The Specialist (1975) – Howard Avedis.

Crown International Pictures presents buff TV hero Adam West in The Specialist, wherein a sweetly seductive female operator Londa Wyerth (Ahna Capri) is nefariously tasked by reactionary political demagogue Pike Smith (John Anderson)to test the integrity of straight shooting, skyrocketing firebrand lawyer Jerry Bounds(Adam West). An amiable, lightweight soap opera with pretensions of adult humour is lent a smidgeon of credibility by decent performances, and a foot-stompingly funky soundtrack, but the frequently facile text strongly suggests that the author is rather less than a 'Specialist' himself. A frothy enough confection from the populist purveyors of raunchy, exceedingly broad, comedy-inflected Drive-In hanky panky. Dramatically vapid, the charismatic titular star certainly compensates with her dazzling beauty, and prodigiously pulchritudinous charms! I believe that it is just to claim that the most appreciative audience for The Specialist will be from those more ardent Adam West fans, a sizeable cinematic clique I am happily a member of.

 Die Insel Der Damonen aka Island of The Demons. (1998) – Andreas Bethman.

'Bin ich nicht dein tup, baby!'

The frightful legends concerning the profane cruelties perpetrated upon an isolated Italian island, and the befouled demons below it prove terrifyingly real in sublime, gruesomely gore-blasting, Kraut-splatter gem Die Insel Der Damonen (Island of The Demons). Doomy retro synths herald the ominous occult entities that stalk the sun-seeking, island-hopping tourists! It is not long after they alight upon this benighted isle that the righteously grisly S.O.V splatter begins in earnest! The dreary dramatic interludes prove delightfully perfunctory, the girls thirsting over the himbo skin-diver is strictly pseudo-smut, a fleshly diorama Bethmann is not entirely unfamiliar with! The schlock catalyst is the barnacled treasure chest that is guilelessly brought to the surface, and once it has been interfered with, it's game-over for the pretty young things! There is some argument that suggests this is merely a picturesque holiday travelogue enlivened by gratuitously bloody inserts? But is gratuitously bloody insertion such a terribly bad thing? I think not! I'll leave that to the white knight moralists to decide. The locations are stunning, and the brutal executions of luscious female protagonists at the memorably grotesque hands of a monstrously cannibalistic demon are well executed.

My Tutor (1983) - George Bowers.

A charmingly youthful Crispin Glover and Kevin McCarthy star in Crown international Pictures dirty disco dazzler My Tutor. Rabidly hormonal teens encounter numerous ribald mishaps upon their lusty quest for hot-panted Pussy Galore. While I could give less than a rat's ass about posh lad Bobby's (Matt Lattanzi) upper middle-class ennui, his thrillingly nubile French tutor (Caren Kaye) is a hard 10, and no film, regardless of how dully written is without interest should it include a distractingly comely cameo by perfectly pulchritudinous, blissfully bosomy B-Vixen Kitten Natividad! While he is given very little to do, The Tutor perks up momentarily during Crispin Glover's scenes, otherwise this remains low wattage voyeuristic tripe. My main take away from The Tutor is that, not unsurprisingly, inordinately wealthy, conspicuously privileged folk ALWAYS get the biggest juicy slices of steamy hot cherry pie. In summation, My Tutor's two major points of interest belong entirely to Kitten Natividad, with an honourable mention given to cherubic Crispin Glover's exquisite fashion choices. Concluding on a more personal note, I have long admired esteemed D.O.P Mac Ahlberg's remarkable versatility, and he certainly does a Tit Top job of capturing beautifully bouncy Natividad's dynamic sensuality! 

 The Neanderthal Man (1953) – E.A Dupont.

Owing a little too much to Stevenson's immortal Dr Jekyll, E.A Dupont's throwback 50s Sci-schlocker is lent a rudimentary semblance of cogency by the cast's capable performances, and its inalienable goofiness! The nutty backwoods professor Groves (Robert Shayne) wholly unstable formula turns cutesy puddy tats into vicious sabre-toothed tigers, slaughtering livestock and locals with equally gruesome efficiency. Emboldened by his terrifying results, in a mad moment of fateful hubris, he experiments upon himself, thereby transforming himself into the monstrously hateful, elephantine-domed, horribly hirsute horror of...The Neanderthal Man!!!! A clunky, but weirdly watchable mad scientist shenanigans, but one cannot fully avoid the nagging feeling that the author may well have utilized the latterly dormant retrograde vectors of his cerebellum to create this delightfully dopey, Drive-In goof-a-rama. The good doctor's wayward serum clearly appears to be in the beta stage, since the transformative elements only effect the professor's noggin, and fingernails, as his torso and lower extremities remain demonstratively unaltered???!!! To better appreciate The Neanderthal Man, one would ideally be sloppily making out through the banal expository sequences, and appreciatively hurl fistfuls of popcorn at the screen as the crazed, antediluvian mammals wreak their bloody havoc upon the folksy rustics of Chodesville U.S.A.

 Night Eyes II (1991) - Rodney McDonald.

Twin-fisted security man-cake Will Griffith (Andrew Stevens) is hired to focus his inevitably roving eyes upon shady politician Hector Mejenes's (Richard Chaves) hard-bodied, deliciously voluptuous wife (Shannon Tweed) in bemusingly tacky, soft-shunt eroto-thriller Night Eyes II. While the original was pretty thin gruel, the pallidly unnourished, vastly unwarranted sequel is tantamount to cinematic scurvy! Without the appreciably luminous presence of ravishing pin-up Shannon Tweed, the paltry Night Eyes II would be an altogether excruciating experience, not aided one semiquaver by the plastic, truly execrable score! With Shannon's disinterested hubby wholly preoccupied with work, her thwarted libido sultrily seeks validation within the sinewy arms of bodily buff Body Guard Stevens. While the film's fitful attempts at intrigue are risible, Night Eyes II double down's on the aggressive exploitation of Shannon Tweed's distractingly delectable, frequently exposed, gym-toned body beautiful. While lasciviously replete with conspicuously 90s, pastel-hued, candle-flickered, raspberry juicy in-out, the recycled dramatic elements provide the paltriest of soapy shenanigans. In closing, the titillating Tweed is glorious to behold, and co-star Stevens certainly makes the most of his intimate beholding! I don't like to be a negative Nigel, but Night Eyes II is vapid DTV dross, solely enlivened by the slinkily sublime presence of scrumptious siren queen Shannon Tweed.

 Terminal Angels (1987) – Philip Ho.

'Damn this Poon!!!!!!!!!!!!'

Utilizing the anglicized gnome de plum of Philip Frazer, the godfather of gonzo Kung Fu glory Philip Ho presents another brain-blasting production of frenzied Girls with Guns insanity! Journalist Paula discovers damning photos exposing a high profile businessman as being a major drug dealer in heroically bullet-blasted, chop socky-clotted mayhem Terminal Angels. All those Asian action heads savvy to Filmark International will find Terminal Angels boisterously replete with dizzying shoot 'em up/knock 'em down content. Terminal Angels is well served by its winningly ear-wormy synth score, guerrilla film-making, goofball repartee, and gymnastic fisticuffs. Happily, the perfunctory plotting is more than ably compensated with abundant physical combat, and super-agile, fabulously foxy female fighters exhilaratingly laying waste to shambling street skells. Terminal Angels was certainly not made in a vacuum, during the brief VHS boom of the 80s you could have drop kicked a pot of instant noodles in the Philippines and hit another crew of pyro-packed exploitation film-makers! As a B-grade Battling Babes bonanza, I found little fault with maestro Godfrey Ho's zippy, oestrogen-soaked action-fest, while others may well baulk at the generic characters, lacklustre text, and pervasively cheapnis aesthetic.

'A high-kicking jamboree of fleet-fisted, femme fighting ferocity!' - Tor Bronson /Heroic Blood Shed.

 Wicked (1991) – Carlo Lizzani.

'Psychiatry is a Jung man's game'

Grieving the sudden loss of her daughter, Emilia (Giuliana De Sol) exhibits uncharacteristically disruptive behaviour, and after initially being treated by professor Bruckner (Erland Josephson), her complex case becomes the subject of an increasingly tender fascination for staunch Freudian Professor Gustav (Julian Sands). Nominally based on documented experiences of a youthful Carl Jung, Wicked is an earnest, sensitively rendered, altogether watchable historical drama, bolstered by fine performances, and the able direction of noted Italian film-maker Carlo Lizzani. Not essential viewing, since it might well be argued that Wicked's most zealous demographic would be those who appreciate that eminently appreciable, and greatly missed screen idol, Julian Sands. As the handsome professor Gustav gently probes ever more deeply into poor Emilia's troubled mind, his controversial approach ultimately yields credible results, leading to conflict with the rather more stolid, and conventional medical practitioner Professor Bruckner. Perhaps a mite tepid in the dramatic department, the picturesque feature is often visually sumptuous, both the photographic and soundtrack elements prove exemplary, Lizzani's Wicked frequently expressing a humane quality that I found commendable. For any that are interested, the expressly lovely score is by acclaimed maestro Armando Trovajoli.