Movie Review – The Lodger: A Story of the London Fog (1927)
The Lodger: A Story of London Fog (1927) is not Alfred Hitchcock’s first film, though it is arguably the first film that could properly be called “Hitchcockian.” Here begins many of the themes that would come to be closely associated with the brilliant director for the rest of his career, particularly the connection between sex and death, lust and homicidal intent, while allowing his penitent for German-style filmmaking to truly shine. It also marks his first film cameo appearance, though his back is turned to the camera, as a newspaper editor talking on the phone (the actor had not shown up that day and Hitchcock improvised).
The story is an amalgam of two sources: a 1913 novel by Marie Belloc Lowndes based upon the Jack the Ripper serial killings, and a comical stage adaptation of the same novel called “Who Is He?” It tells of a killer known as The Avenger who targets blonde women each Tuesday night. A lovable older couple, the Buntings, with a fair-haired daughter named Daisy, played by June Tripp, takes in a new lodger (Ivor Novello), a young man who they gradually suspect may be the killer and who is growing ever closer to Daisy.
Hitchcock allows the actors, who are all terrific, and the editing, which is also wonderful, do most of the storytelling, leaving little reliance on intertitles. He presents information in interesting ways, such as a news ticker or a telegraph machine. He allows ambiguity to build tension, making even the simplest of the lodger’s actions seem potentially sinister.
Influence from the German Expressionists is evident in the odd angles, lighting, and shadows. Novello even evokes Count Orlock at times, with his slow movements and long, slender fingers. Novello was a huge star at the time, renowned for his beauty. His immense popularity even necessitated a script change – the original script had the character’s guilt left ambiguous, however, according to Hitchcock, “They wouldn’t let Novello even be considered as a villain.” Indeed, Hitchcock even goes so far as to evoke Christ imagery around Novello during the film’s climax. The actor was also openly and flamboyantly gay, even counting the talented World War I poet Siegfried Sassoon as among his lovers, and a few lines of dialogue in the film suggest that the other characters suspect the same of his. Whether this was accidental or not is difficult to guess, but I am apt to believe that it was Hitchcock’s cinematic equivalent of a wink and a nod.
Hitchcock makes London come alive with point-of-view shots in speeding cars, people walking outside windows in backgrounds, and car headlights sliding across the walls through closed curtains. It all feels lived in and one forgets that the action is taking place on sets. He uses, too, other innovative techniques, such as a transparent ceiling in order to see the lodger pacing in the room above. When he completed the film, the studio was unhappy with the product and hired a young Ivor Montagu to make some changes, which included little more than reducing the number of title cards, adding symbolic triangles to them, and a few minor reshoots. Hitchcock was furious at first but Montagu’s intrusion was slight and Hitchcock ultimately approved of the changes, and what remains is unquestionably Hitchcock’s work.
The Lodger helped to create the modern thriller and is, in Steve Haberman’s assessment, “the only British horror film of note” (96). The September 16, 1926 issue of the trade journal Bioscope went further, declaring that “it is possible that this film is the finest British production ever made.” Of course, Hitchcock, known as the “Master of Suspense,” would time and again set the standards for filmmaking in the coming decades, most notably in the horror genre with 1960’s masterpiece Psycho and 1963’s The Birds. Born in 1899, Hitchcock struggled his whole life with obesity, yet his signature silhouette, coupled with his gallows humor, made him perhaps one of the most recognizable filmmakers in history.
The following was written for episode 26 of The HorrorCast Podcast, where Marknado, Walshy, and I delved into Universal’s first three Dracula films, 1931’s Dracula, 1936’s Dracula’s Daughter, and 1943’s Son of Dracula. The full episode can be listened to through iTunes, Stitcher or Soundcloud through the Phantom Podcast Network.
Legends of vampires and their countless variations can be found worldwide and they essentially share the same basic formula: a corpse rises from the grave to drain the blood of the living. Certain beliefs surrounding the vampire are likely the result of a misunderstanding of the decaying process: blood trickling from mouths of a corpse is actually decaying fluid leaving the orifices, drawn back lips emphasize the canines, gases can create a hazy, ghostly-looking fog over recently buried graves. If someone had a dream that the recently deceased returned, should they open the grave they would find ample evidence that the dearly departed has been up to some iron-infused shenanigans. The remedy was generally to stake the body – not to kill it but to nail it to the coffin, and to cut off the head and place it by the feet so the reanimated corpse couldn’t sit up to retrieve it. Sometimes the ribs would be broken to fetch the heart to burn it or a brick was placed in the mouth to keep it from feeding. In movies, and in particular Dracula films, these practices are seen as long forgotten and archaic remnants found only in the remotest reaches of Eastern Europe. However, few realize that these practices happened in America too, including in my own home state of Connecticut (in Griswold and Jewett City) where many bodies have been excavated and found to have been desecrated in a manner consistent with vampire killing. These bodies date from the 1830s and 1850s – hardly ancient history.
And of course, blood has always been seen as life-giving, from the Aztecs painting their temples with it to appease the Sun-god so as to make him rise to the Countess Elizabeth Bathory bathing in young women’s blood to attain everlasting youth.
The vampire was conceived in literary form on the same stormy night as Frankenstein’s abomination. While Mary Shelley planted seeds of her masterwork her host Lord Byron conjured up a vampiric tale. His doctor, John Polidori, took the reins and published The Vampyre in 1819. The vampire seemed modeled on the libertine Byron himself and no doubt influenced Stoker in his creation of the Transylvanian aristocrat. Female sexuality of a particularly lesbian variety entered vampire literature in J. Sheridan Le Fanu’s novella Carmilla, published in 1872.
Stoker took inspiration from these earlier works and created one of the single most iconic characters in all of fiction. No other novel has been adapted for the screen than Dracula, published in 1897, on the cusp of the 20th Century, and only Sherlock Holmes has appeared as a character more often. Rather than a backward looking work of fiction, as many adaptations have seemed to characterize it, Dracula was actually a novel that dealt very much with new technology entering contemporary life. Victorians were obsessed with the idea of progress and civilization in opposition to our base humanity and our beastial desires. Robert Louis Stevenson tapped into this in his 1886 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Instead of one man’s struggle, Stoker pits modern civilization and its gadgets against an ancient evil, bred from the shadows of superstition, which has come to prey upon and corrupt good, sensible Englishmen and, of course, English women and their delicate, chaste sensibilities. Unfortunately too few films depict the best parts of Stoker’s novel, such as Lucy Westenra’s transformation into the “Bloofer Lady”, preying upon children.
Dracula, at least in name, first appeared on film in the now lost 1921 Death of Dracula, a Hungarian film which bore little to no resemblance to Stoker’s tale. The first true adaptation was F.W. Murnau’s 1922 classic, Nosferatu, with Max Schreck playing the iconic, rat-like Count Orlok. Murnau keeps the basic structure and makes Dracula even more animal-like than he is in the novel. Unfortunately for the brilliant filmmaker, the adaptation was unauthorized and he lost a legal battle with Stoker’s widow, and all copies were ordered destroyed. Of course, not all copies were and we can still enjoy this haunting masterpiece today.
In the 1920s Stoker’s novel was adapted for the stage and became a smash hit. Carl Laemmle Jr., who had recently been given control over productions at Universal, had a love for horror that his father didn’t share. Jr.’s first big project was to put Dracula on the big screen, and soon investors were excited when director Tod Browning and the celebrated Man of a Thousand Faces, Lon Chaney, both signed on. Unfortunately, Chaney died of a throat hemorrhage before filming could begin, and the studio settled for the very cheap Bela Lugosi to play the Count, a role which he had played to great acclaim on the stage. The film would take its cues from the Hamilton Deane and John L. Balderston stage version, stripping the story down to its barest elements. Though certainly not the strongest of Universal’s horror films of the era, 1931’s Dracula is the first talky horror film and gave us so many of the Gothic tropes we’ve come to associate with the genre – elements like spooky castles, cobwebs, and bats which would have been familiar to 19th Century Gothic literature but had yet to make their proper debut in American film. It also marks the first American horror film which plays the supernatural straight – Dracula is not an imposter, and this is not a dream. American films had had a habit of explaining away the supernatural through worldly means, unlike their European counterparts.
Dracula was an enormous financial success and Bela Lugosi became the defining image – in looks, sound, and manner – of the Count, despite being more suave and debonaire than the literary version. The theme of an aristocrat exploiting and preying upon working class victims struck Depression era audiences, however subliminally. Lugosi’s vampire was a mix of Stoker’s creation and the sexual connotations that the word “vampire” had in film up until that point. Throughout the 1910s and 1920s “vamps” were predatory, seductive women – Lugosi created the predatory, seductive man. It appeared to work, as women fawned over Lugosi, and even the actress Clara Bow initiated a sexual affair with him.
The film would spawn multiple sequels: Dracula’s Daughter (1936), starring Gloria Holden; Son of Dracula (1943), with Lon Chaney, Jr.; House of Frankenstein (1944) and House of Dracula (1945), both with John Carradine; Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948), with Lugosi once again donning the iconic cape.
For a decade after, the character Dracula lay mostly dormant before being resurrected in vivid colors by Hammer films, this time being depicted by Christopher Lee. Adding more blood, fangs, and, thank the dark lords, cleavage, increased the coupling of sexuality and violence – is there really any wonder as to why Dracula has remained so popular?
The Hammer cycle would last nearly two decades before Universal again returned to the Count for 1979’s Dracula, starring Frank Langella in the Count’s most romantic, reputably sexiest outing – and the farthest cry yet from Stoker’s ugly, almost beastial creation. The same year saw Werner Herzog’s remake of Nosferatu. In between, Dracula would battle everyone from Billy the Kid to Batman, and even receive a blacksploitation counterpart in the form of William Marshall as Blacula (1972). Dracula or his likeness (or at least Bela Lugosi’s likeness) have appeared in every other form of media, from television to comic books. In 1992, Francis Ford Coppola produced and directed Bram Stoker’s Dracula starring Gary Oldman, with stunning visuals and an operatic sensibility, it remains one of my personal favorites.
Dracula is a character that is redefined for every generation – sometimes he’s sympathetic, even attractive, and sometimes he’s a repulsive monster. Vampires reflect different fears at different times, from Victorian fears of damnation through the sinful temptations of the flesh to more modern fears of sexually transmitted diseases or commentaries on class conflict, where a parasitic oligarchy drains the life and resources of the lower classes.
In the 1920s Sigmund Freud introduced two opposing concepts that would come to be called Eros and Thanatos, Eros being the drive for survival, sex, and other creative pursuits and Thanatos being the death drive, which goes against our instinct of self-preservation and leads us to acts that would bring about our demise. Like many of Freud’s ideas, controversy surrounds this concept today, but it nevertheless has a poetic element which at least in part seems to ring true, and perhaps no monster offers a corporeal form to these contrary but nevertheless powerful drives more than the damned, cold-wrapped corpse of the vampire.
Vampires can both repel and attract us. Despite knowing it’s wrong, that hurting people just to perpetuate our own existence or to satisfy our urges is morally reprehensible, there’s that part of us that considers giving into the curiosity, even at the peril of our life, soul, should it exist, or ethical self-worth. Perhaps an undeath outside of God’s salvation is worth the promise of immortality, power, and profound appetites with the abundant resources to satiate them. Light, after all, can be oppressive, exposing, judgmental, whereas the dark can offer freedom, obscurity, and solace. If Milton can make a hero of Satan in Paradise Lost, can we not make a hero of the vampire? What other monster do we regard with as much fear as we do jealousy? Who better embodies these contradictions more than the Count himself, Dracula?
Billy Wilder was a much loved American filmmaker, writing and directing numerous classics, including Sunset Blvd. (1950), Some Like It Hot (1959), and one of my personal favorites of the romance genre, The Apartment (1960). His brother, W. Lee Wilder… not so much. Which brings us to 1954’s Killers from Space, produced by Lee Wilder’s independent film company, Planet Filmplays, for distribution by RKO Radio Pictures.
Starring Peter “Have you ever seen a grown man naked?” Graves, Killers from Space is a sci-fi/horror most memorable for its goofy looking aliens, whose sole make-up effect consisted of buggy eyes which looked to be made from Ping-Pong balls. In many ways this is a prototypical 1950s drive-in film replete with atomic fears, giant insects and reptiles, naïve scientific notions, and obvious miniature models. Unfortunately, no doubt due to its minuscule budget, the aliens have a penchant for talking… and talking… and talking some more to fill up the run time. Still, it’s got a decent ending.
Killers from Space is a bad movie that’s still a good time if you’re in the right mood and of the right persuasion. Had it been better produced, I suspect it would have gone down on those essential lists of indispensable 1950s sci-fi classics.
Horror’s “Worst” Films – Manos: The Hands of Fate (1966)
Poor Stirling Silliphant, the Academy Award-winning screenwriter. We thought we had left him behind after his vicarious relationship to 1964’s The Creeping Terror, but the trickster Deities of Terrible Movies were not done with him. While in a Texas coffee shop he happened to bump into local fertilizer salesman and amateur thespian Harold P. Warren, with whom he was friendly. Warren declared to Silliphant that anyone could make a horror movie and went so far as to bet him that in fact he could do so, and he immediately began sketching his ideas on the coffee shop’s napkins. His story, taking some obvious cues from Dracula, involves a family who becomes lost while on vacation and end up at a remote home which houses a nefarious cult. The film was tentatively titled The Lodge of Sins, however, during post-production Warren changed it. The first clue for viewers that what they are about to see is incompetent is the movie’s final title, Manos: The Hands of Fate, which translates with ludicrous redundancy to Hands: The Hands of Fate.
Warren set about gathering his cast from the local theater, including John Reynolds as Torgo and Tom Neyman as The Master, and young women from a local modeling agency to play The Master’s wives. Also prominent is the beautiful Diane Mahree as Margaret. Warren, not surprisingly, cast himself as the film’s hero, Hal. Not having enough money to pay his cast, he instead promised them a share in the profits. Warren’s hand-wound camera could only record 32 seconds at a time and sounds were added, incompetently, during post-production, by only a very few people.
The resulting film is one of the most tedious cinematic experiences of my life. Never have 70 minutes felt so long. Manos abounds with slothful driving sequences (which Warren had intended to use for credits, but never did), frustratingly poor editing (with the clapper visible at one point), and the camera lingering uncomfortably long on actors, who sometimes appear just as frustrated. The plot is largely incoherent, especially as Hal bullies his way into a clearly dangerous situation, and as I write this shortly after seeing the film I’ve already forgotten most of it. The pacing is dull and the experience soporific. I felt that had I been dying while watching it the result would be similar to the effect which mesmerism had on the title character of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” (1845), with me also in a permanent hypnotic state upon the edge of oblivion, unable to leave consciousness, but instead of talking with surrounding physicians I would be forever watching Torgo’s maddeningly twitching face.
I’d take the fate of the Lament Configuration over this any day. The Beast of Yucca Flats (1961) was a disjointed snooze, but at least it was brightly lit enough to see what was (or wasn’t) happening. Add to this a superfluous scene of two teens making out (one of the models broke her leg so Warren reused her here) and being hassled by the cops, and other shots that are confounding in their unnecessity, and the experience becomes ever more trying. At the least the mind-boggling cat fight between the wives is sort of entertaining.
However, I’ve yet to fully explain the worst aspect of Manos. John Reynolds’s Torgo is one of the most infuriating performances I have ever watched, with his erratic mannerisms and his awkward waddling with cartoonish swollen thighs (he’s supposed to be a satyr, but that never comes across in the film). Reynolds is like a man on drugs – in fact, he is a man on drugs. He was high on LSD while filming, and it shows. The aggravating, stuttering voice-over work doesn’t help matters. As I watched Torgo I couldn’t help but be reminded of a porn VHS tape from the early 80s I somehow once got a hold of when I was young. There was a scene in which the performers were clearly out of their minds with drugs, saying their lines over each other with no rhyme or reason. One of the women forgot all about the set up dialogue and began immediately fellating the delivery guy while he was still trying to remember and deliver his lines in pathetically slurred speech, swaying drunkenly in the doorway. It took him five minutes to realize the sex had already begun. At that pubescent age my libido was on a hair trigger, but even then I could only look on uncomfortably until I finally shook myself from my stupor and hit the fast-forward button. Watching Reynolds struggle through his lines produced a very similar effect.
Reynolds was ultimately a tragic figure who didn’t live to see the film’s premiere. As Bob Guidry, the Director of Cinematography, once explained: “He killed himself about six months after the movie was finished. John was a troubled kid; he didn’t really get along with his dad, who was an Air Force colonel, and he got into experimenting with LSD. It’s a shame, because he was really a talented young actor.”
Because at rare moments the universe is a just place, the local premiere of Manos: The Hands of Fate was not met with glowing reviews and the film fell largely into obscurity until Mystery Science Theater 3000 resurrected it for their show in 1993. If one is as morbidly curious as I was to see this film, I strongly suggest you do so with the help of the MST3K team, because even if with their remarks this film is still an absolute endurance test.
As I watched 2013’s Cheap Thrills, from E. L. Katz in his directorial debut, I kept hearing the voice of Walter Sobchak: “You want a toe? I can get you a toe, believe me. There are ways, Dude. You don’t wanna know about it, believe me… Hell, I can get you a toe by 3 o’clock this afternoon… with nail polish.” Both The Big Lebowski (1998) and Katz’s film can lead one to ask the same question: How much is a toe worth? Or, for that matter, any appendage? Or one’s health, self-respect, and reputation? What’s the price tag on your body and dignity?
Cheap Thrills tells the story of two financially strapped old friends who meet a wealthy couple ready to dole out cash to whoever is willing to subject themselves to increasingly dangerous, morally questionable behavior. I was skeptical at first as to how well Katz would be able to keep the premise/gimmick going, but he succeeds in creating a darkly humorous, tension-filled experience based on a smart script by Trent Haaga and David Chirchirillo. The cast, which includes Pat Healy, Sara Paxton, Ethan Embry, and David Koechner, are all superb in their roles, embodying well-rounded characters who act as realistic as can be expected throughout the film, as greed for money or power pushes their ethical limits to their frontiers.
Each dare grows organically and each monetary amount, while not paltry, is hardly enough to solve the men’s financial problems, at least in the long term. The rich couple is bored – their wealth has given them all their desires, and now they’re desensitized. Their enjoyment comes from exploiting the underclass and turning it against itself. Certainly, a metaphor could be read into this regarding American capitalism and the insurmountable chasm that exists between the haves and have-nots, and the way the former side manipulates and misuses the latter. The blue-collar men compete to demean themselves, and they find victory in their meager spoils. The question becomes, ultimately, can one be said to have truly succeeded when one’s integrity and moral character has been compromised?
In the end, Cheap Thrills is oddly poignant. That every character acts of their own volition makes the proceedings more striking and, sadly, somehow more believable.
1926’s Midnight Faces is another entry into the “old dark house” subgenre, and is heavily influenced by The Bat, which had a tremendously successful run on Broadway beginning in 1920 and a film version which came out also in 1926. By comparison, Midnight Faces is a rather cheap imitation. Though the film is classified as a horror-thriller, comedy could easily be added to its descriptors.
The plot involves a young man, played by Francis X. Bushman, Jr., who inherits a mansion from his uncle which is nestled in a dismal Florida swamp. Though the house is supposed to be empty we see an intruder enter, and soon after the servants arrive it becomes apparent that threats are hiding within the dark recesses and behind secret passageways.
The movie has not aged well. The writing is rudimentary and mostly implausible nonsense and is overly reliant on stereotypes and genre tropes. As comic relief the film provides the character of Trohelius Snapp, played by Martin Turner, the loyal manservant to the protagonist. Turner was a talented physical comic who is nonetheless trapped in the racist stereotype of the black buffoon, spooked by every creak and bump and unable to exert self-control over his fear. He is not alone in the paper-thin tropes, as we have a Fu Manchu-looking Asian and a black cape-wearing prowler to add to the warmed-over stew. The director, Bennett Cohen, borrows heavily if not entirely successfully from Murnau’s 1922 masterpiece Nosferatu with its use of disembodied shadows grasping and reaching along walls and fixtures.
In the end, Midnight Faces is sometimes fun, most times flawed, and ultimately forgettable.
Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) has long been touted as the ideal children’s tale, but even as a kid I felt that there was something sinister about it. Perhaps Wonderland seemed like a fun and magical place to visit to other kids, but the maliciously grinning Cheshire Cat, oyster gobbling Walrus, decapitating queen, and rules which seemed to change at a whim were the brick and mortar of nightmare worlds to me. When I read the book as an adult, I still couldn’t see the story as anything but maddeningly nefarious.
In 1988 the surrealist Czech filmmaker Jan Švankmajer made his own interpretation of the tale, and the macabre puppets and disturbing imagery are for my money, despite its relative obscurity, the closest adaptation in spirit of Carroll’s whimsical story. It begins with the lines, in Alice’s voiceover, “Alice thought to herself… Alice thought to herself, ‘Now you will see a film… made for children… perhaps…’ But, I nearly forgot… you must… close your eyes… otherwise… you won’t see anything.”
In a 2011 interview with Electric Sheep Magazine, Švankmajer said of his adaptation of Carroll’s book, which he called “one of the most important and amazing books produced by this civilization,” that
“So far all adaptations of Alice (including the latest by Tim Burton) present it as a fairy tale, but Carroll wrote it as a dream. And between a dream and a fairy tale there is a fundamental difference. While a fairy tale has got an educational aspect – it works with the moral of the lifted forefinger (good overcomes evil), dream, as an expression of our unconscious, uncompromisingly pursues the realisation of our most secret wishes without considering rational and moral inhibitions, because it is driven by the principle of pleasure. My Alice is a realised dream.”
As I began watching the film with my wife, I commented aloud that this was supposedly considered somewhat of a horror film. My wife looked with wide eyes and nodded, telling me – her desensitized husband – that yes, this movie was absolutely horrifying. Švankmajer’s Wonderland is populated with animated skeletal and taxidermic animals. The White Rabbit frees himself from a display case by removing the nails from his paws and feeds on sawdust to keep his stuffed carcass inflated. The stop-motion animation which brings these creatures to life is some of the finest I’ve seen.
Alice’s (Kristýna Kohoutová) world is almost entirely indoors, surrounded by an impressive array of antiques. We see only two outdoor scenes, one of which is a fantasy and the other of which is barren of vegetation, and Wonderland is arranged with the understanding and interpretation of a young girl who lives her life almost completely within a single home, and a single room without windows at that. The animals we see are essentially dead, and we can presume that Alice has had very little experience with live ones. Except for the skeletons, everything in Wonderland is artificial. Of his approach to these aspects of the film, Švankmajer says,
“Animation is, so far, the only way of breathing life into inanimate things. Children’s games work with the same magic. This kind of magic is the point where childhood and animation intersect with each other… I like things that have passed through human hands. Things that have been touched. Such things are charged with emotions that are capable of revealing themselves under certain, extremely sensitive circumstances. I collect such objects, surround myself with them and in the end I cast such ‘fetishes’ in my films. That’s also the reason why I don’t like computer animation. Virtual reality doesn’t have a tactile dimension. Objects and figures created on a computer have no past.”
Švankmajer also gives Alice an appropriate mean streak, dispelling notions of sweet, innocent little girls. There can also be read in this a slight political metaphor, especially in the trial scene. The director had, of course, recollections of the Slánský trial from 1952, which was an orchestrated show-trial designed to quell a discordant faction of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia. Taking cues from and buckling to pressure from the Soviet Union, Rudolf Slánský, the party’s General Secretary, was put on trial with others who were chosen to serve as warnings to their respective groups of what might happen for their potential disobedience. This political farce is reflected, albeit only slightly, in Alice’s trial before the king and queen. Of this, Švankmajer says,
“An absurd court hearing with Alice (‘off with her head,’ shouted the Queen) obviously recalls the political trials of the 50s. Of course Alice, compared with the accused from that time, doesn’t respect the official script. It was just a minor analogy, I didn’t shoot the film because of that. But each imaginative work has got within itself, from its very essence, a subversive charge, because it knocks down the notion of lived-through reality as the only one possible.”
Alice is an entirely unique film which has the capacity to awe and unnerve. It’s certainly not designed or recommended for mainstream audiences, but for those looking for a macabre interpretation on a beloved children’s classic that can surprise and unsettle a viewer, if not exactly frighten them, Alice is most highly recommended. Children’s viewing, this is not.
In 1963 exploitation director Herschell Gordon Lewis released Blood Feast, considered the first “splatter” film, a shocking milestone in horror. Two years later he needed a second film for his double-bill release with Moonshine Mountain, and he acquired a half-completed Bill Rebane film called Terror at Halfday which Rebane had abandoned in 1961 due to depleted finances. Lewis finished the film, recasting different actors to continue character roles and slapping it together as quickly as possible. One actor which he re-hired from the Rebane portion had changed his appearance so dramatically that he was recast as the brother of the original character. Lewis put minimal effort into completing the film, and it shows. Boy, does it show.
Firstly, the title is an absolute misnomer. The term “a Go-Go” refers to unrestrained, erotic dancing, particularly to popular music, and while there’s a gratuitous dance scene, there is nothing unrestrained about this film. Monster A-Go Go (1965) is the nadir of such suggested dynamism. Instead we get an incoherent plot about a returning astronaut who is either replaced by or transformed into a tall skulking monster (Henry Hite).
Rebane’s story was muddy at best, but Lewis’s additions only served to confuse rather than clarify matters. The film mainly consists of static shots of people talking… and talking… and talking. We hear about the monster being captured and escaping, but never see it. The same is true for anything else that might be of interest. When we are shown the monster, the screen is often too dark to make out what’s happening. Likewise, sometimes the audio is so poorly rendered the listener must strain to hear what’s being said (and then they’ll wonder why they even bothered). In one scene sure to induce eye rolls, instead of an actual phone ringing we hear an actor voicing a quick “bbbrrrr” imitation before pretending to answer it.
Supposedly the guys at Mystery Science Theater 3000, who featured this film in 1993, considered this to officially be the worst film they ever did on the show. If you must see this film, I strongly suggest you do so with their company, as even with their colorful commentary Monster A-Go Go is a torturous test of endurance.
Considering the decades of supremacy which the Western genre held in American cinema, and itself being a genre which frequently employs blood, brutality and violence in its storytelling, it’s rather surprising that it hasn’t wedded itself to horror more often. There are a handful of examples, such as 1999’s Ravenous, but the relatively few others have been largely forgettable. Those who read my reviews regularly know that I’m an absolute sucker for mixing horror with period piece cinema, and that I’m fond of Westerns only made my anticipation of 2015’s Bone Tomahawk even more potent.
From first time director S. Craig Zahler, the film, despite its small budget of only $1.8 million, showcases a stellar cast, with Kurt Russell being pitch-perfect as Sheriff Franklin Hunt, Patrick Wilson as Arthur O’Dwyer, Matthew Fox as John Brooder, and Richard Jenkins stealing the show as the lovable, loyal, but not all mentally there, Chicory. He delivers memorable dialogue and helps to fill the space in otherwise quieter moments. These four characters ride out in search of abducted friends and loved ones, seeking the home of semi-mythical, cannibalistic troglodytes. Zahler was already a successful Western novelist and had sold many scripts which unfortunately went unproduced. Looking at what budget was available to him, Zahler wrote the script for Bone Tomahawk to specifically meet those financial ends, and the first draft of the script is the one he subsequently filmed.
And what a wonderful script it is, rich with witty, expressive dialogue that the actors, with Russell and Jenkins in particular, deliver with ease. The characters are well-realized and the film is very much a character study of these four men, although one also gets a sense for the town of Bright Hope from which the men leave in the beginning of the film. In this sense the movie sways more into the less plot-driven entries of the Western genre, and horror fans not accustomed or expecting this may come away feeling the film is slow. We get a sense for the characters and find ourselves rooting for them, for even the Fancy-Dan Indian-killer, Brooder, who as we unravel his past come to understand why he is the way he is. The men are united partly by a sense of duty, but also in their love for their women, whether those women are safe, deceased, or missing. In all their faces one can see the profound impact and dependency they’ve placed upon the females in their lives. Only Brooder is unattached, but his history gives reason for why he has chosen to remain so, to avoid the fear and pain his three compatriots display. As he tells Chicory, “Smart men don’t get married.”
Nevertheless, we want to see all these men succeed, or we at least want to see them go out in a “blaze of glory” like in many Westerns, but the horror elements lead us to believe that only death and pain awaits these heroes, and perhaps their deaths will be in vain. In this way the film creates tension. There is very little music, and the only music present gives very little reason to hope their journey will be successful. As a local Native American tells them in the beginning, they have no hope of overpowering these troglodytes even with their firearms – their mission is a futile one.
Yet Sheriff Hunt realizes early on their only chance of success lies in their wits, if they can keep them, when he tells O’Dwyer, “The only advantage we have over these cave dwellers is being smarter.” Thus the film becomes a crashing of worlds as the prehistoric troglodyte culture comes up against the periphery of American civilization, though by American standards the Western frontier was hardly civilization at all. By the turn of the century Native American populations were largely subdued beneath the boot-heel of white “progress,” and so these remote cannibals become the last victims of Manifest Destiny.
Bone Tomahawk recreates its era well, in language, sentiment, and location. The cinematography serves the story and evokes the Western expanse while its story takes nods from Western genre classics, most notably John Ford’s The Searchers (1956). Race relations, though focused upon, are nonetheless not softened for modern viewers, giving a further air of authenticity. When the film delves into horror, and the titular weapon does its work, it does so realistically and unflinchingly. I can only hope more filmmakers will take inspiration and infuse the macabre into other historical periods.
1926’s The Student of Prague, also known as The Man Who Cheated Life, is a remake of Hanns Heinz Ewers’ 1913 film, which starred Paul Wegener, was directed by Stellen Rye, and which had been inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s “William Wilson” (1839). The film is directed by Henrik Galeen, who wrote and co-directed 1915’s The Golem and co-wrote Wegener’s 1920 classic, wrote the screenplay for Nosferatu (1922) and Waxworks (1924), and wrote this screenplay as well. In 1928 he would go on to direct Alraune. In this film Galeen uses some of the tricks learned from Murnau in Nosferatu, such as Scapinelli’s disembodied shadow manipulating physical objects.
The story is of a Prague student named Balduin who signs a contract with the mysterious Scapinelli, promising him anything in Balduin’s room in exchange for 600,000 florins. To Balduin’s horror, Scapinelli chooses the young man’s reflection and commands the doppelganger to ruin the real Balduin’s reputation and good name. The movie follows the same story-line and structure as Stellen Rye’s original movie but with understandably more flair and sophistication as filmmaking had advanced considerably in the intervening years. Steve Haberman writes of Galeen’s style:
[He] incorporates a Romantic use of natural locations, cinematic subject shots and montage, studio-built landscapes of the mind, chiaroscuro lighting and camera-sensitive acting. Whereas Rye in 1913 staged scenes in a single static shot, like illustrations to a storybook, Galeen marshaled all of the arsenal of cinema to involve the audience emotionally in each moment. The result is one of the most moving and filmically complex works of the German screen. (Silent Screams: The History of the Silent Film, pg. 78)
This film once again reunites Conrad Veidt, who plays Balduin, and Werner Krauss, who plays Scapinelli, both of whom had appeared in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) and Waxworks (1924). Seeing Krauss commanding Veidt’s slow-moving double draws direct parallels to their earlier Caligari and somnambulist roles, both in their spirit and in their mannerisms. Veidt, in particular, carries the central role well and, as always, hands in a master-class performance. The sets are designed by Herman Warm, who created the exquisite Expressionist sets for Caligari, and though more realistic are perfectly suited to enhance both the mundane and fantastical elements of the film.
Unfortunately, as of this writing the only copy currently available is a poor VHS transfer from Alpha Video, and The Student of Prague is a film that deserves a good print. It’s a solid movie which effectively uses special effects to bring the haunting story to the screen.
2013’s The Den was a horror film that took a novel approach, being told entirely through web-feeds, computer and phone screens, and security cameras. 2014’s Unfriended, from director Levan Gabriadze and writer Nelson Greaves, embraces a similar scenario, taking place entirely on a teenage girl’s laptop screen as she uses social networking to talk with friends, all of whom become the target of a vengeful spirit haunting their computers. If that last sentence made you want to entirely avoid this film, I deeply sympathize. However, if you can overcome initial skepticism and endure shitty teenagers for around 80 minutes, Unfriended does certain story aspects incredibly well, making the film ultimately worth checking out.
Though The Den was first to adopt an exclusively technological approach in its storytelling, Unfriended actually succeeds in making the process more fluid and natural. It’s a film that understands and utilizes the technology to surprisingly effective degrees, and teen viewers especially are likely to have no problem following the busy laptop screen. Filmed in one house with each of the cast members located in different rooms, the actors acted out their roles in single long takes and were encouraged to improvise. The result is believable performances and some clever story elements and scenarios.
What Unfriended does best is address the devastating, unrelenting nature of cyber-bullying while also showcasing how people will be cordial when speaking face-to-face but vindictive and malicious when communicating through a social media platform, often in the same moment. The laptop screen we follow is Blaire’s, performed convincingly by Shelley Hennig, and we learn about her character through her digital footprint and those times in which she begins to type something before thinking better of it and deleting it. It is these elements which are the strongest.
Unfriended isn’t as strong when it comes to the horror elements, and some of the scares come off as a bit too tame and unintentionally goofy, but they’re forgivable hiccups for a film that rises above its simple subject matter and treats its story with more thought and insight than is generally expected from a teen horror film.
Horror’s “Worst” Films – The Horror of Party Beach (1964)
The film that billed itself as “The First Horror Monster Musical” was fifteen years later described by Stephen King as “… an abysmal wet fart of a picture” (Danse Macabre 164). Filmed in Connecticut, The Horror of Party Beach (1964) sought to cash in on the popularity of both the Roger Corman-style shockers and beach party movies by combining the two genres, complete with rock ‘n’ roll tunes, biker gangs, and “beach blanket boppers in their bikinis and ball-huggers.” When director Del Tenney passed away in 2013, the Stamford Advocatehad this to say: “Connecticut had its own Ed Wood, an actor, director and entrepreneur named Del Tenney who made a series of truly awful pictures in the Stamford area during the 1960s, the most notorious of which is Horror of Party Beach, a 1964 drive-in quickie about an atomic mutation that terrorizes Stamford (“party beach” was actually Shippan Point).”
The story tells of creatures created by dumped toxic waste who come ashore to kill beach-goers – young people dumb enough to continually return to the site of danger to display their bad 60s beach fashion, bad 60s beach dancing, and bad 60s innuendos. The monsters are a far cry from the Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954) and look stiff and made from papier-mâché. Tenney directs the film with the grace of someone who just discovered the features on their new camcorder as zooms are continuously and needlessly overused. Add to this an offensive mammy stereotype that makes it difficult to believe that The Civil Rights Act would be signed just a few months after the film’s release. Finally, we get some original music by The Del-Aires, although the drummer is conspicuously absent despite our clearly hearing percussion.
Nevertheless, even Stephen King was willing to grant it some credit for being ahead of its time (and not just by foreseeing the popularity of motorcycle movies). King sees some credibility, albeit unintentional, in the film’s pointing towards the impending danger in how we dispose of nuclear waste:
“The fact that they created a film which foresaw a problem that would become very real ten miles down the road was only an accident… but an accident, like Three Mile Island, that perhaps had to happen, sooner or later. I find it quite amusing that this grainy, low-budget rock ‘n’ roll horror picture arrived at ground zero with its Geiger counters clicking long before The China Syndrome was even a twinkle in anyone’s eye.”
Even a broken clock is right twice a day, as the saying goes, and it takes only a little seemingly insignificant spark to reveal spilled gasoline. But we don’t go to movies like The Horror of Party Beach to be stimulated intellectually – we’re looking for other parts of the body to be stimulated. While it’s goofy and tame today, it was sort of sexy stuff back then. For modern viewers, however, it at least still passes for tasteless entertainment.
Movie Review – The Return of the Living Dead (1985)
“Braaiins!” That one line is practically synonymous with cinematic zombies, and the idea that the undead are out to consume gray mater has inextricably entered the general public’s accepted mythos surrounding the creatures. Most of them would be surprised to learn, however, that this element did not originate with 1968’s Night of the Living Dead or any of the zombie films which followed in the 1970s, but was actually not introduced until 1985’s horror-comedy The Return of the Living Dead.
The film’s birth stems from interesting circumstances. After co-writing Night of the Living Dead, John Russo parted ways with George A. Romero and entered a legal battle over who retained the rights to the phrase “living dead.” Russo won the rights and in 1978 he published a novel entitled The Return of the Living Dead, which takes place directly after the 1968 film. Looking to adapt the story to the screen, Tobe Hooper (The Texas Chain Saw Massacre) was originally brought on to direct before aborting to make another project. Dan O’Bannon, who had penned the story for Alien (1979), had been hired to rework the script and when Hooper left he was offered the job, which he accepted on the condition that he could significantly alter the script so as to make it distinct from the world which Romero had created. He accomplished this by adding humor and dramatically changing the rules. The film would be O’Bannon’s feature film directorial debut.
O’Bannon distances himself from Romero while also paying homage to him, directly referencing Night of the Living Dead in the film. In the story, two medical supply warehouse workers, Frank (James Karen) and Freddy (Thom Mathews), accidentally release toxic gas from a barrel which houses a corpse. The fumes not only infect the men but also cause the dead to rise and hunger for brains in order to alleviate their pain. Meanwhile, Freddy’s friends – characters who are a mix of post-punk and new wave sensibilities – hang out in a nearby cemetery waiting for him to get out, and are in the thick of things when the corpses start crawling from their graves.
The zombies in this film are not mindless. They talk, problem solve, and set traps for victims. They are aggressive, fast, and unrelenting. Each attempt to destroy them seems to only make them stronger, and each effort to solve the problem only exacerbates the chaos. Considering certain elements of the film, this could easily be read as a satire on the nuclear arms race and the Cold War, as the war-head solutions of the rival nations are perhaps more dangerous than the conflicts which initially spawn their seeming necessity. Our supposed protectors may very well prove to be our greatest threats. The film’s cynical and nihilistic view of the military would support such a reading.
The Return of the Living Dead is often referred to as the “punk-rock zombie” film, and it’s easy to see why. O’Bannon leaves 1968 far behind in terms of style, bringing zombies and their victims firmly into the 1980s. Unlike many other films from the era, the soundtrack of punk and deathrock bands still holds up. The young adults, with obnoxious names like Trash (Linnea Quigley) and Suicide (Mark Venturini), are disenfranchised and dissatisfied with what the world has to offer, feeling misunderstood and unappreciated. As Suicide says of his leather and chains attire: “You think this is a fuckin’ costume? This is a way of life.” They mention several times that they’re afraid of being shot by the cops. But for all their outward appearance of rebellion these punks are fairly tame and feel misunderstood by society, in a manner defying their earlier cinematic depictions as malicious anarchists. When Scuz (Brian Peck) suggests they wait for Freddy in the cemetery, Spider (Miguel Núñez) asks, “What do you want to do, Scuz, turn over gravestones?” To which he replies, “No, I just want to look around the graveyard – I never seen one before.” When in the graveyard they party, and we get that famous gravestone striptease from the delicious Linnea Quigley, but they do no damage to the graveyard. Later, when Spider is trying to flee the zombies and find refuge in one of the buildings, he’s asked by someone inside if he’s on PCP. “Nobody’s on any drugs, man!” he calls back truthfully, “Just let us in!” The Return of the Living Dead is certainly a punk-rock zombie movie, but it’s made in an era when the punk had become mundane and normal, and had lost its former edge. The following year’s Class of Nuke ‘Em High (1986) derives much of its humor from this very fact. These punks act out because they don’t feel like they belong in society, or that their lifespans are destined to be short due to nuclear war, toxic waste, or pollution – Trash’s obsession with death likely stems from this – and O’Bannon’s script offers nothing to quell these fears.
Yet in the end, the punks are largely peripheral characters. The majority of the story focuses on two middle-aged protagonists: Clu Gulager as Burt Wilson, the owner of the medical supply business, and Don Calfa as Ernie Kaltenbrunner, a mortician who the film subtly suggests is a former Nazi (O’Bannon maintains that naming these two heroes Burt and Ernie was entirely coincidental and had nothing to do with the Sesame Street muppets). Burt and Ernie try their best to cope with the situation and bring it to a satisfactory end. Their characters are well-written – Ernie reacts realistically to Burt’s initial reluctance to reveal the gravity of their quagmire and Burt is quick to try to get medical help for his employees when he finds out they’re sick, the consequences be damned. Together the two characters anchor the increasing frenzy around them and allow for level-headed, experienced personalities to confront the undead – the other characters merely react while these two try to be proactive against them, perhaps giving due respect to a generation that fought against fascism and communism with a can-do attitude, even by acknowledging the dangerous byproducts of that active zeal. For all the mohawks and safety pins, in a film touted as a punk-rock movie it’s these older men who support the main narrative. They’re like the teens from the 1950s monster movies all grown up.
The Return of the Living Dead boasts some good creature effects, particularly what has become known as the “Tarman” zombie. Additionally, the cast is strong, and many will certainly recognize many of the actors from other horror films which were released around the same time. James Karen and Thom Mathews especially give sympathetic performances as they succumb to the necrotic effects of the toxins. All of these elements – the music, the style, the directing, the acting, and the smartly humorous script – make for a film that still has the power to entertain. It retains its youthful energy and gives viewers a combination of mild exploitation coupled with a grounded maturity. It’s still punk-rock, but the fogies have come to the jam session to class the joint up a bit, and the film is better for it.
The Return of the Living Dead is available on Blu-ray.
Cinema, as an entertainment medium, is a balance between storytelling and visuals. Some movies strike a harmonious balance while others, particularly genre films, tend to lean towards one aspect or the other, often to the movie’s detriment. Horror movies, in particular, not always but generally rely more upon the images on the screen than upon the strength of the story being told. However, there are some movies where the visuals are so captivating that the story, present though muddled into incoherence, becomes almost unnecessary. A Page of Madness (1926), directed by Japanese filmmaker Teinosuke Kinugasa, is such a film.
It is perhaps a small miracle that we still have it. Most of Japan’s silent films are lost forever. Already accustomed to moving pictures via the tradition of Magic Lantern shows, the country’s foray into cinema began in 1897, and the following year they were making ghost movies. Heavily influenced by traditional theater, cinemas began incorporating benshis who became integral parts of the filmmaking industry. These performers, following a rich tradition of oral storytelling, would narrate the silent films, often accompanied by music, spouting the dialogue of characters, explaining scenes, or sometimes even informing the audience of scenes that were missing. They gave viewers an immersive peek into the filmmaking process. With the rise of talkies, the benshi’s place quickly waned. Yet they alone would not disappear. The early twentieth century was not kind to film – almost no one saw the merit in preserving it, and the nitrate film quickly decayed, particularly in Japan’s humid climate. The earthquake of 1923 sent many more movies into the nether, but perhaps no eater of films was as voracious as the U.S. bombers that rained fire and destruction upon Tokyo in World War II.
Originally released in 1926, the movie was lost until Kinugasa found it in his storehouse in 1971. The movie was unlike anything Japan was producing at the time. Movies in that era were played in one of two types of the theaters: ones that played foreign films and ones that played domestic films, which were generally viewed as inferior. Kinugasa took inspiration from outside Japan, particularly among the French and German Expressionist directors, and A Page was a rare domestic product which played in Japan’s foreign theaters.
It was a collaborative effort of talented writers and artists. Yasunari Kawabata, who would win the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1968, wrote the original story, which would be elaborated upon by Kinugasa and others. Kinugasa then worked with a group of avant-garde performers known as the School of New Perceptions (Shinkankaku-ha), who, to save money, often slept on set over the course of the month-long filming. The star of the movie, Masao Inoue, forwent pay in order to support its making.
The print today is missing nearly a third of its original state, and the lack of inter-titles makes the story confusing at times. The famous benshi Musei Tokugawa narrated the film at its premiere, but without this element to guide modern viewers some scenes are confusing, or their place within the timeline uncertain. The viewer is left guessing and trying to piece together images like a puzzle which we know is missing pieces. Nevertheless, a story can be salvaged: A man’s wife is placed into a mental asylum after, we can guess from various images (a crying baby in a drain, etc.), she tried to drown a baby. He takes a job as the asylum’s janitor, not revealing his identity, to stay near her, though it appears she is unable to recognize him through her hallucinations. One day his daughter and son arrive to visit their mother, seemingly surprised to see their father there, and we can gather that the daughter is there to announce to her mother her recent engagement. At some point the man has an argument with his daughter which compels him to hatch an escape for his wife, but things don’t go as planned. It’s unclear if the final third of the movie is a representation of the man’s own sanity slipping, or his realization of the repercussions that his actions may cause, though this viewer takes it to be the latter.
Nevertheless, the story is largely a mystery, but it is also beside the point. It’s the visuals, which continually place the viewer in the skewed perspective of insanity, that make the movie mesmerizing, and the seeming incoherence of the story only serves to emphasize this aspect. A Page of Madness is a combination of influences, most notably the German Expressionist The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) by Robert Weine, which dealt with an asylum and the perceptions of madness, and Abel Gance’s experimental 1915 French film La Folie du Docteur Tube, which used distorting lenses to simulate people being high after inhaling a white powder.
A Page begins like a fever dream, with images of an elegant dancing woman in a club intercut with a rainstorm and drums and brass instruments. Gradually the viewer realizes that the music and elegant setting is in the head of a tattered dancing girl in an asylum, played by the captivatingly beautiful Eiko Minami. Though the film is silent, the images and rapid rhythmic editing make the viewer disorientated and think that they too can hear the drums. From there the movie slides back and forth between sobriety and unhinged indulgence, depending on whose eyes the lens is peering through. It’s an experience that, though the viewer is not quite sure what they saw or how to explain it, will linger.
English filmmaker Pete Walker, known for his tasteless horror and sexploitation movies during the late 1960s and 1970s, which purposefully pushed the nerves of Tory conservatives, took as his last feature film project a rather tame but historically notable affair. 1983’s House of the Long Shadows, based on the 1913 novel Seven Keys to Baldpate by Earl Derr Biggers and adapted as a screenplay by Michael Armstrong, is an Old Dark House tale that would be conventionally boring if not for the presence of three horror titans – Vincent Price, Peter Cushing, and Christopher Lee – along with genre veteran John Carradine, in the only film in which all men share the screen. The pedigrees of these actors are legendary, with Price having formed the centerpiece of William Castle’s movies, Roger Corman’s Poe adaptations, and many of AIP’s most successful outings, and Cushing and Lee being the consummate faces of Britain’s Hammer and Amicus films. Indeed, these three men were the very faces of horror during the 1960s until the genre took a different turn in the early 1970s.
House of the Long Shadows fits well in the traditions of both Hammer and Amicus, and thus feels like a loving, intentional throwback to earlier times, forsaking the teen-centered slashers that were then in their heyday. The actors are terrific in their roles, each getting to play a character that fits well with their acting styles and on-screen personas. Price especially chews the scenery with his loquacious dialogue while Cushing is sympathetic as a nervous, guilt-ridden drunkard. Lee, of course, is at turns perfectly regal and sinister. Carradine is also fine, though he is given less to do. Also present is one of Walker’s favorites in their last film together, Sheila Keith.
These are reasons alone to see this film, however, they’re also the only thing likely to keep one’s attention. The build-up to the story is languorous, bordering on tedious, and the lead performance by Dezi Arnaz, Jr. leaves a lot to be desired (and makes me imagine what a young Tom Hanks might have done with the role). His co-star, Julie Peasgood, fairs only slightly better. When all four veteran actors are finally on screen the movie begins to move along smoothly, but the ending – and some plot elements – becomes needlessly convoluted. Despite Walker’s reputation, the filming here is fairly chaste, yet several times the screen was so dark I couldn’t make out what was happening.
This is far from the best film any of these men have been in, but it’s a workable sendoff to bookend their long, storied careers as the biggest names in horror – this is also the last film that Cushing and Lee would appear in together. For those who truly appreciate what seeing these men together means, I must recommend this film; for those who could care less, there’s not much here to see. However, I for one thought that hearing Price cattily call Lee a “bitch” near the end was worth the long slog to get there.