Jim Cummings writes, directs and stars in this is-it-or-isn’t-it-a werewolf flick which functions as a thoroughly engaging and often quite funny meditation on anger, addiction, self-control, and self-forgiveness. Also, Riki Lindhome has a significant and mostly non-comic role, and I’m always happy to see either member of Garfunkle and Oats show up in a movie.
The setting is the Alaskan town of Snow Hollow, a small ski-tourism based community where not much of note ever really happens. Thus, the police force is totally unprepared when a series of grisly murders begin wherein mostly women are attacked by what seems to be some kind of beast, but one which is apparently not hungry, as while they’ve been mutilated, other than one or two precisely removed organs, nothing seems to have been ‘consumed.’
Cummins’s John Marshal is the son of the sheriff (who is on the verge of retirement and has a serious heart condition which keeps him out of the action) who takes lead on this investigation. John is a deeply unlikable guy—mean, rude, short tempered, convinced that he’s surrounded by idiots, but also not doing a great job himself. Over the course of the film, he falls off the wagon, having previously been sober for some time, further estranges his ex-wife and his daughter, and though he does actually resolve the werewolf problem by then end, he also demonstrates how unready he is for any kind of leadership position. Metaphorically, he is the true werewolf of the film—filled with a rage he tries and fails to control, and is still struggling with until the very end.
This was a great and really interesting genre-defying film. It made me laugh more than anything else in quite a while, but it also elicited a few tears. And it was successfully a bit scary and gory. Not fitting into any one schema, it was entirely itself. Bravo.
Well this was a wild ride. Reviled at release as one of the worst examples of slasher sleaze, it holds up as one of the best examples of nostalgically appreciated slasher sleaze. Lucio Fulci’s New York set slasher/giallo is nonsensical, cruel, ugly, and kinda fun if you’re up for it.
The plot is all over the place and honestly, even a couple days after watching it, I’d be hard pressed to recount it successfully. But basically there are a couple of threads. Of course, there is a killer, unsurprisingly targeting women, especially those in the sex industry or otherwise viewed through a sexual lens. Whenever this killer talks on the phone with the police detective pursuing him, he has a voice like Donald Duck. Ok. Sure. There is the plot of the pursuing detective, being taunted by this avian voiced madman. And there is the story of a woman, in a kinky open relationship with her husband, who’s in the habit of going out into gritty NYC settings for rough sex with strangers, one of whom she becomes convinced is the killer of the headlines. In the end, I’m pretty sure that was a red herring and everything cycles back to the detective, but the convolutions of the plot have already slipped through the cracks of my mind.
But, in a way, in its glorious, sordid, trashy excess, the film mostly works. It is not a ‘pretty’ stylish Italian giallo, but there is successful artistry to the kill scenes that the flick most revels in, creating enjoyable tension as it basks in seediness and flesh and blades flashing in the shadows and the groove of its early 80s New York backdrop.
This is certainly not one for everyone, either too pointlessly bloodthirsty and over sexualized or too boring, but if you’re up for that sort of thing, it’s kinda great as well.
Sometimes, life just gets overwhelmingly busy and it’s hard to devote hours to preparing an in depth post investigating deep ideas. When that happens, the only place to turn is the short form movie blurb. It’s baaack!
The Gate (1987)
This is one that somehow didn’t get on my radar until the last couple of years. Here we have a classic 80s kids vs monsters tale as a couple of suburban youngsters inadvertently open a gate to hell and have to turn back the demons that start pouring forth, drawing their instructions from the liner notes of a heavy metal album.
The stand-out thing about it for me was the fact that, for a horror movie targeted at kids, it really has some weight and it really has some horror. Things happen that feel ‘wrong’ and the sadness that attends them (such as the death of the family dog) is not glossed over by scary movie fun. There is mourning, there is revulsion that persists. There is some solid dread in having made such a huge mistake and not knowing how to reverse it.
Beyond that occasional heaviness, it is also a really fun movie. The demonic monsters are all pretty weird and the late 80s practical/optical effects that bring them to life are refreshing in their corporeality. There is some comedy that works and most importantly, there are relationships that can be believed: between the central brother and sister, the best friends, the parents. These relationships, and the feeling of betrayal that sometimes enters into them, really ground this otherwise wild kids’ monster movie.
And the whole thing really does hurtle towards a pretty epic conclusion as all hell literally breaks loose before the kids manage to tamp it all down with, yes, the power of love. So it’s got a bit of everything: childish humor, horror and dread, a couple solid scares, big excitement, emotional self-sacrifice, and rather enjoyable special effects of the era. I don’t know why this one doesn’t have a higher profile out there or how I never really heard about it until quite recently.
So not long ago, I had the pleasure of bumping into this Vincent Price vehicle for the first time. His oeuvre has always been a bit of a blind spot for me, but the idea of this one pulled me in, and I’m glad it did.
Theatre of Blood (1973)
Reportedly Vincent Price’s favorite role, Douglas Hickox and Anthony Greville-Bell’s horror-comedy is a deliciously campy tale of theatrical revenge. Everything about it is fully over the top and entirely tongue in cheek. What it lacks in narrative suspense, it makes up for in magnificent melodrama. It may not offer any scares and the plot may be paper thin, but the Shakespearean murders, the weirdness of its characters, the confidence and style of its filming, and Price making such a meal of the scenery at every turn makes it a vastly enjoyable watch.
At heart, this is a very simple revenge scenario. Shakespearean actor, Edward Lionheart (Vincent Price, obviously having the time of his life), having been spurned by a circle of London critics and denied a coveted award, first dramatically commits suicide (in true theatrical fashion, performing Hamlet’s To be or not to be soliloquy on the parapet outside the critics’ party, as they mock him and carry on drinking within, before jumping into the Thames to drown), is then found and nursed back to health by a band of ‘meths’ (purple tinted denatured alcohol) drinking tramps whom he soon comes to command, and finally, thought dead, sets about murdering each and every one of the critics in a re-creation of a Shakespearean death scene. This is all carried out with the assistance of his ensemble, ‘the meths drinkers,’ and his devoted daughter/supporting actor/makeup and special effects artist, Edwina (Diana Rigg).
One is stabbed to death by a crowd ala Julius Ceaser. The next is speared and dragged behind a horse as in Troilus and Cressida. A wife wakes next to her decapitated husband, which occurs in Cymbeline. The ending of The Merchant of Venice is improved to ensure the gouging of a pound of flesh, in this case, the heart (after shaving off a few ounces that had been taken in error). There’s a drowning in a cask of wine from Richard III. A jealous critic is driven to murder his wife in the style of Othello (it is presumed that, being elderly, he will die in prison). A woman is burned/electrocuted to death in a hair dryer in representation of Joan of Arc in Henry VI, part I. One critic is fed his beloved dogs (whom he refers to as his babies) in a pie as is done to Tamora in Titus Andronicus. Finally, the last one, having survived a duel out of Romeo and Juliet (which partially takes place on trampolines!!!) almost has his eyes gouged out, the fate of Gloucester from King Lear. Unfortunately, he is spared. The horror, the horror.
In the end, The Police interrupt the final murder and Edwina is killed. The theatre burning around him, Edward climbs to the top of the building, carrying his dead daughter, and finally leaps to his death, this time, successfully. The final critic survives to insult more unbalanced theatrical maniacs and the world returns to a semblance of normality.
The above-listed reckoning of murder and mayhem cannot do justice to the infectious joy of this film. From the extravagant characters that Edward and Edwina portray, such as the flaming hairdresser who leaves his client smoking, or the ridiculous faux-French-poodle-pie serving cooking show host, to the utter weirdness embodied by the largely physical performance of the increasingly inebriated and insane ‘meths drinkers’, to the ostentatious staging of each kill, Theatre of Blood delights in excess.
There is, of course, much ado about Edward’s performances. We hear from the various critics how overbaked they were, and from what we see, it’s easy to believe. Before each kill, he recites some appropriate bit of oratory from the referenced play. While there is a nigh sensual pleasure in every syllable, it hardly illuminates the text (reportedly, Vincent Price felt constrained by his career in Horror and had always wanted to play Shakespeare). We also hear from one critic, about to die, that Edward’s productions were always obvious and totally lacking in originality. That, however, is not reflected in what we are shown.
It would appear that Edward, blinded by ego, had been pursuing the wrong career all along. He was not the greatest actor of the London stage and the theatre he was responsible for may indeed have been pedestrian and hackneyed. However, his murdering is exemplary. It is in carnage that his true talent lies. And, towards that noble end, he repurposes all the tools of his previous trade. He orchestrates the action of a cast of players, he undertakes an extensive degree of stagecraft, and he still plays parts, and wrings from each, every last sanguinary drop. At the end, this tragic figure, this creator whose ability could never match his ambition, finally begins to thrive artistically. But in true tragic fashion, having discovered his true strength, his artistic calling, it ultimately leads to his downfall (quite literally, from the roof of a burning theatre).
If there is a weakness here, it is in the fact that the film occasionally wears the face of a crime procedural as the critics and police try to determine who is carrying out these wild crimes. At the same time, this information is never withheld from the audience, and this creates a kind of lack of tension as we are witness to a mystery that isn’t. But by the same token, there is some pleasure in watching them squirm. Also, it is disappointing that the final reviewer escapes with his eyes. I mean, Edward puts so much work into the set up and therefore, as the real pleasure of the movie is watching him carry out his revenge, the escape of this final boy is more a frustration than a relief. But, in this, we underline Edward’s tragedy. He had transitioned into a bold new art form where he was at the height of his craft, but he will only be remembered as a failed actor and a madman.
Credit must also be given to Diana Rigg in the role of Edwina. As does her father, she is constantly in one disguise or another and while he is a well-aged ham, pushing every characterization over the precipice of believability (but with such verve and glory!), she mostly disappears into each role, all the while, helping to lead Scotland Yard on a merry chase. The only character in which she is rather obvious is Edward’s male assistant, a scruffy hippy, leading the denatured alcohol soaked supporting players. It’s a late reveal that it was her all along, but it was also obvious from the first. But it really doesn’t matter. She’s great. He’s great. The kills are absurdly baroque, and the film as a whole feels like an act of exultation.
Neither the writer nor the director did anything else in the genre, and to be fair, the film never really terrifies, disgusts, or horrifies, though it does serve up a degree of blood and gore. But it is genuinely funny and infectious in its enthusiasm for its characters and the actors who play them, the inherent histrionics of the bard, the delight of a well-staged and filmed murder set piece, and the absolute, shameless grandeur of overkill. Bravo.
