Super Xuxa versus Satan (1988): or, Brazilian Wacks

Friends, there have been dark days at the Vicarage. For the last two years and change, your ever-lovin' Vicar has found himself stuck deep in the Slough of Despond, without the energy or inspiration to so much as lift a quill. Bereft of inspiration, deserted by my Muse, and still heartbroken at the untimely loss of one of the last century's greatest talents, the ink had all but dried up in my disused pen. I found the weird movies I watched drained of their color, their madness impotent to lift my soul from the sprawling shadow Silence that had enveloped it. It was, to put it mildly, a very "down" mood.

But then, when I had all but resigned myself to never preaching the gospel of Mad Movies again, a figure appeared as though in a dream: clad in heeled white boots, a white pleather bikers' jacket and hot pants, a shining headband and a form-fitting rainbow-print tee, this angel descended on a wave of sunshine and 80s South American bubble-gum pop. She sang to me in a language I couldn't understand, but her words drizzled like warm honey of the flavorless Eggo™ of my soul, filling it with a sweetness whose taste I'd nearly forgotten. Taking my gnarled, withered hand in hers, she lifted me up and showed me something that put the joy back into my heart, the spring back in my step, and the starch back in my cassock:

What she showed me was Super Xuxa versus Satan (aka Super Xuxa contra Baixo Astral), a 1988 kids' movie from Brazil with more positivity, puppetry, and family-friendly batshittery than you can shake an inappropriately designed Muppet at. And that, my friends, is quite a lot.

Trust me. I know.

MORE MADNESS...

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...

Blu-Ray Review: THE DEADLY SPAWN (1983)

Somewhere in a rural section of New Jersey, a couple of camping enthusiasts/possible life partners are shaken from their sleep by the sudden impact of an asteroid just a few hundred yards from their campsite. They go to investigate, and soon find themselves serving as an all-you-can-gnaw buffet for the meteorite's passengers: a bevy of space worms with multiple heads and more teeth than an Osmond family reunion. Needing a cool, damp place to rest, the Big Mama Worm lays down a slime trail toward a nearby house, slithering into the basement and settling down to a cosy life of popping out baby worms and messily devouring anyone who happens to come down looking for an extra jar of jam preserves.

Rightly considered one of the most ambitious micro-budget monster movies of its era (or any era, for that matter), The Deadly Spawn was a mainstay of video stores throughout the big-box VHS era. Produced by Ted A. Bohus and directed by Douglas McKeown (at least partially--more on that below), the movie was made on a truly paltry budget of about $25,000, yet boasts one of the most memorable and effective creatures ever to grace a video cover. And now Elite/MVD Entertainment has released a Blu-Ray edition of this essential slice of American indie-horror history, and graciously sent a copy to the Vicarage for review.


First, the movie itself--if you're a fan of cheesy sci-fi from the 80s, a celebrant of shoestring ingenuity and champion of the cinematic underdog such as the Duke and myself, then here is a movie tailor-made for your enjoyment. As the Mother Spawn grows larger, ickier, hungrier and ferociouser in the basement, a familial comedy of errors starts taking shape upstairs. The mother and father of the house are planning a long getaway of some sort, and have invited Aunt Millie and Uncle Herb to look after the kids while they're away. Because of their early planned departure time and Mom's conscientiousness about writing instructive notes before getting ready to leave, no one thinks it strange that neither parental unit is around when the rest of the house awakes--which is unfortunate, because they both have of course become Spawn-food in the interim.

On the fortunate side, though, is the fact that the orphaned-but-oblivious kids are uniquely well-suited to deal with the alien menace festering in their root cellar. Elder son Pete is an astronomy major just waiting for a radioactive bug bite to turn him into a superhero--nerdy, scrawny, but incredibly knowledgeable about all things to do with SCIENCE! His younger brother Frankie is a borderline autistic Monster Kid who enjoys wandering around the house in a devil cape and ape mask trying to scare Aunt Millie (and failing miserably). While Pete invites his school friends over for a study session and Pete talks to psychiatrist Uncle Herb to see if monster movies have warped his brain, a surprising number of expendable extras wander into the basement to be eaten by the Slimy Spawn.

Once Frankie discovers the toothy worm and its sperm-like spawnlings (gnawing on his mother's disembodied head! A circumstance which distresses him less than one would imagine), things get turned up to eleven--Spawn Babiez spread out in the neighborhood, attacking a vegan lunch party (seriously) and devouring Uncle Herb. Can Pete, Frankie, and the rest of the Mystery Incorporated gang find a way to defeat the Deadly Spawn before the neighborhood, and presumably the planet, becomes a bloody buffet?

The Deadly Spawn is a lot of fun, and all the more impressive due to its miniscule budget. Clearly a labor of love for all involved, it has that idealism and enthusiasm that I love so much, and that is sorely missing from many of the low-budget efforts of our era. And the creature effects by John Dods (who also did the effects for Don Dohler's immensely entertaining Nightbeast (1982)--a movie I've been meaning to review for ages!) are simply fantastic. Sure, there are some technical shortcomings and the expected sliding-scale acting, but it sets out to give the audience an icky fun time, and in that it more than succeeds.

As to the Blu-Ray presentation by Elite/MVD...well, I wish it were a little better. Whether due to the transfer or to the state of the source materials available, the picture here is somewhat less than hi-def. An improvement over a washed out VHS, sure, but just barely. There's a good amount of bonus materials. The commentary by Bohus and editor Marc Harwood is a hoot, as the two men clearly enjoy one another's company and love reminiscing about the film. We hear about technical triumphs, scheduling snafus, and tensions between McKeown and Dods which eventually led to McKeown's departure from the project and Dods stepping in as director. There's a gag reel, casing footage, trailer, TV spots, and more--more than enough for any Spawn fanatic.

In short, it's a great indie monster movie and worth adding to your collection, if you don't already have the DVD or are the sort of movie fan who just *has* to have everything on Blu-Ray.

Movie: 2.5 Thumbs
Disc: 2 thumbs

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...

Harlequin (1980): or, Rootin' Tootin' Rasputin

We need more movies about ambiguously evil wizards with disco-fros and lacquered black fingernails in this world. We just do.

I came to this realization recently while watching Harlequin (aka Dark Forces, dir. Simon Wincer), an entertaining and thoroughly MAD slice of Ozploitation from the far reaches of 1980. Displaying hints of the skill that he would later put to good use in blockbusters like Free Willy (1993), The Phantom (1996), and Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles (2001), director Wincer delivers a fun fantasy flick mixing mysticism, cutthroat politics, charlatanry, a healthy dollop of that good ol' razzle dazzle.

We start on the coastline of an unnamed city-state, where the deputy governor is going for an afternoon snorkel while his cadre of bodyguards look on. But even dozens of vigilant servicemen cannot keep the wetsuited politician safe--he disappears in the murky depths, sparking a media frenzy that it falls to Senator Nick Rast (David Hemmings) to deal with.

This is unfortunate, as Rast has plenty of his own problems to deal with. His son Alex (Mark Spain) is suffering from late-stage leukemia, putting bored trophy wife Sandra (Carmen Duncan) on the edge of a complete emotional breakdown. She puts on a brave face for Alex's 8th birthday party, however, showing the sick kid the time of his shortened life--complete with circus rides, balloons, and the creepiest skinny mute clown money can buy!

Nightmare Fuel

Say what you will about the creep factor, though, you can't deny the clown has madd sleight-of-hand skillz. He pulls cards out of thin air, turns handkerchiefs into doves, materializes a big slab o' cake for the sickly guest of to nom upon, and at one point even seems to bring down a crash of thunder from the heavens! They don't teach that at clown college! It's such a great show that even Dad's late arrival can't spoil it for the lovable little tyke--though it does put the senator in serious dutch with the missus.

All good things must come to an end, and the close of the party day sees Alex coughing up blood in the sink and falling into a near coma. The family doctor warns them to prepare for the worst. "It may sound a bit callous," says Nick, just having been informed he's next in line to the deputy governorship, "but it couldn't possibly have come at a worse time!" Say, you're right! That does sound a bit callous. Bastard.

Just when things look their darkest, though, a strange, puppet-like bird appears at Alex's window. Within moments the animatronic avian transforms into...a WEE-ZARD!

You know what they say about guys with big sleeves

Yes, it's the clown from the party, having shed his floppy shoes and make-up for a more elegant but equally ridiculous outfit. The stranger introduces himself as Gregory Wolfe (Robert Powell), and announces he has come to help Alex. Though Nick objects vociferously, desperate mom Sandra begs the stranger to do whatever he can for her dying son. Sure enough, within moments the kid is on his feet, demanding a sammich. Before Mom can thank him properly (and Dad can call his security goons), Wolfe has vanished again, seemingly into thin air.

He's not gone long, though--soon the charismatic magick-man is a daily visitor to the Rast estate, making cozy with Sandra while Nick is occupied in tense meetings with backroom political kingmaker Doc Wheelan (Broderick Crawford, Acadamy Award Winner! But not for this film). While Wheelan molds Rast for office like putty in his fat, tobacco-stained hands, Sandra finds herself drawn to Wolfe like a chickadee to a snake's hypnotic stare. But Gregory, ever the gentleman, rejects her carnal advances at first, a circumstance Sandra takes with the grace and decorum one would expect.

"EAT PLATE, asswipe!"

While he's getting in good with the lady of the house, Gregory is also spending a great deal of time with young Alex, taking him out on long seaside walks (accompanied by Nick's chief of security) to teach him the ways of wizardry. Lesson one? Dangling the recently moribund youngster over a cliff with one hand, so he can experience the fear of death! "Always remember the feel of Death, Alex," he tells his young pupil, setting him down safely while the security man changes his underwear, "and he'll never be able to take you by surprise!" Lesson two: never stand on a cliff with a man dressed like Rue McClanahan at a lingerie party.

"Sure, it looks silly, but the bollock-cooling factor is incredible!"

As the more erudite among you may have already tumbled, writer Everett De Roche's script is a modern-day retelling of the story of Grigori Rasputin, the Infamous Mad Monk of the Russian Court. (Wikipedia article here, for those who want to brush up.) The Rast family share name-analogs with the Romanovs, and even their surname is "Tsar" spelled backwards. Clever, huh? Certain historical happenings are mimicked here, such as Rasputin allegedly curing Tsarevich Alex of hemophilia, exerting a powerful influence over Tsarina Alexandra, and another famous bit of lore that would be spoilerish to reveal here. Suffice to say, the only thing missing is the Russian's Epic Fuck-Off Beard.

Maybe He's Born With It

Things heat to the boiling point when Wolfe starts hinting he knows what happened to the former deputy governor, and points his black-shellacked fingers at Doc Wheelan's merciless machine. "You're being groomed Nick, by magicians, to suit their purpose," he warns, indicating that Wheelan's political powers, though not as mystical, are no less formidable, and perhaps even more deadly. In his role as rival sorceror, Wheelan scryes his all-knowing TRS-80 to discredit Wolfe, uncovering seemingly ironclad evidence that the wizard is a fake and has been snookering the Rasts through hypnosis, adrenocortical steroids, and old fashioned show-biz.

That explanation is dealt a bit of a blow, though, when Wolfe crashes one of the senator's fundraisers--in SERIOUS LEATHER--and turns the place into a magical Fantasia! And not the kind where the hippos are dancing either; the kind where the basement gets flooded and the brooms all try to kill you. Looking like a cross between David Bowie's Goblin King and Slim Goodbody, Wolfe levitates a piano, cuts a dove in half with a flying cymbal, and magically extracts an elderly matron's abcessed tooth--a process apparently MUCH more complicated than simply curing leukemia.

"Do I make you horny? I make *me* horny."

Having gone a bit too far, Wolfe is imprisoned by Wheelan's stooges, only to escape and return to Rast's estate with a view toward ruining the announcement of his appointment. What follows is a battle of science versus magic, as Wolfe thwarts the house's high-tech security systems in order to plead with Rast to reject the Wheelans of the world and embrace...I dunno, a return to private law practice? The details are fuzzy, but it doesn't matter: the stage is set for a showdown, with the fate of the Rast family and Perth's New York's government hanging in the balance.

Harlequin is a wild ride, and one that fans of crazy-ass movies like the ones we celebrate here would do well to seek out. It has everything you want and more--historical pedigree, wild fantasy fx, histrionics galore, random Sigmund Freud impersonations, a fleeting boob sighting, and, as is only appropriate for a movie based on Russian history, strict adherence to the Chekov Rule ("If you show an ill-placed bottle of ammonia acids in Act One..."). Acting is good from top to bottom, the standouts being Crawford as the gruff, no-nonsense Doc Wheelan, and Powell of course carrying the film's top spot.

Ain't Nothin' Funny About a Clown with a Cricket Bat

In short, I enjoyed this flick a lot, and you will too, if you know what's good for you! 2.5 thumbs.

A few more images from Harlequin (1980):

"They're still bigger than yours."

 

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Not this time.

 

It's cymbalic, of course

 

State of the Art

"Oy! Fancy a shag?"

BZZZZZZZZZAT!

 

"Just one more question, kid--what the hell IS that thing?!"

 

"And that's the story of how Mercedes McCambridge and I killed a hobo one time. More punch?"

I don't know what I love more--the spray of blood on the middle dude's face, or how completely blase the guy beside him is. "Oh, this is nothing. You should see what David Copperfield can do to a baby penguin!"

 

"My God, Vicar--it's HUGE!"

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...

The House of the Seven Graves (1982): or Disco in the Dovecote

I admit I wasn't expecting much from The House of the Seven Graves (La Casa de las Siete Tumbas, dir. Pedro Stocki). And at first, I seemed to be getting what I was expecting. However, as the movie wore on, what started out as a standard flick about possibly supernatural childhood trauma turned into an eerie, dark fairy tale about witches in the woods, haunted wells, and the destructive tensions between lovers and friends. Perhaps that doesn't entirely excuse some of the film's narrative and technical shortcomings, but it did make for an entertaining and somewhat pleasing pelicula from our friends from way way south of the border.

Somewhere in rural Argentina, besties Clara and Cecilia make their way through an idyllic, thoroughly normal childhood. They ride their bikes, braid each others' hair, and play the innocent juvenile games of an age before Internets, XBoxes and lipstick parties. This all changes, however, when down by the train tracks an old hobo entertains them with the legend of a witch who lives nearby, who has a penchant for luring young 'uns to her house, draining their blood, tossing their lower halves down a well and shoving their disembodied heads into a huge, haunted dovecote* on her estate grounds. With nothing better to do, adventurous Cecilia drags timid Clara to the house in question and dares her to go into a workshed, only to abandon her friend once the dusty door clatters shut. If you're thinking this is a recipe for life-long psychosexual trauma, you've clearly been to Argentina before.

*Note to the Vicarage Architetural Corps: we need a haunted dovecote. STAT.

MORE MADNESS...

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...

Shadows of Blood (1988): or, Amsterdamaged

That's right--there is no poster for this movie.

In the late 80s, the port of Amsterdam is rocked by a series of brazen and motiveless murders. Local police are stymied, until they learn through Interpol that two vicious serial killers have escaped a French asylum and are currently engaged in a friendly competition to see who can deal the most Dutch death. One of the men (Barry Fleming) is a maniacal, hatchet-faced freak who nurses romantic delusions about finding true love, along with an extreme sensitivity about his male-pattern baldness. The other, played by his Mad Mad Mad Mad Magnificence Paul Naschy, is a grizzled, cigar-smoking old Spaniard, who turned to serial killing after a successful career as a b-movie horror star and champion power lifter...hey waitaminnit!

Shadows of Blood (1988, dir. Sydney Ling) is something of an oddity in Naschy's career. A flick so obscure it doesn't even have an IMDb entry--in fact, Paul is the only member of the cast whose IMDb page seems to exist!--the film was apparently a direct-to-video effort produced for the burgeoning Dutch VHS market. Like many of the early shot-on-video productions, this one suffers from terrible videography, laughable video effects, and incredibly amateurish acting from everyone but the Mighty Mighty Molina. While it's probably only of interest to hardcore Naschyphiles and obsessive DTV collectors, the movie still boasts enough MADness to make it an enjoyable waste of 70 minutes, at least for connoisseurs of trash cinema like your ever lovin' Vicar.

ETA: VIEW THE LAST 8 MINUTES OF SHADOWS OF BLOOD ON YOUTUBE! (Spoilers, obviously)

There is really no plot or character development to speak of here--we meet Fleming's killer window-shopping in Amsterdam, walking down the street like a regular (if funny-looking) tourist. On a busy thoroughfare, he sees a young New Waver coming toward him, and something behind his eyes just snaps! Without even checking whether all ist klar, Der Kommissar, he throttles the young punk on the hood of a nearby Citroen! Whether from lack of social engagement or crippling politeness, the other Amsterdammers passing by on the street take no notice.

"I told you not to put mayonnaise on my fries, but YOU JUST DIDN'T LISTEN!"

Later, Fleming meets Paul's character (who for sake of simplicity we'll call "Paul") and they discuss their newfound freedom and what they intend to do with it--which seems to be mainly random, motiveless stranglings. Of interest to Naschy fans here is that Paul speaks his few lines in English--though so heavily accented and with such strange inflection, he's clearly working it phonetically. (No shame there though--ALL of the actors in the movie seem to be reciting their lines phonetically, with the exception of a wisecracking Cockney detective on the Amsterdam police force, who seems to serve no other purpose in the movie.) I for one got a strong Lugosi vibe off Naschy's dialogue here, which of course made me giggle with glee.

"I crap bigger than you!"

Eager to show the youngster how it's done, Paul checks into a bed & breakfast. Moments after dropping his luggage in his room, he drags a chambermaid in by the throat! (In the first of many instances of somewhat effective black humor, Paul thoughtfully puts out the "Do Not Disturb" sign. Also, in the first of many instances of filmmaking flubs, we next see Paul stepping around a stage light to get to his mark.) Still spry despite his 55 years, Paul stalks his prey before executing a stunning leap attack!

Huzzah!

As the bodies pile up, the Amsterdam police force finally takes notice. Though the tough-as-nails female chief orders her men to bring the killers in before Interpol can come in and trample the case, her elderly, Carlsberg-swilling flatfoots make no progress. Meanwhile Fleming strangles a hobo, and Paul one-ups him by walking into a cafe, ordering a dish of soup (or "soap"--it's hard to tell), and then strangling a Debbie Harry lookalike before his meal can even be served! A fellow diner, sitting literally the next table over, does nothing to help...though he may well have simply been paralyzed by Paul's mesmerizing manliness.

With no clues to go on (except presumably the DOZENS of eyewitnesses to every single murder!), the chieftess is forced to accept the help of an also-elderly Interpol agent, apparently sent over from their Department of International Standing Around with Hands in Pockets. (He's the best there is at what he does!) The agent fills them in on the killers' backstories, which include the fact that Paul has murdered 22 people, and his apprentice a respectable 19--not counting the latest additions. Together the crack task force investigate several tabacs, bars, and hotel bars, finding nothing but a series of suspicious-looking cocktails that must be immediately eliminated.

"Nope, no killers under the crumpets! Maybe at the bottom of this glass, then?"

From there on out, it's a series of curious events. Fleming strangles more random passersby. Paul throttles a few too--including one fat video editor (?), whom he takes out while wearing a Venetian plague doctor mask!--but later diversifies into stabbings and power-drillings. Things take a strange turn when Fleming starts courting a hollow-eyed local woman, who is not put off by his goblin-like face and penchant for killing people during lulls in the conversational courtship. Meanwhile Paul has an odd interlude wherein he meets an elderly Dutch serial killer to talk shop with, and later has his humanity reawakened by the not-so-skillful warblings of a homeless flautist. Seriously.

Fun fact: Naschy spent a good portion of the 80s touring with Jethro Tull

Things come to a head when Fleming senselessly murders the old flute-blower, which causes a rift in his friendship with Paul--a rift that's only exacerbated when Paul garottes Fleming's girlfriend before his eyes! Somehow the cops FINALLY catch up with the younger killer, leading to a foot chase and a showdown in which Fleming laughs like Dwight Frye on nitrous oxide and rips off his hitherto-unmentioned toupee! The police are powerless against such insanity, so it's up to Paul to put Fleming down like the rabid dog he is. As the chief of police stands by completely inactive--saying nonsensically via voice-over that "Perhaps it's better he gets away!" (wha?)--we get a flashback montage with strange video effects of blood-colored hands over the footage, grasping at the old killer while he offs victim after victim. Perhaps these are the "shadows of blood" that haunt him and inspire his murderousness? Director Ling leaves us to ponder this mystery as the end credits roll, and treats us to one of the most infectiously awful title songs I've ever heard in a Naschy flick.

Shadows of Blood is a terrible, terrible movie, and one that I'm sure Paul was not sorry to have left off most of his filmographies. Apart from a short write-up on the indispensible Naschy.com, there's little information in English about this flick, and many fans would probably say that's for the better. It definitely seems beneath Paul's considerable talents, and even the man himself seems to be uncharacteristically phoning in much of the performance, his eyes only on the paycheck waiting at the end. (Apart from those few lines alluded to earlier, most of Paul's acting here is done via broad gestures and pantomime.) Bad script, bad acting, a terrible Casio-fart score, and bad cinematography abound; it's little wonder that few if any of the other people involved have any further discernible film credits.

Your guess is as good as mine

Still, whether because of my own unique mental malformations, or because I'm always under the sway the Magic of the Mighty Molina, I admit to enjoying Shadows of Blood more than a little. The plot device of the competing serial killers isn't a bad idea, and the outlandish brazenness of their killings was a source of laugh-out-loud entertainment to me. Though I couldn't argue that it's anything other than one of the worst films in Naschy's long career, I nonetheless ended the flick with my trademark Naschy-induced grin on full beam. I was never bored by it, which is of course the gold standard for trash cinema in my opinion.

So for me and other Naschy completists, I would rate the film at 2 thumbs, something you need to see and might even enjoy. But for the average moviegoer, that rating would have to drop considerably, maybe even to the 1 thumb range. I freely admit to my bias--but what can I say? Naschy always makes me happy. Rest in peace, you wonderful madman. You are missed.

More images from Shadows of Blood (1988):

Kill!

Kill!

Kill!

Drill!

"Waiter, there's a Fly Girl in my soup!"

"Yeah, everyone keeps telling me Alcohol Niet Ils Ik Ru, but I don't believe it!"

That's right! KNEEL, PEASANT!

The Ghost Hand goes for Paul's Booty. Can you blame it?

Even Paul doesn't know what he was thinking

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...

Dreamaniac (1986): or, Pour Some Caro On Me

October Horror Movie Challenge, Day 25!

Heavy metal musician and songwriter Adam (Thomas Bern) is housesitting for a friend, spending his days smoking cigarettes, ironing his Def Leppard t-shirts, and researching new lyrics in his large library of occult grimoires. It seems that despite having a smokin' hawt, punk rock riot grrrl girlfriend in Pat (80s porn legend Ashlyn Gere, here credited as "Kim McKay"), he still wants more carnal satisfaction--which thanks to his researches soon arrives in the form of small-chested, blood-spattered succubus Lily (Sylvia Summers). As Adam battles his disturbing sex dreams and struggles to find a rhyme for "METULL," Pat and her mousy sister Jodi (Lauren Peterson) prepare for a rockin' house party--the kind of Gathering of Stereotypes that only happens in 80s movies.

On the guest list are rich snob Francis (Cynthia Crass), who has designs on Jodi's out-of-her-league football player boyfriend Brad (Brad Laughlin); Valley Girls Jan and Rosie (Linda Denise Martin and Lisa Emery); specs-wearing nerd Jamie (Bob Pelham) and skinny Jughead-style glutton Foster (Matthew Phelps). Don't get too attached to any of them though--Lily's crashing the party, and is thirsty for sex and blood, not necessarily in that order.

"An original made-for-video feature film" produced in 1986, Dreamaniac is cheap, stupid, and a whole lot of fun. This is perhaps the most awkward house party in the history of partying, possibly because each of the attendees is the only representative of his or her clique and would never associate with any of the other partygoers in their natural high school environment. Things heat up as the night wears on, though: either due to the influence of an ancient sex-demon or else good old teenage hormones, sooner or later most of the girls and guys get undressed and do that horizontal bop. Director David DeCoteau (Creepozoids,  Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama,  The Brotherhood) is clearly more interested in Man Meat than girlflesh, though, so there are plenty of gratuitous butt-shots for the ladies...and dudes too, for that matter. There's also more than one illustration of why you should never accept a blowjob from a demon, a BDSM scene that leads to a package-jiggling electrocution, a final showdown in which Jodi and Pat must fight their way through the reanimated zombie corpses of their friends to get to Adam and Lily, a decapitation by power drill (wha?), and a "stinger" ending that makes almost as little sense as that of Pieces.

The acting is all broad, high-school level, as the cast is full of first- (and only- ) time actors. The notable exception is Gere, who perhaps unsurprisingly gives the most natural, engaging performance in the film.The fashions and set design are almost a parody of the movie's own era--watch particularly for Francis' amazing knit sweater and Jan's side-ponytail and skin-tight yellow jumpsuit. Dialogue is bad but in a strangely charming way, and the gore is mostly of the caro-syrup variety. DeCoteau's direction is competent, though he does rely rather heavily on slllloooooowwww pans and tracking shots, especially early on.

In my youth, when I would load up on VHS rentals every Friday, snatching anything off the shelves that looked even remotely like a horror flick, Dreamaniac would have been just the kind of fun, goofy ride I was looking for. Your enjoyment will depend on how well you like your DTV cheese. For me, 2 thumbs.

"OK, Jodi--you know the drill."

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...

Inferno (1980): or, Death is a Mutha

October Horror Movie Challenge, Day 24!

Poet and antique book aficionado Rose Elliot (Irene Miracle) finds an enigmatic tome entitled The Three Mothers in her local junk shop in New York. The book is the autobiography of an alchemist-cum-architect named Varelli who claims to have built three houses for the titular creatures--malevolent, mythological beings like the Fates, who poison the air and bring destruction to everyone around them. Unfortunately for her, Rose's apartment building just happens to be the home of Madre Tenebraum, the Mother of Darkness. After exploring the building's flooded basement and discovering proof of the Madre's residence (not to mention a very clingy drowned corpse), Rose decides she needs to call in some help.

That help is thousands of miles away in Rome, in the form of her brother, musicology student Mark (Leigh McCloskey). Upon receipt of his sister's letter detailing her troubles, Mark begins to experience strange phenomena himself--a mysterious green-eyed woman (Ania Pieroni) sits in on class, causing freak windstorms while stroking her big furry pussy...cat. Mark's friend Sara (Eleonora Giorgi) reads Rose's letter and goes to the local library to pick up a copy of The Three Mothers, only to be menaced by a bookbinder, picked up by a sports writer, and then stabbed in the spine by a scar-handed killer. Mark beats it to New York, where in the meantime his sister has been offed by another shadowy figure with the same sinister psoriasis. He befriends weirdo neighbor Elise (Daria Nicolodi) and journeys deep into the bowels of the Mother's abode, which as you might imagine stirs up all kinds of fragrant, freaky shit.

I've always been lukewarm on the work of Dario Argento--I mean, I appreciate his importance and his vision, but I've never been the raving fan of his stuff that others--notably his corpulence the Duke of DVD--are. Still, even a jaded critic like me has to admit that Inferno (1980) is absolutely stunning stuff. The director's trademark use of color, particularly his strong use of red and blue gels, consistently wows the viewer and lends the whole film a weird, dreamlike beauty. The opening scene with Rose swimming through the flooded subterranean ballroom is simply amazing. Stylistic camera placement and frame composition abound--in a favorite scene of mine, the camera seems to float on a breeze into the lecture hall where Mark is reading his sister's letter. The whole movie is just gorgeous to look at, and proves just how powerful Argento's vision can be. And the gore scenes, particularly the death of Sara's ill-fated pickup, are fantastic.

Story-wise, this is one of my favorite of Argento's films, perhaps only slightly behind the glorious MADness of Phenomena (1985). The middle of the Three Mothers trilogy, this one cements the supernatural mythology of the series and effectively conveys the vast power of these forgotten goddesses, or demons, or whatever they are. If there's any criticism to bring to bear, it's that at times the movie seems to lose its focus, jumping from Rose to Sara to Mark to Elise without ever settling fully on one protagonist. However, this could as easily be counted a strength of the film, whose real star is Argento's camera and the labyrinthine, expressionist nightmare that is Madre Tenebraum's house.

In short, wonderful stuff from an artist near the peak of his powers. 3 thumbs.

Significant Stroking

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...

TerrorVision (1986): or, Quite the Dish

October Horror Movie Challenge, Day 23!

In the days when "satellite TV" meant having a dish the size of a bisected Volkswagen in your backyard and access to NASA-level array-control technology, Stanley Putterman (the inimitable Gerrit Graham, "Bud the CHUD" and The Phantom of the Paradise's Beef himself ) installs a "Do-It-Yourself 100" dish in the hopes of opening a new world of entertainment possibilities. This meets with the approval of his wife Raquel (Mary Woronov of Eating Raoul, Silent Night Bloody Night, and Chopping Mall), daughter Suzy (Diane Franklin, of the superlatively MAD Amityville II: the Possession) and son Sherman (Chad Allen, Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman). Even military-minded Grandpa (Bert Remsen) is down, excited about the possibilities for monitoring enemy troop movements.

However, when a sanitation worker from Planet Pluton accidently beams a dangerous piece of garbage--a slavering, amorphous mutant called a "Hungry Monster"-- into the Puttermans' new dish, what started out as a nice night in front of the tube becomes a fight for survival and the future of the human race. As the monster crawls out of the boob tube to munch on its new hosts, the Puttermans' "swinging" guests, and Suzy's punkish boyfriend O.D. (Jon "I'm a Wolfman and I've Got Nards" Gries), Sherman makes desperate calls for help, first to the police and then to late-night horror hostess Medusa (Jennifer Richards). Meanwhile, O.D. and Suzy try to train the beast, which goes well until the Pluton Sanitation Department shows up to try and correct its error. Then things get a little messy...

Produced by Charles Band and directed by Full Moon Pictures-mainstay Ted Nicolaou, TerrorVision (1986) is an energetic, broad parody of everything 80s that, like many a fine cheese, has only grown more delicious as it ages. Viewers of a certain age will recognize a lot of the period piece details, from Raquel's Jazzercize obsession to Suzy's Cyndi Lauper fashions to Medusa's Elvira-esque show and costumery. Graham is hilarious as always (what an underrated performer this guy is), and Gries steals the show in a role that prefigures Bill and Ted by three years. The effects are goopy, practical, and disgusting, and the monster design is gross but strangely adorable. (In a standout scene, the monster uses its mimicking ability to morph several appendages into a slime-covered orgy involving the Puttermans, their guests, and even Grandpa! Must-see.) The music by Richard Band is as good as you'd expect.

TerrorVision is nothing but OTT fun from one end to the other. Even those born in the era of dinner plate-sized satellite dishes should find this blast from the past enjoyable. 2.5 thumbs.

"Don't wait up! I've heard these Noam Chomsky lectures sometimes go long."

Bonus: The awesomely 80s TerrorVision Theme song!

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...

Gothic (1987): or, The Young Romantics are TRIPPING BALLS

October Horror Movie Challenge, Day 19!

In the summer of 1816, in Sweden at the Villa Diodati, one of the most legendary gatherings of literary heavyweights in history is about to take place. One of England's most famous young poets, Percy Bysshe Shelley (Julian Sands) is to be the guest of one of its most infamous, the Mephistophelean Lord Byron (Gabriel Byrne). Shelley is accompanied by his beautiful future wife, Mary Godwin (Natasha Richardson)--not yet Mary Shelley, since the poet is still technically married to his first wife--and Mary's fiery, slightly unhinged stepsister Claire Clairmont (Myriam Cyr). Byron's sole companion is his physician, Dr. Polidori (Timothy Spall), a creepy little man with a more-than-professional interest in Byron's body. Once gathered, the group immediately engages in an orgy of free love, laudanum-fueled licentiousness, and nightmarish visions that will drive them to the brink of MADness, and will also give birth to one of the enduring horror myths of all time.

Warning: if you're in the mood for a Merchant Ivory-style biopic about the girl who wrote Frankenstein, this is NOT the movie you're looking for.

I had seen Gothic (1987) before, many years ago, but somehow I had forgotten how relentlessly, jaw-droppingly INSANE this movie is. Director Ken Russell--a man not particularly well-known for his even hand and cool restraint--takes the famous historical event as a springboard into a Phantasmagoria* of frenetic debauchery and borderline-surrealism. Everything is turned up to 11: the dialogue is overblown and operatic--literary references and quotes are dropped repeatedly and with great force. The music (by Thomas "She Blinded Me with SCIENCE" Dolby!) is hyperactive and intrusive, going from 80s synth rock to symphonic tempests to the Diodati Disco.  And the images...dear God, the images!

*Yes, I know.

A fish flopping helplessly (and pointlessly) in a stone birdbath. A writhing python draped around a suit of medieval armor. A merkin-jerkin' automaton. A demonic dwarf crouched on Mary's chest. Byron's menstrual vampirism. Claire's constant CRAZYFACE. Mary's visions of her dead baby. And Percy meeting a dream woman who never has to say, "Hey, my eyes are up here."

None of it makes very much sense, but Russell is clearly not interested in any sort of accurate historical representation--it's all about seeing how many beautiful, nightmarish images he can cram into 90 minutes. Turns out, the answer is "A Metric Shit-Ton."

The acting here is hard to judge. I said it was operatic, and it's true--there's lots of grand gestures, wild expressions, and screaming on key. Byrne really makes a meal of this diabolic version of Lord Byron, and Richardson is vulnerable and passionate as the future Mary Shelley. Cyr is a force of nature, with her wild black hair, huge, almost Steele-ian eyes, and a sensuality so raw it's almost bleeding. On the down side, Sands seems to have been hired solely for his (admittedly uncanny) resemblance to the actual Percy Shelley--even taking into account the over-the-topness of the script, he is uniformly terrible here.

Themes of birth, death, creation and destruction form only the thinnest framework for the unstoppable fever dream that is Ken Russell's Gothic--a movie so incredibly insane, if it were a person, you'd have to lock it up in the interest of public safety. This is, of course, the highest of recommendations. 3 thumbs way up!

This was exactly my facial expression during the entire runtime of Gothic.It will be yours too.

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...

Night of the Creeps (1986): or, Consider Me Thrilled

October Horror Movie Challenge, Day 10!

 In Earth-Year 1959 AD, a passing insterstellar research craft is the scene of intrigue and mutiny, as a creature who looks like E.T. on steroids steals a canister of dangerous parasites and makes a waddling bee-line for the air lock. In the ensuing hail of laser fire and gratuitous alien butt-shots, the mastermind fails to make good his escape, but does manage to fling the canister out of the ship, where it becomes trapped in Earth's orbit and crashes near the campus of an American university. A jock and his girlfriend are caught between a rock and a squishy place, as the boy falls prey to the alien worms while the girl is hacked to death by an escaped axe murderer! And all this in the first five minutes!

Nearly 20 years later, nerdy nice guy Chris (Jason Lively) is smitten by sorority girl Cynthia (super-cute Jill Whitlow). At the urging of his handicapped but fearless friend J.C. (Steve Marshall in a show-stealing performance), Chris pledges to a fraternity run by The Bradster (Allan Kayser), a sadistic Aryan preppie who is also Cynthia's erstwhile boyfriend. Brad tasks the boys to steal a corpse from the university research facility and dump it on a rival fraternity's steps--and I bet you can guess which body they corpse-nap. Soon the alien parasites are running rampant, turning students both living and dead into shambling, bloodthirsty zombies with exploding heads! It's up to Chris, J.C., and beyond-grizzled and gruff detective Ray Cameron (Tom "Fucking" Atkins) to exterminate the alien menace before the planet is overrun and the sorority formal ruined.

One of the true cult-classics of 80s horror, Night of the Creeps is a great time from beginning to end. Writer/Director Fred Dekker (the man also responsible for the much-loved 1987 kids' horror-adventure, The Monster Squad) delivers a fast-paced, quick-witted, gloriously gross hunk of grade-A cheese that should satisfy any fan of the genre. His script is full of quotable quips and unforgettable images, from the suspended-animation body of the 50s jock (which J.C. memorably terms a "corpsicle") to Cynthia in formal dress fighting off zombies with a flamethrower, to Atkin's immortal catchphrase, "Thrill me!" The acting is good across the board, with Atkins and Marshall making the best impressions. Add some great makeup effects, some fun, grody gore (watch particularly for the infected zombie cat puppet), and a special appearance by legendary character actor and national treasure Dick Miller, and there's really nothing left wanting.

A flick I haven't watched in years, and one I'm very glad I revisited. 3 thumbs!

"I don't know, Brad...you've just been so cold to me lately."

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...

Dark Night of the Scarecrow (1981): or, That's the Last Straw

October Horror Movie Challenge, Day 1!

A thirty-six year old, mentally challenged behemoth of a man named Bubba (Larry Drake, typecast again) draws the ire of his small, rural town's postmaster Otis P. Hazelrigg (the legendary Charles Durning) for being a bit too friendly with sweet little Marylee (Tonya Crowe). When the girl is attacked by a vicious dog and Bubba comes to her rescue, the sight of the gigantic toddler with the bloodied body of the innocent in his arms drives the letter carrier into a frenzy--he quickly recruits alcoholic farmer Harless Hooker (Lane Smith), grease-monkey and Cooter Davenport impersonator Skeeter Norris (Robert F. Lyons), and morbidly obese hypertension-sufferer Philby (Claude "No Relation to James" Earl Jones) to form the world's sweatiest posse and wreak retarded vengeance before the cops can come in and muck things up. Bubba displays a little creativity by concealing himself from the lynch mob in a well-crafted scarecrow costume, but the men aren't fooled and execute the poor slob just before learning that the girl is okay and the dog has been rightly convicted. Incredibly the men get off scot-free on the charge of galoot-icide, but soon an ominous wind blows in from the cornfield at night, bringing with in supernatural vengeance and barley-scented DEATH.

Rightly hailed as one of the best made-for-TV horror movies of the Big Network Era, Dark Night of the Scarecrow is a beautifully shot, expertly paced thriller many genuinely creepy scenes and even some surprisingly effective emotional moments. Director Frank De Felitta does a great job with J.D. Feigelson's story, displaying a deft hand for suspense and never letting the proceedings drag. He's aided by an absolutely stellar cast--character actors Jones and Lyons are fantastic as the basically decent but tragically misguided stooges of Hazelrigg, and Lane Smith hits all the right notes as the slimiest of crew. (Lyons in particular impresses by seeming to channel character-acting god Elisha Cook Jr. to great effect, especially in one of the great "losing his shit" scenes in TV movie history.) Most importantly, we get Charles Durning at his Durning-est, playing the postmaster as an angry little man with delusions of grandeur (note the prominent Patton photos in his sad boardinghouse bedroom), taking out his frustrations on hapless ogre Drake. There's really not a bad performance in the movie--A-level stuff, all the way across the board.

There's more than a touch of MADNESS to savor here too, as we get strict observance of the Chekhov rule ("If you show a wood-chipper in act one..."), amber waves of PAIN, impromptu exhumation, a gas stove explosion powerful enough to split the atom, and even an obvious but wonderfully done homage to the "flowers" scene from James Whale's Frankenstein (1931). And the post-comeuppance coda has a nice little ghostly chill in it as well, wrapping everything up with a satisfying shiver.

A great way to start my October Horror Movie challenge, Dark Night of the Scarecrow gets a solid 2.5 thumbs up. Made-for-TV fans and horror lovers in general should seek it out for their Halloween viewing posthaste!

"If I only had a brain. Yours, I mean. On the end of a pitchfork."

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...