HERE’S BLOOD IN YER EYE: CHAS BALUN. 1948-2009

 

As many of you folks know by now, I spent my formative teen years growing up in a Midwest landlock. Living in the 80’s. Overweight, misunderstood and glued to a TV, long before the home stereo ever factored in. Sports did not exist. Uncle Don’s Terror Theater and the Son of Svengoolie did. These silly local horror hosts, along with the glory days of video rental brought me new visions of terror weekly. When I wasn’t staring at the tube, drawing monster cars or sitting alone the dark, I was feeding my brains on whatever horror film magazines I could get my chubby/grubby hands on. Too young to hit the first wave of tween scream periodicals like Famous Monsters or the early hands-on/how-to digest Cinemagic; I sprouted up just in time to find Fangoria fresh and bleeding on the shelves. From this I learned the wonders of the straight up gore flick. Local mom-n-pop video stores may have been my temples for grue blasting creature features and slasher worship, but it wasn’t ‘til I picked up that Fango (sometime around the summer of ’83) that I got taught a little bit of history. And even then, I barely respected it. 

Inside these issues were the review columns of a certain "Dr. Cyclops". Mostly the Doc went on about old B&W flicks from Universal, Roger Corman produced drive-in schlock and Hammer-style imports. I would briefly glance over them, linger on the box art images for a minute, then move on to the more important stuff…full color pages of dripping entrails and zombie head explosions. Man, how well I remember the cover of issue #25. The first NEW copy I ever picked up. It had the Videodrome television on the front: guts strewn out, dangling like candy from a rotten and smashed piñata. A TV set, so engorged on this bloody organ buffet, it had burst open from the wet girth. Delightful. Dee-lish. This was what mattered. Who cares about that classical-class or the psychological horror? Not the plus-sized, sweat panted youth of America…that was for damn sure. 

 Dr. Cyclops (whereabouts unknown)

                                             

(issue 25, TV With GUTS where TOG stole their banner from)

                                       

 There was a local comic and games shop (called Tomorrow is Yesterday, for those who care) that I’d force my family to drive me to twice a week. Religiously. A ritual I continued to do solo, well into my college years. Here I snagged up the better digests that existed in the fantasy film realm. Stronger stuff than what mall shop booksellers could offer me. Not just magazines proper, but overzealous rants on xerox (or even mimeographs…remember them, grandpappy?) written by psycho-babbling nutbags like myself. Only older. And with better typing skills. Or at the least, with nicer penmanship. 

Zines enter my picture HERE. Not with music. Not with punk. But with horror and sci-fi fandom. The idea of music rags didn’t rattle my feeble brain ‘til my twenties. No stock pile of Touch N Go, Search and Destroy, or Forced Exposure in my cupboard. No sir. Not yet. It was all film related in the lame “Frankie Says”-era. Most importantly, these new cut-n-paste-ups were studies in the ghastly world of gore. I started to branch out into some classier fare (Midnight Marquee, Demonique) and nerdish lost film worship (Video Watchdog and Psychotronic) as time passed, but these early guts n’ gravy mags always found the soft spot between my ribmeats. And during these fruitful times, one scribe’s pen spoke to me and these vulgar interests more than any other. A big bear of a man, always pictured with disheveled hair and an evil glint in his eye. A man who looked uncannily as rabid as Gunnar "Leatherface" Hansen himself. That man was Charlie “Chas” Balun.

Chas at Fango's Weekend of Horrors.

He was the demonic bruiser behind such sweetly sick pages as Deep Red and The Horror Holocaust, whose writing expressed such glee (and sometimes full-tilt hatred) for these trashy, often forgotten efforts, that it single-handedly jumpstarted my quest for certain holy grails and gutter flicks. A quest that has not ended, even to this day. There was no Leonard Maltin pussyfootin’ around in Deep Red. Films reviewed had accurately been said to “suck farts out of a dead cat's ass” from time to time. That is a direct quote. Look it up. I, as an impressionable youth, wholeheartedly agreed. Don’t mince words. Deliver the groceries. And his black and red offset printed pages did just that. Delivered these goods...in a bodybag. I still have my well thumbed Gore Score review guide. Battered, thumbed and hi-lighted to the point of being illegible. It’s going nowhere. 

 (The illustrious Gore Score (zoom in for clarity)

                                        

                                       

He taught me many things: Herschel Gordon Lewis was KING. The Italians could do ANYTHING better, and on even less of a budget. Dr. Butcher MD was a high bar that all must match in trash cinema. (Well, until I Drink Your Blood finally made its bootleg rounds). And so on. 

Looking back now, I can see we didn’t always gel in agreement. I’m pretty sure he’d rather carve up his own scrotum with broken glass shards than watch any Andy Milligan flick. Shit. Most would. He also burned some bridges with the folks over at Film Threat and the like, selling off unauthorized copies of rare J. Buttgereit films (Nekromantik, Der Todesking, etc.), but it didn’t faze me. I’m no businessman. I’m a fanboy. He wrote novels (Ninth & Hell Street) and screenplays (Chunk Blower) and as time charged on he even put in some hours at the Fango HQ, along with their upstart mags like GoreZone. From what I recall, this did not tame him. He was a frothing zealous creature who stuck out like a sore thumb in the clinically pure Q&A trappings of a national publication. His throw-it-all-in-yer-face style and attitude was so PUNK at the time for horror film reviewing. Or maybe metal. Crossover? Hard to remember these days. Drug out of the 42nd Street sewers and shoved into yer Kroch’s and Brentano’s shopping center mugs, horrifying parents of impressionable kiddies everywhere. Warped me fer good.

 (RF delivers the guts)

                                            

Chas - along with real punk/film buff extraordinaire, Chris D. - are really the only reason I sit here today blathering about movies, music, etc. Balun was an honest to God hero to me. One of the very few. And sadly, no longer with us. 

Just shy of a year by the time you’ll be reading this, Chas finally caved in on his battle with cancer. I was never even aware he was sick. I’ve been out of the loop with these mags and related zines for most of the past decade. I rarely even troll the proper websites ‘cept for when I wanna find out what’s hitting the DVD market. I was casually reading a mid-year issue of the Goth-horror digest Rue Morgue (on the toilet no less…where else?) when I saw his passing mentioned in the editorial. I felt sickly. Like when I found out Ed “Big Daddy” Roth had died. I never met him either, but both were so formative and integral to the genetic make-up of what I am today (not much, but still…). I was heartbroken. Another year has withered away and yet another of my idols had passed. Just like the lame mid-lifer I’m slowly becoming, I cling dearly to my fondest memories. This past that I don’t wanna let go of. I think back to sitting around in high school art rooms photocopying (or cutting up) these magazines for disgusting locker decoration. I think back to standing in the snow, waiting for Pittsburgh metro buses, thumbing through bent issues of Deep Red during my Art Institute years. Reading about the latest Tom Savini f/x blowout or some uncut Japanese laserdisc that offers seconds more splatter to a lost cannibal flick. Hoping to be interviewed by the main Chas-man himself one day. Sorry kid. Ain’t gonna’ happen. Very little effects work for me in these times. And now, worse yet…no Charlie to chat with tomorrow. So I guess this is just me saying goodbye (a year late) to a muse, of sorts. From an unknown friend, fiend, fanatic and follower. To a lesser-scale celebrity whose demise has been grossly overlooked. It’s totally understandable. A lot of genre related greats went down in recent times. Bill Landis of Sleazoid Express for one. Ugh. Ray Dennis Steckler too. Etc… Getting old is tragic and sad and not nearly as gory and violent as most of us gut-busters would have hoped for. I went and dug out the old Deep Red issues and stacked ‘em in the bathroom reading pile. To the left of the commode. Right where they belong. 

Cinema = Sewer.

Just like old times. 

Here’s blood in yer eye. 

R.I.P.

Chas Balun is a legend.

JOIN THE ORDER OF GREEN BLOOD: Mad Ron and his Prevues From Hell

                                             (Mad Ron comic by Erok Hell zoom in for clarity)

“It’s no good, but it’s the first of its kind” – H.G. Lewis on Blood Feast 

By Rob Fletcher

(Erok here. Rob is a great friend of mine who graciously sent me some of these reviews that were originally going to be over at TERMINAL BOREDOM, which was a legendary site that recently decided to shuffle off this mortal internet coil. So now they will reside here, more to come later, stay tuned).

 

If it was Chas Balun who got me lurking the VHS isles for unknown pleasures, it was this early find that glazed my eyeballs with the shock horror royalty. 

(Chas at Fantacon 1988)

                                               

                                                            

The elder father of all trailer tapes - Mad Ron’s Prevues from Hell. Released in 1987 on an unknown Virgil Films/Off the Wall label, Mad Ron’s tape was (as far as I know) the first legit trailer compilation to make the rounds. No longer were you sitting through credits and color bars of Media tapes waiting for that final spool, just to catch a brief glimpse of Funeral Home or the teaser for The Gates of Hell. Now there was a video cassette available, chock full of every worth while horror pop-off you could dream of. An hour and a half of them, ready n’ aching to be dropped in yer top-loader. Other clip compilations and teaser vids co-existed at this time (Zombiethon, Terror on Tape), but everything was pale in comparison to my budding degenerate mind. Those others were edited together label-bests and brief scenes. These were actual theatrical trailers. The real artifact. Damaged celluloid and voice-overs intact. Mad Ron, shown chained to his projection booth, frothing from the mouth and brandishing a machete, hosts alongside a completely stupid (yet somewhat enduring) horror host/comic nerd named Nick …and his zombie puppet sidekick, Happy Goldsplatt. All try to satiate us fans with boobs-n-blood while the theater buckles under an attack by the film craving undead. Lame stabs at humor and shot-on-video spookshow wraparounds aside, the guts of this compilation pack quite a wallop. At a time when the film trailer was seen as just trash to jettison off at the end of features or a reason to show up late at a marquee showing, it was mind-boggling that these goons had such a staggering collection.

  (Mad Ron Hosts Nick and his zombie puppet Happy)

                          

At home. For a lot of folks back then, this was the only time you got to see the snippets of such fine filth as Deranged, I Drink Your Blood, Three on a Meathook, etc. Oh and yeah…those were just in the first ten minutes! It was like the gore-met grocery list of the what-to-find and gotta-have. Mad Dr. of Blood Island? One of the greatest things that could happen to my ninth grade mind. Children Shouldn’t Play With Dead Things? I bought it the next day. Cannibal Girls? Still searching. Andy Milligan’s homespun atrocity, The Ghastly Ones? I spent 20 years trying to track that fucker down. Because. Of. This. Tape. Since the Nineties brought on a resurgence of cinematic slime, fellas like Mike Vraney over at Something Weird Video one-upped the ante with his collections (and with skywards of a hundred or so different volumes), and now DVDs are popping up all the time with even tastier selections as well (42nd Street Forever, Shock Festival). It’s like everyone in the know now has a mighty pile of chill and thrill worthy trailers. I’m sure I’m sitting pretty on thirty plus hours of the little beaten bastards myself. But for a lot of the hounds out there, this Mad Ron pile of puke was ground zero. Like the H.G. Lewis quote up above, it wasn’t the best…but it was the lift off pad for the scum to come. Hell, even one of the best comps available on the “grey market” was just an edited down-to-the-goods (sorry Happy and Nick) version of the Prevues From Hell tape, updated with bonuses to pad out the running time. Did the makers find out? Unsure. I do know it was tragically deleted from a certain label's catalog not long after it hit the streets. And that was moons ago. But now, dear friends, the time has arrived. This is available on DVD. Sure, its enclosed teasers have been seen on many legit and semi-legit releases over the years now, and there’s very little to offer of the “un-comped and obscure” variety…especially in this age of Tarantino fanboys and the YouTube savvy. But YOU still have to have that first Nuggets LP, right? Holding on to Pebbles Volume 1? Same sorta thing. Consider this the original BFTG, only replace Tim Warren’s snarky liner notes with a lisping dumbo corpse puppet. With enough Wild Turkey, they even might become one in the same. And what about the makers? Nick Pawlow: Hopefully not doing the Atlantic City comedy circuit. Surely he has come to terms with his flat jokes and laid Happy to rest. Mad Ron: probably still rolling around naked in his tattered filmstrip atrocities. I know I would. The guy who designed the gore and SOV zombie f/x? Well he was Jordu Schell…who happened to go on and make a career for himself out of slingin’ latex and resin (from Bride of Re-animator all the way up to Hellboy, and belched up computer cesspools like Avatar). So this is where the hunt began, for me and a lot of like-minded youths. If ya wanted to delve into the wonderful land of the lost, this was a damn good place to start. Ripe with two minute payoffs, title swipes and savage hucksterisms. 

 (snarkity snark snark)

                                             

  (Drooling Ron)

                                           

You’ll never forget the day you hear “A guy went berserk down at the Bijou Theater...” routine from The Blood Splattered Bride/I Dismembered Mamma double bill. And you shouldn’t. It’s just THAT good. A lost art form, born out of carny ballyhoo. There’s a sucker born every minute, says P.T. Barnum…why not be a sucker too? Now the BAD news. All initial reviews of the DVD’s transfer say it looks ass-worse than the original tape. I bought it and I gotta agree. It has a lot of distracting video strobe and light trails that bring it down quite a few notches on the must-have list for the holidays. Which is a shame, but really…again with my artifact schpeil…this oughta be on VHS. You can’t make those shot on video puppets look any better (but Troll 2 just hit the Blu-Ray disc world, so what the hell do I know…). The original tape still floats about in the collectors market and eBay sewers. Here’s the original VHS trailer for thee original VHS trailer tape.

(we need a globe sized Upchuck Cup)

Yeah. Soooo good... Run to a nearby flea market and dig it out of the dollar box grave. And here’s something for all you people who need lists ('cause I know yer out there). This is my top five (or so) trailer comp round up. These are the ones that I consider the best or at least merit some value and importance. Some may be a hassle to come by in this digital day and age. Others are probably streaming on Netflix for all you hi-tech junkies…just don’t ask me to figure it out. Happy hunting! 

1. Cinema Wasteland/The Bride of Cinema Wasteland – VHS (Video Wasteland) Here it is. The first Volume is the culprit I spoke of above. Cinema Wasteland, the once crazy Cleveland tape traders, have gone on to become genre expo-giants. But first they did horror film buffs a solid (unless you were Mad Ron) and released these gems. Their original tape was actually a beefed-up/edited-down to the bare bones variation of the Prevues From Hell tape. Those out there who can’t stomach bad gong show-style zombie ventriloquism might want to hunt this down. All the Mad Ron archive is represented (including the Wildcat Women in 3-D porno trailer that seems missing from the new disc. Go figure...) as well as another two dozen trailers. The makers continued with their “art” of borrowing for the second volume, The Bride Of Cinema Wasteland. Most of the reels that time out seemed culled from laser discs and Anchor Bay re-issue tapes, or I’d assume from the high quality and remastered feel of most. Still, ethics aside…it’s pretty sweet having all these in one handy package. Beat that with a stick. 

2. Blood-O-Rama Shock Show – VHS (Something Weird) You can always expect a few carry-overs from comp to comp, but the remainder of the oddities that spring forth from this tape claw and tear at yer throat with the best of 'em. Sadly, like most SWV horror trailer collections, this seems to have been be deleted from their catalog. What ya get if ya find it is 5O great gut busters, including a ton of Andy Milligan (big fan here) and classicks like Shriek of the Mutilated, Mansion Of The Doomed and Night of 1000 Cats. A serious gaggle of H.G. Lewis rarities are featured bumpin' up against Jean Rollin’s French vampire epics and Ilsa war atrocities. It even has J.M. McCarthy (director of The Sore Losers, Teenage Tupelo, etc) illustrated box art. Bad Ass-itude! Well worth the effort.

3. Shiver and Shudder Show / Super Horror-Rama Shriek Show! - VHS (Something Weird) Sorry to hit you with more hard-to-find and outta print shit, but the goods don't get any gooder than these deleted SWV titles! And on top of that, I couldn’t choose just one. Shiver and Shudder Show offers up a lot of international frights and it's quite an impressive collection to behold. Mexi-wrastlin’ vampires vs. mummies, Italio sci-fi sleaze and rural American drive-in trash like The Giant Leeches and Feast Of Flesh come together under one clamshell. Super Horror-Rama starts things off with some Fifties b&w matinee fun, and treks its way through some mean spirited Seventies sicko-sexual romps, and even a few Blaxploiter titles as well. It all unspools in chronological order that grinds the decade to a halt with the Friday the 13th teaser. Thirty years of terror all in one compact tape case. Something Weird does still offer up many sexploitation collections (the Twisted Sex and Harry Novak Box Office Trailers volumes are all worthy and in abundance), so you might wanna take on a sleazy slice of those before they’re gone as well... 

4. Shock Festival - DVD (Bloody Earth Films/Shock-o-Rama) Here's an actual title you can get yer hands on! Shock Festival the DVD is based upon a “novel” written by screenwriter Stephen Romano. The book is a fictional mind-bender telling the false history of a group of exploitation film makers. Its chock full of mock interviews, phony poster art, and staged production stills for films. Learn of entire production teams, cast and crews…that never existed. Quite a feat really, and somehow it all ties together in a sordid tale of murder, mob and other Deuce related sleaze. What you get for Shock Festival the movie is a 2 DVD collection of trailers and an MP3 disc full of radio spots for films that do and don't exist. Seven impressive hours worth. To be honest, the fake film trailers in the mix are pretty bland and they ain't fooling anyone. The Grindhouse "intermission collection" available now (on Blu-Ray only) has no worries. BUT WHO CARES. You still get six plus hours of great exploitation to gawk at! Disc One consists mostly of action and sci-fi titles, but it ends with a quality selection of the Sam Sherman produced Independent International Pictures' grinders and horror schlock. I'm down for this, since his Al Adamson film trailers (Satan’s Sadists, Blood Of Ghastly Horror, etc.) were some of the best of their time. Disc Two serves up a steaming pile of Seventies/Eighties horror and gore followed by even more retardedness in the form of old television adverts. And let’s not forget that radio spots CD included as well. So exhaustive in size and scope that the good outweighs the bad tenfold. There are even a couple of commentary tracks for you to bop between, to help make this a learning experience as well. 

 5. 42nd Street Forever Vol. 5: Alamo Drafthouse Cinema - DVD (Synapse Films) And to wrap this up all tidy-like, I’m just gonna’ say the last few 42nd Street... discs have just gotten better and better. They’re still just as varied as ever, running the gamut of horror, comedy and the usual sexplo-blaxplo-slut-fu-a-go-go, but all the while intertwining them with drive-in adverts and fast food cheap sells. The trailers always look pristine (when compared to the red hued, gone-to-vinegar joints elsewhere on this list), if that’s the deal-sealer for you cinephiles out there. There’s been some great commentary tracks on the last couple outings (Tony Timpone of Fango on volume 4), but what really digs into me with this edition is the running dialog with the folks behind the Alamo Drafthouse theater programming. These guys know their shit well and obsess over it down in Austin. A goldmine of off color stories and sick laffs. It doesn’t hurt that I used to work with one of the monkeys involved (Zack Carlson)…or that he’s one of the powerhouses behind the recent punk on film book I’m shamelessly gonna’ start plugging any

day/hour/minute now…

 Punk Book Link

The Zodiac Killer

The Zodiac Killer (1971 - Tom Hanson) 

Review By Rob Vertigo

Exploiters over the years have had no qualms with parading out cinematic atrocities based on real-life killing sprees. Time topical flicks like Satan’s Sadists and The Helter Skelter Murders hit theater marquees before the Tate and La Bianca hearts had even stopped bleeding. But in the case of this little charmer, I’m not even sure if the Zodiac was done completing his initial rounds. Shot in '69/'70 it begins with a hokey SF Chronicle blurb touting this film as a public service; like it’ was gonna’ keep you safe from the murders after you watch it. That might be the case had they stuck a bit closer to the killers’ M.O. - as I’m pretty sure the Zodiac never bashed a woman’s head repeatedly under a car hood or dressed in Marx Bros joke attire. If these are facts, they've evidently been left out of the books and bigger Hollywood productions. 



Groucho needs slaves for the afterlife



This scungy gem of celluloid slop gives you two suspects to cast yer blame upon: a balding, disgruntled and alcoholic trucker going through a nasty divorce and a hostile yet sensitive postal worker (uh-oh) who talks to rabbits in his spare time. There's also a third screwloose that’s introduced; a weird old perv in high-waist pants who comes along to talk smack about women being worthless once out of their teens. “Keep ‘em young, plump and dumb…” he adjects. YIKES. 

I'm not gonna’ tell you who gets saddled with blame, but one who doesn’t takes a mighty fall at the halfway mark. Directed fairly dry and in a very matter-of-fact (and fiction) fashion, Zodiac Killer plays out with made for TV charm, only with a few delirious scenes of violence sprinkled within. There are historically accurate moments - such as the lovers lane murders and the beach side hogtie killings - that are interspersed with random reckless retardedness - like the above car hood incident or the strange scene of the Zodiac praying at his Gods’ altar - but it’s hard to fault the filmmakers sensationalism when the case wasn’t even cold. You gotta' keep this shit entertaining, right? The “keeper moment" of the flick comes in the form of a strangely dark and hokey double stabbing incident on the beach. The sickly muted colors of the faded print paired with the victims’ grotesque American flag bikini and Tempera paint bloodletting- all lensed via fish-eye cinematography, mind you - makes for quite a grisly and effective segment. If the retractable knife wasn’t so obvious, it would border on a snuff believability. 



OK Harry Reems, invite me to one of your Nicholson/ Beatty drugged out soirees or die


If yer into celluloid barrel-scrapers along the lines of Drive-in Massacre or Three on a Meathook, there should be something in this for you to grasp. If you can’t tolerate local college theater performances or think that the Don’t Answer the Phone serial killer monologues were too unrealistic - you should take the Golden Gate exit, pay the toll and head for safer pastures. 

ORDER THE SWV DISC HERE

Bloody New Year

Bloody New Year (1987 - Norman J. Warren)

        Review By Rob Vertigo

Now here's a turd in the punch bowl. Norman J. Warren was involved in a few shitty-yet-endearing UK flicks during the late 70’s and early 80’s - but this ain’t one of ‘em. Our adventure starts with a group of lame-stain teens hanging out at a small seaside carnival, only to be harassed by a gang of Sha Na Na rejects. During a carousel ride, these hooligans focus their “reign of terror” upon a vacationing American girl for no apparent reason. It’s really just some stupid high school level teasing, but heavy duty violence erupts nonetheless. 

You can listen to Santana but you'll never be as cool as this fake Sha Na Na

Her friends try to put a stop to this bratty attack - and perhaps a small scuffle would make the most sense - but total annihilation of the fun park ensues with cars crashing through thrill rides, explosions and innocent bystanders getting killed. It all seems a tad much. Anyhow, our heroes quickly hi-tail it away in their 4x4 with a sailboat in tow.

Cut to the nearby water where this crew of misguided youth set sail to nowhere, again without any real apparent reason (this here is an ongoing theme, folks!). What seems like only a couple of feet from the shore, the boat crashes into a rocky ford and slowly begins to sink. Their only option is being beached Lost style on a nearby island, even though one could assume they might have just as well doggy-paddled back from whence they came.

Cotton Candy and Neck sweaters are a Bitchin' combo

Quite rapidly, our dimwitted survivors find that this island is home to the Grand Hotel and its lost-in-time inhabitants. Ghosts, demons and other rubber-made nonsense have set up shop here and this is where the fun supposedly begins. These wayward teens get picked off one by one, by shoddy greasepaint ghoulies that would honestly even embarrass the yokels volunteering at a small town haunted house. Lot’s a colored lights flash (there’s even some Christmas trees to add to the effect!) and the occasional pool table floats about. Every eighties horror cliché gets a nod - swiping bits from The Shining to The Evil Dead and so on - in a sadsack attempt to scare or gross you out. And (surprise) all of this seems to happen for NO APPARENT FUCKING REASON. The gore is in abundance, but doesn’t punch balls hard enough to leave even the slightest sting. Joke shop store-bought body parts litter the scenes. Hapless victims run back and forth from the fields outside and back into the hotel again and to the fields outside and then back into the hotel, over and over. We all know they’re trapped here, but c'mon. Running in circles like this does no favors for anyone. Viewers will struggle with nausea, leaving some sad-sacks incapacitated. All the plot holes are failed to be filled during a long winded explanation set against a sock hop turned spook show. A very low attended sock hop, mind you - it only features one spook. A spook suffering from a horrible curling iron catastrophe. This frazzled spectre weaves together a haphazard tale of a crashed plane and a mysterious time shifting device that has stalled the lives (and plot) of all involved for eternity. This sounds like an Eagles song. Check out any time you like, but you can never leave. Honestly, the song is better. Big goddamn whoop. All hell breaks loose and the carny ride, Elm Street bubblegum walls and hokey mirror tricks continue. A couple of good ax wounds to the head spring forth and an elevator offers up some juicy amputations, but nothing is gonna’ lift this from the crud-swamp it’s sinking in...

Bargain basement Elm Street effects

This Bloody New Year vibes a bit like another big box fodder of video store past - Class Reunion Massacre - but it's nowhere near as classy (!?!).

It’s bad, but not as bad-golden as it needs to be to keep things entertaining.  If yer a glutton for punishment or have high tolerance for trash like Attack of the Beast Creatures (reviewed right here by Steve Fenton) - then by all means, seek this out. As for me, I want off this crazy ride. A well deserved kudos goes out to the filmmakers for pushing the shit-pop soundtrack band Cry No More over mention of cast and crew. Someone was definitely sleeping with someone. Gack. 

WATCH HERE

Under The Doctor

Under The Doctor (1976 - Gerry Poulson)

     Review By Rob Vertigo

Man, oh man. I always figured the point of sexploitation was to give the viewer some sassy groceries to gaze upon. Sweet and tender flesh morsels that keep thumbs off the fast foreword button or pressing eject. If that's the case, then what is it about most British “sex romps” that blow this ideal? Italy and Spain always got it right - hell, they even IMPORTED UK babes to make it work. Under The Doctor is more like watching a tragic drag show without any fun routines. The women involved run the gamut from looking like Mick Jagger's present self equipped with sets of floppy chest sacks to a naked Cloris Leachman stand-in channeling Carol Channing’s voice. Sad face emoticon.Breast may be bountiful, but they ain’t blocking any of the facial features. 

Are my snaggly teeth distracting you away from my goodies?

Under the Doctor is of the standard therapist-does-interview routine, where the lead listens to troubled sex stories from a revolving cast of starlets. Barry Evans plays multiple roles in these farces as well as being the doctor who wearily listens to all the women’s woes. Could’ve be promising - ala Schoolgirl Report - but the old pudding heads involved make you wish it was a book on tape and not a VHS copy. No sir. Brutally unfunny and as tasty as a soiled sidewalk condom on yer tongue (not that I know what that tastes like - I swear). Goofy and obvious vignettes where bumbling fools google over bodacious ta-tas and romp in the hay. There are all the usual scenarios of office interview shenanigans. Rich twit gets a girl, and then she goes behind his back with some foppish dandy. The biology intern and the frisky head doctor who goes frigid post nuptials. Yada-yada-yada. Imagine a Mel Brooks comedy falling flat. Well, just imagine any 80’s Mel Brooks comedy. That bad. Okay the last chapter got me grinning a tad, but nowhere near a full mast approval.  I guess if it’s a Sunday and yer hung over and there’s no local fishing programs on the telly, you could do much worse. I so miss local fishing programs...

WATCH AN EPISODE OF FISHING WITH JOHN INSTEAD!

USA UP ALL NIGHT WEEK: Bloodeaters

Bloodeaters (Forest of Fear, Toxic Zombies, The Crying Fields) Directed By Charles McCrann (1980).

        --Reviewed by Rob Vertigo--

Before we get to the review, first let me tell you a little bit about my pal Rob, I tracked him down while searching for info on Chas Balun, Gore Gazette and Deep Red and found his excellent piece on Terminal Boredom about not only Chas but Mad Ron's Prevues From Hell as well! Obviously I knew I had to convince this dude that he must join up with the Guts team! Well, after more nagging and whining, plus this kitschy nostalgia week we've got going on totally convinced him and we finally got this review, which is nothing short of brilliant. We hope to see more from Rob, so stay tuned. Make sure you read his work on TB, Destroy all Movies (he wrote some reviews in that monstrous book) and check out his band MUSK!

It's a little tough to get into the swing of things here - waxing on about Up All Night - since it aired during my years of television void. The Vertigo family pulled the plug on our household cable sometime around 1988. That said, a lot of the aired films were recycled, rerun and rehashed from earlier late night spins and afternoon host shows such as Commander USA and Saturday Nightmares, and those were my jams. The hours I wasted watching such glorious trash as Horror of the Zombies, Terror on Wheels and The Brainiac are countless. I take that back. The Brainiac is total fucking Godhead. Anyways, one of the nut-bag messes I do recall seeing on a college break somewhere was Toxic Zombies. Or Bloodeaters. Or Forest Of Fear. Or Whateverthafuckyouwannacallit. 

Commander USA, actually showing this film!

 Shot on scraps of film left behind after Romero went to the mall, Toxic Zombies tries its best to pack a punch. Sadly its punch is about as hard hitting as a soggy bag of day old curly fries to the face. After scrolling through the jankiest digital titles seen by man (or at least since Wargames was released), it opens frame on a rural Pennsylvania dirt road. Hackneyed cheap synths pulse along as the lens follows a couple of mustachioed gun toting federal officers through the under-lit trees. Throughout this murky footage is inter-spliced segments of a bare breasted lass taking a bucket and sponge bath. Don't throttle your cock just yet, pervo. This here is the only nudity in the entire flick. Nudity - that I'm sure of - arrived very late in the game to secure an R rating. This topless soaped-up tart belongs to a group of free range Deadheads; only instead of them throwing wastoid tailgate parties, they're entrepreneurs out growing marijuana crops. The feds have been sent in to raid their camp. After clumsily shouting a warning they opt to shoot the freshly scrubbed gal, twice. Our federal "heroes" (?) are then ambushed, stabbed and garroted in a makeshift Manson family attack. Word gets back to the government about these missing agents and after some intensive acting chops via Martin's John Amplas, the higher-ups decide to call in an irritable, elderly drunkard to crop dust the woods. Inexplicably, this ol' coot has a stockpile of an experimental pesticide called Dromax in his barn. Perhaps this little factoid is explained, but between conversations with the barking government officials and his nagging housewife, it got lost in the chaos. 

I don't have a blood drinking problem, you do!

Tom - the local outpost ranger - gets irritable when warned not to go fishing this weekend and throws his brother and wife into his station wagon, heading deep within the national park out of spite. Cue stock footage of bi-planes, a faux Goblin score and a bunch of powder burned dope farmers puking up blood. These fatally dusted growers return to their campsite acting like rabid possums; fighting, snarling and grunting at each other over a bucket of sudsy bathwater. This Dromax chemical has evidently gotten to the drunken pilot as well, who returns home, walks barefoot on glass shards and then throttles his ball-busting wife.The shivering hippies try to cut and run, but the pesticide effects take their toll, causing frantic sweats and a blood lust. The only two unaffected - the leader of the grow operation and his girl Friday - scurry off into the woods, trying to flee the frothing longhairs. Why is it in every film that features a lengthy forest chase, people stop to drink from a muddy creek like they're baby deer? It's odd. It's filler. It gives the feral pack of pursuers time to catch up. Off-screen screams and buzzing flies indicate our survivors ain't surviving so well. With them gone - and forty plus minutes still left to the running time - shit is gonna' get all Don't Go Into The Woods from here on out...

Beans, Beans the musical fruit

A family of campers are introduced. Father is a bland know-it-all that reads like a REI catalog. Mother is of the puffy mom-jeans, worrisome type. Understandable, since her children - Jimmy, a retarded teen that spends his screen time relentlessly clutching a stuffed squirrel and Amy, his older (a lot older, possibly 40) sister with a fungus obsession - wandered off sometime ago. Daddy doesn't seem bothered by the missing children and would probably be happily willing to chalk their deaths up as a trial of life. Mommy, on the other hand, won't shut up about their disappearance. During their argument, the zombified goons sprout up like Wack-A-Moles in the nearby brush carrying hatchets. The best response pops can rattle from his brainpan is to offer up some of their "nice beans" from the campfire - hell, the whole can if they'd like. The retard boy is better off without this family unit. He could learn more from the stuffed squirrel. Unable to sway these dusted monsters with tin canned perishables, the brave father pushes his wife out of his way and high-tails it into the trees. Wifey does a pretty good job fending for herself, lobbing a steak knife into the eye of an assailant. As for her cowardly husband? He gets his hands lopped off with a machete by the same baddie he just escaped - only seconds before - who now magically appears before him. The distressed mother makes it to a dirt road, stumbling across hapless victim number four. She shrieks for a ride at a man struggling with truck problems. After chucking her into his cab, this new found do-gooder fails to realize that anyone hunched over in the roadway, dripping with blood and twitching like a speedfreak is best left alone. Dipshit, meet the sharp end of an ax. Hysterical mom-jeans tries to flee, but acts as though she's never operated a vehicle made after 1832 while fumbling like a cripple along the dashboard, unable to turn the ignition key. Oh well. The froth-monkey eats her dumb ass throat, and we trudge forth.

I just enjoy the salty copper taste of the jugular juice, man what's wrong with us?

Our old friend, park ranger Tom is back. He's busy fishing for breakfast (gack) and ignoring the government pleas to keep of the grass. Literally. His wife complains a lot. His brother goes off looking for a pesky raccoon and stumbles upon the newly orphaned retarded Beanie Baby lover and his deeply aged sister. It's safe to assume they've been drinking from a creek as well. Tom packs everyone into his family truckster while his brother soothes the children's nerves by telling awful Pollack jokes. A rousing chorus of "Old Mac Donald" starts up, but is cut short by a raid consisting of a machete wielding, cannibalistic Crosby,Stills and Nash. The ranger takes them on with his ultimate fighting skills and fares alright, but his brother looses touch due to repeated blows to the head. What's left of this makeshift family caravan get back underway, searching for civilization. Burning trash is seen as beacon of hope.

I'm weely weely sad!

 The government realizes that crop dusting an untested pesticide in the hands of an alcoholic hillbilly was a terrible, terrible idea. Some men are sent into the thick to check for aftershocks. John "Martin" Amplas is back! Thank God. On their drive into the boonies, it is decided that it's best to just kill everyone off. This will spare the world of survivor memoirs and tell-all autobiographies.

 Our woodland renegades come across the shack of another ol' coot (quite a few in them Penn State woods) and his finicky cat. They try to warn him of the impending dangers, but he'll take none of it. 

"Mr. - I've lived in these woods all my life...I ain't never seen no cannibals". 

So calm. So nonchalant. Fuck it. Feed his cat. Carry on.

He gruffly accepts them in for the night, unaware that the bloodeaters are hot on their heels.

this needs more sriracha, oh wait I mean BLOOD!

 The creatures ambush the farmhouse ala' Night Of The Living Dead. Outside Pittsburgh, that's just what ya' do. With torches and rifles in hand, you know what happens next - only this time in murky color and with shoddy framing. Here is as good of place as any to point out some of the other side effects of Dromax. One is it seems to cause its victims to gurgle up robotic frog sounds. Another is the absolute lack of fear towards fire. Unlike most zombies, these snatch burning torches with zeal. This is how they set flame to the cabin with the crotchety old man inside. Tom, retard, elder-lady daughter and the wife escape. That poor cat.

Jamie Gillis? Elliot Gould's nephew?

 The government men meet up with the delirious Scooby-group on the road. Their sighs of relief are met with handcuffs as this battered brigade are used as bait. Ranger Tom gets sent out at gun point to lure the bloodeaters in for the kill. Surprise Attack! Dear thespian John "Martin" Amplas gets smacked about the head by the slowest rock assault ever committed to celluloid. The wife gets eaten. Jimmy the retard boy and Amy scream for help. The last official left standing is pretty stoked, seeing as though the toxic goons are doing all the dirty work. Haggard sister Amy saves the day by axing him in the back before he can shoot our beloved ranger Tom. Many cheap nose putty and Karo blood effects are seen in close up. The synth score ineptly bleats on...fade out.

Well GOLLLAAYY You made it back Martin

 Hours - possibly minutes - have past. Back at the national park outpost, more government folks try to woo Tom back into his rangerly duties. Sorry about your girlfriend, hows about a new truck? Overall he handles it pretty well being as though everyone he knows was eaten on a woodpile, mere moments ago. He thanks them for such wonderful offerings, but says no-can-do. He's gonna' finish packing up his belongings into a single 14"x 14" shipping container and then go about his way. Smooth times, more breakfast fish and a visit to those eternally scarred orphans are promised. A hillbilly gas attendant goes for a shock ending, attempted and failed.  Anti-climactic? You bet. Worthy of watching? Not great, but you've seen much worse. You own much worse. 

Trust me.


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