1980 Week: Without Warning

Schlockmeister Greydon Clark strikes again with this dull alien-invasion picture, which was made so cheaply that only one alien is featured. The picture mostly comprises interminable scenes of teenagers running from danger, so Without Warning is more akin to the slasher movies of the late ’70s and early ’80s than to other space-monster movies of the same period. It’s worth nothing that cinematographer Dean Cundey also shot Halloween (1978), because Clark apes that picture’s style quite shamelessly with heavy shadows and long Steadicam shots. In the opening sequence, a hunter and his son get killed by flying discs that look like fried eggs with tentacles growing out of them, so viewers learn quickly not to expect much. Later, two young couples hop into a van and head for the woods, encountering the requisite creepy old people on the way there. Word to the wise: When the proprietor of a general store filled with taxidermy says don’t go in the woods, maybe don’t go in the woods. Anyway, the flying egg things kill two of the teenagers, forcing survivors Greg (Christopher T. Nelson) and Sandy (Tarah Nutter) to seek help from the aforementioned creepy old people. The gas-station guy (Jack Palance) offers assistance, but a crazed ex-soldier (Martin Landau) makes things worse by slipping into a Vietnam flashback. Landau and Palance enliven their scenes, but the most enjoyable bits of Without Warning are unintentionally funny, as when Greg and Sandy defeat a horrific outer-space monster that’s attacking their car—by knocking it off the car with their windshield wipers. Consider yourselves warned about Without Warning.

Without Warning: LAME

Angels Brigade (1979)

So here’s a bad idea for a movie—make a sexy action thriller about curvy babes who team up to battle drug dealers, cast it with beauties who can’t act, reconfigure the piece as a comedy even though nobody involved with the project knows how to construct or deliver a joke, and produce the movie as a PG-rated release, thereby eliminating possibilities for lurid content. Such is the sad state of affairs in Angel’s Brigade, a stunningly awful escapist romp from schlock-cinema stalwart Greydon Clark, who produced, co-wrote, and directed this shameless riff on Charlie’s Angels. Presented very much like a cartoon, with comical supporting characters, goofy optical transitions, and stylized uniforms for the heroines, the movie feels wrong from its first frames. To the accompaniment of a messy score that includes everything from disco to orchestral music, teenager Bobby Wilson (Mike Gugliotta) rips off small-time dealer Sticks (Darby Hinton), provoking the ire of Sticks’ boss, Mike Farrell (Jack Palance). Bobby gets his ass kicked, and word of the beating reaches his older sister, Michelle Wilson (Susan Kiger), an up-and-coming pop singer. Hold on tight, because here’s where it gets weird. Bobby’s schoolteacher, April Thomas (Jacqueline Cole), approaches Michelle with a plan to attack and destroy a drug-processing plant, which should be no problem because—yes, this is really the reason she gives—Michelle has a song on the pop charts. The duo then recruits five more ladies, including a karate expert and a stunt driver, for their commando mission. Michelle’s income—again, from one pop song—pays for the whole enterprise. Overnight, the ladies become highly skilled soldiers in matching skintight jumpsuits. Clark tries for a light touch throughout most of the picture (watch for appearances by Gilligan’s Island costars Jim Backus and Alan Hale), then inexplicably ditches the jokes for “serious” scenes featuring villains played by Palance and Peter Lawford. The tone is all over the place, and the acting by the leading ladies is ghastly. Plus, it’s not as if Clark meant to deter the male gaze, because he frequently puts the curvaceous women into lingerie and low-cut gowns and swimsuits. There’s virtually nothing so disheartening as sleaze without the courage of its convictions, because what’s the point? Also known as Angels Revenge and Seven from Heaven, this dud is to be avoided by everyone except those who thrive on schadefreude.

Angels Brigade: LAME

Tom (1973)

Although he remained mired in low-budget sleaze throughout the active years of his directorial career, give Greydon Clark some credit for trying to say something about important topics with his first picture, Tom, which was later reissued as The Bad Bunch. A clumsy attempt at dramatizing how racially charged violence spirals out of control after a chance encounter plants the seeds for conflict, Tom concerns earnest Vietnam veteran Jim (played by Clark himself), who innocently travels to Watts with the intention of delivering a letter on behalf of a fallen comrade. This journey brings Jim into the proximity of Tom (Tom Johnigarn), a radicalized dude who prefers the African name he gave himself, “Makimba.”  Hateful of all whites, Tom/Makimba tells Jim to get the hell out of Watts, and then he gathers his gang to pummel Jim for good measure. Only the intervention of racist cop Lt. Stans (Aldo Ray) saves Jim’s life. Thereafter, the movie runs along two parallel tracks. In one, Jim navigates his love life, trying to choose between easy lay Bobbi (Bambi Allen) and nice girl Nancy (Jacqueline Cole). This stuff is alternately sleazy and stultifying, with the Bobbi scenes featuring lots of gratuitous nudity and the Nancy scenes featuring lots of gratuitous montages. On the other track, Tom/Makimba gets into trouble with cops and criminals, improbably blaming Jim for all of his problems. All of this stuff eventually leads toward a histrionic climax, but not before Clark burns up screen time with nonsense including a topless pool party and a Greek Orthodox wedding. Even though Tom runs only 82 minutes, it somehow manages to seem directionless and overlong. 

Tom: LAME

Hi-Riders (1978)

          Basically a biker flick featuring drag-racing cars instead of motorcycles, this moderately entertaining exploitation flick benefits from copious amounts of action as well as moody cinematography by Dean Cundey, who later became a favorite of directors John Carpenter, Steven Spielberg, and Robert Zemeckis. In fact, the best reason to watch this forgettable picture is to savor the grainy shadows with which Cundey imbues the storyline. As for that storyline, it’s wise to set your expectations low and still leave room for disappointment. The gist is that Mark (Darby Hinton) and his girl Lynn (Diane Peterson) prowl the countryside in their tricked-out car looking for suckers to race. One night, they drag against thuggish Billy (Roger Hampton), a member of a gang called the Hi-Riders. He loses but refuses to pay his debts, so they chase after him and land at Hi-Riders HQ. After the gang’s leader, T.J. (Wm. J. Beaudine), sides with the newcomers, Mark and Lynn decide to hang out with the gang for a while. Later, when a young guy from a local town is killed during a drag race with a Hi-Rider, the man’s father, Mr. Lewis (Stephen McNally), sics rednecks on the Hi-Riders. Mark and Lynn get caught in the crossfire.

          Noting how much of this stuff is predicated on silly coincidences is futile, because the characters are so one-dimensional it’s hard to care what happens. Still, Hi-Riders zips along fairly well. Burly Hampton is enjoyably nasty during early scenes, perky Peterson has fun spewing automotive trivia while playing an engine freak, and director Greydon Clark peppers the cast with a trio of familiar Hollywood players. Mel Ferrer and Ralph Meeker give indifferent performances as small-town cops, and craggy Neville Brand plays a bartender. Additionally, spunky rock tunes by a band called “Coyote and the Pack” fill the soundtrack. Does any of this high-octane noise mean anything, or will you even recall a frame of Hi-Riders after the credits roll? No, but the same could be said about most of the biker movies after which Hi-Riders is patterned. This is unapologetic lowest-common-denominator sludge, with exciting stunts and rebellious attitude and snarling bad guys, all set to the rhythm of roaring engines. 

Hi-Riders: FUNKY

Satan’s Cheerleaders (1977)

Once you’ve come up with a title like Satan’s Cheerleaders, most of your work should be done. I mean, what’s so complicated about mixing devil worship with sexy teenagers? Based on the evidence of this misbegotten attempt at a comedy/horror hybrid, apparently the process is trickier than it seems, because director Greydon Clark and his collaborators botched the job. Beyond simply being amateurish, dumb, and tacky, Satan’s Cheerleaders doesn’t even have enough sex and violence to pass muster as a guilty pleasure. The story follows a quartet of horny cheerleaders and their goody-two-shoes coach, Ms. Johnson (Jacqueline Cole), through a series of adventures. Among other things, the cheerleaders make fun of a simple-minded janitor, Billy (Jack Kruschen). Later, when Ms. Johnson’s car breaks down while she’s driving the girls to a game, Billy comes along in his pickup truck, abducts the ladies, and announces his plans to rape all of them. Then he gets into yet another accident. After escaping from Billy, the ladies make their way to the home of a sheriff (John Ireland), unaware that he’s the leader of a devil-worshipping cult. Oh, and one of the cheerleaders, Patti (Kerry Sherman), discovers that she has magical powers. Not one moment of this flick is believable or suspenseful, because the acting is as atrocious as the writing, with stupidity guiding the behavior of all of the characters. Jokes fall flat in every scene, leering shots of scantily clad babes are distasteful, and supernatural moments are filmed so clumsily as to create narrative confusion. Sleaze-cinema fans should content themselves with enjoying the movie that the title Satan’s Cheerleaders conjures in their reptile brains, because it’s a damn sight better than this one.

Satan’s Cheerleaders: LAME

Black Shampoo (1976)

          Apparently, making a cheap blaxploitation rip-off of the risqué Warren Beatty hit Shampoo (1975) was a more challenging endeavor than one might have expected. To be fair, Shampoo is only nominally about a straight hairdresser who lets other men think he’s gay so he can discreetly screw his female clients, since the complex movie’s real themes are related to ambition, male identity, and politics. Nonetheless, throwing the word “black” in front of the previous film’s title would seem to give Black Shampoo cowriter-director Greydon Clark license to tell a simple story about a black stud who wields a blow dryer while servicing rich white ladies. And, for a while, it seems as if that’s exactly the picture Clark is making. The first 30 minutes of Black Shampoo comprise pure softcore, with abundant full-frontal nudity and many feeble attempts at raunchy humor. Muscular John Daniels stars as “Mr. Jonathan,” a black Beverly Hills hairdresser who leaves his clients satisfied with more than their coiffures.

          When the movie’s “plot” kicks into gear, however, the tone of the picture abruptly changes. Mr. Jonathan’s beautiful receptionist, Brenda (Tanya Boyd), used to be romantically involved with a gangster, so the gangster sends thugs to Mr. Jonathan’s shop and intimidates Brenda into returning to him. Yet Brenda actually loves Mr. Jonathan, so she steals an incriminating ledger from the gangster, sparking a war between the gangster and the hairdresser. (And if any of this is meant to be satirical, the nuance got lost somewhere along the way.) By the time the movie lurches to a conclusion 83 sluggish minutes after it began, Black Shampoo has inexplicably transformed from a would-be sex comedy to an ultraviolent action picture. During the finale, Mr. Jonathan impales a dude with a chainsaw, skewers another fellow with a billiard cue, and watches as one of his sidekicks takes out a villain with an axe to the chest. Blood spurts as freely in these scenes as sudsy water does in the earlier scenes. Oh, and in one particularly gruesome moment, a poor guy gets a red-hot curling iron jammed up his—well, you get the idea.

          Adding to the disjointed nature of the picture is the fact that Clark’s directorial style seems to completely shift midway through Black Shampoo. The first half is borderline incompetent, with inept actors fumbling through pointless scenes—there’s a long romantic montage filled with clichéd images, as well as a long montage of Mr. Jonathan driving around Los Angeles while he looks for Brenda, and the film periodically uses solarized freeze-frames as transitions because Clark obviously forgot to shoot proper in-camera edit points. Yet once the bullets start flying, Clark reveals a minor skill for staging action, and flashes of real humor slip into the mix. (For instance, a flamboyantly gay hairdresser rebounds from an injury by wearing a chic scarf around his gigantic neck brace.) All of this is enough to give any viewer whiplash, and the only reason Black Shampoo doesn’t feel like a fever dream of gore and nudity and sex is that the movie’s pacing is laboriously slow.

Black Shampoo: FREAKY