Vince-5 Reviews

Forever (1978 TV Movie)

"When the rain washes you clean you'll know."

[26 March 2002]

It's hard to explain why, but this coming-of-age story struck me as highly appealing. Some say that it pales in comparison to Judy Blume's novel; since I haven't read the novel, I wouldn't know. It's a simple story: Fresh-faced Kath (Stephanie Zimbalist) has her sexual awakening with the local blonde hunk, only to find that life is slightly more complicated than One Perfect Love, Forever. And that's okay.

When I tuned in, Dean Butler was sweeping Kath off her feet to the tune of "Cherchez La Femme." How many times do you hear Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band on the soundtrack of a movie, let alone a TV-movie? I was locked in place with fascination. Why? Because this movie exemplifies the look and feel of the 1970s in every frame. Shots of the kids playing Pong and doing the Hustle are presented without self-consciousness, not as condescending self-reference, but simply as teenage behavior. The '70s hold a strong appeal for me--the clothes, the music, etc. Forever was made before the world became the uptight, shrill, boring, ugly place it is now. Seeing as I was born in 1983, these feelings might be carry-over from a previous existence. At any rate...

The acting is thoroughly convincing. Zimbalist is likable, but the best turns come from Beth Raines (as her Janis Ian-style best friend) and John Friedrich (as a repressed would-be thespian); also noteworthy is a pre-Mommie Dearest Diana Scarwid as wild girl Sybil. I like the presentation of sex (and sexual responsibility) in a positive light, without any heavy-handed "moral" crap. Nowadays, no TV movie would dare present sex between young people from such a perspective. More's the pity. The wonderful less-than-slick, quasi-verite photography and dialogue are also something you're not gonna see again any time soon. Same for realistic-looking actors who don't resemble surgical freaks or Gap rejects.

Granted, there are moments that will trigger the why-the-hell-am-I-watching-this response in some individuals. For example, when the young couple hike through the mountains as Jennifer Warnes delivers "Right Time of the Night" on the soundtrack, you half-expect to see a frosty bottle of beer superimposed over the action. At some moments, the material seems to have been altered for television, with censor-friendly terms uncomfortably wedged in in place of swearing. There are times when the movie is downright awkward in its sincerity ("I wet my dress," murmurs Kath after setting off a burglar alarm). But the whole story is about being awkward and confused; many would say that adolescence is about being awkward and confused. And you learn from it. And we are left with the EMI logo and the gravel-throated voice of Stevie Nicks.

Written on the Wind (1956)

Dorothy Malone steals the sleazy show!

[19 January 2002]

I had the pleasure of seeing this lurid chunk of celluloid camp on television last night. It's a candy-bright trash-o-rama about a secretary (Lauren Bacall) who marries into a filthy rich oil family only to find a more general kind of filth under the gloss of privilege and public respectability.

Oddly enough, both Bacall (usually the epitome of strength and gravity) and Rock Hudson are given fairly bland roles, always remaining above the hideously dysfunctional quagmire that surrounds them. They're too "good" to be very interesting. The characters at the opposite end of the spectrum are what keep our attention. Once soaked in alcohol, a pre-Unsolved Mysteries Robert Stack is immensely entertaining as tormented, pistol-waving Kyle, upset over his inability to conceive the children needed to complete the little American Nightmare in rich-people hell.

However, this decidedly cracked soap is dominated by Dorothy Malone as Marylee, the boozed-up, fast-driving slut with the temperament of your average cobra. Malone won a well-deserved Oscar for her astonishing, one-of-a-kind performance--all bulging eyes and twitching lips, like a drag queen in heat, spewing acid at the other members of the cast. From her wild mambo of death (!) to fondling a model oil derrick (!!!), she is a hilarious delight. Aren't the bad girls always more interesting? Other reviews talk about her being "reformed" at the end. I, personally, did not see that. Yeah, she's upset...but with someone like Marylee, how long is that gonna last?

Later parodied by John Waters's Polyester, Written on the Wind is a seamy, steamy don't-miss. In gorgeously saturated Technicolor.

Bride of Monster Mania (2000 TV Movie)

Enjoyable celebration of women in horror

[18 January 2002]

Bride of Monster Mania is a thoroughly entertaining TV special. The obvious highlights are the horror-film clips and trailers--including come-ons for The Exorcist, Carrie, Dr. Jekyll and Sister Hyde, and Queen of Blood--that hold everything together. The innocuous narration and interviews with various psychiatrists and women's-group leaders aren't nearly as interesting. BUT THEN...we are treated to a surprising interview with scream queen/Bond girl Martine Beswick! An actress who we don't see nearly enough of, the still-lovely Martine provides her perspective on the sexual power of women in horror cinema, particularly her classic turn as Sister Hyde. If they had dug up more horror goddesses to interview (Barbara Steele, etc.), it would have been a much better program. Still, it's quite pleasing as it is. Watch for it around Halloween.

Hollywood Boulevard (1976)

"Hello, Hollywood"

[9 January 2002]

In the autumn of 1975, Roger Corman set out to make the fastest, cheapest drive-in movie in the history of New World Pictures. This wild, uproarious cult classic is the result. Candice Rialson is Candy Hope, a starry-eyed Midwestern beauty hoping to make it big on that street of dreams, only to find that the glitter is just glass from broken liquor bottles. Instead, she ends up as a contract starlet with Miracle Pictures, a prolific B-movie factory grinding out sleaze epics for the passion pits of America (sound familiar?). Dick Miller is her agent. The always-fantastic Mary Woronov is Mary McQueen, the studio's Amazonian leading lady who has no patience with the new crop of upstarts ("You get your boobs in front of a camera and you're ready to jump into the cement!"). Everyone is shipped to the Philipines to shoot Machete Maidens of Moratau, with Paul Bartel as the director ("Your motivation is to massacre 3,000 Asiatic soldiers."). The film is pieced together with stock footage from other New World masterpieces, particularly Death Race 2000, with Candy donning David Carradine's famous leather mask. A kid at a drive-in cries out for more sex, while his parents deride the movie as "sick" and "worse than television." A drive down Hollyweird shows the famous Pussycat Theatre and various adult bookstores and massage parlors. A romantic interlude is serenaded by Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen, belting out a raucous, dirty country tune. Mary's name is superimposed onto the poster for Untamed Mistress. Robbie the Robot refuses to do nudity. B-movie in-jokes come thick and fast, including a girl stabbed to death on a bed frame a la Snuff. The whole thing looks great, especially for $60,000, and is consistently hilarious--especially Mary, complete with cigarette holder and the vocabulary of a sailor. A bona fide drive-in classic. And remember..."If it's a good picture, it's a Miracle!"

Multiple Maniacs (1970)

"Think about the Stations of the Cross!"

[7 January 2002]

Possible minor spoilers.

Many people would describe John Waters films as horrific (and rightly so), but Multiple Maniacs is the only one that really approaches the horror genre. The title, in fact, is a nod to Herschell Gordon Lewis's cult classic Two Thousand Maniacs.

The plot finds the Cavalcade of Perversions pitching its tents in Baltimore. The exhibits include a man orgasmically fondling a bra; a girl going down on a bicycle seat; a pornographer snapping pictures "as his slut of a girlfriend exposes her sacred reproductive organs"; "two actual queers kissing each other like lovers on the lips"; and the Puke-Eater ("He laps it right up for ya--he love it!"). The show climaxes with the appearance of psychopathic Lady Divine, robbing and murdering the patrons (look for bewigged Mink Stole, Cookie Mueller, and Mary Vivian Pearce among the victims). But Divine is highly unstable ("My nerves are cracking!") and controls boyfriend Mr. David (Lochary) with claims of his involvement Sharon Tate's final party ("He did something to the most beautiful girl in Hollywood!"). However, when she learns of his ongoing affair with a blonde bimbo (Pearce, known to friends as Bonnie) who like to "perform acts" during screenings of Inga...well, the camel's back is broken, and she can't let them live another minute. But it doesn't end there.

Maniacs is admittedly choppy and talkier than most of Waters's work (this was his first film with synched-up sound, and he takes advantage of this fact), but underground film fans still have plenty to grab on to. The Dreamlanders are a treat to watch, particularly the glorious Divine. She's sort of a massive Joan Crawford, complete with black wig and exaggeratedly huge lips. Shots of her feverishly stabbing with a butcher knife and rampaging through Baltimore with a sledgehammer wield an undeniably creepy power. Edith Massey makes her debut, playing herself (a barmaid at Pete's Hotel) and the Virgin Mary (complete with towel on her head); she doesn't have much to do, but she's always a delightful presence. Cookie has a bang-up entrance, holding onto a pipe and dancing topless to "Jailhouse Rock," and Mink contributes to one of the most blasphemous sequences in cinematic history. With a great no-budget credits sequence (set to what sounds like the intro to "Endless Sleep") and a see-it-to-disbelieve-it cameo by Lobstora the 15-Foot Broiled Lobster, this may be amateurish, but it displays more energy and creativity than any of the multiplex slop clogging up the film world.

"You're a maniac! A maniac who cannot be cured!"

Run Lola Run (1998)

Und dann...

[4 January 2002]

This German adrenaline rush is like nothing I've ever experienced before. Franka Potente is fantastic as the hyperkinetic Lola of the title, with crayon-red hair and a cut-off tank top, on a twenty-minute mad dash to find the 100,000 Deutsch marks that will save her boyfriend's life. The sequences of Lola running through Berlin, accompanied by a pulsing electronic soundtrack, would be invigorating enough on their own, but the tension keeps piling up. The film shows terrific visual imagination, with a great title sequence, animation, split screens, and what appears to be videotape photography (the dialogue scenes with Lola's dad and his mistress look like a daytime soap). Combining a challenging examination of the fate that we ourselves create with a fantasy-versus-reality structure and setting the whole thing at lightning speed, it's hard to pick up on all the material in a single viewing. Never conventional and always fascinating, Run Lola Run is an arthouse triumph.

Double Agent 73 (1974)

She's baaaa-aaaack!

[26 December 2001]

Doris Wishman followed up the immensely successful Deadly Weapons with this all-you-can-eat lunatic buffet. Ivan Toplar and his gang are flooding the market with bad smack. Who is the only secret agent with the stuff to bring down these slimebags? Burlesque grotesque Chesty Morgan, the girl who makes Candy Samples look like an ironing board! As Jane Genet, Agent 73, Chesty has her vacation at the nudist camp (!)--dig the hilarious cuts between literary-minded Chesty and a puppy--interrupted by this little assignment. So she puts on her red-and-black rhinestone-studded platforms and hits the streets, eliminating the bad guys and taking photos with a tiny spy camera (complete with flash) implanted in her humongous left breast. The deaths are violent, and the victim's last sights are shaky, blurred shots of Chesty's mountainous mammaries. What a way to go.

This violent, uproariously crazed excuse for Chesty to unsnap her bra and maul those monsters (FLASH-CLICK!) is like Deadly Weapons ratcheted to new heights of inanity (if such a thing could be possible). Who better to carry out a top-secret mission than the most conspicuous person in the world? And if her physical appearance weren't eliciting enough looks, the peroxide-wigged Miss Morgan's wardrobe is even frillier and sillier than before--the prime offender being a white-on-red polka-dotted number straight from Clarabelle's closet. Chesty's dubbed voice has a slightly harder edge this time around, but her acting has, thankfully, not improved. Her face is expressionless for ninety percent of the running time; occasionally she smiles, as if being ordered to at gunpoint, and Band-Aid removal brings a grimace of vague bewilderment that must be seen to be disbelieved. Though the dialogue is mostly in sync, Doris Wishman still indulges in her trademark cut-aways and obsessive close-ups of feet (giving us great views of the star's endless arsenal of platforms and spike heels). Then, in an unexpected "poetic" shot, backlit Chesty holds her ruffled robe aloft and whirls for no discernible reason. And of course, the car chase, where Chesty and her pursuer drive the legal limit as the film is sped up.

A third Chesty epic was planned but never made, since Wishman found the star unbearably difficult to work with. Even more unfortunate is the fact that, after working with Fellini, the Polish sight gag--I mean, STAR--never made another film, and has since completely disappeared (how could she hide?). Some say that Chesty (Lillian) is now living in Florida, but...who knows? O Chesty, where art thou?

The Touch of Her Flesh (1967)

"I got the right kind, baby!"

[26 December 2001]

Possible minor spoilers.

First came the nudies--harmless fluff flicks with the cast bouncing around in various stages of undress. Then came the roughies--rape, dominations, whippings, BD/SM. And then...there were the ghoulies. And no one did the ghoulies better than Michael and Roberta Findlay, the all-time king and queen of the New York grindhouse circuit. I must say that this Flesh surprised me. I expected some shaky, cheap-thrill blood-guts-and-boobs epic...and I got a surprisingly professional, highly personal endeavor that comes dangerously close to the realm of Art. I am not kidding!

Michael is Richard Jennings, a middle-class man with the archetypal Madonna-whore complex. When his wife turns out to be the latter, crippled Richard seeks vengeance against the sex industry and the women who populate it; viewed today, it eerily predicts how Bully Boy would destroy much of the vibrant, seedy world that allowed for the creation of this film. In a fantastic psychedelic discotheque sequence, a cute black go-go girl receives a poison rose and after some lengthy topless gyrations (go-go fans take note), drops dead in mid-freakout. A stripper slithers around in what turns out to be her last show. But the ultimate target is unfaithful wife Claudia (Claudia Jennings? Is this where the drive-in queen got her inspiration?), a busty blonde dubbed in Roberta's distinctive New Yawk tones.

This is a steamy, seamy walk on the wild side from the people who did it best. Michael (as Robert West) turns in an excellent performance as the star psycho. The dialogue is minimal and dubbed (quite well in Richard's case); some of it is very funny--"My dear Claudia! Let me see those breasts of yours! Those breasts that he was fondling!" With a little gore, plenty of female skin, and an atmosphere thick with gritty vitality. Sadly, the film is a time capsule of a by-gone era. The Findlays are gone now (Michael has passed on, may he rest in peace; Roberta has disappeared from sight); the seedy vitality of Times Square has been replaced by soulless corporate fiberglass. If your mindset is outside the mainstream...if you think that sleaze is not necessarily a bad thing...you owe it to yourself to see this hour of monochrome madness. We miss you, Mike.

Deadly Weapons (1974)

Oh...my...God.

[25 December 2001]

Cheap Mafia movies are a dime a dozen, right? Not when your heroine is Chesty Morgan, the Polish peeler with proportions preposterous enough to give Russ Meyer pause. Billed as Zsa Zsa (as in "The Zsa Zsa Gabor of Burlesk"), she smothers any of the viewer's misconceptions during the title sequence. As the credits roll and the great theme song blasts, we see the jiggling title artillery distorted (okay--more so) in a series of convex mirrors. Please note that this film is not erotic in the least. Rather it is one of the most unintentionally hilarious pieces of dementia ever to hit the screen!

The amazingly ridiculous plot finds Chesty is Crystal, a "Hard Selling Woman" who is deeply in love and wants to get married. Unfortunately, her gangster boyfriend is rubbed out by his associates after a backfired double-cross. Hell hath no fury like a monstrously huge-breasted woman scorned, and Crystal takes it upon herself to dish out retribution. How? With her gargantuan just-over-six-foot bazookas, of course! Clad in pantyhose and girdle, she raises her arms--cue the thunderous crash of bowling pins--and closes in for the kill! As you may guess, sense is not the movie's strong point. But who watches Doris Wishman movie expecting sense?

Chesty comes off as a complete boob, with her clunky, elephantine breasts as her only assets. Sporting a (supposedly self-supplied) platinum shag wig and a hideous ruffled wardrobe, she lumbers around on mile-high platform shoes, staring blankly at her gaudy surroundings. She does two striptease acts, which consist of her walking around a bit, losing her top, and manhandling those frightening things. Throughout the course of the film, she looks and acts like someone just dragged her out of bed.

Still, despite her awesome inability to act, Miss Morgan has an undeniable screen presence and is consistently fascinating to watch. She and Wishman have created a style of what, in other hands, might be considered simple ineptitude. Everything about the film is so delightfully, wonderfully tacky and ridiculous that you can't look away. It's as if Chesty herself is merely the pinnacle of the greater camp aesthetic. The final dollop of Cool Whip is that THIS WAS INTENDED IN ALL SERIOUSNESS! See it now!

The Panic in Needle Park (1971)

Blistering tale of love and pain

[22 December 2001]

This afternoon, the Fox Movie Channel ran the trailer for The Panic in Needle Park. I was intrigued, and when the movie followed (uncut--accept nothing else) I watched. I am still stunned. This livid, documentary-style look at a faction of society that most people prefer to ignore of simply lock up is a brutal and powerful piece of cinema.

It is a film devoid of simple black and white categorizations. Bobby and Helen, deeply in love and deeply addicted to smack, are not bad people; rather they are people in a very bad situation--screwed up, screwed over, strung out, and doing whatever they can to survive. We watch as they go from "just chipping" to crippling, $80-a-day dependency. They steal, deal, hook, and shoot the profits into a scarred vein. A tone of bleak, tragic inevitability infuses their lives and the film. We care about them, but all we can do is watch; there are no offers of help, no outstretched hands. In an extremely telling moment, Helen says she wants to move out of Needle Park, to which Bobby simply responds, "It's where I live."

Panic has such a natural, improvisational feel that those existing on a diet of super-glossy cash-cow cinema may be put off. It is only slightly more polished than Andy Warhol's Trash, which it resembles by turns--from the camera that loses focus and trembles ever so slightly to the close-ups of needles sliding into veins. The gritty city is perfectly captured, with a tremendous atmosphere of desperation and misfortune. As Bobby, Al Pacino is marvelous (as usual), but I was really impressed by Kitty Winn in the role of Helen. I'd only seen her in The Exorcist, where she was mostly relegated to the background. Here, her portrayal is gut-wrenching, courageous, and unforgettable. I can say without a doubt, Needle Park is a must-see. It may not be pretty, but it's life.

The Ice Storm (1997)

A penetrating chill

[19 December 2001]

Typically, when a movie takes place in a fairly recent time period, the filmmakers do one of two things--A: Romanticize the period, or B: Turn it into a jokey cartoon caricature of what it was. The latter is especially true when the period in question is the 1960s or '70s. This era is consistently portrayed as some sort of avocado-green polyester nightmare (as opposed to the boringly-neutral-beige combed-cotton nightmare of present society). The Ice Storm, however, takes neither approach. While I won't say that the time is incidental, we are not pummeled with it; in fact, we can even forget it after a while. The film is about (surprise!) people.

The place is New Canaan, Connecticut; the time, winter 1973. The people are a group of alienated, sexually repressed/frustrated/bored characters. All want different things, but all are united by their desperate longing for personal satisfaction. They mix, discussing Watergate, Deep Throat, and Styrofoam packing peanuts, letting their own issues simmer without a word. In private, they all struggle to break out of their numbing suburban routine. But numbing though it may be, they really don't know anything else. So where do they go?

Ang Lee has created the type of film that is, sadly, an anomaly in Hollywood: A picture that makes you think. The characters are merely observed, without judgment, revealing their personalities, fears, aches, longings. Lee never goes out of his way to make them sympathetic; whether you care about any of them or not all depends on your own personality, fears, aches, longings. The interactions of these incompatible people, together yet isolated, are never less than fascinating.

The film is marvelously put together. The photography is beautiful, combining with great sets and costumes for the perfect atmosphere. We see a lot of ice--in trays, on branches, etc--and though the metaphor may not be subtle, it works perfectly. Though the soundtrack includes some great pop tunes, they are merely background music, heard only when characters put them on. The acting, which is the true backbone of the movie, is fantastic (though I don't care for Katie Holmes). Stand-outs include Christina Ricci as a teenager experimenting with sex (it happens--get over it), and polar-opposite wives Joan Allen and Sigourney Weaver (who has never looked more beautiful). This is a dark, barren winter landscape worthy of exploration. Expect to be chilled...but leave your coat in the closet.

Assault on Precinct 13 (1976)

Carpenter at his best

[19 December 2001]

Before modern horror classics like Halloween and The Fog...before he forgot his talent at a bus terminal somewhere...John Carpenter gave us Assault on Precinct 13, a wonderfully gritty film dealing with horrors that are all too possible. I don't even like action movies, really, but as the saying goes, I know what I like.

A youth gang cruises the sun-faded streets of L.A. on a senseless, blood-soaked rampage. On their ultra-violent quest for kicks, the victims include--in a shocking and very refreshing scene--a pigtailed Patty McCormack-lookalike ("I wanted vanilla twist."). Meanwhile, Austin Stoker (Abby) is a police lieutenant sent to supervise a precinct house on its last day of operation. As night falls, the pack of thugs converge on the station with the intent of killing everyone inside--even if it costs them their lives. The result is a painfully tense bullets-and-blood standoff and a group of disparate characters fight for survival.

In his prime, Carpenter, knew how to do a lot with very little. Assault cost a mere $100,000; it looks like at least double that amount. Most of the money was spent on camera equipment, and the result is a very professional-looking picture (though the much-lauded Panavision framing is lost in the TV version). The actors are all quite capable. I love the emphasis on the reactions and interactions of the characters. The two women are almost like two sides of the same coin; switchboard operator Nancy Loomis (Halloween) becomes hysterical, while secretary Laurie Zimmer becomes almost disturbingly calm.

This film, I've heard, is a remake of Rio Bravo. I haven't seen Rio Bravo, but I have seen Night of the Living Dead, and I was quite surprised at the similarities. The hero is black; one character is semi-catatonic; there is a should-we-go-in-the-basement debate. And of course, there is the massive, silent, relentless enemy. Yet somehow, despite this debt, Assault remains an extremely original film, approaching brilliance in its own right. Granted, there are a few loose ends and unanswered questions, but it really doesn't matter in the end. It's called "suspension of disbelief." The only gang film you need to see, with a haunting synthesizer score you must hear for yourself. There should be more films like this one.

Mahogany (1975)

You know where it's going to

[17 December 2001]

This slick but predictable tale of fashion-world fame resembles, by turns, a diluted version of Valley of the Dolls. Only in this valley, the only doll is black beauty Diana Ross, piloting the whole vanity vehicle like a Sherman tank. She plays Tracy Chambers, a gorgeous secretary from the mean streets of Chicago who finds fame and fortune (but alas--poignant sniffle--not happiness) as Europe's top model/designer, Mahogany ("Meeeee! Mahogany!"). As her lovely theme song flows from the soundtrack, Ms. Ross throws a tantrum in a fountain (which ends up on a Revlon billboard); does a wax-covered striptease; and wears a number of eye-popping, often hideous fashions that she designed herself, including a Sea Monkey costume and a sugar glider made out of pantyhose. But ultimately, what she really wants is love--as does every woman is this sort of film since the invention of the movie camera.

Limp though it may be, there is some enjoyment to be had for camp devotees. The photography and music are breathtaking. The cast looks great; the acting is okay, considering that everyone is forced to mouth silly, soapy dialogue about love and selfishness. There are a fair number of unintentional laughs, too, but by the end, you just won't care anymore. Really, Mahogany is about audience gratification. Basically, the film tells us that success is "Nothing But Heartaches" (to quote Diana--sorry, couldn't resist), so you may as well stay home and clean the oven. And if you believe that idiocy, I've got some prime Florida realty to sell you.

Dead & Buried (1981)

"Sentimental Journey" into hell

[14 December 2001]

Surprisingly, Dead & Buried has more in common with the original 1930s walking-dead pictures than George Romero's cannibal-ghoul epics. A small coastal community is plagued by a series of extremely brutal mutilation murders. Brawny sheriff James Farentino tries to solve the case, but must deal with a morbid mortician (Jack Albertson, going out with a bang) and a townful of contentious boneheads. Said boneheads, it seems, are the ones committing the murders. But why?

Moody, well-photographed, and solidly effective, it's a wonder that the film is so relatively obscure. The acting is good, and the deaths are extremely painful (the acid scene comes to mind--ugh!). The sequence in which a family of whining morons blunder through a dilapidated house, only to meet the blade-brandishing welcome wagon, is worth seeing in itself. With a melancholy score by Joe Renzetti, Lisa Blount and Robert Englund in small roles, and cute-as-a-button Melody Anderson happily chattering about voodoo and TV dinners (don't ask--just watch). A very interesting little movie well worth seeking out. And keep your eyes peeled for the Warner paperback novelization.

The Appointment (1982)

Terror in the daylight

[14 December 2001]

Possible (very) minor spoilers.

The Appointment is, it seems, a very obscure film. I don't know if it was ever theatrically released in the States, and the videotape isn't especially common.

For most people, the mention of British horror conjures up Hammer-style period images of castles, capes, etc. Here, the approach is decidedly different, as the film takes place in a modern, fairly innocuous Northern suburb and on a series of brightly-lit country roads. Edward Woodward and Jane Merrow are having trouble with their spoiled daughter Joanne (Samantha Weysom), who has ways of getting what she wants. Her pubescent routine is disrupted when Daddy is called away on business, forcing him to miss her school concert. Joanne is not happy...and Daddy, strapped into a rented Ford Granada, is in for a very disturbing journey.

The film's dry, uniquely British detachment will make it rough going for some, but it is definitely worth the trip. An extremely interesting look at horror in the places you would least expect it, The Appointment benefits from solid acting and striking use of sound. There are plenty of haunting, surprisingly beautiful visuals--some shocking (the scene in the auto garage), others very subtle, but always with that undeniable disturbance in the peaceful English atmosphere. With an excellent climax, definitely not for the weak-hearted. Too bad Lindsey Vickers never made any other films. Make an appointment to see it...provided your schedule is already clear, of course.

Harold and Maude (1971)

"'Cause there's a million things to be..."

[13 December 2001]

For years, I'd heard numerous good things about this low-budget cult comedy, but somehow I never ran across it. Well, last night I did, and I'm pleased to say that it truly is a superbly nuanced, beautiful piece of cinema. You probably wouldn't think a film could work as a black comedy, a biting social satire, and a sweet, sincere romance all at once, but Harold and Maude does--brilliantly.

Harold Chasen (Bud Cort) is a repressed young man whose main outlets are attending funerals and staging of elaborate pseudo-suicides, much to the annoyance of his controlling rich-bitch mother (Vivian Pickles). At one of these funerals, he meets Maude (Ruth Gordon), a wise, free-spirited old woman who careens around California in "borrowed" cars. What follows is one of the funniest and most touching pairings in screen history, exploring love, death, and the importance of living.

All around, a witty, intelligent, wonderful picture, from the sparkling performances to the seamlessly executed material. I'm not much of a Cat Stevens fan (records like "Wild World" make my teeth grind), but the soundtrack here is truly great. In fact, the sanitized, get-along world could stand to learn something from Gordon's delightful heroine: Existing is not the same as Living, and not living is a fate far worse than death. Thanks, Maude.

The Rage: Carrie 2 (1999)

Enragingly bad

[25 November 2001]

Possible minor spoilers.

Often, when a great film is made, a sequel is inevitable--for financial reasons if for nothing else. And every once in a while, a sequel will be so dispiritingly awful, so hellbent on destroying everything that worked so well about the original, that we feel compelled to ignore it and assume that the story ended with Part 1. Staying Alive...Exorcist 2: The Heretic...Look What's Happened to Rosemary's Baby...and now The Rage: Carrie 2. Yes, it seems that even after 23 years, no film is safe.

Let's see--how to explain what went wrong? Well, imagine Carrie with all the emotional elements excised and the material "updated" for yammering, self-referential mallrats. Yes, it's that bad. Excuse me while I fire off mistakes at random. This film cost a needless $21 million (compared to the original's modest but well-utilized $1.8 million), and the money was apparently used in the hiring of talent-dry teenybopper marquee value; they might as well have stuffed the cash down the garbage disposal--the result would've been the same. Amy Irving is wasted; she is here to establish a link with the first film, and she is cruelly discarded after serving that purpose. Emily Bergl obviously has talent, but she can't do much with the material she's given.

And what material! This time, the emphasis is not on emotional pain, but on sappy teen romance and dialogue more suited to the WB network. Elements from the original (frizzy-haired fanatic momma) and new (again, "updated") ideas are tossed together, and the result is a mangled mess. Carrie worked so well because the title character was so odd, desperate, tortured. Here, the lead is all too functional and aware. So why does she go to the party? Why does she accept their apologies (and so readily)? I was a tormented 16-year-old when this movie came out, so this lapse in logic really struck me.

Of course, since this is a sequel to Carrie, the girl is telekinetic. The movie even botches this. In Carrie, the extrasensory elements were an extension of her emotions; here, they are far more gratuitous. For the final holocaust, the gore is of a more extreme nature, but they can't even do THAT right! This time, they use computer generation. I am not scared of an expensive cartoon. I have no earthly clue why they insist on using computer generation when the same effects could be accomplished much more convincingly and economically with a little piano wire and a few gallons of stage blood.

What else is wrong? Everything, truthfully. Someone's bizarre idea of visual flair is switching between color and black-and-white and stretching the picture. The music is routine. The plot is needlessly convoluted (I know it's based on a true story--that doesn't make it effective). In short, please do yourself a favor and stick with the original. Just ignore The Rage. Let Carrie White rest in peace.

The Incubus (1981)

Surprisingly routine

[25 November 2001]

I saw this movie about three years ago on a defective rental tape, and I must say that I was shocked. I was shocked at how a film dealing with supernatural rape and mutilation can be so...conventional! Yes, you read it right. When the screen isn't gushing blood at regular intervals, the movie is actually a run-of-the-mill slasher-mystery, with stilted dialogue and unimaginative presentation (though the movie-theater sequence shows some flair). And talk about your surprise endings!

The acting is bland; even John Cassavetes (who I guess had some bills to pay that month) seems preoccupied. In fact, despite the aforementioned brutality, the production seems altogether too restrained. It's as if, despite the lurid subject matter, the filmmakers didn't want to make an exploitation picture--even though they can't make the material work on any other level. As a result, the more sensationalistic elements are balanced out by indifferent "human drama" involving a bunch of not-very-interesting characters. The occasional stabs at depth ("I don't WANT tenderness!") range from just plain ineffective to full-out laughable. But the final product (which cost more than you might think) isn't laughable, but merely mediocre. It did have potential, but instead it just sort of...is.

Absolutely Fabulous (1992–2012)

They're back, sweetie, and louder than ever!

[24 November 2001]

In the current climate of social restriction and political correctness, there is something very liberating about watching people do all the things society tells us are bad without one iota of regret. This is made even more powerful by making the characters a pair of middle-aged, upper-crust women who "should know better."

Who says Brits are stuffy? In the outrageous world of jet-setters Edina Monsoon (Jennifer Saunders--is there anything she CAN'T do?) and Patsy Stone (Joanna Lumley), moderation is but a myth, darling! These two babes are BENEATH the Valley of the Dolls--piles of pills, mountains of coke, gallons of Bolly-Stoli cocktails...and whatever else is fashionable at the present time. They slavishly follow trends, kiss the butts of celebrities, torment Eddy's straight-laced daughter Saffron (Julia Sawalha), and basically do whatever must be done to get exactly what they want, when they want it. There are no lessons, no judgments, no treacly sentimental bits to tug at one's heartstrings. Thank bloody God!

AbFab is the perfect alternative for those repulsed by the sugary sewage typically pumped through the picture tube, where everyone does "the right thing" ("Don't do that in front of me or I'll throw up!"). Sharp in all departments, with a terrific cast, hilarious (and surprisingly true) writing, and a gorgeously gaudy wardrobe for Eddy ("Lacroix, sweetie!"). And best of all, after a five-year absence, THEY ARE BACK! These lovable lushes have NOT had their Last Shout--and don't you dare think they've mellowed! Joyously self-absorbed chaos is still the name of the game, and nobody plays it better than Eddy and Patsy.

"All right, cheers, thanks a lot."

City of the Living Dead (1980)

Another nightmarish Neopolitan gut-bucket

[3 November 2001]

Possible minor spoilers.

Though less fluid than Zombie, The Gates of Hell still has a lot to offer the open-minded horror fan. A priest's suicide unleashes supernatural forces on the small town of Dunwich. Mirrors break, kittens become aggressive, dust storms kick up...but that's merely an appetizer. We are then confronted with scenes so extremely gory that, while the film is unrated, bolster it to the equivalent of an X.

In Lucio Fulci's feverish nightmare, all hell, quite literally, breaks loose. The film brims with atmosphere, from the seance-hanging to the premature burial to the misty nights of the living dead. Fabio Frizzi's score is the perfect compliment. While characterization may not be Fulci's strong suit, Giovanni Lombardo Radice (also known as John Morghen) is distinctive and oddly engaging as the town scapegoat (who meets a VERY bad end). Catriona MacColl is lovely and vivacious, and everyone else basically stands around.

Fulci's direction mostly concerns the composition of shocking, haunting visuals, and he's not skimping here. He gives us flying fireballs (accomplished perfectly, without a computer-cartoon in sight) and a hail of maggots a la Suspiria, but that's his brand of subtlety! When he really breaks out the big guns...let's just say that this isn't a movie you should watch while eating popcorn. A cinematic milestone is reached as a hemorrhaging woman literally retches her guts up, in unsparing detail. I don't want to spoil anything, so I'll just say that there are generous helpings of blood, guts, and horrifying physical pain (Radice's fate is particularly disturbing). Tense, frightening, and quite daring, this is a must for horror fans who consider themselves unshockable. The only glitch is the ending, which makes no sense at all.

The Other Hell (1981)

RUN! NUN!

[3 November 2001]

This Italian nunsploitation epic has been referred to be a plethora of adjectives, including sleazy, low-grade, and stupid. Perhaps these descriptions fit, but there is definitely some fun to be had for the initiated.

Weird, seemingly supernatural events plague a convent, and priest Carlo De Mejo tries to figure it all out. The perverse proceedings start off interestingly, with a nutty nun carving out the uterus of one of her sisters, ranting maniacally about how "the genitals are the doorway to EVIL!" (The first, but thankfully not last, instance of hilarious "shock" dialogue.) This is a Big Moment; the movie contains a number of Big Moments strung together by indifferent, uneventful stretches in which people argue, a creepy gardener lurks about, etc. Often possessing little regard for style or visual creativity, the film ping-pongs between effectiveness and boredom; the high points are memorably bizarre and demented, while the lows will make you seriously consider a nap.

The makeup effects range from good (a nun breaking out with stigmata) to atrocious (burn scars resembling plastic vomit). The photography is overly dark and burdened even further with bad color (everything is given a sickly yellow cast, as if they forgot to clean the camera lens). De Mejo isn't very interesting, but Franca Stoppi is marvelously over the top as bitchy Mother Vincenzia. Along the course of the story, elements from a number of more successful films--Carrie, The Exorcist, Rosemary's Baby, Suspiria--are lifted and tossed into the cauldron. On the subject of Suspiria, the one truly high-quality aspect of The Other Hell is Goblin's pounding electronic score.

Indeed, this movie is not going to win any prizes, but trashfiends will probably get a kick out of it despite the flaws. If you find naughty nun sinema to be your garbage of choice, this may be the dumpster for you.

Deadly Blessing (1981)

Well-made, effective rural horror

[20 October 2001]

Possible minor spoilers.

Before turning to big-budget, ultra-commercial garbage like Scream, Wes Craven made some fiercely original and memorable horror films. Deadly Blessing is perhaps the last in this category. Though not up to the level of Last House on the Left (1972) and The Hills Have Eyes (1977) in terms of quality or audacity, it's still a tense and imaginative experience. Maren Jensen is a gorgeous woman whose husband is killed in a highly suspicious "accident." She and her luscious friends (Susan Buckner of Grease and a young Sharon Stone) soon find themselves threatened by her Hittite in-laws, who "make the Amish look like swingers"...and possibly someone else.

The film is surprisingly lush looking, all things considered, with glossy color and imaginative visuals. The acting is good all around, especially Lisa Hartman in the role of a lifetime as simpleminded neighbor Faith ("F-A-I-T-H. Like in believe.") and Lois Nettleton as her tough-as-nails mama. There are several dynamite set pieces, not the least of which involves a snake in a bathtub (though why Jensen is bathing in panties is anyone's guess). The heroines are very appealing, and all the stops are pulled out in a frenzied climax that goes Beyond the Valley of Friday the 13th and back again. Some of the dialogue is unintentionally funny ("You are a stench in the nostril of God!"), but it doesn't really detract from the proceedings. In fact, the only major problem is a monumentally stupid, tacked-on shock-twist ending that cheapens the whole affair. With Rod Stewart's "Maggie May" on the soundtrack, the old noises-outside-the-car bit, and pop-eyed Ernest Borgnine ranting like never before. Worth seeing. Severe arachnophobes beware.

Martin (1977)

Martin: A Man-Made Monster

[20 October 2001]

Possible minor spoilers.

Between the megahits Night of the Living Dead and Dawn of the Dead, George Romero's films were generally ignored. This is unfortunate, especially in the case of Martin, since it is certainly his best. Romero changes gears, this time supplying a tragic, finely-nuanced study of cruelty, pain, and alienation so heartbreakingly true that it's often hard to watch. Martin is a withdrawn, sexually confused young man existing against a livid industrial landscape. His superstitious, fanatically religious family believes him to be an 84-year-old vampire, constantly badgering him about his supposed "evil." In response, Martin is warped into believing it, going out at night to slice people's wrists with razor blades and drink their blood. Receiving nothing but criticism and abuse (any positive force in his life is transient and ineffectual), Martin is so dysfunctional that he can barely speak to people, until he finds an outlet in the anonymity of talk radio.

As you might guess, this is not a typical vampire picture. It isn't polished, thank God. Hand-held camerawork and ordinary-looking actors add the sort of gritty realism that Hollywood would never touch. John Amplas is fantastic in the difficult role of Martin; he can express so many emotions with just a slight change of expression that it's a wonder his career didn't go a lot further. The whole film has the perfect atmosphere of living death, as if the Pittsburgh suburb of Braddock is a corpse giving a few last reflexive breaths. Romero creates a challenging, deeply affecting story, making you care about the strange protagonist shunned by the world. The ending is very unfortunate, but I don't think there is any other way it could have ended. An absolutely, positively brilliant movie.

Note: The disappearing face cream is not a continuity glitch. It obviously came off in the struggle.

Enter the Devil (1974)

Kinky but routine Exorcist clone

[19 October 2001]

Possible minor spoilers.

Under any title (the tape I saw was called The Eerie Midnight Horror show, with red-lips artwork aping Rocky Horror) this movie isn't very special. It starts off okay, with a cool credits sequence and some interesting sexual touches (a whipping with roses, sex with a living statue), and it looks like it's building to something memorable, but...no. Despite an attractive cast and gorgeous Italian scenery, the whole affair is pretty dull and pointless. A moment of unintended humor marks the turning point: lovely Denila's parents discover her masturbating and call the doctor! The doctor prescribes warm milk! But unfortunately, the movie doesn't even provide many laughs, and once the facts of Denila's affliction are established, we are given boring sermons on the evils of kinky sex and the importance of family. To top it off, the possession is one of the dullest ever filmed. As the possessed one, Stella Carnacina eats her own hair, develops stigmata, and screams a LOT. Most of the minimal makeups are saved for the chain-lashing climax, and I think most viewers will have stopped caring long before. For possession and Ivan Rassimov completists only.

The Antichrist (1974)

"Stop those church bells!"

[19 October 2001]

Possible minor spoilers.

This sleazy Italian Exorcist rip-off is nothing if not weird. After a credits sequence that wallops us with the title not once but TWICE, we meet bitter, wheelchair-bound Ippolita Oderisi (Carla Gravina). After undergoing regressive hypnosis, she becomes possessed by the devil, grabs her crotch, vomits, attacks people, and performs various other antisocial acts. Toads are decapitated, green puke is consumed ("Lick it!"), and Ippolita's sex drive hits warp speed. Then, with a Rosemary's Baby transition, we are presented with the infamous "Orgy in Hell"--apparently hell is a misty purple forest where blue-skinned people have choreographed sex. So it's time to call in the exorcist...and another...and another...and Alida Valli, too!

The Tempter really isn't as bad as some would have it. It's not a great movie, but it's compellingly audacious, with a few visual flourishes (note the Argento-style red wall). The plot structure is sometimes confusing, as certain scenes appear to repeat (especially when Ippolita wears the same hideously ugly dress to dinner twice). A lot of the visual effects seem to be back-projected and look rather odd, and the makeups are quite effective. One highlight of the film is the hilarious dubbed obscenities spewed at every turn ("She is a big whore, your niece!"); one wonders how many liberties the translators were taking.

This solid stomach-turner--which many say was actually the first blatant Exorcist rip-off--is worth seeing for trashfiends. Yes, it's derivative and sometimes silly, but not without entertainment value and some originality. Some parts are actually pretty tense and scary. Keep an open mind, and you may enjoy this oh-so-Italian sexual scuzzball.