Jess Franco’s Two Undercover Angels serves up mod-era sleaze with a wink and a shrug, but its psychedelic style can’t disguise the limp thrills underneath.
As far as Euro pulp oddities go, Two Undercover Angels—aka Rote Lippen, Sadisterotica—might be one of Jess Franco’s more playful deviations. On paper, it’s a mod-era mash-up of pop art, pulp thrills, and soft sleaze: two stylish female detectives from the “Red Lips” agency are on the trail of missing models and dancers. Their investigation leads them to Klaus Thriller, a sinister pop artist with a penchant for painting corpses, and his werewolf-esque henchman, Morpho.
But beneath its colourful veneer, Two Undercover Angels struggles to keep its footing. The plot is both wafer-thin and weirdly convoluted, more concerned with psychedelic set pieces and lounge room flirtations than any real sense of momentum. There’s a certain charm to Franco’s anything-goes attitude, but this one too often feels like a parody without punch, skimming the surface of spy pastiche without offering much intrigue.
Still, there’s no denying the camp value. The film is drenched in candy-coloured lighting, groovy outfits, and suggestive camera work that borders on the absurd. It’s Euro camp through and through—like a budget Bond fantasy filtered through a lava lamp and shot on the run. Lovers of kitsch might find some delight in the film’s unabashed frivolity, but those looking for coherence, or even competent thrills, may walk away bemused.
Franco fans will recognise familiar touches: nonsensical plotting, dreamy eroticism, and the ever-present air of detachment. But even by his standards, this feels like an undercooked entry. The “Red Lips” duo never quite click as compelling protagonists, and while Morpho adds a dose of monster movie weirdness, he’s more curious footnote than actual menace.
Two Undercover Angels is a wild title for a limp romp—cheeky in intent but dull in execution. There’s pop-art potential here, but much like Klaus Thriller’s paintings, its mostly just lifeless models draped in excess.
It’s been 50 years since Poor Pretty Eddie first bled onto grindhouse screens—an exploitation oddity so unrelenting in tone, it still rattles the nerves. Directed by Richard Robinson and David Worth, this backwoods fever dream masquerades as a cautionary tale but plays out more like a cultural endurance test. Yet, even within its murky execution and dubious intent, a pair of unforgettable performances rise above the muck.
Lesley Uggams, cast against type as jazz singer Liz Wetherly, is the emotional core of the film. Her portrayal is both defiant and devastating, as her character is stranded, isolated, and ultimately brutalised in a world thick with racial animosity and patriarchal cruelty. Shelley Winters, meanwhile, leans into grotesque Southern Gothic as Bertha, the deluded former starlet whose fading glamour and bitterness curdle into complicity. Together, these two women anchor the film with performances that are far more compelling than the script deserves.
The story is minimal—a wrong turn leads Liz to an isolated Georgia lodge where Eddie, a preening and dangerous wannabe Elvis (played with jittery menace by Michael Christian), holds sway under Bertha’s unstable watch. What follows is a grim and often exploitative descent into humiliation, abuse, and domination.
At the heart of Poor Pretty Eddie lies a scathing, if poorly handled, examination of systemic white supremacy in the American South. The film doesn’t shy away from making race the centerpiece of its tension—Liz’s every interaction is filtered through the hostile gaze of a white society determined to strip her of autonomy. There’s an ugliness to the way this is handled, and a leering sensationalism that taints the message, but the subtext is undeniably there: this is a tale about a Black woman’s body and spirit being colonised, scrutinised, and fought over in a place that sees her as nothing more than an intruder.
What’s most haunting, perhaps, is that the film’s ugliest behaviors and racist ideologies remain deeply relevant. In its raw depiction of institutional and interpersonal racism—especially how it is normalised, ignored, or celebrated by those in power—Poor Pretty Eddie still finds uncomfortable resonance in 2025.
Unfortunately, the exploitative style undermines much of the film’s thematic potential. The gratuitous nature of the violence, the sleazy tone, and the amateurish editing reduce powerful commentary to provocation. The direction is uneven, and the pacing is meandering, trapping viewers in a murky stew of misogyny and nihilism without offering a satisfying critique or catharsis.
As an artifact of its era, Poor Pretty Eddie is fascinating and infuriating in equal measure. But as a film, it buckles under the weight of its own grotesquery. Still, thanks to Uggams and Winters, the film leaves a mark—even if it’s more bruise than breakthrough.
By the late 1960s, television horror was beginning to dip its toes into more psychological and supernatural territory, often embracing the occult with varying degrees of success. Fear No Evil (1969), directed by Paul Wendkos, fits squarely into this mold, offering a made-for-TV horror experience that flirts with interesting ideas but ultimately feels constrained by its small-screen limitations.
The story follows Dr. David Sorell (Louis Jourdan), a psychiatrist with a particular interest in the supernatural, as he becomes entangled in a case involving an antique mirror with a sinister history. The mirror’s influence extends beyond the realm of the living, allowing a grieving fiancée to reconnect with her deceased former lover. What begins as a promising supernatural mystery soon devolves into a predictable exercise in TV-movie theatrics, relying more on melodrama than genuine chills.
Jourdan, ever the consummate professional, carries the film with an air of refined authority. His performance elevates the material slightly, making even the more overwrought moments watchable. He leans into the gothic atmosphere with conviction, though the film itself doesn’t always support his efforts. The occult elements, while intriguing, never reach their full potential, often feeling more like window dressing than integral components of the plot.
Visually, Fear No Evil does what it can within its limited budget, employing shadowy lighting and moody cinematography to create an eerie ambiance. However, the production values betray its television origins, making it difficult to shake the feeling that this could have been an episode of an anthology series rather than a standalone feature. The film lacks the polish and cinematic depth of its theatrical contemporaries, and its pacing suffers as a result—dragging when it should build tension.
Despite its shortcomings, Fear No Evil was notable enough to warrant a spiritual follow-up, Ritual of Evil (1970), which continued Dr. Sorell’s supernatural investigations. This suggests that there was an audience for this type of made-for-TV horror, even if it never quite managed to transcend its format.
The Prognosis:
In the end, Fear No Evil is a passable, albeit forgettable, occult thriller that never fully commits to the weight of its premise. While Louis Jourdan gives it his all, the film struggles to break free from its “cheesy TV movie” trappings, leaving it as little more than a curiosity for genre enthusiasts rather than a must-see classic.
By the mid-1980s, Stephen King had already become a powerhouse name in horror cinema, with adaptations of Carrie (1976), The Shining (1980), and Christine (1983) cementing his influence. Cat’s Eye (1985), directed by Lewis Teague, took a different approach by presenting a horror anthology linked by a wandering feline. While it may not reach the same heights as King’s most revered works, Cat’s Eye remains a solid genre effort, offering a mix of psychological tension, supernatural horror, and dark humour.
The film’s triptych of tales begins with “Quitters, Inc.,” starring James Woods as a desperate man who enrolls in a sinister program to quit smoking, only to find the methods more terrifying than expected. Woods delivers a strong performance, balancing paranoia with nervous energy, making his character’s predicament all the more gripping. The second story, “The Ledge,” follows Robert Hays as a gambler forced to traverse the narrow ledge of a high-rise building by a vengeful crime boss. This segment is packed with suspense and effectively utilises vertigo-inducing cinematography to heighten the tension.
The final segment, “General,” shifts into a more supernatural realm, with a young Drew Barrymore playing a girl tormented by a malevolent gnome that only her stray cat, General, seems to understand. Barrymore, fresh off E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (1982) and Firestarter (1984), once again proves herself a strong child actor, giving the film a heart amid its more macabre elements. Her presence adds emotional weight to an otherwise whimsical horror entry, ensuring the audience remains invested in her fate.
Director Lewis Teague, who had previously helmed Cujo (1983), brings a polished visual style to Cat’s Eye, ensuring each segment has its own distinct atmosphere. While the stories vary in intensity, the film remains engaging throughout, aided by King’s darkly humorous and inventive storytelling. The anthology format allows for quick pacing, though it also means that not all segments leave a lasting impact.
The Prognosis:
As a whole, Cat’s Eye is a respectable entry in the pantheon of King adaptations, offering enough thrills and memorable performances to make it a worthwhile watch. While it may not be the most iconic of King’s cinematic ventures, its mix of psychological horror, dark comedy, and supernatural tension make it a unique entry in his filmography. Forty years later, it remains an enjoyable, if somewhat underrated, slice of 80s horror cinema.
Aldo Lado’s Late Night Trains (L’ultimo treno della notte, 1975) arrived at the height of Italy’s exploitation boom, a time when filmmakers weren’t shy about pushing boundaries. A clear product of the era’s fascination with transgressive horror, the film wears its influences on its sleeve—most notably Wes Craven’s The Last House on the Left (1972). While it doesn’t reinvent the formula, Late Night Trains still manages to carve out its own identity, delivering a nihilistic nightmare that lingers in the mind, even as it struggles to justify its existence beyond sheer brutality.
The setup is all too familiar: Two young women, Margaret and Lisa, board a train home for Christmas, unaware that their holiday journey will become a waking nightmare. As the train moves through the cold European night, they fall prey to two sadistic criminals and a demented woman who seems to relish the violence as much as they do. The film unfolds as an exercise in cruelty, culminating in the expected revenge-fueled third act.
Lado’s direction is both slick and suffocating, using the cramped confines of the train to heighten the claustrophobia. Unlike Craven’s grimy, almost documentary-like approach, Late Night Trains boasts a more polished aesthetic, with an unsettling score by Ennio Morricone that contrasts its horrors with an eerie, melancholic beauty. This visual and auditory elegance makes the film’s brutality hit even harder, though it never quite transcends its exploitation roots.
Where Late Night Trains stumbles is in its lack of depth. While The Last House on the Left (for all its flaws) attempted to grapple with themes of cyclical violence and societal decay, Lado’s film largely exists to shock. The social commentary feels tacked on rather than fully explored, and the violence, while effectively harrowing, leaves little room for nuance. Still, as a piece of grindhouse cinema, it succeeds in delivering an experience that’s undeniably disturbing.
Fifty years later, Late Night Trains remains a controversial and haunting film, albeit one that struggles to differentiate itself from the many Last House imitators of the era. It’s a rough watch—not just for its unrelenting cruelty but for its sense of inevitability. There’s no escape here, just an unrelenting descent into torment. While not a masterpiece of the genre, its cold, methodical savagery ensures that once seen, it’s not easily forgotten.
Few films capture the terrifying extremes of desire and artistic obsession as viscerally as Blind Beast (盲獣, 1969), directed by Yasuzō Masumura. Adapted from Edogawa Rampo’s twisted tale, this haunting psychological horror film immerses viewers in a nightmarish world where the boundaries between love, art, and cruelty blur beyond recognition. As a prime example of Japan’s pinku eiga movement, Blind Beast is both provocative and deeply unsettling, an eerie descent into madness that remains as hypnotic as it is disturbing.
The film follows a blind sculptor, Michio, who kidnaps an artists’ model, Aki, and imprisons her in his warehouse studio—a surreal, cavernous space adorned with grotesque sculptures of oversized body parts. In this tactile prison, Michio seeks to craft the ultimate masterpiece, guided only by touch and an all-consuming obsession with the female form. As the two become locked in a perverse battle of control and submission, their dynamic spirals into a shocking climax that pushes the limits of psychological horror.
Masumura’s direction transforms Blind Beast into a fever dream of sensual horror. The set design alone is unforgettable—giant, looming sculptures of lips, breasts, and limbs create a surrealist landscape that feels more like a descent into the subconscious than a physical location. This oppressive, tactile environment enhances the film’s themes of blindness, sensation, and the distortion of reality. The film’s use of lighting, shadow, and close-ups amplifies the claustrophobia, making Aki’s entrapment feel as much psychological as it is physical.
Unlike many films within the pinku eiga genre, Blind Beast isn’t merely an exercise in exploitation; it’s a deeply unsettling meditation on power, art, and the consuming nature of obsession. The performances, particularly by Mako Midori as Aki, elevate the material beyond its pulp origins. Her transformation from victim to something far more complex is both terrifying and mesmerising, reinforcing the film’s psychological depth.
That said, Blind Beast isn’t for everyone. Its slow, methodical pacing and unnerving themes may alienate viewers looking for more conventional horror. However, for those drawn to the eerie, the grotesque, and the philosophical, it stands as a singularly unique film—a macabre masterpiece.
The late 1960s saw an influx of bizarre, low-budget horror films that leaned into surrealism and psychological horror. Scream Baby Scream (1969), directed by Joseph Adler, fits squarely into this niche—an oddball mix of artsy horror and grindhouse sleaze. While the film struggles with pacing and lacks narrative depth, its eerie dreamlike atmosphere and grotesque imagery make it a strangely compelling relic of its time.
The plot follows a deranged artist who kidnaps models and disfigures their faces to create his own “masterpieces,” a setup that recalls Eyes Without a Face (1960) but with a much grimier, low-rent execution. The film attempts to explore themes of artistic obsession and vanity but never fully commits, instead relying on a series of repetitive kidnappings and hallucinatory sequences that teeter between hypnotic and tedious.
Where Scream Baby Scream excels is in its visuals. While the budgetary constraints are obvious, the film embraces a psychedelic aesthetic with strange lighting, distorted imagery, and an eerie, off-kilter score that adds to its nightmarish quality. The scenes of the artist at work, transforming his victims into grotesque creations, are genuinely unsettling, even if the effects aren’t always convincing.
However, the film suffers from a sluggish pace and a script that struggles to maintain tension. The dialogue is clunky, and the characters feel more like sketches than real people, making it difficult to invest in their fates. Despite its flaws, the film’s feverish tone and macabre concept give it an undeniable cult appeal.
The Prognosis:
While not a lost classic, Scream Baby Scream is an intriguing example of late-’60s horror, where artistic ambition and exploitation filmmaking collided in strange and sometimes fascinating ways. Fans of obscure, surreal horror may find something to appreciate here, but casual viewers may find the experience more frustrating than frightening.
South Korean horror cinema in the 1970s rarely delved into the mad scientist subgenre, making A Horrible Double-Faced Man (공포의 이중인간), directed by Lee Yong-min, a fascinating oddity. Mixing elements of gothic horror, psychological terror, and pulp sci-fi, the film weaves a macabre tale of resurrection gone horribly wrong. While it suffers from uneven pacing and some narrative absurdities, it remains an intriguing, if flawed, effort that deserves a closer look.
The film follows Dr. Jeong, a morally corrupt scientist whose obsession with reviving the dead leads him to commit unspeakable acts. His ultimate goal is to resurrect Ono, a war criminal who hid a fortune in diamonds, using a twisted method that involves transplanting a dying man’s soul into a dead body. The result is a monstrous “double-faced man” – a being with a fractured existence, caught between life and death. It’s a compelling concept, one that recalls Frankenstein, Eyes Without a Face, and even Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, but infused with distinctly Korean cinematic sensibilities.
Lee Yong-min, best known for A Devilish Homicide (1965), once again showcases a flair for eerie atmosphere. The film makes excellent use of stormy weather, dimly lit laboratories, and desolate graveyards to craft a moody, almost dreamlike setting. However, the execution of its horror elements is inconsistent. Some moments, particularly those involving the resurrected Ono’s eerie movements and disjointed identity, carry an unsettling edge, while others feel unintentionally campy due to the era’s limited special effects and melodramatic performances.
The film’s thematic depth, exploring the dangers of unchecked ambition and the consequences of playing god, gives it an intellectual weight beyond its B-movie trappings. Yet, its pacing can be sluggish, and the narrative sometimes loses focus, shifting between horror, crime thriller, and supernatural drama without fully committing to any.
While A Horrible Double-Faced Man never achieved international recognition, it remains an interesting relic of 1970s Korean horror—one that blends genre influences into something both familiar and uniquely strange. Fans of vintage sci-fi horror will appreciate its eerie concept, even if its execution doesn’t fully realise its potential.
Freddie Francis’ Legend of the Werewolf (1975) is an atmospheric entry in the world of lycanthropic horror, offering a blend of Gothic visual style and the usual blood-soaked thrills of a werewolf tale. Set in 19th century France, it introduces us to a feral boy who, raised in a travelling circus, undergoes a chilling transformation as he grows into adulthood. His fate is sealed when a grisly murder sets off a chain of events, leading to a bloodthirsty rampage that culminates in a vicious pursuit across Paris.
The film opens with a certain rawness, beginning with a young, mute boy found in the woods by a circus troupe. This “wolf boy,” as they call him, is put on display, his feral nature captivating the audience while unsettling anyone who sees him. As he grows older, the boy, played by the imposing David Rintoul, slowly becomes a creature of terror, tormented by his animal instincts. This descent into savagery is fascinating to watch, especially under Francis’ directorial eye, known for his command over visual horror. The atmosphere is rich, and the sets create a lovely period feel, heightened by the interplay of shadow and light that Francis has become renowned for.
What elevates the film for me—despite its shortcomings—is the presence of Peter Cushing. Cushing, as always, brings gravitas to the role of the determined police surgeon, a man who becomes the obsessive pursuer of the wolfman. Even when the story meanders or becomes predictable, Cushing’s charisma and commitment to the role inject it with life, as only he can. His role isn’t expansive, but his screen time is always a treat, especially in a genre film like this one, where his presence provides a certain sense of respectability and class.
That said, Legend of the Werewolf does have its issues. The pacing feels uneven, and while the visual elements are appealing, the narrative stumbles in parts. The transformation scenes, while not without their intrigue, lack the oomph that might have made this a standout entry in the werewolf genre. The character development is relatively shallow, and the final act, while tense, feels like it lacks the emotional resonance of some other lycanthrope stories. The script offers little depth, focusing more on the physical horror rather than the psychological torment of its characters, something that could have given the film more weight.
The romance element between the werewolf and a prostitute, which forms a significant part of the film, feels underdeveloped, making the tension between love, obsession, and violence seem somewhat contrived. This weakens the central narrative, as the werewolf’s descent into madness could have been more nuanced.
That said, there is still enjoyment to be found in Legend of the Werewolf, particularly for those who appreciate period horror and are fond of Francis’ visual flair. It’s a decent 70s horror outing that ultimately serves as a solid but not spectacular entry into the genre.
A Brief About Tyburn Films Productions Ltd.
Tyburn Films Productions Ltd. was a British film production company that specialised in low-budget horror films during the 1970s, often dealing with themes of the supernatural, the macabre, and the grotesque. While the company didn’t boast a vast library of films, the few it did produce left a significant impact on the genre, particularly in the UK.
Tyburn was founded by Michael Klinger, who had a vision of reviving classic horror with a more contemporary twist. The films produced by Tyburn were often heavily reliant on atmosphere and shock value, something that perfectly fit into the popular tastes of the 1970s, which was a golden era for horror cinema. Legend of the Werewolf is an example of Tyburn’s signature style—more mood-driven than plot-driven, with its focus on visuals and atmosphere. Tyburn’s other notable films include The Ghoul (1975) and The House That Vanished (1973), which, like Legend of the Werewolf, combined old-fashioned Gothic horror tropes with modern sensibilities. Tyburn Films was not in the business of subtlety, often leaning into lurid exploitation and grotesque imagery to make their mark.
While the company didn’t last long, and its filmography remains niche in the broader world of horror, Tyburn’s contributions to the genre continue to be appreciated by fans of vintage, atmospheric horror films.
Larry Cohen’s The Stuff is a cult curiosity that blends body horror, B-movie absurdity, and sharp social satire into one messy, unpredictable package. The film follows David Rutherford (Michael Moriarty), an ex-FBI agent hired to investigate a mysterious new dessert craze that’s sweeping the nation. The Stuff isn’t just delicious—it’s alive, and once it takes hold of its consumers, it turns them into hollowed-out, mind-controlled husks.
On a purely visual level, The Stuff is a delightfully grotesque spectacle. The practical effects—oozing, stretching, and slithering white goo—are gloriously over-the-top, calling to mind The Blob (1958) but with an extra dose of ‘80s excess. The standout body horror moments, such as the stomach-churning sight of The Stuff bursting from its victims or taking over their bodies from within, are a testament to Cohen’s ability to deliver memorable, lo-fi carnage on a budget.
Beyond the slime and splatter, The Stuff functions as a scathing satire of consumer culture. Cohen takes aim at corporate greed, mindless marketing, and the dangers of mass-produced food products, turning a silly horror premise into a sharp critique of America’s addiction to processed goods. The film’s fictional advertising campaigns, featuring smiling families mindlessly shoveling The Stuff into their mouths, feel unsettlingly close to real-life junk food commercials. It’s an obvious but effective jab at a society that consumes without question.
However, despite its ambitious themes and inventive effects, The Stuff struggles with its execution. The pacing is uneven, the tonal shifts are jarring, and while Michael Moriarty delivers an enjoyably offbeat performance, the rest of the cast wavers between deadpan and overly cartoonish. The film’s satire is biting but often undermined by its own absurdity, making it feel more like a collection of great ideas rather than a fully cohesive horror-comedy.
As for Larry Cohen, The Stuff is a prime example of his signature approach to horror—blending pulpy thrills with pointed social commentary. Throughout his career, Cohen carved out a unique space in the genre, crafting inventive, low-budget horror films that often had something meaningful to say. From It’s Alive (1974), a nightmarish take on parenthood, to Q: The Winged Serpent (1982), his offbeat creature feature set in New York City, Cohen consistently delivered high-concept horror with a satirical bite. His work may not have had the polish of mainstream horror directors, but his DIY spirit and subversive storytelling made him a cult icon.
As a piece of schlocky, effects-driven body horror, The Stuff is a fun ride. As a social commentary, it’s admirably bold but ultimately a little too messy. It’s not Cohen’s best work, but it remains a fascinating, if flawed, slice of ‘80s horror satire that still oozes with cult appeal.
Surgeons of Horror 