But Allegro’s “Mafia Kingpin Collection,” at least the first disc, is major fermented curd.

In “Mister Scarface,” Jack Palance plays Mister Scarface, so-called because he has a — yep, you guessed it — scar on his personal face.

He gets ripped off by a young punk from a rival gang. Another punk from Mister Scarface’s gang helps, as does the local fat middle-aged gay gangster.

This wacky trio takes us on a wild ride in an orange dune buggy around little narrow Italian streets and to an abandoned slaughterhouse and so on.

It is all very exciting and makes a certain amount of sense, which detracts from the overall experience.

There might have been a breast but I don’t think so. Some decent badly-dubbed kung fu, though, and the usual overdone sound effects — especially that curious insistence bad filmmakers have on making sure the sound of leather shoes on polished floors is in every scene — even if someone in ballet slippers is tip-toeing across a velvet field that’s just been sprayed with silicone.

The cop in blue jeans is greasy and excitingly underexposed

The shoe sound is also a prevalent part of “The Cop in Blue Jeans,” in which Jack Palance plays Richard Russo, who is not a semi-famous novelist and does not have a scar on his face. He is chiefly distinguishable from Mister Scarface by the fact he does not use a holder for his cigarettes.

A greasy unwashed detective wants to catch fences, so he goes to a soccer game and shoves a guy’s head in the toilet. Then he dons a greasy, multi-colored knit cap and rides a motorcycle around in circles.

There is a sex scene, mercifully truncated and displaying nothing more alarming than the greasy man in his red briefs — which makes this a horror film (although not as horrible as it would have been if the shorts came down).

To make some sort of point, the greasy man is shown in front of a giant poster for “Serpico.” He also has a small white rodent named “Serpico.”

This film has two excruciating disco scenes, the last featuring the worst exhibition of White Man Dancing since I last took the floor, at Denison University, 1984, doing my thang to Luther “Guitar Jr.” Johnson and The Magic Rockers.

It also has recurring soft-core porno music with someone pretending to be Ornette Coleman squonking over it.

And “The Cop in Blue Jeans” makes no sense. I mean none at all. Zero. No plot to get in the way of the story, and no story, either.

It’s flicks like these that make me regret giving up drugs.

Unless you are either intoxicated, bored beyond belief or insane, there is no reason to watch either one of these films — especially not now, since I have done so for you.

One coil, and that’s a gift.

A lot of this.

And this.

And this, which was marginally more interesting.

“Stoned,” Stephen Woolley’s bio-pic of Brian Jones of The Rolling Stones, was worth the buck I paid for it at the Douglas Library in North Canaan, Conn. I’m not sure it is worth the space to keep it on the shelf, though, and I’m not going to watch it again to find out.

Maybe to avoid lawsuits, the film treats the other Stones as bit players, which leaves Jones, flunky and villain Frank Thorogood, some other guy as the manager and a bunch of girls, in various states of undress.

Despite the abundant nekkidity, the film is curiously sterile. It’s tedious. It’s boring.

Maybe that’s because addicts are, ultimately, boring.

One coil, for the 18 breasts.

The quicksand scene, with breasts

Byron Mabe shoulders the blame for this 1968 epic, with Carlo Monson handling the screenplay.

I hope Byron didn’t pay Carlo much, because this film has no screenplay. It barely has a story, and certainly no plot to get in the way of anything.

After some uniquely bad “I’m gonna tune out/ Ain’t gonna work for the Man no more/Twang twang/Plink screech thud” music the guys and gals head out on their motorcycles to go take LSD, make out, paint each other, kill passing motorists and find the giant white temple of acid.

Got that?

Many strange and wonderful things happen during the trip. They hang around this little hut next to a pretty crummy-looking pond, the girls take their tops off, and they paint each other. Then they make out.

Later a couple are making out and one girl gets mad at another one and chases her into quicksand, thus presenting Carlo with an opportunity to write some dialogue. Alas, Carlo’s characters can only say things like “I’ve never seen quicksand before.” The girl dies, and everybody makes out.

The girl winds up in Hell, where an Indian chief and an old guy in galluses are playing checkers next to a ladder. Seriously.

Then the gang rides elsewhere. Artie, played with near-autistic exuberance by the immortal Buck Kartalian, has no girl now, so he jumps up and down on these big pipes for a while until he meets the Indian chief, who gets the quicksand girl back for him, while he takes a cold shower under a tree.

Meanwhile, a well-dressed couple are having a strange post-coital conversation under a pile of hay, and everybody makes out.

Then they all kill a passing motorist to get reefer money. This is the most exciting moment in the film.

And finally we arrive at the “acid pyramid,” which is really a ziggurat, and a pretty cheap-looking one at that. Naturally, the girls immediately take off their tops and everybody climbs on the ziggurat to make out.

And inside Arnie, dressed like the Devil, urges people to take a bite of the LSD tablet, a big thing that looks like styrofoam. And checks are cancelled, bourbon and 7-Up is poured, and long, arbitrary street scenes with jump cuts are provided. Plus an outraged citizen’s face and the couple on the field. And a girl in a rowboat. Wait, that was at the beginning. Anyway, they all make out.

We’re talking a near-constant parade of the same four sets of breasts: one large and starting to droop a bit; one large and defying gravity for the moment; one medium firm; one small and droopy, an unfortunate combination. Rear end assessment is more speculative — the production is quite profoundly mammarial.

Breast set number one

And then the girls take their shirts off and everybody makes out.

At 62 minutes, just bearable. Two coils, for the amount of nudity and sheer incomprehensibility.

This might be creepy if the flick wasn’t so stupid

David Carradine is Louis Dehoven, a cross between Fox Mulder and the Exorcist, and he has a good time being weird and sticking stakes in corpses.

See, there’s a serial killer loose in a small Texas town. He cuts off his victims heads, adds postage, and sticks them in the mailbox. Why? Because, hey, he works for the Postal Service!

Ahahaha.

The flick is part mockumentary, part warped procedural, and mostly tedious. All the bits have promise, and all of them fail due to the “Saturday Night Live” effect (i.e. not knowing when enough is enough).

It’s the latest $1 item from my new source of bad cinema, the Douglas Library in North Canaan, Conn.

No breasts (automatic one coil deduction). A pint of blood, maybe. Scenery chewing. Flagellating. Quick demon scenes. At best, mildly amusing.

One coil.

This is highly symbolic.

A while back I got interested in Japanese gangster films and discovered the work of Seijun Suzuki, who is a flippin’ genius of sorts.

Stray Cat is the No. 3 assassin in the Guild. For some reason she’s supposed to take out No. 1, Hundred Eyes.

That’s about it for the plot. If it’s a story you want, go buy a set of Dickens.

Stray Cat goes about her bidness, which involves masturbation, death in a swimming pool, a little girl with a lantern, sitting on a love seat in a driveway with another equally bizarre lady, dancing around with little guys in diapers, and other important hired killer activities.

Stray Cat, interrupted by the Diaper Guys.

Occasionally an extremely irritating solo trumpet on the soundtrack interrupts the flow of strangeness.

This flick makes no sense, so don’t try. Just sit back and let it happen.

Two breasts, briefly. Hot assassin. Oddball with cane. Gunfight in the Bamboo Grotto. Japanese opera. Toy guns. Little dudes in diapers. Gratuitous artsy-fartsiness (see below) that works.

Three and a half coils. (Half off for the trumpet.) Check it out.

Which is about 37 cents too much.

Here goes. Scene, Pacific Northwest. Archaeologists are looking at Indian artifacts. Guy dressed up as Guy Fawkes bursts in, kills dorky scientist and chases hottish middle aged science babe down the street to the power substation, where killing her is more fun. Then the killer tries to make a “Hey hey, ho ho, (fill in the blank) has got to go” chant work but “archaeology” just doesn’t scan.

Then the mayor of New York sends in the Navy SEALS and they kill Oliver Cromwell. Afterwards everyone eats organic buckwheat pancakes and resists the urge to smoke.

The killer Tweets all through this, and is featured the next evening on MSNBC, where Ed Schultz calls him “an authentic voice for justice and democracy.”

Wait, I’m getting things mixed up here. Sorry.

Scene, Pacific Northwest. Archaeologists are looking at Indian artifacts. Guy dressed up in hooded cape and unconvincing skull mask bursts in, kills dorky scientist and chases hottish middle aged science babe down the street to the power substation, where killing her is more fun.

Cut to Army dudes in woods getting chased by Skeleton Man. I can’t help but interject that if these guys spent as much time on cardio as they do on their biceps they would be better able to run away from supernatural skeleton men on horseback. Just sayin’.

Later, Army Capt. Doofus and his team search for the missing people. They do this by blundering around in the woods with day packs and a lot of electronic stuff that never works at the best of times and really isn’t worth a rip when deployed in an area of Ancient Evil.

The team consists of four men, all meatheads, and four babes who had wardrobe adjust their nylon cargo pants just right before the cameras rolled.

Eventually only Doofus and Lt. Ta-Ta (the blonde with the semi-big nose) are left for the exciting showdown at the chemical factory.

No breasts (automatic one coil deduction). Painful dialogue. Nice butts on the ladies in the team, especially the demolitions expert. Surprisingly little blood for a film littered with corpses. Decapitation. Suggested brain-eating. (No, wait, I’m getting mixed up with Occupy Portland again.)

In a word, it sucks. Avoid.

Apparently he was a singer, too.

Sgt. Joe Leland picks up the homicide of a wealthy homosexual man, son of one of New York’s movers and shakers.

Suspicion is quickly focused on Felix Tesla, the dead man’s gay roommate (played with considerable weirdness by Tony Musante). He confesses, and gets a visit to Old Sparky.

Meanwhile, an inoffensive businessman commits suicide by jumping off the roof of the racetrack. It stays a suicide until an impossibly young Jacqueline Bisset comes into Leland’s office and says it was murder.

So Leland digs in and finds out there are a bunch of people who don’t want this thing dug into.

Eventually it links back to the earlier case and Leland realizes they fried the wrong guy.

What makes this film different is a frank(er) approach to sexual issues than was common at the time. The seamy side of New York’s gay underground, the sexual dysfunction of Leland’s wife Karen (Lee Remick) are exposed. It seems dated now, but think 1968 and stingy brim fedoras.

And raincoats. Lots of raincoats in this film. Plus some good buttondown collar rolls from Sinatra.

With Robert Duvall, Ralph Meeker and Jack Klugman.

Worth a look on a rainy afternoon. Three coils.

Because I am an influential and powerful member of the media, people send me stuff. Usually things I have no use for, like self-published books on poker addiction, or invitations to offbeat political events.

 A while back a DVD called “Ashes” came across my desk. The promo material says the release date for the DVD is Feb. 7, so ain’t this timely.

Directed by Elias Matar, “Ashes” is the story of the driven Dr. Stanton, who wears his shirt collars too tight and is intensely studying everything at the hospital, occasionally remembering to go home and snuggle with his precocious daughter, his gorgeous wife, and their dopey pot-smoking friends.

But one day this kid gets left at the hospital. They can’t figure out what’s wrong with him, and while they’re mulling it over the kid rears up and takes a big chomp out of the doc’s arm.

Unfortunately, I must report that between this scene and the next action there’s a whole lot of plot — about an hour’s worth —that gets in the way of the story. And all of it’s told in POV ShakyCam style.

Nothing says “low-budget” like the hand-held camera. Not necessarily bad, but…

Anyhoo, at long last the infection from the rogue jellyfish — did I forget to mention that? — gets to the doc, who pulls some serious zombie fu on some bangers who saunter by looking for trouble.

Meanwhile the dopey pot-smoking friend’s wife goes to Doc Stanton’s house, where she gets zombified by the precocious daughter. (Remember “precocious” can also mean “bratty and annoying and undead.”)

And the stoner puts on his stingy brim fedora like the middle-aged postmodern butthead he is and drives around, finally finding the doc and shooting him. Twice. But not in the head, as any experienced zombie hunter will tell you is absolutely necessary.

And then the AIDS patient comes out of his room and wraps it all up. Trust me, it’s poignant.

Summary: No breasts (automatic one-coil deduction). Pot-smoking male bonding scene, with stingy brim fedora. Slight lesbitation in corresponding female bonding scene. Hand-held camera. Nice “clenched-jaw-I-must-have-human-flesh” scene from the immortal Brian Krause (as Dr. Stanton). Kadeem Hardison as the lab guy. (You may remember him from “Home Boyz From Outer Space” and “Yo Motherfucker II.” Man, he got fat.) Of the stated running time of 88 minutes, fully 68 are devoted to walking around the hospital, driving somewhere, or working on subplots that never get resolved.

Not horrible, but not great either. A low budget doesn’t mean you have to lard the flick up with a lot of pointless yakking. Lose a couple of the other actors and you’d have enough money for a battalion of little jellyfish zombie kids. Seriously.

Two and a half coils, mostly for trying to make an intelligent zombie flick with a budget of $11.67.

No pics to show, because the website won’t let me steal them.

I also think “tedious” because despite the great titles and promise of flicks like 1965’s Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill! and Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens (1979), the fact is that Russ Meyer movies generally suck, unless you’re drunk.

So it was this prejudice that kept me from watching “Beyond the Valley of the Dolls,” Meyer’s collaboration with Roger Ebert. Ol’ Roger kept his hand in all kinds of trashy projects, — a little odd for the man who denounced Night of the Living Dead, but hey, he unrenounced it later when it became apparent the world saw him as a fat gooey liberal donut-head.

Anyhoo…BVD, as the flick is known to aficionados, is either an unintentionally funny and inept attempt at a sequel to the film version of a trashy novel, or a brilliant send-up of same, or some sort of postmodern meta-something that would make sense to a French philosophy professor.

These gals are in Texas, I think, and they have a rock band – a trio, ostensibly, which features an invisible horn section and organ player.

They also have a dopey doe-eyed manager with Greg Brady fashion sense. They all pile in the van and sing their way to Los Angeles, where Kelly drops in on her long-lost rich aunt who in turn invites the gang to a party that night at Ronnie “Z-Man” Barzell’s.

And this is where BVD really takes off, because Z-Man is played with considerable camp by the immortal John Lazar, who also played the evil and campy warlock Jarek in Deathstalker II. (As I have opined elsewhere, if you absolutely must watch a sword-and-sorcery flick made in Mexico by Russian Jews for $11.87, Deathstalker II is the obvious choice.)

The next hour is so depraved that I can only fondle a few highlights: Sex, of all kinds, everywhere. At least a couple dozen breasts. Lesbitation to an extent that was pretty out there in 1970. John Lazar running around saying things like “No more words, I pray you. Let the games begin!”

Also: Fat Nazi. Transvestite, or maybe she-male. Nature Boy in jungle pattern Speedos, and decapitation of same. Wheelchair, and miraculous recovery from passive-aggressive suicide plunge by a distraught Greg Brady. Some of the worst lip-synching and pretend instrument-playing in cinema history. (The drummer chick looks like she’s stirring batter.)

And don’t forget: Death by sword. Death by handgun. Death by the Strawberry Alarm Clock, wearing matching magenta shirts and black vests.

BVD is a monumental piece of crap, and earns the highest acclaim possible — a four-coil rating, and eligibility in the next Iron Coil all-time list revision.