Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed Guest Podcast!

 

My horror reputation knows no bounds as I was once again back on the Making Tarantino Podcast to discuss Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed and all things Hammer Frankenstein! 

New episode is out now! I was joined by @thereforereview and we had a great conversation about this and other Hammer Frankenstein movies. Listen wherever you get your podcasts. pic.twitter.com/aqYSCTcM6E

— Making Tarantino: The Podcast (@MakingTarantino) October 25, 2024

Thank you for listening! You can keep track of my audio/visual guest appearances with our Podcast and Video labels or hear us regularly on the Women InSession Podcast at InSessionFilm.com.

Read and Hear More:

House of Dark Shadows Guest Podcast

Our Top Ten Frankensteins

Draculas vs Frankensteins

Christopher Lee Sci-Fi!

 

Christopher Lee Sci-Fi Special!

By Kristin Battestella

Who needs Count Dooku when you can revisit these preposterously retro Christopher Lee science fiction adventures?

Night of the Big Heat – Christopher Lee (Horror of Dracula) and Peter Cushing (Curse of Frankenstein) anchor director Terence Fisher's (Frankenstein Created Woman) 1967 sci-fi island heat wave based on the John Lymington novel. Big satellites, giant perimeter cameras, and spinning radar gizmos immediately give this a decade too late feeling, and initially it's tough to tell who is who among the British quaint. Snooping vagrants mysterious killed and bespectacled scientist Lee checking his big listening equipment are slow to start despite ominous swanky music and sweet roadsters. The cars are overheating amid radio weather reports of 90 F in winter and rising, oscillating fans, glistening foreheads, and ice melting at the local inn. Buzzing sounds and crackling noises over the phone acerbate wife versus bikini clad secretary hostility, ogling men, and past dalliances. Ties are off, ice is being dripped down the blouses, and people are leaning inside the refrigerator. It doesn't cool off after dark, and the crazed buzzing begats car accidents and explosions. Something is said to land on the hill as dark room developments and then new infrared photography gather proof for our novelist who doesn't believe in extraterrestrials. Do they warn the villagers or would that cause a panic? Beer bottles break in the heat while juicy kisses lead to who's getting caught, rowdy assaults, and more fiery ends. The big boob tube gets weird signals before blowing up, dogs are barking, and a delirious farmer's sheep are killed, yet it's tough to tell if the tension and now tame cigarette steamy are the main story or if the underlying sci-fi build is the priority here. The increasingly congested inn stifles with arguments about what to do – like who are you supposed to contact anyway if you suspect an alien invasion? More sweaty clothes and giant walkie talkies accent the look of fear and victims' screams as the screen goes white, and it's nice that we don't see the alien wither tos and why fors until attempts to contact the mainland fail. Unfortunately, flashlights and dynamite plans to divide and conquer get confusing before thunderstorms and an easy, contrived end that really had no where to go. The staged, mid century television design is fine, but the uneven hammy science and would be saucy do a disservice to the compelling ensemble. It might have been interesting had there been no explanation to the sci-fi or just a heat induced killing spree, for all the postulating that our satellites signals lured the extraterrestrials to come heat up the earth feel tone deaf today considering how we are making the planet hotter right now with our own stupidity no aliens needed. This is fun for the cast – if you can accept that this is neither groundbreaking or actually all that steamy.

End of the World – Pleas to use the telephone from Father Christopher Lee open this 1977 romp before sparks, broken windows, and explosions prevent the call. The Spanish Mission convent and organ music peppering the score contrast the then new Model 82 computers and dot matrix printouts as our Communications Professor traces ominous space signals. These beeping messages predict “Large Earth Disruption” as earthquakes, droughts, volcanoes, and noxious cloud reports are heard on the radio yet the Professor and his Mrs. fool around and go to a swanky banquet while the viewer wonders if any of the driving to and fro or walking through the NASA lab talking about lecture tours are important. Even wife Sue Lyon (Lolita) serves no purpose but to scream a few times. There are contamination suits and pulsing crystals, light up gizmos, lots of techobabble, and all of it could have been cut by time they get to the mission where the signals are emanating amid prayers, roses, and nuns in black gardening. Buzzing fences and flashing lights lead to secret bunker men catching our couple, but all the scientists know each other so it's all good! They trade some more sci-fi barbs before going back to the mission, and it might have been better had we not seen the church opening but only explored the convent with the professor and his beeping gizmos as Father Christopher jokes that the signals are just a nun's transistor radio. The entire premise could have been the Professor snooping around the convent for SF unknown as technology and religions clash, but you can't expect that much here. Grabby old lady nuns attack in the dark – whisking victims to their underground alien lair with advanced gadgets, colorful tubes, whirring machinery, and flashing controls. Repairs needed to achieve sub warp speed contrast Lee's white robes as he recites The Lord's Prayer. He hesitates on “give in to temptation” and “deliver us from evil” before escape attempts and fiery overkill amid interstellar travel hyperbole, cloning, time warps, and murder. The aliens are stuck on earth and desperate to get back to their own utopia but need the Professor to fix their gear, so he sneaks back to the lab for his snazzy crystal – wasting time going up and down ladders, running in the dark, and blowing up the place with his coworkers within. Oopsie! So much for being better than the killer aliens just trying to get home amirite? Once we get to the alien morality debates, the movie's over, and the whole story would have been better from the extraterrestrial perspective. Now that they can leave, the aliens intend to destroy earth for all the problems we will cause in the galaxy, which is pretty much spoiled by the title. At least the special effects while disaster befalls the planet and the nuns peace out through the portal are pretty bemusing. With four minutes of slow credits, this becomes eighty minutes of meandering that could have been an interesting warning as a half hour anthology episode. Instead, it's only enjoyable if you add some MST3K lampooning. To think, this came out the same year as Star Wars.

Evil Cats! 😼

Evil Cats. MeowMeowMeow!

By Kristin Battestella

Our cats are avid television watchers, and the sounds and visuals of this feline horror trio amused them as much as me.

The Cat Creature – Amulets, mummies, an empty sarcophagus, and black cats combine for a Val Lewton-esque mood in this 1973 ABC TV movie written by Robert Bloch (The House That Dripped Blood) starring Meredith Baxter (The Invasion of Carol Enders). Retro cars and cool California villas provide hieroglyphics, Egyptian motifs, and eerie crescendos as lawyers assessing the deceased's creepy manor survey kooky antiques and looted collections. Though slow to start, the subdued palette invokes a black and white feeling that highlights the golden statuary and colorful artifacts. Spiral stairs, flashlights, shadows, and feline silhouettes are well done alongside glowing eyes, mesmerized victims, meowing, and hooting owls. A shady “sorcerer's shop” procures creepy skulls and masks, but the ominous Miss Black proprietor has already crossed paths with this crusty police lieutenant and knows to turn away our stolen talisman. The ingenue walking home alone at night, however, encounters kitten deceptions, hisses, and screams. The cops call in archaeology professor David Hedison (Live and Let Die) to assess the missing mummy bones, scratched out Bast symbols, jewel thieves, and human sacrifices said to give eternal life and transformative cat powers. Flirtations lead to an affinity for Egyptology – but not for the alley cats accumulating at the door. Disbelievers mock the Book of Toth mysticism and the coroner's hair evidence claiming a domestic cat is responsible for draining the blood of the victims, but our professor theorizes on why disparate cultures all have shape-shifting folklore and warns of Ancient Egyptians knowing more of the supernatural and science than we can fathom. The amulet clues, grounded investigation, and eerie explanations don't talk down to the audience. Certainly the solution is obvious before the finale, but the creepy guest stars, stylish witchy vibes, and tarot cards make for a fun time with well paced deaths, thefts, and twists. We know there's an evil cat in the room when the lights go out, and the spooky climax does a little with a lot. This was better than I expected thanks to a mature, even sympathetic approach and dedicated throwback horror atmosphere.

Two Evil Eyes – George A. Romero (Creepshow) and Dario Argento (Phenomena) tackle two contemporary Poe adaptations in this 1990 Italian co-production featuring Adrienne Barbeau (The Fog), Harvey Keitel (The Piano), John Amos (The Beastmaster), and more familiar faces. Lawyers are reluctant to accept the iffy signature of our eponymous hospice husband granting his former flight attendant wife cash access in Romero's “The Facts in the Case of Mr. Valdemar” but she has the cigarettes, big eighties sunglasses, and shoulder pads to get her way. There's a tinge of guilt, however, as her doctor lover enjoys keeping Valdemar in a state of subconscious hypnosis – attached to metronomes and monitors in a suggestive, aware state. The eerie Tudor manor and Old World wrought iron spiral stairs contrast the beeping machinery; arguments over the morbid stasis and moments of painful clarity disrupt the distrustful dalliances. Technicalities about the thievery and the timing on the paperwork versus the flatlining equipment begat the rush to preserve the cadaver in the freezer – with the food! Mixing pills, booze, and self-hypnosis where no one else can wake you lead to backstabbings over the cash, hastily dug graves, and moaning from inside said freezer. The not so deceased croaks of souls from beyond the grave as storms, gunshots, splatter, and restless spirits give the police a gory resolution. The cops in Argento's “The Black Cat,” however, are gagging at the nude body cut in half while our photographer snaps away to capture the swinging pendulum. Unfortunately, the titular stray taken in by his girlfriend interferes in the red dark room process. Scratching and hissing jars with her classical music, and she warn him cats remember their past persecutions and medieval injustices. The uncooperative four legged model dislikes the rough portrait poses and goes “missing” while drinking and violence conjure a hazy dream from the middle ages with bonfires, singsong rituals, and strung up victims. Chases, cleavers, lookalike cats, noose symbols, and fatalities mount as the demented artiste's disturbing photography book hits the shelves. Hellish bars, catholic touches, and living in sin judgments add to the sociopathic suggestions. Police inquire if he tortured the cat for his art and neighbors knock on the door over the meowing, pick axes, and stench behind the wall. Although this feels a little long or unevenly paced and superfluous rather than taut when deviating from the cat comeuppance, the intense finale brings the prophetic feline justice to the forefront for fans of cast, crew, and Poe.

The Uncanny – Eccentric writer Peter Cushing (Curse of Frankenstein) warns Montreal publisher Ray Milland (The Premature Burial) of felines run amok in this eighty-eight minute 1977 anthology. The expose he's written on cats has him looking over his shoulder at every rattling trash can, meow, and black cat at the gate before side eyeing a fluffy, pampered cat named Sugar. The cat cinematography is well filmed with zooms, pet points of view, up close eyes, and purring as our First London 1912 Tale looks the antiqued, lace part. The lady of the manor's cats are everywhere, and she intends to leave everything to her pride. The greedy maid, however, is caught stealing the will – leading to disturbing smotherings, death throes, screams, and hissing. The kitty siege begats swats, scratches, and blood as the feline assembly and our trapped maid each grow hungry. The reactions, animal action, quick cuts, and frenetic attacks are very well done indeed considering there are seemingly dozens of cats accented by cries, howls, chirps, and trills. A recently orphaned girl and her black cat named Wellington move in with her snooty relatives in the contemporary Quebec Tale Two, but her snobby, jealous, violent cousin blames Wellington for spills and mishaps so her parents will get rid of him. Our charge insists that cats can talk – it just takes a long time to understand them. Fortunately, she has kept her deceased mother's books on the occult and uses the pentagrams and spells for a slightly humorous, if tiny, but chilling turnabout. Donald Pleasence's (Prince of Darkness) Thirties Hollywood Third Story blurs on set and behind the camera as a real pendulum in scene slices one half of our off screen couple amid medieval torches, racks, and iron maidens. It's dismissed as a props mistake as production resumes with our late wife's younger, lookalike understudy, but the deceased's cat objects to the mistress taking over the Art Deco manor, furs, and roadsters. Once they flush her kittens (!), our vengeful mother creates real danger on Dungeon of Horror. They try to trap her in terrible ways complete with all the cat got your tongue puns, however the farce can't outwit the justified feline. Although this humorous third tale should have been first and the more macabre Edwardian tale last, self-aware winks know not to take the subject matter too seriously without interfering in the effective unease. The soon to be Grand Moff Tarkin insists cats are devils in disguise making sure we behave, yet these ironic stories show the terrors of what cats might do only in reaction to cruel people deserving of such consequences.

Middling 60s Capers

 

Middling 60s Capers

by Kristin Battestella

Despite name stars and decent production values, this trio of black and white mysteries from the sixties is surprisingly middle of the road. Rather than cinematic flair, each feels more like an overlong anthology entry. Ouch, but pity. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Cash on Demand – Carols, snow, and holiday atmosphere at the bank two days before Christmas set the scene for this 1961 black and white Hammer heist. Bowler hat wearing banker Peter Cushing wants the office to be dignified not festive, and he won't donate to the Christmas party fund. He's not there to ingratiate himself with subordinates and demands efficiency – threatening to see his manager never works in the financial sector again over an innocuous $10 mistake. The employees object to his embezzlement suspicions, but unexpected insurance investigator Andre Morell (Watson to Cushing's Holmes in Hammer's The Hound of Baskervilles) knows all about the tension among the bank personnel. The con artist has done his homework on the holiday deposits, and frantic phone calls lead to kidnapping and blackmail schemes to open the vault. Our insurance impostor recounts the signals and briefcases for the exchange with such menace, but there's no need for brutality – heists can be smooth and sociable while he's sipping tea with his feet up on the desk. On the ball Cushing descends to weak and pleading, emasculated and disrespected in the tense one on ones. This is, however, a very slow, talkative piece with all outside action told rather than seen. The two room bank setting is fine taut, but the previous teleplay source is apparent, the camerawork too plain, and incidental bank minutiae clutters what should be clever theft ploys. Window washers and honking fire trucks passing better create a few startles as the staff nonchalantly lets this thief into the vault unaware. Money bags, spinning locks, and filling luggage with loot lead to flashing light bulb alerts, fiddling with the keys, and thirty second alarm resets. Follow ups with the insurance company and fifteen minute phone check ins are well done when the actual heist happens, and our smooth talker intends to walk right out with a cool $100K. Crisscrossed signals, panic, nervous police bluffs, handcuffs – it takes a crime for crusty Cushing to unravel and unite with his staff to best the ruse and realize people are more important than money. This eighty minute version seems long or unevenly paced with superfluous employees and wasted time on obvious yet muddled slip ups in the rushed resolution. Fortunately, the bank balance turnabouts make for an unusual holiday morality tale for fans of the cast.

Sherlock Holmes and the Deadly Necklace – A dead body washes up beneath London Bridge as Terence Fisher directs Christopher Lee (also both of the Hammer The Hound of Baskervilles) in this international 1962 production loosely based upon Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Valley of Fear. Already the set up is superfluous with pretentious kids, a meddling housekeeper, and a simple sounding board Watson who needs Holmes to spell out clues with shadow puppets. The story is repetitive and disjointed with no point of view – deliberately trying to be obtuse with a Sherlock in disguise yet expecting the audience to be Holmes well versed. If you don't know Moriarty is our nemesis, Holmes looks obsessed for accusing a respected academic of murder. He disappears without informing Watson, whose unnecessary comic relief makes one wonder which scenes are important if at all while ominous moments implicate Moriarty just because the plot says so. Egyptology thefts, country estates, affairs, shootings – most of the Doyle nuggets happen off screen while we watch anonymous scuffles at the pub. Coming or going over clues and phone calls again follow the plot rather than real deduction, and we're supposed to like Holmes mocking the incompetent Scotland Yard because the anachronistic swanky jazz more fitting for a fifties noir than the late Victorian setting tells us so. While this looks the cluttered 221B Baker Street part, the crimes feel more like three murder vignettes and the auctions, sewer stakeouts, and car heists are meandering and confusing. Holmes can break into Moriarty's lair and mess with the mummies just because he's Holmes. How does his mailing himself the necklace that he stole from Moriarty prove that Moriarty stole it in the first place? It's easy to zone out on the lookalike ensemble's exposition away from Holmes, for the one on one secrets, alibis, and villainous tête-à-têtes are more interesting once we get Holmes in his deerstalker and stylish plaid cape. Lee provides the commanding wit and haughty air. His clever mannerisms change with each obvious mustache or eye patch disguise. We'll see Lee as Holmes again, however the lack of his own booming voice thanks to unfortunate dubbing practices contributes to the overall meh here. This is not an introductory eighty odd minutes but more like the second in a series where the audience is supposed to know the literature already. Though annoying for Holmes completists, this is really only for the Doyle devoted and Lee connoisseurs.

Stop Me Before I Kill – Swanky cars and jazz on the radio leads to shattered windshields and a ruined wedding day in this 1960 black and white Hammer noir directed by Val Guest (The Quartermass Xperiment) from the novel The Full Treatment. Months after the accident, our former race car driver still suffers mentally – unable to get behind the wheel and panicking on the highway. Although their relationship is feisty and his wife is supportive, his mood swings begat controlling compulsions, bruises, and stranglings amid the kisses. Intriguing visuals, up close zooms, shadowed faces, and cigarette mannerisms accent some very compelling segments alongside lux locales and continental suave disrupted by the hectic headlights, wheel clutching, honking horns, and peeling tires. Our husband is suspicious of the double talking psychiatrist they meet on the Riviera; dinner parties invoke further anxiety and aggression while the Mrs. makes the pleasantries. Friends tell him this lack of confidence is all in his mind and he admits he's behaving like a child, for a real man would seek help before harming his wife. Not being able to hold her without wanting to strangle her, newlyweds sleeping separately, and solo skinny dipping provide a whiff of then-scandalous as the through the binoculars viewpoint and dominance from above camera angles add to the audience voyeurism. We wonder what will set him off next, and his reluctance with our cheeky psychiatrist leads to angry, outwitting psychoanalysis as doctor and patient each contemplate how she should be killed and the gruesome dismemberment to follow once the bloody deed is done. Unfortunately, suspenseful breakthroughs are drawn out to the point of deflation with little regression therapy progress – the speedometer, her crucifix, and who was to blame for the accident are straightforward rather than shocking. The bloody bathroom with the appearance of a crime is obviously a fix, yet he's suddenly ready to race the Grand Prix again? Wife Diane Cilento's (Tom Jones) absence in latter half of the film shows until Riviera lookalikes, vehicular twists, deceptions, guns, and garrotes escalate. This should be much more chilling than it is, but the audience always knows what's what and there's not enough charisma or intensity to overcome the overlong, divided focus between the domestic jeopardy and the ulterior psychiatry.

Classic Critiques at InSession Film!

 

It's time for another round up of our Classic Movie Reviews, Essentials Countdowns, and Op-Ed Analysis featured at InSession Film!

Op-Ed: The Elusive Non-Western John Wayne

Op-Ed: Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee Non-Horror Recommendations

Classic Film Review: The Little Foxes

Classic Film Review: Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House

Op-Ed: Revisiting Pierce Brosnan as James Bond

Op-Ed: Revisiting Sean Connery as James Bond

Top Ten Essentials: Sean Bean

Top Ten Essentials: Gerard Butler

More Period Piece Horrors

More Period Piece Horrors

by Kristin Battestella

These retro and recent films provide another round of creepiness, evil, and dread in intriguing period piece settings.

Annabelle: Creation – Anthony LaPaglia (Innocent Blood) and Miranda Otto (Lord of the Rings) star in director David F. Sanberg's (Lights Out) 2017 prequel opening with 1943 rural quaint, grand farmhouses, period records, church bells, and one of a kind handcrafted dolls before highway perils and screams intrude on the country charm. By 1955, the home is dusty and unkempt; there are no more smiles or laughter greeting the displaced young nun and her orphan charges taken in by the reclusive doll maker and his invalid wife. The girls explore the big house with all its nooks and crannies, but the older snobs hog the best stuff while younger BFFs making packs to stay together are divided by the farm freedom thanks to one girl's polio injuries. The others are off playing while she's left behind with doors closing by themselves, locked rooms, creepy doll parts, dumbwaiters, and maybe maybe not phantoms glimpsed down the dark hallway. Choice horror distortions, gothic architecture, and crosses everywhere accent the weird scarecrows, secret crawlspace, locked closets, and hidden playroom with tea party ready toys and an ominous dollhouse. Buzzing lights, footsteps, and creaking hinges disturb the antiques and old fashioned nostalgia – the relatable characters, setting, and mood are entirely different than the horror cliches in the first Annabelle. Distorted music, demonic looking shadows, and The Nun in the background of the convent picture set off scary claws, growling, and chilling but disbelieved encounters. Our Annabelle sure gets about, and the reflections, mirrors, masks, lanterns, and lighting schemes are well done amid haunted house or possession revelations. Evil seeking souls preys on the smallest and the weakest, and scary stories under the sheets lead to flickering flashlights and black footprints going underneath the bunk bed. Of course, some girls have more screen time than others, with lookalike brunettes and two really there for no reason – one being a black girl who isn't even worthy of receiving an individual fright. The runaway wheelchair or the doll sitting at the dinner table could also be laughable if not for the cracking bones, glowing demon eyes, and paralysis. Fortunately, fearful orphans with an innocuous pop gun reeling in more than its tethered ball strike at the sacred under the covers safety while invasive takeovers and black goo mar those in little white nightgowns. Yeah, if you have all these creepy toy secrets and evil house problems, maybe you shouldn't sign up to shelter orphans, FYI. Mistaken adults realize the consequences too late, and an exposition flashback with exorcisms and rooms lined with Bible passages to contain the evil within should have been shown at the beginning. Such two halves of the story would have been fine, for once we get the traditional tell all, the gory shocks, prayers, and screams devolve into intrusive, modern whooshes across the screen, swooping pans calling attention to themselves, flying objects, and more padding cliches including the car not starting and monsters crawling on the ceiling. Although we've seen what this evil can do, the consequences are minimal because, after all, there's a franchise to consider. With such religious characters, the spiritual answers versus demons are never fully embraced, and the police are apparently content with priests blessing the house while evil moves on for a coda from the first movie – which doesn't quite match up with what has already been shown in The Conjuring universe. This unravels in the end to make room for more sequels, however, the atmospheric chills make for an entertaining watch even if you haven't seen the companion films.

The Ghoul – Freddie Francis (Torture Garden) directs Veronica Carlson (Dracula Has Risen from the Grave), John Hurt (Only Lovers Left Alive), and priest turned doctor Peter Cushing (Curse of Frankenstein) in this 1975 Tyburn production fronting heaps of flapper glam with pearls, fancy frocks, furs, and champagne. Disturbing hangings are just a lark for the twenties parties before phonographs, Charlestons, and sweet roadsters. Sure, the terribly dated rear view projection is bemusing, but the tight races, perilous bends, tense speeds, accidents, and blind cliffs lead to no petrol, stranded survivors, strangers in the woods, animal cages, and a nearby manor on the soggy moors. After the rapacious chases, the regal home with divine woodwork, antiques, medieval touches, chapels, and – most importantly – tea seems safe, quaint, even sad. Knowing Cushing filmed under the duress of his own late wife adds to the past family tragedies in India, somber violins, and loss of faith. Searches are called off thanks to fog that may not lift for days, however candles, red curtains, ominous melodies, creepy portraits, and maniacal laughter suggest something is going on behind the manor's locked doors. Whispers from the attic, red wraps, and white gowns lead to something decrepit coming down the stairs, and the camera follows the ugly feet, boils, blood, and ritualistic blades. Tearing the bed curtains and penetrating, bloody knives provide symbolic violence to the gruesome murders as we started with one happy group but lose them to something more sinister. Bodies on the table, kitchen utensils, ritual cuttings, and barrels of salt escalate to sobbing before the altar and suicides while police and trespassers are foiled with decoy explanations. The spooky atmosphere builds to choice horror moments with claustrophobic shacks, bog perils, crosses, and desecration, and prowlers hoping to lure fresh supple dames culminates in near rescues, fleshy confessions, screams, and blood. Granted, the print is flat, the subtitles don't match – they're even nonsensical at times – and the film's summary on Amazon Prime gives away the tasty what's what. After all the xenophobic monstrosity undertones, it's also a bit of a letdown once we finally see the eponymous creeper saved for the twisted finale. Considering the Hammer pedigree both in front and behind the camera, this lacks a certain polish and an over the top of the time ferocity perhaps understandably expected. Fortunately, this eighty minutes plus doesn't overstay its late night macabre welcome thanks to Cushing's bittersweet performance.

You Make the Call

The Lodgers – Dark lakes, Loftus Hall locales, heartbeats, and racing to beat the midnight clock chimes open this 1920 set 2017 Irish production. Torn wallpaper, water in the woodwork, trap doors, boarded windows, and shabby furnishings intrude on the once grand staircase, and there's a sadness to these orphaned twins, their meager meals, and their fear of the very thing that keeps them together. Dirty mirrors, covered furniture, dusty birdcages, and more turn of the century than post-war clothing add to the old fashioned atmosphere alongside a creepy nursery rhyme that reminds the siblings of the house rules. Our sister, however, takes more risks than her sickly, skeletal looking brother – she's ready to leave as their eighteenth birthday promises only more bleakness with suspect letters, nosy lawyers, family curses, and apparitions in the water. Hooded capes, lockets, ravens, a prohibited gate, and overgrown ruins in the woods likewise provide a morose fairy tale feeling against the underlining interwar versus at home issues, tense village, and local hooligans. Their finances have run out but selling the house is not an option thanks to nude shadows, whispering entities, whirlpools, and phallic eels in the bathtub. Dim lanterns, bridal beds, velvet curtains, and virginal white satin accent the obviously icky suggestions and forbidden fruits growing in the family cemetery, and locked in scares create chills because of the invasive, no privacy nature of the manor. Our brother is regressing while his sister takes charge, and this all feels very similar to Crimson Peak – complete with a watery ceiling instead of snow, nature seeping up to the surface, and stabbings in the front doorway. This however, is bitter rather than colorful, a mix of supernatural versus psychological with a young lady's innate fears over the one thing a man wants. Touching the local soldier's amputation injury is just as intimate as sexual relations, and if there is not sex according to the family needs, there will still be killer motivations, stabbing penetrations, and blood. Viewers feel the shameful secrets and sinful oppression, but sometimes logic does intrude. All that dampness and mold in the house would surely make them ill and shouldn't four generations of incest make them deformed? The atmosphere here is heavy, however the tale never goes far enough with the housebound horror or mental torment answers. Are the men gaslighting the women to accept rape and incest? The ambiguity doesn't explain the supernatural phenomena and laughable dream sequences with naked floating hold back the moody metaphors. Thankfully, stormy action, sickly pallor, and an eerie family parade complete the gothic dread and distorted environs in the finale, and although there's little repeat value, this is watchable if you don't expect frights a minute and can enjoy a creepy sense of period unease.

Another Peter Cushing Trio

Another Peter Cushing Trio!

by Kristin Battestella

Whether he's playing the hero or the villain, there's simply no shortage of old school Peter Cushing frights!

And Now the Screaming Starts! – An amorous and surprisingly fertile ghost reeks havoc for Stephanie Beacham (Dracula A.D. 1972) in this 1973 Amicus period piece co-starring Peter Cushing. The 1795 carriages, antiques, riverside scenery, Oakley Court setting, and 300 year old haunted castle combine for a colonial meets medieval foreboding complete with balcony galleries, sconces, waistcoats, and riding frocks. Unfortunately, the bridal bliss is short lived before disembodied hands, ghoulish faces in the window, and doors opening by themselves lead to a largely unseen assault with plenty of implied terror. Despite sunshine and pleasant outdoor strolls, the darkness is felt with cemeteries, fog, storms, and apparitions causing more screams – which is what it says on the tin. Poor Stephanie must have gotten darn hoarse with the titular minute to minute shouts! Rattling frames on the wall, ghostly choke holds, and falls down the stairs can be bemusing, however phantom winds, cracking mirrors, and evil paintings create enough atmosphere to forgive any chuckles as bodies drop one by one amid family secrets, creepy woodsmen, birthmarks, and blood. Maids are fainting, tonics tossed into the Thames reappear on the bedside table, and the sweet library has a hidden copy of the Malleus Maleficarum detailing this demon sex – but leave it to Dr. Cushing to save the day in one terribly and I mean terribly coiffed wig! The staff says they need a priest not a doctor, and anyone who tries to tell of the family legends and their past debauchery ends up dead before a decadent flashback reveals a nasty noble putting on the unwanted wedding night advances. Grave robbing and cradle shockers are morose fun, but the big secret is kind of obvious, the father and son lookalikes could be explained better, and the violence against women used as supernatural revenge doesn't solve any of the male cruelty that started the hereditary curse in the first place. Although the horror should be tighter and overall there is a certain lacking on the scary panache; the cast, setting, and mood are effective enough to see the screams through for one wild topper.

Corruption – Green scrubs, surgery tables, and swanky tunes open this 1968 for love or horror tale, and it's fun to see suave, convertible driving surgeon Peter Cushing cruising with his younger lady. Sadly, he doesn't quite fit in with the swinging parties or stoned blondes in mini skirts, and the hazy visuals and askew camera angles mirror the congestion as our doc objects to a seedy photographer telling his model gal to take off her dress. The fight over his dame leads to crashing studio lights, burns on her beautiful face, bandages, and skin graphs. Radical new plastic surgeries are to no avail until Big Pete borrows glands from the hospital morgue for his home laboratory complete with microscopes, caged rabbits, scalpels, syringes, and precision lasers. His tender bedside manner belies the medical stress, dabbing the sweaty forehead as he works while pulsing beats and sound effects match the miraculous but temporary healing. His unstable patient wears veils and netted hats, bashing mirrors at her perceived ugliness now that she's said to be washed up after a few months off the fashion scene – when in reality her injuries aren't really that severe. Today make up would easily cover her scars, and they are committing far worse horrors just to maintain her beautiful veneer. She buys her doctor a camera to photograph her, insists his oath to her is more important than his medical morals, and forces this older man to kill to keep her because she is so dependent on his expertise. Our doctor strolls the streets for a five pound hooker – a small price to pay for living tissues amirite – but the newspapers are reporting on his messy crimes and headless victims. The bloody parts are in his medical bag, but Doctor Peter misses killer chances as frenetic editing and askew wide angles reflect his dirty, violent deeds. It's all the guy can take as police, robberies, and pointing fingers botch the operation, and the debonair slips as he's unable to justify each death thanks to interfering hooligans and heady reveals. While different versions of the picture have more skin and gore, some of the pursuits are a bit corny. Beatniks in capes, ladies in pink, and the older Cushing bumbling along the rocky coast – how's a man to work in these conditions? Despite some datedness, the out of control extremes remain an interesting commentary on what a classy older gent is willing to do for his love at the first sign of some younger competition.

Land of the Minotaur – Meddling priest Donald Pleasence (Halloween) joins innocent looking but creepy little old cult leader Peter Cushing in this 1976 Greek horror movie with varying versions also called The Devil's Men. Colorful hoods, robed figures, fiery rituals, and titular effigies fit right in with the rustic locales, villas, caves, real ruins, and ancient stonework – but our padre is concerned after several explorers in Winnebagos and hot pants go missing. So what if the archaeologists have no gear to climb nor tools to dig, wear platform shoes, and stumble upon their quarry by chance while letters to the US and flights to Greece happen instantly. Evil Baron Pete is chauffeured about town, casually referring to the pagan history of his family title before laughing at his sacrificial victims' pleas. Old world funerals, shady villagers, uncooperative police, and silenced old ladies add to the bathroom scares, falling chandeliers, and nighttime chases. Tense music accents the strangulations, deserted villages, one on one confrontations, and fatal altars when we hear it. However, the scoring seems largely absent, and in a desperate attempt to be ominous, every single scene has a silent zoom – going overboard with the intercut close ups on everyone's eyes. Restarting with several group disappearances also wastes time, giving the cult away when there was no need for anything before Luan Peters' (Twins of Evil) arrival in search of her boyfriend. Interesting priest and PI buddy aspects – one devout in religion and myth, the other solely about the facts – are undercut by knowing who the cult is and where they are the entire time, and the evil fighters spend more time sitting around doing nothing while the whole town in on it island ritual tries to be The Wicker Man. Poor editing and cut away fates don't create mystery but instead make many things unclear amid poor dialogue and uneven sound. Some of the terrorizing happens for the sake of it, with a lot of tossed in filler delaying the quality attacks in the darkness or dragging the sinister, sacrificial mood. This is certainly flawed, needing both more budget and polish but less runtime and a tighter narrative to compensate for some laughably amateur elements. The good versus evil religious pulls and intriguing character dynamics are wasted by time we get to the freaky finale, yet the fun cast and unique cultural horrors add enough late night entertainment to see the bull to the end.

Top Ten: Christopher Lee & Peter Cushing!

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 Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee Movies!

Hound of Baskervilles

The Mummy

The Gorgon

Dr. Terror's House of Horrors

Scream and Scream Again

The House That Dripped Blood

Horror Express

Nothing but the Night

The Creeping Flesh

House of the Long Shadows

Feel free to visit our Hammer Horror checklist and browse both our Christopher Lee rundown and our Peter Cushing list for much, much more!

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.

Quality Science Fiction Tales

Quality Science Fiction Tales

By Kristin Battestella

These recent and retro science fiction tales provide genre statements, epic adventures, and intergalactic visuals for some speculative but quality escapades. 

 

Narcopolis – Crime thrills and neo noir science fiction mix in this 2015 crowd sourced bender as CEO drug lords, corrupt officials, and noble but bottom dwelling cops vie for control in a futuristic world of legalized drugs and time travel. Pharmaceutical suppression, work cutbacks, and allotted utilities keep the public down in the city and looking for any kind of fix, and citizens are statistics, designated or unregistered people with unlicensed drugs deemed unworthy to have their victimizing investigated. Cop Elliot Cowan (Lost in Austen) begins as a typically angry lone wolf with a rap sheet and his own muddled history, but he's trying his best to protect his family – even if that means being late in giving his son a book for his birthday and distancing his wife from his work. The bleak concrete and desolate highway duty feel more grim reaper than cop as he catalogs dead junkies in a sort of mea culpa penance. We get the seedy mood without the unnecessary nudity, in your face music, nightclub strobe, and slo mo flashbacks of a rock bottom disaster. Fortunately, the cool effects are mostly reserved for future actions as people who haven't been born yet wearing watches that aren't yet invented pop through time thanks to freaky drugs injected through the eye. The how and why fantastics tie the suspect evidence and shady company dealings together, keeping the drug dystopia, contemporary crime, and paradox twists intriguing. However, the plot does drag, playing it safe or not going far enough as if this short premise is stretched too thin for a feature. 2044 to 2024 also seems too recent a time frame, with dated mobiles and skyping medical examiners also using convoluted, hi-tech DNA scans – and come on, today's millions of paperbacks are going to be scarce oddities seven years from now? The half-baked megalomaniac corporate villain should have remained unseen, and Jonathan Pryce (Tomorrow Never Dies) accents the touching generational aspects alongside Harry Lloyd (Game of Thrones) – who should have been used more. Why is he in so many movies for five minutes cameos? Tender moments in the final act raise the future risks, making wrongs right, and second chance escapes. Of course, the audience figures out the on the nose references to The Time Machine immediately, and the try hard gritty doesn't fully address the cult like power of this drug stranglehold – a suit at the top hiring the street peddlers to offer candy and magic to kids door to door is still the same drug trade in a new corporate uniform. However, the going through the motions numbness and corruption aggravating the situation for its own gain feels nineties throwback amid the sequestering control and corporate parallels certainly familiar today – a little twenty year reversal in itself. Although this isn't anything serious SF fans haven't seen before, the futuristic framing and genre statements make this an interesting little indie.

Quintet – This bleak 1979 tale – a rare science fiction outing from Paul Newman – is an icy, desolate two hours with snowbound civilization, small humans braving the bluster, birds a rare sight, scarce seal hunting, and memories of trees. Echoes, broken glass, icicles, and dangerous crackling sounds accent the ruined photos, damaged crystal chandeliers, shaggy beards, and bundled clothes. The information center no longer transmits, ten or twelve years have passed but who can be sure, children and pregnancy are uncommon, and water is everywhere but precious alongside lost life affirming opportunities and somber river burials. Despite his chilled exterior, Newman's Essex isn't unfeeling, however he doesn't initially realize just how high stakes the titular game is until the coercion, explosions, Latin oaths, slit throats, and assumed identities. He has a list of names due revenge, but the killings must play out within the Quintet rules. While promotions at the film's release included how to play brochures, today us not knowing the specifics on the mysterious sixth man in a five player game adds an interesting confusion to the high brow competition, and viewers must pay attention to the one man SF chess. At times, the game concepts fall flat and the trying hard statements on the cult-like mentality of the tournament don't quite come across. Like the solitary plodding and stilted chill it depicts, this is slow to start and the runtime could have been trimmed, but this shouldn't be a globe trotting, fantastic fun filled pretty people adventure game the way a modern movie would be, either. Mentions of five million people struggling in color coded sectors also don't quite register thanks to the small scale production, but prowling dogs, frozen carcasses, and on location filming at the abandoned Montreal Expo create realism. Director Robert Altman's (The Long Goodbye) decision to film with a foggy, Vaseline framed camera lense, however, misfires. The idea of the audience peering through the blurred trim of a frosted glass adds style while hiding cut production corners – the edging even mirrors the titular pentagon shaped symbolism that dominates the futuristic furniture and decor. Unfortunately, the execution is too noticeable and perhaps should have been used for indoor scenes only. Here hope is an obsolete word, and the desperate, arbitrary deceptions hit home the insensitive nothing else left to do but kill pointlessness – you bleed to stay alive and help decrease the population a little faster. Bitter tenderness and some tense shocks accent the cerebral tone as the intriguing melancholy escalates in the final act, and this somber, life imitating art statement is eerily prophetic in the notion of games and movies becoming social reality obsessions.

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story – This 2016 offshoot set before the original Star Wars certainly has pleasant visuals, pretty planetary vistas, intergalactic cities, and epic island battles. However, the spectacle doesn't overtake the sad family separations, weapons coercion, labor camps, extremist leaders, and bleakness of life under the Empire. Such hopelessness remains the film's unifying thread amid ties lost and gained, near gone Jedi philosophies, competing rebellion tactics, doubts on whether a life like this is worth living, and where you take your stand when the line is drawn. Those seeking it can find modern political parallels in the cinematic tensions, but the personal attachments to the refreshing, multidimensional ensemble are more important. There's no romance between the leads, either, another fresh turn against the usually required movie matchmaking. Instead, these likable rogue heroes – including Felicity Jones (The Theory of Everything), Diego Luna (Y tu mamá también), Riz Ahmed (The Night Of), Donnie Yen (Ip Man), and more – become their own reformed Han Solos. Even Alan Tudyk (Firefly) who's hidden behind the delightfully charming K-2SO droid remains memorable, and the audience wants these rebels from the Rebellion to succeed in their choice for hope regardless of the consequences, leaving their mark long after the picture assures the stolen Death Star plans make it to Star Wars as we know they would. Older stars such as Mads Mikkelsen (Hannibal), Ben Mendelsohn (Bloodline), and Forest Whitaker (The Last King of Scotland) anchor the nods to this galaxy far, far away alongside the returning Genevieve O'Reilly as Mon Mothma, Jimmy Smits as Bail Organa, and familiar hallmarks such as Yavin 4, X-Wings, and more surprises. There's even an “I have a bad feeling about this” quip – almost. Unfortunately, I'm hesitant about the digital revival of Peter Cushing as Grand Moff Tarkin. Absolutely positively, I love the deserved respect with such a critical role and careful attention to detail. The composite isn't out of place, yet, when you've watched enough of his movies, it just reminds you that this isn't really Peter Cushing. It's a great technical achievement, but being aware of the wizardry makes the moral implications of using a late actor's likeness on a body double a distraction. For all its impressiveness, a blurry hologram message or onscreen video communiques would have sufficed, and Star Wars footage is used to recreate the X-Wing squadrons. There's uneven, convoluted techno babble, too – with ridiculously simple flick the switch/press the button/insert the data tape, some poor dialogue, and confusing planet hopping. Rewrites, editing changes, missing scenes, and reshoots are apparent, however the realization that this is the Star Wars movie we didn't know we needed bests any technicalities. Between the Prequels and the now de-canonized Extended Universe, who knew there was room for an entire movie leading up to the hours before Star Wars? Where The Force Awakens understandably re-endears with similarities to A New Hope, I'm still surprised this mature and sophisticated catharsis is a Disney movie. The only real trouble with this Star Wars Story is where it goes in a viewing marathon. Always introduce with the Original and Empire, let Han Solo in carbonite stew and remind us why the Empire must be defeated with Sith and Rogue One before coming home with Return of the Jedi and The Force Awakens. Let this be your bittersweet Jar Jar palette cleanser!

An Unfortunate Skip

Outcasts – Although this 2011 eight episode limited series opens with intergalactic intrigue, the promising science fiction falls prey to standard television trappings. This refuge from Earth isn't what the New Haven colony had hoped – while some are grateful to be alive, others see this bleak time for humanity as an opportunity for power. Older adults and younger characters alike have touching recollections of how Earth used to be, and the title fits for both those willfully exiled and those cast beyond the colony's walls. Unfortunately, the survival science versus planetary pursuits are slow, few, and far between – feeling like thinly disguised The Next Generation meets Earth 2 threads when not taking a backseat to teen angst or bar fights. Archaeological evidence and alien frequencies remain B plots behind killer husbands and Lost delays with little purpose or explanation, and their technology is embarrassingly all over the place – space travel and memory revisiting machines but no way to tell if a hurricane’s a coming? Unlikable personal twists undercut already superfluous characters who run around each week or play cards when they are supposed to be exploring the exiled clones, diamond oceans, and non-corporeal beings. Obvious religious charlatan/smirking narcissists and political coups underestimate the audience with glossed over critical points and unnecessary on the nose tensions. Despite fine special effects, planetary vistas, and a neo noir feeling with dark corridors and cramped spaceships re-purposed as pioneer housing, there’s not a lot of actual SF and the odd timeframe embraces no genre wonder. Show us the settlement start with viruses, explorations, and excised soldiers or move to another five years on with a firm outpost thrust with surplus arrivals and strife. Instead, two cops do most of the work amid one nurse and a murdering botanist, relegating the lack of pregnancy and reproduction issues as secondary to guest of the week Gilligan's Island fodder. Veteran performances from unstable and talking to ghostly aliens in disguise Liam Cunningham (Game of Thrones) and the steely but surprisingly stiff and washed out Hermione Norris (MI-5) can't detract from this disappointing lack of focus, and when they say their planet is named Carpathia after the Titanic's rescue ship, well I just think of Vigo from Ghostbusters II.