Classy Dames Do Fear 😱

 

Classy Dames Do Fear

By Kristin Battestella

These elegant ladies face mid-century murder, psychedelic mayhem, and medieval mysteries in this quartet of retro frights.

Cult of the Damned – Rich houses, antiques, elite splendor, and denial about one's father in the shower with another man and mother Jennifer Jones (Ruby Gentry) doing stag films open this 1969 AIP release also called Angel Angel Down We Go. The delusions escalate as daughter Holly Near (The Magical Garden of Stanley Sweetheart) feels fat and ugly compared to her not so perfect parents. Slit wrists intercut with guillotines, ironic music, and pop graffiti reflect our Angel's warped state of mind. Stage-like settings and twofer scenes reiterate the dysfunctional relationships mixing both oedipal and Electra favoritism, jealously, and violence. The top billed, soft focused Jones always has bare shoulders or sheer, glamorous frocks, pill popping yet graceful compared to her chaotic daughter, and her coming out party is really for them to show off how they have given her everything – save for the love and kindness she desires. They wonder who would want her save for her inheritance, but heady singers and tight leather pants lead to leopard print seduction, pillows, furs, and a goofy sex scene with Roddy McDowell (Planet of the Apes), singer Lou Rawls, and a pregnant girl dressed as pilgrim. Implied abuses, Angel's being taken advantage of brainwashing, kidnappings, and escalating gang violence are played humorously, and the parody of the times coming within those times gets lost in some of the put on groovy dialogue. Social commentaries on American Imperialism and palatial lifestyles collide with bloody pop art and fatal skydiving as the band moves in on our nasty parents. After all, making enough money through any means to buy class and erase who you were is an American rite of passage. Though certainly watchable thanks to the bizarre nonsensical; the random, joking style is not as shocking as it thinks it is. Colorful dancing and cool tunes with mean lyrics jar between solemn camera confessionals. The haze becomes boring and overlong thanks to the short lived highs and meaninglessness of it all. Such disturbia would have been better had the torment been played straight, but I don't really get a lot of the acid trip here – unless Angel died at the start and this was all just a final fever dream.

The Fourth Victim – Quaint English manors and swanky interiors lead to poolside perils, shady housekeepers, and handy death certificates in this international 1971 mystery. The body discovered is freshly clothed before phoning the authorities, and Scotland Yard is curious about pricey insurance policies, autopsies, and previously deceased wives with faulty brakes and suspect falls. Our nonchalant husband is unbothered by court inquiries thanks to the loyal housekeeper feigning tawdry melodramatics on the witness stand, and even the inspector admires him for getting rich off getting rid of three wives and now he can't be tried again. Carroll Baker (The Big Country), however, has been swimming in his pool. She claims to not read the papers nor care about his infamy, portraits of the deceased, or mementos in the attic. Her white bathing suit and neighborly carefree disrupts his strange, unfeeling calm, but her gothic home next door is dilapidated, spooky, and imposing to match the twists, eerie lookalikes, and ambiguous mysteries. More time is spent on the trial then their whirlwind wedding, but the bliss wears off fast thanks to his heavy handed accusations and her snooping. Now she wonders what he really did do to his last wife, yet their waxing on death and the courage to kill amid casual shopping trips and falling in love confessions show that our couple is actually a lot alike. Despite the emotional entanglements, fatal history, and institution connections; the characterizations are uneven with important players and pesky humor dropped. The overlong, stilted, askew male focus is dominated by unnecessary coming and going scenes with dated, over the top musical interludes. Thankfully, car chases and atmospheric flashbacks begat the unexpected in the final act as the maybe maybe not escalates with taut character interplay.

Sudden Fear – Frenetic notes contrast the sweeping melodic crescendos and Broadway billboards as successful playwright Joan Crawford (Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?) marries struggling young actor Jack Palance (Dan Curtis' Dracula) in the 1952 noir thriller. Of course we know Palance is up to no good, and our all business Myra exercises the casting approval for her play. She doesn't think he has the power to make the women in the audience squirm, but they meet again on the train to San Francisco – playing poker, wining, dining, and lighting each other's cigarettes. Cross coverage angles, up close shots, and sitting side by side visuals parallel the coming together traveling as holding hands leads to dancing, romantic strolls through the Redwoods, and Golden Gate vistas. Bling, furs, frocks, chandeliers, and classic cars accent the wealthy home complete with a custom dictating machine, hidden microphones, and master switches to record all her play compositions. The declarations of love on the staircase, hilltop honeymoon, and white robes create a play within a play romance while mirrors reflect the change in control. Our concerned Lester doesn't want Myra racing down the perilous steps to the dock, however marshmallow Gloria Grahame (In A Lonely Place) is not what she seems thanks to secret meetings, blackmail, and long cons. Again visuals layer the silk pajamas and key to her apartment innuendo, but head over heels Myra redoes her will with Lester as beneficiary. The dictation playback forces us to pay attention as the Oscar nominated Crawford hears the pillow talk and duplicitous plotting – a crushing performance with tragic tears and crippling shock as the stuck needle repeats the threats. Everything has gone up a notch yet the betrayal remains personal with shattering breaks, looking over her shoulder hysteria, and double locking the doors. The echoes haunt Myra into the bedroom as she postulates what car accident or smothering might befall her. Now she has to be the actress, claiming a headache or too much champagne and refusing Lester's offered sleeping pill. Lying awake with the black and white shadows and ticking clocks escalates to forged signatures, break ins, and poison. Sophisticated tension rises with every cocktail, change of plans, and slight of hand amid scandalous stockings, falls down the stairs, and in camera attention to detail. The scheduled actions happen down to the minute with gunshots and kill or be killed overlays that don't underestimate the viewer. Intense zooms focus on the tormented faces while pearl watches keep time and white gloves hide all the secrets. Silence and phone ring rings are used to maximum advantage with beads of sweat, perilous close calls, and the fright of seeing one in the mirror holding a gun. Our desperate dame is out of her element in a no win situation. Bad people are supposed to get what they deserve and Myra must remain good despite chases, spotlights, lookalike ladies, and rear view mirrors culminating in noir perfection.

An Elizabeth Taylor Bonus

Doctor Faustus – Producer Richard Burton (The Robe) co-directs this 1968 play presentation based on the medieval Marlowe's pact with Lucifer, however the stifling script, flowery soliloquies, and dry over acting hamper the excellent bones, candles, cobwebs, and sixteenth century mood. Learned science is so close to superstition and alchemy, and our dissatisfied scholar resorts to Latin rituals, ominous tomes, maggots, and necromancy. Red cloaks, orange firelight, purple sorcery, blue catacombs, green stones, and black wings invoke the hellish historical meets silent Expressionism. Zooms, in and out of focus mirages, and tense camerawork highlight moving statues and magical skulls speaking back to Faustus as he boasts of his bargains with the devil, undeterred in signing in blood thanks to his youthful transformation. Unfortunately, Burton does his best Orson Welles self-indulgence here, paralleling the tale by biting off more than he can chew when not imaging the supple Elizabeth Taylor (Cleopatra) as Helen of Troy for his perfect, silent woman. The thee thou bloated text and Burton talking to himself voiceovers are unnecessarily scholarly compared to the cinematic, medieval visuals – making the piece seem much longer and more complicated than it is. There is no sounding board character and the language should have been trimmed, for it's not the Oxford University's Acting Company's provocative questions but Burton's over the top windblown me me me that's tepid and detached. Actor turned professor Andreas Teuber as Mephistopheles is far more haunting as the tormented fallen pained at losing eternal bliss, for hell is limitless with no boundaries to its sins. Slow motion, back flipping nymphs and imagined battlefield glory are a little long, however it's fitting that Faustus doesn't realize he is a mere, foolish, mortal man. The hedonistic kaleidoscope parade of lechery provides surreal haze without being trashy, and Burton's best poetry and passion come in the embraces with Taylor. He debates the emperor over his conjuring, mocks the court, and scoffs at the pope as humor and sing songs turn into freaky hoods, screams, and damnation. Who is Faustus to argue with evil? No matter how many times he stops to ogle Taylor's dripping allure, Faustus ends up looking upon himself in the grave, ultimately getting the celestial comeuppance he deserves. The redemption versus selling one's soul parables make for fine horror, deception, and choices – not to mention Elizabeth Taylor in sensual gold lipstick and glowing silver body paint.

Recent Female Helmed Horror

 

Recent Female Helmed Horror

by Kristin Battestella

This trio of pandemic era horror releases is led by female directors – each with an interesting perspective on the love, blood, and gore of the genre.

Fresh – Every female viewer will be hooked in the first five minutes of this Mimi Cave 2022 directorial debut thanks to a crappy date complaining about spicy food, talking down to the waitress, wishing women dressed nicer, expecting her to pay, not holding the door, and calling Daisy Edgar-Jones (Under the Banner of Heaven) a stuck up bitch. Phone chimes, swipe left apps, and unsolicited dick pics add to our innate fears of a woman walking alone at night, keys ready, looking over her shoulder. Snacking on carrots leads to a puffy coat and goofy sneakers for a solo grocery run, but Sebastian Stan (We Have Always Lived in the Castle) is flirting in the produce section with awkward ice breakers and demands she taste the grapes. Noa didn't think people met in real life anymore but she's excited when he texts for drinks, and the exposition is for them as much as us with his plastic surgeon jokes and her hatred of all the dating pressure and projections. Up close smiles and blurred laughter overlays visually reflect the blissful time before kisses, red lighting, and a well filmed consensual that's risque without being for the male gaze. Multiple mirrors reflect the pretenses, dual facades, or who we really are revelations as the red flags get lost in the whirlwind excitement. He's not on social media yet takes pictures of her and is ready to go away for a weekend together, but viewers notice the real world warnings beyond the horror movie. No cell service, leathery artwork, drinks,and red furniture lead to a fuzzy point of view, camera distortions, slurring audio, and drugged movements just before the credits appear a half hour into the film. It's shrewd they arrive once the premise is revealed, but it's odd to disrupt the momentum as Noa awakens chained and pleading while her captor is calm and upfront: he will keep her alive and sell her meat because he's still a nice guy, but if she loses his trust, there will be consequences. Arena rock and singing along while dicing up a leg provide demented humor amid the surgical violence, epidurals, and invasive carvings. Fifties-esque pink dresses and ironic eighties dances punctuate the captive delirium, disgust, and duplicitous layers that don't underestimate the audience. Meat presses, packing the ladies' photos, and shipping the meal plans to his exclusive clientele are all in a day's work. Chainsawing the ribs, meat grinders, jerky, and limbs suggest succulence instead of gore, however the carnivorous flashes and creepy deliveries should be the only point of view breaks and the “wistful music playing” cues for every scene transition are also unnecessary. Hectic chases and a somewhat unfinished end feel a little too long, but cowards and man meat get a taste of their own medicine. Though perhaps tough to stomach more than once, there are numerous visual references of eating with the left hand, mark of the beast dinnerware, and gory bites at $30k a plate. Women must still worry about their body, looks, and beauty to go along with the crazy men and free themselves. Tagged and labeled freezer bags create a system of ritual feast that rich white men get away with while the women are chewed up and spit out – literally.

Rose: A Love Story – A secluded couple has everything they need off the grid in this 2020 horror romance from director Jennifer Sheridan (The Snow Spider) – generators, water jugs, extra locks on the door, wind chimes alarms, and typewriters for low tech, low light living. Hunting and animal traps are a necessity with rabbits and deer a plenty in the snowy forest, but mail order leeches and a cut through the glove leave our Mrs. sickly and pale. Writer's block, semantics, and miscommunication hamper their affections, for she doesn't want him to police her and keep track but they both have to stick to the rules, keep their home secure, and take no risks. Fine lighting, UV colors, lanterns, candlelight, and shadows accent the humble, cluttered cabin while the laid back pacing matches the routine, if ominous lifestyle. They try to make saucy time, but she's afraid he'll think her gross, and the realistic relationship and honest characterizations are firmly established. Faulty electricity and sounds of a struggle in the dark mean only blood can calm her, but our husband is committed to his growling wife's care despite debates on who is unhappy or giving up on life. There is no elaborate explanation about how this happened, but arranged roadside contacts for supplies gone awry necessitate a paranoid drive into town and the rush to return home. Date night is a walk outside so long as she wears her mask, and seemingly innocuous classical music montages and reading her writing aloud foreshadow their precarious pretense. Screams in the night lead to an injured woman caught in one of their animal traps, disrupting their careful situation with bone settings, bloody clean ups, and threats to tell the police if they force the injured runaway to go back home. She becomes like a child between the couple as well as an audience anchor – doing tasks with each, gardening, and asking why they live like this. The getting away from the bustle, self sustaining model, skin issues, and sunlight troubles are crafty excuses, too, but we know there is something worse at the source. It's best to go into this cold and I don't want to give everything away, however this is not for viewers looking for full on, in your face horror. Not much happens, but the slow pace maintains the taut focus and doesn't overstay its welcome. The underlying horror, angry answers, bloody bites, and tragic violence are worth seeing to the end here.

I Wanted to Like It but...

Carmilla – Period frocks, lovely landscapes, slow still lifes, and rippling waters reflect the repressed monotony of this 2019 Le Fanu inspired British piece from writer and director Emily Harris (Borges and I). Candlelight, nibs, and no exterior views of the manor provide a claustrophobic, congested attention to detail as the sense of restless boredom grows for our budding teenager who's still treated like a child by her governess, struck with a ruler, and forced to bind her preferred left hand. She is punished for secretly reading anatomy books and left to peer around the corner as the adults talk or come and go freely while she's supposed to be practicing her elocution. Moss and greenery contrast the cold interiors amid conversations about nature and dead animals, however far too much time is spent on artistic insect shots, yearning out the window up close angles, and more crawling bugs arty awe. Such scenes and any brief point of view breaks are unnecessary once we are within the lonely character. Fortunately, thunderstorms and a carriage crash bring the unexpected titular guest who stays to recuperate. The firelight glow accents Carmilla's eerie appearance and feline eyes as the nights become bold with red hair down, loose white shifts, and bloody dreams. The girls laugh, run, hold their breath, and climb trees while the stifled governess rings the tea bell and sits alone, rigid and scraping her toast. The cross above Carmilla's bed is found on the floor, and macabre dreams escalate with disemboweling gore, gurgling kisses, smeared lips, and promises to become blood sisters. Is our ingenue sick from the blood exchange or just distraught at being separated from Carmilla after being caught bumping corsets and forced to pray? The young cast does quite well, but the brief kisses could come across as modern lez be friends baiting since neither the romance nor the vampire symbolism ever fully culminate. The slow unknown may be meant to mirror the period look, don't touch admire from afar beauty of women keeping themselves unexplored. Unfortunately, the intriguing phobias and finger pointing statements unravel in the ambiguous, arty commentary by time our jealous governess jumps to conclusions and persecutes Carmilla. Once again, the troubles may stem from a one and the same writer and director that went for something existential rather than making the vampirism clear. This is lovely for period piece fans and those looking for a unique gothic romance or lesbian drama, but the tragic relationship versus vampire blood could have been much more.