FALLING (2021) A Novel By T.J. Newman

Falling (2021) by T.J. Newman

Been wanting to read this much-hyped debut novel all summer so when it finally came in at the library I snatched it up and looked for the perfect opportunity to crack it open. And, with the Phillies hosting the lowly Orioles in the first of a crucial three-game series, last night seemed perfect. (Spoiler, the Phillies made O’s starter John Means look like Cy Young as they fell three games back of the Braves in the race for a playoff spot.)

For those who don’t know, FALLING (285 pages, published by Avid Reader Press) has been getting plenty of advance praise and word-of-mouth since it got picked up for publishing, and for good reason. First time author TJ Newman is a former stewardess who concocted the “JAWS at 35,000 feet” storyline while in her seat during countless cross-country red eyes. Submitted to 40+ agents it finally found a home and has cover blurbs from the likes of Don Winslow and James Patterson.

In short, veteran pilot Bill Hoffman gets tapped for a last-minute flight from LA to NYC despite promising his wife, Claire, that he’d be around for their son’s little league opener. Shortly after takeoff he’s informed that his wife and two children have been taken hostage by a terrorist who presents Hoffman with a horrible choice: crash the plane killing 140+ passengers and crew or the madman offs the pilot’s family.

Naturally, the principled Hoffman vows not to crash the plane and must figure out a way to save his family, protect passengers and crew, and figure out who he can and cannot trust as he tries to avert the worst airplane disaster since 9/11.

I’ll be the first to admit that FALLING is a page-turner and I blew through it in a single sitting (with a brief stop for milk and brownies to drown my baseball sorrows). But it’s certainly not without its flaws. Newman convincingly writes the characters she knows best, namely Hoffman and his crew of attendants (veterans Jo and Big Daddy plus Kellie, the wide-eyed rookie), and the author deftly juggles myriad storylines in a style that seems tailor made for the big screen (no surprise that a dozen-plus studios and streamers battled for the film rights). But the villains – and some side characters – are strictly one-note stereotypes, the FBI agent/superior relationship is straight out of any one of a thousand cop shows/movies, some scenes are so hokey that I couldn’t help but chuckle, veterans of the action film genre will see most, if not all, of the book’s “twists” coming from a mile away, and you can tell the author watched SPEED and the AIRPORT and DIE HARD flicks a bit too much while prepping the manuscript.

Not surprisingly, Newman – who signed a seven-book deal on the strength of FALLING – is at work on a sequel, but FALLING is no TURBULENCE 3: HEAVY METAL (2001) starring Rutger Hauer, Craig Sheffer and Gabrielle Anwar (!) which revolves around a Satanic plot to crash an airliner into one of the Gates of Hell while millions watch a concert by the Marilyn Manson-esque Slade Craven that is being broadcast over the Internet from the plane. 

Now THAT is a concept! – Dan Taylor

You can buy FALLING at Amazon.

Dan Taylor is the editor/publisher of Exploitation Retrospect and The Hungover Gourmet. He does not mind flying despite getting as sick as he's ever been in his life after a flight from Baltimore to Boston.

The Destroyer 13: ACID ROCK by Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

PANDEMIC LIBRARY - The Destroyer #13: ACID ROCK
When an open contract on the life of a witness in an upcoming federal trial draws the attention of mobsters and assassins, it's up to Remo and Chiun to find her and protect her. And find her again and protect her. And find her *again* and protect her, since the drugged-out teenage rock groupie proves to be an elusive quarry for both The Destroyer and her other pursuers.

An above average installment of the popular mens action series pokes at everything from the rock festival scene (complete with an Alice Cooper-esque megastar), professional football and disc jockeys, highlighted – as always – by the interplay between Remo and Chiun. While the first half of the book is just okay things pick up steam once the assassins start closing in and it's up to our heroes to save the day. – Dan Taylor

ACID ROCK is available at Amazon.

Dan Taylor is the editor/publisher of Exploitation Retrospect. He smells like hamburgers and moves with the grace of a pregnant yak. He also has a soft spot in his heart for REMO WILLIAMS: THE ADVENTURE BEGINS.

DIRTY HARRY #1: DUEL FOR CANNONS (1981)

After three flicks cementing Spaghetti Western vet Clint Eastwood in the role of San Francisco Homicide Inspector Harry “Dirty Harry” Callahan, the versatile actor/director declared that his relationship with the .44 Magnum-brandishing cop was over.

Looking for ways to wring more cash from one of their most bankable creations – and establish their own line of men’s action novels to rival Pinnacle’s stars like The Executioner and The Destroyer – Warner Bros. launched ‘Men of Action’ featuring original Dirty Harry novels alongside such pulpier titles as The Ninja Master , S-Com, The Hook (a “gentleman detective with a talent for violence and a taste for sex”), and Ben Slayton: T-Man.

Ghost-written by pulp and non-fiction vet Ric Meyers under the pseudonym “Dean Hartman”, the first Dirty Harry adventure seamlessly flows from silver screen to printed page. Mimicking the beats and pacing of the original films, DUEL opens with a bloodbath at a cheap California amusement park as a hired gunman hunts down San Antonio sheriff – and Friend of Callahan – Boris Tucker. Though misguided officials would blame the deaths of Tucker and some local teens on the stressed Texas cop, Dirty Harry knows better and heads to the Lone Star State to settle the score.

Texas isn’t very welcoming to Harry, with corrupt cops, local businessmen, street gangs, muscle-bound hit men and two-bit hoods hassling him at every turn. The SOBs even go so far as to slice up Harry’s wardrobe and keep him from getting a cab. Soon, Callahan finds allies among Tucker’s few  remaining friends on the force – as well as a rival determined to kill him by book’s end – and they look to disrupt the corruption flowing through town.

It’s no surprise that Meyers nails what we’d come to love about the Dirty Harry flicks, from Eastwood’s mannerisms and fighting style to his minimalist dialogue. The book’s cover art does nothing to suggest Harry isn’t Eastwood and there’s little attempt to describe him from a physical standpoint, so Meyers takes every opportunity to make you think Clint is delivering each pistol blast and flying fist during DUEL’s many action scenes.

Though the tale veers dangerously close to going wildly over-the-top and is a bit too neatly wrapped up (a common problem with men’s action tales of the day), DUEL feels more like a legit Dirty Harry installment than SUDDEN IMPACT (1983) or THE DEAD POOL (1988) featuring Liam Neeson (as a horror film director) and a pre-stardom Jim Carrey. Meyers’ attention to detail and inclusion of characters and events from DIRTY HARRY (1971), MAGNUM FORCE (1973) and THE ENFORCER (1976) go a long way towards drawing us into this cinematic world.

DIRTY HARRY #1: DUEL FOR CANNONS landed on bookstore shelves in 1981, the first of a dozen entries in which “The Magnum Enforcer” would battle corrupt cops, serial killers, “dope-running sea pirates”, terrorists, arms dealers (look for our upcoming review of DIRTY HARRY #10: THE BLOOD OF STRANGERS), a renegade government scientist and a killer looking to frame Inspector 71. The books can currently be found on thrift store shelves, flea market tables and boxed up at garage sales near grandpop’s musty back issues of PLAYBOY (and the occasional OUI). – Dan Taylor

Dan Taylor is the editor/publisher of Exploitation Retrospect and has way too many men's action novels on his bookshelf. This review originally appeared in Exploitation Retrospect #52 available from Amazon and direct from the publisher.

No Slam Dancing, No Stage Diving, No Spikes: An Oral History of City Gardens

I'm not sure what was the first show I saw at City Gardens, the legendary Trenton, NJ punk/rock club, but I do recall rolling up the windows and locking the doors as we made our way through what looked like a recently demilitarized zone filled with abandoned buildings, broken down storefronts and garbage-filled lots.

And this was during broad daylight, when the area looked its "best".

Little did we know that one of those garbage-filled lots with an abandoned-looking building was the rock mecca we were in search of and that – despite the crass nickname "Shitty Garbage" – it would become a home away from home for the next decade.

An old car dealership sitting in the middle of a not-so-great Trenton neighborhood (as opposed to all those great Trenton neighborhoods circa 1984), City Gardens was basically a concrete block whose dank, dark insides had shrewdly been cleared of anything that could be broken before promoter Randy Now began booking the legendary bands that ceaselessly toured the country during those halcyon days.

Black Flag. Bauhaus. Dead Kennedys. Minutemen. ALL. Sloppy Seconds. Mighty Mighty Bosstones. Motorhead (well, almost). Husker Du. Replacements. Ministry. Nirvana. PiL. Joan Jett. Dickies. Social Distortion. Lords of the New Church. Green Day. Afghan Whigs. Hoodoo Gurus. DOA. TSOL. Meatmen. Fear. Violent Femmes. Rollins Band. Slayer. Danzig. GWAR. Tesco Vee's Hate Police. Ramones, oh yes, the Ramones (a City Gardens record 20+ times!). They all plowed through the crowd and hit the City Gardens stage, sometimes in front of a crowd of 50, though 5000 people will tell you they were there "that time when..."

While CBGB gets the Alan Rickman headlined biopic (can a bar get a biopic?) leave it to the truth-is-stranger-than-fiction essence of City Gardens to be captured in the exhaustive oral history 'No Slam Dancing, No Stage Diving, No Spikes: An Oral History of the Legendary City Gardens' which I devoured on the beach over a recent holiday weekend.

Sure, it seems sorta incongruous to be sitting on the Jersey shore beach reading about the place where Jello Biafra kicked me in the head during a Dead Kennedys show, but incongruity was a benchmark of the shows Randy (a mailman that Biafra accurately describes as looking like "a catfish") would book on a regular basis. Metal met punk met ska met rockabilly met dance met grunge on a regular basis thanks to Now's eclectic bills and love of music, and while I always leaned towards attending a show at one of the closer Philly clubs like Khyber Pass, Chestnut Cabaret or JC Dobbs, there were times when a band would skip the City of Brotherly Shove and make its way to Trenton instead, requiring that hideous car ride and equally bleak surroundings.

Reading the book took me right back to my high school days when I was first introduced to "punk" via some friends who let me borrow records like the NY Dolls' debut, the Misfits' seminal 'Walk Among Us' and several so benign it's hard to believe it was considered "alternative" slabs of vinyl like The Alarm's initial EP and even 'Subterranean Jungle' from the Ramones.

Within seven months of graduating from high school I was a DJ at the legendary Philly college radio station WKDU, slowly finding my way musically and drooling over the City Gardens bills we'd promote on the airwaves. (One of the funniest stories in the book prominently features friends from 'KDU and I laughed as hard reading it on the beach as I did when it was first told to me three decades ago.)

While it can't capture every legendary show that took place within its walls (I was shocked the 'Frankenchrist'-era DKs/Raw Power show didn't make the cut), I was nevertheless pleased that 'No Slam Dancing...' accurately captured how the vibe of the club changed over the years we were semi-regulars at its shows.

What started as just a cool place to venture to and see amazing (and, on some nights, not so amazing) gigs, eventually became a venue where you could cut the tension with a knife. By the time I stopped making the trek – a 1994 show headlined by the Afghan Whigs on the day Kurt Cobain died stands out as the last time I went there – you had to have your head on a constant swivel, always conscious of the moment when some knucklehead was going to decide "you" were the lucky recipient of a well-timed punch in the back of the head or headfirst shove into the pit.

Some Memorable City Gardens Shows:

Dead Kennedys 'Frankenchrist' Tour: We got there super early for this one and established a foothold at the front of the stage, even if it meant suffering through the hideous Italian thrash band Raw Power. Biafra dove off the stage and planted a boot squarely in my forehead during the show and I think I still have bruises on my thighs from being squashed against the stage for hours on end. It was all worth it.

Green Day, January 1993: Freezing cold January day and one of the band's first ever East Coast shows. I remember standing amidst a sea of much younger pop punk fans and realizing just how fricking old I was.

Fear, 1993: One of the scariest shows I ever attended (Lunachicks at Philly's Khyber Pass also springs to mind). Some lone hippie seemed to attract the most attention but we eventually retreated as far from the floor as possible so as not to be involved in the inevitable melee.

Sloppy Seconds, circa 1992: I'm a big time fan of these Indianapolis punk poppers and we share a love of trashy movies and junk rock. They stayed at our house in NJ after the show but what I remember most is the City Gardens stage creaking under the weight of Sloppy vocalist BA and then-guitarist Danny Thompson. Junk Rock Rules!!

Afghan Whigs, April 1994: I'm pretty sure this was the last time I ever set foot inside the doors of City Gardens. News broke that day that Kurt Cobain had killed himself (or been killed by one of The Mentors in a murder for hire orchestrated by Courtney Love, depending upon who you want to believe). 18 months later I'd moved to Pittsburgh and was going to shows at places like Graffiti and Bloomfield Bridge Tavern.

Lords of the New Church, May 1985: You tend to remember things when the mayor of Philadelphia drops a bomb on a city block in an attempt to eradicate a radical group called MOVE. We could actually see the flames from the radio station parking lot but it didn't impede my one and only chance to see the former Dead Boy and one time Martha Quinn paramour.

The Ramones, Winter 1989: This wasn't so much memorable for the show itself as it was for the pre-show. For some reason, my parents insisted that I bring my friends from WKDU to our suburban NJ house for a pre-Ramones meal (my parents' house was on the way from Philly to Trenton).  I don't actually remember the show at City Gardens but I vividly recall the show on Princeton Drive as my parents fawned over my ex-girlfriend while they completely ignored my then-girlfriend. – Dan Taylor

No Slam Dancing is available from Amazon.

And check out the trailer for RIOT ON THE DANCE FLOOR, a documentary about City Gardens...

ER Contributor's THE MOST DANGEROUS CINEMA Book Available Now

Along with XEROX FEROX (finally shipping!) and BLEEDING SKULL (still not shipping!), ER contributor Bryan Senn's THE MOST DANGEROUS CINEMA is one of my most highly anticipated film book reads.

Senn, who wrote the excellent 'An Angel for Satan' cover feature in ER 51 (still available from our website), delivers a nearly 300-page look at cinematic adaptations of the classic short plus additional commentary on DTV, television and other takes on hunting people for sport.

If you're a fan of the most dangerous cinema genre you'll definitely want to get your hands on this!

THE MOST DANGEROUS CINEMA is available directly from the publisher as well as from Amazon.

What's your favorite "most dangerous game"-inspired flick?

Sum-Sum-Summertime at ER

I was a little shocked the other day when I fired up the ER blog to find an old review and discovered that I hadn't posted an update since May 3rd! Looking at the blog you'd think nothing had been going on here at the House of ER, but you'd be wrong. Let's catch up, shall we...

The Current Issue
For a few moments there it was looking grim regarding future printings of ER #51 (not to mention our upcoming issue). ComixPress, who printed the first two print runs and did an outstanding job, decided to close up shop which kind of left us in a lurch. When the announcement came I was actually down to the last handful of issues from our second printing but thanks to input from pals and some quick Googling I was able to locate a company that could do just as nice a job (if not better), for the same price, and much faster. For those still looking to pick up a copy of ER #51 – SHOCK CINEMA calls it "chock full of schlocky cinema and savvy analysis" while LIQUID CHEESE raves "Do yourself a favor and order one NOW!" – visit our site for info on ordering on-line or via mail.

The Upcoming Issue
Speaking of ER #52 – which was teased in the back of ER #51 – I'm happy to report that it is coming together nicely and is on schedule for an October 2013 release. There will be a big review section covering a slew of genres, an interview or two you won't find anywhere else and a heaping helping of action with a look at men's action paperbacks, action cinema and much more. I won't know exact contents until mid-August but this issue is already starting to feel more like the ER of old.

Other Writing
Despite the fact that this blog has been woefully neglected while I've been juggling travel, my daughter's summer vacation and my real world jobs, I have been staying active in the writing trenches. If you haven't checked it out already be sure to keep your eyes peeled for the next issue of Brian Harris and Tim Paxton's excellent WENG'S CHOP. Each issue gets bigger and better and #4 (due out soon) is no exception. No article from me this issue but I did contribute a handful of trash cinema reviews and sleaze fans will not want to miss ER contributor David Zuzelo's epic contribution to the new issue.

I was also pickled tink to be asked to contribute to the Italian Horror Week over at Dr. Terror's Blog of Horrors. Dr. Jimmy delivered a crushing lineup of content based around that simple concept, covering everything from old school giallo to Spaghetti Splatter and more. My beer-fueled recap of one of my favorite nights at the Super-130 Drive-In appeared during the week and thanks to the good doctor looks better than I could have ever hoped.

Dan's Funky Finds and Vintage Mags
Some of you who have known me over the years and/or followed the zine know that I'm also a frequent haunter of garage sales, flea markets, thrift stores and their ilk. Though I have slowed down quite a bit in that department I still keep my eyes peeled for good trash to share which led to me breaking down and opening an eBay store devoted to selling movies, zines, books, posters and more. I'm still in the process of cataloging and posting items but you'll definitely want to bookmark the store. A recent trip to Kentucky yielded about 20 years of vintage Playboy (1965-1985) plus some other classic smut, I just stumbled upon a stack of great 1970s trash and horror posters (most in unbelievable condition), and I'm always pulling out boxes of DVDs, zines, mags, promo items and more. If you want to keep up with our latest findings and listings be sure to check out the Dan's Funky Finds Twitter feed and Facebook page.

What I've Been Watching
Been trying to juggle stuff I have to watch for review purposes with stuff I want to watch. The former category includes such flicks as: THE COOK (awful, schizo wannabe horror spoof); SNOW SHARK (dumb as a post but consistently mediocre); BAD MEAT (a killer first 78 minutes submarined by the final six); THE DARK DEALER (surprisingly enjoyable anthology throwback); SLAUGHTER TALES (entertaining, if a tad too long, love letter to SOV horror trash); and, SEXCULA (amateurish, but fun, Canadian erotic horror comedy derailed by endlessly dull sex scenes). On the want to watch side FAST 6 was as wonderfully check-your-brain-at-the-door fun as I could have hoped while the reboot (remake? sequel?) of THE EVIL DEAD left me feeling kinda "meh". Streaming continued to blow my mind (in good and bad ways) with the jaw-droppingly awesome CATCH THE HEAT and The Asylum's staggeringly unwatchable 500 MPH STORM (with Casper Van Dien). I guess they can't all be SHARKNADO.

What I've Been Reading
While I've devoted most of the last few months to plowing through my collection of Destroyer and Executioner novels – with one-off sidetrips with such men's action characters as The Butcher and The Protector – I've still found time to work in a few other reads. DRINKING WITH STRANGERS is a breezy memoir from rocker/producer Butch Walker while MARVEL COMICS: THE UNTOLD STORY features a fascinating history of the comic giant from its pre-superhero heyday to the present. COMMANDO: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHNNY RAMONE is a must-read for Ramones fans while KISS: BEHIND THE MASK is probably for die-hards only. Currently, I'm juggling my loves of food and music with LOUDER THAN HELL (an oral history of heavy metal) and BACK OF THE HOUSE, another look at life as a restaurant worker.

Whew! I suppose that ends this little catch-up session. I promise to (try and) be more diligent about posting here in the coming months. But you can always stay up-to-date by checking out the ER Twitter feed and Facebook page.

KISS: BEHIND THE MASK

The exhaustive – and occasionally exhausting – KISS: BEHIND THE MASK is the true litmus test of KISS fandom. Casual fans need not apply as this 400-plus page tome will probe the limits of just how much you really care about the sometimes head-scratching career of the pop-metal pioneers.

The first section – an authorized, long-buried, quickie band bio by co-author David Leaf – is, to be frank, the least interesting part of the book. Written at a time when the band was headed for a tailspin (thanks to things like kiddie-oriented over-merchandising, the KISS MEETS THE PHANTOM OF THE PARK tv movie and the ill-fated, cut-out-bin-bound solo LPs), the 100-pager establishes Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons as the driving forces behind the band while painting an overly-rosy picture of the actual state of KISS circa 1978. While Simmons and Stanley come off as the band's driving forces (both creatively and from a business standpoint), remaining original members Ace Frehley and Peter Criss seem more interested in establishing some sort of looney street cred that makes one wonder how they lasted in the band as long as they did. Forget their respective battles with substance abuse, I'd have booted them for being such annoying, boorish assholes.

For those, like myself, intrigued by the real history of the band and the artistic and business decisions that sent them soaring in popularity before a precipitous drop followed by a phoenix-like rise from the ashes (complete with makeup intact), the middle section by co-author Ken Sharp is perhaps the most satisfying. And the one I wanted to go on and on and on. Though the section treads some already-familiar ground (the story of Simmons meeting Stanley seems like it is repeated ad nauseum throughout the book's 400 pages) and one can only read so much about how happy Peter Criss was to be on The Reunion Tour (I bet!), an impressive collection of roadies, technicians, band members, managers, songwriters, producers and label executives weigh in on everything from their early days and the struggles to sell albums to such iconic moments in KISS-story as the Empire State Building photo shoot, the KISS comics and their appearance on the Tomorrow show with Tom Snyder.

The real meat and potatoes of KISS: BEHIND THE MASK, though, is the more than 200 pages that Sharp devotes to each and every KISS record from the pre-KISS outfit Wicked Lester (featuring Stanley and Simmons) up through 1998's Psycho Circus – including such lamentable efforts as the band's makeup period solo LPs and the divisive Music from The Elder. Personally, I love reading books that dive behind-the-scenes into creative endeavors like music, movies and tv, so this oral history (sounds like a title for a Paul Stanley song!) was right up my alley. Plus, it's fun to read Stanley and Simmons give wildly divergent opinions about the same album or read subtle digs (usually aimed at Starchild by the Demon) about stolen riffs and the like.

Even as a fan my eyes started to gloss over at discussions of tunes like "Let's Put the X in Sex" and "Murder in High Heels" but I have to admit that I immediately began glancing through my iTunes library to see where I had holes in my post-makeup/pre-reunion collection.

Like I said, this is definitely not a book for everybody and even fans will find themselves struggling at times, but it truly is a fascinating look at a band that has proven to be wildly influential in both the music and pop culture arenas.

KISS: BEHIND THE MASK is available from Amazon.


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DTV Features Washed-Up Action Stars on the Comeback Trail

What happens when two aging, past-their-prime action stars who spend their days chugging beer and snorting coke finally find a script worthy of a comeback? That's the story behind DTV, the fourth novel from Andrew Bonazelli, managing editor for the music magazines Decibel and Magnet (which I once wrote reviews for waaaayyyy back when). The novel, which comes with a soundtrack featuring metal bands contributing action-inspired tunes, debuts tonight at 12 Steps Down (831 Christian Street). The book release party is scheduled from 7-10 PM and the winner of the arm wrestling contest will go home with a copy of the book.

Check out Philly Metro for more info. (Thanks to Jeff for the tip!)

BOOK REVIEW: Scooby-Doo and the Monster Menace by James Gelsey

Scooby-doo! and the Monster Menace by James Gelsey
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

My 4-year-old loves Scooby-Doo and the gang so this seemed like a great chapter book to get from the library. The chapters were the perfect length (we would read two before bed) and the big type encouraged her to read along and ask questions about what certain words were. The story is structured like an episode of the show so it has a nice, familiar feel to it as well. We'll be picking up more of these as we continue down the road to reading!

View all my reviews

12 REVIEWS OF XMAS: David Shrigley's WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?

It's Day 2 of the 12 Reviews of Xmas here at Exploitation Retrospect and while we usually focus our critical eye on the cinematic world, occasionally some courageous publisher drops a book on our doorstep. These days, I'm all about written manly action (even though summer's long over) and behind-the-scenes scoops, so I sent today's artistically-oriented tome off to filmmaker/actor/review Matthew Saliba. Here's his take...

In my quest to receive free swag, I can sometimes be a little overzealous when I agree to take on a given project to review. However, even the oddest piece of cultural memorabilia prompts an inspired and evocative review that has me scratching my head in endless wonder over how the hell I managed to write so many words on something that left me speechless when I first saw it.

Such is the case with this book, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? THE ESSENTIAL DAVID SHRIGLEY. Only in this case, I really have no idea what to say about it. Glasgow surrealist David Shrigley is a man of many trades having created endless drawings, sculptures, photographs and animated films all of which can be viewed on his website.  This book collects his very best (or worst, depending on your tolerance for modern art) drawings all of which are deeply rooted in the timeless art of deadpan absurdity. Some of these are actually quite funny, particularly God cutting the world in half because "it's too big," a woman shooting a row of eggs with a machine gun but refusing to say why because it's "classified information" to a woman milking a cow and telling it to shut up when it asks her what she's doing. Then there are others that seem to refine "deadpan" as being entirely without humor. Truth be told, what this collection of sketches really reminded me of was David Lynch's DUMBLAND. The drawing style is very similar and if these drawings were brought to life via animation, I have a feeling we'd essentially be watching an episode of Lynch's webseries.

Art is a very subjective thing and as difficult as it can be to review a film or a book and recommend it one way or another, it's almost impossible to dictate what is and isn't good Art, when we're talking about paintings or drawings. I'm of the opinion that the purpose of Art is to evoke a wide array of emotions in the spectator; perhaps even enlighten them. With that in mind, it's no surprise why I gravitate towards Film and Literature as these are the two prime practitioners of "Art as emotional roller-coaster." When it comes to something like David Shrigley's work, I'm admittedly at a loss on how to properly critique it. But if I'm going to use my emotional barometer as a means to judge this collection than I'm afraid that what comes up is mostly indifference. Granted some of his work is amusing but I found it mostly self-indulgent – aimed at those who get a kick out of the "illustrated laughing squares" in THE NEW YORKER.

Between the zero emotional connection I had with the material and the text's hefty price tag, I really can't recommend shelling out over $30 for something that will ultimately serve as a paperweight to protect your Scrabble scores from running off in the mouth of your incredibly curious cat Munchkin... like it currently does for yours truly.

What the Hell Are You Doing? is available from Amazon.

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Kinski on Cover of New Spaghetti Western Guide!

I haven't had a chance to pick this one up myself, but good pal, Exploitation Retrospect and Hungover Gourmet contributor, and author (check out Sixties Shockers, his new book with Mark Clark) Bryan Senn is already recommending it after just a few days.

The book in question is Any Gun Can Play: The Essential Guide to Euro-Westerns from Kevin Grant (and published by FAB Press) and our boy Klaus Kinski graces the cover – and rightly so – along with other Spags icons Clint Eastwood and Franco Nero.

Even though I'm not a huge Spaghetti westerns fan this looks like a must-have book for fans of all Eurotrash thanks to its chronological look at the history of the genre, the major players, filmography and rare photos.

Add it to your holiday wish list today!

The Fix is In! For the First Life or Death Ballgame in World Series History!

While shopping for men's adventure novels at the big local used book sale this spring I stumbled upon Don Kowet's The 7th Game, a 1977 paperback thriller from Dell. How could I not be hooked by a book whose cover featured a baseball with a burning fuse?! Throw in explosives and a gambling / kidnapping plotline and I was all in. Plus, I figured, with the Phillies poised to roll their way at least to the World Series it would make for a great post to coincide with their return to the Fall Classic that starts this evening.

Oops.

In The 7th Game, Jim Pallafox is a left-handed rookie pitcher for the Oakland Golds who has set the baseball world on fire. With the Golds in the World Series against the legendary New York Patriots, the club is relying on the red-haired, flame-throwing southpaw to anchor their attack in games 1, 4 and – if it goes that far – game 7. But what his teammates and the media don't know is that Pallafox is hiding a secret that will rope him into a big-money World Series fix with more than money on the line. The life of a 3-year-old girl hangs in the balance.

I'll admit that I'm no longer a big baseball fan by any stretch. I spent many days and nights watching and listening to the Phillies of the 1970s and early 80s with my Dad, but when the team of my youth was broken up by trades, free agency and retirement my interest in the game started to wane. That and the fact that the season is interminable, games have gotten longer, players switch teams like they change wives and, oh right, I have a life all contributed to my drifting from the "national pastime".

Though I was intrigued by The 7th Game's late 70s setting, Kowet paints a glum picture of what's going on behind-the-scenes at the ballpark: black and white ballplayers appear to be self-segregated and frequently at each others' throats; casual drug use (black players) and booze (white players) are rampant; when players aren't cheating on their wives with floozies they're using their friendship with stars to lure unsuspecting jail bait to their sleazy townhouses; and, the only real reason to own a team is for it to lose money so you can write it off against your real business ventures.

I'll pause while Abner Doubleday rolls over in his grave.

But I don't mind a picture of professional baseball that's probably fairly accurate for its time (I'll have to dig up a juicy, salacious tell-all from the era). Unfortunately, Kowet's book is laugh-out-loud funny, not only due to its half-baked tv-movie-of-the-week story, but also because of an avalanche of implausible plot points, hysterical descriptions and flimsy attempts at disguising franchises and people:

• Pallafox, a rookie, not only won 30 games during the regular season (30!) but also came out of the bullpen in the fifth game of the National League Championship Series to record the final out;
• Somehow, Pallafox – a rookie sensation who, I'll remind you, won 30 games (!) – has kept it secret that he has a three-year-old daughter from his college days;
• Golds owner Walter Kelly not only has a cozy relationship with the owner of a sleazy Vegas casino but also places a $500,000.00 bet on his team... to lose;
• The Golds' opponents in the Fall Classic are the legendary New York Patriots, a so-thinly-disguised version of the NY Yankees that Kowet doesn't even bother to come up with names besides Ruth, Gehrig and DiMaggio when describing the plaques that line the Patriots' stadium;
• and, a Golds player and his hypno-therapist (both with casino ties!) are brutally killed prior to the seventh game while enough signs point to Pallafox and/or the team's owner fixing the outcome of two games that even numbskull columnists are floating rumors of a fix in their columns!

Were The 7th Game simply implausible and outrageous it might have been a fun read. But, Kowet's style is so dry and bland – more befitting a non-fiction retelling of a post-season than a pulse-pounding thriller – that when the dull prose is occasionally livened with lines like "a groin-tingling spectrum of pulchritude", "As usual, Willie had a coven of svelte sex-witches in tow", or my favorite, "Up the plank-covered steps she went, her high heels rapping, she reflected, like ghost knuckles on a table at an eerie séance" they stick out like sore thumbs.

Naturally, The 7th Game couldn't be written today (especially since Bud Selig would probably send an army of suits to prevent the use of the names "World Series" and "St. Louis Cardinals"). So, from the standpoint of a pre-internet, pre-ESPN, pre-sports-talk-radio, pre-24-hour-news-cycle cultural time capsule it has its moments. (As I read the supposedly tension-packed description of Golds owner Walter Kelly placing a bet on his team to lose with Harry The Sleazy Casino Guy, I pondered just how long it would take that news to break on say, Sports by Brooks or Deadspin. Over or under three-and-a-half hours?) Oh yeah, I also enjoyed the fact that one of the "heroes" of the book is a freelance writer.

But if I really want to relive that era, back when baseball was still tenuously hanging on to its place as the nation's favorite sport, I'll dig out my trove of Phillies yearbooks and Larry Bowa baseball cards or blow the dust off the Strat-O-Matic box that's sitting in my attic.

Summer of ACTION! -- The Chameleon is Mad as Hell!

Like You, He's Mad As Hell And Not Gonna Take It Anymore!

SERIES: The Chameleon
VOLUME/TITLE: #1/The Wrath of Garde
AUTHOR: Jerry LaPlante
PUBLISHER: Zebra
YEAR: 1979
OPENING LINES: The rock passage was closing in. Off to the left, it tapered into a thin vanishing crack. My fingertips reached no more than a foot from my prone body before they wedged into solid mountain.
CLOSING LINES: "Balls." I bent over, holding mine in agony.

When I was a kid I'd usually accompany my Mom when she would go grocery shopping or make a trip to the Moorestown Mall (at that time the bastard stepchild of area malls). Since it was the late 1970s/early 1980s and nobody seemed really aware of things like child abduction and milk carton "missing" pics she'd usually drop me off in the book and magazine section while she went off to double- and triple-coupon the store into the red.

When we went to K-Mart or Pathmark I frequently found myself thumbing through the tie-ins for horror flicks like THE OMEN or AUDREY ROSE – stuff I wasn't allowed to see but could piece together in my mind thanks to "16 pages of black and white photos!". For any of you kids reading out there, trust me, the movie you make in your mind is probably gonna be waaaayyy better than whatever the filmmakers dish out.

But my favorite place was the little independent bookstore that sat at the end of a sad little branch of the Moorestown Mall. It might have been called Moorestown Books, though I can't be sure. What I do remember was that they had row upon row upon row of the men's adventure novels of the day... from hair-raising spy sagas featuring Nick Carter, Mack Bolan and Remo Williams to "sexy" adult westerns featuring Longarm. (I also seem to remember that there was a Roy Rogers across from it.)

These books were like forbidden fruit. For some reason my folks would never let me buy them, even though I'd burned through pretty much every James Bond book two or three times. I suppose the frequently lurid covers didn't help (not to mention double entendre-packed names like "Longarm"!) and, unlike the 007 novels, didn't come with my brother-in-law's stamp of approval.

And so, I'd stand there flipping through the latest from Killmaster, Executioner or Destroyer, always on the alert for my Mom. She'd already installed household bans on KISS and PLANET OF THE APES and I didn't want to queer the deal on my bookstore dalliances.

These days, venturing out to a used book sale is like being that 12-year-old kid again – except this time I get to buy whatever the hell I want! Like CHAMELEON #1: The Wrath of Garde (Buy at Amazon), which I grabbed immediately upon spotting it on a table littered with more popular examples of mass market literature.

Were James Bond to head up Q division the resulting hero might be something like Vance Garde, a "mild-mannered, scientific engineering genius" who uses his brains and the resources of his firm to, well, not so much fight crime as exact revenge against those who he feels have wronged him and/or his family.

Garde leaps into action when his young stepsister Sharon dies of a drug overdose thanks to a low-rent dealer nicknamed "The Oregano Kid". Spurred on to "don't get mad... get even", Garde creates a division known as VIBES (Vindication against Injustice, Bureaucracy and Ensconced Stupidity) and enlists the help of the beautiful Ballou Annis to ferret out the upper rungs of the drug pushing ladder that killed Sharon. Along the way he uncovers clues to the identity of his father's murderer, experiences multiple bouts of blue balls with Ms. Annis, and dispenses with more than one villain in colorful fashion that would make James Bond blush.

Little more than "Bond Lite" with more graphic sex and rougher violence, The Wrath of Garde is a breezy read thanks to Zebra's typically easy on the eyes font size and the check-your-brain-at-the-door plotline. You'll figure out most of the twists and turns long before the "brilliant" Garde but you won't hate yourself for going along for the ride.

The cover copy and art might actually be more entertaining than the book itself. The artist's rendition of Garde (resplendent in white jacket and burgundy turtleneck!) appears to clearly be based on a young Tony Curtis, though my wife suggested that there might be a little MANNIX-era Mike "Touch" Connors in there as well. As for the sheet-covered Ms. Annis? Sure looks like Elizabeth Taylor to me.

More challenging than figuring out the reference art is deciphering the cornucopia of pop culture references used to sell the reader on the book, not to mention the most perplexing of all questions: Why the hell is this series called The Chameleon?!

Both The Incredible Hulk (?!) and James Bond get name checked on the back cover copy while there's even a reference to NETWORK's Howard Beale ("Like You, He's Mad As Hell And Not Gonna Take It Anymore!") that appears atop all three books in the series. The colorful "Chameleon" logo is prominently displayed all over the covers despite the fact that – as Marty McKee keenly points out at his blog Johnny LaRue's Crane Shot – "[he] isn't a master of disguise or a cat burglar or anything like that".

Alas, the adventures of Vance Garde and Annis Ballou never really caught on and the series ended after two more books – In Garde We Trust (Buy at Amazon) and Garde Save The World (Buy at Amazon).

Have Yourself a Trashy Little Xmas: Day 7/Time to Get Impossibly Funky

Over the course of Exploitation Retrospect's 14-year, 50-issue run I was always happy when people told me they enjoyed the zine and got a kick out of our reviews of trash cinema, music, the odd videogame and – eventually – food.

But I'll be the first to admit that when push came to shove there were probably two dozen zines I would have much rather read than my own: Slimetime (and later, Shock Cinema), Shock XPress, Videooze, Hi-Tech Terror/European Trash Cinema, Hitch, Violent Leisure, Fatal Visions and Wet Paint were just a few of the titles that I'd rip through in one sitting the moment they hit my PO Box.

Mike White's Cashiers du Cinemart is another publication that belongs on that list, though I was never quite sure if it was a film magazine disguised as a zine, or vice versa.

While we were getting blind drunk and "reviewing" SLAVE GIRLS FROM BEYOND INFINITY, White and his crew were exposing the, ahem, coincidences between Quentin Tarantino's RESERVOIR DOGS and Ringo Lam's CITY ON FIRE. While I was comparing TV biopics about Liberace, White was doing an exhaustive examination of Richard Stark's anti-hero Parker.

In his contributor bio White is described as being "midbrow" – too lowbrow for some, too highbrow for others. And that word – "midbrow" – is actually an excellent way to describe what you'll find in the recently-released Impossibly Funky: A Cashiers du Cinemart Collection. The nearly 400-page volume gathers feature articles and interviews from the magazine's 14-year, 15-issue existence including sections devoted to White's favorite target (Tarantino), favorite film (BLACK SHAMPOO), and even his love-hate relationship with George Lucas' STAR WARS saga.

But the articles I always looked forward to most in Cashiers were the examinations of unproduced screenplays and the alternate cinematic universes they suggest. Luckily, that rich topic also warrants its own section and its where I think the book is at its best. Rather than reporting on films that exist (the Parker flicks, Lone Wolf & Cub series, etc.) White and Co. dive into early drafts of such films as Joel Schumacher's 8mm, the Halle Berry stinker CATWOMAN, ALIENS III and the reboot of the PLANET OF THE APES, providing glimpses into what might have been.

One of my favorite Cashiers pieces – a look at all the botched attempts to relaunch The Man of Steel that appeared in issue #15 – gets reprinted here complete with all the casting tidbits (Tim Allen as Brainiac?! Russell Crowe as Superman?!) and the various attempts to kill and resurrect Superman, link it with THE MATRIX films, and even bring a director like Tim Burton or Oliver Stone on board.

One of the great things about this collection – you know, aside from a cover illustration that features Ralphus from BLOODSUCKING FREAKS – is that no matter if you're feeling highbrow, lowbrow or even midbrow, Impossibly Funky offers something that'll fit the bill.

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Have Yourself a Trashy Little Christmas: Day 1/filmBRAWL

When I woke up this morning I realized that somehow, when I wasn't looking, we'd arrived at December. The twinkling lights on my neighbors' homes, trees strapped to car roofs and that festival of lights we went to a few days ago should have tipped me off but what can I say... I'm getting old.

With the holidays right around the corner I figured it was a good idea to get around to plugging some of the groovy books, movies, music and more that have brightened my days of late. If you've got a trash fan on your shopping list I'm sure they'd love any of the items we'll be writing up.

Or, maybe you're the trash fan who always ends up with comically off-base stuff people think you'll like. If that's the case, just point them here... I promise not to steer anybody wrong!

Our first item is something you'd think had gone the way of the dinosaur thanks to the internet. No, not hardcore printed smut. It's the ever-popular capsule review film book!

I used to buy a ton of these books in the 80s and early 90s, but I eventually realized that most of the people writing these things did not share the same cinematic worldview as me. In other words, they were not recommending I spend my birthday watching James Toback's LOVE & MONEY with Klaus Kinski, Ray Sharkey and Armand Assante.

Frankly, I was probably better off listening to the recommendations of friends who also had blogs or hung out on the same obscure film groups.

Luckily, one pal – Brian Harris of the excellent Wildside Cinema – has collected his opinions into filmBRAWL a bullet-stopping 648-page volume that deserves a place right next to your computer, tv or wherever you add to your Netflix queue. (The book is also available as a digital download.)

Harris keeps the capsules short and to the point, with each entry featuring a spoiler-free write-up and simple five-star rating system that will quickly tell you if you should spend your time on PULSE 3: INVASION (*) or LUCKER THE NECROPHAGOUS (****). As the author states in the intro, you'll find everything in these pages from Jess Franco to Cannon Films, but he's also not afraid to endorse a creepy classic that you might have overlooked when you were spending your days watching GATES OF HELL (****) for the 17th time.

Best of all, in reading the reviews you get the feeling that Harris – who I only know from on-line exchanges – is the kind of film fan you'd love to hang out with, shooting the shit about your favorite trash flicks while downing a few beers and watching AMERICAN NINJA (***). And that, my friends, is about the best endorsement I can give any film book!

And if you ever need a break from the cavalcade of reviews, Harris even packs the back of the book with some interviews with genre vets (and newcomers) whose names you know (FRIGHT NIGHT helmer Tom Holland) and those you may not (Mike Mendez who directed THE CONVENT and CHAINSAW SALLY actress April Burril).

filmBRAWL receives the highest Exploitation Retrospect endorsement and the Trash Xmas Seal of Approval!

Friday Quick Hits

A number of news tidbits and notes to report on this morning, though some may be expanded into larger posts over the next week. Let's get started...

• Legendary 20th-Century Fox exec William Self died at the age of 89. As a kid growing up in the 70s, Self's work as a production executive had a profound effect on me. Not only did he help bring two of my all-time favorite shows to television – the 1960s Batman and the small-screen adaptation of M*A*S*H – but he also reportedly had a hand in everything from The Twilight Zone and Lost in Space to Land of the Giants and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.
• For all the buzz that AMC's The Walking Dead is getting from genre fans, FOX's Fringe is still my pick for the best, most riveting show on the air. And last night's episode – which cleverly placed Olivia at the center of a serial kidnapping case in the alternative universe – was directed by Chuck Russell. If you haven't watched it in a while, Russell's excellent 80s update of THE BLOB is currently streaming in widescreen via Netflix. Check out our review at the ER website.
• Also streaming is THE HUMAN CENTIPEDE: THE FIRST SEQUENCE. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't go out of my way to rent this one, but it'll be tough to resist its icky appeal in my Instant View queue. If you're not sure if CENTIPEDE is right for you, date night or the upcoming Thanksgiving family gathering, check out Casey Criswell's review at the ER website.
• Like lurid horror comics and magazines? Did your parents throw out all your old issues of Creepy, Eerie and Tales of Voodoo? Or, were they like my parents who simply forbade me to read the mags, along with seemingly arbitrary household bans on KISS and Planet of the Apes? I've recently gotten my hands on two excellent, beautifully (and luridly) illustrated books about the sinister comics and mags that clogged newsstands for years. THE HORROR, THE HORROR looks at the history of horror comics while THE WEIRD WORLD OF EERIE PUBLICATIONS delves into the history of the magazines and comics. Both are huge and eye-popping and will receive more detailed write-ups as I make my way through them. I'm also hoping a copy of FOUR-COLOR FEAR – which dispenses with the editorial and reprints horrific comic tales – shows up under my birthday tree.
• Another TV fave returned this week and while I'm not sure how much I dig the expansion of the shows' core team, Human Target never fails to entertain. Each week it's like some forgotten, one-hour Cannon flick has shown up on my tv screen. If you haven't caught up with this breezy and well-done actioner be sure to check out the first season DVD set.
  

The James Bond Omnibus: Volume 001

As a kid growing up in the 1970s my parents felt it necessary to put their collective feet down and stamp out (or at least attempt to stamp out) my love for all things KISS and PLANET OF THE APES. I was never really sure why, they just put the kibosh on both fascinations, driving my interests underground, a skill that would come in handy over the years to come.

But for some reason they never put the brakes on my love of James Bond. Frankly, I would think that the exploits of a horny, boozing super-spy with a literal license to kill his enemies might have been more damaging than gimmicky glam posing as metal-lite and a sci-fi series about talking apes but that's just me.

Though I initially discovered Bond through frequent ABC Movie of the Week airings of the flicks, I credit my brother-in-law for giving me a proper education in the character's history. Visits to see my sister and him would always end up with me hanging out in their living room, checking out his LPs (including the soundtrack to Jimmy Cliff's THE HARDER THEY COME) and perusing his collection of vintage Bond paperbacks.

Eventually he let me borrow the books, one at a time, and in the order they were written. Over the years I've probably read each of the novels three, maybe four times, with favorites like On Her Majesty's Secret Service and From Russia With Love closer to double figures.

Add in multiple viewings of all the Bond flicks, even the Moore and Brosnan outings I frequently found wretched, and you can imagine that it'd be tough to surprise me when it comes to 007.

Which is what made the arrival of The James Bond Omnibus: Volume 001 (Titan Books) such a treat. Based on the original Ian Fleming novels (and, in a few cases, short stories), the book collects Daily Express newspaper strips that ran from 1958-1962. Though I was vaguely familiar with the daily Bond comic, I'd never had the chance to read them until now.

Adapted in the same order as the novels were published, this 300+ page volume features Casino Royale, Live and Let Die, Moonraker, Diamonds are Forever, From Russia With Love, Dr. No, Goldfinger and Thunderball, as well as three short stories - "Risico", "From a View to a Kill" and "For Your Eyes Only" - that in some way inspired Bond's on-screen exploits.

Though it has been years since I picked up a Bond novel, becoming familiar with the source material again was like hanging out with an old friend. Because the first 007 film wouldn't come out until 1962, this volume is completely uncolored by the choices made by the producers or the casting of Sean Connery as Bond. In fact, the art by John McLusky portrays the suave super spy as older and more rugged than I pictured him. More than once I noted that the comic depiction looked like a cross between Ronald Reagan and Superman, complete with a curled lock of hair on his forehead. (Interestingly, Fleming's image of Bond used to aid the strip artists looks more like Peter Cushing!)

The adaptations, like Fleming's novels and the film series, are largely hit or miss. From Russia with Love, Goldfinger and Dr. No crackle with excitement and intrigue, even in the truncated daily strip format. Casino Royale sags under the weight of the baccarat sequences but regains its edge when Bond is kidnapped and tortured by the devious Le Chiffre.

On the other hand, it's easy to see why it took Hollywood so long to adapt dogs like Diamonds Are Forever and Moonraker as well as why they jettisoned so much of the original story for the big screen. Thunderball, the book's closing tale, feels completely gutted and I kept going back to make sure I hadn't missed something. Then again, I always felt that the film adaptation of that story was where the series made the tragic mistake of settling for gadgets and gimmickry, paving the way for some unfortunate outings over the next four decades.

Even if you're a casual Bond fan the book is a must have, especially at an affordable $16.95 retail price. The pre-cinema 007 on display will connect you with the character's roots and remind you that at one time his legacy wasn't all ice hotels and defusing bombs dressed as a circus clown.

31 DAYS OF FRIGHT: Book of Blood

It's 1965 and the Godfather of Gore, Herschell Gordon Lewis has had an underground hit with the now classic BLOOD FEAST. Naturally, when certain envelope-pushing genres of movie become financially viable, there are always those who wish to follow in the footsteps of such success. And so to Austin Williams' CRIMSON ORGY, a loving salute to the early heroes of the exploitation movie and splatter genre, and the enduring urban myth: "is it or isn't it" a snuff movie.

Sheldon Meyer and Gene Hoffman are two low-budget filmmakers (director and producer respectively), who decide to leave behind their pretty lucrative nudie cutie genre, for the nascent genre of gore exploitation. Meyer is the pretentious type who wants to create art with his gore fest; while Hoffman is the more practical of the two and thinks more about the bottom line. Setting up base in a podunk town in humid Florida, the team pulls together a barebones outfit consisting of alcoholic, yet handsome would-be actor Vance Cogburn and the reluctant, yet beautiful novice actress Barbara Cheston (subtle names, huh?). Along with a small production crew they set up their low-budget shop in a crappy motel and attempt to make a work of art. Of course, things do not go according to plan; our protagonists must endure in-house arguments, disgruntled and potentially psychotic crewmembers, a local cop named Sonny Platt who decides he can make some money from these Hollywood types (he doesn't realize they are actually from Florida), and of course, a fierce tropical storm – all of which portents the violence to come. I have to say, I was swept along as each chapter counts down the seven day shoot, escalating to a moment of tragedy and a splatter of viscera.

Williams' narrative is beautifully paced. And while there are many darkly comic moments, Williams tempers these with genuine pathos and love for his characters. The author's writing reminds me a little of Christopher Moore (LUST LIZARD OF MELANCHOLY COVE), with his combination of bizarre situations coupled with concrete and nuanced characters. With Williams, all the characters get their moment to shine and (ironically) are imbued with dimension and sympathy.

The novel itself eschews gallons of gore (most of it is confined to onset make-up effects and a few brief moments of the macabre when the filmmakers consider using a real detached human arm as a prop) in favor of a more restrained narrative – especially considering the subject matter. And while I was led to believe that this would be a splatter fest all the way through, this is by no means a fault with the novel. Lovers of the genre will appreciate Williams' story and its affectionate tribute to Lewis and his fellow, golden age exploitation filmmakers.

– Review by Garvan Giltinan

New 007 Novel Arrives in Style

The new James Bond novel – Devil May Care – arrived in style today as the first copies were treated to an escort by Royal Navy helicopters and delivery by a cat-suited supermodel. To be honest I can't even remember the last Bond book I read, but I know it was one of the John Gardener efforts. Those books started off well enough but eventually degraded into predictable efforts that made some of the Roger Moore scripts seem like high art.

The new book is written by author Simon Faulks who says that this will be his one and only 007 effort.

BLASTFIGHTER... Where Have You Been All My Life?

DT's Adventures in Undiscovered Trash continue with BLASTFIGHTER, an unbelievably entertaining Italiano actioner that I'm shocked I'd never seen. Until today.

Directed by Lamberto Bava with lets-blow-shit-up gusto that would make James Glickenhaus and Sam Firstenberg proud, BLASTFIGHTER had always confounded me both with its sci-fi-sounding title and box cover art that made it look like a post-apoc flick. Not surprisingly, I learned while reading TOUGH TO KILL – David Zuzelo and Paul Cooke's infectiously enthusiastic look at 80s Italian action cinema whose cover is graced by BLASTFIGHTER box art – that the flick was pre-sold with that title while a last-minute rewrite spun its story in an entirely non-sci-fi direction. (By the way, I'll be writing more about Zuzelo & Cooke's TTK in the near future.)

Tiger Sharp (Michael Sopkiw of AFTER THE FALL OF NEW YORK and Bava's DEVIL FISH) is released from prison after serving eight years for killing a worthless scumbag who shot Tiger's partner and murdered his wife. Though inexplicably protected by a smooth lawyer who planned to alibi him, the scumbag hood finds himself on the wrong end of Tiger's revolver and the cop goes away for his crime.

Shit like that's gotta make a man want revenge, but Tiger suppresses his rage at the lawyer-turned-politician who helped put him away and passes up a shot to kill him real good with a gun provided by his cop buddy. And not just any gun... it's a gun worthy of the name "Blastfigher". Big, bad and capable of blowing you to kingdom-come, even Tiger realizes the awesome potential of The Blastfighter and hides it under the floorboards of his backwoods Georgia cabin. Presumably to be used later.

Despite being a "sonuvabitch who just wants to be left alone" Tiger must deal with a posse of redneck idiots (led by a guy in Ambervision shades) that are depleting the local animal population in the name of Chinese herbal remedies. After several ever-escalating confrontations with the gang, Tiger learns that his old pal Tom (George Eastman aka Luigi Montefiori) is now BMAH (Big Man Around the Holler) and views the animal slaughter as a way to keep his brother (Mr. Ambervision) and his goons employed and relatively out of trouble.

Neither this, the slaughtered animal in his car, nor the half-assed attempts on his life sit well with Tiger and all hell eventually breaks loose, turning BLASTFIGHTER into an action-packed backwoods chase flick. Initially it's Tiger that is hunted, but once the tables turn and The Blastfighter is put into action, the blasters become the blasted. Along for the blood-splattered ride are Valentine Forte as the mysterious woman from Tiger's past and various sacrificial lambs like future director of THE CHURCH and frequent Spaghetti splatter victim Michele Soavi.

While Bava is far better known for horror efforts like DEMONS, the giallo A BLADE IN THE DARK, and even the monster shark flick DEVIL FISH (aka MONSTER SHARK) I was pleasantly surprised at his ability to keep the pace lively throughout BLASTFIGHTER's tight running time. The small cast turns in credible performances, though Forte's character is frequently handcuffed by the cheesiest of dialogue. Sopkiw and Eastman are the real standouts, though, with the former jumping, diving and blasting his way into my heart while Eastman delivers what may be my favorite of his numerous performances, this time as the old-pal-in-the-wrong who may want to rethink that whole "blood is thicker than water" thing.

Considering my love for Bava's DEMONS, a serious hard-on for Italian action, and a seemingly endless supply of weekend nights during the 90s spent downing beers and junk cinema with equally reckless abandon, the gaping hole in my trashification represented by BLASTFIGHTER is even more of a head-scratcher.