Unapologetic Foreign Horror

 

Unapologetic Foreign Horror Delights!

by Kristin Battestella

This retro international trio is unashamed of the shocks and gore and unabashedly horror with the saucy and screams.

The Beyond – An inherited Louisiana hotel is one of seven gateways to hell in director Lucio Fulci's (The House by the Cemetery) 1981 surreal mix of Lovecratian books and bayou raids. The golden patina and antique interiors of the 1927 opening set off the rattling chains, gory whipping, screams, and squirting blood. “Flesh hisses” captions and swanky crescendos build to the then contemporary shabby and our ingenue heiress weighing the fix up cost versus the hotelier downturns. Call bells ring from empty rooms, hellish paintings abound, and creepy employees are dispensed with thanks to the flooded basement, zombie hands, and eyes popping out of their sockets. Spirits in the window lead to bloody workmen, floating bodies, autopsies, and warnings to leave the hotel. Melting acid and foaming ooze are approaching but the New Orleans jazz clubs remain so smooth as the stylish, unapologetic vignettes take time building unease before the gory payoff, creepy morgue moments, and little girl screams. The chilling scenes may be random or unexplained, but that's indicative of the spreading evil as everything from kooky bookstores and covered furniture to creaking doors, tools, and squeaking gurney wheels becomes on edge eerie. Cemeteries, repeated shots, footsteps, and parallel actions belie viewers with seemingly simple horror before gross bathtubs escalate to real shocks and gore. There's little to understand and not much of a story. No one is actively trying to find out what's happening or resolve the horror, and that is okay! Evil's a'comin' as monsters stalk blind women, dogs attack, and zombie hospital patients rise. Thunder and frightful reactions punctuate perilous falls, man eating spiders, and shootouts before body bags open from the inside and tormented eyes that look upon the horrors turn white. There's something flesh ripping to make anyone's skin crawl here! Dreamlike motion, warped sound, and distorted time mean nothing can be pinned down, and that indeterminate unknown is perhaps the most frightening of all.

The House That Screamed – Multiple versions abound of this 1969 Spanish produced AIP release, and the Tubi edition is cut off the top of the screen so I went with the Elvira's Movie Macabre version for more winks on the 19th century French boarding school murders and innuendo. The carriages, country campus, frilly frocks, swelling music, and period etiquette initially seem so grand, and a new arrival is a shrewd excuse to tour the classrooms. This discrete institution specializes in difficult, illegitimate ladies; and its arts, music, gardening, cooking, and ballet are healthy exercises in the prevention of morbid thoughts. Stern mistress Lilli Palmer (But Not for Me) runs a firm establishment – changing locks and nailing windows shut if need be. Heavy woodwork, cluttered interiors, and uptight fashions are stifling, and even the Foley effect of all the formal, harsh, hefty, old fashioned shoes reflects the strict repression. Unison prayers contrast the rough grabbing, ripping garments, and bound to the bed violence as a confrontational student is stripped and whipped in the seclusion room. Her mean girl perpetrators enjoy the humiliating hierarchy, repressed favoritism, and veiled sexual assault. Our principal's son is also essentially a prisoner kept apart from the poison girls who need correction. He needs a good woman like his mother who holds him tight to her bosom, caresses his hair, and kisses him. Of course, he knows the best crawlspace views and Tuesday is shower day – complete with steaming pipes, clinging white shifts, and scandalous girls who drop their towels just to shock the mistress patrolling the stalls. Although it's tough to keep track of the lookalike girls beyond their stereotypes, the natural, chatty dialogue provides details on who sneaks off from ballet class or who meets with a village boy in the wood shed. Jealousy and needlepoint combine for a montage of tedious threading, moaning voiceovers, rapid editing, and what we don't see saucy. Pretty music, flowers, and slow motion accent a would be romantic rendezvous that leads to warped stabbings and blood in the greenhouse. Thunder, ominous chorales, violent zooms, and freeze frame frights punctuate the spooky late night escape attempts amid fearful realizations and blackmail threats. Atmospheric candelabras and letter openers lead to eerie approaches, slit throats, and screams. It's probably obvious now who the killer is, but the creepy attic revelations are chilling with very little, and it's all still pretty damn twisted!

Hunchback of the Morgue – Scenic villas, beer, and tavern wenches suggest good times in this award winning 1972 Paul Naschy (Human Beasts) romp, but cruel insults and gorilla jokes force our eponymous attendant to take the demented slicing and dicing into his own hands. Although church bells and peasant styles invoke a period setting, there are modern cars and road signs, cold hospital white on white, mid century medical equipment, and lesbian inmate patients whipping each other. Mocking doctors and medical students are surprisingly mean and school children stone the pitiful hunched creature – elevating the tragedy and performance before the violent reds and grayish green body parts. Our outcast fights to defend himself, but tenderness is found in a saintly, dying patient, and he can return such kindness, sympathy, and even romance the pretty ladies. His child-like innocence is not ugly, but he realizes his terrible strength is being used to kill thanks to a deceiving doctor who claims he can reanimate the deceased, unrequited love. The surprising caring contrasts the disturbing gore as autopsies become desecration. The mad science, decapitation, and grave robbing make for a fun medieval mix of beauty and blood that forgives the expected low budget foreign dub, subtitles that don't match, and poor print technicalities. Fedora wearing detectives are on to the dismembered cadavers, skeletons, and underground tunnels accented by torches, acid vats, and real rats. Abducted ladies, missing doctors, catacomb chases, and feeding the babes to goo monsters make no apologies as everything is thrown at the screen in a wild, entertaining midnight watch.

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.

Island of Dr. Moreau (1977)

Dangerous Adventures Make the 1977 Island of Dr. Moreau

by Kristin Battestella

AIP's 1977 adaptation of H.G. Wells' The Island of Dr. Moreau directed by Don Taylor (Escape from the Planet of the Apes) pairs down the half man half animal mad science to its core themes with claustrophobic symbolism and strong performances anchoring the beastly adventures as shipwrecked Andrew Braddock (Michael York) is taken in by the isolated scientist Dr. Paul Moreau (Burt Lancaster). Also on the beautiful but dangerous island are Moreau's enchanting adopted daughter Maria (Barbara Carrera) and his crusty assistant Montgomery (Nigel Davenport). Braddock, however, discovers there are more monstrous inhabitants – victims of Dr. Moreau's twisted experiments – leading to a struggle of wills, abominations, and control.

The silent vast and empty blue ocean open The Island of Dr. Moreau with a tiny boat and one small, desperate survivor bearded and thirsty. Epic music mirrors the hope of this green, lush island oasis, but hanging vines, uneven terrain, and booby traps belie this paradise said to be one thousand miles from nowhere. Fenced in buildings with food, bedding, mosquito netting, books, and fresh clothing appear civilized, however dangerous animals are said to roam the island and one should never leave the compound after dark. Idyllic pets and pleasant races in the woods lead to strange sounds in the night and “muffled roaring.” Viewers think we see something amid the rustling leaves but we don't know what. Hunched creatures, creepy servants drinking from puddles like animals, and more “special” types of people on this island are in need of Dr. Moreau's care – and his laboratory is complete with a menagerie of wild cats, cages, and shackles. Rearing horses, chases, fear of the unknown, and unanswered questions are difficult for men who like to know and control all when exploring the natural or unnatural boundaries they should not. The once lovely island locales become increasingly congested environs as the external out of control science closes in on the body sacred thanks to serums, syringes, and surgery. Why would a doctor create such suffering animals now made partially people? Are the hairy inbetweens and experimentation in the name of science worth the loss of one's morality? The civilized man must defend himself in caves where unwelcome, monstrous, man made creatures have their own laws – not to walk on all fours, not to eat flesh, no taking of life. Gunshots scare away fierce offenders, for these animals given speech and rules remain controlled through fear. Will these hybrids remember what humans told them to say and do if they regress to their innate ways? After all, to study nature, one has to be as remorseless as nature, which has its own sense of justice, selection, and violence to match our undeniable ability to destroy. Dangerous tiger attacks, mercy killings, and angry mobs with torches lead to blood and pain in well paced action as power devolves into anarchy. Although The Island of Dr. Moreau's symbolism is apparent, the sentiment doesn't hit the audience over the head thanks to a multi-layered cycle of man made monsters and men made gods.

Dr. Paul Moreau showed signs of brilliance in his youth and loves to converse about emerging technology, but Burt Lancaster's (From Here to Eternity) extensive academic has been here in his own paradise for eleven years. His colleagues opposed his work, criticizing his theories on the nature of good and evil, to which even Moreau agrees he doesn't have all the answers. Fortunately, he admires Braddock's intelligence, explaining to him the need to help his fellow human beings by controlling all stages of life whilst also keeping him at the compound and withholding the details of his trial and error experiments to save mankind. Moreau thinks what he is doing is just – making his work all the more frightening when the results aren't as he hoped. The doctor gets angry with his whip when his creations remain animalistic. He speaks to his subjects about the law from his rocky pulpit, lording over those punished in his house of pain with his white suit and halo like hat almost as if Elmer Gantry turned to dastardly mad science. Moreau thinks he can tell an animal he is human and it will understand. He wants his flock to obey Braddock – Moreau needs a successor to continue his delivery of science from cruel butchery and dissection. However, Braddock is a man who doesn't do what he's told, and Moreau is determined to use his tough love science to prove Braddock's true nature. Unfortunately, Moreau is threatened by his own cause, unaware his do as I say not as I do superiority does not give him reign over his creations. Formerly of The Lady Vain, the situation goes from bad to worse for Michael York's (The Three Musketeers) rugged seaman Braddock. He's curious about the island, reads, questions where everyone came from and if there are nearby places. He walks the coast and repairs his damaged boat – the audience is on his side as the handsome hero uncovers the askew science. Alas, Braddock is too inquisitive for his own good, in over his head and meddling where he shouldn't. He must learn to abide by this island's rules or he will be punished for his interference. Braddock becomes desperate to remember who he is and where he comes from in all this upside down, and The Island of Dr. Moreau is a fine two-hander between its leading men – father and son figures where the elder won't get his way thanks to the new, stronger man. Though often sweaty and shirtless when proving his macho, Braddock becomes embarrassed by his animal instincts. Ultimately, he buttons ups his clothes when these dire circumstances force him to show he can behave like a civilized man. Barbara Carrera's (Never Say Never Again) stunning image of beauty Maria, however, answers only to Dr. Moreau's commands. He raised her, and initially she keeps her distance despite Braddock's romantic interest. Although the tender, sensuous explorations are well done, viewers know we shouldn't trust the frolicking strolls along the beach as she gives in to her passion. Carrera doesn't really have a lot to do, but Maria's an innocent young woman, a blank slate being shaped by her in the wrong father figure and a lover who would take her away from the island when she's afraid to go. Nigel Davenport (A Man for All Seasons) as Dr. Moreau's gruff assistant Montgomery also has less to do than in the novel, but his cryptic attitude adds to the sinister isle orchestrations. He tells Braddock to get over the shock of it all, for he sleeps better on this island than anywhere else. Ironically, this man who chooses to be subservient because he lacks humanity becomes a problem once he does show sympathy.

Safari hats, white linen suits, and lacy women's frocks match The Island of Dr. Moreau's turn of the century talk of fantastic flying machines and underwater vessels. Candlelight, lanterns, gramophones, longhand journals, leather volumes, and pistols add vintage to the emerging gear, telescopes, globes, and specimens in jars. Laboratory equipment, medical beds, and giant needles create disturbing science alongside creepy teeth, gross smiles, and distorted faces making the audience recoil. Granted, some of the animal make up is weak compared to contemporary designs – the noses, wild hair, and horns could be laughable but they are not thanks to the serious abomination implications. One red scarf becomes a symbolic bright spot in the otherwise earthy palette while foreboding shadows around the buildings instill fear thanks to the natural and unnatural sounds beyond the halos of seemingly civilized light at the compound. Pans over the mountains capture the divine Caribbean locales, but the point of view more often looks out the windows or in past the verandas as if the cameras themselves won't leave this little oasis. Overhead spins parallel the disorienting jungle alongside well done chases and unseen monstrosities amid dangerous but beautiful bears and big cats in cages. Animal claws and growling effects set off disturbing mobs and vicious attacks before a fiery finale with blood on all hands accenting both the messianic savior visuals and Judas retribution hangings. While the classic horrifics and big performances make Charles Laughton's 1932 adaptation Island of Lost Souls, the 1996 Marlon Brando and Val Kilmer version is a little too messy despite being more faithful to the novel than the excised bookends here. With its horses, weapons, upside down tone, ravishing brunette, intelligent spark, revealing pace, and primitive design; this Island of Dr. Moreau at times feels more like the original Planet of the Apes. Perhaps we are do for another fully realized Wells interpretation, however I fear that today's over reliance on CGI talking animals, motion capture special effects, and spectacle transformations would miss the point of the piece.

Even if such shock value isn't as important as the scientific harbingers, the bitter parable with man meets beast violence here can still be uncomfortable for some audiences. This well known story of half animal, half human would also seem to get old eventually – audiences aren't meant to be surprised anymore by the monstrous warnings of combining man and beast for one's own gain. Nonetheless, The Island of Dr. Moreau remains a relevant conversation starter in today's era of cloning, stem cells, and healthcare debates, and this well done adventure with fine performances is worth a fresh look.

Top Ten: Vincent Price!

 

Welcome to our new Top Tens series in celebration of I Think, Therefore I Review's Tenth Anniversary! These monthly lists will highlight special themes and topics from our extensive archive of reviews.

This time I Think, Therefore I Review presents in chronological order...

Our Top Ten Vincent Price Pictures!

House of Wax

House of Usher

The Pit and the Pendulum

The Comedy of Terrors

The Masque of the Red Death

Tomb of Ligeia

Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine

The Conqueror Worm

The Abominable Doctor Phibes

Theater of Blood

Please visit our Vincent Price tag, browse our Horror page, or check out or American International Pictures rundown for even more classic frights!

I Think, Therefore I Review began as the blog home for previously published reviews and reprinted critiques by horror author Kristin Battestella. Naturally older articles linked here may be out of date and codes or formatting may be broken. Please excuse any errors and remember our Top Tens will generally only include films, shows, books, or music previously reviewed at I Think, Therefore I Review.

Julius Caesar (1970) vs Antony and Cleopatra (1972)

Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra A Curious but Entertaining Double Bill

by Kristin Battestella

“Friends, Romans, countrymen....” Count 'em once, twice – Charlton Heston plays Marc Antony in the 1970 adaptation of William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar as well as the 1972 follow up Antony and Cleopatra. While neither picture is perfect, together these films make for an elusive but pleasant duo providing full embellishment on two lesser filmed Bard works.

AIP's Julius Caesar lets slip the dogs of war with leftover armor and barren skeletons on the desolate battlefield while the opening narration informs viewers on the previous war with Spain. Despite trumpets and parades, the largely faithful two hours is slow to start with no subtitles on the bare bones DVD and unfortunately undynamic characters cramping this history's innate momentum and otherwise fine performances. This version just isn't as intense as it should be – the locations and design are beyond a merely videotaped play staging yet it's lacking some cinematic flair. Director Stuart Barge (also of the infamous 1965 Othello) doesn't have command of the picture's weight, and the pace sputters in going through the motions from act to act. Lengthy two man conversations may seem like a lot of iambic pentameter chit chat for only a few simple actions, but the testing the waters dialogue layers the treasonous whispers to tease this inevitable outcome. Who's on whose side? From the Ides of March to “Et tu, Brute?” famous quotes anchor this hotbed, perilous time and secreted assassination planning. A moody dream sequence montage with screams and bloody statues invokes more booming prophecy, and the simmering approach to the public stabbing scene ups the ante. Quick intercut editing mirrors each slice, peppering the murder with a chaotic, bloody, almost ritual horror eerie. More familiar speeches and shrewd revenge move fast in the second hour as ghostly fires and comeuppance arguments bring Julius Caesar round right for the falling on swords finale. I love this era of history and this play – Julius Caesar is among my top three Shakespeare works. This is Roman history as told by Elizabethans adapted in the seventies yet the intriguing aristocratic parallels linger today. Ever are there a small few who claim they are doing right for the majority by creating war and strife, amirite? 
 

With effortless presence and a classy command of the text, John Gielgud's (A Bafta winner for the 1953 Julius Caesar film as Cassius) Julius Caesar almost seems cramped by the close camera with little room to let his charisma fully blossom. The slightly fragile Caesar swoons as others dote upon his hem, yet he remains revered in his refusals to rule. His charm is disarming – this is a likable, nice guy with battlefield glory, so why are people out to get him? We keep hearing of his military might before the play and current whispers of potential power to come, and Gieglund's would be Vader of the piece anchors the audience. We're looking for a reason to go along with the conspirators, and Caesar's stubbornness soon makes its interference known as he ignores repeated warnings to mind his fate and put his ear to ground for what might be afoot. Caesar's arrogance subtly increases – he gets ahead of himself with his North Star assurance and is genuinely shocked at his favorites joining the plot against him. Did he deserve to be stabbed? Maybe not, but Caesar was wrong in not heeding such prophecies and the political climate. Of course, the character is killed in the opening of the third act, and the viewer's morale compass switches to Caesar's avenger Marc Antony. Now, Charlton Heston is not the spring chicken he was in the 1950 Julius Caesar production. I'm not sure about that zany red comb over hair nor the skimpy wrap tunic and that wearing his mama's curtains dress – Chuck looks like an overgrown cherub! Fortunately, his familiar, strong voice and firm delivery earn Marc Antony's worth once the backstabbing unfolds. We agree with him against these crazy plotters thanks to an emotional, shocking plea. Marc Antony's weeps for all the SPQR to see, rousing and endearing the common people more that both Caesar's late missteps and those knife wielding traitors. It's a twitter war at its finest, and Marc Antony's shrewd politics assures the public feels in the right. He goes for the visceral by showing the corpse as evidence and pointing out the limp reasoning and stupid execution of a plot the public didn't ask to have done in its name. Wow, Julius Caesar just becomes more and more contemporary, doesn't it?

Ironically, it's even easier to be on Marc Antony's side because Jason Robards (All the President's Men) as Brutus is surprisingly flat, dry, and mid century sword and sandal dull. This is not what this conflicted, at times cowardly, and always potentially juicy character deserves. Poor Robards feels like he is doing his dialogue phonetically, and poor direction certainly plays a part. Didn't anybody check the dailies? This Brutus isn't morally upset or pained, but slow to draw his own conclusion and too wishy washy one way or the other. Richard Johnson's (The Amorous Adventures of Moll Flanders) far better command of the plot and performance at hand makes one wonder why Cassius is trying to recruit him at all, and gasp, this Julius Caesar could have excised Brutus and been better for it. Cassius' strong arm arguments are so smooth you don't know you are being so pressed, and his true color revelations put an exclamation – er sword point on Julius Caesar. Diana Rigg (The Avengers) as Portia also adds a moment a tender uplift to Brutus with wisdom, grace, and strength behind the man. Can the rest of her Shakespeare cred become available on video please? The trouble with Julius Caesar is that there are several critical but quite small roles that can't be combined or eliminated – especially when you can cast a great name for the clout or much needed financing. While Robards struggles, Robert Vaughn's (The Magnificent Seven) slick Casca proves it's not an American issue with Billy in Julius Caesar, and the late great Christopher Lee has some hefty proclamations, if only for a mad moment. Why couldn't he have been Brutus? Richard Chamberlain (The Thorn Birds) is also almost an irrelevant afterthought as Octavius, though the character obviously plays a more substantial part in Antony and Cleopatra.

Julius Caesar remains a bit obscure perhaps because up until recently, there hasn't really been a quality video release. Though shrewd in avoiding a big entry spectacle and taking care of the opening titles at the same time, the widescreen credits look cropped or zoomed in and blurry. We can, however, still spot some apparently under dressed slave boob shots, FYI. Unfortunately, the rest of the picture remains a flat, cut and scan fullscreen, leaving a congested feeling despite relatively few up close shots. Move the camera back please and show more of the colorful togas, statues, and crowded plazas. The ancient wares and graffiti add much needed Roman spirit while columns and stonework anchor the slightly small scale sets and seemingly simple Shakespearean stage dressings. Our villainous stabbers all seem to be dark, bearded, or greasy haired – perhaps not the best visual but the distinctions help the audience recognize these crazed assassins. Storms and lightning create mood to match the waxing on fate and stars, and although this Julius Caesar is lacking in panache, it's pleasing to see such focus on the flawed people and empire-shaping twists instead of some dated seventies spectacle. The sweeping music by Michael J. Lewis (Theater of Blood) is reserved for choice soliloquy crescendos, and the green outdoors, golden helmets, and horse action accent the partings well made. Like Julius Caesar, the 1972 Antony and Cleopatra was filmed in Spain complete with bonus Egyptian gold and orange motifs alongside crisp blue waters, ancient pirate ships, and red centurion capes. Be it the Roman villa or the Nile, viewers immediately recognize where a scene takes place, making Antony and Cleopatra feel more colorful, lavish, and cinematic compared to Julius Caesar's congested interiors and forum drab. A making of half hour on the DVD featuring Fraser Clarke Heston provides more behind the scenes details, and hey, subtitles! Save for a full Egyptian finale, Cleopatra and her entourage are also dressed in more Greco-Roman fashions – a historically debatable or artistic choice perhaps. However, the sea battle footage reused from Ben-Hur is too obvious despite the montage overlays and film trickery. The seaside establishing shots are enough alongside the close quarters barge battles. Smoke, fire, sword slices, and hacked, bloody limbs do far better than this cheesy whiff of1959 re-glory.

Then again, I was the obnoxious sophomore who couldn't understand why we weren't reading Antony and Cleopatra after just studying Julius Caesar. They go together, people! Several years later the best friend and lover of the deceased go to battle with his heir and die for love – today Hollywood can't make up this kind of epic franchising fast enough. Heston not only stars in this picking up where Octavius left off but also directed and adapted the smooth Elizabethan delivery and wouldn't know it was Shakespeare casual old speaketh, which in itself says something about the much more effortless performances under this actor's director compared to Julius Caesar. Roman rivals, pirates sweeping the Mediterranean, lovers chillaxing – Antony and Cleopatra sets the busy scene with Egypt versus Rome parallels as Marc Antony's dawdling with Cleopatra leaves the triumvirate ruling Rome perilously imbalanced. Some coming and going scenes or to and fro messengers, however, feel redundant, sagging the lengthy two and a half hour runtime. We've just seen what is being told, and such transitions could have been trimmed in favor of combining or lengthening the titular tug and pull. Antony and Cleopatra is structured as if the separate locations could be staged side by side, darkening or illumining each empire as needed. Unfortunately, that back and forth is uneven in the first half of the film when our duo spends more time apart – Antony and Cleopatra are actually separated for more time onscreen then they are together. Marc Antony hearing Cleopatra's quotes in his head while he's in Rome or listening to the asides of others do better in invoking the spirit of the stage. Likewise, the Soothsayer almost mystically appears in both places, linking the isolated fates in an almost self-aware breaking the fourth wall before some surreal penance and the epic action finale. The final forty minutes of battles betrayed and cavalry action raise the stakes as these would be titans of Egypt and Rome realize their fall with fine, if fatal soliloquies. Antony and Cleopatra is a little messy, but that is the nature of their reality show trainwreck relationship. This battle of the sexes, love/hate war, and who is using whom scandal can shakedown any number of ways, and this Antony and Cleopatra throws in some gladiator practice for good measure, complete with a thumbs up from Octavius, because, of course.

Well then, Chuck's Marc Antony looks a little older with whitish blonde hair for Antony and Cleopatra – but he's still going around in some kind of nude thong thing. Heston looks much better in armor atop his horse in full Shakespearean command, but Marc Antony is angry that strife in Rome interferes with his new, alluring roost with Cleopatra. He doesn't care about his late wife's campaign against Octavius, but reluctantly returns to Rome to claim his family's wars were not his own. So much for partying in Egypt when marrying another gal adds to your troubles! The drunken scenes are a little off, and although Heston knows where the direction of Julius Caesar went wrong, perhaps he's not so good at directing himself when playing this kind of blinded by lust character. However, I do wish he would have directed more, albeit without himself as star or with another collaborator on the script. This cast does well thanks to his performance first expertise, and Marc Antony's conflicts, soliloquies, and final scenes give Heston room to just act. Although Cleopatra may have a quick, lying under Marc Antony introduction, Hildegarde Neil (A Touch of Class) has a firm voice to convey Cleopatra's anger as well as a solid hold on The Bard's dialogue. Initially, more time is spent on Cleopatra's la di da handmaidens and gay in both senses of the word henchmen while the queen's passionate pleas echo over Marc Antony's angst. Some of this humor is too lighthearted hippie and misses the mark, but it also parallels the fluid sex and cross dressing of the Elizabethan stage. Cleopatra is a tough figure to portray, and Neil superbly makes the character and debated historical figure a person – a young, naive, smitten and insecure ruler in love. Cleopatra is not just some kind of exotic habit everyone insists Marc Antony quit, for the viewer sees her plain before the mirror jealousy as well as her full pharaonic regalia. She's violent and at times equal in a role reversed sexual power play with Marc Antony as each tries to gain the upper hand whether it is good for either's country or not. Neil doesn't look super young next to Heston, either, and in the final twenty minutes she holds her own alone with strength in mourning and grace in defeat.

Eric Porter (The Forsyte Saga) as Marc Antony's consul Enobarbus also knows the right things to say and do as this peacemaker between such two big egos. He's weathering their lust, hoping they will just get this love/hate thing out of their system. Unfortunately, Enobarbus can't take the pull of Antony with Egypt against his own loyalty to Rome. The character may not seem super important between the eponymous rulers, however this is a relatable, tragic figure encapsulating how the common people and simple soldiers are the victims caught in the middle as the big wigs play their capture the flag war games. By contrast, John Castle's (I,Claudius) Octavius is a sassy little fellow, even a downright brat. His slick and selfish ways should make him a good politician, but Octavius is too much of a jerk. One can't help but look back and wonder if Rome was better off in Caesar's hands compared to him – but of course history would prove differently for the villainous victor here. Although Roger Delgado's (Doctor Who) Soothsayer may be more medieval in style than Roman for Antony and Cleopatra, that's okay. Audiences expect a whiff of the supernatural and some ironic author winks from Bill. Again, there are even more recognizable but perhaps superfluous secondary players in Antony and Cleopatra, with Julian Glover (Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade) as the go between messenger Proculeius filling the toga and Freddie Jones (Emmerdale) as Pompey putting on his best argh! for only a few somewhat unnecessary scenes. Some lines are already moved in the otherwise faithful adaptation, so why not go for broke with an extreme cinematic splice? This Antony and Cleopatra could have excised all the extra speaking parts that do nothing but delay the snowball toward the fatal confrontations viewers want to see. Gasp, this film could have gotten by with even half the cast, but heck, we'll keep the elemental Marc Antony, Cleopatra, Octavius, Enobarbus, and the mystical Soothsayer for good measure. Tee hee.

It's tough to find both Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra. Varying streaming options and Netflix rentals expire or very long wait, but the 1970 Julius Caesar feels a little forgotten compared to the 1953 Marlon Brando adaptation of Shakespeare's deadly Roman hotbed – which, call me crazy, is not a favorite of mine. Yes, there are design flaws and miscasting consequences here, but there's plenty of good with several scenes more palpable for the Roman or Shakespearean classroom. Such out of control egos and historical parallels are ripe for millennial audiences, too. The players in Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra had the world at their grasp, and nobody knew what the heck they wanted – a lesson not learned in 44 B.C., 1623, or 2016. Although Julius Caesar is an oft read story capable of surviving any film wrongs and there have been a few Et tu adaptations, I'm still waiting for the definitive Julius Caesar Shakespeare film. Okay, putting the Iambic pentameter into Latin with English subtitles would be too much to ask. Betraying Bill by putting these two plays together and cutting the flak for an intense sword jabbing cinema escapade is probably wishful thinking, too – but hey, paging director Kenneth Branagh and star Tom Hiddleston! With Julius Caesar's open ending and such hefty history to follow, Antony and Cleopatra rightly completes our innate what happens next needs. One can't leave the fate of Rome up in the air like that, and The Bard gives us the tough, often unclassifiable, and bitter conclusion to match.

Unfriendly Family Frights!

Unfriendly Family Frights!

By Kristin Battestella

Put the kiddies to bed for these old school sociological scares, freaky families, and creepy couples of decades yore. 

 

Brain Twisters – A shattered walkman, neon, bad techno graphics, giant microphones, and lots of old time televisions add nostalgia to this 1991 sci-fi scary. Did I mention the bad denim, pink, phones with cords, and phone booths? The dated design is certainly noticeable but feels more bemusing than unwatchable. The opening fifteen minutes have a nice underlying ominous – we know something spooky is going to happen to these coeds thanks to the bevy of dorky dudes, a creeper professor keeping a student’s brain on ice, and you know, nasty corporations doing brain experimentations. The eerie bathroom scenes are fun, but the female characters are cliché and distinguished only by their stereotypes: the smart virgin, the dark haired slut, and the chubby best friend. This low grade, late night Cinemax feeling increases thanks to some hokey and a seriously testosterone trying wooden detective. The flashing lights triggering brain aversions are also lame; movies today have a lot more dizzy inducing strobe than a blinking pinball machine! While it’s nice that you can see what’s happening without any in your face special effects, the straightforward filmmaking was probably a by budget necessity, so the lack of camera bells and whistles or flashy editing feels like things are taking too long to escalate. Nobody really figures out what’s going on, and this nothing spectacular but not a disaster style could have been punched up a lot more. This is better than I expected it to be and remains entertaining, but the premise and ultimate statement are a bit dumb. If there’s supposed to be some kind of message about the static on the TV brainwashing the next generation, that ship done sailed!

Crucible of Horror – Alfred he is not! Michael Gough is deliciously wicked in this 1970 familial twisty brimming with mirrors, then upscale décor, country cottages, a spooky attic, and a suspicious stiff upper lip gentility. This dad's sexist ideals are so sadistically strict that he feels up his 16 year old daughter's bicycle seat – no, this dinner table isn't going to be awkward! Old phones and out of order receivers add to the deceiving protocol, lack of privacy, and oh so polite manner. Pour us a drink and kindly don't interrupt while we try to kill you, jolly good. Guilty hands are constantly rewashed, intercut secrets up the suspicion, and whether it is shown or implied, the disturbing violence somehow keeps us guessing who is in the right and doing what to whom. Classical music keeps the murderous plotting, well, classy amid the well edited escalation and bumbling crime. How many times has this caper been foiled? Our thieving, traumatized teen sucks her thumb, and wife Yvonne Mitchell (Nineteen Eighty-Four) is both dead behind the eyes yet surprisingly lucid. The volume, unfortunately, seems very low here, and some scenes veer too far toward nonsensical psychedelic dreams. Not a lot happens to start either, but the creepy 90 minutes is allowed to simmer and build discomfort – not to mention how misogynistic brother Sam Gough (Shelley) and sister in need of discipline Sharon Gurney (Women in Love) are real life husband and wife! Despite some predictable twists, we don't quite blame anyone for taking matters into their own hands, and the retribution, fishy neighbors, and body afoot make for plenty of who did what to whom and how suspense. 
 

The Evictors – This 1979 AIP spooky opens with a neat 1928 sepia flashback complete with cool coops, a rural siege, and tommy gun shootouts before moving to Louisiana 1942 for more pretty country, fedoras, candlestick phones, and operators at the other end! Jessica Harper (Suspiria) unknowingly settles into that prior deadly house, and it's a familiar premise with red herrings, lusty realtor Vic Morrow (Combat!), and an old lady busybody recounting a 1939 killer flashback. There's also an expendable mystical negro stereotype sharing a 1934 flashback, and the expected horrors may build too slowly for audiences wanting shocks a minute. I'm not sure if I like the separate flashback actions or not, for they take away from the present mystery a bit too much. However, seeing how the murderous actions went down rather than just telling it in a typical research montage is different and allows for additional scares amid the more commonplace damsel in creepy house horrors. Fortunately, the flat picture fits the seventies meats forties revisit, and the cast matches the wartime look and colloquialisms. This was an idyllic time with unlocked doors, friendly neighbors, a lone woman walking in red pumps to the country store – and carrying back the groceries! The sentimental introductions, picnics, and king of the castle era creates a quaint safety before suspicious notes in the mailbox, eerie ticking clocks, creaking floorboards, and simmering thunderstorms. The behind closed doors screams, cut away violence, and killer camera perspectives add to the predatory suggestions – even if the finale gets somewhat humorous. Wise viewers may see the same old same old gun twists coming and the ending is a bit confusing. However, there are enough surprises and period flair accenting this puzzler. So why aren't more horror movies set in these eras?

Nomads – Although the eerie editing, slow motion, and stilted camerawork carries a dated movie of the week feeling, the black and white photographs, darkroom splicing, frizzy perms, and limp ladies bow ties ironically accent this atmospheric 1986 supernatural thriller. Los Angeles hospitals, violent patients, grimy vandals, and French flavor set off the bad dreams and strung out ER as the memories between fair doctor Lesley-Ann Downe (North and South) and bearded anthropologist husband Pierce Brosnan (GoldenEye) blur. The wrong reflections are in the mirror, and the intercutting between our avatar and the retraced action is well paced and mature but no less bizarre. While I can do without the music montages and oooo badass silent but supposedly sinister punks, the gender reversals, possessions, titular pursuits, and cryptic history remain intriguing. Granted, the unique Inuit myths aren't made completely clear and these desert spirits gone wild aren't as menacing as they should be. However, the viewer knows there's something suspicious amid the concrete jungle threats, spooky nuns, and abandoned creepy. Where some tribes fear the camera capturing one's soul, these evil spirits don't appear in the developed frame. It's freaky and foreboding considering how many more gangs and urban nomads there must be today. How often do we pass by rowdy, stray, or seemingly innocuous people without really noticing them? Whether they are supernatural or desperate, maybe it's better if we don't catch their eye and loose our soul. Head down and keep moving! It might be interesting to see this notion revisited, as once you get over some of the eighties silly and wild, over the top finale, this 90 minutes makes for a scary sociological study. 

 

Country Horror and Scares!

Country Scares Round Up!

By Kristin Battestella

Rednecks, hicks, desolate locales, and backwater crazies certainly make for a bevy of horrors, death, cannibalism, and disturbia. Enjoy the frights herein, y’all!

Creepshow – Terror titans George A. Romero (Night of the Living Dead)  and Stephen King (Carrie) present this 1982 anthology featuring a spooky fun cast including Ted Danson (Cheers), Ed Harris (Apollo 13), Leslie Nielson (The Naked Gun), Adrienne Barbeau (Maude), and Hal Holbrook (The Senator). The expected anthology frame blessedly remains as only opening and closing bookends with a few scary winks, letting the animated transitions, red and blue lighting, and comic book styled backgrounds or cell frame designs accent the scary and carry the pulp homage. While some nods are too obviously placed or too humorous for some, the lighthearted, almost camp and endearing at times tone is in keeping with the creators’ nostalgic Tales from the Crypt creepy of yore feeling. The first “Father’s Day” tale is a little short but has a now dated kitsch and gruesomely bemusing result. “The Lonesome Death of Jordy Verrill,” however, is kind of dead end. It’s surprising that Stephen King can act as the stupid hick so well, but a vegetation meteor run rampant doesn’t have that much impact – no pun intended. Fortunately, the lengthy “Something to Tide You Over” provides pretty but deadly beachy with vengeful tides and a quality, watery comeuppance. “The Crate” has some obnoxiously fun performances to match its hokey, inexplicable monster, and the final “They’re Creeping Up on You” is surely not for people who dislike bugs, namely cockroaches. Lots of cockroaches – many, many cockroaches everywhere! Certainly this can be uneven in scares and brevity as anthologies often are, but all in all, there’s a good, macabre ride here.

Deranged – You’ll never look at Home Alone the same way again after seeing Roberts Blossom in this 1974 AIP slasher! Deaths simmer thanks to fine build ups, suspense, and pursuits – not to mention the gross necrophilia possibilities, skin wearing, morbid transvestite extremes, human bones about the house, and au naturel instruments adding to the macabre ambiance. The sense of dementia, local language, warped small town unassuming, and backwoods suggestion create an ironic old time quaint, accented by bent organ music and askew religious views. Corny narrator Leslie Carlson (Black Christmas) appears in early scenes as an onscreen reporter recounting the Ed Gein true story genesis, but the fourth wall breaks smartly disappear as the second half escalates. Brief nudity and lingerie work with the appropriately dark humor as well while over the top quips, chubby women, fake séances, and bungling sex innuendo match the sinister planning and delicate but twisted craftsmanship. The acting and cast may not be in everyone’s style today, yet the performances fit the material and tone perfectly. Thanks to the sense of past isolation for contemporary audiences, the very effective mood, atmosphere, and disturbia here has aged fairly well, making this one a must see study for horror fans or criminal and psychology scholars in comparison to other Gein inspired pictures. 

 

Motel Hell – You just know what the secret ingredient is in this 1980 country cannibal thriller! Ironic use of hillbilly music and television evangelist Wolfman Jack contribute to the charming and quaint but disturbed feeling here – the mix of late seventies styles and early farmhouse contentment doesn’t seem dated at all. Hanging pigs and slaughterhouse gore aren’t too over the top, but enough bloody suggestion and touches of nudity and kinky accent the dark humor and bizarre yet sentimental familial relationships. Rory Calhoun (How to Marry a Millionaire) has some sick and disturbing fun here yet remains strangely endearing, heck, even likeable. Vincent Smith’s reducing the riff raff population and keeping the community fed – it all seems like a real win win, and the winking tone pokes fun at this irony without being laugh out loud. The audience can chuckle at the soothing New Age eight track music amid the escalating events and interfering romance. Who’s next? When will the good guys find out? The pig mask and chainsaw duel in the finale are stupid and not scary now, hampering the otherwise bemusing wit and multi layered action. However, all in all this is some down home simmering and well done entertainment.

Skip It!

 

Trip with the Teacher – A faded picture, bad seventies styles, bug eye goggles, and tacky music are the least of this 1975 short bus desert escapade gone awry’s problems. The biker badass never comes thanks to brothers just playing at punks and terrorizing women while other characters remain stupid via poor scripting and acting. The rape revenge terror nasty has been done better elsewhere, and the time here aimlessly escalates the violence as it somehow also remains too tame – PG-13 brief nudity and the inability to say dirty words despite such heavy subject matter. We never find out why the perpetrators have such a ‘tude; the teen girls look way too old to not suspect what these jerks want to do to them and thus they remain reactive instead of forward thinking. The skimpy hot pants and catfights may be enough for some viewers along with the innate lecherous and natural isolation, but nothing is done with either. Some bike chases up the ante, but unclear motivations hamper any endearment for the victim or fear of the villain. Are we supposed to care about the bad guy’s malfunction? Sexual violence suggestions should be scary enough, but such implications feel cheap and the revenge empowerment nonexistent – four women can’t subdue one unarmed drunk guy? Everybody watches but no one does anything until a heroic man arrives? Even the end credits have scenes of each player with the women receiving credit over their most degrading shots while the guys have cool smiling stills. Wtf? The possibilities for silent, sinister isolation are lost in weird, artsy, and time wasting clichés here. Yes, walk passed that fully functioning motorcycle as you run into the desert for help!