Reviews

It's commonly agreed by Euro-horror enthusiasts that Fulci's talents began to rapidly diminish following his deeply offensive (but also incredibly awesome) 1982 giallo, The New York Ripper. Having seen his interesting but snail-paced A Cat in the Brain (1990), and his depressingly awful Demonia (1990), I was inclined to agree, but my positive reaction to The Devil's Honey (a terrific sado-erotic drama from 1986) made me more interested in checking out his latter-day efforts. Aenigma is often singled out for ridicule by viewers, and to an extent I can see why. Commonly referred to as a Carrie rip-off, but even more derivative of Patrick (1978), Aenigma chronicles a comatose's girl's psychic revenge on her catty schoolmates and hunky gym teacher after they pull a cruel prank on her. Having been hit by a car after fleeing the humiliating scene, in which the gym teacher pretended to seduce her, she possesses a new classmate named Eva (played by Lara Lamberti) and begins to pick off her tormentors in increasingly bizarre ways. Things are complicated when the promiscuous Eva begins an illicit affair with a dreamboat doctor (an often befuddled Jared Martin), whose subsequent relationship with another student draws the jealous wrath of Eva and her possessor. This revenge story is often nonsensical, and at times downright comical, but Fulci brings some of the same artistry and imagination that made his earlier thrillers so effective. The cinematography by Luigi Ciccarese is sometimes flat, and has that hazy soft focus and heavy blue gel lighting that plagued so many films in the eighties, but becomes more nuanced and colorful in the film's supernatural scenes. A sequence in which a girl is smothered to death by snails is usually singled out for derision, and it does come across as a misguided attempt by Fulci to outdo the spider attack scene from The Beyond (1981), but I admire Fulci's balls in trying to make snails scary. It doesn't work, but he later provides more effective jolts in a nightmarish museum death scene, in which the exhibits come to life and attack one of the villainous schoolgirls. Overall a lesser effort from the prolific Fulci, but far more entertaining than I'd been led to believe, and it still gives the impression that an artist is behind the camera, struggling against all odds to inject some originality and style into a derivative and underfunded commercial venture.

Gans's student film, made during his time at IDHEC, is low on plot, but its stunning visuals more than compensate for its narrative deficiencies. The seemingly nonsensical title refers to the two great masters of the Italian giallo, Dario Argento and Mario Bava, whose last names translate (respectively) to "silver" and "slime," and it is their films to which Gans pays tribute here. Thus we have a faceless leather-clad killer, two killings via straight razor, heavily stylized cinematography, and a Goblin-esque soundtrack. In addition to quoting the work of the aforementioned masters, however, Gans also sneaks in a reference to the bathtub scene of Lucio Fulci's The Beyond (1981), which I appreciated. As far as student films go, this is well above average, and if it were feature length it could proudly stand alongside the gialli being made in Italy at that time. Unfortunately it also bears one of the great faults of student films, in that it's so imitative of the masters that it doesn't really bring anything new to the table. Gans would eventually find his own voice, but I must admit I find this and his work in Necronomicon (1993) to be far more satisfying than any of his features.

I was pretty surprised to learn that a remake of Mario Bava's Rabid Dogs (1974) had been filmed under everyone's noses, and once it popped up on Netflix streaming I had to check it out. The original Rabid Dogs is one of Bava's most atypical and yet most effective thrillers, in which the director very consciously sought to reinvent himself. Bava was (and still is) most renowned for his Gothic horror films, but his Romantic and stylized approach to the genre seemed hopelessly dated to seventies film-goers, and so he set about producing an extremely gritty and contemporary crime thriller. Unfortunately the film wasn't released in Bava's lifetime due to an untimely bankruptcy on the producer's part, and post-production wasn't completed until the mid-nineties. With all of this in mind, it strikes me as particularly interesting that this is the first Bava film to receive an official remake, and even more so to see how radically different Hannezo's approach is from Bava's.

The story concerns three criminals on the run after a violent robbery, and the game of cat and mouse that plays out between them and their three hostages: a woman, a man, and the man's young daughter. As the film begins, a character who we will soon identify as the male hostage tells himself in voice-over, "Ignore the assholes who preach. This is your story. Only your version matters. No other." Here Hannezo seems to be telling the viewer to forget Bava's version, and that this new film should be judged on its own merits, but the words strike me as insincere since the film itself is credited as an adaptation of Bava's film rather than the short story, "Man and Boy," and even uses a techno cover of Stelvio Cipriani's original theme music. Nonetheless, Hannezo does distinguish himself from Bava in a number of ways.

Whereas Bava tells his frantic story in a linear fashion, and essentially in real time, Hannezo attempts to flesh out the film and its characters with several stylized flashbacks. Thus we see how such-and-such criminal began their life of crime, what our hostages were up to before their capture, etc. While the scenes are beautifully lensed in vivid Refn-esque primary colors by D.P. Kamal Derkaoui, they don't contribute anything of importance to the narrative. The insights they provide into the characters are superficial at best, and don't significantly inform their decisions throughout the story. More surprising, though, is how much tamer Hannezo's version is in terms of its on screen violence. Though the gunshots are more graphic here than in the original, most likely due to Bava's meager budget ruling out elaborate make-up effects, it significantly dials down the torture and sexual violence that its heroine undergoes. This isn't necessarily a criticism (who leaves a movie complaining there wasn't enough rape, other than sadists and serial killers?), but it does mean that Bava's film is easily the more shocking and transgressive of the two. And since Hannezo films his story in a far more glossy, stylized way than Bava, the violence isn't nearly as hard-hitting when it does occur, though he certainly knows how to craft an exciting chase scene.

The biggest issue with the remake, I think, is in the casting, since the players here are largely interchangeable, with the only standouts being Lambert Wilson as the man, and François Arnaud as the most sadistic of the three criminals. Arnaud isn't given as much to do as his counterpart in the original, but he has a young Oliver Reed vibe to him, which made him stand out in a big way. Unfortunately the largely generic actors here make it far more difficult to care about the characters' fates.

After the last scene played out in almost exactly the same fashion as in the original film, I found myself questioning why this one even needs to exist. Though it's very well produced and reasonably entertaining, it doesn't really accomplish anything of note that the original film didn't do better. By providing a new point of comparison with Bava's original film (another point being the misguided Kidnapped cut assembled by Alfredo Leone and Lamberto Bava), though, this remake sheds greater light on why Bava's interpretation of the story remains so effective, so for that I appreciate the experience. If you haven't seen either version, though, I'd definitely stick with Bava's, which remains a classic of its genre.

Of all the horror franchises to devolve into mindless slasher nonsense, I find the Hellraiser series to be the most depressing. Whereas there's only so much you can do with the simple set-ups of films like Halloween and Friday the 13th, there was something edgy and elegant about the first two Hellraiser films. While they were certainly as gory and titillating as their slasher counterparts, they had a little more going on under the surface, and were just as interested in their characters as they were in their violent set-pieces. This is mostly due to Clive Barker, the writer and director of the first Hellraiser, whose poetic and shocking horror novels remain benchmarks in the genre. Even starting from Hellraiser II, however, certain slasher tropes were starting to creep in, such as corny one-liners and gratuitous death scenes. Even so, they both never forgot their primary aim, which was to present a seriously disturbing horror film geared towards adults; even Hellraiser II doesn't showcase its few one-liners with winking irony. Starting with Hellraiser III, though, several things went horribly wrong: the studio began to meddle, Clive Barker found himself increasingly unwelcome as a creative consultant, the budgets grew smaller, and Pinhead became the primary antagonist of a series which increasingly lost its footing. It's difficult to say exactly where it all went wrong, but somehow the stars aligned to make a Hellraiser III so ludicrous that it seems to come from an entirely different planet than the first two.

This entry, scripted by Barker's long-time friend Pete Atkins (also the screenwriter of Part II), finds Pinhead (again played by the brilliant Doug Bradley), still trapped in the Pillar of Souls after his battle with Dr. Channard. The Pillar is purchased by the gloriously reprehensible douche bag/club owner J.P. Monroe (Kevin Bernhardt), who soon discovers that he can free Pinhead by feeding him souls. Meanwhile reporter Joey Summerskill (Terry Farrell) stumbles onto the story of a lifetime when she witnesses a man torn apart in the E.R. by the power of the Lament Configuration (i.e. the box used to summon the Cenobites). Her investigation leads her to J.P.'s ex-girlfriend Terri (Paula Marshall), and the two try to figure out exactly what the hell is going on.

It sounds okay on paper, but Hickox unintentionally turns it into a hilariously overwrought parody. Given Hickox's previous horror comedies such as Waxwork and Sundown: The Vampire in Retreat, I assumed this might be the intention, but Hickox insisted in interviews that he was attempting to make a serious psychological horror film in the vein of Jacob's Ladder or Angel Heart. Instead he directs his cast to deliver corny, unmistakably nineties dialogue in an alternately stilted or over-the-top fashion. Only Doug Bradley really escapes with his dignity intact (the man can make even the lousiest dialogue sound like Shakespeare), but I must admit I enjoyed Bernhardt's absurdly sleazy turn as J.P. He looks like the sleazy American cousin of Rupert Everett, and I love how transparent his attempts to sweet talk women into his bed/into Pinhead's stomach(?) are. Only those two really help to sell the ridiculous goings on. Our two female leads are likable enough, but they're not nearly as convincing as Ashley Laurence is in the previous films, though it doesn't help that they're confronted by the most ridiculous Cenobites in the whole series. After the film's most ambitious set-piece (a massacre in a crowded nightclub), Pinhead mounts his attack on humanity with the following soldiers of Hell: there's Camera-Head, whose head has been fused with his news camera, and who spouts one-liners like "That's a wrap!" and "Are you ready for your close-up?"; CD-Head, a DJ whose head is pierced with CDs and who…throws CDs at people; and the Barbie Cenobite, a bartender whose head is wrapped in barbed wire, and who uses a cocktail mixer filled with gasoline to wreak havoc on some cops. It's jaw-droppingly stupid, and completely undermines the pain/pleasure dynamic of the first two entries. If Hickox was aiming to emulate Alan Parker or Adrian Lyne, he's way off the mark - instead think Sam Raimi, if Sam Raimi was a moron.

To be fair, though, the movie looks very good, apart from the corny, early-nineties CGI, and some decent dialogue actually trickles through now and then. I particularly enjoyed several of Pinhead's lines, such as "Down the dark decades of your pain, this will seem like a memory of Heaven," and "I will enjoy making you bleed, and I will enjoy making you enjoy it," which briefly touches on Clive Barker's original intentions for the character. Unfortunately this film, by turning Pinhead into a Freddy Krueger-esque slasher front-man, set the series on the wrong path for good. Atkins and director Kevin Yagher attempted to put things right with the ambitious Hellraiser IV: Bloodline, but studio meddling would turn a potential masterpiece into a complete disaster.

Following the ludicrous but profitable Hellraiser III, Clive Barker and Pete Atkins sought to restore some dignity to the series, and from their brainstorming sessions emerged one of the franchise's finest screenplays. Barker suggested that Atkins write a family saga set during three eras, and Atkins one-upped him by focusing on three generations of the damned LeMarchand family. On paper it is one of the few truly epic horror films, following three generations of the family that crafted the Lament Configuration, and their centuries long quest to atone for the hell that they've unleashed. Make-up effects artists Kevin Yagher was tapped to direct, and his ambition matched that of Barker and Atkins; with this film they would create the ultimate ending to the saga of LeMarchand's box, and of its most famous demon, Pinhead. Unfortunately it was not to be. The production was not given nearly enough time or money to realize Atkin's story, and while Yagher did his best under the circumstances, his initial edit made the studio very nervous. Simply put, Pinhead was considered the series's cash cow, and he didn't appear in the movie until about 40 minutes in. Soon the film was taken out of Yagher's hands; its linear story was rearranged so that Pinhead appeared in the first act, and several scenes were added or re-shot by an uncredited Joe Chappelle to make sense of the severely truncated mess that Miramax now had on its hands. As the film no longer bore any resemblance to his original conception, Yagher chose to be credited as "Alan Smithee." The final product, though entertaining, is thus an extremely frustrating experience for any die-hard fans of Hellraiser.

An interesting wrinkle emerged about ten years after the fact, when a very rough VHS copy of a work-print was leaked onto the internet. Though the film had already been heavily compromised by this point in its production, and (as work-prints tend to do) it features several unfinished special effects, the work-print does feature several scenes which were cut from the theatrical version. A couple fan-edits followed, both of which sought to combine both the theatrical release and the work-print into something more closely resembling the original screenplay. Having already seen the theatrical version a few times, I chose to watch one of these fan composites and compare it to Pete Atkin's script. The version I watched disingenuously refers to itself as a director's cut, but it still features some of the material shot by Chappelle, and several significant gaps remain in the story. Because some important scenes were either never filmed or have never surfaced, several aspects of the first act (set in 17th century France) are actually more confusing here than they are in the theatrical version. By arranging the story chronologically, however, the three generations of LeMarchands (each convincingly played by Bruce Ramsay) can now be appreciated as different progressions of a single character. While this pseudo-director's cut still isn't the lost masterpiece that fans are craving, it did increase my admiration for what the filmmakers were trying to achieve. The idea of an old-fashioned Hell (personified by Valentina Varga as Hell's sultry princess, Angelique) in conflict with the more ordered Hell of Pinhead is rich with possibilities, and it clearly struck a chord with Clive Barker. Though Barker repeatedly disavowed the Hellraiser sequels, he returned to this theme in The Scarlet Gospels (his literary finale to the Hellraiser mythos), and several other images are quoted almost verbatim from Atkin's screenplay - I was particularly struck by how both authors characterized Pinhead's chains as snakes coiled to strike. And even in its abortive form, the film still displays a confident visual sense from first-time director Yagher. Even the film's weakest segment (in which the modern John Merchant's family is held hostage by Pinhead) still features some spectacularly creepy visual flourishes. As the credits roll on either version, one is thus left pining for the movie that could have been. It wouldn't be too much of an exaggeration, I think, to call this film Hellraiser's own Magnificent Ambersons in terms of ambition and compromise.

I would be remiss not to mention the film's most controversial section, in which Pinhead and Dr. Paul Merchant match wits aboard a futuristic space station. Outer space is usually regarded as the location in which any horror franchise loses its dignity. While the idea might seem inherently campy, I think the meeting of Hell with the cold void of outer space is inspired. What lets it down here is some lackluster CGI and some annoying concessions to the genre (e.g. characters splitting up to die slasher movie deaths, lame chase sequences, etc.) This potential would be better realized in the Hellraiser-inspired Event Horizon, which is freed from these potential pitfalls, I think, by being a standalone movie. Without the baggage of an iconic boogeyman like Pinhead, it's free to focus more on psychological horror and character development, and thus it sadly plays like a better Hellraiser-in-Space than the real one.

Gutted though it may have been, Hellraiser IV proved profitable enough at the box office to pave the way for a seemingly never-ending series of DTV sequels, starting with the still contentious Hellraiser: Inferno.

I watched this several days ago and have been mulling over it ever since. The gist of it is that two girls are abducted, and all signs point to a mentally disabled man, Alex Jones (a spectacularly creepy Paul Dano), being the culprit. He's arrested by Detective Loki (Jake Gyllenhaal), but a lack of evidence swiftly finds Jones back on the street. Keller Dover (Hugh Jackman), the father of one of the girls, isn't convinced of Jones's innocence, and he vows to do whatever is necessary to bring the girls home. Villeneuve's thriller is anything but fast-paced (it runs for a whopping two and a half hours), but it's certainly never boring. The inflated running time allows for greater character development (specifically of Loki and Keller Dover), and invites us to dwell on the moral ambiguities of Dover's quest. Dover has good reason to suspect Jones, but he goes to extreme means to make him talk, to the extent that even his co-conspirators find themselves questioning his actions.

I was immediately reminded of Taken, but whereas Taken might be the Death Wish of the child abduction genre, this is a more grounded and disturbing take on the material. There are extreme acts of violence and torture in this film, much like in Taken, but we're never invited to enjoy the spectacle, and the more horrific acts are mostly implied. At the same time we can understand why Keller does what he does (at one point his wife tearfully says, "you always made me feel so safe," the unspoken accusation being that he failed as the protector of his family), and find it difficult to condemn him. At a time when films can be so preachy concerning matters of morality, it's refreshing to see a movie that raises these questions without being so pretentious as to think there's a simple answer.

While tackling such hard-hitting themes as the destruction of a man's soul and child abuse, it thankfully also functions as a riveting mystery. The contemplative pacing and the convoluted mystery (Loki pursues several leads, each of which appear to be dead ends) make this feel more novel-like (indeed, I was surprised to discover this was an original screenplay), but as in all good mystery novels the seemingly disconnected narrative threads are tied together beautifully in the last act. I only wonder if perhaps the solution to the mystery, as well as the motivation behind the abductions, is a little too far-fetched and over-the-top for its own good. In any case, it didn't massively detract from my enjoyment.

I need not point out Roger Deakins's Oscar-nominated cinematography, but the cast is worth discussing. I've always liked Hugh Jackman, but I rarely like his movies, so it's a pleasure to see him in something that I feel is worth his time. He gives it his all here, and he is at turns heartrending and frightening as the tormented vigilante father. Jake Gyllenhaal is likewise quite good as Detective Loki, and he retains our sympathy even after making some incredibly boneheaded decisions. The grand prize, however, must go to Paul Dano for his seriously creepy yet understated performance. I don't want to spoil too much, but his soft-spoken, seemingly simpleminded character compares favorably with that of Richard Attenborough in 10 Rillington Place.

I'll end this rambling review by noting something I haven't seen mentioned in other reviews. The final scene bears a fascinating resemblance to certain scenes from two different films by Lucio Fulci: Seven Notes in Black and City of the Living Dead. For anyone who hasn't yet watched this (which you should, immediately!), I'd rather not spoil it by describing them, but in the case of the latter film in particular it's almost uncanny. I can't help but wonder whether the writer or director follow Fulci's work. I was also frequently reminded of Duccio Tessari's superlative, heartrending thriller Death Occurred Last Night, which likewise sees a detective and an enraged, heartbroken father racing to locate the person or persons who abducted his daughter. In any case, Prisoners certainly brings plenty of its own unique qualities to the table. I wouldn't call it a classic, but it leaves a lasting impact, which is more than I can say for a lot of films I've watched recently.

Despite being considered one of the all time great horror stories, Robert Louis Stevenson's Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde has a disappointing track record on film. While it has inspired several interesting interpretations over the years (the most striking, perhaps, being Hammer Films' gender-bending Dr. Jekyll and Sister Hyde), few of them have really proved to be all that satisfying. One notable exception is the brilliant Rouben Mamoulian film from 1931, which features an astonishing performance by Fredric March as both Jekyll and Hyde. Though the make-up in that film is somewhat over-the-top, the characterization is spot-on, nailing Hyde's sadism and his lust for life, and without shying away from the more unsavory aspects of his appetites. It's also one of the most stylish mainstream horror films of its time, featuring an innovative opening shot entirely from Jekyll's point-of-view. In short, it's a hard act to follow, as Victor Fleming's tame remake attests to, but I believe that The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Miss Osbourne, made fifty years after Mamoulian's adaptation, is a worthy successor.

There are several qualities that make Borowczyk an ideal interpreter of Stevenson's novella: he's a consummate visual stylist, at times worthy of Kubrick in the perfection of his images; his artistic occupation with transgressive eroticism ensured that he would explore Hyde's perversity to its fullest potential; and, just as significantly, he sees the humor inherent in the subject matter. Thus we are given a Jekyll and Hyde that is just as visually astonishing as Mamoulian's, which gives us a Hyde that is more wicked and depraved than even Stevenson's original, and most importantly does not just lazily imitate any of the adaptations preceding it. For this Hyde there are no boundaries he will not cross in pursuit of pleasure. The moody and shocking opening scene finds Hyde (here played by Gerard Zalcberg) brutally beating a young girl with a cane and attempting to rape her, the violence of his blows splintering his weapon. From here on out no orifice is safe, and before the film is finished both men and women find themselves fatally penetrated by his monstrously large genitals.

Borowczyk confines the action of the story to a single night and in one location: Dr. Jekyll's house, where he and his fiancée, Fanny Osbourne (a tongue in cheek reference to Stevenson's identically named wife) are holding their engagement party. The humor largely derives from Hyde's interactions with Jekyll's snobby, upper-class guests, including a Reverend (Clement Harari), Jekyll's colleague Dr. Lanyon (played by Jess Franco regular Howard Vernon), and General Carew (unforgettably played by Patrick Magee). While the film is perfectly cast across the board, special honors must go to Magee, who gets the film's funniest scene. He also has a field day in the most perverse non-Hyde scene, in which he punishes his daughter for copulating with Hyde. I won't go too much into detail, but the way that man acts with his tongue is profoundly unwholesome.

The legendary Udo Kier plays the title role, while Borowczyk's muse Marina Pierro plays Miss Osbourne. While Kier is dubbed unexceptionally into English by a different actor, his talent shines through in the delirious transformation scenes (which are re-imagined here as a chemical bath rather than a potion.) One can't help but wish he would've also played Hyde, but Zalcberg is suitably creepy and intimidating in the role, and it makes it more plausible that the characters would believe them to be two different people. Pierro's performance is harder to judge, but she shines in the film's delirious climax, which I wouldn't dare to spoil here. Much of the film's power, especially in the aforementioned climax, also stems from Bernard Parmegiani's experimental soundtrack, which in a way reverses Kubrick's musical strategy in 2001 (here using modern synth-based music in a classical setting) to equally good effect.

Last but not least I must briefly comment on Arrow Films' brilliant blu-ray release. I first watched this film on a fuzzy and incredibly dark VHS-derived bootleg, as it was commercially unavailable for decades. Arrow Films rescued it from obscurity last year, and their astonishing restoration really does wonders for the Vermeer-inspired cinematography. This is easily one of the most beautifully photographed horror films ever produced, and with any luck the new restoration will give it the reputation it deserves among cinephiles.

This 1982 production is one of the better known films of Verdi's operatic masterpiece, if only because it stars famous tenor Luciano Pavarotti. As it turns out, it's not a great introduction to the opera, but for those familiar with the story, it certainly provides an interesting (if not always effective interpretation). The story, derived from Victor Hugo's Le roi s'amuse, deals with a curse placed on the Duke of Mantua and his deformed jester Rigoletto by the Count of Monterone, after the bitter Rigoletto encourages the rakish Duke to "dishonor" the Count's daughter. Unbeknownst to Rigoletto, his innocent daughter (whom he hides from the world) is also falling prey to the Duke's seductive wiles. After his daughter is deflowered, Rigoletto pays an assassin to kill the Duke, but his lovesick daughter sacrifices herself to save him.

In the hands of performers like Tito Gobbi (truly the definitive interpreter of the title role) and Maria Callas, Rigoletto is a moving, beautiful experience. Given a classical interpretation, the misguided romance, the hatred, and tragedy of the opera really hit hard, especially during the most famous pieces. Under the guidance of director Ponnelle, however, Rigoletto is transformed from a classic tragedy into a truly grotesque, often cringe-inducing parade of horrors and humiliations, comparable to Ingmar Bergman's Sawdust and Tinsel. "Caro nome," a famous aria in which Rigoletto's daughter pines after her new love, becomes painful to listen to as the viewer reflects on the fact that she is swooning over a name that the Duke, pretending to be a poor student, clearly made up on the spot. Later the courtiers abduct Rigoletto's daughter as revenge for his cruel jokes, believing her to be his mistress. She is then given over to the Duke, who...does what he does best. When the enraged Rigoletto reveals her identity, most productions depict the courtiers as being shocked, and perhaps even somewhat remorseful. In Ponnelle's film they find this revelation hysterical, and continue to mock Rigoletto even after he begs for their forgiveness. While this makes for compelling (if deeply unpleasant) viewing, it's too campy and grotesque to really function as a moving tragedy, and some of the opera's thrilling highlights, such as "Cortigiani, vil razza dannata" and "Si, vendetta" are strangely flat and uninvolving.

Mostly, though, I feel the success or failure of an opera depends on its singers, and in that respect the film proves satisfactory. Ingvar Wexell is a fine Rigoletto, though his voice sounds kind of weird and not entirely pleasing to the ear. He's at his best during the character's more sardonic moments, but he fails to thrill during his most dramatic sections. Edita Gruberova does a respectable if unexceptional job as Gilda, Rigoletto's daughter. The standout for me, however, was Luciano Pavarotti as the Duke of Mantua. Pavarotti is justifiably celebrated for his singing voice, but he's generally a very poor actor, and his stiff, awkward presence has handicapped several productions. Here, however, he seems very at home, portraying the Duke with the perfect amount of swagger and boyish charm. Despite being far from the physical ideal for the young, handsome Duke, Pavarotti makes it work through sheer charisma. He plays the Duke as a naughty child, delighting in his mischievous plots while being totally oblivious to the pain he's causing. Ferruccio Furlanetto is likewise an ideal Sparafucile, conveying the proper mixture of sarcasm, greed, and professional ethics.

If the film doesn't entirely work as a tragedy, it's still worth watching for these fine performers, and for Ponnelle's flawless staging/direction of the opera's famous quartet. It's just a shame that he bungles the tragic ending by filming it largely in a static wide shot.

I checked this obscure British horror film out after reading that it's a personal favorite of French critic Alain Petit (an early champion of and collaborator with Jess Franco). Despite it barely running over an hour, Barnett opens his film with a banal and unnecessary wraparound segment in which a bunch of snobs at a "Gentlemen's Club" start arguing about the merits of horror stories. A doctor (played by the utterly forgettable Vernon Charles) mentions that his favorite horror story is Poe's "The Fall of the House of Usher," then grabs a Poe collection off of a nearby shelf and begins to read it to the other club members. Evidently he gets bored with Poe's original story, because he starts making up a bunch of crazy nonsense about torture chambers, old hags, and demonic severed heads that can only be killed with fire - all things that Poe was famous for.

Admittedly I was extremely tired and may or may not have dreamed half of this, but the story (or what fraction of it I could make out through the muffled audio) concerns a curse put on Roderick and Madeline Usher after their father beheads his wife's lover, having caught them making whoopee in the local torture chamber. The curse, as the family butler tells Roderick in the exposition-heavy opening, can only be ended by setting the head on fire, but it's guarded by a deadly hag - none other than their long lost mother! If they fail to burn the head, then Roderick and his sister will die when they turn thirty. The first half hour or so thus deals with attempts by the butler and Roderick to get the head, which predictably end with a family friend getting brutally murdered while Roderick and his faithful butler flee like the cowards they are. After this the butler claims that the only other way for Roderick to save his own life is to murder his sister (the logic of this completely eludes me), to which end they start poisoning her nightly milk, Hitchcock-style. Only in the last twenty minutes or so do we finally get to a reasonably faithful adaptation of Poe's story.

There is a lot to recommend about this film: the moody, low-key cinematography by director Barnett is often stunning, evoking both German Expressionism and Carl Dreyer's Vampyr. I was also intrigued by Barnett's unconventional, almost somnambulistic handling of the film's action scenes, which largely play out in wide shots and without any music, anticipating Jean Rollin by almost two decades. Speaking of Rollin, I feel this film gave me greater insight into why his films are better appreciated outside of France. As I noted, Petit was a huge fan of this film, blown away by its strange visuals and dreamlike horror. As an English-speaking viewer, however, I found my enjoyment somewhat hindered by the wooden dialogue and even more wooden performances. French viewers frequently complain about these things in Rollin's work, so I felt this gave me a taste of how his work might play to the average French viewer. That said, there is a poetic vision at work in Rollin that I didn't detect here; it's beautifully photographed, yes, but ultimately rather hollow and lacking in sincerity. While I appreciate the oddball touches that Barnett and company add to Poe's story, it's not nearly enough for me to recommend this as some lost classic. If you can only bring yourself to watch one obscure Usher adaptation, check out the Spanish version of Jess Franco's El hundimiento de la casa Usher (1983) instead.

(It should be noted this film occasionally plays on TCM, but I watched a mediocre bootleg copy which may have been missing about ten minutes. It was already too long at one hour and two minutes, so I can only imagine what excitement I missed out on.)

This film of Bram Stoker's legendary novel is more admirable for the director's ambition than for the final product. The goal at the time was to produce the first faithful adaptation of Dracula, with both the narrative and tone just as Stoker intended. This noble intent even convinced Christopher Lee to don the cape once again, even as he was growing increasingly frustrated at his association with the role. Franco nails the tone (no small feat considering his love of excessive sex and sadism), and reins his experimental tendencies in to produce a quieter, more disciplined atmosphere, but his goal of filming the novel as is was doomed from the start. The scenes in Dracula's castle are truly magical, featuring Christopher Lee's most thrilling performance in what is arguably his most iconic role, and here we can see some glimmer of what might have been. Once Lee's scenes were finished, however, some unprincipled producers absconded with the remaining budget, leaving Franco to foot the bill himself on the remaining sections of the story. Because of this the scenes outside of Transylvania are noticeably cheaper and more rushed, both from a narrative and a photographic standpoint. While Franco struggled to remain as faithful to Stoker's story as possible, the compressed running time and diminishing funds simply wouldn't allow it. If the final result is somewhat disappointing, the film is still a pleasure to watch thanks to its terrific cast and a phenomenal soundtrack by Bruno Nicolai. And while a well behaved Franco is generally less interesting than a maverick Franco (for instance, compare this to Franco's other vampire films), he and D.P. Manuel Merino still conjure up some genuinely eerie moments, with the definite highlight being Jonathan Harker's nightmarish imprisonment in Dracula's castle. If nothing else, I love one hilarious exchange that takes place between Van Helsing (a sadly unremarkable performance by Herbert Lom) and Harker. After Van Helsing describes all of Dracula's insane supernatural powers, an outraged Harker asks, "Why doesn't someone arrest him?!"

Incidentally, Franco often claimed that Stuart Freeborn worked on this film, and that Freeborn based the design of Yoda on Franco himself. While the physical resemblance between Yoda and Jess Franco is undeniable, the lackluster effects work in Dracula makes his story very difficult to believe.

I last saw this film several years ago on YouTube, and in less than stellar quality. At that time I was not a great admirer of Soavi, perhaps because I was hoping for Dario Argento Jr. and got something different. Since becoming a huge fan of Dellamorte Dellamore (1994), however, I've been planning to re-watch his other films, and now I'm finally getting around to it. This is Soavi's feature debut - before this he cut his teeth as assistant director to Argento, Lamberto Bava, and Joe D'Amato - and here we can see the influence of these various mentors. The flamboyant camera-work and imagery certainly bring Argento to mind, while the premise (an acting troupe gets locked inside a theater with a serial killer) is reminiscent of Bava's Demons (1985). The material isn't so similar to D'Amato's work, but we have him to thank for the film's existence (and for Soavi's directorial career, since he was perfectly content to remain an assistant director), since he produced it and hired Soavi.

As a director Soavi hadn't quite found his own voice yet - he's very imitative of Argento here - but to his credit he conjures imagery worthy of the master. No one who has seen this film will forget the bizarre owl mask donned by the killer (an image that would not be out of place in Franju's Judex), and the scene of him sitting on stage with the posed bodies of his victims, tranquilly stroking a cat as feathers descend on them like snowflakes, is one of the most indelible in the whole of Italian horror. What already sets Soavi apart from Argento is his cheeky humor. The comic relief scenes in Argento's films generally come across as rather clumsy and awkward (e.g. the befuddled mailman from Four Flies on Grey Velvet), but Soavi is consistently clever. The opening scene, for instance, thwarts our expectations to great comic effect. Still Soavi knows how to stage an effective death scene, and he doesn't hold back on the red stuff, but even the most horrible scenes tend to have a touch of black humor. One bit I particularly liked involved one of the characters spilling stage-blood all over the dressing room; as their friend is drilled to death, his blood starts to drip onto the fake stuff. I can't help but wonder if this is a tongue-in-cheek criticism of the phony-looking blood in most Italian horror films.

The cast is quite strong: Barbara Cupisti is a sympathetic heroine, David Brandon is brilliant as the temperamental director (perhaps Soavi was drawing on his experiences with Argento here), and Giovanni Lombardo Radice is pretty amusing as a flamboyantly gay actor. Special praise must be singled out to the actor playing the silent masked killer (IMDb claims that it's exploitation legend George Eastman), who projects great presence simply through the use of his body language - I'd favorably compare him to Lon Chaney.

The experience between my first and second viewings of this little gem is truly night and day. This is not just an astoundingly good film for a first time director, but a minor masterpiece of the genre. Dario Argento must have thought so as well; Opera bears some striking similarities to it, and Argento would subsequently enlist Soavi to direct The Church (1989) and The Sect (1991).

I'm hardly the first to say it, but memory is a funny thing. I taped this film off of TCM several years ago, and while the film largely struck me as average, the ending haunted me so profoundly that it left a lasting impact on my own work as a writer. I later imported a DVD copy from the UK on the strength of that final scene alone, but I kept putting off re-watching it due to the weaknesses of the story as a whole. Perhaps, too, there was some trepidation at seeing the ending again. I had a built it up so much in my mind that surely the last scene could never live up to my memory. Finally I cast aside my doubts and, having forgotten just about everything except the finale (and the fact that someone gets stabbed in the penis - ouch!), gave it a second shot.

So much has happened between my first viewing and my second that the experienced proved to be profoundly different. I've become much more receptive to different kinds of cinema - so receptive, in fact, that people probably don't trust my opinions. That ship usually sails the minute you start recommending Andy Milligan movies. Anyway, I really enjoyed the film this time. Essentially it's the story of some bored twenty-somethings (and Frankie Avalon, for some strange reason) leaving a lame party and going to check out an allegedly haunted house. Over the course of the night, one of their number gets murdered, and with only one possible entrance to the house having been locked, the only explanation is that one of them is the culprit.

Writer/director Michael Armstrong initially intended to make a much more psychedelic horror movie starring his pal David Bowie. The producers balked on Bowie (a move they no doubt came to regret) and forced Armstrong to take a more conventional approach. Even in its diluted form its still an impressive piece of work, with witty dialogue delivered by a capable cast (even Avalon seems shockingly at home in Swinging London), moody cinematography, a great location, and some well executed (and surprisingly bloody) murders. If the film makes one potentially fatal mistake, it's in spending too much time outside of the creepy abandoned house. Within the dusty ruin Armstrong and cinematographer Jack Atcheler are able to conjure an atmosphere reminiscent of the Italian Gothics. After the first murder, though, we spend a great deal of time back in the city as our heroes attempt to go on with their lives. Clearly the home is where the heart is with this movie, but Armstrong (or Gerry Levy, who rewrote much of the script at AIP's insistence) can only come up with a flimsy pretext to get the characters back there.

As for that ending? Of course it let me down to some extent. My mind had warped it over the years, and in a way my conception of it fused with the stories I myself had been inspired to write after watching it. Looking at it more objectively, though, the sympathy the filmmakers have for their tragic killer still strikes a chord with me, and the final image is still strangely poignant. Perhaps the film isn't an exceptional murder mystery - more than a few clichés are accounted for - but it's nonetheless an entertaining and skillfully directed one. Certainly it's no classic, but it's far better than its 4.5 rating on IMDb would lead you to believe.

I've long read that this is one of Andy Milligan's most uncharacteristic works, but I was nonetheless quite stunned by what I saw. The gritty drama (one of several films he made in Britain) follows the relationship between Dee (Julie Shaw) and Dink (Berwick Kaler), two London hippies living in squalor. The film's themes are consistent with Milligan's horror output, but the execution is on an entirely different level. While I love the campy misanthropy and handcrafted Grand Guignol excesses of his horror films, there's no denying that Milligan did not have a natural eye for composition. To put it bluntly he could also be quite sloppy, careless, and just plain artless in his capacities as a cinematographer. Here, however, the grittiness of Milligan's style (or perhaps anti-style would be more accurate) is especially suited to its subject matter. At the same time, his camera-work here is also far more disciplined than usual, with some surprisingly pleasing compositions and (dare I say it) some astonishing visual metaphors. The dialogue certainly has its share of mean-spirited stingers, but generally it's more restrained, naturalistic, and at times quite poetic. As a result this drama of seduction and psychological abuse proves to be quite poignant. Special mention must be made of the two lead actors, who play their parts quite convincingly. Shaw is particularly memorable as the sociopathic Dee; in one chilling moment, after she sends away Dink's only friend (a maternal figure called Mabel) with a series of venomous profanities, we see her mask her sadistic glee with a caring look as she goes back to nursing the injured Dink. Overall it's an impressive work across the board, and shows us a side of Milligan too rarely indulged in his films - perhaps one closer in spirit to his gritty theatrical work.

This is basically another take on the Rosemary's Baby scenario, but done in that inimitably weird Italian style. By this point Michele Soavi is beginning to find his own voice, and we can see him drifting apart from his controlling mentor/producer, Dario Argento. Things get off to a bad start with a ludicrous prologue in which some Satanic bikers slaughter a bunch of hippies. So far so good, except for the gang leader's ridiculous tendency to quote The Rolling Stones, talking about how their music is full of profound knowledge understood only by the chosen few. It's completely stupid, but it was a necessary sacrifice; Soavi and his co-writer (Gianni Romoli) allowed Argento to write the opening scene himself to ensure that he'd leave the rest of the movie alone. This is hilariously acknowledged in the movie itself, when at one point the head of the titular sect (a creepily subdued performance by Herbert Lom) picks up a music magazine in the protagonist's apartment and, with the air of a man who now knows better, reminisces about how deep the Stones' music was considered in the seventies.

Anyway, like Soavi's other films this is brimming with nightmarish imagery (I love the burial shroud that flits in and out of the narrative) and mysterious symbolism, but it hasn't aged quite as well. The cinematography of Raffaele Mertes is serviceable during the film's moodier sections, but most of the time it feels a bit flat. The same can be said of Pino Donaggio's soundtrack, whose unimaginative synthesizer beats and drones were unfortunately endemic in the nineties. Since this is a Soavi film, though, it's still well above average and certainly never boring - he takes a derivative story and spices it up with bizarre images, stylized scenes of violence, a large helping of symbolism (much of it related to fertility), and even a pinch of Lovecraft. The ending is a point of contention for some, but I think it's both gutsy and surprisingly moving. This is perhaps Soavi's least successful horror film, but here we can already see him experimenting with images and ideas that will be perfected in his next project, Dellamorte Dellamore.

Though originally conceived as another entry in Dario Argento's Demons series (the first two having been directed by Lamberto Bava), this instead plays like an unofficial sequel to Argento's Inferno. The story concerns a librarian searching for...something in a Gothic cathedral, convinced that the architect's secrets will grant him power. This cathedral was built over the mass grave of suspected witches killed by Teutonic Knights, however, so instead he unleashes some demonic spirits! The baroque architecture, fascination with alchemy, and weird symbolism all recall Inferno, but the second half of the film still bears traces of its Demons lineage. It's at this point that a large group of wacky characters are trapped in the church, and soon find themselves battling their own inner demons. While the threat here is largely psychological rather than physical (the characters are threatened by disturbing hallucinations and violent impulses rather than drooling monsters), many of the stock characters feel like holdovers from the Demons films. An old woman who insists on using words like "groovy" and "fab," a comically crotchety old man, and a bickering biker couple, for instance, often feel too goofy to really gel with Soavi's more sophisticated take on the material. It's hardly enough to sink the film, though, which is certainly one of the more dignified productions to emerge during the last gasp of Italian horror. Here we can still see a strong Argento influence in Soavi's style - not surprising considering Argento's hands-on approach to producing - but he avoids the saturated color palette of Argento's full-on horror films. If not for that, this could easily be seen as an unofficial entry in the Three Mothers trilogy, and sadly a far superior one to La Terza Madre. Highly recommended!

Recently I watched the restored version of Jess Franco's Al otro lado del espejo (1973, known in English as The Other Side of the Mirror). Having previously watched it in an unsubtitled and dreadful looking bootleg, it goes without saying that this was a much richer experience, and gave me a deeper appreciation for Franco's screenplay (erroneously credited to his ex-wife, Nicole Guettard - perhaps for quota purposes?). The basic story concerns a jazz musician, Ana (beautifully played by Emma Cohen), who is plunged into depression after her possessive father (Franco favorite Howard Vernon) hangs himself on the eve of her wedding. She leaves her fiancée and throws herself into her music, racking up a number of lovers at the clubs she plays at, but time and again she is driven to murder them by the specter of her father, who appears to her in the mirror of the title. The film is somewhat atypical of the director's work from this period. It's as poetic and fiercely uncommercial as contemporaneous films like Lorna the Exorcist (1974) or A Virgin Among the Living Dead (1971), but it lacks the full-blooded erotica that made those films easier to sell. Instead the film remains a haunting showcase for its lead actress, whose rounded performance and large, soulful eyes have no equivalents in the Franco canon. Not surprisingly, she won that year's CEC Award for Best Actress.

In terms of direction, the film is classic Franco, as the director conjures a lot from very little. Ana's journeys through the mirror are done simply but effectively, largely consisting of walks through a darkened hallway, but Franco's camera lingers on Cohen's face, allowing her haunted gaze to convince us. He achieves other simple yet memorable feats of imagination. The image of Ana's hanged father haunting her from various mirrors, recalling a hanged Paul Muller floating through the woods in A Virgin Among the Living Dead, makes a strong impression.

This film, like the aforementioned Virgin and several other important titles, was unfortunately not commercial enough for its producer, Robert De Nesle. In order to recoup his investment, he paid Franco to create a pornographic variant of the film called Le miroir obscene. Now that the director's cut has been properly restored, hopefully the film will be acknowledged as the hidden gem of Spanish cinema that it is.

Though one of the more notable directors to come from Minnesota, you will not very often hear Andy Milligan mentioned in the same breath as the Coen brothers. In his book Danse Macabre, Stephen King refers to Milligan's first horror film, The Ghastly Ones (1968), as "the work of morons with cameras," and furthermore that a film of that sort is the "staged equivalent of...'snuff' movies." In truth it is difficult to defend Milligan's work on artistic and aesthetic grounds. The inept cinematography makes his grotesque horror stories look like home movies gone horribly wrong. Simple concepts like lighting and framing are alien to Milligan, whose films can feature whole sequences of confused darkness. The chief pleasure for any cineaste checking out Milligan's work might then be to laugh at its failings; in other words, to enjoy it as "so bad it's good" cinema. Being a pretentious asshole, though, I believe that this attitude can often arise from an unwillingness to engage with a film on its own terms. More specifically, it seems to be that traditionally "bad" cinema is usually dismissed for its failure to correspond with one's fixed idea of what a film (or a specific genre, in this case horror) should be. If someone believes these films are bad, their opinion is certainly valid. I'm merely suggesting that the opposite opinion is equally valid, and that traditionally "bad" films can offer a legitimate alternative to classically "good" cinema.

With that rambling intro out of the way, I will attempt to defend my own enthusiasm for what I've seen of Milligan's work. Blood is only my second Milligan viewing after my positive experience with The Ghastly Ones. This film, though more technically proficient than that earlier work, is still light years away from the studio gloss we're accustomed to (or even from the threadbare stylistics of Jess Franco). I find Milligan's naiveté behind the camera to be fascinating and educational, in this respect. Completely ignorant of proper filming and editing conventions, it's as if he is forced to invent his own concept of cinema. In reality he was apparently inspired by the avant-garde films of Andy Warhol, so his ignorance may have been willful. If I'm also to be frank, I'd much rather watch a shoddily filmed story of vampires, werewolves, and family dysfunction than the more respected film experiments of Warhol.

In the case of both Milligan films I've watched, the chief pleasure is actually derived from the screenplay. Milligan was both a misogynist and misanthropist, and his real-life mean streak serves as the lifeblood of his stories. If there is a married couple in Andy Milligan's work, you can be sure that they despise and/or abuse each other. If they're happily married, they won't remain that way for long. The wife and husband in this film (Dracula's daughter, Regina, and Dr. Lawrence Orlofski, a werewolf) maintain a strained relationship. Regina is convinced that Lawrence is in love with his assistant, Carrie. She says that she loves him, and pleads with him to make love to her. After he refuses, she tells him to go to hell. His deadpan response: "We're there already." In these tales of dysfunctional relationships, the Gothic trappings (a violent werewolf attack, gory hatchet murders, and giant carnivorous plants) are mere window-dressing. Milligan's real interest lies in espousing his hateful world view. These horrific elements mostly serve to make the films salable.

At a running time of 57 minutes, Blood hardly has time to overstay its welcome, though many bored internet reviewers would disagree with me. I enjoyed the darkly humorous barbs traded by the film's loathsome cast of characters. The shoddy make-up and set dressing also lend the film a unique, handmade charm, as if you're watching an elaborate home movie made by your deeply disturbed grandpa. For instance, the film is set in the late 1800's, yet the protagonist's house (Milligan's own in real life) clearly has modern plumbing and light fixtures. The actors perform their hateful dialogue with such relish, though, that you can easily forgive these oversights. Likewise, many of these roles are played with such deliberate camp that sophisticated make-up jobs would almost feel wrong.

There is plenty else to chew on here, such as the fact that Dr. Orlofski (is this a reference to Franco's Dr. Orlof?) is really named Talbot (i.e. Lawrence Talbot, Universal's tragic wolf man); the hierarchy of abuse in the Orlofski household; and just how the hell those carnivorous plants benefited Regina in any way (they supposedly help to treat her vampirism). Since I'm not getting paid to write this I'll leave those thoughts for another day.

In observance of Christopher Lee's passing, I decided to rewatch this Jess Franco film - one of several Franco made for the lovably shady Harry Alan Towers. I last saw it ten years ago, and all I remembered was a then shocking scene in which Lee's hand-double molests an accused witch in exchange for her lover's life. The film is set during and after the Monmouth Rebellion, during which the Duke of Monmouth, the illegitimate son of Charles II, attempted to depose James II and claim the English crown. The real life conflict is pretty interesting, and parallels modern events in several ways, but the film follows a different path. In the wake of the surprisingly successful Witchfinder General (1968), producers scrambled to cash in on it by making increasingly sleazy and violent witch-hunting films. Thus a legitimately interesting historical figure and his political dealings are sidelined by fictitious nonsense about torturing and executing witches. The film is sumptuously photographed by Manuel Merino, features a typically great soundtrack by Bruno Nicolai, and is skillfully directed by Jess Franco (who was reaping the benefits of the bigger budgets that Towers afforded him), but the pedestrian script (derived from a story by Towers) lets the film down. The scenes of torture lack the disturbing authenticity of their equivalents in Witchfinder General, and they're certainly not sleazy enough to compete with other "classics" of this sub-genre; Franco would explore similar ground to far greater success with The Demons (1973). Thankfully Lee is in fine form here, bringing his usual presence and professionalism. While the dolled up women fail to convince as Restoration-era witches, Lee's diligent research and attention to detail result in a frighteningly plausible human monster: Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys, the "Bloody Judge" of the title. In an interview included on my DVD, he talks about how much of his performance is based around the painful kidney ailments Jeffreys suffered in real life. This is never directly referenced in the film, but it demonstrates the thoughtfulness and dedication that Lee brought to the table, even when the producer was more interested in making money than exploring history.

In short, I would mostly recommend this only to die-hard fans of Lee or Franco. There are several more interesting movies of this type, and certainly better ones to explore from either man's oeuvre, including the several projects they made together. On that note, skip this one and watch Eugenie...the Story of Her Journey Into Perversion (1970) instead.

One of the few films directed by Artigot, a Spanish DP who worked with industry legends like Eloy de la Iglesia and Jess Franco. It's difficult to judge the film in its current condition for a few reasons: the only copies available are brutally panned-and-scanned from the original 2.35:1 ratio, the film was so heavily censored after its premiere that the final product is borderline incoherent, and the picture is so dark on the current releases that it's often impossible to tell what's going on. Nonetheless the film (which basically involves a macho photographer and his female companion getting targeted by a coven of witches) has a pleasing, sleepy ambiance, somewhat reminiscent of Arthur Machen's weird fiction. The mountain location is stunning, and the wacko soundtrack (lots of atonal choral music, and a strangely unnerving pop song) gets you through the more uneventful passages. Easily the best thing about the movie is the ludicrously masculine Cihangir Gaffari. He's even dubbed with a hilariously deep, manly voice - I believe it's the same voice actor who dubbed Paul Naschy in Count Dracula's Great Love. The film also gave me an odd Wicker Man vibe, meaning the insane version starring my beloved Nicolas Cage. This isn't as over-the-top, but like that film this has our protagonist stumbling onto a matriarchal religious sect, complete with a feral muscle man chained up in a cave who the witches use for breeding! Nicolas Cage also claims that he wanted to play Edward Malus as a macho man with a handlebar mustache, which is another interesting connection. Anyway, it's one of those quietly weird movies that I can't help but like, but anyone not obsessed with Euro-horror or handlebar mustaches probably won't find much to appreciate.

The great horror directors of the nineties are sort of the genre's "lost generation," in that they were never given the opportunity to expand their visions into full bodies of work like, say, Argento or Carpenter. Filmmakers like Richard Stanley (of Hardware and Dust Devil fame) and Michele Soavi (the genius behind Dellamorte Dellamore) seemed set to create a new tradition of visionary horror, but somehow fate conspired against them; Stanley fell out with the industry after his attempt at filming The Island of Dr. Moreau went absurdly awry, while Soavi gave up a promising career in cinema after his son fell ill. I now think we can add another name to that sad list: Mariano Baino.

With most of the great Italian horror directors either retired or dead, and the other greats like Argento and Lamberto Bava starting their sad declines, Soavi and Baino seemed set to inherit the throne. While Soavi cut his teeth directing films for Argento, he finally found his own voice with Dellamorte Dellamore. With Dark Waters, Baino also introduced his own unique vision. While parts of the film pay tribute to the old masters (an early murder scene recalls Pupi Avati's The House with Laughing Windows, and one image is an exact quotation from Suspiria), Baino's approach to horror is more reminiscent of Tarkovsky (who is also a huge influence on Stanley, incidentally).

The narrative of a girl returning to the sinister convent where she was born, only to find the nuns guarding a sinister abomination, is reminiscent of Lovecraft, but Baino is more interested in creating astonishing images and a dank atmosphere than in his derivative plot. Some memorable visuals include nuns bearing burning crosses down stony beaches; a monstrous, crucified nun floating down a foggy corridor; and a mural of atrocities painted by a blind oracle.

Though the film isn't bloodless, the approach is more stately and subdued than that of most Italian horror directors. As I said, the long tracking shots down rainy corridors and the ambitious imagery are more Tarkovsky-like, though this film is definitely more accessible than any of his works. Some people might lose patience with the meandering narrative, but I found that Baino's astonishing visuals powered it through the slower stretches; the first half hour in particular is a real tour de force of visual storytelling, with almost no dialogue. I also enjoyed the bizarre performances by the supporting cast members. Likely cast in the Ukraine, where the film was shot, most of them seem to struggle with their English-language dialogue, but it only heightens the oneiric atmosphere Baino was going for.

As I said earlier, the story on hand isn't particularly original, but in every other respect this is really an undeservedly obscure masterwork, which makes the fate of its director all the more disappointing. While Stanley directed at least two great movies before vanishing into documentary hell, and Soavi gave us four really interesting horror films, this is Baino's only feature film to date. Thus we may never know what Baino would have been capable of had he been given the opportunity to hone his skills as a storyteller. He supposedly wrapped a film last year, but I can't find any concrete info on it, and it's been my experience that once promising directors tend to disappoint when they jump back into the saddle after a decades long absence. True inspiration unfortunately tends to be a limited time offer, and it's sad that these great artists were not allowed to create when they still had their inner fires; Richard Stanley's The Mother of Toads, for instance, proved to be sadly embarrassing. Still, I'd like to be proved wrong.

While writer/director Eloy de la Iglesia is well known in Spain for his quinqui (i.e. hoodlum) films, gritty depictions of young criminals and drug addicts, abroad his reputation rests largely on the shoulders of his early seventies thrillers. The most notorious of these is Cannibal Man, which gained cinematic immortality as one of Britain's Video Nasties. Like many titles on that list, this film is far more complex than its exploitative title and marketing would suggest; the original Spanish title is La semana del asesino, which means The Week of the Murderer.

The murderer in this case, rather than "cannibal man" as the export title misleadingly suggests. is Marcos (Vicente Parra), a lower-class employee of the local slaughterhouse. His small shack looks like a relic when compare to the adjacent high-rise apartment, which is populated largely by affluent students. Marcos is pressured by his girlfriend Paula (Emma Cohen, one of Spain's greatest actresses) to marry, but he insists on waiting until he's promoted. One of their outings goes horribly wrong when a cab-driver, disturbed by their backseat necking, kicks them out of his taxi. Marcos refuses to pay the fare, and a scuffle breaks out. As the cab driver begins beating Paula, he utters one of the film's best lines, which is simultaneously hilarious and tinged with social commentary: "I'm gonna give you the beating your father never had time to give you!" Marcos hits him in the head with a rock, accidentally ending his life. Thus begins our protagonist's soul-destroying week, which finds him committing murder after murder in order to cover up his original crime.

Though the film has its share of blood and gore, Eloy de la Iglesia is far more interested in his character's plight, as well as his social status. Marcos often reminds us that he's a poor man. When his brother and girlfriend pressure him to confess his crimes to the police, he protests that as a working class schmo he'd never get a fair trial. "The police will never believe me...and you need money to afford a good lawyer." The chain of murders only escalates as more people snoop in Marcos' shack, and react either with hostility or fear. His only friend throughout the whole ordeal is the enigmatic Nestor (Eusebio Poncela, most famous for playing the inspector in Almodovar's Matador). Nestor is a resident of the nearby high-rise, and one of the affluent students mentioned earlier. He spends his time spying on people with his binoculars, and this is how he acquaints himself with Marcos.

In discussing the relationship between Marcos and Nestor, it is necessary to reference the director's sexual orientation. Eloy de la Iglesia was a gay Marxist, during a time in which homosexuality was still illegal in Spain. Though it's never blatantly mentioned, Nestor is clearly gay, and he shares the director's sympathy with the working class. Though he initially tries to impress Marcos with masculine posturing, Nestor's interactions with Marcos soon become charged with homo-eroticism. This reaches its peak in a memorable swimming pool scene, in which Marcos and Nestor swim and shower together; it's a dazzling and tender display of filmmaking, and it loses not of its potency with repeat viewings. This scene, as well as much of the political content, was unfortunately but not surprisingly censored from the Spanish version of the film, meaning that this English-dubbed export version is the closest thing to a true director's cut. Some recently discovered deleted scenes, featured on the German blu-ray, fascinatingly hint at a more explicit version. While most of the material is inessential, such as a scene in which Marcos is promoted, one of the final scenes shows Nester and Marcos passionately making out. No context is provided, and this scenes (as well as the others) features no audio. Thus this plays as a haunting footnote to the film's fascinating and complex central relationship: did de la Iglesia intend for the two men to become lovers? Is this perhaps just a fantasy of Nestor's? Or, more intriguingly, a fantasy of the classically masculine Marcos? Unless the screenplay surfaces, or someone interviews Poncela about it, we may never know.

Since I am both a huge fan of this film and incredibly reckless with my money, I forked out a sizable amount of money to import the recent German blu-ray. I am pleased to say that the disc is a significant upgrade to the American DVD, and lends a greater appreciation to the director's artistry. This was my third viewing of the film, and I found it just as rewarding as the first. The surprise reveal in the deleted scenes only sweetened the deal for me, assuring me that my money was well spent. It is a complex, politically charged, yet deeply heartfelt film. I shared it with a friend on my last viewing, and I hope he will not mind if I share his thoughts on the experience: "It's really just about one man having a bad week, and the trials of having to get through it without losing his whole soul." It is that, but also much more; a film that can be appreciated from multiple perspectives. I fear that this review does not do it justice. Suffice it to say that this is truly one of the crowning achievements of Spanish horror cinema. This will also be of interest to anyone interested in the history of queer cinema, being one of the ballsiest acts of transgression ever committed under a fascist dictatorship. Though homosexuality was outlawed in Spain, de la Iglesia wore his sexuality like a badge of honor, and he continued to make films on his own terms.

Not many filmmakers would attempt to film Richard III on a budget of less than $15,000. Andy Milligan was no ordinary filmmaker, however, and this is no ordinary film. Though not a direct adaptation of Shakespeare's play, the premise is essentially the same: a deformed duke (here dubbed Norman, the Duke of Norwich) murders and manipulates his way to the throne. If the source material is respectable enough, Milligan throws any pretensions of legitimacy out the window with his obscene, irreverent, and downright misanthropic take on it. Much like his Shakespearean counterpart, the one-armed Duke of Norwich puts on several faces in plotting his ascension to the throne. At times he plays the caring sibling, if only to ensure that his mentally challenged brother and king, Albert (in a hilariously offensive performance by Hal Borske), produces an heir to prolong the royal bloodline. This is due to his own sterility, which he cheerfully admits to early in the film. This Duke goes places that Richard III never did: because Albert is more interested in eating his food than in bedding his bride, Norman must direct their lovemaking! Likewise, Norman is a shameless libertine who has no qualms about sharing a bed with his wife, Rosemary, and his hunchbacked servant, Ivan. "I am not homosexual," he tells Rosemary after she catches him sleeping with Ivan. "I am neither heterosexual, or bisexual, not even asexual. I'm trisexual. Meaning, I'll try anything once." Even by the standards of Milligan's other period pieces, this is a quixotic venture. I can't help but admire the stubbornness and audacity that would drive someone to choose such a misguided subject matter when presented with so little money. And if that's not enough, Milligan (just as he did on his other pictures) takes on multiple roles here: cinematographer, costume design (under the pseudonym Raffine), editor (as Gerald Jackson), and even sound. The latter becomes hilariously apparent during the film's climax, where the swinging of a chain is accompanied by Milligan making whooshing sounds with is mouth! From what I've read, Milligan was a notorious control freak, and he didn't trust anyone else to act in these capacities. If the results are not traditionally pleasing, they are nonetheless fascinating for what they reveal about Milligan himself. Putting aesthetics aside, films like this might provide a better argument for the auteur theory than even those of Kubrick.

As with the other films of his that I've watched, Milligan here overcomes his technical inadequacies with a witty, transgressive, and occasionally touching (!) screenplay. The film's sexual dysfunctions are often played for laughs (such as the unforgettable wedding night scene), I love the numerous absurd touches (such as the ridiculously long quills the characters write with), and the classic Milligan dialogue is priceless. After murdering his brother, Norman sarcastically eulogizes him during the funeral procession: "What a pity. In the bloom of his manhood, like roses he so dearly loved. Cut down before his time. Oh, well...c'est la vie." A surprisingly moving moment occurs when the Duke forces Rosemary and Ivan to engage with him in a ménage a trois ("I love that word!"); he demands that the two get acquainted, and we learn the tragic stories of their upbringings. The cruelty that the hunchback suffers at his mother's hands in particular recalls Milligan's hatred of his own abusive mother.

A film like this isn't for everyone. As Michael Weldon famously wrote, "If you're an Andy Milligan fan, there's no hope for you." Though public opinion is largely against Milligan and his films, there's something admirable about this hopeless figure who didn't let things like good taste, insufficient funds, or even a complete misunderstanding of how to make a movie stop him from unleashing his venomous art on the world. Not only did he succeed in finishing film after film, but many of them even saw theatrical releases. Given his fiercely independent and threadbare approach to cinema, now commonplace when everyone has a digital camera and editing software, perhaps Milligan was ahead of his time. It would be several decades before technology caught up to him.

I watched this film courtesy of Code Red's recent blu-ray release, which looks far superior to the clip shared below. It appears to be nearly complete, with the only unfortunate omission being a kiss between the Duke and Ivan; presumably the film element for this is lost. While it's okay to reference sex between the two, I guess the distributor felt that a kiss between two men was apparently too shocking of a spectacle for theatergoers - this in a film where people are beaten, stabbed, and tortured! I was sad but not surprised to learn that this and Code Red's other Milligan blu-rays lost their producer a lot of money. While I think Milligan's work is in dire need of reassessment, it's clear we still have a long way to go.

After putting it off for several centuries, I finally finished watching Louis Feuillade's Judex (1916). Encouraged by my positive experience with Feuillade's Fantômas adaptations, I sought out more of the director's work, beginning with this serial. If Fantômas is cinema's first supervillain, then Judex might be its first superhero. We are introduced to Judex, a mysterious vigilante with his own hi-tech hideout, with a threatening note he sends to the crooked banker Favraux: Favraux is to give all of his wealth to his victims, or die at the stroke of midnight. Like so many superheroes after him, though, Judex is unable to take the banker's life. Instead he imprisons him at his remote base, which leads to numerous complications.

At first I had trouble getting into this film, which is less inventive and action-packed than its predecessor, Fantômas. Whereas Feuillade's workmanlike direction depicted the insane scenarios of Fantômas in a matter-of-fact way, resulting in a proto-Surrealist atmosphere, for the most part there is no such synergy here. Instead Judex largely loses itself in sentimental scenes so syrupy that they nearly prevented me from finishing the series. After watching and loving Georges Franju's 1963 remake, however, my interest was reignited. As it turns out, the point at which I picked up again marks a major shift, both from Franju's adaptation and from Feuillade's previous chapters. While earlier episodes meander too often into dull scenes of people hugging and kissing each other, episode 7 ("The Woman in Black") is unexpectedly sophisticated in its construction. Judex's ultimate motives in Franju's film remain mysterious (a wise decision in that context), but here we learn the traumatic childhood event that led to Judex's crusade against Favraux. The tragic back-story not only reveals Judex's reasons for targeting Favraux, but also further illuminates the character's inner moral struggle.

One of my other quibbles as I began watching Judex was my disappointment in Judex himself. Fantômas remains a charismatic and frightening criminal mastermind; Judex, on the other hand, lacks presence. He is often outsmarted and overpowered by his criminal foes, and his love for Favraux's daughter leads to many scenes of the lovelorn Judex moping around. Having finally finished the series, however, I now see things in a different light. Unlike the anarchic Fantômas, this series represents a deeply humanistic take on the eternal struggle between good and evil. Though Judex has great reason to despise Favraux, his love for Favraux's daughter has him reconsidering his dogmatic stance against criminals. He gradually comes to believe in the capacity for villains to reform themselves, and he is more likely to rely on non-violent means to meet his goals. In this film, even the worst of criminals is not beyond redemption. Perhaps not the superhero film that we deserve, but in this age of gritty reboots it might be the one that we need.

The AIP Poe films are always a pleasure, especially when Roger Corman and Vincent Price are involved. This one, The Pit and the Pendulum, entered production after House of Usher (1960) found unexpected success at the box office. This film is thus more grandiose than its predecessor in both visual scope and action, with Vincent Price turning in a particularly stunning and larger than life performance as both Nicholas Medina and his Spanish inquisitor father. What struck me on my last viewing, and my first with another person, was how subversive the film is by the standards of then-mainstream horror. These Poe films were generally marketed towards a youth audience, yet they contained very mature themes: sadism/torture, infidelity, family dysfunction, and childhood trauma. Likewise, Price's grotesque performance in the climax of the film confidently straddles the line between camp and chilling lunacy; his frenzied, almost orgasmic monologue, in which he describes the hellish nature of the titular torture device to its victim, was sure to freak out more than a few kids in the audience. The film may not have been as soul-scarring as the infamous double feature of The Awful Dr. Orlof (1962) and The Horrible Dr. Hichcock (1962), but I'm sure it led to many sleepless nights, and more than a few uncomfortable talks with parents and their children. All that aside, Richard Matheson's script cleverly expands on Poe's original story, introducing both a Gaslight-style plot (or perhaps House on Haunted Hill is a more appropriate reference?) and plenty of Poe motifs, such as premature burial and men haunted by the deaths of beautiful women. Corman's direction is stylish and assured; Floyd Crosby's cinematography is as impeccable as ever; and the Les Baxter score is a strong combination of melodramatic strings, brash scare chords, and dissonant soundscapes. Its reputation as a classic is well deserved. I daresay I like it even more today than I did as a Vincent Price-worshiping child.

This isn't a film in the proper sense, nor is it a production of Shakespeare's play. Rather it's a filmed performance of the opera by Giuseppe Verdi as directed on stage by Argento. Nonetheless I imagine it would be of interest to fans of Argento's films (in particular of his film Opera), so I'll share my thoughts here.

First a little back-story is necessary. During the 1980s Argento was given the chance to direct an opera, and he suggested a horror-themed production of Verdi's Rigoletto, with the Duke of Mantua depicted as a vampire. Given that Italian opera is one of that country's greatest sources of national pride, the opera community balked at a mere horror director tainting Verdi's masterpiece, and the idea was brutally shot down. Thus Argento was inspired to write and direct Opera (1987), which concerns a horror director's controversial staging of Verdi's Macbeth being plagued with murderous bad luck. Apparently the opera is considered to be as unlucky as the play, because Argento was warned against it. Sure enough, the filming of Opera turned out to be among the worst periods of the director's personal and professional life: the leading actress was an insufferable diva, he went through a particularly nasty break-up with former muse Daria Nicolodi, and then his father passed away. For years Argento could only see the resulting film as the culmination of these trying experiences, and it took a long time for him to acknowledge it as one of his best works.

It must have been bittersweet that when he finally got his chance to direct an opera, it would be the one so intimately related with his most painful memories. Thankfully time seems to have healed those wounds, because he approaches the material with great enthusiasm. The staging is as bloody and baroque as you'd expect of the maestro. Unfortunately, after a very strong first act, the production seems to lose its visual impact. I suspect that Argento wasn't given an ideal budget, and perhaps decided to focus it on the act with the most grotesque possibilities.

Some of the highlights: the naked witches dancing and writhing about, wearing weird make-up reminiscent of their counterparts in La Terza Madre (it's maybe too goofy for its own good, but at least he tried something new); the first act duet between Macbeth and Banquo, and their contrasting reactions to the witches' prophecies; an inspired staging of the murder of King Duncan, which recreates a famous scene from Deep Red; and the almost expressionistic battlefield set of the first act. Giuseppe Altomare is no Tito Gobbi, but he makes for a solid leading man. Dimitra Theodossiou steals the show as Lady Macbeth, confidently sneering as she hatches her schemes, putting on a phony smile as she plays hostess, and using her sexuality to manipulate Macbeth. Dario Di Vietri, who plays Macduff, is unfortunately so wooden that they could have used him to build the sets. Other than him, the cast is pretty solid.

While some might be disappointed that Argento's conception of the opera isn't nearly as outlandish as its equivalent in the film Opera, I respect the fact that Argento, as director, didn't put his ego before the opera itself. It's just unfortunate that the staging becomes less ambitious with each act. Nonetheless I'm intrigued by the possibilities that the stage affords Argento, and I think at the present time it might be a better fit for him than the cinema; anyone who has seen Dracula 3D will likely agree with me. The stage forces him to be more creative and resourceful, and doesn't allow him to lazily fall back on mediocre CGI. Thankfully he's already at work on a production of Lucia di Lammermoor, so the experience directing Macbeth must have been a positive one. Here's hoping he'll finally get to take a crack at Rigoletto one of these days. His concept for it admittedly sounds really misguided, but damned if I'm not interested to see how it would turn out.

Anyway, worth watching for hardcore Argento fans, provided you're willing to fork out $40 for the Blu-ray.