The Deathmaster (1972)

Presumably inspired by the public’s post-Manson fascination with messianic cult leaders, this ineffective but offbeat vampire flick stars Robert Quarry, late of the Count Yorga pictures, as a bloodsucker who beguiles a group of hippies by posing as a peace-and-love mystic. Wearing long hair, a goatee, flowing robes, and glittering medallions, Khorda (Quarry) appeals to his charges with smoothly intoned nonsense (e.g., “Life’s extension is nothing more than an approach to immortality”). Meanwhile, his wide-eyed fans spew dialogue littered with counterculture slang (e.g., “Hey, man, don’t split on us—we groove on what you’re saying”). All of this unfolds inside an old mansion nestled in the canyons above Los Angeles, which the hippies occupy as a commune. It takes forever to things to start happening—Quarry doesn’t bare his fangs until the 30-minute mark—and the characters opposing the vampire are unimpressive. One is a greasy biker whose mama falls under the count’s influence. Another is a meek local shopkeeper played by John Fiedler, better known as the voice of Piglet in various Winnie the Pooh cartoons and as emasculated therapy patient Mr. Peterson on The Bob Newhart Show. And then there’s Pico (Bill Ewing), the Native American commune member who, for no discernible reason, practices kung fu. Like the Yorga movies, The Deathmaster represents a queasy attempt at blending the atmospheric style of UK horror pictures with the trashier textures of American exploitation movies. As with the Yorga pictures, however, the crossbreeding doesn’t work—The Deathmaster is too idiotic to match the ersatz sophistication of a Hammer Films production, and it’s too restrained to work as a proper drive-in distraction. Much of the problem lies with Quarry’s performance, since he’s a smug actor with European affectations but without the natural poise of a Peter Cushing or a Vincent Price. Yet most of the blame must fall, naturally, on the filmmakers, who fail to generate sufficient narrative material to sustain even this picture’s meager 84 minutes.

The Deathmaster: LAME

Count Yorga, Vampire (1970) & The Return of Count Yorga (1971)

          Even though England’s Hammer Films was the undisputed leader in the vampire-movie business during the ’60s and ’70s, low-rent U.S. outfits including American International Pictures still ventured into the realm of bloodsuckers. For instance, AIP’s Count Yorga, Vampire did well enough to warrant a sequel, though it’s plain both films are feeble attempts at Americanizing the Hammer formula.

          Written and directed by the singularly unimpressive George Kelljan, Count Yorga, Vampire takes place in modern-day California, where ancient European vampire Count Yorga (Robert Quarry) has taken up residence. For reasons that are never clear, Yorga works as a part-time mystic, so he’s introduced leading a séance for several young people. Then, after two séance participants drive the count home and get stuck on his property, Yorga attacks them. One of the victims, Erica (Judith Lang), shows wounds on her neck and develops monstrous behavior, such as eating her cat, so the heroes, led by stalwart Dr. Jim Hayes (Roger Perry), figure out Yorga must be a vampire. One of cinema history’s least exciting showdowns ensues, largely comprising an interminable scene of Dr. Hayes chatting with Yorga in order to keep the vampire awake until sunrise. Dull, talky, and unimaginative, Count Yorga, Vampire features such amateurish flaws as a high percentage of out-of-focus shots and some truly inept acting by second- and third-string cast members. That said, Quarry has an enjoyable way of injecting condescension into all of his line readings, and costar Michael Murphy—who later became a go-to actor for Woody Allen and Robert Altman—lends credibility to his scenes.

          The Return of Count Yorga shows considerable improvement in the areas of acting, since even the bit players are competent this time, and cinematography, since future Jaws cinematographer Bill Butler generates the visuals. Alas, the pacing and storyline of the sequel—once again directed by Kelljan—are as lifeless as those of the first picture. Set at a coastal orphanage and a nearby castle, which happens to be Yorga’s new crash pad, the movie offers a feeble explanation for the titular vampire’s revival following the climax of the first picture. Yorga becomes infatuated with a pretty orphanage employee, Cynthia (Mariette Hartley), so he and his vampire brides slaughter Cynthia’s family, and then Yorga hypnotizes Cynthia into believing her relatives are traveling while she “recuperates” in his castle. Meanwhile, cops and a friendly neighborhood priest discover what’s really happening. After lots and lots of preliminary chit-chat, the good guys converge on Castle Yorga to effect a rescue. Oddly, several cast members from Count Yorga, Vampire appear in the sequel, though many of them play different roles.

          While many sequences in The Return of Count Yorga are almost unbearably boring, redeeming qualities appear periodically. Hartley is appealingly earnest, future Poltergeist star Craig T. Nelson shows up in a smallish role as a cop, cameo player George Macready does a fun bit as some sort of aging voodoo-hippie scholar, and Quarry elevates his performance style to full-on camp. Butler’s moody imagery helps a great deal, though his work is stronger during evocative exterior scenes than during the interior scenes that Kelljan orchestrates clumsily.

Count Yorga, Vampire: FUNKY

The Return of Count Yorga: FUNKY

Sugar Hill (1974)

          Had a stronger actress been cast in the lead role—here’s looking at you, Pam Grier—Sugar Hill could have gained notoriety as one of the most enjoyably silly byproducts of the blaxploitation genre, because the storyline about a tough African-American chick employing an army of zombies to exact revenge upon mobsters is a hoot and a half. When Sugar Hill cooks, which isn’t terribly often, the movie musters a modicum of genuine style. The zombies in particular have strong visual appeal, black men and women decked out in ghoulish body makeup, freaky silver eyeballs, and headdresses made out of cobwebs and dirt. Also helping Sugar Hill along is the fact that the plot is so wonderfully simple. Whereas myriad ’70s exploitation flicks got stuck in the quicksand of unnecessarily convoluted narrative, Sugar Hill is mostly wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

          Yet even with these commendable elements, the movie is merely okay. Just as leading lady Marki Bey lacks Grier’s signature sass, first-time director Paul Maslansky—who only helmed one film during a long career as a producer—can’t match the gonzo cinematic attack of, say, frequent Grier collaborator Jack Hill. At its worst, Sugar Hill feels inert even though the scenario alone should be enough to guarantee vivaciousness.

          Set in the American south (presumably New Orleans or thereabouts), the picture begins with gunmen threatening and then killing Langston (Larry Don Johnson), the proprietor of a nightclub. The thugs work for crime boss Morgan (Robert Quarry), who has designs on the establishment. Langston’s lady, Diana “Sugar” Hill (Bey), knows who was behind the murder, but can’t provide proof to policemen including her ex-boyfriend, Detective Valentine (Richard Lawson). Frustrated, Sugar visits voodoo priestess Mama Maitresse (Zara Cully), who invokes a demon called Baron Samedi (Don Pedro Colley). Enter the zombie army, which Samedi raises on Sugar’s behalf. Backed by her undead muscle, Sugar annihilates Morgan’s men one by one in a series of campy/creepy death scenarios. (For example, she feeds a Caucasian thug to feral pigs trained to eat garbage, then says, “I hope they like white trash.”)

          Bey is more than sufficiently sexy as she struts in her low-cut jumpsuit, but she can’t quite muster the zing needed for the script’s juiciest lines. Similarly, Quarry—perhaps best known for starring in the Count Yorga vampire pictures—gives a performance that’s adequate at best. Still, Sugar Hill is photographed fairly well, with lots of ominous shadows, and Colley’s cartoonish turn as the Baron is enjoyable. Also, while Sugar Hill is just fine on its won, the movie would make a fantastic double-feature with J.D.’s Revenge (1976), another blaxploitation joint with a supernatural angle.

Sugar Hill: FUNKY

Madhouse (1974)

Built around a premise that’s too gimmicky to take seriously, Madhouse marked the end of Vincent Price’s run as a leading star of horror movies—after this picture, he mostly drifted into cameos and voice performances that winked at his glory (gory?) days. Considering how many fine shockers Price made, it’s a shame he didn’t bid adieu to the genre with a better movie, although one can imagine that Madhouse might have worked had a wittier director been in charge. Price plays Paul Toombes, a faded movie star known for playing big-screen killer Dr. Death. Following a tragedy, Toombes gets tossed into a mental hospital, thus marking him among potential employers damaged goods. Later, bereft of better options, Toombes accepts a humiliating offer to reprise his Dr. Death character for a tacky TV show. Once the show debuts, someone dressed as Dr. Death starts killing people related to the program. Is Toombes the killer? Or must Toombes unmask a murderer who’s trying to frame him? If you watch Madhouse, you’ll be amazed how little you care about the answers to these questions. Director Jim Clark, a top-notch film editor who briefly left the cutting room to helm a string of undistinguished projects, relies on such obnoxious tropes as fisheye lenses and in-your-face camera moves. Seeing as how the story is innately florid, juicing the action with adrenalized camerawork was not the wisest move, because Madhouse starts to feel grating and loud very early in its running time. It doesn’t help that Price looks bored, or that the actor had just made a very similar film, Theatre of Blood (1973), which was superior in both conception and execution. It’s a measure of Madhouse’s mediocrity, in fact, that even supporting players Peter Cushing and Robert Quarry—both of whom were as prone to onscreen flamboyance as Price—fail to make memorable impressions. Madhouse gets the job done, more or less, by providing bloody kills and perfunctory thrills. Plus, of course, Price is a unique presence even in the worst circumstances. But Madhouse is plagued by a been-there/done-that malaise from start to finish. No wonder Clark gave up on directing and returned to editing—a wise move, seeing as how, a decade later, he won an Oscar a for cutting The Killing Fields (1985).

Madhouse: FUNKY

The Abonimable Dr. Phibes (1971) & Dr. Phibes Rises Again (1972)

          One of the most stylish horror movies of the ’70s, The Abominable Dr. Phibes combines an outlandish storyline with divine art direction and a wickedly funny star turn. Vincent Price, perfectly threading the needle between camp and fright, plays Dr. Anton Phibes, a ghoulish genius preying upon 1920s London. Some years ago, his wife died on the operating table during emergency surgery, and Phibes himself was severely injured in a car accident while racing to her side. Presumed dead and hiding in an underground lair, Phibes methodically murders members of his wife’s medical team, basing his killings on plagues from the Old Testament. For example, the victim of the “plague of frogs” is tricked into donning an ornate frog mask for a costume party, unaware that the mask is designed to tighten until the wearer’s skull is crushed.

          Much of the action surrounds the last man on Phibes’ kill list, chief surgeon Dr. Vesalius (Joseph Cotten), and the bumbling English cops assigned to protect him. However, the real fun is watching Phibes float through his surreal existence. Accompanied only by a mute assistant, the opulently costumed beauty Vulnavia (Virginia North), Phibes occupies a fortress that’s a cross between a theater and a throne room. His figure swathed in long robes, Phibes plays classical music and silly Tin Pan Alley tunes on a giant pipe organ, accompanied by a group of animatronic musicians identified as “Dr. Phibes’ Clockwork Wizards.” Left speechless by his injuries, Phibes communicates through a tube extending from his neck to a speaker, so Price gets to pull faces while his unmistakable voice reverberates on the soundtrack.

          Surrounding this eccentric protagonist is resplendent imagery created by director Robert Fuest. Whether he’s forming arch compositions with a masked Phibes in profile—or meticulously depicting how Phibes kills victims with bats, locusts, rats, and the like—Fuest treats every shot like an art project, giving the piece a rarified air that amusingly contrasts the lowbrow narrative. Brisk, funny, and completely strange, The Abominable Dr. Phibes is truly one of a kind.

          The rushed sequel, Dr. Phibes Rises Again, benefits from the return of key players Fuest and Price, but it’s less compelling than its predecessor. Without spoiling the wonderful ending of the first film, suffice to say that bringing Phibes back requires some fancy narrative footwork. Unfortunately, neither the method of Phibes’ revival nor the reason for his return is persuasive.

          Furthermore, the storyline of Dr. Phibes Rises Again is confusing and convoluted. Phibes and a mysterious explorer named Biederbeck (Robert Quarry) travel to Egypt in search of a mythical river supposedly capable of bringing the dead back to life. Phibes resumes committing elaborate murders, though his motivation is rather thin—a group of people snatched a scroll from the good doctor’s safe. Meanwhile, the inept policemen from the first movie join the hunt when they realize Phibes is back. Although Fuest’s imagery is just as kicky the second time around, the slipshod storyline disappointingly transforms Price’s character from a heartbroken romantic to a bloodthirsty bogeyman.

          Still, the sequel has wry flourishes, like the bit in which Phibes feeds a forkful of fish into his neck, “chokes,” and then retrieves a piece of bone. It seems Price had fun playing the character, and his enjoyment is contagious. Costar Quarry, known for the Count Yorga movies, unwisely plays the material straight, though he summons pathos in the climax. Horror icon Peter Cushing is wasted in a minor role, while starlets Fiona Lewis (as Biderbeck’s lover) and Valli Kemp (taking over the silent role of Vulnavia) provide attractive decoration. FYI, actors Hugh Griffith and Terry-Thomas appear in both Phibes movies, but they play different characters, adding to the murky quality of the sequel.

The Abonimable Dr. Phibes: GROOVY

Dr. Phibes Rises Again: FUNKY