Bad Blood (1989) – Chuck Vincent.

Attorney Ted (Gregory Patrick) and his lovely wife Evie's (Linda Blair) upwardly mobile domesticity is plunged dizzyingly into a neo-Gothic nightmare after a wealthy, eccentric artist Arlene (Ruth Raymond) claims to be Ted's birth mother. While indebted to Stephen King, Chuck Vincent's lurid admixture of Misery and Hammer Films classic The Fanatic is a joyously unfiltered psychodrama that wheelspin's dementedly into outright slasher mayhem! While the set-up is too cute by half, Ted is dragged into a schmantsy art gallery, and is eerily confronted by his own portrait, ultimately leading to a gonzo final act of head-splitter psychotronic overkill worthy of Andy Milligan.

Bad Blood caught me wholly unawares, the cornball 1^st act belies a compellingly OTT decent into skeevey incest, matriarchal madness, and full-throttled exploitation horror delirium. Performances prove credible, Linda Blair, as ever, is consummately adorable, but Bad Blood is demonstratively about the Joan Crawford on-monkey-glands freak scene unleashed by batso mega-loon Ruth Raymond! Deliciously camp, Bad Blood is a riot, and is long overdue some spiffy HD TLC. As an aside, if someone told me John Waters had ghostwritten the final act, I'd absolutely believe it, hook line and stinker! Schlock cognoscenti who are unaware of Bad Blood's winningly warped content could certainly do a lot worse than seeking it out.

 Special Effects (1984) – Larry Cohen.

Multifariously gifted indie film impresario Larry Cohen's mercurial genius for tweaked genre cinema is put to especially wicked good use in his tantalizingly twisted, De Palma adjacent psycho-drama Special Effects. Beautiful, and hungrily aspirant starlet (Zoe Tamerlis) absconds desperately from the angry clutches of her possessive hayseed husband, only to fall prey to the insidiously murderous movie machinations of metropolitan, callous, downward-spiralling film-maker (Eric Borgosian). I can't imagine that there are all too many fans of genre cinema that haven't been frequently beguiled by Cohen's raven dark wit, and dazzling artistry, with Special Effects arguably being one of his most refined works. Special Effects commences with alacrity, nary a frame wasted, the viewer is drawn deeply into the myriad psychological complexities of Cohen's compellingly constructed film-within-film mondo milieu.

The exquisitely doomed blonde protagonist of De Palma/Hitchcock is given an amphetamoid boost of NYC grit in the willowy, yet dynamite guise of Andrea, Tamerlis ably delivering not one, but TWO bravura performances!!!! Side Effects strongly suggests that her untimely death sadly denied the world a gifted, dazzlingly unique dramatic artist. As maestro Cohen's skewed narrative wends its deliciously cruel way through the increasingly sinister snuff movie scheming of Borgosian's sociopathic director Christopher Neville, one couldn't help but secretly admire his dementedly creative chutzpah! Like Peckinpah monstrously conjoined with Man Bites Dog's grandstanding serial killer Ben, crazed narcissist Neville's mania for grisly verisimilitude provides for morbidly compelling cinema, as in Cohen's acerbic, grimly satirical shocker Side Effects, the end, most definitely justifies the fascinatingly mental means!

 Human Pork Chop (2001) – Benny Chi-Shun Chan.

A group of incorrigible skells who work in a sleazy hour motel kidnap, torture and kill a hard-luck junkie prostitute Grace (Emily Kwan) after she foolishly steals 10.000 from surly boss Brother Ho's (Yiu-Cheung-Lai) wallet. Based on a true crime history, Human Pork Chop is a sordid Cat III crime extremity that pulls no punches. A largely glum, mean-spirited affair, populated with aggressively asinine individuals, Human Pork Chop is arguably one of the dingier iterations of Cat III exploitation. Director Chan clearly wishes us to actively loathe these despicable dinge-bags, as he inserts a gross scene, wherein two of the toxic thugs arbitrarily slay a small dog for their own skeezoid edifications.

Everyone is absolutely fucking wretched, and initially, boozy/druggie Grace is a far from sympathetic protagonist. This one is proper hardcore nasty, a bruisingly unfiltered trawl through man's sickening capacity for unalloyed cruelty. Human Pork Chop blackly oozes oleaginous downer vibes, unleavened by humour, this grim Cat III shocker remains an especially deep dive into human perversity. I should warn patrons that the consumption of food should be avoided when watching Human Pork Chop, since there is one nauseating sequence that may prove greatly deleterious to your digestion. Not exactly a fun ride, but the performances are credibly douchey, and queasy Salo vibes are strongly maintained throughout.

 G.B.H : Fatal Impact. (1991) – David Kent-Watson.

'You're wrong Chelford, dead men don't piss!!!!'

Following the death of his beloved niece, weathered one-man wrecking machine Donovan (Cliff Twemlow) unleashes a brutal swath of bloody vengeance against Manchester's ill-prepared underworld. Following the rediscovery and subsequent spiffy HD release of infamous Brit-thug S.O.V classic G.B.H, Cliff Twemlow's legacy in the Alpha pantheon of B-Movie hardmen is deservedly assured. This Mancunian, bargain-binned Get Carter presents Donovan's gory score settling in a visceral series of increasingly violent confrontations with hapless underlings, karate-chopping goons, sleazy pornographers, and all manner of potty-mouthed scum and villainy, until its thunderously bloodthirsty climax! G.B.H : Fatal Impact provides another thrillingly bone-crushing showcase of hardcore Twemlow close-quarters carnage. While undeniably derivative, there is something weirdly compelling about Kent-Watson's bullet-blasted, analogue video Madchester thug-fest, expect plentiful B-Movie bellicosity, Soap Opera dramatics, and amusingly stilted dialogue. It must be said that muscular Manc Twemlow's granite-faced, appreciably meat and potatoes acting process is manifestly no small part of the film's thick-eared harms, sorry, charms! 💪

 Pick Up (1975) – Bernard Hirschenson.

Two foxy, hot-to-trot hitch-hikers take an increasingly far out trip into the Floridian everglades, wherein they turn on, tune out, and get righteously hip to all the heavy psychedelic bacchanalia they experience during their fleshly fabulous off-road odyssey. Pick Up is Crown International Pictures attempt to cash cow the new age zeitgeist of Tarot, recreational occultism, freeze dried eastern mysticism, and THC-Hyped pagan mind-benders. Taking a free ride on the bonking bus to Freaksville are two enticingly nubile, amenably libidinous hippie hotties, transposing their overripe Haight- Ashbury dogma into the sultry swamplands of the alien-looking everglades provides for a heady concoction of luridly lysergic escapades. Pick Up remains a steamy Aquarian time-capsule, a kinky kaleidoscope of free love, aggressively psychedelicized montages, monotheistic downer vibes, and enough pea-brained Timothy Leary-isms to herald Manson's second coming. It is oft claimed that The Manson Family's maniacal misdeeds killed the 60s, but I believe the 60s merely suffocated up its own arsehole, whereas the 70s simply got the lead out and rocked!

 Sin in The Suburbs (1964) – Joseph Sarno.

Vintage smut uber stylist Joseph Sarno vibrantly presents another Jazz-fuelled slice of scintillatingly Sapphic interludes, and booze-soaked infidelities within the super-heated lust-pits of middle class, lipstick-collared Suburbia. As always, Sarno lays on a generously spicy smorgasbord of sultry skin-mingling and increasingly exploratory, extra-marital monkey business. Needless to say, all of this permissively libidinous behaviour culminates melodramatically in a gloopy egg salad of Freudian guilt and shame. When you peel back the lustrous veneer of middle/upper-middle class propriety, the debased ooze beneath resembles the roiling, maggoty core of an especially odoriferous artisan French cheese. Tormented female characters are often driven to unfiltered displays of alcoholic anguish, a Sarno trope I find utterly irresistible! In the altogether more hyperbolic works of Wishman and Findlay, dramatic verisimilitude plays second fiddle to the way-out in-out, whereas maestro Sarno's certainly no less fervid erotica frequently include palpable moments of genuine pathos.

 Psychotica (2006) – Sebastian Radke.

A pretty blonde Fräulein (Carolin Meyer) awakens in enormous distress, she is tightly bound to a chair and is forcibly dosed with an experimental serum, whereupon she will experience her own demise in a series of increasingly unpleasant ways! It's quite a novel methodology by which an inventive, low-budget splatter-impresario can arbitrarily string together a dastardly number of gruesome abuses/slayings. Psychotica provides some deliciously unsavoury S.O.V fare, the altogether vulnerable protagonist being physically, and emotionally tormented by her very own unexpurgated, deep-seated fears and neuroses. I found Psychotica to be a bracingly minimalist, enjoyably primal work of experimental Euro-gore, I empathized greatly with the horrifically beleaguered young woman, and I wished sincerely that her grotesque ordeal might have come to an alternative conclusion. While, perhaps, of limited appeal, Radke's grisly, mean-spirited Psychotica is a worthwhile watch to fans of nihilist blood-letting from one of the more obscure perpetrators of Germanic gore-blasting.