BloodMania (2016) – H.G. Lewis/Melanie Reinboldt/Kevin Littlelight.

Low budget, super-splattery S.O.V horror anthology from the greatly revered gorefather of vintage Gore-blasting Herschell Gordon Lewis. This especially Gruesome Foursome is sardonically hosted by maestro Lewis, and has additional contributions from film-makers Kevin Littlelight and Melanie Reinboldt. Much like an assorted bag of sweeties, compendium horror can be a mixed bag, since the odd indigestible stick of licorice is inevitable. Patently flawed, and frequently sloppy, the goofily gory BloodMania is unable to belie its exceedingly modest budget, but Reinboldt's thrillingly gruesome contribution proves winning. I can't bring myself to be too critical of the veteran Wizard of Gore's final splatter statement, it just wouldn't sit right with me. There's some goodly grisly stuff here, a few lurid laffs, but it looks VERY cheap, the text isn't great, and the sound mix is truly wretched. I simply can't imagine a horror pantheon without H.G. Lewis, the abyss would simply be too awful to comprehend, so my okay-ish take on the episodic chunkblower BloodMania is filtered HEAVILY through a profound love and admiration for his indelible contributions to Grindhouse cinema.

 Spaced Out (1979) – Norman J. Warren.

A snugly spandexed trio of slinky space sirens alight upon earth and proceed to abduct 4 ill prepared locals, 3 disparate men, and a rather prim woman in softly smutty intergalactic romp Spaced Out. Happily, British B-Movie iconoclast Norman J. Warren had the good sense to generously provide the fleshly elements pointedly absent in Spielberg's Close Encounters...nookie, and splendidly saucy space trollops! The comedy content remains strictly below the Van Allen Belt, and the amusingly rudimentary production design is a glowing testament to Blue Peter's credo that there's very you can't make with creative recycling of milk bottle tops, empty squeazy bottles, and used egg cartons. It is a little known fact that at the end of the 70s, with the latterly flourishing British film industry in decline, the minister of culture desperately passed an edict declaring that every 2^nd adult feature absolutely MUST star Barry Stokes, or failing that, Robin Askwith! While the corny dialogue is mostly sub-Carry On prattling, delivered in a broad Sitcom vernacular, Spaced Out remains an amiable enough low budget lark, voluptuously replete with exceptionally delectable looking aliens!

 Murder-Set-Pieces (2004) – Nick Palumbo.

'In my mind's eye, I set fires in your cities!'

Handsome, prodigiously muscular narcissist photographer (Sven Garrett) hungrily prowls the garishly illuminated streets of Las Vegas procuring beautiful female prey for his increasingly perverse edifications. To the director's credit, his degenerate, wholly unsympathetic antagonist appears authentically pitiless, a cruel, sadistically torturing misogynist without the merest vestige of humanity. Brutal, kinky, and ruthlessly mean-spirited, Nick Palumbo's controversially lurid excursion through the darkest interstices of a twisted mind has lost little of its power to beguile/divide horror fans. Virulently voyeuristic, undeniably visceral, and frequently far from subtle, appreciated as a gruesomely reverent tone poem to Grindhouse cinema's more gratuitous excesses, Murder-Set-Pieces remains a grimly effective terror treat. When watching similar fare, it is often hard to divorce oneself entirely from recollections of Henry Portrait of a Serial Killer, but, for better, or worse, Murder-Set-Pieces gorily proves to be its very own animal. While the cumulative effect of watching this self-aggrandising sociopath ultimately becomes a trifle numbing, it is a more than competent psycho-slasher, and Palumbo's chunkblowing climax resolutely delivers some deliciously perverse, Gialli-inflected mayhem. Concluding on a more personal note, the winning inclusion of beloved TCM alumni, and horror's reigning dark prince Tony Todd proved altogether welcome.

 The Brute Man (1946) – Jean Yarborough.

Striking post war terror icon Rondo Hatton plays the vengeful Creeper, hell-bent on righteously revenging himself upon all those he deems responsible for his terrible plight. This formulaic, yet entertaining enough 40s B-shocker presents the increasingly desperate activities of The Creeper (Rondo Hatton) as he morosely prowls the city's ill-lit streets, brutally breaking the backs of all those unfortunate to cross his lumbering path! The shrill Police Broadcast claiming that the elusive slayer is a 'tall, heavy-set man in a hat and coat' is almost entirely spurious, while the schmutter is correct, poor Mr. Hatton is clearly a frail, ailing gentleman, his suggested bulk, merely the conspicuous padding in his well-worn jacket. More melancholic, than macabre, one can't help but feel a profound sympathy for this solitary, infirm, and utterly unloved creature. Contrary to the braying naysayers, Yarborough's The Brute, like a great many pointedly recycled B-Horrors are flawed by their prosaically plagiarised texts, the fault lies NOT with the estimable Mr. Hatton, who arguably remains the sole reason to watch the film! Undeniably mawkish, I personally found the scenes between the desperately lonely Creeper and kindly piano teacher to be genuinely moving, lending The Brute a frisson of pathos that is so rarely remarked upon.

 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!