The Devil's Partner (1961) – Charles R. Rondeau.

Spooky Theremins and vintage occult horror go together sweeter than good malt whiskey and ice-cold beer, and Rondeau's low budget, yet highly entertaining, Theremin-tastic Faustian shocker is some potently distilled Drive-In deviltry. For a B-chiller produced on such modest means, The Devil's Partner has aged remarkably well, remaining an atmospheric, altogether watchable Black Magic horror gem. Ostracized octogenarian (Ed Nelson) dies in a occulted manner, and not long after, his handsome, boy-next-door nephew (Ed Nelson) arrives, he cosily insinuates himself into this dust-bowl backwater, proceeding to play the good guy card with a little too much zeal. Not unlike a feature-length episode of The Night Gallery, or Boris Karloff's The Veil, The Devil's Partner succeeds due to an engaging text, credible performances, considered film-making, a smattering of small town folksy charm, and a genuinely thrilling final act. As a long-time fan of Ed Nelson, I can state with only a modicum of fanboy hyperbole that his darkly charismatic, devilishly duplicitous antagonist is a palpable (five pointed)star-maker.

 Bad Girls from Mars (1990) Fred Olen Ray.

'There's no room on mars for limp dicks!'

Fred Olen Ray's smuttily satirical sci-schlock gem Bad Girls from Mars benefits greatly from the lively comedic contributions of notable B-Movie stalwarts Brinke Stevens and Jay Richardson. Buxom leading ladies are coming to a sticky end, who is this mysterious slayer, and why single out, only the most voluptuous of triumphantly top-heavy Thespians? Will the glamorous replacement Emmanuelle slag-tits (Edy Williams) suffer the very same cruel fate? Hey!!! As long as the director keeps popping tops like celebratory Champagne corks at Paris Hilton's funeral, I could care less. While the comedic elements are about as subtle as the finale at a monster truck rally, you DO get to joyfully boggle at an especially bouncing bevvy of blissfully boffable B-Movie babes! If you regard Bad Girls from Mars as a Giallo, it pretty much blows a Donkey's ass, but appreciated as a thinly veiled excuse to farce about, taking cheap shots at B-Movie lore, with pleasingly frequent displays of pulchritudinous T&A, it rocks most righteously, dude!

 Crime Time (1996) – Georges Sluzier.

A psychopath (Pete Postlethwaite) stalks the shadowy London streets, not content killing young women, he sinisterly harvests an eye. Once the crimes are luridly recreated for TVs tabloid-y Crime Time, broody, method actor (Stephen Baldwin) becomes increasingly obsessed with performing the maniacal killer, until grisly fact and fiction become fatefully intertwined. Not surprisingly, gifted director Sluzier brings much style, and an additional frisson of palpable darkness to his suspenseful serial killer shocker. Crime Time's rigorous watchability is maintained by credible performances, icon Karen Black is always a big treat, young lovers Stephen Baldwin and Sadie Frost are lively, proving convincing, with Postlethwaite's proletariat psycho's blandly anonymous exterior belying a truly monstrous modus operandi. Seen today, Crime Time remains a proper wee gem of a nasty-edged thriller, seemingly neglected, perhaps unfairly tarred by Baldwin's future slump into B-movie banality, the film-making/photography/text remain absolutely sound, and the eerie sequences revealing Postlethwaite and wife Geraldine Chaplin's queasy domesticity are really rather special indeed! Atmospheric, creepy, and coldly gripping, the creator of indelible creep-fest 'The Vanishing', once again delivers the suspenseful goods with his powerhouse 90s sleeper Crime Time.

 Little Deaths (2011) – Andrew Parkinson/Simon Rumley/Sean Hogan.

This tantalizing triptych of tweaked terror remains a true sleazehound's delight! If Little Deaths had been released during the faux moral panic of the video nasty flap, Mary Whitehouse would most certainly have made a copy, and wanked herself to death over it! In reality, splatter without filth, is like a hard veto on greasy bum-love, it just ain't cricket, guy. Little Deaths is deliciously cruel, and full-on sexy in all the wrong places, which is why I adore it so unabashedly. Not only is it exhilaratingly horny, it is partially educational, as alien, monstrously elephantine phalli do indeed prodigiously discharge a dangerously hallucinatory semen. Little Deaths had me bang to rights at the big Willie'd Nazi mutant segment, Hey!!!! give it a shot, we all need a nasty little spurt of sinister spunk every now and again. No film's integrity, or watchability is ever truly diminished by featuring a drunk, cuckolded dude in a doggie mask taking a vengeful whizz on his skeezer girlfriend's knickers! I've seen Little Deaths many times, and I've seen certain sequences even more than that, it all helps to keep me spunky, and spunky is wellness!

Campton Manor (2024) – Cat Hostick.

While it is far from an exact science, but in many cases one can, quite frequently judge a film by the quality of the attendant trailers, and, happily, the inclusion of an Asylum trailer belies the fact Campton Manor is a doable supernatural spine-tingler. Mediumistic horror novelist (Shaun Roberts) is tasked by a pale, mysterious gentleman (Jason London) to investigate the open case of ill-fortuned Campton Manor, wherein a house-full of new year's eve revellers were killed by person, or persons unknown. With robust performances, a quality text, and one especially electric jump-scare, Campton Manor 'Shined' brighter than I expected, proving to be an altogether haunting, compellingly Stephen King'd chiller. With distant echoes of Angel Heart and Jacob's Ladder, the dread atmosphere of pending doom is successfully maintained throughout, culminating in a satisfyingly macabre revelation at its conclusion.

 

 Jack Palance's Unknown Powers (1978) – Don Como.

The toweringly charismatic Jack Palance introduces, and co-hosts another exploratory 'documentary' into the altogether mythic realm of mankind's quest for alien forces seemingly unbound by natural law. Not exactly ponderous, but much of Jack Palance's Unknown Powers is rather more sober in its investigations of strange preternatural phenomenon than many other schlockumentaries of the same era. It is engagingly put together, mostly avoiding the shrill hyperbole usually expected of the deliciously disreputable mondo genre. While much, if not all of the phenomena herein has long-since been debunked, it happily remains an entertainingly spurious time-capsule of the 1970s feverish interest in the supernatural, pyramidal pseudo-science, psychic chicanery, occultism, and the still hugely questionable reality of extra terrestrials. It is, of course, episodic fare, with some episodes appearing infinitely less credible than others, ones readiness to believe is simply down to the individual's credulity. Cognoscenti of Fortean media will no doubt find this a satisfying experience, and it's an additional treat seeing Will Geer, and Samantha Eggar adding their estimable dramatic talents to Don Como's amusingly fictitious goof-a-rama. I think it somewhat fair to state that any discussion of stigmata, psychic surgery, and the not so Reverend Jim Jones's power to heal is a giddy leap into the Twilight Zone, especially since Jones's sole egregious talent was for vile duplicity, and mass murder.

 Dead Mine (2012) – Steven Sheil.

A wealthy capitalist, a furtive WWII researcher, and a hardened military outfit find themselves trapped in an apparently derelict Indonesian mine, but instead of unearthing a fabled treasure trove of looted war gold, they discover crazed, subterranean anthropoids, and a terrifying troop of zombie samurai! Undeniably well-made, Dead Mine is no less pointedly derivative, and I think it's absolutely fair to say that without Shockwaves and The Outpost, Dead Mine would run at least 70 minutes shorter. While I was unable to connect with the generic protagonists, I greatly enjoyed the brutal antagonists, being especially appreciative of the righteous-looking mutant Samurai Warriors! Dead Mine falls short of director Steven Sheil's sleazoid Brit-cult classic Mum & Dad, as the stock characters, and prosaic dialogue prove wearisome, yet it isn't entirely without merit. Sadly lacking the inventiveness, and prodigious splatter of Dead Snow, or Army of Frankensteins, this Dead Mine yields precious few nuggets of horror gold.