After the original film, Preacherman raked in a cool $5 million. Albert T. Viola brought back the character of Amos Huxley, a backwoods con man posing as a man of the cloth, to stir up more trouble. In this installment, our hero finds his match in five-time widow Alzena Suggs (Marian Brown). It’s classic grindhouse structure: take a guy who thinks he’s the smartest person in the room, throw him into a situation where he’s totally out of his depth and watch the sparks fly. 

So yeah, this starts right where the last one ends, asuxley (Viola), fresh off a motel getaway with the mysterious lady in red, runs from the police. Soon, he falls for the widderwoman of the title, a woman who has married and buried five. She’s rich, attractive and has a hot daughter, Willie Mae (Jeramie Rain), who steals watermelons for a living. Don’t tell Vince Majestyk.

Unlike the original, this one was based on two plays by Chet McIntyre: Poor Rudolph and Feather and the Bell. You have to wonder—were there really stage plays dedicated to the Preacherman back then, or did they just shoehorn him into these plots? 

While the original got a second wind thanks to Troma’s 1983 theatrical re-release, Widderwoman got stuck with a PG rating and seemed to vanish outside the Southern drive-in circuit. It is, without a doubt, the most North Carolinian movie you’ll find, a regional curio packed with hillbilly caricatures and humor that only a drive-in crowd could love. And by that, I mean me.

Viola plays Amos Huxley with a level of demented conviction so true that you’d swear this guy was a real snake-oil salesman, not a Brooklyn-born playwright. He even goes so far as to decline an onscreen credit, billing the role as “Amos Huxley…as himself.” Despite this being a vanity production, he’s actually pretty generous with screen time. Jeramie Rain is a standout as the no-nonsense Willie Mae—a role that fits right in alongside her turn as Sadie in Last House on the Left. Interestingly, she used the pseudonym “Sue Davis” here, which is a bit of a mystery since she used her real name in films she reportedly loathed.

And then there’s the mystery of Rebecca Payson (who plays Armanda). Some think that she’s actually Deborah Loomis, who was in Blood Bath and Hercules in New York. The scandal sheets tried to track Loomis down when Arnold Schwarzenegger became governor, hoping for dirt, but she was untraceable. If the New York Post couldn’t find her, what chance do I have? 

Viola would go on to write one more movie, The Night They Robbed Big Bertha’s. 

You can watch this on YouTube.

When you see a poster featuring young women in dog collars and chains, you are braced for a sleazy, depraved descent into S&M nightmare territory. But Raphael Nussbaum’s Pets is a far more bizarre beast. It is a fragmented, episodic odyssey of a young runaway that feels less like a cohesive narrative and more like a fever dream of mid-70s exploitation cinema.

Based on a series of one-act stage plays by Richard Reich, the film follows the perpetually charming Candice Rialson (Candy Stripe Nurses, Summer School Teachers, Chatterbox) as Bonnie, a naive runaway whose presence acts as a catalyst for the ruin of everyone she encounters. The film is structured in three distinct, tonal-shifting acts:

• Act I: Grimy Sun-Drenched LA: Bonnie falls in with a bad girl named Pat (Teri Guzman). They attempt to rob a wealthy man on the beach. This segment captures that specific, palpable 1970s Los Angeles desperation before ending in a botched escape.

• Act II: Counterculture Muse: Bonnie becomes the muse and lover of an eccentric artist, Geraldine Mills (Joan Blackman). This act shifts into a heady, late-60s artsy vibe, which is violently punctured by a senseless, jarring home invasion. In a bizarre twist of logic, Bonnie opts to keep the intruder in her room for intimate purposes, forcing a jealous, desperate Geraldine to commit murder, sending Bonnie fleeing once again.

• Act III: The Menagerie: Finally, the film delivers the “pets” promised by the marketing. Bonnie is ensnared by Vincent Stackman (Ed Bishop), a wealthy, whip-wielding sadist. This act feels like an entirely different film stapled onto the back of the first two—a claustrophobic dive into the actual depravity hinted at by the promotional art. Stackman treats women as literal pets, housing them in his mansion alongside actual canines.

Pets is an odd duck. It has a legit theater background, which gives the dialogue an occasionally stilted quality. It’s not quite a horror movie, not quite a drama and it’s arguably too slow for some. Not for me. I loved the sheer weirdness of it all and how firmly Rialson keeps everything held together. 

Mike Cartel, who played Rialson’s brother, assisted Nussbaum when it came down to casting the lead. He acted in twenty video-taped G-rated romantic scenes with other actreses before Rialson got the role.

Warning: A dog gets thrown to its doom.

You can watch this on Tubi.

Depending on where you found this tape in the 70s, it went by a dozen different names. In Spain, it was the poetic Una gota de sangre para morir amando (A Drop of Blood to Die Loving); in France, the nonsensical Le bal du vaudou (The Voodoo Ball); and in the UK, it was slapped with the grindhouse titles Clockwork Terror or Murder In a Blue World.

It’s director and co-screenwriter Eloy de la Iglesia’s take on a future world that at times may feel very 1973 but also feels way more 2022 than we may want to admit.

To understand this movie, you have to understand De la Iglesia. A member of the Spanish Communist Party and an openly gay man living under the iron-fisted censorship of dictator Francisco Franco, his films weren’t just entertainment. They were Molotov cocktails. He specialized in Quinqui cinema, focusing on delinquency, social protest and the grit of the marginalized. Murder In a Blue World is another of his assaults on the status quo.

Sue Lyon (yes, Kubrick’s original Lolita) stars as Anna Vernia, a dedicated nurse by day who spends her nights acting as the “adistic homosexual killer the police are panicking over. In a stroke of brilliant irony, Anna collects pop art and even owns a copy of the novel Lolita. When she isn’t working, she lures gorgeous young men back to her apartment, sleeps with them and then—inspired by the rhythm of their post-coital heartbeats—slices them open with a scalpel.

She’s dating Dr. Victor Sender (Victor Sorel), a man convinced he can cure the rampant crime in their futuristic city through aggressive electroshock therapy. It’s a classic battle of ideologies: Victor wants to lobotomize the violence out of society, while Anna is the violence society created.

De la Iglesia doesn’t just tip his hat to Stanley Kubrick; he steals the hat and wears it. Early in the film, a family settles in to watch A Clockwork Orange on TV before being brutally attacked by a motorcycle gang.

Enter David (Chris Mitchum), a gang member with a conscience who gets beaten and expelled by his peers. After witnessing Anna disposing of a corpse, David decides to play a dangerous game of blackmail. He doesn’t want to turn her in; he wants her money to buy a motorcycle. It’s a strange, psychosexual cat-and-mouse game between a survivor of the streets and a high-society predator.

When David’s old gang leaves him for dead, he ends up in Victor’s hospital, slated for the doctor’s redemption treatment. Anna, having developed a twisted affection for the boy, realizes she can’t let the state take his soul. In a haunting finale, she reads Edgar Allan Poe to him, choosing to end his life on her own terms while Victor’s patients lose their minds in the background. It’s a bleak, beautiful bath in some dystopian dread.

I love how this movie somehow combines the ancient future of the 70s with the trapping of giallo. This is a strange and wonderful film that I plan on going back to several times.

Once abandoned to the wilds of public domain DVD sets, Messiah of Evil was for a time the gold amongst the dross, a film of incredible power. Hidden amongst old television shows, near-unwatchable transfers of Spanish horror and video store-era throwaways, it held a haunting power. Did I see that? Is this movie real? Can I explain it to anyone who hasn’t seen it?

Today, Messiah of Evil isn’t just a legendary once-lost film returned to power. It’s a work of art that feels like it came from beyond the wall of sleep, the place where the Ancient Ones slumber until time untold to come back and reclaim their rightful and most horrible power.

You can watch Messiah of Evil on several levels. On the most basic, it’s a film about Arietty (the never before or since more lovely Marianna Hill) attempting to find her lost artist father in the cursed town of Point Dume, California.

It’s also a zombie movie of sorts, made in the wake of Night of the Living Dead yet uninfluenced by it, where an entire town slowly becomes something like the living dead. As they bleed from the eyes and lose all sensation, they begin to crave meat from any source, be it an entire grocery store’s meat department, mice or human flesh. Once they give in to their transformation, they light fires on the shore, as their ritual of The Waiting anticipates the Dark Stranger’s return to glory, leading them toward taking over the rest of reality.

Or maybe it’s about something else. Is it about the final days of the class struggle that started in the 60s? The zombies nearly all wear suits while their targets, like collector of legends Thom (Michael Greer, who would go on to provide the voice for Bette Davis after she quit the film Wicked Stepmother) and his two lovers, Toni (Joy Bang, who worked with talents like Roger Vadim, Norman Mailer and Woody Allen before Messiah) and Laura (The Price is Right model Anitra Ford), are free love visions of style and sophistication. Yet the Dark Stranger cuts through class, even turning cop upon cop near the climax.

Parts of the film were never fully realized, but that doesn’t matter. Some critics complain that major plot points and the lead characters’ motivations are never fully explained. Even the most normal people in this film act like the strangest characters in others. At no point does it feel like we’re watching a movie set in our reality.

I don’t want that.

This is what I want. A transmission from another place where our surrealism is their everyday.

Messiah of Evil was created in an environment that will never exist again — the New Hollywood that starts with traditional studios panicking as their blockbusters and musicals would stall at the box office, while films like Easy Rider succeeded. Suddenly, deeply personal films would be made within the studio or even exploitation systems. Indeed, the previously mentioned Night of the Living Dead is packed with politics and social commentary, things only hinted at in past horror and science fiction films. This trend would die with Jaws and Star Wars. Yet at this point, as this film’s commentary track by Kim Newman and Stephen Thrower reminds us, even the creators of the blockbusters that changed entertainment forever, all the way back then, all wanted to be artists. And in a moment of true irony, the creators of this film — the husband-and-wife team of Willard Huyck and Gloria Katz — would go on to direct Howard the Duck and write American Graffiti and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom for Goerge Lucas.

This is a movie where the heroine finds herself in the throes of undead transformation, throwing up mouthfuls of insects while the shade of her father begs her to not tell the world what she knows before he attacks her. After murdering everyone else in their path, the dead things of Point Dume don’t kill her. No, they resign her to an even more horrible fate: she must spread the legend further so that once the Dark Stranger arrives, more of reality is receptive to his grasp. She ends the film in a mental institution, knowing that one day soon, the end of everything we hold dear will arrive.

I love that this movie once appeared in DVD bundles easily available in K-Marts and WalMarts, places where normal people would find this asynchronous transmission from another place and time and wonder what the hell they were watching. Much like the infection of Point Dume or Arietty spreading the infection into other towns, it found the right people. It always discovers the best way to transmit its message to those most willing to spread its legend. It survives, no matter what, despite not being finished, despite age, despite being lost for so long.

How wonderful it is to have what was once occult brought into the light and yet it loses nothing of its infernal power. In fact, it retains its power now, all the furtive watches and evangelists that loved this movie and spread that message.

BONUS: Listen to the commentary track that I did with Bill Van Ryn from Drive-In Asylum here:

If Juan López Moctezuma had only ever gifted the world Alucarda, his seat in the pantheon of cult cinema would already be upholstered in velvet and stained with theatrical blood. But Moctezuma wasn’t just a director; he was a surrealist provocateur who served as the head of programming for Televisa and worked as the producer/right-hand man to Alejandro Jodorowsky on El Topo and Fando y Lis.

The film follows a journalist who treks to a remote, mist-shrouded institution to profile the revolutionary “System of Soothing” pioneered by the esteemed Dr. Maillard (Claudio Brook, Alucarda, The Devil’s Rain!). The pitch? Treat the mentally ill by allowing them to indulge their delusions rather than chaining them to walls. However, the progressive atmosphere quickly curdles into something far more sinister. The reporter discovers a chaotic, ritualistic society where the doctor’s daughter, Eugenie, tells the reporter that he hasn’t met the real doctor, just one of the inmates who is quite literally running the asylum and randomly quoting Aleister Crowley. Even better — Susana Kamini, Justine from Alucarda, shows up as a cult priestess!

Imagine if Hammer or Amicus made a movie in Mexico, with all of the dialogue in English, and fed massive amounts of drugs to everyone involved. That’s pretty much how I imagine that this film was made. It’s also an Edgar Allan Poe story (The System of Dr. Tarr and Prof. Fether), but really, it’s also a costume drama with more powdered wigs than a British courthouse.

Lindsay Finch (Mary Charlotte Wilcox, The Beast of the Yellow Night and Psychic Killer) loves to go to funerals, where she mourns and then kisses the dead men passionately after everyone else leaves. Throw in a theme song that sounds like it comes from James Bond, while we see flashbacks of her relationship with her dead father, visiting his grave and her pigtails, and I’m all in.

She has swinging hippie parties at her pad, and her friend Wade (Christopher Stone, the late husband of Dee Wallace, who appeared with her in Cujo and The Howling) tries to get with her. Just when it seems she’s giving in to his makeout moves, she screams at him to stop, and he calls her a bitch, because this is 1973. She dreams of her father in yellow-hued flashbacks and hugs a stuffed animal.

Later, she goes through the funeral notices to find the services for young men. We then meet Fred McSweeney, a mortician, as he picks up a male prostitute. That job is just a cover for his true love — a Satanic coven that meets at night, inside the mortuary, where they have orgies with dead bodies. McSweeney takes the young man to his workplace, where he pumps the manwhore full of embalming fluid while he’s still alive, all while Lindsay goes to another funeral where she tries to make out with Bobby. She’s surprised by Alex (Lyle Waggoner, TV’s The Carol Burnett Show and Wonder Woman, as well as the honor of being the first nude centerfold in Playgirl and the appointed mayor of Encino, California), the man’s brother.

Speaking of that embalming scene, it goes on and on and on, with the young man screaming, “I’m blind!” over and over. It’s nearly campy instead of frightening. To say this film has a tone issue is an understatement.

Lindsay sneaks out to Bobby’s funeral, where she starts to associate Alex with her father. He’s a wealthy gallery owner, and they begin a romance—one she refuses to consummate, even after they are eventually married. Every time she sees him, she gets yellow-hued flashbacks with a music box soundtrack of her playing with her father. But more about that in a little, OK?

McSweeney speaks to Lindsay after he catches her at a funeral, telling her about a group she should join. Yet she tries to remain normal, even going on a date with Wade that ends in failure. That’s when she decides to see what McSweeney’s group is all about.

She walks into an orgy with the dead, which freaks her out enough to go back home. Then she and Alex fall in love with no dialogue, just a montage. It’s a strange part of an incredibly strange film, with this happy-go-lucky relationship coming out of nowhere in a film otherwise about sex with dead people.

Lindsay keeps talking to the cult and ends up getting a dead body of her very own. But Wade follows her and is killed by McSweeney. She screams in horror. This scene wasn’t in the original script, nor was the Satanic group in the one that follows, but they were used to pad out the film and add more horror elements so it would play better at drive-ins.

Again — tone being all over the place — we’re treated to a nude cult disrobing Wade’s corpse and having their way with it before Lindsay awakes screaming. But the marriage isn’t working out well, with Alex following her all over town and their maid — complete with the most stereotypical Irish accent ever — telling him that his wife spends her days at her father’s grave, wearing pigtails and dressed like a little girl. You should see the look on Alex’s face when he catches her as she yells, “This is not your place, go away!”

Alex tries to get Lindsay to go on a holiday to visit his mother, but he discovers a registered letter from McSweeney to his wife for a meeting at 10 PM. He follows her to the mortuary, where he discovers his wife surrounded by nude devil worshippers as she makes love to a dead body. She looks frightened and then McSweeney murders Alex, which calms her.

McSweeney drugs her as she lies in her bed, then brings in her husband, now embalmed so he can last forever, finally a man whom she can be attracted to: the combination of her father — who we see in flashback being shot accidentally by her — and the man she fell in love with. The editing here — combined with dissonant instruments and a remix of the title theme — is crazy, like this film has suddenly become Beyond the Valley of the Dolls.

We see intercut shots of Lindsay getting under the covers with her dead husband and her getting in the coffin with her father as everything goes sepia tone and the theme song returns.

Love Me Deadly isn’t for everyone. It’s one of those films that I hesitate to recommend to normal folks. But it is the kind of movie I text people about in the middle of the night.

This is…well, it’s something. If you enjoyed The Baby, well, then you’re on the right wavelength for this one.

You can watch this on Tubi.