For a guy who has spent the better portion of his life playing cinephilic matchmaker, this about-face ring-up endures as a marriage made in “Hell.” “Quick! Turn on channel 9,” the voice on the other end of the line commanded. “You gotta see the way the dad catches the football.” Reaching for the on/off knob (remote controls had yet to become a household item), I flipped on the Zenith to find the evening’s 7 pm movie slot taken by Hot Rods to Hell, a howlingly overt youth-in-revolt moralizer directed by the otherwise exceptional John Brahm. The dad to which my then-15-year-old life-long pal Ed breathlessly referred was Tom Phillips (Dana Andrews) a traveling salesman with a discretional habit of drawing attention to his wrenched back — hence the hilariously over-theatrical pigskin pluck. Though it was originally intended as a TV movie, during the first half of 1967, the film erroneously received a brief release in hardtop and drive-in theatres before living out its life on the small screen (where it belongs). Subsequently, I never missed a WGN presentation, but that wasn’t enough. I had to experience the film, all eight circles, on the screen. Once upon a time, the only way to catch a movie in the comfort of your home entailed renting a 16mm print. At a cost of $75 split 8 ways, a group of us had the privilege of spending an entire weekend in “Hell.” Long before the world learned that piracy was not a victimless crime, we “borrowed” a video copy off the screen to tide us over until such time Ted Turner saw fit to restore it on TCM. A Christmas Eve smash-up with a drunk driver leaves Phillips an emotional invalid (pronounced “ een-valid”) with a compound fracture of the English language and a scene-chewing bum back to nurse. Phillips’ brother sells him on a career in motel management, one that involves relocating Peg (Jeanne Crain, in her fourth and final pairing with Andrews) and the kids from Massachusetts to the desert motel of their dreams, located smack dab in the middle of Nowheresville, CA. In no time, the family attracts a group of button-down hooligans — Duke (Paul Bertoya), Gloria (Mimsy Farmer), and Ernie (Gene Kirkwood) — with a thing for Phillips’ daughter Tina (Laurie Mock), who proceed to terrorize the family for kicks. Legend has it career alcoholic Andrews’ intoxicating (and intoxicated) performance entailed buttoning his shirt with a board sewn up the back to act as a brace and prevent slumping forward during the rear-screen driving scenes. Fittingly enough, the MetroColor rental print was redder than the fires of Hades. Even in its restored form, Andrews retained his funeral parlor blush topped by fire-engine red lipstick. Brush with HRTH greatness: Vegas, 1979 and I’m exiting one of the most transcendental experiences of my life: Jackie Vernon in Babes Ahoy! Seated in the back row was Liz Renay, the showgirl legend who played motel “coffee shop” regular Hazel. I introduced myself and politely asked, “Weren’t you in Hot Rods… “ Before I could get the “Hell” out, and without making eye contact, she mumbled, “Yes I was.” With a gust akin to having a fur storage vault slammed in your face, she turned her back on me. I’ve seen Hot Rods to Hell more times than many of you have your grown children. The 100-minute “restored” DVD copy runs 8 minutes longer than the version we grew up on, with added dialogue and different music cues. Viewing it for the first time was like running into an old friend fresh out of the plastic surgeon’s chair. From Andrews’ slurred line readings, well-intentioned morality pleas, blinding day-for-night cinematography, and the garage band stylings of the Mickey Rooney, Jr. Trio, there’s not a better bad time to be had at the movies. Seeing it with a crowd is bound to cause a riot, but there’ll be no need to call the police (pronounced “poe- leese”). (1967) — Scott Marks