The Szurek Zone: NIGHTMARE IN BLOOD (1978)

“I proclaim myself the Northern Devil’s Advocate / iconoclast / doddering old fool!” – David Szurek

“Consider yourself proclaimed, Dave!” – Paul & Chris

NIGHTMARE IN BLOOD

Reviewed by
The Northern Devil’s Advocate

It was a bit humorous when TV horror host and Creature Features Movie Guide author John Stanley praised this no-budget film in his book, as it was his own one-time venture into filmmaking. After seeing it, however, I can say he’s justified in tooting his horn, that indications are that, had he stuck with it, he had better potential as a filmmaker than the other things he tried and may have eventually been recognized as a major talent, that the only reason it didn’t join the ranks of nationally known cult films is that virtually no one saw its theatrical run and that it’s one of the few tongue-in-cheek horror films on the tip of the brain that doesn’t handle its in-jokes in a pretentious and abrasive fashion. Indeed, there are critical references to this sort of sophomoric tomfoolery, a move which would have been the kiss of death had this picture been less effective.

Enhancing quality is a cast of unknowns who not only play it straight and refuse to mug throughout, but apparently regard their material with respect and are superior to their economic caliber. Well, they were unknowns then. A few years later, heroine Barrie Youngfellow enjoyed fleeting success on the TV sitcom MAKING A LIVING. Before success, Kathleen Quinlan (who’ll you miss if you blink) has a bit part, and according to research, Ann Jillian -- who was also to become a MAKING A LIVING regular -- has a bit part as well, under a forgotten pseudonym. Kerwin Matthews from THE 7TH VOYAGE OF SINBAD and THE BOY WHO CRIED WEREWOLF has a cameo as an actor in a film clip prologue uncannily catching everything there is to catch about Andy Milligan.

It’s all about the singularly-named Malakai, a low-budget Christopher Lee who, since FANGS OVER LONDON, has been typecast as a vampire, and with good reason: He is one, along with his sleazeball pair of P.R. men -- reanimated versions of Burke & Hare who regularly commit murder, allowing their master to drink the victims’ blood from a glass and getting themselves up with the remainder. Four fans initiating a convention in San Francisco -- a horror buff college professor given to spouting pseudo-intellectual cinematic trivia, his sweetheart (who accuses the others of chauvinism for neglecting Maria Ouspenskaya), a black Sherlock Holmes fanatic, and a totally freaked-out comics nut who sees the graphic arts in the sense of a mystical religion, habitually talks like a comic book character and is responsible for such proverbs as “When man has turned to dust, comic books will still exist” -- rents a closed-down movie house for the event and invites Malakai as the guest of honor. Malakai and his P.R. men take up residence in the theater’s basement while awaiting convention day. Malakai quickly develops personal feuds with both a slimy TV horror film host who treats his library with an undisguised disdain and a Fredric Wertham clone who blames the world’s ills on horror movies in his book Rape of the Young Mind. Burke & Hare are responsible for a rash of bizarre murders. The four fans conduct a mini investigation of their own, prodded on by the Sherlock Holmes fantasist, and discover that they have brought vampires to Baghdad-by-the-Bay and, concluding that they’re involved in some heavy shit, spring a Nazi hunter turned 20th century Van Helsing from the local mental hospital. The five join forces to fight the evil, and by golly -- well, I guess you have to see it to learn whether or not they win.

What used to be called a “diamond in the trash,” NIGHTMARE IN BLOOD is, despite the evident budget, not just for sleazeaholics and may not be bad enough for badaholics, although the more flexible members of that circle should enjoy it as well. I hope I have not built your expectations up unreasonably high -- it’s not a 100% perfect movie, but what is? Thus I set you up for a fall, but at any rate it deserves to be seen. John Stanley should be brought out of retirement. Unjustly ignored upon release -- even by fandom -- perhaps it shall now be discovered on videotape.

[Originally published in Temple of Schlock #12, October 1988]

The Szurek Zone: VAMPYRES, DAUGHTERS OF DRACULA (1974)

Views and Reviews by David Szurek

First off, this was directed by Jose Larraz, who gave us the abortive HOUSE ON STRAW HILL but is certainly a better movie. Secondly, despite the title(s) -- it’s also known as VAMPYRES, VAMPIRESS, DAUGHTERS OF DRACULA (not to be confused with the singular Universal) and DRACULA’S VAMPIRE DAUGHTERS -- no mention whatsoever of Vlad’s clan is made and indeed plotline, set in modern times by the way, makes any direct connection unlikely. Third, the film’s whole attitude causes it to lean in the direction of feminism, which is pleasantly surprising for anticipating the customary grade-Z bloodbath without viewpoint. Fourth, it is often quite amusing, although the bottom-budget sound system combined with exceptionally thick British accents deems it initially annoying, but either that improved or my ears adjusted in time. Fifth, ever notice that that most actresses who pose nude have no business doing so? Luckily stars Marianne Morris and Anulka flash their bare bods at us more than once and prove an exception to the unflattering rule.

Seems that Morris and Anulka are a pair of bisexuals (ever notice that screen lesbians rarely look like the stereotype?) murdered by a homophobe for having indulged mutual desires. Many years later, however, they return to life as vampires and decide to combine their need for sustenance with revenge on the male sex whom had persecuted them beyond toleration in life. Posing as hookers, they take up residence in an abandoned castle to which they take a succession of sleazy would-be johns and drink their blood. They decide to be merciful toward one particular traveling salesman and drain him of only a minute quantity. Unaware that the origin of his malady lies in his visit to the regal whorehouse, upon falling ill, the guy seeks assistance from a nearby couple who live in a trailer. Upon recovery, he finds that he has a crush on one of the girls, and keeps returning for more. In time, she falls for him too, which throws a monkey wrench in their plans to systematically drain him to death. The trailer couple, with whom he maintains ties out of gratitude, catches wind that something fishy is going on and poke their noses in where some might say they don’t belong, finding that all clues lead to a couple of mysterious girls whose nearby residence has been strangely unknown. Played almost sympathetically up to this point, the vampire girls, feeling that their scheme is about to be blown, set out after a certain couple who’d have done better leaving well enough alone.

A minor programmer to round out drive-in triple bills, VAMPYRES is no classic, not by a long shot, but is entertaining for what it is. You could (and probably have) done worse. Purchase is not recommended, but discount rental is.

[Originally published in Temple of Schlock #11, September 1988]

The Szurek Zone: THE JAR (1984)

Now, don’t ask me the director’s name, for the credits of this bottom budget mishmash were too illegible to decipher (The name is George Toscano -- Ed.). Don’t ask me why he and the screenwriter couldn't come up with anything coherent, or why nobody with any degree of professionalism participated. Don’t ask me why, only months after the videotape came out, the box at my local outlet was visibly dirty, battered, beaten and already starting to turn yellow. Don’t even ask me what it’s about, for after seeing it, I’m still looking for a person to explain the plot to me.

Basically, it looks like a bunch of “spooky images” strung together, with virtually nothing to hold them in place, and since execution is so crude and amateurish with abysmal dubbing, comatose dubbers doing people who look like they weren’t too talented to begin with, and lighting which makes it hard to see not helping any, the “spookiness” rarely comes across as anything more than a five-year-old trying to be artsy-fartsy. Let’s try to be optimistic and hope that the incoherency is due to some truly brainless cutting. And yet, there are other scenes which call out – nay, SCREAM – for editing. Like in some of Jess Franco’s films, there are moments not even meant to be suspenseful wherein a person slowly ambles from one room to another and we’re forced to endure their every step. At one point, a man seats himself in a chair and remains there doing nothing, not even posing thoughtfully, for several minutes. Action has a habit of being elongated or ending before we know what hit us. There is a four or five minute sequence of the hero driving, but he apparently had no destination. Poor editing tells us in the middle that an opening automobile accident is integral to the supposed plot, and yet, we aren’t even informed it happened until then. Instead, we see a bloody figure, and don’t know how he got that way!


The bloody figure is brought to a man’s apartment to be cleaned up and, while there, vanishes into thin air, leaving behind a glass jar emblazoned with the face of one of the Bava/Argento demons. The symbolism, if that’s what it is, eludes me. The apartment owner keeps running into the bloody man, who it turns out died in the accident, but it’s never quite clear what he presently wants. The apartment owner repeatedly throws the jar away, but it always returns. He smashes it to smithereens a couple of times, but it returns intact.

In black and white sequences which seem to indicate astral projections, he powerlessly witnesses murders committed by and upon extras without names. Then he apparently stumbles upon Hell, but “Scream of the Damned” not withstanding, Hades is somebody’s backyard with a smoldering barbecue. During another trip, he watches soldiers buying it on the battlefield. What does this all mean? Despite the lack of “psychic ghoulishness” inherent in such films as COMBAT SHOCK, ERASERHEAD, BLOODY WEDNESDAY, THE RULING CLASS and to an extent even ALL THE COLORS OF THE DARK and DRILLER KILLER, we wonder if it means he’s going bonkers. He vacillates in wondering about that, too, and his girlfriend is sure of it. The ending tries to explain why these things have been happening, although it was still too vague for me, but one thing certain is that it wasn’t “all in his head” after all. If we needed any further reassurance, there’s a clichéd “the nightmare is starting anew” wrap-up.

THE JAR is absolutely stupefying, even more incoherent than NEON MANIACS, IGOR AND THE LUNATICS, GREY MATTER and the BLOOD COUPLE cut of GANJA AND HESS. If you like being confused, see it. If not, a firm thumbs down.

[Originally published in Temple of Schlock #19, August 1989]

The Szurek Zone: THREE ON A MEATHOOK (1973)

Something has been bothering me about William Girdler's second effort at shoestring filmmaking (his first was ASYLUM OF SATAN). A lot of sources have called this a biogrpahy of Ed Gein. Even the videotape box says that it is (but then again, it's from Regal Video, and videophiles know how well to trust anything Regal says!). So how come (A) The Killer's name is changed? (B) His acts are changed? (C) When it's revealed, his motivation is changed? and (D) The usual "Any persons living or dead" disclaimer is present? What have we left? Well, there's the theme of the kill-crazy farmer. But, for crying out loud, not EVERY kill-crazy farmer can be Ed Gein, can they?

Anyhow, not as gory as the title would imply to those used to '80s standards, but perhaps graphic by those of 1973, like such misleadingly titled films as BARN OF THE NAKED DEAD and BLOODY BIRTHDAY. This is undeniably more of a psychothriller than a formula splatter film. Research indicates the possibility that at some point during its lifetime, it was known as both FUNHOUSE and SLAUGHTERHOUSE, no relation to latter movies of the same names. The most significant factor, to this reviewer's way of thinking, is that THREE ON A MEATHOOK, while Girdler's most obviously low-budget flick (I haven't seen ASYLUM OF SATAN), could have duped the non-soothsayer into undue optimism of the man's future. Definitely a little picture with no serious pretensions of being anything else, and no great shakes in the overall swim of things but reasonably entertaining -- more than reasonably for what it is -- it nevertheless displays a few redeeming qualities which would have been nice had Girdler hung onto later in the game. Such as a primitive enthusiasm and a conveyed sense that the film was cared about in ways other than financial. Some of the camera angles, while not "arty" in the pretentious and rather abrasive sense, show a good college try at making the most of an economically bankrupt situation, and a well-chosen cast demonstrates more talent than is generally associated with such a miniscule budget. Girdler wrote the screenplay as well, which is fraught with (for the sub-genre) unusual and unusually compassionate attempts at characterization and plausibility. The big question is why such a seemingly well-intentioned individual as the protagonist would continually open up innocent parties to danger, but then again, he is also depicted as emotionally unstable and possibly even borderline retarded, which might have something to do with it.


As the story opens, the usual gang of stranded females seeking shelter at a nearby farmhouse are systematically but quickly bumped off. The senior farmer tries to convince his teenage son that he was the one who did it in a blackout, and while there has never been any legal action to document it -- turns out the kid has since childhood been involved in so many similar incidents -- the story is bought. The son slips into the inevitable angst, but is reluctant to see what the audience does: that the old man is trying just a little too hard, which tips us off that he is setting up a scapegoat. There are also clues that the senior farmer is into thrill killing, cannibalism and possible necrophilia and may possibly have killed his own wife. Junior farmer ventures into town to drown his sorrows as a prelude to contemplated suicide, but is dissuaded from the act by a girl he meets and falls in love with. He takes her home for the weekend and it becomes apparent that the father has the same plans for her as for his past victims. The son eventually finds out what has REALLY happened all these years, alters the planned course of events, and we get into weird Freudian stuff revealing the father for no less a menace, but a psychological basket case more worthy of pathos than condemnation.

THREE ON A MEATHOOK may not appeal to the fan of the '80s, conditioned to a breakneck -- if not always very substantial -- pace, and the focus on dialogue with subtle emoting may have been an unwise move with lower caliber acting. If this is the only film that you can afford one weekend, I advise you try for something else, but if you're planning on a double or triple bill and it sounds the least bit attractive, look for it in the bargain bin.

(originally published in Temple of Schlock #9, July 1988)

The Szurek Zone: GRAVEYARD SHIFT (1987)

Mix horror sans the impact necessary for atmosphere or suspense, soap opera without the emotional intensity needed for even the most plastic sentimentality, a few sex scenes without erotica, lame efforts at pathos and melodrama deemed even lamer by the most monotonous crew of undefined, cardboard characters you'll ever hope to meet, a conspicuous lack of depth and characterization which a "drama" like this one cries out for, seemingly indifferent execution, a cast lacking charisma, a script with a few surprising, even innovative twists and turns which looks like it never progressed beyond the "sketch" stage -- especially in the department of characterization and Toronto disguised as New York -- and what do you have (breath breath)? The empty thriller without thrills, the "tearjerker" without "feeling," GRAVEYARD SHIFT (a.k.a. CENTRAL PARK DRIFTER).

In all honesty, I was suckered by a box which made me anticipate both horrific atmosphere and the more endearing brand of sleaze. Once I began watching, I found it while more tolerable than utter tripe like SLAUGHTERHOUSE and SLUMBER PARTY MASSACRE II, a potentially interesting premise handled with such littler verve and energy that it became uninvolving and rather tepid. Maybe somebody will flesh out the script, obtain a better cast and radiate more enthusiasm and make a halfway decent flick one of these days? For the nonce, however, we have a definitive "programmer" populated by lifeless non-entities and we end up feeling as if almost ninety minutes of blank film has rolled by.


Well, you see, there's this incredibly dull modern-day vampire, Silvio Olivera, apparently chosen for the role only because of his resemblance to Chris Sarandon. He drives a cab and, not being such a bad guy -- indeed, he's supposed to be a somewhat sympathetic one although the viewer cannot summon up feeling one way or another for him (I mean, if you thought Jackie Vernon was boring…) -- senses the "spirit of impending death" and specializes in granting eternal life to the terminally ill. He, himself, is not too happy with the "curse" of vampirism. So we can't figure why he thinks he's doing his victims a favor, but ours is not to reason why. Anyway, one of his victims -- a blonde "sexpot" of mediocre attractiveness, named Gilda -- is a lot less selective about her victims and seems to take delight in painting the town red, while a pair of dull plainclothes homicide detectives is sporadically shown looking into the local "mass murders." Unconcerned about and seemingly oblivious to this whole mess until the finale, Silvio falls for one of his regular fares, an unhappily married career woman frustrated with her job, her wimpy but allegedly abusive husband and bummed out by -- you guessed it -- having the Disease of the Week, and she with him. Two dullards have found one another. Fine. They enter into a relationship, he reveals his identity, she accepts it as if encounters with the undead occur every day, and request that he prolong her life the obvious way. For some reason, he refuses and falling in love is also supposed to be fatal to vampires, so he falls ill. At first, he welcomes the "Black Sleep" with open arms, but as the end draws nearer, he freaks out and starts claiming new victims.

It never adds up to much, though, and neither does anything else in this vacant waste of celluloid. Save your money.

The Szurek Zone: A SCREAM IN THE STREETS (1973)

A SCREAM IN THE STREETS (a.k.a. GIRLS IN THE STREETS) is a wild & wooly exercise in the outrageous that comes to us courtesy of Harry Novak’s Box-Office International. Well, it certainly looks as if shot on a low budget with a Kodak Brownie, although most of the acting is more acceptable than usual for this kind of thing. And it is fun in a weird way. The film may not be great art, and much of it looks put together by sick but harmless minds; it’s a sleazeaholic’s must-see, and at times, one can’t help but wonder if anybody intended it to be taken seriously. It does exude raw energy, and I absolutely dare you to call it boring.

The ultimate in lowbrow approach is thrown up at us as the opening credits are read aloud by an off-screen announcer. We then enter into a yarn about an apparently non-gay transvestite (shown ONLY in drag) with an unbalanced mind who goes first on a rape spree, then graduates to a “kill for kicks” spree and finally to a “kill for necrophilic kicks” one. Intercut with this is a fragmented “spanking” scene having nothing whatsoever to do with the rest of the story, featuring characters who never appear before or after. It’s just thrown at us out of the blue! It’s also the most brutal (belt on bare ass), graphic, realistic screen spanking I’ve seen; the female victim is convincing, but doesn’t give the impression of having a good time, which makes me wonder if it was unsimulated or even expected and ad-libbed. The shocker comes when the viewer realizes that the unbilled “spanker” closely resembles the drag queen out of costume.

While the killer transvestite runs around committing dirty deeds, a couple of right-wing Dirty Harry clones who keep running into varied and sundry sex deviates, have a remarkable tendency to stumble on robberies and dope deals in progress quite by accident, NEVER take a prisoner alive, and show no qualms about their casual, trigger-happy law enforcement techniques. They run around trying to track the transvestite down while single-handedly verifying the worst “police brutality” reports. Although I doubt it was meant that way, this is one of the most anti-cop movies I’ve seen in ages and will hardly do anything positive for public relations. Like I said, it’s not great art, but the non-stop absurdity will blow your mind.

The Endangered List (Case Files #6 and #7)

[Case File #6]

THE NEST OF THE CUCKOO BIRD (1965)

Written, produced and directed

by Bert Williams

Starring

Bert Williams, Ann Long, Chuck Frankle, Jackie Scelza, Larry Wright

Investigating Florida moonshiners, a detective (Bert Williams) is searching the Everglades when he discovers a remote inn managed by a demented showgirl (Ann Long), a taxidermist who stuffs humans for display in her grotesque Chapel Of The Dead.

[Case File #7]

MOTORCYCLE MASSACRE (1971?)

I first heard about MOTORCYCLE MASSACRE back in 1988, when one of our contributors -- Dave Szurek -- began referencing it in the letters, lists and reviews he sent to us every month. At first I thought a shady subdistributor in Detroit (where Dave lived at the time) had re-titled a print of NORTHVILLE CEMETERY MASSACRE and was playing it off on triple- and quadruple-bills in area drive-ins and grindhouses -- but no, Dave insisted, this was a totally different movie.

When I talked to Dave earlier this year and mentioned MOTORCYCLE MASSACRE, he told me that he was pretty sure it was a re-titling of another movie -- but he has no idea what that movie is. He also told me that people in 'zines and on message boards have accused him of making up the movie.

The following appeared in Wet Paint #25 (March/April 1989, p. 19)

MOTORCYCLE MASSACRE (1971) Amateurishly produced and extremely obscure but surprisingly well-made and conscientiously written sleaze. No massacre – somebody obviously just liked the sound of that title – as lone biker rescues and returns a kidnapped girl, but his motives are misinterpreted and he becomes the target of rednecks. Offbeat and satisfying, with uncharacteristic evidence of brains; recommended to buffs of the obvious genre. Keith Hotchkiss, Connie Conklin, Lee Marsden, Simon Stewart, Art D'Angelo, Charles Lysander. -- Dave Szurek

Does anyone know the true identity of MOTORCYCLE MASSACRE? Can someone shed more light on this mystery?

The Szurek Zone: BLOOD ORGY OF THE SHE DEVILS

Alternate titles have reputedly been ORGY OF THE SHE DEVILS, ORGY OF THE SHE-BEASTS, BLOOD LUST OF THE SHE DEVILS and BLOOD OF THE SHE-BEASTS, but none of those have been utilized very often, and in most areas it's known as BLOOD ORGY OF THE SHE DEVILS. Made for about $10 in 1972 by Ted V. Mikels, the man behind such blockbusters as THE ASTRO-ZOMBIES, THE CORPSE GRINDERS, THE DOLL SQUAD and THE BLACK KLANSMAN, it was given such a spotty and elongated release that it was not widely seen until almost ten years later. In the Detroit area, it waited nearly that long before going direct to drive-ins as part of a five unit special also consisting of NIGHTMARE IN BLOOD, BLOODEATERS (known on video as TOXIC ZOMBIES and as I understand re-issued to a handful of theaters under that title) and re-releases of BLOODTHIRSTY BUTCHERS and INVASION OF THE BLOOD FARMERS.

Shot against paper-mache backdrops with a cast that keeps stumbling over its lines, some of the worst background music in years, a camera that is often unfocused and choreography that makes this look like a deliberate spoof, BLOOD ORGY OF THE SHE DEVILS is by no means a landmark moment for the silver screen. But the script, also by Mikels, shows surprising "so-so with good elements" potential only to be knocked on its butt by precedent-setting ineptitude and an apparent unwillingness to do it in more than one take, thespians who make it painfully obvious that they don't take their vehicle serious at all and a director who seems to have enjoyed "writing" it, but evidently fell into a coma about actually putting it on film. The dancing girls at the ritual look like go-go performers. The bongo playing "Black Token" sounds as if he's doing low-grade soul music. At least two members of the cast don't even bother to conceal their contempt for the material. Lila Zaborin as head witch Mara NEVER displays acting skill, but climbs embarrassingly far out on a limb during a "séance" sequence in which -- apparently losing sight for a moment that is not "supposed to" be a comedy -- she strains very hard for camp. Tom Pace, the incompetent non-entity who was the hero of THE ASTRO-ZOMBIES and is the hero again in this (only here he's unconvincingly passed off as a forty year-old college student), repeatedly breaks into supercilious, smartass grins at the most inappropriate moments and doesn't try to hide or muffle them. Considering his almost nonexistent acting ability, and his totally nonexistent charisma, this is the oven calling the kettle black. The meandering script occasionally dips into a tangent that looks like it's going to remain an integral portion of the plot – only to fade into limbo fifteen minutes later and one of these tangents is a feud between underground figures and "occult" ones. Mara is even murdered during this feud, comes back to life, the murderers are quickly done in my magic, and then...the whole shmeer is forgotten about. Things like this ultimately give the flick a nagging sense of pointlessness.

To his credit, Mikels laces the "action" with a focus on occult "details" – so much so that it eventually looks like a semi-documentary. And even more to his credit, as a one-time student of demonology, I was surprised by the impressive accuracy. He obviously did his homework, and was probably a practitioner or at least a student, himself at the time this was made, or BLOOD ORGY has been envisioned as exploitation for esoterica buffs. This doesn't make it a good movie, though, and 'tis a pity Mikels hadn't a quarter the expertise at filmmaking.

Briefly, Mara is a Southern California professional medium/tarot card reader/psychic adviser/astrologist. Well, those are her legitimate fronts anyway, as she projects an image of harmless eccentricity, of a con artist, at the very worst. Behind closed doors, she practices memory regression on her female clients, all of whom seemingly were executed for witchcraft in a former life and upon learning this are eager to join her cult of men-sacrificers and demon-summoning hopefuls. Mara, who's aided by a weird bearded male servant named Tourke, also operates a psychic hit man service, which is how she gets in hot water with the underworld, but after pulling a single job, she – or Mikels – seems to forget about it. Co-ed Lorraine has been following the career of Mara and, somehow convinced that the latter is not a fraud, drags boyfriend Mark (Pace) to one of Mara's séances. Although an uninterested skeptic, Mark goes along out of lust. Now, he becomes interested and wondering if Mara is genuinely gifted with occult powers or is just an exceptionally good flim-flam lady. He consults a professor who dabbles in the Black Arts himself. In between the professor's lectures on both diabolism and paganism, we cut to sequences of Mara's activities. Finally, the couple's curiosity ebbs to the point where they agree to participate in one of Mara's age regressions. The professor learns they are pawns in a demon-conjuring ritual, and accompanied by a few "white witches" dashes to the rescue.

BLOOD ORGY OF THE SHE DEVILS just escapes the "Good-Bad" label by not being quite strong enough in the "good" department. At least, invalids won't find it painful to watch, but that's as good as I can say.