I'm so grateful to have another virtual visit with Tom and Dana discussing my favorite film The Searchers! You can hear the episode on Greatest Movies of All Time Website and follow GMOAT on Instagram for much more.
Don't forget you can also read the complete Cinema Legacy Poll in which myself and many other podcasters took part thanks to GMOAT!
Follow the Podcast label for more audio appearance or listen to previous guest spots including:
My Coffin of Oscar Disdain
by Kristin Battestella
My piss-ant attitude toward Oscar pundits this messy awards season did not happen overnight. As I've mentioned on Blue Sky and in several Video and Podcast appearances alongside my previous Why I'm Disinterested in Awards Season op-ed; my disdain for the Academy Awards began early. Here then are the chronological nails in my coffin and why the head scratching, so often erroneous Oscars are not worth such out of control, vicarious obsession for everything but the films that are supposed to mean the most to us.
As a kid in the eighties I was aware of the Oscars purely as prestige. Awards were for art house, international, period piece epics and serious films that I often didn't get to see. Oscar winning films weren't for everyone, and that exclusivity remains largely true. Many popular films and blockbusters or genre hits of the decade have endured more than many of the obscure, out of touch eighties Best Picture nominees. Maybe I didn't understand the details then, but the Academy's unwelcoming, full of itself nature was already apparent.
The Searchers receiving no nominations
When we got our first VCR, I fell in love with what cinema should be upon seeing The Searchers. In consulting my ye olde film guides and Oscar books, however, I was completely baffled that The Searchers not only didn't win any of the big awards, but it wasn't even nominated for anything! This was a how sway before there was even how sway. I read more literature agreeing on the mastery of John Ford's seminal piece, and this lack of Academy acknowledgment remains flat out WRONG. Little me knew it then, and my disdain deepened upon reading of more fifties Oscars errors – like Rear Window going empty-handed.
Goodfellas losing Best Picture
Surely, historical Oscar mistakes were just a fluke of classic film to be studied, right? Alas no, as I saw the Academy screw up again in real time when Goodfellas did not win Best Picture. Everything I already thought about Oscar's elite attitudes was compounded by the white savior Dances with Wolves defeating the unmistakably Italian Goodfellas. This egregiousness made it personal.
Falling in love with the mid-century acting masterclass that is Montgomery Clift's unfortunately brief body of work is something every so-called classic connoisseur should do. Although nominated four times for The Search, A Place in The Sun, From Here to Eternity and Judgment at Nuremberg; Clift never won. A case can also be made that he deserved more nominations for The Heiress, Red River, I Confess, Suddenly Last Summer, Wild River, or The Misfits yet because he's not an Oscar winner, Clift is now considered somewhat second tier in the classic pantheon. My budding teen self was once again confounded how some of the best films and performances will always be on the outside looking in when it comes to Oscar.
The ignoring of Terence Stamp for The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert
Obviously I knew nothing of the drag scene in nineties Sydney, but I learned everything I needed to know about rainbow compassion from Priscilla. Famed as the villainous Zod in Superman, Stamp's middle-aged transsexual widow was a revelation transcending cinema. A tender, delicate performance that was a bold, daring statement speaking to post-AIDS attitudes that continues to resonate today. Naturally the fearful Academy dared not touch such superb insight – instead choosing the relative safety of only acknowledging Priscilla for costumes.
L.A. Confidential not winning Best Picture
Somewhere along the line I heard someone say that the Screenplay winners are actually the better movies than what wins Best Picture. Never has this been more true than the heaps of praise upon the blockbuster Titanic, which is not the better picture than the neo noir masterpiece that is L.A. Confidential. Here the eighties prestige swung the other way – choosing the popular film and box office success as increasingly necessary to win. Whether you are a complex, sophisticated piece that stands the test of time apparently has nothing to do with it.
No nomination for Guy Pearce for Memento
Too bad for everyone who's tired of hearing me say it, but this is my hill. Guy Pearce's lack of Academy acknowledgment for Memento highlights all of Oscar's problems. Playing it safe #oscarssowhite not properly awarding Denzel Washington for Malcolm X lead to his against type make up win alongside the nomination acclaiming offensive performances like I Am Sam. This slap in the face was enough to make me stop actively paying attention to awards season for the rest of the decade. When the Academy doesn't recognize someone like Pearce and Christopher Nolan as the future of twenty-first century cinema, what are they even doing?
A point for Christian Bale's win!
Believe it or not, I took one nail out of my Oscar coffin in 2011 when Christian Bale won for The Fighter. I even called my parents to tell them the kid from Newsies won an Oscar! Despite his previously being overlooked for more daring performances like American Psycho and The Machinist, this was a rare occasion where the Academy finally did something right.
Michael Fassbender's nominations for the wrong films
Of course, my return to active awards interest was not meant to be as the impressive Fassbender was ignored for excellent performances in Hunger and Fish Tank. He was on the outside looking in at no nomination for Shame with jokes all season instead, and Carey Mulligan was also unfairly lost in the shuffle. Of course, Fassbender was graced with a seemingly obligated nomination for 12 Years a Slave, and I laughed at his subsequent nod for the stereotypically baity Steve Jobs. Forcing one of our most daring actors into awards safety turned me away yet again.
Guy Pearce receiving no acknowledgment for The Rover
I casually knew Pearce was once again not in the awards conversation for The Rover, having long accepted that it's worth seeking out his edgy, raw films that standing pat Oscar would never touch. However after having to wait for and then finally see The Rover, I was once again angry at how the supposed bar of award excellence could ignore such haunting material. Even in absentia this reaffirmed my Oscar free attitude for the next decade.
So now I was lured into the awards circus once more thanks to the world's apparently waking up to Guy Pearce's being worthy of acclaim for The Brutalist. We're in the home stretch of what has been the messiest, nastiest, cutthroat, and ridiculous award season. Everything about why I hated awards has increased tenfold in the social media age with Oscar obsession totally out of touch on everything that's happening in this disastrous 2025. Euphoric pundits play along in a game of predictions, patterns, and if this than that algorithms that have nothing to do with any meaning found in the films and performances. When the wannabe experts admit that the best doesn't win, film goers are supposed to accept that falsehood instead of enjoy the movies that move them? I object the devotion to contrived Academy politics over quality cinema.
I don't expect Guy Pearce to win anything. Even if he did, this year is the tenth and final nail in my Coffin of Oscar Disdain. I've had one foot out the door with my back turned for most of this century, and I will never be drawn back into award punditry and patheticness over art ever again.
Oscar is dead to me. I don't know her. ⚰️
It's very exciting to be part of other podcast ventures and appearances! After taking part in The Revisionist Almanac Let's Get Spooky Collab last year, it was my turn to take part in The Almanac's 1956 episode. See and Hear as at long last I rectified the award wrongs for The Searchers!
Thank you Andrew for inviting me to take part! With all the terrible things happening recently, it's a comfort to know my voice has meaning – even if it's in a tiny capacity talking about the movies we love.
You can also pick up some @RevAlmanac swag, but my cat photobombed my show and tell attempt!
Follow our Podcast tag for more and revisit previous guest appearances:
Greatest Movies of All Time – Ben-Hur
Making Tarantino – House of Dark Shadows and Frankenstein Must be Destroyed
The Lone Screenplay Nominee – Stand by Me
This year I've been so grateful to guest on several podcasts and audio collaborations! Recently, I was part of the Greatest Movies of All Time episode discussing Ben-Hur!
You can follow @GMOATPodcast for more or See and Hear the episode on YouTube. Keep track of my previous Podcast and Video guest appearance with our blog tags and stay tuned for more! I can also be heard regularly on the Women InSession Podcast at InSessionFilm.com and am currently booking guest spots into mid-2025. For collabs, messaging on Twitter is still open, but I'm much happier at Blue Sky!
More Audio/Visual Appearances:
Neverending Watchlist James Bond Collab
Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed with Making Tarantino
The Jay Days Halloween Horror TV Video Special
Fearful Examinations!
by Kristin Battestella
This trio of retro psychological frights need not rely on today's special effects whooshes and in your face designs thanks to focused fears and chilling performances.
Dark Places – Deathbed vows and asylum doctors begat a creepy inherited estate and injuries at the manor in this 1973 haunt. Boarded windows, antique clutter, shabby interiors, and cobwebs add to supposed ghosts, figures in the window, slamming doors, and creaking footsteps. The power of suggest is strong, for suitcases full of cash are allegedly hidden in this house with a murderous past, and doctor Christopher Lee (Horror of Dracula) doesn't want anyone else to beat him to the punch. His alluring sister Joan Collins (Dynasty) offers to be the housekeeper for new heir Robert Hardy (All Creatures Great and Small), too, despite crank calls, broken dolls, falling pictures, and village talk of the bodies never being found. The playroom is layered with thick dust and violent shambles, and the lights going off for total darkness onscreen is simple yet effective. Rather than attempting to pull the wool over the audience, our rivals admit upfront that they are using the disturbing history to scare our new tenant away from the lost loot. However even they get scared by the objects they aren't moving and the bumps in the night they didn't cause – making for a tense little housewarming party with brandy, cigarettes, and stiff upper lip deceptions. Edward shouts at the giggling children's echoes that this is his house now, but his motive is also not pure as he spends the spooky nights knocking on wall panels in search of the missing money. Violent drywall bashing leads to bats sweeping in from the chimney in a well-filmed frenzy while choice zooms accent brief what you thought you saw shocks. Rather than superfluous scares wasting half the movie, the small cast and several key rooms anchor the tension and claustrophobia. Flashbacks to the domineering deceased and his vows to punish his children for their twisted games provide questions on psychic sensitivity, mental instability, possession, or delusion. Pointing fingers distrust, contesting wills, and suggestive siblings collide with ghostly footprints, a supple governess, and a nonchalant pick ax. The visions and supernatural influences even continue outside the house with echoes and slow motion, and we only see the evil children's demented smiles in the finale as the delirium, arguments, anguish, and consequences escalate. Past and present dalliances collide with gunshots, screams, and strangulation. Although I wish there was more of meddling Doctor Lee claiming he is there to help the distressed and the mystery is fairly straightforward for well versed viewers, the deranged performances make for a taut edge. This doesn't go all out with the extremes like today, yet a little lust and plenty of greed go to the scary depths thanks to intimate violence, assorted weapons, and skeleton surprises.
Fright – Miniskirts, Winnebagos, eerie ballads, and a spooky walk through the woods lead perky babysitter Susan George (Straw Dogs) to her charge in this 1971 examination. Nervous new in town mother Honor Blackman (Goldfinger) bolts all the doors, and through the banister or crib rails camera angles and mirrored framing invoke the cluttered, claustrophobic, trapped feeling. The antique laden manor, stained glass, and winding staircase add period mood, and our family admits the home is creepy and musty, joking about the potential for ghosts and subtly setting the jumpy scene. Creaking doors, rattling plumbing, and parental asides wondering if our sitter suspects anything don't bother Amanda – she is learning child welfare psychology and isn't afraid to observe maladjusted case studies. Unfortunately for her, the dripping tap, unexplained noises, hanging laundry, and innocuous boredom escalate to power outages, footsteps, and faces at the window. Up close attention on her eyes and ears reflect her isolation as the baby is put to bed and her horny boyfriend comes calling. He thinks the manse could be the setting for a horror movie, but Amanda doesn't want him to scare her into his arms. Their flirtatious dialogue layers the mirror to nature parallels, for his scaring her is a result of his sexual frustration, which he says is her fault, but Amanda counters that such obsession is not love. The men further belittle the worried women – who are actually correct not irrational or panicking due to the murderous escapee knocking on the door. Screams and gore outside go unheard thanks to the scary movie on the television, and the black and white zombies contrast the colorful, swanky parents night out as the the killer is inadvertently let in and the phone lines are cut. The simmering peril is well paced with tense conversations, car accidents, and police wasting time while the terrorized babysitter is left to placate the psychotic. Ticking clocks, wanting to check in on the baby MacGuffins, and precious few locations within the house create suspense as intercut spins show the white lace, crying, innocent reality versus the dancing, willing woman delusion. Carnival style music mirrors his juvenile, lusty mental state before silence save for her hurried breathing and punctuating screams. Sirens, police standoffs, loudspeakers, and tear gas come too late while our culprit growls, descending into nonsensical shouts and crying like a child. Now the understandably hysterical women must take action against the violent insanity, and the uncomfortable to watch terror makes one wonder how they filmed such anguish. Although there have certainly been numerous babysitter in peril films since, this remains chilling thanks to the horror we don't see suggestions rather than today's everything at the screen, hollow superfluous.
Foreign Horror Bonus
Black Pit of Dr. M – Originally titled Misterios de Ultratumba, this 1959 black and white Mexican picture from director Fernando Mendez (El Vampiro) featuring Abel Salazar (The Witch's Mirror) has no English dub nor subtitles and my Spanish thinking cap is not what it used to be. The lookalike mad scientists, back from the dead doctors, afterlife secrets, seances, and zombies, however, probably don't make much sense even in the best linguistic circumstances! Fortunately, the cobwebs, abandoned gothic abodes, eerie period interiors, and atmospheric crescendos are everything I love about mid-century Mexican Horror Movies. Of course, I've no idea what the violent woman in the madhouse has to do with the doctor's demure daughter; but the coffins, torches, sinister mustaches, and disappearing men in capes match the primitive yet fittingly spooky smoke and mirrors special effects. Excellent gaslight, lanterns, and shadows provide cinematic depth as creepy scenes steeped in catolica mood and forbidden knowledge escalate to violent action, acid in the face, bandages, revolting reflections, gross disfigurements, and screams. Daylight moments at the churchyard remain draped in suspicion while inside out hacienda greenery and foggy courtyard designs capture the moonlit romance and urgente warning notes blown away in the spooky winds. Wispy visions of dancing ladies, white flowers, black veils, and the invisible hand pulling the patron saint from the ingenue's neck invoke effective light versus dark subversiveness. The doors between life and death should remain closed, but lighting over the gallows, hands reaching out from the grave, devilish violins, and turnabout knives let evil enter in with abductions and fiery fates. A three months later gap and short eighty minute runtime make one wonder if something isn't actually missing that would help this nonsensical story, and the lack of translation these days remains surprising. Nonetheless, the gothic tension, silver screen dimension, and midnight movie macabre deliciously prove that horror consequences are universal.
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.
We've delved into some Alfred Hitchcock discourse recently at InSession Film, both in writing and on the new Women InSession Podcast with my fellow female critics Zita Short, Amy Thomasson, and Erica Richards! 😱
Two Great, Two Ho-hum Hitchcock
Episode 7: Hitchcock in the 30s and 40s
Episode 8: Hitchock in the 1950s
Women InSession Ep9: @vampfamwriter, @Zita_Short and @athomasson11 discuss Alfred Hitchcock in the late 1950's and his films of the 1960's!
— InSession Film (@InSessionFilm) September 23, 2022
Listen now! --> https://t.co/gd11SLuDWc#PodNation #PodernFamily pic.twitter.com/Tztglc3irt
You can follow all my of work at InSession Film on my Author Page or listen to previous episodes of Women InSession!
Where Are All the Mid-Century Mexican Horror Films?
By Kristin Battestella
From The Witch's Mirror to The Curse of the Crying Woman and more, I've thoroughly enjoyed the mid-century Mexican horror productions I've seen from the forties, fifties, and sixties. I would wholeheartedly like to see more, but where did all these Mexican horror movies go? Read on for my rant about the frustrating difficulty in finding these quality classic scares.
Why so inaccessible?
Thanks to directors such as Rafael Baledón or the likes of Abel Salazar's filmography, one can filter, search, and find dozens of Mexican horror films on IMDb, Wikipedia, and more. We know they exist, so where are they and why aren't they readily available? Ten or fifteen years ago, a budget DVD set with twenty or fifty so-called horror classics was a get what you pay for way to find a few old horror gems amid the so bad it's good obscure, public domain scares, and cheap VHS quality rips. This was how I first found some Spanish horror delectables. Today however, those sets aren't really viable compared to affordable streaming options. Unfortunately, be it the free horror channels, discount streaming tiers, or the big mainstream options, none of them have any of these films. Back when we had Xfinity and could browse all the thousand channels on the guide including the Spanish cable package, I used to see some great horror films listed on the peliculas de clasicos channels. I'd write down great titles like Museo de Horror, El Beso de Ultratrumbo, La Cabeza Viviente, and more but can't find any of them anywhere. How with today's instant access to everything are these films still so inaccessible?
Cultural Drift is No Excuse!
It takes a lot of digging and research to find these titles, and although it's easy to search with Spanish language filters, that creates its own set of problems. Sure I've been able to find a few Salazar sixties horrors or Mexican movies, but those searches also yield a lot of Paul Naschy pictures from Spain (and searching for his Waldermar werewolf films is another aggravating not all available pursuit). Soon, these lists skew to Spain, European productions, Jesus Franco, Dario Argento, and Mario Bava. Seventies Italian giallo pictures are not what we're looking for, and finding the right version of a film with different releases, run times, and different titles per country only adds more fuel to the frustrating fuego. Sometimes you think you are getting the right movie and it turns out to be something else, or worse a film you've already seen under a different name. I myself am guilty of putting all my Spanish horror viewing lists and recommendations together because it's so tough to find just the Mexican scares. Of course, Spain and Mexico are different cultures with different español and different identities, and it's problematic to presume they are interchangeable. Many years ago I had a vehement argument on an online film forum when a commenter said he wanted a role to be cast with Penélope Cruz or Salma Hayek or “one of those types.” O_o This person could not see why I objected to these actresses being lumped together as one and the same. On a non-horror note, I highly suggest the Maya Exploration Center's Professor Edwin Barnhart's Great Course lectures including Ancient Civilizations of North America, Ancient Mesoamerica Revealed, Lost Worlds of South America, and Exploring the Mayan World to educate oneself on the history of Southwest, Central, and South American communities.
The Classics are Better.
What irritates me most is the perception that because Hollywood or mainstream horror is more prevalent, that means it must be better. In my recent viewings, however, that's been far from the truth. I've enjoyed the majority of independent Australian, New Zealand, Irish, UK horror, and European productions, sure. Canadian pictures, on the other hand, have been more mixed bag. When the festival finds are true to themselves, they've been good – but you can tell the difference when a north of the border production is compromising itself in hopes of an American sale and wide distribution, catering to the formulaic and cliché. I had such high hopes for The Curseof La Llorona. It starts well with colonial Mexican scares so viewers think we're in for some period piece Hammer flair, but sadly the film – written and directed by white men, because of course – degrades into the typical kids in peril with whoosing entities and trite jump scares. Cultural fears are dismissed and protective warnings are treated like Mysticism 101, and the entire time I was waiting for it to end, I had one thought, which was that The Curse of the Crying Woman was better. There's an entire Wikipedia page called “Golden Age of Mexican Cinema” but where are all the films? Netflix if you're lucky has one DVD copy, and when that breaks, it's just saves and unavailables.
It's Frustrating and Offensive.
For viewer looking for quality horror of any kind, it's disturbing how unique storytelling, different cultural scares, and the many horror stories to be told must be bent to serve white mainstream horror. The fact that these films are not widely available almost feels like an intentional burying – the way a great Asian horror film won't see the light of day stateside because the rights were bought up and it is being deliberately suppressed until the rich white blonde jump scare cliché remake is released first. Why aren't these classic, quality films being celebrated? Why are they not freely available to watch at any time? A black and white picture? So what! Spanish subtitles or a bad English dub? Big deal! Is it because they are not in English that white America suspects releasing these films properly won't be profitable enough for them? Well that's just too damn bad because I want to see these films. Do you have an inside source on where to find some classic mid-century Mexican horror movies? ¡Damelo!
