OLGA'S
HOUSE OF SHAME (1964). I don't know if we should thank Something Weird Video
or not for unearthing half the utter garbage that they do. I mean, I guess
these old tyme nudie/sex films are interesting, but Christ almighty, they
are all such shit! For every remotely watchable or at least quasi-competently
made film you've got about 150 films where you're asked to spend an hour
or so looking at pockmarked asses and wretchedly overexposed cinematography.
More than anything I think it's pretty hilarious to see exactly what people
thought was sexy in the year John F. Kennedy was killed by LBJ!!! For example,
women licking their lips over and over again and looking bored out of their
minds. Hold me back ladies because after watching this movie I'm going on
a sex rampage! The constant canned classical music would suggest that director
Joseph P. Mawra is a bit more ambitious than the average hump producer,
but then you realize he was probably just too cheap to even get typical
sleazy jazz background music. The highly structured plot deals with the
nefarious Olga (Audrey Campbell, who has the screen presence of a cantaloupe)
and uh, well…let me see…she, wait…uh, yeah. There you go. Basically Olga's
small army of unattractive women (love those 60s bouffants) betray her at
every opportunity and have to be "punished". Now, when a movie called Olga's
House of Shame has "punishment" you know its gonna be heavy stuff man,
and it is. Watch as Olga weakly swipes at people with a cat 'o nine tails.
Watch as Olga rubs a woman with what appears to be electrical tape for eyebrows
with a horse brush. Watch as Olga's disturbingly gay assistant (W.B. Parker)
burns one woman with a soldering iron. Watch as, oh hell, the tortures here
are pretty goddamn lame and make Jess Franco look like the Marquis de Sade.
There, I said it and I won't take it back. In the end Olga finds her protégé,
and uh, more people are tortured. There are some tits too. Oh, and Olga's
protégé forces Olga's gay assistant to his knees when he declaims his love
for her. This is a mix of those standards of bottom of the barrel exploitation,
the silent narrated movie and the extremely poorly acted movie. About 2/3
of the movie is silent with typically pompous narration ("what sort of sick
depraved mind could conceive of such a thing" and so on) and the other third
has actual real sound. But as soon as these actors open their mouths you'll
ask the narrator to come back, since only Olga's gay assistant can act,
making for uncomfortable contrasts, between Parker's over the top semi-method
acting and the rest of the cast who can't go three words without stepping
all over each other's lines. I guess this movie isn't as bad as some of
the 60s sexploitation I've seen, but that isn't saying much.
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OZONE:
THE ATTACK OF THE REDNECK MUTANTS (1988). Those two The's in the
title really hit the spot. I'm declaring the creation of a new film sub-genre.
We have the incoherent gore movie, the sleazy art-film and now the Hateful
Microbudget Would-Be Cult Film. What exactly separates the Hateful Microbudget
Would-Be Cult Film from, say, a Merely Bad Microbudget Would-Be Cult Film
is the added ingredient of obnoxious extended unfunny scenes. As we all
know, dying is easy and comedy is hard (just look at the continuously poor
quality of the things posted at this very website), and nothing in the hole
world is better (and I mean nothing, not even the death of little children)
beats long laugh free scenes in which you are most definitely supposed to
be laughing at something. The king and still champion of both the Hateful
Microbudget Would-Be Cult Film and Absolute Worst, Most Evil and Hateful
Film Evar Made continues to be Microwave
Massacre, yet I would be lying if I said that Ozone: The Attack
of the Redneck Mutants didn't come in a close second. Close, but no
cigar my friend, since Ozone lacks the magic touch of Jackie Vernon,
THE MAN MORE HATEFUL THAN HITLER AND LANCE BASS. Instead of Vernon Ozone
has only a cast of genetic cast offs and the Asiatic Blue Thompson, who
has a porno name and is married to the director, "Max Raven", which is also
a porno name, unfortunately we know "Raven's" real name: Brett McCormick,
a man who is to cinema what giant runny sores are to blind dates. Its sad
to think that Miss Thompson's sleeping to the top ended with McCormick,
who feeds at an entertainment industry level that is perhaps slightly lower
than that of, say, Thomas Weisser, well, can't win 'em all, can you? I only
went out of my way to identify two of the guilty parties behind this movie
to say if you should ever see them crossing the street do not swerve, in
fact it might be better to merely speed up. In The Sleaze Merchants
we learn McCormick has worked with Joe Estevez! Wow, Blue Thompson and
Joe Estevez, this guy is in the company of angels! No really, I mean it.
Ozone's plot takes it for granted that our diminishing ozone layer
(which could, at this very moment, be causing skin cancer in Jamie Farr!)
causes people to turn into flesh-eating mutants. Uh-oh, I smell exploitation
film gold here! Just add to the mix the Gable and Lombard of bottom-of-the-barrel
straight to video stink fests: Thompson and another actor who I will not
name because he deserves no recognition except an obituary! I tried to figure
out who was the more hateful here, McCormick for writing and directing this
film, or the "actor" who is the "male" lead. Here is a grown man with a
mullet no less, who spends the
entire film whining and crying like a little baby. I bet he likes to go
to balloon fetish websites.
Scratch that, he probably likes to go to men in PVC
rainslick websites. The plot of this 16mm Three Mile Island has to do
with a chemical plant that manages to deplete the ozone layer exclusively
over the small town of Stumpfuck, Heartland America. Suddenly farmers begin
to vomit up hot pink stuff and they become darkies and go to Whoopie Goldberg's
celebrity roast! Thompson comes to town with Mr. Mullet-PVC in her trunk.
This is the sort of movie where if a character sees a dangerous animal rummaging
around its burrow he immediately jabs a stick into the hole and we spend
about 25 minutes watching this. It's the sort of film where an old woman
makes kissing sounds at a fish for 5 minutes, then spends 15 minutes chasing
around a chicken. It's the sort of film where we constantly have cutaways
from the dubious "action" to scenes of a minor character standing around
in front of someone's house. It's the sort of movie where a "gore" scene
consists of 10 minutes of a guy in shitty ozone mutant makeup hitting the
air in front of a screaming actress while plastic looking stage blood is
sprayed all over the place. Please do not reveal the horrible secret of
Ozone: The Attack of the Redneck Mutants whereby they attack rednecks
at a general store. The horra, the horra. This is the sort of movie where
a mutant tears of a piece of his own mother's throat, but somehow the skin
has taken on the qualities of nylon and stretches for about 16 inches before
snapping. Like everything else in this fucking movie the final gore blowout
is just more stretched out scenes of poorly made-up mutants tearing rubber
flesh off people, vomiting on fish, eating tongues, ripping off wigs, etc.
If that sounds like something you'd want to see fire up the fast-forward
action on your video tape playing machine. By the time it all happens the
movie has moved into an outer-region of hatefulness. So poorly made and
lethargically paced it isn't entertaining, so aggressively unfunny it is
irritating, Ozone is a singularly wasteful experience. Just imagine
what you could do with your life in the time it takes to watch Ozone.
Well, maybe you shouldn't but at any rate I forgot what I was going to say.
Oh yes, there are ringing endorsements from HG Lewis and Mark Pirro! OMG
OMG OMG you mean two fucking shitty directors recommend this movie? Wow,
that makes me want to rush out and see it. This is sarcasm because it does
not.
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