The Garbage Pail Kids Movie 1987 (NA– no award)

the-garbage-pail-kids-movie-10A couple of people have asked about the avatar I use, the Venetian plague mask icon, but it’s nothing to do with recent news developments; I chose it way back in 2016. The reasoning was that a critic is, in some way, like a poison taster, letting the public know what is safe to eat. There’s lots of bad criticism, to be sure, but also an illustrious history of essential writing about culture, from James Agee to Clive James, from Lindsay Anderson to Pauline Kael. Critics have a responsibility to educate, to amuse, to share and to chip away at this amorphous entity we call popular culture, to enable us to make the best decisions about what we watch.

Which brings me to 1987’s The Garbage Pail Kids: The Movie. Writer/director Rod Amateau had worked with stars like David Niven and Peter Sellers in the 70’s, and was able to persuade Anthony Newley to star; Newley was a British musical icon in the 1960’s, responsible for the James Bond theme Goldfinger as well as the Oscar-nominated score for Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Bad choices and worse drinking diminished Newley’s considerable talent, and by 1987, he was a spent force; his performance in The Garbage Pail Kids is limp, rote and unenthusiastic, and yet he’s the best thing in it.

The worst thing in it is the Garbage Pail kids themselves, played by small people with large plastic heads which barely register any expression. Each has a revolting function; one sneezes vicious snot, another has acne and urinates over himself, one farts like a trumpet, one is an alligator (called Ali-Gator) with a foot-fetish, you get the idea. They come from outer space in a garbage pail kept in an urban antiques shop run by Captain Manzini (Newley).

Amateau appears to be aiming for some kind of Rabelaisian humour, blowing a hole in societal norms and emphasising the base-line of humour that in some sense unites humanity. The plot of this movie revolves around Dodger (Mackenzie Astin), a likable scamp who is being bullied; a precocious 15 year old, Dodger has eyes on the bully’s girlfriend Tangerine (Katie Barberi), and decides to win her heart by creating an designing his own range of clothes, which he persuades the Garbage Pail Kids to make. Yes, the garbage-pail kids movie is set in the world of fashion, and climaxes with the kids invading a fashion show, toppling pre-existing codes of beauty and acceptability and striking a blow for the neglected child in us all.

Newley doesn’t sing, in fact, his contribution is minimal; two songs, however, can be referenced as badges of honour for those who choose to sit through this film. ‘You Can Be A Garbage Pail Kid’ takes an Eye of the Tiger aspirational angle, while ‘We Can Do Anything By Working With Each Other’ is a whistle-while-you-work song that the kids sing in their sweatshop. Both, like a sidelong glimpse at a traffic accident, are impossible to forget; like a genie, or the garbage-pail kids themselves, you can’t get them back inside their container.

The Garbage Pail Kids: The Movie has the reputation as one of the worst films ever made; it’s certainly one of the most misguided. Doubling down on the bodily functions, it’s enough to appal parents and children alike, but there’s also a strange sexualisation here that makes for an uncomfortable watch; Dodger is constantly ogling and objectifying women, and Tangerine’s attempts to seduce him don’t sit well given that he’s 15. There are no redeeming moments or qualities in this film, and yet it’s deservedly built up a reputation as a rites of passage for masochists; ‘You can’t change the world by hiding yourself away,’ explains one of the kids in the final scene, a line that lands somewhat ironically given that circa 2020 the world is about to try doing exactly that.

Moonwalker 1988 (NA- no award)

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‘You’re going to love it,’ intones Michael Jackson to the audience of his much ballyhooed vanity project, released to UK cinemas for Christmas 1988 and promptly forgotten about by all but MJ completists. ‘Love it’ probably isn’t the right phrase, but Moonwalker is certainly something to behold, an expensive, incoherent mess that probably has more curiosity value now than then. Self-indulgence is the main ingredient here, and while I’ll leave it to others to consider the faults of Michael Jackson the man, his cinematic incarnation is a genuine crime against cinema.

Fans were baffled by Moonwalker; it’s a 90 minute film without a plot, or even any coherent narrative thread other than Jackson’s appearance, and even then, he appears to be missing in action for chunks of his own film. But if you’re attracted by such trimmings as a pony-tailed Joe Pesci beating children and trying to inject them with syringes of mind-numbing drugs, a video-tribute to Elizabeth Taylor, trippy, giant Clay-mation rabbits, or a performance by Ladysmith Black Mambaso, then you’re in luck, because all these unasked for elements are here, present and correct.

‘Based on a story by Michael Jackson’ is the red-flag warning on the central segment of the film, Smooth Criminal, in which Michael rescues kids (including Sean Lennon) from a drug-dealer (Pesci), turns himself into a car and a spaceship in the process, and appears as a white-suited gangster in a night-club dance routine that’s actually pretty impressive as choreography. But a story, this is not, and it’s hard not to feel that Jackson was let down by those who advised him that such half-assed tv special plotting would sustain a feature.

Elsewhere, Moonwalker has a knack of giving you what you want in a way that you don’t. If you like Martin Scorsese’s Bad video, how about seeing the entire thing re-enacted by tiny children? If you like live concert footage, what about an interminable version of The Beatles’ Come Together? Or how about the animated Speed Demon segment, which features ancient comedy routines featuring Michael Jackson escaping from his horrible, grabby fans (who presumably forked out to see him disparage them here?) Again, there are minor pleasures here, notably the video for Leave Me Alone that leans into negative press about Jackson’s private life. Given the public interest in Jackson, Moonwalker is about the least interesting film that could be made about Jackson, and yet the star, seemingly blind to how his audience saw him or what they might want to see, is the worst person to make it.

Moonwalker is something of a train-wreck, a turning point at which the reputation of the world’s golden-boy starts to go off like sour milk. An absurd mix of Fellini’s showman-like self-absorption, Spielbergian sentiment and Jackson’s own brand of aggressive self-promotion, it’s a genuine travesty. In August 1992, a friend gave me tickets to see Jackson perform on his Dangerous tour, the one which ended with the star, or someone, flying over the audience’s head on a jet-pack. Of course, we couldn’t tell who it was, or when the switch was made, but the illusion was effective, and there was an element of role-playing and make believe on the part of both performer and audience. That kind of shared connection is abjectly missing here; Jackson seems to have been far more interested in individual dance moves than making a film, and the result has been air-brushed from cinematic history.

City on Fire 1979 ***

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Good movies are great, but so, in the right circumstances, are the stinkers. Alvin Rakoff’s City on Fire won’t be troubling the Smithsonian anytime soon, but Amazon Prime seem to have felt it was worth a revival, introducing this shop-worn, tatty but delightfully slipshod production to a new generation. An AVCO Embassy production, this is an all-star disaster movie which really is a catastrophe, with stranded performers, a hard-to-visualise concept, and some strange production decisions that end up baking an explosive soufflé that you’ll be scraping off the inside of your oven for years to come.

The title sounds simple enough; there’s a city on fire, but which city? That question isn’t answered at all, since Canadian producers seem to have felt that to gain universal appeal, it would be better not to identify the city in question. ‘This could happen to any city, anywhere’ reads an opening title. Montreal, cheap and bland, is the actual location, but the backgrounds are as anonymous as the foreground dramas. Barry Newman cashes in the last of his Vanishing Point credibility as doctor Frank Whitman, a maverick who enjoys one-night stands and disrespects authority in the form of “Mister Mayor”, played by Leslie Nielsen. Nielsen’s subsequent stardom in Airplane and Naked Gun franchises adds value to his role here, but the scenarios he encounters are no less ridiculous; he’s paralysed with guilt when he realises that he should never have allowed an oil refinery to be built in the city centre. Who could have seen that coming? As things get worse, Whitman and the mayor are trapped by a fire-storm in a burning hospital, and have to lead an escape through a water tunnel; Nielsen was a great physical comic, and the forty minutes or so he spends directing a fire-hose over wheelchair and stretcher-bound characters have to be seen to be believed.

Exploitation whizz Jack Hill contributed to the script, and presumably the plotline concerning Herman Stover (Jonathan Welsh) is his work. A Travis Bickle character, Stover wants society to hear him roar, and when passed over for promotion, blows up an oil refinery and then allows the raw crude oil into the city’s water supply to produce the city on fire of the title. Stover’s plea for understanding makes the Joker look positively woke, killing what would appear to be millions of people if the production values had risen to any decent effects. Meanwhile Fire Chief Henry Fonda looks concerned and newscaster Ava Gardner relates the horrors to those watching at home; Gardner’s performance suggests she’d never seen a newscaster in her life, and the weird, dreamlike voice she reads the news in is an undoubted highlight here.

In any other film, casting the venerable Shelley Winters as a young, idealistic and gutsy nurse would be a talking point, but she’s only one more shonky element in a tower of inanities. City on Fire is a so-bad-it’s-good reminder that terrible films are a perennial delight, an alternative to the seriousness of life, a pressure valve through which we can put aside our differences and laugh at the worst excesses of the entertainment industry. This film costs £0.00 on Amazon Prime and it’s worth every single penny.

Golden Rendezvous 1977 ***

goldenThere are reasons for liking something other than it being ‘good’; this 1977 thriller based in a 1962 book by Alistair MacLean is perfectly awful in many ways, but somehow these flaws only make it more endearing. “Everyone was drinking on that movie, we were all so f**king miserable’ explained star Richard Harris in a magazine article, defending his consumption of a bottle of vodka every day while re-writing the script. If you want to understand what drinking a bottle of vodka every day does to your writing process, try watching Golden Rendezvous; director Freddie Francis and Christopher Lee abandoned ship while the film was in production.

For a great bad movie, several things have to go wrong at once, and replacement director Ashley Lazerus’s film hits the wrong note from the opening scene with a fabulously inappropriate swirling synth score by Jeff Wayne, one which mimics his War of the Worlds hit. Meanwhile John Carter (Richard Harris) stands around on an quay with a clipboard, bad hair-cut and milk-bottle spectacles looking about as officious as a lolly-pop man while various characters scuttle on-board the liner and floating casino Caribbean Star. These characters include the ancient John Carradine, sporting the look of a man freshly embalmed, the comparatively youthful Burgess Meredith hamming it up as a gambler, old favourites Dorothy Malone and Robert Beatty, David Janssen, who appears to have a glass of whiskey glued to his hand, Harris’s real-life wife Susan Beresford (Ann Turkel), and John Vernon as Luis Carreras, a man with a nuclear bomb. Vernon left the set to play Dean Wormer in Animal House, and was probably not the ideal casting to portray genuine menace, but that’s just one of the problems here.

Many films have issues with consistency, but Golden Rendezvous suggests that Harris’s idea of a rewrite was to throw the script in the air and re-arrange the pages where they fell. Carreras’s men take the ship over and brutally machine gun the crew, and yet Carter and Beresford are more preoccupied with whether to re-ignite their relationship. ‘I was wondering, should we bury the hatchet?’ he muses coyly while the bloody corpses pile up on deck and the clock on a nuclear bomb ticks down; it’s the kind of narrative dissonance that Team America nailed, but no less funny to discover in latent form here.

Given the film’s preoccupation with money, specifically gold bullion, it’s also notable that court cases subsequently proved that Golden Rendezvous was largely financed by South African government with money that was intended to be used to help black film-makers. Certainly, the acting, action, music and the entire production are verging on criminal, and yet there’s some fun in a film written and performed by practicing alcoholics on peak booze-cruise. There’s something admirable in characters who, on discovering that terrorists have boarded their ship, take action by throwing a cocktail party to flush them out via social chit-chat. Ideally seen with a glass of something 40 per cent proof in one hand, Golden Rendezvous’ hackneyed heroism and jauntiness in the face of terrorism make it a classic re-watch for those who love the idiocy of bad movies. This film was never issued on DVD in the US, but was broadcast on Scottish television on what seemed to be a continual loop during my childhood.

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Cats 2019 ***

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Can we retire, or look for alternative phrases to describe, the phrase computer generated effects? Because it’s not computers that generate the uncanny look that ruins movies, it’s the people who operate the computers. Tom Hooper’s film of Cats has attracted a circle-jerk of critics keen to put the boot into one of his film version of one of musical theatre’s most venerable properties; aside from some regrettable uses of CGI, it’s pretty much exactly what any film of Cats would be expected to be like.

Without making any great claims for Hooper’s film, the people who hate this film wouldn’t have liked it if Christopher Nolan and Greta Gerwig had co-directed it; Cats is what it is, a twee slice of 1970’s musical theatre. One of the obvious reasons that Cats has not been filmed before is the lack of narrative; taking a cue from TS Eliot, the action of cats is really just a slew of famous people dressed as cats of different characters, introducing themselves and then vanishing.

Old-stagers like Judi Dench and Ian McKellern just about make their sections work, young bucks like James Corden and Rebel Wilson make fools of themselves; without a story to preoccupy us, there’s a train-wreck fascination about watching confident performers like Jason Derulo so far from their comfort zone. In terms of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s score, Jennifer Hudson does well with the show-stopper Memory, but there’s three or four decent tunes here, with Magical Mister Mistoffelees landing well. And while celebrity casualties include Idris Elba and Ray Winstone, who deservedly crash and burn squarely with their genuinely awful work here, Taylor Swift really dominates the screen in her bit, and suggests that she could be a real musical-theatre star if the pop-star gig doesn’t work out for her.

Cats is something of a freak-show, but it probably doesn’t deserve to the butt of every joke. It’s a straight, reverential adaptation of a well-loved property that will appeal to and satisfy fans of the music. Rather than polish off their strained cat-based puns, critics might be better to let this kind of thing live-and-let-live; it’s a random collection of stars performing a random collection of songs in weird make-up. There’s a place for such a film, and it’s likely to be gifted and re-gifted between elderly relatives for many Christmases to come. But watching Jennifer Hudson perform Memory, it’s hard not to be distracted by her having a massive hairy torso like Geoff Capes. Perhaps the real problem for any film of Cats is that it puts the audience too close to the stage, as some things look better from the back of the dress circle.

Car Trouble 1986 NA (no award)

car troubleConnoisseurs of utter tat will be drawn to FlickVaults’s recent revival of David Green’s Car Trouble, a British film from 1986 which offers all the crudeness of a Confessions of a Window Cleaner film but without any of the voyeuristic attractions. This is an entire feature film based around one unfunny joke; how it got made, with a reputable cast, is anyone’s guess, but after a spotty history on VHS and DVD, Car Trouble pops up on YouTube to horrify the unwary.

Taking the key role of Gerald Spong, Ian Charleston of Chariots of Fire fame is matched up with Jacqueline Spong (a post Educating Rita Julie Walters) as a British couple who seem to be in the throes of a loveless marriage. He thumbs through copies of Razzle (50p each) and fantasises about owning an E-Type Jaguar, while she fancies the salesman who is keen to sell it to him. Spong has got a 2CV which he sells to a crooked mechanic (Stratford Johns); money isn’t really an issue, since Spong has a job as an air-traffic controller at the fictional Stanwick Airport, but he’s also something of a tight-fisted miser. To add insult to injury, Jacqueline borrows his prize Jag and gets stuck inside during the act of coitus with her foreign lover, and local police/ fire-fighters have to carve them out.

And that, indeed, is the action of Car Trouble, which seems to be an unwanted vehicle for John Cleese; Spong is all moustache and marital angst, while another scene sees a car attacked with a tree-branch as in Fawlty Towers. Such eighties ephemera such as Jacqueline’s Relax T-shirt and the use of Billy Idol’s Mony Mony on the soundtrack date the film specifically, as do barely single entendres such as ‘It’s only an old knob’, uttered when part of Spong’s car falls off.

A final scene in which, vague spoilers, Spong engineers for his wife’s holiday to be ruined by arranging for the jet to collide with another plane, with up to 1000 casualties, suggests that black humour was the intention here, but since practically none of the jokes land, it’s hard to tell. This is Michael Winner-level British comedy, where the entertainment value lies in viewing the whole topsy-turvy enterprise and wondering how this, or indeed any film could be this awful.

The Courier 2019 ***

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At something of a low-point, I decided to play various James Bond video games, one of the best of which was Blood Stone. During the final one-man commando raid on the villain’s supposedly impregnable fortress, the bad guy has a monologue over the intercom system that goes something like ‘I don’t know why you ever thought you could beat me, Mr Bond. The odds are so impossibly stacked against you. You are a fool to ever imagine that you’d have a chance against me…’ This monologue became inadvertently amusing as Bond massacres the elite forces, blows up the compound, destroys the entire place and yet still the voice on the tannoy continues disparaging our hero ‘Why don’t you just give up, Mr Bond? I don’t know why you ever thought you could beat me, the odds are so impossibly stacked against you…’

Zackary Adler’s real-time thriller The Courier is riddled with exactly this kind of unfortunate juxtaposition of cool action and by-the-yard dialogue; ‘You’re trapped …in a meat grinder!’ a stooge salivates at our intrepid heroine. After a prescient credits sequence depicting the Statue of Liberty descending into hell, The Courier is established as the title, but also the name of the central character, played by Bond girl Olga Kurylenko. She’s set up as a patsy by an elite group of terrorists who are trying to stop Nick Mursh (Amit Shah) from testifying against master criminal Ezekiel Mannings (Gary Oldman in an eye patch and quoting Joe Biden of all people). The Courier doesn’t take this lying down and rescues Mursh, only to find herself pinned down in an underground car-park. As she decimates her enemies with improbable ease, the bad guys taunt her remorselessly through the public address system, but she’s determined to save Mursh and bring Mannings to justice.

This thriller is billed as “From the producer of The Darkest Hour’ and The Courier is of interest to see exactly how Gary Oldman’s acts of career self-sabotage have reached Nicolas Cage levels within just two years of winning an Oscar. Oldman’s phoned-in performance in Hunter Killer was no fluke; on this evidence, he’ll will be doing cheap insurance adverts in a few months. Otherwise, The Courier has plenty to offer for when you want to shift your mind into neutral; Kurylenko does pretty well with her multiple fight scenes, and there’s a goofy adolescent jauntiness about this whole techno-music and motorbikes enterprise that keeps you watching.

The John Wick movies have demonstrated that genre thrillers can be elevated by careful handling; The Courier has the right cast and a reasonably novel idea, but the sheer number of clichés eventually undo it’s good intentions, in fact, it’s hard to imagine why it ever thought it had a chance against such overwhelming odds….

Hawk The Slayer 1980 ***

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There must be something about the worthy quality of film-watching during awards season that makes it so appealing to file copy on so-bad-it’s-good entries. And so we return to the sacred text of Hawk the Slayer, a bizarre fantasy film by Terry Marcel which featured briefly in Netflix’s recent Maniac tv show. Why would a hot director like Cary Joji Fukunaga be a fan? Well, because Hawk the Slayer is one of the cheesiest films ever made, and that’s the appeal; if you’re looking for production values, imaginative plotting and social relevance, stay away. If venerable British character actors, Morricone-goes-disco music cues and shonky dialogue are palatable to you then Hawk slays over and over again, much like an automatic crossbow.

Yes, automatic cross-bows are a big thing in this film, but then, so is dialogue like ‘The hunchback will have something to say about this!’ Hawk the Slayer is set, according to the poster, in a word of sword and sorcery, one where Voltar (Jack Palance) reigns supreme. His brother is Hawk (John Terry), and a flashback reveals that Voltar tied Hawk to a tree and tried to make things happen romantically with Hawk’s wife (Catriona MacColl), a plan which ended badly. The two bothers are sworn enemies, and things get worse when a survivor of one of Voltan’s massacres seeks sanctuary in a monastery, encouraging Voltan to kidnap the Abbess (Annette Crosbie). Hawk sets out to rescue her, with the help of a merry band including a dwarf, a sorceress (Patricia Quinn), a giant (Bernard Bresslaw) and a quick-firing elf.

There’s some familiar names in there, and even more further down the cast list; Roy Kinnear, Harry Andrews, Patrick Macgee, Ferdy Marne, Warren Clarke, Graham Stark and more all appear as Hawk gets bogged down in all kind of inessential sub-plots. But things are pulled along by a weird production design that features lots of fog and lots of Star Wars-lazer effects, plus a rousing score by Harry Robinson hiding under the name Robertson; imagine Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds and you’ll have a handle on the epic disco sound featured here.

Hawk the Slayer wears various Star Wars influences with pride; Voltan’s helmet is much like Darth Vader’s, and the explanation for why he wears it is familiar. It’s worth remembering that one of the appealing elements for children seeing Star Wars back in 1977/8 was that it was never revealed what was under Darth Vader’s mask, and a sequel seemed inevitable for that purpose. That sense of mystery arguably created today’s franchise cinema.

Hawk The Slayer might be a rip-off, but it’s a fun, idiosyncratic film that’s gaining momentum as a cult item; if Fukunaga has James Bond watching this is No Time To Die, it would make some kind of sense, although you’d have to use the same goofy logic as an automatic crossbow requires.

Click the link below to see if the film can be viewed in your territory…

One More Time 1970 ***

One More Time‘We know what turns you on’ says the opening song in One More Time, but if stars Peter Lawford and Sammy Davis Junior actually do know what turns us on, there’s little evidence of it in this slapdash comedy. Writer by the brother of Dr Who’s Jon Pertwee, Bill, and directed by Jerry Lewis, it’s a sequel of sorts to 1968’s Salt and Pepper, but is mainly designed as a showcase of the talents, resistible as displayed here, of Davis Junior.

Davis and Lawford are Charles Salt and Chris Pepper, two hipster nightclub owners who fall foul of the law in some kind of Merrie England as featured in Garfield: A Tale of Two Kitties. Lawford plays a double role, Pepper and his twin brother Sydney, who is murdered with a deadly dart and replaced by his brother, swapping the dead body for his living one to investigate the crime. Although the two are supposedly best buds and partners in crime, Chris Pepper doesn’t tell Charles Salt, and allows his friend to think that he’d dead.

This means a good hour or so of Sammy Davis Junior wandering around an English country house vaguely synching to some incredibly maudlin tunes; a sequence in which Davis descends a staircase singing Where Do I Go Now? seems to last for weeks. The personable Lawford is stranded with some character comedy, which isn’t his strongest suit; Lawford can barely be bothered playing a thinly veiled version of himself, so playing another variation on the same person is something of a strain to watch. Meanwhile Lewis indulges himself with some strange set-pieces, including snorting snuff and a lengthy parody of the final scenes of Kubrick’s 2001 as Davis reacts to a country-house bedroom with the same awe that Kier Dullea reacts to the Monolith. It’s an odd, vaguely racist scene which fits with the general indignities that Davis goes through here, having drinks thrown over him, called a ‘chocolate dandy’ and generally side-lined in a way that constantly has him breaking the fourth wall to complain.

One More Time is probably best remembered for one single scene, seemingly improvised without reason, in which Salt finds a hidden doorway that leads to a cellar where Dracula (Christopher Lee) and Baron Frankenstein (Peter Cushing) are working; the gag seems to be that Gothic horror lies beneath traditional British values. Otherwise, when the words ‘that’s it’ appear instead of “the end’, One More Time must have had even the most hipster-cat audiences begging for it to stop; with Lewis directing Davis Junior well beyond excess, it’s the audience who must truly have felt mugged. As a side-note, One More Time offers a good argument against smoking; everyone quaffs fags like their lives depend on it, and there’s even huge close-ups of full ashtrays to present bona-fide testimony to the performers’ enthusiasm for cigarettes.

 

Poor Devil 1973 ***

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Fancy spending 73 minutes in hell with Sammy Davis Junior? That’s the resistible premise of Poor Devil, a ragged tv series pilot that resolutely failed to launch back in 1973, and has promptly been festering inside the dustiest bin of cultural history until Amazon Prime decided to feature this benighted offering as part of its 2019 line-up.

Sammy Davis Junior plays, well, himself as Sammy, the put-upon messenger boy of a big-wheel power-broker. But before you can say Frank Sinatra, it’s revealed that Sammy’s boss is Lucifer himself, played by Christopher Lee, not entirely escaping the bad-boy type-casting which he regularly cursed. Lucifer summons Sammy from his regular gig shovelling coal into the fires of hell, and offers him a fresh start by collecting the souls of wayward human beings in San Francisco, namely Quincy star Jack Klugman as Burnett J Emerson. Identified as Burny by Amazon’s permanently off-kilter subtitling, Klugman’s character is disaffected by his department store job, and seeks revenge on his boss (Batman’s Adam West). Sammy offers to utilise the collective might of San Francisco’s Church of Satan to empty the department store on Xmas Eve as a practical joke, and seeks Burny’s soul as reward for the deed.

If the above synopsis appeals to you, then please get in touch and explain why; it’s kind of like It’s A Wonderful Life but in reverse, and it makes no sense that Lucifer and his cohorts seems to be so civically minded as to want to punish selfish department store bosses. Indeed, Poor Devil feels like a feature-length ad for the wholesome ethos and deeds of the Church of Satan, with which Davis was allegedly, from some accounts, involved. Vanishing and appearing in an underwhelming special effects, Davis prowls around in hideous garb shouting ‘Right on!’ and other hip phrases, while Lee looks genuinely mortified by the depths to which he has sunk.

Awful as this film is, it’s also a fascinating picture of human desperation as a number of household names create a work of non-art that probably wasn’t even the best thing in the timeslot on the day of transmission, My on-going campaign to embarrass Amazon by capturing their half-assed and inherently disrespectful nonsense subtitling continues with the choice offering below.

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And you can see the whole marvellous shebang by clicking the link below…