Richard Horvath

The mad scientist keeps a pool full of alligators to dispose of his failed experiments on human subjects and the viewer of this sort of fare knows where the crazed doctor will end up. There is a tribe of voodoo worshipping creoles equipped with jungle drums, even though this film is set in Texas, and we know that the cigarette smoking punk Richie, who can't keep his eyes off the women folk, is going to meet his maker somewhere in the swamp. And the swamp creature, with its absurd ping pong balls for eyes, is unlikely to cause the audience any alarm either when it makes a late appearance in the last five minutes. Curse of the Swamp Creature can only be recommended for people with an unhealthy interest in artistic failure because there are few laughs to be had here.

The Curse of Bigfoot will have the hapless viewer believe that a guy wearing a poorly fabricated paper mâché mask with bits of wool stuck to it sent three traumatised American teenagers into a mental institution. Any viewer of this mess will likewise be in need of therapy. As an aficionado of cheap movies I struggle to remember such a pointless meandering plot, narcoleptic acting and woeful monster. Bigfoot has good cause to curse humanity for this inept cultural artefact.

"Mrs Roman doesn't travel much" "Oh, I'm sorry, doctor's orders?" "No, mine," replies Eddie Roman, a mobster with a taste for impeccable suits, vintage wine and beating women. Naturally a film with Peter Lorre who plays Eddie's slimy, immoral sidekick who constantly complains about inflation; a script based on a Cornell Woolrich story and a marvellous, seedy depiction of Havana lit in noirish chiaroscuro has all the ingredients of a dark disorienting thriller. Fans of screen oddities will be greatly amused by The Chase's take on the shibboleth of the back seat driver -- Eddie Roman is a man who never cedes control.

There is the stereotypical mad scientist who wears thick black-rimmed glasses with the regulation white lab coat, bubbling test tubes overflowing with white mist and a computer that emits electronic buzzes and flashing lights. It sounds standard except that this lab is staffed by young women with menacing expressions, sinister dwarves and is bizarrely situated in a remote desert mesa. The viewers also have to get their head around a Chinese servant called Wu who communicates in pointless aphorisms and a rather inanimate giant tarantula that disposes of any unwanted guests. The script is dramatically plodding and the acting is fittingly wooden. An improbable and insistent flamenco guitar, used in another cheapie, Ed Wood's Jailbreak, serves for the musical soundtrack. If you are amused by execrably produced low budget cinema, Mesa of Lost Women offers many pleasures.

"Vincent liked to go onto the rooftop and look down on the people, they looked small and that made him feel good." The prison warden warns the parole board about releasing Vincent Lubeck, that he is irredeemably rotten, he carries "the dirt that don't wash off" his honest hard working brother tells him and Vincent certainly doesn't disappoint audience expectations. Fittingly he ends up shot dead by the cops on the city dump where he used to play as a kid. This raw and taut movie depicts a hood devoid of any empathy, it doesn't squander much time examining what created this monster, which is a shame because it may have been richer if it had. However there is a certain pleasure in its brutal directness.

The eponymous sadist is luridly overplayed, but that only adds to a surprisingly effective film that transcends its low budget constraints. Fans of exploitation cinema will find much to appreciate, although I suspect that mainstream audiences may find the film a tasteless exercise that pushes the audience to the limit.