The Touch of Her Flesh

For eons, movie makers have struggled with the eternal question: how the hell do I get the audience to pay attention to the opening credits? Well, in The Touch of Her Flesh (1967), director Michael Findlay (alias Julian Marsh)  solves that problem pretty neatly by projecting the credits directly onto the bodies of nude women. You won’t be able to tear your eyes away from the spectacle. Er, is that a mole dotting that “i”?

The plot begins with Richard, weapons expert and distinctly unloveable loser, leaving for a convention. His pouty wife Claudia stays behind. She lolls on the couch, ever in danger of smearing her perfect eyeliner on a pillow. After Richard’s been gone about 2 and half minutes, Claudia’s boyfriend shows up, itching to dance the horizontal mambo. The two engage in some serious softcore petting, and all seems well...until Richard realizes he’s forgotten his speech.

Naturally, he catches them in the act. Overcome with horror, Richard flees the scene and is struck by a car, leaving him minus an eye and temporarily paralyzed from the waist down. He’s depressed, as anyone would be in the situation. But then, most people wouldn’t swear a vendetta against womankind in general. That’s exactly what Richard does however, and sets his murderous sights on a hapless go-go girl, a sinuous stripper, a desperate hooker, and finally Claudia and her bosom-buddy Janet.

All this sounds pretty exciting, and for a few very brief moments, it is. The methods of murder are all pretty far out. Most sexploitation films don’t come equipped with a buzzsaw. However, if you’re looking for graphic violence, don’t expect to find it here. Death is pretty much indicated by falling over and going “Aaaarggh!” It must be said that by and large, the boobs in this film are lovely to behold. Only Janet has a wonky pair, and she’s supposed to be an artist’s model, oy. The unlucky go go dancer who is offed by a rose with poisoned thorns wins the tit trophy, in my opinion. Big yet perky, they wobble to and fro like...what was I talking about again? Oh yeah. 

Probably my favorite part of the film would have to be the moment Richard decides he’s going to kill off chicks who use their bodies for personal gain; that is to say, all women. He goes on a fantastic misogynistic rant full of pantingly lurid sexual metaphors. It feels like it lasts for an hour! The whole thing is played over scenes of decidedly hallucinogenic nudity. (Is that flower stuck where I think it is?)  For this brief segment, the film approaches art.

The biggest problem with the Touch of Her Flesh is that by and large, it’s pretty damn dull. In my opinion, there’s only one sin a sexploitation film can commit, and that’s being boring. Touch needs to get to confession on the double. Breasts and crossbows alone cannot save a film. What did keep me watching? The clothes. The hair. The makeup. Yes, if you’re like me and love to perv on vintage styles, this film will do more than satisfy. The stripper’s kicky fringed thong! The prostitute’s intriguing stripey stockings! And best of all, Claudia’s absolutely to die for leopard print ankle boots. If I had those, I could perish happily at the hands of a one-eyed dude called Dick. Say, wait a minute, one eyed dick? I do believe there may be a joke in there...

Five Minutes to Live

In the 60s, Elvis was churning out a whole mess of movies. Formulaic light musicals, mainly. Now, I’m not here to review one, so why would I bring it up? Because our flick of the moment happens to star another popular singer of the day: the one and only Johnny Cash. Yes, that’s right, while Elvis was wiggling his hips and kissin’ his cousins, Johnny was starring in a mean spirited, low budget crime picture called Five Minutes to Live (1961). 

Johnny Cash plays Johnny Cabot, a psychotic criminal who gets himself involved in a rather unusual bank heist. He’s tasked with taking the wife of a suburban bank’s vice president hostage in her own home. His partner Fred is in charge of squeezing the ransom money out of her husband. If he doesn’t pay up, Johnny’s only too happy to kill the unlucky housewife. 

A bit of a convoluted way to rob a bank, but you have to admit it’s original. Really though, you can take or leave the plot. It’s not important. You’re here to see Johnny Cash. And what you really want to know is, can he act? Yes, as it turns out. He steals the whole damn movie. Every move he makes is imbued with a smoldering menace that insures you won’t be able to take your eyes off him. 

And what fun he has! He berates the harried housefrau for her slovenly appearance, and forces her to change into a marabou accented negligee. At gun point, of course. And naturally he has to do a little redecorating, in the form of smashing all her most beloved knick knacks. As much fun as the makeover antics are, the real highlight comes when he croons the title song to her, lackadaisically strumming along on the guitar he conveniently brought. All in all, there are worse ways to be informed that you only have “five minutes to live.”

Unfortunately for all of us, Johnny’s reign of capricious terror can’t last forever. The plot gets thick as coagulated blood when little Bobby (a very young Ronnie Howard!) comes home from school for lunch. Naturally, though he’s a cold blooded killer, Johnny has a weakness for children. With this massive monkey wrench in the works, will the heist be pulled off? Hell, I’m not going to tell you. You’ll just have to watch it yourself, and believe me, you’ll be glad you did. If you’re still not convinced, keep in mind that the film was called “Door to Door Maniac” when it was rereleased a few years later. If that’s not a title for the ages, I don’t know what is.

And after all, it’s not like you’re going to see Elvis using Ron Howard as a human shield in a police shootout.