Most schlock film fans know about N.I.P.S. - the Needless and Insipid Pandering Sequel. Usually arriving as part of a 'series', these lame-ass excuses for cinema trade on a name for the sake of its success. There are many of these miserable moniker-based abominations - the Puppet Master movies immediately come to mind, as do the various adventures of Emmanuelle. The Witchcraft films, now up to a very unlucky (and unnecessary) 13 in installments, are perhaps some of the worst offenders in this churn 'em out ideal. Not really relating to each other in terms of plot and character, they are merely excuses for varying levels of ineptitude. Troma, true to its nature of never passing up a possible buck, is releasing Witchcraft 6 - reconfigured with a couple of extra digits and including the Satan's slut subtitle of "The Devil's Mistress" - for the first time on DVD. That sound you just heard are the souls of a legion of horror fans dying, just a little. This chapter in mediocre macabre revolves around virgin sacrifices, attorneys with psychic powers, and cops who crave donuts. Yep, it sucks that hard.
Frankly, it's a fraud to call films like these anything remotely associated with terror. There is nothing remotely frightening about a man with overly manicured hands speaking like Jonathan Harris's less macho brother. A woman who licks her paramours is about as sexy as the slick of skank spit she leaves behind. A beefed up bozo with an evident farmer's tan does not make for a menacing spree killer, and a washed out, washed up divorce lawyer who looks like he should be a cast member of the over-30 edition of Jackass is not a powerful, potent medium into the great unknown. The entire storyline - revolving around finding a sexually inactive female in LA - is so far fetched and derivative that you never once believe in the bad guy's plan (what, all the GRADE SCHOOLS were closed???). That just leaves the cops, and if there were ever two more annoying entries into the 'entities as exposition' cinematic cesspool, these guys would be the benchmark. Unable to go a single conversation without mentioning sex or donuts, you just wish these dullards would take a flying frig at a pastry hole and be done with it.
It wouldn't be so bad if Witchcraft 666 had something to offer other than titties - not that there is anything wrong with the chestical area of the modern members of the feminine gender. It's just odd that a woman director would spend so much time showing off the skin flaps of her fellow femmes. Any chance to release the siliconed 'dogs of war' is taken, and even a few instances of nipple aeration are offered as kind of a boredom bribe. Davis seems to be saying, "I know my movie blows donkeys, but how about those boobs?" To be honest, the best scene in the entire movie - which is a lot like saying the best stink coming out of a series of Port-a-Potties - is a sex sequence between Spanner and his gal pal. Though it's completely out of place (add a little penetration and you'd have your typical mid-90s hardcore) and a little waterlogged (it takes place in the bath) you still get a nice display of Debra Beatty's body. The rest of this retardation is bad psychic flashbacks, hideous acting, and more night shots of the LA freeway than you get on local traffic reports.
And it's all in service of the dictionary definition of tedium. When we're dealing with the dead, and having to find a link to the killer and his motive, Witchcraft 666 actually shows a minuscule amount of story stimulus. But the minute Spanner steps into the narrative, he's like a big fat dose of cinematic sedatives. The movie literally falls asleep, barely reawakening to cross the finish line with its fetid denouement. The villains are taken care of with little or no effort (one gets a scissors through the hand, but still has the mental acuteness to bonk his babe on the hood of their car) and the wrap up is just another pointless 'police like donuts' jibe. Nothing much makes any sense, and it wouldn't really matter if it did. Playing upon the distribution notion of the law of diminishing returns, a title like Witchcraft 666 has basically been micromanaged and formulated to turn a small profit and keep the producers in mortgage payments for the next year or so. This is not art. It is not even artifice. About the only "A" word that's appropriate here is abysmal. Unless you like dulling your senses without the pleasure principles of drugs, pass by this bullspit. This Witchcraft is witchcrap!