Looking Back: An Argento Classic

Wow, it's been a hell of a long time since I've posted. Life gets in the way sometimes, you know?

Anyway, I'm back with a quick note that I've just revisited Blue Underground's 2007 release of Dario Argento's Opera. You remember Dario Argento, don't you? The Italian Hitchcock? The maestro of horror? He was the guy that revolutionized foreign horror in the 70's and 80's with movies like Suspiria and Tenebrae. Then he fell into complete obscurity in the 90's.

Somewhere along the way, Argento lost his flair for the dramatic. His color palette became muted; his narratives, dull and lifeless.

But! We still have epic gialli fair like Opera, and thank all that is holy in this world for that. Argento's camera falls, swoops and tracks; classic Italian music swells on the soundtrack; and the blood runs as red as a setting sun. Of course, things get a bit too vertiginous, particularly in a circular stairwell scene that Argento repeats ad nauseum (literally). And the dubbed dialogue is, as usual, laughable.

But Opera contains at least two of Argento's great set-pieces, one involving a poor costume seamstress and the relatively gag-inducing method with which the killer extracts an expensive necklace she swallows; the other, let's just say, finds new meaning in the term "being on pins and needles." And the scene at the end between our killer and a group of rather pissed-off ravens is worth the price of admission alone.

So, check this one out if you haven't seen it; although, if you're a tried-and-true horror buff, you already should have. (Shame on you!)

Where's the Love: Curtains

Playing a psychotic is the role of a lifetime for actress Samantha Sherwood (Samantha Eggar), who, in the ultimate example of The Method, commits herself to an institution; John Vernon, as the sleazy director, leaves her there. Vernon gathers up six actresses at his country home to audition for the role that Eggar thought she had locked. Eggar gets out and turns up at the house. High drama and bloodshed follow.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it’s the completely obscure 1983 slasher opus Curtains, with its killer shrouded in an old-hag mask. Director Richard Ciupka keeps the pace brisk, although screenwriter Robert Guza Jr. throws in a few unnecessary—and melodramatic—digressions involving Eggar’s generally pissed-off actress. (I say unnecessary, because even a blind monkey with a banana up its ass will spot the killer within the first fifteen minutes.) There are several descent kills, including the infamous ice-skating incident. There’s also a fairly well-staged chase scene near the end that begs the question why anyone ever thinks it’s a good idea to hide from the killer in a ventilation shaft. The acting is above reproach this time around, particularly from Eggar, Vernon, and Lynne Griffin as one of the thespians, which is entirely unusual for yet another Canadian tax-shelter flick (or any movie starring Jamie Lee Curtis).

So, the question has become legend: Where’s the Goddamned Love? Maybe I’m damning with faint praise here, but Curtains is most certainly one of the better examples of early-80’s-era slasher movies and deserves to finally get a proper DVD release. I have spoken…and so it shall be. *Poof*

Halloween 2 (or, Why Rob Zombie is a God)

'Nuff said.

Uncle Seymore Coffins' Creature Double-Feature

Darker Skies

A series of photos taken from my apartment.



[Note: Please do not reuse these photos without first obtaining written permission from me. Thanks.]

Where's the Love: Tower of Evil

[Update: Finally got the Elite DVD from a private seller on Amazon, and it looks fucking AMAZING. Pick this one up, if you get the chance.]

Ok, ok. I know Elite released a DVD version of Jim O’Connolly’s Tower of Evil back in the 90’s; but it was short lived, and the movie is now only available through private sellers (for about $3, granted).

Part Hammer film. Part early-era slasher flick. Pure British exploitation. Tower of Evil is one of my favorite hold-overs from the years I spent as a gawky kid soaking up every ounce of horror I could on videotapes and late-night T.V. I’d practically pee myself when the T.V Guide listed this baby. I’ve seen it half a dozen times since then, although I failed to ever actually pick up the previous DVD release. So this is my purely selfish plea.

The premise is simple, if not inspired: A young girl survives the (surprisingly awesome) slaughter of her friends at the hands of a madman lurking about Snape Island. Charged with the crimes, the girl’s parents, convinced their daughter is innocent, hire a detective to investigate. The detective joins a group of—wait for it—archaeologists, who have heard tell of treasure buried on the island by ancient Phoenicians (yes, those ancient Phoenicians). The group sets off for their destination, which contains the eponymous “tower” and…

…and I suppose I don’t need to tell you what happens next.

Laughable dialogue and atrocious acting are both on expert display here, to be sure. But throw in half a dozen decent kills that would leave Jason Voorhees in awe, lots of gratuitous nudity (from both genders—you’re welcome, fellow gays), lots of fog and creepy atmosphere, and you’ve got yourself 90 minutes of bloody good fun. There’s even a moderate “twist” ending for good measure. Oh, and if you pay close enough attention, you may even recognize Tower of Evil as a mild forbearer to another “Where’s the Love” entry: Humongous.

So, I ask, as I often do: where’s the love, people? I think this little British goody deserves a bit more than a short-lived DVD release, don't you think? Blu-ray, anyone?

Friday the 13th: Bay, $42M; Fans, 0

Last week, I had a bad dream. I was startled at first, sleep coming back to me in fits and starts. A few days later, the details were hazy, at best. And today, I can only remember that I had a bad dream. Next week, I'll have forgotten that the whole thing ever happened.

That's how I feel about Bay & Co's Friday the 13th: It's all seems like a really horrible dream. And here I sit, two weeks later, still unable to muster up enough energy to tell you about it. I've innumerable reasons why I hated the movie, some of them now a little nebulous, but I've no interest in explaining why. Horrible, I know, but I don't care.

I'll fall back on my standard mantra: Michael Bay is the Devil, and Platinum Dunes is hell. I take some solace in the movie's record 81% second-week drop at the box-office: It tells me that not many were willing to shell out the cash for a repeat viewing, and I hope it hurt Michael Bay's ice-cold heart. I hope it hurt him for letting us down. Unfortunately for many of us, Friday the 13th happened nonetheless, and we are (according to the lukewarm-to-vitriolic reception on the blogs) still reeling, desperate to forget the bits and pieces of something awful that happened to us in a recent nightmare.

It'll go away, eventually; I know. And soon enough, I'll have forgotten that the whole thing ever happened. I hope.

Kathy Griffin: A Gift From Baby Jesus

I'm Detouring from horror for a brief moment…

There isn’t a woman on earth funnier than Kathy Griffin.

No, no—that wasn’t a question. This isn’t a topic open for debate, nor will comments disparaging Mrs. Kathy be tolerated on this site; Death at the Drive-In isn’t a democracy, after all. So, I’ll repeat: There isn’t a woman on earth funnier than Kathy Griffin.

Whether she’s vigorously slandering vacuous celebrities, or finding new ways to climb her way “to the middle” on her hit Bravo show, My Life on the D-List, Kathy can always be counted on to inspire riotous laughter.

Don’t believe me? Check out the two clips below of one of her many appearances on Jimmy Kimmel. Grab a diaper before you get to the part where she talks about opening the ‘Kathy Griffin Leadership Academy Para Las Niñas’ in the jungle of Mexico: you’ll pee yourself. For more, just do a Google Video search for literally hundreds of clips with Kathy; you won’t be disappointed.

Where's the Love: Bloodstalkers

["Where's the Love" is my new blog series, where I do my best to taut astonishingly obscure horror movies that have yet to find proper DVD distribution (see my previous two entries below).]

If you ever find yourself lucky enough to get your fry-greasy fingers on a print of Bloodstalkers (1978), pick it up! I just made a car payment bigger than the budget, and the acting is pretty shaky, but this little treasure boasts tons of creepy atmosphere, as well as a nifty trick ending.

The premise: Four adults hole up in a secluded cabin, despite repeated warnings from locals of creatures in the swamps. Before you can scream "horror cliche," the beasts come out at night to play, and pretty much everyone winds up dead. But! Things aren't necessarily as they seem, and when one of the characters decides to fight back, we're treated to—gasp!—a second bloodbath. Actually, the bloodletting here is pretty minimal, but the uber-grindhouse feel of the flick more than makes up for it.

Like I said, this one's pretty damned obscure, and you may have to search, but it's worth it. Bloodstalkers—has any title ever sounded more deserving of a proper DVD release? Jesus, people, where’s the love?

Further Thoughts on Clive Barker

A young charlatan psychic masturbates near the road to the dead—and pays the price with his flesh; two warring European villages strap their citizens one upon another, children included, to do battle to the death as hulking giants; the ghost of Marilyn Monroe plucks out a man’s eyeballs and stuffs them deep inside her special no-no place; a woman carries on an illicit affair with a murderous ape (yes, an ape), in a twisted homage to Edgar Allen Poe; a man becomes trapped on a subway train with a psychotic butcher; a mammoth pig devours the bodies—and spirits—of young schoolboys; and a poor, exasperated demon, cannot, no matter how hard it tries, unsettle the placid owner of the house it possesses.

Yes, folks, atrocities of all sorts abound in Clive Barker’s Books of Blood, Vol. 1-3. There were moments when I, the hardened and cynical horror junkie, wanted to look away from the page, but couldn’t, having found myself hooked as easily as Frank with his puzzlebox. Never has anything so putrid, so vile and repulsive, come across as lyrical and damn-near poetic enough to be called “great literature.” Barker’s a hell of a writer, to be sure, and he deserves every ounce of praise he’s received over the years.

And, again, I have to ask myself: How the hell is it that it took me so long to discover this man? Books of Blood, Vol. 1-3: pick it up, if you haven’t already.

Where's the Love: The Mutilator

And while we're at it, how about this nasty little flick, with its centerpiece kill of hook in the hoo-hah?

Yes, laughter abounds as a father goes ballistic and slaughters a group of unlucky young adults. The End. Granted, the budget was clearly on par with what I pay my gardener every year, which isn't a lot. (Love you, Juan. Seriously, I love you. Stop by my house tomorrow; I have a “gift” for you). But, The Mutilator is loaded with gore, and a fun way to kill 90 minutes—and you’ll never look at dear old Dad the same way again.

So, how about it? Where's the love? This one deserves a proper DVD release, too.

Where's the Love: Humongous & The Slayer

Anyone remember watching the crappy VHS prints of these two brutal little gems from the early 80's? I do. And I think it's about time someone gives them a proper DVD release before they're dead and buried forever.

Humongous is the heartwarming tale of a mongoloid (the by-product of rape) who, after spending a life of leisure on a secluded island, lets the blood fly when a group of teens disturbs his respite. I never saw this one during its original theatrical run, but I seem to remember that the trailer scared the shit out of me. Literally. My mother had to snap a plastic mattress pad on my bed for a week to catch what she lovingly referred to as my "happy little accidents." True story.

As far as The Slayer goes, once you've gathered your gag-reflex after my little admission above, check out the trailer below. You've gotta love that gravelly exploitation voice-over. Like Danny Bonaduce, only sober.

Friday the 13th - The Blu-ray Look

[Edit: I'm just reading this entry again, and realizing how god-awful it really is. I was tired when I wrote it, I admit, and may come back later to edit. (And by "may," I mean "won't.") To synopsize: While the Blu-ray transfer looks and sounds great, the new clarity in many scenes is so good (so bright, sometimes, as I mentioned) that some of the old magic is lost: the shadows, the gloom, the sense of claustrophobia. Many of you may disagree with me, and please let me know if you do; not that I'll listen, but let me know. Til then...]


Brenda starts to brush her teeth—and hears a noise off in the corner. She stops, looks: the camera reveals the shower stalls—curtains pulled back—and a battered metal lamp hanging above them. (Of course Marcie, only minutes before, in front of these very stalls, received an axe-blow to the head that will keep her singing her bloody raindrop song with the angels for quite some time.) We see into the stall, can make out the wall to the communal bathroom. A hand surreptitiously pulls back the curtain and lets it go just as Brenda sneaks another suspicious look. It’s all so clear to us, the viewers.

Brenda leaves, turning the lights out behind her. We’re left with the camera on the shower stalls, metal lamp now swinging to and fro, as if by magic. We can still see the stall and bathroom so clearly, as if…as if…

…well, as if we were witnessing the moment the way it was originally shot and printed.

And that, my friends, is not necessarily a good thing.

Welcome to the magic of Friday the 13th on Blu-ray, where, finally, the magician reveals the secrets of his tricks, and the audience is left to muse at the chicanery of it all—and maybe walk away a little disappointed that the illusion has been shattered. What was once steeped in shadows and gloom is now bright and alight by stage-trick artifice. Note the scene where Alice and Bill enter Jack and Marcie’s cabin—Jack’s arrow-throated body gone; Ned’s corpse done cleaned away and replaced by a rolled-up bunk mattress: the scene is bright; in fact, it’s too bright. You can almost hear Sean Cunningham, out of frame, whispering to the lighting guy: “More, goddamn it! More light!” So, too, Steve Christie, who once ran through the dark, wet woods, and entered the frame as a tiny yellow figure, only to grow larger with every step before being assaulted by a blinding flashlight. This time, we see him coming from behind a tree, far in the background, and the woods around him look, yet again, as if Cunningham were off-frame giving his lighting guy another threatening look. Even the gloom of dusk that sets in around the time Ralph plays hide-and-seek in the pantry looks too unnatural, too—how should I say?—pleasant, when it should be menacing.

But, I must be absolutely fair and clear: This is, by far, the very best transfer of Friday the 13th, ever. The color corrections are superior, bringing out everything from the kaleidoscope colors of Annie’s (so very ‘80’s) plaid shirt, to the vivid hooker-red of Brenda’s short-shorts. Take a look at the buildings when Annie comes down the stairs at the beginning of the film: you can see the trim colors, the textures of their materials. Hell, you can even see the detail in Enos’ stubble and Steve’s unholy orange chest-hair. The grit and grain of the film are all but gone, giving the movie a modern, high-value look, which may be a touch disappointing to some, like me, who find the classic low-budget feel of the film to be one of its greatest attributes. There are also a few static night shots of the lake and famous mountain ridge that are downright eerie when compared to earlier, standard-definition transfers.

The new 5.1 transfer is worth the price of this disc alone. Take a listen when Marcie’s in the bathroom: did you ever know that the sound that causes her to look towards the showers is a curtain being pulled back on its rings? I didn’t. When I heard the sound, I whooped with joy. Everything is crystal clear: the loons, the wind, the rain, and, most famously, the ki-ki-ki-ki-ma-ma-ma-ma. It’s a stellar presentation that should make fans ecstatic to discover sounds they’ve never heard before.

Still, the entire disc is a mixed bag for me: As a Friday purist, I reveled in the new soundtrack, and the improved resolution showing me things in the movie I’d never seen before. But (and it’s a big one) I was acutely aware as I popped out the disc that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t so ready for all the tricks of the trade to be revealed. Honestly, if I had my druthers, I’d stick with the standard DVD transfer upscaled to 1080p; at least, there, some of the mystery is sustained. As it is, a day after watching the Blu-ray transfer, I feel as though I’ve seen just a little too much.

Where Have You Been All My Life, Clive Barker?

Just a quick note to say that I'm currently reading Clive Barker's Books of Blood (vol. 1-3)...for the first time.

I know, I know: What horror junkie worth his salt didn't get his hands on Mr. Barker at the earliest possible age? Me. And why did it take so long? Short answer: I don't know. It's just one of those things. But I'll tell you, I'm glad his name popped into my head last month when I walked into Borders with a 20%-off coupon in hand. I'm nearly finished with the book, and I can't put it down. I've never read anything so vile, so horrific, and yet vastly lyrical and eloquent at the same time. Barker's work makes Stephen King's novels look like third-grade readers.

I'll come back with more thoughts once I've completed the book. Oh, and Volume 4 and The Hellbound Heart are both on the nightstand, waiting to be opened.

Ready to be ridiculed...

My Bloody Valentine 3D - Review

All hail Lionsgate, defender of all that is good and holy against the furthest reaches of hell known as Platinum Dunes!

Harry Warden is back (or is he?), pick-axe firmly in hand, to do away with another batch of annoying Text Generation wash-ups. And, seriously, who doesn't want to watch that?

The premise: Fresh from a coma caused by a shaft explosion, Harry picks up his favorite tool (not that one) and does away with 22 people before being shot. Ten years later, the kid that caused all the ruckus comes home to Harmony to sell the very mine his recently-deceased father owned--and possibly rekindle a relationship with his ex, now married to his former best-friend. The murders start anew...and our hero finds himself the number one suspect.

(I suppose I could have been more concise: The premise: Blah blah blather blather blah blah.)

Staying remarkably faithful to its 1981 source material, MBV 3D remake knows exactly what it wants: Increasingly inventive and gory kills; the longest sustained nude scene in a horror movie I've ever seen (played for tongue-in-cheek laughs); claustrophobic mine-shaft sequences; Tom Atkins, sent by the genre Gods; and Kevin Tighe, who meets his maker in an incredibly brutal fashion. We get it all, with a quick pace, and without a hint of irony or social commentary. No frills here; just good, old-fashioned 80's retro slasher.

On the acting front, Jensen Ackles, his voice a dead-on impression of a Hemi V8, as the young and inexperienced miner that sets the whole Bloody doughball rolling, can't be accused of trying to knock Pacino and DeNiro from their rightful thrones; neither will Jamie King, as the love-torn heroine, approach anything even remotely Streepian in the near future. And Kerr Smith proves once again that he is more than up to the challenge of roles like Final Destination (which isn't much of a compliment, folks). But, Atkins and Tighe do enough scene-stealing to compensate for the tepid lead performances. And, really, when has anyone ever expected Oscar-caliber performances from a movie like this? The dialogue is mostly laughable, as it should be, filled with astonishingly ominous portents like "Harry Warden's back" and even a nice homage to one of our greatest slasher icons, as a character calls out: "Jason...is that you?"

RealD 3D still can't manage to eliminate the blurs and streaking when the camera's in motion; much of the flick gave me a goddamned headache. But when the camera stands still, the depth of vision is among the best I've seen--particularly during the mine-shaft sequences, where the dirt and coal seem to tunnel far in to the screen. The gimmick is used with all the gusto it can muster, as eyeballs and busted jaws fly at the screen.

For 101 minutes of pure entertainment escapism, MBV 3D is all a great big red candy-box full of fun. And, if that isn't enough, Lionsgate has just re-released the original MBV on DVD, with legendary excised scenes edited back in to the movie. Pick it up if you want to be blown away by what the MPAA, arguably our nation's most notorious censorship group, thought you shouldn't see during the movie's original 1981 release. It's worth it just for the shower-head sequence, which is admittedly far more gruesome than I ever thought it could be.

Now I only have a month to wait for the redux of Friday the 13th. My red pen is ready.

Enjoy!

All That and Baghead, Too

[Edit note: I’ve corrected the egregious and downright fucking insulting error of referring to the filmmakers as “Dumass,” rather than the correct and far more agreeable “Duplass.” With apologies. I’m a dumass.]

Want to see an uncommonly good mumblecore movie? Check out Baghead, hot from the 2008 festival circuit and now available on DVD.





I’ve seen it twice now and figured I’d share my thoughts.

The premise: two guys and two girls hole themselves up in a cabin in the woods to write a screenplay, only to be menaced by a guy with a bag over his head.

I know; you want to stop reading right now. Such thematic brilliance, you’re thinking, with all the sarcasm you can muster. Yeah, like I’ve never seen that before.

But, do yourself a favor: disregard the tired plot device of the stalker in the woods and just focus on what unfolds between the characters—who bring along enough drama to fill the Grand Canyon—while they aren’t being harassed. The Duplass brothers, Jay and Mark, shot Baghead on mini-DV for about a grand, and, for about three-quarters of it, give us: a merciless, unrequited love; pity sex and cruel intimations of relationship reconciliation; a tenuous bromance; a secret crush; and even a session of surreptitious, if not satisfactory, masturbation that had me laughing out loud. Oh, and there’s plenty of drinking, foul language, and an obligatory (real) boob shot, if that’s your thing.

Let me be clear: I’m not promising you great art here; far from it. Baghead is amateur, rather than auteur. But, I was absorbed by the clever, quick-witted dialogue (largely improvised, I'm assuming) and the natural, unadorned actors (Ross Partridge, Steve Zissis, Greta Gerwig and Elise Muller) that deliver it with an effortless ease of everyday conversation. The characters are a little (just a little) smarter than the usual conventions of a script like this one, and it's a hell of a lot of fun to watch when their threads get tangled up. (A few moments are even uncomfortable, particularly when the pathetic and balding Chad finally decides to open his heart to the oblivious Michelle.)

The introduction of the baghead seems an odd non-sequitur, given the build-up of the characters and their story lines. Odd, that is, until the denouement, which comes across as a cheat and left me completely underwhelmed. Our four victims act as perfunctorily—and stupidly— as they should when attacked. And when our stalker pulls a knife on the group, he swings it like a prison tranny, which ain’t pretty (so I’m told—I’ve no personal experience). He isn’t scary, or creepy, and, with the exception of a few well-lit shots of shadow-lurking at a window, comes across as a guy who seems like he walked on to the wrong movie set. Now that I think about it, this is two different movies entirely, with the better Big Chill version working desperately to extricate itself from the weary, direct-to-DVD Friday the 13th rehashes.

Technically, the movie does nothing to transcend extreme independent cinema. But the Duplass boys know how to frame a close-up and the editing is tight. They take liberal advantage of the verite shaky cam, but, mercifully, manage to keep it steady enough so as not to induce vomit.

But, like I said, this movie is all about the characters, so put your focus on them. You may be surprised to find yourself fascinated by their sordid shenanigans. Obtrusive baghead stalker aside, this movie is a hatchet-throw further than most of its kind.

Give it a shot.

Friday the 13th: Legends of the Fall

Sorry, I meant The Fall of Legends. I can't even begin to tell you how many ways this is wrong:



But I'll try.

I have two words for you: underground tunnels. Say that out loud: underground tunnels. It just makes the true horror junkies, like myself, want to curl up in a ball and cry like the little bitches that we would be if we weren't so very very cool.

(Note to self: Tivo Golden Girls tonight)

Seriously, Sean S. Cunningham would be rolling over in his grave—if he were actually dead.

Oh, and I have four more words for you: token witty black guy. That's right, I said it: token witty black guy. Doesn't it just shrivel up on your tongue like the bad semen you get when the guy you just picked up at a seedy bar fails to tell you that he binged on garlic chicken and bottomless breadsticks for dinner?

It's exactly like that (trust me).

You know the archetype of the Token Witty Black Guy: He's the one hacks like Michael Bay like to stuff into their screenplays for comedic effect. He's the guy that plays what has to be the most flagrant and offensive racial stereotype in film by walking around—with a strut, no less—and throwing out clever lines like "Wus up, giiirl?" and "How you doin'?" and "Uh-uh, I ain't goin' in there. This nigga stayin' right where he is, aight?" That guy. Where's the black guy that's Harvard educated? The one that hates hip-hop and ho's? The guy that wants to fucking hunker down in a nice Connecticut farmhouse with his wife and kids while he practices law and she makes fucking playdates with the neighbors—before he gets killed.

And to that end, I have nine more words and a hyphenate: Michael Bay must be the biggest douche-bag on the planet. (Is that right? Nine?) Seriously, doesn't he know this? And I'm including him with the likes of Brody-fucking-Jenner, which has gotta hurt, bad! Bay had no qualms about throwing down his millions to get his bloody hands on this franchise, only to fuck the true Friday fans by giving them another over-produced, slick, loud, and poorly written remake. When is this man going to go away? Isn't there some kind of intergalactic mothership that combs the universe for useless shills, and them beams them away to be used for their alien children as scientific examples of the pitfalls of stupidity? Thank God the Rosemary's Baby remake fell through. Otherwise, we'd have had Paris Hilton as Mrs. Castevet—because, you know, she's so awesome.

And to the misguided defenders that say "you haven't even seen the movie yet": Fuck you. I don't need to see the movie to know it sucks, just like I don't need to put my dick in a hot frying pan to know it will fucking hurt. (I made that mistake once already.) Anyway, it'll all suck because the movie was produced by the devil himself, and Hell's name is Platinum Dunes.

That's it. I got nothin' else, aside from a shitload of other reasons why this movie is a travesty that I'm already too bored to share.

P.S. What would qualify as a good remake, you ask? This. Because Heaven's name is Lionsgate: