Party Line (1988) – William Webb.

Rugged Richard Hatch, slinky Shawn Weatherly, Shaft-tastic Richard Roundtree, and blonde moppet Lief Garrett star in saucily slap n' tickled 80s slasher Party Line. Sexily sinister siblings often provide one of the more innately skeevey tropes in horror/exploitation, incestuous families are the gristly backbone of B-Horror greatness. Party Line's plot of a twisted sister and her bonkers bro using a party line to set sketchy dudes up for the erotokill isn't hugely involving, but it must also be said that this is one of the most relentlessly 80s looking horrors I have recently seen, buoyed by the pleasingly photogenic presences of Hatch and Weatherly. Come to think of it, Hatch & Weatherly is a spiffingly tasty title for a retroid TJ Hooker'd cop show! The formula dialogue is pulpier than baby food, but its increasing awfulness proved hypnotic, and Garrett is bemusingly vanilla as a psycho, dude's foofier than a toy dog.

Like an especially pricey hooker, Party Line sucks in a all the best ways, and simpering Oedipus freak Garrett looks SUPER hot in his mom's wedding dress, if that makes me kinky, I'm kinky, and I'm absolutely okay with that...come to mommy!!!!! Party Line is ultimately no less bogus than Phil Spector's hairline, a legitimate party pooper, but its soooo massively kitschy, I kinda almost dug it! In the uproariously goofy final act, firebrand Weatherly gets all gussied up in a banger red dress, and looks F'n fiiiiiinnne! 'It's okay!!! I pushed him off the balcony!!!' Hey!!! I don't wish to sound overtly glib, but it felt like the the guy who wrote this fell of a phooken balcony too!!! When hunky Hatch does his end-of-movie shtick with his blithe, alpha dude 'Party's Over!' line, I might refute this by saying that the party never quite started, dude!!!

 Sensation (1994) – Brian Grant.

'Eric Roberts is okay if you like saxophones!'

As much as I would deny it in polite company, privately I don't find the idea of a supernaturally-inflected erotic thriller starring Eric Roberts to be an altogether disagreeable proposition. Right off the bat, Roberts svelte co-star Kari Wuhrer is tastier than the entire inventory of a baklava factory, and what I dig the most about Roberts is that, whomever he is playing, he is demonstratively the skeeviest guy in the room! Close scrutiny of the plot may cause drowsiness, or nausea in the more sensitive patrons, but those psychometrically inclined will appreciate the slinkier vibrations herein. In addition, Sensations nixes the idea that Sax players playing jazz riffs in open windows is lame, as clearly Mr. Grant thinks otherwise.

Whenever Lila (Wuhrer) gingerly touches an unfamiliar box, she soon experience potent vibrations, and I kept on watching, but I don't believe that makes me a bad person. I was more than happy just marvelling at the exquisite Ms Wuhrer, distractingly beautiful, she is someone you can sympathise with, regardless of the text's many inanities. The director, quite justifiably, is strongly aware of her compellingly sinuous sex appeal, providing viewers with ample opportunity to share his enraptured P.O.V. There's plentiful Skinemax/Red Shoe Diaries sizzle, a squirrely movie geek, Ron Perlman's stolid cop, and wheezy Paul Le Mat as an all too sketchy bedroom peeper. It's not quite up there with Saxophone players blowing on window ledges, but I always chuckle at the ubiquity of women arising from their slumber with fake yawns, immaculately replete with sexily tousled hair, and pic perfect make-up!

 Sex & Bullets (1999) – Ruben Pruess.

Sex & Bullets wears its navel-gazing 90s-ness much like a patchouli oil-soaked hippie sporting a greasy CND badge, and a battered copy of Yes Relayer tucked conspicuously into his reeking armpit. During one eventful evening, the chat-centric narrative finds 6 disparate characters becoming fatefully intertwined by a series of increasingly far-fetched scenarios. And I mean no disrespect, Sex & Bullets is absolutely watchable, but it would be remembered sans google search if it had featured Jason Mewes and Steve Buscemi. As Goombah comedies go, this one's a mostly chucklesome affair, an engaging ensemble piece, wherein the performances are on-point, with, perhaps, Seymour Cassel's homosexual hitman coming off best, proving more charismatic than Judd Nelson's noisome, pussy-happy trigger-man. It's undeniably slick, yet occasionally feels a mite contrived, but in its enormous favour, the sparky script provides choice banter, and moments of genuine levity, keeping my noggin engaged until the stressy, kiss-kiss, bang-banged climax. In conclusion, I kinda dug Sex & Bullets, and it may well have been a 1^st time watch, plus the exceptionally fine score, and mirthsome epilogue proved winning.

 Ozone (1993) - J.R Bookwalter.

While industrious indie S.O.V impresario Bookwalter never truly eclipsed his beloved zombie cult 'The Dead Next Door, it might be suggested that his frequently hallucinatory, hokily hybridized urban horror Ozone has become no less of a fan favourite. Dedicated, burnt-out cop Eddie Boone's (James R. Black) dogged investigation of new, deadly transmogrifying street drug Ozone, causes him to become partially infected, and via the schlocky admixture of gonzo B-movie ballyhoo, rudimentary CGI and gorgeously globby practical FX, Eddie discovers the terrible truth...but is he already too late? Ozone remains an amusingly odd duck, much of the film-making is competent, and Mr. Black delivers a credible performance, thereby making the undeniably goofy elements appear that much goofier, which, happily, is no bad thing! To state that the low budget Ozone is a tad uneven is like saying Pompeii is kinda dusty, and that Carmen Miranda wore a fruity-looking hat! While I don't believe the porcine, sublimely gross, batrachian kingpin DeBartolo's dopey scheme for world domination is altogether sound, but it psychotronically provides for splendidly eccentric S.O.V entertainment.

 All Night Long 3 (1996) – Katsuya Matsumura.

'Trash is really much more charming than People!'

The third impressively sleazy instalment in Matsumura's scintillatingly sordid All Night Long dark-lord opus, queasily examines the increasingly malign misadventures of introverted Kikuo (Yujin Kitasawa). A listless drop-out, idly working shifts at an insalubrious 'love' motel, whose obsession with carnivorous plants disturbingly escalates to decidedly less reputable activities! I only wish more horror films featured massively strange, painfully inward perverts rummaging eagerly about in grotty rubbish bags, hoping to find a young woman's discarded toiletries. 

A true freak unique, Kikuo is a delightfully gross, bum-sniffing gobshyte, and shall remain a source of profound inspiration for many years to come. While I don't consider myself an especially timorous individual, I don't believe I would have accepted the hugely unsavoury Dust Hunter's invitation to visit his unconventionally creepy domicile! While bespectacled Kikuo's inevitably murderous decent into utter degradation is telegraphed from the skeevey 1^st act, maestro Matsuma, once again, memorably creates some inventively distasteful scenarios. While I believe it is entirely just to claim that the often extreme content of All Night Long 3 may not be agreeable for all tastes, CAT III cognoscenti will have already enthusiastically given their two thumbs up, modesty precludes me from revealing where!!!

 Out of The Dark (1985) – Michael Schroeder.

'Nobody can handle nipples like Bobo!'

From the anxiously sleazy phone caller, intoning greasily that he, Bobo, is some kind of gifted nipple sensei, Out of The Dark suggests more saucy grist than the routine 80s slasher snoozer, wherein another doofus in a mask, makes calls that boringly have absolutely NOTHING to do with nipples at all!!!??? Much like the nutbags in New Year's Evil and, perhaps, Hide and go Shriek, Bobo is a memorably odd fish, an oily nip freak, and much more besides, and the lively backdrop of a phone sex service provides a pleasingly muckier milieu. The starry cast is rather special, generously blessed with Bud Cort, Paul Bartel, Karen Black, and featuring another delectable turn from the exquisite Starr Andreeff. The first act is pretty darn stonking, delivering some righteous sleaze and playful death-dealing from tweaked tit terrorizer Bobo. Out of The Dark is undeniably a bit flabby around the middle, its over-reliance on stock thriller tropes aren't especially fascinating, but Out of The Dark man's up about the time Bartel does his singular shtick, and batso-bonkers Boob-master Bobo certainly puts on a good show in the sock 'em finale. I remember it being bloodier, but overall Out of The Dark is a fun watch, remaining a perky teat for avid 80s horror addicts.

 Automaton Transfusion (2006) – Steven C. Miller.

'I'd like to drive this chainsaw right through his face!'

Any splatter fan worth his, or her salt will have endured a multitude of Apocalyptic bloodbaths, realising at a young age that the formula is not often changed. Unifying factors being copious gut-munching, mayhemic looting, temporary refuges bloodily besieged by hordes of blood-drooling dead-heads, prosaic iterations of confused 'what's happening?!', a frequently nihilistic conclusion, referencing Romero's immortal classic, and hopefully, a far greater preponderance of splashy practical FX, over CGI slop. Automaton Transfusion's 'grabby' title frantically heralds an entertaining, satisfyingly gruesome, dutifully formalised Zombie chunkblower. The collegiate protagonists are a weirdly likeable bunch, creating a paradigm shift, as usually, I'm all for the gruesome annihilation of alpha jocks, window-licking dweebs, and ditzy cheerleaders, but I was genuinely rooting for the charismatic, chainsaw-rocking main dude (William Howard Bowman).

The generous chunk-blowage herein delivers groovily old-schooled ganglion neck-bites, bloody eviscerations, and righteously gross flesh flaying! Automaton Transfusion adheres gloopily to accepted Zombie tropes, but it does so in a boisterously entertaining fashion, and I dug the usage of bouncy pop punk on the score. The 'Shooting 'em in the head!!!' dogma is observed, and less retentive gorehounds should relish the fetus munching, mandible mashing, grisly shot-gunning, blunt force goring, cranial carnage, and being monstrously engulfed in a screaming miasma of raging, ambulatory death! I happened to be in the perfect mood for enjoying a locomotive, attack zombie brain-melter, and the enthusiastic young cast do a credible job selling their justifiably desperate fear of grisly zombification!