SPECTRE (1977)
Dir: Clive Donner

Surely one of the most eccentric telefilms ever aired, Spectre is the disjointed brainchild of Star Trek creator Gene Rodenberry. Given free reign by network execs Mr. Roddenberry pens another bombastic tale centered around a quasi-moral theme, in the style so familiar to his disciples everywhere. The structure is more episodic and less developed narrative than to be expected, with set piece following set piece and an only minimal connection tying these loose ends together.

Setting the tone for the campy occult splendours to follow, Spectre's opening five minutes are perhaps its best. Robert Culp is a paranormal investigator attacked at his modernist bachelor pad by a seductive succubus (a hot witch basically). The assault and subsequent destruction of the evil creature is witnessed by Culp's longtime pal and lush of a doctor (Gig Young in one of his final roles), who decides to fly to England to help Culp ferret out black magic practicioners. It seems a high-strung spinster is convinced her older brother is possesed by a demon who's greatest weapon of evil is a louche lifestyle of excessive sexual indulgence. The hoodwinked brother comes off as only marginally creepier than Hugh Hefner (and this guy at least wears French cuffs and slim-cut blazers around the house), and his ancestral home of hedonism only slightly more lurid than Hef's grotto. Turns out there's fire where there's purple magickal smoke, and the alternately suave and bumbling pair are led through a maze (figurative and literal - leftover cave sets from Land of the Lost to be sure) of modern Satanism and ritual sacrifice.

Unfortunately the overlong finale is centered around special effects and make-up artistry so ridiculously bad it nearly cancels the previous hour of offbeat dialouge and plotting. Still, the harpischord soundtrack is charming, the arcane magic rituals and esoteric occult terminology quaintly fun, and especial kudos for an art department on speed when it comes to creating groovy 70s interior kitsch (in a Scottish Baronial pyschadelic manner - think the Beggars Banquet-era Rolling Stones). A horror film with little horror, few chills and no scares, but enough bits of quirky charm to justify viewing. Well, on a hangover day anyway.