Killer's Delight aka The Sport Killer (1978) – Jeremy Hoenack.

Inspired by the brutal crimes of serial killer Ted Bundy, this gripping thriller follows Sgt. Vince De Carlo's (James Luigi) attempts to track down this ruthlessly girl-slaying maniac (John Karlen). I dig 70s serial killer slashers, and I thricely dig on actors John Karlen, George 'Buck' Flower, and James Luigi, whom I always find to be utterly credible, even if sometimes, the scripts aren't quite as rigorous as they aught to be. I don't favour 70s horror out of nostalgia, but I would rather watch a 70s genre feature, than one produced today, attempting to invoke the period. I can't recall the title of the very first U.S horror/slasher to feature the 'Boogie Van Creeper' motif, but alongside Hitch-hike to Hell, this is arguably one of the finer examples.

To claim Hoenack's film is indelibly 70s is admittedly a trifle inane, but the innate value of 'Killer's Delight' is somehow demonstratively improved by the evocative era in which it was produced. Composer Byron Olson delivers a vibrant, terrifically atmospheric score, which does much to increase the oppressive sense of imminent threat. Sgt. De Carlo's intense frustration about the case is palpable, as is the viewer's acute revulsion to the killer's brutalist MO. Without a misstep, the plot remains compelling right until the white-knuckled climax. I've seen this a number of times over the years, and it never fails to reignite my admiration for De Carlo's stalwart attempts to trap his psychopathic quarry.

 Castle of Bloody Lust (1968) – Adrian Hoven.

'There is nothing as interesting as death, young man!!!'

A group of blandly dissipated jet-setters, and a monumentally perverse toff (Michel Lemoine) end up at the ominous castle abode of crazed scientist (Howard Vernon), wherein their boozy soiree takes on an altogether more macabre bent. To say overripe Euro-shocker Castle of Bloody Lust is camp is like saying Siegfried and Roy had a penchant for glitzy threads. I also have the distinct impression that the writers were all cheekily taking the piss out of Castle of Bloody Lust, long before the audience ever could! An enjoyably kitsch, faux Gothic romp, perhaps better appreciated in a playfully ribald Carry On manner, to whit, at any given moment, I utterly expected a despairing Kenneth Williams to frenetically launch himself out of a cobwebbed suit of armour and shrill 'Frying Tonight!!!!'

I have always heartily approved of gratuitous stock footage usage in exploitation cinema, and Castle of Bloody Lust goes fully Night of the Bloody apes with some juicy shots of open heart surgery. This is, of course, all absolute tripe, but so absurdly overwrought it becomes inevitably hilarious. The cod period dialogue is a riot, the liverishly purple-domed prose herein would make Andy Milligan blush. As is so often the case, the delectable Janice Reynard gets 'em out with affable frequency, this fiery redhead greatly aware of the effect she has upon men and their leering lenses. Howard Vernon's steely, golem-like charisma provides the much-needed gravitas, the prosaic screenplay absolutely lacks. Expect lukewarm scenes of simulated coitus, tittersome badinage, and the unbridled awesomeness of Mr. Lemoine being mauled by some schmoe in a bear suit, this Hammer-lite Gothika, all loosely wrapped up in an ethanolic haze of hepcat, loungey jazz!

 The Invasion of Carol Enders. (1974) – Burt Brinckerhoff.

Brinckerhof's conspicuously small screen supernatural thriller is yet another in a long line to feature body-hopping tropes. Upon waking in this pallid Dan Curtis Production, distressed coma victim Carol (Meredith Baxter) adamantly believes that recently deceased Diana (Sally Kemp) is lurking within those mysterious bodily vectors any rogue spirit may choose to hide!!?? The main narrative gist being, Carol's dogged, increasingly precarious attempts to unmask Diana's killer, not the former Princes royal, I should hastily add! Routine spook-less shenanigans, and the mostly fine cast do their very best to imbue a semblance of life into a plot that had long since expired.

Chintzier than a macramé tea cosy, the soapy dialogue, and flavoursome lapses into outright camp provided for a modicum of unintended levity! The prodigiously gormless young fellow playing neurotic son Jason remains utterly tepid entity, exuding all the charisma of a budget Ikea desk lamp! As a teenager, I was hugely taken by Christopher Connelly's lusty performance in Deodato's entertainingly roustabout adventure Atlantis Interceptors, proving so indelible an experience, I have never truly been able to see him as anything but said stalwart Atlantean pugilist!

 Beyond The Limits (2003) – Olaf Ittenbach.

'considering you are a man of god, you are refreshingly ruthless!!!'

The lurid leviathan of psychotronic gore excess, amps up the lunacy in his proper mentalist horror/gangster/dark ages brain-fuck Beyond The Limits. Like an especially flavoursome, generously meaty splatter lasagne, each layer of Ittenbach's bloodthirsty action/gore-blaster is basted in a thick rue of gruesome ultra-violence, heretical head-lopping, eldritch lore, brutal torture, enthusiastic acting, and black-hearted duplicity. If you are a fan of cruelty, gruesomely bludgeoning death, bodies wracked in excruciating pain, ravaged by brutish battle-axes, Beyond the Limits provides gratuitously executed retrograde slaughter, remaining a veritable feast of frenzied, flesh-flaying mayhem. The levels of gore proved satisfying, and I enjoyed, shall we say, the unusually hybridic nature of Beyond The Limits deliriously epoch-spanning narrative. I couldn't be absolutely sure, but it certainly looked as though mighty Mathias Hues engaged briefly in a bloody bout with martial arts maestro Darren Shahlavi?

 Lycan Colony (2005) Rob Roy.

'A werewolf in cheap's clothing'

A disgraced dipso surgeon reluctantly moves his unhappy family to the backwoods of Podunk USA, discovering that the clannish inhabitants are all werewolves! While the odds of anyone finding an entire town populated by lycanthropes are astronomically high, making an implausibly inept film that proves hilariously watchable is simply beyond all reckoning! The rudimentary acting, conspicuously D.I.Y practical FX, Amiga computer graphics, and stupefying dialogue, are all somehow magically transformed by lunar idiosyncrasies into bad movie nirvana! Even as you are watching Lycan Colony, you still cannot quite believe what you are seeing, this is one of the rarest Z-Movies wherein you can not only witness patent evidence of Ed Wood's legend, one senses that his indomitable spirit is somehow guiding helmsman Rob Roy at this noble work! Thrillingly, at no point during Lycan Colony is there any hope of suspending disbelief, it is the absolute incongruity of almost everything you witness that generates true WTF supremacy!

If you began with the lofty psychotronic majesty of Howling II, and then descended precipitously into the ruinous slime at the bottom of the bargain bin, you might unearth the mouldering, protoplasmic goo that provided the active elements that begot Lycan Colony. I can readily handle the film's lunatic premise, yet the very idea that pop was at anytime a reputable surgeon is, for me, one step beyond the Twilight Zone, this galloping goof would have trouble winning a round of pinochle against a pickled fetus. Even as a card-carrying atheist, I can't believe that there isn't somehow a higher power at work turning something so howlingly absurd as Lycan Colony into Z-Movie gold, water into wine is tater tots in comparison. If ya' don't adore Lycan Colony as much as I do, there is simply no hope at all left for humanity. As a postscript, we demonstratively need Lycan Colony products, a super-plush Lycanthrope onesie with crimson-glow eyes, and photorealistic abs is a winning stocking filler!

 Mark of The Witch (1970) – Tom Moore.

'Time is nothing to the Devil's favoured child!'

This clearly low budget Texan supernatural shocker has Professor of occult sciences (Robert Elston), and his pretty student (Anitra Walsh) fall foul of a 16^th century witch (Marie Santell). One of horror's most immediately satisfying tropes is that of a vengeful witch, menacingly monologuing upon the gallows, and Santell rocks it like a blaspheming boss! While the film-making, photography, and prosaic text are flat and uninviting, the primitive electronic score, period acid-fuzz guitar, and showroom pristine period fashions remain lively.

As horror, Mark of the Witch is a hokily fun, but ultimately tepid summoning of evil, enjoyed as a kitsch B-Witch, it's a delightfully devilish distraction. Performances are uneven, but attractive brunette Anitra vividly invokes a luscious, altogether saftig witch host, and much of the archaic beatnik repartee is a gas! As handsome Anitra underwent her eldritch fireside boogie, she momentarily appeared to morph into an appetisingly corn-fed Bjork! I just wanted it noted that I heartily disapprove of spontaneously combusting an innocent budgie in order to make a point!!!! Budgie's are people too, guy!!!!

 Anthropophagous 2000 (1999) - Andreas Schnaas.

Teutonic Gore-master Andreas Schnaas's surprisingly faithful S.O.V tribute to D'Amato's controversial cannibal mood piece is arguably one of the more credible splatter remakes. Not completely successful, Schnaas's earnest attempt to recapture the malign spirit of the especially doom-laden original provides some palpable video nastiness. Due largely to its meagre budget, and the visual limitations of the video format, Anthropophagous 2000 doesn't quite reach the same level of wrenching, apocalyptic dread as Joe D'Amato's immortal Greek tragedy. George Eastman's iconic grimness remains untouchable, but the unknown cast do a mostly credible job of portraying their increasingly beleaguered situation, and the gut-busting gore proved satisfying. I had low expectations, as the original remains one of my favourite horror films, but Schnaas's genuine affection for The Grim Reaper is palpable, and while technically deficient, it cannot be faulted as a visceral tribute to a Euro-shock milestone. In terms of zealously unfiltered S.O.V ultra-gore Andreas remains in a Schnaas all of his very own!