Cleansing the doors of cinematic perception since 2006, or earlater

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Shat on the Altar: HORROR AT 37,000 FEET, DEVIL'S RAIN

William Shatner, the Hawksian organizer of men in a far-flung future without currency, determined player of crisis-bound priests, rock-like teachers and an Arizona sheriff named 'Dances with Tarantulas.' In the following two films you will see him drink from a flask on frozen airplanes, and bare his chest to preserve a book and drop and lose a protective amulet the minute a Borgesian glimmer spell rolls its 20 sided serpent die his way... He's a relic from when hunky sci-fi guys were brainy, had resonant voices and a certain catlike nimbleness. A tad macho and impulsive, but able to draw on cooler minds to guide him. Shatner is his name. He never lived with common people, but common people are all we have now. Bit in the late 60s-early 70s common people didn't exist. We kids couldn't have been happier about it - Bop Bop! 


I know there are those hardcore Trekkies who are annoyed by Shatner's nimble macho fey arrogance as Kirk, who prefer the dry baldness of Patrick Stewart. They probably also hate There will be Blood and W.C. Fields. I am not them. Stewart can be fun but his captain is a bore. Maybe it was growing up watching Trek with my dad in syndication as a wee nipper. But to me Shatner can do no wrong. Even his terrible toupee is all right with me. Always just a bit hammier than called for, his expressive resonant voice... his unique... pauses...followedby... rapidcascades.... ofwords, have brought decades of amusement to a beleaguered nation. (See: Sex, Drugs, and Quantum Existentialism).

And when starring in dopey films like the ones included here, or artsy experiments like Incubus, he went for broke, lugging Shakespeare-style oratory into the rarefied sphere of cowboys-vs.-Satanists, ancient druid altars 37,000 Feet in the air, with only someone blowing air up a tube snaked under a puddle of hellish light green slime for a monster. And damnit he almost made it work.

HORROR AT 37,000 FEET
1973 - TVM / CBS
**1/2
In order to earn the prime time slot, a 70s TV movie had to borrow from at least three cinematic themes then in vogue, so here we get: 1) the ancient curse attached to an ancient artifact, i.e. devils, possession, human sacrifice; 2) the social commentary, i.e. Salem witch trials, Monsters of Maple Street; 3) the ensemble disaster movie, i.e. Airport (a welcome form of actor equity: faded 30s-50s stars, aging child actors, nearly-ran and upcoming starlets, and granite-jawed authority figures like Christopher Plummer or David Jansen or Chuck Conners, could all meet as strangers, get picked off and the survivors end as bonded heroes--see also: Day of the Animals). Here these types board a jumbo jet luxury cargo-passenger "airplane" hauling a massively heavy Celtic altar exhumed from its sacred grove in Ireland, and an innocent dog. And the downstairs storage freezes --the dog is frozen solid! Why did we need to go through that, so the studio could show off it's frozen dog prop? And then the plane become suspended at 37,000 feet, trapped in a crossfire of wind tunnels, providing an ingenious explanation of why the plane interiors never once give the impression of movement, or engine roar, or being anything but a three-wall set. Luckily the stewardesses all wear hot white go-go boots. Shat rocks some writerly glasses and a dry-scalp toupee far more natural than usual. That helps.


I ain't complaining though, I love a kind of zero point surreal experience where some smoke wafting up from a hole in the carpet and the occasional Val Lewtonian shadow substitutes for any kind of monster or concrete threat (which is great, since the whole point of the 'mounting menace' is to keep you glued through the commercials and then remind you what's been going on when you come back). The strange fascination with sub-zero temperatures on a plane (just touching the door makes pilot Chuck Connors' whole arm go numb) goes well with the array of locked-in ensemble types waiting for their chance at a terse "Why doesn't somebody do something??!" scene or two, all interacting with the reserved unrehearsed confusion of an off-off-Broadway one-act drama table read directed by Rod Serling's slow-witted nephew after too a night of too many cherries in his Manhattan cocktails. A nephew who, incidentally, has never actually flew. And who seems to think stewardesses would confiscate a first-class passenger's flask, and not bring him a sip of champagne.


The sparse passengers include: the baby-voiced Mrs. Pinder (Tammy Grimes), a wild-eyed single lady with straight dirty blonde hair and aversion to fire (she knows all about the stone's colorful human sacrifice-enriched past and who makes the most out of every evil syllable of dialogue); her dog, named Damien, stored below by the altar and clearly given no ketamine, the swines; Chuck Connors as the square-jawed pilot; Shatner the boozy priest who lost his faith (there's always one); Lynn Loring his Mia Farrow-ish wife; Russell "The Professor-and" Johnson; Paul Winfield the nattily-dressed physician whose dogmatic rationalism is put to the test; Buddy Ebsen a cranky millionaire always ready with a homespun witticism. The only real sore spot is Will Hutchins as a spaghetti western B-cowboy with a terrible towhead mop top wig and rodeo shirt and a habit of shouting all his lines. Yeesh! His trying to hit on one of the girls is the most terrifying thing in the movie. Thank 'god' for Mrs. Pinder and her crazy eyes and straight dirt blonde hair, and the Shatner, the granite jaw of Connors, and of course, the Shat, drunk and sneering at his fellow passenger's atheist-in-a-foxhole panic, but then snapping to life when the other passengers contemplate child sacrifice after first trying to pacify the evil spirit with the kid's doll as effigy. As Mrs. Pinder says, it just pisses the evil one off by trying to trick him; he wants the blood of one of his ancestors, the psychic girl (Jane Merrow) whose rich architect husband (Roy Thinnes) brought the altar as a souvenir from her ancestral home, albeit against her wishes. The very fact a cargo plane is flying passengers as well as an 11,000 pound altar seems very odd. Does this kind of flight even exist? Seems like that altar should be shipped by a freighter. But hey, it saves on passenger manifests (i.e. no extras needed) and allows more room for the camera and later, the possible child sacrifice fire set up in the rear by the now frigid cargo hold. will the terrified passengers commit the ultimate transgression (child sacrifice) or be turned into green puddles before the dawn can come up in time to save them? But first a word from Alpo.


Horror at 37,000 Feet moves pretty fast without the commercials, and fans of Italian horror can luxuriate in the colorful red lights of the cockpit and everyone can appreciate the wild-eyed hysteria with which Loring rises to the occasion, furiously cutting off Jane Merrow's hair to wrap in the child's doll and wrapping it up in her clothes. "And some of your fingernails," she raves, as if possessed. When that doesn't work, it's time to actually sacrifice the child! Great hammy stuff with Shatner wobbling around drunk and all the actors wondering what do in this under-rehearsed closed-in space to 'portray' their types. Shatner out matches Buddy Ebsen in the finger bending department. "Here, take another pain killer,' says the co-pilot to Connors, "no pint in saving them." Shat  realizes he can terrify Mrs. Pinder by waving his Zippo lighter in her face. "Fire! To burn witches!" Yikes! He's  not very PC --he even sneers at people who "believe jimson weed will make them immortal!" Dude, no one who does Jimson weed would ever think that, it would be quite the opposite. Take it from an old Jimson weed-head. But Shat should know, having counseled the original teen 'mixed bag' drug addict that same year in Go Ask Alice.

Those of us who were around in the 70s and remember when this first aired are far less likely to care about all this stupidity, or that the film can no longer hide its poverty in an analog cathode ray blur. But those of us who were kids at the time (I was seven) those days when everyone watched the same shows all the time for there were only three channels and no VHS, this is as precious a memento as a family album. Maybe more so. For us, then, this DVD is a must. If only Satan's School for Girls or Death at Love House would one day get the same respectful remastering treatment. May Cheesy Flix die a thousand deaths for its profaning the profane and blurring the Kate Jackson! Still, better than nothing. Though I hear 'nothing' is getting better all the time.
-----------

THE DEVIL'S RAIN
1975 - dir. Robert Fuest
**1/2
I've seen hellfire and I've seen face-melting rain. I've seen green puddles with air bubbling up through them, and it wasn't impressive, even via nostalgia's glowing tolerance. But if you were a kid in the 70s, The Devil's Rain falls into the unholy and powerful relic category of stuff unseen but nonstop dreamt of. Its TV spots were an inescapable part of local prime time TV in 1975. I was eight and gleefully spooked by the melting faces. I had a bizarre childhood dream about them, and even now there's a lingering prepubescent  jouissance associated with imagining acid rain hitting me and my coven and melting us like candle wax. Even back then we'd heard Devil's Rain was lousy, but my dream was amazing, and if I wasn't so savvy about Satanic cinema even at eight years-old, and it was the 80s instead of the 70s, and a careerist child psychologist heard my dream, he'd probably think I was abducted by Satanists and arrest my parents and teachers. But in the 70s it was anybody's game, a whole Middle America demographic gone to the devil with touchy feely sharing: cocktails, bridge, Jaycees, smoking on planes, turtleneck and medallion conclaves of wife-swappers, communes and encounter groups, all-night block parties leading into softball breakfast picnics of still-drunk adults and kids high on their very first sunrise and sleep deprivation. It was grand indeed, total freedom, and even the devils were cool. And church was just an excuse to act rambunctious doing my devil impersonations, followed by gleeful hearing of plots of devil films by those who were allowed to see them, or even just heard about them from an older sibling.

That sub-sexual supernatural power of not being able to see a film like Devil's Rain as a kid is of course a substantial amount of the appeal for me and my Generation X comrades, the last group who experienced the high of unavailability, of titles being forever out of reach and so projected upon with our most lurid imagination. Just seeing the TV commercial for an R-rated horror movie was enough to give us sexy nightmares and make the world seem full of strange telekinetic magic and unimaginable 'adult' terror. Our constant imagining created a parallel subconscious repository so powerful it later spilled over into our adult reality, dragging us by our budding sexual drives towards a dreaded obsession that finally led to the 'satanic panic' witch hunts of the 1980s and the rise of nervous overprotective brand parenting we're still hurting our children and ourselves with today.

Turns out, in real life, seeing it now on DVD as an adult, I realize the film is too strange, too 'off' and too slow to be scary, but with its daytime afternoon Satanic ceremonies in the Arizona desert, the boarded up church in the middle of a nowhere ghost town, the upside down pentagram stained glass window, the ultimate futile weakness of Shatner's character in the face of Borgnine's magic, it all generates a collective creepiness, as does the idea of looking for your parents and finding only life-size animated black-eyed wax effigies urging you to bring them 'the book'.






Earnest Borgnine is an odd choice for the head Satanist, but Shatner is great as the cowboy whose parents are sucked into the coven, which has taken over the whole ghost town. Meanwhile Joan Prather is psychic for no good reason except to allow her to 'see' the flashback (via looking into coven member John Travolta's dead black eyes) and to provide an interesting scene where she performs an EKG for a crowd of psychology students while Dr. Eddie Albert explains that ESP is very real and he's in the process of discovering what brainwave controls it. Tom Skerritt is her husband and eventually wrests the lead away from Shatner like Sylvia Miles in Psycho. 


I love lots of things about this screwy picture, from the ESP angle right down to the way Scientology and plastic surgery are subtextually critiqued by the sight of a ceremonial robe-clad very young John Travolta's face melting in the rain. Any film that gives Hieronymus Bosch and Anton LaVey screen credit deserves some halting respect. My only complaint is the unnecessary, depressing final 'twist' so I try to remember to stop watching beforehand, like somewhere during the last 20 minutes which is all just rain and melting. I still like it better than Fuest's higher praised work, like Dr. Phibes. Mighty Shat makes shit shows like this soar, son! Drink to that... or be damned like a black Cadillac chasing James Brolin through the dusty desert... with no driver!! Now that's a movie, even if it ain't got no Shat screaming on the Satanic altar.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...