Devoid of the directorial brio that graced Russ Meyer's off-the-wall essays in violence, 'Death Weekend' remains an inglorious example of cinema at its ugliest.
Vicious, joyless, witless and pointless, it is one long contrivance of outrage, a uni-dimensional affair which having discovered the Newtonian principle of the greater the action, the greater the reaction, proceeds to exploit it with tedious predictability.
There are no insights into the human condition, though a great many into the minds of those responsible. Stroud, who until this dross had the potential to be a cinema headliner, must look back now and wonder if his career wasn't buried along with so much else at The House by the Lake. As for Fruett, consignment to the world of TV episodes seems charitable.
See it and be demeaned.
Vicious, joyless, witless and pointless, it is one long contrivance of outrage, a uni-dimensional affair which having discovered the Newtonian principle of the greater the action, the greater the reaction, proceeds to exploit it with tedious predictability.
There are no insights into the human condition, though a great many into the minds of those responsible. Stroud, who until this dross had the potential to be a cinema headliner, must look back now and wonder if his career wasn't buried along with so much else at The House by the Lake. As for Fruett, consignment to the world of TV episodes seems charitable.
See it and be demeaned.