Geh, zieh dein Dirndl aus (4 Stars)

Released at the height of the Bavarian sex-comedy boom, "Geh zieh dein Dirndl aus" (i.e. "Take off your dirndl") is exactly the kind of film that critics usually dismiss with a shrug and audiences secretly remember with affection. It's broad, cheeky and utterly unconcerned with subtlety, yet beneath all the innuendo and slapstick chaos there's a fascinating snapshot of a particular moment in West German popular cinema. The film belongs to that strange early-1970's period when Lederhosen comedies became enormously profitable by mixing postcard Bavaria, sexual liberation and old-fashioned farce into one commercially irresistible package.

What makes the film especially interesting today is the presence of Dorothea Rau. She was never promoted internationally on the level of stars like Uschi Glas or Ingrid Steeger, but within the Lederhosen cycle she became one of its defining faces. Rau had an unusual screen presence for these productions. Many actresses in the genre were presented almost entirely as decorative fantasy figures; Dorothea Rau, by contrast, often projected intelligence, confidence and a slightly mischievous sense of self-awareness. She understood the joke the films were making and seemed to enjoy playing along with it.

In "Geh zieh dein Dirndl aus", that quality becomes essential. The film itself is assembled from the usual ingredients; misunderstandings, frustrated husbands, sexually adventurous tourists and endless opportunities for clothing to be removed at strategically comic moments. But Rau gives the material a spark that elevates it beyond mechanical sex farce. She moves through the absurd situations with complete confidence, never looking embarrassed or trapped by the material. Instead, she turns the film's exaggerated sexuality into part of the comedy itself.

Her importance to the Lederhosen comedies wasn't simply that she appeared in them; plenty of actresses did. What distinguished Rau was that she helped define the tone of the genre during its commercial peak. These films depended on balancing eroticism with friendliness. If they became too vulgar, audiences recoiled; if they became too innocent, audiences lost interest. Rau occupied that middle ground perfectly. She brought glamour and sensuality, but also warmth and humour. That balance helped make the films feel playful rather than aggressive.

Watching the film now, it's also striking how strongly the Lederhosen cycle reflected changing attitudes in West Germany after the social upheavals of the late 1960's. The films pretended to celebrate rustic tradition, yet they were really about modern permissiveness invading conservative environments. Dirndls, beer halls and Alpine villages became colourful packaging for stories about sexual freedom. In that sense, performers like Dorothea Rau were central to the genre's success because they embodied the contradiction. She looked perfectly at home within the traditional Bavarian imagery while simultaneously representing the more liberated attitudes the films were selling.

Artistically, "Geh zieh dein Dirndl aus" won't convert anyone who already hates the Lederhosen comedies. The jokes are repetitive, the plotting barely matters and the filmmaking is functional at best. Yet the film survives as an entertaining cultural artefact and as a reminder of how important performers can be within supposedly disposable cinema. Dorothea Rau may never have become a major international star, but within this uniquely German subgenre she was one of its defining personalities; charming, playful and absolutely essential to its appeal.

I was excited to find out that Dorothea Rau grew up in Münchingen, the village where I live, in a small house next to the cemetery. The address is Kontaler Straße 18. People who remember her think of her as a scandalous porn star. They don't get it. There was never any real sex in the Bavarian sex comedies or in any of the German erotic films of the 1970's. People were fast to judge things that they knew nothing about.

Muschimaus mag's grad heraus (4 Stars)

This is the sort of film that seems impossible to defend on paper. The plot is little more than a framework for a string of bawdy encounters, courtroom innuendo and softcore set-pieces. Like many West German sex comedies of the early 1970's, it lives in that awkward territory between liberation and exploitation; half cheeky satire, half commercial nudity reel. Yet the film works far better than expected because of Ulrike Butz.

Butz plays Senta Vukovic with a kind of reckless innocence that keeps the film from collapsing into pure cynicism. Senta is supposedly scandalous, but Butz never portrays her as manipulative or cruel. Instead, she gives the character a disarming openness; almost childlike at times, though never naïve. The performance creates a strange contradiction at the centre of the film. Senta behaves outrageously, yet Butz plays her with such warmth and lack of malice that the audience ends up rooting for her rather than judging her.

That quality was rare in German sexploitation cinema. Many actresses in these films were treated as interchangeable decoration, but Butz had genuine screen presence. The camera constantly gravitates towards her, not simply because of her physical beauty, but because she understands comedy. Her timing matters as much as her nudity. A raised eyebrow, a mischievous smile or the casual confidence with which she walks through increasingly absurd situations gives the film its personality.

Hubert Frank's direction helps. He shoots Butz less as an object and more as a disruptive force moving through conservative Bavarian society. The film repeatedly frames Senta as someone exposing the hypocrisy around her. The men are ridiculous, pompous or sexually frustrated; Senta simply refuses to pretend otherwise. That gives Butz room to play the character as oddly liberated rather than merely promiscuous.

There's also a surprising self-awareness in her performance. Butz occasionally seems to acknowledge the absurdity of the entire enterprise, almost teasing the audience for taking any of it seriously. In another actress's hands, that might have become smug or arch. Butz keeps it playful. She understood that these films were essentially erotic farces, and she performs accordingly.

The film itself remains uneven. Some scenes drag, the slapstick often feels desperate and the episodic structure grows repetitive. Still, Butz carries the material with remarkable ease. Even when the dialogue is weak or the situations verge on nonsense, she remains watchable. That's probably why she became one of the defining faces of the German Report Era.

Looking back now, the most striking thing about "Muschimaus mag's grad heraus" isn't its erotic content but its atmosphere of carefree anarchy. The film belongs to a brief period when West German cinema mixed sexual liberation with broad provincial comedy in a way that now feels culturally alien. Ulrike Butz embodies that moment perfectly. She's simultaneously provocative, approachable, comic and oddly sweet; qualities that elevate the film far beyond what its lurid title might suggest.

Black Creek (4½ Stars)

"Black Creek" is an unusual entry in the career of Cynthia Rothrock because it places her inside a traditional western rather than the urban action settings that made her famous. Rothrock's best films usually depend on speed, precision and sheer physical intensity, but Black Creek asks her to work in a slower, more reflective register. The film leans heavily on dusty landscapes, moral confrontations and old-fashioned frontier atmosphere instead of elaborate fight choreography.

That change of genre gives the film some novelty value. Rothrock carries with her the history of 1980's martial arts cinema, so seeing her ride through a western automatically creates a strange collision between two very different B-movie traditions. Even when the production looks modest, her presence gives it weight. She still projects toughness effortlessly, though age and genre mean the performance is more about authority than athleticism now.

The film itself is uneven, but compared with most of Rothrock's later films, "Black Creek" at least tries something different. Rather than recycling her old persona, it quietly reimagines her as a veteran western figure; less the unstoppable fighter, more the hardened survivor looking back on a violent life.

Alienoid: Return to the Future (5 Stars)

So much about this film is perfect. I can't criticise it in any way. It's a Korean sci-fi time travel epic, told in two parts. It's a direct continuation from "Alienoid". According to what I've read, both parts were filmed back to back. They would have been released as a single film if the studios hadn't thought that four hours is too long. Maybe we need "Alienoid: The Whole Bloody Affair".

An alien race, which is obviously too humane to carry out a death sentence, imprisons dangerous criminals on Earth. They're locked inside human hosts, where they'll live until the host dies. The human has no idea that he's carrying an alien in his body, and the alien is unable to escape. The story is complicated when an alien attacks the Earth in 1380 and manages to travel to the present day (2022), where he intends to release all the prisoners.

The story is a lot more complicated, but I'll leave it there. It all hinges on the premise that the alien race is unwilling to sentence violent criminals to death. That would make everything much easier.

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Nuremberg (5 Stars)

This is a powerful historical drama about the Nuremberg trials. It focuses on the army psychologist Douglas Kelley, who was assigned to monitor the mental health of 22 senior Nazi officers who were awaiting trial. Even though he dealt with all of them, the film shows only his dealings with Hermann Göring, Hitler's second-in-command.

Göring was highly intelligent, charismatic and a narcissist. Instead of hiding after the war, he surrendered to the allied troops, because he was certain that he would never be found guilty in a court of law. In actual fact, this is discussed at length in the early scenes. There was no legal precedent for putting the leaders of another country on trial. New laws had to be created to make the trials possible. As Göring correctly says, "I am a prisoner because you won and we lost, not because you're morally superior". At least, that's almost correct. The Nazis were morally inferior because they murdered six million Jews, but if Germany had won the war it would probably have been kept secret.

The performances by Russell Crowe and Rami Malek are brilliant. We can feel Göring's charming arrogance in every mannerism played by Crowe. Rami Malek plays Douglas Kelley as a slightly unhinged man, which is the characteristic of almost every psychiatrist.

The Sheep Detectives (4 Stars)

As soon as I saw the trailers I knew this would be a special film.

Hugh Jackman plays George Hardy, a shepherd who's dedicated to his sheep. He lives in a caravan in the middle of his flock, and every night he reads detective novels to his sheep. They sit spellbound around him, and he assumes that they're only enjoying the sound of his voice, not the content of the novels, but he's wrong. They understand every word, and they discuss the stories with one another after he goes to bed at night.

One day George is found dead outside his caravan. The local policeman says it's a heart attack, but the sheep are convinced that he was murdered. If the police fail, it's up to the sheep to solve the crime.

It's a beautiful story, admittedly silly, but delightfully cute. The sheep aren't just a random flock, the main characters are all named and shown with distinct personalities. Maybe four stars isn't enough. I'll think it over next time I watch the film. Yes, there has to be a next time!

Living Dead Girl (5 Stars)

"The Living Dead Girl" is Jean Rollin's 14th film, made in 1982. It's one of Jean Rollin's strangest and saddest films; a zombie movie that treats gore not as spectacle, but as tragedy. While many zombie films turn the undead into anonymous flesh-eating mobs, Rollin narrows the focus to a single resurrected woman and the emotionally destructive bond that ties her to the living. The result feels less like horror exploitation than a doomed romance infected by death.

The film begins with Catherine Valmont rising from her grave after toxic waste contaminates the crypt where she lies buried. In another director's hands this might become social commentary or apocalyptic terror, but Rollin is interested in something far more intimate. Catherine is not a monster in the traditional sense. She's confused, fragile and trapped somewhere between death and memory. The only thing anchoring her to existence is her childhood friend Hélène, who immediately devotes herself to protecting Catherine, even after discovering that Catherine must kill in order to survive.

This is where the moral ambiguity becomes fascinating. Catherine commits terrible acts, slaughtering innocent people and feeding on them with increasing desperation. Yet Rollin films her almost sympathetically. She doesn't appear to enjoy killing; she looks haunted by it. There are moments where Catherine seems aware that she's become something unnatural and horrifying. Her beauty decays in the course of the film, making her resemble a corpse wearing the fading memory of humanity. She's trapped inside a body that demands violence.

Hélène, however, makes conscious choices. She's alive, rational and fully aware of the consequences of her actions. Rather than helping Catherine die peacefully or alerting authorities, she becomes an enabler. She lures victims to Catherine, lies to protect her and treats murder as the price of preserving their emotional connection. The film quietly asks whether love can become monstrous when it values possession above morality. Hélène's devotion initially seems compassionate, but gradually it turns selfish. She cannot bear to lose Catherine again, even if preserving her means condemning others.

That makes the central question deeply uncomfortable: who is the real monster? Catherine kills because she's become a creature driven by hunger beyond her control. Hélène kills through choice. One acts from curse, the other from obsession. Rollin never gives an easy answer because he clearly sees tragedy in both women. Catherine is horrifying, but she's also suffering. Hélène is loving, but her love corrodes into moral blindness.

The film becomes even more poignant because Rollin presents their relationship with genuine tenderness. There is an unmistakably romantic undercurrent between the two women, yet it's portrayed less as exploitation and more as emotional dependency. Hélène clings to an idealised memory of Catherine from childhood, refusing to accept that the woman she loved is gone. In a sense, she falls in love with death itself. Catherine, meanwhile, increasingly recognises what she's become and seems almost ashamed of Hélène's sacrifices.

Unlike conventional zombie films, there's no triumph in survival, no restoration of order and no clear distinction between innocence and evil. The horror comes from watching affection transform into complicity. Rollin asks whether unconditional love is truly noble when it destroys everyone surrounding it.

Visually, the film carries Rollin's trademark dreamlike atmosphere; crumbling chateaux, graveyards and misty countryside landscapes that feel suspended outside ordinary reality. Yet compared to some of his more surreal works, this film has unusual emotional directness. The gore is graphic, but the lasting impression is melancholy rather than shock. Catherine is less a predator than a decaying memory refusing to disappear.

In the end, "The Living Dead Girl" suggests that monstrosity isn't simply about violence or undeath. The greater horror may lie in refusing to let go; in loving someone so absolutely that morality itself becomes secondary. Catherine is the monster created by death, but Hélène is the monster created by love.

Grapes Of Death (4 Stars)

"Grapes of Death" is Jean Rollin's tenth film, made in 1978. It's the film where Rollin finally stopped drifting through graveyards full of melancholy vampires and decided to make a proper gore film. The result is strange, uneven and occasionally repulsive; but it's also one of the most fascinating entries in his career precisely because it feels like Rollin wrestling against his own instincts.

Most of Rollin's films move like dreams. Stories barely matter. Characters wander through ruined castles, deserted beaches and cemeteries as if sleepwalking through somebody else's fantasy. Dialogue is sparse, the pacing is hypnotically slow and violence often feels secondary to atmosphere. Even when blood appears in films like "Requiem for a Vampire" or "The Nude Vampire", it rarely has much physical weight. Rollin was usually more interested in lonely women, surreal imagery and erotic melancholy than shock.

"The Grapes of Death" is different from its opening scene. The countryside here isn't mystical; it's diseased. A pesticide sprayed on vineyards has transformed local workers into rotting homicidal maniacs, creating something halfway between a zombie film and a rural plague nightmare. Rollin borrows openly from contemporary exploitation horror, particularly the splatter films emerging in Italy at the time. Faces split open, flesh peels away and bodies are mutilated with a level of nastiness almost absent from his earlier work.

Yet even while embracing gore, Rollin cannot entirely stop being himself. The film still contains stretches of eerie silence and bizarre encounters that feel disconnected from ordinary narrative logic. The heroine Elisabeth wanders from one pocket of madness to another, meeting traumatised survivors who seem trapped in their own isolated worlds. The atmosphere remains dreamlike even when the special effects become graphic. Rollin turns the French countryside into a place of decay and loneliness rather than pure terror.

What really separates the film from his earlier work is its anger. Rollin's vampire films are sad and romantic; "The Grapes of Death" feels bitter. The poisoned vineyards create an unmistakably environmental horror story, reflecting fears about industrial contamination and modern agriculture. The violence has a grimy physicality that strips away the fairy-tale quality usually found in his cinema. This is probably the closest Rollin ever came to making a conventional horror film for mainstream exploitation audiences.

The irony is that even here he could not fully conform. Beneath the gore and infected flesh lies the same lonely poetic sensibility that defined all his work. The film is rougher, harsher and bloodier than his usual output; but it still belongs unmistakably to Rollin. Nobody else would make a zombie film that pauses so often for melancholy, silence and strange beauty.