The Horrors of Men's Fashion - Lew Magram, Shirtmaker to the STARS!

I am temporarily failed by the English language. This advert that I found in the June 1973 issue of "Oui" (purchased for that Ken Russell article that made me SO ENVIOUS of the Flying Maciste Brothers for reading) is just so filled with wrongness that I'm going to have to take a moment to compose myself before continuing.

Witness this full-page spread for LEW MAGRAM--SHIRTMAKER TO THE STARS:

Now that I've had a moment to collect my thoughts and experience a sense of relief tempered with disappointment that this ad was not published in eye-searing color, I'll discuss my favorite elements.

THE DENIM BUSINESS SUIT. Not to be confused with the Redneck Tuxedo, the Denim Business Suit will allegedly take one from work week to weekend. I guess in the days when one could smoke in the office and smack insubordinate lady-workers on the bum without the threat of a termination and lawsuit, it was probably all right to wear an all-denim suit with a disturbing bib-tie and checkered hypno-shirt.

THE DAMASCUS KAFTAN. Available in HIS and HERS! Also has an adorable pointy hood. Brave enough to wear horizontal stripes? Then surely taking the step over the line to psychedelic wizard-dom is but a small one.

THE SOHO BODYSUIT. This can only be described as the satanic spawn between a Dr. Thaddeus Venture "speedsuit" and a circa-1986 Frederick's of Hollywood teddy. In short: unsafe at any speed.

A quick perusal of the Lew Magram online catalog leads me to believe that, while the Magram Look remains as scatter-brained and bizarre as ever, males of the species are now safe from the unholy hand of the SHIRTMAKER TO THE STARS. More's the pity, eh?

Frankenstein's Bloody Terror [1972]

My approach to movie-watching--in case you hadn't noticed--is fairly haphazard. I have a rough list of Stuff That's Relevant to the Tenebrous Interests, and when a particular film seems to fit that bill, I snap it up for future watching. It's a damn good thing that I have reliable friends who've got my best interests in mind who tend to say things like: "Hey doofus--I know you've been digging these Paul Naschy flicks, so why don't you go ahead and check out his first film which also happened to be a staple of such monster kid klassic teevee shows as Chiller Theatre?" If this incredi-pal happens to be the Abominable Dr. Gregg, he goes ahead and ships me a DVD of "Frankenstein's Bloody Terror" in order to educate and illuminate me (that Abominable Dr. Gregg is some kind of all right, isn't he?).

It's easy to see why "Frankenstein's Bloody Terror" was a drive-in hit in America--though it came late in the second flowering of the monster movie, there were dozens of creature features playing on screens across the country, involving everything from the giant rabbits of "Night of the Lepus" to the urban vampire shocker "Blacula." Capitalizing on the horror craze and short exactly one Frankenstein movie, film distributor Sam Sherman snapped up the rights to Paul Naschy's first film (made and originally released in 1968), "La Marca del Hombre Lobo," slapped a little prologue explaining the title onto the preexisting movie, and voila! A monster mash was born.

Much like me, audiences in 1972 got over their initial dismay at the marked lack of reanimated cadavers in the story because--quite frankly--"Frankenstein's Bloody Terror" has everything BUT the kitchen sink in it (if the kitchen sink was a resurrection-obsessed mad scientist). Set in typical-yet-EXCELLENT (some things bear repeating, after all) Naschy style somewhere in a dark-forested, superstition-haunted, dirndl-outfitted Mittel European country, the film tells the tale of Polish nobleman Waldemar Daninsky who falls in love with an eighteen-year-old countess, gets werewolfized, and ultimately has to save his woodland community from his own full-moon-inspired rampages. Oh yeah--and there's a masked ball, some Satanism, a couple of gypsies, several forays into graverobbing and a sinister vampire couple.

Still no mad science--but you don't really miss it, do you?

There's so much to love about Naschy movies--the star's overwhelming sense of his own awesomeness, the stable of exotic babeage, the creaky gothic horror settings, and most importantly THE MONSTERS! Much as I'm open-minded towards contemporary reimaginings of the medieval creep brigade of vampires, shape-shifters, and various undead baddies, I have a special love for classic monsters, much in the same way that you never forget Your First. Naschy's reverence for the Universal thrillers is evident, and while the effects work may be a little hokey and the plot propulsion may not be terribly sophisticated, it's clear that Naschy wants his audience to have as much fun watching his performance as he had creating the story. He's making latter-day fairy tales in the most unapologetic way possible and his enthusiasm saturates every frame. Even when the movie gets a little (or a LOT) silly, there's never the feeling that Naschy believes his *audience* is stupid--they're co-conspirators in his monster glee!

The potential down-side to Naschy's appetite for old school horror cliches is that... well... let's calls 'em like we sees 'em: his werewolf movies are pretty much the same story told over and over again with small tweaks. So let's discuss the tweaks that make "Frankenstein's Bloody Terror" so eminently watchable, OK?

1) A ludicrous love triangle. In tried-and-true storybook style, Daninsky (quite literally) waltzes into Janice's life during a masquerade party and the teenager is instantly smitten, casting aside her significantly-less-barrel-chested boyfriend, Rudolph. Later in the film, when Daninsky saves Rudolph's life during a werewolf attack (and is fatefully bitten by the beast in the process), Rudolph seems to topple head-over-heels for the darkly brooding muscle-count himself, taking on a manservant role and trying to protect Daninsky from harm. This Daninsky-worship would carry throughout Naschy's films, with the werewolf-slash-nobleman's milkshake bringing persons of both genders flocking to the yard time and again.

2) Kickass sophisticated vampires. I like vampires--but I specifically like monster vampires and Draculas. Dr. Janos Mikhelov and his boobalicious wife Wandessa (remember that name, Naschyfans!) are prime examples of this latter flavor of bloodsucker. Improving on the already-excellent "bleh bleh" cape-wearing cartoon we all know and love, Dr. Mikhelov and Wandessa are black magicians who are seeking to harness Daninsky's curse for their own nefarious needs! Let me take a moment to salute the cheekbones of actor Julián Ugarte, who plays Dr. Mikhelov. I kinda wish he was in every movie--remember how much he en-rad-ened the boringer-than-it-ought've-been Italo-thriller "All the Colors of the Dark" with his presence as the taloned cult leader? Take a good gander at that photo above, interpals--that's gonna be me and Baron XIII in 10 years (although the Baron might have to stand on a box to be that tall).

3) Cleavage. What this movie lacks in nipples, it makes up for in creamy, quivering inter-bosom chasms. Just when I thought the movie had hit a sad note with the inevitable-yet-still-untimely demise of the barefoot gypsy girl, it gave me Wandessa in her startlingly structured gowns.

4) Monster fights. Man vs. werewolf, werewolf vs. werewolf, and ultimately vampire vs. werewolf. When presented with two new action figures, the first thing a little boy will do is make those plastic bastards fight. It is with the same youthful joy that Naschy presents us with several such grapple-matches between supernatural fighters.

For the kind of megadose of Vitamin M(onster) that the Halloween-season-loving kid in all of us craves, "Frankenstein's Bloody Terror" truly delivers the goods.

For further monster mayhem, check out the Flickr gallery of stills from "Frankenstein's Bloody Terror" here.

Six-Gun Geishas and Rock 'N' Roll Courtesans: Zane Fix of JapPopArt.com

The woodblock-inspired ink paintings of visual artist, musician, and all around colorful individual Zane Fix have completely stolen my heart. Informed by Fix's fascination with subjects as diverse as Japanese legends, street fashion, and theatre and suffused with a unique sense of humor, his fluid-lined images have been an eye-catching feature at the Union Square artists' market in New York City for several years.

My favorite pieces are his portraits of women--all of whom are glamorous, but whose attitudes range from flirtatious to kinky to outright aggressive. It doesn't hurt that the gun-slinging, culture-crossing vixen in the image below could be a sister to Meiko Kaji's Matsu from the "Female Prisoner Scorpion" Pink Films:

Rice-paper prints of Zane Fix's art are available directly from the artist at his website JapPopArt.com at very reasonable prices (hooray for accessible art!). I know my prints look hella-fierce here in the Apartment of Erotic Horror--don't your walls deserve some brightening up as well?

Death SS: Even METTUL Is Improved by the Strategic Addition of a Mummy

Interpals, I have a confession to make. I am not, and have never been, a fan of KISS, and frankly I hold the members personally responsible for a significant episode in Childhood Disappointment. Just look at KISS (I mean, look at them by going to Google Images or something, cos I am not going to besmirch my blog with their image): they look like awesome monsters to a naive child, with their grease paint and leathers. In a Just World, they would sing mainly about Frankenstein and haunted houses, perhaps with a soupcon of Satan. But no--they mainly sing about "rocking." I can barely express to you what a bummer this discovery was for me once I finally got to hear their music. At least I would later be comforted by the unabashedly macabre tunes of Alice Cooper and King Diamond.

But still--the Coop and the King are but individual men, and one man cannot be expected to simultaneously embody the characters Starchild, the Demon, the Alien and the Kitty-Cat. It would be DECADES before I would stumble across something to make up for the hole in my soul left by my KISS-related disappointment.

Thank a dark deity that this emptiness has finally been filled by THESE GUYS:

THESE GUYS, dear friends, are Death SS, an Italian heavy metal band. I don't want to disturb my image of them with the more recent Marilyn-Manson-esque costumery they've cultivated. In fact, I'm not sure I want or really need to know anything more about them than the following facts:

1. They appear to sing about monsters and Satan (perhaps adding significantly more than a soupcon of said, but I'm giving a free pass).
2. They hang out with topless chicks.
3. Perhaps most importantly, they are dressed as monsters. Not "characters that are kinda similar to monsters but a mime version of same," REAL FUCKING MONSTERS.

It's like someone finally realized that Gene Simmons' appearance kicked the most ass out of the entire lineup of KISS and said "golly, wouldn't THIS be vastly improved if we were ALL the Demon?" And then some other guy was like "yeah I want to be a werewolf" and then another guy was like "OH SNAP I get to be a werewolf" and thus something beautiful and pure was born.

At least that's the way *I* imagine it.

But I know what you're thinking. You're all, "sure, Kate, but DO THEY ROCK but not in a literal and boring manner?"

In a word, YES. Witness:

Cruising [1980]

William Friedkin's 1980 film "Cruising" is a puzzling shocker whose controversial reputation is well-earned. The director of "The Exorcist" was no stranger to this kind of negative publicity, and while he agreed to place a disclaimer in front of his film testifying to the fact that it's not meant as a criticism of gays in general, this did approximately NOTHING to placate those who were already suspicious of Friedkin's motives. The film tracks police detective Steve Burns (played with a strange brand of naivete by Al Pacino) as he goes undercover in New York City's gay S&M scene in an attempt to learn the identity of a serial killer. He's set up in what would now be a $3,000-a-month-plus Greenwich Village apartment and has to learn the ways of the leather daddy scene in an iron-pumping, hanky-code-learning montage. Note: Don't wear the yellow hanky unless you MEAN it, boys. As Burns repeatedly visits these underground nightclubs (located in the now-posh Meatpacking District--I like to think that Burns attended Precinct Night at the RamRod in what is now the Alexander McQueen boutique space or a Tory Burch retailer), he finds himself increasingly fascinated by the raw sexuality on display, even as he begins to question the motives of his fellow policemen in tracking down the killer. At the time of its filming and initial release, the movie raised the ire of gay rights activists who objected to its perceived implication that violence is inherent to the homosexual lifestyle. The film's coda, which involves a murder committed after the incarceration of the Real Killer and the resurfacing of a sinister character from the beginning of the story, points to an uncomfortable ambiguity that could be perceived in this way, but the story is, at its heart, something far more straight-forward than all that.

With its emphasis on kinky sex, striking visuals, and eroticized murder, "Cruising" is a gay giallo.

All of the elements are present, but in place of fashionably made-up young women being dispatched by a black-gloved killer, the victims are well-toned men involved in sexual activity and the leather is positively everywhere. Why stop at gloves when chaps, jackets, hats and even jock-straps can be crafted from the tanned hides of cattle past? There's an obsessive attention to detail in the depictions of leathersex that would make "Cruising" a certain type of fetishist's delight. Creaking leather and heavy boot-falls punctuate the murder scenes, and the interiors of the nightclubs are positively Boschian--filled to the brim with sweaty, writhing bodies engaged in all manner of homosexual couplings. There is no space in this film that isn't sexually charged. New York City's parks were teeming with randy men seeking anonymous rough trade, if this film is to be believed. Even the police precinct is infused with BDSM activity, when--apparently for no reason at all--a be-jock-strapped muscle-man is brought in to slap a suspect during an interrogation. It's small wonder that this landscape of lust draws Detective Burns ever deeper into its clutches, causing him to doubt his own sexual orientation.

So where do the women go in a giallo when they're not needed as victims? Well, they don't have a hell of a lot to do other than to play Burns' preternaturally patient and oddly unquestioning girlfriend or a waitress who accidentally spills coffee. Seriously--I love Karen Allen in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" and all, but here she's not given any drinking contests or loud shouting or Nazi-fighting to do, and she's pretty much a tight-lipped, semi-confused non-entity. Her character functions as a plot point and not as a source of tension, merely underscoring the fantasy of a "heterosexual" man lured over to the "Dark Side" of gay sex.

If that feels like a lot of air quotes in one sentence, that's because it is. And if you think I was smirking during the unraveling of this movie, I was. "Cruising" didn't feel as much the scathing indictment gay life produced by heterosexual filmmakers that protesters had feared so much as it played like a piece of very dark erotica intended for an audience of leathersex enthusiasts. That's not sinister--that's merely weird and campy to viewers who *aren't* a part of that community.

As a gritty thriller in the American mold, the film falls a bit short, leaving enough plot holes (some of which are deliberate--it appears that Friedkin played with substituting different actors in the role of the killer throughout the film, and certain ominous figures pop up repeatedly with no explanation) to bring the story some yards short of a satisfying conclusion. Taken as a giallo, a form whose feet are planted in the fantastique, the story holds together well enough to provide a reasonable skeleton on which to hang a bunch of lurid setpiece scenes.

Oh, and in case you were wondering--no, Al Pacino is not a very convincing leather daddy. And his dancing leaves much to be desired (although that could just be the poppers at work):

I know. You still have a lot of questions. Let me provide you with an answer. THIS is what it would look like if someone re-made "Cruising" with an all-doll cast:

Fashion Advice from the Movies Installment 2 - For the Ladies

I realized it had been a while since I last offered my sage words regarding attire and personal grooming, and I'd completely neglected the ladies during Fashion Advice from the Movies Installment 1.  Please accept my humblest apologies, and allow me to correct this oversight by doling out some wisdom for the fairer sex.  Listen up, ladies!  I owe no small measure of my own success as a definitely-mercurial and possibly-evil despot to these simple rules.

1. Let your outrageous eye makeup do the talking.  You can't have artifice without art.  Words to live by.

2. Garments that multitask are essential.  A drill bra for menacing the weak, built-in nipple tassels for an impromptu strip-tease, a neck muffler for a chilly evening--any one of these items would prove handy at some point in one's life.

3. Blood goes with everything.  Blood is not the new black, because as a wise pal of mine recently pointed out, only black is black and so shall it remain forever.  Digressions aside, I just can't picture this particular demoiselle looking quite so fetching sans-grue.

4. The fashions of the Middle East are as hot as the weather of that region.  Women coopting menswear fashions is nothing new.  Radclyffe Hall and George Sand set examples for future fluidly-gendered clothing exploration, and I get more than a bit distracted when confronted by the androgynous beauty of Le Smoking. Adding the exoticism of the Orient to this recipe for sexy only serves to elevate its already-awesome awesomeness to heights I can barely stand.  Addendum: Let the record show that gentlemen look swank in Middle Eastern drag too.

5. Don't be afraid to Jazzercize things up a little bit.  I'm led to believe that dudes dig cameltoe (which, frankly, I find rather appalling, but odds are you're not out to impress me--more's the pity).  Thank your dark deity that American Apparel stores are popping up like so many rank, cave-thriving mushrooms in your local shopping malls to meet the rising demand for leotards.  Or--you know what--maybe you'd be best ignore rule number 5 and just go back to rule number 4.  That's a MUCH better rule.

6. Giant fucking sunglasses.  I could create a drool-worthy montage of all the giant fucking sunglasses I have known and loved.  Bonus points that you can actually *purchase* these in stores right now.  GET CRACKING, ladies--your fabulousness is in jeopardy!

7.  What Would Edwige Fenech Do [WWEFD]?  Well, chances are she'd opt to star in a relentlessly inscrutable Italian sex farce or a semi-unwatchable giallo, but make no mistake that she'd look INCREDIBLE while doing it.

Dead Snow (2009)

Ohhhh Horror Community--how I struggle with my relationship with you.  Some of your numbers are awesome (please look to Screen Right if you care to visit some of THOSE people's blogs), but the vast unwashed portion that makes up your ranks--plainly put--causes me no end of frustration.  Particularly now that Being A Nerd has somehow, in some bizarro universe, become a sign of Ironic Downtown Coolness.  I vastly prefer the movie-watching company of overly-caffeinated and enthusiastic teenagers over that of Pubey-Bearded Horror Film Dilettantes and their Idiot Girlfriends.

Isn't it a shame that the latter group has latched on to the ZOMBIE CRAZE specifically with such ill-schooled parrot-like fervor?

So anyway--I'm digressing a bit.  Baron XIII and I attended a screening of "Dead Snow" on Friday night in New York City.  If you've been avoiding the internet for the past several months, that's the Nazi zombie movie from Norway that had the ginchy-looking and oft-re-blogged trailer.  It tells the tale of an ill-fated group of Norwegian college students spending their Easter vacay at an isolated cabin for a little snowy fun.  Little do they know that the hills are alive--or undead, as the case may be--with a legion of Nazi zombies on their eternal search for gold.  For those who have never seen the "Evil Dead" trilogy, "Dead Alive," and/or "Shaun of the Dead," it's a moderately-amusing gorefest that wastes a good 40 minutes of screen time with lost-in-translation Norwegian teen humor that ultimately delivers enough blood-soaked set pieces to elicit some gross-out laughs.

If, however, you have seen the "Evil Dead" trilogy, "Dead Alive," and/or "Shaun of the Dead," "Dead Snow"  wastes a good 40 minutes of screen time with lost-in-translation Norwegian teen humor that ultimately delivers a montage of been-there/done-that grue that will leave you wishing you'd spent the last hour and a half re-watching any one of the aforementioned zombie flicks.  Remember how great it was when Ash amputated his arm with a chainsaw? Well, "Dead Snow" gives you that scene all over again, minus Raimi and Campbell!  Remember how you pumped your fists with glee during the Lawnmower Scene in "Dead Alive?"  Well, "Dead Snow" gives you that scene all over again, only shorter, less extreme, and involving a snowmobile.

Most vexing of all, for me at least, was that there were moments in "Dead Snow" where it could've become a really fun film.  The cinematography and effects work are really top-notch and the film looks beautiful--there's a shot early on where a victim is being attacked by one of the zombies inside of a tent that manages to balance creepy and gorgeous.  Sadly, the visually striking aspects of the film are overwhelmed by the overly-homage nature of the story and gore scenes.  Within the film's universe, the living characters are able to suffer a tremendous amount of physical abuse before succumbing to their wounds--had the story focused on *one* of these characters getting the crap beaten out of him by a horde of the fascist undead, the film could've taken on a cartoon quality that might've been interesting.  But watching hordes of the undead (fascist or otherwise) stalk a bunch of college students just feels... stale.

Director Tommy Wirkola was on hand for a Q&A after the film, and he seems like a genuinely enthusiastic, creative type--and that only serves to make my Not-Liking of this film all the more difficult.  During the Q&A, he mentioned several ideas for "Dead Snow 2" that sounded like a MUCH better and fresher movie than the one I'd just watched.  This session with the director yielded the highlight of the evening for me, however, as I was able to witness the following exchange:

Female Idiot:  "So, was the movie--like--based on a real story?"

Wirkola:  [after a pregnant pause]  "Well, there were Nazis, and they did steal stuff..."

And THAT, dear readers, made it all worth while for me.  For the rest of you not-so-blessed with a dumbness-fueled Q&A, just re-watch "Dead Alive" and thank me later.