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.
As we are here in the Halloween season, I thought I’d take a look at a perennial favorite which I like, which I saw multiple times at the dollar theatre back in the day, and which I’ve always had somewhat mixed feelings about.
The Craft (1996)
Andrew Fleming and Peter Filardi’s teen witch flick makes good use of a personable young cast and stands as a solid piece of mid-90s memorabilia, delivering the entertaining tale of a band of young female outcasts finding empowerment and friendship, mixed with a heavy dose of somewhat reactionary Hollywood tropes. It also, in its style, soundtrack, and TV-teen drama-based-casting, presaged the late 90s slasher cycle which Scream would kick off only 7 months later. It is very much a memento of a time and a place, and while that means that it is rich with nostalgic value, it has more than that going for it, even if some elements of its final act leave a bad taste in my mouth.
The story follows Sarah (Robin Tunney), a teen with past suicidal tendencies, who has just moved to a new town with her father and stepmother. Her first day at school, she is both immediately interested in Chris (Skeet Ulrich), an alpha male, grabby handed, rumor spreading football dude, and a group of standoffish girls who she is warned to stay away from by some other popular types, told that they are ‘witches.’ Ignoring all advice, she befriends the three wannabe magic users, each of whom is a persona-non-grata in her own way.
Nancy (Fairuza Balk) is a goth kid who, despite the fact that she’s somehow going to a posh, private Catholic school, is dirt poor from an abusive home. Bonnie (Neve Campbell, in her first film role) is covered with burns over most of her body and is very withdrawn. Rochelle (Rachel True) endures racist bullying at school, largely from a pretty blonde girl on her swim team. The three have been practicing witchcraft together, seeking strength in the face of the everyday cruelty they encounter, but we don’t see much evidence that they have been able to summon much in the way of aptitude in this domain.
It turns out that Sarah has always had real magic but has never understood or sought to harness it. The three girls invite her to join them and complete their coven and soon, they’re casting love spells with dire consequences, cursing their enemies, and climbing out of poverty. Finally, Nancy convinces them to try a more serious spell in search of more aggressive power tipping her over into full blown psycho territory and resulting in a string of corpses of some not terribly nice people (and some perfectly pleasant beached sharks). Sarah tries to detach herself from the others, but they come after her, making it appear that her family has died in an accident and trying to push her to kill herself (more successfully than her previous attempt). She taps into the natural power within, communes with the same ancient force powering Nancy, and triumphs, leaving Nancy institutionalized and the other two powerless. She has risen to her full potency and self-confidence.
There is much to like here. First off, no one has ever gone broke selling an empowering story of outsiders finding support and power in each other, and taking revenge on bullies. The interplay between the four leads is strong. It’s easy to buy into their friendship, just as it’s easy to sympathize with their plights. Seeing glimpses of Nancy’s home life, Rochelle fielding racial slurs, or Bonnie undergoing painful skin treatments, desperate not to feel like a freak anymore, you want them to rise above all this. And as they first tap into actual magic, it is fun. It is thrilling. It’s exciting to see power bestowed upon the powerless, and when they first start striking out at those who have wronged them, it’s hard to blame them. Similarly, at the end, when Sarah really finds her own power and pushes back against the others, it is easy to cheer her on as she becomes more self-assured—as she becomes herself.
Beyond that, there is a nice young energy, a soundtrack that summons a feeling of ‘96, some capably designed magic effects (notably, a nice bit when the shadows of some window ironwork transform into snakes—it holds up), and in all four of the leads, some enjoyable young performers who deliver the goods. There are reasons that this mild success became a bit of a beloved cult classic, especially for those who saw in it a celebration of the freak-outsider overcoming the awful, boring, and cruel pettiness of the pretty, “normal” people.
But, something always felt off about the ending, and I think on re-watch, I might be able to clarify it. So, it is not surprising that these girls, once they have power, start to abuse it, and that it goes to a dangerous place. This is as standard a progression as any in the Western canon. As viewers, we get pulled in with the charge of new power and the potential to strike out at hateful jerks, and then we are shown, by the end, the wicked path to which that inevitably leads. But especially because the friendship between the four landed so well, it feels frustrating and disappointing when they so rapidly turn against each other and ‘go evil’ to serve the demands of the plot. The way the film suddenly paints these characters as villainous, who seem to finally be getting their due, feels like some kind of narrative betrayal akin to Allie Sheedy’s character at the end of The Breakfast Club trading in her black clad, idiosyncratic identity to put on a lot of pink girly bows and kiss a cute boy.
And there’s something larger at work in this particular story arc—probably unintended by the writers, but nonetheless present. The three initial witches are all cast offs of society, with Nancy standing out in her poverty and domestic abuse. They all live and operate in a world of wealth and privilege: an expensive looking private school in or near LA. When these powerless figures get a taste of power, they use it violently, lashing out at their former oppressors. The poor, the ugly, the black are new to having power and they can’t be trusted to use it responsibly. In their rage, they endanger the stability of a rich, white, misogynistic society, and therefore, must be quelled.
Sarah, on the other hand, her power stemming from her mother who had died giving birth to her, is old money. (Not to mention that, based on her home and neighborhood, her family is, in fact, loaded) She was born with her power—she didn’t have to take it from anywhere. All she had to do was accept the position she had inherited and she could triumph over the other three, ultimately putting them all back in their place, fully chastised for daring to rise above their respective stations. Again, it’s doubtful the writers had any polemic in mind when penning this, but the final act does dampen any sense that the film is actually on the side of the disenfranchised. It may sell itself that way on the surface, but in all actuality, it serves to reify the status quo of capital, position, race, and, um, magic. All of this should be unsurprising, given the extent to which it is the product of big, entrenched business, in the form of a Hollywood movie studio (Columbia). But still, it does feel like a let-down.
All of that said, it is still a rather enjoyable watch. The camaraderie and the initial wish fulfillment fantasy both offer real pleasures. The story, if somewhat predictable and socio-politically regressive, plays out engagingly. Finally, even if the ending disappoints, it is played well. The final confrontation looks cool, is exciting, and, in Fairuza Balk’s Nancy, features a great, crazy, unhinged performance. Much about this does still play well and rewards repeat viewing, but, may require overlooking a bit of an astringent aftertaste.
When I first saw this one advertised, it sounded interesting, but something about the stilted style in the trailer just didn’t pull me in. I’m so glad I eventually gave it a chance. I’ve now watched it at least 4-5 times and I think it’s just great.
The Love Witch (2016)
This is a visually arresting film that is more than a little difficult to process. One part early 70s pastiche melodrama, one part satire of persistent gender expectations, and one part art house flick, with just a dash of occult sexploitation, it is an exercise in deep criticism and deeper irony, asking us to both identify with its protagonist’s tragic tale of loves lost and loves murdered, and to question the often (self) destructive ways of thinking that she has come to espouse. It’s a heady, gorgeous, stylized piece of work that calls for critical response.
Written, directed, produced, costume designed, set decorated, art directed, scored, and edited by Anna Biller, this is a true piece of auteur cinema. It is clear that absolutely nothing appears on screen accidentally and that everything, from the hemming of a dress, to a musical quotation in the score, to the hint of discomfort on an actor’s face is fully intentional, often carrying consciously chosen meaning. It invites the viewer to analyze what is presented, but it offers few obvious readings.
Characters sometimes speak very explicitly, presenting ideas that sound like authorial voice, but the choice of the mouthpiece for those very ideas sometimes undercuts the sense that they should be trusted. The narrative and focus on Samantha Robinson’s Elaine draws the viewer into her cool, love obsessed mania, but at the same time, other characters directly call out her seemingly patriarchy perpetuating views and much of the course of the story shows that this way to lead to madness—plus, she also comes across as quite the sociopath (as in the scene where she meets with a friend to theoretically comfort her after her husband’s lovesick suicide, but is cold as ice and unwilling to engage with any emotions that are not her own), so maybe not the best person to choose as a role model, even if charming and perfectly coifed.
It feels so clear that Biller knows exactly what she wants to communicate, but at the same time, there is a constant irony, casting any interpretation of even the most seemingly on the nose symbolism into doubt.
The story follows Elaine as she relocates to a new town from San Francisco, following her husband “leaving her” (by ceasing to draw breath).
A friend of a friend, Trish (Laura Waddell), shows her the house she’s arranged to stay in and takes her out for lunch at a tea room that seems to exist inside whatever it is that wedding cakes dream about.
We learn of Elaine’s obsession with being loved by men and her insistence that the only way to find satisfaction is to give them whatever they want (food, beauty, sex, ect.) so that they will love her as much as she loves them.
She uses “sex magic to make love magic” but that love magic never ends well, generally killing the targeted male by overwhelming him with emotions he’s incapable of coping with. This plays out with a couple of men she sets her sights on, including the local professor/self-styled libertine, Wayne (Jeffrey Vincent Parise) and Trish’s husband, Richard (Robert Seeley), before locking firmly onto the particularly manly (toxically so) detective who’s investigating Wayne’s murder, Griff (Gian Keys).
Unlike the others who have cracked, becoming blubbering messes in their newfound feelings for her, thus turning her off by being weak “like a woman”, Griff maintains a certain disdain for Elaine and her desire, both satisfying her with his overt masculinity and crushing her with his rejection. In the end, claiming him for herself, she stabs his heart out, mirroring a tarot-inspired painting adorning her bedroom wall.
The story is fairly straightforward, but this short summary does it little justice, especially without presenting a sense of the overall style and stylization of the picture. The whole film is made to look as if it were filmed sometime in the past (mid 50s, late 60s, early 70s perhaps—it’s never exactly clear), though the presence of cell phones situates it in the more or less present, resulting in the story feeling somehow outside of time, but rooted in old fashioned mores of masculinity and femininity.
This presents itself in the technicolor-approximating film stock, the 50s era hard lighting, the sumptuous costuming and makeup and set dressing, and of course, the stilted, presentational acting choices. This last aspect could certainly turn off a viewer, but is probably one of the most effective aspects of the film, allowing a clear analytical distance between spoken text and filmmaker intent, and underlining the absurdity of character relationships, such as the hyper-masculine, square jawed Griff being served constantly by other officers in his precinct who happen to be female or people of color (you can help him in this murder investigation by getting him a sandwich—you know how he likes it). And it is often very funny.
This style allows for moments or scenes that in any other film would stand out as unrealistic, such as the scene in which Elaine meets Wayne and, in under two minutes of dialogue, has him eagerly take her to his remote cabin for dinner and sex. It’s quick work and a nice spot of whimsy.
This style also lets Gahan (Jared Sanford), the leader of Elaine’s coven, spend nearly 4 minutes lecturing girls at a burlesque club on the importance of reclaiming and harnessing feminine sexuality in order to exert real power in life and have men finally see them as human beings while in the background, the men in the club go crazy over the performer on stage. This is a great example of the dialectic of the film between spoken and visual text. On one level, the words he speaks seem like they could reflect the filmmaker’s views, that the reclaiming of female sexuality and desire is empowering, but the fact that it is a man speaking them, and particularly this man, whose touch we see Elaine shrinking from and who elicits a cringe when he kisses her in greeting, who it seems might just have gotten involved with witchcraft because it grants him authority over a bevy of often naked girls who he can have sex with, because, um magic and stuff, really undercuts his words and, while aspects ring true, the dubious motives of their speaker makes them seem suspect.
And the style also makes it possible to include a fairly long scene at a Ren Fair hosted by the coven where Elaine and Griff are taken through a fairytale mock wedding after which voiceovers of their conflicting views of love (her: in time, a woman loves all of a man’s little foibles more and more and a love grows stronger and more grounded; him: love makes you weak and in time, any woman becomes irritating and trapping) overlaying scenes of their newlywed bliss. It’s a strange, funny, pretty-if-kinda-silly-looking, and it lays bare how doomed they both are in this relationship. We know she will be hurt and we expect he won’t survive it (though I think we also don’t feel particularly bad about that).
Ultimately, this is an intriguing watch. Especially on first viewing, the film’s approach provides a really novel experience, and it can be hard to know what to make of it. Some will be irritated and some will be enraptured, but it is inarguably unique and clearly expressive of a creative, thoughtful, and singular mind at work.
