Don’t Answer The Phone! (1980)

Single serving film director Robert Hammer left the military and began making his living as a backstage and tour photographer for musicians. Like countless other L.A. cliches, he found himself bitten by the film bug, buying the rights to a novel by an author named Michael Curtis for a mere $2500.

The book was likely unpublished, as I can’t find any printing records or surviving examples. Entitled Nightline, the story was a loose riff on the crimes of the Hillside Strangler, the trials of which were still ongoing at the time of the film’s production.

As the source material would have been too expensive to shoot as is, Hammer and producer Michael D. Curtis gave it a rewrite under the working title The Hollywood Strangler. Short on cash and not wanting to lose their timely hook, the film was shot on the fly in and around Hollywood. Start to finish, the entire production wrapped in just 18 days.

Distributor Crown International Pictures found the title to be too generic and mandated a switch, to both capitalize on the recent success of When A Stranger Calls and the flotilla of genre fare with titles advising against all manner of ordinary actions.

Keeping in mind that the likes of Don’t Open The Door and Don’t Go Near The Park were considered aspirational in this case, prepare yourselves for 1980’s Don’t Answer The Phone!:

After a brief shot of the shirtless killer (Nicholas Worth) giggling maniacally in front of a massive crucifix, the bulk of the credits roll is devoted to some slasher POV style stalking shamelessly ripped off from Halloween. This sequence, with an unsuspecting nurse having a chat with her whatever male PA had nothing to do mother is also one of the few instances anyone in the film is near a phone.

Not answering it doesn’t save her from being brutally strangled with a stocking. My money is on this opener being a concession to the retitle, given neither the visual style nor the phone has much to do with anything else that happens.

Cut to the following day, where the camo jacketed killer is cruising the streets for new victims, his car radio tuned to the ever so popular station that provides the finest of exposition. There have already been 5 rape/murders in the local area, and as the news fades out, we cut to Dr. Lindsey Gale (Flo Gerrish), who apparently likes to live dangerously in regard to workplace harassment of the news anchor before starting her pop psychology show.

The killer, having tried and failed to entice a new victim with the offer of a modeling job, decides to call in and taunt Dr. Gale. Adopting a manic grin and his best Señor Wences accent, “Ramon” calls in complaining of headaches and blackouts, and the nurse that made him feel EVER so much better.

This is apparently a regular ritual, as Dr. Gale recognizes the voice immediately, but not the signs of severe head trauma or psychological disturbance. The latest victim of the mystery killer was a nurse, but apparently Dr. Gale was a bit too busy playing footsie with the anchorman to perhaps also note that as a cause for concern.

Meanwhile Lieutenant Chris McCabe (James Westmoreland) is across town investigating the crime scene, and proving people from all walks of life can be throughly terrible at their jobs. He bickers with his partner regarding the standard number of breasts a woman has, and decides that the heavy coin inside a nylon stocking strangulation method is a hallmark of the Viet Cong (?!). The killer must be a military veteran, and given the scrap of a film box found at the scene, must own a camera.

Not to be outdone in the incompetence Olympics, Dr. Gale is having a therapy session where she blames a child molestation victim’s trauma on her lack of assertiveness.

The cops are having a laugh at the station, putting their feet up secure in their assumption that their necrophiliac serial killer couldn’t POSSIBLY strike again so soon.

Except the synthesizer noodling has already kicked in on the soundtrack and the killer has already broken into the house of Dr. Gale’s patient. Craving some wax play with a side of homicide, he begins cooing gently that “daddy would never hurt his little baby”. Randomly switching gears, he dedicates his upcoming mortal sin to the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost. Compounding the tragedy, he also destroys the actress’ lovely vintage slip in the process.

Six victims and a third of the film’s runtime later, the police finally start to attempt to find their “paranoid obsessive compulsive psychotic schizophrenic”. Done with all of the “mumbo jumbo psycho crap” McCabe takes over the meeting and makes it a decidedly macho task force. There’s a long montage of exasperated extras looking at files, best summed up by the expression in the still above.


Just in case this movie’s stance on women, feelings, and women who dare display feelings wasn’t abundantly clear, McCabe goes to question Dr. Gale about her murdered patient. Within 30 seconds he smugly mocks her for her adherence to patient privacy laws and general reluctance to cosign either vigilante justice or capital punishment. Without the firm guiding hand of the law, some silly lady psychologist will let the killer run free, so its best she cooperate and accept his heroic man protection.

Anyone who has ever watched a police procedural knows that this plot thread will lead to an eventual romance, no matter how nonsensical. Off screen, Flo Gerrish and James Westmoreland loathed each other, which may be why this still is Gerrish’s only genuine moment of emotion in the entire film. When tasked with acting like she thought her co star was an arrogant sexist prick, she didn’t have to do any acting at all.

Meanwhile, the killer goes for another synth warble accented cruise down Hollywood Boulevard, using his human skin of Kirk Smith, mild mannered fashion photographer. He ends luring a young hitchhiker named Sue Ellen (Playboy centerfold Pamela Jean Bryant) into his studio for a photo session.

Soon she’s just as naked and dead as pretty much every other woman in this movie. As he stares at her corpse in the mirror of his odd corner altar of candles and crucifixes, he pants “I love it….ohhhh….I love it” in the exact manner you would expect from a deranged necrophiliac that just killed a Playboy centerfold.

Having parceled out a morsel of plot, we get some awkward attempts at workplace comedy. A lounge lizard looking psychic correctly describes the most recent murder, and mumbo jumbo hating McCabe has him unjustly arrested. Dr. Gale makes a patient scream “THE DRUGS ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOU!” until she cries, and calls it a breakthrough. As for our killer, he receives praise for the porn photographs he provides to his boss, until a candle D.P. from one of the death scenes pops up in the pile, which is only upon reflection dismissed as too kinky.

Kirk is pleased with his paycheck and a job well done, and lures a hooker with the promise of both cash and drugs. He asks that she call in to Dr. Gale’s radio show, and ask for advice on getting out of prostitution. Unfortunately, the call girl almost reveals that Mr. Tough Guy can’t get it up. He strangles her, her final cries live on air. This tidily proves the radio staff is just as inept at their job as every other character in this film.


When Dr. Gale brings the tape of the call to the police (in addition to taped calls from “Ramon”) they interrogate her as to WHY she is so convinced the woman is dead. Despite having an audio recording of the prostitute’s last moments in their hands. Perhaps tape recorders are also useless “psycho mumbo jumbo”.

In any case, we’ve got a rising body count, more DNA than a genome mapping project, audio tapes of the killer’s voice and two thirds of the runtime gone. Yet….instead of any remotely logical or plot relevant action, the film idles away some more time with a vice bust played for comedy and casual racism. The screenwriters must’ve followed the old adage of “write what you know”, which explains the general air of incompetence.

Nicholas Worth had a long career as a character actor, and I have to appreciate his going through all of the SERIOUS ACTOR 101 motions in the course of this film, one of his few leading roles. The constant cartoonish mugging, the over the top accents, the pseudo Shakespearean lilt of the “tis a dream” chat with the doomed Sue Ellen. All of it goes way past chewing scenery and into manic chomping on the theater floor. However, in a film where the procedural elements and performances are pretty listless, exaggerated overacting is actually a refreshing change.

This insane, mostly improvised speech is the apex of an already loud performance. The Deuce does downmarket DeNiro for a few short minutes, as Worth pounds a beer, beats his beefy chest and snarls into a mirror “What do you think of me now Dad? Do I MEASURE UP?”. This is followed by a grunting ramble full of toxic macho bullshit and standard persecution complex dollops of paranoid racism. This “tough motherfucking honky” wishes his dad could see what he was capable of, because “I’m the best there is”.

…..and right on schedule, the romance hits to pad the runtime. Love (or at least lust) blooms when Dr. Gale and McCabe prevent one of her patients from committing suicide. It’s poorly lit. It’s overly long. Moving on.


Meanwhile, Kirk Smith the serial killer wastes no time in getting in some powerlifting accompanied by dying animal yowls, and dusting off his best imitation of a sane man to gain entry to a home and murder another pair of models. The only real question is how anyone could buy this refrigerator box in an ill fitting sport coat and your granddad’s chinos as a real, totally not lying, fashion photographer.

Kirk can’t even handle one girl, hence his penchant for killing them. Having to resort to double murder has made him a rather sloppy maniac. The cops trace the camera and photos left at the scene to the pornographer he’s been working for. To avoid an obscenity rap, the smut peddler hands over Kirk’s home address. The cops rush to the scene…..and break in to the wrong house, terrifying an innocent toymaker who can barely lift his briefcase, much less strangle anyone. At this rate, McCabe and partner are making the Mutt and Jeff duo from Nail Gun Massacre look like paragons of law enforcement.

The cops do locate the correct address eventually, but Kirk has already slipped out to do his standard home invasion and homicide routine over at Dr. Gale’s place. Apparently, she was always the “big prize” he had his eye on. Connecting that Kirk is the mysterious “Ramon” surprisingly quickly, Dr. Gale tries to buy herself time by engaging the killer, asking if he ever had something he cared about. Like maybe a puppy?

Given that the movie is nearly over, this would be the place for the film to give us the slightest insight into what exactly drives Kirk to kill. His obvious daddy issues? PTSD from his military service? Psychosis? The religious mania that has been alluded to (but never explained) the entire film?

As far as Kirk murdering his childhood pet, the poor creature shat on the rug. Animal abuse often being an early hallmark of serial killers, it makes sense for the character. But what’s the deal with the violent rage toward people, women in particular?

He wet the bed until he was 18, had trouble with his ass and his “crazy-otic” head, and whoever his guardians were they dared send him to the doctor for all of that. That’s the best explanation we get. That’s all, folks.

The American health care system is certainly frustrating, but I’m willing to bet good solid money that this is the only slasher in history that has ever attributed its plot driving killing spree to the lack of an adequate proctologist.

Some of the photos in Kirk’s studio tipped off the cops that he was coming for Lindsey Gale. Having managed to at least get her address right, it’s FINALLY time for the Lawful Good vs Chaotic Evil versions of festering macho bullshit to face off.

At first, it looks like Killer Kirk has the edge (and a severe size advantage) over Macho McCabe…..
Until a pistol shot and a hit over the head with a chair leave a battered, bloody Killer Kirk lying handcuffed on the dirty linoleum…..
….and leaving Macho McCabe free to rescue Dr. Gale. Yet, some VERY familiar synths kick in……
….and Killer Kirk has gone full on slasher cliche. Two bullets worth of blood loss and he’s still got the brute strength to snap the handcuffs and pop up for another tussle…..
….before another SEVEN bullets leaves Killer Kirk’s corpse floating in the pool like the piece of shit he is.

Having saved Hollywood from both a serial killer and a serious heap of that God damned touchy feely psycho mumbo jumbo once and for all, James Westmoreland got to ad lib McCabe’s final line victory lap.

Adios, creep!

…. at least until this film popped up again as a Section 3 offender in the UK’s “Video Nasties” moral panic, anyway.

Nail Gun Massacre (1985)

In the last of what I’d consider the extended intro pieces for this blog, lets take a second to examine the era of shoulder pads, Aqua Net and cocaine, 1985 to be precise. The grindhouses and the drive ins are on life support, the home video revolution providing one of the last nails in their collective coffin. Rather than travel to the worst part of town and risk your dignity and/or your wallet to catch a screening, you could enjoy self programmed double and triple features in the privacy and comfort of your own home. No sticky seats, prying eyes or having to carefully watch the schedule for a replay of your favorite reels of sex, splatter and sensationalism.

The one big carryover from the grindhouse when home video became the dominant venue for schlock, was the legion of idiosyncratic films, fueled mostly by sheer hubris. This is perhaps the class of cross era trash my black heart has the biggest soft spot for. Be it once faded mainstream stars or a dime store auteur, they never let lack of budget, talent, good taste or logical sense stand in their way. A dream is a wish your heart makes, and this class of cinematic defilers made their putrid zombie babies with love. None of it is competent, but you can tell the makers of this type of shit film (most of whom made only 1 or 2 movies) thought they were genuinely making something, cool, new or remotely important. They were wrong. Horribly wrong. That smooth sugar of effort still makes this stuff go down way easier than purposefully bad cynical cash ins like “Sharknado”

Which brings us to today’s film, a micro budget, Texas made slasher from one and done director Terry Lofton:

AKA The Texas Not A Chainsaw Construction Toolbox Murders


The hellishly loud bong of distorted Casio synth presets plays over the cold open. The fade in is a gang of construction workers sexually assaulting a young woman. The scene is pretty brief and isn’t played for titillation as much as some other films of this era….but if you are looking for anything genteel or tasteful in a movie called “Nail Gun Massacre”, you are reading the wrong blog entirely. There is a hasty jump cut to yet another greasy redneck screaming about clean shirts while his wife hangs the laundry. A leaf crunching killer in woodland camo is shown stalking toward the family’s home. Actually, “stalking” is being far too charitable, given the motorcycle helmet, huge yellow air tank, and the fact that the killer is stomping through the woods carrying an industrial nail gun.

I didn’t even notice the baby.



Country fried wifebeater meets his demise via nail in the forehead, causing the killer to quip in a distorted voice about the worst headaches being right between the eyes, MUAHAHAHAHA. This movie has a high body count for the budget, and every single kill gets a wisecrack that would make Henny Youngman roll in his grave. The woman and child run away through the woods in what is Foley designed to sound like cornflakes over Jello, roll opening credits. The music accompanying this is just some manic laugher recorded near a desk fan, and we are on our way to the titular massacre. Kind of.

Rule 34, pre internet style



First we get a pointless distributor mandated T&A break, where a guy named Mike and his girlfriend are rolling around with a stuffed toy Snoopy, talking pillow talk that sounds like a 14 year old’s fantasy of what sexytimes sexy sex talk is like. The girlfriend shakes her breasts and pouts about needing an “organ donation” because her expensive cleavage is lonely.

Mike has to cut this ever so sensual interlude short, as he has a pressing appointment to go “cut wood” with his buddy on the edge of town. This is NOT a paraphrase. That’s the dialog in the final cut. He hops in his pickup and leaves to go have an annoying expository chat with his BFF Brad about bodies being found out there, and that they don’t fear the killer because they are in TEXAS and they have this here CHAINSAW. Right on cue, the killer arrives to off Brad as he’s taking a leak, because now he’s “really pissed off”. Mike falls into his chainsaw after being nailed to death, and cuts his own hand off. Not that it matters. Because he was already dead. Our ever so stealthy killer then drives off in a stylish gold hearse.
Because who’s going to notice a neon yellow air tank carrying, helmet wearing killer driving a car straight out of a Dolemite Halloween special?

Rat soup eating motherfucker….sorry, wrong movie



Not the local yokels, who discover the truck days later without bothering to look for bodies, call for back up, or remove the truck from the road. Instead we cut to the director’s actual grandmother, playing the challenging role of “clerk of the store she owns”. Her game, but utterly stilted, delivery of the single most ridiculous line in the film is a wonder to behold:

Clerk (to customers): Do you remember when you could sit outside and not worry about the mosquitos….and the killers?

She ends her brief cameo by looking straight into the camera, handing over the groceries, and revealing a copy of the script in plain view. God bless Meemaw Lofton.

Her face says what we’re all thinking



I would like to think that this scene was also the moment when the crew realized they were in way over their heads. When you can’t make someone doing their real life job look or sound remotely natural on camera, the shooting script is the length of a memo and your own grandmother looks nervous at what the hell it is you are up to, you might have miscalculated a tad. The rest of the film abandons what little logic it had managed to establish. It’s non stop blood, boobs, bad puns (and even worse sense) from here on out. It’s also an absolute blast.

Though we never see the nails fly through the air, a host of interchangeable victims meet their fates through inexplicably lethal wounds to the extremities, because the killer (and I quote) “doesn’t want money” (s)he wants “REVENGE, asshole!”

Could this possibly have something to do with the gang rape at the start of the film? It’s difficult to tell for sure, as the Goofus & Gallant team of county sheriff and Canadian tux wearing town doctor leave pretty much every stone unturned. No matter if it’s a gold hearse on the side of the road or a corpse in the street, they can find some way to ignore it. Granted, some of the actors playing corpses are still visibly breathing, but the point stands.

The new residents of the property where everyone keeps turning up dead are missing a nail gun? Interesting. Construction worker hobbies on a local job site include nail gun fights and cheerfully talking about the joys of townie rape? What’s a sheriff to do? Head straight to Burger King.

To kill some time, and allow Sheriff Stress Eater to complete the longest journey from point A to logical conclusion B in human history, we get a borderline slapstick scene involving a dumbass managing to piss off both his current and ex girlfriends at a Dairy Queen. Inexplicably the new girlfriend then has sex with this loser in his car. The radio repeatedly blasts a disco record about foosball, which succeeded in distracting me from trying to figure out what the fuck “Hornier than a rooster in a Chinese henhouse” is supposed to mean.

Excuse me, do you have a minute to talk about our Lord and Savior?




As Sheriff is still busy (clearly with a line at the Dairy Queen), we kill some more time by cutting to a portly man who has mastered the obvious, as he mentions the killings are likely connected to the construction site. As his daughter changes into a swimsuit, he goes to check on some steaks he has grilling by the pool on this sunny afternoon. As this character is also not given a name, we all know what happens next. Our murderous mystery date pops out from underwater, pumping the unnamed bearded man full of nails until he falls face first into his own barbecue grill. I was thrilled that old helmet head had finally unlocked the “stealth” achievement. However, what would have been the coolest death in the movie is promptly ruined by being able to see the “dead” actor grabbing the fence to avoid hitting his head:

Just as Doctor Dumbass calls in a request for criminal profiler, Sheriff Sugar Doughnuts finally realizes what the rest of us figured out ages ago….the rape victim might have reason to want to see some creatively dead construction workers. Good job, Davey Diabeetus! It will still take him a solid week to do a god damn thing about this marvelous revelation, so cut to the killer dispatching 2 more unnamed women with this immortal line:

Killer (to victims): Time to get your NAILS done!

This poor girl is still wearing the same clothes from the opener



The doctor FINALLY goes to talk to our victim, who vehemently insists she knows nothing. Our slow as molasses sawbones also wants to talk to her brother, Bubba. He’s apparently out for a drive in his old hearse. The chase (and the light bulb) is on, and both the doctor and the girl rush off to the building site on Old Town road. It’s a mid speed chase, at best.

The hearse does a “Dukes Of Hazzard” death splat over a hill, and our killer runs straight up onto a construction catwalk some 30 feet up:

Catwalks. They end. So our mystery murderer conveniently falls to their death:

This gives Deputy Double Cheeseburger time to arrive for the final unmasking, which reveals…….



……. a character who is clearly a completely different height and build than the person who wore the camo suit for the rest of the movie. A character who would have absolutely no reason at all to mention the rapes in the first person. A character who was in the movie for all of maybe 90 seconds before this moment.

I guess everything (including nonsensical twist endings and masterpieces of unintentional comedy) really IS bigger in Texas.

Scream Bloody Murder (1973)

Let’s take a journey deep into the heart of the public domain, to talk about “Scream Bloody Murder” a negative bank balance budget 70’s slasher that can be found everywhere from the Internet Archive to $5 DVD sets at big box retailers. The leading man is a one film wonder, and every print I can get my hands on is damaged and so yellowed it looks jaundiced. Even so, “Scream Bloody Murder” in slightly better shape than “Death Drug” by virtue of having actually made it onto the lowest rungs of DVD.

However, it is also a fantastic example of a basic class of filmic dumpster fire. These sorts of films wander out of obscurity by virtue of sheer manic gusto. Plot elements and set pieces are piled on top of each other in pedal to the metal crescendos of sex, violence, and sheer weirdness. Plotting or tension building is irrelevant, plot threads, characters, or entire chunks of the film are blithely made non entities in service of the next passing thought. Given budgetary constraints and often concise run times, if you go several steps too far as standard procedure, one of the 8769476834678937 ideas you’ve thrown against the wall will stick before the end credits roll. It’s filmmaking as Mad Libs. The result might be comic. Its also likely nonsensical.The zippy pacing and low investment of effort threshold will also probably go a long way toward making the end result entertaining overall. Now let’s get to “Scream Bloody Murder”:


The pre credit open is a farmer working next to a tractor, while his bowl cut sporting moppet plays nearby. As soon as Daddy’s back is turned, the kid hops into the driver’s seat, and mangles dear old Dad to death under the wheels. Why? Because someone remembered “The Bad Seed” was a huge hit in 1956.

In a lightning fast bit of instant karma, the kid then loses control of the tractor, falls down, and MANAGES TO RIP OFF HIS OWN HAND under those same wheels. We are at the 3 minute mark, and we’ve already had two bloody “industrial accidents” and as much straightforward exposition as we are going to get regarding anything that happens in this entire movie.

Post credits we get a quick scene of the dime store bad seed getting hauled off to a mental ward, then a flash forward to the adult version reading (via voiceover) a letter from his mother. We learn our protagonist’s name is Matthew (Fred Holbert in his only film role), asylums look like mid tier day spas with kicky little striped robes, Matthew’s mom has been too busy to visit because of her new boyfriend, and that Matty boy now has a hook for a hand, likely because it was the cheapest way to explain away the missing one. It still gets a stinger music cue straight out of “Dark Shadows”.

Deep pile terrycloth, so soft. Mental ward spent so much on luxuries necessities like functioning extremities got hard to come by.



We get the director’s credit (Marc B. Ray, who only helmed that particular chair for 3 films) and a pouring blood graphic to cut to Matt’s homecoming after being released. Too bad it’s the same day as Mom’s wedding to that pesky boyfriend, and no one even knew the he was arriving back. Once the newly minted husband & wife do sort out who the one handed man is in their driveway, they attempt to seem remotely interested. Matt tosses a snitty shit fit worthy of any teenage edgelord that ever moped across a shopping mall to the Orange Julius.

I spy, with my little eye…..mommy issues 10 feet high



When Matt takes a break from sulking and farmwork to peep on his mom & stepfather kissing in the garden, he promptly murders them. The unmitigated gall of getting married and seeming happy about it was bad enough, but when stepdaddy kisses Mommy/Madonna (and makes her a filthy whore) he dispatches them both….with an axe and a rock. Even though he has a sharp object attached to his arm.

Matthew then hits the road and runs…… from the mother of all Oedipus complexes. He hallucinates his mommy being mauled by filthy men in everyone he meets, and none of the women he “saves” appreciate his sacrifice, so they get bloodily dispatched too. The newlyweds who pick him up hitchhiking? He bludgeons the man with a rock and then drowns the woman in a stream. The imagined taunts of his dead mother and step father ring loudly enough in his ears that they drown out the smooth jazz on the soundtrack, as he once again makes haste to avoid the rising body count.

Her painting looks….like she has a second job.



Meeting painter/hooker with a heart of gold Vera(Leigh Matthews, a two film wonder), things brighten a touch for our little Matt. He compliments her art, renames her Daisy, brings her flowers, and kills a john for treating her poorly. If that isn’t love, he doesn’t know what is. Also, the dead john? Killed with Vera’s stolen palette knife. What do the death sequences of this film and the song “Triumph” by the Wu Tang Clan have in common?

No hooks to be found in either of them.

Desperate to impress and to make good on his claims of wealth and success to fulfill his inane white knight fantasy of “saving” Vera/Daisy from sex work, he murders the entire household of the closest fancy house he can find. For those keeping score at home:
Time elapsed: 50 minutes
Body Count: 9
Implements used: 7
Kills via Hook Hand: 0

Matthew kidnaps his lady love and steals from locals to provide her with all the creature comforts you could possibly need while tied to the stolen bed of a psychopath. I would also be remiss if I didn’t pull out this notable quotable, both for the actual content, and the perfectly petulant delivery:

Matt (to Vera/Daisy): See what I do for you? I get groceries, and clothes, and art stuff, and kill people, and do you appreciate it? No.

“Scream Bloody Murder” has always been a favorite of mine, and the sequence post kidnapping has always been a big part of the reason why. In a film whose very existence indicates a gaggle of questionable choices, Vera/Daisy never falls into the Bermuda triangle of slasher victim bad decisions. She defies Matthew’s insane directions as best as she is able, be that spitting food back into his face or insisting on being called her real name. The second Matt leaves the house, she hobbles to the phone, even if her bondage means she has to dial a rotary phone with her tongue (a rather impressive skill). She hops downstairs and makes noise when she hears the doorbell. She’s always plotting escape, and eventually she finds Matt’s Achilles heel. Like every other character based on Norman Bates’ basic template, he’s terrified of women, terrified of sexuality, and female sexual agency makes him just as limp as his knives and threats are sharp. In the context of needing a bath, Vera/Daisy forces him to attempt to play pool with a rope, and upends the power dynamic just long enough for another chance to flee.

I would like to point out that the general Vaseline effect is not due to the screenshot. That’s what passes for SFX in this film



Unfortunately, just as Vera/Daisy’s plan starts to work out, the unfamiliar sensations of wanting to be filthy cause Matthew’s hallucinations of Mommie Dearest to come back back in full force. He snaps, and finally slashes Vera/Daisy’s throat with the hook. The one character we have reason to care about is just a few STEPS from freedom, and Matthew FINALLY learns to keep it simple, stupid.

Side effects of supernatural incest may be hazardous to your health



Matt’s mind completely snaps, and hallucinations of all of his victims stalk him, cackling ungodly loud on the soundtrack. He runs away, then steals a car, abandoning it to try to hide in a church. Unsure if what he is seeing are real ghosts or tricks of his own mind, we see him finally get his fondest wish, giving the apparition of his mother a tongue kiss, then collapsing and spitting blood.

The ghosts/hallucinations/whatever raise hooks, Matthew raises his…….

Runtime: 92 minutes Hook Death Final Tally: 2



…….and eviscerates himself with his own hook. Instant karma strikes again, and this dumbass goes to his grave never having learned.


Bonus Round:

This is actually the poster/tagline for a much better film. Rightfully, the term gore-nography probably belongs to either “Blood Feast” (the originator of gore horror) or ” I Drink Your Blood” (first film rated x for violence/gore)

I would also like to give a special thanks to Chris Walker as his fan restoration is the best print I have yet seen, until Grindhouse Releasing FINALLY decides to release one.