Moving through the depths of the NetFlix queue, I recently received a double dose of schlock — “Hannibal Rising” (2007) and “Crowley” (2009).

Of these two pieces of cheese, the former is far weaker. For one thing, “Hannibal Rising” doesn’t have a horrible soundtrack courtesy of the guiding light behind “Crowley,” Iron Maiden’s Bruce Dickinson.

Basically the gist of “Hannibal Rising” is that young Master Lecter wouldn’t have turned into everyone’s favorite sociopathic cannibal if the Lithuanian SS guys hadn’t eaten his sister.

So there is a lot of war time footage making it clear that these SS wannabes are horrible people and deserve whatever they get.

There is also kung fu, although they call it something else, with Hannibal’s aunt, the Lady Murasaki. She trains him in samurai stuff, so when the Vichy butcher makes an obscene remark about an intimate part of the Lady Murasaki’s personal body, Hannibal wastes no time polishing up the samurai sword and gutting the fellow.

Dominic West is in this, as Inspector Poo-Poo. I kept waiting for Bunk Moreland to show up, drunk.

There are several deaths in horribly ingenious ways, and a lot of plot getting in the way of the story.

It’s too long and it takes itself too seriously. Two coils.

“Crowley,” on the other hand, is pure cheese whiz, thanks largely to British character actor Simon Callow.

Callow plays both Aleister Crowley, famous nutjob, and Professor Haddo, stammering nitwit.

The plot is pretty thin, involving computers and virtual something or other.

But who cares about plot when the story includes sending sperm by fax?

Callow masticates the scenery to the maximum extent allowable by law. This includes killing some unfortunate putz in order to appropriate his purple suit — which fits, of course. (It’s Magick.)

Orgy scene. Sperm fax. Urinating on undergraduates. Girl nailed to door. Horrendous Bruce Dickinson tunes. No serious artistic merit. Three coils.

The main thing about The Klansman (1974) is that Richard Burton, whatever his other talents, was not good at assuming a Southern accent.

The problem with the Emanuelle softcore flicks is that there are a lot of them, and depending on how they spell the E-name they are either stylized smut movies with good production values and an inordinate amount of time devoted to people talking about sex, or they are horrible smut movies with zero production values and a less ordinate amount of time devoted to people talking about sex.

So I finally got around to watching Lou Adler’s “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Fabulous Stains,” a semi-coherent flick abut three teenage gals who form a punk band and hit it big.

It’s mostly interesting because Paul Simonon from The Clash, Steve Jones and Paul Cook from the Sex Pistols,

and Fee Waybill and Vince Welnick from The Tubes play major roles that don’t involve much acting.

And you get to see an incredibly young Laura Dern pretending to play the bass.

What I noticed most, though, is when The Stains start to play — a sound which could be kindly described as “rudimentary” — they sounded like…

The Shaggs! A real group of teenage girls with existential questions, who actually made records, and were better than The Beatles, according to Lester Bangs.

Mild nuditity, lots of “wankers” and “tossers,” one good song and not much plot. Worth a look if you’re interested in — or, God forbid, nostalgic for — 1981. Three coils.

I had high hopes for “Caged Fury,” a 1989 bimbos-behind-bars flick, because it stars the immortal Erik Estrada.

Nope. This flick stinks.

They said it didn’t exist — the movie so bad even I can’t take it.

I have endured “Manos: Hands of Fate.” I made it through “Deathstalker IV and V.” I even emerged from an extended study of “The Incredibly Strange People Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies” able and willing to write amusingly about it.

But “Caged Fury” is just Pure-D Dookie. No coils.

PS: Eighty-eight breasts.

Jean Rollin”s “Requiem for a Vampire” is a little bit Antonioni, a little bit Hammer, and a whole lot of boring.

See, these two girls bust out of boarding school and naturally all they want to do is dress up like clowns and shoot at the cops.

This does not work out so well for the poor sap they got to drive them but c’est la vie.

So they wander around the countryside until they blunder into a ruined castle that everybody insists on calling a chateau. It’s got some pretty lame vampires and three ugly mooks who apparently look after the vampires in between raping the gals they got chained up in the basement.

One of the mooks looks a bit like Ralphus from “Bloodsucking Freaks” if that helps when you are wondering whether to rent this sucker.

So there’s a lot of blah blah blah from the main vampire about being the last of the line, and lots of aimless walking around, and mooks attacking the chained up nekkid girls and saying “arrrgh” a lot, and some more shots of the countryside, and of green slime, and the clown suits, and the revolvers that have 56 shots in them, and some mild lesbitation, and what does it all mean?

It means you should check the batteries in the remote, because you’re gonna be hitting that fast-forward.

Bah. One grudging coil. (I can’t find the coil photos, so you’ll have to imagine it.)

When hippies breed, part VII — The Boho Vampiress. First she lulls you to sleep singing “Joe Hill.” Then she closes in for the kill.

So in this DVD set — “50 Incredibly Lousy Flicks” — I spotted a Sondra Locke flick called “The Seducers.”

Hey, it was made in 1977, so there’s a decent chance of some gratuitous nudity and bad white people dancing. And “The Seducers” delivered.

See, George’s wife, who is a croquet fiend, has to beat it from their Northern California home to San Diego on account of her father’s appendix burst. You’ll have that, and George is sanguine as he settles in for a relaxing evening of listening to the hi fi while wearing shirts with huge open collars.

But the doorbell rings, and these two soaking wet cuties say they’re lost and can they use the phone.

George has just turned 40, in one of those clever plot twists, and you can tell he’s kinda wondering, with the wife in San Diego and all…

So the kids go to freshen up. They take a hell of a long time, though, and when George goes to see what’s up they are nekkid in the hot tub.

George tries to resist but he is, after all, just a weak man.

This doesn’t turn out so well, for either George or the viewer, because the next 45 minutes are devoted to the gals tying up George, trashing his house, killing the kid who delivers the groceries, trying on Mrs. George’s clothes, laughing hysterically, and, finally, getting hit by a van from the Humane Society.

I am not making this up.

Death in fish tank. Bad dancing to worse music. Sandra Locke and Colleen Cap, nekkid from the rear, which is fine. Dogpile in hot tub, with superimposed images. Croquet as dramatic foreshadowing. Fun with makeup. Shrill laughter. Gratuitous use of hourglass to indicate that George is on thin ice. Greatest deus ex machina ending of all time. Boring. Shot in the dark. Bad dubbing. Two coils.

According to film lore, director Jacques Tourneur didn’t want the actual demon in “Night of the Demon” (or “Curse of the Demon” in the U.S.) because he thought it was too obvious. What’s obvious is the man, who admittedly had a way with the spooky, clearly didn’t realize the importance of a giant fanged monster with great big claws to the audience.

Especially the audience at the drive-in. These people were easily distracted — by the speaker falling off the car door, by the soda spilling on the front seat, and by the young woman’s breasts in the tight sweater.

Dana Andrews is Dr. Holden, a no-nonsense psychologist who goes over to England to help sort out some bushwa about a devil cult. Unfortunately, the evil Dr. Karswell (Niall MacGinnis) is no phony, and soon Dr. Holden gets the parchment and has only a couple days to live, which he spends getting blown around Karswell’s house and gazing at Peggy Cummins and her sweater.

The “Curse” version is the U.S. release and is about 10 minutes shorter, from what I can gather. I watched “Curse” but not the slightly longer “Night” because what got cut was plot that could only have gotten in the way of the story. Some excellent creepiness. Take the cheesy demon out and this is straight film noir. Dana Andrews looks like my friend and fellow CACA member Thos. Good stuff. Three honest coils.

I’d forgotten just how goofy Death Race 2000 is — from the dorky, smarmy TV announcer to the ridiculous cars to “Mr. President,” the cult of personality star with no apparent personality.

David Carradine was El Rey de Queso, no doubt. And Roger Corman certainly had a good time making this thing.

Leonard Maltin (between us, he’s a bit of an anal probe) has a pretty good interview with the master on the DVD. A fair bit of Death Race 2000‘s predictions have come true: cult of personality, post-Constitutional country obsessed with violent entertainment, and a constant state of war. Not bad for low-budget satire.

And let’s not forget the horror — of Carradine in his underwear, and Sly Stallon in a pink necktie and Speed Racer brand leisure suit.

Immortal, and the winner of an Iron Coil.