There is a certain difficulty to be had in the objective examination of one of the worst films ever made, and I contend that Point of Terror is just that: as extraordinarily awful as The Electric Chair, Manos: The Hands of Fate or Monster A Go-Go, and even trashier than the sleaziest Italian thrillers that I've seen. In fact, Point of Terror is downright nauseating: between the inane music, disgusting story and greasy pectorals of lead Peter Carpenter, I honestly, literally cannot watch this film while eating.
The acting is uniformly terrible, but at least it's entertaining. Carpenter gnaws the scenery vigorously as an unintentionally moronic, criminally opportunistic lounge singer, while a pre-Ilsa Dyanne Thorne delivers a delightfully haughty and psychotic performance as the wretched wife of a crippled record label impresario, who Carpenter beds to obtain a record contract. Plenty of sex and murder ensues, all of it executed with amusing ineptitude.
However, the real reason to see this garbage is its godforsaken musical numbers, "performed" by a gyrating, lip-syncing Carpenter decked out in costumes that look as though they were worn by Elvis and Tom Jones for a night each before being discarded because they were too tacky. Words can't express the sheer hilarity of the nightclub performance and recording studio scenes: some of the most asinine pop music ever recorded paired with impeccably cheap sets and embarrassing posturing, all of which is shot so poorly that it's hard to understand exactly what the director is trying to emphasize.
Point of Terror also fails as a decent sexploitation movie. Nudity is strictly minimal here, so the attractive ladies of the cast aren't even given an opportunity to exploit their voluptuous assets - none of which are in any way related to acting.
If you're looking for the worst of the worst, Point of Terror will fit the bill - this movie is so stupid, so absurd and so tawdry that it almost defies description. What doesn't make you laugh will leave you stunned that something so horrible could ever be committed to film.
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About the reviewer
Robert Buchanan (rbuchanan)
I'm a bibliophile, ailurophile, inveterate aggregator, dedicated middlebrow and anastrophizing syntax addict. My personality type is that of superlative INTJ.
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