But the strangeness of the subject matter isn't always the reason for the inquiry. Sometimes, a puzzled reaction comes from the most straightforward of cinematic intentions. Take the three films presented on Volume 4 of Brentwood's Toxie's Triple Terror box sets. Each one has a normal premise as the foundation for its fear. In the case of Scream Baby, Scream, it's the madness of an artist gone over the edge. For Fertilize the Blaspheming Bombshell, it's a secret society of Devil worshipers. And Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator is a classic multi-layered thriller where reality is bent to shape and shift the mystery. Easy enough to get a handle on, right?

Well, you'd be surprised, nay SHOCKED, at how each filmmaker realizes his relatively basic idea here. Instead of deconstructing the concept, finding its inner fire and magnifying it, the ambling auteurs represented just flummox the fudge out of everything they touch. The result is a trio of twisty tales that never quite live up to their whirling dervish desires. You too may be more perplexed than pleased after sitting through the cockeyed craziness contained on these DVDs.

The DVD:
Presented in a cardboard slipcase with each disc enclosed in its own mini-keep case, the fourth in Brentwood/Troma's Toxie's Triple Terror boxsets contains a couple of surprisingly entertaining films. From the psychedelic powers of hippy artists on LSD to the stupidly spooky town of Ellivnatas with its population of 13 hooded demon lovers, this collection of oddball entries into the world of independent horror runs the gamut of runny ripe cheesiness. Individually, we are treated to the following straight-to-video fiascos:

Scream Baby Scream (1969) a.k.a. Nightmare House
Jason and Janet are art students having a difficult time making their color wheel coalesce. Jason is determined to get through his life drawing classes and become a well-paid illustrator, while the incredibly moody Janet wants to suffer for her muse. She is particularly smitten with the disgustingly grotesque canvases of Charles Butler, a renowned recluse who loves to capture the corrupt on canvas. Using oils, and his skills with a brush, he paints pathetic portraits of cartoonish human oddities. This apparently gets him a lot of recognition in the critical circles of the late 60s. Janet thinks he's the ginchiest. Jason thinks he's a drip. In between, a really crappy band plays music that signals the end of mop top rock and roll as we know/knew it.

Hoping to get in touch with their inner etch a sketch, the complicated couple hook up with another pair of picture purists and head out on a picnic. Naturally, the only course on the menu is Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds. This leads to a trippy little repast where everyone's seeing strange things. Janet even runs into a man who looks just like one of Butler's subjects. When she gets home from her hallucinogenic holiday, she is accosted by another mutated freak. Eventually, she is taken prisoner by Butler, who lets the little lady in on his secret. After playing adulterer to a plastic surgeon's wife, Butler found himself on the wrong end of an operating table. He was horribly scarred by the cuckolded quack, but for some inexplicable reason, the doc cured him with a strange skin shifting formula. Now Butler uses the serum on unsuspecting victims, and then molds their faces as "models" for his work. He wants Janet to share his studio. It's up to Jason to save her before she becomes another sour sculpture in Butler's menagerie of the macabre.

Scream Baby, Scream is surprisingly inventive for a half-baked counter culture horror movie made for the Woodstock generation. This peace, love and leprosy experience really grooves on its own grotesqueries. While tame by today's standards, it must have been a stone cold drag to see doctors diddling with dermis like it was so much modeling clay, working the cheeks and weeping the eyes until the onscreen casualties look like rejects from a geek show. Several times throughout the course of this crazy ass film you'll marvel at the effective makeup job done on the actors (or pray that they didn't actually employ people who look like these deformed dopes). Such frightening facades help guide us over some of the more uninspired parts of this inconsistent narrative.

By far, the worst part of Scream Baby, Scream is the performance by male lead Ross Harris. He essays lover boy Jason like he's in some manner of gastric distress. Teeth clenched, red hair flaming like a Dura-Log during a Florida cold spell, and carrying an overall attitude of angry pissed offedness, this is one patron of the pastels that could use a chill pill, a full fashion makeover and a dose of reality, pronto. He is so mannered, so overtly Method and moody to the point of mendacity that he hampers every scene he is in, making it difficult to identify with or even care about the callous, cocksure Jason.

Not that the script by Larry Cohen is much help (yes sir, THAT Larry Cohen, the mind behind such classic schlocky sensations as It's Alive, Bone and Uncle Sam). Cohen creates conversations that have no point, each character chattering away in what can best be described as couplets of incomplete thoughts. You can listen to the discussions in this film, pad at the ready and pen in hand, and never once record a cogent idea being fully formed and articulated by anyone. Cohen must have believed he was using a kind of cosmic shorthand, letting the slightest suggestion of concepts and the amateur acting fill in the bold, open blanks. It doesn't work.

Still, for all its vague verbiage and ancillary drug dynamics (did we really NEED the acid scene at all?) Scream Baby, Scream has some exemplary elements. Eugenie Wingate is wonderful, if just a tad misguided, as the gal who must "feel" her work, less it have no meaning for her. Though she appears about as skilled with a quill as a trained orangutan and has an unfortunate habit of whining like a non-gratified five year old, she is the glue that keeps this movie from scattering like the poster paints at one of those Spin-Art booths at the fair. Larry Swanson is also good, giving his Charles Butler a really fey facade. He swishes up the place with his 'portrait of an artist as a prancing poof' routine (even though he takes every opportunity to fortify his 'ladykiller' credentials). Add in all the face deforming, atmospheric antics, and a decidedly downer of an ending and you've got something that soars above the usual creature feature flotsam. Scream Baby, Scream may have its head stuck in a dated recreational pharmaceutical, but there is also some good fright fun to be had here. Score: 3/5

Fertilize the Blaspheming Bombshell (1990) a.k.a. Mark of the Beast, a.k.a. Triangle of Death
Sandy and her stupid boyfriend are traveling to the West Coast to visit her twin sister Susan. Along the way, this sibling brags about the tight bond she shares with sis. They sense when something is wrong with the other, and have been known to experience phantom pains when the other is hurt. Anyway, the couple ends up stranded in a strange desert town known as Ellivnatas (gosh, what a brainteaser, eh?) where they are tormented and badgered by a bunch of hooded hoodlums. Apparently, they want the paramours to take part in a blood cult ritual, which consists of random raping and a bunch of dive bar strippers. Sandy does eventually take a satanic load, and then is killed for her carnal efforts. Her man friend is murdered, as burning pentagrams pop up everywhere.

Naturally, Susan senses something is wrong with her doppelganger, and so she heads out to Ellivnatas to see what has happened. There she runs into two intriguing guys. First up is Sheriff Farlock, who couldn't really give a locking fart about the missing persons. And then there is Dan Allen. A simple slab of a man, he offers Susan refuge when she is attacked by a bunch of marauding sand rascals. At first, everything seems to be going Sue's way: she finds her sister's car and signs of a slaughter. But when she returns with the police, there is nary a trace of trauma left. And Dan is starting to act real funny, showing up at the most inopportune times and looking all guilty. Eventually, Susan discovers the true name of the town and finds herself next in line for a little Beelzebub booty call. If she doesn't escape, she too will become another nookie notch on Lucifer's bed head.

Taking first place in the Terrific Troma Title Hall of Fame (just ahead of the next movie in this set, Fat Guy Goes Nutzoid and A Nymphoid Barbarian in Dinosaur Hell), this stupid slice of Satanism doesn't deserve such a stellar moniker. In order to clarify any concern, we are not talking about tossing some compost onto our sacrilegious sweetie - though seed of some sort will be spilled, if you catch the drift. Fertilize the Blaspheming Bombshell is as confusing as its label, channeling the worst of the diabolical celluloid genre with some outright steals from the Mel Gibson/Mad Max oeuvre (you keep waiting for the Humungous to show up and start issuing demands). We do get a burly beefcake of sorts, as the head of this sick sect looks like a balding biker, his oversized arms covered with all manner of prison tattoos. But that's not the only warrioring this rotten road movie gets up to.

This movie is actually just one continuous chase scene, a cat and mouse excuse for tricked out VW beetles to do their dune buggy damnedest to instill some excitement into this otherwise exploratory bore. Writer/director Jeff Hathcock (whose own name inspires equal amount of 'you've got to be kidding' glee) thinks he is being so clever, what with the 'redrum' name for the town and the obvious 'children of the corn' conceits (isolated area filled with crazed cultists). But where our flaccid filmmaker fumbles the narrative nuances is in the area of explanation. We keep waiting for the denouement, the moment where some ancillary character shows up and explains just what the Sam Hill is going on.

Well, outside of a minor, pre-porking speech by the Satanic leader as Susan is about to get her date with the Devil's dong, there ain't any other rationale offered for Ellivnatas, the psychotic sect, or why people who worship a mangoat wouldn't have access to better off-road transportation (come on, Hitler liked the VW, but a bug as Old Nick's pace car? Hardly.). Indeed, everything about Fertilize the Blaspheming Bombshell is a turbid enigma, except where such a strangely stupid title comes from (believe it or not, it's based on an actual line of dialogue in the film).

Shelia Caan, here given the advanced acting challenge of playing two completely brainless bimbettes, does so flawlessly. If you listen carefully to the soundtrack, you can actually hear the wind whistling between her ears. Bo Hopkins does his paycheck cashing best in the underwritten, underdeveloped and underwhelming role of the suspicious sheriff (frankly, why anyone would suspect him of being anything other than inert is an anomaly). The rest of the company feels like FOFs – friends of the filmmaker – and fail to instill anything sinister or macabre into the mix. The lasting impression one derives from Fertilize the Blaspheming Bombshell is just how decidedly serious the filmmaker takes all this deranged dopiness. Hatchcock believes he is making some newfangled Race with the Devil Beyond Thunderdome with a little of George Miller's mind-bending panache thrown in to amplify the action. Sadly, this film doesn't even match well against those grossly incompetent Italian post-apocalyptic knock-offs. Something with such a sensational name should be wilder and far more sinister. Instead, this is one bodacious babe who gets a less than satisfactory money shot from Moloch. Score: 2/5

Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator (1989) a.k.a. In Deadly Heat
Paul is a pathetic mechanic working late for his airplane owner bosses when he is accosted by a couple of hired goons. They practically kill him. When he awakes, he is in a weird mansion owned by the repugnant Roberta. This awfully masculine madam has a proposition for Paul. She wants him to have sex with her kidnap victim Stephanie – while Roberta watches...Ew! – and then she will let the couple go free. Even though Paul appears to be guided by gonads, he refuses to participate. Eventually he takes Stephanie and escapes through the chimney. The pair has some celebratory sex, but are caught and punished by Roberta the following morning...

Or are they...

For you see, Roberta is really Robert, an actor hired by Paul (whose really a rich weirdo named Jared) to pretend perversion with he and his wife, the Casey formerly known as Stephanie. Huh??? Apparently, Jared and Casey plan out these elaborate rig friggin's, dig down deep into their bank account, and hire people to help put them on. But Casey has grown sick of Jared's Method monkeyshines and wants to put an end to them once and for all. She gets Robert to help her get rid of Jared. They plan an elaborate scheme involving intricate timing, pre-planned alibis, and several body blows from a pair of fireplace pokers. After the bedroom bludgeoning, it looks like it's time to split the estate. Jared is dead, after all...

Or is he...

Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator so wants to be Deathtrap, or Sleuth, that you can sense the cerebral cogs cranking away in director Peter Nardo's brain from the first few minutes of his movie. Co-written with Peter Jones, this thriller within a home movie incorporated as part of a pastime for the incredibly wealthy is so gosh darn labyrinthine that you can hear individuals versed in the finer points of the murder mystery gagging on all the logistical leaps in logic. Hoping to keep you guessing every step of the way, and changing the characters pell-mell to fit the mood or the machinations of the story, this is one plot twisty title. Too bad all the rug-pulled-out-from undering and "betcha didn't see that coming" convolutions don't add up to anything interesting or intriguing. By the end of this flummoxing film's running time you just hope someone comes clean and explains what the Ira Levin just happened. Sadly, no narrator arrives to save the salient day (we do get a butler quoting Shakespeare, however).

Nardo doesn't realize that the first rule of a potential plot twist is that it must be organic, coming out of the characters and situations, not in spite of them. Indeed, you can have a wonderfully weird movie about a miscreant old maid who wants to see young people knocking boots for her own cobwebbed pleasure. But if she suddenly turns out to be a member of the ruling class from the lost city of Atlantis, hoping to learn more about human sexuality by watching community college couples copulate, you better have said swerve set up properly, or the audience will be instantly bewildered. Such a state of narrative shock happens three times in Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator (which, admittedly, is a great title, despite having NOTHING whatsoever to do with the plot) and each time, it's like the viewer has the lights turned off around him or her. When they come on again, we're tossed into a different story with a differing dynamic, all with their own inherent issues. The reason people supposedly like these kinds of mindf*ck films is that they enjoy being caught off guard while feeling they are still connected, cognitively to the material. Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator just tosses out plot peculiarities for the heck of it, and hopes you can keep up.

In the performance department William Dame deserves special mention. Not because he is good, mind you, but because he commits every sin a young actor can fall prey to and still thinks he's thespianing up a career arc. As Paul, he is pathetic, channeling a crude Cape Cod klutz with all the subtlety of a blowtorch. His accent is atrocious, his line readings routine and the reliance on a bada-bing type of bravado makes him appear comic, not courageous. But it only gets worse. When playing Jared (actually, there are two version of this character...you'll understand in a moment), he's all ham and face egg, mocking everything from Beethoven to the Bard. Oddly enough, he only appears acceptable when essaying the same sex aspect of Jared #2's life partner personality. This either speaks for William's grasp of alternative lifestyles, or his ability to simply be himself. Our other day players are passable, but never really rise above dinner theatrics. Still, if only because you are curious about where this weirdness is going next, Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator is imminently watchable. It may make no choad smoking sense, and seem like a royal waste of time for the parties involved (especially once the final reveal is made), but there is something strangely captivating about this cloying clockwork claptrap. Score: 2.5/5

Our fourth set of pre-Toxie titles represents a step up in quality from Volume 3's trio of tripe. Indeed, there are movies here that compare favorably with the offerings on the first and second box sets (there is still nothing to match Evil Clutch's Euro-horror tawdriness). Though it spends far too much time in its arid outback setting, Fertilize the Blaspheming Bombshell still has its enjoyable moments – and how can you not love something with such a smashing title? Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator may be trying way too hard most of the time, but at least it is putting forth an effort. Other films of its ilk just give up and drift away, hoping you forget them before the final credits. But each filmmaker here wants to please and perplex you. For most of its storyline, Stephanie does just that. Scream Baby, Scream is actually a rather effective film, a throwback to the days of drive-in delights with oddballs premises and just a splash of sensationalism, all in an effort to sell tickets. While it doesn't quite match up against A Bucket of Blood or Color Me Blood Red, this art for harm's sake is well made and weirdly inventive. Too bad the lead actor is such a lox. With a better hero at the helm, Scream would be a lost gem. As it stands, it's one of Toxie's Triple Terrors' decent diversions.

The Video:
Each film is presented in a pre-DVD, retrograde 1.33:1 full screen sampling that suggests low-end VHS variables. The transfer for Fertilize the Blaspheming Bombshell looks sufficiently dreary. Occasionally too dark for its own good and feeling like it was shot through some sagebrush, this is a motion picture that is 'dim' in more than one way. Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator looks markedly better, having a decent amount of clarity that actually decreases as the film wears on. Still, colors are correct and the available contrasts mean we can see the five o'clock shadow on Robert/Roberta's face. Scream Baby, Scream is a combination of the best and worst of the other prints. The movie is mastered with shadows that are far too deep. There are several scenes of people walking at night that resemble blank, black screens. On the positive proposition, the picture crackles with vibrancy and light – that is, when it's available. The art is rendered in realistic tones and the faux flesh makeup looks logical, not laughable. None of the movies here will win an award for home theater reference quality, but they are somewhat better than others in the Toxie's Triple Terror collection.

The Audio:
The Dolby Digital Stereo presentation on each DVD is acceptable, if sonically shrill and rather flat. None of these movies makes an attempt to create outright atmosphere in their aural attributes. Fertilize the Blaspheming Bombshell has an overdubbed score that tends to obliterate all the exposition. You can tell it was an added afterthought, since it fails to match up to the movie's dull, listless sonics. Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator is also pretty pallid, utilizing its auditory situations to bolster a fairly feeble electronic score. Again, Scream Baby, Scream is the best of the bunch. Unlike the visual aspects of the transfer, the sound is super, giving us understandable dialogue and far too many chances to hear the sloppy acid rock rut on the soundtrack. It is interesting to note that the film's heavy on talking (Scream and Stephanie) have the best mixes, while the awkward action of Fertilize is perplexed by a nearly incomprehensible murk.

The Extras:
Unlike standard Troma fare that features founder Lloyd Kaufman lewding it up with various toilet humor and sophomoric rants, as well as other bonus content goodies, the individual DVDs here are very bare bones. There are no trailers, no filmographies, no basic information on the casts or crews, and even the plot descriptions on the back of each keepcase are decidedly deceptive. While it's hard to imagine what manner of extra material could be used to bolster some of this stupidity, it would have been interesting to see Brentwood try. While getting three films for a decent price appears like a definite deal, something as tenuous as Toxie's Triple Terror could perhaps use a little help in the product-puffing department. A lack of context here is not that obliging.

Final Thoughts:
It is easy to see why Troma now has the reputation for the retarded that it does. By championing such freakish fodder, it created an image for the insane it can never quite shake (not that they want to, really. More and more, the company seems to ignore the envelope of taste and tact while purposefully pushing their perverted pictorials.). Volume 4 in the Toxie's Triple Terror collection represents a definite pause for the personal brainpan as it applies to cinematic normalcy. Sure, you could argue that the rebel yell zombies of Curse of the Cannibal Confederates or the vagina monster of Evil Clutch are about as screwed up a concept as you can contemplate, but the movies here aren't really trying to mutate their monster madness. No, they are out to reconstruct scariness at the very genetic level of the genre's DNA. Anyone wanting to see something really strange in the way of independent dreck dread will thoroughly enjoy Toxie's Triple Terror #4. It is recommended for this very reason. Others may not be able to get in touch with the eldritch being unearthed in these DVDs. For them, the response is predetermined and basic. All together now...What the @#*&!$!

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