The Red-Stained Lawn (1973): or, The Days of Wine and Robots

How do you know when it's love?

Is it that first surreptitious glance across the room, eyes meeting over swirls of cigarette smoke and strains of Wagner thumping in your ears? Is it those first furtive, fleshy fumblings in the alley behind the bar, all hands and lips and straps with complicated fasteners? Or does it come later, reclining comfortably on the couch in a shared apartment, sharing a bottle of wine and your last cigarette as you wait patiently for the next episode of Cupcake Wars to roll?

It's a mystery, parishioners.

But even though I can't say exactly when or how it happens, I know that love is real. I know because I've found it, a love that asks for nothing and gives everything. I've found it in
Riccardo Ghione's 1973 hippie-abducting, mad science-spouting, blood-bottling, ultra-groovy mad movie bonanza, The Red-Stained Lawn (Il Prato Macchiato di Rosso).

Let me tell you a little something about that girl o'mine.

Really. I insist.

We open with a hard-boiled UNESCO agent (Nino Castelnuovo) investigating what appears to be a wine-smuggling operation on the Mediterranean coast. Easily swiping a crate of contraband from a couple of very task-focused smugglers, he makes a disturbing discovery: the bottles in the box are not your run-of-the-mill Chianti, but are instead filled to the cork-line with human blood! Duly alerted, he scuttles off to headquarters to inform his superiors about this unprecedented threat to the reputation of Italian wines worldwide.

Meanwhile, in Piacenza, good Samaritan and Daniel Craig-lookalike Alfiero (Claudio Biava) travels every highway and byway in his BOSS powder-blue sports car, searching for walkabouts who look as though they might fancy a lift. He has no trouble, as the northern Italian town is apparently crawling with automotively challenged individuals of every stripe. Within moments he's picked up a flower-selling Gypsy (Barbara Marzano), a Drunken Tramp (Lucio Dalla), a modestly priced Hooker (Dominique Boschero), and young hippie couple Max and "Max's Companion" (George Willing and a stunningly afro'd Daniela Caroli). Being the accomodating sort, he invites each passenger to come back to his sister's palatial estate, to drink their wine, eat their food, and set a spell. All for free! Now just what kind of paranoid, ungrateful monster would turn down an offer like that? 

At the mansion, the guests are introduced to the lady of the house, Nina Genovese (Marina Malfatti), and her eccentric, science-enthusiast husband, Antonio (Enzo Tarascio). Through a series of rapid-fire and not-at-all suspicious questions, Nina quickly determines that none of her visitors have any friends, family, or employers who will be looking for them, nor have they informed any outside parties as to their current whereabouts. Which simplifies things, of course--I mean, you wouldn't want to set the table for eight and then have a dozen show up, would you? Particularly if any of the extras were police. Not that they would be, for any reason. Hey, did you check out our freaky robot statue in the corner over there?

"Pericolo, Guglielmo Robinson!"

It doesn't take long for the quintet to make themselves at quite at home. The Tramp displays his frankly amazing wine-drinking skills: not only does he down bottle after bottle with no apparent ill effects, he makes it interesting for the viewer by balancing one canister on his head between gulps, carrying on a conversation with his beverage, and at one point getting the alcohol into his system faster by pouring the wine directly into his eye! That's more than alcoholism, that's showmanship!

The Hooker, meanwhile, splays herself languidly on every available piece of furniture, regaling the group with unashamed tales of tricks gone by. The Gypsy steals a few unguarded knick-knacks, as is the custom of her people, and Max and his Hot Mama drape their bedroom with scarves and burn some incense before lighting up a truly monstrous spliff. The Genovese Estate is thus a hedonistic oasis, a sort of "Pleasure Island" where everyone does what he wants and there's never any price to be paid. Or...IS THERE?!?!*

*Nota bene: there is.

He never takes "no" for an answer.

Unfortunately it's true that nothing good lasts forever (q.v., parachute pants, jelly shoes, Slim Whitman's career), and before long some strange, slightly sinister things are happening in Chez Boom-Boom. First, the Tramp and Max discover the Gypsy girl tied naked to her bed with her mouth duct-taped shut--a circumstance that does not inspire quite the sense of alarm in them that you might expect. Later the hippies, going against type and availing themselves of a hot shower, are moderately surprised when the water suddenly changes to a torrent of wine--though again, not so much as you'd imagine. Even when Max and Maxine rake the coals in the estate's furnace and find a nearly complete human skull, their only reaction is to come back inside and have a bit of "the sex." Which normally I'd agree is a fine solution for any problem, but this is looking to be a special case.

The only guest who keeps his wits about him is, paradoxically, the Drunken Tramp, who eventually confronts the master of the house with his suspicions. Turns out, Antonio Genovese is more than just an eccentric benefactor to the Italian unwashed--he's a MAD SCIENTIST! And it has to be said, one of the most fabulous mad scientists in cinematic history. Don't believe me? Just take a look at this selection of dominant, scientific neckwear:

"To do: buy more wine..."

"No no, I'm sorry...but you may not touch the cravat."

"What? Have I got something on my face?"

"This one's actually a Steinkirk, only tied like a cravat. See the difference?"

It takes a lot to draw the attention away from his wife's boobs, but I think Antonio has nailed it.

If that's not a man who's getting ready to take over the world, then I've never seen one.

So yes, there's evil-doings afoot in the mansion, and as the guest list grows smaller and smaller, Max & Co. grow more and more troubled. Actually, scratch that--they're not troubled at all! The Gypsy's disappearance merits barely a nod, and when even his best friend the Tramp vanishes, all Max can deduce is that the Genoveses are kinky voyeurs who like to watch smelly hippies getting it on. Though to be fair, it's clear that the hosts are more than a little freaky-deaky. Leaving aside Nina Genovese's more-than-fraternal closeness with Alfiero and her show-stopping psychedelic outfits (which are AMAZING--in fact the flick is worth seeing for the fashions alone), there's still the little matter of the doctor's...shall we say, interesting architectural choices.

"And this, my fwiends, is the Wumpus Womb!"

In case your eyes have refused to accept what they're seeing and have replaced the image above with one depicting My Little Ponies™ prancing around a daisy-strewn field, let me confirm that yes, that IS a giant vagina portal on the wall. (Because lord knows I'd hate for you to miss out on the subtlety and nuance of that image.) Leaping through the labia like Lilliputian lust-puppets, they find themselves in a huge mirrored room, where the Hooker immediately deduces she's been brought to perform the service for which she's been hired.

"Still, it beats diggin' ditches."

Alfiero breaks out a couple of bottles of champagne and Nina puts on some super-groovy music, encouraging the Hippy/Hooker trio to agitate that with which their Mamas equipped them upon the occasion of their births. This they do, downing the booze and shucking off their clothes with admirable efficiency. This scene goes on for some time, and is in fact one of the grooviest things I've witnessed in quite a while: psychedelic music, frenetic hippy dancing, Laugh-In-style zooms, and warped, distorted reflections in which the director and crew don't even bother to hide themselves--it's a gas gas gas, truly.

Eventually the trio drop to the floor, their bodies shutting down due to sheer grooviness overload. Meanwhile the UNESCO agent is tracking down the source of those suspicious bottles, and no points for guessing where the trail leads. Sub-meanwhile, Dr. Genovese and Nina are arguing over the relative values of science and business, which ends with Nina filling the doctor's Super Robot full of lead...well, more lead. Max and AfroGirl FINALLY get suspicious and decide to investigate the basement, where they find a freezer full of dead, naked, bloodless bodies in a genuinely chilling scene. (What I did there--you see it?) The purpose of Antonio's robot is finally revealed, as is the reason behind the whole operation; the Hooker succumbs to the dictates of the Robot's silly but deadly prime directive, and the Hippies are next on the slab. Will UNESCO reach them in time, or will they be riding out in the next delivery truck, in 750 milliliter-increments?

Love Machine

It's hard to imagine The Red-Stained Lawn being made at any time other than the 1970s--in fact, it's hard to imagine it being made even then. But made it was, and I for one couldn't be happier about it. I loved the relentlessly groovy fashions, the broad-strokes characterizations, the repetitive and intrusive score, and even the overly earnest folk-rock title song (written and performed by the Drunken Tramp himself, Lucio Dalla, who was apparently a pretty big deal recording artist at the time--I will pay you for a translation! :) ). But most of all I love the unabashed weirdness of the flick, the sci-fi mixed with crime-thriller mixed with hippie drug culture and stirred up with mad science to create a hallucinatory souffle that Mad Movie fans will love getting between their molars.

The acting is all pretty good for a picture of this sort--Dalla steals the show as the comical Tramp, and both Malfatti and Tarascio as the dueling Genoveses are a delight--the missus with her Ice Queen gorgeousness and ruthless amorality, and the doctor with his kooky visionary ramblings and stunning neckties. (Both actors worked together a couple of years earlier in The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave, a movie I really want to revisit now.) The rest of the cast is serviceable, and despite a few rather endearing flubs (equipment shadows in the shot, blinking "corpses," the director's pant-leg cameo in the Mirror Room sequence), the film is rather expertly and beautifully shot--the colors and compositions are often quite stunning, a testament to Ghione's eye.

♫ And I think to myself...what a wonderful world! ♪

In short, for fans of the weird, this is a little-known treasure. 2.75 thumbs.

A few more images from The Red-Stained Lawn (1973):

Anal Sex: Not For Everyone

"Now...where did I put that last bottle of wine?"

Blowout Patch

Rarrr!

Sure it is.

"Please, just try to relax."

Truth.

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...

New Gladiators (1984): Or, Why Was I Programmed To Kill? Why?!

Dearest readers, I must beg forgiveness. Too long have my words been absent from these hallowed pages. But there is good cause, lower thy knives and stay thy murderous hands, I pray! A few weeks past, I, the Duke of DVD, found myself on a caravel, bound for a small South Pacific island that shall remain nameless. The ship’s captain, a beastly, bulging man of ill repute, rode the waves like a man possessed, possessed of singular intent: to deliver my person to the island and depart with a quickness. The crew crossed themselves, muttering prayers to nameless sea gods under their breaths. They feared my destination, as did I, I must confess.

In the weeks leading up to my departure, dark whispers had begun to reach my ears as I traveled in places best left alone by the bulk of humanity. Foul mutterings of a rare treasure, an object so valuable that I would beggar the Ducal estates just for a glimpse. Soon, these rumors led me to acquiring maps through auguries I shall not describe here. A ship was procured, a crew was assembled, and we were off. After days of rough seas, the island swam into view like a diseased miasma, congealing on the horizon. Shrouded in mist and darkness, it splintered the ocean with jagged cliffs, like the teeth of a rotten skull. The captain, wanting to be rid of me, dropped anchor some miles away and whipped two of the crew into taking me via skiff to the nearest beach.

As my feet sank into the black volcanic sand, a piercing roar sounded deep within the jungle before me, reverberating through my being and nearly causing my flight back to the waiting ship. I half turned and saw that the two oarsmen were already away, hauling at the oars like men in mortal fear. Facing the jungle once more, I made my way past piles of flotsam, into the island interior...

Very quickly, the sun disappeared above the canopy of the dense jungle. Wet fronds slapped my face as I plunged heedlessly forward. Multicolored beetles scurried from my path as large, furred beasts leapt from tree to tree above my sweating head. Soon I entered a clearing, and I knew my journey had borne fruit. Before me stood an impossibly tall monolith, hewn from obsidian so black it drank in what little light pierced the trees overhead.

Behind the monolith were piles of bones, each dozens of stories tall, for as far as the eye could see. The scattered stumps protruding upwards through the bone piles spoke of a forest that used to be, but was no more. Foul energies blanketed the clearing, coalescing around a stunted altar erected before the monolith. As I approached and gazed down at my prize, the earth-shattering roar once again rang through my body like a bell from Hell. Bones slipped among other bones, some of the piles cascading and shifting into their neighbors.

Grabbing the object of my desire, I sprinted back through the jungle, diving into the ocean, heedless of the closing footsteps of a Thing that Should Not Be, an old god, worshipped for eons by a forgotten tribe. I finally gained the ship as the captain was pulling anchor, the crew, to their credit, hauling me aboard. I shall never forget that trip, as I hope you shall never forget its result:

Fulci’s motherfucking sci-fi spectacular The New Gladiators, bitches! That’s right, Lucio Fulci made a science-fiction film, and it is every bit worthy of the praise his horror efforts elicit. Friends, the year is 2072, the setting is Rome. Fulci gives us a brilliant, constructed-model cityscape that had me erect. It’s right out of Blade Runner, complete with huge video billboards on the sides of buildings.

Rome was not built in a day... but due to budget constraints, this model was.

Just as we’ve learned in countless other sci-fi films throughout cinema history, the future is all about bloodsports that are nationally broadcast, usually with convicted felons as the participants. Fulci paints us a picture of warring networks, ever-consumed by the almighty ratings system. It seems the go-to show for ratings, “Kill Bike,” is starting to wane in popularity with the unwashed masses. One can see how it would get old, as Power Ranger-colored bikers pilot 50cc dirt bikes around a dirt-floored arena, occasionally bumping into each other until finally someone loses his balance, then gets run over. Or, a competitor might run headlong into an embankment, causing the highly unstable motorcycle to explode into a fireball. Another show, wherein regular folks are hooked to a machine that makes them see and feel their worst fear, is also going nowhere, ratings-wise. Il Maestro manages to work some gore in here, as we see a blond chick get decapitated rather messily, Pit-and-the-Pendulum style.

How to Get A Head in the Nielsen Ratings

An enterprising TV exec named Cortez comes up with the brilliant plan: resurrect the one thing Rome is famous for (other than Caesar-stabbing) - Gladiators! Faster than you can ask “Joey, do you like films about gladiators?”, we are introduced to our hero, the curly-locks-of-love hunky-guy Drake. Drake doesn’t seem like a career criminal, so it’s hard for me to guess how he came to be the star of “Kill Bike,” but he is nonetheless. Cortez’s plan for ratings domination hinges upon attaining instant fame for his New Gladiators show, and the first step is securing the use of Drake.

Hell's Satans

They do this in the most obvious way possible: they send three whistling killers to murder Drake’s girlfriend/wife/significant-other, and then frame Drake for the revenge killing of the three whistling murderers. Seriously, the three creeps invade this chick’s home, and whistle while snapping their fingers as they close in on her. “What the fuck, Duke?!” you might be asking aloud, a white mist of Krispy Kreme frosting befouling the air around your gaping pie-hole. I will attempt to answer your slurred query: Lucio Fulci did enough cocaine on a daily basis to assassinate a small village. There’s no other explanation as to why the killers must whistle while they work.

"I am Cortez. I am... de sexy."

Drake is rounded up and taken to Italy, along with a motley crew of degenerates including a black kung-fu combatant played by blaxploitation great Fred Williamson. An Asian fellow and a few other bearded lumps round out the group. Tasty quote from a meeting between Cortez and Drake:

Drake: "Go to Hell, Cortez!”
Cortez: “I would... if I thought it would help my ratings.”

Overseeing their care is a Gestapo-esque gent by the name of Raven, who has a penchant for wielding a riding crop which doubles as a sort of stun-ray emitter. He also has a hand-implanted device used to turn on the security measures around the holding area the fighters are locked up in. He also sweats. A lot.

"Papers, please."

Drake quickly asserts his dominance as alpha male among the group, only he doesn’t use posturing, his fists, or the gay strutting technique employed by the Vicar. No, instead he humiliates Raven in front of all of the others using a modified game of chicken involving throwing himself into a disintegration field, which he dares Raven not to shut off. Raven sweats, then sweats some more, and finally gives up like the pansy he truly is. This cements the loyalty of the others, forming them into a sort of band of brothers, which obviously only holds up until they have to kill each other for the general public’s amusement.

The chili from the prison lunch room finally kicks in.

Fulci has a lot going on in this movie, and while the central theme is reality television and its future sway over the lumpen masses (a prognosticative masterstroke), we also get a theme of computers invading every day life, and the eventual control asserted by A.I.s. Cortez sums this up brilliantly, early in the film by saying, “Computers. We built them to be our slaves. We are turning out to be theirs.” It seems the ratings system, nay the entire city television and who knows what else, is run by an A.I. bent on human distraction, while it schemes for grander things behind the scenes. But more on it later.

Much to the dismay of its spokesmodel, Cortez decides to cancel the low-rated show "Machete Salon"

First, we are treated to a training montage so bad ass that it wasn’t bested until Rocky IV. Fred Williamson fights computer-generated foes while a strobe light, uh, strobes. The token Asian dude does much of the same, while Drake faces off with computer-generated simulacrums of the whistling murderers. Fulci’s milkshake brings the boys to the yard, there is NO doubt! After their sweaty, computer-based training, the combatants hatch a plot: Escape!

First, however, they have the nagging threat of the prison security system. This is quickly circumvented by Drake swallowing a microchip that allows him to control nearby computers at will. The year 2072 is bringing us untold scientific advances, people! I can’t wait! So Drake and the others make their way out of the prison, aided massively by the Ingesto-Chip's ability to melt fucking steel bars. Technology: It’s FANTASTIC! However, their escape is short-lived, as it’s revealed to the viewer that the A.I. is watching their every move, somehow. As they make it out to the sunlight, Raven and a cadre of guards are there waiting. Raven employs his stun-wand to great effect.

Fred Williams' Kung-Fu: It Explodes Sunlight

When we next see our intrepid fighters, they are suspended over a metal grill, hanging onto some overhead bars. Raven is watching, and with a smirk, explains that the floor will cook them like a Xmas goose should they not hang on for a given number of minutes. Slowly, gravity takes over until the bearded hanger-on type fighter falls. The shock isn’t instantly fatal, and in fact he gets fried for several minutes until he somehow pushes himself off the floor high enough so that Drake and another can hold him up.

The reek of singed back-hair was overpowering

Next up we find out the AI is furthering his plots of destruction. Luckily, Drake has a helmet-haired beauty at the studio to help out. She’s Cortez’s assistant, but she spends most of her screen time helping Drake, either directly or indirectly. First, she tracks down the man responsible for programming the AI, some recluse of a nutjob holed up in what appears to be a monastery. He says he never programmed the AI to kill, that it’s learned that on its own. Oh dear, it’s fucking SkyNet all over again! Before he can give details on how to stop the rogue computer, he’s killed.

"SEI PRONTO A ROMBO??????"

Queue the gladiators! Our futuristic fighters take to the arena before a live audience. Even though this isn’t “Kill Bike,” they still ride monstrous chrome-plated motorcycles and the bikers are armed with all manner of bludgeoning weaponry. The games kick off, and once again we have lots of slow speed near-misses, followed by someone's mislaid manequin getting run over, followed by more obvious dummies piloting motorcycles into small obstructions, causing the cycles to immediately fireball. Next up is round two, where the combatants are paired up and the cycles are outfitted with sidecars. The most spectacular kill here involves a biker being jerked off his bike with a flail-like weapon, only to be drug behind the opponent’s bike, while another biker lights him up with a flamethrower!

"Ladies and gentlemen... Devo!"

Meanwhile, Drake’s helper chick finds out that all gladiators that make it through to the end are set to be disintegrated on live TV, in some weird plot to discredit the incumbent president, who is running for reelection. (Ed. note: Wha?) She has to warn Drake, which she does. The remaining gladiators make a break for it, which has the side benefit of them getting to first stab then run over Raven. They confront Cortez, who reveals that the metal shackles they all have tightly implanted around their wrists are the catalyst for the disintegration. One of them tries to remove his bracelet, with obvious results. They end up killing Cortez and then figure out that the AI is located in mutherfuckin’ SPACE! Inside a satellite, naturally. Kinda hard to get to there.

Ben Hur, Done That

A plan is hatched--but first betrayal! A loyal friend, an older fighter named Monk, is revealed to be the traitor that helped the AI see everything, via an eletronic eye implanted in him. They kill Monk, pop his eye out (it's Fulci movie--there are rules!), and use the eye to somehow retrieve all info it ever saw, including the AI’s self destruct code! Why Monk was privy to this tidbit of info is not explained. Just before the arbitrary countdown expires (seriously, if the AI wanted them dead, why not just flip the disintegrate switch immediately?), they blow up the satellite. Drake gets the girl, all is well. Corporate greed and rogue AIs are no match for a determined set of gladiators. Late-model gladiators, anyway.

I have to say, in researching this film, I saw a lot of hate for it. The Duke is baffled by this. The New Gladiators has it all! Model cityscapes, evil computers, sweaty Gestapo prison wardens, kung-fu strobe sequences. What more could you possibly ask for? To those that poo-poo’d this great film: might I interest you in my middle finger?

Oh, I kid! I love you all! I get it, I guess. The movie does drag a bit, and the action sequences aren’t too thrilling. I just can’t get over two aspects: 1) Fulci is MAD as fuck, and 2) the film has heart. It’s obvious to me that Fulci operated on a small budget, forcing him to cut corners where perhaps he wouldn’t have otherwise. I guess I’m just a sucker for gladiator movies that feature rogue AI computers as the central villain.

Special props go to Riz Ortolani’s fabulous score, which, while repetative in some spots, kept me grooving the entire time. He’s scored a fuckload of movies, and to me this stands right up there with the best. It was made in the early 80’s, so obviously the synth was heavy and forward, but that’s how we liked it in those days. Guiseppe Pinori’s cinematography was more than adequate as well, though I believe he was also constrained by the low budget. He did great with what he had to work with, though.

In the end, this movie is well worth the effort to track down and watch. Netflix has it via instant streaming, as of the writing of this review, so that’s an option. Turn off your reality television and tune in for some futuristic reality TV, courtesy of the Maestro himself, Lucio Fulci. I give New Gladiators a hearty 2 thumbs up, only kept from another half-point or even 3 thumbs by not having any nudity to speak of, which is a grave oversight that I cannot ignore. Still, my friends, watch it, love it, worship it. Until next time, I bid thee adieu.

"Whistle while you work!"


Ride == Pimp'd

"What homoerotic subtext?"

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...

Killdozer (1974): or, The Very Angry Caterpillar

A group of wildcatting construction workers are plying their trade on a small island 200 miles off the coast of Africa, where they've been hired by the Warburton Oil Company to build a base camp for the oil workers who are going to be based there. But when this cadre of extremely manly men inadvertently dig up an ancient asteroid that contains an alien energy being with the ability to possess and operate heavy machinery, they soon find themselves running for their lives from forty-nine tons of terror: the KILLDOZER!

For a story that might have been written by a couple of grade schoolers looking for new ways to menace their GI Joe action figures in the neighborhood sandlot, the 1974 made-for-TV thriller Killdozer has quite an auspicious literary history. The original short story was written by famous science-fiction author Theodore Sturgeon and published under the title "Killdozer!"* in the November 1944 issue of the similarly famous pulp magazine Astounding. It has been anthologized and reprinted dozens of times in the intervening three-quarter century, and remains Sturgeon's most famous tale, if you don't count the two Star Trek episodes he penned (which, according to Chris Sims of Chris's Invincible Superblog, both involve "Spock going batshit insane and throwing bowls of soup around") . In addition to this TV movie, the story was adapted by Marvel Comics in 1974 for what I can only assume was a Massive Media Crossover Event. (See the aforementioned Superblog for more detail on that effort.)

*The decision on the part of the filmmakers to drop the exclamation point from the title can only be called dreadfully misguided.

Death Comes Dozing

After a brief opening shot of the eeevil asteroid making its way toward earth (an effect seemingly achieved by filming someone flinging a chunk of concrete at a pasteboard library globe in super-slow motion), we are quickly introduced to our protagonists. Foreman Lloyd Kelly (Clint Walker) is a dried-out drunk who failed disastrously at his last job thanks to the booze, and has been given this one last chance to do right. His crew consists of cynical "sourball" Dennis Holving (Carl Betz), affectionate hetero-lifepartners Dutch Krasner (James Wainwright) and Mack McCarthy (an extremely young and bright-eyed Robert Urich), token minority worker Al Beltran (James A. Watson Jr.), and crusty old mechanic Chub Foster (Neville Brand of Tobe Hooper's Eaten Alive). Kelly's no-nonsense work ethic and beyond deadpan delivery make him rather unpopular with his funloving, adventure-seeking crew.

The trouble starts when Mack jumps into his Caterpillar D-9 to clear out some dirt near some dilapidated WWII-era barracks, and runs smack into the buried asteroid. Despite its awesome earth-moving power, the dozer can't budge the modestly sized boulder. Irritated with the delay, Kelly has Mack jump out so he can take control; but when the blade of the bull hits the rock, it releases a blast of energy that fries Mack to a crisp--though not before he sees a strange blue glow pass from the asteroid to the heavy machinery.

"You hear that? It said, 'Suck my tailpipe, Squishy!'"

The death of their youngest and most popular workmate has a negative effect on the crew's morale, and Kelly doesn't help matters by cutting the beach-side funeral short and insisting they all report for work at the usual time the next morning. He further cements his asshole status when the boys pull out a bottle of whiskey--"Only one way to say goodbye to an Irishman!" Dutch reasons--and Kelly confiscates it after a few swigs. Meanwhile, Chub is concerned by the strange humming noise coming from the D-9...

You can probably see some of the narrative challenges inherent in the setup here. The cast of characters is absolutely tiny, and the lack of any female characters (and thus no recourse to the standard time-filling Romantic Interest Subplot) further limits the dramatic possibilities. Director Jerry London and Theodore Sturgeon (adapting from his own story) are therefore forced to turn the whole thing into a Foxhole Drama--a bunch of manly men, trapped in a relatively small space, waxing philosophical about life and death while the seemingly unstoppable foe stalks them from afar. (In fact, Dutch says at one point, "I'm beginning to get this, you know? Sorta like being on patrol in Viet Nam." Except with more bulldozing.)

Beltran discovers too late what the Killdozer's gearshift has become

As for that stalking foe, the Killdozer itself is actually fairly fearsome. Low angle shots of its massive steel blade bearing down on the tiny ant-like humans are well framed, even if they do get repetitive by the drama's end. It's also deceptively light on its feet--er, tracks. When Beltran loses control of the dozer and bails out, it quickly wheels on him and cuts off his escape. You'd think it'd be easy to outmaneuver a nearly 100,000 pound machine on foot, but Killdozer easily corrals the hapless construction worker and forces him toward a scrap heap. Granted, shock at the sight of a self-driving dozer may have been a factor in Beltran's immobility--but his final decision to hide from the machine by crawling into a barely shoulder-width metal culvert tube is as disastrous as it is obviously stupid. Somehow the men manage to bury him beside Mack, however--possibly by squeezing him out into the grave like toothpaste.

From there we progress at the rough pace of a death for each commercial break. Chub and his fuel truck go up in a ball of flame after an ill-timed ambush attempt, Dutch is summarily flattened, and antagonistic partners Kelly and Dennis must find a way to destroy the Killdozer, or at least stay alive until the supply ship comes in two days--no small feat, since the dozer no longer needs gas to run, can build its own roads to wherever it wants to go, and is absolutely impregnable as far as the puny non-armed humans are concerned. But then Kelly realizes it's not the Dozer they have to kill...

Even though he knew it was suicide, Dutch never backed down from a game of Chicken.

Most of the drama here is of the human sort, as Kelly wrestles with his need to stay in control and cynical Dennis espouses an every-man-for-himself philosophy ("You want a piece of advice?" he tells Kelly. "Never have anything you care about losing." The foreman deapans back, "As long as you're happy." Burrrrrn.) There are hints of class warfare between the brass of Warburton and the low-class workers ("Survival of the management!" Dutch complains to Chub. "Guys like you and me are expendable!") Meanwhile the simple-minded galoot Dutch is still in mourning for Mack, mixing nostalgic rememberances of his friend with good-natured non-sequiturs ("Man, that was the most crazy, beautiful kid!...Hey Dennis, did I ever tell you I played in the Cotton Bowl?") as he slowly gives in to madness.

It must be said that the relationship between Dutch and Mack, which we get a sense of mostly through Dutch's elegiac narration, is probably the most interesting part for the modern viewer--laying aside the rampaging bulldozer action, that is. I have no doubt that the two were meant to be seen as the most manly of best friends, in the sort of relationship that was common in fiction of the 40s but seems to have mostly disappeared today--and the reason for that disappearance is the rise of Homoerotic Awareness. It's hard not to chuckle when pre-cooked Mack seems uninterested in the photo of Veronica Lake Dutch slavers over, or when Dutch tells how they would have scored with some locals in a foreign port, but Mack ran in fright from the strange women, scuttling their chances. By the time Dutch meets his end en route to the beach to reenact the memory of a Mack & Dutch midnight swim--apparently one of Dutch's fondest memories, Cotton Bowl be damned--well, it's difficult to eschew a modern perspective.

To be fair, he does have a purty mouth.

Even at a lean 74 minutes sans commercials, Killdozer runs out of plot long before it runs out of time. It's helped out a little by some excellent performances by long-time character actors: Betz is great as the "sourball" Dennis, and Brand and Wainwright also manage to create interesting people out of what could easily be two-dimensional placeholders. I wasn't quite as moved by Walker's emotionless performance, but I guess if you like your Men's Man to be the strong and silent type, it could work.

That said, the final confrontation with the Killdozer is a little kid's dream come true--as the D-9 chases them toward the main construction area, Kelly and Dennis climb into the massive excavator onsite (why didn't they think of this earlier?!) to fight back. The ensuing battle reminds one of nothing more than the old T-Rex vs. Triceratops illustrations in the gradeschool dinosaur books, and was definitely a standout scene.

"Here's a message from Mike Mulligan, Killdozer: SUCK IT."

Still, it's hard to figure why the Killdozer mythology has had such staying power. Is it the childish fascination with the power of heavy machinery? Is it the John Henry-like struggle of man vs. machine? Or (more likely) was Sturgeon just fortunate to have coined such an instantly memorable neologism as KILLDOZER? The world may never know. But as for this cinematic adaptation, I liked it enough to recommend it softly with a 1.85 to 2 thumb rating. Your mileage may vary--depending, of course, on what you're a-haulin'.

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Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity (1987): or, The Most Dangerous Gams

If you've been playing along at home this week, you may have noticed my last few entries have resulted in rather lackluster ratings. Trust me, I'm as concerned about it as you are. I know you come here for enthusiastic celebration of the most gleefully nonsensical stuff I can clap my eyeballs on, and to tell you the truth, that's why I keep coming too. (So to speak.) And yet every now and then I hit a lull. It's the nature of the game, I know--peaks and valleys, waves and trenches, smooth and crunchy. And yet whenever it happens, I can't help facing my deepest fear: have I run out of glee? Am I becoming jaded? Has the madnness well finally gushed its last gusher? What can I do to get back in the saddle and ride?

All I can say is, thank you, silly 80s sci-fi. It's not the first time you've pulled me back from the brink, and I'm sure it will not be the last.

Ken Dixon's 1987 sci-fi effort Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity opens on a dark, jungly planet, where bodaciously breasted babe is being stalked through the woods by a reject from the Mos Eisley Cantina sequence. We know this is a primitive world, because the girl is barefoot and wearing a beige suede bikini with jaggedly scissored edging, which is of course the universal indicator of "savagery."

Thanks to centuries of evolution, the Savage Girl is perfectly camouflaged among the Blooming Bazonga Bushes.

After she goes out of her way to trip over an easily avoidable root tendril, it looks like our savage sweetie is done for. Her pursuer fires a warning shot--or else needs to get his laser sights realigned--but before he can finish the job, is himself blown away by a Tall Dark Stranger who steps out of the mist in a nick of time. She's saved! Except--not.

Next we join another primitive swimwear model, Daria (Elizabeth Kaitan) chained in the cargo hold of a Space Slave Ship, along with similarly Savage Bikini-Clad captive Tisa (Cindy Beal). Despite Tisa's assurances that there's no way out, and "The only chance we've got is no chance at all!", Daria uses her prodigious upper body strength to yank the electronically-controlled chain out of its moorings. (Guess it's all muscle behind those beige suede triangles!) Then, showing she paid attention at Savage World Polytech, Daria theorizes, "If we can reverse the polarity on these cuffs...the only thing standing between us and freedom is stealing a starship!"

At this point, a little less than four minutes in, the Boom Mic Operator decides he's had enough of Daria's scene-hogging:

Maybe it's her curling iron.

After taking out two of the world's fattest stormtroopers, Daria and Tisa readily hotwire a life boat and blast out into the bleak nothingness of space. With nothing around for millions of light years and barely enough fuel for a three-hour tour, it looks like our Slave Girls (who were never really slaves, if you want to get technical, although they *were* chained...which is a cinematic device your ever-loving Vicar will never complain about) look like they've bought a one-way ticket back to the Infinity they hoped they'd moved beyond. But before you can say "Deus Ex Tractor Beam!" the girls' ship is yanked down to a seemingly deserted planet. They crash into the sea, and Daria washes up on the rocky shore, dazed but alive. Guess it was just as well she wore her Savage Bathing Suit.

She wanders into a cave, which leads to a door, which in turn leads into the British Museum of Natural History--wait, no, it's just the opulently decked-out mansion of Zed (Don Scribner), the owner and sole permanent resident of the island on which Daria finds herself. Non-permanent residents include Tisa, who washed up on a different beach long enough ago to have traded her Savage Bikini for a gauzy black negligee (again, no complaints), and siblings Rik and Shala (Carl Horner and DTV softcore legend Brinke Stevens), who are also castaways thanks to a mysterious shipwrecking. All of them are more than happy to accept Zed's hospitality, despite his Ominous Leather Pants, Sinister Leather Boots, and the fact he apparently shares his genetic code with Patrick Bateman.

"I like to dissect girls. Did you know that I'm quite insane?"

Zed is a hunter by avocation (hence the house full of gigantic stuffed hunting trophies), and if you've seen any jungle adventure movies since around 1940 you're already several steps ahead of the case. Yes, it's yet another version of that endlessly exploitable source text, The Most Dangerous Game: Zed is responsible for his guest's shipwrecks, and intends to make them all his prey, thereafter mounting their heads (not that way...well, okay, maybe) in his gruesome Private Trophy Room. Can Daria and company turn the tables on their insane host, and turn the Hunter into the Hunted? Are they truly alone on the island, or does something else lurk in the jungle shadows? And even if they survive, how will they ever get off this godforsaken space-rock?

Of course none of that really matters, because it's all just window dressing for what this movie is really all about:

"But..."

"But..."

"But me no butts!"

"Wait, you didn't give me time to turn around!"

As a 1980s Sexiness Time Capsule, Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity receives full marks. This flick has more cheesecake than a Pâtisserie Grand Opening. In addition to the aforementioned and formidable Savage Bikinis, Daria and Tisa also spend a lot of time wandering around Zed's castle in gauzy lingerie and slinky evening gowns, which would indicate that some of Zed's former victims must have hailed from the Petticoat Planet. There's a fair amount of nekkidity as well, as when Tisa goes skinny dipping in order to distract Zed's robot guards Vak and Krel (and it works!), or when Rik and Daria pretend to be making love to cover up their attempted escape (which ruse thankfully and hilariously segues into actual body-bonding). But the standout sequence is a bondage-tinged scene in Zed's trophy room, where the hunter takes a chained Shala for his spoils. (Brinke Stevens chained to a pillar and later held down on a stone altar by Vak the Mechano-Perv? You have my attention, sir!)

If T&A isn't your thing (wha?), fear not. For cheese connoiseurs, the flick likewise delivers the gouda. Listening to our Slave Girls deliver technobabble like "I'll lock the beam of the directional grid into the hyperdrive system!"--all with the cadence and intonation of a Valley Girl reading a Golden Book three divisions above comprehension level--is a joy not to be underestimated. Even the non-scientific dialogue has a similar charm, as when Daria observes, "She sacrificed herself for me...Life certainly weaves a twisted tapestry!" Best is after Rik and Daria's love scene, which boasts some of the most cheesetastic dialogue it's been my pleasure to gnosh in a while:

Rik: "Man and woman...what a great concept!"
Daria: "Now I know what I'm fighting for!"
Rik: "If I died today, I wouldn't complain!"
Daria: "You made me feel alive again!"

And it goes on, praise the powers that be.

Being a life-model for Frank Franzetta was lucrative, but demanding.

Cheese of the Sci-fi flavor is here in abundance as well. Vak and Krel are amazing androids. They seem to be envisioned as some sort of steampunk cyborgs--the cacaphony of creaking joints and valve pressure releases when either makes the slightest movement makes them the least stealthy hunting companions in the galaxy, but strangely this doesn't hinder their kill rate. Their personalities are a cross between the Terminator and C3P0--apart from the Horniness AI Chip, they are also extremely snippy with one another, getting into a hilarious argument about who should be checking the security measures at the castle and who should stay to watch Tisa play nude in the waves. The spaceship models, laser battles, and other effects are mid-range, and one hunt sequence even features a spider web trap right out of The Horrors of Spider Island--dissapointingly without a spider, however.

For all that, though, the movie is fairly well-made on a technical level. The lighting is extremely well-done: scenes in Zed's mansion have a warm, golden glow that lends a high-budget sheen to the proceedings, and the matte-painting sets and occasional Franzetta Fantasy Poses proudly fly the b-movie banner. I admit I didn't expect the movie to be as accomplished looking as it was, particularly after the afore-noted Boom Mike Cameo, but aside from that little gaffe, the flick looks great. And the bombastic, sometimes intrusive score by Carl Dante recalls the adventure flicks on which the film is partly based, and ups the fun level another notch.

Better quit while you're a head.

While perhaps not an out-and-out classic, Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity never forgets what it's there to do--i.e., entertain, divert, and titillate--and for me it achieves those modest goals with a certain amount of flair and elan. It's not 2001: A Space Odyssey, or even Galaxy of Terror, but what it IS is a whole lot of fun. 2.5 Thumbs--and thanks again.

Nota bene: according to imdb trivia, Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity holds the distinction of having been condemned as 'indecent' on the floor of the U.S. Senate in 1992 by Senator Jesse Helms. Maybe he didn't actually watch the film, but...the very idea of Helms actually sitting down to screen Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity, a perma-shock look on his face the whole runtime, is just so goddamn beautiful it HAS to be true.


A few more images from Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity (1987):

Domo Arigato


Joe Eszterhas' A Night at the Museum

Zed is challenged by Rubik's Hypercube

"Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to the GWAR auditions?"

Heavy Metal

A slow night at the Duchy

"Is that a telescope in your pants, or...what? It is? Oh."

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