Love Train for the Tenebrous Empire

Le Musee des Supplices [1968]

2012-02-01T18:45:00.000-05:00

Confession time: I am a rotten collector. I lack focus, I have very little idea of the true value of the things I own, and I'm not a completist. I sort of flit around finding weird stuff and either buying or not-buying it depending on my mood.

One of the things that makes a book beg to be a part of my collection is its presence as an object. How much does it look like I could be reading forbidden knowledge from its pages? Does it have that great, leathery hand-feel? Is there lurid artwork hiding inside? Blame my time poring over copies of the Time Life "Mysteries of the Unknown" series as a kid, but I have Certain Expectations when it comes to admitting new books onto my shelves.

"Le Musee des Supplices" (translation: "The Torture Museum") by Roland Villeneuve hit me where I lived. A copy popped up during a search for books with material on surrealist painter Clovis Trouille, and I knew--on an absolutely visceral level--that this book had to belong to me. First off, it looks like a grimoire, and everyone who's ever seen a movie knows that only excellence comes out of books that look like grimoires.

This book delivers on its aesthetic promise with 363 heavily-illustrated pages dealing with the history, application, culture and art or torture. It's pretty jarring to see images of historical punishments in the same book as ad mats from exploitation films, but that's just part of this volume's charm. I don't read French, but the flow of images suggest that the author takes a great deal of interest in linking the human history of cruelty with depictions of this type of cruelty in art, literature and film. The chapter on martyrs and heretics employs contemporary woodcuts, religious works, and surrealist paintings to illustrate its contents. This is all enough to make me want to learn French, though if my life is proven anything to me, it's that I'm better at listing things I'd like to learn than at actually... you know... committing to learning things.

Author Roland Villeneuve has written prolifically on various occult and esoteric topics including witchcraft, cannibalism, vampires and werewolves. I'm having trouble sorting out whether he's a Montague Summers sort of character (a person with a firmly-held if eccentric belief in the supernatural), or cast more from an Ed and Lorraine Warren mold (the self-described "demonologists" from Connecticut, involved in the Amityville Horror situation among many others), or if he's of a more scholarly bent. Maybe someone with a better handle on the language could take a peek at his intro to "Dissertation sur les vampires" on Google Books and clue the rest of us in as to the tone of his writing.

You know, the more I tell you guys about my book collection, the more I worry I might start to sound like this:

Till next time--"all documented, all true," pals.

Larger images of the plates from this book are in my Flickr collection.

Painful Pleasures [1931]

2012-01-29T19:38:00.003-05:00

The story of how "Painful Pleasures" came into my life is one of absolute kismet. In a used book store, nestled between shelves with computer-printed labels like "History: Ancient" and "19th Century Fiction," was a stack of books with a hand-scrawled scrap of paper that just said "Sexy Shelf." Like any self-respecting pervert, I directed my attention accordingly and was rewarded with early 20th Century "marriage manuals," a book on chastity belts and a little hardbound volume of flogging and spanking stories called "Painful Pleasures." Simply put, there was no way I was NOT going to buy this thing.

The only information I've been able to dig up on this privately-printed book from 1931 is that it's "very rare and sought-after." Whether "Painful Pleasures" is, in fact, "translated out of the French" by W.J. Meusal is up for debate--the French pedigree may be a gimmick to provide English-language readers with an extra frisson of exoticism. This is copy 906 of a limited run of 1,000 and many of its pages remain uncut.

The book is extensively illustrated by Francis Heuber, an artist that I can find no mention of outside of his work in this volume. His clean, Art Deco drawings lend the figures a strange lack of affect. Over-the-knee spankings are delivered with calm efficiency and birchings appear instructional rather than punitive.

This complements the stuffy and precise writing style--there's an element of scientific detachment that may actually make the book weirder. Check out the intro to this tale of a young female spanking advocate:

People from all walks of life discover satisfaction in submitting to or doling out whippings. From what I can read on the cut pages, the book is written from a true fetishist's point of view--there's no messy sex to get in the way of a proper flogging, and mental as well as physical release can be achieved when one discovers which side of the whip s/he likes to be on.

This is such a remarkable little piece of vintage kink, and one of my favorite stumbled-upon treasures. If anyone has any additional info on this book, please let me know in the comments or drop me an email. I'm genuinely curious to know more about it!

Addendum: Thanks to scholarly brains greater than mine (the owner of those brains may choose to identify itself), it turns out this book *is* a translation from multiple French sources dating from between the 1880s and 1920s. The book was printed by Gargoyle Press. More info here on BiblioCuriosa. "Painful Pleasures" is mentioned in the papers of "Conan" author Robert E. Howard, noted as something on what looks to be a to-purchase list. So yes, it looks like today's episode of Kinky Antiques Road Show uncovered a little nugget of gold!

Caged Fury [1990]

2012-01-19T19:46:00.000-05:00

As a young and still-idealistic person, I avoided Women-in-Prison movies, deeming them to be mean-spirited sexist junk. It turns out young and still-idealistic me was 100% right. Some have pointed to "empowering representations of females fighting the system," but all I see are women are locked up while wearing tiny clothing and being assaulted. Ain't nothin' empowering about that no matter how metatextual you want to get! But that's not to say I didn't wind up getting a kick out of these movies. Talking about the Women-in-Prison genre in the context of political correctness misses the point entirely, because it comes from a creative place motivated by the dark bits of the Id. It's this unrepentant luridness--there are no fantastical trappings or elegant production choices to soften the subject matter--that provides the joy of the Women-in-Prison genre. The Judgement Hat should be checked at the door and the Stained Raincoat should be donned before sitting down to watch one of these movies.

So where does that put "Caged Fury," a very late Women-in-Prison entry made in 1990? By that point, the genre had morphed from the serious cautionary tales of the 30s and 40s into the "roughies" of the 60s, making way for kinky imports in the 70s, and the eventual trickling-out of borderline-fetish flicks in the 80s. Well, it turns out "Caged Fury" is a very stupid movie that uses its own stupidity like a judo move, using the viewer's own cynicism against him by providing a twist ending that collapses all the conceits of the genre in on itself. It's like going through a rabbit hole found in a Poison video and emerging in H.G. Lewis' infinitely quotable girls-gone-bad flick "Scum of the Earth." "Caged Fury" is fucking weird, and amazing in its weirdness.

***I'm not quite sure why I'm giving you a spoiler warning for a twenty-plus-year-old Women-in-Prison movie, but I guess if you want all the fragrant freshness of its story to unfold in a pure fashion, you'd better stop reading here***

"What do you mean, I look like a tourist?"

Sweet country girl Kat Collins heads to Los Angeles to make it as an actress. Before she even gets to the city, Kat has picked up a hitchiker named Rhonda who promises her a place to stay as well as a showbiz "in." If this sounds entirely too good to be true, that's because it is! Rhonda's boyfriend Buck is a pornographer, but Kat comes from a planet that has never encountered pornography, so she hitches her star to his Hepatitis C train. While out celebrating with her new friends at an unconvincing biker bar, Kat is abandoned by Rhonda and Buck (who have a fully-clothed yet still very icky sex scene in a bar bathroom) only to get almost-raped by a gang. Fortunately, beefy Good Samaritans Victor (Erik Estrada, suffering from an alarming case of Tight-Pants-Itis) and Dirk (Richard Barathy) are there to save her, and they bring her back to what they wrongly assume is safety at Buck's place. The next day, Kat goes to her first audition, which turns out to be for an adult film (escandalo!) and is arrested for assaulting the crew during her escape from the set. After the world's most efficient trial, Kat is imprisoned--but not before telling her family that she's on a super-secret movie shoot in Mexico.

In a just world, this happens to everyone who wears Zoobas.

Kat's sister Tracy realizes something is amiss, though, and travels to L.A. to see what's become of her sister. After being told by Detective Stoner (played by James Hong aka frikkin' David Lo Pan--holy shit, movie; just when I thought I couldn't love you more!) that he has no clue as to Kat's whereabouts, Tracy decides to launch her own investigation. She teams up with Victor and Buck and, in the world's most terrible plan, contrives to get herself imprisoned so she can bust out her sister.

Once the two women are behind bars, it becomes clear that this is no ordinary prison. Things are extremely rapey behind these walls, and Warden Sybil Thorn (f'reals) takes sadistic pleasure in doling out kinky punishments to her charges. As a matter of fact, not only is this not an ordinary prison--it isn't a prison at all. Everything after the audition-gone-wrong is a fiendish ruse by a gang of white slavers to brainwash the girls before auctioning them off to wealthy clients.

So yes--everything that happened that made you think "gee, I'm pretty sure the American justice system doesn't work this way" or "I'm pretty sure Frederick's of Hollywood doesn't provide prison uniforms" was done on purpose. Set your minds to "blown" because you just got pantsed by a sleazy genre movie.

Sex Panther Cologne: 60% of the time, it works every time.

There's so much that goes into making "Caged Fury" a trash classic, from the gratuitous nudity to the only-semi-choreographed action scenes to the tone-shifting madness of the plot. If I was forced to pick a single factor that seals my love for this movie, it would have to be the acting. Performances run the gamut from "stilted" to "hammy" to "hot fuckin' mess," and they are never less than delicious to watch. Erik Estrada has put the better part of a decade between himself and "CHiPs" and it's a little difficult to buy him as a roguish male lead, but that doesn't stop him from continuing to rock Ponch's cocky attitude. For my money, Richard Barathy's Dirk is the more amazing hero--he's a judo-chopping, high-kicking, brick-breaking force of vintage action movie manliness. With only four IMDb credits to his name (including a turn as "Karate Biker" in the Lorenzo Lamas vehicle "Snake Eater," which I highly recommend if you love testosterone-fueled idiocy as much as I do), Barathy makes his sole leading-role appearance a memorable one. In a sequence that tells you most of what you need to know about "Caged Fury," Dirk is in a pagoda, outfitted in a karate uniform, breaking bricks with his bare fists before hopping onto his motorcycle to go dole out some fist-flavored justice.

A band composed entirely of Steve Stevenses.

A relic of a time that worshiped a stretchy, bedazzled, synthetic brand of glamor, "Caged Fury" revels in the miserable aesthetics of the late 1980s. The scene in the biker bar reeks of that era's awfulness, from the bleached-blonde go-go dancer to the teased-out heavy metal band to the bar's patrons, attired in stretch pants and crotch-crushing high-rise jeans. It was an era that called out for two aging action heroes to kick it in the metaphorical nutsack. Perhaps Victor and Dirk are doing more than just fighting against human trafficking--maybe they're doing their part to save America from its own hideousness.

It might be due to the unrepentant ugliness of the time, but "Caged Fury" is not a sexy movie in spite of it being crammed full of sex-occurrences. The leading ladies aren't especially appealing, and there's a meanness behind the various assaults, tortures, and rapes that contrasts with the goofiness of much of the movie. It's an adolescent approach to sex that is, by turns, uncomfortable and hilarious. Also: Ron Jeremy has a cameo as a prison guard, and it's been proven by science that nothing "The Hedgehog" appears in can be sexy.

And yet, none of this unsexy grossness gets in the way of my enjoyment of "Caged Fury"--in fact, it actually enhances my delight. It's a perfect combination of adolescent-boy machismo and adolescent-boy glee at seeing boobs (any boobs, in any context). This movie takes one to a paradise of lunkheadery, and should be celebrated for its shamelessness.

See more images from "Caged Fury" on Flickr.

Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone [1983]

2012-01-16T09:00:00.000-05:00

The worst part about "Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone" (no relation to the trippy Richard Elfman musical "The Forbidden Zone") is that I can't even feel smug and justified about how much I dislike it. It's an incredibly zany post-apocalyptic sci-fi adventure with immersive production values and some genuinely memorable visuals. It also features the most aggravating leading couple in the history of film--the kind of couple who, if you were sitting next to them in a restaurant, would put you off your meal and provoke a "Tell-Tale Heart"-level hatecrush. This makes "Spacehunter" a point of some heated contention in my household, since it's a long-time fave of Baron XIII's. He'll argue for this movie's merits with as much passion as I'll use to defend "Dead Alive," a film he would bury at the bottom of the ocean if given the chance.

At the center of "Spacehunter" is Wolff, a planet-hopping bounty hunter who manages to blend elements of Han Solo and Mad Max into a wise-cracking tough guy character with the charm of neither. Wolff travels the galaxy with his ultra-realistic sex robot Chalmers (really) who accompanies him on his missions (no, really). When a trio of big-haired space babes crash lands on a remote desert planet, Wolff and his sex robot set out to save them and claim the reward money. What seems like a simple mission turns into an epic adventure after Wolff realizes that the girls have been kidnapped by a cyborg warlord named Overdog (played by Michael Ironside, an actor who I think needs his own John-Saxon-like "Mark of Class" badge). A cacophony of welded-together vehicles, explosions, and mutant encouters ensues.

Were that the sum of "Spacehunter's" story, I'd probably be zen with it, perhaps even a bona fide fan. But no--this film isn't content with the kind of pre-sexual wheelie-poppin' found in "Megaforce." Oh no. "Spacehunter" provides Wolff with a love interest in the form of spunky space waif Niki, played by Molly Ringwald. While Wolff's speaking voice is exactly like that of every video game hero from the mid-1990s, Niki's chief characteristics are "being squeaky" and "occasionally not understanding a turn of phrase." You'll need to at least double the amount of irritation you feel at reading that in order to grasp the scope of Niki's awfulness. The two develop that squicky kind of relationship found in vintage romance novels, which maintains that extreme dislike will mystically transmogrify into a passionate attraction, given the right kind of wind-swept action background. Adding insult to already-insult, the audience is supposed to just default-believe-in this budding romance, because Niki is the only woman on the planet who is not actively trying to kill Wolff. From where I sit, that just means she exercises bad judgement.

There are so many things that rankle me about this movie, but one of the chief and also least-sane ones is the use of Space Language right next to contemporary American cultural references. We're far enough into the future that there's an entirely new system of currency, the FUCK YOU'RE NOT EVEN TRYING-ly named "megacredits," but "Monday Night Football" is still a popular program (presumably watched on "astro-television" or something else that's been named in a similarly aneurism-inducing manner). I also have to state that "Overdog" might be my least-favorite villain name of all time. A combination of "overlord" and "underdog," I couldn't NOT think of the hapless General-Mills-sponsored cartoon canine. It's almost as if someone on the production wanted to take that rad-looking character down a peg or two by giving him an incandescently stupid name.

"Spacehunter" is an unabashedly dumb popcorn-muncher of a movie. Filmed in 3D and stitched together using aspects of other, more successful movies, it's designed to put butts in seats and provide escapist fun for 90 minutes. The heartbreaking thing about this movie--at least to this genre-film fan--is the fact that it's not entirely a cynical crap-fest, and it has a cult following that I can empathize with even if I don't agree with them. There's a bit of the ol' "Waterworld" about this movie; a certain dedication to a demented vision that I can't write off entirely.

Hell, I'll admit it: there are moments of awesomeness in "Spacehunter" that I'd be a jerk not to point out. Wolff's run-ins with the desert planet's mutants are weird little jewels within the crumminess of the rest of the movie. There's a segment where Wolff and Niki stumble into a hive of monsters that look like oversized, squishy, slimy infants that's legitimately creepy (or maybe that just further reveals my feelings about babies--only my therapist knows for sure). Sexy mer-women, sand pirates and deformed pyromaniac children are all given a sense of backstory that made me more curious about these folks than about the main characters. Also, Overdog is one frightening-looking monster: his steel teeth, robot claws and machine movements make me wish he was in a different, better movie.

Once Wolff and Niki have successfully infiltrated Overdog's lair, they discover that he's sending his prisoners into The Maze, a fiendishly creative series of traps that would make the "Saw" franchise's Jigsaw turn various shades of envy-green. No--let me amend that: The Maze is the kind of thing your Dungeonmaster throws at your D&D party when he really, really hates you and wants you all to die horribly. Between the acid pits, rolling blades, sharp pendulums and spike walls, it's an all-in-one, ultra-efficient death trap that only the most nimble can survive.

Various positive bits having been accounted for, I cannot find room in my black little heart to love "Spacehunter" the way its cult following does. It has got a bit of the "talented twelve-year-old" about it, like "Megaforce" or the Duncan Jax movies, but it's populated by such aggressively annoying characters and distracting textural elements that it's impossible for me to embrace it. "Spacehunter" becomes an exercise in how the details of a genre film can spell its downfall. I feel as though this movie needed more raunchiness to justify its meaner elements, like Overdog's thirst for "life essence" that plays out as uncomfortably almost-rapey. By standing firmly on terra-PG, these bits just feel a little gross and tonally off.

I guess the real take-away from all of this is that I can totally hang with "Spacehunter" fans, even if I disagree with them. I'd just recommend we watch the Luigi Cozzi "Hercules" to get our kooky sci-fi fix instead.

Check out more images from "Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone" here.

Coming Soon: Jean Rollin Bobblehead from Cult Collectibles

2012-01-11T20:58:00.001-05:00

Hey! Guess what you didn't know what you needed until just now? The Jean Rollin Weird Wobbler bobblehead figure from Cult Collectibles. Now you can think of nothing else, right? The demented geniuses who turned "Dolemite's" Rudy Ray Moore and "Demons'" Geretta Geretta into bizarro desk decorations designed to make all your colleagues uneasy are creating what may very well be the strangest-ever tribute to the French Master of the Fantastique.

This limited edition figure--only 250 pieces are being made--is slated to hit the grabby hands of collectors in November 2012.

I will weep tears of joy if he's emerging from a grandfather clock onto the sands of Dieppe.

Blood on Satan's Claw [1971]

2012-01-06T09:00:00.000-05:00

The more I think about "Blood on Satan's Claw," a grim and mean-spirited British witchcraft film, the more I feel like I should have really dug it. All the elements line up for success: a beautifully crafted 17th Century setting, a willful young female lead, and plenty of gruesome, eroticized Satanic goings-on. A few key factors keep it from being a classic of occult horror, but there's some juicy goodness for fans of supernatural horror to savor.

A monstrous skeleton is unearthed in a recently-plowed field, triggering a series of strange occurrences in a sleepy English village. People experience visions of a hairy, clawed hand; a young woman is driven screaming mad with terror; and nymphet Angel Blake recruits the sons and daughters of the town into her black magic coven. An outbreak of assault, rape and murder follows, and an ill-humored judge is tasked with stamping out the evil that threatens to destroy the community.

"Blood on Satan's Claw" wears its influences proudly, and does a fine job of incorporating a number of British horror tropes into its storyline. Tonally, it's very similar to the doom and gloom classic "Witchfinder General"--deadly serious and steeped in historical reality. Set in the same civil-war-torn political landscape of Seventeenth Century England, "Blood on Satan's Claw" focuses its attention on generational conflict and does away with many of the ambiguities that make "Witchfinder General" such a compelling and uncomfortable film to watch (more about this later). In "Blood on Satan's Claw," the Devil is a real and confirmed threat who is ultimately defeated by the forces of the Protestant Christian status quo. Satan is able to get a foothold in the community through the young people, who have made a habit of disobeying their elders and challenging societal conventions. The very first time we meet one of the young villagers, he's accidentally dug up the Devil's remains, and the next young person in the film is bringing home his fiancee, a woman who does not meet the standards of his family.

Without a doubt, the highlight of the film is Linda Hayden's sinister, sexually charged portrayal of Angel Blake. Seventeen years old at the time of filming and already an established sex symbol due to her appearances in "Baby Love" and "Taste the Blood of Dracula," Hayden is a magnetic screen presence. She blends adolescent awkwardness with budding sensuality and adds scheming evil to make Angel Blake an unforgettable character. Creating a threatening ringleader out of a beautiful teenage girl is no mean feat and, by some alchemy, the moments of girlishness that Hayden allows Angel only underscore her dangerousness. Angel Blake is a character in the same vein as Helen Vaughan from Arthur Machen's novella "The Great God Pan," or Lucy Westenra in "Dracula." She's a young woman who has gained enormous sexual power through her connection to extraordinary evil. Her amoral, fierce dedication to spreading this corruption has parallels in venereal disease scares and the more generalized terror of female erotic empowerment.

From a production design perspective, "Blood on Satan's Claw" is a triumph. There's a lived-in feel to the interior spaces, which are filled with the kind of everyday ephemera one might find in an inhabited building. Unlike the (admittedly charming) indoor sets favored by Hammer Films, there's an effort to create realism by using natural settings and historical exteriors. In order to further evoke the 17th Century setting, the cinematography alludes to paintings of the time. Some shots are framed and lit like a Vermeer, blending sunny highlights with rich tones of wood and earth. There's a pastoral loveliness to many scenes that belies the ghoulish story.

Unfortunately, "Blood on Satan's Claw" suffers from some weaknesses that diminish its overall entertainment value, and ultimately its effectiveness. Chief among these weaknesses is what can only be described as A Serious Pacing Issue. This is a film that relies heavily on crescendo (and I'm not just talking about the sometimes-rather-jarring soundtrack), with long scenes of insinuation punctuated by bursts of violence. That wouldn't be an issue if there was a sense of purpose to each scene, but there is a lot of ambling talkiness before the real meat of the story begins.

The majority of the pacing problems can be attributed to the fact that the film was originally conceived as a three-part anthology, with the stories linked by the unearthed Devil skeleton. While the tale of the judge rooting out evil blends nicely with the material about the evil children, the third storyline--that of a young man and his fiancee who are driven mad by Satanic forces--is less integrated. Unfortunately, it's this third storyline that is the focus of the first twenty-plus minutes of screen time. The characters of Peter and Rosalind just aren't sketched well enough for the viewer to become invested in their fates. Contrast that with Angel Blake, who's clearly a tough bit of business right from her first minutes on screen, and it's pretty evident that these characters were short-shrifted. I'd posit that, in spite of a neat gag I won't spoil here, the Peter and Rosalind story could have been excised entirely and not really missed.

"I am the Lord of Hellfire and Mild Allergens."

As a fan of creature design, don't think it doesn't pain me to admit that one of the film's downfalls is the appearance of the Devil. In a film where so much care has been taken to recreate smoky cottages, rough-spun clothing and period speech patterns, it's jarring to see a Devil that appears to have been constructed out of papier-mache and dryer lint. All joking aside, the creature design is so clunky that I anticipated a plot twist that would unmask the Devil's true identity as one of the villagers.

This brings me to the final bothersome bit about this movie: it attempts to create similar social commentary to that found in "Witchfinder General" in a universe where the supernatural is real. The Judge is not a Matthew-Hopkins clone; he's clearly more dedicated to his office and never takes part in the kind of blackmail and abuse of power that Hopkins does. While there's a similarly jaded spirit at work in him--the film shows him as an alcoholic, class-conscious misanthrope--he's ultimately convinced of the reality of demonic powers. The Judge is never a "Good" character, though. His response to Rosalind's madness is to board her up in the attic--this coming from the man who is the village's savior. It's a strangely-scripted character, and much of the driving force of the plot is reliant on the Judge's actions. It's fortunate that the brilliant Patrick Wymark (in one of his final screen appearances) was cast in the role. Other actors suggested for the role included British horror luminaries like Christopher Lee, Peter Cushing and Michael Gough, but Wymark brings a roughness and power to the role that might have been missing were it played by another actor. He sinks his teeth into the role and brings an unevenly-written character to life--the Judge is never likeable, but he's certainly charismatic.

The fact that the forces of the Social Norm--not to be confused with Good--eliminate the Devil's cult sets up a twisted morality. It's difficult to celebrate an ending where anyone who challenged the restrictive standards of the time winds up mutilated or dead, with more of the same in store for others who might be tempted to act similarly. There's no catharsis in that, and for a film that has so many intense moments, it's missing a true emotional climax.

"Blood on Satan's Claw" is a flawed but interesting film that should be appreciated for what it does well. Immersive production design and some outstanding performances make it worth the time of occult cinema fans, but the film's attempts to blend historical realism and fantastical horror never gel. Ultimately, this is an interesting companion piece to superior but the similarly-themed films "Witchfinder General" and "Wicker Man."

See more images from "Blood on Satan's Claw" on Flickr.

Psychomania [1973]

2012-01-03T09:00:00.000-05:00

I almost don't care what else happens in a movie that opens with slow-mo motorcycle stunts executed against the background of misty standing stones and set to the sounds of fuzzy wah-wah guitars. If that kept up for ninety minutes, I'd be suitably entertained. The fact that the rest of "Psychomania" is so delightfully insane is proof that mad geniuses walk among us. It's a true genre-basher, crafted with care to be simultaneously kitschy and creepy.

Dapper young gent Tom Latham (Nicky Henson), whose mother makes a rather fine living conducting seances in the family estate, heads up a motorcycle gang called The Living Dead--a group of youths with an insatiable lust for hooliganry. Their deeds range from riding rings around unsuspecting shoppers and knocking over fruit carts to running motorists off the road. Tom persuades his mother and her manservant Shadewell (George Sanders in his final role) to let him in on the occult secrets they harbor. After discovering that all one needs to do to achieve immortality is to believe he'll rise from the grave after his suicide, Tom persuades his biker pals to join him in undeath. Only Tom's girlfriend Abby, who possesses a gentler soul than that of the other delinquents, stands between the group and an eternity of vandalism and violence.

Because seriously--FUCK TESCO.

All of this mayhem is supported by a fantastically groovy score by John Cameron. Psychedelic guitar work, sinister choral arrangements, and portentous organ chords cement the time, place and atmosphere of the film. I'd argue that the soundtrack to "Psychomania"is right up there with that of "Suspiria" in terms of playing an essential role in the success of the film.

Hot-pants-enhanced hooliganry

Director Don Sharp helmed two Christopher Lee/Harry Alan Towers Fu Manchu films, a handful of supernatural horror flicks, and some TV episodes, but nothing in his career is as compellingly weird as this film. "Psychomania" blends eccentricity, black humor, and occult themes to create a film that is absolutely unique and quintessentially British.

Eccentricity is perhaps the greatest renewable resource of the British Isles, and unusual world-views are tolerated and even nurtured in a way they simply aren't in the U.S. Rugged individualism is one thing, but unless it involves beating something (animal, geographical or human) into submission, Americans aren't incredibly interested in hearing about it. Britain's history of inherited lands and titles undoubtedly fostered the British eccentrics, and the character of Tom Latham fits neatly into this tradition. He's the son of wealthy occultists, who were probably supported in their interests by indulgent, also-wealthy and also-eccentric progenitors.

Tom is surrounded by a motley bunch of friends, seemingly without a care for their diverse places within the social hierarchy. His mates in the Living Dead seem to come from a variety of backgrounds: Hatchet is rough around the edges, Jane itches for a fight like a prototypical Ladette, and Hinky is a soft-spoken hippie.

I'm trying to suss out a way to cleverly mention that Tom looks great in leather, but I'm coming up empty. So let's just take a moment to enjoy those leather trousers, shall we?

Creating a comedy that hinges on suicide might seem a strange choice, but British humor has a history of embracing unusual and controversial topics. The Inquisitors, gay lumberjacks and Mafiosi of "Monty Python's Flying Circus" reflect a cultural ability to elicit comedy from confrontational material. As many an earnest upholder of politically correct social norms would remind us, there's nothing inherently funny about suicide. There are, however, buckets of funniness in the suicidal biker gang montage in "Psychomania," during which the characters find a number of creative ways to raise havoc while offing themselves.

And then there's Tom's funeral, during which he is placed in the ground astride his bike while the rest of the gang weaves commemorative floral arrangements. Hinky's memorial song, "Riding Free," contains such brilliant lines as the couplet "he really got it on/he rode that sweet machine just like a bomb." Fans of Italian horror will note that this scene--minus the folk song--is evoked in Michele Soavi's "Dellamorte Dellamore."

Nothing that begins this beautifully would disappoint me.

The occult is infused into pretty much every frame of this movie, from that great "slo-mo at the standing stones" intro through the resurrection theme that drives the story to the final (and, sadly, inevitable) come-uppance. Blending hoodoo witchcraft with astral/metaphysical concepts, the magic in "Psychomania" can be used for benevolent or self-serving ends. The devil isn't necessarily a bad dude--he just takes his business deals very seriously.

In this world, frogs hold major occult significance. Frogs are the only animal mentioned during the movie--none of the photogenic bats, wolves or cats one might expect can be found. Instead, there's a very stoical toad who seems to be a locus of resurrection and destruction. Which--let's face it--is really absurd and excellent.

Steeped in 70s aesthetics and possessed of a sharp wit, "Psychomania" is a movie that's very close to my heart. It manages to be a document of its time as well as a genuinely entertaining romp for those who aren't as obsessed with cinematic anthropology.

Check out more images from "Psychomania" on Flickr.

2011 in Review: A Good Year for Great Music for Bad People

2011-12-21T11:00:00.000-05:00


"Santa & Krampus" by Thomas Boatwright

The year is drawing to a close--nights are longer and colder, bears are preparing for hibernation in the basements of elderly men and intoxicated brodudes roam the streets disguised as Santa Claus and vomiting on unsuspecting pedestrians. All this means it's time to reflect on The Year That Was and try to make some sense out of it.

I'll admit that I'm pretty bad at finding out about entertainment at the time it's actually released. It's like living in a constant state of nostalgia for stuff I haven't actually experienced. This makes it all the more delicious that 2011 saw the release of some truly amazing music that I stumbled onto while still fresh.

Although perhaps "fresh" isn't the right word, since much of what I really dug falls squarely into the realm of "throwback music." Blood Ceremony's "Living with the Ancients" channeled Coven's 1969 record "Witchcraft Destroys Minds & Reaps Souls," Cold Cave's "Cherish the Light Years" is like listening to Depeche Mode and Joy Division shake hands, and Jeff the Brotherhood's "We Are the Champions" owes an awful lot to the Ramones.

I pulled together an 8Tracks mix of some of my favorite songs from the past year--chronological, if not stylistic, freshness guaranteed:

Listen to the rest of my 8Tracks offerings here.

Thank you to MusicIsTheArt for naming this mix a Pick of the Week!

Postscript: I'm terrible at recapping stuff, because there is a 100% chance of me forgetting something important. So here are two songs regrettably missing from that mix above.

"Ritual Knife" by Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats from the album "Blood Lust:"

"Wires" by Red Fang from the album "Murder the Mountains:"

Megaforce [1982]

2011-12-19T09:30:00.000-05:00

There are films that only make sense when seen through the eyes of a boy before he gets interested in sex, and "Megaforce" may just be the supreme example of this kind of storytelling. There's an undiluted enthusiasm for explosions and macho camaraderie that combines with a reckless disregard for geopolitical niceties to create a story that makes most "G.I. Joe" episodes look like "All Quiet on the Western Front." It's a charmingly naive action film that would make shyest and most introverted ten-year-old rush outside to pop wheelies and participate in ill-advised bicycle jumps.

Megaforce is the anti-U.N.: an international army of motorcycle- and dune-buggy-equipped stereotypes who violently rush to the aid of any country whose freedom is threatened. The cast of "Megaforce" consists of a virtual who's-who of early-80s genre veterans: Barry Bostwick plays team leader Ace Hunter, Michael Beck (Swan in "The Warriors") plays rebel-flag loving yahoo Dallas, Persis Khambatta (the former beauty queen and model who played bald alien Lt. Ilia in "Star Trek: the Motion Picture") is love interest Major Zara, and Henry (frikkin') Silva is evil general Duke Guerera. This adventure finds Megaforce intervening in the border war between Sardun and Gamibia, two vaguely Middle Eastern nations who are swiftly sorted into Good Guy and Bad Guy groups through the convenient use of non-Commie-sounding accents and Commie-sounding accents, respectively. Gamibian troops have been invading Sardunian lands, and it's up to Megaforce to set things straight by... well... by staging their own explosion-filled, salt-the-earth raid on a Gamibian settlement. When Megaforce is informed that the Gamibians might view their raid as an act of war (on account of it being exactly that), they have to stage a daring escape. Seasoning the plot are Hunter's growing attraction to Megaforce hopeful Major Zara and his simmering rivalry with academy contemporary Guerera (what are the odds of THAT?!).

So... define "Act of War..."

Without the flags, it is difficult to identify the Japanese man.

I've talked about how much I love movies that are distillations of their time and place, and there are elements of this within "Megaforce" that add to the movie's appeal. There's a ham-handed tokenism-cum-political correctness that is so painfully evocative of the early Eighties that it leaves a metallic tang in one's mouth. The African-American Megaforce member is Beethoven, a Shakespeare-quoting, classical-music-loving... chauffeur; there's a very serious Japanese man, and perhaps most cringe-worthily, a wise-cracking Mexican man who yells stuff like "MIRA, JEFE!" And everyone wears flags on the left sleeve of their special issue metallic spandex Megaforce unitards, in case you missed the carefully multi-ethnic composition of the team (also because it's impossible to tell the characters apart once they don their full-face crash helmets).

Because seriously: FUCK BALLOONS.

The thinness of the plot and character development can be forgiven, given the needs of the intended audience of youthful sugar-cereal enthusiasts. This is explosion pornography--not far off from current offerings like the "Transformers" series, but far less expensive and technically flashy. "Megaforce" is a hammer, and the world is its nail. It is an explosion delivery device with an unconvincing "keeping the world peace" cloaking device. Much of the movie involves bikes riding in the desert, popping wheelies, shooting rockets, and jumping over stuff. I'm honestly shocked that there was never a Megaforce line of toys (Kenner's 1989 Mega Force tanks are unrelated, in spite of having awesome names like RAM FIST, THORHAMMER and GOLIATH).

So let's take a minute to circle back to that pre-sexual-awakening thing discussed above. Hunter has a sort-of dalliance with Zara, but there's very little chemistry going on there. Just check out this image (forget the fact that it appears that Megaforce lives on a cruise boat):

"So... um... what to YOU do?"

Pretty awkward, right? If memory serves, I think I read an AskMen article that mentioned something about women wearing stone faces and leaning away from you that indicated they might not be too interested in sex. The Hunter/Zara scenes are only really remarkable for the fact that Hunter's silhouette makes him look like Beavis and/or Butthead:

"Huhuhuh ... heh... huhuhuh..."

Compare that, it you will, with Hunter's scenes with Guerera, in which the men embrace, back-slap and light one another's cigars. I wouldn't go so far as to say this is homoerotic (although Hunter's ball-enhancing jumpsuits might be), but there's certainly a brotherly kind of physical comfort going on in these interactions.

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

It's impossible to blame "Megaforce" for doing what it says on the tin. Right on the poster it screams "DEEDS NOT WORDS." Deeds like fighting tanks, skydiving, blowing shit up, and flying around in giant planes are the reason this movie exists. Unrelentingly loud and stupid, "Megaforce" prefigures the ADD-generation action offerings of today (all blow-up, no blood) while maintaining lovably hokey B-movie production values. To know "Megaforce" is to love it.

The Competitive Spirit: Beards and Beasts

2011-12-15T20:12:00.001-05:00

Every human being is at least a wee bit competitive--it's in our nature to rank, rate and judge. Many folks get their competition-related jollies through sporting events (if not through participation then by proxy), but some prefer to leverage other achievements and talents in the quest for recognition. There's something thrilling about watching people compete, and as an enthusiast of the strange, I get way--WAY--too into weird contests. I'll take World's Strongest Man over the Super Bowl *any day*, pals.

With pro beardsman Jack Passion

In addition to my passion for oddball sporting events, I really get enthusiastic about events that focus on off-beat aesthetics. Few groups manage to blend sincere devotion with a quirky sense of humor the way the professional beardsman scene does. I'm a devoted fan of IFC's "Whisker Wars," a teevee show that celebrates the personalities behind the impressive facial plumage, so there was no way I was going to miss the New York City Beard Competition that took place in Brooklyn on December 3rd. There's a real beauty to people who own their eccentricity, and the men behind the beards let their wonderful strangeness flourish. Wizard beards, Viking beards, Tyrolean beards, and good old fashioned Hillbilly beards were all present, and it was fascinating to watch the entrants eye up and appreciate one another's facial hair. One of the more controversial figures on the bearding scene is Jack Passion, a man whose luxurious red beard and gentlemanly persona have nabbed him a number of product endorsement deals. His portrayal as the villain on "Whisker Wars" made him a favorite in the Tenebrous Household, and I'm here to report that he's an absolutely charming individual who's extremely patient with fans (The Baron and I even overcame our icy Northern European natures and let him initiate a group hug).

Photo by elaynam - original here

Followers of this blog will remember the Carnivorous Nights Taxidermy Contest from years past. Each year, I see something that my brain wants to say is THE COOLEST THING IN THE WORLD, and this year's entrants were no exception. It was even more magical to experience the competition with my friend ElaynaM of the food blog Open Mouth, Insert Cookie, who was a first-timer. The photographs she took do a lot to convey the beauty and grotesquery on display.

The headhunter baboon riding on a rottweiler (complete with a basket of real human bones) was entered by Ryan Matthews of Discovery Channel's "Oddities." All the pieces used to create the tableau are from his extensive and impressive collection, assembled into one jaw-dropping piece. This thing has been haunting my dreams for a week now. Another "Oddities" entry--and ultimately winner of the competition--was Mike Zohn's beer-dispensing coyote with monkey torturer:

Photo by elaynam - original here

Coney Island's favorite rogue taxidermist, Takeshi Yamada, entered with another mythical creature--this time venturing into New Jersey's Pine Barrens to nab this rarely-seen specimen of the Jersey Devil:

Photo by elaynam - original here

Found fur and ethically-obtained specimens were popular among entrants who created their own mounts. Blasko was created from fur scraps and mounted on a Halloween dancing animatronic that played Michael Jackson's "Thriller" from a speaker near his butt:

photo by elaynam - original here

Perhaps the most unusual specimen was this "vegan taxidermy" deer creature, created from grasses and plants harvested around the New York City area:

photo by elaynam - original here

Click here to see all of ElaynaM's photos from the Carnivorous Nights Taxidermy Contest.

The Fifth Cord [1971]

2011-12-07T21:30:00.000-05:00

Let me be honest: I didn't especially care for "The Fifth Cord"as a thriller. There's nothing bad about the movie, a 1971 giallo directed by Luigi Bazzoni. The standard elements of a better giallo are there: the emotionally wounded protagonist, the negative impact of contemporary culture on the psyche and interpersonal relationships, and elaborate murders that link together a twisty plot capped by an out-of-left-field solution. In spite of boasting Franco Nero in the lead role and an un-terrible script, this film never connected with me.

Andrea Bild (Nero) is an alcoholic reporter involved in tempestuous relationships with his former wife and his current girlfriend. When people in his social circle are killed in a series of murders--connected by the presence of gloves with increasing numbers of fingers lopped off found at the scene of each crime--investigators focus on Andrea as the prime suspect. In order to clear his name, Andrea delves deeper into the mystery, bringing himself and his family into danger in the process.

There's little of the fantastique or psychedelic in "The Fifth Cord." Sure, the murders appear to have a link to astrology, but there are no mediums, cults or other Age of Aquarius trappings. The characters are far more measured and nuanced than the kind of leering fashion photographers, predatory bisexuals, and dissociative-disordered clerics that populate similar films. This is an upper middle class melodrama with murders; a well-executed one at that, but neither as insane nor as lurid as the kind of Italo-thriller I prefer.

However, if I view "The Fifth Cord" as ninety-minute fashion spread produced to highlight the clothing, accessories, and hairstyles, it's got an undeniable appeal. The art direction and cinematography are absolutely beautiful and complement the grounded-in-reality storyline. Just take a look at the following images--they could have been taken from an eyewear catalog published this Fall:

Maybe what I'm struggling with is the fact that "The Fifth Cord" is a classier beast than what agrees with my taste. It's an undeniably grown-up movie, opting for stylish tension over throat-grabbing gruesomeness. Sophisticates--and fashion photographers looking for inspiration for new campaigns--would be well-served by seeking this one out.

The Torture Chamber of Dr. Sadism [1967]

2011-11-07T20:33:00.001-05:00

"The Torture Chamber of Dr. Sadism" is one of those weird little nuggets of trash cinema from a period where movie tickets were sold based on impossibly lurid promises of weird sex and gory violence. While H.G. Lewis' films like "Blood Feast" (1963) and "2,000 Maniacs" (1964) offered graphic splatter, a majority of horror filmmakers in the 1960s skirted the edges of taboo in order to avoid cuts due to strict censorship laws in export markets. In spite of a one-two punch of TORTURE and SADISM right in the title (backed up by a German pedigree, no less), "Torture Chamber of Dr. Sadism" is charmingly quaint in its embrace of gothic-pulp storytelling. From the damsel in distress to the "cursed bloodline" plot to the implausible sorcery, this movie is proof that nothing's new this side of Otranto. Like so much genre movie-making, though, the movie's delights reside in its cobwebby, candlelit details--all of which are gleefully ridiculous in this particular flick.

As is the case with many of "Torture Chamber of Dr. Sadism"'s 60s gothic genre-mates, the story is nominally based on the works of Edgar Allan Poe--"The Pit and the Pendulum," to be precise, although this feels more inspired by the Corman version of that story, with its secret torture chamber and mad murderer. To put a bow on it all, there's the bookending appearance of horror screen star Christopher Lee to give the entire affair a bit of international marketing clout.

The story begins with the evil black magician and murderer Count Regula's* execution by quartering after having a "Black Sunday"-style mask hammered onto his face. Much like the villainess in that film, Regula swears revenge on the descendants of his executioners. Flash forward about 35 years: nobody wears powdered wigs and tricorn hats anymore, having transitioned to a sort of Hammer-Victorian drag realness. The ludicrousness kicks in really early, since the movie wants us to accept that over the course of this 35-year period, Regula's castle has been entirely ruined, no one has told their children the awesomely-terrifying tale of the murderin' warlock who lived up the lane, and neighboring villages are entirely ignorant of the hideous deeds perpetrated nearby. If you take delight in this brand of nuttiness, then you're like me and you know that what follows will be bizarro fun.

* I like to imagine that Regula is Dracula's cousin who went on to be a chino-wearing accountant. Dr. Acula was forced to change his name after being "Ellis Islanded." None of them especially like to talk about Drugula.

Handsome strangers Roger Mont Elise and Baroness Lilian von Brabant are on their way to the Castle Andermeyer to learn about a mysterious inheritance they are each owed. You get precisely no bonus points if you realize that these are the unwitting son and daughter of those responsible for Regula's death. With the help of Lilian's maid Babette, a priest who is not what he seems to be (played by character actor Vladimir Medar at his Oliver Reed-iest), and a reluctant carriage driver (who never mentions the bodies hanging from trees he sees as they approach the Castle, which I guess is the mark of a good Victorian-era servant), the two finally reach their destination. The castle is a ruined heap, but the group proceeds anyway, only to find undead evil living within its walls (like you do). They find a bunch of other stuff in the ruined castle, including:

Subterranean vultures--I assume these are related to the crypt armadillos from Tod Browning's "Dracula."
Plentiful ad sciencey glassware
Undead servants
Snake pits
Torture equipment galore
Remarkably well-preserved bodies from Regula's initial reign of terror

Director Harald Reinl's approach to the film is capable without being especially artful. Having directed a number of Edgar Wallace krimis, Reinl is clearly familiar with the pacing and feel of pulp stories and his film advances from plot point to plot point with reasonable briskness. Actors convey their lines with a reasonable degree of passion without ever crossing into remarkable performances, aside from Medar, who sells his boisterous clergyman with broad gestures and a booming voice.

A creepy mood is evoked through the use of painted backdrops and some punches of colorful lighting, though nothing in here comes close to the chiaroscuro black and white of earlier krimis, or even the splashy comic book mise en scene of "The College Girl Murders" (also made in 1967). The soundtrack is unremarkable, blending some generic synth crashes into what feels like stock music.

In many ways, the movie feels like it was made much earlier in the decade; even as a devoted fan of the gothic, I have to admit "Torture Chamber of Dr. Sadism" is old-fashioned and creaky. It lacks the kind of artfulness that sets later gothics like Bava's "Baron Blood" apart from the pack while never achieving the charm of a Hammer production of any era. This movie is best classified as a gothic for completists--it's got plenty of insane details, but it lacks the special sauce of its best genre-mates.

For more images from "Torture Chamber of Dr. Sadism," check out the Flickr gallery here.

Halloween Was a Tenebrous Black Mass This Year

2011-11-01T15:01:00.001-04:00

Happy Dia de los Muertos, interpals! Or as I like to think of it, "Colorful Sugar Skull Hangover Day."

This year, Baron XIII and I decided to bring some black magic realness to our costume efforts. Inspired by Swedish occult metallers Ghost, I spent around 24 hours cutting, ironing, sewing, and hot-gluing this outfit from scratch. I was really pleased with the reactions to the costume, and the best moments were when a few fellow Ghost fans expressed their approval at my sartorial selection.

Baron XIII opted out of Faceless Ghoul drag on account of difficulty in drinking delicious booze, but his Satanic Clergyman came out pretty impressively.

During our wanderings, we met a guy dressed as one of the Blind Dead, who was super-happy that we recognized he was dressed as one of the Blind Dead. It was the Doomiest Halloween Ever.

No Halloween is complete with a single costume, so I carried the occult theme through to our Friday-night party. One could say I have a habit of collecting nun uniforms, if one really liked bad puns.

Baron XIII opted for a post-apocalyptic raider outfit, made of stuff lying around the house. We... have a lot stranger stuff lying around the house than most people, I think.

Who Saw Her Die? [1972]

2011-10-12T19:25:00.000-04:00

I am not a parent. I can't imagine having the kind of intestinal fortitude, emotional bandwidth, and patience-patience-PATIENCE to deal not only with offspring but with the constant judginess of the world towards everything you do as a parent. All that having been said, I can dig why people who do have kids find films that deal with child murder to be difficult to watch. It's a nightmare topic that must bring up a potpourri of terrible feelings.

With this in mind, it's somewhat jarring to watch a giallo with child murder as its central plot device-- a genre known for its graphic eroticism and cruelty. Two 1972 gialli tackled this theme: Lucio Fulci's "Don't Torture a Duckling" and the lesser-known Aldo Lado thriller "Who Saw Her Die?" The two films share many thematic elements, but Lado's film has a sense of intimacy and tragedy not found in "Duckling." It's a slow burn that winds up being tremendously effective.

George Lazenby (a talented actor sadly best known as the answer to the trivia question of "who only played James Bond once?") plays Franco Serpieri, a sculptor who is estranged from his wife Elizabeth (striking glamazon and genre veteran Anita Strindberg), who is living in London. Serpieri's daughter Roberta (Nicoletta Elmi, aka "that creepy red-headed girl who is in every early-70s Italian horror film") is visiting with him in Venice, but Serpieri is frequently distracted by his art, his socializing, and his womanizing. As Serpieri is coupling with one of his girlfriends, Roberta is abducted and murdered. Elizabeth comes to Venice for the funeral, and the couple tries to work through the tragedy, even as Serpieri is drawn further into the mystery surrounding his daughter's death.

The film treads a very narrow line between family drama and exploitation murder mystery, and--remarkably enough--its missteps are limited. This isn't Lado's only foray into this type of movie-making. His 1975 "The Night Train Murders", inspired by Wes Craven's "Last House on the Left," is a harrowing experience in terms of its unflinching violence as well as its emotional impact. In Lado's world, decent but imperfect people have terrible things happen around them (or to them) and are forever changed by their encounters with twisted members of society.

"Who Saw Her Die?" is a tough film to talk about without making it sound campy, making it seem dire and depressing, or methodically un-knitting its plot and therein ruining its effectiveness. So I'll just say a few words on the script. The story hangs together MUCH better than that of many gialli, and it does a great job of evoking the perversity and urban alienation characteristic of the genre while dealing with its central theme thoughtfully. Serpieri's relationship with Roberta is complex--the artist clearly loves his daughter, but has difficulty incorporating a child into his life. A lot of screen time is spent with Serpieri and his child in the days leading up to her death--this gives her eventual fate even more impact to the viewer. Serpieri's feelings of guilt after her death are painfully well-sketched in Lazenby's performance, and almost impossible not to sympathize with.

While it's Lazenby who really holds the movie together, the supporting cast does a fine job as well. The always-charming-and-sinister Adolfo Celi ("Thunderball"'s Largo and "Diabolik"'s Valmont) plays Serpieri's art dealer, Serafian. He's a powerful man who is as manipulative--and maybe vicious--as he is wealthy. In fact, every member of Serpieri's social circle is flawed in some way, and the cast does a fine job showing the likable and problematic sides of these characters. Piero Vida is a boisterous journalist, Peter Chatel is a slippery social climber, José Quaglio is a lawyer who knows more than he's willing to share, and Dominique Boschero is a seductress who may be in over her head with her chosen relationships. The only disappointing role comes from Anita Strindberg--the camera loves this woman, but she seems to be going through the motions here, rather than sinking her teeth into the role of a mother who has just lost her child.

The movie boasts an impressive Ennio Morricone soundtrack that perfectly complements the on-screen events. The sort of jazz-influenced percussion and strings of early-70s soundtracks is combined with children's choral performances to create a chilling effect.

There's a great sense of place throughout the film--the city of Venice, slowly and beautifully decaying, is ever present. Scenes are set within rich villas, pigeon-swarmed plazas, and grand places of worship. It's a lovely but vaguely threatening city that would be used again as a setting in a somewhat similar film a year later: "Don't Look Now" featuring Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland.

Quieter and more resonantly disturbing than most movies that can be described as "giallo," "Who Saw Her Die?" deserves to be seen by Euro-thriller fans looking for a more mature, character-driven story. It's not light entertainment, but much like other dark thrillers that gain mainstream popularity (the "Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" series comes to mind), it rewards brave viewers with an interesting story, well-told.

5-Minute "Badi": The Turkish "E.T."

2011-10-03T09:00:00.000-04:00

The Turkish cinema boom of the 1970s and 1980s produced some of the most blatant, micro-budgeted knock offs of well-known Hollywood movies ever produced. Frequently, these movies were scene-for-scene remakes of the films that inspired them, with some culture-specific references added in to make them relatable to Turkish audiences. Some movies translate a little better into the Turkish worldview while others--for example, "Seytan," the Turkish "Exorcist," substitutes Islam for Catholicism with Mixed Results--don't render quite so well.

"Badi," the Turkish version of "E.T.," is one of the most tonally bizarre children's films I've seen. Granted, "E.T." was never a favorite of mine, but I think it benefits from NOT having scenes of child abuse and animal murder. To spare you the traumatic experience of watching all seventy-plus minutes of "Badi," I've distilled just the finest five minutes into one clip. I left out the part where the dog dies, and left in only the best child abuse parts. This still contains nearly as much loud screaming and youth rebellion as the Arab Spring.

Originally screened on September 30, 2011 with "Mac & Me" at 92Y Tribeca.

Spasmo [1974]

2011-09-15T09:00:00.000-04:00

I'm sure you guys are familiar with William Castle's gimmicks, where he'd put buzzers in the chairs, drop plastic skeletons from the theater ceiling, or grant life insurance policies for viewers who died of fright during his creaky horror flicks. I'd like to posit that Italian director Umberto Lenzi went one step further than Castle did during his career, creating a movie about madness that actually has the capacity to drive its audiences to nail-gnawing fits of insanity. My friends, that film is "Spasmo," an Italo-thriller that I assume is so named because of the neural convolutions that it inflicts on its viewers.

Actually, I'm kind of lying. "Spasmo" takes its name as a nod to Hitchcock's "Psycho," which is referenced in the English-language promotional materials for this film (I opted for the Italian poster here because--dude--boob-mouth). It attempts to bend the conventions of the thriller in ways similar to the movie that was its inspiration, but ultimately winds up confusing its audience. As a "Psycho" clone, "Spasmo" fails, but the movie is a lot of fun in its sloppiness and nuttiness, and is ultimately saved by hairpin-turn plot developments in its final few minutes.

Twisty for twistiness' sake and filled with the kind of dubbed dialogue that sets fans of vintage Euro-genre cinema a-quiver with delight, "Spasmo" tracks handsome jet setter Christian Bauman on his descent into rash romance and maybe madness. After meeting Barbara, a mysterious blond woman he discovers passed out on the beach, Christian becomes obsessed with getting to know her better and tracks her to her lover's yacht, which is docked nearby. The two set up a rendezvous and Barbara agrees to have sex with Christian, but only if he'll shave off his beard. There's a good ten minutes of banter surrounding whether Christian will keep his beard or get to bang Barbara, which I imagine was significantly more comedic in native Italian. Christian ultimately succumbs to Barbara's charms, but just as he's putting paid to the final remnants of his chin sweater, a ghoulish assassin bursts into the room. During the ensuing struggle, Christian accidentally shoots the man and he and Barbara go on the lam. Things descend into craziness and creepiness with oddly familiar faces, misplaced memories, and mutilated mannequins populating the terrified couple's landscape.

That dialogue I mentioned above? It's truly some of the kookiest I've heard this side of an Emanuelle flick. It's supposed to be clever and flirtatious, but mostly sounds like a verbal game of non-sequitors. Witness, for example, some seductive talk between Christian and Barbara during their tryst, alone in Christian's car, parked somewhere in the woods:

C: That moon doesn't bother you?
B: There's no moon in my hotel room.
C: I was right, you're a sweet sweet whore. OK, let's go.
B: But you have to shave your beard off first.
C: What?
B: Your sweet, sweet whore doesn't take any payments, but she does have her limits.
C: You're crazy. I could have you now, here, and you'd like it even with the beard.
B: I have a razor in my room: big, sharp and sexy.

...And they drive off to the motel. END SCENE. Do these people like each other? Is Christian a mad rapist? Is Barbara actually a whore? These are the questions posed just in these few lines of dialogue. Every time a character talks to another character, more questions like this arise, until ultimately the viewer questions his or her own mental well-being. I'm going to go ahead and give the benefit of the doubt to the five scriptwriters responsible for this material and assume that this off-kilter sensation was their intent.

In the roles of Christian and Barbara, Robert Hoffman and Suzy Kendall (giallo vet of "Torso" and "Bird with the Crystal Plumage" fame) exhibit a strange sort of attract-repulse chemistry. They're both very attractive individuals (though Barbara is *mad* to make Christian shave the beard--he can work facial hair), but there's no real heat between them. Oddly enough, this works in the favor of the movie's disorienting feel--a tender relationship would be entirely out of place in this insane universe.

Shades of "Psycho" are present in the taxidermied birds in Christian and Barbara's hideout, as well as in some of the depth-of-field camerawork that shifts focus between foreground and background to interesting effect. In the same way that the horrors of "Psycho" are enhanced by its Bernard Hermann-penned musical accompaniment, "Spasmo" boasts an impressive soundtrack by Ennio Morricone, complete with swelling organ motifs, shivering strings and moments of unsettling discord.

Unlike many Italian thrillers of its time, "Spasmo"isn't stuffed with murder setpieces and lurid nudity. There's always the threat of violence, and the plot hinges on sex, but this film relies on build-up--it's all about suspense here, getting thisclose to a reveal and then pulling back from the ledge.

The movie snakes its way through various developments, double-crosses and uncertainties up until its final ten minutes--and I would be an awful, awful person to spoil the revelations that tie everything together. While the solution to the mystery isn't necessarily something the viewer will puzzle out, it's not as out-of-left-field as the kind of exposition that ties up loose ends in gialli. Suffice to say, fans of the high gothic will be delighted.

Don't get me wrong--"Spasmo" isn't a traditionally good thriller, but it's groovy and its twists are pretty dang unexpected. Fans of Eurotrash cinema will be well served by its bizarreness.

For more images from "Spasmo," check out the Flickr gallery here.

Simon, King of the Witches [1971]

2011-09-12T09:00:00.000-04:00

Some movies are more than the sum of their parts, effective in a way that's not easily pin-down-able. It can be hard to recommend a movie like this in a concise way, but I'm going to have to give it a try, because Bruce Kessler's "Simon, King of the Witches" is definitely one of those movies. It's a film about the power of the occult that's quieter and more coherent than the typical hippie freak-out fare, functioning more as a character study than as a cinematic acid trip. This might be the American complement to "The Wicker Man"--a thoughtful representation of modern-day paganism in a Christian moral world.

Gorgeously-named Simon Sinestrari is a dealer in occult charms who lives in a storm drain and tries to avoid the prying eyes of authority figures who'd just as soon see him jailed for vagrancy. On one of his nights spent in jail, Simon meets peppy teen hustler Turk, who introduces him to the world of swishy social climber Hercules. Simon is welcomed into the bohemian enclave*, where he sells magical trinkets and tarot card readings to his Aquarius-Age audience. All is not peace signs and pipe-passings in this clique, however, and when Simon's relationship with the local DA's daughter blossoms and his detractors grow more vocal, the extent of his magical powers is revealed and an ominous cycle of black magic begins.

*You can always tell a primo boho party of this time due to the presence of the man in the turban. I'd imagine that, were I alive at the time, I'd probably create some kind of Turban Scale to describe the relative swankness of different soirees.

Ordinarily, I'd be frustrated by a movie about the occult that relies on subtle shifts in tone and character while following the classic tragedy story arc. There were plenty of opportunities for this movie to go off the rails into craziness, but it never does. The psychedelia is in line with the plot, and there's no hair-rending Satanic madness. Everything is told from Simon's point of view--he's a true believer in the occult, and seems to grasp the magnitude of the powers he's dealing with. As the film builds to its eventual crescendo--and there is a very dramatic apex to this film--there's a sense of inexorable pull, of the overwhelming magnetic/electric forces that are the source of Simon's magic.

There's a rich sense of place in this film, which is set in 1970 Los Angeles. I've seen plenty of movies dealing with magic and counterculture that are hilariously out-of-touch with their subjects, but "Simon, King of the Witches" has the quality of first-hand observation. It's rumored that screenwriter Robert Phippeny was a magical practitioner, and that shows in the scenes of Simon practicing his craft. Above and beyond this, there's a level of understanding of non-mainstream culture that runs through this film. Hercules' social circle isn't just made up of young, long-haired idealists--there are politicians, idle children of the wealthy, business owners, swingers and other hangers-on who seem to greatly outnumber the artists, musicians and other eccentrics. The film's attitude towards these people is balanced between self-aware humor and an uncertainty about changing social norms. It captures a moment in time when underground culture began to permeate the mainstream, and the resulting strangeness. Related to this culture clash is the theme of authenticity versus affectation. There's a great scene in which Simon witnesses a ceremony carried out by a coven of witches, an event that's got all the trappings of witchcraft (to whit: human bones, chanting, a costumed goat, ritual sex, and an excess of Egyptianate eyeliner) and none of the spiritual significance that Simon invests in his own workings. It's an opportunity for the filmmakers to show the sensational side of hippie-era magic while making a wry comment on its ludicrousness.

Much of the success of "Simon, King of the Witches" rests on the shoulders of Andrew Prine's performance in the title role. The character is charming and witty, but sketched with a certain amount of darkness and poignancy around his edges. In different hands, Simon could be a campy, histrionic huckster, but Prine makes him a tragic hero. Simon truly believes in the power of the forces he's summoning, but despairs at ever making the world understand the nature of these otherworldly agencies. It's easy to see how Simon's charisma and cleverness could capture the attention of Hercules' associates. And it needs to be said that while Prine is not a traditionally handsome individual, his depiction of Simon is downright sexy in its intensity.

"Simon, King of the Witches" is an unusual entry into the late 60s/early 70s occult cinema canon. Its sociological insight and attempt to realistically depict ritual workings put it apart from the kind of shock tactics and heavy-handed moralizing of many of its genre-mates. For folks who want a groovy time capsule with more intelligence than they're probably used to, "Simon, King of the Witches"is well worth a view.

For more images from "Simon, King of the Witches" check out the Flickr gallery here.

Many thanks to Bryan of Cinema Suicide for encouraging me to watch this movie sooner rather than later! Sir, you are a gentleman and a scholar.

I LOVE BAD MOVIES 'Zine & Tenebrous Kate Present "MAC AND ME"

2011-09-06T09:28:00.000-04:00

I love bad movies: it's a rallying cry, a fearless assertion. and also the title of a lovingly hand-crafted 'zine. Creators Matt Carman and Kseniya Yarosh are dedicated to seeking out strange, overlooked, and sometimes altogether forgotten movies and giving them the attention most people wouldn't think they deserve. Their areas of bad-movie interest go beyond horror and sci-fi fare, extending into comedy, romance, family fare, and beyond. They bring together an eclectic bunch of talented authors in each issue of I LOVE BAD MOVIES, and devote the pages of each 'zine to a specific type of schlock cinema. Issue 4 is devoted to children's films, and I'm delighted to have a piece included in its pages.

Order Issue 4 of I LOVE BAD MOVIES here, and see more classic zines in Kseniya's Etsy shop while you're at it!

Fellow lovers of cinema's dregs in the New York City area should join me and the I LOVE BAD MOVIES team for a very special presentation, of the existential shocker "Mac and Me" on September 30th at 92YTribeca. Stare bravely into a world of madness, mutation, physical disability, and cynical marketing exploitation. There will be entertainment from your hosts, and yes--there is beer & wine available for those who need a little liquid courage during the presentation. Get your tickets at the 92YTribeca website!

"Mac and Me" is just one part of September's Rip-Off Cinema Series at 92YTribeca, which features some amazing and rarely-screened gems. Flicks like "Abby," "Lady Terminator" and "1990: Bronx Warriors" are all being shown. Be sure to check out the entire line-up and support local weirdness!

Fancy Dress & the Halloween Countdown

2011-09-02T19:48:00.002-04:00

I'm not even going to try to lie to you guys--I get ridiculously excited about Halloween. Every. Single Year. In between one Halloween and the next, I'm always looking for an opportunity to get dressed up in outlandish outfits and try on new personae.* When the chance to participate in a sideshow-themed photoshoot with Baltimore's Atomic Cheesecake Studios came about, you'd better believe I was all over that junk.

*Yeah, I AM all fancy and stuff with my proper Latinate pluralizing.

As I stitch my fingers to the bone working on this year's Halloween outfit, I'll take some time to ruminate over how sweet the finished product of costumed mayhem can be. Seriously--these pictures look like somebody dropped acid in a Weimar Era nightclub. It's somewhat of a relief to know that my former carnie career options of "fortune teller" and "tattooed lady" have been expanded to include "halfsie."

Delirio Caldo (aka "Delirium") [1972]

2011-08-22T09:00:00.000-04:00

I find myself in a quandary--I found a movie I really, really want you guys to see, and yet if I explain too many of the reasons why I loved it so much, I fear it would spoil the glee you'd get from unwrapping its glossy foil exterior, finding chocolate inside, and *then* biting into a center of unexpectedly delicious nougat, churned by the very hand of God.

In a way, I already ruined that metaphorical candy for you--no matter how good the candy is, you'd never find it as marvelous as the set-up would suggest. If that nougat had the slightest grit, or that chocolate cracked instead of melted, you'd feel gypped, and you would grow to mistrust--perhaps even loathe--me. Instead, it would probably have been better for me to place the candy into your sweaty, outstretched palm and say "try this, I think you'll dig it."

So what do I do? Do I risk hyperbolizing, or do I undersell in the interests of maintaining your faith in me?

Renato Polselli's "Delirio Caldo"* (released under the several-times-used moniker "Delirium" for English-language markets) is a sloppy, sleazy, histrionic giallo, and as such it's already worthy of your love. If you require more of a Sell, I will present to you five un-spoiler-ey reasons you should add this flick to your to-watch pile.

*This is a review of the Euro-market, uncut release of the film, not the US release with the Vietnam subplot & excised violence and nudity.

1) Mickey Hargitay is an actor who brings me great joy. C'mon--you've seen "Bloody Pit of Horror," right? He gives great freak-out and has no understanding of subtlety, which makes him a cinema hero.

2) Cops dress like this. I can safely assume these guys were the sartorial inspirations for Crockett & Tubbs.

3) Dream sequences. Mickey Hargitay crazy-face dream sequences which also feature lesbianism. Stuff THAT in your pipe and smoke it, pals.

4) Get ready for Giant-Cross-Wearing Parking Lot Attendant to become one of your favorite Italo-thriller characters. I dassn't reveal any details, but I'd be remiss if I didn't advise you.

5) Miniskirts are an extremely important motif throughout the film. Why else would it open with a shot of a miniskirt and keep bombarding the viewer with bare-legged lasses? Miniskirts play such a crucial role here that you'll feel like a leering old man by the time the film has exhausted itself. Miniskirts on mopeds, miniskirts in phone booths, miniskirts in parks, miniskirts, miniskirts, miniskirts. Miniskirts to the point where you forget they're attached to the rest of a woman.

And with that last lurid detail, the defense of "Delirio Caldo" rests its case, content that all you Sex Perverts will want to run out and give this rude little 'trash romp a taste test. I promise you won't be disappointed.

Tenebrous Radio Is Live (Undead, Undead, Undead)

2011-08-18T09:24:00.000-04:00

I'm not the quickest to use sparkly web-toys, even if they are free and awesome. But after the tenth time my Pandora station insisted on playing me artists I do not care to hear*, I knew it was time to get involved in something new. After listening to a few of my friends' mixes** on 8Tracks, I was hooked.

*I'm sorry, but I cannot like the Melvins, no matter how hard I try
** Thank you Prof. Jack and Costuminatrix!

I've been posting mixes at the rate of about 2 a week. If you care for a peek into my musical tastes (and don't mind some genre car-crashing), check out my station here:

Tenebrous 8Tracks

Click below to listen to a mix now:

Paintings by Mr. Christian & The Importance of Tactile Art

2011-08-12T09:00:00.001-04:00

I really love Art Objects. You know--stuff that makes you want to run your fingers across the surface or feel the weight of the thing in your hand. I'm no Art Scientist, but I'd venture that part of the runaway success of the just-closed Alexander McQueen retrospective at the Metropolitan Museum of Art was due to the fact that the clothing and accessories on display possessed a magnetic tangible quality missing in a Photoshop world. Having seen the show twice, I can attest to the fact that it was by sheer dint of will that I didn't sneak a fondle of a leathery or be-feathered masterwork of couture.

Seeing paintings up close & personal makes you realize that these objects possess the same tactile gravity. Paint is more than just colors to put up next to one another to make a picture--depending on application, the gloss and texture have an impact on the finished work.

The recent Crazy Monsters Art Show at TT-Underground Gallery in the East Village had some pretty amazing work on display by such monster-making luminaries as Gary Pullin and Steve Blickenstaff, spanning a range of digital, drawn, sculpted and painted creature creations. My favorite pieces in the show were by an artist whose work was new to me: the portrait work of Mr. Christian.

Mr. Christian's work has the wit of the pop surrealist/lowbrow movement combined with a translucently layered, glossy paint application. His subjects include counterculture icons like Crispin Glover and Lemmy, and his painstaking brushwork captures the finest details of hair, cloth and skin. Each piece is displayed in a frame of the artist's creation, customized with weathering, rusty nails, and other sculpted-on elements. The final result of this work is a painting that's so utterly touchable, I want a gold star on my karmic chart for NOT fondling his work when I viewed it.

Mr. Christian's unique style, macabre humor and technical skill make him an artist to watch. I know I'm looking forward to seeing what he has up his enigmatic sleeve!

For more info on Mr. Christian's work, check out his website here. Keep your eyes peeled for upcoming convention appearances and prints!

Pierre Fournier Reviews "Jean Rollin: The Stray Dreamer" [2009] - Fantasia 2011

2011-07-22T10:00:00.000-04:00

I'm honored and delighted to present a guest post from award-winning blogger Pierre Fournier of Frankensteinia. Pierre is one of the finest horror journalists I've had the privilege to meet, and his keen eye for the aesthetics of terror makes it a joy to read his work. Right now, Pierre is living it up at the Fantasia International Film Festival, rubbing shoulders with some of the most iconic names in genre cinema (if I didn't love him so much, my envy would be unbearable!). Among the incredible offerings--both new & vintage--at the fest was the 2009 documentary "Jean Rollin: The Stray Dreamer," which provides an intimate look at the man behind some of the most iconic films of fantastique cinema. What follows is Pierre's review of this film.

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Celebrating its 15th glorious year, Montreal’s Fantasia has grown to become the biggest genre film festival in North America, and stands solidly among the world’s best. Need proof? See this year’s program and judge for yourself. Films every day, features and shorts, running over three amazing weeks. Add some panels, live shows and sometimes raucous sell-out crowds — spontaneous parties have been known to erupt at midnight showings of El Santo movies — and you’ve got a major genre event. And Fantasia might also be the coolest festival around. I mean, an upcoming screening of the cult classic ILSA, SHE-WOLF OF THE S.S. has already sold out and, tell me, where else could you find Udo Kier working the lobby, as he did on opening weekend this year, greeting fans, shaking hands, posing for pics?

Fantasia has its share of world premieres and high-profile films, but it also provides a rare chance to see features, foreign and domestic, too weird and whacked out for mainstream screens, obscure titles, experimental works and documentaries you’d have a tough time tracking down on your own. Case in point, JEAN ROLLIN: THE STRAY DREAMER, the 2009 documentary by Damien Dupont and Yvan-Pierre Kaiser. It’s a straight-up, chronological survey of Rollin’s career illustrated with choice clips from his films — lots of nude vampires with bikini tan lines — propelled by unobtrusive narration and peppered with comments by critics, actors and collaborators including Jean-Pierre Bouyxou, Brigitte Lahaie and Pete Tombs, author of Immoral Tales: European Sex & Horror Movies, 1956-1984, one of the first among critics and historians to champion Jean Rollin.

Best of all is Rollin himself, onscreen through most of the film, a twinkle-eyed, affable, soft-spoken man, generous with anecdotes and perpetually amused by his own adventures. And what extraordinary adventures he had…

Rollin, we learn, came with serious cultural creds. His parents hung out with celebrated surrealists, radical thinkers and heady intellectuals. Dad directed experimental theatre and Mom posed for paintings, but young Jean remained unimpressed by the famous houseguests. The boy’s all-consuming passion ran to pulp fiction, Tarzan comics and movie serials. As an adolescent, he haunted the Midi-Minuit, Paris’ infamous B-Movie cathedral, home of monster movies, horse operas and poverty row potboilers.

On one fateful evening, expecting to see Eddie Constantine handing out knuckle sandwiches, Rollin stumbled onto the Midi-Minuit’s weekly Film Club gathering. The program kicked off with UN CHIEN ANDALOU, with its razored eyeball opening, and included Jean Cocteau’s LE SANG D’UN POÈTE. Rollin was thunderstruck. Schooled in surrealism, raised on cheap pulps and lowbrow movies, “two contradictory and improbable universes” collided, creating the basis for Rollin’s oeuvre.

Rollin, inevitably, became a filmmaker, learning his craft on wartime recruitment films, eventually directing short subjects. In 1963, he embarked on his most ambitious project to date, a surrealistic feature film, L’ITINERAIRE MARIN. Securing actor Gaston Modot of UN CHIEN ANDALOU and armed with dialogs written by Marguerite Duras, author of HIROSHIMA, MON AMOUR, filming progressed until the money ran out. Investors were sought out, a showing arranged, but all Rollin could cobble together was a rough edit, without sound. A “catastrophic” screening, in Rollin’s own words. The project collapsed. Critics, and Rollin himself, would later reflect on this missed opportunity. What would have been Rollin’s career if L’ITINERAIRE MARIN had been completed? Would he have been a Godard? A Jacques Tati? How did he end up disparaged as “the French Ed Wood”?

The final puzzle-piece of Rollin’s unusual career would drop into place in 1968. A producer friend had booked an old American poverty row chiller, PRC’s DEAD MEN WALK, made way back in 1943. Running barely an hour’s time, a companion feature was needed to make it a show. Rollin was offered a few thousand francs to come up with a short horror film that would serve as filler. There was only one caveat: Based on the success of Hammer Films’ sexy horrors, nude scenes were essential. In a matter of days, Rollin batted out a script and got to work. The producer could make neither heads nor tails out of the rushes, but there were vampires, the requisite topless victims and roughly forty minutes of footage, so he poneyed up some more cash for Rollin to pad it out as a full-fledged feature. Instead of going back over his work, Rollin devised new scenes, called it “part two”, and THE RAPE OF THE VAMPIRES was done. It opened in Paris, in May of 1968.

Riots were sweeping across Paris, students on barricades, police with nightsticks charging. The city came to a standstill, many movie houses went dark, and Rollin’s erotic, dreamlike vampire film turned out to be the only new movie in town, drawing the full attention of French media. Nobody seemed to understand what the film was about. It was a anarchistic and “anti-academic”. Opening night crowds rioted, throwing garbage at the screen. The critics were murderous. One writer called on cinephiles to seek out the perpetrator of this film, drag him out and beat him up in public, lynch-mob style. The nicest review, as Rollin remembers, was the writer who said “It’s a good thing Rollin is not a butcher. His blood sausage would taste like crap!” Rollin’s reputation as a z-grade filmmaker was instantly and indelibly made. It would stick for decades, even while he created beautiful, genuinely disturbing and immensely personal films.

Weathering the critical tsunami, Rollin was surprised to see his film playing weeks on end to full houses, racking up huge revenues. Soon, he was making THE NAKED VAMPIRE and THE SHIVER OF THE VAMPIRES, in color, which he used to great effect.

Rollin wrote fast and directed even faster. He always privileged atmosphere over narrative. He did not direct his actors, forcing them to improvise off the barest of instructions, creating confusion for cast and crew and cultivating a sense of on-set unease that permeated the finished films. Unless a major technical glitch intervened, first take was always a wrap. ‘I’ve seen it once,” Rollin said, “I don’t need to see it again.”

Jean-Pierre Bouyxou notes that superstar directors like Godard and Rohmer often made crude films, their failings forgiven as the best anyone could do on a shoestring budget, while Rollin, who never cared for perfection, never bothered with strict continuity, was condemned as a hack. The difference lay in Rollin’s themes. Unlike his contemporaries, Jean Rollin was tagged as a horror film director, and horror films were seen as cheap, lowbrow entertainment. Cut off from the filmmaking mainstream, Rollin, a true independent, pursued his personal, renegade vision, his poetry nestled inside horror film trappings.

In the late 70’s, censorship was abolished in France and Rollin was told to ramp up the erotic content. Uninterested, he would leave the hardcore scenes to his assistant or his cinematographer. As someone points out in the documentary, Rollin made subversive films, but pornography and subversion are incompatible.

THE STRAY DREAMER tracks Rollin to the end of his life. Thankfully, he lived long enough to see his work recognized and honored. Fighting illness, time running out on him, Rollin continued working, introducing biographical elements in his last few films, as if trying to tie everything up. At the end, he went all the way back to the very beginning, in a bittersweet attempt to complete his first feature, L’ITINERAIRE MARIN. Tragically, the surviving negative was accidentally destroyed on the very day he went to pick it up. Perhaps, he said, shrugging, it was a film that was never meant to be finished. Jean Rollin passed away on December 15, 2010.

For anyone who doesn’t know Jean Rollin, THE STRAY DREAMER is a fascinating introduction to one of a kind film director and his uncommon body of work. For his fans, it’s like spending an intimate hour with the man himself. In an anecdote from the film, a friend of Rollin once told him that he had no opinion about his films because Rollin filmed his dreams and all you could do was watch and dream along. That is as perfect an approach to Jean Rollin’s films as anyone could suggest. Watch, and dream along.

Visit the webpage for JEAN ROLLIN: LE RÊVEUR ÉGARÉ, with a teaser trailer (in French).

Emanuelle Around the World [1977]

2011-07-13T21:15:00.002-04:00

The Black Emanuelle movies are a mixed bag of softcore smut, hardcore porn, horrific violence, disco fashion, and bizarre politics of both the gender and global varieties. A slice of the larger cinematic pie that is the Emanuelle/ Emmanuelle universe, these vehicles for Javanese actress Laura Gemser are arguably the most outraeous offerings spawned by Just Jaeckin's "Emmanuelle," a 1974 adaptation of Emmanuelle Arsan's novel. Gemser's Emanuelle is a globe-hopping photographer whose work spans the range of fashion, art, and journalism, providing her with ample opportunities to meet colorful characters and get into erotic rendezvous of every imaginable configuration. The madcap pacing and bizarro tonal shifts of the films delight me more than I care to admit, but I've come to discover that their appeal is far from universal. Apparently there are folks out there who don't care for movies that car-crash steamy lesbian gropings into faux snuff footage, as happens in "Emanuelle in America."

A wise poet once said "for the lessons of life, there is no better teacher than the look in the eyes of a child." Sometimes, we need to take a look at the world through inexperienced eyes, and in that spirit, I decided it was high time that Baron XIII took in his first Emanuelle movie. In opting for "Emanuelle Around the World," I figured it was a kindness--far gentler than the glorious excess of "Emanuelle in America." Little did I know how brainfuckling an experience these movies can be for the unsuspecting viewer. Fifteen minutes and three cities into the film, the Baron had already broken through to Dull Headache territory, and by the time the cringe-inducing caricature of a Chinese slaver (who may or may not be named "Alton Brown") was forcing a woman to have sex with a dog, he was right round the bend. I honestly feel bad for just having noted the lack of bestiality five minutes prior to this scene.

"Emanuelle Around the World" follows the intrepid, liberated photojournalist on her quest to bring down an intricate network forcing women into sexual slavery. What ensues is a series of vignettes of only-sometimes-consensual sexual activity in a variety of exotic locales. Emanuelle is like that annoying Facebook friend who posts pictures of herself standing in front of famous stuff, like you wouldn't believe she went to Washington, DC, without a picture of her grinning broadly in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Except instead of "grinning in front of the Lincoln Memorial," she's doffing her clothes for a lesbian encounter inside of a beautiful room tiled in classical Islamic style (yes, I realize that is pretty much a Wrongness Hall Of Mirrors). Emanuelle's adventure takes her from swank hotels in Manhattan to the compound of an Indian sex guru (played by George Eastman, who is super-duper-not Indian) to a Roman villa-cum-bordello (is that a pun?) to a slaver's dungeon in Hong Kong. Is it an elegant example of circularity that Emanuelle winds up back in New York under the Brooklyn Bridge with a bunch of high-powered hedonists in the film's climactic scene? Probably not, but it's worth noting for those with a more academic bent of mind. When absolutely everything about a movie is so stratospherically insane, perhaps "intent" is the craziest thing of all.

Capitalizing on ideas of free love and women's liberation, "Emanuelle Around the World" has plentiful scenes of Laura Gemser's Emanuelle sexing it up with men and women in a variety of combinations. The world is just one big turn-on for this lady and she's not about to let conventional mores get in the way of her humping-related activities. She exchanges some rather unconvincing political rhetoric surrounding the issue of sexual slavery (all of which sums up to a Mister Mackey-ish "it's bad, m'kay?") with her politician paramour (played by Ivan Rassimov, best know for his roles as creepy madmen).

Beneath the free love facade, the feminism of this movie is pretty damn sketchy and--to me anyway--fairly hilarious. If feminism had been invented by someone in the Pickup Artist movement, it would be a lot like this. There's an exchange within the first few minutes of the movie that sets the tone. Emanuelle runs from a hotel room, nude after an attempted rape, only to fall into the arms of a nattily be-suited gentleman, who tells her: "I'm a man who detests violence, but without your clothes, you really are quite provocative." And this is the way the movie determines he is probably a good guy because he manages to... you know... not rape the protagonist who has just escaped another different rape. This is a movie that ends on a light-hearted, happy note because only characters you're not really attached to get especially gruesomely abused.

That kind of political incorrectness is to be expected from grindhouse offerings like this. What might not be as expected is the way that naughty comedy sits right beside scenes intended to horrify. Emanuelle's adventures in India have a distinctly flirty feel to them--she witnesses an all-girl kama sutra training session, beds an innocent cultist, and comes to discover that the love guru overseeing it all has what I shall gently term "Endurance Issues." Her visit to Rome is a whole different kettle of fish*, however, as she and her friends are kidnapped and forced to participate in an uncomfortably graphic rape orgy. What's especially jaw-dropping about that sequence is that THE VERY NEXT SCENE after the rape orgy is Emanuelle and pals emerging from a cab, all smiles, asserting that the guilty parties will surely go to jail. All's well that ends well, clearly!

*When you have Scottish relatives, sayings like this creep into your vocabulary. I REFUSE TO APOLOGIZE.

After the movie was over, a rather shell-shocked Baron XIII turned to me and asked what he was supposed to feel. I don't have a good answer to that question. Perhaps it's a mix of emotions, like all the best art: a little bit of fremdschamen for the ethnic actors portraying terrible stereotypes, a little bit of envy of people who were able to make a living peddling filth like this to unwitting filmgoers, and more than a little bit of arousal at the less-rapey portions of the film. Or maybe you're just supposed to feel dirty and guilty. I can't hope to understand the motivations of Joe D'Amato in making this movie, but I can certainly salute the end product for its perfect crystallization of the concept of Guilty Pleasure.

For more images from "Emanuelle Around the World," check out the Flickr gallery.

Hercules [1983]: in which Lou Ferrigno, Lasers, & Space Improve the Peplum

2011-06-20T09:00:00.000-04:00

Have you ever watched a movie and been disappointed that no one throws a man in a bear suit into space? After watching Luigi Cozzi's "Hercules," I realized that I'll forever be disappointed in movies that don't include a man in a bear suit being thrown into space. It's rare that a movie embodies the mercurial beauty of "So Bad It's Good" cinema the way Cozzi's "Hercules" does. Cozzi is a director whose career is studded with knock-off films: "Starcrash" is his "Star Wars," "Contamination" is his "Alien," and this movie is his "Clash of the Titans." What sets Cozzi's knock-offs apart is the fact that they are crammed to bursting with STUFF HAPPENING--you may be baffled by what's on screen, but you are guaranteed to never, ever be bored. Cozzi's muse is all hopped up on sugar cereal and sparkles with gloriously absurd ideas, every one of which the director is dedicated to capturing on film, always punctuated with an exclamation point.

That's a man in a bear suit at the top center of this image. In space. A MAN IN A BEAR SUIT IN SPACE.

"Hercules" starts off by disorienting its audience with a melange of repurposed alchemical mysticism, patchwork Greek mythology, and dicey astronomy that attempts to explain the creation of the universe. To sum up: the fire of chaos created four elements (day, night, air and matter) which in turn created Pandora's Jar which exploded and then that created the planets--all of which is presided over by the space-deities Zeus, Athena and Hera. In order to fight the evils that have been unleashed by the breaking of the jar, the gods create Hercules and then proceed to fuck with him for pretty much no reason at all until he can prove he's really a hero. By flinging so much nonsense at the audience within the movie's first minutes, the filmmaker cleverly establishes a base level of insanity that will be maintained throughout the film. There's a rhythm to the weirdness here, and that rhythm is the blast beat--relentless, overwhelming and fast.

"My God, it's full of stars!"

Armchair scholars should be forewarned that any resemblance between what happens here and any Greek mythology they might be familiar with is purely coincidental. If you're the type of person who likes to point out that King Minos was not a science-loving spacelord hell-bent on destroying Hercules and that Daedalus was not a hot babe in plexiglas armor who made stop-motion steampunk monsters to aid in Minos' misdeeds, then you should probably stay far, far away from this film. It will do nothing but cause you devastating head pain and consternation, above and beyond anything Steve Reeves ever had a muscley hand in. If, however, you are like Dear Friend of the Empire Vicar of VHS, and believe that "Starcrash" outclasses the "Star Wars" movies, then you are in for a whopper of a treat.

"You cannot pay me with Masters of the Universe toys."

Once Hercules begins impressing the world with his feats of strength and bravery, the forces of evil conspire to put an end to his do-good-ery. Hercules falls in love with Cassiopeia, a beautiful princess, but the two are separated when King Minos kidnaps the princess in order to offer her as a virgin sacrifice. Motivations get pretty muddy at this point--Minos is allegedly obsessed with science and reason, and yet his primary mission seems to revolve around a supernatural ritual. Also, he uses magic. Theological issues aside, the story is clear-cut in the way only a kids' film can be--bad guys are bad guys on account of doing bad guy stuff, and good guys are defined by the fact that they help the hero, who is the dude the movie is named after.

Absolutely everything about this movie is engineered for maximum silliness and delight. The costumes include space-deity getups that would do the Unarians proud and skimpy outfits for the leading ladies that manage to stay just this side of the movie's PG rating. The sea witch Circe (who becomes an unlikely ally of Hercules') wears body armor over her torso that includes sculpted nipples and mons pubis, while Cassiopeia dons what looks like strategic Christmas tinsel after she is kidnapped by Minos and his evil daughter Ariadne.

Captain Hercules von Steamingham versus the ratchet-powered Clankerbug of Thebes

The special effects work is rickety but entirely lovable. In the absence of a Ray Harryhausen to bring his monsters to life, Cozzi's FX team cobbles together some stop-motion robots (all of whom would look more at home in "Starcrash" or maybe "Flesh Gordon") and an occasional puppet to provide the movie's whimsical bestiary. These tin-toy creations may not be convincing, but it's pretty much impossible not to smile as they menace Hercules and his companions.

The casting is B-movie bliss, putting "Incredible Hulk" actor Lou Ferrigno front and center as the legendary muscle-man and allowing him to flex his way through feat after feat of superhuman strength. One of my fave Euro-heavies, William Berger, hams it up as King Minos, pulling an impressive series of facial expressions throughout. I loved Berger's eyebrow-arching, finger-tenting turn as Father Vicente in Jess Franco's "Love Letters of a Portuguese Nun," and he's in equally fine form here. In a one-two punch of inspired villain casting, Sybil Danning plays Minos' wicked daughter Ariadne. Like Dyanne "Ilsa She Wolf of the SS" Thorne, Danning achieves a base level of haughty cruelty just by showing up in front of the camera.

As if this wasn't enough, there's an appearance by Bobby "Tony the Pimp in 'Demons'" Rhodes as the King of Africa, who adds nothing to the story except the fact that he looks awesome being carried around in a palanquin made of dinosaur bones.

This movie didn't have to show a baby fighting papier mache snakes, BUT IT DID.

The only reason I can think of that Cozzi's "Hercules" hasn't achieved fame as a cult classic is that it's been relegated to the stacks of kids movies due to its lack of gore and nudity. Allow me to assure you that this film doesn't require gore and nudity to achieve mind-bending weirdness. "Hercules" doesn't need to be as bizarre as it is, but it goes there for no other reason than someone thought that was a good idea. And for that, I salute this movie and everyone involved in its creation.

For more images from "Hercules," check out the Flickr gallery here.

8:03 PM

Corpse Mania [1981]

2011-06-12T09:00:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite bits of marketing genius comes from my local humane society. A few times a year, they host an event that they title KITTEN BONANZA. It sets up expectations in the mind of the potential pet parent of scores of fuzzy little buddies just begging to be cuddled and loved and given forever homes. Kitten Bonanza is a very fucking exciting name for what is actually a pretty standard pet adoption event.

"Corpse Mania" is a little like that, in that it paints a certain brain-picture which is going to be very difficult for any film to fulfill. The title should more properly be "Corpse; Mania," but that sort of candor doesn't sell DVDs, does it? Let's discuss.

"Corpse Mania" is dubbed by many reviewers a Shaw Brothers giallo, and if that sounds like a weird and improbable combination, it is. Best known for their wild martial arts films like "Five Deadly Venoms" and "36th Chamber of Shaolin," Hong Kong's Shaw Brothers Studios produced scores of genre films between the 1951 and 1989. These titles included gross-out supernatural horror movies, guy-in-a-suit monster flicks, and kinda-actually-pretty-ill-advised collaborations like "Legend of the 7 Golden Vampires" (made with Hammer Films). With this in mind, the idea of their taking on the kinky, stylish Euro-thriller makes a certain kind of sense.

Set in mainland China in what appears to be the 1920s, the film's opening scenes depict a mysterious man moving into his new home with a woman who appears to be extremely ill. It's not long before the local gossips are curious about their reclusive neighbor and decide to go snooping around his home, only to find a maggot-covered corpse in his bed--but no sign of the man. Cut to stern-but-fair Inspector Chang, who is reminded of a similar case from two years earlier in which a grief-stricken husband kept his dead wife in his home until he was discovered and packed away to an insane asylum. It just so happens that this gentleman has recently been released from the asylum, making him the prime suspect in this case. The plot thickens when rumors surface of tension between the necrophile and a wealthy madam whose girls are being murdered one by one. Could it be part of the necrophile's revenge, or is there a larger conspiracy afoot?

"Corpse Mania" is a assuredly an oddity in the Shaw Brothers body of work, but every shakily-plotted mystery with a gloved killer isn't a giallo. The movie has some qualities of the giallo--namely: deviant sex, aggressive cinematography, and a be-hatted-and-gloved unknown murderer. Missing are the anxiety about urban life, the troubled protagonist, and references to fashion and music that are also at the heart of the giallo. The period setting and romanticized necrophilia are more characteristic of gothic horrors, and the over-the-top gruesomeness can be found in Edgar Wallace krimis or the stories of Japanese author Edogawa Rampo. If anything, the rapid tonal shifts between tragedy, comic relief, and outbursts of graphic violence are in keeping with Hong Kong filmmaking, as is the style of camerawork. Dynamic cinematography isn't solely the hallmark of Euro-thrillers of the early 70s--crash zooms, dutch angles and sweeping tracking shots are intrinsic to Hong Kong action scenes.

The giallo-ness or not-giallo-ness of the movie isn't really material to its success as a strange, gross-out thriller. "Corpse Mania" doesn't have the feel of the inspired work of an auteur, but rather plays out like a clunky mystery strung together as an excuse to show really yucky stuff. Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you! Not every genre movie sets out to be a masterpiece, and this film achieves some chilling and wonderful stuff in its eighty-two minute run time (this does feel like a rather long eighty-two minutes, though, dominated as it is by dialogue scenes). My own squick factor surrounding necrophilia is pretty well documented, so the lingering scenes of female corpses covered in worms and maggots proved admirably gut-wrenching for this viewer. Every time my finger hovered on the fast-forward button during another sequence of dialog surrounding where someone was or was not at a particular time, something wacky or spooky would happen that would revive my faith in the film. An eerily dusty interior (this movie would have us believe that houses fall into almost instant disrepair in China), a splattery beheading, or a genuinely tense stalking scene would catch my interest just in the nick of time.

Also, I've discovered a new favorite subtitle: the exclamation "ABUSED CORPSE!" which appears several times during this film.

"Corpse Mania" is not an especially taut thriller, nor an especially stylish Hong Kong film, but in taking some of its cues from European shockers and adapting them for Asian audiences, it winds up being a unique effort that's worth a peek. While it doesn't achieve the style of the best gialli or the energy of the best Hong Kong horrors, it's a nifty one-off that provides some truly visceral shocks.

Check out more images from "Corpse Mania" on Flickr.

7:21 PM

The Joys of Occult Rock: Ghost with openers Sabbath Assembly

2011-06-06T20:45:00.000-04:00

The worship of vintage film and music genres can be a gloomy sort of fandom--it's easy to feel like one was born too late to enjoy the best work of one's favorite artists. This kind of bittersweet appreciation of subcultures past can be isolating, so it's especially rewarding to find creative types doing weird & wonderful stuff in the Here And Now.

On June 1, I was fortunate to be present at the 300-capacity Studio at Webster Hall (which meets with my highest watering-hole approval by being located in a basement) for an especially electric presentation of occult heavy rock by the unlikely match-up of psychedelic folk-metal act Sabbath Assembly and gleefully Satanic retro-rockers Ghost (previously discussed during Tenebrous Music Week). What might seem an odd pairing wound up being a downright and thoroughly excellent live music experience.

In re-working the music of the Process Church of Final Judgement, a nihilistic Age of Aquarius cult embracing the God/Satan-Light/Dark duality of Gnosticism, Sabbath Assembly creates a deeply moving, mystical brand of rock music. Vocalist Jex Thoth has a stunning, powerful voice that ranges from a delicate whisper to a pleading cry through songs that resonate with the power of invocation. Sabbath Assembly's elegant melodies have a poignancy to them that creates a real emotional resonance--something that was entirely unexpected and proved to be a nice counterpoint to Ghost's satirical take on ritual music. For a deeper look at Sabbath Assembly, check out this interview on ARTISTDirect and watch this recent live footage:

Ghost could easily be the kind of band whose schtick outpaces their musical chops, but my world is an infinitely finer place because they back up a ridiculous concept with catchy hooks and wicked wit. How else to explain a song titled "Prime Mover" which references--and inverts--the theology of St. Thomas Aquinas, all while keeping heads banging and fists pumping? The concept of the band, that the members are anonymous Satanists bent on corrupting the minds of rock-loving youths, requires buy-in from the crowd, and they had that sealed from the first appearance of the censer-swinging vocalist, clad in his Satanic Papal finery.

As absurd spectacles go, this was a very fine showing, culminating in an inspired Beatles cover and the sharing of Communion wine with lucky cultists at center stage. I'm hesitant to spoil the surprises of Ghost's stage show, but I encourage fans and other curious parties to check out the band's official website, as they've announced a full North American tour this Fall (supported by Alcest and Enslaved).

More photos from the Studio show here on Flickr.

"Let Sleeping Corpses Lie" (aka "The Living Dead at Manchester Morgue") [1974]

2011-05-25T20:15:00.000-04:00

I am imperfect. I can be overly cynical and incredibly stubborn, and I don't always listen to people--even people who have demonstrated that they have my best interests in mind. One of the fastest ways to get me to be cynical and stubborn and stop listening is to use the word "zombie" in describing a book, movie or television show. And that, my friends, is one of the places where I get into trouble. I feel like I reached my saturation point on vintage sleaze gut-munchers sometime around 2001, and that attitude kept me from seeing "Let Sleeping Corpses Lie" (also known under the title "The Living Dead at Manchester Morgue") until this year. And yes, all those friends who'd told me it's a thoroughly excellent movie were absolutely correct. Consider the following to be my effusive apology for not checking this film out earlier!

Directed by Jorge Grau, whose Countess Bathory film "Bloody Ceremony" I've gushed about previously, "Let Sleeping Corpses Lie" is one of those magical horror films that is both artful and satisfyingly gruesome in its approach to its subject matter. Antiques dealer George (Ray Lovelock) is on his way to his new home in the English countryside when his (extraordinarily gorgeous) Norton motorcycle is run over by beautiful, pouty moron Edna (Christina Galbo). After some bickering, the two come to an agreement that George will drive Edna to her sister's house and borrow her car until his (extraordinarily gorgeous) motorcycle can be repaired. But as you may have noticed, this movie is not titled "Two Attractive English Characters Argue for Ninety Minutes," and things go majorly awry when they arrive at Edna's sister's house to discover that the sister's husband has been savagely killed. The police arrive to investigate and before you can say "get a haircut, you damn hippie," the youth-culture-hating police inspector has the fashionable pair of city kids pegged as the prime suspects. George and Edna begin their own investigation, and the horrifying truth is revealed: the recently dead are being reanimated and seeking the warm blood of the living to carry on their post-mortem violence. Will George and Edna clear their good names? Will they be able to convince the authorities of the unbelievable truth?? Will that beautiful motorcycle be returned to a state of shiny, black-lacquered repair????

Like all good treasure, this movie requires some patience in its unearthing. The characters are fairly dickish and the setup is somewhat over-complicated, so the first fifteen minutes might feel a little trying. Indulge in a trust exercise: stick with it to the appearance of the first zombie. Its ghastly, sepulchral-slow movements are accompanied by a chilling soundtrack of synthed-together howling and human heartbeats. After the monster reveal, there's an escalating sense of dread that accompanies every scene, through Edna's sister's drug use to the antagonizing police inspector to the revelation of how the zombie plague is spread.

The film dwells equally in the eerie, occult fog of Amando de Ossorio's "Blind Dead" series and in the nuclear-era political anxieties of George Romero's "Night of the Living Dead." The zombies are awakened by a high-powered radiation device intended to combat agricultural pests, but new zombies are created through the silent ritual of an undead applying human blood to their eyelids. It's a remarkably effective combination of scientific hyperbole and fear of the mystical unknown.

Everything is not grim here. The interplay between the handsome young couple and character actor Arthur Kennedy's hippie-hating inspector provides some moments of humorous social commentary. Kennedy delivers the inspector's rant against George's "long hair and faggot clothes" with delicious villainy, but Lovelock's George is imbued with enough snarkiness that one can sort of see where the inspector's distaste comes from.

Grau has an eye for arresting images and ghoulish details that add to the film's creepiness. The locations are stunning--verdant green valleys scattered with cottages, waterfalls and a picturesque church are a stark contrast with the horrible events of the story. An elaborate cold-storage system for the bodies transported from the gloomy Victorian hospital to the Manchester Morgue feels like science fiction. The strained relationship between Edna's sister and her husband has many uncomfortable textural elements--why, for example, does the husband keep large photos of his wife caught doing drugs in his living room...?

I won't blame any zombie fans for wondering about when I'm going to get to the grisliness I'd alluded to earlier. Where gross-out FX work is front and center in a lot of zombie movies, "Sleeping Corpses" uses an escalating series of violent setpieces to heighten the horror of the story. The initial death-by-zombie scene is fairly tame, relying on reaction shots and oppressive silence to convey the creature's inexorable drive for blood. Once the infection has spread to the bodies awaiting transport from the hospital, all of the flesh-ripping excess one might expect of this flavor of horror movie is splashed hideously across the screen.

Any zombie movie worth its salt has at least one "character zombie"--Tar Man from "Return of the Living Dead," the Cemetery Zombie in "Night of the Living Dead," and the worm-faced Conquistador in Fulci's "Zombie." "Sleeping Corpses" is no exception to this rule, and its rail-thin, head-wrapped, autopsy-scarred ghoul is a fine addition to the ranks of these icons.

For its creeping dread, its nods to hippie culture clashes, its thoughtfully crafted visuals, and its balance of supernatural and scientific themes, I'm going to dub "Let Sleeping Corpses Lie" the most tragically underrated of all zombie movies. Anyone looking for a zombie film that's about more than over-the-top gore will be gruesomely delighted!

For more images from "Let Sleeping Corpses Lie," click here for the Flickr gallery.

New Issue of ULTRA VIOLENT plus My Latest Painting

2011-05-03T08:10:00.000-04:00

Fans of horror cinema rejoice--the latest issue of Ultra Violent Magazine has returned from the printer and is available for purchase. In-depth interviews with cult personalities like Peaches Christ, Geretta Geretta, and Richard W. Haines sit side-by-side with tons of reviews and exclusive photos. I've contributed an article on the history of the masked supercriminal, from Fantomas to Diabolik and beyond.

Click here to purchase issue 10 of Ultra Violent Magazine now!

In lieu of a clunky transition saying something about how Helmut Berger played Fantomas in a miniseries made in the early 80s, I shall just say that one of the good side effects of having contracted the plague recently is it made me house-bound enough to finish up a painting of that actor I'd put aside. Slap your eyeballs on my latest acrylic-on-canvas portrait:

15" x 20", acrylic on canvas

Tenebrous Music Week: Could It Be... SATAN?

2011-04-29T09:00:00.004-04:00

Satan wears many guises, but I think we can all agree that none are more excellent than the ones he dons in heavy metal music. Some of Satan's metal prophets are significantly more serious than others, and I'm sure some of these artists wouldn't especially like to be on the same page together...! However, in the spirit of embracing the lurid and the weird in a multitude of forms, I choose to enjoy each of these acts for the uniquely sinister pleasures they provide.

Bathory

Oh my god, BATHORY. This face-meltingly heavy Swedish metal band was one of the first (if not the first) to record in the quintessential under-produced, not-of-this-earth black metal style, incorporating Satanic imagery and a confrontational attitude into their work. Their 1988 album "Blood Fire Death" is equal parts black metal fury and Viking epic, and is one of the most intense listening experiences that I can still actually enjoy.

Darkthrone

I'd talked about Darkthrone a bit when reviewing the documentary on Norwegian black metal, "Until the Light Takes Us." The band is controversial for any number of reasons, from their connection to musician and murderer Varg Vikernes to their strict (and arguably elitist) stance on the definition of true black metal. Fans of the band seem to squabble about the difference in sound between their early albums, which epitomize the traditional primitive black metal aesthetic, and their newer sound, which has more in common with crust punk and hardcore. While I do dig the lo-fi psychedelia of 1994's "Goatlord," 2010's "Circle the Wagons" has become a go-to aggressive album for me, and "Dark Thrones and Black Flags" includes a song called "Witch Ghetto." Fucking "WITCH GHETTO." It's so good, it damn near inspires a scream-along.

Darkthrone on MySpace

Fenriz' Band of the Week Blog

Ghost

These Mercyful Fate-worshiping ghouls from Sweden are making music that blends earworm-worthy power metal with over-the-top, theatrical evil. The members of the band refuse to share their names and will only appear for interviews in full-on ritual garb, but I suspect that tongues are planted firmly in cheeks, as they mention Zlad's "I Am the Antipope" as one of their inspirations in the Vice Magazine interview linked below. It takes a special kind of genius to make songs about human sacrifice and the Antichrist sound so damn singable. (Also: HAMMER OF DOOM IV is a thing that happened. Hearing about that just makes me really excited to be alive.) Ghost is on tour right now supporting their first album, "Opus Eponymous" and will be appearing in the US in New York and at Maryland DeathFest.

Interview with Ghost on Vice Style

Ghost on MySpace

Acid Witch

Believe me when I tell you that Acid Witch is relevant to your interests. Their love of gruesome horror movies and consciousness-altering substances combines with a sternum-crushing heavy, punk-metal sound. This band has a true fright flick sensibility, never taking themselves overly seriously even as they lay down their doomy sound. Bonus points: their 2010 release "Stoned" uses so many clips from "Witchcraft '70" that I think it qualifies as a tribute album.

Acid Witch on MySpace

Darkthrone

Read all the Tenebrous Music Week posts here.

Tenebrous Music Week: Gothic Outliers

2011-04-28T09:00:00.002-04:00

In entirely unshocking news, I shall now reveal that I've spent a lot of time in the gothic scene. The opportunities for dress-up along with the potential for gallows humor* are my favorite parts about that type of music. Bands like 45 Grave and Alien Sex Fiend incorporate the bizarre and the punk in a way that makes my black little heart sing. Over time, the scene has sort of fragmented and found expression in forms that I'll dub Gothic Outliers for the sake of brevity. It might not be Goth Proper, but it's certainly Stuff Goths Like (as much as they'll admit to liking anything).

* I will never understand Serious Bid'niz goths--it is inherently ridiculous to dress like Dracula; please act like you're enjoying yourself

Psychocharger

New York City's own Psychocharger plays a brand of horror-infused psychobilly that could compel a dead man stomp his feet. Their driving hard-rock riffs power their stage shows, which are universally blood-spattered, ridiculous, and loud-loud-LOUD. Psychocharger plays regularly across the States, and are currently supporting their album "Mark of the Psycho."

Psychocharger Official Website

Blacklist

Another one of New York's finest dark rock acts is Blacklist, whose sound lives somewhere between the Sisters of Mercy and the more recent wave of coolly disaffected bands like Interpol and Franz Ferdinand. This is one of those bands that should be way more well-known than they are--their music is melodic, catchy, and infinitely dark-dancefloor-ready. Notably, Blacklist is signed to Wierd Records, which is a veritable treasure trove of cold wave and minimalist synth acts.

Blacklist Official Website

Blacklist on MySpace

The Vanishing

OK, so I was trying to steer clear of bands that have recently broken up, but I was hard-pressed to dig up a cold wave band I liked more than The Vanishing. It takes significant artistry to sound THIS unhinged and THIS disaffected all at once. Their albums "Still Lifes are Failing" and "Songs for Psychotic Children" are fantastic explorations of icy fury and madness. Then again, I enjoy any of the millions of remixes of Malaria's "Kaltes Klares Wasser" and the Normal's "Warm Leatherette," so please take my tastes with a grain of salt.

The Evil Streaks

Garage band The Evil Streaks are part of the Necro-Tone Records stable (itself part of Massachusetts' thriving retro-rock scene), springing from the same talent pool that brought us spooky surf acts Gein and the Graverobbers and The Crimson Ghosts. Inspired in equal parts by late-night horror flicks, the Cramps and vintage girl groups, The Evil Streaks are a bit like an reverb-ier Zombina and the Skeletones. Check out their MySpace page for upcoming show dates!

The Evil Streaks at Reverb Nation

The Evil Streaks on MySpace

7:22 PM

Read all the Tenebrous Music Week posts here.

Tenebrous Music Week: Children of the Grave - The Sabbath Sound

2011-04-27T09:00:00.006-04:00

There are specific qualities that I appreciate in music that transcend genre. There's a physical sensation that a certain down-tuned chord progression creates along my spine--a sort of "icy hand of death" thing that makes my marrow resonate and sets up a thrumming beneath my sternum as if sinister doings are afoot. Early Black Sabbath provides precisely this kind of frisson. My daily subway commute takes on ominous significance with the sort of dirgey musical accompaniment provided by the inheritors of the Sabbath sound.

Electric Wizard

It's hard for me to prosthelytize for this band enough--their 2007 effort "Witchcult Today" is my current desert island album. For those who aren't fans already, I hope to convince you over the course of the next several words! If the fact that they sound like early Sabbath isn't enough for you, perhaps you'll be swayed by their sinister occult references. Or maybe you'd like to know that Rosalba Neri and Jess Franco are thanked in the liner notes of their latest album, "Black Masses." Hell, this band convinces me that maybe-just-maybe HP Lovecraft's fans aren't the worst thing to happen to his legacy. Listen to this fuzzed-out doom riff and DESPAIR:

Electric Wizard is currently on tour in Europe. If you're fortunate enough to attend one of these shows, please report back to me and drink the sweetness of my envious tears.

Electric Wizard on MySpace

Interview with Electric Wizard on PrefixMag.com

Blood Ceremony

Toronto's Blood Ceremony amp up the prog-rock elements of the Sabbath sound, adding in flute trills and female vocals for a slightly sweeter take on the sinister. Drawing inspiration from the works of Aleister Crowley, Arthur Machen, and other late 19th/early 20th Century mystics, this band brings a psychedelic appeal to their tales of deviltry.

Blood Ceremony on MySpace

Orange Goblin

In the words of Tenebrous friend/mentor/artist/general person of excellence Joey Zone, "is there a better band name than ORANGE frikkin' GOBLIN?" Perhaps not (although Slambuki and Cadaviar are contenders, though their music is nowhere near as good). These guys lay down an intense riff with a groovy blues drive behind it that calls to mind Motörhead and sometimes even Southern Rock stalwarts Lynyrd Skynyrd (who doesn't love Skynard? LIARS, that is who). If Electric Wizard and Blood Ceremony call you to the Sabbath, Orange Goblin provides the afterparty. Orange Goblin is touring the US this spring/summer, and I'm going to assume my pals on this side of the Atlantic will be rushing off to buy tickets now.

Orange Goblin on MySpace

Orange Goblin official website

A fantastic resource for more doom/sludge/psychedelic music reviews and interviews is Doommantia. The editors at that site are incredibly knowledgeable and cover downtuned excellence from around the globe. I've learned about a ton of excellent acts I'd never have been exposed to otherwise through this site, and I just can't recommend it highly enough!

Read all the Tenebrous Music Week posts here.

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Tenebrous Music Week: For Italo-horror Soundtrack Worshipers

2011-04-26T09:00:00.004-04:00

Fellow fans of European horror films get a shuddery quiver of delight at the mere mention of Italian prog rock maestros Goblin. Their soundtrack for "Suspiria" is a masterpiece, providing a disturbing sonic backdrop for the witchcraft psychedelia and graphic violence of that film. Acts like Keith Emerson (of Emerson Lake and Palmer fame) and Tangerine Dream provided their own synth-soaked scores for horror films--scores that were sometimes finer than the movies they accompanied.

There's a legacy of music that inspired and is inspired by these atmospheric, experimental soundtracks. Detailing the rich history of electronic music and prog rock is a task for a music historian, but here are some snippets and selections that should delight soundtrack fanatics.

Jacula

Founded in Milan in 1968, Jacula's music fuses grandiose pipe organ solos with fuzzed-out guitar improvisation and a grimoire full of occult significance. Jacula, who appear to have formed prior to the release of the eponymous sexy-vampire fumetti in 1969, was part of the first wave of Italian prog rock. Their sepulchral, macabre sound creates an ambient sense of dread that would enhance any supernatural horror film. Their two albums, "In Cauda Semper Stat Venenum" (1969, though there's some debate it may have actually been recorded in 1972) and "Tardo Pede In Magiam Versus" (1973) have lost none of their gloomy magnificence in the intervening decades.

Zombi

Pittsburgh's Zombi lists their key influence as prolific composer Giorgio Moroder, whose work with artists from Donna Summer to David Bowie characterizes a specific period of sweeping 1980s soundtracks. This duo's appreciation of vintage scores is front and center in their work, which draws from and expands upon this flavor of soundscape. Zombi will be releasing a new album, titled "Escape Velocity," on May 10th--be prepared for further synth excellence!

Zombi on MySpace
Zombi official website

Zombie Zombie

Not to be confused with singular sans-e Zombi, Zombie Zombie may be familiar to some of you from their video for "Driving This Road Until Death," a pitch-perfect G.I. Joe re-enactment of John Carpenter's "The Thing." What you may not have realized is that this French synth duo has a catalog of ambient dance-infused material. European fans may even be lucky enough to catch one of their upcoming DJ dates!

Zombie Zombie on MySpace

Umberto

I cannot fucking believe that Umberto is from Kansas City. This band so beautifully captures the late-70s/early-80s Italo-thriller soundtrack vibe that I could believe they were time-travelers from Rome. Umberto's albums "From the Grave" and "Prophecy of the Black Widow" are structured as soundtracks to vintage fright films that never were--simultaneously familiar and suspenseful. This is music to make you tune in and trance out to a more sinister world.

Umberto on MySpace

Bottin

I've talked about my love for Bottin, a one-man retro-Italo-disco-making machine from Venice, before on this blog, but his name bears repeating. Bottin makes groovy-ass music that plays like the most danceable horror score ever made. There's a wit behind his work that makes it accessible to soundtrack groupies and party monsters alike. Bottin DJs regularly across the globe--check out his website for upcoming dates.

Official Bottin Website

7:01 PM

Read all the Tenebrous Music Week posts here.

Welcome to Tenebrous Music Week

2011-04-25T09:00:00.003-04:00

Film and art make up most of the lurid, weird, and fantastique creative work that I've talked about in this blog, and I'm coming to realize that I've been remiss when it comes to touching on music. Much of that has to do with the fact that there are many writers who are way better than me at discussing music, and I'm more than happy to leave those explorations in those capable hands! But the time has come, interpals, for me to geek out on some of the music I've been enjoying that informs my aesthetic universe.

My approach to music is a lot like my approach to film and art--I haven't got patience for labeling, nor for the minutiae of classification, nor for the distinction between lowbrow and highbrow. It's all about the quest for that mystical X Factor that catches my attention and makes my brain resonate to an appealing frequency. It's kinda like the American Bandstand thing--"it's got a good beat, and you can dance to it," except edited to read "it's in a minor key, and there's a whiff of brimstone about it."

I make no secret that I rely on a team of audio experts to grab me by both shoulders and shout "KATE, LISTEN TO THIS--IT REQUIRES YOUR IMMEDIATE ATTENTION!" I will doubtless forget someone, but a by-no-means exhaustive list of thank yous goes out to: Professor Jack (and his Witchhammer Hot Sauce), Costuminatrix Jenni, the Duke of DVD and the Vicar of VHS, Joey Zone, Joan Arkham and Citizen Ken, and every record store owner who ever exhibited patience with my teenage curiosity (not all record stores are run by know-it-all jerks).

So please--read, listen, comment, share your own faves, and with any luck at all: enjoy!

Read all the Tenebrous Music Week posts here.

THE WORLD IS ENDING on Conversations in the Dark at the Vault of Horror

2011-04-22T11:44:00.000-04:00

B-Sol, dear friend of the Empire and possessor of one of the most unexpected lounge lizard singing voices I've ever heard, has been twisting my arm to record a podcast with him for some time now. Between my inborn flightiness and our frequently uncomplimentary and often aggressive social calendars (I am easily distracted by shiny things and loud music), we kept missing one another.

The stars have aligned properly, and now you've got an Easter basket full of post-apocalyptic goodness to listen to. We talked about everything from "Mad Max" to "I Am Legend" to "Children of Man" and all of the various knock-offs thereof, and I reveal the super-secret recipe to making your own post-apocalyptic movie (HINT: it involves silver spray paint and gravel pits).

Listen to the latest Conversation in the Dark at The Vault of Horror by clicking here!

"Witchcraft '70"/"The Satanists UK" [1970]

2011-04-18T09:00:00.000-04:00

I recently mentioned to a friend that I was going through an Occult Moment--he responded by laughing and reminding me that I'd been in an Occult Moment ever since I could talk, gravitating towards "Fantasia's" Night on Bald Mountain sequence, Dungeons & Dragons, and other mystical-flavored weirdness as a rule rather than the exception. There's a power to occult symbolism that still startles and upsets Americans, with a Satanic Panic ever on the horizon in a culture with a bloodthirsty passion for Righteousness. I'm not going to try to detail all the reasons why it's funny to watch a college-educated adult who lives and works in one of the largest cities in the world physically recoil when I tell him that the pretty set of squiggles on my arm is a symbol from Hatian voudou. As an individual who's wiser and kinder than me has gently cautioned on a few occasions, "provocation shouldn't be an end game," but man alive, is it ever a cheap and easy form of fun in this kind of world.

It should surprise exactly no one reading this that Luigi Scattini's "Angeli Bianch, Angeli Neri" is my favorite entry into the Mondo Film genre. It's not a fave because it's the finest of these pseudo-documentaries, but because it's the one that focuses on occult practices around the world. As is the case with all Mondos, the events captured on film are of dubious provenance and the voiceover work is a haphazard mix of judgmental moralizing, lurid exoticism, and out-and-out lying. Since mondo movies were made more with exploitation in mind than enlightenment, international releases chose to focus on different aspects of the material. "Angeli Bianchi..." is an especially interesting example of this phenomenon, as the British "The Satanists UK" takes a decidedly more cynical stance than the wild-eyed American "Witchcraft '70."

From what cursory info I can ferret out, it looks like "The Satanists UK" is very close to "Angeli Bianchi, Angeli Neri" in its content. The blend of fact and hyperbole begins right away, as very real footage of Highgate Cemetery leads into footage of an alleged witchcraft ceremony, a Satanic wedding, and a black mass, all held in England. Apparently England's two key exports during the 1970s were tweed and Satanism, if Italian exploitation cinema is to be believed. After a side trip to Scandinavia for the deflowering of a young witchcult initiate, it's on to an equally dubious exploration of African diaspora religions, complete with animal sacrifice.

The cynicism gets ratcheted up to its maximum with a visit to a man who takes mystical Polaroids, a psychic with a really awful track record, and an interview with a representative of the British Society for Psychical Research (the original Ghost Bros). There's the prerequisite LSD cautionary tale, a cult that believes in the mystical powers of marijuana, further occult exoticism in the form of Santeria, and then a lengthy segment on Church of Satan founder Anton LaVey in his Black House in San Francisco (which, by the way, is filled with all manner of covetable shit like skeletons, gravestones, monster masks and hypno-wheels). LaVey performs a black mass and a Satanic wedding (Satanists may reject Judeo-Christian mores in other ways, but man alive, they really love getting married). The film wraps up with a piece of cryogenics, which would be rather weak sauce were it not accompanied by the film's theme song, a beautiful, minor-key piece that adds an almost Buttgerietian sensuality to the preparation of the corpse. The amazing Piero Umiliani soundtrack enhances the entire film as it vacillates between jazzy vocal tracks and sweeping, almost soupy romanticism. The overall experience of watching "The Satanists UK" is a little like being inside someone else's drug trip, with the haughty, even-toned voice of narrator Edmund Purdom serving as a grounding influence.

"Witchcraft '70" takes a rather more hysterical approach to the same material, excising knowing cynicism (and animal sacrifice) and replacing it with interviews with a fear-mongering police officer. When "Angeli Bianchi, Angeli Neri" was purchased to play on the grindhouse circuit, director Lee Frost was hired to create inserts that would be more suited to contemporary American tastes. The psychic photographer, ghost hunters, and scandalously-inaccurate fortune teller are nowhere to be found. In their places are the aforementioned cop (an expert on OCCULT CRIMES), a staged voodoo ceremony, and a violent hippie orgy that is said to have taken place near the Manson Family's home base at Spahn Ranch. This scene closes the movie instead of the clumsily lyrical look at extending life through science that serves as the finale for the European cut. Also absent is the Umiliani score, in place of which is standard horror-movie music. "Witchcraft '70" plays out as a cautionary look at the dangers of the occult--the very true, very real forces of the occult and the very real, very dangerous people who will use them to tempt you away from the path of religious goodness.

The difference between the two films reflects a chasm of cultural experience between Europe and the States. While religion was state-enforced through much European history, and therefore met with arched eyebrows and resentment by much of the public, the American separation of church and state allowed a type of zealotry to flourish in the absence of government mandate. Plus, there's that whole "this country was founded by Puritans" thing at work whose significance shouldn't be underestimated. If you want evidence of of America's love affair with believing in the supernatural, just take a moment to digest the fact that there are currently over ten ghost hunting shows on American cable television, including one about pets that communicate with ghosts. Panicking about pretend stuff is something this country does exceptionally well--audiences would rather see a chilling expose than deal with any shades of gray regarding the reality of the supernatural. Occam's Razor is always calibrated towards "oh my god, bro, did you hear that? It's cold in here; this place must be haunted!"

"Hails, y'all."

"Also hails."

Even for those who don't believe in the supernatural, having that kind of powerful symbolism at one's fingertips is thrilling. I've never wanted to make a giant papier-mache goat head more than after watching this movie. Using that kind of symbol is like having a big, red button in your hand at all times, sociologically speaking... at least at the times when it's not like wearing a big, red target on your chest.

The curious can watch "The Satanists UK" version of "Angeli Bianchi, Angeli Neri" online at this link.

8:23 PM

Seven Deaths in the Cat's Eye [1973]

2011-04-04T09:00:00.000-04:00

Sometimes a movie is the cure for what ails me on an aesthetic-slash-spiritual plane, providing just the right blend of style, suspense, and strangeness that I require for a fulfilling cinematic experience. "Seven Deaths in the Cat's Eye" is just that kind of movie--a combination of giallo and gothic themes set in the early 20th Century but exuding a palpable 70s grooviness. How can I hate on a movie that features a house cat as a murder suspect and famed French pop singer Serge Gainsbourg as a police inspector dubbed with a cartoonish Scottish accent?

But I'm way ahead of the game--allow me to get my train of thought back to the station and allow you guys to climb on board.

It's Scotland in the early 20th Century--you can tell that because everyone dresses in black and the women's skirts are all of a modest length, and also because everyone has names like "Angus." Makers of Italian thrillers in the early 70s clearly didn't have the highest opinion of British Isles fashion, as every film set in these locales has an overwhelming brown tweediness to it (check out "What Have You Done to Solange?" for further proof). After a pre-credits murder, upper-class gamine Corringa arrives at her aunt's estate to assist her mother in sorting out some contentious inheritance-related business. Working under the theory that "too many books never did a woman any good," Corringa hurls her schoolbooks into a fireplace, only to be horrified when she burns her Bible. Things take a turn for the even-eerier when the young lady learns of the rumors of vampirism that surround her family, and after an uncomfortable encounter with her handsome yet insane cousin, all the pieces of a fulfillingly creepy melodrama are put into play. It would spoil some of the magic of the movie to describe the plot any further, but suffice to say fans of 19th Century gothic novels will rejoice at the LeFan-attitude of this story.

Director Antonio Margheriti is something of a poor man's Mario Bava, and his track record is predictably spotty as a result. It's just not fair going toe-to-thematic-toe with one of the finest directors of the fantastique films that the world has ever known. That having been said, Margheriti can put together damn fine gothic when he wants to--his Barbara Steele vehicles "Long Hair of Death" and "Nightmare Castle" are loved by many, and I found "The Virgin of Nuremberg" to be a pretty great movie-watching experience. "Seven Deaths in the Cat's Eye" is even better than "Virgin," trading that movie's Edgar Wallace sadism for moody occult innuendo.

In the lead role of Corringa, Jane Birkin displays a fetchingly wide-eyed series of emotions, ranging from convincing innocence to helpless terror. Ms. Birkin, muse to Serge Gainsbourg and namesake of the nine-thousand-dollar-and-up Hermès Birkin Bag, was a pop-culture icon by the time this movie was made. Her fresh-faced beauty is a fine complement to the feline features of other Euro-starlets of the time. Hiram Keller is compelling in the role of probably-mad (and definitely handsome) Lord James MacGrieff, combining leading man good looks with Heathcliff-like moodiness. The supporting cast ranges from capable to excellent, and includes such international cinema veterans as Anton Diffring, Konrad Georg, and Françoise Christophe.

The film is lensed with the kind of colored gels, chiaroscuro lighting, and sinister angles that characterize the best Italian gothics. Stained glass windows cast lurid shapes across characters' faces, Tiffany lamps add psychedelic color to black-and-white costumes, and sudden light reveals shocking secrets. Top this off with a soundtrack by Riz Ortolani, and it's a tidy package of period-piece giallo success.

In addition to thoughtful production design and capable performances, the X Factor that elevates "Seven Deaths in the Cat's Eye" above other, similar thrillers is its embrace of its ludicrous elements. Not content at creating the standard parade of usual suspects in the form of the salacious governess, the greedy faded noble, and the sketchy doctor, this movie adds "the sinister cat" to the mix. Really. The cat is always around when someone meets their untimely end, and he seems to play some sort of role in the suggestion of a supernatural motive. The cat isn't the only animal suspect, either--there may be a killer ape on the loose! And if that's not enough for you, there are always those rumors of vampirism surrounding the MacGrieff family...

Adopting the hyperbolic histrionics of my favorite gothic novels along with the convoluted artistry of the giallo, "Seven Deaths in the Cat's Eye" is that rarest of Eurotrash films that is both ridiculous and artistic. It's an unexpectedly great movie that deserves more plentiful genre love than it receives.

For more images from "Seven Deaths in the Cat's Eye," check out the Flickr gallery here.

8:27 PM

The Devil's Nightmare [1971]

2011-03-09T21:30:00.000-05:00

Where to begin with the Belgian occult thriller "The Devil's Nightmare" (also known under about a jillion other names, including "The Devil's Longest Night," "Nightmare of Terror" and--inexplicably enough--"Vampire Playgirls")? This is exactly the kind of European trashfilm that delights me even as it shaves off IQ points that I will never, ever regain. A half-witted supernatural chiller, a half-assed morality play, and a bare-assed sexploitation film all rolled into a singularly absurd package, "The Devil's Nightmare" flirts with Satanism, Nazis, the nature of faith and female sexual power while never taking any of those topics in the least bit seriously. It's only shocking insofar as it's startlingly fluffy!

Allow me to explain the opening sequence in order to emphasize my point. It's 1945, and Berlin is having the living shit bombed out of it. A Nazi officer is waiting for his wife to give birth while a fellow military man provides moral support. Upon realizing that the fruit of his fascist loins is of the female persuasion, he grimly STABS A BABY TO DEATH. Pardon my all caps, but this movie opens with A NAZI STABBING A BABY TO DEATH. This should set out to be the most horrifying movie ever in order to justify that content, but... not so much. The effect is gruesomely over-the-top camp.

This movie is understated.

Flash forward to the 1971-present-day. A tour bus full of unlikeable types winds up stranded at a castle in the German countryside, guided to their destination by an incredibly creepy thin man burning unidentified things by the side of the road. If there was ever a type you'd not want to take travel advice from, it would be an incredibly creepy thin man burning unidentified things by the side of the road, and this is only the first of many lessons this movie has to teach us. Included in the tour group is a gluttonous guide, a sexually promiscuous redhead, a greedy rich woman, her cheating husband, a cranky atheist, a pretty blonde, and a priest who looks a little like David Cross when he wears a wig during "Mr. Show" bits.

Not David Cross wearing a wig in a "Mr. Show" bit

David Cross in a wig in a "Mr. Show" bit

Upon the tourists' arrival at the castle, the butler (whose facial disfigurement pegs him as the fellow-officer from the prologue) guides them to their rooms and tells a blood-curdling tale about each space. The owner of the castle shows up and if you guessed he's the baby-stabbing Nazi officer described above, then you are clearly paying attention. Bravo! He regales his guests with a nugget from his family history--namely, that the firstborn female in each generation is cursed to become a succubus (hence the baby-stabbing, but he doesn't really discuss that in polite company, apparently). Meanwhile, a lovely stranger arrives at the house, and then the movie gets down to serious succubusiness with the creative dispatching of the tourists.

SCIENCE!

Gothickry is doled out in generous servings throughout "The Devil's Nightmare." From the stormy night to the authentically spiky and unwelcoming castle (which comes complete with laboratory and torture chamber) to the heavily symbolic chess match between the priest and the atheist, this movie unrepentantly rolls around nude and cackling in its own cliches. There's plenty of grooviness on hand as well, mainly evident in the parade of sheer, tight, tiny, and strategically chopped-up fashions sported by the female leads.

This movie is so opaque in its moralizing that I don't think it's really worthy of the IMDb "Trivia" label noting that seven is the number of Deadly Sins as well as the number of uninvited houseguests. That's right, our succubus doesn't especially delight in seducing men (I can sense the frowny-faces on the Skinemax fans out there), but she does derive a great amount of succu-glee from offing people in a state of mortal sin.

Fortunately, several of the tourists make up for the non-traditional succu-methods employed by the principal demon. There's a lesbian interlude and an illicit tryst to tide one over between scenes featuring the evil seductress.

The succubus is played by Erika Blanc, who may be a familiar name due to her turns in the also-wonderful "The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave" and Mario Bava's "Kill, Baby Kill." She is absolutely deserving of the "scream queen" label here--her transformation from feline Lisa to her demonic alter ego is accomplished almost entirely through expressionistic facial contortions that would make Conrad Veidt proud.

"The Devil's Nightmare" scores additional points for featuring a great eerie-psychedelic soundtrack. The central theme is a pleasantly creepy complement to the devilish happenings on-screen, with its minor-key fuzzy guitar, booming organ chords and female moaning.

"My travel advice is fucking *awful*."

Unapologetically silly, completely over-the-top and sometimes even a little sexy, "The Devil's Nightmare" has plenty to please fans of 70s occult nonsense. It makes me want to put on a Vampirella bathing suit and make ridiculous faces in the mirror... or maybe that thought was in my brain prior to watching this movie. This is a wonderful second-tier example of the kind of flashy Satanic nonsense that proliferated during the early 70s, meant to be enjoyed as a sort of taboo-flirting cinematic candy bar.

For more images from "The Devil's Nightmare," check out the Flickr gallery here.

State of the Tenebrous: Stream Warrior and Dream Sequences

2011-03-07T11:44:00.004-05:00

Wow! I have been alarmingly in-demand recently, proving that it is good to be the Tenebrous. In addition to some upcoming projects that are still under super-secret wraps, I have a couple of announcements regarding off-Love Train activities.

Over at Kindertrauma, I shared some tasty choices available to Netflix Instant subscribers in this week's Stream Warriors post. Who needs blockbuster flicks when you've got gritty crime dramas, puppet aliens, and Udo Kier?

On March 25th, I will be presenting as part the Meet the Lady: Dream Sequences evening at 92Y Tribeca in New York City. Hosts Tom Blunt and Kevin Maher have put together a fascinating program themed around women's dream sequences in entertainment. In the program, I will attempt to be as interesting as a burlesque performer, a classically trained harpist, and a culinary aesthete who will provide exciting snacks. I may fail, but I will have a reel of giallo nightmares that may make up for some of my performative shortcomings! Check out more info over at Kevin's blog and buy tickets in advance--these shows sell out.

Until the Light Takes Us [2008]

2011-03-02T21:55:00.000-05:00

Black metal is one of those things that's been on the periphery of my subcultural awareness since the early 90s. I've never had the bandwidth to devote to becoming a real fan of the music, which has always had a certain elusiveness about it. I just never got the same charge out of tracking down music as I have out of seeking books and films, and I find some of the philosophy of the movement to be... problematic. That having been said, I find black metal to be a fascinating subculture insofar as it has all the theatricality of the more-familiar-to-me Goth scene while having absolutely no room for Goth's gallows humor.

Black metal is an interesting phenomenon. Inspired by the occult metal of the 70s and 80s and aiming to be as anti-establishment and anti-commercial as possible, black metal was music made by young men (many in their teens in the early 90s) who were the products of a well-off, homogenous society. To my ears, a lot of early black metal sounds like a tin can full of very angry bees, but that's the intention. Many of the early black metal albums were intentionally recorded using the cheapest materials possible--headphones used as mics, dictaphones, and half-broken recording rigs. Not the bees thing specifically, but you catch my drift--there's a purposefulness behind the aesthetic decisions of these musicians and their best songs have a "wall of sound" quality that can be emotionally overwhelming. Add to this the fact that many black metal albums have these gorgeously poetic titles like "Transylvanian Hunger" and "In the Nightside Eclipse" and my interest is *completely* piqued. Unlike the American and English heavy metal stereotype of blue-collar guys chugging beer and rocking out riffs about broads, beers and bad-assery, the black metal musicians exhibit a distinctly intellectual bent of mind, focusing on religious and political topics. Much of black metal's reputation as "the most extreme music in the world" comes from the fact that it was spawned from the minds of very young, attractive, white men from a well-to-do culture. That disconnect is especially haunting for many Americans who may want to impose a comfortable "even people with everything can still be KUH-RAZEE" moral onto the story.

There is a really interesting documentary somewhere in the footage that makes up "Until the Light Takes Us," a 2008 exploration of the Norwegian black metal scene--a fact that makes the jumbled mess that is the final film all the more problematic. Devotees of the music are unlikely to find new insights, and those unfamiliar with the basics of the players and mind-set of the scene will likely be confused by the lack of background information. It's a big issue that the nature of the relationship between the two (dynamic and well-spoken) key figures in the film, musician and convicted murderer Varg "Count Grishnackh" Vikernes of Burzum and musician and not-murderer Gylve "Fenriz" Nagell of Darkthrone, is simultaneously a focal point and yet never explained. The two men seem to think of each other "good guys" who are "working on their own projects" and who have grown apart. Is this a sad misunderstanding between two close comrades, or an overstatement for the film? I couldn't sort it out, and I knew who these people were going into the documentary.

At the center of "Until the Light Takes Us" is the development of the "inner circle" of black metal musicians who were involved in a series of violent acts in the early 1990s, including the arson of multiple churches, a suicide and two murders. In some ways, the film is a response to Michael Moynihan and Didrik Søderlind's book "Lords of Chaos," which offers a sensational portrait of these crimes. Let's be frank, though--it's a little hard not to adopt a sensational tone when there's a very real trail of dead bodies left by an outspoken group of self-proclaimed culture terrorists. There seems to have been an emphasis on money/mouth proximity in the early days of the black metal scene, which led to an escalating pattern of violence as these young men tried to prove their dedication to their ideals, which included a return to Norse paganism and an eradication of invading influences in Norway.

The central problem of the film is that it assumes a familiarity with the black metal scene even as it attempts to build narrative tension as it leads up to Vikernes' 1993 murder of fellow musician Øystein "Euronymous" Aarseth, an act that is infamous well outside of the world of black metal. The film simultaneously attempts to trace the early history of the music movement and define its place in current culture, post-hipster-appropriation, without exploring the fifteen years in between.

"Until the Light Takes Us" compensates for some of its fuzziness by providing biting commentary on the nature of art, appropriation and cultural identity. The best moments in the film revolve around the work of artist Bjarne Melgaard, who is shown mounting a show that draws its imagery from black metal. It's clear that Melgaard is taking visual cues from the scene without exploring the deeper aesthetic drives of the musicians. At best, he's only interested in the surface and is simply appropriating images--at worst, he's capitalizing on knee-jerk controversy and making the work of other artists seem superficial by decontextualizing it from its underlying significance. The iconic black and white corpse paint becomes cartoonish and ridiculous when depicted in painted caricatures, while a wall of photographs of the early black metal scene lends an air of legitimacy to the exhibit that feels misplaced.

Fenriz talks about his views on modern art before attending a show of Melgaard's work. Now, I may be alone in this, but I could listen to people of a creepy bent of mind talk about visual art all damn day--I love knowing that artists have given thought to the existence of creative work outside the one they work in. He discusses his sense of connection with the works of Norwegian Symbolist painter Edvard Munch, whose paintings explored themes of alienation and horror not too far from the ones examined in black metal. It's clear that he's thought about his relationship to art history, and he's passionate about the topic.*

*There's a great moment here where Fenriz mentions his parents' idea that if a painting has "a moose and a sunset" then it is good art.

This makes it all the more wince-worthy when Fenriz attends Melgaard's show, which simultaneously trivializes and appropriates from the aesthetic the musician helped to create. When the men come face to face at the end of the exhibit, there's a polite greeting followed by uncomfortable silence, broken only when Fenriz turns to the camera to ask if there are any more questions. Even though the black metal scene is tarnished by real-life crime and violent rhetoric, it's hard not to empathize with Fenriz' discomfort in this moment.

The film closes on a performance art piece at another of Melgaard's gallery shows that features Frost, a black metal musician that Melgaard says has "a poetic nature." It's uncomfortable to watch--not due to the gory content, but due to the fact that this person has been put on display by someone who is deriving fame from second-hand notoriety. The final frames show a video installation of Fenriz walking through the snow, his image taken and re-purposed in the same way he'd objected to upon seeing Melgaard's art.

Gor [1987]

2011-02-28T09:00:00.001-05:00

I am fascinated by the way in which the internet has facilitated the development of various unusual and oddly specific subcultures. Best of all are subcultures that are tiny but distinct subsets of other groups, or subcultures that exist in the intersection of an unlikely Venn diagram, like the overlap between the "SCAdian" circle and the "BDSM" circle where the Goreans exist. That's a whole bunch of alphabet soup that basically boils down to "Renaissance Festival enthusiasts who enjoy female slavery role-play." There were folks living the Gorean lifestyle before the rise of Second Life, but it's hard to debate the fact that this kind of tool is highly useful for people who want an immersive place to safely act out kinky scenarios.

The fact is that I know a lot more about the Gorean lifestyle and how it plays out online than I do about the twenty-nine fantasy adventure novels that inspired this community. Reading a novel requires a commitment of time and brain-space that doesn't match my mild curiosity. Movies, on the other hand, are a whole 'nother cup of tea. I frequently find myself with a spare couple of hours to devote to miscellaneous weirdness. It was in just such a fit of curiosity that I found myself dialing up the 1987 film called "Gor" that is handily available on Netflix Instant.

Adapted from the first book in the Gor cycle, John Norman's 1966 novel "Tarnsman of Gor," "Gor" follows mild-mannered academic John Cabot (played by Urbano Barberini of Argento's "Opera") as he is transported to a magical pantsless wonderland where he has to save an oppressed tribe from an evil warlord played by Oliver Reed.

With the proceeds from this film, I will be able to drink for HOURS!

Allow me to sidebar for a moment, please. Movies that adopt this kind of Good Tribe Versus Bad Tribe structure are problematic. When the outsider is plunked down in medias res, it's assumed that whatever group saves his bacon in the initial encounter is the Good Tribe and that whatever group is wailing on those people is the Bad Tribe. What if the culture that saves the hero is being eradicated because they make it a habit of sacrificing babies? What if they just got done exterminating and cannibalizing a neighboring group? Think about these movies through this lens and they'll be forever ruined for you. You're welcome!

Good thing none of our vital abdominal organs are protected by this armor.

So yes--returning to "Gor." John Cabot is a truly awful university professor who becomes a successful warrior after the application of a training montage and the off-taking of his trousers in favor of a deerskin loincloth (perhaps that imbued him with the requisite fury). He teams up with a sexy princess and a team of warrior rogues to free the princess' father from the grips of the wicked Oliver Reed warlord character. Along the way, Cabot learns important lessons about manhood, like "hit stuff with swords until you get your way," and returns to earth as a newly-en-machoed man (though presumably he's still a truly awful university professor).

The movie is a ridiculous mess that could have been a ridiculously entertaining mess had it fully embraced its exploitation potential. A not-insignificant portion of the movie focuses on the slaving practices of the evil city-state that Cabot is helping to overthrow, and those practices are predictably kinky. Female slaves sport shackles and skimpy animal-hide bikinis (along with enormous 80s hair and heavy eyeshadow) and wrestle for the entertainment of their masters. There's branding and flogging and interpretive dance galore, and I'm sure the goings-on were eye-opening to many twelve year old boys, but this is just... not... sexy. Interestingly, co-producer Harry Alan Towers had financed erotic films in the early 70s including Jess Franco's "Venus in Furs" and Massimo Dallamano's "Dorian Gray," so it wouldn't have been out of line for him to finance a similarly graphic adaptation of what's essentially an elaborate framework for kinky slavery scenarios. "Gor" is passable enough as a sword-and-sorcery adventure (even if it falls apart in the last scenes in its attempts to set up the sequel, which was given the MST3K treatment), but it seems somehow disingenuous to play it off as such in light of the books' reputation.

Oh, and did I mention that this movie prominently features "Wandering Around in the Desert?" Well it does. A lot of it, which means the movie is not-sexy as well as frequently-boring.

Sword and sorcery completists will sit through a lot of crap in their search for a "Conan the Barbarian"-like high. A lot of crap like "Gor." Fortunately, unlike other not-"Conan" movies, "Gor" features the talents of Oliver Reed, who acts the hell out of every role he plays, even when he is wearing silly hats and not permitted the common dignity of trousers.

5:22 PM

The Keep: Film, Book--Frustration In Two Mediums

2011-02-21T09:00:00.001-05:00

I'm not sure what I expected to feel after watching "The Keep," a movie that is widely noted to be a cinematic misfire. Unkle Lancifer recently did a beautiful job of capturing the attract-repulse appeal of this movie over at Kindertrauma, and my interest had been piqued by his article. After watching Michael Mann's 1983 supernatural horror film and feeling as unfulfilled as Unk, I was still interested enough in its story of Nazis pitted against an elemental evil that I figured the source novel by F. Paul Wilson would clarify some of the muddled mess of the movie. As it turns out, I was right, but the clarity provided by the book didn't improve the story. Now I'm in the unenviable situation of feeling frustrated as a viewer and as a reader.

Friends, this is going to get spoilery, so keep that in mind if you choose to continue reading.

Watching Mann's 1983 version of "The Keep," it becomes clear that the production was plagued by typical horror-movie issues: budgetary strictures, wonky FX, and the pressure to stick to a 90-minute run time. Viewing the movie without having read the book makes the story feel pretty incomprehensible after a certain point. In the film, a group of Wermacht soldiers arrive at an ancient fortress in Romania, having been told to hold this position to enforce the Eastern front. After some treasure-hungry soldiers pry a protective sigil off the wall of the building, a series of gruesome killings begin to occur as the result of the unleashed evil. A squad of SS einsatzkommandos arrive as reinforcements, but their brutal methods put the two groups of Germans at each others' throats. Jewish historian Theodor Cuza and his daughter Eva are brought in to investigate the causes of the deaths, and they soon come in contact with the supernatural entity behind the killings. When a mysterious stranger shows up in the little village, it soon becomes clear that there are Evils Greater Than Man at work. Then everything deteriorates into a hott mess of rubbery creature FX, unclear timelines, half-baked mythology, romantic-entanglement-outta-nowhere and lasers.

It would be easy to dismiss the movie entirely if there weren't flashes of very real awesomeness in there. The locations and set design are gorgeously atmospheric. Right from the first frames, it's clear that the setting is going to play a large role in the tone of the film. As the troops roll through a fairytale Romanian village, the black stone structure of the keep emerges from the mist. The scale of the keep is emphasized from its first appearance--it's a daunting, black stone structure that towers over the surrounding village. The film finds its chilling high point early on, when the soldiers pry a silver cross from the wall. Lensed using slow motion, billowing fog, and glowing lighting, this sequence builds suspense that leads to a satisfyingly gruesome payoff.

Much of "The Keep's" cult appeal has been laid at the doorstep of the synth soundtrack by Tangerine Dream. Fans of Michael Mann's work will be unsurprised at the pitch-perfect matching of movie to music, and this effort is no exception. I'll confess that I'm partial to the pairing of moody synth with supernatural themes and this is another instance where the music track enhances the on-screen content.

The cast includes a number of notable names. Jürgen Prochnow is perfectly cast as Wermacht Captain Klaus Woermann and Gabriel Byrne puts in a performance that has moments of both over-puffed camp and genuine creepiness as SS Major Kaempffer. The scenes that focus on the tension between these characters (and the soldiers they control) are the best in the film. This conflict between the officers deftly sketches the larger-scale conflict within the German war machine during WWII. It's interesting to see the way these men cope with the deaths within the keep and the revelation of the otherworldly forces at work.

The depictions of the "good guy" characters are significantly less engaging, and that's a real problem when the audience is meant to root for them as they battle against charismatic evil-doers and a timeless supernatural killer. Ian McKellen's turn as Professor Cuza is actively awful, to the point where I kept thinking that the actor in this role was some terrible unknown actor who happened to look a lot like Sir McKellen. Alberta Watson's Eva is mainly "pretty" and Scott Glenn focuses on "aloof" with a single-minded intensity in his portrayal of the mysterious visitor.

Then there's that plot. There are large chunks of character development that have been left out, and there's no explanation of where the monster in the keep comes from. Being that this is a horror film, I can overlook a certain degree of that, but the last half hour goes so far off the rails that I just gave up trying to understand anything. It's fortunate that I wasn't alone when I watched "The Keep," because otherwise I'd have assumed that I was the victim of alien-abduction-induced Missing Time.

Working under the theory that Really Cool Stuff had been excised from the movie in order to accommodate a shorter run time and curious to check out what I'd missed, I grabbed a copy of F. Paul Wilson's novel of the same name and set to reading it.

There are some key differences in Wilson's novel that work in its favor. Woermann and Kaempffer are more richly depicted, and they are given a backstory that begins in the trenches of the first World War and traces their diverging military careers. The monster in the keep initially convinces the humans that he is a vampire before his true nature is revealed. Professor Cuza is kind of a selfish, traditionalist dick instead of just the victim of bad acting. His daughter Eva is less-sexily named Magda and is nearly-raped several times, rather than just once in the film. And yes, much of the stuff that didn't make any sense in the movie is explained, though not necessarily for the better.

When dealing with monsters on film, a nugget of wisdom holds that one should reveal the creature at a strategic point in the narrative in order to maintain suspense for as long as possible. Not knowing what is going on in the keep provides a large portion of the story's eeriness. So when it comes to light that the creature is an evil being from pre-human times who is being hunted by a good being also from pre-human times, it's kind of hard to care. It would've been impossible to explain the monster and still have it hold the same degree of fright. If anything, the novel over-explains the supernatural elements, making their magic evaporate.

Furthermore, it's one thing to watch Nazis getting killed by an elemental evil--that sort of monster-on-monster action is pretty great in any manifestation. I could even overlook the kinda-triteness of the inherently-decent Jewish academics. But when a superpowered dude fighting on the side of light has to show up and pull everybody's muffins out of the oven like a muscley deus ex machina... that's just not interesting. Villains fighting worse-villains, or regular people fighting villains AND worse-villains both make for interesting setups because they're working against overwhelming odds. When somebody shows up with a magic demon-bopping stick and then GAME OVER's the whole damn thing, it feels like a ripoff. It's as boring as a Superman story. He's fucking Superman--he's going to be fine because he's impossibly good and damn near invulnerable, and who the hell cares about that?

At the end of the day, the positive message one can take from "The Keep" is that the ultimate Nazis versus Things That Are A Lot Like Vampires story has yet to be told. Book and film have some intriguing elements, but each is too flawed to be considered a classic of horror storytelling. The real tragedy of "The Keep" is that in straddling the line between EC Comics weirdness and epic myth-making, it manages to miss the boat on both.

For more images from "The Keep" check out the Flickr gallery here.

Willard [1971 and 2003]

2011-02-14T19:30:00.000-05:00

I was invited over to the Strange Kids Club for a little Valentine's Day celebration. Rather than dirtying my hands at the Tenebrous Scrapbooking Station in hand-gluing macaroni to pink doilies, I opted to bring a movie review to this little horror blogging potluck. What better way to mark a holiday noted for making lonely people feel crummier than by discussing the boy-meets-rat love story "Willard" in both its 1971 and 2003 incarnations?

Broken Hearts, Madness and Death: A Look at Love in "Willard"

The "Willard" movies have an awful lot for me to love, so this is a veritable strudel of cinematic affection for me--there's layer upon layer of stuff to get excited over. Between skin-crawly rats, inspired production design, and some of my all time favorite actors delivering over-the-top performances (Ernest Borgnine and Elsa Lanchester appear in the '71 production, and Crispin Glover and R. Lee Ermey are incredible in the '03 version), these movies are swell almost beyond my capacity to express swellness.

Of course, I had a whole mess of leftover images from these movies, so consider this the extra materials to complement the main action taking place over at the Strange Kids' place:

Ernest Borgnine has had just about enough of your bullshit.

SHOW ME YOUR RAT FACE.

Nightmare fodder.

My attract and repulse instincts are fighting so incredibly hard right now.

Crispin Glover approaches grocery shopping with characteristic intensity.

R. Lee Ermey has also had just about enough of your bullshit.

For more images from both "Willard" movies, check out the Flickr gallery here.

Cinematic Pop Art, Pro-Wrestling, and Playwriting: Rosalyn Drexler

2011-02-10T19:05:00.001-05:00

Rosalyn Drexler is a creative person who is so accomplished that I find her presence in the world to be incredibly inspiring and humbling all at the same time. This is a woman who, at various points in her life, performed as a professional wrestler, exhibited paintings alongside some of the most famous names in Pop Art (including Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein), and published multiple novels inspired by her colorful life experiences.

The reason I think her artwork is especially relevant to discuss here is that she appropriates images from cinema stills and movie posters and re-contextualizes them to evoke new layers of meaning. I see a lot of people creating similar work with found images all the time on Tumblr (Negative Pleasure comes to mind), so it's interesting to see a similar approach to out-of-context movie stills in an analog medium.

Rather than attempting to unpack her place within the art world, I'll let her images speak for themselves. I have a feeling many of my fellow genre movie fans will find a lot to love in her art!

Here's a sampling of online articles about Rosalyn Drexler:

Rosalyn Drexler on The Brooklyn Rail

Bookslut review of Rosalyn Drexler's "Vulgar Lives"

"Pop's Ladies and Bad Girls: Axell, Pauline Boty and Rosalyn Drexler"

Tura Satana: 1938 - 2011

2011-02-06T13:22:00.000-05:00

One of the little tragedies about being a movie fan whose chief decades of interest are the 1960s and 1970s is that we're reaching the time when the filmmakers, actors, and behind-the-scenes geniuses who made these movies so special are passing away. I don't want to turn the Love Train into the Maudlin Obituary Death Train, but I'd be remiss if I didn't make a couple of remarks on the passing of Tura Satana.

While she had a remarkable life that included a burlesque career, glamour modeling, and several genre film appearances, it's her role as girl gang leader Varla in Russ Meyer's "Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!" that earned her icon status. A juicy role made unforgettable by Satana's snarling delivery and imposing physical presence, Varla is the ultimate busty, black-leather-clad bitch goddess. She's an Eric Stanton drawing come to life, and her unrelenting pursuit of pleasure, danger and power leave a trail of chaos in her wake.

Varla--and by extension Tura Satana--is one of the most indelible images of female strength on film. She's not a delicate actress putting on a tough face or a fashion model decked out with a gun as a sop to "girl power." Varla looks and behaves like she could kick your ass--like she wants to kick your ass--an explosive fury created from centuries of pent-up female aggression. She's not sexy *and* dangerous, her sexiness is borne of her dangerousness.

Tura Satana faced adversity throughout her life, from internment at the hands of the US government at Manzanar to her pre-pubescent rape to her real-life involvement in gang activity as a teenager. By all accounts, Tura Satana was no one's victim and her life's narrative was not that of a woman driven to exploit her body through sad circumstances. Rather than this, she was a capable individual whose bravado and strength of character are as memorable as her outrageous figure.

I can't quite separate Varla from Tura, and I think that's the magic a lot of her fans feel. It's a rarity to see a female screen figure that is so unrepentantly powerful embodied by an actress who so fully embraced her legacy.

Thank you, Tura Satana, for being a one-of-a-kind inspiration. You will live on as an icon for tough broads everywhere.

Count Dracula [1970]

2011-02-03T09:00:00.001-05:00

I maintain that every actor who has portrayed Dracula on screen or stage since 1931 has had to act around Bela Lugosi's iconic performance. While purists may take issue with the Todd Browning-directed film's faithfulness to the Bram Stoker novel, there's no denying that Lugosi's Eastern European accent, intense stare, and elegant carriage have defined the modern image of the vampire. A close second in the Dracula Stakes* is Christopher Lee, who first appeared in the role in the 1958 Hammer production, "Horror of Dracula," portraying a more monstrous, physically intimidating version of the Count.

from

*I'm accidentally punning this early in my musings. This can only go downhill from here...

Neither of these depictions of Dracula truly mirror Stoker's vision, and it would take the polarizing genre director Jess Franco to create what's arguably one of the more faithful versions of the novel in his 1970 film, "Count Dracula." Allow me to start out by saying that "Count Dracula" has a dream cast: Christopher Lee appears in the titular role, Klaus Kinski plays Renfield, Herbert Lom plays Van Helsing, Soledad Miranda appears as Lucy, and notable Franco regulars round out the remainder of the roles. Alas, now is the time for administering the harsh smelling salts of reality, as I will tell you that this is a solid film that should have been a transcendently marvelous film--it never really achieves the promise of its potential.

One of the challenges of a screen adaptation of "Dracula" is the fact that it's an epistolatory novel (relying on letters, diary entries, and news clippings to construct its story) with a whole mess of characters (there are seven distinctive protagonists without the convenient kind of stalk 'n' slash structure that more modern stories of a similar nature usually employ) and a large number of settings (including a castle, a ship, a decrepit abbey, and several distinguished English sitting rooms). The structure just doesn't lend itself to a ninety-minute horror movie! The trick is finding what can be removed and what's inherent to the tension of the story. Franco's "Count Dracula" keeps the number of characters, though he casts them in slightly different functions, and maintains the majority of the settings, but the result is simultaneously cramped and oddly slow.

The movie starts out at a fine clip, spending its first thirty minutes on Jonathan Harker's arrival in Transylvania and his subsequent encounters with Dracula. As played by Fred Williams, Harker's transformation from practical man of the modern age to terror-stricken victim of vampires is one of the best depictions of the character. Harker's struggle to maintain his propriety in the face of Dracula's increasingly bizarre behavior works well in this film. Another element that stays true to the source material is Dracula's appearance--he sports facial hair that evokes woodcut portraits of Vlad Tepes, the historical inspiration for the character. As the film progresses, Dracula looks more hale and hearty (but never once does he sport the infamous "butthead updo" from the Coppola film, a decision for which I think we can all thank Jess Franco). Once Harker winds up back in England (under circumstances that are frankly not explained in the film), the remaining two thirds of the movie are set in the insane asylum run by Dr. Van Helsing and the characters' growing realization that Harker is not mad, and that vampires are not mythical creatures.

Significant portions of the movie are filmed on location in Spain, with the beautiful plazas, historical churches, and verdant landscape lending a sumptuous texture to the modest production. Seeing the period-attired characters walk through vaulted lobbies and pass under gothic arches adds a realness to the proceedings that's in contrast to the stagey (but no less magical) indoor sets of the Hammer and Universal movies. The costuming is adequate, though never stunning, but there are some wonderful surprises in the mise en scene, such as the vintage horse-drawn hearse employed during Lucy's funeral.

What's missing from the execution is the kind of clever camerawork that Franco displayed in his other films from this period. There are some crash-zooms and some fisheye lens, but otherwise the cinematography is straightforward and narrative. The most evocative camerawork occurs in the scenes in which Kinski's Renfield is shown acting out his largely-silent madness inside of a padded room. And really--you could pretty much just point a camera at Kinski and catch something interesting, so it's difficult to tell if the effectiveness of these scenes is more due to the skill of the actor or of the director.

Franco's Fu Manchu epics go off the rails into craziness, his female vampire tales are overwhelmingly erotic, and his earlier mad science films are stylish and provocative with their sexualize violence. Sadly, Franco's "Count Dracula" has more raw acting talent in its favor than all of those films combined, and yet it's not as compelling as any of them individually. It's just an incredibly literal film, pointing its attention at scenes and stitching them together to make a cohesive narrative. There's very little of the subversive joy that exists in Franco's best efforts.

Don't get me wrong--"Count Dracula" isn't a waste of time for vampire fans or for Eurotrash enthusiasts. In addition to the fun of seeing so many familiar faces in a single film, there are some truly bizarro moments. One tidbit not found in Stoker's novel that's added here is Dracula's fondness for taxidermy, and his ability to control said taxidermy with his vampiric brainpower.

It would've been great if "Count Dracula" was an unsung classic and I could unconditionally sing its praises. Sadly, though, its flaws outweigh its not-insignificant merits. It's an interesting take on Bram Stoker's novel, and makes a nice companion piece to the iconic Universal and Hammer adaptations, but in no way does it dethrone those superior films.

Check out more images from Jess Franco's "Count Dracula" in the Flickr gallery.

7:50 PM

They Killed My Cat [2009]

2011-01-25T09:00:00.001-05:00

I know you're all jet-setters with frantic lifestyles that demand you keep a strict accounting of your time, but if you find yourself wanting something to entertain you on your next layover between Ibiza and Bali, I highly recommend that you take a moment to Google random combinations of words. The results can be downright magical.

I don't remember exactly what I was looking for when I came across the Canadian micro-budget martial arts revenge film "They Killed My Cat," but I know that I wound up watching this trailer (I'll wait while you watch, and don't worry--no animals are injured, although a cat was inconvenienced and one guy looks like he might've gotten a nasty burn from fireworks):

The last time I saw that kind of majestic ineptitude and sincerity of spirit was in Tommy Wiseau's "The Room" (which I love with a soulfulness that I don't even usually have for living things). I watched the trailer for "They Killed My Cat" three or four times in absolute delight before vowing to get my hands on the movie. Let it be underscored that the cartoon image above is actual promotional art for this film. If you're not moved by that, then I can safely assume that you are made of stone. Lo, into my hands did come a copy of this movie, and it was just what I thought it would be: an absolutely earnest hot mess (my favorite kind of hot mess, for those who haven't been paying attention).

Let's rewind for a second before I go into platitudes over a movie that will likely leave most folks dozing off or aggravated, waiting for the good bits to pop up on screen. When I was a young teen, I dreamed of being involved in the filmmaking process, but I exhibited absolutely no talent for the kind of teamwork, technical skill, patience, fundraising, scriptwriting or editorial know-how it takes to put together a movie. After an attempt at filming a supernatural thriller in the graveyard behind a friend's house nearly ended with police involvement and a trip to the hospital for one of the lead actors, I decided that I belonged nowhere in the vicinity of a film production. I let the absence of innate, magical, sprung-fully-formed-from-the-forehead-of-a-deity talent stop me from making movies because I was a self-conscious kid. Self-consciousness kills souls, but I only learned that much later in life.

"I did NOT sign a release for this. And I am being VERY inconvenienced right now. Also: meow."

Fortunately for all of us, not everyone falls prey to the same sort of spirit-stifling self-consciousness, and there are creative people out there who will slog through making a film on the meagrest of budgets and offer up the off-beat fruits of their labors for public consumption. These films might not always be good, but the honesty one finds in them is a much-needed palate cleanser after the cynical cash-ins currently flickering onto most multiplex screens.

All of which brings me back to "They Killed My Cat."

This is the face of a man on important Burger King business.

Produced by, directed by, written by and starring Canadian martial artist Elliott Scott, "They Killed My Cat" tells the story of a man who is left for dead by thugs who've killed his girlfriend and his cat. Upon awakening, he must regain his memories and learn martial arts from a mysterious Asian woman. Once he has gathered his strength, he takes on the Black Dragons, who may very well be entirely plausible as the most dangerous gang in Moncton, New Brunswick.

"They Killed My Cat" is in no way a traditionally good film. It's not an undiscovered gem of mini-budget filmmaking with a vision that only slightly outpaces its abilities. The pacing is not good, the dialogue is frequently garbled due to a non-existent sound mix, and yet I found this movie to be incredibly endearing. For starters, this is one of the least marketing-motivated movies I have ever seen. Elliott Scott seems to be having an amazing time making his movie, and what he lacks in skill he more than makes up for in heart. After a slow initial fifteen minutes, the remaining forty-five minutes are full of goofy good-natured weirdness. I love absurdity, and this movie is full of insane scenes that don't seem to realize that they're insane--or maybe they realize exactly how insane they are and just roll with that. Certain moments distill the movie's wonderfulness:

The frolicking sequence between the lead character and his girlfriend (shown in the trailer) in which they skip down an alleyway while holding tight to the beloved feline.

The feats of agility during the training montage are adorably achievable and include "almost falling off of things" and "doing push-ups." It kind of reminds me of what my little brother probably thought kung fu training looked like when he was seven.

The fist-bumping gang members who half-heartedly chant "Black Dragons forever" while drinking domestic pilsner in a bar called "THE HIDEOUT."

The use of fireworks to substitute for dynamite used to blow up a bridge at a local park.

There's a joy present in the DNA of this film that I found to be really infectious. It's silly and it's not particularly well made, but if you open your brain to its oddball delights, "They Killed My Cat" is a wonderful example of cinematic art brut.

Article on Elliott Scott and Bad Acting Good Kung Fu in East Canada's Times & Transcript - January 2010

Article on Elliott Scott and Bad Acting Good Kung Fu in Halifax's The Coast - January 2011

DVD copies of "They Killed My Cat" can be purchased through the Bad Acting Good Kung Fu webstore.

For more of the joy of "They Killed My Cat," check out the Flickr gallery.

believable

My Latest Painting (WHAT IS IT?), Blog Call-Outs, & a Bucket of Fuck Yeah

2011-01-19T14:35:00.000-05:00

The new year found me feeling a bit restless and sort of *stagnant*, but any one of you out there who has any sort of creative impulse (read: pretty much ALL of you) knows it can be a daunting prospect to *actually do art*. So I've dipped my wee toes into the watercolor pool again and I'm reasonably pleased with the result. I've been on a Crispin Glover kick recently (having exhausted the Helmut Berger kick and taken a break from the Udo Kier kick), and I liked his Richard III look from "What Is It?" Of course my art sk00l professors would be aghast, but I hope some of you dig this piece.

But enough about me--other people are busy sharing excellent info, art and music elsewhere in the web. Let's discuss!

Soundtracks!

Confession: Pretty much all I listen to when I write or paint is vintage soundtrack music. I find that these weird musical bits & bobs are highly inspirational without being distracting. Trouble is, it can be difficult (and expensive) to amass a good collection. This makes it a yet more beautiful thing when fellow collectors share the love! Check out El Diabolik's World of Psychotronic Soundtracks, a blog and podcast that offers some truly delicious nuggets of groovy sonic goodness.

Relatively New Stuff That Is Also Good
Probably my fave Tumblr of the moment is Greggory's Shock Theatre. It's run by a person who is my shock/horror/exploitation sensei--this gent introduced me to the joys of lucha libre, encouraged me to seek out horror comix, and helped expand my horizons in terms of foreign genre cinema. [Extra bonus points for attribution & context on the majority of his posts!]

The latest addition to the League of Tana Tea Drinkers is the thoroughly entertaining and edifying Too Much Horror Fiction, Will Errickson's tribute to horror paperbacks. There's something here that will please every fan of spookiness, from amazingly lurid paperback cover art to in-depth reviews of off-beat titles. Highly recommended stuff!

Fuck Yeah, Fuck Yeah Blogs!

I'm pretty much endlessly entertained by the idea of Fuck Yeah! blogs, mainly because it seems everything has a Fuck Yeah! blog. There seems to be at least one outrageously enthusiastic fan for every tiny sliver of our culture. Slate covered the topic back in 2009, and these blogs continue to pop up, carefully curated by a legion of obsessive types. Dear obsessive types, fuck yeah to all of you.

Here are a few Fuck Yeah! blogs of special interest to folks who like the sort of thing I write about:

Fuck Yeah Udo Kier

Fuck Yeah Crispin Glover Part the First

Fuck Yeah Crispin Glover Part the Second [I really hope this doesn't escalate to the point where it needs to be settled with pistols at dawn]

Fuck Yeah Helmut Berger [yeah, it's a second round of self-promotion on this blog, but fresh blood has been updating this with stuff I've never seen, so re-check it out]

Fuck Yeah Paul Naschy

Fuck Yeah Rosalba Neri

Fuck Yeah Louise Brooks

And finally, Fuck Yeah "Street Fighter" with JCVD (cos--damn! I love that movie):

La Santa Muerte [2007]

2011-01-17T09:00:00.002-05:00

In Mexico, there is an offshoot of the Catholic faith that pays homage to a saint that is the manifestation of the ancient Aztec death goddess. The cult of Santa Muerte (Saint Death) is a fascinating phenomenon that speaks to the fluidity of faith, the spirituality of the disenfranchised, and the strength of regional culture. Santa Muerte is portrayed as a grim reaper, bearing scales of judgement and her ready scythe, and accompanied by an owl, traditional symbol of occult knowledge. Her role as the inevitable figure at the end of life makes her a comforting figure for people who feel hopeless and rejected by mainstream religion--if Death comes for everyone, then she will not ignore the pleas of even the most destitute, alienated and powerless. In addition to being an unsanctioned saint, a large portion the controversy surrounding Santa Muerte's stems from the fact that her devotees are frequently found among Mexico's underclass: poor people, homosexuals, substance abusers, and criminals.

In her documentary "La Santa Muerte," director Eva Aridjis visits the Mexico City neighborhood of Tepito, a crime- and poverty-stricken barrio where one of the most active Santa Muerte shrines is located. Through interviews with Santa Meurte's worshippers, Aridjis crafts a fuller picture of the reasons why a cult with such deep roots has blossomed over the span of a relatively short span of time and why its adherents believe what they do. Aridjis deftly avoids the kind of simplistic crime/occult narrative that might emerge in a more sensationalistic portrayal of the topic and instead allows her subjects to speak for themselves. The world these people describe is violent, frightening and dangerous--it's easy to see why an alternative to the passivity encouraged by the Catholic church would be appealing.

Depictions of Santa Muerte range from foreboding to frilly. While many images are repurposed drawings and statues of the grim reaper, other effigies are dressed in elaborate gowns reflecting traditional styles (wedding dresses, capes and crowns, cowgirl get-ups, and event Apache dance costumes). In addition to providing spiritual fulfillment to the faithful, the Santa Muerte cult has spawned a thriving cottage business. Statues, candles, paintings, and accessories are demanded by those who seek special boons from the saint. Altars to Santa Muerte are prevalent in Mexican jails, with some estimates indicating that forty percent of inmates participate in worship of the saint.

At the center of the Tepito shrine is the charismatic figure of Enriqueta Romero Romero. She is a no-nonsense woman whose son gave her the Santa Muerte effigy that is the located in a glass case outside her home. Enriqueta welcomes thousands of worshippers a month who pay homage to the saint with gifts of candies, apples, cigarettes, tequila and marijuana. These devotions are similar to those of Hatian Vodou, and while Enriqueta makes no claims as a spiritual figure, her role in bringing the worship of Santa Muerte into the public eye is undeniable. Prior to her establishing the shrine in 2004, worship of Santa Muerte existed in private, and her shrine has served as a locus for the faith.

It's no secret that much of the success of Christianity is that faith's ability to appropriate symbols of indigenous religions. It's interesting to watch these same indigenous cultures repurpose elements of Christianity to better fit the realities of their lives. As the cult grows, so does condemnation of its practices, with no sign of official sanction from the Catholic church on the horizon. In providing a non-judgmental look at a divisive cultural phenomenon, Eva Aridjis' "La Santa Muerte" is a fascinating documentary that raises as many questions as it answers.

For more information on this film, check out the official website here.

UPDATE: "La Santa Muerte" is screening at Observatory in Brooklyn on February 24, 2011 with the director present. Click here for more information.

Funeral Parade of Roses [1969]

2011-01-12T21:30:00.000-05:00

"Funeral Parade of Roses" is one of the more haunting films I watched in 2010, and I'm still thinking about it months after my first viewing. Beautiful, poignant, perverse, and stylish, this exploration of gay culture and identity in late-1960s Japan has a shocking intensity that has lost none of its impact in the forty-plus years since its release. There's a richness of symbolism, a complex artistic intent, and a disorienting structure here that makes the task of discussing the film a daunting one indeed.

The first feature film by director Toshio Matsumoto, "Funeral Parade of Roses" tells the story of Eddie, a startlingly beautiful drag queen who works as a hostess in a Tokyo bar. Eddie and his rival Leda vie for the affections of Gonda, a shady underworld figure who deals drugs and manages the bar where they both work. It's clear that Eddie is struggling with a dark secret that's alluded to in flashbacks throughout the film, and this secret eventually overwhelms him in the crushing final scenes of the film.

This quick plot summary does no justice to the movie, including as it does rollercoaster tonal shifts, Brechtian fourth-wall busting, moments of cheeky humor and digressions into full-on psychedelia. Now might be the right moment to mention that Stanley Kubrick cited "Funeral Parade of Roses" as an influence on his adaptation of "A Clockwork Orange," and while the latter film concentrates much more on satire, the stylistic similarities are undeniable. Matsumoto's film contains several juxtapositions of quirky music and sped-up film and has an overall Pop Art sensibility that encompasses the street fashions sported by the characters, the frequent appearance of poster art in the backgrounds of scenes, and even cartoon word balloons that emerge from the mouths of Eddie and Leda during a particularly nasty spat.

While the film focuses on the gay counterculture in Tokyo, there is a depiction of the city's youth scene that touches on anti-war protests, hippie drug culture, juvenile delinquency, and racial tension. Surgical-masked protesters hold a mock funeral, stalling traffic on the street. One of Eddie's suitors is an African-American soldier stationed in Japan. Eddie and his cross-dressing friends get into a brawl with a tattooed girl gang.

The movie consists of layers upon layers of context that war for the viewer's attention. The aggressively modern production design complements the experimental structure, which includes films-within-the-film. Characters are interviewed about their lifestyles and there are erotic encounters that turn out to be nothing more than performances for a camera crew which is revealed mid-action. This cutting-edge modernity is in contrast with other themes in the movie that are drawn from Greek mythology. Leda is a familiar name to Classicists for her unnatural dalliances with Zeus in swan-form, and the name Eddie is derived from that of the tragic king Oedipus. This tension between modern and classical, East and West, underground and mainstream culture informs every frame of "Funeral Parade of Roses."

The depiction of gay culture is remarkably nuanced and sensitive--characters are shown who exist along the continuum of gender and sexual identity. While the central characters dress and behave like women, they identify as gay men and specifically express the fact that they are not transsexuals. Several of the gay men in the film are what might be called "straight-acting," with the behavior and attire traditionally reserved for "macho," heterosexual men.

In the role of Eddie, actor Peter conveys a sensuality and beauty that are hypnotically androgynous. His elegant physicality and nuanced facial expressions infuse the film with a humanity that might be lost among all the flashy artistry. The inevitability of his fate is made all the more tragic because he is a fully-formed person feeling very real pain beneath all the makeup and artifice.

It's difficult to distill a movie like "Funeral Parade of Roses" because it so perfectly utilizes the cinematic medium. There's something really energizing about seeing a movie that embraces the potential of film. Sound, time, and visuals combine to create an artifact that should be watched and appreciated for its extreme film-ness. Like the best pieces of art, "Funeral Parade of Roses" will leave you thinking long after you've finished watching.

For more images from "Funeral Parade of Roses," check out the Flickr gallery here.

Movies

8:19 AM

Crispin Glover's "It Is Fine. Everything Is Fine!"

2010-12-22T15:15:00.000-05:00

Make no mistake--artist/performer/filmmaker Crispin Glover intends to provoke his audience. There's an intensity of vision, a crazy-quilt of references, and an unflinching candor to Glover's work, and underlying it all is a true desire to change the way his audience engages with film and art. Being afforded the chance to see him speak & present one of his films at Philadelphia's International House this past Monday, I cashed in some comp time* and headed southwards for the experience.

*I love having the kind of boss who is zen with the idea of my taking time out of the office to see cult films. There's a special place in heaven for him.

The majority of Glover's fame comes from his appearances in front of the camera, an acting career defined by the portrayal of off-kilter outsiders. Although Glover sees these roles as jobs that finance his pure-art projects, there's a link between his acting roles and the art and film he showcases in his live appearances. Realizing at an early age that the monetized releases coming out of the American studio system didn't provide him with the kind of creative expression he wanted, Glover began to make altered books in his late teens and studied the craft of filmmaking in order to bring his own vision to life.

Glover's artistic landscape is one in which context is key. Beginning his show with selected readings from his books provides some aesthetic framework for the film screening to come. The books exist as altered copies of preexisting vintage publications, with large sections of text obscured, handwritten notes included to change the narrative, and images clipped, glued, and transposed throughout. "Concrete Inspection," a handbook whose original purpose was to aid in industrial applications, becomes a mysterious poem when the pages are blacked out to reveal small windows of words, while the children's cautionary tale "The Backward Swing" takes on new levels of meaning with the inclusion of religious and political imagery. Copies of the books are pocket-sized, canvas-bound art objects with a beautiful hand-feel that both embrace and challenge the very book-ness of the source material. Glover's readings are carried out with the overstated physicality of a character in a Murnau film, and come off as instructional vignettes aimed at the insane, narratives veering wildly and sometimes collapsing into a jumble of only-semi-related words.

The centerpiece of the presentation is the film screening. With no plans to make his films available on DVD, Glover travels with his productions, based on the vaudevillian model. With the inclusion of the book sale at the end of the evening, the show is a bit like an arthouse version of Kroger Babb's "Mom and Dad."

"It Is Fine! Everything Is Fine" is the second installment of Glover's planned "It" trilogy, a series of films focused on its creator's fixation on creating films that encourage--even force--their viewers to question the contents and meaning of the material portrayed on screen. "IIF!EIF" is a more focused exploration of this concept than its predecessor, "What Is It?," a Dadaist creation that includes cast members with Down syndrome, snails salted to death, blackface, swastikas, and graphic sexuality. While "WII?" could be dismissed by some critics as for its aggressive controversy-bating imagery and deliberate ugliness, "IIF!EIF" is more sophisticated in its world-creating and in its message.

Based on a script by Steven C. Stewart (who also stars in the film) and co-directed with David Brothers (art director of "WII?"), "IIF!EIF" follows the story of a man who engages in romantic entanglements with beautiful, long-haired women, only to snap and murder these women when they threaten to cut their hair. What makes Stewart's story different from other misogynistic lustmord tales hinges on one detail--the writer/actor has a severe case of cerebral palsy, with the limited movement and speech problems that accompany the condition.

Filmed almost entirely on indoor sets created by David Brothers**, "IIF!EIF" is deliberately artificial in its presentation. According to Glover, Stewart's script was inspired by the crime dramas and soap operas that he would ravenously consume, making the sometimes-stilted delivery of the actors feel appropriate. Glover's father, Bruce Glover (a veteran actor in his own right), puts in a comedic turn as a jealous ex-husband and Margit Carstensen (best-known for her work with Rainer Werner Fassbinder, a director who was himself no stranger to controversy of a similar variety) is disarmingly sensitive as Stewart's character's first love interest. What's most remarkable about all of the performances is that, while Stewart's dialogue is for the most part indecipherable to the audience, his cast mates exchange lines with him in a natural manner.

**Delightful trivia moment: according to IMDb, Brothers' main set-design credits are attached to the Disney "High School Musical" franchise.

That's not all that the actresses in this film exchange with Stewart. There are multiple sex scenes, ranging in nature from "fully clothed" to "extremely graphic," in which the human body is pushed front and center. Stewart's body is on display as much as the bodies of the actresses are on display, forcing the viewer to fully digest the scope of sexual activity that might be left implied in a different film. It's a challenging decision that is simultaneously alienating, intriguing, shocking, poignant and perhaps even blackly humorous.

Making this kind of movie from the perspective of a man with a pronounced disability opens up a whole world of dialogue, none of it comfortable. Is the movie a freakshow take on Hitchcock's "Frenzy?" Is this an important document of an individual's internal monologue, a voice that would have been heard by few and forever silenced at this person's passing? Is this an attempt to normalize visibly disabled people by proving that they can be just as petty and id-driven as those without disabilities? Matters are only complicated by the bookending scenes of Stewart in a nursing home (shot on-site in a hyper-realistic fashion), alone and unable to communicate with those around him. There's a lot to analyze--I've been mulling over this movie for the past two days and I'm not finding any easy answers.

In the Q&A following the screening of "IIF!EIF," Glover was candid in responding to inquiries about his film. He discussed the financing and production of his work, including the fact that both "WII?" and "IIF! EIF" took numerous years to produce. His art is very clearly a labor of love, and the professorial attitude he adopted during his two-hour-plus talk reflected his desire to make audiences ponder what they've seen. It's a remarkable privilege to hear a creative person talk about his or her work at all, and it's particularly fascinating to hear from someone as articulate and passionate as Glover. It's fantastic and inspiring to know that there are true originals out there, making the world a stranger and more beautiful place by sharing their singular visions.

For more information on Crispin Glover's art as well as upcoming performance dates, check out CrispinGlover.com

Addendum: Yes, I stood in line for close to three hours for a book signing and the opportunity to shake the man's hand after the screening. Mr. Glover--thank you for sharing your vision and your time, and for making people think. You're an inspiration.

RIP Jean Rollin [1938-2010]

2010-12-16T12:01:00.000-05:00

High on the list of text messages a person does not want to receive while already gloomy about the holidays is the simple yet devastating memo "Jean Rollin R.I.P." When I saw this note yesterday evening, I was saddened on a level much deeper than what I've experienced with the passing of other celebrities I admire. Rather than being a charismatic face on the screen or a distant auteur blessing his audience with flashes of brilliance, I feel a profound connection to Rollin's body of work.

While working on a response to a memo from a friend expressing her grief at Rollin's passing, I started to get closer to the heart of what Jean Rollin's films mean to his fans.

Simply put, Jean Rollin's movies taught me how to watch genre films.

Shortly after reading Pete Tombs' essential "Immoral Tales," I logged on to eBay and set about bidding on a lot of video cassettes produced by Video Search of Miami. Sweating through a power outage in the last minutes of the auction, I wound up winning the videos at great personal cost (this has become a running theme in my Rollin fandom). Far from being the acquired taste I'd expected to be, I felt an immediate joy in watching "Frisson of the Vampires," a movie whose clever dialogue, psychedelic visuals and dreamy structure mirrored the brand of surrealism I was studying in my fine art training. Rollin's eye for beauty--in shot composition, soundtrack, and setting in addition to the physical forms of his cast members--was so distinct and so consistent in its execution that I never noted the low-budget nature of his productions. Some directors make the best of their budgets, others hide their budgets, but Rollin always seemed to be filming in a world that had nothing to do with such financial matters. In the same way one wouldn't look at a painting and remark on how the artist's application of oils in terms of cost, I never viewed Rollin as a "low-budget filmmaker."

This isn't to say that Rollin didn't have his missteps or commercially-motivated efforts. There's something very real about an artist who works on commercial projects in order to fund more personal efforts. I find it grounding on a personal level to see that for every "Frisson," there were several projects like "Zombie Lake," "Emmanuelle 6," or even hardcore pornographic titles. Rollin was a working artist--not a product of family money, aggressive networking, or lavish praise from colleagues.

Appreciation for Rollin's work has grown enormously over the past decade or so with the release of his films in beautifully-restored DVD editions from distributors like Redemption Films. People who might not have had access to the dredged-from-the-ocean-floor, fan-subbed VSOM editions can now get copies of Rollin's movie's via mainstream retailers and even DVD rental services. Even so, Rollin's films haven't achieved the same Horror Film Canonization as the works of, say, Dario Argento. The process of discovering Rollin's work tends to be a personal one--the product of active seeking-out--and I think that's why the viewers that go on to be fans feel a true connection to his work.

Several years back, a friend was working on an interview with Rollin and I had the opportunity to sprinkle in some of my own questions. Unfortunately, I suspect something got lost in translation and I never had my inquiry as to Rollin's own background in the arts answered properly. His connection to fine art is clear, as he made no secret about his appreciation of the Surrealists, specifically of French painter Clovis Trouille, whose work he referenced in his films. This marriage of fine art and genre cinema is what resonates with me in Rollin's work, and I love seeing echoes of this in his movies.

It saddens me deeply to know that I'll never be able to shake Rollin's hand and tell him how much his work affected me. For influencing my art, teaching me new ways to engage with the works of other artists, and leaving the world with a remarkable body of work--thank you, Jean Rollin.

Amuck! (aka: Leather and Whips) [1972]

2010-12-14T21:40:00.000-05:00

I know my fellow trash cinema fans will empathize with me when I express my frustration at lousy film prints. I don't mourn grainy, Nth-gen VHS copies, nor do I pat myself on the back for unearthing a copy of some obscurity that looks like it's been dredged from the bottom of the ocean. Sometimes the only way one can watch a particular title is in a compromised format, and such is life. The thing that grieves me the most is that I feel like I can't properly appreciate some titles due to crappy prints. In a genre like the giallo, where style leaves substance in a cloud of dust, it's especially vexing to not get the full, glossy impact of a film.

That having been addressed, I'm not sure that "Amuck!," also known by the equally lurid title of "Leather and Whips," would've fared much better had I seen the most flawless print in the world. This is a movie that managed to fuck up the perfectly excellent combination of (stunning and lesbonic) Barbara Bouchet and (stunning and predatorially lesbonic) Rosalba Neri engaging in (lesbonically) mysterious intrigue set against the backdrop of (stunning but lacking in a sexual orientation on account of its being a city) Venice.

"Prepare to get hurt. Real bad. In the brain."

In the same way that the press materials for "Last House on the Left" urged the viewer to repeat it's only a movie, I urge you to append each sentence of the following review with it's actually pretty boring.

Barbara Bouchet plays Greta, a young woman working as a secretary to an American author Richard Stuart (Farley Granger) who lives in a stately Venetian mansion with his wife Eleanora (Rosalba Neri). As it turns out, Greta is trying to track down the whereabouts of her lover Sally, who was last seen in the employ of the Stuarts. The Stuarts are one swinging duo, hosting drunken parties that include the viewing of pornographic films, and it becomes clear early on that their lecherous activities have an even darker side.

"But Tenebrous," you may rightly ask, "how can you bag on a movie that offers up a delectable lesbian scene with two fully-nude, fully-gorgeous actresses within its first ten minutes of screen time?" Well, imaginary enquirer, for an admittedly-titillating five minutes of steamy sex, one has to slog through a mystery plot that one does not care about (if you saw this and you say you care, you are a filthy liar and beneath my contempt) that commits the following giallo sins:

Dishwater-dull soundtrack. Seriously, I'm here for the sounds and the scenery--ENTERTAIN ME, MUSIC MAKER!
Duck-hunting sequence that has almost no music behind it: a jammed gun has never created less cinematic tension. Watching an eight-year-old play the Nintendo game is a nailbiter in comparison.

Quicksand. Fuck quicksand as a plot device--fuck it right in the ass.
Psychic subplot that appears in one scene midway through the movie, never to be spoken of again. That's just insulting.
NO leather and NO whips. Don't think I wouldn't notice that shit, title-writing jerk.

I hate the fact that I'm making this movie look so much better than it is.

Where Sergio Martino would have gone full-on crazy with the material, adding swooping camerawork and a lushly romantic score while eliciting downright-perspiring performances from his leads, director Silvio Amadio takes a rather direct approach, creating a movie that leaves the viewer praying for the next nugget of naughtiness. "Amuck!" is just short of dire--were it not for the erotic sequences, this movie would be like an unbuttered English muffin.

"Hahahah--can you believe that all those jackasses are going to watch this movie now? It's like WE WIN!"

I just couldn't manage to care about this movie, and kept hoping that its piles of wacky material might coalesce into some sort of sleazy wonderfulness. While Ms. Neri brings it--as she always does--in the form of arched eyebrows, sinister cigarette-smoking, and plush sexiness, her presence doesn't redeem this lackluster thriller, which is characterized in large part by its general air of non-inspiration. Bland camerawork, sleepwalking performances, and a criminal lack of suspense undermine what tawdry tingles this film has to offer.

That having been said, the ladies do look lovely, so it's worth a peek at the Flick gallery of images from "Amuck!"