Friday, April 18, 2008Event Horizon Release Year: 1997Country: United States Starring: Laurence Fishburne, Sam Neill. Kathleen Quinlan, Joely Richardson, Richard T. Jones, Jack Noseworthy, Jason Isaacs, Sean Pertwee. Writer: Phil Eisner Director: Paul W.S. Anderson Cinematographer: Adrian Biddle Music: Michael Kamen Producer: Jeremy Bolt, Lawrence Gordon, Lloyd Levin Availability: Buy it from Amazon Promote It: Digg | del.icio.us Event Horizon is another one of those movies that I wouldn't review if I wasn't committed to writing about everything I get from Netflix until such time as I see fit to end this third in the series of Netflix Diaries. It's not that Event Horizon isn't the kind of movie I would write about. Haunted spaceships and Sam Neill ripping out his own eyeballs is right up my alley. No, the reason isn't the content, but rather, that fact that this is one of those movies that already has a lot of words spent on it from a variety of sources both in the mainstream and in the realm of cult film fandom. Under such circumstances, it's hard to imagine what i might have to add that is new. In some cases, I can come up with something -- some tiny, meaningless tidbit that is a throwaway line in a movie that then allows me to write endlessly on some idiotic and obscure point. But upon watching Event Horizon, I was left with a distinct lack of ideas when it came to thinking about how I might approach writing about this film with some degree of originality. And now that I've finished the first paragraph, I still have no idea, so with any luck, something will pop up as I stumble along. I didn't see Event Horizon when it was released. I'm not sure why. I mean, it's a gory film about a spooky spaceship. I think, however, in 1997, I saw maybe three film the entire year, and that was when I went out on dates with a lovely Southern belle. Somehow we ended up at a screening of Mortal Kombat II: Annihilation. So shamed was I that I just packed up and left North Carolina for New York, hoping to lose myself in the throng and hide my shameful secret. But the Netflix Diaries experiments have, in a way, become a curious place for dragging my own horrible secrets into the light for all to see, and on the scale of shameful secrets, "took a date to see Mortal Kombat II: Annihilation" is much worse than "burning passion for Catalina Larranaga" or even "took a date to see Wicked City." It's probably not worse than, "invited a girl over, cooked her a crappy dinner, then made her watch Black Devil Doll from Hell," but it's pretty close.
I was also pretty much broke in 1997. Hell, I was pretty much broke in 2007, but I'd learned to stretch a dollar in those ten years. Whatever the reason, I didn't see many movies that year, and Event Horizon was among the ones I didn't see. Heck, I don't think I knew a thing about it back then, because I didn't even have a TV at the time where I could see important commercials informing of the virtues of films like Event Horizon, B*A*P*S, Kull the Conqueror, or any of the other fine films released that year. In the many years that followed, Event Horizon was off my radar and forgotten about, even though from time to time someone would tell me I should see it. That almost always encourages me not to see a film, as very few people seem to understand the complexities of my taste, and so they assume that I will want to be watching Troma films or other intentionally and ironically crappy movies. People just can't grasp my earnestness. But lately, I've been going back and catching up on a lot of the science fiction I missed in the past ten years or so, and after Screamers, Event Horizon was the next film on the list -- though calling it science fiction is sort of like calling Halloween a "coming of age drama." Despite the starships, hibernation chambers, spacesuits, and other superficial trappings of science fiction, Event Horizon is most definitely a horror film through and through, hewing closely to the classic set-up of a group of people in an isolated location, being preyed upon by a mysterious and murderous force. It just so happens that outer space is a slightly more isolated location than usual. In this regard, Event Horizon draws upon a history of science fiction horror that includes films like Alien and Mario Bava's Planet of the Vampires and can be traced back even further to the era of pulp fiction and writers like H.P. Lovecraft. In fact, it's Lovecraft's name that is most often invoked when people attempt to describe this film, even though at no point does Sam Neill yell "Yog Sothoth!" Unfortunately for a lot of people, Lovecraft and horror films were not invoked by the advertising for the film when it was released, which marketed it for the most part as a space adventure with some minor overtones of spookiness. People who went in expecting sci-fi space adventure found themselves confronted by hallucinatory images of demon rape, maggots, people being flayed alive, other people vomiting up their own innards or possibly someone else's arm -- at times, the atrocity exhibition is hard to decipher, but the fact remains that it was not what the average sci-fi fan was expecting. I've never quite understood this type of bait and switch marketing, as it only makes people mad. But I suspect that it has less to do with some sinister attempt to trick sci-fi fans into seeing a horror film and more to do with an ad agency that never bothered to watch the movie they were marketing and just assumed that, since it featured a spaceship, it was a science fiction film.
By the time I saw this movie, of course, the cat was out of the bag, so I knew exactly what I was getting into. Even if I hadn't, it would not have mattered much, since I can roll with horror just as easily as I can science fiction. So that's not what bugs me about this movie. What bugs me is that Event Horizon is this close to being a great movie, and that it comes so close but ultimately fails is, fair or not, much worse than if it had just been a crummy movie from beginning to end. At least then, I could have abandoned any care and gone along with things. That's what gets me through The Chronicles of Riddick, Aeon Flux, and the many other two-star science fiction films for which I seem to have an incredible weakness. But Event Horizon was almost so much more, and while I ultimately like the movie quite a lot, I do so well aware of the bitter taste left by great ideas left poorly explored and a resolution that sees the movie collapse in on itself -- which I guess is fitting in a way for a movie that features the a black hole propulsion system. The set-up is not unlike that of a couple other "investigating the mysterious ship" movies. I'm thinking specifically of The Black Hole and 2010. In the year 2047, a group of search and rescue astronauts lead by Lawrence Fishburne when he was allowed to show emotion instead of being an emotionless monotonal Matrix guy, are en route to a secret location known only to aerospace scientist Sam Neill. It is soon revealed that they are on their way to rendezvous with the space ship Event Horizon, an experimental craft with the ability to use a black hole generator to warp space and travel massive distances in the blink of an eye. But the ship went missing seven years ago, and there's been no successful contact with the crew since it suddenly re-appeared near the planet Neptune. Captain Miller (Fishburne), Dr. Weir (Neill), and the crew of the rescue ship Lewis and Clark are to make contact with the crew of the Event Horizon and see what the heck is going on. A rough approach through the stormy space surrounding Neptune results in damage to the Lewis and Clark, meaning that whatever happens on board the Event Horizon, they're going to have to stick around a spell to fix their own ship.
Things are hardly soothing on the nerves once the team boards the massive experimental space ship. The crew is gone, and the only trace of them is a garbled transmission full of screaming -- though eventually Miller and company also discover some hideously mutilated remains splayed across the walls. Although the ship's black hole drive is presumably shut down, it still finds time to activate itself and suck a member of Miller's crew into its vortex, returning him in a coma that is only broken long enough for him to babble hysterically about "the darkness inside him" and the nightmarish things he saw on the other side. On top of that, the rest of Miller's crew starts seeing things -- specifically, hallucinations of their dead loved ones. And because horror on top of horror isn't enough, scans of the Event Horizon begin returning reports of widespread bio signals, inferring that something else is on the ship with them. When one of Miller's officers decodes the Event Horizon log, they are met with perverse images of the crew being ripped apart, raped by hideous beasts (or possibly by other members of the crew), and suffering untold and unspeakable horrors. Miller decides that the ship can go to hell, and they're leaving it behind. But Weir seems to feel that the ship has already been to hell, and that somewhere along it's universe-warping journey, the Event Horizon passed into another dimension, one of absolute chaos and evil, and in doing so became a sentient and highly malevolent living organism. The scans are picking up life forms; they're picking up the ship itself, and the hallucinations and other problems are a result of the ship's immune system defending itself from invading organisms. Or the ship could just be a big ol' hunk of Hell-infused evil. Whatever the case, Miller is as keen on leaving as Weir is on keeping everybody there. As a concept, I think Event Horizon is tremendous. The idea of a ship's experimental drive warping space tot he point where it rips the fabric of the universe and winds up in another dimension humans could best comprehend as Hell is wonderful, and that sort of "horror among the stars" is right out of the old pulp writings of H.P. Lovecraft, who often tinged his horror with elements of science fiction. The universe into which the Event Horizon passed is glimpsed, but only in tiny, tiny portions, and the film relies again on the old Lovecraft trope of a place so completely evil, so thoroughly perverse and malign, that to merely gaze upon it would drive a man insane. Further, the idea that the ship, once returning in some way or another from that universe, would have become a sentient creature as evil as the universe through which it passed is a concept rife with potential. It's also a set of ideas so vast, so complex, that attempting to tackle them in two hours in a sci-fi horror film is almost certainly doomed to failure.
And that's what happens to poor Event Horizon; it is filled with too many good ideas that are too complex, and there's no hope of the film ever being able to satisfactorily unravel it's science, meta-science, philosophy, and religion. In a way, this isn't a bad thing. To present human characters with a situation far beyond their comprehension and thus leave many questions necessarily half-answered or completely unresolved is fine. There is a way to do that. I just don't think Event Horizon hits the mark. It aims. It makes a valiant effort. But int he end, it just can't get it's head around its own central concepts, and the whole thing devolves into an ending that lets the film down. But make no mistake about it -- I like this movie. I like it a lot. I think the things it does right make it more than worth the time it takes to watch. My frustration stems purely from the fact that it was well within the grasp of this film to be even better, and it didn't quite make it. It's like one of those break-aways in basketball where one guy has the ball,sprints the length of the court alone, has everyone cheering and going nuts, but then when he goes up for the slam dunk, he somehow screws it up and misses. You know, if he'd just dribbled down and missed a jumper, no worries. But because there was tremendous emotion and pageantry around the idea of a breakaway and dunk, when the guy blows the dunk, it makes the missed basket way more painful -- especially if it comes near the very end and costs them the game. Event Horizon spends most of its running time building up the freak-out and scares (sometimes with cheap jump scares, but usually through the use of genuine atmosphere), but as Roger Ebert said of the movie, "it's all foreboding and never gets to the actual boding." But let's detach ourselves from disappointment and spend some time talking about what this movie does right. First and foremost is the atmosphere. Although the science fiction setting misled a lot of viewers, it works wonderfully for this type of film. It's basically a slightly more fantastic version of the "old dark house," the remote cabin, or any of the many other locations horror films use to isolate their cast from the outside world -- only more so. Millions of miles from home, on a tiny man-made island, surrounded by an environment that will kill you almost instantly if you set foot outside. That's even more claustrophobic and nerve-wracking than being at some rich weirdo's country manor. And Event Horizon never lets you forget how vulnerable these people are. Their air is running out. One guy ends up outside the ship without a spacesuit. You never lose sight of how fragile humans are in this setting -- something I think could only be replicated by setting your movie in the middle of the ocean. Much of Event Horizon has to do with the concept of tampering in domains man was not meant to see, but while the specific domain may be the Hell Universe, in general it's obvious that even save travel through space in incredibly dangerous, and a tiny mistake or bit of damage can have colossally negative repercussions.
Adding to the ominous air is the Event Horizon itself, which was apparently designed by someone who thought H.R. Giger's stuff was just too cuddly. I'm not sure how practical it is to have a spaceship with such features as a rotating tunnel of spikes and a room full of crawlspaces that are accessed through thorn-covered black panels, but I suspect that few aerospace engineers, even in Russia, are looking to design anything quite this terrifying. Remember when the interiors of spaceships were all white and well-lit? I wonder when the point will come that we decide to move away from that color scheme, and away from various pads and cushions covering stuff, and finally embrace the style that calls for dim, flickering lighting, exposed ductwork and wires, and lots and lots of razor blades and thorns. Practicality issues aside, though, and taken purely as art design, the Event Horizon is magnificent. Production designer Joseph Bennett and visual effects supervisor Richard Yuricich bring an immense amount of experience to the game. Yurichich cut his teeth on films like 2001: A Space Odyssey before moving on to supervise visual effects for Star Trek: The Motion Picture, Blade Runner, and of course, Ghost Dad. Bennett did design for the cyberpunk cult hit Hardware, and one can see the evidence of all their past work (as well as the ever-present influence of old German expressionism and Giger's work on Alien) in the design of Event Horizon. This isn't a terribly big-budget film, but they do a lot with what they have, giving the entire movie the feel of some twisted, horrific opera. Another feather in the cap of this film is the cast. None of them inhabit especially well-developed characters. They operate on the level of recognizable stock -- Fishburne is the tough but fair captain; Neill is the scientist consumed by his obsessions; Richard Jones is the wise-cracking black guy. But even when the characters are thin, the performers still give it their all. You feel like they believe what's happening around them, and while they sometimes make dumb decisions, they rarely make decisions that aren't understandable given the circumstances. The exception, perhaps, would be that after Miller spends a long time explaining that the ship will pick you brain and create hallucinations of suffering loved ones, and after everyone in the crew understands this is what the ship is doing, Kathleen Quinlan's Peters still falls for the trick. I've mentioned it in other reviews, but it always annoys me enough that I feel like mentioning it again anytime it happens (and it happens a lot). The hoary old "evil entity transforms into a loved one" shtick grates on my nerves. I mean, you're in outer space, for crying out loud. Obviously, when you've been told that the evil spaceship ghoul thing will make you see visions of your loved ones and use them to lure you to your doom, and then all of a sudden your son appears out of nowhere in a location he absolutely could not be in, well why the hell would you fall for that? Why would your son be running around on a haunted space ship that just returned from Dante's Inferno? I guess you could dismiss it as some sort of hypnotic effect, or the result of mental breakdown making a character unable to reason, but mostly it just always strikes me as lazy writing.
Still, no one turns in a bad performance, even though they're sometimes given very little to do. The bulk of the good stuff goes to Sam Neill, since he gets to play the characters who goes completely bonkers. If anyone had seen Neill in In the Mouth of Madness, they wouldn't have followed him into space, because they would know that spooky H.P. Lovecraft entities tend to follow him around and drive people mad. If Event Horizon succeeds with any one character, it's Neill's Dr. Weir, who starts off sympathetic enough before he is consumed by the horrible mysteries contained within the walls of the Event Horizon. However, one gets the feeling that his character never becomes omniscient, never actually knows what these mysteries are despite his enthusiasm about them. No matter the speeches he may give about boundless evil, other dimensions, and forbidden knowledge, his Faust of a doctor is ultimately as clueless about what's going on and what's going to happen as everyone else's. Although this is likely the product of the screenwriter not knowing himself exactly what was going to happen, the end result is effective. Neill becomes the acolyte of an unseen "holy man," one who speaks only in riddles and fools his followers into thinking they possess some profound understanding or insight when, in fact, they have been fed nothing but meaningless phrases and garbled imagery. There's a tragedy surrounding Dr. Weir, who far from becoming one with the ship and grasping the universe from which it has returned, instead becomes nothing more than a pitiable dupe. Whether or not screenwriter Phil Eisner meant that to be the case, he should take it. Because the rest of his script is where the concept of Event Horizon starts to unravel. Poking fun at the science is ultimately meaningless -- this is hardly the sort of film you go to for hard facts, and such an exercise would be as futile as poking holes in the space science of Star Wars. Still, it's kind of fun, so why not, provided we remember that stressing fiction over science never kills a movie for me. Heck, one of my favorite science fiction films is Adieu, Galaxy Express 999, and that's about a steam locomotive traveling through the galaxy while a little kid hangs his head out the window. The science of Event Horizon plays out as if it was conceived by someone who was told about Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time by someone else who hadn't actually read the book, but had been around other people discussing it. A Brief History of Time was, of course, one of those great books that everyone bought and no one read, putting it in the rarefied air occupied by other such books: that gigantic Bill Clinton memoir, the 9/11 Commission Report, Ulysses by James Joyce, and The Bible.
Part of what Hawking's book dealt with in its attempt to bring high physics down to a populist level was the topic of black holes. Now I actually read the book, because I'm a nerd like that, and because I had to as part of one of the classes I was taking. It was one of those science classes set up specifically for people who aren't very good with equations, which meant it was mostly full of journalism students and members of the University of Florida football team who would groan anytime the professor tried to relate a fundamental understanding of physics to the act of making a solid pass. Yeah, sure, physics is involved, but it was highly suspect to suggest that Danny Wuerffel spent his time in the huddle scrawling geometry and physics equations into the dirt to figure out how best to get the ball into the hands of wide receiver Reidel Anthony. Anyway, I think that class gave me about as sound an understanding as would be needed to be the guy that Eisner's friend talked to about black holes. Meaning that I could remember that Hawking made allusions to Dante's Inferno when speaking of the event horizon of a black hole -- that gravitational point of no return from which light itself cannot escape. "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here," Hawking said, paraphrasing Dante and the sign that hung outside the gates of Hell. He meant, of course, that the pull of a black hole is so great, that if you cross the event horizon, you're not coming back, so you best make peace with the fact that you're dead meat. Now pass that sentiment through me passing it on to someone else, who then tells Phil Eisner that he was drunk at a party the other night, talking about some deep shit like black holes. All of a sudden, that simple quote applied to explain how hopeless it is to escape the pull of a black hole is twisted to mean that a black hole actually could be the gateway to Hell. And poof! Event Horizon's concept is born. It's really not a bad concept, regardless of how misconstrued it may be. Black holes are weird, after all, and the idea that they lead somewhere other than to a horrible death in which you are crushed down to microscopic size by the unbelievable gravitational pressure is hardly new to Event Horizon. And even the best minds are still feeble when up against cosmic phenomena of this scale. So why not? And anyway, the use of the term "event horizon" works in a couple different ways, and it refers as much to a black hole as it does to the Event Horizon itself, which proves to be a flashpoint which, once entered, will not allow the humans to escape. What's more important to the quality of the screenplay is what Eisner does with the concept, and while he starts off strong, he seems to get lost, allowing the movie at times to devolve into a blood and guts horror film (not bad) and a pastiche of other other movies (slightly less forgivable). I've already mentioned some of the films from which Event Horizon draws, but there are plenty of others. In fact, it lifts wholesale the scene of a river of blood gushing forth from an elevator from The Shining. In fact, you could really view this movie as little more than The Shining meets The Black Hole. Sam Neill's character bears a close resemblance to Jack Nicholson's character from The Shining, and the concept of a haunted house (or spaceship) that causes hallucinations and may itself be alive is an idea shared by both films. Many other elements are lifted from the Russian sci-fi film Solaris, yet another "man battles hallucinations" sci-fi tale. One could also invoke the specter of the old Roger Corman Poe films, especially The Fall of the House of Usher, as it too is about a house infused with evil to the point of becoming a malignant being itself, ending in a fiery collapse much the same as we see at the end of Event Horizon. And the idea of the black hole as a portal to Hell was explored -- with equal awkwardness -- by The Black Hole, a film which sends one of its robotic villains through a black hole and lands him standing on a pillar surrounded by a lake of fire and the souls of the damned. n fact, Event Horizon reflects The Black Hole in many ways -- an exploratory crew finds a long lost ship; that ship' screw has vanished or mostly vanished; things are spooky; and then it all falls apart at the end when the movies both realize that they have ten minutes to explain things that the top scientific minds of the word have been grappling with for decades.
In the case of Event Horizon, all the talk of physics versus metaphysics, of a ship powered by pure evil, of a rip in the fabric of space that leads to a Hellraiser universe, lead to an anti-climatic and predictable fist fight between Miller and Weir. Though it is similar to The Fall of the House of Usher, and though it's a suitably horrific and downbeat ending for the decent guy Miller, it seems ultimately to be a resolution that fails the film's attempts at something more complex. I don't need the questions to be answered. In fact, I prefer that they try and fail, discovering that comprehension of what awaits them is simply beyond the boundaries of the human brain. But a fist fight and an explosion seemed somehow to be less than what should have been delivered. It may not be entirely Eisner's fault, though. Apparently some forty minutes was cut from the movie in order to achieve a manageable running time (1997 was a few years too early for genre films to run three hours or more and still get a wide release) and an R-rating (the 90s represented MPAA judges in a reactionary phase as an answer to the gore and nudity soaked anarchy of the 70s and 80s). Fans hoped that the footage would be restored at some point, and that such restoration would smooth out many of the wrinkles that prevent Event Horizon from achieving its ambitions, but so far such wishes have gone unsatisfied. Even when released to DVD, the film was still the theatrical cut. Whether or not it will ever be fully restored is up in the air, but given that we live in an era when almost everything, no matter how obscure or trashy, is getting lovingly reconstructed by some madman, there's still the possibility that a more complete version will emerge and we can re-assess the film based on that. Until then, though, we have to work with what we get to watch, and as presented, Event Horizon is an almost great movie that loses its way and relies on too many scenes from other movies and too many cheap jolts. I do wish horror films would retire that bit where someone is scared, and then someone come sup behind them and grabs them on the shoulder, refusing to speak until the other person and the audience have gotten a cheap scare. Really -- have you ever approached a person in complete silence, from behind, and grabbed them by the shoulder? Yes, you have, but that's because you were intentionally trying to scare that person. In all other instances, no one does this, and yet horror films feature it like every other scene. What makes it frustrating here is that Event Horizon doesn't need to rely on these weak scares. It has plenty of legitimate scares and an over-arching feeling of doom and eeriness. Falling back on juvenile tactics like the shoulder grab is just gratuitous and sloppy. At least they didn't have a scene where a cat jumped out of a box or something.
And really, perhaps I am being like this movie: searching for something that isn't attained, being more serious than I should. Taken as nothing more than a horror film with sci-fi dressing, I really think Event Horizon is a success. It definitely has the feel of an old pulp -- right down to losing track of itself over the course of its running time. Director Paul W.S. Anderson is no stranger to fans of pulpy movies, having directed Mortal Kombat before this (but not Mortal Kombat II), and Resident Evil after, among other things. I have a curious love-hate relationship with Anderson's films in that I love some, hate others, but rarely find myself somewhere in between. Flaws aside, I love Event Horizon. And even more flaws aside, I love the Resident Evil movies, and Mortal Kombat, even (though not Mortal Kombat II). I guess I'm lukewarm on Soldier, so there's one middle ground movie. But I hate with a passion the Alien vs. Predator films, even more than I hate Mortal Kombat II. Still that's a lot of hits any only one real miss for me (granted, I'm not a discriminating viewer), so I guess I like Anderson as a director, and I think Event Horizon is probably the best film he's made and will likely make. At its worst, it is grade-A horror hokum, full of mumbo jumbo and ideas that don't really pan out. And I can deal with that just fine. Heck, like I said, I probably would have preferred if the film was that way from beginning to end instead of flirting with brilliance in spots, only to fold at the last second. But regardless, this is good, gruesome pulp fiction, full of the creeping unknown and vague talk about dimensions of madness and torture that only Cthulhu, Pinhead, and the makers of the Ilsa films can imagine. Anderson's direction is sure-handed, and he and cinematographer Adrian Biddle make wonderful use of the warped madhouse the production team has created for them. So, huh. I guess I did have a lot to say about Event Horizon. Funny the things you learn about yourself when faced with writing about a movie where Sam Neill digs out his own eyeballs. I was pleasantly surprised by it. I didn't expect it to be as good as it was, and even though it's a shame it wasn't as good as it could have been, at the end of the day, I'm happy enough. I'm also happy I didn't see it in 1997, because even though I would have liked it then, perhaps even more than I do now, the fact of the matter is that Southern belle was actually willing to still enter into a relationship with me even after I made her see things like Mortal Kombat II: Annihilation, City of Darkness, and Alien 4. I don't know if that tenuous, early romance could have survived Event Horizon as well, especially considering the fact that she never made me go see Titanic, like every other girlfriend did in 1997. I guess I could have sold Event Horizon with no more or less deception than the original marketing team if I positioned it as "kind of like Titanic, in that it is about people on a doomed ship." Labels: Horror: HP Lovecraft, Horror: Satan, Netflix Diary, Science Fiction, Year: 1997 posted by Keith at 2:43 PM | 5 Comments Wednesday, October 17, 2007Devils of Darkness Release Year: 1965Country: England Starring: William Sylvester, Hubert Noel, Carole Gray, Tracy Reed, Diana Decker, Rona Anderson, Peter Illing. Written by Lyn Fairhurst. Writer: Lyn Fairhurst Director: Lance Comfort Cinematographer: Reg Wyer Producer: Tom Blakeley Music: Bernie Fenton Alternate Titles: Talisman Availability: Buy it from Amazon So let's say, just for the sake of argument, you're a vampire. Not one of those post-Anne Rice vampires with the leather trenchcoat and the bad poetry and the ill-advised appreciation of Pigface. No, I'm talking about one of those older, more distinguished vampires. Not too bad, huh? I mean, yeah, there are drawbacks. I, for one, would miss the sun and a good day's surfing. On the other hand, if you were to become any monster, a vampire would be pretty sweet. A mummy or Frankenstein monster would be the worst, of course. Mummies only have one outfit, and they have to spend the entire afterlife shambling around in pursuit of some dame who looks like some other dame the mummy loved back in ancient Egypt, and then a dude in a tweed jacket sets you on fire. And Frankenstein monsters have to do pretty much the same thing in terms of shambling, though at the very least they get to smoke cigars and drink wine. As for werewolves -- sure, cool power, but you have no control over it, it only happens once a month, you can't remember anything afterward, and your clothes are constantly getting ruined by your transformations. But vampires -- vampires are all right. Yeah, there's the sun thing. And you're going to have to put up with the occasional fat goth girl who calls herself Cassandra and wants to read you her Lestat fanfic. But luckily, when that happens, all you have to do is turn into a bat or some mist and get out of there. And like Keifer Sutherland, or maybe Wilford Brimley, said, you won't get any older and you won't ever die. Not unless someone kills you in one of the various ways a vampire can be killed -- but honestly, what are the chances of that? Have you seen the people who believe in vampires? They're not all Blade-y and full of kungfu fury. They're fat goth girls who call themselves Cassandra and want to read you their Lestat fanfic they wrote in their notebook with the Sisters of Mercy logo drawn on the cover. And what's the deal with all the kungfu fighting with vampires? Seriously, who fights a vampire with kungfu? All the vampire has to do is turn into some fog and wait it out while the vampire killer spin kicks himself into a state of exhaustion. Plus, you're like ten times stronger than a human anyway, so big deal with your kungfu.
So let's say you are a vampire who has survived through the ages. Also, your name is Sinistre. That would be a pretty cool name, at least until you realize that a vampire might have trouble being named Sinistre, because it's the kind of name that sticks out. You might as well be called Spooky McGhoul or Gregor O'Bloodsucker. I think if I was a vampire named Count Sinistre, no matter how cool that would look in album liner notes, I'd probably change my name to Steve Smith or Mike McGill in order to maybe not stand out as much and attract the attention of Cassandra. But that's neither here nor there, and I've been over the territory of fruity vampire names before (hint for all vampires: no one is named Tristan anymore except for porn stars). You're a vampire, and your name is Count Sinistre. Pretty cool, right? But no, you're not satisfied with just being a vampire named Sinistre with all your vampire named Sinistre powers like flying and commanding the will of rats. Like a greedy corporate raider, you want more, more, more. And so you also appoint yourself the head of a Satanic cult comprised largely of mod young hipsters and sophisticated older folks who, when they aren't busy gadding about in bright red devil cloaks, like to talk about antiques and collectibles, sort of like if The Monkees, Anton LaVey, and Antiques Roadshow all got in a car wreck. But such is the ambition of Count Sinistre, menacing vampire leader of the Satanic cult in Devils of Darkness, a previously forgotten horror film in the vein of AIP's Poe films or Hammer fare like The Devil Rides Out. Devils of Darkness pits our sinister Sinistre against -- well, basically, it pits him against a dad from some early 60s sitcom in a veritable whirlwind of opera capes and devil cloaks versus cardigan sweaters and well-pressed slacks. This is the sort of movie where square-jawed everymen sit on couches with their legs crossed and stare intently at their cigarettes while saying things like, "Vampires? But this is the 20th century!" and everyone seems to know a guy who happens to be a professor of the occult. You know, I went to college, and all I learned about was physics and John Adams and whatever the hell it was I didn't pay attention to in that macroeconomics class everyone was required to take to get into the school of journalism. As far as I know, there were no professors whose entire tenure at the university involved them sitting around giving speeches about Pazuzu and magick circles, but maybe I just didn't take the proper classes. Or maybe by going to a public university in America, all I got to learn about was the coefficient of friction and the tragedy of the commons while guys at upper-crust British colleges got to learn about wizards and Ouija boards and how to set rampaging mummies on fire.
Lucky for me that I love movies where guys in sweaters sit around in well-appointed dens, smoking cigarettes and saying, "But you can't entirely discount the stories of vampires" as they drink brandy or some other beverage only Peter Cushing drinks. Lucky for me that I love movies where people put on bright red devil cloaks and hang around in old basements, drawing circles on the floor and lying out scantily clad kidnapped women on stone altars. Devils of Darkness is exactly the kind of fun, old fashioned horror film that makes me happy, so I was pretty happy watching it. William Sylvester stars as the aptly named Paul Baxter -- these guys always have exactly the sort of name you expect them to have -- on vacation with friends and loved ones in some remote part of France where gypsies frolic and dance and emerge from the shadows to point at you and administer ominous proclamations regarding your fate. You know -- the usual gypsy stuff. It turns out that this quaint little vacation village is lorded over by the sinister Count Sinistre, played with Udo Kier-like effete weirdness by Hubert Noel. The exact nature of the seemingly benign Sinistre is called into question when all of Paul's friends start vanishing or turning up dead. Unfortunately, the local police are no help, and when Paul attempts to have the bodies returned to England for examination, all the coffins go missing. Luckily, while all the French are busy being hypnotized and submitting to the will of Sinistre, Paul and some other guys in England are on the case. But then, so is Sinistre, who trails Paul to England to retrieve a talisman and set up a new cult with acolytes culled from the bored and decadent fringes of wealthy society. When Paul falls for an aloof model, Sinistre targets her to become his next bride, something vampires are always doing. How many times did Dracula try to seduce the daughter or granddaughter of some rival? These guys would die a lot less often if they could lay off trying to marry the daughter or girlfriend of their arch enemies. If you like the old style horror of Roger Corman's Poe films, or if you like what I'll call the Hammer B-Team (meaning, not Dracula or Frankenstein) movies from the 60s, then I think Devils of Darkness will please you. It's brightly colored, especially when everyone throws on their devil cloaks, solidly lensed, and ably acted by a cast of B-movie stalwarts who never turn in anything less than a professional performance. William Sylvester is a bit stiff as Paul, but since Paul is a bit of a stiff, that suits him well. Sylvester was a veteran television actor with some notable appearances in a couple B-movie faves, including Devil Doll and Gorgo. His role with the highest profile was probably as Dr. Heywood Floyd, creator of HAL, in 2001: A Space Odyssey, though honestly, who remembers any of the human characters besides Dave from that movie? As the straight man fighting the occult and going to the library to look up ghoulish subject matter, he's all right.
The star of the film is the villain, of course, and as Sinistre he's perfectly creepy and menacing even though he doesn't have the sort of build one would consider menacing. Hubert Noel. Noel was an accomplished actor in France with appearances in a ton of films, often period pieces, that I've never seen but would like to, because they all seem to be full of cavaliers and highwaymen. Like many continental actors tapped to play vaguely menacing, vaguely effeminate villains, the strength of their native career doesn't really translate into international stardom, unless you count the apt appearance of Noel as "Citroen Driver" in an episode of CHiPs. Still, as Sinistre, he's pretty great, and he's convincing as a guy who could work some magic on ladies, especially when he backs it up with his vampiric mojo. The female spotlight is on two actresses: Tracy Reed plays Karin, the model for whom Paul falls, and Carole Gray plays Tania, the gypsy woman who was Sinistre previous main squeeze until Tania came along. Karin barely registers, as she shows up, wears some sunglasses, then spends the bulk of the film lying in a bed or sitting listlessly in a trance. But Carole Gray's gypsy Tania is a fireball of beauty and rage, introduced to us via one of those colorful gypsy dance numbers that are always happening. She didn't have much a career -- a couple appearances here and there on television shows like The Avengers and The Saint, a role in Brides of Fu Manchu -- and I can't understand why, because she's quite engaging in her role here as the vampire woman scorned.
The rest of the cast is comprised largely of people who have to chant about Satan and wear devil cloaks, or make speeches about the possibility or improbability of vampires in modern society. The basic philosophy is summed up by Paul Baxter's professor friend, played ably by Eddie Byrne (The Mummy, Hammer version). As he explains, there were trials for witchcraft up until the 1920s, and in many places, belief in the supernatural remains the mainstream rather than a fringe belief as it would be in modern London. Vampire movies that attempt to transport a basically Victorian character into modern times have to tackle the "unstuck in time" aspect of their character in a variety of ways. Dracula A.D. 1972 does it by confining Dracula to a single location, which happens to be Gothic in design. Satanic Rites of Dracula does it by dropping pretty much everything that made Dracula Dracula and turning him into a pulp novel style super-villain straight out a James Bond movie. Devils of Darkness takes the same route as the American Count Yorga films, allowing Sinistre to operate first in a somewhat small (though by no means remote) village where he can exercise his will over the locals and leverage the innate superstition of the local gypsy population. When he comes to London, he survives by moving in relatively small circles on the fringe of polite society -- rich decadent freaks, the kind I want to be friends with so I can sit around in posh dens, smoking hookahs and debating philosophy and the supernatural in a bored tone as a naked girl covered in body paint flowers dances on a table in front of me. I have failed at so many of my former life goals.
Sinistre covers his vampire tracks, more or less, by becoming a member of a social circle that values odd behavior and late nights. Anything out of the ordinary he may say or do is casually disregarded (yes, this means that those vampires who hang out in industrial clubs are a logical evolution of guys like Sinistre, but there's still no excuse for their woe-is-me self-ildulgences). He is an artist, after all, and an eastern European. He further controls his environment and expands the power of his influence by tightly controlling where he is seen and by whom. He hangs round an antique store, goes to parties at the pad above the store, and holds his Satanic rituals in an old, remote farmhouse near a cemetery. By and large, he has adapted well to his surroundings -- it is unclear whether he has been around for hundreds of years, changing with the times, or whether he has recently been resurrected by some ritual that involves, frankly, little more than the lighting of a candle that causes his stone sarcophagus to collapse, presumably on Sinistre's face. What parts of modern society to which he has not been able to adapt he has keenly excised from his life. Once again, you find a similar evolution of the vampire in Count Yorga, who hangs around a remote farmhouse and befriends people who are already flaky and into the occult.
As with many B-movies, there are points at which you can poke around and find some flaws in the film. In particular, the script by Lyn Fairhurst places an undue amount of importance on Sinistre's talisman. It is pegged as the source of the vampire's influence over others, so valuable to Sinistre that he would risk coming all the way to London and exposing himself on order to retrieve it. And yet, the loss of the talisman doesn't seem to have any impact whatsoever on his power. He still manages to hypnotize and convert a whole room full of revelers in a remarkably short period of time, and once he fixates on Karin, he forgets the talisman almost completely. I think he just thought it was cool and was afraid Paul would pull some nonsense like putting it on a thick gold chain and wearing it around. And as is often the case, everyone from Paul to the police are pretty quick to shrug their shoulders and go, "Yep, must be a Satanic cult lead by a vampire." Additionally, Baxter and Sinistre never really go toe-to-toe. There is no battle of wits or battle of fists, and when the final showdown does come Sinistre is quick to turn and run. Dracula usually turned and ran, too, but he would hiss while he was doing it, and usually take at least a little time out to throw Peter Cushing across a table. But all in all, I think the story for Devils of Darkness is well written and executed. It could be simply because I like movies of this sort, but even though much of the film is research and guys sitting around, smoking cigarettes, and talking about vampires, I didn't feel the movie dragged. The tight direction by Lance Comfort (sounds like a character from a romance novel, the less threatening cousin of Rock Slabchest) adds to the feeling that something is happening even when very little is. There is almost no on-screen violence and very little blood, but Comfort's eye for composition is great, and he creates an otherworldly atmosphere that carries the otherwise dialog-heavy film. Additionally, though this was a low-budget affair, Comfort had access to Pinewood Studio's massive pile of old sets, and so he could pilfer the goods from much more expensive films to dress him own modest production in much fancier duds than it might otherwise have had access to.
Although the main villain is a vampire, this is much more like Hammer's The Devil Rides Out than it is any vampire film. Sinistre feels similar to Charles Gray's ominous Mocata than he does Dracula. He's sort of like a dry run for Mocata. Not nearly as imposing but still ominous enough despite his slight build. William Sylvester's Baxter is certainly no Duc de Richleau, but then Duc de Richleau was one of Christopher Lee's best roles. It's also very similar to AIP's color horror output, both in look and execution. Corman's Poe films were always heavy on dialog and atmosphere, and the juxtaposition of bleak, decaying sets with vivid colors. Like the Poe films, Devils of Darkness moves slowly until the enthusiastic finale when all hell -- literally, more or less -- breaks loose. Ultimately, it may be a lesser devil cult film, but it was one of the earlier "vampire in post-war times" movies, and one of the only "vampire leads a Satanic cult" movies. It may far short of the mark set by two of the best examples of occult thriller's -- Hammer's The Devil Rides Out and Jacques Tournier's Night of the Demon (which I would assume was a major influence on Devils of Darkness), but I still think Devils of Darkness, especially if you like the AIP Poe films or don't mind lots of dialog, is a good old-fashioned occult thriller that winds up being a great way to spend midnight, provided you don't have any decadent rich parties that devolve into an orgiastic ritual lorded over by a vampire to attend at midnight. Labels: Horror: Creepy Cults, Horror: Satan, Horror: Vampires, Year: 1965 posted by Keith at 3:06 PM | 5 Comments Wednesday, October 18, 2006Satan's Playground
2005, United States. Starring Felissa Rose, Ellen Sandweiss , Edwin Neal, Irma St. Paule, Danny Lopes, Christie Sanford, Ron Millkie, Salvatore Paul Piro, Robert Zappalorti, Jessy Hodges, Chris Farabaugh, Michael Ryan. Written and directed by Dante Tomaselli. Buy it now from Amazon.com
Why oh why do people walk into dusty, cobweb-covered, boarded up ruins and yell, "Hello? Is anyone here? Hello?" Lord, don't these people have any basis whatsoever in the real world? Who sees a crumbling shack out in the middle of nowhere and spends a few minutes walking around the obviously derelict calling out to see if anyone is there? Well, apparently people in poorly thought-out horror films do. I made fun of it when it happened in Zombie 3, but then, making fun of something that happens in Zombie 3 is sort of a foregone conclusion. I was hoping I wouldn't see something that glaringly stupid again, but I guess I was wishing against the inevitable. If you write a crummy horror film, then there's a good chance someone is going to walk into an abandoned, rotting building full of trash and dust, and yell out, "Is anyone here?" If you can combine that with someone going, "Bob, is that you? Come on! This isn't funny anymore!" then you have just written 95% of all the exchanges in crummy horror films. Dante Tomaselli's Satan's Playground isn't exactly a crummy horror film, but it does enough stupid things to keep it from being a good movie. It's a movie full of potential that isn't realized thanks to the standard microbudget horror film bugbear: the script. I know, I know. I should put my money where my mouth is and show these whupper-snappers how to write a decent script. It's not for lack of ideas or talent (well, at least not for lack of ideas). I haven't done it yet for one very important reason: I am, when it comes to getting work done, phenomenally lazy. I'm so lazy that I'm almost too lazy to tell you how lazy I am. Still, you don't have to be President of the United States to recognize a rotten president, and you don't have to write a script to recognize a rotten script. Satan's Playground is one of what I personally think are far too few movies that deal with the legend of the Jersey Devil, though it deals with the mythical beastie in a very roundabout way, focusing instead on the Leeds clan, a Texas Chainsaw Massacre-style family of nutjobs, the matron of which supposedly gave birth to the Jersey Devil, which in turn gave birth to a whole hockey team. For those of you not familiar with the legend of the Jersey Devil, you should peruse the various issues of the excellent fanzine Weird NJ, as they have adopted the legend and cartoon of the creature as their mascot. But should you not be prone to tracking down issues of the magazine or of their accompanying book, here's the legend in a nutshell: Sometime in early 1700s (the date, like most other aspects of the story, varies wildly depending on who is telling it and which version they are telling), a woman named Leeds, living in the ominous stretch of south Jersey swampland known as the Pine Barrens, gave birth to the latest of some thirteen or so children. Tired of being a fertile crescent of children, Mrs. Leeds exclaimed her displeasure at having another kid and bade the devil take this one off her hands. And so he did. Reports of the child's appearance differ, with some describing him as nothing more than human while others layer on the hideous disfigurements. Mrs. Leeds is also sometimes referred to as a witch, a Satanist, a British sympathizer, and someone who got on the bad side of a gypsy, all of which may have contributed in some way to the fate of her son (though I never knew that having familiar relations with a British officer could produce hellspawn beasts). The settled upon appearance of the Jersey devils these days is sort of an amalgamation of goat-man (the Goat Man was a popular woods-dwelling killer where I grew up, incidentally), bat, and human.
Since his inception as a local legend, the Jersey Devil has been blamed for all sorts of mischief along the lines of cattle slaughtering, destruction of public properties, and the occasional devouring of a wayward human. So basically, anything that could also be attributed to wild animals, damn teenagers™, or a chupacabra. For a long time, however, the Jersey Devil was actually considered a protector of the Pine Barrens, and seeing him was supposed to be good luck. At some point, people decided a hellish, murdering beast made a much more enjoyable local legend than did an ugly steward of the forest teaching people about native berries and instructing youths on the proper way to safely extinguish a campfire. In the reality of Satan's Playground, "good luck" manifests itself primarily by having your throat ripped out. The movie begins with a family -- husband Frank (Salvatore Paul Piro -- who looks exactly like a guy who would be named Salvatore Pauli Piro) and wife Donna (Felissa Rose) who could not be more Jersey even if you injected them with pure essence of Jersey (which is stinky fumes and trash that was dumped there by New Yorkers who didn't have room for it in their own state), their mentally handicapped son Sean (Danny Lopez) who has a tendency to drool and foam at the mouth for no particular reason, a baby, and the baby's mother, Paula, who happens to be played by...Ellen Sandweiss! Why would anyone go into the woods with Ellen Sandweiss? The last time she went camping in the woods, it ended with her getting split up the middle by a demonic tree while the rest of the campers beat up Bruce Campbell. Going into the woods with Ellen Sandweiss is like going to a tropical island with Ian McCulloch: there are some things you just have to know better than to do. Ellen Sandweiss hasn't made a movie that I know of since 1981, when she was attacked by the aforementioned tree in a movie no one remembers, directed by a guy I'm sure has absolutely no career these days. Where Dante Tomaselli found her, I don't know, though my first guess would be, "probably at one of the tables at the Chiller Theater convention." It's good to see her back in action, though the script gives her very little to do. In fact, the script gives pretty much everyone very little to do other than walk through the woods, run through the woods, then get hit in the head with a hammer. I hope you like seeing people run through the woods and get hit in the head with a hammer, because it's going to happen a lot in this movie. Exactly what this family is doing out in the middle of nowhere (and if you've never seen Jersey beyond the area surrounding New York City, then let me assure you that yes, you really can get way the hell out in the middle of nowhere) is anyone's guess. I would assume a camping trip, albeit one with suitcases, but they mostly just seem to be driving aimlessly down whatever potholed, unpaved country road they can find. As happens when a family aimlessly drives their station wagon around in the swamp, they get stuck. And they start hearing weird noises. And the son keeps pointing at something up in the trees. Having nothing better to do, the members of the cast file off one by one into the woods, with each one stumbling upon the old Leeds house (which is pretty impressive, considering that there is no path through the woods, and everyone leaves at different times, including in the middle of the night). Mrs. Leeds (Irma St. Paule) is still in residence (don't know if she's been lurking about since the 1700s, though), along with her giggling psychotic daughter and son (who are looking really good if they'v ebeen around since the 1700s). And there are also devil worshippers around, whipping naked dudes, for no real reason and with no real connection to the plot. But hey, what film was ever harmed by a gratuitous scene of cloaked devil worshippers whipping some nameless naked dude? Remember when they had that same scene in Pay it Forward? That was the best part of that movie. Or am I mixing it up with that episode of Starsky and Hutch where they fight devil worshippers while wearing red union suit long johns (just like the actual Devil wears)? No, I'm pretty sure it was Pay it Forward. What follows is the standard "normal folks stalked by a family of psychos" plot that has been worn thin since the days of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The Hills Have Eyes. As with most of the microbudget horror films I've seen, the biggest problem with Satan's Playground is that there's just not enough script to go around, and what is there is frightfully unoriginal and plagued by colossal gaps in logic (or competence). At times, the Leeds house seems to be out in the middle of the woods with no sane living being around for miles, yet a passing police car notices devil worshippers frolicking on the front lawn and stops to investigate. When we see the police car, it is parked near the family's stranded station wagon, yet when people leave the station wagon it seems to take them a long time to wander to the Leeds house. Similarly, there's a completely pointless scene in which a hysterical Paula (Ellen Sandweiss) runs out the front door and smack dab into another person whose car broke down and is looking for assistance. Where the hell did this person come from? Does the Jersey Devil spend his days digging potholes in the gravel road in hopes of snaring unwary drivers? The dialogue exchanged between the young girl and ranting, blood-drenched Paula is also priceless. "My car broke down, but I can see you have your own things to deal with, so I'm leaving." So is the Leeds house out in the middle of the swamp, or is it sitting fifty feet off of highway 9? For an isolated farmhouse, there sure seem to be a lot of people wandering by at random. One would also assume the Satanists, wearing the requisite red cloaks they've had ever since they bugged Warren Oates and Hot Lips in their RV, are related in some way to the Leeds clan, perhaps even members of the family. But when one of them menaces Donna, he finds himself attacked by Mrs. Leeds' son, Boy (Edwin Neal -- not sure if this is supposed to be Tarzan's Boy all grown up and in a green surplus Army jacket, but I'm going to assume it is). Nothing else about the devil worshippers ever comes up again, except when Mrs. Leeds complains that they're a nuisance. I assumed she was laying it on for the cop, disavowing any knowledge of the Satanists and trying to paint herself as a helpless victim of "damn teenagers" -- which is an awful complex fib to weave considering that she's just going to have her daughter hit the cop with a hammer a couple seconds later. But then, maybe she was telling the truth, and what we learn is that even if you are the mother of a nightmarish brood of psychotic freaks that includes the Jersey Devil himself, you can still get irritated by kids playing around on your front lawn.
I could forgive all that pretty easily if the film paid off in other ways. Instead, the script just keeps collapsing on itself and piling on the, "Oh, come on!" moments. After Donna narrowly escapes her harrowing ordeal (by making it to a road and hitching a ride with a guy who seems remarkably unphased for someone who just picked up a screaming woman covered in blood) and we get the usual "wakes up in the hospital" scene, the local sheriff decides to go out and investigate her claims -- with no one but Donna as company. They establish that they know at least four people are missing and probably dead, including another cop, and he goes out into the woods with no radio and absolutely no back-up other than the freaked-out victim who just escaped the scene? And when he discovers that there is indeed something foul and murderous going on, he still doesn't call for backup and instead decides to explore the house he knows is populated by murderers and blood smears with no one by his side other than Donna? Don't the people who write these scripts make any effort whatsoever to reflect even the most basic of actual police procedure? I don't mind getting the details wrong, but this is absurd. This is an example of a writer making characters do something phenomenally nonsensical because it's the only way the writer could think of to get where he wanted to be. It really irritates me when people do things no actual person would ever do, simply because the script demands it of them. For that matter, you'd think the Leeds clan would stick to murdering wayward hikers and stoners and shy away from murdering cops. From what I hear, cop killers tend to attract special attention from other cops, who generally aren't amenable to just rolling casually with it when one of their own goes missing or turns up dead. And it's not like the Leeds's were being clever about it. The cop car was still sitting on the road, and there are not many other places the cop could be, especially if he radioed in beforehand (though given what we see from the cops in this movie, that is unlikely). But what irritates me even more than that is when a movie resets itself and you have to watch the whole movie play out again in an abbreviated format. This happens all the time, though most recently I was up late and watching a phenomenally dull and monotonous horror film called Cabin by the Lake on the Sci-Fi Channel. It starred Judd Nelson as the world's least interesting serial killer, and it did almost exactly what Satan's Playground does. The lone survivor gets away from the killer(s), is subject to something completely unrealistic and stupid done by the police, which results in her being right back where she was before her previous escape, so we have to watch the whole goddamn thing again. To the credit of Satan's Playground, it handles its plot redux much faster than Cabin by the Lake (which just might be one of my most hated movies of all time), but I'm still annoyed whenever a film can't think of anything else to do than repeat itself. And Satan's Playground is nothing but repeating itself. A guy goes into the woods and gets captured. A woman follows him and gets captured. Then someone else follows and gets captured. Then one more person follows, and they get caught, too. Then one of them escapes and comes back and repeats the whole thing. It's like watching the exact same ten-minute movie stitched together five or six times. Now, at this point, you may be asking about the Jersey Devil. Other than providing an excuse for the mentally handicapped kid to point at the sky a few times, he has no real role in this movie until he makes a cameo in a completely nonsensical aside where a stoner departs from a group of hikers so he can, as the kids say, "toke his reefer, dude!" This is also the film's one gore effect. Now, I don't demand gore from my horror films, but usually microbudget filmmakers slack in other areas because they're excited about all their gore effects. Tomaselli slacks with the script, but the movie doesn't try to compensate with gore. The Jersey Devil is also never shown -- which is actually a good idea, I think. Nothing undermines a monster's crdibility more than revealing it to be a really laughable special effect. At least the Jersey Devil maintains some air of mystery and menace that way. Still, his interaction with the main cast is almost non-existent, so even though I described this movie as being about the Jersey Devil, it's only that way tangentially. Mrs. Leeds and two of her other children are the actual villains. I know, I know. I always pick on the scriptwriter, but I only do that because the scripts are always so bad, and they frequently undercut what could have otherwise been a good movie. Satan's Playground possesses a decent concept, and Dante Tomaselli is talented as a director. The cast is actually somewhat professional, elevating the acting stories above the monotone of inexperienced "friends and family members" that usually comprise the cast of such films. And although Tomaselli's movie is slow, it wouldn't be boring if it didn't repeat the same thing over and over. He creates a suitably bleak and isolated atmosphere, and the Pine Barrens are a perfectly chilling looking backdrop for the action. But all these positive aspects are hamstrung by such a meandering, repetitive, and derivative script, that they get lost under the sheer weight of how clumsy the writing is. Almost all microbudget horror films, it seems, are the labors of love of their directors, and many of these directors are good directors. But they're not good scriptwriters, and they're not good at picking good scriptwriters. It seems to me that in their enthusiasm for making a horror movie, they get impatient with the labor-intensive, generally unsatisfying process of creating a good script. And I say "unsatisfying" meaning that, while just about every aspect of making a film -- especially one with a tiny budget -- is labor intensive, the labor that goes into crafting the script generally lacks the concrete sense of daily accomplishment that comes from something more active, like being on location or reviewing a day's footage. These things are labor-intensive, all right, but there is more of an immediate pay-off than there is with writing a script, whose value is never fully realized until the entire product is finished and the creation of which usually just requires someone to sit alone in a room with a bottle of scotch and a laptop.
So it doesn't surprise me that the script almost always gets the short end of the stick, though it does sadden me as a writer; and you would think that after years of similar bad scripts, someone would realize that the thing can actually be important to a movie and finally stop glossing over it in favor of just getting out there and shooting footage. Anyway, I think I've made the point, and the fact is that everything that makes Satan's Playground bad is the fault of the script. Tomaselli is a gifted director. He knows how to use the camera, how to light a scene and properly record sound, how to move his actors around; in short, he knows how to direct, and he knows how to do it in a way that is more engaging than the too-common "set the camera up and film each scene like a stage play" type of static shot on which many amateur films rely, and the "every second must be a wild jump cut full of shaky cam and random images and screaming" overkill that ruins almost every larger-budget horror film being made these days. No, Tomaselli knows how to direct; he just doesn't know how to come up with material worth his directing skills (a trait he shares with David Buchert, who directed the last microbudget horror film I reviewed, Blood Oath). Dante Tomaselli the screenwriter just doesn't deserve to be working with Dante Tomaselli the director. Although I mentioned it in passing, I want to dwell a little more on the quality of the cast. Most microbudget horror films rely on non-actors to do the acting, with a few genre staples appearing in enough films that they eventually stumble into some degree of competence and recognition for their contribution to the cause of starring in bad shot-on-video horror films. Tiffany Shepis might be the current reigning queen of such performers -- a decent actress in bad films. Misty Mundae was there for a little while until she made the switch to softcore comedies and finally, it seems, to legitimate film (where she goes by her real name and is proving that she is genuinely talented and worthy of being recognized for more than just her willingness to get naked and give Billy Hellfire a blowjob). But these types of stars are few and far between, and the vast majority of horror films in the DTV market feature people with a complete lack of acting experience -- and it almost always shows. Tomaselli, on the other hand, put some effort into casting people beyond the proverbial group of friends that usually make up the DTV horror film talent pool. For starters, he flushed Ellen Sandweiss out of hiding and got her acting again. Felissa Rose appeared in the original Sleepaway Camp before going on to a prolific career starring in low budget horror films that no one but the type of people who read this site would have ever heard of. Edwin Neal, who plays Mrs. Leeds' murderous non-Jersey Devil son, is most recognizable to horror fans as the loony hitchhiking member of the family from the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre. You know, the guy who gives the informative educational speech about headcheese. He's also an extremely busy voice actor, having begun his career back in 1972 or so, dubbing the Japanese cartoon Gatchaman, better known in the United States as Battle of the Planets. He's been dubbing anime and sentai shows ever since, with occasional time off to appear in films like Zombiegeddon, which also happens to feature Felissa Rose and two of my all-time favorite B-movie mainstays: Joe Estevez and Robert "The Chin" Z'dar. Of the main cast, Christie Sanford (who plays the hammer-happy Leeds daughter) and Danny Lopez (who plays the mentally handicapped son of Donna) perhaps have the least experience, but even they still have experience. In other words -- this is a cast of actors. Some young, some seasoned, but almost all (at least in the core cast) experienced with and professional about the job. They are all pretty good at what they do. But they are ill-served by a script that doesn't give them much at which they can be good. There's only so many ways an actor can wander through the woods or into an abandoned gas station and call out, "Is anybody here?" There's only so many ways they can scream, "You're crazy!" Dante Tomaselli put a lot of work into the film. He put effort into assembling a real cast, which must have pushed the budget way above the usual breaking point for microbudget filmmakers who only hire actors that will work for beer and weed. I think this is the most disappointing thing about Satan's Playground -- Tomaselli assembles an impressive array of pieces and puts a lot of work into crafting them, but then completely ignores the fact that his foundation is so shaky. Satan's Playground has enough wrong with it to keep it from being very good. But it also does some things right that make it worth seeing if you are a student of the low-budget horror game, and especially if you are a potential filmmaker. There are lessons to be learned from Tomaselli's direction, casting, editing, and the overall atmosphere he creates, just as there is an equally important lesson to be learned from the weakness of the script. And while Satan's Playground is ultimately a deeply flawed effort, it's enough for me to think that there might be reason to keep an eye on Tomaselli as he progresses -- provided he progresses. Microbudget filmmakers tend to show a notorious immunity to getting any better at their craft. Tomaselli feels like he might be different, especially if he restricts himself to direction and not screenwriting. At the very least, I'm optimistic about his potential. Labels: Horror: Creepy Cults, Horror: Microbudget, Horror: Satan, Year: 2005 posted by Keith at 5:05 PM | 3 Comments Thursday, September 09, 2004The Devil Rides Out
1968, Great Britain. Starring Christopher Lee, Charles Gray, Nike Arrighi, Leon Greene, Patrick Mower, Sarah Lawson, Paul Eddington, Rosalyn Landor. Directed by Terence Fisher. Available on DVD from Amazon.
His names are legion. His name is Legion. But maybe you know him as Scratch, or Ol' Gooseberry. The Devil himself, if you will. He's one of the most compelling literary figures of all time, despite, I imagine, the original intentions of the writers of the Old Testament. Milton turned the Devil into a brash anti-hero, and for many intellectuals who see religious fundamentalism as stifling to the pursuit of knowledge. He's remained in his cool cat corner with lots of stories being written about him. Something about Lucifer lends to storytelling. It's his unpredictability. You never know if you're getting the wretched evil Devil or the suave rebellious one. Or the witty one. With Jesus, you pretty much know what you're going to get, and his story is pretty well documented and confined by the completeness of the New Testament and actual historical events. It's not that there's anything wrong with Jesus - Christian or not, you have to admire some crazy dude from Nazareth who took on both the Romans and the religious establishment, told people not to submit to a corrupt priesthood, and then said you shouldn't always be bashing each others' heads in. But where do you go from there? That's why the only people who ever tried to write the further adventures of Christ were the Mormons. Satan, however, is a wide-open playing field with a mythology and character that has outgrown its Christian origins. In fact, most of what is considered common knowledge about Satan comes not from The Bible, but from Milton and Paradise Lost. With Satan, we're free to fill in his back-story and make up adventures for him. With Jesus, you can only tell the story of Jesus. But with Satan - well for Old Nick you can pretty much make up any damn thing you want. You can even have him fight Santa Claus and Merlin. Certainly there is a legion of films about Satan, and some of them are even good. I know I still have a few readers who haven't taken my pleas to heart and have yet to delve into the rich history of "old" films, so to them a movie about Satan and Satanism is most likely something about a serial killer or something about a vengeful teenager or that thing where Arnold Schwarzenegger punches Satan in the face. That all started to happen in the 1980s. In the 1970s, movies about Satan usually involved boring people in robes stomping about in a circle and droning, "Hail Satan" in a listless monotonous style. But in the 1960s movies about The Devil usually featured Satanists who were part of high society, global elites who had reached the limits of human knowledge and were now seeking the expand their intelligence into more arcane and sometimes diabolical spheres. Not being a Christian myself, but always keen on learning more about arcane and esoteric tidbits, I've often entertained fantasies about becoming a member of one of these well-heeled groups of Satanic intellectuals. Unfortunately, my position as a Plebe means I'm forever doomed to keep running into Slayer fans or groups of people who all wear those goofy Anton LaVey devil horns. Still, a fella can dream, and one day I'll make a movie about a young blue-collar gentleman's struggle to climb the Satanic social ladder. Although it seems like The Exorcist and, to a lesser degree, The Omen are about the only Satanism movies anyone can remember, the best two for my money are Rosemary's Baby and Hammer's superb The Devil Rides Out, which frankly sounds like the title to a spaghetti western. The Devil Rides Out is another one of those Hammer title's I'd not seen until now, though I'd frequently read about it and how fantastic it was. Generally, very few movies are as fantastic as they're made out to be, but if The Devil Rides Out isn't fantastic, it's only because it's something slightly better than fantastic. Released in 1968, The Devil Rides Out populates that time in Hammer's history when they were really beginning to lose their footing. Revolutions in filmmaking and changes in what was permitted to be shown on screen seemed to have passed the studio by, and their once cutting edge Gothic horror shows now seemed anachronistic and even quaint. By the late 1960s, the studio was floundering, and by the 1970s it had all but collapsed. But from this late era, a few gems - indeed a few of Hammer's very best productions - were made. The Devil Rides Out is definitely among them, a classic not just of late-era Hammer but of all Hammer; and not just of Hammer horror, but horror in general. In a rare twist of fate, king of the studio Christopher Lee gets to be a good guy, though he's something of an ambiguously "good" good guy. He stars as the Duc de Richleau, an upper class British gentleman who is meeting up with two old friends for their annual reunion. When one of them, the young Simon (Patrick Mower, later to appear in AIP's Vincent Price vehicle, Cry of the Banshee), fails to show up, de Richleau and Rex (Leon Greene, who starred as Little John in Hammer's A Challenge for Robin Hood) pay him a visit at his stately country manor. There they find Simon is having a dinner party with his new astronomy club, though de Richleau is instantly suspicious of the gathering when he learns there are thirteen members. Queer behavior from Simon and a quick examination of his observatory reveal the truth: this is a Satanic gathering, and Simon is to be the newest member. de Richleau spirits Simon away - it's difficult to say whether or not he rescues or kidnaps the young man, since we're unsure whether or not Simon was dabbling in the black arts of his own free will or because he was under the spell of local occult bigwig Mocata (Charles Gray, probably most recognizable as the narrator from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, which itself owes a great deal to Hammer's Frankenstein movies). Eventually, the film leans toward "under the spell," but the whole thing seems very fuzzy, which allows the viewer to interpret the movie either as a straightforward "good versus evil" tale or a more subversive look at the subjugation of free will and intellectual curiosity at the hands of the ruling elite. The latter reading may sound a tad over the top, another one of those "reading meaning into the meaningless" things in which critics so often indulge, except that Hammer's previous record of anti-authority, anti-elitist themes (most notable in the Frankenstein movies) make it harder to dismiss, and so we can spend the entire movie wondering if de Richleau's denial of Simon's free will is any better than Mocata's taking advantage of the young lad. Complicating this even further is the fact that, though they are ostensibly supposed to be evil, most of the Satanists seem rather polite and friendly and only interested in the pursuit of knowledge deemed "forbidden" by some guy in a funny hat down in Rome. Well, later, one of the Satanists will be revealed as possessing horrible driving manners, but that's about the extent of their evilness. Mocata is annoyed that Rex and de Richleau have rescued his would-be apprentice - and taken the new girl with them, to boot. He's determined to use spooky eyes and the forces of evil to reclaim his prize, complete his coven, and summon Big Sugardaddy Lucifer for the Sabbath. There's plenty in The Devil Rides Out that could come across as outlandish were in not for the fact that the cast is so committed to the film - something that, by now, you should recognize as one of the great hallmarks of Hammer productions. Raised as we are today on a steady diet of tongue-in-cheek horror films that don't want to commit to being horror films, The Devil Rides Out is refreshingly free of irony. Richard Matheson's script, based on a novel by occult-thriller writer Dennis Wheatley, strives to maintain a high degree of accuracy in its presentation of occult rituals, and Christopher Lee, who was a close personal friend of Wheatley's, did extended research on the subject of Satanism and the occult and oversaw the entire project to make sure everything was presented as realistically as possible. The result is that even when bloody-eyed specters in loincloths are appearing, everything seems believable. Matheson also never panders to younger audiences. Where as today's horror films are made for teenagers - and fairly stupid teenagers at that - Hammer always liked to consider their films more adult fare. The Devil Rides Out frequently tosses around arcane terminology, much of it taken from the writings of Alistair Crowley or other more ancient texts (the Goat of Mendes and the goat-headed image of Satan was derived by Christianity from an Egyptian cult that worshipped a Bacchus-like goat god) without bothering to explain what they mean. You're either expected to already know, be smart enough to figure it out, or be smart enough to go to the library and look it up. The film' biggest asset is the cast. Allowed to be a hero for the first time, Christopher Lee shines as the complex de Richleau. He is doubtless the good guy, but there remains something sinister about his charisma. For a man who isn't a Satanist, he sure does know a lot about the rituals and doesn't hesitate to use black magic to fight black magic. Lee brings a stern but warm authority to the figure. Even though the film doesn't depict him as infallible, he's the kind of guy you would want watching over you if Satanists were in hot pursuit. On the flip side is Charles Gray, whose Mocata embodies the best of everything about being a villain. He's painfully polite and polished in his ways, but also possessed of a wicked streak a mile wide. His best scene comes when he visits de Richleau's friends in an attempt to regain control over Simon and the woman Tanith (Nike Arrighi). He is the very picture of a perfect English gentleman, but his act slowly transforms as he gives a rational and, frankly, convincing explanation of the goals of following the Left Hand Path, then uses his powers to try and control his host. When his attempts are interrupted, he has the film's best line when he simply says calmly and with composure, "I shall not be back, but something will. Tonight. Tonight, something will come for Simon and the girl." Both Gray and Lee are completely convincing in their roles. Lee, in particular, though known for Dracula, was born to play de Richleau. There was talk of continuing with a de Richleau series as he appears in several other Wheatley novels, but unfortunately nothing ever materialized and Christopher Lee was soon back to playing Dracula in a series of increasingly awful (but never the less enjoyable) films that finally sputtered and died with Satanic Rites of Dracula not too much before Hammer itself closed up shop in the latter half of the 1970s. The supporting cast performs with workmanlike competency, as they always do in a Hammer film. Nike Arrighi was unique in that she was not one of Hammer's typical big-bosomed blond damsels in distress. She doesn't fit the stereotype of a Hammer girl at all, though that wasn't for lack of the studio trying. But director Terence Fisher, who was Hammer's best director and responsible for the films that put them on the map, was apparently adamant that the role of Tanith be played by Arrighi. It was a wise position. Leon Greene is equally superb as the baffled friend who finds himself spending a couple nights of his life fighting Satan. His voice, it seems, was dubbed in and is actually that of Patrick Allen, who was also in Hammer's When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth and Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell, among others. Whatever the reason, they make a good team. Fisher's direction is as stylish yet unobtrusive as fans had come to expect of the man who brought Hammer's visions of Dracula, Frankenstein, and the Mummy to the screen. Although there isn't a lot of action in the film, the pace is relentless, fueled by a growing sense of dread as the forces of evil close in on our heroes, until they are literally standing back to back in a magic circle surrounded by a whole array of creepiness. James Bernard's grand score only adds more drad to the creeping sense of terror. It is here, unfortunately, that the film's main - and really, only -- weakness shows itself. Hammer was never a studio that relied on special effects. At their most complex, they were usually dangling a fake bat from a wire. One Million Years B.C. and Moon Zero Two were the first big special effects films for Hammer. One Million Years B.C. had the services of Ray Harryhausen to carry it (not to mention Raquel Welch in a little fur bikini). Moon Zero Two was Hammer on their own, and it showed why the studio should have continued to shy away from complicated special effects shots. The finale of The Devil Rides Out begins with an assault on de Richleau and friends first by a giant tarantula, and then by the Angel of Death himself. The tarantula in particular is a wretched failure of special effects that lets the film down. The tension built by the plot is grand, and it gets the carpet pulled from under its feet by the sorry spider effect. The Angel of Death is more successful but shot in a way that also weakens its impact, especially the part where looped film has Death's horse doing a little dance. The rest of the movie is powerful enough to disregard these ill-advised attempts at special effects, but one can't help but wish they'd either been better executed or simply left out entirely. The weird red-eyed giant in a loincloth was far creepier and menacing than any of these later concoctions, and that was nothing but a big guy standing there with an evil grin while he wore Dracula's contact lenses. Similarly, the scene in which Mocata succeeds at summoning the Devil is effective because the effect is low-key. Satan - the Goat of Mendes - simply appears on a rock in the background, and the make-up effects are either quite good or never shown long enough for the flaws to be evident. It would have been nice, in this scene, if the British censors had allowed the wild debauched orgy of the Satanists to contain something more daring than fully-clothed actors sort of just jumping around and rubbing each other's faces. But it was enough that they were allowing Hammer to make a movie about Satanism, which had previously been a taboo subject not allowed by the BBFC. So we can forgive the fact that their occultists had to keep their robes on while AIP's occultists in films like 1970's Cry of the Banshee got to romp around in the nude. One would hope that a string of strong films like The Devil Rides Out and Frankenstein Must be Destroyed would signal that Hammer had found its footing again and would remain viable in the 1970s. Sadly, that wasn't the case. They struggled on a few more years, but films of a quality as high as The Devil Rides Out proved to be the exception rather than the rule. Hammer's final horror film was also based on a Dennis Wheatley novel, but 1976's To the Devil...A Daughter was a far cry from the sophisticated, brilliantly executed occult thrills and chills delivered by The Devil Rides Out. And though the future may have remained unsteady, Hammer should take pride in the fact that they crafted what is, in my opinion, the very best of all the Satanism movies and one of the best, most intelligent and sincere horror-thrillers of all time. Word on the street is that Christopher Lee is still interested in doing a sequel/remake and has been shopping the idea around. Whether or not his Sauruman powers can convince some studio executive to make a horror film that isn't aimed at dolts remains to be seen. Fighting off Satan is one thing, but as they say, "against stupidity, the Gods themselves contest in vain." Labels: Horror: Satan, Netflix Diary, Stars: Christopher Lee, Studio: Hammer, Year: 1968 posted by Keith at 7:01 PM | 0 Comments Wednesday, July 21, 2004Spirits of the Dead
1968, France/Italy. Starring Jane Fonda, Peter Fonda, Alain Delon, Brigitte Bardot, Terence Stamp. Directed by Roger Vadim, Louis Malle, and Federico Fellini. Available on DVD from Amazon.
Uh-oh, it's Roger Vadim again. Man alive that cat sure is popping up a lot around here these days, isn't he? Brigitte Bardot has been showing up a lot lately as well, though frankly, I have no problem with either one of them paying me a visit more frequently. Anyway, looking ahead I think this might be all the Vadim and Bardot we're going to hit for a while, and at least here they're neither working together (Vadim had since moved on to his next project, which was Jane Fonda, also present in this movie) nor commanding the proceedings in this trilogy of Edgar Allen Poe adaptations as conceived by three of Europe's maverick directors. Well, two directors and Roger Vadim. Frankly, the man was lucky to ever get lumped into the French New Wave. Sounds like a pretty good idea, and as you know anytime someone begins a write up with "sounds like a pretty good idea," it's usually the case that it wasn't. Or that if it was a good idea, which I reckon this was, it's not as good a realization of that idea, which this isn't. Most people recommend that you dismiss the first two stories entirely and pretend that only the third exists, but we're in this for the long haul and will kick things off where they begin, with Roger Vadim's "Metzengerstein." Anyone claiming that Spirits of the Dead isn't a good movie is probably only just saying that because Vadim's contribution to the anthology is so sloppy and unengaging. It's certainly not the way you'd want to start a film. As was par for the man, Vadim casts his current sexy main squeeze in the lead, which just happened at the time to be Jane Fonda. The duo were fresh off Barbarella, and this story was originally envisioned as a feature film follow-up to that piece of sci-fi pop art. How they could have every stretched this thing out to a full running time is beyond me, though it's not as if Vadim wasn't a pro at stretching out thin-to-nonexistent plots and pasting them together with eye-popping, mind blowing costume and set design. And for the record, those of you who don't know just how indescribably hot Jane Fonda was in the 1960s really should check out Barbarella. Actually, I guess she's not exactly un-hot now, if that's a word (and I don't think it is). She just tends to take herself too seriously these days, and that's always a bit unattractive to me.
Here she plays the Countess Metzengerstein, heir to a vast fortune she squanders by throwing lavish orgies and torturing the underlings. Actually, they're really rather dull and lifeless orgies. You know, orgies always seem like a good idea until you try and hammer out the logistics of the whole thing. As for me, I'd be too worried about people knocking stuff over. Anyway, she delights in hurling barbs over the fence at her more modest cousin, played by none other than Jane's brother, Peter. Eventually, she becomes sexually obsessed with him - kind of, well, you know, but then this is Roger Vadim we're talking about, and it was the sixties - until he rebuffs her advances. I mean, heck, Henry was probably already pretty steamed at the both of them for being a coupla hippies. As revenge, the mad Ms. Metzengerstein burns down his stables, and he in turn dies in the fire trying to save his horses. Or so it would seem. A big black stallion bursts through the flames and gallops to safety, but there is no record of such a horse in the stable. Metzengerstein becomes convinced that the horse is the reincarnation of her beloved cousin, and her obsession with the horse crosses into madness and, frankly, borders on bestiality. Despite all the weird stuff thrown into the mix, this is a decidedly dull and uninspired way to kick off the film. The costuming, usually one of Vadim's only strong points, is relatively without shock or beauty. Jane dons some navel-exposing Little Lord Fauntleroy type outfits, but everything else looks like it's on loan from the local community theater. The cinematography is listless, and Vadim's usually striking composition of scenes is non-existent. In addition, everything is shot in soft-focus "Playboy-o-vision." The English speaking actors are dubbed into French in the currently available version, which means the only way we can judge their performances is through body language, most of which consists of them staring half-stoned at the camera. The tone of the film is all wrong too, at least in my opinion. A tale of mystery and the bizarre, as this is meant to be, should have some sense of menace and the macabre, some sort of tension. There is none of that here, and the film instead unfolds like a languid, ethereal, and intensely boring dream. Fairy tales and Cocteau Twins songs conjure up more darkness and dread than this supposed Edgar Allen Poe tale. There are some nice crumbling castles and decaying seaside scenery, but Vadim doesn't seem to understand how to take thematic advantage of it or relate it to the decaying morality and mental state of his central Nero/Caligula-like figure (though I must say I bet Jane Fonda's figure is better than Nero or Caligula's). When you fail to match even someone as hit-or-miss with similar atmosphere as, say, France's Jean Rollin, you know you're way off the mark. It's like Vadim wasn't even trying here. The hilariously silly ending was repeated in Vadim's 1973 film Don Juan (Or if Don Juan Were a Woman), which we covered right up there at the very beginning of this journal.
This story has actually been deleted from some prints, not because it was so provocative, but mostly because it was such an awful way to start the film. While I tend to think a film should be left intact regardless of how bad it may be, there's not much arguing that this first story is indeed pretty damn shoddy. Things pick up, but only just, for the second story in the trilogy. Luis Malle directs "William Wilson." Malle is probably most infamous for flirting with child pornography when he introduced the world to Brooke Shields in his 1978 film Pretty Baby. Before that, he was a member of the French New Wave, which helped get him this gig. He's pretty far off his game for this outing, though, turning in an entry that manages to be less ponderous and a little more tense and eerie than Vadim's meandering hunk of nonsense, but it still just doesn't play out the way it should, perhaps because the story itself has been done so many times and this one offers nothing new. French heartthrob Alain Delon stars as the titular Wilson, whom we meet as he stumbles into a confessional and claims to have killed a man. Through a series of flashbacks, we learn the history of Wilson, who in every regard is a grade-a prick. As a young boy attending a military school where his classmate was no doubt Damien from The Omen II, he encounters a boy with the same name as he who seems dedicated to countering everything he does. He encounters this double, who even grows to look exactly like him, throughout various points in his life until, ultimately, they face one another in a fencing duel. There's very little to surprise here. The man fighting his doppleganger, and by killing it killing himself, is nothing new, and Malle's approach is so straight-forward and by the books that the story, while decent for a single viewing, has nothing more to offer. Like Vadim, Malle seems to almost be phoning it in just to collect his paycheck. The primary difference is that the performers, native French speakers, are better and the story is, as I said, OK at least for the first go-round. Brigitte Bardot shows up briefly in a gambling scene. All in all, the segment isn't bad. Direction is nice, acting is good, and it moves at a fair clip. There are also a few effective moments, chiefly the scene of a young Wilson lowering a new student into a barrel full of rats and a later scene in which Wilson, now a medical student, seeks to practice his dissection technique on a living subject. So OK, it's not bad. It's just not that interesting.
If you make it through the awful first story and middling second, they pay-off is Federico Fellini's entry, the final piece in the trilogy and easily one of the most delirious, grotesque, and utterly insane forty minutes of film you'll ever come across. Fellini was known for a lot of things, not the least of which was his fondness for the absurd. If you're familiar with the director, and you should at least try to be, then try to imagine everything about him and his style distilled down and concentrated in one forty-minute sequence. Quite frankly, it's almost too much, and that's simply divine. His story is "Toby Dammit," based loosely on Poe's "Never Bet the Devil Your Head." A wild-eyed, completely mad looking Terence Stamp stars as Dammit, a drunken, wild British film actor who seems to be hovering on the brink of a career collapse. He travels to Italy to star in a film in which Jesus is reincarnated as a pioneer in the American West, but nothing about his trip to Rome is the least bit ordinary. Fellini saturates his film in colors, and they're all the wrong ones for what should be going on. Think of film that has been cross-processed. The world of Toby Dammit is awash in red and yellow, billowing orange clouds and dust, like driving through someone's hallucination of the end of the world. Given the Biblical nature of the film Dammit is to be starring in, it wouldn't surprise me if Fellini's own inspiration for the look of the film came straight from the Book of Revelations. Dammit's biggest problem, besides his addiction to and disdain for fame, is that he is haunted by visions of a smiling young blonde girl (shades of Mario Bava's Kill, Baby, Kill) who he believes to be The Devil himself. We follow Dammit onto a bizarre talk show, an even more bizarre awards show, and finally a manic, out of control car ride as he attempts to escape the increasingly bizarre and artificial landscape around him (people on the street are frozen in mid-motion, and eventually become mannequins).
The difference between the two French directors and the Italian Fellini couldn't be more obvious. He seizes his story with gusto, indulging every bizarre notion that crosses his mind and throwing it all onto the screen with a madcap zeal totally lacking in Vadim's entry and an absolute lack of predictability as seen in Malle's. Nothing is the slightest bit real. It's all highly stylized and has its grotesque alien factor cranked to the very top. Everyone is grossly overdone. Their make-up is outrageous; their movements are more the movements of stage props and puppets. Lights flash and glitter from every angle, and a non-stop of psychedelic detail and sheer lunacy require that you watch the segment several times just to catch everything that goes on in each scene. And standing above this gaudy, gorgeous horror show, this gleeful dissection of fame and the film industry (or rather, the industries that affix themselves to the film industry) is Terence Stamp, white-faced and genuinely looking like he's just come of a weeklong binge. He's haggard and sweaty and pasty and looks utterly spent, while at the same time seeming completely and utterly hysterical. Although in the currently available version all his dialog has been dubbed into French, unlike the Fondas in the first segment, he gives you plenty more by which to judge his frenzied performance. He's a whirlwind of agitated energy, and it's one of the best performances in the career of one of England's best actors. It's impossible not to compare him here to Malcolm McDowell's equally cracked performance in 1971's A Clockwork Orange. I'm no expert on the film, but I'm willing to bet Stamp's turn as Dammit (right down to the wild driving scene) was a major influence on both Kubrick as director and McDowell as actor. Spirits of the Dead is owned by Fellini's segment, and Stamp owns that segment. It is sublime, and a must-see.
Where Vadim and Malle try, or we assume they try, to invoke dreamlike and Gothic horror atmospheres respectively, grounding themselves in historical settings and costumes, Fellini sets his film in a warped and twisted version of the present, a fever dream where the mood he goes for is more one of psychosis and hysteria than creeping dread (or oozing boredom, in Vadim's case). "Toby Dammit" is as funny as it is warped. It is a celebration, in it's own way, and by dispensing entirely with the "typical" Poe setting, Fellini seems to have achieved the only truly eerie Poe feeling in the entire anthology, though it might be Poe on one of his famous drug binges. Every scene drips with the promise of menace, albeit a completely absurd one, and his ending is as comical as it is spooky. And those images of the maniacally grinning little girl/Satan? Positively brilliant. The whole thing is an orgy of a psychotic, surreal Hell on Earth populated by annoying comedians and glittering women in gigantic false eyelashes. So skip the first segment. Sit through Malle's middle segment, but for the devil's ball-bouncing sake, don't miss Fellini's finale. It's the sort of lunatic filmmaking that makes you happy to be watching a movie. It's a five-star segment trapped in an otherwise two-star film, but more than justifies the effort of getting through the film. Labels: Director: Frederico Fellini, Director: Roger Vadim, Horror: Ghosts, Horror: Poe, Horror: Satan, Netflix Diary, Stars: Brigette Bardot, Year: 1968 posted by Keith at 11:16 PM | 0 Comments Thursday, July 17, 2003Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare
1987, Canada. Starring Jon Mikl-thor, Lian Abel, Jim Cirile, Denise Dicandia, Frank Dietz, Rusty Hamilton, Gene Kroth, David Lane, Jillian Peri, Carrie Schiffler, Teresa Simpson. Directed by John Fasano.
Once not so long ago, the epic rock band Spinal Tap let loose the soaring song, "Rock 'n' Roll Creation," a song with a message and structure that could very well serve as the basic building block for the movie Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare, itself a rock 'n' roll creation from the expansive mind of John Mikl-Thor, himself a rock 'n' roll creation dedicated to creating rock 'n' roll creations. That the rock 'n' roll creation known as John Mikl-Thor made rock 'n' roll creations that in turn help define Mikl-Thor as a rock 'n' roll creation who himself creates rock 'n' roll creations is simply an example of how the undying spirit of rock 'n' roll permeates the very fabric of the universe, which if you believe a variety of rock 'n' roll creations, is a sweeping place full of glowing neon pink animation and chrome. John Mikl-Thor, or Thor as he is known amongst the intelligencia, is probably best known for his role as the good son turned into a green-faced, bat-wielding zombie in the film Zombie Nightmare. That film, in turn, is his best known as a result of its appearance on Mystery Science Theater 3000, a show that was undoubtedly funny yet still contemptible because it spawned an entire generation of nerds who would shout out incredibly unfunny and inane nonsense during bad films, thinking they themselves were as witty as the people on the television show. These are more or less the same people who ruined Monty Python and the Holy Grail for the greater portion of mankind by reciting the entire "Knights Who Say Ni" segment at the drop of a hat and with only the most tenuous and questionable degrees of relevance to whatever was being discussed at the time. Zombie Nightmare's core audience comes from this group as well as the Adam West completists of the world - and if you doubt such things exist, please remember that there are people who bought the special edition DVD of Carrottop's film, Chairman of the Board. In light of that chilling revelation, the existence of Adam West connoisseurs is not so great a stretch of the imagination. Regardless of any of this, the end result was that John Mikl-Thor became a legend. Many people asked, "How does one pronounce 'Mikl?' Is it like 'Michael," or does it rhyme with pickle?" To them I say only this: you want to know how I pronounce "Mikl?" I pronounce it "hero." Although Zombie Nightmare is not without its merits, chief among them being the screen debut of a young Tia Carerre, it was not until Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare that Thor would realize his full potential for crafting a film that works not just as a piece of entertainment, but as a defining symbol of the time in which it was made. On the surface, Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare is little more than a rousing tale of the forces of good fighting valiantly against the forces of evil. However, peel away the surface and the viewer will discover that the movie addresses one of the great voids in the history of cinema, filling at long last the need for a movie in which a heavy metal warlord dons a jewel-encrusted loincloth and does battle with the immobile Prince of Darkness. Although there are plenty of movies that either inspired or were inspired by the world of heavy metal music, movies actually about heavy metal are few and far between. Sure, there for a while every horror film made had to throw at least one metal track onto the soundtrack, but that was just a cheap ploy to garner the favor of guys in black t-shirts adorned with an airbrushed painting of Eddie (the corpse or Van Halen, whichever you prefer). When it comes down to movies in which heavy metal is integral to the plot rather than being just some throw-away audio candy for the soundtrack, your choices are limited mostly to Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare or that movie where Skippy from Family Ties was a metal head who summoned a head-banging demon from Hell. In light of that, the better choice is actually Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare, which is something that should chill you to the bone. Our action begins during a prologue in which a nice, respectable middle-class family runs afoul of a few demons. The mother is apparently stuffed into an oven, for starters. Seems a rather stupid way for a demon to kill someone, not to mention incredibly time consuming. It's not as if full-grown humans are easy to fit into your standard range, and believe me, I know this from experience. What happened to cool demonic ways to kill people like, oh I don't know, you could levitate someone up and crucify them in the corner where the walls and ceiling meet. Something with a little religious flash to it. What's done is done, though, and when the husband comes downstairs in search of his sausages, he finds his wife has vanished and that the oven is shaking around. Seeing the oven shaking around causes him to immediately scream out, "Oh my God! Carol!" as if the most obvious and logical leap was to assume his wife was inside the oven instead of just taking the trash out. Or maybe he screams that every time he comes into the kitchen. Try doing it at your own house. It doesn't matter if your loved one isn't named Carol. That just adds to the fun. The movie makes up for it in short order by delivering one of the most chilling, eerie, and amazing special effects I've seen in a long time. The husband creeps close to the oven only to have it burst open in an explosion of neon light, smoke, and music! Out pops a horrible corpse head dangling awkwardly on the end of a stick! It's sort of like being attacked by one of those coconut head souvenirs you can buy along the road in South Florida. No, it's not even that scary. My grandparents used to have one of those things sitting on a shelf in their basement. My grandfather told me it was the preserved head of a Nazi he had killed during the war, and that it sometimes came to life and would scream for its body, or at least for an update on the status of Adolph Hitler. I was terrified of that thing for years, and still prefer not to deal with it, and I can say that the corpse head on a stick popping out of the oven is not as scary as a coconut head novelty I thought was the skull of a vengeful Nazi soldier. Some point-of-view camera work informs us of the fact that the demons got the kid upstairs as well, and then we're off to the movie proper. Jon Mikl-Thor, with bulging biceps and rippling abs, stars as Jon Triton, leader of the hard rock outfit Triton. This is different than real life, where Jon Mikl-Thor was the leader of the hard rock outfit Thor. Triton (the band, not the man - though some would say the man is the band, or is it that the band is the man?) is the sort of band that could only exist in a movie. Rock star stereotypes that should never be mixed are thrown together in a lame attempt to create something that looks cutting edge. First you have Thor, who looks every bit the heavy metal warrior with his luscious, flowing blond locks, huge muscles, and tight jeans. But then you've got this goofy new wave dude, the nerdy manager who looks like he's about nineteen when most managers of bands that could record in a massive 24-track studio would be dudes in their forties with that "ponytail balding" combination championed by men like Phil Collins. And you've got the girlfriends, who run the gamut from snooty rich bitch to sweet and innocent. Not a single heavy metal chick among them. And then there's the Australian guy, who is really only Australian for about 45% of his lines. The accent comes and goes with a frequency that will make you appreciate Kevin Costner's fine linguistic gymnastics in that Robin Hood film. At first, you may think that this guy is simply a bad actor who thought throwing a little Australian accent in here and there would help give his character a . character, I guess. Everyone was doing it in the 1980s, after all, in an attempt to give a dash of exotic down-under wonder to a movie. I would suggest that the drummer, Stig, is actually a clever parody of all the fake Australians running rampant in films in the wake of Paul Hogan, Men at Work, at that bleach blond Jacko guy who screamed "Oi!" in a Popeye voice while selling you batteries or attempting to convince you that you should watch The Highwayman that Friday. Anyway, this band is pretty much the model for every time Hollywood (or in this case, Canada) tries to put together a cast of punks or metal heads or anything else. They never could tell punks, metal heads, and new wave folks apart, sort of how they could never tell hippies from bikers. And what's with the girls? You telling not a single dude in this heavy metal band dates a metal chick? And how did that guy who looks like Nicholas Cage from Valley Girl get in the band? Never mind these questions. I'm sure Triton knew what he was doing, just like he knew what he was doing when he wrote Zombie Nightmare -- he was giving the world Tia Carerre in a hot tub. And I'm sure he knew what he was doing when he made his band drive their custom van out to a deserted farmhouse. How do we know they're driving to a deserted farmhouse? Because they show us. They show us for quite some time. I know the rule of thumb is "show, don't tell," but that doesn't mean you have to show every single second. The driving scene goes on for the length of an entire Thor song, and by the time it was over, I was pretty sure I could find the farm house if I had to. When asked why he has brought them to this God-forsaken (literally!) hellhole (literally!), Triton explains that it's so the band can reclaim their edge. The softness of big city success has spoiled them, and like Rocky in Rocky IV, if they want to punch out the Commies with the power of rock 'n' roll, they're going to have to get away from all that high-tech gadgetry and soft living and do squats in the barn. They just have to get away from it all. When asked why they had to drive up to Toronto, Triton explains that Toronto is where it's all happening, baby: the arts, the music, the nightlife. I thought they were leaving to get away from all those things, but who am I to question the wisdom of Jon Triton? One would think if they were leaving town to get away from distractions like parties and girls, they wouldn't have each brought their girls with them to do some partying. One guy is even on his honeymoon, and this is how he's spending it. His wife is too much of a sport to care, or she just figured in the race between kicking back in St. Kitts or staying in a deserted farmhouse with a bunch of failed heavy metal guys, the farm in Toronto just couldn't be beat. Who wants white sand beaches, crystal clear water, and hiking trails through virgin rain forests when you can have dull gray skies, cow shit, and the song "We Love to Rock?" When rehearsing, Thor favors his heavy metal uniform of tight black pants, a shiny silver chest-revealing tuxedo jacket, and mirror shades. I know that William Gibson tried to make mirror shades all cool with cyberpunk and all, and some people even bought that crap. To me, mirror shades have been and always shall be the domain of surfer-bodybuilders and fat Southern sheriffs. I'm not sure why Thor felt the need to get all gussied up in his concert duds for a rehearsal. It can't be because he draws power from the ensemble, because all metal dudes draw their power from their hair. That's why Metallica started to suck so bad after they all got haircuts and James Hetfield said, "I'm just tired of people telling me I look like the Cowardly Lion." The real big problem is that the demons who killed that family ten years ago are still at this very house, lying in wait for new victims because the evil forces are too lazy to walk down the street to a more populated area. The other really big problem is that despite being isolated and out in the middle of nowhere, the house actually seems to sit a few feet from a major highway, and you can see cars going by all the time. Every exterior shot of the deserted, isolated abode features at least one car that looks like it's pulling into the driveway. The movie then becomes a series of scenes broken up into pattern of "the band plays a tune, then one of the members gets possessed." From time to time, we get very unappealing sex scenes, the most painful of which involves Thor's beefy, oiled-up body in a shower sex scene with his gal. Not only is the thought of a buff, steaming naked metal musician unappealing, the shot where Thor goes in for a French kiss and starts waggling his tongue like an angler a foot from his woman's mouth was one of the most disturbing things I'd ever had the misfortune of seeing. I can take people being disemboweled or having their eyelids peeled off, but wet, naked metal heads waggling their soft, pink, dripping tongue like a toothless old man anxiously smacking his lips and gums in anticipation of a bit of soggy biscuit and gravy is where I draw the line. Eventually, everyone has been possessed except for Jon, and he's thankful for the solitude since it will allow him to pen a few power ballads before the next jam session. The demons convene on his location, however, and what a scary set of demons they turn out to be? One looks sort of like a small brown version of Beaker from The Muppet Show. Another just looks like a big ol' penis - no doubt some of Mikl-Thor's clever social satire regarding the concept of cock rock. Or not. Whatever the case, the monsters all fail in delightfully humorous ways to kill Triton, who always does that thing where he bends over to pick something up, just missing getting impaled by something whizzing over his head. Realizing that his minions are woefully inept at their job, the head demon assumes the shape of Jon's girlfriend and tries to make him concerned about the fact that everyone seems to have vanished. This head demon might have had better luck with his minions if he hadn't hired a group of creatures that closely resemble something that would menace Gumby by stealing his beach ball or something. Even the devil in Petey Wheatstraw had better minions, and all they could do was run around with their arms outstretched while wearing capes and leotards. Angered by Jon's lack of interest in the disappearance of his cohorts, the demon begins to yell in an otherworldly voice that Jon is a fool not to see what is happening. Jon' calmly stands up and announced his big, shocking surprise: No one has died. No one has died because no one was ever there. It was all a clever ruse conjured up by Jon to drive Ol' Gooseberry out of hiding for a final confrontation. Surrounding himself with smoke and light, Jon then makes the announcement that he is, in fact, the arch-angel Triton sent to Earth to do battle with the Dark One and send him back from whence he came, never again to plague innocent mortals. Satan responds to this revelation by transforming from a mildly attractive woman into a large rubber monster with no apparent points of articulation. Not one to be outdone, and ever the heavy metal showman, Triton transforms into a glistening rock god in eyeliner and a studded black loincloth. Just to add that extra something that makes God so happy, Triton also teases his hair up into a frenzied whirlwind of bleach blond fury. The ultimate battle between good and evil has begun! Probably my favorite thing about the ultimate battle between good and evil is that it's a fistfight. No one in movies ever seems to consider just hauling off and letting Satan have it in the jaw as a viable means of defeating him. It's always spells and chants and old priests muttering ancient incantations while grasping crosses. Triton, however, appreciates the religious value of a solid right hook delivered by a buff, mostly naked archangel. Satan, on the other hand, tries to add a little supernatural flair to the proceedings by flinging rubber starfish at Triton, who must catch them and hold them against his barrel chest as if they were sticking to him. It's a scene that will make you ache for the technical wizardry of that scene in Bride of the Monster where Bela Lugosi was attacked by the giant octopus that lived in the swamp. Yes, in slow motion, Satan hurls Wacky Wall Walkers at Triton. You may have thought it would be fire and brimstone or lightning or piercing shards of energy fashioned from the souls of the damned, but in the end, it's just floppy rubber novelty toys. Truly, it is a scene that must be seen to be fully appreciated. After his rubber starfish fail to do anything other than smudge the chest grease of the mighty avenging angel, Satan too resorts to simple fisticuffs in his bid to usurp the warrior of the Lord. Unfortunately for Satan, the Satan creature is mostly a statue with, as I pointed out earlier, no actual points of articulation. The best he can do is to stand there with outstretched arms and sort of twirl around, hoping Triton will be satisfied with walking directly into the blows or just doing one of those "test of strength" type lock-ups. For the most part, Satan's battle plan works okay, but in the end, not even the Devil himself can best a weight-lifting heavy metal angel lathered in oil and accompanied by a guitar solo. Triton's final act after vanquishing his foe, the lord of evil: to look into the great beyond and, with wry confidence in his own ability, proclaim, "I'll see you again, Old Scratch!" I always thought just old bluesmen down by the crossroads called Satan Ol' Scratch, but I guess when you've worked together like Triton and Lucifer must have at some point, you develop a familiarity. It would have undermined much of The Bible's power, I guess, to have God constantly warning the Israelites about "this guy, Ol' Scratch." Some movies offer you so many places to begin, it's difficult to chose one. Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare is such a film. It goes so far beyond the realm of what is or is not "good" that such terms cease to have any meaning whatsoever. What is good becomes a secondary consideration to what is entertaining, and Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare is nothing if not entertaining. It's probably one of the only movies to challenge what was at the time the very popular public opinion that heavy metal lead to devil worshiping and witchcraft. Jon Mikl-Thor dared challenge these preconceptions by presenting the world a film in which the power of metal is actually used to combat the forces of Satan. The idea that God has at his command any number of muscle-rippling, loincloth-clad, heavy metal angels would certainly upturn the worldviews of guys like Bob Larsen. What would Jerry Falwell do if he was greeted at the Pearly Gates not by a robe-wearing white male from the deep South, but by a wild-eyed David Lee Roth looking guy in assless leather pants? Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare asks the theologically important question, "What if Stryper was right?" As far as the technical aspects of a film go, this one is okay in that someone managed to get a series of shots recorded onto film. Asking for more than that is only asking for trouble. The acting ranges from awful to below average, and it says something about your film when the best performance is from Jon Mikl-Thor. Someday I hope to make a movie with the pointlessly Australian guy from Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare and the pointlessly British guy from Honey Britches. It's actually sort of cool to see a movie where no one is a good actor. I mean, even crappy, shot-on-video horror films made by pot-smoking Slayer fans usually have one guy who is at least okay, but this movie manages to feature a cast so devoid of any real acting skill that it will make you pine for the subtle thespian styling of a middle school play. The special effects are as good as rubber finger puppet technology can hope to deliver in a feature film. The minions are all completely and hilariously awful, looking like someone glued some Mr. Potatohead face parts to a couple hot dogs, only not that convincing. Satan himself has no mobility whatsoever, so all his action consists of being leaned slightly in toward Thor, who grimaces and makes "fight face" with over-the-top glee the likes of which I haven't witnessed since Jack Palance in Hawk the Slayer. At least one of them is somewhat animated. The music is a curious mix of hard rock anthems by Thor and weird keyboard doodlings, possibly by a chimp. Sometimes, both soundtracks are playing at the same time. It almost makes sense when the "spooky" music plays during a scene in which someone could conceivably have a radio tuned to the movie's "All Thor, All the Time" channel (which could possibly exist in Canada and parts of the Eastern Bloc). Other times, however, it simply seems as if Thor couldn't let a scene go by without mixing one of his songs into the soundtrack as well. The best way to simulate the end result is to take two radios, sit one to your left and one to your right, then play Yanni on one and Spinal Tap on the other, at the same time. Then imagine a whole movie of that. Then imagine that movie contains scenes of a glistening naked metal hero waggling his tongue in a soft-lit orange-pink shower scene. The plot? Well, I have to say that it's original in the sense that there are very few movies in which a heavy metal rock god strips down to a black leather loincloth to punch out Satan amid a flurry of flashing neon lights, gusting wind, and billowing mist. Yes, in that sense, Jon Mikl-Thor has written a script that is truly unique. Sure, one could ask questions like why he had to concoct this whole charade with the fake people in order to lure Satan out, when Satan seems like he was willing to come out for anyone. And you could even ask why Satan is such an idiot that he would fall for it. Doesn't he have some special sort of God-detecting skills, like Spiderman? One could also ask why Satan, lord of all that is vile and evil in the universe, would take time out to personally haunt an abandoned farmhouse on the outskirts of Toronto. Shouldn't he, I don't know, be corrupting priests or arranging for apocalypse or prank calling Jesus? How does he have time in his schedule for kicking around the farm possessing the drummers of go-nowhere hard rock bands? You could also ask yourself just what sort of theological picture Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare paints for us. In the theology of Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare, heavy metal is the tool of God, and sweaty heavy metal warriors are his heralds singing in falsetto voices to usher in his glory as they engage in pose-downs with Bealzabub, or Bub as he's known here. You all already know I'm not a religious man, but I'm not totally ignorant about Christian theology. From what I can tell, most Christians have in their head a particular notion of Heaven. It's all rolling green hills or it's all misty white fluff. Whatever the landscaping decisions, the vision of heaven almost never contains mostly-naked heavy metal archangels with black leather codpieces strutting about the place. Christianity would be a very different religion if, say, Moses had cast his arms toward the heavens and yelled, "Oh Lord, what do you want?" and God had replied in a shrill falsetto voice, "I wanna rock!" Whether there would be more Christians or less as a result is probably a question that takes more mulling over than I'm willing to sacrifice, but I can certainly say that if The Bible, or more specifically Milton, hadn't painted Satan out to be such a headstrong, suave bad-ass, and instead had opted to portray him as a goofy rubber statue who can't even win a simple fistfight, there'd definitely be a lot less Satanists in the world. Instead of making him this fiery, tough sumbitch, The Bible could simple have thrown in the line, "Yea, and Satan rose from the depths, and he was a pussy." There you go. Problem solved. No one wants to follow a wuss. Yes, you could ask these questions, but to ask these questions is to miss the point: that this is a movie about a heavy metal rock god stripped down to a black leather loincloth so he can punch out Satan amid a flurry of flashing neon lights, gusting wind, and billowing mist. Not only does it give us that, but it does so with all the technical wonder and finely-honed skill of your lower-end music videos from the 1980s. It's not as disturbing as Van Halen's bizarre zero-budget video for their cover of Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman," in which two midgets dressed as an Indian chief and Lon Chaney from London After Midnight torment a captive woman until David Lee Roth as the hunchback calls the members of Van Halen who are, respectively, a Tarzan guy, a samurai, a cowboy, and Napoleon, all of whom arrive just in time for Roth as Napoleon to cast a pouty-lipped look into the camera after stepping from his white stretch limo. No, it's not as disturbing as that, but frankly, what is? How you react to Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare depends largely on how you might react to a naked angel socking Satan in the nose, or how you might respond to a Manowar album, or possibly just how drunk you are. If you're looking for a rock 'n' roll adventure on the level of Wild Zero or even Streets of Fire, you're pretty much out of luck. Neither the music nor the movie is as good. If, however, you appreciate the fact that John Mikl-Thor was probably having one hell of a fun time making this movie, and if you aren't looking for something to take especially seriously, then you'll no doubt have yourself a riotous time. The fact that Thor does seem to be having fun, even if it's because he's indulging his own ego as both a song and scriptwriter, saves the movie from a horrible fate a more straight-faced movie might have suffered. It's not that this is a comedy, or even a spoof of horror films, as so many bad horror films claim to be these days. It's not funny; it's just fun, and that makes it worth watching. Of course, Satan throwing rubber toys at an archangel doesn't hurt. Labels: Horror: Satan, Year: 1987 posted by Keith at 3:53 PM | 0 Comments |
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