Posts Tagged ‘bad movies’

"Best Worst Movie" Poster

Ah, Troll 2. Where would we be without it? Still talking about Ed Wood’s films, I suppose.

Wait, we’re still talking Ed’s films, aren’t we? So I guess my point’s been scuttled. If I even had one. So I guess this review’s got something in common with Troll 2 right there.

But actually, this review isn’t even about Troll 2 at all — it’s about the new documentary that’s about the new king of bad cinema, Michael Stepehnson’s superb Best Worst Movie.

Stephenson himself ought to know a little bit about the subject — after all, he was one of the stars of Troll 2 itself, a wet-behind-the-ears child actor back in 1990 who landed his first cinematic role as Joshua Waits, the little by who sees visions of his dead grandpa warning him to stop his family from vacationing in the scenic hamlet of Nilbog.

Stephenson’s not our main point of entry into the peculiar cult universe that has developed around Troll 2, though — that honor belongs to George Hardy, more specifically Dr. George Hardy, an Alabama-born dentist who was trying to make his mark as a part-time actor in the Salt Lake City area back in the late 80s and early 90s and found himself cast as George Waits, Joshua’s dad.

For George, who now practices dentistry back home in ‘Bama, the Troll 2 phenomenon has given him a chance to be what he always wanted to be  — a star, albeit a star known only to a select group of — uhhhmmmm — initiates, I guess we’ll call them.

We follow Dr. George as he goes from convention to convention, screening to screening, reuniting as much of the cast as he can muster up along the way, and it has to be said, this guy never stops smiling. Even as he admits to the severe fatigue and burnout he’s suffering from having watched the one and only film he ever starred in dozens of times over the years, and having  recited his famous “you can’t piss on hospitality — I won’t allow it!” line probably thousands of times, Hardy just keeps on smiling. He’s both grateful for him accidental cinematic immortality and sick of it in equal measure. Perhaps the film’s most telling moment is when he admits to his desire to get off the convention circuit treadmill (and Best Worst Movie offers perhaps the most realistic appraisal of the drudgery offered up by that particular “lifestyle” that you can imagine) and then, a split second later, when asked if he would be willing to appear in a Troll 3 if it were ever made (and director Caludio Fragasso and screenwriting/producing partner Rossella Drudi are, in fact, in pre-production on it right now) he answers “absolutely.” Dr. George loves the limelight and genuinely loves entertaining people, and his enthusiasm for his (I use this term loosely) art shows through in every moment he’s on the screen, even at a UK convention where nobody’s heard of his film, or him, and frankly they don’t seem interested in finding out about either. When George talks about how his heart has always been in acting but his father pushed him into dentistry, your heart sort of breaks for the guy even though he’s certainly got a very comfortable life.

And there he is, Dr. George Hardy, delivering the line for which he'll always be remembered

For the rest of the Troll 2 cast, life hasn’t been quite so rosy. Don Packard, the genuinely goblin-esque general store owner in the film, has been in and out of mental hospitals his whole life (and was on a supervised leave program of some sort from one when he shot his scenes back in 1990). Robert Ormsby, who played dead Grandpa Seth, lives a quiet and apparently exceedingly lonely life in Salt Lake City. Margo Prey, who portrayed George’s wife, Diana Waits,  live with her ailing mother and obviously suffers from some mental health problems herself — she’s essentially a shut-in and is the only member of the cast to have eschewed all public appearances in conjunction with the movie so far — but George keeps trying!

As for the principals behind the camera, Fragasso still swears he made a great film that’s just misunderstood by the public and berates his cast at every turn for failing to deliver their lines accurately enough. The scene were they return to the original Utah filming locations and re-enact memorable moments from the film is absolutely priceless and conveys the sort of madness that can probably only happen when hot-tempered Italians try to shoot a super-low-budget horror flick in the heart of Mormon country. For her part, Drudi just sort of silently agrees with all her partner’s wild-eyed excoriations, probably figuring it’s the best way to avoid arguments.

The cult that’s formed around the film itself is explored pretty thoroughly here, as well — it never played theaters but was a mainstay on HBO’s late-night lineup back in the early 90s, back when they just needed to fill up airtime with movies whose rights didn’t cost much. Then it slowly caught on in VHS rental shops. Then the internet came along and everybody who had seen it and loved it began to realize they weren’t alone — and the rest, of course, is history. Now this product of Bizarro-World is right up there with The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Eraserhead at the top of the midnight movie pantheon.

Finally, for those who might be wondering whether or not you need to have actually seen Troll 2 in order to enjoy Best Worst Movie, I would say the answer is no — all the basics, like how it had nothing to do with the original Troll, how it was originally titled something else, etc. are pretty well-covered. I will say, though, that if you indeed haven’t seen it yet, after watching Stephenson’s film you’re going to want to. Right away. And that’s perhaps the highest compliment about Best Worst Movie that one can give. For my part, I went right from the 9:40 showing of this on a Friday night last weekend at the Lagoon theater here in Minneapolis to the midnight Troll 2 screening at the Uptown, just up the street, and had the best night at the movies I’ve had all summer, if not all year.

Now, if there’s any justice in the world, we’ll be hearing the name of Best Worst Movie announced on Oscar night, not as “best worst” anything, but as Best Documentary Feature. Needless to say I’m not holding my breath waiting for that to happen, but it definitely deserves it.

Original VHS Box Cover for "Another Son Of Sam"

Original VHS Box Cover for "Another Son Of Sam"

Over the years, your intrepid host has sought out films that literally no one has anything good to say about in my endless quest to prove consensus opinion on just about everything wrong . Quite often it does seem that the masses are mistaken, of course, as the chart-topping success of drivel such as “American Idol” or “Transformers” proves. On occasion, though, I have to say that what passes for “conventional wisdom” is, in fact, absolutely correct, and some stuff that most people think is crap really is, well, crap.

The few reviews I found over the years for stuntman-turned-director-for-a-minute Dave A. Adams’ 1977 slasher (I guess) flick “Another Son Of Sam” stated in no uncertain terms that one’s best course of action was to just stay away from the thing. That even for zero-budget regional cinema (this was shot in Charlotte and Belmont, North Carolina) this was lamer than you’d expect. Any particular saving graces the film had went unmentioned even by the most seasoned exploitation junkies, and if this movie couldn’t even appeal to that crowd, well—it must be irredeemably lousy.  So few people ever saw this thing that any information on it was scarce at best, but what little I could find painted such an unflattering picture that I felt literally compelled to see the thing just to see what all (and I use the term “all” loosely, trust me) the slagging-off was about.  Could it really be as bad as the tiny handful of commentaries about this film suggested? For that matter, could ANYTHING  be as bad as the tiny handful of commentaries about this film suggested?

The answer, as it turns out, is yes, it can, and yes, it is.

The "original" Son of Sam, David Berkowitz

The "original" Son of Sam, David Berkowitz

First off, let’s deal with the absurdity of the title. Harvey, the escaped-mental-patient-turned-serial-killing-maniac in this film has about as much in common with David Berkowitz, the “real life” Son of Sam killer,  as Steve Miner’s horrendous “Day of the Dead” remake has with George Romero’s original.  Apparently the original title of this film was “Hostages,” which is dull as watching paint dry (then again, so is the movie) but at least bears some relevance to the plot. Apparently Adams changed the name at the last minute in order to “cash in,” as it were, on the story that was dominating the headlines at the time (and before the credits roll, we’re treated to a short list of history’s other famous serial killers, everyone from Jack The Ripper on down). That’s an established trick in exploitation filmmaking, of course, and I don’t hold it against the guy—it’s the film itself that he deserves a verbal drubbing for.

The “action” starts off with a pretty generic 70s -looking dude and his girlfriend going around in circles in a speedboat. This, we find out in short order, is our “hero,” police Lieutenant Claude Seltzer (played by Ross Dubuc, a Charlotte-area TV weatherman — you’ll believe it when you see him), and his lady-love, psychiatrist Dr. ( I don’t think we ever get her fist name) Ellis (Cynthia Stewart, another local “talent”).

After a hard day’s waterskiing that we’re told about incessantly for the first ten minutes but never see, our loving couple heads over to a seriously ultra-70s cocktail bar called the Treehouse Lounge, where they find a cop buddy of Claude’s moonlighting as the emcee and take in the mellow sounds of seriously ultra-70s crooner Johnny Charro, whose musical number “I Never Said Goodbye” is probably the “highlight” of the picture (Adams must have thought highly of it, as well—or more likely couldn’t afford any other music, since the song pops up  every time somebody turn on the radio and again over the end credits).  Think of a poor man’s Tom Jones.  Hell, think of an absolutely destitute man’s Tom Jones. Think of the most flat-busted, never-had-two-nickels to-rub-together-in-his-life man’s Tom Jones. Then knock your expectations down about another ten rungs. That’s Johnny Charro. Oh, hell, words can’t do the man justice, THIS is Johnny Charro—

Lounge Lizard Johnny Charro

Lounge Lizard Johnny Charro

As an aside, our guy Johnny is apparently still at it. He bills himself as “the Dean of Tampa Bay nightlife”( he must have done at least some regional touring in the late 70s to make it up to Charlotte) and you can catch his act every Thursday night at the American Legion Post 111 and every Saturday night at Tampa Bay Sports Grille in Oldsmar. He’s also got a new record out called—I kid you not—“Do-Wa-Diddy Ybor City.” This all according the clearinghouse for all things Charro,

Anyway, where were we (and does it really matter)? Oh yes—after a groovy night out, it’s back to work the next day for our middle-aged lovers. Claude is sitting around his office doing a whole lot of nothing, but his ladyfriend has spent her morning giving  electroshock “treatment” to a violent psychopath named Harvey, who seems pretty pissed off about the whole deal. So angry, in fact, that they have to restrain him, which still doesn’t do any good as he breaks his restraints and kills the orderlies attending to him.

After a phone conversation with the good Dr. Ellis where he mentions waterskiing yesterday yet again, Claude decides to head over and see her, but on his way he’s detained by an urgent call to go investigate the robbery of $500 from the dean’s office at a local (apparently all-women’s) college (who knew deans kept a cash box around?). It proves to be a very costly call, though, since while our guy Seltzer is taking statements and dropping off his business card at the college, his girlfriend is being attacked by her hospital’s resident psycho-on-the-loose.

When Claude pulls up to the hospital, he has to slam his brakes to avoid hitting a man fleeing from the scene with blood literally dripping from his hands. Rather than do what you’d think any cop would in the situation and actually go after the guy to see what the hell was happening, though, our crack police lieutenant instead just saunters inside, makes some idle chit-chat with one of the other doctors, and heads down the hall to find his girl.Needless to say, she’s in pretty rough shape (a coma, we later find out, although we never do find out if she lives or dies—and trust me, by the end of the movie you really don’t care, either) and he finds the strangled orderlies, as well.

Then—finally!—the “chase” is on, but it’s a pretty limp one—Claude’s buddy from the Treehouse and another cop head over to provide backup while he chases the killer around the park a little bit, draws his gun, and then doesn’t fire. After that harrowing action, we’re treated to a little bit of standard right-wing get-tough-on-crime cop dialogue, with Claude’s buddy telling him “don’t worry, Lieutenant, we’ll catch him,” with Claude replying “and then what? We let him out on the streets again?” (funny, I didn’t realize that escaped mental patients who killed people with their bare hands were turned back out on the streets in even the most liberal jurisdictions—which I’m assuming Belmont, North Carolina isn’t).

In short order our two competing subplots neatly dovetail, with Harvey taking refuge at the dormitory of the women’s college and killing the girl who stole the $500 before taking a couple of her friends hostage during an agonizingly lengthy and dull standoff with the cops, who have a SWAT team in tow.

Essentially, after the initial escape “Another Son Of Sam” turns into nothing more than a crushingly boring police procedural, with lots of cops standing around talking about not very much. We learn that Harvey was sexually assaulted by his mother (what a surprise) at a young age and his mind completely snapped. He’s not averse to using firearms. He takes pleasure in killing young women.  He can’t be reasoned with. He won’t be taken alive. And we learn all this because the cops have brought in another of Harvey’s doctors who provides this info-dump off-camera and then decides he’d better leave the scene of the hostage crisis because, hey, he’s gotta get back to work.

During the standoff, Harvey makes an absolute mockery of the cops and their highly-vaunted (and apparently pretty new at the time) SWAT team, who can’t find him, can’t fire shots at him for a million convoluted reasons, and essentially can’t do anything right. He kills Claude’s Treehouse buddy and has no problem dodging the other policemen at every opportunity until they finally get him pinned in a room, at which point they resort to what must be one of the most unorthodox (and very probably illegal, or at least against every regulation in the book) methods of “crisis negotiation” in the annals of police lore. They actually bring Harvey’s sexually abusive mother over to talk her son out of the room. She apologizes for never visiting him in the hospital. She says she just wants to talk. She promises he won’t get hurt if he just comes out of the dorm room. She says the police are there to help. Harvey listens. He responds. He opens the door. He comes out—

—and the cops shoot him dead on the spot. Folks, Harvey’s mom isn’t exactly the strongest candidate in 1977’s Mother of the Year contest. First, she sexually abuses her son, turning him into a raging psychotic maniac, then she doesn’t visit him in the hospital, then she lures him into his death. Not exactly June Cleaver material. Next time your mom is driving you nuts about something or other, remember — things could be a lot worse.

Finally we’re “treated” to some inane dialogue among the surviving female hostages, and the movie, mercifully, ends around the 1:10 mark.

I don’t mean to be too hard on “Another Son of Sam”—well,actually, I do—but I will say this in its favor. Its absurdly low budget does, in fact, provide a few not-quite-sublime-but-nevertheless-fun “flourishes” to enjoy—for one thing, all we ever see of Harvey is the exact same shot of his eyes staring out of complete darkness. Lighting and location of the rest of the scene aside, Harvey’s eyes are always peering out of a pitch-black background, even on a sunny afternoon.  For another, Harvey himself is never shown full-on until the movie’s end and we “experience” things from his point-of-view through a series of patently amateur hand-held “perspective” shots that are so poorly executed as to be almost disorienting.  Thirdly, there are numerous occasions during the movie when the film literally stops dead yet the sound keeps rolling for another four or five seconds (this could be considered, I suppose, some sort of attempt at artistry using intentional freeze-frame shots, but believe me when I say it looks a lot more like what happened was that Adams shot this thing using nothing but short ends a la Andy Milligan and that they kept running the sound even after the film had run out of the camera). And finally, of course, there’s Johnny Charro — honestly, maybe he’s as much awesomeness as one film can really handle.

“Another Son of Sam” is available on DVD-R from Something Weird video. It probably goes without saying that this is as close to an “official” DVD release as this flick is likely to get — and about as close as you’d probably want.

Dinner's almost ready

Dinner's almost ready

Lots of movies are bad.  Some are bad intentionally (think Troma).  Some are bad unintentionally (think “Ishtar”).  Some are so bad they’re good (think Ed Wood or Larry Buchanan).  And some, well—some are so bad—so mind-rendingly, unfathomably awful—-that they by pass the “so bad they’re good” signpost and in true “do not pass go, do not collect $200” fashion, they come full circle and end up at awfulness all over again. Such a film, my friends, is Wayne Berwick’s 1978 celluloid monstrosity “Microwave Massacre.”

This is such a brutally incompetent attempt at a horror spoof that it almost accidentally ends up becoming a send-up of that which it’s trying to send up—a spoof on horror spoofs, if you will. As such, it’s an almost singularly bizarre viewing experience and if I said you had to see it to believe it, that still wouldn’t be going far enough, because the truth is that you won’t believe what you’re seeing even as you’re seeing it! The only—and I do mean only—movie I can even possibly compare it to in terms of sheer gray-matter-melting “what the hell is this and why?”-ness is the 1989 canuxploitation cult semi-favorite “Things” (which I really need to get around to doing a proper write-up on sometime soon here).  Not that the two films are all that similar in and of themselves, but they both achieve, purely by dint of  sheer ineptitude, similar levels of IQ destruction in the viewer’s mind—and both have a strange way of sitting on your DVD shelf, daring you to watch them again—and again—and again—until it’s too late, and you’ve succumbed to the bizarre and wretched new reality they both create — one in which you, the viewer, find yourself literally needing to see them every so often for reasons you cannot, and don’t even want to, fathom.

This, my friends, is the opening shot in “Microwave Massacre”—

That's one way to grab the audience's attention

That's one way to grab the audience's attention

It’s also the best shot in “Microwave Massacre. ” Okay, that’s not quite true—the best shot comes shortly thereafter, courtesy of the same lady, but that’s beside the point, which is—oh, hell, I have no point here—do you see the effect this film has?

At any rate, the plot is essentially this : Donald (Jackie Vernon) has a problem. All his buddies at the contruction site he works at have better lunches than him (and you thought you had troubles!). While they get subs,  he gets whole crabs— shell, claws, and all— stuck between two pieces of bread. Donald’s wife May (Claire Ginsberg), you see, fancies herself something of an amateur Julia Child, only she’s nothing of the sort. She’s also a ball-busting shrew who has worked Donald’s nerves down to frayed, snapped, fried tendrils. As such, Donald dreads his loveless, sexless home life and takes solace in his lunch breaks and his evenings at the local watering hole.

Still, at some point a guy’s gotta go home, and when Donald finally can no longer delay the inevitable and stumbles through the door, he always finds May there, waiting for him at the dinner table, with a hideous pseudo-gourmet meal she’s prepared in her newfangled, big-as-the-whole-kitchen (this being 1978 and all) microwave. May is very proud of her microwave and what comes out of it, but Donald invariably finds her “cordon blue cookery,” as he calls it, completely unappetizing. Folks, something’s gotta give here.

One night he finally snaps and kills her (bet you didn’t see that coming). He was drunk when he did it, though, and can’t remember it. Still, when he finds her in the microwave (yes, all of her—and yes, this frigging microwave really is that big) the next morning, he figures he’d better conceal the evidence, so he cuts up her body, wraps the pieces in aluminum foil, and puts her in their extra refrigerator out in the garage. There’s just one problem. Donald soon can’t remember which wrapped-up bits are his wife and which are food—it’s not a problem for long, though, because soon enough he accidentally starts chomping on one of her hands , decides he likes the taste, and keeps going. In short order he’s bringing microwaved May-meat to work and sharing it with his buddies on their lunch breaks. They all like it, and suddenly he’s the most popular guy on the job (what they don’t know won’t hurt them, I suppose).  His wife’s corpse doesn’t provide and endless supply of food, though, and soon Donald must resort to killing prostitutes and the like in order to keep up the meat supply for himself and his friends. Along the way, various attempts at cinematic hijinks ensue, and about eighty minutes later, the microwave goes “ding!” on this movie and it’s all done.

If it sounds like I’m giving short shrift to the “plot” here, rest assured, I’m not. It’s paper-thin. As in, cheap-toilet paper thin. And the same can be said for the “talent” on display here. Jackie Vernon isn’t funny. He never was funny. Neither are the jokes. They couldn’t have even looked funny on paper. The supporting cast, for the most part,  seem to be doing this for beer money, much like Vernon himself, who goes from henpecked husband to cannibalistic serial killer without ever once changing —or even adopting—a facial expression, and delivers every single line as if we were reading from the script. The gore effects, what few there are,  don’t even rise to “that’s so bad it’s kinda cool” level. The direction is flat, lifeless, and utterly without anything resembling even the most basic ideas of “flair.” You’ll honestly wonder if every scene was done in one take.  The film was apparently shot for about $70,000-$80,000, and 20 grand of that went to Vernon. I couldn’t tell you where the rest went—it doesn’t seem to be on display in the finished product.

Director Wayne Berwick had an interesting pedigree—he’s the son of exploitation veteran Irv Berwick, whose career spanned a good three decades or so and included such varied titles as “The Monster Of Piedras Blancas” and “Malibu High.” I guess he thought he’d give it a go at following in the old man’s footsteps, but this and the 1986 straight-to-video “The Naked Monster” were his only turns in the director’s chair. In fact, this movie never even got picked up for a theatrical run and sat on the shelves until its first video release in 1982.

According to an interview with Berwick in Stephen Thrower’s “Nightmare USA,” this film was intended to play for the “stoner crowd,” which just goes to show you how poorly conceived the whole enterprise was from the outset. “I’ve got it—let’s make a movie for the stoners starring a 60-something, washed-up, no-talent comedian who wasn’t even cool in their parents’ days.” Oooooo-kay then—

Anthem Pictures' "Microwave Massacre" DVD

Anthem Pictures' "Microwave Massacre" DVD

An outfit that I’ve never heard of called Anthem Pictures released this flick on DVD a couple of years ago. It’s a bare-bones release that looks like a direct-from- VHS transfer and features no extras whatsoever. Somehow that seems appropriate.

 To sum things up, then—if you watch “Microwave Massacre,” I must warn you that you’ll wish you could turn the clock back to the time in your life before you saw it once it’s over. You’ll wish you had never known such a thing could exist. This film will make you pray to whatever deity you used to  believe in before you you started watching it that your brain would just melt and start oozing out your ears because you’ll swear it’s turning to mush inside your head  and you just want the pain to be over with. You’ll long for the life you used to have before you’d been exposed to it. And then you’ll want to watch it again.

Shock-O-Rama's Newly Remastered "Drainiac" DVD

Shock-O-Rama's Newly Remastered "Drainiac" DVD

Maybe it’s because I was just saddled with a massive plumbing mainline repair bill of $7,800 (probably roughly what this film cost to make), but something about Brett Piper’s “Drainiac” really appeals to me. In the (admittedly brief) period of time before his name became synonymous with “cheap CGI” and “starring Misty Mundae,” Piper cooked up this little gem in his home environs of New Hampshire with a cast and crew composed mostly of friends, various acquaintances, and aspiring (i.e. unprofessional) actors and actresses willing to work for next to nothing. It’s a definite labor of love, and while being a confused and often haphazard one, nevertheless that warped, twisted love shines through.

To briefly sum things up, a high-school girl (played by Georgia Hatzis) who’s mother has recently died and who’s father is a drunken, verbally abusive good-for-nothing sets to work fixing up a house said rotten father has recently bought hoping to “flip” quick for some cash after doing a series of fast (mostly cosmetic) repairs. However, an evil spirit of some sort that lives in the dilapidated shithole’s plumbing (and claimed the lives of a couple of vagrants “a few years ago” in the movie’s opening scene) has other ideas and when our leading lady’s high school friends show up to (ostensibly) help her clean the place up, it decides it’s going to burst forth from the pipes and kill them all instead. After getting good and tanked at a local watering hole , her father heads home to see how his daughter’s doing with the unenviable task of cleaning up his latest dilapidated get-rich-quick scheme (in a classic cheesy exchange the bartender asks the dad if he’s sober enough to drive and he replies “I’d better be, I’m too drunk to walk), only to fall victim to this foul drain-spirit when his mini-van radiator overheats and he pulls over to find out what happened (how it got from the house to the car is never really explained) and gets fried to a crisp when he opens the hood for a look. While some of the usual teenage hijinks ensue at the house, a world-weary exorcist (played by Steven Bornstein) comes across the father’s dead body and makes his way to the house, where presumably he’d been heading anyway since this is the sort of thing he does for living. He ropes the kids into a rather impromptu exorcism, the spirit(s) reveal themselves, all does not go as planned, not everyone survives, the spirits go apeshit, the house implodes on itself, and all that’s left is a giant crater in the ground to prove that any of it ever happened. The end.

Even as late 90s/early 2000s straight-to-video horror flicks go, it’s a mind-numbingly simple “plot,” with some truly harebrained dead-end subplots thrown in for no real reason whatsoever (such as when our heroine finds an antique photograph of a woman in the house who looks exactly like her mother—only the picture is over 100 years old! gasp!), but the combination of zero-budget (but well-executed, all things considered) stop-motion and live FX works, there’s something honest about the sheer one-dimensionality of all the characters, and the stilted dialogue is charmingly cheesy for the most part.

The folks over at Shock-O-Rama have recently released a “special edition” DVD of this overlooked non-masterpiece, which completes the film to Piper’s satisfaction for the first time (he’s referred to the initial DVD release as literally a “work in progress”), and blows the original 16mm image up to an anamorphic 1.78:1 presentation. Also included is a pretty thorough commentary from Piper that’s entertaining, informative, and immediately out-of-date as he talks about how he can’t wait to release this new hi-def transfer on HD DVD since HD DVD is the wave of the future and standard DVD is on the way out as sure as VHS and this release is intended for HD DVD only and won’t be put out in standard DVD format . Whoops, guess that didn’t happen! And while Piper can be forgiven for thinking HD DVD was going to win out in its short-lived “format war,” I have yet to see a “Drainiac” Blu-Ray release advertised anywhere.

All in all, a fun little way to kill less than an hour and a half (hell, less than an hour and twenty minutes) of your life, and a nice little “time capsule” peek of sorts into that period of mid-90s to early-2000s of straight-to-video Z-grade horror that is often completely passed over almost as a matter of course by most DVD companies,  even those willing to crank out lesser 60s, 70s, and 80s exploitation titles— which is something of a shame since  some flawed gems, such as this, are to be found there.