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BLOOD STALKERS (1978)
Directed by Robert W. Morgan
Vidmark Entertainment VHS
Reviewed 05.18.06
Review by Joseph A. Ziemba
THE FILM
If there was a "least likely
to succeed" award in high school,
I would've given it to Blood
Stalkers. Then, at our ten
year reunion, I'd feel like a total
idiot.
Two-thirds of Blood Stalkers
had passed. Several thoughts blew
through me, but only a few repeated
endlessly: "Please quit bitching...please
kill the flutes...please let SOMETHING
happen." Longing turned to
rejection. This film was a flop.
Then, instantaneously, the main
hero says "Just quit yer bitchin'!"
and something wonderful happened.
The trash brilliance burned so bright
that I was forced to ask myself:
Am I really seeing what I think
I'm seeing? Rewind. Play. Rewind.
Play. My bitching ceased.
You've seen it all before. Two highly
annoying couples gather together
the pock-marks, plaid pants, and
enormous cleavage for a weekend
getaway to the stix. The girls would
never be with the guys in real life.
A skinny gas station attendant warns
of the "blood stalkers"
and a couple of redneck Rambos act
tough. A wandering fool makes ping
pong noises with his mouth. It's
all quirky dialogue ("Big deal,
fat ass! It's bat shit!"),
bobcat sound effects, and painful
relationship dramatics until that
special something happens. Rubber
masks? Missing links? Poetic garage
gore courtesy Doug “The
Professor” Hobart?
My, my, how it happens.
Stick with it. The Fort Lauderdale-shot
Blood Stalkers destroys
60 minutes of unfavorable doubts
in a 20 minute, bizarro-blitzkrieg
climax that'll leave you stuck to
your seat. Nothing else stands out.
Tension is deflated by a passé
TV movie soundtrack, boring direction
from ex-1950s DJ Bob Morgan, and
endless padding. That's the kick.
When that crescendo knocks you on
your ass, the disorientation is
so colossal that nothing else matters.
Ain't forgiveness grand?
Somewhere between Gilligan's
Island, Two Thousand Maniacs,
and that cabin sequence from Screams
Of A Winter Night lies
Blood Stalkers. It'll make
you squirm, then make you squirm
some more, but for entirely different
reasons. I revoke my negative hunch.
AUDIO AND VIDEO
The highly cropped print is dirty,
but bright. Scratches swarm. Day-for-night
reigns. The whole film has a hazy
look to it. Works for me.
EXTRAS
Nothing, but Robert W. Morgan also
narrated a Bigfoot documentary called
In Search of Bigfoot. Another
one for the list.
FINAL THOUGHTS
Since Blood Stalkers was
such a schizo, I can't tell you
to make a run for it. On the other
hand, if you find the film for cheap
and/or a rental, make a move. Then,
hold steady and revel when the time
comes.
Thanks to Eric Robitaille for
providing a copy of this film! |
Here's your warning
Ol' skinny wrist
Gun hugs
Trust the cover
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