Deranged (1974)

          Despite being one of American history’s most notorious serial killers, Ed Gein didn’t amass a huge body count, as Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer did. Yet Gein’s desecration of corpses remains a subject of morbid fascination. Before actually killing people (he was convicted of two murders), Gein exhumed bodies and transformed them into home decorations, masks, and other items; he also propped corpses in chairs as if he believed he could communicate with them. When discovered by police in 1957, Gein’s Wisconsin home was the quintessential chamber of horrors. The long shadow that Gein has cast over popular culture began in 1959, when Robert Bloch published the novel Psycho, featuring a fictional killer inspired by Gein. Hitchcock’s legendary film adaptation of Bloch’s book followed a year later. Then, in 1974, two very different movies presented fictionalized versions of Gein. Tobe Hooper’s The Texas Chainsaw Massacre transformed Gein into the superhuman monster known as Leatherface, while the American-Canadian coproduction Deranged re-created the grisly highlights of Gein’s crime spree, changing the locations and names. Hooper’s movie is superior on every level excerpt for veracity, but Deranged is noteworthy as the most faithful telling of Gein’s tale up to the time of its release.

          Cowritten and codirected by Alan Ormsby, an eclectic film professional who later wrote the charming youth saga My Bodyguard (1982), Deranged is presented as a quasi-mockumentary. Reporter Tom Sims (Leslie Carlson) appears onscreen periodically to provide melodramatic commentary, and dramatic scenes are shot in an unglamorous style. When the movie begins, fiftysomething simpleton Ezra Cobb (Roberts Blossom) sits at the deathbed of his beloved mother (Cosette Lee), a Bible-thumping loony who has convinced her son that all women are whores. (“The wages of sin is gonorrhea, syphilis, and death!”) When she dies, Ezra descends into grief and madness, so a year later, he digs up Dear Old Mom’s corpse. Ezra studies taxidermy to help preserve the body, and then starts robbing graves for replacement parts. As he becomes more and more detached from reality, Ezra escalates to kidnapping and killing women, so by the end of his cycle, he’s a monster who walks around wearing a mask made of human skin, using a thigh bone to bang a drum made from a human stomach.

          Deranged isn’t particularly scary, but the gross-out factor is high, and it’s impossible not to get nervous when Ezra lures unsuspecting women into his lair. Excepting perhaps the grotesque makeup and production design, Blossom is the best thing about this inexpensive and sensationalistic project. Twitchy and wiry, Blossom had a long and relatively undistinguished career, occasionally landing great supporting roles (as in 1979’s Escape from Alcatraz) in between bit parts. Throughout Deranged, he’s effectively off-kilter, bulging his eyes and pursing his lips in a disorienting way. And if his performance sometimes seems overwrought, one need merely remember how detached the real Gein grew from everyday human experience. Even though Deranged is way too gory and sleazy to pass muster as a real movie, the adherence to facts (more or less) gives it a smidgen more credibility than the average drive-in shocker.

Deranged: FUNKY

Waterloo (1970)

          Making elaborate historical epics is often a lose-lose scenario. Not only do these films require such enormous budgets that a high degree of financial risk is involved, but the slightest deviations from historical facts can invoke the ire of experts. All it takes is a few highly vocal naysayers to endanger the success of a massive commercial enterprise. And here’s the kicker—even when filmmakers strive to get most of the important details right, there’s a hazard of losing the mainstream audience, because nobody buys a ticket on a Friday night to experience the equivalent of dry textbook. Given these realities, it’s no surprise that film history is filled with middling movies along the lines of Waterloo. Easily one of the most expensive films ever made at the time of its original release (costing a reported $35 million), Waterloo failed at the box office, received zero Oscar nominations, and subsequently slid into quasi-obscurity. Ironic, then, that the picture depicts one of history’s most infamous military defeats.

          Set in 1815, the picture begins with French emperor Napoleon Bonaparte (Rod Steiger) being driven from power after enemy forces reduce his domain from all of Europe to just a small part of France. Napoleon accepts defeat bitterly, and then returns from exile less than a year later with a small army of 1,000 loyal soldiers. His attempt to regain power infuriates leaders across Europe during a period referred to by historians as “The Hundred Days.” This period culminates in the Battle of Waterloo, where British commander Arthur Wellesley (Christopher Plummer), otherwise known as the Duke of Wellington, pulverizes Napoleon’s insurgent forces. Nearly half the movie’s running time comprises the battle itself, including preparations, preliminary fights, and the ultimate clash.

          Produced by Dino de Laurentiis in one of his more dignified moments, Waterloo features truly awesome production values. According to the lore surrounding the film, 17,000 Russian soldiers were used as extras during principal photography in the Ukraine (subbing for Waterloo’s real location in Belgium). Wide vistas during fight scenes are spectacular, with columns of men trailing to the horizon, and it’s exhausting just to imagine how much work went into costuming, organizing, and training this many people. Cowriter/director Sergi Bondarchuk and his collaborators strove for accuracy in the areas of formations, techniques, uniforms, weapons, and such—so, from a technical standpoint, the combat scenes are nearly unassailable.

          However, the movie’s dramatic scenes are not as effective. Juicy story threads regarding the shifting allegiances of France’s Field Marshal Ney (Dan O’Herlihy) and the political machinations of French King Louis XVIII (Orson Welles) are undernourished, while a silly romantic subplot involving a British officer adds nothing to the narrative. The filmmakers try to parallel the psychological states of Napoleon and Wellington, but the gimmick never quite works; while Steiger contributes a characteristically overripe performance (envision lots of howling in pain), Plummer is chilly and remote. That said, the debonair Plummer is at his best when delivering such absurdly aristocratic lines as, “Commanders in battle have something better to do than shoot at each other.”

          Ultimately, Waterloo is an unsatisfactory hybrid. It’s not elevated enough to reach the level of cinematic literature (read: David Lean), and yet it’s too educational and mechanical to qualify as pulp entertainment. Even acknowledging that history buffs will find more to enjoy here than general audiences, it seems fair to say that Waterloo’s shortcomings are as prominent as its virtues.

Waterloo: FUNKY

Lucan (1977)

          Long ago, I stopped trying to understand why certain pop-culture artifacts have remained lodged in my cranium for decades. Instead, I just embrace my indiscriminate nostalgia. For example, I must have enjoyed watching episodes of a short-lived ’70s series called Lucan, about a boy who was raised by wolves, because I’ve remembered the damn thing for the ensuing 40-ish years. Having recently tracked down and the series’ feature-length pilot episode, I’m happy to report that it’s not awful, even if the reasons why Lucan never became a hit are plainly evident. The central notion of the show was simply too gentle and small. Picking up Lucan’s story after 10 years of living in civilization, the pilot introduces him as a Kwai Chang Caine-type nomad, helping people as he tries to understand the strange ways of modern man.

          Written by series creator Michael Zagor, the pilot begins with voice-over and newsreel footage explaining that Lucan was abandoned in a Minnesota forest by his parents at an early age. Then he lived with wolves during a decade of feral existence. Discovered by hunters at age 10, Lucan was entrusted to the care of kindly Dr. Hoagland (John Randolph), who taught the boy language and socialization. Yet Lucan retained many wild ways, including a nocturnal sleep cycle. When the story catches up to the present, Lucan, now 20, has grown eager to seek out his birth parents. Therefore, when Dr. Hoagland is hospitalized following a car accident, Lucan hits the road. In his first adventure, he gets a job on a construction site overseen by builder Larry MacElwaine (Ned Beatty). Lucan befriends Larry’s misfit daughter, Mickey (Stockard Channing), while becoming enemies with Larry’s hardass crew foreman, Gene Boone (William Jordan).

          In short order, Lucan battles with a vicious guard dog, defeats several motorcycle-riding assailants, teaches Mickey to respect herself, and uncovers corruption. At various points, he manifests his quasi-canine nature by making slight transformations—his eyes turn yellow, his unibrow thickens, and he starts growling and pouncing. Not quite a werewolf, but close. Benefiting from terrific guest stars and a plaintive musical score, the Lucan pilot episode is a bit slow but otherwise quite earnest and watchable. There are even glimmers of humor, as when Lucan says, “I’m always tired if I don’t get a good day’s sleep.” Furthermore, star Kevin Brophy is perfectly cast, thanks to his athleticism, sincerity, and slightly primitive-looking features. Still, there’s not much cause for excitement here, so it should be considered a minor victory that Lucan became a weekly series and lasted 10 regular episodes before retiring to the great wolf den in the sky.

Lucan: FUNKY

The Last Dinosaur (1977)

          While the folks at Rankin/Bass Productions are justifiably revered for having made several beloved holiday-themed TV specials—Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (1964), and so on—Rankin/Bass also collaborated periodically with Japanese companies to make monster movies. The results of these creative unions were not pretty. In addition to the abysmal King Kong Escapes (1967) and the bizarre The Bermuda Depths (1978), Rankin/Bass helped create The Last Dinosaur, a boring creature feature in the Edgar Rice Burroughs vein. Veteran big-screen tough guy Richard Boone, giving a performance so half-assed he seems like he never rehearsed a single line, stars as super-rich oilman and big-game hunter Maston Thrust. No, seriously. Maston Thrust. Whose last name is emblazoned on jets and underground boring vehicles that look like missiles. Yes, the man’s empire features countless giant phallic objects labeled Thrust.

          Anyway, Maston announces a spectacular new expedition because one of his oil-drilling teams accidentally discovered a hidden valley inhabited by a surviving T-Rex. After disingenuously pledging to study the creature rather than kill it, Thrust and his companions—including an intrepid photojournalist (Joan Van Ark), a mute African scout (Luther Rackley), and a square-jawed scientist (Steven Keats)—head to the dinosaur’s lair. Upon arrival, they discover many prehistoric beasties, as well as a tribe of primitive humans. The less said about the film’s dramatic scenes, the better, since the only thing worse than the acting is the patronizingly stupid writing. (“Maston, please, you’ve done all anyone could, and you’ve been magnificent,” Van Ark says breathlessly at one point. “But let the dinosaur go—it’s the last one!”) The monster scenes are no improvement. Actors in rubber suits flounce around elaborate scale-model sets of caves and jungles, with the leading players badly matted into the foreground.

          The Last Dinosaur is deeply dull, especially when Maury Lewis’ grating score pastiches together blues, jazz, and orchestral flavors into sonic sludge. Plus, God help us, there’s a theme song, performed by noted jazz crooner Nancy Wilson. Although released to cinemas in Japan, The Last Dinosaur originally reached American audiences as an ABC movie of the week in 1977. Whether the folks at Rankin/Bass previously envisioned a U.S. theatrical release is a mystery.

The Last Dinosaur: LAME

Rituals (1977)

          While the prospect of a Canadian thriller made in the Deliverance mode might not seem too tantalizing, there’s a lot to recommend about Rituals, which is occasionally marketed by the alternate title The Creeper. First and foremost, the movie stars the great Hal Holbrook, an actor of such sublime gifts that he’s able to make even the most outlandish material believable. Moreover, the picture is shot quite well, with director Peter Carter and cinematographer René Verzier emulating many of the visual tropes that cameraman Vilmos Zsigmond brought to Deliverance. Like the earlier film, Rituals features a carefully controlled color palette (lots of muted browns and greens), a long-lens aesthetic juxtaposing crisp foregrounds with soft backgrounds, and panoramic shots that convey the overwhelming size of the wilderness surrounding the characters. Adding to the Deliverance vibe is a horrific storyline about “civilized” men falling victim to backwoods crazies, albeit in the varied landscapes of Ontario instead of the thick Southern forests featured in Deliverance.

          In fact, had the filmmakers—including writer Ian Sutherland and producer/costar Lawrence Dane—generated a narrative equal to the picture’s technical proficiency, Rituals might be fondly remembered as a harrowing thrill ride. Alas, the script is repetitive, silly, and tedious, pitting underdeveloped leading characters against far-fetched opponents and culminating with a laughably overwrought finale. At the beginning of the story, five middle-aged doctors catch a seaplane to remote woodlands for a six-day fishing trip. Interpersonal tensions bubble under the surface until the initial weird occurrence—during the group’s first night, someone steals all of their boots. One of the men volunteers to hike to civilization and call for help, leaving the others behind. Then, in the usual way of these things, a tormentor starts tormenting. Eventually, things get gruesome, with one dude’s leg caught in a bear trap and another fellow’s decapitated human head impaled on a pike. There’s no Deliverance-style rape, but Rituals is more than sufficiently nasty.

          Meanwhile, skillful actors elevate the threadbare material. Dane, Robin Gammell, and Ken James offer highly competent work, making gallows humor and nervous tension feel real, while Holbrook’s signature style of world-weariness sets a grim mood for the whole enterprise. Holbrook also gets to embrace primitivism, Straw Dogs-style, during the ultraviolent climax. Holding the whole piece together—as much as possible, given the givens—is a genuinely creepy score by Hagood Hardy.

Rituals: FUNKY

A*P*E (1976)

Say what you will about the schlocky monster flick A*P*E, but at least the damn thing gets right down to business. After a very brief introductory scene explaining that a 36-foot-high primate has been captured, drugged, and placed in the cargo hold of a large boat, the critter breaks free, causes the boat to explode, wrestles with a giant shark, and storms through a coastal village, sparking mass destruction. All of this, plus opening credits, takes less than 10 minutes. Boom! Sadly, it’s downhill from there, and it’s not as if the original altitude was high. Made to capitalize on the hype surrounding Dino De Laurentiis’ King Kong (1976), this crapfest was shot in South Korea with American leading actors. It’s a truly wretched piece of work, presenting trite scenes of animal rampages and military responses without imagination or skill. (The effects in A*P*E wouldn’t pass muster in the worst ’70s Godzilla movie.) Yet A*P*E is weirdly compelling for a while—until boredom takes hold—simply because the tone is so peculiar. Actors perform most of their scenes casually, as if the appearance of a giant ape is not a cause for anxiety. During several sequences, the titular monster aimlessly frolics in the Korean countryside—even after military engagements, suggesting that the military somehow lost track of a 36-foot-high primate. In one memorably awful scene, a film director overseeing the work of the blonde starlet with whom the monster becomes infatuated advises the starlet’s male costar how to play a rough interaction: “Rape her gently.” (The would-be rape victim is portrayed by Joanna Kerns, appearing her under her given name, Joanna DeVarona; later in life, the wholesome-looking actress gained TV fame as the mom on the 1985-1992 sitcom Growing Pains.) And in perhaps A*P*E’s finest moment, when the monster gets riddled with bullets during the finale, the actor inside the ape suit appears to do a version of the funky chicken. Seriously, the death scene looks like a full-on dance number. Suffice to say that any desired tragic implications are hopelessly diluted.

A*P*E: SQUARE

Abby (1974)

          Lest there be any doubt, Abby is a truly awful movie—even given the low expectations set by the premise, since Abby is nothing but a shameless riff on The Exorcist (1973) featuring an all-black cast. The scares are nonexistent, the script is schlocky, and the special effects are pathetic. However, the movie has one minor saving grace: William Marshall, the stentorian-voiced actor who lent unexpected dignity to the role of Blacula in two cheesy horror movies, plays the exorcist in Abby. Marshall’s elegant presence isn’t nearly enough to make Abby respectable, but his appearance is sufficient to make the movie watchable, at least periodically. It’s also worth noting that Abby was directed by William Girdler, who later made a string of colorful horror flicks—Grizzly (1976), Day of the Animals (1977), and the completely insane supernatural epic The Manitou (1978). Abby isn’t as slick as the later films, but it’s just as brazen and zippy.

          The story, naturally, involves a young woman being possessed by a demon. Specifically, after Bishop Garnet Williams (Marshall) accidentally releases an evil god named “Eshu” while exploring in Nigeria, Eshu invades the body of Garnet’s daughter-in-law, Abby (Carol Speed), who lives back in the U.S. with Garnet’s son, Emmett (Terry Carter). Violence, vomiting, and vulgarity follow, until Garent returns from Africa for a supernatural showdown. Giving the material a blaxploitation vibe, cowriter/director Girdler features the wholesome Abby speaking in crude street slang while possessed—for instance, before kicking Emmett in the crotch, she squeals, “Shit, you ain’t got enough to satisfy me!” In another scene, Abby experiences an orgasm while handling a piece of raw chicken on a kitchen counter. (Make your own “finger-lickin’ good” jokes.)

          While it’s all exactly as derivative and silly and tacky as it sounds. Marshall does what he can to play the material straight, especially when he performs with Austin Stoker (Assault on Precinct 13), who plays Abby’s brother. Alas, neither Speed nor costar Terry Carter (a regular on the original Battlestar Galactica series) rise to the same level. Still, what’s not to like about a quasi-camp drive-in distraction that kicks off with Marshall releasing a demon by recklessly twisting the tiny wooden penis of a figurine that’s carved into the shell of wooden box? Safe to say Girdler harbored no illusions of making great art.

Abby: FUNKY

The Clown Murders (1976)

Whenever unimaginative people reach for clichés about Canadians to make jokes, somewhere amid the gags related to hockey and maple syrup is the old stereotype that Canadians are too polite for their own good. Buried within some stereotypes, however, are grains of truth—and that might explain why the Canadian-made horror flick The Clown Murders doesn’t even try to be frightening until nearly 30 minutes into the movie’s 90-minute running time. Perhaps the filmmakers thought that startling viewers too quickly would be rude. Anyway, The Clown Murders is barely a horror movie—it’s more of a kidnapping thriller with horrific elements during the finale. The story concerns four average guys who terrorize an acquaintance in order to pressure the man into signing a business deal. Since most of the movie takes place on Halloween, the dudes dress in clown costumes and kidnap their victim’s wife, then stash in a farmhouse. However, an escaped killer is prowling the area—dressed as a clown—so as relations among the four would-be criminals disintegrate, some of them fall victim to a psycho with an axe. Suffice to say, this is a highly misguided project. The first 30 minutes of the picture comprise gentle character development, which would be admirable in any other context, but which seems interminable here. Later, things get strange because the woman whom the friends kidnap turns out to be twisted; she plays mind games on her captors and even, inexplicably, seduces the quartet’s lone grossly overweight member. (Playing that character is Canadian comedian John Candy, in one of his earliest roles, but Candy isn’t given much room to be funny.) Once the movie finally gets around to actual murders, it’s very much a case of too little, too late. Plus, owing to the picture’s low budget, some of the nighttime scenes are so poorly photographed that it’s difficult to discern what’s happening onscreen. Had the filmmakers simply made a thriller about a doomed kidnapping, this could have been interesting—but the attempt to shift the material into full-on fright is a bust.

The Clown Murders: LAME

The Vampire Lovers (1970) & Lust for a Vampire (1971) & Twins of Evil (1971)

          J. Sheridan le Fanu’s 1872 novel Carmilla, which predated Bram Stoker’s Dracula by a quarter-century, is credited with originating the popular lesbian-vampire archetype. Accordingly, the various film adaptations of Carmilla are filled with Sapphic eroticism. To date, the most noteworthy adaptations is The Vampire Lovers, a co-production of U.S. drive-in supplier American International Pictures and UK horror house Hammer Films. Starring the lovely European actress Ingrid Pitt, the sleek and titillating movie depicts the adventures of Mircalla Karnstein (Pitt), an Austrian vampire who drifts from one noble household to the next, using aliases to cover her tracks as she seduces nubile women and drains them of their blood. Meanwhile, heroes including the bereaved father (Peter Cushing) of one of Mircalla’s victims try to stop her killing spree.

          Directed by Hammer stalwart Roy Ward Baker, The Vampire Lovers tries to be equal parts horror show and romance. At one extreme, the movie features gory neck wounds and an onscreen decapitation. At the other extreme, The Vampire Lovers includes tender scenes of Mircalla cuddling and kissing her sexy paramours. Thanks to Pitt’s elegant presence, it’s possible to read the movie as a character study of a woman torn between animalistic urges and emotional desires—but whenever Baker cuts to leering scenes of topless women kissing, it becomes difficult to attribute The Vampire Lovers with lofty aspirations. After all, the picture includes such raunchy details as a dream sequence in which a young woman imagines a giant cat pressing its mouth to her nether regions. (Paging Dr. Freud!) Worse, the narrative runs out of gas about halfway through, and the acting is highly inconsistent, with pretty starlet Madeline Smith giving an especially vacuous performance.

          Nonetheless, the combination of blood and boobs proved attractive to audiences, so Vampire Lovers screenwriter Tudor Gates was hired to write a pair of follow-up features that are known among Hammer aficionados as the “Karnstein Trilogy.” The first sequel, Lust for a Vampire, is a simple romantic adventure revolving around the reincarnated Mircalla (played this time by Yutte Stensgaard). After being raised from the dead by cultish followers, Mircalla takes up residence at an exclusive finishing school for young women, catching the eye of author Richard Lestrange (Michael Johnson). Yet Mircalla hasn’t lost her taste for the ladies, because she also sleeps with one of her sexy classmates. Alas, her other appetites remain just as strong, so bodies start piling up in the countryside around the school. Despite the presence of several beautiful starlets and a generally salacious storyline, Lust for a Vampire is exceedingly dull, since the audience can’t play along with the narrative’s whodunit structure. Even the sexy stuff feels overly familiar, although Gates has fun with a key scene—Mircalla, who finds unholy pleasure in biting people, climaxes when her mortal lover goes down on her. (Oral-fixation alert!) Nothing in Lust for a Vampire feels frightening or new or urgent, so all that’s left to admire are the nubile ladies and the usual slick Hammer production values.

          Surprisingly, the series’ signature element of lesbian erotica is nearly absent from the final film, Twins of Evil, which is “noteworthy” for featuring real-life siblings Madeleine and Mary Collinson, the first identical twins to be named co-Playmates of the Month in Playboy, circa late 1970. Representing a slight improvement over Lust for a Vampire, the third “Karnstein” movie reintroduces Peter Cushing to the series, albeit playing a different role than the one he essayed in The Vampire Lovers. Here, he’s a devout puritan who becomes guardian to a pair of nieces (played by the Collinsons) when they are orphaned. One of the sisters falls victim to the charms of a male vampire, Count Karnstein (Damien Thomas)., which triggers the usual drill of townsfolk hunting for vampires as the corpses accrue. The shortest of the “Karnstein” movies, Twins of Evil has the least to do with le Fanu’s source material. Cushing’s presence helps tremendously, as does the vigorous musical scoring by Henry Robertson, so Twins of Evil is mildly watchable despite long stretches of tedium. And of course, like all three of the “Karnstein” films, Twins of Evil relies on nudity as heavily as it relies on gore, so fans craving skin will find plenty to ogle.

The Vampire Lovers: FUNKY

Lust for a Vampire: LAME

Twins of Evil: FUNKY

King of the Grizzlies (1970)

          Despite bearing the “Walt Disney Productions” brand, as well as such Disney signatures as a cutesy musical score and a folksy narration track, King of the Grizzlies was actually made by companies including Robert Lawrence Productions, the entity that supervised principal photography in Western Canada. Disney then acquired the material and applied the finishing touches. The hodgepodge nature of the movie is evident throughout its running time, because documentary-style footage of bears and other animals is intercut with narrative scenes to create the illusion of a frontier myth come to life. Yet even though some bad dubbing and a few meandering sequences create narrative hiccups, King of the Grizzlies is basically passable, as far as Disney outdoor yarns go.

          Based on a novel by Ernest T. Seton, the picture tracks the life story of Mawb, a noble grizzly who overcomes hardship to become master of his realm. Early in the movie, Indian-born cattle-ranch foreman Moki (John Yesno) and his paleface employer, identified only as “The Colonel” (Chris Wiggins), encounter young Mawb and his ursine sibling, along with their mother, near the outer edges of the Colonel’s ranch. The Colonel kills mama bear and Mawb’s sibling, but only wounds Mawb. Later, Moki discovers the frightened young bear and delivers the animal to a safe place in the mountains, miles away from the ranch. As the years pass, Mawb grows stronger, surviving battles with mountain lions and wolverines, before eventually drifting back to the place where he was orphaned. This puts him back in the crosshairs of the Colonel.

          Will our hairy hero survive? Can Moki intercede on his behalf once more? If you don’t know the answers to these questions, you’ve never seen a Disney movie.

          Accepting that predictability is a given, King of the Grizzlies has plenty of redeeming values. The location photography is robust, with huge vistas of forests and lakes and mountains conveying the wonder of the wilderness. Furthermore, scenes of bears and other animals are wonderfully photographed, and the basic themes of bonding, compassion, and respect for nature are unassailable. Cornpone, sure, but unassailable nonetheless.

King of the Grizzlies: FUNKY

Conduct Unbecoming (1975)

          “Gentlemen do not question the honor of other gentlemen,” the imperious Col. Strang tells a cheeky subordinate at a British military base in colonial India, circa the late 19th century. The colonel’s declaration gets to the heart of Conduct Unbecoming, a solid courtroom drama predicated on the Old World notion that persons of good social standing should be considered beyond reproach. Adapted from a play by Barry England, the story revolves around Lieutenants Drake (Michael York) and Millington (James Faulkner), both of whom are new arrivals at Strang’s base. Drake is a proper soldier who comfortably defers to authority and tradition, whereas Millington is an arrogant dilettante who hopes to conclude his national service as quickly as possible. Upon arrival at the base, the lieutenants are inundated with rules about proper conduct, including the strange instruction to avoid the flirtations advances of Mrs. Scarlett (Susannah York), the widow of a beloved officer. Yet during a party, Millington makes a pass at Mrs. Scarlett, who is subsequently attacked.

          With Millington the obvious suspect, Strang’s junior officers—led by the officious Captain Harper (Stacy Keach)—empanel an unofficial court-martial tribunal, hoping to keep the scandal private. Millington asks Drake to serve as defense counsel, and Drake assembles evidence that might exonerate Millington. Unfortunately, Drake soon discovers that the regiment plans to railroad Millington whether he’s guilty or not, simply for the sake of expediency and propriety. Therefore, the story ends up exploring two equally relevant dramatic questions: Who really attacked Mrs. Scarlett, and what dirty secrets about the regiment will Drake’s investigation reveal?

          Smoothly directed by Michael Anderson (who reteamed with York the following year for the sci-fi classic Logan’s Run), Conduct Unbecoming is unapologetically melodramatic, but the crisp dialogue and skillful acting make the piece quite watchable. (Howard, Keach, and costars Richard Attenborough and Christopher Plummer give especially lusty performances.) On the minus side, the movie’s sound mix is muddy, and the final plot twist is both silly and tawdry. Nonetheless, the central theme of upper-crust people using social position as a shield for depravity has the desired impact, and key technicians (notably cinematographer Robert Huke, editor John Glen, and music composer Stanley Myers) contribute sterling work.

Conduct Unbecoming: GROOVY

Warlock Moon (1973)

Satan worship has rarely been depicted with less excitement than in Warlock Moon, an (extremely) low-budget thriller about a college coed lured onto the grounds of a semi-abandoned mineral spa, where the creepy inhabitants have evil designs upon unsuspecting visitors. Stretching about five minutes of story over nearly 90 minutes of screen time, the silly and tedious Warlock Moon includes several familiar clichés of the bad-horror genre—careless characters walking blithely into obviously dangerous places, comin’-at-ya shock scenes that end up being nothing more than nonsensical narrative misdirection, and so on. Yet even with these time-worn tropes, Warlock Moon never manages to stimulate the viewer. Everything is so predictable, slow, and stupid that it’s impossible to care a whit about the characters. When the story begins, perky college student Jenny (Laurie Walters) is talked into a day trip by would-be newspaper reporter John (Joe Spano). After cavorting and picnicking for several hours, the couple stumbles onto the grounds of a spa that appears to be vacant. They’re surprised, however, by aging resident Agnes (Edna MacAfee), who welcomes the visitors as warmly as she would long-lost family members. Despite a few creepy moments during the initial visit, Jenny agrees to return to the location with Joe. Then Jenny starts to see visions of ghosts and murderers, which John (naturally) dismisses as female hysteria. And so it goes from there, in accordance with the brainless formula for such things. Double-crosses, secret identities, terrible rituals, blah-blah-blah. It’s all been done before, and better. Were one inclined to find points of interest in this singularly uninteresting movie, one could note that the stars later enjoyed minor success on television—Spano was on Hill Street Blues, and Walters was on Eight Is Enough. So there’s that.

Warlock Moon: LAME

Five on the Black Hand Side (1973)

          Although the success of the blaxploitation genre created tremendous employment opportunities for African-American actors (and filmmakers), the genre propagated so many stereotypes that several enterprising producers recognized opportunities for counterprogramming. For example, the domestic comedy Five on the Black Hand Side takes a lighthearted look at the tensions within a middle-class black family in Los Angeles. Not a dealer or pimp is in sight, and there’s nary a hint of inner-city blight or rampant poverty. Five on the Black Hand Side explores the affluent (or at least comfortable) side of American black life circa the early ’70s. Adapted by Charlie L. Russell from his play of the same name—without any distracting traces of its stage origins remaining—the picture explores the novel premise of a family practicing civil disobedience against their patriarch to force positive change.

          Said patriarch is John Henry Brooks (Leonard Jackson), a self-made success who runs his household like an empire. “Mr. Brooks,” as he insists on being called, dresses in three-piece suits, scorns the way his adult children embrace Afrocentrism, and treats his wife like a personal assistant instead of a spouse. The joke is that instead of being a captain of industry, Mr. Brooks is merely the proprietor of a neighborhood barbershop—respectable, no question, but hardly grandiose. When the story begins, Mr. Brooks’ overbearing leadership style has alienated nearly all of his relatives. His youngest son, Gideon (Glynn Turman), has moved out of the family apartment to live on a rooftop. His oldest son, Booker T. (D’Urville Martin), has left the house entirely. His daughter, Gail (Bonnie Banfield), has raised Mr. Brooks’ ire by insisting on an African-style wedding to her fiancé. And Mrs. Brooks (Clarice Taylor) breaks down in tears every day because her husband is so cold and imperious.

          As the story progresses, Mrs. Brooks’ children and friends encourage her to revolt, so she stages protests and walkouts, insisting Mr. Brooks sign a list of demands. Meanwhile, Mr. Brooks finds support among his male buddies, who encourage him to stand his ground. Five on the Black Hand Side moves along at a leisurely pace, lingering on long scenes that depict the texture of everyday life in the Brooks’ neighborhood—Mr. Brooks and his pals tell boastful stories in the barbershop, while Mrs. Brooks and her friends gossip in the beauty parlor. And in one of the movie’s best scenes, Booker T. and Gideon tussle over the thorny issues of assimilation and miscegenation—Black Power advocate Gideon calls Booker T. a traitor to the race because Booker T. has a white girlfriend. The way that Russell and director Oscar Williams jam signifiers and topics into the story gives Five on the Black Hand Side heft, even though the picture is largely designed as light entertainment. And entertaining it is, thanks to charming performances and spirited writing.

Five on the Black Hand Side: GROOVY

Von Richtofen and Brown (1971)

          The World War I aerial-combat drama Von Richtofen and Brown was supposed to elevate cult-favorite director Roger Corman from the exploitation-flick ghetto into the mainstream, since it was centered around respectable subject matter and made for a major studio. Instead, the film completely derailed his directing career, because Corman walked away from the wreckage of Von Richtofen and Brown to focus on producing. (In the intervening years, he has helmed only one more movie, the 1990 dud Frankenstein Unboand.) The parsimonious Corman has admitted he found the corporate decision-making and economic wastefulness of studio filmmaking distasteful, but it’s also plain watching Von Richtofen and Brown that Corman was a filmmaker who thrived on limitations. His best directorial efforts—the funky black-and-white horror/comedy hybrids of the ’50s, the stylish Edgar Allen Poe adaptations of the ’60s—excel because small budgets forced Corman to substitute ingenuity and wit for spectacle.

          Throughout Von Richtofen and Brown, Corman showcases impressive aerial footage of biplanes engaging in dogfights, but the material doesn’t cut together particularly well. Breaking his own cardinal rule of collecting only as much footage as is necessary, Corman accumulated reels upon reels of similar-looking shots that, when assembled, comprise repetitive and hard-to-follow combat scenes. Worse, sequences set on terra firma are no better. The movie’s exceedingly weak script tries to explain how legendary German pilot Baron Manfred von Richtofen (John Philip Law), better known as “The Red Baron,” rose to prominence and eventually clashed, fatally, with Canadian pilot Roy Brown (Don Stroud).

          Excepting terrific production values, nearly everything in the movie works against the efficacy of the narrative. Characters are underdeveloped. Key milestones, such as the awarding of medals, are repeated ad nauseam. Subplots are abandoned capriciously. And the attempt at contrasting the two main characters (Brown the crude humanist, von Richtofen the aristocratic hunter) never gels. Compounding these problems are threadbare performances. Law, the tall stud from Barbarella (1968) flattens lines and renders stoic facial expressions. Stroud, a salty character actor, seems adrift in every scene, as if he received no guidance whatsoever about the nature of his role.

          So, while the movie’s not a disaster by any stretch—it’s one of Corman’s best-looking films, and every so often a moment connects the way it should—one can easily see why Von Richtofen and Brown failed to generate any excitement for a new phase of Corman’s career. Still, it’s hard to call this turn of events a shame, since Corman had already accomplished so much, and since he spent the ’70s and ’80s training important new directors who made their first movies for Corman’s New World Pictures. Like von Richtofen, Corman was brought down from the stratosphere to the earth with his legacy intact.

Von Richtofen and Brown: FUNKY

Black Samurai (1977)

Poor Jim Kelly couldn’t seem to catch a break after initially gaining attention with his costarring role in the Bruce Lee smash Enter the Dragon (1973). A handsome and tall martial artist who also happened to be African-American, Kelly seemed poised to become a major action star, but several things held him back: 1) The blaxploitation genre was already on the wane at the moment he started making blaxploitation movies; 2) Martial-arts flicks were still a long way from breaking out of the grindhouse ghetto; 3) Kelly appeared in consistently weak films; and 4) Kelly lacked charisma equal to his impressive physique. Still, the actor managed to notch a few starring roles before the gravy train ran off the rails. Among the least of his efforts is the junky Black Samurai, which was directed by exploitation-flick hack Al Adamson. Boring, empty-headed, and repetitive, the movie tells a mundane story in the least interesting way imaginable. Even the fight scenes are underwhelming, since they’re so choreographed and safety-conscious that they lack menace. How schlocky is Black Samurai? Well, for one thing, the movie does not include samurais. For another thing, it comes complete with that staple of crappy Saturday-afternoon adventure flicks—a secret organization with a cartoonish acronym for a name. (Kelly’s character works for D.R.A.G.O.N., the Defense Reserve Agency Guardian of Nations.) The insipid plot features Kelly’s character traversing the globe to rescue is girlfriend from a criminal organization that’s led by a voodoo priest (who is white and calls himself a warlock). For no good reason, the movie includes a low-octane catfight, an endless mariachi-band musical number, an interpretive-dance voodoo ritual, a silly jet-pack ride (shades of 007), and other random scenes. Through it all, Kelly looks impressive even though his line delivers are lifeless and his martial-arts scenes are shabby. Since Black Samurai is neither entertaining nor ridiculous enough to inspire much unintentional laugher, it’s nearly a complete waste of time.

Black Samurai: LAME

Scared Straight! (1978)

          Documentary filmmakers have long complained that the rules employed by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences’ nonfiction branch are capricious to the extreme of being incomprehensible. Take, for instance, the peculiar example of Scared Straight!, which won the Oscar for Best Documentary Feature in 1978—even though the film isn’t feature-length, since it runs only 58 minutes, and even though it was made for television rather than for theatrical release. Scared Straight! is a noble and powerful project, but why it merited Academy consideration is a mystery. In any event, the iconic film captures an encounter between teenaged juvenile delinquents and grown-up prison inmates. The criminals, incarcerated at New Jersey’s Rahway State Prison, comprise a social-action group called the Lifers, and at the time the film was made, the Lifers regularly met with at-risk youths to “scare them straight” with horror stories about life behind bars. (As narrator Peter Falk informs viewers, the Lifers were collectively serving over 1,000 years in prison.)

          Scared Straight! begins with brief vignettes depicting the teenagers, who arrogantly proclaim their indifference toward victims and share their plans to become career criminals. Then, with the resounding slam of a metal door, the kids are stuck in a visiting room with the Lifers, who barrage them with graphic descriptions—and graphic language. The film’s constant torrent of four-letter words is mostly significant because Scared Straight! was broadcast on television uncensored; considering that the Lifers’ various remarks about anal rape are still quite startling, one can only imagine how harsh the material sounded to viewers in 1978. Scared Straight! collapses a three-hour visit into less than one hour of screen time, so the intensity level of the interaction between the Lifers and the teenagers is slightly jacked up from reality. That said, the terrified looks on the faces of the kids seem absolutely genuine.

          In one particularly harrowing scene, a criminal pulls a young man from his chair in order to simulate the process of adopting a new inmate as a “kid.” (In modern parlance, the role would be called “bitch.”) Then, just instants after agreeing to provide sexual favors in exchange for protection, the new “kid” is “sold” to another inmate. “When you look at us,” one of the Lifers says to the teenagers, “you should see yourselves.” As evidenced by the creation of several foll0w-up specials and by the duplication of the Lifers’ program in other prisons, the encounter largely achieved the desired results, so Scared Straight! belongs to that special class of nonfiction films with measureable positive effects in the outside world. And while the movie was never designed to be entertainment, per se, it’s an arresting experience—no pun intended.

Scared Straight!: GROOVY