'Count Yorga' (1970) – Bob Kelljan.

Any wine-denying, Graveyard digging, cellar creepin' horror fan can always Count on the diabolically dapper 'Death Master' Yorga (Robert Quarry) to deliver a ferociously femoral flushing fright! Disarmingly urbane and luridly insane, 'Count Yorga' is an elegantly eerie, morbidly moonlit, righteously turned on throat tippler! The perversely plasma purloining prince remains a terrifyingly toothsome nocturnal neck-nipper with a terrible thirst for the salty claret that flows so copiously in your veins!!! This strikingly studly, skin-prickingly sinister, artery aggravating aristocrat silently stalks his blackened domain in order to pleasurably administer his wanton acts of bestial blood-letting! A magisterially menacing midnight movie madman whose terminally transfixing animal magnetism shall draw you inexorably to your blood-soaked doom!!! Bravura B-horror maestro Bob Kelljan's groovy-booby, Grisly-Gothic, cobweb creepy, regally wrong-headed 'Count Yorga' just might be tomb much Vampire for your timorous throat to bare!

'Quarry's sardonically claret-supping Count is of the more jubilantly jugular jacking, cruelly carotid crimping bloodsuckers of the sin-scintillated silver scream!'

  

 

'Jail Bait' (1954) – Ed Wood, Jr. 

If Ed Wood Jr. is the Otto Preminger of D.I.Y cinema then the cordite-sharp, back alley blood-spiller 'Jail Bait' is arguably Ed Wood's greatly descended 'Fallen Angel'. After privileged rich kid on the make Don Gregor (Clancy Malone) is readily tempted by greasy-looking, smack-talkin' sack of small time potatoes, micro-moustachioed, half-baked hoodlum called Vic Brady (Timothy Farrell), being hyped into working a misbegotten heist, the bloody, inevitably bungled aftermath ends up with draughty flatfoots clumping lugubriously on their fearfully absconding, double-crossing tails. While buff, boil-in-the bag beefcake Steve Reeves, and sugar sweet, perky peroxide cream puff Dolores Fuller are both squeezey on the eyes, they stodgily make a TV Dinner of Ed Wood, Jr and Alex Gordon's triumphant, thrift-store trashy, rat-a-tat-tat syntax!

'Jail Bait' is a matchstick mean, corkscrew twisted, poverty-row potboiler, loosely held together with little more than a lurid smear of lipstick, used gum ball wrappers, and a shoebox-stuffed full of unpaid IOUs. Ed Wood, Jr's earnest attempt at directing a more mainstream B-Thriller is a deadpan, drop-dead delight, scuzzier than a stevedore's spittoon, blacker than a royally busted toenail, 'Jail Bait' remains a seamy, turgid trawl through the wilder side of midnight movie noir. While it frequently looks cheaper than a carny stag reel, moving slower than pig in aspic,'Jail Bait' nonetheless remains a spine-tinglingly spirted tribute to the maverick, low budget film-making chutzpah of Ed Wood, Jr, wherein low-brow bar-room substances triumph over glitzy, high-blown Hollywood schmear that mysteriously maintains rigorous interest due to having oodles of naive, cornball charm. 'Jail Bait' boisterously remains a beloved psychotronic classic that deliriously delivers a dizzy-doozy double take in its wickedly warped WTF finale!

 

 

 

 

 

'Nightmares Come at Night' (1970) – Jesús Franco.

The marvellously macabre Midnight Movie magician Jesús Franco once again luridly entices his more fleshly-inclined, sensation-seeking fans to totter timorously upon the fearfully frayed edges of this supernaturally salacious, theatrically twisted, terror-tinted tightrope of sinfully-singed, sumptuously subversive celluloid insanity! Like some dementedly DMT-dazed, audaciously unfiltered, hyper-eroticised Hitchcock, Franco's hysterical, palm-sweatingly sinister psychodrama 'Nightmares Come at Night' (1970) thrillingly proves itself to be yet another fabulously febrile, panic-drenched, lividly downbeat Grindhouse delirium! A brilliantly batso-bonkers B-Movie bacchanal, wherein the fiendishly inventive Iberian iconoclast Franco coaxes another bravura performance from sinuously sublime, raven-haired shiny dancer Soledad Miranda who makes for a truly mesmerically maniacal protagonist! Regarded by some as the tyrannically tasteless auteur of cheapjack, five-fingered filth, yet hailed by many as being a visionary avatar of audaciously left-field exotica, Franco was an uncommonly vivid visual artist whose almost heroic lack of cinematic refinement, impish predilection for hyperbolic crudity, and super-charged sensuality frequently engendered the most deliciously diverting, outrageously outré, darkly dreamt, filmically far-out fare! For me, maestro Jesús Franco's sordidly sweat-slathered, hypnotically hateful 'Nightmares Come at Night' arguably remains one of his more misunderstood, intoxicatingly insane, flank-poundingly perverse, ferociously enticing, fear-festooned fantasies!'