The Last House on Dead End Street, 1977

Made right after Wes Craven‘s gritty, ultra violent exploitation flick The Last House on the Left, 1972 that contributed to the mutilation of cinema, after garnering a strong cult following through the years and re-made in 2009 with (SPOILER) a zero impact ‘and they sailed and sailed in a boat happily ever after’ ending (SPOILER ends).

Craven’s influences are idiosyncratic. Then, a few years down the road, along came a very bad-man with third degree burns on his body, a Christmas sweater, a tilted dusty fedora and a metal clawed glove which, he uses to decommission (decommission. Hehe) young, clueless, students of Elm Street and also Johnny Depp (what the fuck is wrong with Freddy? Everything). Freddy is the best, even after two hundred years.

Returning to the film at hand; even though filming and post production of Dead End Street had ended by ’73, the film was to be released four years later, after the violent protests stopped.

The film (made for $8,225 as of 2014) is an inspiration for director Fred Vogel of Toe-Tag Pictures. After reading Vogel’s interview with traumaticcinematic.com, where he admits to Dead End Street being an early influence on him and the films he was to bombard us with, later, I was more than intrigued to watch this snuff/slasher from Hair Peace days. I still dig the trim.

Coming to the film itself, well, can I just stop here?
Yes?
Alright.

Here’s a photo:

However, it’s my responsibility to warn the viewers of the highly disjointed story-telling, nonsensical script – ‘I will make a movie that no one has ever made‘; sure whatever you say Roger Watkins (late), Midnight Heat, 1983 – the impatient editing that is too self-aware, resulting in jump cuts during scenes that should’ve continued until the victim is dead and her chest is still rising and settling slightly. Did I mention bad photography and bad acting coupled with a genuinely indisposed tone of the film simply make the viewer uncomfortable and the pay-off is total blue balls.

Applauded by some for having a ‘distinct catalogue of horror‘, washed out setting and the in your face dissentient voices castigating as worthless diatribe and catalyst for almost all murders committed in the name of film (an intrinsically flawed film), the advocates of Dead End Street claim it to be an Intelligent film which, it is considering the year it was made in, when pulling out guts from a dead woman (still breathing) was as shocking as putting them back in, is now.

Roger Watkins, somewhat of a deviant, mostly directing under a pseudonym – freedom of speech? Oh I forget, Rushdie once, quite recently, had a sweet three million bounty on his head for Satanic Verses 1988 published exactly a decade later.

Side A

Directing porn and eventually Dead End Street with gratuitous nudity and terrific translucent masks, with a slight stammer of the Charles Manson Murders, the film fails to rise above the insipid fabric the director chooses to stuff his ambitious project with.

Side B

In conclusion, Dead End Street it is a story about a man who is really upset after being sent to the Jam for drug possession. A year later he’s freed and starts making snuff with his former associates and their wives as his victims, albeit not without the help of Otis from Henry, or so it seems; a cameraman from the pits of film hell and two women whose perpetual extremely ingenuine laughter makes the film even more enduring to watch. Then comes the special effects. As soon as the drill is supposed to make contact with the head of a victim, the scene shies away to women laughing like idiots. As soon as a leg is amputated, there is enough blood on the surgical bed to fit a tooth extraction. You just cut off a grown human limb, man. Awww, c’mon.

Watch it only to experience the roots of US extreme cinema sprouting a plant, a carnivorous plant. Not France or Greece or Italy or Russia, but this time the US.

Note: I realise I went on and on after agreeing to stop when I did. I can’t help it; one of the reasons that the hallucinogens got the better of me.