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Monday, October 08, 2007

Dracula A.D. 1972

DIGG THIS ARTICLE. 1972, England. Starring Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee, Stephanie Beacham, Christopher Neame, Caroline Munro, Marhsa Hunt, Michael Coles. Written by Don Houghton. Directed by Alan Gibson. Buy it from Amazon.

And so we enter the dire straights of Hammer Films in the final throes of a long, drawn-out death much like those experienced by Dracula himself. As has been detailed elsewhere and will be summarized here, by the 1970s, England's Hammer Studios -- the studio that pretty much defined and dominated the horror market through the 50s and 60s -- had fallen on hard times. The old guard had largely retired or died, and the new blood was flailing about, desperately trying to find the direction that would right the once mighty production house. The problem was that everyone felt like they needed to update their image, but no one actually knew how. In retrospect, though they may have seemed painfully antiquated at the time of their release, many of Hammer's releases during the 70s were quite good and often experimental (by Hammer standards, anyway). This movie isn't really one of them, but it's still pretty enjoyable in a completely ludicrous way.

Unfortunately, even Hammer's good films in the 1970s simply weren't in step with contemporary trends in horror films. No one wanted to see a gothic horror anymore, not in this new era of slasher movies and stuff where devil worshipers listlessly chant about Satan and then hassle Warren Oates and Hot Lips Houlihan.


Hammer tried to launch several new properties that were variations on their old themes, and several of these showed considerable promise. Captain Kronos, Vampire Hunter was a spectacular horror-adventure film that mixed classic Hammer atmosphere with a more playful, swashbuckling tone. Although Twins of Evil is best remembered for the prominent assets of its two Playboy Playmate co-stars, underneath the cheesecake nudity is another very good film. And Vampire Circus was one of Hammer's most experimental vampire films, integrating a hallucinogenic, dreamlike state into Hammer's formerly all-business approach. But these films either didn't perform well at the box office, or studio executives didn't have any faith in them. In the end, Hammer decided to return to the same-old, same-old, and audiences got new Dracula, Frankenstein, and mummy movies.

With each of these, Hammer tried something different. The mummy movie, 1971's Blood from the Mummy's Tomb, was adapted from a Bram Stoker novel and deals with a mummy's curse but contains no actual mummies. 1974's Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell was roundly lambasted for its ridiculous monster make-up (a hairy caveman design featuring a face mask where the lips don't move when the actor talks), but if one can get past that, it's an exceptionally well thought-out final entry for the series, completing Baron Frankenstein's journey from slightly cold man of science on the verge of a miraculous breakthrough to completely disconnected butcher engaged in pointless, crude retreads of his old experiments.

And then there was Dracula. Hammer's Dracula series started out with a promising entry, 1970's Taste the Blood of Dracula. The original idea behind that movie had been to, as with Brides of Dracula so many years before, make movie in which Dracula is an ever-present force and invoked name but not an actual on-screen character. Distributors balked at the idea of a Dracula-free Dracula movie, especially when there was no name star onto which they could hook their wagon as an alternate. Brides may not have featured Christopher Lee as Dracula, but at least it had Peter Cushing reprising his role as Van Helsing. Taste the Blood, on the other hand, revolves around young Ralph Bates, an actor Hammer had hopes of turning into their next big thing, though it never really happened. And so Hammer somehow convinced Christopher Lee to sign on yet again for one absolutely final appearance as the count. The result is a great entry in the Dracula series, and sensing that there was still some gas left in the tank, Hammer decided to give it another go. Scars of Dracula is a pretty bad movie, a major step backward after a good movie, showcasing Hammer filmmaking at its most profit driven, but it also stands out as the only film where Dracula is a major character, with lots of screentime and lines. It was enough to do the trick at the box office, and so to the well once again -- but this time, Dracula was gonna get funky!


In 1970, American International Pictures -- a studio that built a franchise of horror films based loosely on the writing of Edgar Allen Poe by copying Hammer's gothic horror films -- released a movie called Count Yorga, Vampire. It was an attempt by AIP to transfer the feel of their gothic Poe films into a modern setting, and a vampire -- given its longevity provided it can stay away from Peter Cushing -- was the perfect creature for the experiment. You could still deck his pad out in all sorts of frilly Victorian hoo ha, but you had a reasonable explanation for why he was still hanging around in 1970, listening to his old Edison Cylindrical Phonograph device and complaining about how modern music was crappy and modern fashion was ridiculous. Count Yorga also had the good sense to turn poke subtle fun at the idea of this out-of-touch Victorian style character dropped wholesale and unchanged into what was then modern time, as if the intervening hundred years or so hadn't caused the vampire to change in the slightest. But what do I know. I'm writing this review win 2007, and I'm listening to the same music I listened to in 1987. What's another eighty years?

Yorga, no doubt with some help from Hammer's early 70s vampire output, sparked a bit of a vampire revival that really came to a boil in 1972. Marvel Comics released their outlandishly ridiculous but imminently enjoyable Tomb of Dracula comic book, in which modern-day descendants of Van Helsing, Jonathan Harker, and Dracula himself team up to battle a revived Count who would explain his entire life history every time he got a word bubble to himself. Only Doctor Strange showcased the potential to ramble on and spew as much purple prose. The comic book was a whirlwind of bell bottoms, tweed blazers, and jumpers, not to mention vampire hunter Blade's bizarre combo of lab goggles, a raincoat, and some swashbuckler boots. When they updated him for the movies, it's a shame they didn't keep the original outfit and afro. And if Dracula's flowery long-windedness, punctuated as it often was by the phrase, "Foolish humans!" and "I, Dracula..." was a little much to swallow, wait until you get a load of Blade running around calling the count a jive turkey and "baby."


In the same year, AIP released Blacula, a blaxploitation twist on the Count Yorga theme which, despite the jokey title, turned out to be a remarkably good and thoughtful film that managed to deliver vampire thrills and make comments on race relations, ghettos, and drug abuse without it coming across as overly heavy-handed. Plus the character of Mamuwalde (Blacula, to you) was an exceptionally complex villain/hero inhabited by a great actor in William Marshall. Once again, a movie got to play with the idea of a Victorian era character revived in the modern era -- with plenty of light jokes about fashion. Lucky for the vampires, the early 70s were such a jumbled mish-mash of outrageous fashion trends that even a guy running around in a vest and opera cape didn't really stand out, though he could often be mistaken for a pimp.

In a classic example of "student becomes the master" flip-flopping, Hammer looked to AIP for inspiration and released their own "vampire in modern times" movie in 1972. The idea was hatched that Hammer, too, should make a modern day vampire tale, one that would easily lend itself to integrating modern settings with classic the Hammer gothic trappings. And since Hammer already had Count Dracula hanging around in the shadows, he was the most obvious choice. Of course, there remained one problem: Christopher Lee was absolutely, positively, entirely unwilling to do another Dracula movie for Hammer, not when he was having so much fun making high quality films for Jess Franco, like Eugenie... the Story of Her Journey Into Perversion, all those Fu Manchu films, and...oh hey! What do you know! Jess Franco's Dracula.

I doubt anyone at Hammer was actually worried that they wouldn't be able to get Lee to reprise his role as Dracula. After all, he announced after every single Dracula movie that they were awful and he'd never make another one in a million years. And then a few years later, there he is again, donning the cape and red contact lenses for another go round which, upon completion of principal photography, he would run to the press and complain about, announcing that he would never do another shitty Dracula film again. Blah, blah, blah, Chris. And you know what? He still complains about it. Dude, no one thinks you're Dracula anymore. The only people who bring it up are a few cult movie fans and you. Everyone else thinks your Saruman or whatever the hell your name was in those awful Star Wars films. I've theorized in past reviews of Hammer Dracula films and Lee's whining that the entire thing was a ruse devised by Hammer and Lee to drum up controversy and business. After all, if your star is out there bad-mouthing his own film and saying stuff like, "Well, the last one may have been gory and tasteless, but this one is so much worse that I can't stand it!" is going to do wonders for getting folks interested in seeing the movie.


The other option is that Christopher Lee is just pompous and annoying. And I say that as a guy who enjoys Christopher Lee's work. But while I may love many of the films in which he's been in, there's no denying that his filmography has considerably more "worst film ever made" candidates and parts in it than anyone short of Michael Caine. But, like Caine, Lee gets the British Actor's Golden Pass -- that coveted ticket that allows a British actor to emerge unscathed from a career of mostly utter garbage and still have people think they are incredible. I mean, Tom Cruise has one flop, and his career is pronounced over. But Michael Caine? He gets to be in Jaws IV, Blame it on Rio, Beyond the Poseidon Adventure, and The Swarm, and he comes through like he's coated in Teflon. Similarly, while Christopher Lee was busy bitching about the lack of class in his Dracula movies, he found time to make The Torture Chamber of Dr. Sadism, The Castle of Fu Manchu, Howling II: Your Sister is a Werewolf, To the Devil...A Daughter, and Chuck Norris' An Eye for an Eye, yet he remains one of the most revered actors of our time. Not even Vincent Price, who was far more talented and made just as many great films (and just as many crummy ones) commands the respect that Lee gets.

I'm not saying he doesn't deserve it. What I'm saying is, Chris -- shut the hell up about Dracula. You made a lot of really awful films to go with your good ones, so quit picking on Dracula, the character that made your career. You should be more like Michael Caine. He shows up, does his job, and then moves on without running to the press to bitch about the last job he had or how everyone only things of Carter or Harry Palmer or ol' Peachy or whoever Michael Caine is typecast as. I think he's actually typecast as Michael Caine. All of Christopher Lee's complaining, still going on to this day, coupled with the fact that no matter what he said, he always went back and did another Dracula film, means that, if this wasn't a clever marketing ploy by Hammer and Lee, then Lee is just sort of a...you know. If I ever meet him, I'm going to call him Dracula non-stop.

Great. You know, among my goals when I started Teleport City, I never counted "talk shit about Christopher Lee" to be among them.


So whatever the case, after swearing he'd never do another one, Christopher Lee was never the less coaxed back into the series, perhaps because of the promise that, for the first time since 1958's Horror of Dracula, he and Cushing would be teamed up as Dracula and Van Helsing. Also, I'm sure they threw some money at him, and a couple rare editions of Shakespeare books or whatever the hell Christopher Lee likes more than making Dracula movies.

There are, of course, sundry other problems facing Dracula A.D. 1972, but we shall address each of those as we come to them in the course or this article.

The pre-credit opening sees us joining the finale of a film that was never made, but looks like it was pretty good. Dracula (Lee) and Van Helsing (Cushing) are locked in mortal combat atop a carriage that is careening out of control across London's Hyde Park. Remember that Cushing and Lee hadn't been paired together as Van Helsing and Dracula since the very first film back in the late 1950s, so seeing them together again should have been a big deal, at least bigger than a pre-credit sequence that feels like, "We now join our regularly scheduled vampire fight already in progress." But we'll let that slide, because it really is a fantastic opening, and one that can fool you into thinking Hammer's Dracula is back with a vengeance. After both Dracula and Van Helsing keep over dead, a mysterious third man rides up and scoops some of Dracula's ashes into a little glass vial and takes Drac's signet ring. Then, at Van Helsing's funeral, the guy dumps some of Dracula's ashes into a little hole in some far-off corner of the graveyard, and plunges the stake that killed Dracula into the ground. The combination of seeing Van Helsing and Dracula together again after so many years and the high-energy action of the scene is really fun, and like I said, perhaps they should have just made this movie instead. Given that Taste the Blood of Dracula sees the Count transported for the first time to London, a movie in which Van Helsing and the ace bloodsucker tangle with one another one last time on Hammer's home turf would have been a movie to get excited about.

And I guess technically, that is what Dracula A.D. 1972 is, in a weird, convoluted way. After Van Helsing dispatches Dracula and keels over dead himself, we get the funky Dracula A.D. 1972 theme song by Michael Vickers. And here is where Hammer lost a good many of the remaining traditionalists that were hobbling on their walkers out to the theaters, no doubt trailing their colostomy bags behind them, to see Hammer productions. Up until this point, every Hammer Dracula theme song had been written by James Bernard, the man who defined the Hammer score the same way Hammer itself defined the gothic horror film. Bernard's scores were bombastic and powerful, with the conductor explaining that in every song you could hear the syllables of the movie's title (and it's true). But with Dracula A.D. 1972, Hammer was trying to create an amalgamation of their past glory with something new. With Lee and Cushing serving as the links to the past, Bernard's theme writing services were not tapped. Instead, Michael Vickers turns in an attempt to blend classic Hammer horror music with a more modern film theme sound, something more along the lines of Lalo Schifren or Roy Budd. The dramatic shift from the thoroughly old-fashioned Hammer opening to this theme song full of horns and wah-wah guitars jarred many people, though they are lucky I didn't make the movie because I would have accompanied this completely bad-ass theme song with shots of Christopher Lee -- wearing a black flared-leg suit and platform shoes (and his cape, of course) high steppin' down the street with a magic cane, using it to turn fat women thin and bring dead people back to life in front of grieving relatives. That's right, people. You should be thankful Hammer's movie is what it is, because if I had my way, it would have been...well, it would have been Petey Wheatstraw, the Devil's Son-in-Law, but with Dracula. Which just makes me think that we really should have had a movie where Dracula is revived, hisses out his token line, "Who dares disturb the sanctity of Dracula?" only to have Rudy Ray Moore step in with a Thompson machine gun and say, "Dolemite, mother fucker!"


After our funky theme song, the action jumps a hundred years to the groovy, mod setting of London in the swingin' sixties. Except, you know, it's 1972 and all. A bunch of groovy young mop tops are skulking about London, holding "freak outs" and the most tame "horribly out of control" parties I've ever seen -- and I've been to some really tame parties. Leading this merry band of pranksters is one Johnny Alucard, trotting out the Alucard "puzzle" for the millionth time. We get it! Who, by this time, doesn't get the Alucard thing? Imagine if Frankenstein had tried that instead of just cleverly calling himself Dr. Frank or Dr. Stein whilst incognito. Actually, I guess Nietsneknarf isn't any worse than many actual German words.

Johnny happens to be the owner of Dracula's ring and some of his ashes, passed on we assume from his nefarious ancestor from the beginning of the film. And one of his friends happens to be the grand-daughter of the latest Dr. Van Helsing. And if you think they're all going to end up in an abandoned churchyard summoning up Dracula, then you don't really earn yourself a prize. Actually, Johnny Alucard is less a reincarnation of Dracula than he is a cheap knock-off of Malcom McDowell in A Clockwork Orange. In fact, many of the sets and situations in this movie feel cribbed from Kubrick's film, which is only fitting, I suppose, considering the outfits Malcom McDowell wore in A Clockwork Orange.

So OK, now my movie has a jive walkin' Christopher Lee as Dracula (with a magic cane, remember...and a big floppy pimp hat) battling Dolemite and trying to possess Alex from A Clockwork Orange. Seriously, why does no one ever give me development deals? How does Return of the Living Dead: Rave to the Grave get funding, but my Dracula/Dolemite/Malcom McDowell movie languishes in limbo, alongside my ideas for Cobra-Shark vs. Croco-lion and Great White Squid, a movie about Wings Hauser fighting a genetically engineered giant squid that has great white sharks for tentacles.

Somewhere, my friends who bother to read this site are going, "Oh God, is he on about the Croco-Lion thing again?"

Johnny (Christopher Neame) convinces the gang that what would really be fun would be to hold a black mass. Having nothing better to do, the gang agrees, in some cases reluctantly so. It is at this point we learn that one of the groovy gang is Jessica Van Helsing (Stephanie Beacham), great grand-daughter of Lawrence Van Helsing, slayer of Dracula, and current grand-daughter of Professor Van Helsing -- played by Peter Cushing, because in movies no one thinks it's weird when you look 100% identical to one of your distant relatives. Genetics tells me that I should look less and less like my relatives the further removed from them I get, but in movies, people are always the spitting image of some great grandfather or third aunt or whatever, and no one ever thinks that is weird. Hell, the mummy built his entire career of resurrections on randomly stumbling across women who looked exactly like their ancestor from thousand of years ago.

No surprises here when Johnny summons up Dracula during their black mass ritual -- which takes place in a desanctified church that happens to be the same place Lawrence Van Helsing and Dracula were buried. You'd think that, given that the current Professor Van Helsing has a portrait of his grandfather in his study, collected all the man's books, and remains himself an expert on the occult, that he would know where his idol and close relative was buried. But whatever. All that's important is Dracula is back and he's going to...well, he's going to hang around the church and send Johnny out to kidnap Jessica Van Helsing, because Dracula knows how to hold a grudge. Meanwhile, as members of the gang disappear -- including the lovely Caroline Munro (Captain Kronos, Starcrash) and the equally lovely Marsha Hunt (you may recall her hairy werewolf boobs from Howling II: Your Sister is a Werewolf, also starring Dracula) -- the police become increasingly convinced by Van Helsing's tendency to blame the murders on a vampire.

There are a few things people tend to harp on when criticizing this film. The first, most obvious, and dumbest argument is that the film is dated. I think I may have said before that "it looks dated" is one of my most hated complaints about any movie. It's cheap, ignorant, and shallow, and it has no merit as an observation. That a film is a reflection of the time in which it was made hardly strikes me as anything inherently negative, and I utterly detest whenever someone trots out that hoary old cliche and expects us to have any respect for their opinion. Oh, so Dracula AD 1972 contains slang and crazy fashion. Big deal. I look at those things as assets more than as detriments. So if your complaint is that the movie is dated looking, well we may still be friends, but I'm certainly going to regard your opinion on any film from here on out with a tremendous degree of suspicion.

The second most common complaint is that Dracula is hardly in the movie at all, and when he is, he does nothing. I can understand this complaint a little bit more, but honestly, if at this point in the series, you are mad that Dracula isn't on screen and doesn't do very much when he is, then you haven't watched any of the previous films in the series, except perhaps Scars of Dracula, which is the only film where he has anything approaching substantial screentime or more than two lines. Not to say that it isn't disappointing. One can't help but want scenes of Dracula cutting lose in modern London, even if those scenes don't involve him dancing down the street with a magic cane or fighting machine0gun toting kungfu pimps. Still, it would have been nice if he did a little something more than stand around in the desanctified church. Dracula's confinement to the church is representative of Hammer's difficulty with updating their image. They want to figure out a way to enter the modern era, but in the end, they imprison their title character in a Victorian set and don't ever figure out exactly how to bring him out.


Previous Dacula films have always relied on the rest of the cast, with Dracula looming in the background as everyone's motivating factor. Unfortunately for Dracula AD 1972, it's a pretty weak supporting cast, comprised primarily of inexperienced young actors who aren't bad but don't really contribute much that is memorable. They spend most of their time either sitting around being bored, or sitting around talking about how they are concerned, then most of them head off to a party and are never heard from again. Stephanie Beacham as Jessica Van Helsing obviously has a more substantial role, but only if you consider substantial to be screaming, then being put into a trance. As the menacing Johnny Alucard, Christopher Neame is all right -- equal parts spooky and pathetic -- but he's basically playing Malcom McDowell, as I said. Dracula AD 1972 is more or less a remake of Taste the Blood of Dracula, complete with the bored circle dabbling in the black arts, the mysterious outsider spurring them on and summoning Dracula, the vial of Dracula remains, the kidnapped woman, and so on. But Ralph Bates was a much more charismatic actor, and Taste the Blood of Dracula had a much more compelling cast of older character actors to propel it forward in between scenes of Dracula showing that he can count to four or five. Dracula AD 1972 lacks that, and although the young cast is perfectly acceptable, the characters they inhabit just aren't interesting. Plus the jackass who wears the monk's cowl around the whole time was intensely annoying and yet escaped death. Shame on you, Dracula! Shame on you for not killing the odious comic relief.

Caroline Munro has a small but memorable part as one of the gang of youths seduced by Johnny Alucard's ability to mimic what he's seen in A Clockwork Orange, but she would quickly become one of the most beloved cult film actresses of all time. She got her start on the horror scene playing Vincent price's dead wife in the Dr. Phibes films, though I'm not sure lying there dead for every one of your scenes earns you a whole lot other than other parts where you do nothing but lie there. She at least gets to talk, writhe, show off heaving breasts, and get blood dumped all over her in this film. Her career took off shortly thereafter, and she has a much more substantial role in Hammer's superior Captain Kronos, Vampire Hunter, as well as major roles in The Golden Voyage of Sinbad, At the Earth's Core, the James Bond film The Spy Who Loved Me, and of course the infamous classic Starcrash, featuring what was no doubt her most memorable outfit. She was still working, albeit only occasionally, up until 2006, and if you've seen her lately, in her late fifties, then you know she's still ridiculously gorgeous and awesome. A shame she doesn't have more to do in this film, but even a little Caroline Munro is worth watching.

As the current Van Helsing, it's great to see Peter Cushing back in action, and naturally he goes at the role with absolute conviction. Unfortunately, the character is written as Van Helsing Lite, and most of his scenes are pretty dull. He spends a lot of time tracking down clues to the one thing he already knows. Everyone knows where Dracula's base of operation is, and yet Van Helsing spends half the movie trying to track down clues to the location of Dracula's hide-out, which he already knows! And once again, he decides to go fight Dracula at night, instead of swinging by and staking the bloodsucker when Dracula is asleep in his coffin. Why oh why are vampire hunters always waiting until dark to go fight vampires? I guess a movie where vampire hunters swing by during the day, stake Dracula, then head down to the pub to celebrate wouldn't be as long, but it'd be a nice change of pace. Other than that, Cushing is always Cushing. He comes in and does his job well, or as well as he can with what he's given.

The final common criticism of this movie, then, is that it's not very good, and I guess that's a fair assessment. The script needed more work. You can tell the hip young lingo was written by old men who didn't really know what they were doing. The plot is a bit of a letdown, especially considering that it's the first time Van Helsing and Dracula have been on screen together since the first movie. And despite all that, I really quite like Dracula AD 1972. I like the young cast. I like the awkward attempt at being hip. I like the outlandish counter-culture fashions. I like the attempts at freak-out cinematography. I think the movie is fun regardless of its faults, though I recognize that I may be in the minority here. By no means is this the film to save Hammer, and by no means is it as good as the previous film it rips off, Taste the Blood of Dracula. But it's not an entirely bad effort and has much to recommend in it, at least for me.


Screenwriter Don Houghton didn't have a terribly deep resume at this point in his career, his primary credit at the time of this movie being a stint as a writer for Doctor Who. And in fact, he had very little in the way of a career after Dracula AD 1972. He went on to write The Satanic Rites of Dracula, and two of Hammer's co-productions with Hong Kong's Shaw Brothers studio -- the crummy Shatter and the pretty good if sloppily written Legend of the Seven Golden Vampires, in which Peter Cushing reprised his Van Helsing character one more time, this time on a trip to China to stop Dracula from raising an undead army. Despite the appearance of Dracula in the movie, Christopher Lee did not sign on, possibly because he was to busy making the James Bond film Man with the Golden Gun. Or The Satanic Rites of Dracula. Houghton was in his early forties when he wrote the screenplay for Dracula AD 1972, and while that's not really all that old, it is a little too old to be trying to write hip teen lingo. I'm only thirty-five right now, but I wouldn't consider myself adept at writing slang-heavy dialog based on modern teens. They say...what? Like, "sweet" and "cuckoo,man, real cuckoo" right?

Despite the faults, Dracula AD 1972 managed to turn a profit, which meant that Hammer was going to make another one, even though Christopher Lee swore this was the worst movie ever and he would never play Dracula again. That follow-up, another film set in the 1970s, was The Satanic Rites of Dracula, and if you want to see a genuinely awful film, that is the one you should be watching.

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posted by Keith at | 7 Comments


Thursday, August 02, 2007

Night of the Lepus

DIGG THIS ARTICLE. 1972, United States. Starring Rory Calhoun, Stuart Whitman, Janet Leigh, DeForest Kelly, Paul Fix, Melanie Fullerton, Chris Morrell, Chuck Hayward, Henry Wills, Francesca Jarvis, William Elliott. Written by Don Holliday. Directed by William Claxton. Buy it now from Amazon.

Watch enough of the types of movies that regularly occupy the screens here at Teleport City, and at some point you will undoubtedly find yourself lifting your arms up into the air toward yon' heavens and, in a booming and suitably epic film sounding voice, beseeching Jehovah himself. "O Lord!" you will cry, "O Lord, how in the name of all that is twisted and unholy did this film ever get made?"

For the very existence of some films, if not exactly a pox 'pon the very arse of Almighty God Himself, are at least perplexing in their existence. Who, you ask the hideous phantoms that haunt you whenever you are left too long by yourself (the phantoms look like Mick Jagger in Performance), in their right mind would have ever green-lighted this film?

You are especially likely to ask yourself (and your inner demons) this question if, like me, you consider "go out with a hot chick and party and drink free booze with her and your pals" or "stay at home and watch made for Sci-Fi Channel original movies all night," to be a legitimately difficult decision. A night of movies in which Stephen Baldwin saves humanity? OK, I think I'll out to the party. But a night of movies in which Daniel Baldwin saves humanity? I might just have to stay home that night.

Sometimes, these "how did this ever get made" movies will end up being some of the worst you've ever seen. But not always. Sometimes, they are just really goddamned weird. Or colossally mundane. Selling a script isn't easy, so it's fair to wonder why so many truly crummy scripts and bad ideas get the go-ahead. I'm not talking about arty farty independent experimental video pieces -- we already know how desperate those things are to be self-consciously weird. I mean studio films, things people actually thought other people would want to pay to see. Films where some fast-talking movie producer who calls people "babe" and drives a Corvette had to read the script and think, "Sweet! I'll throw a couple million at it, babe."


Back when I was in college, I took a script writing class as part of the film studies program I was dabbling in to augment my journalism degree and equip me with the proper intellectual background and tools I would eventually apply to writing about films like Gymkata. The class was lorded over by an unkempt, white-bearded hobo of a man in a rawhide vest. What his qualifications were to work as a professor at a major American university, I do not know. I do know that, for a while, he was homeless and slept on a surplus Army cot in his office. Odd, at least until you take into account that this was a department where Harry Crewes was also a professor and could occasionally be found passed out in the elevator with no pants on and an empty bottle of booze lying next to him.

This cat teaching my class had never had a script made into a film, or even purchased with the potential that it might one day become a film, and his primary function in class, aside from brandishing Syd Field's The Screenplay, was telling us the same story over and over about helping his grandmother roll big fat joints on the front porch of their one-room backwoods shack in Georgia (sort of how I think I've told the same story about this professor in like half a dozen reviews at this point). I half expected during any given class session to be interrupted by a mousy guy in a tweed jacket and wire-rimmed glasses walking in and, shocked, screaming, "Who are you? What are you doing in my classroom???" to the wild-eyed Bohemian madman, who himself would promptly grab his checkered hobo bundle tied to a long stick, and chirp "Fare thee well, my good man!" in a gravel voice as he tipped his ragged hobo fedora at us and hopped out of the window and onto a passing box car.

Of course, I also half expected to go to this guy's office and find the tweed jacket professor tied up in a closet, shouting, "He's insane! I've been tied up in here since the beginning of the semester! For God's sake, man, call the police!" And if I ever saw that, I would simply back out slowly, close the door behind me, and head down the hall to Harry Crewes' office to see if there was anything left to drink in there.

Sadly, both of these scenarios are far better than any of the scripts I wrote for that bizarre circus of a class. It was 1992 or so, and I was writing with all the razor-sharp acumen of an idiotic 20-year-old punk rocker who had been watching too many John Woo films. On one occasion, we were charged with writing a different ending for The Silence of the Lambs, a new scene that would take place immediately after the scene that actually ends the movie with hungry hungry Hannibal boarding a plane bound for the tropics. My contention with the assignment was that it was -- as I eloquently put it -- dumb, and that the movie ended exactly where it was supposed to end. Any additional scene (or, as we would all learn, sequel) would just muck up a wickedly good ending. No dice with the argument, though, and I can't even remember what sort of worthless junk I churned out an hour before it was due. I probably tried to work in a dude jumping through the air while firing two pistols.

One of my classmates, however, took this assignment to heart and, in doing so, penned one of the most gloriously awful ideas I think I've ever encountered. In his new ending, we follow Jodi Foster down to whatever the hell tropical paradise Hannibal hightailed it to, and there's like five pages of her walking around, just sort of looking for Hannibal. Kind of like those old black action movies where like two-thirds of the running time is just scenes of Jim Brown and Fred Williamson driving around looking bad-ass and listening to cool music. Only, this is Jodi foster, and not Jim Brown or Fred Williamson. I have nothing against Jodi Foster (except maybe that movie where her kid disappears on a plane), but face it: Jodi Foster is no Fred Williamson.


Eventually, she walks into a boardwalk ice cream parlor and, without looking at the guy behind the counter, sits down and calls out an order for a scoop of rocky road. The camera, starting with the ice cream jockey's back to it, slowly circles him to reveal the face of...wait for it...Hannibal Lecter! Grinning evilly, of course. He walks over to a cooler, opens it, and pulls out a big-ass machete. Jodi foster turns, sees him lunging toward her, and a look of horror flashes across her face as...

We cut to a small boy, laughing and running into the shop. "Una cone, por favor" he says in bad high school Spanish that was the best this scriptwriter could muster. And then the camera zooms slowly in on the back of Hannibal, who turns around and offers the young child a cone topped with the severed head of Jodi Foster. As the boy runs screaming back out to the street, Hannibal smiles wickedly and says, "Quid pro quo, Clarice." Cut to black.

Now keep in mind that I was young and naive. We all were. The world did not yet know that the labored sequels to Silence of the Lambs would be so awful, or that they would turn Hannibal into a Freddy Krueger style quipster. Compared to the actual legitimate projects that got made under the banner of Silence of the Lambs, this guy's classroom project -- which I will remind you, was not meant to be funny or anything other than a jaw-dropping shocker of an ending -- seems positively plausible, even preferable. But at the time, in a world still as yet unsullied by Hannibal or Red Dragon or Hannibal Rising, the class simply sat in stunned silence as the guy read enthusiastically through his masterpiece. As he wrapped it up, the wild-eyed professor calmly got up, walked over, picked up the script, and proceeded to tear it in half, throw it across the room, and then dash over and start dancing on top of the remains, singing an improvised little song with lyrics whose point seemed to be that this was, more or less, the single worst piece of shit he had ever read.

I tell you this story because there is an actual point here, believe or not. This guy's script was horrible. And it deserved to be thrown across a room and danced upon. But so do a lot of other scripts, some of them even worse than Jodi Foster's severed head on an ice cream cone (a gag I'm pretty certain was actually used a couple years later in the Clint Howard tour de force Ice Cream Man, only not with Jodi's head; I think the head might have been Small Paul's, or that kid with the pillow shoved under his shirt because the casting director was apparently incapable of finding an actual fat kid to star in the movie), and those scripts still get made into movies. The entire point of our class, as I said, was to drum into your skull how unlikely it was that you would ever sell a script and see it made into a movie.

And yet such things continue to happen. And it's not like our professor, mad as he may have been, was wrong. It is hard -- really hard -- to sell even a brilliant script. Hell, I wouldn't even know where to send one if I was ever able to finish more than twenty pages. And while the rise of digital video and non-linear digital editing systems means it is probably easier than ever before to sell a script, because there are so many more production houses that can crank out junk on the ultra-cheap, that still doesn't mean it's easy. And still, Pterodactyl gets made. And Cabin By the Lake. And plenty of others. How does this happen? Man, have I ever mentioned how much I hate Cabin by the Lake?

A lot of these movies get made because someone involved in the scriptwriting has recently acquired creative carte blanche based on their success as a director or star. The vanity projects, as we know them. Even though being a successful director or actor or musical legend doesn't mean squat when it comes to knowing how to write a script, these people can get by on the temporary shine from their star. That's why Bob Dylan was allowed to write a movie. This phenomenon almost always involves actors, directors, and musicians. It is extremely rare that a writer is so successful that they are granted unlimited power to push through their own vanity projects. Writers just don't get that kind of consideration, unless it's the 1980s and you're the guy who wrote Basic Instinct.

Other times, the script is just so utterly baffling that the go-getter producer we mentioned before reads a couple pages, realizes it's completely incomprehensible, and then decides that it must be a work of genius, so why the hell not? I can think of no other way than this that John Boorman ever got Zardoz made.

But the majority of times, at least in my opinion, it comes down to one of two things: it's either who you know, or it's plain, simple dumb luck. I'm sure, especially at a lot of the cheap production houses like Asylum, they buy based on the title and maybe a cursory glance at a page. Hell, I bet sometimes, they just randomly say, "Green light every tenth script in that pile."

All of this leads me to ask that one, simple question about the subject of this review, Night of the Lepus: how in the hell did this movie ever get green-lighted?


The screenplay is by a guy named Gene Kearney, based on a novel by Don Holliday. Kearney was not an inexperienced writer, but almost all of his credits are for TV shows, and I don't think you get the sort of clout to push through a vanity project this absurd by penning episodes of Kojak. Similarly, it's not like Kearney could have been friends with director William Claxton, who loved the script and used his pull as the director of some episodes of Love, American Style to push the film through production. And while stars like Janet Leigh, Rory Calhoun, Stuart Whitman, or DeForest Kelley may be recognizable names, I doubt even in 1972 any of them had enough marquee star power attached to their name to push through a script this incredibly goofy.

Thus, I am at a loss. Perhaps producer A.C. Lyles, who like his director and writer was experienced mainly with television westerns, thought the movie was supposed to be a comedy. Perhaps as child, he was severely traumatized by a bunny rabbit. Because that's what Night of the Lepus is about: bunny rabbits. Giant, killer bunny rabbits that terrorize the American west and lumber in slow motion across miniature sets, devouring all the humans in their path and, presumably, crapping all over the place. In the end, we'll probably never know how this movie ever got made, and I suppose that, even though I would love to have my curiosity regarding the matter satiated, all that really matters is that it was made. Some way or another, someone convinced people to make a movie about ranchers battling giant slow motion bunnies, and the world is, without a doubt, a better place as a result.

Rory Calhoun plays Hillman, a struggling rancher who has seen his grazing lands ravaged by an explosion in the population of rabbits. A fake newsreel at the beginning of the film warns us of the dangers of such unchecked population booms, before cutting to the ominous credit sequence played over a still shot of the just da cootest wuddle bunny wunny you ever did see! Hillman wants the rabbits gone, but he's hesitant to use poison like other ranchers for fear that it will contaminate his grazing lands and make him lose what little he has left. Seeking the advice of Star Trek's Dr. Bones McCoy himself, who is suffering from a bizarre space illness that has caused him to grow one of the worst mustaches ever (perhaps he's the evil, mirror universe Bones), Hillman meets up with a scientist played by Stuart Whitman, best known around these parts for playing the grumbling asshole detective who breaks into a home and rapes a transvestite up the ass with a hot curling iron in Blazing Magnum (keep in mind that Whitman was the good guy), and his wife, played by Psycho's Janet Leigh. They have a theory about using a hormone overdose to kill off the out of control rabbit populations, but they are unwilling to deploy the method until it has been properly tested. Wise science, for once, because it turns out that the treatment causes the rabbits to grow rapidly. If only their daughter hadn't spirited her favowite cuddwy wuddwy wuddle bunny out of the lab and allowed it to get loose into the general rabbit population!

The movie science also doesn't explain how the rabbits transform from carrot-loving herbivores to bloodthirsty meat lovers, but I reckon that to be a pretty dumb thing to be worrying about.

Before too long, miners and ranchers and folks who loiter around on front porches all day, are turning up all dead and mutilated. Night of the Lepus spends a few minutes pondering the possibility of the usual suspects -- coyotes, mountain lions, desert-dwelling families of mutants, et cetera, before everyone shrugs their shoulders and says, "Son of a bitch, it's giant rabbits." And so begins a cavalcade of scenes in which we get slow-motions shots of bunnies cavorting across the aforementioned miniature sets while spooky music plays. From time to time, they attack a human, a horror which is realized by cutting to a close-up of a stunt man wearing a big furry paw smearing bright red paint on a victim. And every now and then, we get a shot of a bunny rearing up, it's wiggling little button of a nose crusted in the blood of its human prey. This would be silly enough on its own, but the fact that this special effect is pulled off with shots of a hand puppet catapult the film into the realm of the sublime. eventually, even though everyone pretends to be deathly terrified of the giant bunnies, someone decides to see how rabbits, even big ones, fare against electricity, bulldozers, trains, and a shitload of firepower.

Truth be told, Night of the Lepus is a challenging movie for me to review. On the one hand, it's obviously custom-made for a site like Teleport City and a man like me. I mean, Stuart Whitman is battling giant rabbits, and it's not a comedy. Aficionados of truly wretched film making should and often do drop down to their knees and praise Ol' Gooseberry for the existence of this film.


On the other hand, picking on Night of the Lepus is sort of like kicking a puppy -- keeping in mind that puppies, even Chihuahua puppies, still present a more legitimate scare than a rabbit (with the possible exception of those murderous bastards from Watership Down). Night of the Lepus presents the viewer with a smorgasbord so vast and seemingly inexhaustible that it nearly overwhelms you with the number of delectable choices. Surely a film this easy to take pot shots at should be left to a less experienced connoisseur than myself, freeing up my time to concentrate on a review that is really challenging. But I couldn't really think of anything, so I decided that since this is my job (not really) and this is what I get paid to do (not at all), I would soldier on, even when my opponent is as soft and harmless as a snuggly little bunny rabbit.

So let's begin with the positive. Some of the miniature sets across which the rabbits lope are nicely constructed.

Well, that didn't take too long, did it? And no matter how nice your miniature sets may be, they will never be so nice that they could compensate for the slow-motion bunnies flopping lazily across them. I mean, maybe if they'd used jackalopes, Night of the Lepus would have been more successful. At least they have antlers and could potentially do something more to you than hop up and twitch their nose.

Seriously, though, there are more positive things than just the tiny little farm houses and fake ponds. On a completely personal level, Night of the Lepus will always have a special place in my heart that elevates it far above the status it deserves. The first time I saw Night of the Lepus -- on a late night TV double bill with Killdozer, no less -- I had a tremendous amount of fun. Buddies, chicks, and cheap distilled spirits were involved. It was summer in Gainesville, so it was about five thousand degrees and everyone was already on the verge of hallucinating from the heat. And if you are thinking to yourself that perhaps a young man, a young college man night twenty years old who, one hot Florida summer night finds himself in the company of hot, willing female company and cheap liquor, should have something better in mind than watching Killdozer and Night of the Lepus with them. Well, if that's what you think, then I say good day to you, sir!

And some day maybe I'll tell you again about the time I took a cute chick to see Wicked City. Or the time I invited a cute blonde skater chick over the first day I knew her and made her sit there and watch Black Devil Doll from Hell. That's right bitch -- now that you have smelled the foulness of my breath (or my taste in film), you may now taste the sweetness of my tongue!


Anyway...

Among the other positive things about Night of the Lepus -- besides DeForest Kelley's gay 70s porn star mustache -- is that everyone involved pretends that this movie is really scary and serious. No one hams it up, and even though this movie definitely deserves to have actors sleepwalking through it, no one does. I mean, Stuart Whitman maybe kinda does, but that's just Stuart Whitman for ya. The only thing missing from the cast is Michael Caine, but I guess he didn't start acting in anything and everything until a few years later. And the movie is definitely made funnier by the lack of funniness. No one looks at the camera with a Dean Martin as Matt Helm style, "People, can ya believe this shit?" smirk. The veteran cast handles the entire thing with a heavy handed gravity one would expect from a film about the 1972 Munich Olympic Massacre, not a 1972 film about killer bunny rabbits and the lanky ranchers for whom they cause some trouble.

I also like that, as with many movies of the era, the main cast is comprised of older people. Sure, there's a kid, but she's ancillary at best. The plot revolves around a group of people in their forties or older. I really don't have a huge grudge against horror films that obsess about a cast of people in their teens or early twenties, but I much prefer to watch a gang of seasoned vets going about their business. Not only are they better actors -- even when they're bad actors -- but it lends an extra air of believability even to a movie as absurd as this. Basically -- a bunch of giant rabbits are eating people. Do I trust Elisha Cuthbert to deal with them, or Rory Calhoun and my Grandpa Harley?

Still, I'm sure Whitman and crew could have used the help of a group of teens who leave the sock hop at the barn, jump into their dune buggies, and come out to lend a hand.

Night of the Lepus is a throwback to the "giant animals" attack genre that so dominated science fiction for a period during the 1950s which saw mankind and his lands ravaged by everything from giant ants to giant gila monsters to giant tarantulas, locusts, scorpions, and bald men in big diapers. In the 1970s, the genre enjoyed a revival, although this time around, the animals were usually normal size (which is too bad -- imagine how much more awesome Grizzly would have been if the grizzly in it was 150 feet tall -- almost as awesome as if Silence of the Lambs had starred Fred Williamson instead of Jodi Foster), and the entire film was infused with 70s style ecological doomspeak. Meaning even the most ludicrous of scenarios -- "most ludicrous meaning Night of the Lepus -- handles itself with the no-nonsense self-importance of an Al Gore PowerPoint presentation about the environment. If only An Inconvenient Truth had featured a portion where Gore details how, as they struggle to cope with the devastation wrought by global climate change, the various species of the world would rise up and revolt, resulting in a plague of horrifying attacks by chinchillas, whose primary form of assault is to squish themselves as tightly as possible into the various nooks and crannies of the world, where they will sleep for twenty-three hours out of the day.


In true 1950s sci-fi movie fashion, Night of the Lepus kicks off with a fake newsreel -- was anyone actually still producing newsreels by 1972 -- about the ecological disaster caused by exploding populations of rabbits, although these rabbits do not actually explode. I'm sure there's a different movie for that. The big difference between Night of the Lepus and its brethren from two decades earlier is that science isn't able to solve its own crisis. The giant animal movies of the 1950s always boasted some degree of faith that the crisis could be rectified by some winning combination of two-fisted scientists, military muscle, and guitar-plucking teenagers in dune buggies. By 1972, however, America found itself pretty well disillusioned with military muscle, science, and government. You could almost believe that Fightin' Ike would come out, guns a-blazing and the hot southwestern sun glinting off his bald head, and take care of these giant rabbits. But no one could see Nixon doing the same thing. And the nature of the crisis was different, too. A giant scorpion borne of atomic tests? That you could deal with. But ecological disaster? The impact of that would span decades -- as symbolized by the final shot of this movie, in which a "menacing" bunny rabbit is sitting on top of some dirt.

Luckily, though, Night of the Lepus remains true to its roots despite the disillusionment of the rest of the country. Night of the Lepus offers a troubled America a reassuring message: the President may be a disgusting crook, the country may be trapped in a South Asian quagmire, but have no fear: when it comes to dealing with a bunch of giant bunnies, the American military and a group of people from a drive-in movie theater will perform with adequate competence.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I still believed in the message some message movies tried to deliver. Even if I still felt the same way, I don't think Night of the Lepus is a film "that really makes you think." If there is a serious message to be delivered, its effective is pretty solidly undercut by the method of delivery. I'm sure you could make some "when nature goes awry, even the most harmless seeming of creatures can become deadly." But then, you'd kind of be full of shit, too. Luckily, heavy-handed messages go down a lot easier, even if not more effectively, when they are delivered in a package this ridiculous.


As with many things this wonderfully awful, it ain't all steak and onions. You gotta sit through a whole lot of slow, slow exposition about hormones and coyotes. The realization of the giant rabbit attacks -- usually in the form of blood-smeared hand puppets and stuntmen wearing furry sleeves they use to swipe at people from mostly off-screen, leave a little to be desired. But then, it's stuff like that, that makes Night of the Lepus really worth watching.

I figure this is the sort of movie you know ahead of time if you're going to love or hate. I love it, and I won't pretend that I don't try and force it on people any chance I get (though not as often as I do Streets of Fire). I can't help -- which is probably sad -- think about how this movie would have been even more awesome if the small western town these rabbits attacked was the same town where Billy Jack lived. Or maybe Asylum Pictures will take me up on my offer to write and direct Lepus vs. Killdozer. I'll follow it up with Hyrax Dawn.

Until then, we're left wondering how they managed to get this movie made. And if you ever get some crazed film studies professor ranting about how impossible it is to sell a script, bring I a copy of Night of the Lepus and ask him how in the hell he can explain its existence.


Coming soon to a theater near you: Hyrax Dawn

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posted by Keith at | 6 Comments


Monday, June 11, 2007

Thirsty for Love, Sex, and Murder

DIGG THIS ARTICLE. 1972, Turkey. Starring Yildirim Gencer, Kadir Inanir, Meral Zeren, Eva Bender. Directed by Mehmet Aslan. Buy it from Xploited Cinema.

(...how can you not love a film with that title?)

I haven't really seen many of his films, but Mehmet Aslan seems like my kind of director. I've seen a couple of his Tarkan movies, and Karaoglan Geliyor, and they're collectively packed with fight choreography, crazy stunts, cheap (if very mild) gore, and fun costumes and obviously wooden swords. Following what I've seen on posters for his other movies, and the description Onar films presents in the biographical extras, most of Aslan's films feature a healthy dose of manic violence, crazy stunts, and a generally progressive attitude toward the optionality of clothing. It's for movies like these that I own a DVD player.

As for Aslan's 1970 film Aska Susayanlar..., I should state up front that I'm not really a giallo connoisseur. Or, really, an avid watcher of non-supernatural murderer films in general. As such, I've never seen Sergio Martino's The Strange Vice of Mrs. Wardh--and I gather that Aslan's 1972 film pretty much adopted that film's plot, right down to finding leading characters who looked similar to the stars in the Martino film.

I've stopped thinking about these things as necessarily "ripoffs" because, particularly in the Turkish case, they were made for the domestic market, not infrequently using Turkish stars. The Turkish movie industry appears to have been a business just like any other such industry, sure, but it seems to me that there's more at stake in these films. Higher-budget productions from the U.S., Italy, etc., were flooding into smaller countries such as Turkey in the later 20th century, and I can only assume that the differences between international and domestic production values were obvious to Turkish cinemagoers. Turks seem to have cherished their stars, but certainly they also enjoyed a good foreign flick; sooner or later, someone would have to try remaking these foreign films with local stars, and in appropriate cases even translate Christianity into Islam or otherwise make the film more culturally applicable to its new context. "Ripoff" suggests a lack of creativity; these Turkish films seem to be more like adaptations.

As a side note, I've been openly critical before of the "let's remake Japanese films for American audiences" boom that occurred after the Ringu craze. I'm not recanting that. Hollywood was just cashing in on the popularity of foreign creativity in remaking Dark Water, and Ju-on, and whatever else they went and butchered. America has flooded its own cultural space with so many representations of its own conventions and obsessions and traditions on film that it's almost impossible these days to write a film that's not reflexive. The primary source of production was the primary source of consumption. By contrast, cinematic representations of Turkey have not historically traveled too far from ethnic Turks themselves, at home or abroad. Remaking a foreign giallo in 1970s Turkey seems like a way of assimilating some of that flood of foreign media (and its attendant foreign ideals). I don't want to succumb to an East/West or secular/Muslim dichotomy, but... I dunno, it seems like there's been a long history of tension in Turkey regarding what's viewed as Western-derived "secularism and the more gruesome or lascivious forms of free expression, versus Islam, which is seen as more traditional. Films like this are, I think, at least partly an attempt to make some of this foreign glamour more reachable.

Or it seems that way to me, anyway. But back to the actual movie... The basic plot here is that a rich and recently-married woman knows someone who's a serial murderer, but she doesn't know who it is. She is being tormented by a man who once assaulted her, but the murderer might also be her husband, or her best friend's lover who seems to have a thing for her.

Plot summary would be a waste here, but I can say that there are some effective scenes in the film (my favorite might be the parking lot chase), and the cinematography is at times much more refined than in some other Turkish outings of the same period. That said, at other times this film lacks some of the restraint and refinement of the better giallo outings from Italy (or at least those that I've seen), and adds in a very manic Turkish element instead.

Or to put it another way, sometimes the gloved killer is artfully hidden and sinister, and at other times he just leaps in from offscreen to startle his next victim (in one case, in the middle of a very open field). The gore is restrained from an Italian perspective, but still nicely cheap and copious from my perspective, and the film ends with an old-fashioned round of fisticuffs, because I think Mehmet Aslan probably didn't know how to make a movie without a good, Turkish fight scene, complete with dubious flailing kicks and karate chops that send the villains flying. Our leading man here is no Cuneyt Arkin, but he does a worthy job nonetheless.

Onar films released this film as a double feature with The Dead Don't Talk; I think I personally preferred the latter film, but other reviewers seem to have preferred Thirsty for Love, Sex, and Murder. So be it. These two films were saved from the brink of oblivion by the valiant efforts of Onar Films, and regardless of which you like better, they're both well worth watching.

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posted by Ryan at | 0 Comments


Friday, June 25, 2004

Aguirre, The Wrath of God

Release Year: 1972
Country: Germany
Starring: Klaus Kinski, Daniel Ades, Peter Berling, Alejandro Chavez, Daniel Farfán, Justo González, Ruy Guerra, Julio E. Martínez, Del Negro, Armando Polanah, Alejandro Repulles, Cecilia Rivera, Helena Rojo, Edward Roland.
Writer: Werner Herzog
Director: Werner Herzog
Cinematographer: Thomas Mauch
Music: Popol Vuh
Producer: Werner Herzog and Hans Prescher
Original Title: Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes
Availability: Buy it from Amazon


There are a lot of directors who work with that special someone of an actor forging a partnership that becomes legendary within the cinematic world. Martin Scorsese had Robert DeNiro. Spielberg seems to have Tom Hanks. John Ford had John Wayne. And German director Werner Herzog had Klaus Kinski. If you know anything about Klaus Kinski, this may seem a bit of a raw deal for Herzog. After all, as far as anyone knows, Tom Hanks has never tried to knife Steven Spielberg to death on the set of a movie, and John Wayne never insisted to Ford that he was the reincarnation of Jesus or the famed violin virtuoso Paganini. On the other hand, it's equally unlikely that Spielberg has ever returned a knife fight with his own conspiracies to murder his favorite leading man. Although one has to question the authenticity of some of the wilder tales about the working relationship between the two men, there's no doubt that some of it was indeed true and they had the sort of relationship that could be described, if one wanted to be tactful about it, as "dynamic."

The defining factor in the relationship between Herzog and Kinski was that Kinski was, to use a scientific term, bat-shit crazy while Herzog, in turn, was crazy as a shithouse bat. Yet somehow, you throw the two together, and the result was sheer brilliance etched from utter lunacy.

For my money, and I'll admit up front to being no big Herzog expert, they are at their finest in the raving study of greed, madness, and the lust for power that is Aguirre, The Wrath of God. Thrown together in the jungles of South America to make a film about the spiraling madness of a Spanish Conquistador hell-bent on finding the fabled city of gold, El Dorado, Kinski and Herzog drove each other and those around them so berserk that the locals hired as extras were even offering to discreetly murder Kinski, who they completely and totally despised with every inch of their being. To the benefit of the film, these boiling emotions of hatred, frustration, and madness were exactly what the script called for, and thanks to Kinski's raving insanity, it's likely those around him had very little acting to do to push themselves to the point at which they needed to arrive.

Beginning on Christmas day (though this doesn't necessarily mean you'd want to consider this a Christmas movie), in the year of our Lord 1560, Aguirre is told more or less through the journals of a monk accompanying a band of Conquistadors on their march across the South American continent. Finding themselves subjugated and mercilessly slaughtered by these men from across the ocean, the Incas formulate the only sort of revenge they have at their disposal and concoct a story about the lost city of El Dorado, where gold practically flows through the fountains and there are amassed piles of riches beyond the dreams of even the greediest Spanish invader. To the Incas' credit, they place El Dorado, "somewhere over yonder" in a general direction that will take any would-be glory-hunters through the most treacherous terrain in perhaps the whole of the world. So, though defeated and humiliated, it must have provided at least some small degree of satisfaction to the Incas to watch groups of Conquistadors head down the mountains to the Amazon to die agonizing deaths and the hands of hunger, disease, and violent jungle Indians.

One such expedition is that of Aguirre, a commander whose lust not so much for gold as for power and dreams of establishing an empire that dwarfs that of his native Spain drives him first to mutiny and then to a veritable "death march on the river" as he drives his men deeper and deeper into the inescapable heart of the Amazon. It's not unlike Heart of Darkness, except that instead of traveling down the river to madness, madness comes along for the whole ride. It would seem, also, that Aguirre would have been a major influence on Walter Hill's Southern Comfort (1981) or Francis Ford Coppola and Apocalypse Now (1979), which might be one of those things that is common knowledge if I ever sat down and watched Hearts of Darkness. Actually, the better comparison is to Samuel Fuller's Big Red One, which takes the whole of the European theater in World War II and shrinks it down to a microscopic size.

With Aguirre, Herzog creates a sort of anti-epic. Certainly the story of a doomed Spanish expedition through the jungles of the Amazon in search of a city of gold that does not exist is the sort of plotline that could easily expand to the size of an epic, but Herzog, partially constrained as always by budget but primarily for artistic reasons, restricts the story to a claustrophobic size. The vastness of the Amazon jungle is whittled away until all that remains is a world as large as the raft on which the Conquistadors prop up themselves as easy targets for natives concealed in the lush greenness rising up like walls around them. Most of the movie takes place on this raft, with only tenuous forays onto the banks, and never then very far for as much as the Spaniards hate being trapped on the raft, they fear the jungle that much more. Confined to such a small space, and with no voice of reason to reel him back in to reality, Aguirre's passion for conquest, his unrelenting desire for grandeur and power, pushes his far over the edge, until even as the last of his men lie starving and bleeding to death on the crumbling decks of the raft, he still imagines that he will rule the whole of the South American continent and launch an armada to seize territories now held by the Spanish crown, establishing himself as the greatest ruler of the largest empire of all time.

It is darkly ironic, tragic, and almost comedic in the blackest sense of the word that his delusions of glory just around the next river bend reach their apex as he stands alone, aimlessly adrift on a raft covered by cavorting monkeys.

Although Kinski's Aguirre is at the center of the tempest, this is not a story of one man's quest for glory and victory at the expense of his protesting men. Indeed his men are all too willing to follow him into the jungle and straight into madness in pursuit of the promise of wealth and power. When the wiser Ursua (Ruy Guerra), ostensibly the leader of the band, decides that it is a doomed expedition and all should turn back to meet up again with the greater body of the Spanish army and return to civilization, Aguirre's soldiers are all too willing to comply in mutiny against Ursua. Even as they find themselves picked off one by one by natives or simply dying of starvation, none but a very few of the soldiers recognize the insurmountable madness that assures their failure. Even the clergyman Carvajal defers to Aguirre, partially out of fear but mostly because he, too, dreams of glory. Where the men's glory is gold and Aguirre's is power, Carvajal's glory is the glory of God and in the conversion of the South American savages to Christianity.

Though everyone is guilty aboard the raft, the film is obviously commanded by Kinski, who is allowed to channel all his bug-eyed insanity into his damned and unsympathetic character, though never so much as to push it wildly over the top. Herzog and and Kinski may be two insane men making a movie about insane men, but Herzog keeps the film tightly focused and controlled, slowly paced and never prone to scene-chewing explosions of craziness. Never does Kinski outright rant and rave and knock things over. He is, rather, far more reserved with his insanity, and far more chilling. When action scenes do come, they are exceptionally brief. This is, after all, not a sprawling war epic but a character study and exploration of the power of greed to corrupt, blind, and drive mad.

Herzog's conclusion is hazy, as the film leaves Aguirre in total defeat but still very much alive. He has lost everything and everyone around him, but still he goes on, certain that his destiny leads to nowhere but fame and power and immortality. He has learned nothing, enjoyed no moment of revelation or repentance or realization. Even the death of his own daughter, the one potential moment for the audience to perhaps feel a pang of sympathy for this madman, seems to affect Aguirre not in the least, or at least not enough to shake him from his delusions. Like the drunk driver who causes a car wreck in which everyone is killed yet he himself walks away unscathed, Aguirre remains.

I believe some people mistakenly go into Aguirre thinking it an adventure film. Such a notion is certain to result in disappointment. Herzog is, after all, something of an arthouse director, and he works on a low budget. Instead, this is a deconstruction of the adventure film, a psychological dissection of a larger-than-life character whose aspirations and dreams soar to the heights of what might be achieved even by a madman in an epic, even while he himself is mired in the hopelessness of the reality of the situation. There is no moment of heroism, no rousing rescue or battle. There are, instead, long, deliberate takes and beautiful cinematography. There are pauses, slow pacing, and an almost total lack of a musical score. A single dreamlike synthesizer theme occurs from time to time, but other than that the only music in the movie is the pipe playing of one of the native slaves. Herzog doesn't want to excite you; he wants to engage you, or more accurately, to ensnare you and drag you along on this expedition. His narrative, although slowly paced, also keeps the viewer off-balance and unable to completely collect one's thoughts. Characters are killed without comment by silent assassins from within the jungle. There is no fanfare, no death scene. We simply see them alive one minute and dead a few minutes later. Carvajal's journal entries, which serve as the basis for the structure of the story, become more random and eventually cease altogether and he himself succumbs to jungle fever. Never has hard, edgy realism seemed so surreal.

Kinski is, it goes without saying, superb. Who better to play a megalomaniacal madman than an actual megalomaniacal madman? Apparently, at some point Kinski was being his usual difficult self, and Herzog got a decent performance out of him by pointing a gun at Kinski's head and threatening to blow his brains out. There was no doubt in Kinski's mind that Herzog would do it, and for that matter, there was no intention in Herzog's mind not to do it if Klaus didn't do his job. Much of the remainder of the cast is comprised of locals who were hired more or less off the street, though the part of Ursua was played by Ruy Guerra, a prominent director in South American cinema.

Herzog's in-close direction works well with the overall story and creates the necessary atmosphere of claustrophobia and irritation. It's no small feat that Thomas Mauch's cinematography drags so much beauty out of such a confined space. Though he allows himself some sweeping shots of the river and the raft traveling down it toward its unsavory fate, his true gift is for staying close and using people and small moments as sources for brilliant, beautiful, and often frightening images. Something as gigantic as the Amazon River and the jungles around it beg for indulgent helicopter shots of lush green canopies with craggy mountain peaks jutting up from them, of great gorges and valleys and waterfalls. But Mauch never lets you see more than what the men themselves can see: the impenetrable jungle-choked banks, the muddy water, fleeting glimpses of bow-toting natives, and each other. What he does with such a reserved palette is astounding.

Aguirre, in short, is a trip straight to hell. It is a dip in the pool of lunacy. And as far as "arthouse adventure" goes, you'll find no film finer. All the pieces, cracked as they may have been behind the camera, fall into place to create a lush, haunting tapestry. The separate madnesses of Herzog and Kinski may have driven them to the brink of murder, but the film is all the better for it, and somehow they manage, as they often did, to turn that friction, that hatred and lunacy and love, into a breathtaking work of art.

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Thursday, May 13, 2004

Way of the Dragon

1972, Hong Kong. Starring Bruce Lee, Nora Mao, John Benn, Bob Wall, Chuck Norris. Directed by Bruce Lee. Available on DVD (HKFlix).

There are a few things, few key things, that embody the bad-ass cinema Teleport City likes to call it stomping ground. Maurizio Merli's mustache is one. Pam Grier pulling guns and knives out of her afro is another. Rudy Ray Moore's butt naked dive down the steep hillside while wearing only his floppy blue pimp hat. And of course, there's Tomas Milian and his little red bikini underwear.

But there is one man above all others, above even Maurizio Merli himself, who truly encompasses everything in this world that is bad-ass. One man whose every action, every look, every sound exudes cool toughness. One man, above all others, who has transcended all cultural barriers and become far more than a movie superstar; one man who has become a cultural icon, a piece of modern mythology.

That man is Bruce Lee.

You can't overstate the impact Bruce has had on modern pop culture. Stars have come and gone, names like Jackie Chan, Clint Eastwood, and Jet Li are all familiar marquee names, but Bruce exists above all of them. Take a walk down any street in New York and you will see half a dozen shops with some sort of Bruce Lee merchandise. T-shirts, posters, scrolls, black velvet paintings, statues, action figures, movies -- pretty much anything. I even saw one of those blacklight posters featuring the "holy trinity" of Bruce Lee, Jimi Hendrix, and Bob Marley.

And these aren't just kungfu film specialty stores or Chinatown curiosity shops. Blacks, Puerto Ricans, whites, Dominicans, Chinese, Vietnamese, you name it and their culture has embraced The Dragon. No other action film star occupies the spot Bruce has obtained in our society. He is a modern day Greek hero, a Jason or Perseus, a man whose legend has grown to epic proportions.

So, the obvious question from many people is "Why Bruce Lee?" What was it about this brash, good-looking young guy that made him such a phenomenon? Why Lee and not Ti Lung? Why Lee and not anyone else in the world? The answer is equal parts timing, skill, charm, and mystery.

Bruce hit the scene at a time when a lot of people in both Hong Kong and the United States were desperate for an underdog hero, especially one who wasn't white. The world was gorged on James Bond rip-offs and sanitized Westerns full of chiseled white guy good looks. The Vietnam War, Civil Rights movement, the Native American awareness movements that became things like the Wounded Knee siege -- all these cultural elements were combining in an explosive wave of disillusionment with the way things used to be. The urban communities in America, who were hit especially hard by both the Vietnam War (since so many soldiers were minorities) and the frustration faced by the Civil Rights movement. With real-life heroes like Martin Luther King Jr. being gunned down, people were looking for heroes somewhere. Up until then Hollywood hadn't been providing them with anything.

Then came Bruce Lee. It's no coincidence that Lee hit the scene around the same time that black action stars like Fred Williamson, Richard Roundtree, and Pam Grier were starting to make a big impact on the scene. People were fed up with Bond and John Wayne. They wanted someone more modern, more bad-ass, and most importantly, they wanted someone to whom they could relate. Bruce wasn't white. He wasn't big. His characters were not rich or influential or successful. He was an everyman for all other men who could not see themselves in the previous set of American heroes. He was different, and he was the underdog.

In each of Lee's characters, there was plenty for the disillusioned to identify with. The condescension and racism hurled at him in Fist of Fury, having to take shit from a corrupt boss in Big Boss -- there were things people recognized, and things people loved seeing Lee overcome. His biggest film in the United States, Enter the Dragon was a wild James Bond type action-adventure film where the Asian was the hero rather than a silly sidekick or devious villain. It was also a movie where the black character (Jim Kelly) is a noble and heroic man of principle, while the white guy (John Saxon) is a sleaze. A lovable sleaze, but a sleaze never the less.

Bruce Lee gave people hope, goofy as that might sound, that they too could overcome the odds facing them in everyday life. They could rise above the poverty and hopelessness of their situation. When Lee died under mysterious circumstances, it cemented his place not just as a star, but as a legend. His mark on society, from his face on a t-shirt to the popularity of martial arts training as a way to cope with growing up in the inner city, will remain in place long after the names of hundreds of other stars have been forgotten.

So which of these films should be the first Bruce Lee film we review? His biggest, Enter the Dragon? How about his first, Big Boss? Or the one most everybody considers his best, Fist of Fury (aka Chinese Connection). I think we've explained the whole Big Boss, Fist of Fury, Chinese Connection thing, but just in case you forgot, here's the deal: when Bruce Lee's Hong Kong films were brought over to the US to capitalize on the success of Enter the Dragon, someone screwed up and got the titles confused. Big Boss, Lee's first film, was mislabeled Fist of Fury. Realizing the blunder too late to fix it, distributors took the actual Fist of Fury (Lee's second, and many say best) and retitled it Chinese Connection, probably to capitalize on the success of French Connection as well as Lee.

Since they were on a roll, they decided to also retitle Way of the Dragon, calling it Return of the Dragon and marketing it as a sequel to Enter the Dragon despite the fact that it was made before that film.

But that brings us to where we want to be, which is the movie we've chosen to be the first Bruce Lee film we review. We chose it because it seems to slip through the cracks a lot, and because it's the only complete film that was written, directed, and choreographed by Lee himself. It's an excellent movie that allows Lee to showcase not just his incredible martial arts skill, but also his ability as an actor. Most people like to write Lee off as a one-trick pony, perhaps the best martial artist to ever live but a pretty rigid actor. Those people obviously go along with hearsay rather than actually investigating the matter themselves. People who claim Lee could only act enraged and couldn't handle comedy should pay closer attention to this film, in which Lee gets to shine as a comedian as well as an all-around kungfu bad-ass. Bruce even gets to do stuff that results in that "wah wah waaaahhhh" comedy music!

We begin at an airport in beautiful Roma -- that's Rome to you non-cosmopolitan types out there. Bruce, playing Tang Long, is something of a country bumpkin from the rural land outside Hong Kong. Right away, Lee is great at invoking a sense of sympathy for his character. I mean, we all know Lee is the baddest man to ever walk the planet, but he plays his scenes here so realistically awkward and embarrassed that you feel bad yet amused for his fish-out-of-water character. He goes to an airport lounge and, not being able to read the menu, end sup ordering about six bowls of soup. Of course, he is still Bruce Lee, so he saves face by finishing them all, which allows him to launch a series of "must go to the toilet" jokes that will be a sure-fire comedy hit with the kids for years to come. Face it, you can be some Ivy League blue-blood in a long raccoon coat, carrying a pennant that says "Rah, Harvard!" or whatever, but you will think farts are funny. Go on. Admit it. You'll feel better.

I don't really know why farts are funny. I mean, we've been doing it for thousands upon thousands of years. You'd think we'd be over it by now. Sad as this sounds, I have spent many an hour late at night amusing myself by imagining a bunch of homo robustus types gathered around the campfire and bursting out into prehistoric prehysterics when one of them lets it rip. I think there were a lot of jokes in Caveman featuring Ringo Starr, so you know where I'm coming from with this one.

I know they are base and disgusting, low-brow joke material fit for a Chris Farley movie. But think about it. Fart humor transcends race and culture. Everyone the world over thinks farts are funny. Even high brow films like Scent of Green Papaya had fart jokes in it. Maybe it's because they are a great equalizer. Everyone has to do it sometime. Maybe it just feels good to do something that primal and animalistic. That's why we laugh, even at our own farts, and even harder when we see other animals do it. Nothing's funnier than a farting dog or howler monkey. When my parents' dog farts, it gets all freaked out, jumps up, and starts hunting furiously for the fart. I'm going to start doing the same thing, I think.

I know it's gross, but come on -- if Bruce Lee thinks farts are funny, then you can, too!

Lee also mines comedy gold in the "goofy effeminate guy with bad toupee" department. Bruce was, in fact, a huge fan of the Dean Martin - Jerry Lewis comedy team and the many films they did together. While Bruce's sense of humor is not quite as slapstick (and far less annoying) than Jerry Lewis, you can still see the influence it had on him. The main difference here is that Bruce is both the goofy, out-of-place Jerry Lewis and the suave, competent Dean Martin, depending on what the situation called for. Bruce definitely had a lot more depth than people gave him credit for.

After the soup skit, Bruce meets up with his cousin, played by the lovely Nora Mao (Fist of Fury, Big Boss), his frequent co-star. Nora had written her uncle back in Hong Kong to explain that they were having a lot of trouble with thugs at the restaurant in Rome. She expected him to send a lawyer, and instead he sent Tang Long, which Nora isn't exactly happy about as Tang is ignorant of big city culture, especially in the West. Tang Long explains that, while he may be a bit dim, he can help out in other ways.

He gets to show everyone his "other ways" when the thugs show up at the restaurant to smash things up and convince the Chinese to sell their land. It's always something like that, isn't it? The Man and The Mob are always trying to build malls on land owned by kungfu schools, community centers, and restaurants. It's a tried and true film formula, but it's also a comment on gentrification. In my old neighborhood, you could make a movie about The Gap trying to buy up land belonging to community gardens and outreach centers. Same shit, different era. I think The Gap stuck mostly to financial strong-arming, though, rather than sending thugs to beat up a guy named Pops.

Realizing that the thugs, one of whom I swear is Oliver Platt, won't listen to words, Bruce decides to speak with kungfu. He thrashes them soundly in a great sequence. Great not just because Lee is so fast and crisp with his art, but also because Lee's character undergoes a wonderful transformation. When dealing with the restaurant and the city of Rome, Tang Long is lost and vulnerable. But when he steps into the back alley to beat the shit out of the no-goodniks, he immediately becomes confident and in control. Ass kicking is a universal language, after all.

In between visits by the thugs, who keep arming themselves heavier and heavier only to still get the shit kicked out of them by Bruce, the film takes full advantage of its Rome locations. Hong Kong movies that filmed outside of Hong Kong were still very rare in the 1970s, so Lee takes in as much of Rome as can be crammed into a few "travelin' all around" montages. Then it's back to the alley behind the restaurant to kick ass on some more thugs. This is a pretty weak-ass mafia, I must say. But I guess they're not the big-time guys we see in films like The Godfather. After all, those guys are controlling international drug trafficking, arms smuggling, and resort casinos. These guys are trying to muscle out a restaurant. It's sort of like how most leprechauns get to guard gold and countless treasures, but Lucky the Leprechaun has to guard a bowl of Lucky Charms cereal.

In a theme that is present in all of Lee's Hong Kong films, he teaches other Chinese -- other minorities -- not to be ashamed of themselves or their heritage. When he arrives in Rome, the staff at the restaurant is practicing Japanese karate because they feel Chinese martial arts are weak and embarrassing. Once they see Lee in action, however, it fills them with pride and reinvigorates their interest in their own culture. This was an important theme for a film in 1972, and it's a large part of why Bruce Lee became so popular. He fights for the right not to be ashamed of the color of your skin, and he shows that minorities can survive the pressures put on them by the established white majority. They can rise above racism by learning, relying upon, and believing in themselves.

Once the boss finally catches on that his thugs are a bunch of fat-ass losers, he hires some karateka bad-asses in the form of Bob Wall and Ing Sik-wang (Stoner, When Tae Kwan Do Strikes, Young Master). Wall is best known for his role as the right evil O'Hara in Enter the Dragon.

After a while, Bruce gets sick of beating up the thugs, who just never seem to learn their lesson. So he goes to their headquarters, beats them up there, then does a very impressive kick in which he leaps up into the air and smashes an overhead lamp, completely without the use of tricks or wires. To accomplish the same simple but impressive kick these days would require Yeun Wo-ping to use ten miles of wires, pulleys, and CGI effects.

Pissed off about their light, the thugs hire their own kungfu bad-ass in the form of Chuck Norris. I know, I know. You guys here Chuck's name and it makes you grimace and roll your eyes. Great. Now we gotta watch Lone Wolf McQuade. But take heart, li'l buckaroos. There is a vast difference between Chuck Norris the Bruce Lee opponent and Chuck Norris the Texas Ranger. For one, bash him all you want, but Chuck Norris was an amazing martial artist at his peak (which is when this movie was made, and why Bruce chose Norris). Legit martial artists and kungfu fighters all recognized Norris as possessing one of the fastest, deadliest spinning back kicks in the world. Judging Chuck's abilities based on his American films is like, well, judging Cynthia Rothrock by her American films or Sammo Hung by his work on Martial Law.

The finale sees Lee face off against Norris in the maze-like arches of the Roman Coliseum, invoking the not-so-subtle image of modern-day gladiators. The ensuing battle is one of the best kungfu one-on-ones ever filmed, with the Benny Urquidez - Jackie Chan fight in Wheels On Meals being a distant second. Part of why the fight between Norris and Lee is so great is because it hurts. In 1972, kungfu film choreography was still pretty basic outside of Lee's films, and a lot of the over-choreographed fights, while looking spectacular, lacked any sense of injury or power, especially when the guys would hit each other over and over with no real sign of damage.

When Lee and Norris hit each other, you can feel it. Their blows carry weight, and the weight shows. It's obviously a result of two legitimate martial arts bad-asses being involved rather than two guys trained in Peking Opera, dance, or stage fighting. Of course, despite all the flesh-pounding-flesh action, the most painful scene comes when Lee uses Norris' thick, Piltdown Man-esque coating of body hair (it's possible he was one of the cavemen laughing at farts I talked about earlier) as a weapon, ripping out a big chunk of chest hair (he could have used a little off the back as well). Of course, ripping out a man's chest hair makes you bad, but then proceeding to blow it into the man's face makes you bad-ass. It's the little things, you see.

There's some end-of-the film shenanigans after the fight before Lee wraps everything up and heads back to Hong Kong. The film is absolutely superb. Lee shines as both an actor and a fighter, and his skill and charm should be more than enough to win over pretty much anyone. Watching this movie, you'll have little question left in your mind why Lee has become to celebrated by so many different types of people. One could even take the Civil rights slogan "We Shall Overcome," and apply it to the work of Bruce Lee.

Bruce's direction is good. Nothing overly inventive or unique, but more than competent for a first-time director. It's a bit raw at times, though he really shines at filming the fight scenes, which probably shouldn't come as much of a surprise. Sammo Hung, in many ways a student and master of Bruce Lee's, would be the one director more than any of the others who would realize Lee's ambitions in filming and directing kungfu films. What Lee began in Way of the Dragon and never finished in Game of Death, Sammo would carry to fruition in films like Knockabouts, Prodigal Son, and Project A. Makes you wonder what the "Three Brothers" of Sammo, Yuen Biao, and Jackie Chan would have been like if it had been four brothers, and one of them was Bruce Lee.

Way of the Dragon, aside from being some of Lee's finest stuff, is notable for launching the film career of Chick Norris as well. I don't actually know if this is a good thing, but I guess it was good for Chuck. He went on after this film to play a bigger role in another Hong Kong actioner, Slaughter in San Francisco, aka Yellow-Faced Tiger. That movie gave him ample opportunity to throw back his head and laugh in an evil fashion while he stood with arms akimbo. He also got to kick people. From there, it was the big-time, as he went on to play heroes in one crappy film after another, thus endearing him to the American public. If you have to watch any Chuck Norris film besides Way of the Dragon, make sure it's The Octagon, because that at least has some ninjas in it.

Chuck Norris and Bob Wall would reunite many years later to make the film Hero and the Terror, and even later to appear as themselves in Sidekicks, a film best left undiscussed.

Bruce, of course, went on to make Enter the Dragon, the film that would become his ladder to the realm of modern-day legend and launch the kungfu craze in America. Lee's contributions to the genre are sundry. He gave it it's banner star. He gave it the refinement of fight choreography, which up until Lee had been stiff and stage-like. He gave it comedy and heart. He gave it international appeal.

He gave it Bruce Lee. A man full of anxieties, flaws, genius, ambition, fear, and fearlessness. A man whose name and face would become ubiquitous.

So if you want to see Lee's biggest film, see Enter the Dragon. If you want to see his first film, see The Big Boss. If you want to see his best film, see Fist of Fury. But if you want to see the one film out of all of them that shows Bruce Lee at his finest in all ways, the one film that has the most Bruce Lee in its heart, the one film that, more than any of the others and despite its rough edges, defines where Bruce wanted to take the genre, then you have to see Way of the Dragon.

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Monday, September 03, 2001

Godzilla vs. Gigan

1972, Japan. Starring Hiroshi Ishikawa, Tomoko Umeda, Yuriko Hishimi, Minoru Takashima, Zan Fujita, Kanta Ina, Kunio Murai, Haruo Nakajima, Toshiaki Nishzawa, Koetsu Omiya, Kenpachiro Satsuma. Directed by Jun Fukuda. Buy it from Amazon.

Depending on your opinion, either the 1970s were not kind to Godzilla, or fans are not kind to the Godzilla of the 1970s. The films of that era are often dismissed as cheap, poorly made, and generally pathetic or childish. Godzilla was in full "super-hero" mode. Little kids in micro-shorts were running wild, but not nearly so in control as they were in the old Gamera films. A lot of serious Godzilla fans hang their heads in shame at the mere mention of some of these titles.

Well, nothing in the world of film pisses me off more than a serious fan, someone who wrings out every ounce of enjoyment from a movie and looks at it with most bitter of critical eyes. They turn their noses up at the "kiddie" films of the 1970s, forgetting all the while that the reason they seem so childish is because, well, they were made for kids, you nerd! They weren't made for some college drop-out film geek to analyze frame by frame on his DVD player while counting down the minutes until he once again has to jack off to the La Blue Girl cartoons.

Here at Teleport City, we stand in firm and unwavering defense of the Godzilla of the 1970s. Sure the films were cheap. The special effects were not up to the high standard set by the 1960s productions. The plots were often ludicrous at best. But more important to me is the fact that the films are a tremendously fun time. They are full of vibrant colors, outlandish aliens, monster wrestling, and plenty of good old fashioned destruction. As a lad, I grew up on the Godzilla films of the 1970s, and perhaps that, more than any other reason, is why I love them so dearly and totally do not relate to the contempt with which they are viewed by many people.

There are three films that often battle for the title "worst Godzilla film of all time," and predictably enough, I unconditionally love all three of them. Far and away the most hated film in the series is Godzilla's Revenge, but we will get to that film in due time. The other two films vying for the position are Godzilla Versus Megalon and Godzilla Versus Gigan, both of which feature Gigan, a cool cyborg monster