In between porno projects, the Findlays found time to dabble in horror like the infamous 1976 release Snuff and their Yeti movie Shriek Of The Mutilated, with Michaeldirecting and editing and Roberta on camera duties. Yet even their non-sexploitation films have a very similar feel - they merely play like porn films without the porn. So prepare yourselves for a frustrating experience - bad library music, bad sets stacked with bad furniture, filled with bad actors with bad haircuts and worse comb-overs yelling the most pointless exposition and wretched dialogue that at best can be described as "florid". I repeat: BAD. And that doesn't begin to describe the joy of how appallingly wonderful the film is.
Shriek... begins with a group of college kids at a party preparing for a field trip set up by their obsessed professor Dr Prell to bag a real-life sasquatch. Amidst the general boogying to that hideous 70s song "Popcorn" and popping corn, an ex-teacher and now janitor grabs a bottle of vodka and goes nuts relating the story of how his last group of students were torn to pieces by an unspeakable abomination. "They said no more field trips!" he spits out, before going home and carving up his girlfriend with an electric knife. Why? She dropped his second bottle of vodka. Nuts, I tells ya.
Undeterred, the kids press on, and wind up at the country estate of Prell's associate Dr Werner, an odd duck in a turtleneck whose interest in Native American folklore extends to employing a Red Indian hatchet manservant named Laughing Crow. Not that Laughing Boy ever cracks a smile, particularly when the kids start getting picked off one by one by what appears to be a car seat cover with plastic Dracula fangs or the first screen appearance of Chewbacca, take your pick. Which thrills Dr Prell no end, as it proves the Yeti exists, and he uses the classmates' bodies as bait, much to the horror of young Karen who screams her disapproval to anyone within earshot: "You're a madman!" and a thousand variations on that theme.
Of course, something more sinister is at work, and the revelation upon revelation in the final ten minutes add up to one of the nuttiest endings I can remember from ANY horror movie, Seventies or otherwise. And that's really saying something. To get to that moment, however, you have to endure some of the most excruciating brow acting from the doctors, two unmitigated hams who are convinced the angle of the eyebrow is in direct correlation to each scene's level of intrigue. Be glad it's NOT one of the Findlays' porn efforts, or you'd see them raise more than an eyebrow.
To cap an extraordinary career, Michael Findlay's death was like a bad B movie ending: on his way to demonstrate his new 3 D camera, he was decapitated by a helicopter's blades (and don't you wish his 3-D camera was rolling at the time). Such is the karmic nature of the Beast. Then again, if he'd made kids films, he would probably have been torn to pieces by homeless alcoholic Santas. In the overall scheme of things, there should be no forgiveness for films like this one - a porno in a boiler suit, a gore film without a money shot, a bad film but still a GREAT bad film.
