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In this episode of The Introverted Obelisk, we dip our toes—and eventually our entire sanity—into the tepid cinematic waters of Monster from the Ocean Floor (1954), a film that dares to ask: what if a rubbery sea creature and a questionable romance plot tried to co-exist on a shoestring budget? Spoiler alert: they mostly get in each other’s way.

Join me as I navigate this soggy B-movie relic, complete with ominous stock footage, a scientist with questionable ethics, and a fearless female lead who deserves far better than a guy who thinks "let’s test this on you" is romantic dialogue. We’ll talk about the film’s surprising bit of feminist edge, and why this creature feature is less about the monster and more about the monster movie checklist it’s desperately trying to complete.

We also dive into early Roger Corman trivia, scuba safety violations, and the mystery of why no one in this coastal town seems particularly concerned about being eaten. So grab your Geiger counter, your underwater camera, and a healthy sense of disbelief—because the ocean floor has never looked this suspiciously shallow.

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In this episode of The Introverted Obelisk, we plunge headfirst into the baffling, burbling waters of Creature from the Haunted Sea—Roger Corman’s 1961 fever dream that somehow mashed together Cold War espionage, mobster slapstick, and a sea monster made of mop heads. We walk through the film’s paper-thin plot, where an American conman fakes a sea monster attack to rob Cuban exiles, only to discover that—surprise!—there actually is a sea monster, and it’s not thrilled about being impersonated.

We’ll unpack the absurdity, the recycled monster costume, and the half-improvised dialogue that somehow holds this leaky raft of a movie together. Along the way, we explore how the film winks at both spy thrillers and monster flicks, all while operating on a budget that couldn’t cover the price of a decent sandwich.

Expect Cold War commentary, confused communists, and a creature that looks like it wandered out of a janitor’s closet and into cinematic history. So grab your flippers and your sense of disbelief—we’re diving deep into this gloriously cheap aquatic oddity.

And don’t worry, no mollusks were harmed in the making of this podcast. Probably.

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In this episode of The Introverted Obelisk, we slip on our ghost viewer glasses and stumble through the cobweb-covered corridors of William Castle’s 1960 spookfest 13 Ghosts—not to be confused with the blood-slicked, glass-walled 2001 remake that somehow starred both Tony Shalhoub and a jug of ectoplasmic rage. We follow the ill-fated Zorba family, who inherit a haunted mansion from a dead uncle with a ghost collection hobby and no sense of boundaries. There’s a Ouija board, a witchy housekeeper played by none other than Margaret Hamilton (yes, that Margaret Hamilton), and a child who is entirely too enthusiastic about the undead.

We’ll explore Castle’s wild gimmick, “Illusion-O,” which asked audiences to peer into colored filters to “see” or “not see” the ghosts—because nothing enhances terror like 3D cardboard glasses. Along the way, we’ll dissect the film’s charmingly bizarre tone, its ghost designs that look like haunted bedsheets with union benefits, and its oddball commentary on family, greed, and the supernatural.

So grab your spirit viewers and prepare for a low-budget haunting with all the sincerity of a Scooby-Doo episode and none of the meddling kids. It’s time to get spectral with 13 Ghosts—the original one.

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In this episode of The Introverted Obelisk, we pack our bags for an ill-advised tropical expedition into the technicolor fever dream that is Gappa: The Triphibian Monster (1967). When a group of journalists and scientists arrive on a remote island owned by a deeply unethical corporation, they discover a baby kaiju nestled in a cavern filled with glowing eggs and ancient warnings. Naturally, they do what any responsible explorer would do—kidnap it and bring it back to civilization. What follows is a lesson in kaiju parenting, as Mama and Papa Gappa transverse land, sea, and sky to retrieve their child and exact some perfectly justifiable destruction.

We walk you through the plot step-by-squishy step, from the misguided capitalists and baffling romantic subplots to the unforgettable monster tantrums. Along the way, we muse on themes of colonial arrogance, the dangers of poking prehistoric bears (or bird-lizard-fish hybrids), and why stealing someone’s baby is generally frowned upon—even when the parents are the size of a department store.

So pour yourself something tropical with a side of foreboding, and join us as we wade knee-deep into nuclear metaphor, monster mayhem, and one very angry Gappa family reunion. No island resort is safe.

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In this crustacean calamity of atomic proportions, The Introverted Obelisk scuttles into the radioactive tidal pool of 1957’s Attack of the Crab Monsters—a movie where the science is shaky, the dialogue is moist, and the crabs are psychic. Join us as we unpack the radioactive fever dream of an island expedition that goes from scientific to suicidal in record time, courtesy of some giant telepathic crabs with a taste for human intellect and long-winded exposition.

We’ll explore why the military insists on sending its most emotionally fragile personnel to monster-infested islands, why nobody is ever actually holding a gun when they need one, and how the crabs’ plan for world domination somehow hinges on eating geologists and repeating their voices like parrot-shaped Ouija boards. Also: the thrilling debut of murderous molting!

With shocking deaths, suspenseful paper mâché, and crabs that seem more emotionally available than most men in the 1950s, this episode pairs best with a warm cocktail and a suspicious side of coleslaw.

So grab your Geiger counter, dodge the disembodied voices, and whatever you do—don’t go near the fissures. 

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 In this episode of The Introverted Obelisk, we descend into the fever-dream logic of Robot Monster (1953), a film where humanity is annihilated by a gorilla in a diving helmet with Wi-Fi issues. Join us as we unravel a plot held together by bubble machines, philosophical monologues about murder, and an ape-creature named Ro-Man who falls in love, develops free will, and still manages to blow up the Earth—twice. It’s science fiction by way of backyard cosplay, and we’re here for every baffling, glorious minute. Pour yourself something sinister and brace for impact. Ro-Man demands your compliance. 

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 In this episode, we're cracking open the not-so-well-preserved corpse of Bloodlust (1961), a film that dares to ask the question: “What if rich guys hunted people and everyone was just kind of chill about it?”

Before The Most Dangerous Game had a Hulu reboot and before “eat the rich” became a social media aesthetic, there was Bloodlust, a charming little moral play wrapped in B-movie gauze. Directed by Ralph Brooke and shot in six days, Bloodlust is what happens when you give a borrowed island set, some aspiring actors, and exactly one vat of dry ice to a guy with a grudge against socialites.

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