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Reviews
Double Indemnity (1944)
A Little Greed, a Little Lust
There usually isn't much psychology in a noir - a little greed, a little lust - which in a way is what makes it so fascinating. This is life reduced to its basic elements, with no sermons. Its protagonists are desperate people, destitute, on the run. This is why it seems so deterministic, or even defeatist. Fate is biological. No psychoanalyst will ever make sense of Stanwyck, when she declines to pull the trigger a second time on her intended victim, even to save her own life. It MAKES no sense, apart from the fact that it's in the script. Why do people commit irrational, self-destructive acts? It's in the script. That's Noir. It is also the reason why it can only be held up to its own standards. Wilder makes two fatal mistakes. He starts by giving the ending away, and that in a voice-over, which runs through the entire movie. And yet it all works splendidly. Stanwyck is neither scheming nor impulsive, she simply reacts to the hook dangled in front of her, thus herself becoming the dangling worm in front of MacMurray. A tiresome husband plus an insurance salesman make money plus sex. It's perfect. Only of course it isn't. It shouldn't take Robinson's little man to see it. People don't obligingly die under mysterious circumstances a fortnight after being insured by their young wives. How can the conspirators be so blind? It's in the script. What are their motives? Greed and lust. And yet the movie isn't a love story between Stanwyck and MacMurray. It is a - deeply tragic - love story between MacMurray and Robinson. And that's where it becomes pure genius.
The Queen of Spades (1949)
The best Russian movie the Russians never made
THE QUEEN OF SPADES, above all else, is an extremely dense film. Every scene, if not every shot, is saturated with its particular ambience, making it at once satisfying and exasperating to watch. Constantly brooding, at times almost hysterical, it is the best Russian movie the Russians never made, mirroring the relentlessness of the protagonist. We can never quite persuade ourselves to condemn his desperate singlemindedness, nor glibly register that justice has been done at his downfall, the lovers seeming almost two-dimensional in comparison to his tragic humanity. It is, of course, also a grand ghost story, and in this sense at least as British as DEAD OF NIGHT (1945). After all, the supernatural elements, the almost metaphysical significance of the three cards and the haunting of the young fortune hunter by a mixture of determination and guilt, could hardly be bettered.
High Treason (1929)
A pacifist JUST IMAGINE
In 1950, the world is divided into two blocks, the United States (including South America and China) and the European Union, controlling the rest - in 1920 many European States were still colonial empires. A border incident threatens to escalate into a Second World War, and the Peace League, based in London and "pledged to fight to the death for Universal Peace", as opposed to the profiteering provocateurs blowing up toy-trains in the English Channel Tunnel, are called upon to intervene. "Will it really be war?" the heroine asks. "Frankly, no," the hero answers confidently, "the people to-day are much too sensible." "That's what they said in 1914," her father remarks. Soon after, even the women are mobilized. Flapper eyeing her uniform critically: "What a terrible thing war is!" In the end, the peaceniks assassinate the President of Europe. The masses rise up against their governments, the soldiers refusing to fire on them - which is of course what always happens in times of war. As expected, everything is extremely futuristic, except for the women's hairdo. What could possibly be more modern than page-boy? Having abandoned hats, everyone wears shiny clothes - black for the bad guys, white for the good (but they are still heiling). It's the same grim look as in THINGS TO COME of a no-nonsense future.
Watchmen (2009)
Mein Superheldenkampf
Even in the golden age, not all comics were made for adults – Robin Hood and Davy Crocket still had their audience. Following a trend towards science fiction, they became superheroes.
Some of the early DC material wasn't too bad, but when Marvel came along, the rot set in, the target audience becoming younger and younger, until finally settling around six to eight years (and those of comparable intelligence). To understand, how big this audience is, one only has to look at the budget of movies like Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings.
Superheroes are back, but different. Whereas the creators of Superman and Batman were merely bringing a moment's joy to the boy, who was half a man, the people behind schlock epics like WATCHMEN are neither.
They are, quite simply, retarded. While their intelligence hasn't evolved since infancy, their sexuality and aggressive tendencies are those of the adolescent.
Their ideas of heroes and villains may still be those of a child, but the violence that fascinates them is not cartoon violence, and when you add the kiddie version of politics, Nixon and the Vietnam War, you get something very close to Nazism. In WATCHMEN the saint-like hero "kills millions to save billions" – you can almost hear Adolf shout: I told them so! After three hours of disintegrating people, you can hardly be surprised. Apparently, superheroes no longer save kittens from trees, and only rescue children from burning buildings as a sexual stimulant.
Human beings, after all, are "termites" to be exterminated as part of a greater plan or simply because they're not worth preserving. As always, the only excuse for this kind of Fascism is impenetrable stupidity, which is much in evidence here.
Not even the sorriest retired western hero in baggy underpants can match these idiots in all their transvestite glory, nor will it surprise anyone to discover that the female romantic lead is now no more than a rubber-doll with the intellectual powers of a vibrator. The visuals are ugly, the effects those of a cheesy video game, and it all goes on for 186 minutes, something of which the viewer is at all times painfully aware.
Stukas (1941)
Young Nazi gods out for some fun and games
To this day there's no shortage of movies about Nazi-Germany, but movies from Nazi-Germany are rarely shown. In spite of the need for re-evaluation allegedly felt by modern filmmakers, the real dope still seems to be a bit too much.
The reason is obvious: Showing how these people saw themselves, not as monsters, but as vanguards of Civilization, are simply too close for comfort. And STUKAS is indeed shocking.
There are no SS officers, nor even any mention of National Socialism, only those brave boys fighting for their country. There's not one HEIL Hitler in the entire movie – as opposed to the literally thousands in any "historical film" – but the soldiers occasionally do go HEIL-HEIL, with about the same intonation as "See you around!"
An officer invariably greets his men with MEINE HERREN, his manner being approximately as when, in the course of the frequent dinners, he proposes a toast to his comrades (never the Fuhrer) and their response JAWOHL HERR HAUPTMANN is delivered with a smirk suggesting that he's just told a dirty joke. All in all, there's more military discipline in SOLDATERKAMMERATER.
Apparently, Germans only want to have fun, and the Luftwaffe is just the place for that sort of thing. Only military targets are hit, and apart from an occasional headache, no one is seen to be wounded, let alone maimed, suggesting that the fallen comrades are transported to their final destination by VALKYRIES.
Even when you're trapped behind enemy line, there's still time for a bit of fun with a French mademoiselle, pretending to be English. Not that the French really hate the Germans, you see – after being routed to the accompaniment of the Marseillaise, the boorish soldiers refuse to fight a useless war.
And about that civilization: Watching an American war movie invariably gives you the impression that GI Joe is an illiterate psychopath, or at best a poor bum, who just wants to go home for Christmas. In STUKAS the men are being entertained by their officers playing classical music on a BECHSTEIN piano.
Of course, ES WIRD LANGSAM ERNST, as one of them is heard remarking. Yes it does, but no letters need go out to heartbroken mothers, they themselves expressing their elation at their sons' demise, inspiring one of the officers to quote HÖLDERLIN.
Nevertheless, toward the end our hero loses his spirit, being committed to a military hospital. You know, one of those institutions, where soldiers are sent for a good rest and a fling with a pretty nurse.
Of course, she knows just the thing to cheer him up, accompanying him to Bayreuth. In fact it turns out that Wagner might have spared himself writing ten hours of "music", since it only takes about two minutes of the VORABEND overture to send him back to his comrades (apparently running most of the way) who are just about to play a little joke on the English.
Where do we enlist? In short, STUKAS is required viewing for anyone going to Afghanistan to fight for queen and country!
Full Circle (1977)
They just don't make them like that anymore!
Thirty-three years ago this seemed like a tired takeoff on DON'T LOOK NOW. With the clunkers that are presently out there, it looks like a masterpiece.
Why? Well, it's not an EXACT copy – also, it has these people called ACTORS in it.
Of course, modern audiences probably wouldn't find it very exciting. After all, the botched-up tracheotomy and infantile castration are both off-screen.
Furthermore, it has a story, that thing, you know, giving you a headache and taking time away from the torture porn. No, they wouldn't like it at all.
Have you noticed those "user comments" on film sites? You know: I Don't THINK THIS IS A VERY GOOD MOVI In fact I THINK THIS MOVI SUKS AND ALL MY FRIENDS THINK SO TO I Don't KNOW WHY ANYONE WOULD THINK THIS WAS A GOOD MOVI CAUSE IT Totally SUKS Totally SO AL YOU MORANS OUT THERE WHO THINK THIS IS A GOOD MOVI GET A LIFE CAUSE YOU SUK (Was this comment helpful to you?) Originally I just thought it was because, as we all know, the Internet is for Retards. But I'm beginning to think that this may actually be a sample of the movie-going community, some of them perhaps even twelve years old or more.
Apparently, this is an adaptation of a novel by Peter Straub, who also supplied the goods in the dazzling GHOST STORY. MIA FARROW is as vulnerable as ever, and KEIR DULLEA her son-of-a-bitch husband – he should probably have stayed on Jupiter.
The traumatic loss of a child has of course long since become a stock-and-trade of horror movies, the idea being that it makes the bereaved mother more susceptible to supernatural influences (especially dead children). Nor, I'm sure, will it come as a great surprise to anyone that the juvenile ghost is "evil".
Still, the concoction is served with an enthusiasm and attention to detail and effect, from the cozy séance turning into a nightmare to the mother's gleeful confession that she throttled the little monster, that keep you watching. Unfortunately, what might have been an ominously "happy" ending is jettisoned for a standard horrific one.
There is the usual amount of body-bags and puzzlement on the part of the audience as to why missing people aren't missed – still, British professionalism is everywhere present. Jolly good show!
NBC Experiment in Television: The Cube (1969)
More Than Square
No, this is not the competent little thriller from 1997 (reviewed in BATHOS #6) spawning two perfectly superfluous sequels and a lot of unpleasant nonsense about people for no good reason being tortured in small rooms by unknown assailants. It is a silly, self-complacent sketch made in 1969 and purporting to say something about something or other.
Still, the basic concept (if you can call it that) is the same, a man caught inside a cube. He doesn't know why, nor has he got a lot of time to think about it, since he is constantly visited by funny guys, all presenting him with ample opportunity to escape.
Of course, his situation is completely surreal, which in this case means that it makes no sense whatsoever. Except of course, as any three-year-old will have divined after five minutes, that it is all about modern man being trapped by the conventions of society.
And if you haven't guessed, you will be constantly reminded by hip girls and folksingers talking and singing about how deluded we all are. Unfortunately, this is not about the games people play.
It is about what underdeveloped overpaid television executives fresh out of high school think about the rotten society that gives them cameras to play with. GET A HAIRCUT!
Since the guy is obviously only confined by the idiotic script, it has none of the suspense of THE PRISONER, and it's just as far from the hilariously straight-faced send-up of our television-engineered reality by the Pythons. The cube looks like a toilet, and that's where this crap belongs.
Watching it is like spending an hour in a cube make that ten hours! Stick to Muppets, Jimmy.
Masters of Science Fiction: The Discarded (2007)
The Discardable
I guess the first installment of this series was about being nice to people (and not blow them up). Come to think of it, so was the second one.
Now the third one was, well, about being nice to people, whereas the fourth I'm sorry. It's just too much being nice.
At least JERRY WAS A MAN had an edge to it. This is pure mush.
It's all about these mutants, but of course we all know it really isn't, but just to be on the safe side, we get a lecture on AIDS. It's about society being beastly to some people we could mention, this is a story about society being beastly to the less than perfect, the voice-box of Stephen Hawking tells us, and it's very beastly just so we know.
They're all aboard this spaceship (so you see, it really is science fiction) and everybody's having a hard time. BRIAN DENNEHY at least gets a big hand, and JOHN HURT is reminded that two heads are better than one, even though the other one is very small and seems to have originally belonged to KLAUS KINSKI.
Of course, anyone not applauding such a noble intention, whatever its literary and cinematic qualities, is an insensitive brute, and here I go being beastly to a less than perfect piece of - Saturday evening entertainment. So sue me.
The Masque of the Red Death (1964)
Corman's Worst
You would think that the director had hit rock bottom with the dismally unfunny THE RAVEN. Alas, this was not to be.
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH is not only insultingly stupid it has about it an air of undergraduate pretentiousness that makes it decidedly painful to watch. Apparently, the cast mouthing the terrible dialog suffer under the delusion that it's Shakespeare.
CORMAN may be unsurpassed, when it comes to earning a fast buck grinding out creature flicks for the popcorn market, but as a serious filmmaker imitating Bergman he is an unmitigated disaster. With its comic book heroes and villains, its soda-fountain color scheme and its pitiful attempts at choreography it should have stayed deep buried in the vaults of ANGLO AMALGATED this is the kind of direction, where people laugh HA-HA-HA, and whey they die, throw one arm in the air, while seeking support with the other! There's nothing wrong with the material including HOP-FROG unfortunately, no one has the slightest idea what to do with it, resulting in a school play, which manages to be boring while insulting the intelligence of the audience. Vincent Price, who is only bearable, when no one gives him the idea that he's an actor, struts around in a burnoose left over from LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, musing about the beauty of evil, Jane Asher being appropriately offended.
Hazel Court gives herself up to Satan, branding one breast, which is fine but could we please lose the five minute dream ballet with the poor woman grimacing atrociously at an assembly of witchdoctors and Aztec priests in rented costumes? The art director on this one must have emigrated, its sole redeeming feature being the fact that almost everybody dies, from the YELLOW death, no less!
Animal Crackers (1930)
Why I'm not a Marxist
I've always found it very hard to see the attraction of the Marx canon Marx Brothers, that is. Their act seems to me to be of the kind that one is likely to be treated to by gifted amateurs at a party, delivered with an understandably embarrassed smile.
This installment is an operetta of sorts, with nouveau riche protagonists and singing staff, plus a chorus line of morons in swimsuits. The jokes are all delivered at breakneck speed, but not fast enough for my taste you can still catch most of them.
When they are not just silly puns, they're mild insults, requiring the various straight men and women to constantly register amusement, consternation and disorientation, instead of ending a pointless and boring conversation.
Well, one of these guys plays the piano, and another the harp, with the usual dire consequences for a captive audience, and they also seem to have prepared a few routines for our polite amusement.
The action (if you can call it that) conveniently takes place at such a party, where three identical paintings are being switched, stolen and returned simply riveting.
The guy with the mustache is supposedly so charming that the hostess finds him irresistible in spite of his constant derogatory remarks on her appearance and age and his designs on her money.
"Captain Spaulding," she exclaims, "you stand before me as one of the bravest men of all time!" So he stands before her.
Then there's a funny Italian and a bisexual rapist in a curly wig. None of these disgusting people ever seem to outstay their welcome at the house, although as far as I'm concerned they outstayed it just before the main titles.
"If I had any brains, I'd get a regular job," the leading man muses. I think I can safely say that goes for the entire cast.
The only marginally funny scene is a parody of Eugene O'Neill, who used to have even worse material. Let's face it: This can be of interest only to complete idiots and Woody Allen.
The Earth Dies Screaming (1964)
The end of the world as we know it (from countless no-budget stinkers)
In a way "science fiction film" is a contradiction in terms, or at least in this case there is a certain disparity between the canvas of the printed page and the screen, especially since the genre in its purest form never attracted a sufficient audience for a decent budget. In other words, these movies always seem to be about the End of the World, without sufficient funding to stage a convincing accident with a bicycle.
Accordingly, a sub-genre emerged, which may be termed wholesale cut-price destruction, the plight of the entire planet being "symbolically" reduced to a group of travelers wondering "if it's the same everywhere". It usually starts by showing nothing at all (which can't have cost much).
The protagonist wakes up to find a village deserted (or perhaps a few streets from the studio back-lot). Where did everybody go? A few scattered corpses (at five dollars a head) may be strewn to some effect. There's nothing on the radio (there's nothing on television either, but that doesn't lead me to surmise that the world has ended).
Now it's time for our lone hero to find a damsel in distress, and soon after the rest of those five people, who always seem to survive World War III. There's the rugged pilot or military man, who naturally takes command.
There's the striptease dancer with a heart of gold, who was going to take her life anyway because of this whole lousy stinking world, and good riddance to it! Then there's the gangster, who saw his chance to break out of jail.
He's packing a gun and a trunk-full of USELESS money (oh the irony of it!) until our rugged friend punches out his lights. Not to mention the bragging youngster with a mousy girlfriend, who grows up by allowing himself to be ordered around by the serge, and with whom the popcorn-munching wimps in the audience are supposed to identify or it may be an older couple, the indispensable dispensable coward with a nagging wife.
Now for an hour or so these characters will bicker, whine and philosophize about the futility of life, war, or making a movie on a budget of ten thousand dollars or less. Or at least until the advent of the low-budget monsters, who will either be zombies (extras with a blank stare or contact lenses) or robots (extras wrapped in aluminum foil).
Luckily, the success of the invasion and colonization of Earth hinges on the humans not being able to gain access to the control center, usually looking suspiciously like the local power-plant, and throwing a switch, the stripper in the meantime having agreed to repopulate the Earth. No, "silly" really doesn't begin to describe it, but if you're lucky, it will have some of that TWILIGHT ZONE inventiveness about it, and if it doesn't well, that's science fiction! Does this description cover THE EARTH DIES SCREAMING? My friend, it covers all the no-Earth no-dying no-screaming movies in the world!
Masters of Horror: The V Word (2006)
Chilling
Horror and science fiction aren't what they used to be nowadays this stuff is strictly for the kiddies. Unfortunately, the kiddies aren't what they used to be either.
In the old days the moans and groans were usually accompanied by the semblance of a story today, the movies are just boring video games. So why the ten stars? Because this particular segment of a just as boring television series also serves as a relevant comment on the paucity of the modern version and the existence it reflects. It may not be intended as such, but so much the better.
The V word in question is Vampire it might also have been titled: NOT JUST ANOTHER VAMPIRE MOVIE. Of course, in the current political situation, the implication is something else.
Here, the Pentagon with its traditional satanic shape doubles for Castle Dracula, as it did, when another war, where V did not exactly stand for Victory, was fought by its Victims. At this point, however, our two teenage heroes are still in training, indifferently blasting away at "bandits" on their Nintendo.
They decide to pay a nocturnal visit to a funeral home, since none of them has ever seen a dead person. It never occurs to them that they have never seen anything else.
Why there would be anything remotely disquieting about a coffin shop is anybody's guess, but sure enough a fanged MICHAEL IRONSIDE pops out and kills the black boy, who in turn VAMPIRIZES the white one. Yawn.
Still, the real horror is yet to come! Returning to his family, he finds them as zombie-like as ever, no one seeming to care about or even noticing his condition.
This is a nightmare world of hate and indifference, mothers, who wouldn't know a maternal instinct from a sitcom, and fathers only interested in satisfying their pedophilia, where you are invited to share the satisfaction of seeing your disgusting little sister slaughtered. For once the complete predictability and offering of torture as entertainment works for the "story", since all concerned are certifiable psychopaths without a glimmer of human sentiment.
And so in spite of every tired cliché and silly makeup effect, the result is truly chilling. In other words, it's the kind of heart-warming experience that makes you want to take your kids out behind the barn and shoot them.
Along the way, we are treated to a plethora of cinematic quotations from "I never drink blood" to "They're coming to get you, Barbara", perhaps to remind us of the gradual disintegration of the genre. I'm afraid there's no need.
Nightmares & Dreamscapes: From the Stories of Stephen King (2006)
hick hack Stephen strikes again
With its companion piece MASTERS OF HORROR, NIGHTMARES AND DREAMSCAPES can only be seen as the absolute nadir of the genre that began so auspiciously with THE TWILIGHT ZONE and THE OUTER LIMITS.
Of course, part of the problem is that it does nothing to be of any interest to a comparatively adult audience, instead aiming at TEN-YEAR-OLDS, who are only able to count body-bags, and scarcely that. And so grossness is king, and King is grossness.
Stephen King is simply illiterate in general he has the aptitude for storytelling of Bart Simpson. Since he cannot read his sole inspiration is the movies.
True, the cinema is not such a bad place to start, since it has generally escaped the onslaught of "Realism". But these films are only the rumor, not the thing, and if you want to WRITE, you have to dig deeper.
Of course, only PICKMAN had monsters as close acquaintances. But even so, it should be clear to any undergraduate that vampires are not Dracula and Lugosi.
At least AUTOPSY ROOM FOUR is a clear indication of what is wrong. One can almost imagine this pathetic dolt sitting as his desk trying to come up with something SCARY.
Not, mind you, trying to describe accurately the horror of the system of which he is an integral part, making the stupid stupider, but trying to come up with a scary story for his little nephew. Suppose, you were paralyzed, and people thought you were dead and started to cut you open like they do at those autopsy things! Wouldn't that be gross? And that, boys and girls, is the story.
What about characterization? Oh yes, he's one of these suits, who never really appreciated life, you know, and now it's too late, right? And he's shouting well, they can't actually hear him, you know he's saying that he's going to sue the hospital, but he's not such a big shot anymore, you see, lying there (or is it laying, I can never remember) and all. And he's thinking: Oh no please, please don't cut me and this is terrible, lying (or laying) like that now, wouldn't that be a great story? You know I read somewhere that a snake bite can do that, I think it was that great medical authority Agatha Christie. What was the name of that snake again, oh yeah, a BOOMSLANG has quite a ring to it, doesn't it.
Let's make it a PERUVIAN BOOMSLANG! Sure, Steve, that's great except that BOOMSLANG is Afrikaans, you moron! But how can you really tell that the target audience is children, and not simply mental defects? It's easy: There's no sex.
Well, there is, but it's the kind glimpsed through a crack in the door to our parent's bedroom. Modern filmmakers are really big on the erotic aspects of the genre, the monster, the female victim, the chase.
But unlike UNIVERSAL and LEWTON they have no idea what's going on. All that's really left is the giggling outside the SM club and the Fascist credo that people with sexual preferences are intrinsically evil.
In spite of a certain discrepancy in size, King Kong knew exactly what to do with Fay Wray. Freddy Krueger can only kill her.
And since there's no real titillation in that, he has to torture her first not in any way that might excite her, you understand, since that would upset our puritan sentiments. And so, horror and romanticism become simply unpleasantness and the grooming of psychopaths.
Our hero, you see, is a rubber fetishist, and can only get a boner if someone touches him you know down there with you know rubber gloves (giggle). And that's what they use in autopsies, and that's how they discover that he is, in fact, you know.
Obviously, this is the author at the height of his inspirational powers. Too bad, they cut it out, since it might have upset the FIVE-YEAR-OLDS watching the show!
Dementia (1955)
Dementia Cinematica
In case you ever wondered (and as a true film buff, of course you did) what that strange movie called DAUGHTER OF DARKNESS showing at the cinema being attacked by the blob in THE BLOB is well, this is it! It used to be called DEMENTIA and was made by a guy named John Parker at approximately the same time as Ed Wood made GLEN OR GLENDA they even employed the same cinematographer.
In fact the two films have a lot in common, being both very personal cinematic statements, and also sharing the kind of ineptitude that some critics favor. Of course, Ed Wood is basically just a sweet transvestite from Transylvania.
The idea of casting Lugosi as the genetic puppet-master is really a stroke of genius. It is also absolutely hilarious.
The sight of this once great (or at least adequate) actor, having no idea what he's saying with his usual thick accent is nothing less than a revelation what a wonderfully absurd way of expressing your doubts and fears, and what a catharsis it must have been for the director, leading up to the supreme moment, when, as a token of love and understanding, his partner hands him the comparatively innocent article of clothing symbolizing the more discreet pleasures of the Lumberjack Song! So what if the audience has no idea what's going on? DEMENTIA is altogether less endearing. The director's heart may or may not bleed for his psychopathic lesbian ("gamine" another euphemism) but the film basically comes across as a homophobic treatise.
Or is the director a homosexual himself, torn between his sympathy for the plight of the protagonist and his disgust with her whole sex? We shall never know, but it's fun to guess.
Which I might add does not mean condemnation, since any sexual deviation is a testimony to the wonderful diversity of human nature unless you're a Fascist. In fact, condemnation seems to be what's wrong with this young woman rather than her occupation (she's a prostitute) or sexual orientation, as we are invited to share her disgust, in a series of cuts between "the rich man", who although inexcusably fat and perspiring looks as if he's enjoying his dinner, and the face of our heroine, which is a mask of hate.
Also, the fact that her pimp is being characterized in the credits as "the evil one" may lead you to suspect that the filmmaker is not a complete stranger to the idea that the problems of modern society is best solved by Charles Bronson. Many critics will undoubtedly prefer Parker to Wood, the former exhibiting a style as familiar as it is primitive.
Criminals being followed by floodlights (instead of being arrested) or surrounded by maniacally laughing crowds (instead of being lynched) may not make a lot of sense, but I'm sure you'll find it in the curriculum of every motion picture academy in the world, and of course the inclusion of a jam session does not in any way justify a comparison to a beach monster movie. The young woman isn't pretty, nor is she very happy about herself (or anybody else for that matter) so I suppose it has to be a serious work of art in spite of the crawling severed hands personally, I much prefer to enjoy it on the level of hilariously bad film-making.
Body of the Prey (1967)
Ed's Lost Masterpiece
One of Universal's less known horror films (it's not even mentioned in AURUM) DOCTOR X possessed that unabashed perversity, which the studio's efforts in this direction inherited from the German expressionist cinema of the silent era, and which is sadly missing from the modern cinema. THE RETURN (in 1939) was less impressive, with Bogart out of his depth as the vampire doctor.
The title of REVENGE would lead you to suspect a further sequel. Nothing, however, could be further from the truth.
In fact, no doctor by that name even appears in the picture, nor is anyone avenged. Perhaps it's an alternative title for MAD DOCTOR OF BLOOD ISLAND as its credits suggest.
Nope isn't this exciting, children? Sure it is! Well, it gets better. Now, the original title (are you with me here?) seems to have been the more descriptive THE VENUS FLYTRAP, whereas it was released as THE DOUBLE GARDEN, which makes little sense, but is probably a misprint for THE DEVIL'S GARDEN.
This makes it possible to identify the scriptwriter as none other than ED WOOD (got your attention there)! From this fact alone one would naturally expect idiocy of an almost hallucinatory nature, and for once, we are not disappointed.
As far as relentless stupidity and aggressive amateurism is concerned, this movie has few competitors (and I bet you haven't even seen it!) As you may have gathered, Ed did not direct this inverse masterpiece himself.
Kenneth Crane did, who gave us the decent MANSTER fortunately even his directorial skills cannot save this disaster! No inventive camera-work or adequate performances here in fact, the Thespian playing the protagonist makes Conrad Brooks look like Olivier.
Alternatively flying off the handle and fainting, the star desperately tries to disguise his non-existing acting abilities (and I haven't even mentioned his spastic attempts at being charming). Anyway, he plays a rocket scientist crossing two species of carnivorous plants with needle and thread in order to prove his theory that man evolved from marine life (and that's the most sensible proposition of the entire movie!) All this takes place in Japan, where he is vacationing after a nervous breakdown (he has one approximately every five minutes) providing a not especially exotic female assistant. Of course, she's a virtual beauty queen compared to the hunchback playing Bach's Toccata in d minor on an organ (I kid you not).
On their way to the laboratory, they are delayed by a landslide and a volcanic eruption, causing her to muse: "An active volcano another reason for the decline of my father's property!" This is of course an astute observation active volcanoes do tend to have an adverse effect on real estate prices.
The mad doctor now begins his experiments in grafting, logically including lots of electrical equipment, thunderstorms and an operating table that can be hoisted up under the ceiling (with the plant) this of course is where the dwarf comes in. Soon, his creation is ready to terrorize the countryside and be chased by villagers with torches it is of course green and looks a bit like MISTER POTATOHEAD with a jester's headdress and boxing-gloves, and whenever it attacks, the screen goes RED, being a lot cheaper than gory makeup effects.
This sorry creature with its potted feet and its decidedly Japanese body language, we are told, will DEVOUR EVERYTHING. In short, mankind would have been doomed to extinction, if it hadn't been for that volcano stock footage! During one of the longer stretches we are treated to topless female divers (I guess it falls under the category of travelogue, so it's okay). Also, for once the score really deserves its own CD, being one of the most outrageous assortments of absurdly inappropriate background music ever assembled.
Do I have to say it? It's a wonderful, wonderful movie!
Masters of Horror (2005)
An Argento masterpiece (?!)
To me the term "Hollywood movie" has always been redundant Hollywood IS the movies. Only there they have had the time to develop into a craft as well as an art.
In contrast, continental filmmakers are invariably amateurs, their "style" nothing but a pitiful attempt to conceal this fact (of course, it took a certifiable idiot like LARS VON TRIER to make amateurism a virtue in itself). European horror (the British film being the exception) as every connoisseur of the genre knows, is all zooms and poor sound, its sole redeeming feature a less puritanical attitude towards sex.
Of all these bunglers, DARIO ARGENTO is undoubtedly the worst (not counting LUCIO FULCI and the inmates of certain institutions for the retarded). Unfortunately, his mannered camera and incomprehensible storyline has won him many admirers among the aesthetically challenged, especially the patrons of ridiculous makeup effects.
Of course, if the mere sight of a razor in a gloved hand scored by a chorus of demented children gives you a hard-on, Dario is definitely your man. Admittedly, his visual excesses sometimes work, if curtailed by something resembling a plot, as in the occasionally delirious SUSPIRIA, but generally his clumsy brand of GIALLO is relentlessly boring, except for an occasional effective set piece.
In short, it is hard to believe that the increasingly senile schlock artist has had much to do with this little gem. Most probably he has been hired as a courtesy to his fans and equipped with a capable second unit director, who has done most of the work.
Except for a few rubber entrails, there is thankfully no sign of the "Master's" hand. Expecting the worst, one exits the la-la-la credits, but in fact already the first scene is a real tour de force.
Shots of two cops in a car sharing their lunch with a fly lead to the discovery of a man preparing to execute a retarded and facially deformed (but otherwise extremely shapely) young girl. Warning us that she is not what she seems, before he is summarily shot down, he is of course giving away the whole plot, but somehow it doesn't matter.
Strangely or perhaps not so strangely fascinated by the girl, he rescues her from the institution in which she is placed, installing her in his own home, at the same time getting rid of his unexciting wife and ill-mannered son. JENIFER proves to be more beast than human, quickly disemboweling the house-cat and replacing it as a pet.
Alternatively slobbering over her Master's dick (severely cut by the censors after all, this is not mere torture, but sex!) and whining like a puppy, she soon becomes an obsession to him. What makes this move different is the fact that the captive wild woman is not a porn model with excessive hair-growth.
Her iris-less eyes, snout-like nose and grotesque harelip prevent her from being considered pretty even by the most exotic standards, but she is incredibly sweet. The sex scenes are, for once, frankly erotic, and yet we do not for one moment doubt that it is her selfless devotion and paradoxical vulnerability that makes it impossible for the protagonist to leave her.
Although she quite logically prefers small animals and children as her prey, dispatching a freak exhibitor doesn't present her with any serious problem, and yet she accepts her owner's decision to kill her with no more that an incredulous whimper at his faithlessness.
What whoever-it-is has succeeded in making is a beautiful love story without any blandness between a basically likable male character and a being of unashamed femininity.
At a time of pretty boys and sulking bimbos, this is no small achievement.
It may not be KUBRICK'S LOLITA, but it's certainly in there pitching!
The Prodigal (1955)
The Sweater Girl - without sweater
When I was a child, so-called epics were extremely popular. Since they combined the movie with the pageant, this is hardly surprising.
Their subject matter was often biblical (or pseudo-biblical, like QUO VADIS and BEN-HUR) making it possible to make family pictures with sex and violence. The recipe was fairly transparent, being all about the eternal struggle between good (the Lutherans of the first or any century) and evil (everybody else).
Whereas the former wore long beards and a troubled expression, the idolaters generally gave the appearance of having a jolly good time, which may perhaps be explained by the fact that they seemed to have cornered the market on alcohol, dancing, and copulation. In fact, they were so merry that we just knew it couldn't last.
Since obviously no one connected with these enterprises had any idea how people talked or behaved in ancient times, the result was almost invariably hilarious. This was not least due to the incredible BIBLESPEAK, obviously inspired by King James, which might have been alright, if the story had been set at the time of King James.
Everybody spoke in metaphors, as you do in books, but hardly in the street, while flailing about as if they were on a stage (we've got close-ups now, remember?). And so everything was invariably LIKE something else.
It just wouldn't do to say you were hungry. You had to bellow that you had the appetite of a thousand Nubian lions, presumably so that the audience might go: "How historic!" Just to be sure, everybody wore elaborate costumes in the privacy of their own homes (must have been kind of hot to be a Roman) just as you could find famous museum pieces from the period (give or take a few centuries) on any street-corner it seems every Babylonian had a replica of the ISHTAR GATE for his front door. Everything would be dripping with fresh paint I'm sorry to disappoint you folks, but your typical Roman INSULA was about as pealing, dirty and all-round dreary as any modern tenement block! The religion of those times, it seems, was all about making long-winded speeches to graven idols, but I suppose it's hard for us to grasp a cult that was an integral part of everyday life bring on the sacrificial virgins (hey, who's complaining?)! As opposed to this, the nice and only god of the Christians (and Old Testament Jews, who were really Christians, they just didn't know it) is purely philosophical, everywhere and especially nowhere, as he tests the faith of the martyrs (nothing like a nice Christian barbecue to pass the time in heaven) in other words the retired God of the Age of Enlightenment.
The people, of course, are mainly OPPRESSED, but being wicked, they seem to like it. The temple prostitutes are enticing, and the slave girls are servile, there is music and laughter, or, in the immortal words of GROUCHO, dancing in the streets, drinking in the saloons, and necking in the park.
In other words, everything is right with the world, except of course we know it's wrong. We can understand why Micah, the Prodigal Son THE PRODIGAL for short might feel tempted (but why the heck would he ever want to go home)? It's a bit harder to fathom the attraction of SAMARA, the priestess of ASTARTE, a cheap, bitchy blonde. I think I might have preferred one of those modest, eager-to-please slave girls going for ten pieces of silver let me see now, the second one from the right anyway: Demanding the pearl, Solomon gave Sheba (now for sale at Sears) in return for his favors, she causes him to be sold into slavery, when his check bounces, together with his servant (who is of course like all servants in these movies mute unfortunately this doesn't hold for the mealy-mouthed hero) resulting in a lot of male bondage and whipping (now where's the fun in that?) Finally, he and about twenty other citizens rise up and overthrow the tyrants, at the same time cheerfully and acrobatically killing off a lot of spear-carrying extras.
What did these family men do to deserve being so irreverently dispatched of? We don't really know, but we suspect it's something with a sheep.
LANA TURNER as Samara goes to the pit, possibly to join her performance, but then again, what could she possibly do with this material? She might even have made it as an actress, if only the producers had been able to get their eyes off her tits.
EDMUND PURDOM looks throughout the picture like he's just come from a Bible Class not much passion there. Of course, there is the usual assortment of atrociously overacting bit players, worthy elders, slimy procurers, whining beggars, and crazy old men but those slave girls! I must admit that I have a soft spot for this particular kind of idiocy. After all, where else can you see so many belly buttons and laugh so hard at the same time?