Written by Thom Shubilla (Primetime 1966-1967), the handsome hardback from Applause tracks the wannabes, never-weres, knockoffs, one-offs and other Bondy-come-latelys proliferating after the worldwide moviegoing public gave a hearty “yes” to 1962’s Dr. No.
Rather admirably, the book gives overdue attention to those cinematic spies of comparatively short shrift — many colorful and comical — from Matt Helm and Derek Flint to Harry Palmer and Bulldog Drummond. Even better, Shubilla doesn’t stop there, devoting later chapters to the Mexican and European also-rans (including Sean Connery’s own sibling, Neil, in Operation Kid Brother), as well as television. It’s thorough enough, you may cry U.N.C.L.E.
But all this comes after the author spends nearly 50 pages introducing us to Bond, James Bond. While I get the need to set the table, 007 could be handled in the introduction, since we’re not told anything new — unless you count Lazenby’s aforementioned quote erroneously attributed to Connery.
Sixties Spy Craze reads like a Wikipedia page, for both good and ill, meaning it’s packed with facts, but lacks a narrative. For delivering pure production info, one could make the case nobody does it better. However, what’s sacrificed are Shubilla’s own viewpoint and assumed passion for this subgenre. —Rod Lott
I am very fearful of today’s punk youths, mostly because they will strangle me with their tight jeans, swollen lip rings and stylishly tousled hair, taking me down without a moment of regret or misunderstood bloodshed. As a matter of fact, their rakish behavior makes one yearn for the semi-tuff kids in 1979’s well-acted, oversexed and non-complex teen drama, Over the Edge.
Besides tucking their shirttails, smoking in designated areas, and knowing the proper word for “urination,” the lower-level, white-trash kids of Edge take down the entire high school system with only some bottle rockets, some dirt bikes and, of course, total pubescent angst.
As the title crawl tells — against some serious power-chord action, natch — kids under 15 are horrible miscreants and this primo story is based on this nonexistent fact. We’re introduced to the suburb of New Grenada and their unofficial teen leader, Richie (Matt Dillon), and his buddy, Carl (Michael Kramer).
They and their friends brag about small-time vandalism, attempted date rapes and other minor crimes, not to mention going to see Kiss in their Dynasty disco era (wowza!) at the well-to-do youth center. For the most part, for youth of the 1970s, they’re pretty civil, a little douchey and most vaguely docile.
But when the community center is temporarily closed by some rootin’-tootin’ Texas land developers, do Richie and the gang try to save it by learning breakdancing? No, they go and tear apart a police car. Eventually, they come across a gun and things really get bad when Richie is shot by the cops. So, of course, Carl and his friends come together to take down not only the cops, but also their parents, teachers and teacher’s pets — the whole damn system, man!
Like The Warriors or Rock ’n’ Roll High School, Over the Edge is an antisocial wish-fulfillment fantasy directed by Jonathan Kaplan, one of Roger Corman’s enfants terribles. With the total power of hard rock, hard times and hard crime, Kaplan does a commendable job here, with most kids tired of the Afterschool Special themes normally crammed down their throats.
The scenes of Greeley, Colorado — a hop, skip and jump from my former home, Fort Collins — and other nearby locales are pretty staid with washed-out suburban colors, but it beats, say, Los Angeles and other California dreams. Even better, the soundtrack featuring the Ramones, Cheap Trick and early Van Halen — I want my ’70s stereophonic headphones now! Turn it up, man!
Over the Edge is a late ’70s picture of classic teen alienation and vintage youth rebellion, with the teenagers waving their stolen shotguns in a true celebration of fist-pumping uprising and personal dirtball freedom.
So take a swig of this 50/50 as I blow up this car … but, please don’t do any of this if my parents are home! *gulp* —Louis Fowler
Cobbled from episodes of the children’s TV series Masked Ninja Red Shadow, this Japanese feature has popped up under numerous titles in its lifetime. Thanks to importing, white people like me are apt to encounter it as Ninja Scope. Whichever name it bears, the flick packs a lot of action in a mere 52 minutes.
It pits the red-masked, swoopy-haired superhero Akakage (Yuzaburo Sakaguchi, Lone Wolf and Cub: Baby Cart at the River Styx) and kid-ninja sidekick Akokage (Kaneko Yoshinobu, Watari) against a cult. Do you think the cult leader is cool with this? No, he is not, so he sends in his clowns to battle. By “clowns,” I mean creatures of all shapes and sizes and sativa-inspired designs, including a: • rock monster • giant, flame-breathing toad • rectangle-faced goon with sawblade sandals
For these and other colorful storybook shenanigans in which our heroes find themselves, the matinee movie occasional pauses to allow Akakage to bust that fourth wall and inform audience members to don their 3-D viewers. With each fight sequence, Ninja Scope diverts to black and white to allow for anaglyph antics; while it’s kind of a bummer to lose color, when it comes to pushing objects toward the lens, the filmmakers didn’t dick around.
With a pantyhose-headed puppeteer, exploding plums and a dude on a kite, Ninja Scope never rests to allow itself to get dull. It’s as if your eyes ate 12 bowls of cereal in a sitting. —Rod Lott
As his great aunt’s sole living heir, Tony (Roberto Guinar) inherits her Mexican mansion — lush landscape, spacious back patio and creepy clown doll included.
The doll, named Payasito (“Little Clown”), is played alternately by a limp bag of rags and dwarf Margarito Esparza Nevares, whose white-greasepaint face suggests the unholy union of Bob Hope and Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus performer Michu. Because it can, Payasito frightens Tony’s pregnant wife down a short flight of stairs to her death, but the baby is saved.
Years later, that lucky embryo swells into Tony’s tot son, Roy (Alan Fernando), whose attachment to the doll rivals Velcro, glue traps and static cling. This skeeves out Tony’s new trophy wife, Doris (Mexico Playboy model Lorena Herrera). Every time she and her hoochie-mama pants try to hide and/or ditch Payasito, the damn thing escapes and/or returns and kills somebody. Repeat until you hit the bare minimum for feature-length qualification, which you can do if you direct the dwarf to move … verrrrry … slowwwwwly.
Also known by its English title of Diabolical Inheritance, Herencia Diabólica is referenced in shorthand as “the Mexican Chucky.” Not to desiccate the corpse of director Alfredo Salazar, but he wishes this thing were mas like Child’s Play. In a still photograph, Payasito may strike you as creepy, but in motion, he inspires laughter; with Chucky, the opposite is true.
Salazar clearly exhibited better luck at the typewriter, where his formidable résumé includes screenplays for such Mexploitation mainstays as The Batwoman, the Wrestling Women, the Aztec Mummy and many a Santo adventure — yep, even the one with big-breasted vampire ladies. —Rod Lott
When Sam & Dave, the classic ’60s soul group, performed their signature hit, “Soul Man,” I wonder how they felt about the Blowfly parody “Hole Man” and if they were proud about it. What about the artists whose original tunes inspired “Y.M.C.(G.)A.(Y.)” or “Shittin’ on the Dock of the Bay”?
Because I definitely would be proud of it … even though I’d sheepishly look down at my feet in total shame and absolute guilt.
I learned of those songs when I discovered Blowfly. When I was a somewhat nerdy, yet eclectic teenager, I was on way to a school marching band competition. Somewhere in the middle of rural Oklahoma, the bus made a roadside stop for bathroom breaks and caffeinated drinks.
I noticed a rack of outré music journals, cult movie zines and, of course, thoroughly profane Mexican nudie mags. All I had was $20 for lunch, but I bought $19 worth of the strange magazines and a liter of Diet Dr Pepper with the change. Oh, yeah!
The music magazine — sorry, I can’t remember the name — had articles about Doug Sahm, Lou Reed and, more importantly, Blowfly (aka Clarence Reid). Reading, learning and wanting to know more about the nastiest rapper, I was heterosexually enamored.
Since then, I’ve encounter him and his music in the most prurient of places — such as a dying record store in San Antonio, a flea market in New York City or a beer-stained trash can in Fort Collins, Colorado, to be sure — all leading to the 2010 film The Weird World of Blowfly.
Although Blowfly died in 2016, this documentary — a cock-umentary, if you will — finds him in the middle of his ill-advised comeback tour. With his history of party records in tow and the help of manager Tom Bowker, he’s trying to make a comeback, but, at 70, it’s harder than it sounds.
Sadly, he’s playing to lackluster crowds in small clubs and, worse, the worst crowds somewhere in Europe. Through the film, we find out that his royalties are gone, he needs surgery on his leg, and, most of all, people have been flatulent on his backstage pizza.
A demented genius, a warped personality and a hyper-sexed fuck demon: This is the Blowfly persona. Yet we instead finding him reading the Bible with his aged mother, goofing around with Bowker’s pre-teen daughter and having a midnight snack of McDonald’s hash browns with ample amounts of ketchup and maple syrup.
I never knew about the two conflicting sides of this man, but talking heads like Ice-T, Chuck D and other performers pay tribute, making sure he stayed a dirty secret in your dad’s party records. To be fair, the greatest tribute comes from Bowker when a slick hipster decries Blowfly, upon which the manager truly castigates, denigrates and dominates the hipster in his own personal hell.
Whether you’ve been taken by “Hole Man” or another one of Blowfly’s infamous bits of wordplay surrounding comically slick crevices, gaping love holes and other places to stick your wanton meat stick, The Weird World of Blowfly is the perfect condom to the real-life cultish career. —Louis Fowler
