Erich Kuersten's unhinged film criticism. Constantly in flux, tuned in, a day late and a dollars short ('where it counts')

Thursday, August 06, 2015

Analog Hacks, Italian-disguised-as-American-Style: GHOSTHOUSE & WITCHERY (aka LA CASA III and VI) Double Feature



Saw AVENGERS: AGE OF ULTRON or 'Robots smashing Robots in endless pixelated scrimmage II." Was it entertaining? Sure, but also spectacularly uninvolving.  Was there ever a time when we'd collectively dread the sight of a flashing knife going into a stomach, dread it the same blood-chill, heart in the throat way we get now only when thinking we're at the tippy-top of a roller coaster? Hurling a spear or waving a sword took at least some muscle or dexterity back then, and both killer and victim were pressed right up against one another. Watching our amped-up immortal superheroes battle Ultron and his many robot soldiers, everyone armored up and invulnerable--is to feel the same kind of strange 'watching someone else play a video game' boredom I first noticed at the first MATRIX sequel. No one can really die, or really get hurt, unless they're machines, so all investment is lost, like being a teenager who plays the same video game every day after school, repeating levels 1, 2, 3, 4, trying to climb to the next, but each lower level is now down to a science, not a move wasted, each opponent conquered in a few 'hack' moves practiced daily. We forgot there's no point to winning, and it's no longer fun, it's as compulsive as a rat pressing a lever over and over, all day and night, a lever that only once, long ago, dispensed a single unforgettable treat.

Low-investment pixel-bashing is not a problem in the 80s, though, especially not in the disreputable world of exploitation, and especially not in in Italy, and even less when those Italians are hiding who they are and trying to seem American. Then you're about as far from ULTRON's problem as it's possible to get.

So far away, in fact, they're practically all the way around again.



I didn't come here to pixel-bash, though, I came to make a ridiculous claim, that Scream Factory's new GHOSTHOUSE / WITCHERY Blu-ray double feature is better than ULTRON. By virtue of its analog tactile 'hurt'-iness, pre-CGI Italian 80s horror goes deeper than pouffy hair and rotary phones might suggest. These films go back to the innocent time when we were still too young to not be horrified at the sight of intestines being pulled out of a screaming Tom Savini.  As a result, every slow walk through a darkened hallway was fraught with a gut-tingle anxiety. We needed to be able to sneer at the fakeness of the gore even as we needed to look away.

It's important to note, though, that by the late 80s, no one cared about these kinds of films, except completist video stores and indiscriminate late night cable programmers, and cable being where most kids saw them, kids too young to know better. They may have been scared or at least bemused, and now they're older and these films remind them of being young, scared or bemused. I admit I would have felt that these sorts of movies were irredeemably vile back in the late 80s. But now I'm a fan, and anyway maestro di Mario Bava himself invented the formula long before even Jason's mom was the killer. No matter what kind of slasher fan you were or weren't back then you now have to appreciate the Italians' dogged attention to high weird style, and even if we never saw these films back in the day they have become cherished nostalgia and leave only a vaguely nauseated after-taste when their nasty Italian Inquisitional sadism still surprises.

By us I mean me, of course. I hadn't seen either of these ever before getting this disc... and I blame society. But now I'm experiencing nostalgia anyway, just because of the look, the music, the vibe, the pre-CGI analog, and the way time numbs all wounds, well almost. Either way revisiting these monstrosities now on Blu-ray is a unique experience, somewhere along the line between what's known in academic circles as 'body horror' and the so-bad-it's-good 'did a child write the script?' ineptitude. American actors lured overseas by the promise of any work included Linda Blair and David Hasselhof. What they find are windswept shores... in New England. Sometimes you have to leave the States to find what State you're back in.

There's no real connection between the two films on this disc, except that they both rode the sequel train in Italy by pretending to be sequels to Sam Raimi's EVIL DEAD movies, there called LA CASA ("the House"). I guess that worked because they both have a house where evil comes in from other dimensions; both are produced by the "Sadist's Ed Wood", Joe D'Amato (under various 'American' pseudonyms); both glow with a quaint air of cheap ambivalence; both conveu a certain ominous feeling the Italians do better than anyone, even if they're just imitating Fulci's imitations of American imitations of Argento's imitations of Bava's imitation, or imitating Sean Cunningham's imitation of John Carpenter.

And the cheaper the better, for this was also before HD video, and they were shot on film, and they were Italian and so had to go for drive-in dream logic distance. And considering the brutality and lax safety regulations on a wild and wooly Italian set, the casual attitude towards sadism that only childhood spent hearing about and possibly enacting 'the Passion' could engender, that they're still at all endearing speaks to the healing-all-wounds effect created in a time when torture porn was not yet a genre or even a phrase. Shit like this was ideal for the post-midnight 'last' film on the drive-in bill after something like NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET IV or WAXWORKS before coming straight to video... then to complete obscurity... gone and unmissed, unwanted for over two decades, But now, restored on Blu-ray in a double set from Shout... GHOSTHOUSE and WITCHERY demand your agog disbelief! 

 GHOSTHOUSE 
"La Casa III" (1988)
Dir Umberto Lenzi (As Humphrey Humbert)
*1/2

"Oh Paul... I saw death..."

Teenagers in 80s Italian films will be American kids from the 70s, so in 1988 they're still fiddling with ham radios, and picking up a signal of someone screaming for help. Naturally the ham radio enthusiasts--a young couple-- triangulate the signal so they can come to the rescue only a few scant days later! Said message is coming from a deserted house where long ago an evil kid--in league with her evil singing clown doll--killed her parents. Now her ghost is still down in the basement, killing up anyone who ventures therein, including a diverse roster of good-natured squatter punks, who team up with our ham radio couple to hang around the house like a hybrid SUBURBIA squat and Scooby gang abandoned mine.

The pale girl ghost evokes Melissa Graps in KILL BABY KILL vibe (who evokes the girl in the "Toby Dammit" section of SPIRITS OF THE DEAD) but has far less flair. Along the way, a fat token black kid hitchhikes, uses a corpse hand puppet for shocks and pick-pocketing (thus undoing any diversity props) and then shows up at the house later for no conceivable reason and meets his predictable fate --were the Italians trying to adopt the half-assed equal opportunity color-blind casting so many horror movies equate with having a cardboard African American stereotype thrown to the ghouls like an appetizer? Later poor John Saxon shows up to try and coax the kids to move on, but apparently squatting is legal in America. Who knew?

While there's no sense of real menace, murders are accruing in the basement, set to the creepy clown song and the girl's "evil" stare; the kids squatting there, or hanging around outside near their camper all wonder what to do. I mean, they couldn't just leave... right? This isn't Bunuel's EXTERMINATING ANGEL, and yet... it never occurs to them to even walk next door. Considering they're all trespassing on private property. And have a camper, which is mobile... they could split any time. But the cops who investigate the corpses don't even suggest that maybe trespassing on private property where a killer is decimating your ranks isn't a legal, safe and community-oriented way to spend one's weekend.

Then there's the dubbing: Considering everyone is dubbed you'd think they could get at least good actors for the voices--they're usually just as cheap as bad ones - but the voices  rival the cast of TROLL 2 as far as gleefully flat amateurish performances- everything sounds like a semi-illiterate seventh grader doing a cold read at a junior high school audition, while his lacrosse buddies snicker in the hallway.

One quibble, and this problem affect other Italian films from the period too, the clarity of the HD Blu-ray image drains the lighting of nuanced color (if there was any) so we can see the thin color differentiation where the pancake make up line is around the base of their necks and the thin brush stroke marks of every application. The result is the impression the entire cast has been living in a basement for the past decade, or England. Is this a gambit to make Italian actors look more Nordic, along with their general obsession with red hair, the latter resulting in one little legitimate redhead, Satanic, snaggle-toothed moppet, Nicoletta Elmi, appearing in a slew of horror films in the late 70s-early 80s - and dozens of other clearly swarthy actors with terrible red hair dye (as in the grotesque McBain family wiped out by Fonda in ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST). Either way the cumulative effect is... demoralizing.

But there's joy in GHOSTHOUSE's many little life-affirming accidental Brechtian details and mistakes: the way the shot of a hand swinging a hammer down on a guy's forehead lasts just a lazy frame too long, so we see the hammer slow to a stop an inch from the victim's forehead before the quick cut to said hammer buried in his suddenly thicker and darker-hued forehead. Undoubtedly the director presumed the editor would cut those frames out--a sensible assumption--not counting I guess on the sometimes shocking errors left in by many Italian editors (even on some Argento films!). Hey, now all these things are why we might one day see this piece of..... film.. again. 

And so as GHOSTHOUSE lumbers towards its required 90-95 minute mark, all the "best kills" come tumbling out: one kid drowns in a lake of cream of wheat brought to a boil surrounded by skulls-below the basement floorboards, a cheap great din of 80s SUSPIRIA-ism howls in the bones of the soundtrack; the little sister is cut in half at the waist - another by a fan blade - blood comes out of the sink. The clown doll is too similar to the one in POLTERGEIST and the scenes of tombs recall all the touchstones of the Fulci and Argento canons (in the best of worst ways); for some reason there's a ghost doberman like in FACE OF MARBLE, probably because of THE OMEN. Who knows? It's crap, it's priceless... it's affordable. 


WITCHERY 
"La Casa IV" (1988) Dir Fabrizio Laurenti (as Martin Newlin)
*


WITCHERY is both much worse that GHOSTHOUSE as far as unrealistic yet nauseating gore scenes, but better as far as cast, with several American names and a more understandable reason for hanging around LA CASA as your fellow travelers are picked off (they're stranded on an island). Linda Blair is a pregnant lady looking to buy or sell a former hotel, its gray shingles flapping in the ocean wind. Catherine Hickland plays a virgin grad student squatting there while writing her term paper on the 'witch light' that occasionally appears out of the window. Hickland's then-real life husband David Hasselhof plays her sexually frustrated boyfriend/photographer who keeps pressuring her to have sex but her grimoire book says "that virginity can be a virtue and not the barrier that separates innocence from knowledge." He can't argue with that, though he knows it's really a fear of penetration, and he can't argue with that either.

I've never seen Hickland before but I like her; she has a great slurred drowsy way with a line, like she spent the whole shoot on Valium, and who could blame her? Last her imdb.com page knew she was working as a hypnotist, which makes perfect sense as her mellow, sultry delivery and drowsy way with dialogue makes her a natural, which I mean as a compliment. And as in the top shot, she's not afraid to show her dismay at the shitshow project she's involved in, and though we feel for the horny Hasselhof, he's a bit like the kids who could just leave but won't in GHOSTHOUSE. Dost he not know how Hof he art!?

If only we stayed with this pair the film might not be such a drag, and if it cut most of its grotesque torture scenes it might even be watchable. As it is, WITCHERY is brilliantly summarized in Leonard Maltin's Film Guide as "uncomfortable." I don't mind a certain level of gross-outs, but the victims here get sucked into some kind of hell dimension, consisting of what looks like a row of horse stalls in an old barn that's been converted into a haunted house by doing... exactly... nothing to it, not even removing the straw. But who needs webs and chains when there's a mocking old lady and Pagan looking dude ("Satan") who seemingly stepped straight out of a Bruegel painting,. reaching out through the stall window slots as victims try to pass by.  Once they grab the victims, the fake torture begins. We learn that each victim stranded on the island is there for a special reason: zey are needed for a stern German witch's spell--each an invocation of one of the seven deadly sins, or something: For the pregnant Linda Blair the Bruegel painting old lady and Satan duo fight over and then eat a premature infant; the bossy Jewish mother real estate mogul gets her nails broken off, her lips sewn together and hung upside down in the chimney with care and so can't yell for help when they start a fire right under her hanging head; Hickland is afraid of sex and a virgin so--in the most vile sequence--gets raped by a sickly youth with his own lips sewn shut, while the Bruegel twins hold her down -- Yeccch!! When the nympho real estate girl starts seducing the Matthew Broderick-ish dweeb real estate guy in a room with a big mounted swordfish on the wall, you start to gird your misogyny-dar loins, but instead they're thrown into the dimension of fire. Crucified in ways Eli Roth might like, though thank god their suffering is nowhere near as well acted as it might be. But also lacking is the kinky equilibrium of Clive Barker, who would be too outrageous and creative to let the nausea sink in. What is real and what illusion? In the Barkerverse you understood both things as real while here both seem false. In Barker they were funny, here they're just 'uncomfortable.'

All that unpleasantness, plus Hildegard Knef as the modern-era witch lady--most unseemly with super pale make-up over aging skin offset cruelly by tacky bright red lipstick and an abrasive Germanic manner-- made me ill for days--some things are never meant for HD. Her aged skin with that bright white make-up and the garish horror of her orange lipstick ---these are the real horrors of WITCHEY.  And while I never find fault with Shout's impeccable transfers sometimes they do err on the side of washed-out, missing chances to go for bold or warmer colors in the interest of being as true to the source material as they can, regardless of its effect on my sensitive gorge.

But for all that, WITCHERY is fascinating --not least because the baffling ignorance of the script in how American real estate works, the yuppie-esque sales bro says: "I think in about a year you'll be living here rent free." Does anyone even know what they're talking about here? Who invests and buys a place and then pays rent on something they bought and then 'earns' freedom from rent altogether? If Italian real estate works like that, the country would go broke in a matter of hours.

Much more so than GHOSTHOUSE though, WITCHERY has a certain inexorable tick-tockality and foreboding sense of eerie isolation (though the gray shingle-based American bland architecture is dispiriting compared to the wild buildings of, say Escherstrasse in SUSPIRIA), with the eerie wind and dim lapping waves. No one dares take a boat out to rescue them, because the ocean is allegedly so choppy no one dares go, even though it's just slightly overcast, and I like that --like this is some kind of lost zone where everything seems tranquil but nothing is. Linda Blair's hair gets wild and she gets possessed (of course), and there's other elements that make it almost add up to something, just get high or drunk to ease the nausea if you're going to make this jaunt, and let the slurring mellowness of Hickland guide you through.
--

Oh and Shout, if we're listening --keep up the good work, but for god's sake, add some merciful color to those poor complexions! Your super clear Blu rays are a terrible revealer of every last pore and blemish, every congealing spot of badly dried pancake make-up and error in coloring between neck and face. Sure, past versions were layered through what looked like sunglasses to get things right, but some slight color alterations will make it all work 100 times better. I'd feel safer anyway...more comfortable... Instead of feeling sick imagining the pale old skin of Knepf with that hideous orange lipstick.... with a little attention to lighting she could have been scary (ala the Mother of Sighs) or disarming (ala the Castavets), instead of just... as depressing as a visit to a real German grandmother who still tries to pass for 35.

Maybe my reaction is extreme because she reminds me of my stern and disapproving German grandfather who died decades ago (and my ex-wife's Argentine-German grandparents, equally intimidating and dour). Old Germans, man, are the worst - somehow more decadent than any Aquarian yet as joyless as a lifetime of Puritan imprisonment while they set about it. Their favorite thing is to torture their grandchildren with endless long lunches and dinners und Schwarzwaldkuchen, followed by criticism of how many spots you missed when you cleaned the bathtub followed by 30 minutes watching them scrub it with a bucket of water and regular soap and an old scrub brush, down to a shiny patina so dirt-free it's depressing. Hours and hours with nothing to do but try to understand their wearingly adult conversation, as the only book or magazine they have is a Reader's Digest from 20 years ago. So one endures a full week of being bored near to death, minutes stretching like years, hushed constantly as children aren't heard, symbolic lips sewn-shut.. waiting as lunch turns to dinner and dinner turns to drinks und mehr kuchen. Being crucified upside down, stabbed with a swordfish and set on fire is an indulgent luxury by comparison... log azzits annalong.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...