Today, July 25th, we're cracking open a cold one for Al Adamson's birthday-toasting the man and this gonzo doc. I've yelled "Al Adamson!" mid-bite more times than I can count - his films makes it to the list of prandial accompaniment, perfect with takeout and cheap beer. If you've ever mainlined a midnight B-movie, you know his name scrawled in exploitation history's grime. If not, this documentary's a wild ride, whether you're a grindhouse junkie or just some curious normie slumming it for kicks.
We're not just here for the "tits and terror" of Adamson's grindhouse empire, but for the untamed spirit of a man who lived hard, made movies harder, and died harder still. David Gregory, the madman behind this doc, nails it-no sugarcoating, no cheap shots. This is a celebration of a guy who just wanted to make movies, any damn way he could. It's a dive into B-cinema's underbelly, complete with a murder-mystery finale straight out of one of his own scripts.
Picture it: late '60s, early '70s. Al's shooting on the fly, even at Spahn Ranch-Manson vibes lingering-while hustling paper routes to pay his crew. Legendary. He dragged Russ Tamblyn into his orbit (years before Tarantino quoted Satan's Sadists at him) and even strong-armed Colonel Sanders into feeding his sets with free buckets of chicken. That's how you run a schlock factory. Adamson wasn't just a director; he was a cinematic alchemist, Frankensteining foreign flicks with fresh gore and go-go girls, then reselling them as something new. He even had Oscar-winning cinematographers like Vilmos Zsigmond and Orson Welles' later-days shooter, Gary Graver, cutting their teeth on his sets and learning the "fast and loose" way. The doc's grainy interviews show the love his crew still holds for him-from the stockbroker-turned-"worst Dracula ever" to actresses who adored his generosity.
And then things get dark. The '90s roll in, and Adamson spirals into Beyond This Earth, a UFO documentary that apparently spooked his girlfriend, Stevee Ashlock, and longtime partner Sam Sherman into radio silence. They refused to discuss the project's unsettling impact on Adamson. Whispers of aliens, government spooks-it's like one of his plots, but terrifyingly real and Al vanishes.
No monster, no Satanic cult-but his own live-in contractor, a supposed friend, Fred Fulford. Murdered. Buried in concrete under his jacuzzi. A ghastly end for a man who lived for fun. Yet Blood & Flesh never forgets his spirit. It's a tribute to a guy who loved movies, no matter how wild or cheap. Proof that the the most interesting lives are lived on the fringes, and the biggest best dreams are built with duct tape and grit. Cheers to Al Adamson-lived hard, died harder, left us pure B-movie magic.
