Satan Lives! The Rise of The Illuminati Hotties ( 2022 ) - Sean Donohue.

'We have to remove his face to complete the death ceremony!'

Aye! I'm unashamedly part of the downer demographic that will happily watch a sleazy horror cheapnis solely based upon the rapacious luridity of the title! Satan Lives! The Rise of The Illuminati Hotties had me at Satan Lives! And I allowed myself to be lured by the alleged hotness of the said illuminated hotties! While I don't believe Satan would be very much impressed, the more debased consumers of smutty low-fi S.O.V Satanic Panic might get a skeevey kick out of this sticky cauldron of sordid sluts, dingy douche-bags, octogenarian occultists, refried cheesy synths, gut-bucket gore, pole-dancing vixens, goofball interludes, and an admirable lack of sophistication. That being said, who needs cinematic smarts when y'all have such a pulchritudinous preponderance of nude, enticingly jiggle-some Illuminati hotties!!!! This torrid, micro-budgeted, big busted, skuzzily shot on video fromage to Russ Meyer, and Ted V. Mikels is a raunchy one-stop-shop for grab-ass, Neo-Grindhouse slop!!! What fundamentally prevents Satan Lives! The Rise of The Illuminati Hotties from being a freezer bag full of reeking lipo-waste is the deliciously buxom, beautifully bottomed assassin Patricia (Jessa Flux)!!!!!!

 The Mummy and the Curse of the Jackals (1969)- Oliver Drake.

'Day of the Jackal(Man)'

Archaeologist David Barrie (Anthony Eisley) takes possession of a pair of Egyptian Sarcophagi, and during his subsequent researches, the 4,000 yr-old princess Akana (Marliza Pons) awakens, followed by guardian mummy Sirahk (Saul Goldsmith), and via ritualized B-Movie hocus pocus, Barrie is horribly transformed into JACKAL-MAN, culminating in an enjoyable tumult of next-level bonkers Creature Feature shenanigans. Extraordinarily, The Mummy and the Curse of the Jackals is even better than it sounds, a divinely trashy B-movie bonanza of psychotronic lunacy, excruciating dialogue, hep-cat music cues, monochromatic acting, and a deeply entrenched atmosphere of beguiling silliness. I can easily imagine that The Mummy and the Curse of the Jackals would have made a perfect date night flick for psychobilly heroes Poison Ivy & Lux Interior! If one took the more gonzo ingredients of Drive-In demi-gods Ray Dennis Steckler and H.G Lewis, back-peddled on the gore, but double-downed on the bizarro music choices, you may well have Frankenstein'd something truly extraordinary like The Mummy and the Curse of the Jackals. While it is always the fans that make a B-movie cult, it wouldn't surprise me at all if The Mummy and the Curse of the Jackals became a go-to mind-bender in the none-to distant future. Expressing a personal preference, this sublime freak-fest would make an exquisite pairing with Andy Milligan's The Rats are coming! The Werewolves are here!

 Vampires and Other stereotypes (1994) – Kevin J. Lindenmuth.

During a night patrol in NYC, our pair of querulous metropolitan spook-hunters, while doing their heroic duty keeping all the devil boogers at bay, end up in the noisome company of hottie, would-be ravers who have inadvertently opened up a gateway to the netherworld! On paper Vampires and Other Stereotypes sounds goofy, and experienced on HD video, it IS majorly goofy, but gloriously goofy in all the best ways! Like Nightbeast before it, micro-budget impresario Lindenmuth's cheapnis monster-mash Vampires and Other Stereotypes offers rabid S.O.V freaks a bloody smorgasbord of psychotronic terror tropes, cornball badinage, kooky tangents, and some objectively righteous-looking practical FX! No doubt preaching to the perverted, Vampires and Other Stereotypes demographic are arguably those weaned on a lifetime of fromage enriched B-horrors, neophyte schlockers who stayed up past their bedtime and excitedly watched all the scratchy midnight monster movies of old. While Vampires and Other Stereotypes is inevitably hampered by a low budget, it is absolutely watchable, since it remains a winning example of a creative film-maker utilizing his enthusiasm, and prodigious imagination to successfully visualize his project far beyond his meagre financial means. I must also once again congratulate Visual Vengeance for putting together an exceptionally handsome-looking package, featuring the exuberant, wonderfully entertaining 8mm shorts of precocious teenaged fright-maker Lindenmuth.

 Demon Divas and The Lanes of Damnation. (2009) – Mike Watt.

'I can't believe I ate the whole thing??!!!'

Things go supernaturally askew during some boozy sorority shenanigans at a local bowling alley hang-out, as the sultry owners of the joint get their demon on! Having a lurid moniker like Demon Divas and The Lanes of Damnation, no one is going to expect nuanced film-making on the level of Bela Tarr, or Andrezj Zulawski, and with a slinky-malinky cast of bouncy B-screamers, including icons Brinke Stevens and dishy Debbie Rochon, one may expect plentiful top-popping, smutty banter, and righteous levels of schlocky splatter-a-rama-ding-dong! I think that it is entirely fair to say that this is one horned-up horror-com that will encourage the more excitable members of the audience to give their balls a vigorous polish! Mean Girls spliced with Gutterballs, all smothered in the pungent aroma of Troma and y'all get the unholy spawning of Demon Divas and The Lanes of Damnation. This is a fun n' frisky B-Horror ride, expect quality buffoonery, sparky badinage, and a goofy gore-blasted climax! Taffy (Sofiya Smirnova) and her bestie Lisa (Nikki McCrae) are likeable, wholly sympathetic protagonists, and I also massively dug on the deliciously demonic antagonists, making this, pretty much, a win-win deal. Demon Divas and The Lanes of Damnation is light on T&A, but it gets a pass, since it is a genuinely funny, playful, consistently entertaining B-Horror lark!

 Le Petite Mort (2009) – Marcel Walz.

Luridly based upon a gory true crime history yadda-yadda-yadda. Does La Petite Mort's explicit violence, graphic S& M brutality, sordid erotica, and preponderance of grisly torture slaying provide good value to the more debased horror fan? Happily, yes, with a soupcon of no! Once again, the old adage of 'you don't have to be a card-carrying pervert to get the moist out of La Petit Mort, but it certainly helps is bloodily reinforced! Performances and technical aspects are robust, the main points of interests should be, just how gruesome are Olaf Ittenbach's practical FX, and are the sweetly slaughtered honey babies easy on the eye? Aye!!! no worries there! Three young tourists end up in an especially sleazy S & M bar, and become the victims of a snuff/torture live stream. It is often said that extreme sexualized horror provides a catharsis, but I remain unconvinced, I believe these snuff-shockers communicate directly to the dimming vestiges of our primordial DNA, or, jaded folk simply like to see glissy intestines smeared gratuitously upon exposed breasts! Eroticized cruelty can be traced back to the likes of Jess Franco's Sexorcismes, or art house shocker 120 days in Sodom,which of itself references one of the more hideous traits in man, warmongery, and the multifarious insanities manifested when one side, and the another, blindly follows orders. If Franco had shot this, there would be far more Sapphic action, and saftig siren Lina Romay would spend at least 20 minutes grinding lasciviously, enthusiastically tending to any proximal sex organs. All hail Romay, sadly no longer with us, but NEVER forgotten. The dearth of nudity proved a buzz kill, but the plentiful gore has a palpably nasty edge, and the club's evil proprietress is a stone-cold skell.

 Weekend Pass (1984) – Lawrence Bossof.

With its slavish adherence to smutty incident, bawdy humour, Horndog males, ribald hi -jinks, thinly sketched caricatures, and clunky dialogue, infamous Pulp-makers Crown International Pictures could never once be accused of flaunting their idiosyncrasies. Four likeable swabbies savour the sinful sights and perky electro pop sounds of L.A. During a gaudy weekend of booze, and eagerly anticipated iniquity! To their credit, I don't believe Crown International Pictures had any intention of making art, merely churning out easily digestible, lowest common denominator soft core, Drive In shenanigans. Lawrence Bossof's Weekend Pass is good for a oner, even if it is a largely inane experience. In its favour, Weekend Pass does sporadically provide a garish, neon-hazed snapshot of 80s L.A. Along with some attractive ladies, and a pleasingly bouncy score. I didn't exactly hate Weekend Pass, as some of it even expresses a modicum of genuine wit, as the monotony is momentarily enlivened with a memorable sequence in a comedy club, hosted by the legendary Phil Hartman! An amiable enough Crown International time-killer, but, quite frankly, this Naval L.A. Romp is currently showing severe signs of battle fatigue.

 The Marseille Contract (1974) – Robert Parrish.

This compelling, thrillingly hard-boiled Euro-thriller has an exceptional international cast, headed by Anthony Quinn, James Mason, and national treasure Michael Caine. Terse action, a sharp script, agile direction, and another magnificently moody score by Roy Budd makes The Marseille Contract nigh on unmissable vintage entertainment. Grizzled veteran DEA agent Ventura (Anthony Quinn) abhors his sedentary desk job in Paris, stymied by bureaucracy, he becomes frustrated, unable to get the dirt to stick on protected higher echelon drug baron Brizzard (James Mason). Opting for more draconian action, Ventura covertly hires Johnny Deray (Michael Caine) to eliminate Brizzard, but his slick, paranoid quarry proves wily, vicious, and utterly elusive. The Marseille Contract remains an vital 70s thriller, gorgeously replete with stunning Riviera vistas, electrifying action, beautiful jet-set babes, and some juicy cat n' mousing betwixt the seemingly omnipotent Brizzard and no less capable killer Deray. Unlike much of the pallid, redundantly recycled, politically correct action baloney of today, The Marseille Contract demonstratively has both of its balls intact. I can still appreciate the fact that 70s action movie foreplay is administered behind the screaming pistons of ton-up, road-burning supercars!