directed by james tucker
savage roses productions/lost angeles films
I was more or less suffering my way through this at times excruciatingly hackneyed low-budget independent feature originally titled “Eat Your Heart Out” when an unexpected thing occurred – one of the funniest scenes I’ve enjoyed in a movie in quite a long time. This got me thinking about a number of concepts. One was why I stuck with this video production despite its obviously amateurish sheen, when with many others I never bothered to outlast the opening moments; another was why I wasn’t interested in panning the outcome. The simplest and most honest answer is to admit I’m not sure, but maybe it comes down to the fact that though this film is often hampered by scenes and dialogue that seem to be included mainly because such scenes and dialogue are what you get in a “movie” – often the case with this sort of picture – it isn’t held back by attempts at lowbrow appeal. Neither is it too self-conscious of being a friends-and-family kind of affair. Plus, the storyline is fairly creative. I was surprised, however, to find that the director has helmed a long list of projects.
why did i watch this movie?
I read a brief mention that not unreasonably hailed the spirit and execution of this story of a prostitute with what one might term unusual tastes.
should you watch this movie?
It’s the kind of feature you’d find at smaller independent film festivals, if that’s your bag.
highlight and low point
I mentioned the high point of the movie above, but other touches of humor were equally effective. On the other hand, not enough was done to disguise that some of the locations were obviously not what they purported to be – a casualty of minimal financing, to be sure.
This picture straight from the Brazilian scrapheap is almost completely incoherent. With less than 15 minutes left, the chief of police exclaims – and not for the first time – “but none of this makes any sense!” He is correct. “Satanic Attraction” rivals 
Featured in this astounding straight-to-video accomplishment: Blatant lip-synching, awesomely generic hard rock, a mustachioed dude in a ZZ Top “Eliminator” raglan sleeve shirt, a guy in a gorilla mask breakdancing, a station named “MVTV,” chicks doing aerobics very intensely, multiple Jacuzzi scenes and one regular bathtub scene, a villain that’s a budget Mike Reno of Loverboy, a song (and character) called “
Really, though, it may have been fate: Over the opening shot of recording studio gear, the first words spoken in this picture are, “‘K, Billy, time to rock and roll – here we go.”
Wow, to say this is not what I was expecting from this movie might be the understatement of the year, at least in terms of this blog and its content. And while you’d think it would be hard for a horror flick to go wrong with demonic possession, this one manages to do so, repeatedly. No, it’s not without its charms – it’s so relentlessly absurd that it’s actually quite enjoyable, though presumably not as intentioned. Terminally silly, with a wafer-thin plot, Wikipedia claims this movie was granted a “special jury prize” by a Paris film festival, which as near as I can tell appears to be some completely fabricated bullshit. I will grant that the solution/cure for the demonic possession in this story is rather original. 
Here is where we should begin our disquisition on the ephemeral nature of what constitutes art vis-à-vis garbage, and engage in deep contemplation on the revealed substance and its relation to the Ideal, and how mere imitation or re-creation can only hope to further distance us from the knowledge of this state of perfection. We should, but we won’t, because gore impresario, auteur loon and marketing maven Herschell Gordon Lewis would probably laugh and point at us. His frankly ridiculous tale of catering a Society party with an “authentic Egyptian Feast” as a hopeful means of reviving the goddess Ishtar via cannibalism features some impossibly wooden acting, hilariously half-assed set dressing, excessively expository dialogue, indubitably fake blood, transparently ersatz makeup and FX, rudimentary cinematography, et cetera et cetera et cetera et cetera. (And in the midst of life we are in debt, 
In which we find the patient suffering from sequelitis, the disease by which little vestige of the original creation still survives, save for symbols and signifiers … such as the titular bogeyman. Strangely (and unfortunately), this installment’s eponym – known this time around as “Junior” (eyeroll) – takes his characterization from the ill-advised second chapter rather than the archetypal original. Since the chainsaw itself barely plays any real role here, aside from an asinine novelty visual, one wonders why they just didn’t make this flick its own generic vehicle rather than further degrade the “franchise.” Other issues abound, of course, not the least of which concerns the edits the film had to make to garner an “R” rating. A slasher movie that doesn’t actually show any gore – hell, only one character is killed in the first hour – is a curious thing, no? And where in the hell is this backward backwoods family getting a new house and all these new relatives, anyway? The genre equivalent of Mike Love’s “Beach Boys” performing postgame concerts in baseball stadiums for decades on end.
This lousy endeavor became an endurance test of sorts, as I could hardly wait for it to finish taking up my valuable time with its lousy acting, unnatural dialogue, odd tempo and beginner’s camerawork. This 
Hey, a new competitor for worst movie on this site! For some reason turning one of the best and most impactful horror movies ever made into an extended bout of broadly drawn “humor,” aggravating characterizations, little plot and no point, TCM2 is a chore to endure. Insulting in its carelessness, this flick only could have been more of a cartoon had The Mystery Machine appeared. (Much of the action takes place in an abandoned amusement park, for crying out loud. Where were the Harlem Globetrotters and Phyllis Diller?) Leatherface – sorry, “Bubba” – is reminiscent of Fred Gwynne as Herman Munster, which is not a compliment, much as Bill Moseley’s horrible character seems to have presaged alleged funnyman Jim Carrey’s equally irritating “Fire Marshall Bill.” (And in actuality was a template for Michael Keaton’s Betelgeuse.) Meanwhile, Dennis Hopper spends the first half of the film not even pretending he gives half a damn and the second half hamming it up wildly. Mr. Hooper allegedly wanted to compensate for the audience’s not recognizing the black humor in the original, but this extremely stupid and classless farce raises the question whether his first attempt was just a happy accident. Also commits the sequel’s sin of reductionism while simultaneously destroying continuity – a hapless combination. And the FX suck, too. Excruciating and disgraceful.
This British film is absurdly amateurish, and in fact may be one of the most unprofessional movies made by an actual studio that you’re apt to see. It’s all here – ripoff script, the lowest of budgets, random illogic and execrable dramatics. Joan Collins isn’t even the worst actor in this picture, which should really tell you something. One of the characters is a nun, and her fake Italian accent is truly a wonder to behold, especially voicing dialogue such as “Is it possible for a baby not to want to be born?” The performances are so laughable that Donald Pleasence – DONALD PLEASENCE – appears reasonably accomplished with his typically disaffected mien. The absolutely most striking feature here, though, is that the director repetitiously focuses on an ordinary baby lying in its crib (or “pram,” depending on scenario) to illustrate … EVIL. Or something. It is, uh, not effective. Whatever you call this mess, it’s another abominable creation that later became a “camp classic” – although typically part of such (dis)honor is that dreck becomes enjoyable when you’re in on the joke, and this film is not enjoyable for any reason. (By the way, the baby’s mother’s name is Lucy; no Sharon can be found.)
For almost two-thirds of this (very) independent picture’s running time, I couldn’t stand the damn thing, mainly because the main character is completely insufferable, dampening whatever alleged “humor” I was supposed to be getting from the subpar scriptwriting. Besides which, nothing much happens during this hour, and I was getting pretty tired of looking at the hideous, dated togs sported by some of the clowns in the cast. At long last, however, the dead finally rise from their graves – this cannot possibly count as a “spoiler” – and mostly redeem things … but not for the reasons you may suppose. No, what really turned my opinion of this movie is the sound design, because as the corpses claw their way out of the earth (with suspicious ease) and start to stalk their way around the garishly designed and oddly luminescent cemetery and grounds – the film looks much the way colorized “classics” do, the effect at times almost fauvist – the soundtrack begins BLARING all sorts of unexpected, unrelenting sonic surprises. Was that a cow? I wondered. Is that a foghorn? Is this an Edgard Varèse composition? Man alive (hahaha), is it terrific. The silent final scene is great as well.
SPACE RATS From Outer Space 