime, there are still titles to see—a few of which are only available for purchase—so every little bit of support to help fulfill this blog’s mission is welcome. Thanks again!

The Invincible Six (1970)

          To calibrate expectations appropriately, this Magnificent Seven knockoff takes place in Iran, and Elke Sommer—yes, the curvy German ice queen—plays a local, at one point fretting to an American tough guy, “You foreigners are so slow to learn our Persian ways.” Whatever you say, fräulein. Low-budget junk featuring a hodgepodge of second-rate international actors, The Invincible Six is borderline watchable, because after the confusing and dull first act, things resolve into a familiar formula, with a gang of crooks joining forces to defend a village against a local menace. Although the storytelling never takes flight, thanks to laughably thin characterizations and substandard plotting, the screen eventually fills with explosions, gunfights, and macho standoffs. Oh, and Sommer does a topless scene, but given the déclassé context, that shouldn’t come as much of a surprise. As for the aforementioned international actors, American leading man Stuart Whitman gets the most screen time, and the supporting players include James Mitchum, Germany’s Curd Jürgens, and England’s Ian Ogilvy.

          The picture starts off, awkwardly, with a heist, because Tex (Whitman) and Ronald (Ogilvy) try to boost Iran’s crown jewels. That doesn’t work out, so they become fugitives, eventually connecting with Baron (Jürgens) and other lowlifes in the Iranian desert. The gang finds refuge in a village perpetually besieged by marauder Nazar (Mitchum) and his goons. Around this time viewers meet Zari (Sommer), who switches allegiances from one powerful man to the next, thereby forming a credibility-stretching romantic triangle with Nazar and Tex. Or something like that. Directed indifferently by Jean Negulesco, who won an Oscar in the ’40s but was far past his prime here, The Invincible Six was edited in a slapdash manner, so never mind trying to follow the particulars of the story. Better to shut off your brain and enjoy the dumb barrage of sex and violence. However, if you have the slightest inkling you can live without The Invincible Six, then rest assured you can.

The Invincible Six: FUNKY

Stingray (1978)

          Lighthearted action/comedy silliness with amiable young heroes, colorful villains, a fast-moving storyline, and a smidgen of nasty violence, Stingray hits pleasure centers without actually engaging viewer’s brains. At 100 minutes, it’s a big long for a dopey romp, and none would ever mistake leading man Christopher Mitchum—son of Robert—for a fine actor. That said, Stingray may well contain the most enjoyable performance ever given by Sherry Jackson, a ’50s child star who grew up to become an alluring starlet in TV shows and B-movies of the ’60s and ’70s. (Fans of a certain age may recall her eye-popping appearance in a barely-there costume during a goofy episode of the original Star Trek series.) In Stingray, Jackson plays an all-business criminal with a psychotic streak, and she leans into the role so winningly that it’s a wonder her work here didn’t lead to better opportunities.

          The simple plot begins when crooks dump something into a Corvette Stingray on a used-car lot just before they’re arrested. Two young guys, Al (Mitchum) and Elmo (Les Lannom), buy the car soon afterward, unaware of the illicit cargo. Enter Abigail Bratowski (Jackson), the crooks’ ruthless boss, who first appears disguised as a nun even though she’s smoking and swearing up a storm. Myriad episodes of high-speed pursuit ensue, with interludes of bar fights and shootouts and the like. Through it all, Abigail is consistently fierce, knocking off bystanders and enemies while spewing lines of this sort: “Roscoe, hand me that clip of explosive shells!”

          Some sequences in Stingray are dull and others are dumb, because every so often the filmmakers forget the sort of picture they’re making and try to present something serious. Happily, they usually snap back to form before too long. And while no one in the cast besides Jackson really pops, everyone hits the right one-dimensional notes, as when portly Cliff Emmich, playing one of the villains, freaks out in a forest and shoots his gun at irksome mosquitoes. Better still, Mitchum and Lammon get to play a cartoonishly suspenseful scene together in the finale. Until then, it’s all about Jackson incarnating a sexy badass.

Stingray: FUNKY

My Lover, My Son (1970)

          Seeing as how My Lover, My Son is more of a melodrama than a mystery-thriller, the way the title reveals a central narrative conceit isn’t problematic. After all, beautiful Francesca (Romy Schneider) lavishes inappropriate attention on her adult son, James (Dennis Waterman), within the first few minutes of the picture. What ensues is partly a study of the psychosexual wounds that provoked the incestuous affair and partly a potboiler about the extremes to which circumstances drive the participants in the relationship. That the picture climaxes with a sensationalistic murder trial gives some idea of the vibe, though My Lover, My Son leavens its lurid elements with a somewhat meditative approach. Although the picture doesn’t work, it periodically draws viewers into the minds of Francesca, so traumatized by past tragedy that she can’t tell right from wrong, and James, hopelessly torn between his abnormal fixation on his mother and his regular-dude impulses to begin a romance with a woman his own age. And since the film is impressive in terms of acting and technical execution, nearly all the faults reside in the murky storyline.

          Things get off to a cloudy start with a weird dream sequence/flashback/hallucination during which Francesca recalls the death of her lover, who dove into a pond and cracked his head on something underwater. In the present, Francesca fixates on James, whom we later learn is the son of the lover she lost. Meanwhile, Francesca’s husband, a traveling businessman very much worried about social perception, snaps once Francesca begins making public displays with her son, such as dancing way too close in a nightclub. The story wanders in other directions, notably to James’ troubled relationship with pretty blonde Julie (Patricia Blake), but a violent crime ultimately forces mother and son to deal with the repercussions of their intimate involvement. Schneider’s elegant presence elevates the material, if only slightly, and some viewers may find themselves ensnared by the movie’s engagement with big topics ranging from bereavement to destiny. It’s a heady mix of themes, no matter how clumsy the storytelling.

My Lover, My Son: FUNKY