Angel Baby (1961)

Directed by Paul Wendkos
Starring Salome Jens, George Hamilton, Burt Reynolds
Unrated
USA

"You're gonna ruin your pretty eyes on that bible, Jenny."

Paul Wendkos (RIP) directed an alarming amount of schmaltzy TV movies in his five-decade long career, and his penchant for squirmy close-ups, over-emoting actors, and bizarre extras were already in place in this early theatrical effort. While Angel Baby is, theoretically, a 'faith-based' film, Wendko's sweaty-browed direction, the inclusion of two future 70's pop-culture stars, and the general what-the-fuck atmosphere pushes this production firmly into camp territory. In fact, Angel Baby often resembles a Jesus-freaked version of one of Russ Meyer's mid-60's backwoods-noir efforts.

When we meet Jenny, the titular Angel Baby (future Star Trek star Salome Jens), she's furiously making out in the dirt with a greasy-haired Burt Reynolds. Mute since birth, it's implied that Angel is often coerced into such slatternly behavior by thugs like Burt and lacks the communication tools to avoid these erotic misadventures.

This sinful life ends abruptly when she attends a tent revival meeting hosted by a young, charismatic faith-healer named Paul Strand (George Hamilton, chewing scenery like a starving man). Strand lays hands upon Angel Baby - a no-brainer, given her Nordic features and impressive rack - and, miraculously, heals her. As her first word ever is "God", naturally, she asks to join him on his traveling salvation circus. Also naturally, given the aforementioned rack, he agrees, and Angel Baby becomes a local sensation.

And then, in a scene not entirely appropriate for two messengers-of-the-lord, Paul and Angel make out. Just a little.

This new wrinkle in the soul-savin' business does not sit well with Strand's much older wife, a fire and brimstone preacher-lady known as Sister Sarah (Mercedes McCambridge), who schemes and rages until Paul finally relents and casts his sexy young apprentice out.

At this point, however, Angel is such a local celebrity that she hires a promoter, who puts up billboards and starts selling souvenirs, knick-knacks, and even Angel Baby cure-all elixir. This all seems on the level to Angel Baby, since she's still pretty green, but her handlers, Molly and Ben (Joan Blondel and Henry Jones), suspect antics are afoot.

When the crooked promoter pays a few ringers to convince Angel Baby that she has actual healing powers herself, Molly and Ben get tanked and drunk-drive over to Paul's place at the trailer-park to tell him what's up.

Will Paul make it to tomorrow night's phony-baloney faith-healing session before preacher-girl is revealed as unwitting fraud? And while he's at it, will he leave his shrewish wife, so that he can freely make-out with the bosomy Angel Baby?

Why yes, of course. And along the way, the entire town will riot and punch each other into bloody messes for no good reason. And then they'll burn the tent down. It's gonna be nuts.

 Angel Baby's tone is never quite serious. For example, the climactic tent meeting, with extras throwing themselves in and out of the frame, looks more like a Three Stooges short than a Christian drama. The camera adoringly closes-up on Angel Baby's heaving, crucifix-clad breasts more than it needs to, Blondell and Jones basically do a vaudeville act throughout the proceedings, and the bad guy is - of all people - Burt Reynolds So, really, how seriously can you possibly take it?  Still, despite how goofy Angel Baby is, the film has reportedly saved a few 'sinners' along the way, and the bizarre coda seems to suggest that faith healing is, given the proper amount of faith, actually possible. So, if you are prone to whacked-out religious indoctrination, I suppose you should be warned. On the other hand, if you're just looking for a fun, tawdry bit of overwrought early 60's exploitation, Angel Baby is well worth seeking out. Amen.

- Ken McIntyre

Texas Lightning (1981)

Directed by Gary Graver
Starring Maureen McCormick, Cameron Mitchell, Cameron Mitchell Jr. 
Rated PG
USA

Gary Graver (RIP) is probably most known for his DP work on nearly every 70's B-flick you can think of, from Invasion of the Bee Girls to Naughty Stewardesses to Deathsport. He also shot and/or directed literally hundreds of porn and softcore flicks between 1970 and 2005, and even acted in a handful films for Al Adamson and Roger Corman early in his career. His shooting style is immediately recognizable for its you-are-there acrobatics - if a tire kicks up dust in a Graver-shot film, you may find yourself wiping the dirt off your shoes. A sadly unsung trash-film hero, Graver's camera made cheap look awesome on many occasions, and his aesthetic defined the look of drive-in flicks for decades.

While Texas Lightning is, technically, an 80's film, it's a deadringer for the kind of  70's rednecksploitation trash that Graver was shooting nearly constantly during the Burt-Reynolds-is-God era of film-making - low-budget grinders like Smokey and the Hotwire Gang (1979), Grand Theft Auto (1977), and Moonshine County Express (1977)   It was also produced while Graver was balls-deep into his porn career, and considering the relatively mainstream cast of Texas Lightning, he must have been living a very clandestine double-life.

Lightning's nominal story involves one Buddy Owen (Cameron Mitchell, Jr) a sensitive teenage kid growing up in rural Texas, surrounding by his macho, shotgun-wielding  father (Cameron Mitchell, naturally) and dad's loutish redneck best buds, Frank (Meatloaf doppleganger Peter Jason) and toothless wonder Leonard (frequent Graver porn buffoon JL Clark). Deciding that they need to make a man out of the tender young boy, the three scuzzkateers hijack Buddy for a weekend hunting trip.

By the way, inexplicably, this bubbly blonde beauty is Meatloaf-guy's girlfriend. Only in Texas!

In between bouts of squirrel and jack-rabbit shooting (for real, from the looks of the twitching squirrel), the fellas visit a local tavern to dance awkwardly with dazed locals and to chortle drunkenly about women and killin' stuff.

Oh, and there's a wet t-shirt contest! Yee haw!

While all this goes on, Buddy Owen manages to charm the cleavage-bearing waitress, Fay (Maureen McCormick) with his aw-shucks, virginal ways.

Fay suggests they get together after work; Buddy Owen can't believe his luck, and takes her to his motel room. They make sweet, cherry-popping motel love and Fay rips Buddy off for a quick twenty bucks, suggesting that perhaps she's more a hustler than a heart-of-gold. By the way, Brady Bunch fans hoping from some prime Marcia booby-flashing are sadly, out of luck - while they do seem to be out, Mitchell Jr. tightly cups one of 'em, while the other is strategically hidden by her arm. Curses!

So anyway, long story short, dad's loutish buds bust in during the afterglow and rape Fay. So that was a bummer.

Later on, the fellas all go hunting again. Frank throws a plate full of beans at Lenny. That was pretty exciting.

And then Buddy almost shoots everybody. It should be noted, at this point, that Graver - who also wrote the script - initially imagined Texas Lightning as a gripping, violent, coming-of-age drama. Fearing they had a lame duck on their hands, the producers forced Graver to reshoot and throw in a handful of 'comedic' scenes - like the ditzy blonde and the pork n' beans incident - so that they could sell it as a Bandit-esque redneck comedy. Presumably, Buddy Owen actually shoots these fuckers in the director's cut. Here, he just lets 'em go.

Then he apologizes to Fay about the whole rape-y evening. And then she sings a song! Honkytonk bartenders get over shit pretty quick, I guess.

The end.

Bloodless, boob-less, and wavering uneasily between overcooked drama and half-baked comedy, Texas Lightning is not a great - or even a good - flick. It's worth the effort mostly for McCormick's cleavage and pretty song. The rest is a slog. Even crazy old Cameron Mitchell sleep-walks through it. And he's usually up for anything.

- Ken McIntyre

Moonshine County Express (1977)

Directed by Gus Trikonis
Starring Claudia Jennings, Maureen McCormack, John Saxon
Rated PG
USA

"You just wait around here and I'll go get myself killed."

Before he settled into a long  and winding career in basic cable (Baywatch, Hercules, Sea Quest, Viper), director Gus Trikonis carved out an impressive resume of 70's drive-in trash: Five the Hard Way (1969), Supercock (1975), Swinging Barmaids (1975), The Student Body (1976), The Evil (1978), and of course, Moonshine County Express, his fast and furious entry into the then wildly popular hicksploitation cycle.

It should be pointed out that in 1977, when Moonshine Country Express was released, Burt Reynolds was bigger than Jesus. For all intents and purposes, this is a Burt Reynolds movie, only on one-tenth the budget, and with 60's sci-fi star John Saxon filling in for the mustache. All the Burtsploitation elements are there: booze, dirty cops, fast cars, and a fistful of gum-snappin', back-talkin' broads in cut-offs.

The story - slight as it is - involves a trio of backwoods beauties - Dot (Susan Howard), Betty (70's grindhouse superstar Claudia Jennings, RIP) and Sissy Hammer (Marsha Brady herself, Maureen McCormack), three sisters orphaned when their daddy - and his moonshine still - are all blown to smithereens by mean ol' Jack Starkey (William "Cannon" Conrad, RIP), the town asshole, and Daddy Hammer's chief competitor in the 'shine running game.

Things look bad for the girls until they meet Daddy's lawyer, who reads them a letter promising the girls a fortune, right under their noses, in the backyard. Dead dad suggests they pick up a shovel, and start digging. And so they do.

The girls find the stash of prohibition-era whiskey he'd stowed in a makeshift cellar behind their shack. There's enough there for them to sell and move out of the mountain, but they'll need some hired muscle to help 'em protect the stuff.

Naturally, smooth-talkin' shine-runner JB (John Saxon) gets recruited for the gig.
Good thing, too, because once ol Starkey gets wind of the girls' new business, he sends his boys over to shoot their shack full of holes. Them bastards even got their hound dog. Dog slayin' sumbitches!

A Bugs Bunney-esque, banjo-driven turf war breaks out.

Starkey's goons take out Dotty's customers and co-conspirators in various acts of extreme violence - one guy's store gets blown up, with him in it; a mechanic has the car he's working on dropped on him - until there's no one left 'cept for JB, the girls, and a bitchin' bright yellow muscle car.

And then Starkey's goon runs them off the road, and they don't even have the fuckin' car anymore. Somebody finds a truck, and they decide to try and smuggle all the booze out of town under the cover of night.

Unfortunately, permanently soused Uncle Bill (cowboy star Dub Taylor) finds their stash and stumbles into town to spill the beans. Starkey's men overrun the joint and tie Sissy to a post. That part was awesome. Marsha, in tiny cut-offs, tied to a post! Who knows what they planned on doing, but luckily Betty shows up to shoot a few of 'em in the guts and blow up a few more with sticks of dynamite. They manage to get the hooch out, and a run for the county line - chased by cops and bad guys - ensues.

Moonshine County Express revels in violence, but, strangely enough, it skimps completely on nudity, shattering the hopes of 70's era sleazebags hoping for a glimpse of Marsha's muffins. Luckily, what the film lacks in celebrity skin, it makes up for with gunfights and gusto - 90% of the movie is either high speed car chases down dusty back roads, or over the top bullet ballets. The cast is full of primo 70's character actors, too. Besides the already-mentioned leads, be on the lookout for apple-cheeked, platinum blonde B-flick goddess Candice Rialson and Len "Uncle Leo" Lesser, in smaller roles. Sure, John Saxon is no Bandit, but still, Moonshine County Express is drenched in that same mid 70's stink. Imagine, a world where all you needed to outrun the long arm of the law was a faster car, where selling booze you made in your own basement was a viable career choice, and where a braless, barefoot Marsha Brady brandished a rifle. That's the world on offer here.  And who wouldn't want to spend some time there?

- Ken McIntyre