-Grindhouse Fest is the special section in Celluloid Dimension where you can discover all the goodies…and baddies from the golden age of exploitation cinema. Have fun!
Last House on Dead End Steet (1977) Directed by Roger Watkins
I felt nothing but discomfort; but then, that everlasting overwhelming feeling piercingly overtaking me as I witnessed dumbfounded the gut-wrenching harmful perspective that this noxious film has on humankind and culture at large, bowled me over. And that’s when I knew that this unshakable unease was necessary to pique my curiosity about its inscrutable grimness and to realize that its impactful, corrosive misanthropic views into human existence have more personal than merely exploitative motivations.
NYC-based filmmaker Roger Watkins is unquestionably a fascinating personality in the exploitation film industry; his esoteric filmography and enigmatic style make his cult reputation as a filmmaker more mythological than biographical. Only such an elusive mind could have devised this profoundly malevolent opus that is nothing more than out-and-out sadistic porno exploring the most scandalous of all myths surrounding the realm of exploitation: snuff flicks. However, it is not the illicit nature of “Snuff” that renders the mere idea of its dissemination as truth so disturbing, but it is the mind-bending psycho surrealism that Roger Watkins achieves by manipulating that notion.
In a post-Tate-LaBianca murders American society, at the height of the countercultural frenzy and at the pinnacle of sound cinema in the 70’s, virtually all entertainment was predicated on harnessing the laid-back liberal ethos of that decade. But all emancipation comes with its sacrifices and its shortcomings. And I believe that the exploitation industry -especially in its horror facet- spotted in nihilism, sociopolitical desperation and pornography the best profitable venue to produce questionable entertainment at the expense of 1970’s social concerns. Why do I bring this up? Because I don’t think but am certain that Roger Watkins broke the mold by crafting an exploitation movie that feels more like a dangerous emotional outburst than a groovy, sleazy product meant to entertain.
So the story goes like this, sleazeball Terry Hawkins (played by Roger Watkins himself) is severely angry towards society because he spent a year in prison for a drug-related matter; he is outraged, he can’t believe that this is the mere reason why he was incarcerated. Therefore, in an act of narcissistic demonstration that he is capable of committing worse crimes, he embarks on the grotesque mission of shooting snuff films. To do so, he enlists two kinky chicks for acting and a dull-witted cameraman.
The crude and empty script never conceals its storytelling inadequacy, it is quite aware of it. Consequently, the film devotes itself only to shock through those prosaic procedures typical of a trashy shocker. There’s nothing going on but Terry’s deranged directing, acting and producing nauseating snuff films. That’s all you’ll see in Last House on Dead End Street. Nevertheless, what you see is enough to acknowledge that this is exploitation filmmaking, not of high quality but of effectiveness. And Roger Watkins dramatizes everything as an epic of depravity. There is no eroticization of violence, everything is mucky and revolting, very off-putting. The available cut of the film is one that doesn’t even pass the one hour and twenty-minute mark – but it’s as potent as a cannonball is at blowing your head off. The original cut, on the other hand, is one that lasts 3 goddamn hours! Titled The Cuckoo Clocks of Hell; Roger Watkins is a freak – alas, this cut is missing. However, what we get to see here concisely is, I think, enough to testify to Watkins’ madness. He is a superlative director of exploitation, that much is indisputable. But his magnum opus leaves a record of his overt misanthropy that ultimately on celluloid appears as outrageous as it is downright dangerous.
Is it a reprehensible work of cinema? I don’t think I’m the appropriate individual to make that judgment, but if we’re only discussing cinema and leaving aside moral susceptibility, I’d venture to argue that this film epitomizes the ideals of the genre with unparalleled conviction. It is the expression of a filmmaker’s resentment, hatred and disillusionment with the film industry. These same inimical feelings are incarnated by Terry who creates Snuff films out of bitterness, it is the materialization of the rejection of society. I am not the least bit surprised by the thought that Roger Watkins, after this film, devoted himself full time to filming porno flicks. He is a broken man, who believes in cinema but not in the people involved in the industry, including himself. The abhorrence is mirrored in every disorienting framing and shaky audiovisual juxtaposition of pornographic violence with spine-chilling iconography. And the grainy cheap cinematography anchors this sadomasochism with unfathomable fidelity; it is an idiosyncratic kind of functional amateurism.
Roger Watkins’ unnerving and rancorous performance as the evil Terry is something I will never forget, it will haunt me eternally, I’m sure; his diabolical laughter and macabre joy in conjunction with his genocidal fantasies through the cinematic apparatus are pure terror. A masterpiece of exploitation filmmaking. And one of the truly objectively scariest films ever made.