The House of Seven Corpses (1974)

Posted on August 23, 2013 at 4:59 pm by Jeff Kuykendall

A film crew has come to the Beal House to shoot a horror movie about the murders which took place there generations ago: seven victims, shot, hanged, drowned, and stabbed. The veteran director, Eric Hartman (John Ireland, Red River), has brought with him a famous celebrity well past her prime, Gayle Dorian (Faith Domergue, This Island Earth), who also happens to be his on-again, off-again lover. She has qualms about the macabre project and the eerie old house itself, and he struggles to convince her to spend the last remaining nights on the shoot – even after her beloved cat is found mysteriously chopped in two. Meanwhile, actor David (Jerry Strickler), the boyfriend of the film’s blonde starlet, Anne (Carole Wells, Funny Lady), finds the Tibetan Book of the Dead sitting on a shelf and becomes obsessed over the text, particularly an apparent incantation to raise the dead; as though it were the Necronomicon, he makes sure to read it aloud, and twice. If that weren’t foreboding enough, the caretaker (John Carradine, enjoying himself) sleeps in an open grave out back that’s dug beside the buried seven. His name is Price. (“What’s his first name? Vincent?” “No. Edgar.”)

Faith Domergue reenacts a black magic ritual, the image of a decapitated cat on a mural behind her.

The House of Seven Corpses (1974) is a charming, if minor, zombie picture, the sole feature film from TV director Paul Harrison. It was shot almost entirely in a single location, the Utah State Historical Society, formerly the governor’s mansion (as associate producer Gary Kent recalls on the Blu-Ray’s commentary track, the head of the foundation during the filming was a fellow named “Joseph Smith”). The three-story house is really the star of the picture, claustrophobic but with a dizzying central staircase that Harrison makes the most of, aiming his camera above and below the gracefully-curved railings: several of the scenes consist of characters calling up or down at one another while separated by two floors, a nice visual symbol for the chaos and frustrations of the crew’s attempt to organize the movie-within-the-movie. The film takes its time, revealing its monster only when the movie’s nearly over (he’s a blue-skinned, foot-dragging zombie who, smitten, bears Carole Wells off toward the water like he’s the Creature from the Black Lagoon). Luckily, the script and characterizations are amusing enough to make this more of a pleasure than a chore. This is an early example of a horror movie that’s about horror movies, something more novel in the early 70’s than today (the premise has now become pretty tired, the fun Cabin in the Woods notwithstanding). Reading the Tibetan Book of the Dead, David comments to Anne, “It may be garbage, but it’s better garbage than the writer gave us.” Harrison continually pulls the rug out from under us. The opening depicts a faux black-magic ritual with Domergue and a mural of a cat’s head impaled on a pitchfork – and he cheats here, since he uses a (not-very-good) special effect that could only be achieved post-production. An older, vain actor named Millan (Charles Macaulay, Blacula) appears in several scenes before he suddenly removes a wig and false moustache, revealing his true features. We witness the behind-the-scenes snipes and fights and catty little comments. When a man is stabbed by a collapsible knife, we see the blood-pump worked by an effects artist standing right behind him. To make it all the more meta, some members of Hartman’s film crew are members of the House of Seven Corpses crew; the man playing the snarky makeup artist is Ron Foreman, the film’s actual makeup artist and the art director for films such as Rocky III (1982) and The Ice Pirates (1984).

The zombie, invading the set, prepares to put an end to both the director and his film.

The meta-framing produces some strange and unintentional side-effects. Although we see a montage of “real” murders over the opening credits (the various deaths of the Beal clan, seemingly inspired by the opening of Robert Wise’s The Haunting), most of the film depicts killings that are staged, and the filming of those scenes is sometimes so prolonged that we start to wonder if someone will really be injured or killed while the cameras are rolling (in other words, we’re waiting for something to happen). Finally, when David sees Gayle screaming in the middle of a take and says, “Wait, this is real!”, he lifts up the top half of the bisected cat, which looks to us like nothing more than a stuffed animal: fake, really fake. It’s enough to make the head spin. Of course, the irony is fully intentional when the zombie starts murdering our horror movie-makers, but I wasn’t particularly invested in the film’s stated theme of the present mirroring the past. Although that’s one thoughtful and efficient zombie, killing off the crew so quickly and in the manner of Beals gone by. Where’s the deleted scene where the monster hurries to the next crime scene while panting, “Oh yeah, now I gotta drown somebody”? The film is now available from Severin Films (who will shortly be releasing 1976’s The House on Straw Hill). I suggest pairing this with a Polygamy Porter on a Saturday night.

Posted in Theater Caligari | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment

Monty Python Live at the Hollywood Bowl (1982)

Posted on August 21, 2013 at 10:41 pm by Jeff Kuykendall

“Welcome to the Ronald Reagan Memorial Bowl!” For four nights during the month of September 1980, Monty Python held court at the legendary Hollywood Bowl to an audience of about 8,000 per show. “[It] tickled all of us,” Michael Palin wrote in The Pythons Autobiography, “because we were all brought up on LPs of people ‘Live at the Hollywood Bowl,’ whether it was Sinatra or Errol Garner or the big bands that played the stage there. And we said, ‘Yeah, okay, we’ll have a go.'” The troupe had performed live sporadically throughout the 70’s, and released comedy albums from two of their shows, Live at Drury Lane (1974) and Live at City Center (1976), but the 1980 performances would be their last hurrah as a stage act, having already conquered film with two of the greatest comedies of the 70’s, Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975) and Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979). Secondary output – that is, anything that wasn’t cinema – was dwindling, but they had just released an album of all-new material, much of it musical, called (with just a hint of sarcasm) Monty Python’s Contractual Obligation Album (1980). So ostensibly they had something to promote, and songs from the album were incorporated into the stage show. The primary draw of performing live in Hollywood, apart from the allure of the venue itself, was simply because they hadn’t conquered the West Coast before. Celebrities hung out backstage, including George Harrison, Mick Jagger, John Belushi, Steve Martin (who hosted a pool party for them), Debbie Harry, Carrie Fisher, Marty Feldman, and Harry Nilsson, who was known to crash Python events, literally (in New York, he fell into the orchestra pit while singing backup on “The Lumberjack Song”). Carol Cleveland, recalling those extraordinary days in Monty Python Live!, claims it was “the pinnacle of Python”; as for John Cleese: “I understood the rock concert thing then, and I enjoyed every minute of it.”

Eric Idle, Neil Innes, and Michael Palin lead the audience in "The Bruces Philosophers Song."

The film – Monty Python Live at the Hollywood Bowl (1982) – was actually an afterthought, released to a handful of theaters a full two years later. Denis O’Brien was the business manager for George Harrison and, with Harrison, the co-founder of HandMade Films (which had a long affiliation with Python, having been formed to finance Life of Brian, and being the production company behind Palin’s The Missionary and A Private Function, Cleese’s Privates on Parade, Terry Gilliam’s Time Bandits, and Eric Idle’s Nuns on the Run). Gilliam, in David Morgan’s Monty Python Speaks!, puts it with his usual bluntness: “Denis was our manager then, he decided to interfere, [and] he completely fucked it up. We had taped the shows, and the money we were guaranteed we didn’t get because Denis squandered it, wasted it, so we actually had to release the tape as a movie here in England to get the money that we’d hoped to get from the stage show; we didn’t want it to go out as a movie.” Cleese and Idle, however, recall that they edited the film together with enthusiasm, and we should all be grateful Live at the Hollywood Bowl exists, as it’s the only filmed document of the Python stage show. Here we see the Pythons performing their greatest hits – “The Lumberjack Song,” “Nudge Nudge,” “Crunchy Frog,” “Silly Walks,” and “Argument Clinic” (but not the “Dead Parrot Sketch”) – along with a couple of older, more obscure bits, and some newer material. Onstage they’re joined by Cleveland and Neil Innes, both of whom could make legitimate claims to being “the Seventh Python,” having appeared on the television series and in the films, as well as being veterans of the tours. Innes sings an old number from his days with the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, “I’m the Urban Spaceman,” originally released as a single in 1968; and he performs “How Sweet to Be an Idiot,” the title track from his first solo album.

John Cleese sells "Albatross!" during the Intermission, and abuses Terry Jones.

As for the audience, well, as Idle puts it: “All the kids are on drugs and all the adults are on roller skates.” Terry Jones has recalled that you could smell the marijuana smoke as you walked down the aisles, an observation made by Cleese in the film, when, dressed in drag as the Intermission’s albatross vendor, he shouts at one audience member, “You’re not supposed to be smoking that.” During the same sketch, another inescapable fact of their live performance becomes obvious: the crowd has the material memorized. “What flavor is it?” ask several goons, doing their worst British accents a good half-minute before Jones gets to that line (he’s forced to underplay, almost swallowing the words). Since it’s not easy to surprise this audience, the Pythons work extra hard to do just that. Primarily, they goose the material from PG to R. Cleese screams at Jones, “Of course you don’t get fucking wafers with it, you cunt!” A performance of their new, pro-69 song “Sit On My Face” ends with the Pythons mooning the audience, a stunt repeated during 2002’s A Concert for George. During the “Travel Agent” sketch, Cleveland says to Idle, “Have you come to arrange a holiday, or would you like a blowjob?” (What’s even funnier is Palin’s disappointed expression when Cleveland says, “Mr. Bounder, this gentleman is interested in the India Overland and nothing else.”) The “Judges” sketch, in which two camp judges undress to reveal they’re wearing women’s lingerie, contains more risqué wordplay than the televised version: “I gave him three years; he only took ten minutes.” In “Crunchy Frog,” Gilliam’s policeman is so nauseated by the Whizzo Quality Assortment of chocolates that he suddenly vomits (cold beef stew) into his hat – and is forced by the unsympathetic constable (Graham Chapman) to place it back on his head. Other tweaks are milder: during “Nudge Nudge,” Idle is impressed that Jones’ girl is not from Purley, London, but rather from Glendale, California.

Graham Chapman and Terry Gilliam in the "Crunchy Frog" sketch.

From an historical perspective, it’s particularly valuable to see some of the less-familiar sketches, including an old Chapman solo routine in which he wrestles himself as Colin Bomber Harris vs. Colin Bomber Harris (an astonishing feat of athletic comedy which Chapman would later perform during his college speaking tours). The Pythons also dig up “Custard Pie,” a dissertation on slapstick that Jones and Palin wrote at Oxford, and “Four Yorkshiremen,” a masterpiece of tall-tale one-upsmanship that originates with At Last the 1948 Show (1967) but, thanks to this performance and the version from Monty Python Live at Drury Lane, has become an oft-quoted classic of the Python repertoire. (Nobody really quotes my favorite line in the sketch: “We were evicted from our hole in the ground. We had to go live in a lake.”) “The Last Supper” was written by Cleese and Chapman for Flying Circus but never made the cut; it works perfectly as a rare Cleese/Idle two-man sketch, both of whom have rarely been better in this efficient piece of escalating absurdity. “Now in God’s name tell me what on Earth possessed you to paint this with three Christs in it?” “It works, mate… The fat one balances the two skinny ones.” At the time of the concert and the film’s later release, it would have been an added bonus to see clips from Monty Python’s Fliegender Zirkus, filmed for German television, though the two German episodes are now commonly available. Clips include “Silly Olympics,” “International Philosophy: Germany vs. Greece,” some Gilliam animation involving flashers in love, and “Children’s Hour,” with its tale of Little Red Riding Hood (Cleese), the Big Bad Wolf (a long-haired dachshund), and Buzz Aldrin.

Palin and Cleese square off in "Argument Clinic."

The performers are having such a great time on stage that even Cleese has a sparkle in his eye after performing his silly walks – a sketch for which he’s expressed outright loathing. But “Salvation Fuzz,” aka “The Church Police,” is one of those sketches the Pythons reserved for all undignified corpsing (the other, not present in the film but heard on Drury Lane, is “Election Special”). The sketch was always a loose affair – barely a premise and even sillier than normal. In Hollywood Bowl, Jones, in drag and doing his “Mandy, Mother of Brian” voice, starts cracking up early, followed by Idle, playing the son. When both are required to hop 180-degrees in unison, Jones’ wig flies wide. Idle and Palin, playing one of the Church Police, stiffly move to form a barrier behind which Jones can put his wig back on. From that point on, getting through the sketch is nearly hopeless, though at least the giant Hand of God points at the right criminal this time (it often wouldn’t). That editors Cleese and Idle left this wonderful mess in the film indicates how much affection they had for the laid-back nature of the Hollywood Bowl performances; Cleese claimed that the atmosphere was so relaxed that when he forgot where he was in “Dead Parrot,” he simply asked the audience, “What’s the next line?” They answered, of course. Finally, after the traditional closing performance of “The Lumberjack Song” (performed by Idle rather than Palin) and a wild curtain call (the Pythons chase each other back and forth across the stage), an exhausted “Piss Off” flashes on the screen to the audience that just won’t leave, or stop applauding. Who can blame them? These fans were nearly out of new Python – the gang was just beginning to write what would be their final group effort, The Meaning of Life (1983) – and no one was anxious for the big pink foot to come smashing down, not just yet.

Posted in Theater Ballroom | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Monty Python Live at the Hollywood Bowl (1982)

Triple Feature: The Legend of Bigfoot (1976)/Bigfoot (1970)/The Capture of Bigfoot (1979)

Posted on August 19, 2013 at 7:50 pm by Jeff Kuykendall

I was a gullible kid, but I always struggled with the concept of Bigfoot. I grew up in California and my family lived along the Pacific Northwest – to top it off, I was born in the 70’s – so it was hard to avoid tales of sasquatch. And some of my early reading memories are books from the library on cryptozoology: The Loch Ness Monster and other lake monsters, mokele-mbembe, yeti, and so on. But while I was intrigued by Bigfoot, and stared hard at fuzzy stills from that Patterson-Gimlin film allegedly depicting Bigfoot striding through the woods and glancing toward the camera, I couldn’t understand how, if it were all true, we hadn’t captured one yet. Surely one of the sasquatch would trip up, get hit by a car, step in a bear trap, or get caught on camera stealing a dumpster from behind a German restaurant? Yet supposedly one did get into a car accident, leaving prints near a ghost town called Bossburg in Washington State in December 1969: the “Bossburg Cripple,” they called it, since one of the footprints resembled a fractured foot. One of the men associated with this find was Ivan Marx, soon to become one of the most notorious characters associated with tales of Bigfoot. A self-described tracker, with his wife Peggy he worked as an animal trainer on Walt Disney’s “True-Life Adventure” nature films, and shot many color 16mm films of animals in the wild before getting himself tied-up in sasquatch hunting. (I find it interesting that the Marxes worked on Disney’s nature documentaries, since those films, though award-winning and groundbreaking, contain many staged or dubious sequences in their attempts to elicit drama and excitement. For 1958’s White Wilderness, lemmings were imported to the non-native habitat of Alberta and herded off a cliff to depict a “lemming suicide.” I am not alleging the Marxes were involved, but the Disney “documentaries” would not measure up to modern standards of non-fiction filmmaking; it was a different time.) Ivan Marx soon produced some 30 seconds of 16mm Bigfoot footage in 1971, which he claimed to have shot the prior year. Peter Byrne, then director of the California Bigfoot Project, briefly hired Marx, and the group agreed to purchase a sealed canister of his master footage for $25,000, before some investigation of the evidence uncovered some troubling inconsistencies in Marx’s story, and Marx skipped town, leaving them with a canister that, luckily, they never actually paid for, since it contained only Mickey Mouse cartoons. (Byrne tells the whole fascinating story here.) Nevertheless, Marx continued to hunt Bigfoot, and edited his footage – including longer shots of the sasquatch – into a 74-minute film called The Legend of Bigfoot (1976).

Ivan Marx examines stills from his Bigfoot footage in "The Legend of Bigfoot."

It barely qualifies as a movie, and certainly not as entertainment. Taking its lead from the True-Life Adventure films, Marx’s “documentary,” directed by Harry Winer (SpaceCamp), collects reels and reels of his older nature footage padded with new footage of our “last of a dying breed” tracker following a theoretical sasquatch migration trail into Canada and finally north of the Arctic Circle, to his breeding grounds. Marx narrates, overemphasizing his initial skepticism about the existence of Bigfoot so that he can guide us gradually toward more outlandish theories, and his quest for evidence to convince non-believers of their truth. Since most of the footage lacks a soundtrack, we’re dependent on Marx’s voice to sell the excitement of his work: “The Lava Beds, Modoc, California… A track, centuries old, preserved in the lava. My theory was working! But I wondered how Bigfoot survived the violent eruptions that brought the lava rock…” At every opportunity he squeezes in his unrelated nature footage, including one preposterously harrowing scene of two ground squirrels. After the “lovers” frolic in the road to a medieval jig, one is struck by a car. While the squirrel tries to drag its injured companion through the dirt, Marx cuts to other shots of squirrels “looking on.” A hawk circles overhead, ready to strike. For a good minute, the soundtrack entirely disappears, until the squirrels have reached safety. Marx finally concludes, “Nature was reminding me of her basic law: survival. This same will to survive must have somehow kept Bigfoot going throughout all these years.”

Ivan Marx introduces "The Legend of Bigfoot."

Marx’s conviction that the sasquatch are migrating north provides for some convenient remedies to the whole lack-of-evidence problem. As he tells us, over shots of giant chunks of glacier-ice dropping into the ocean, “The constant movement of the glaciers could either crush the [Bigfoot] remains or wash them out to sea.” Of course – the sasquatch, clumsier than polar bears, are falling between cracks in glaciers. At one point, following the clues of some helpful Eskimos, he sets up walkie-talkies in little stone cairns placed at strategic locations and waits inside a tent in the middle of the wilderness, oddly confident that Bigfoot will show. Sure enough, in the night his wife Peggy sees what she at first thinks are car headlights approaching from a distance, but are in fact “shining eyes.” It’s unclear whether the footage which accompanies this is intended to be a reenactment, but I hope so, because it’s a pretty terrible special effect (and, indeed, looks like two car headlights hovering over a low black mound; if Bigfoot’s eyes can really shine this brightly, it must make it awfully difficult for him to hunt at night). When Marx finally gives us the goods – reaching a particular river where he expects Bigfoot will show, building himself a little nest, applying ammonia to hide his scent, and breaking out the binoculars – he provides so much footage of big and small sasquatch cavorting in and around the water that his credibility floats far downstream. They look like people in suits of black fur. Skeptics believe it’s his wife Peggy who wore the costumes. Marx proclaims, “I now know why the Eskimos call Bigfoot ‘the king of the animals,'” and expresses how his footage backs up his latest scientific discovery: that the creatures aren’t carnivores, and shouldn’t be feared. Though increasingly dismissed by Bigfoot enthusiasts, Marx went on to make two more films, In the Shadow of Bigfoot (1981) and Bigfoot: Alive and Well in ’82. He died in 1999.

In "Bigfoot," Joi Lansing is kidnapped by love-hungry sasquatch.

The 70’s saw a surge of sasquatchsploitation, and why not? It’s easy enough to put a guy in an ape suit and have him terrorize some actors in the woods. Bigfoot (1970) was early out the gate, and had the promising idea of putting the creature up against both a biker gang and John Carradine, though the film itself doesn’t quite live up to the concept. The film opens with 41-year-old model/actress Joi Lansing (Touch of Evil) crashing her small-engine plane over the California mountains. No sooner has she stripped down to skimpy clothing than she gets carried off by Bigfoot, kicking and screaming. Tied to a tree on an obvious set, she soon has guests, including another buxom gal, and Bigfoot hunters Carradine and John Mitchum (Dirty Harry), who fill lots of screen time with their “comic-relief” interplay. The movie feels a bit like Eegah! (1962), and doesn’t get much further than sasquatch carrying off people, tying them to rather fragile-looking trees, and stomping around, grunting, as though there’s a black monolith nearby. Occasionally we cut away to a local diner or sheriff’s office where colorful locals use up as much running time as they can. In the climax, Bigfoot, who wants to breed with Lansing, is buried under rubble after one of the bikers lobs sticks of dynamite at him. Carradine paraphrases King Kong, muttering, “It was beauty did him in.” (Not really. It was the dynamite.) The homage to Kong extends to the opening credits, which boast, in giant typeface, “And Introducing James Stellar as ‘Bigfoot,’ the Eighth Wonder of the World.” I enjoyed the groovy score (by Richard Podolor, whose resumé includes producing Three Dog Night’s “Joy to the World”), but the film isn’t terribly thrilling. The ending credits proclaim, “All outdoor sequences were actually filmed on various mountainous locations where ‘Bigfoot’ has been documented and reportedly seen by several individuals,” but the film’s heart is really with B-movies of decades past.

Some bikers take their time coming to the rescue in "Bigfoot."

Out of the 70’s came the sasquatch sleeper hit The Legend of Boggy Creek (1972), followed by Return to Boggy Creek (1977) and Boggy Creek II: And the Legend Continues (1985, the “official” sequel from original Boggy Creek director Charles B. Pierce). The decade also gave us documentaries like Bigfoot: Man or Beast? (1972) and In Search of Bigfoot (1976), and thrillers like Sasquatch: The Legend of Bigfoot (1977) and Revenge of Bigfoot (1979). The Leonard Nimoy-hosted TV series In Search Of…, which I watched constantly as a child, got to Bigfoot as quickly as its fifth episode (in April, 1977). Artist John Byrne created a Marvel Comics character called Sasquatch (who is one) for the Canada-based superhero group Alpha Flight, debuting in the pages of Uncanny X-Men in 1979. Kids also had the TV series Bigfoot and Wildboy (1977), which surely has one of the greatest opening title sequences ever:

Several years ago I attended part of a “Bill Rebane Film Festival” in Madison, Wisconsin, spotlighting the work of the local director behind films like Rana: The Legend of Shadow Lake (1975), and The Alpha Incident (1978). Introducing the festival were Mike Nelson and Kevin Murphy from Mystery Science Theater 3000, which featured Rebane’s best-known film, Giant Spider Invasion (1975), in one of its episodes. (All I remember from their introduction is that some problems with the video meant the screen behind them was projected in a solid blue color. Murphy deadpanned, “Ladies and gentlemen, Derek Jarman’s Blue.”) Before the screening of a documentary on Rebane’s career (directed by his wife), I wandered past a display in the lobby containing memorabilia from his films, including stills from something called The Capture of Bigfoot (1979). The film intrigued me with its images of a Gilligan’s Island-style cavern and a man in an Abominable Snowman suit standing inside a cage. The documentary barely touched on the film, if it mentioned it at all, so I was left wondering – and finally, years later, I’ve caught up with it.

The creature in Bill Rebane's "The Capture of Bigfoot" takes its vengeance on some snowmobiling poachers.

Truth be told, as the third part of this Bigfoot marathon, the film comes across quite well; that is, at least by comparison to what we’ve just watched, The Capture of Bigfoot passes the time fine, and is competently made (high praise, I know). The film takes place in and around a snowy Midwestern town in which a local Indian legend of the “Arak” proves to actually be a Bigfoot, though one of the albino variety, apparently, since it looks like a yeti. Poachers, led by the evil Olsen (Richard Kennedy, The Buddy Holly Story), first shoot one of its adorable pubescent offspring in the chest, then capture an adult and lock it up in the woods. Officer Garrett (Stafford Morgan, Cleopatra Jones) sympathizes with the rare creatures and goes to free Bigfoot with a blowtorch. That’s about it, but The Capture of Bigfoot has a few things going for it. Unlike Bigfoot (and, let’s face it, The Legend of Bigfoot), the sasquatch suits are pretty nifty, to such an extent that I’m mystified that Rebane doesn’t use them more. In one scene, Bigfoot lifts a snowmobile and throws it at the hunters who murdered his son, and if the movie was all this, it would be a drive-in classic. Rebane does manage a few amusingly homegrown action scenes, including a snowmobile chase that would not make James Bond jealous, and a nighttime car chase along snowy streets, including a car flip. What makes this all so damn charming is that it’s filmed in small-town Wisconsin, principally Gleason, northwest of Green Bay. (Gleason is just south of Rhinelander, which takes great pride in its own legendary monster, the Hodag.) And this movie really captures the feel of northern Wisconsin in the dead of winter, with its loud, nondescript diner where Garrett’s girlfriend works and all the locals gather to gossip, to the glowing Old Style Beer sign hanging over the door of the bar where a lynch mob gathers – even to the image of two young boys hunting rabbits with real rifles and real bullets in the snowy woods. Yep, this is definitely 1979 Wisconsin. What comes across is the joy of locals enthusiastically shooting a Bigfoot movie, probably between Packers games, and when they blow up a car in a fiery explosion, it’s easy to cheer. (As usual, the Rebane clan gets in on the action. The credits list Randolph Rebane as “Little Bigfoot.”) So yes. This is what I want out of a Bigfoot movie. Rebane got it right.

Posted in Theater Nilbog, Triple Feature | Tagged , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Triple Feature: The Legend of Bigfoot (1976)/Bigfoot (1970)/The Capture of Bigfoot (1979)