Lies (1999) – Jang Sun-woo.

Any explicitly transgressive erotic drama that commences with a lustful, CP-obsessed Middle-aged male J (Kwon Hyeok-pong), eagerly awaiting the imminent arrival of a luscious-looking 18yrold virgin Y (Kim Tae-Yeon) for some no-holes-barred bonking, certainly has the potential for true greatness. Based on an apparently controversial Korean novel, Lies presents their first, evidently 'impactful' sexual encounter with vigour, humanity, and an exhilarating frankness! Shot on film, much of their increasingly exploratory lovemaking is graphically captured with a hand-held camera, yet the film's innate grain, and rich colour palate adds additional texture, had it been shot on video, the CAT-III level Lies may have appeared like some pseudo-artsy S&M pornography. Each of the tantalisingly amorous, Hotel-set assignations is preceded with a chapter/title heading, perhaps, a direct reference to the novel itself? Lies is a deliciously raunchy Korean CP treat, and remains one production whose credits CANNOT claim that 'no human bottoms were hurt making this film'.

Leavened with an additional patina of dramatic interest, namely J's estranged, CP-loathing wife in Paris, Y's somewhat fractious relationship with a jealous schoolfriend, and her delinquent brother, Lies remains luridly focussed upon the sexual, largely CP-centric content. I don't believe Lies is a 'pornographic' film, it is a stridently intimate drama that uninhibitedly portrays frequently graphic sexual content. Not especially penetrating intellectually, the playful, loving exchanges, striking footage of the joyfully rutting lovers, and subsequent shifts in their power dynamic proved compelling. The naturalistic performances are winningly unfiltered, director Sun-woo's brazen, spankingly sexy Lies struck me as being engagingly honest. If the bottom-unfriendly Lies had been released at the very same time as Last Tango in Paris, Bertolucci's smug, navel-gazed hump-a-rama wouldn't have raised Sir Roger Moore's other, conspicuously sedate eyebrow!

 Baptism of Blood aka Senrei (1996) - Kenichi Yashihara.

Stricken with a disfiguring malaise, TV icon Izumi Wakakusa (Mie Yoshida)undertakes a cruel treatment, using the alien methodology of nefarious Dr. Meredith (Tatsuya Go), which, in essence, mortally hijacks the delectable body of her nubile daughter Sakura (Rie Imamura). Once poor Sakura gets wind of her mother's ultimate treachery, the delightfully skewed narrative escalates with a demented Cat III zeal, in exhilaratingly warped Baptism of Blood! The ailing mother is delightfully monstrous, ravenously covetous of her beautiful young daughter's lustrous complexion, and lissom body, utterly ruthless in her desire to transplant her brain into her daughter's pretty head!

Gruesome, melodramatic, sinisterly surreal, and altogether bizarre, the Neo-Gothic shocker Baptism of Blood is an often blackly funny, sublimely inventive, thrillingly nuts J-Horror treat! The truly excruciating, and exquisitely prolonged brain extraction procedure remains a macabre masterclass in H.R Giger-inflected steampunk splatter! Based on a story by Japanese Horror maestro Kazuo Umezo, his winningly off-centre shocker Baptism of Blood remains a madly compelling, uniquely strange J-Horror confection, generously layered with far richer ingredients than blandly remade, dully recycled mainscream British/U.S horror fare.

 The Wrong Door (1990) – Bill Weiss.

Student Ted (Matt Felmlee), a gifted creator of audio drama, disturbingly finds himself cast as The Wrong Man opening The Wrong Door, whereupon he coincidentally witnesses the slaying of a young woman, and is plunged frantically into a whip-crack Hitchcockian nightmare noir/mystery. Super-8 indie miracle The Wrong Door has the chutzpah to punch well above its weight, proving itself to be a rousing, smart, breathlessly paced, knock-out thriller. For a feature shot on such a small gauge it has big ideas, and frequently delivers some satisfyingly widescreen suspense! Amiable Young Actor Felmlee is sublime as the innocent naif, the unlikeliest of heroes, relentlessly pursued by two Brat Pack thugs, one of whom is doing his best to channel his inner James Spader, but thuggishly projecting a B-level James Russo, which, quite frankly, ain't too shabby!!!!

Once again, deep-diggers Visual Vengeance, those stalwart curators of intoxicatingly Home-brewed S.O.V Gore-mongery are to be enormously commended for nurturing this compelling S.O.S (shot on Super-8) thriller onto HD for the delight, and universal delectation of cult movie treasure seekers worldwide! The Wrong Door is a cherishable rarity, a hitherto neglected, unjustly obscure, VHS-era Bobby Dazzler, that enjoys quality performances, a cogent, suspenseful text, engagingly visual film-making aesthetic, and a palpably thrilling climax! With its playful, sympathetic protagonist, and serpentine De Palma/Hitchcock plot, I was resolutely gripped throughout, for me, The Wrong Door is a truly inspirational, indie-film-making marvel!

 Isolation (2015) – Cedric Endress & El Gore.

This rather sombre iteration of low-fi Krautshock presents the brutal killing spree of a nebbish-looking serial killer (Philip Petrosky), and the boozy, burnt-out cop (Christian Fryska) increasingly desperate to apprehend him. Not altogether big on verisimilitude, since at no time does Isolation divest itself of the made by a group of film savvy, D.I.Y gorehounds aesthetic, but, frankly, it is their FU, just blow chunks attitude that lends it a ton of watchability. Primarily set within a rural German backwater of unspecified origin, the bulk of Isolation is intercutting between autistic, eerily silent lunatic at home, or outside annihilating randoms with a fuck-off stiletto, and the morose, dipso detective, stuck in a crepuscular office, drenched in whiskey and self-pity. Since the maniac is largely mute, the bulk, if not all of the dramatic content is from the handsome, if increasingly warped cop, who, jut barely pulls it off. At no point was I bored, curiously, I found myself transfixed by Isolation's 'let's gorily stab randoms up in a backyard milieu, it shouldn't work, yet, for me, it mostly does.

Isolation's main strength is its brevity, the frequent, bravura instances of home-brewed carnage, and Rene Bidmon's moody, conspicuously excellent electronic score. Isolation mimics many cheapnis Grindhouse titles of the 60s/70s, and early 80s, appropriating a similar, let's get a bunch of amenable people in one location, and either make with the old in-out, or get hella stabby! Isolation is a scrappy, prodigiously stabby, suburban S.O.V gore-blaster, and I would personally rather see another no-budget sequel to Isolation than one more paltry Hollywood remake. The cop really would be absolutely convincing playing one of Goring's more reprehensible minions, which gives Isolation's nihilistic climax a bit more credibility. The FX are crude and splashy, the performances are crude and splashy, and since at no point in my life have I ever been adverse to crude and splashy manifestations, this serially sanguineous S.O.V slasher proved especially winning.

 The Massage Parlour Murders! (1973) – Charles Fox/Alex Stevens.

A maniacally misogynistic monotheist is viciously dissembling beautifully put-together masseurs in gnarly 70s Grindhouse slasher The Massage Parlour Murders! Not only a fascinating time-capsule of Times Square, and the dingier vectors of pre-gentrified NYC, the plentiful, sex-on-legs female cheesecake, and a noisome, ear-wormingly satisfying lounge Jazz/stoner fuzz score provides the Moorish icing on this delectable midnight movie confection. Fans of maestro H.G. Lewis's sleazoid death-o-rama classic The Gore Gore Girls are sure to appreciate the seamier elements of lurid exploitation gem The Massage Parlour Murders! In this instance, the low budget doesn't impinge upon the watchability, in fact, the hand-held, no-permits guerrilla film-making aesthetic merely galvanizes the film's raw nerve intensity. Granted, it remains undeniably grimy Drive-in fare, but frequently delivering a dynamic charge of dingy delirium, making skid row slasher The Massage Parlour Murders! A bona fide, babe-stuffed, B-Movie banger, one that generously offers patrons a happy ending!

Body Without Soul (1996) Wiktor Grodecki.

I had totally forgotten just how much of an epic downer this Documentary is! And Jeez, Louise!!! The self-confessed hedonist, pathologist/pornographer chap is a proper odd duck!!! I've never been big on meeting shady folk in dark alleys, but he's ABSOLUTELY one to avoid!!!That being said, if, like me, you maintain a morbid penchant for autopsy footage, this features, perhaps, one of the more eccentric examples. There doesn't appear to be much in the way of editorialising, the director, to his great credit, just lets the damaged, melancholy young men talk openly about their desperately unlovely existence as male prostitutes. In truth, the bloody evisceration of the cadaver acts a colourful respite from the sad boy's grey litany of despair. 

 Voodoo Curse : Legbas Rache (2009) – Sefan Svahn.

This entertainingly gory German S.O.V Zombie horror concerns Bremen's screamingly suburban, occult-obsessing, pseudo-Goths, and one especially fateful evening, wherein their hedonistic plans for a boozy, cannabis-hazed graveyard conjuring, quite literally, goes to hell in a blood-soaked handbasket! Unexpectedly, there's more pros than cons here, a MAJOR f'n win are Mr. Svahn's gorgeously grotesque-looking, gut-rippingly righteous zombies, his FX work is consistently excellent. Performances are shockingly decent, and the attack zombie 'blah' narrative is certainly no better, or worse, than a million others of its ilk. Sadly, this adherence to D.I.Y splatter dogma means that it occasionally becomes bogged down in the very same cliched morass as a million other lo-fi, dead-headed splatter flicks.

As a huge fan of inventive Italian splatter, and Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things, I absolutely believe polymath film-maker Stefan Svahn's stalwart attempts to bastardize them for his own low budget horror opus proved entirely apropos. Voodoo Curse : Legbas Rache frequently delivers some righteously lo-fi'd gore blasting, tittersome stoner repartee, and a hellaciously gruesome, slow movingly zombie-clotted climax! All that being said, Svahn's Wiccan bloodbath still suffers from an obviously deficient budget, and a painfully derivative text. As a final note, I really must credit the capable indie film makers for their hard work, dedication, and altogether honourable commitment to the greatly revered movie ministry of awesome S.O.V chunk-blowing!!!