Three discs arrived from Netflix last week. It was grim.

First up, “Dracula Rising,” a tedious piece of fermented curd starring Christopher Atkins, whom moviegoers of a certain age will remember from his pond work with Brooke Shields in “The Blue Lagoon,” a film that elicited howls of laughter at college.

No such luck here. This is strictly a fast-forward film. Way too much plot getting in the way of the story. Big 1980s hair on the girl; gratuitous 1980s feathered modified Italian wind tunnel on Chris. Brief moment of aquatic nudity, utterly unredeeming.

Half a coil.

Next, a two-fer from Jess Franco that cements his reputation as the World’s Worst Filmmaker. Not that these are films. They are videos — shot on video, edited on video, with a videographer’s eye (i.e. amateurish).

Although you’d think something called “Mari-Cookie and the Killer Tarantula in 8 Legs to Love You” would have something going for it.

It doesn’t. The flick on the flip side is even worse, and apart from two women with shaved genitals is utterly unremarkable.

No coils. So bad even I couldn’t take it.

I was able to scratch out a weak single with the final disc — a Hammer film from the end of that studio’s run, “Lust For a Vampire,” a re-telling of the Carmilla story. This one has the Karsteins — that darn vampire family with the wild daughter — taking advantage of the fact that some nitwit has opened a girl’s finishing school nearby, making a useful addition to the supply of beautiful virgins (although the town has a bunch too).

About an even dozen breasts and the obligatory Hammer scenes inside the village pub. Also the obligatory leaden dialogue and the hero in pants so tight the audience knows which side he dresses on, if you get my drift.

Two coils, mostly for the hootage.

Mari-Cookie and the Killer Tarantula in 8 Legs to Love You

And a Voice said “Go forth — well, sit down in your underwear and write a Devil Movie; be sure to include a choir singing gibberish Latin and take freely from the Revelation of my servant John, for there is plenty of material the heavy metal groups have not appropriated.”

And the scribe did as instructed, for the Voice was terrible and he was sore afraid, and also he was hung over and had not the energy to argue.

He wrote for forty and two nights and on the 43rd night the Voice asked him “Have you written my Devil Movie?”

The scribe held the script above his head, and it vanished.

The Voice did not speak, and the scribe got sore afraid again. Then the Voice said “Lose the zombies, they clutter it up, and nix on the sex scene between the padre and the nun, nobody’s shocked by this kinda stuff anymore and we won’t get the PG-13. Nice job otherwise, kiddo.”

With his advance the scribe, who was middle-aged, fat, bald and not too bright, and was thus scorned by the young women of the city, bought a fine new robe, an even finer pair of sandals, a sleek racing chariot and an even sleeker horse to pull it, and took to spending long hours in the cafes, calling strangers “baby” and buying lavish meals for the women.

It didn’t help.

Many people say to me, “Hey Sully, what are the best exploitation flicks of all time?”

And I reply, “It’s the same list as the worst exploitation flicks of all time.”

These films are, by definition, awful. They may be poorly made. They might deal with taboo subjects. They might have been made for $11.87 by a couple of Armenian Jews in Mexico.

If you’re lucky, you’ll get all that and more!

Remember, “exploitation” is an elastic term. It may refer to the exploitation of women (a common feature of schlock). It could mean the exploitation of a touchy subject — just run the lesbian vampire sub-subgenre by the gals at the next feminist symposium you happen by on your way to the track.

It always means the exploitation of you, the moviegoer — because you, like a chump, bought a ticket, or rented the DVD (a sad feature of our lax post-modernist, post-drive in society).

So here we go:

10. I Spit On Your Grave. Made in Kent, Conn. for the above-mentioned $11.87. A valiant, doomed attempt was made to recast this as a feminist film, because the grave-spitting is done by the female lead, with good reason. Nice try.

9. Make Them Die Slowly. The ultimate “Stupid White People in the Jungle” flick.

8. Deathstalker II. Sword and sorcery epic, with an evil warlock who looks like Gloria Swanson.

7. Freaks. Tod Browning’s 1931 circus geekfest anticipates reality TV and gave the Ramones their “Gabba Gabba Hey” chant.

6. Basket Case. A “Freaks” for the 1980s that also captures pre-Disney Times Square.

5. Zombie Lake. This gets the nod over “Shock Waves” in the underwater Nazi zombie category with its tender love story and nekkid volleyball.

4. Bloodsucking Freaks. The flick that gave us the deranged midget Ralphus and a renewed appreciation for the techniques of modern dentistry.

3. Evil Dead II. In which the hero, with a new group of dopes, goes to the exact same cabin and reads the exact same words out of the exact same Book of the Dead — and is then surprised when the forces of Hell are unleashed. Again.

2. Night of the Living Dead. For pure horror nobody has ever come close, certainly not director George Romero in his innumerable rehashings of the subject.

1. Ilsa: She-Wolf of the SS. If you wish to alienate someone forever — someone normal, that is — make a big tub of Jiffy Pop, pop open a couple of Dr. Peppers and settle in for this monstrous epic.

Jean-Luc Godard’s One Plus One (aka Sympathy for the Devil) is a big pile of merde.

About half the film is of the Rolling Stones working their way through what eventually became “Sympathy for the Devil” on Beggar’s Banquet.

The other half is, to be nice about it, incomprehensible revolutionary gibberish.

It’s only an hour and a half but it seems like forever.

The revolutionary bits are so self-conscious and so… stupid, yeah, that’s the word — I half expected the Monty Python guys to pop out of the abandoned cars in berets, striped French sailor shirts and elaborate mustaches. “Un, deux, trois!”

About the Stones: “Sympathy” started out as a folky, bluesy thing, and it seems Keith Richards worked up that little loopy bass line for Bill Wyman. Brian Jones is shown playing away at an acoustic, but they don’t seem to have turned his microphone on.

Thank God for the fast-forward button. Two coils.

“Nine Songs” (2004) is a weird little pseudo-porn flick about two dull young people who hang around at rock and roll shows and screw a lot. In between the filmmakers throw in a lot of stuff about Antarctica. There is some boring dialogue that’s probably supposed to be existential, some okay-to-mediocre live footage of bands like The Von Bondies and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, and some explicit sex scenes between the cute girl and the rather greasy guy.

If there’s a point to it beyond titillation, or promoting the bands (most of whom have faded into oblivion now, six years later) I can’t see it.

And if you want a fuck flick you can easily find one that doesn’t have long glacier sequences.

Two coils for the sex, but it’s really not much of a show.

“My Mom’s a Werewolf” (1989) is a perfectly foul made-for-TV (and/or straight-to-VHS) flick that has very little to recommend it except for the presence of Susan Blakely as Mom.

“Let Sleeping Corpses Lie” is the flick that answers the question “Wouldn’t it be great if government scientists could barge around the countryside beaming rays into things?”

Arthur Crabtree’s “Fiend Without a Face” (1958) is a nifty little Cold War sci-fi shocker that apparently caused a stir with the depictions of the mutant brain-creature fiend things getting shot or clobbered — with appropriate splatter.

In Declan O’Brien’s Sharktopus (2010) there are two problems.

The first is how to get as many taut firm young bikini-clad bodies in the film as possible.

The second is, inexplicably, how to keep those bikinis firmly in place.

In a film that requires an unusually robust suspension of disbelief — not just for the Sharktopus itself, but for the laptop that never runs out of juice and boots up in seconds, the cell phone that always gets service, the magic machine gun with the eternal supply of bullets — the idea that all these panic-stricken bathing beauties can run away from a giant mutant man-eating ambulatory shark/octopus without losing a bikini top here or there simply won’t do.

This is why the SyFy Channel should not be allowed to make movies — even if the producer is Roger Corman.

A SyFy movie has to be shown on the SyFy Channel, which is readily available to every Tom, Dick and Methodist.

That in turn means no nekkidity, no cussing, and none of the other elements that make the cinema the great art form it is today — like sex scenes interrupted by a giant mutant man-eating ambulatory shark/octopus, for instance.

There’s some plot I won’t bore you with, except that it’s that darn old military-industrial complex fiddling around with the genetic balance again. Amazingly, the movie does not blame George W. Bush. For anything.

We’re talking bikinis galore, all occupied and none in transition, for an automatic one-coil deduction.

Fire-dancing routine for stupid fat tourists entertainingly interrupted by Sharktopus. Boat, Volkswagen convertible eaten by same. Spoiled whiny girl who reminded me of my last girlfriend so much that I cheered when she was neatly plucked from the bungee jump by Sharktopus. Head popping. Tentacle fu. Confusing subplot that ends happily when annoying TV reporter gets mauled. Confusing subplot that ends happily when pirate radio deejay gets mauled.

With some mild nudity, this could have been a truly noteworthy film. With lots of utterly pointless and gratuitous nudity, this could have been a serious contender for an Iron Coil — right up there with heavyweights like Bloodsucking Freaks, Zombie Lake and Ilsa: She-Wolf of the SS.

As it is, Sharktopus gets full marks for funny story and not wasting a lot of time on plot; the special effects are just as goofy as they need to be; and at 89 minutes it’s a sandwich and a seltzer kinda deal.

Three coils