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.

Look what I found!

Yes, it’s the Coiled Pleasure Glass Dildo — “A dreamily shaped dildo with a gorgeous, intensely pleasurable shape that bears testament to its unique, hand-blown design, the Coiled Pleasure is a pyrex glass offering from Joyful Pleasure that’s perfect for a wide range of sexy pursuits. Formed into a delightfully angled curve, with a choice of large or small tip (depending on the end you choose to insert), it would be near impossible to miss the spot, whether you’re exploring g-spot or prostate stimulation.”

Got to love the prostate stimulation. I’ve got to fill the gap between now and my next scheduled colonoscopy somehow.

One user is enthusiastic: “Absolutely perfect. Smooth and satisfying! Would be perfect for a newbie, as there are no distracting textures.”

And you don’t have to talk to it afterwards.

 

I have a separate life reviewing real movies — the kind that play in theaters. And while I can’t get away with the same sort of thing I can here, I manage to get my point across.

From The Lakeville (Conn.) Journal, Feb.26, 2015

I slithered into the afternoon showing of Sam Taylor-Johnson’s “50 Shades of Grey” at the Moviehouse in Millerton, NY, last week, hoping nobody would see me.

Alas, anonymity proved elusive. The theater held several solid citizens known to me. I mention this in case they feel inclined to blab.

Down in front were three middle-aged ladies. They were giggling nervously, and cracking jokes along the lines of “Carla wanted to come . . . but she was tied up!”

Hahahaha.

There were two men, besides me, in the audience of perhaps 25, both part of a couple.

One had his cap clamped firmly down on his head. The other looked like it might have been his idea to see this flick — the eagerly-anticipated film adaptation of E.L. James’s stunningly unreadable and successful novel.

A glutton for punishment, I read the book, too. I thought it wasn’t dirty enough to be pornographic, and too clumsy to be erotic.

Mostly it was long.

The flick is, too. If you take the naughty stuff out you still have a solid 100 minutes of some of the most insipid dialogue since . . . . Since never.

This is the worst.

Anastasia Steele (Dakota Johnson) is about to graduate from college. She pinch-hits for her roommate, Kate (Eloise Mumford), who is supposed to interview young, handsome bazillionaire Christian Grey (Jamie Dornan) for the school newspaper.

In the single best thing that has ever happened to anybody, Kate got the flu. So Ana has to go interview the boy wonder. Who takes a shine to her, in his charming, handsome, wealthy way (that masks a dark secret).

Apparently being a young bazillionaire means you still can’t find a decent suit.

Christian’s jacket collar pulls away from his neck as if it’s afraid he’s going to tie it up and beat it.

Hey, wait — maybe it’s not bad tailoring. Maybe it’s foreshadowing!

So one thing leads to another and pretty soon Ana and Christian are on the verge of becoming an item — except Christian’s got this contract she needs to review first.

See, Christian’s a dominant, and he doesn’t have girlfriends — he has submissives. And they have to sign a contract that specifies, in great detail, just how funky he can get.

In a film that requires an unusually robust suspension of disbelief from those in the audience, the contract- review scene offers a much-needed laugh.

And it is here that we get the absolute best line of the flick:

“What’s a butt plug?”

We’re talking about a fairly complete look at the nekkid body of Dakota Johnson. (And of Jamie Dornan, for the ladies.)

And there’s a “playroom,” with many interesting devices and accessories that you probably don’t have at home.

Gray suits, gray cars, an endless parade of blonde women in gray suits, gray neckties (see accessories, above).  However, I was keeping track, and I counted, at most, 18 shades of actual gray things.

Then there’s dramatic foreshadowing in a hardware store. A barf scene. Heroic gesture by Christian in fending off a drunken photographer pal of Ana’s. Text messages of tremendous dramatic import, shared with the audience. Helicopter and glider rides.

Variations on spanking, flogging, and restraint — and the always popular Ice Cube Special you may remember from “9 ½ Weeks.”

There are several groanitatious moments — when Christian confesses that his real mother was a crack addict, when Christian takes Ana home to meet the family, and when Christian plays the piano.

Ana observes that his playing is sad. (The word she is looking for is “bad,” but never mind.)

Yes, it is sad. Because Christian is sad. Because he cannot love. He can only dominate. But Ana is changing him.

You see where this is going?

Finally, things go too far in the playroom. This is the most dramatic part of the film. It made the man in the audience who looked like it was his idea say “Whoops” out loud, lending credence to my theory.

And then the film ends — suddenly, like a love affair with a deranged rich pervert who just happens to be the most boring person on the planet.

And that’s the big problem with “50 Shades of Grey.” It is the film that proves that, in the right hands, even the adventures of a psycho pervert with rock-hard abs and an unlimited budget can be about as exciting as a PBS documentary about sea turtles and penguins.

There are racier movies. There are weirder movies. But offhand, I can’t think of a duller movie. Therefore, I heartily urge everybody to see “50 Shades of Grey.” Why? Because I had to.

Messiah of Evil (1973) is a semi-coherent zombie flick with some Ancient Evil and a lot of art damage. Arletty, played by Marianna Hill, goes floundering into a little California beach town looking for her father, who is some kind of artist. Along the way she meets an albino guy with a pickup full of dead people; Thom the Suit-Wearing Weirdo and his two groupies; and Elisha Cook, Jr. as the town wino.

There is a whole lot of plot that mostly consists of flashbacks and the reading of diaries and it gets mighty tedious.

Then there is some pretty decent zombitation, beginning with the cuter of the two groupies becoming the manager’s special at the grocery store.

These are pretty clever zombies — they can build fires on the beach to signal The Dark Man, or Messiah of Evil if you prefer. They run the movie projector at the theater, and patiently wait for Groupie #2 to finish her popcorn before they attack.

The flick suffers from Antonioni Syndrome — characters wandering around visually striking sets, talking in circles.

Somebody probably thought there was some kind of art being made.

Hill never gets nekkid, which is a shame — and, of course, an automatic one-coil deduction.

It loses another coil for Frequent Fast-Forward.

So two coils, which is generous.

Jerry Warren’s Teenage Zombies (1959) is a bit of tease in that there are only two teenage zombies and they are only zombies for about 90 seconds of screen time.

And they are not noticeably different as zombies.

See, these kids decide to go water ski-ing out by a deserted island. They never do get to the water ski-ing, however, because it seems like much more fun to explore the deserted island.

Alas, as is often the case with deserted islands, it is in fact inhabited by a mad scientist with a zombie army and an ee-ville plan to take over the world.

This mad scientist is a lady, with an ICBM chest and a consistently bad attitude.

Her main zombie is Ivan, who can follow simple commands. We only get a quick look at the other zombies.

When I say zombie, I mean the mindless, shambling, robotic type of zombie, as created by the better sort of voodoo spell. These are not the reanimated corpses of Romero et. al.

The scientist is tinkering around with a gas that will turn Americans into zombies. She is working for someone from “the East,” which I take to mean your Red Chinese, those cunning devils. If you’re thinking, “Sounds like the Obama Administration,” well, if the shoe fits…

Anyhoo, there’s a lot of back and forth on boats and a crooked sheriff in a bad suit who keeps tugging on his lapels.

There’s also a very cute girl in high-waisted jeans and if you don’t think that can look good guess again.

We’re talking zombie gas. Boats. Shambling bug-eyed master zombie. Greasy men in bad suits. Mad scientist who looks like your fourth grade teacher on vacation in Las Vegas ca. 1955. Bad fighting. Deus ex machina in the form of an dezombified gorilla. The U.S. Army. Promise of Presidential citation. No water ski-ing.

Shot in Exciting Blur-O-Vision!

Mildly amusing, especially when the kids look under the bushes for their motorboat. Two coils.

The excitement of Blur-O-Vision

So in  She Demons (1958) some stupid people out in a boat during a hurricane wash up on the one supposedly deserted island that is not only being used by the Air Force as a target but also is home to a deranged Nazi war criminal scientist and his squad of goons who are torturing girls in unconvincing “native” costumes in order to isolate the chromosome or gene or something that will restore Mrs. Deranged Nazi War Criminal Scientist’s acid-damaged face.

Now that’s a lot of plot to get into one paragraph, never mind one sentence, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to read than to watch this flick.

The deranged etc. looks a little like the young Ralph Lauren, if that helps. And Irish McCalla looks darn good in her spoiled rich girl shorts.

Nazi goons with limited vocabularies —”Raus! Schnell!” (later adopted for “Hogan’s Heroes”). Dancing native girls who look like they are all called Myrna. Bad bongo drumming. She demons, sporting papier mache faces with big teeth sticking out. Mrs. Deranged winds up looking very similar to the Aztec Mummy. Incredibly boring. One coil.

Hey, it’s Ed Nelson! (Center, above.)

That’s what I was thinking when I fired up “Night of the Blood Beast” right after watching “The Devil’s Partner” again.

I was enthusiastic about the latter a couple years back (click here) and was glad to see him in this Roger Corman spectacle, about stupid scientists who send people up into orbit in motorized soup cans and then bitch when parasitical aliens attach themselves to the astronaut.

The aliens look like seahorses, incidentally, when viewed under the fluoroscope — sort of a self-powered X-ray machine, with extra radioactivity.

Ed’s role as Dave isn’t nearly as demanding as his double role as Nick/Pete in “The Devil’s Partner.” For one thing, Dave doesn’t have to do a transformation scene into an old man with wild, John Brown hair.

No, Dave just has to clench his jaw, look determined, and ignore the photographer girl’s big butt.

It is big, too. No getting around it.

I noticed her butt because I always notice girls’ butts, but also because the flick was pretty interminable. Dead scientist, renegade blood cells, monster that looks like the cast-off bits of all the monster costumes in history.

So I cannot get excited about “Blood Beast” at all. One coil, and that’s a gift. Even with Ed Nelson, who according to Wikipedia is still around, living in Louisiana.

Jean Rollin’s The Nude Vampire (1970) lacks actual vampires and doesn’t have all that much nudity. It does have green slime on rocks by the ocean, and girls dressed up like I don’t know what, and a guy with the best antler hat this side of Wendigo.

And capes. Lots of capes.

See, Pierre’s kinda torked off that his rich father is up to something at the fancy house in Paris. He finally mugs a guy and steals his ticket, only to find that it’s a suicide cult, and the participants blow their brains out so this semi-chunky gal in a flimsy orange wrap can lick their blood. Not drink it, mind you, but lick it.

Pierre’s pop and two other old pervs are convinced the girl is a vampire and they want to know the secret of immortality.

The joke’s on them, however, as what the girl really is is a mutant that represents the next stage of humanity, but that little tidbit is only revealed at the end of the flick, down at the ocean with the green slime on the rocks.

We’re talking one seriously incomprehensible story here, and not nearly enough nekkidity to make up for it.

Man in cape. New race of mutants, many of whom appear to have just beamed down from The Planet of the Hal Holbrooks. Girls in red capes, standing on rocks covered with green slime. Fourteen breasts. Three stripteases. Gratuitous belly dancing. Avant-garde music on the soundtrack makes the entire experience even more forgettable.

It’s not as bad as Requiem for the Vampire. But it still sucks.

One coil.