Cleansing the lens of cinematic perception, for your aghast befuddlement

Monday, May 07, 2018

Swingin' Monsters of the 70s: an EK-curated Amazon Prime "Top" 10 (morality-free capsule reviews)

Allergy season's deft poisoning of the senses undercuts spring's 'missing the orgy' angst-euphoria like honeymoon strychnine. The indoor child wheezing in the dark with comic books and old movies while the tanned kids cavort in the pollen - ask him what having every bad movie ever made at your fingertips means. He'll tell you. He, who spent a week writing about what was wrong with Shape of Water, he knows. Only in the 70s, on Amazon Prime, in a darkened room, with air purify and a de-humidifier and a fan and endless diet coke can escape velocity be reversed.

Thanks to Prime's inexhaustible trove of forgotten gems from time amoral, we can go back to groovy 70s monster movie childhood, before the rise of VHS, spandex-and-butcher knife SOV hair metal despair. The truth is in the 70s and its crazes - especially the 'nature' craze- the return to the hills and mountains popularized by the Waltons, Grizzly Addams, Apple's Way, Little House on the Prairie, (TV); Ranger Rick Magazine; The Wilderness Family, and Bigfoot (movies). He's still out there, in the past (3), and on Prime. And I'm bringing a small coterie of students with me to capture him. Will you be foolish enough to be one of them? Amazon Prime has given us all the fertile muck one might ever wish to trudge through. We could easily get lost in the thicket. Bring your Claritin. 

my bible at nine
More proof? It's there in the campfire, my friend. Horror movies didn't have to show as much as make you think you saw more than you did.  Remembering and relaying the story of the film to the neighborhood was part of the folktale myth process. You had to go probably to the inner city, or go to the drive-in with an adult or hear the story from a cool babysitter. Rites of passage. Part of moseying down here in the Prime basement bins of  time is to look deeper amidst the eddies and levies and find the things inspired by Legend of Boggy Creek as well as the documentary Mysterious Monsters. I had the paperback edition (upper left). Its success led to a slew of bigfoot-themed movies--re-enactment documentaries that flooded drive-ins and matinees- eclipsed only by Jaws and the move from the forest to all things aquatic. Mom wouldn't let me see a damned one in the theater, by TV they were edited.

Another big part of the early 70s monster landscape people have forgotten: Willard (1971 - not on Prime). The saga of a young loner and his rat army, it was a huge hit thanks to an iconic moment--I know it from the constantly playing TV commercial: Bruce Davison running down a tenement stairwell away from an angry landlord Earnest Borgnine, yelling "Tear him UP!" to his rats. It was a catch phrase for us kids for years but you had to get the right note of hysteria in Davison's voice to do it right. My voice is too deep to get there now or I'd do it for you. There was a sequel called Ben and a horde of imitations, which--depending on how you look at it, might well include Carrie and The Exorcist as well as Kiss of the Tarantula and Frogs. So much more odd eddies, but you never know until you wade deep.. so take a deep hit off your inhaler and sink down with me! The boxes all have boxes below them still!

Special Note: As usual, I've provided screenshots and letter grades for image presentability.  Whenever possible I've avoided showing the monsters in these films- the better to enable the Val Lewton unseen factor as long as possible, of course that doesn't apply to our first item. When possible I've also kept to the spirit of the typical drive-in triple feature, breaking this list into three parts, the G or PG-rated feature attraction, the evening teenager make-out R, concluding with the late night grindhouse locally-sourced 'resident' weirdness.

(1972) Dir. Eddie Romero
**1/2 - Amazon Image - A-

A Philippines jungle-filmed combination The Most Dangerous Game and Island of Dr. Moreau this is one of the better in a series of John Ashley-starring, Eddie Romero-directed Filipino horror movies from the early 70s (another Beast of the Yellow Night is also on Prime). This time Ashley's a gentleman adventurer abducted off his yacht by the mysterious Dr. Gordon (Charles Macaulay) so he can use transfer parts of Ashely's personality into wild animal people he keeps locked up in an underground cave below his heavily-guarded mansion. His daughter/assistant Neva (Pat Woodell) examines him in several sexy scenes, falls for his weird ersatz Elvis/James Dean/Ricky Nelson hybrid looks, groovy sideburns, and Steve McQueeny coiled cobra stillness; soon he's coming and going as he pleases, following Neva on her chores, looking askance at the poor caged animal creatures, including most famously, Pam Grier as the leggy panther woman (a highlight). The Bat Man, too, is awesome, especially once he gets the hang of flying with so much extra weight. Other animal-hunan hybrids are less successful, especially the unfortunate 'Antelope Man' whose mask paint is still wet.

Soon Neva and our hero are in love, then leading an escape through the caves, animal people armed with M-1 rifles, while Matt takes Dr. Gordon hostage at gunpoint in a separate direction to throw the grinning towheaded homosexual security guard Steinman (Jan Merlin in a great, slithery, teeth-clenched performance) off the scent. The all-night into the next day chase to the coast through the thick green jungle is on, with Grier's panther woman leaping down from trees upon hapless Filipino henchmen and ripping their throats out, and other less amazing but still worthwhile sights. Woodell gets one of her weirdest scenes as she tries to keep order with the animal coterie while alone with them deep in the jungle, trying to teach Grier's panther woman to share lunch with the dog woman, and to stop the monkey man from trying to rape her while she sleeps (all under a yellowish-green day-for-night filter). Meanwhile Ashley putters along in another part of the jungle, watching from behind rocks in a flutter of poor judgement and inactivity.

I admit it, in the past I've found these Filipino movies claustrophobic and oppressive-- I could feel the humidity and bugs, the sheen of moisture on every surface-- but here the colors are all popping and the air is fresh and clean. The image, which is surely from the recent Twilight Time Blu-ray, is delectable: the color correction cranked to eleven so everything glows with a deep ochre patina inside and a deep jade green outside, the overwhelming jungle at dawn. Traversed via cross-island chase, Steinman clearly relishing the chance to stretch his hunter muscles as he lopes off in pursuit and a nicely offbeat score pulses with pizzicato strings, bongos, rolling high-hats and jazz bass. There may be a lot of unanswered questions at the end, but who cares? The sight of sexy Woodell leading her armed animal coterie through the moodily-lit tunnels and out into the lush green jungle evokes both Yeux sans Visage and and--with her gorgeous long legs and game for whatever attitude--the sight of sexy Panther Woman Grier leaping from the guard's throat to the next is most reassuring, as are the startlingly impressive tracking shots of effect of the bat man flying through the trees and around the mansion, striking terror into the hearts of everyone but us, who may be too busy laughing and/or snoring by then. Life isn't always this good - better grab it whilst ye may.

Now we're in the tail end of the triple feature - the real murk. Yew rer rawrned

(1977) Dir. James K. Shea
**1/2 / Amazon Image - C-

It may not be good, but it's everything great about the 70s--spaceships, sexy young adults, dinosaurs, lasers--and none off the bad (other kids, cops, buzzkill parents). The plot finds a groovily-dressed co-ed crew from a crashed space craft eking out a living against a whole food chain of stop motion dinosaurs, each one a reminder that before Jurassic Park there were no such things as a 'velociraptor.'

Whether you go for the mellow 70s vibe of Planet of the Dinosaurs will depend on your age and taste (I go for it, obviously). The stop motion animation is good for the budget, somewhere between Ray Harryhausen's and the creatures in Land of the Lost. The foxy uniforms make the humans resemble some hybrid Josie and the Pussycats and a 70s gymnastic team --the men have open shirted jumpsuits and the women rock an array of styles, the most memorable of which is Nyah's (Pamela Bottaro): yellow midriff, white hiphuggers, long straight black hair combination. There's sexy Mary Appelspeth (eaten during a Jaws-style swim), and academic favorite Derna Wylde, who comes onto nearly every man in the crew and sweeps up the devotion young viewers along her way. As for the men, a real macho boldness vs. cowardly caution dichotomy reminds us of how, in the 70s, the emerging women's lib movement found more affinity with the Burt Reynolds macho men than the wussy liberals. Planet helps us remember why - the assertive alpha made us--children and women--feel safer. He'd guard you by fighting - not by= pacifying and reasoning with opponents. As a kid in the 70s, living 24/7 in immanent danger, it was this theme that made TV series like Danger Island episodes on Banana Splits, and The Land of the Lost (all the hiding in caves, etc), so compelling. Every game of tag had a 'base' but not these hostile worlds. We could feel the danger all around us all the time, only Burt Reynolds, Clint Eastwood, and Charlie Bronson made us feel safer, paving the way for the 80s conservative backlash, though how could we know that?

Alas, the Amazon Prime transfer is taken from what looks like a public domain dupe but will nonetheless look no worse than it would if you caught on UHF TV back some Saturday morning in 1978. An eerie synthesizer score by Lamers and O'Verlin and a fairly frequent ratio of dinosaur attacks vs. in-camp bicker-and-bond stretches makes up for any pictorial inconvenience. Terrible? Sure, but good enough I actually tried to find a decent DVD version after seeing it the second time. Retromedia's 20th anniversary release is supposed to be good but is OOP - available on Amazon at $300. I don't like it that well, but good enough I'll be seeing it again, crappy but free, like the 70s itself.

(1972) Dir Charles B. Pierce
*** / Amazon Image - D

From its opening montage of woodsy twilight shots set to low-pitched, distorted swamp noises, there's a compelling low-key inexorability to this influential mix of local witness interviews and re-enactments of what happened in Fouke, Arkansas in the 1950s-60s when a certain Sasquatch-style monster showed up and began to be smelled, seen, heard, shot at, run from, and most of all talked about around campfires and country stoves at night and in the mornings while looking at damage done to screen doors and big footprints left in the swampy loam under the windows. Acted often by the the actual witnesses themselves in their own homes in the same areas it happened, there's a real immediacy to it all as if the film itself is some mimetic charm to keep the beast away. Told with a vivid urgency balanced out with a low key modesty natural to the region, the result is an effective mix of the best elements of documentary and re-enactment that manages to be double scary rather than half.

To that end, the old analog fullscreen (cropped) TV VHS dupe quality of the Amazon image may actually make it more effective, adding to the authentic rusticity by evoking old nature shows like they'd have on back in the 70s during the grassroots boom (see thus great collage of Ranger Rick, Waltons, Little House and Wilderness Family covers / posters). Pierce always keeps one eye on the natural world--the swamps and empty fields, enabling--rare in a semi-documentary-- an eerie sense of ever-mounting twilight and onrushing darkness (2). The crappy quality enables a Blair Witch sense of helplessness, depicting a time and place so dark at night that a monster could be five feet from your door at night and you wouldn't see them, where to get help from a neighbor during an attack entails hightailing it a mile through the swamp and maybe getting laughed at for your troubles; and making utterly vivid the feeling of isolation besetting a cabin full of young wives and kids who have to control their hysteria to be even half-believed. Nervously sewing while the hound dog whines and mysterious howls echo outside and the men are all gone for days at a time on pipeline jobs, the girls have to find the shotgun and step outside all on their own.

The huge success of this still-effective G-rated film led to two sequels, a remake and a while mini-genre explosion of bigfoot-themed movies and TV shows, all either documentary, semi-doc, or fiction with a dash of doc, many are on Prime, all but one or two are far too dull to waste time with. Check out another Charles Pierce film that follows the same overall style, The Town that Dreaded Sundown, and a film with much of the same folksy local-color charm also on Prime, Bootleggers, starring Slim Pickens, a riveting James Dean-meets-Bo Hopkins charmer named Paul Koslo and Dennis Fimple. Good old Fimple also co-stars in one near-'must' of the post-Boggy slew, and it's next on our list.

(1976) Dir. Joy N Houck (written by Jim McCullough)
** / Amazon Image - B-

The success of Boggy was such that four years later, they were still coming out with these semi-true "expedition / flashback" bigfoot-themed movies, and of all those that followed, this is probably the best. Chicago University anthropology majors Rives (John David Empire of the Ants Carson) and his 'Nam vet buddy Pahoo (backwoods character actor mainstay Dennis Fimple) head down to the Bayou for a sasquatch research project and get intertwined with various locals (including a pair of cute girls and the disproving sheriff) and, of course, the creature. The scenery is all actual bayou, the locals and the town have a perfect mix of friendly and suspicious that seems quite authentic and there's that vibe, so strong in the 70s, that a blue state college boy could go down south and talk to locals and not run into neither hostility and pre-judgment nor instant friendliness but something far more complex and real.

Future John Carpenter's regular future DP Dean Cundey's picaresque magic hour establishing shots would clean up real nice if the powers that be added some color correction, but what the hell. With all the splices and scratches and fades it looks like it could be part of Rodriguez and Tarantino's Grindhouse. Amazon gives us a nice HD transfer from the Code Red source, but the source material is terribly preserved (blacks washed to a fine greenish fog) con mucho emulsion scratches, pocks, etc. - but hey, in the words of Bleeding Skull's Joseph Ziemba, "imperfection only adds to the backwoods whiff. The Black Lake setting wouldn’t feel the same without it. " And speaking of whiffs, the stole is showlened by ole Jack Elam's local 'edge of town' drunk (he loses his buddy to the creature in the prologue). Everyone who's 'been there' knows how hard it is to describe being attacked a giant hairy monster to the local sheriff whilst so trashed you can barely turn off the ignition and stagger into the holding cell.

Still the climax with the boys running headlong into the monster, their scattershot response and the weirdly open ending is very unique as is the strangely intimate bond between Fimple and Carson as they drink around the campfire. They're not quite at the level of improv drunken bonding that Fonda and Oates had in Race with the Devil, but their heads are in the right low-key place (Carson makes great low-key use of lines like "What's with you and hamburgers, man?"). A refreshing change too is the way the build up involves the meeting and interviewing of so many character actors, and the film stopping for little bits of business (like a back porch country song between bigfoot witness Peckinpah regular Dub Taylor on harmonica and the writer of the film Jim McCulloch Jr. on guitar) and weird moments of futzing (there's a bit with a "Keep off the Grass" sign outside the jail) that any sane editor today would have snipped off. That it stays is typical of the more relaxed pace of 70s nature-set movies and helps to make the sudden violent action more resonant (Tarantino was going for that a bit, I think, in his Death-Proof.)

Other films in this post-Boggy subgenre (like 1976's super-boring Sasquatch, also on Prime) err too much on the side of rusticity, presuming a drawled field journal note-based voiceover and languid shots of bearded guys unpacking sound equipment around the campfire will make up for the lack of actual thrills. Black Lake gets the mixture just right, and I like that the monster is never humanized or earning of sympathy, nor even fully seen. It's simply an unknowable crafty thing that protects its territory in the most direct and brutal ways. So all in all, eerie noises, Fimple (if you're a newly-minted Fimple-holic after this, let me steer you onwards to Truck Stop Women - also on Prime), low-simmering suspense, and a good 'in-the-moment' actorly rapport that gives every moment a chance to land. What's to strongly dislike, asides the library cue-cut score?

(1977) Dir. William R. Stromberg
** / Amazon Image: A+

The gorgeous HD luster of the Crater Lake print on Amazon makes you wonder - would all these look that good if there was a decent negative and color graded transfer? Is there a good Boggy Creek or Planet of the Dinosaurs I should know about? Look at that shimmery lime green sparkle on the water surface in the top image. It doesn't even matter if the film is bad when you've got that crisp transfer and you know the monster is stop motion, even though it looks like the clay it's made out of is ever in the process of drying up, and when we see it underwater we see what looks like a plastic dragon head floating in a sun-dappled swimming pool.

There's other things to recommend about this homegrown monster film, but not too many. There's too much time spent on the the lame faux-hick antics of a pair boat renting locals who get drink a lot and bicker in a kind Mr. Wind and Mr. Kipp kind of way; some genuinely terrible acting by the local sheriff as he laments honestly not knowing what to do as everyone drops like flies around him. To pad the time, a guy in the city shoots the owner of a liquor store to get a free pint of booze (which makes sense to me, but a real alcoholic would take a bigger bottle!), and winds up being chased through the trees and down to the lake to feed the monster. There's another side story of a stranded magician and his cute assistant on their way to Vegas, who decide to rent one of the boats and, through magic, pretend their middle of the day fishing trip is occurring at night (the post-production team forgot to do day-for-night filtering). There's the usual meetings of the bewildered, incredulous sheriff, the intrigued local doctor and called-in expert, having drinks by the fire, looking at maps, sketches of dinosaurs, and wondering why their small town of all places has their very own plesiosaur. Did the meteor that struck the lake the other week heat up a dormant egg in the silt? We must try to capture it - for science! And money!

Thanks to the color-saturated restoration and HD transfer, the mountain lake location glistens gorgeously, so that all the tired bits of local color melt into the morning mist.  As with the last film, the soundtrack seems lifted straight from the library, but in the end... who cares, that lustrous new HD transfer gets the mist rising off the morning lake so completely you can see the rainbow in the shimmer. 

(1977) Dir. William Girdler
**1/2 / AI - B

(from: "Leslie of the Heretics") Naturally it's not that wild in reality, but 'naturally' is the key word here, that's what saves it. Animals was filmed as far away from the age of CGI, mentally and spiritually, as film would ever get. Girdler feels his way along in real time, you see, in real nature, with semi-real actors and real animals--especially vultures, hawks, a cougar, a crazy dog pack, and a tarantula--the scene where the hawks and vultures maul the bitchy girl is terrifying because those birds are real, and they're right there in the shot, and her unease is palpable.

The key signifiers of amok nature horror movies, such as animal mauling, really can't be shown unless you're a dickhead whose going to really kill animals. Girdler doesn't do such things, I presume, and that's where the comfortable cult pleasure is for we sensitive types. Quick edits between what is clearly just well staged play wrestling with tame animals, close-ups of baring teeth, pink foamy blood, actors and stunt men yelling and running, an animal's teeth resting on someone's arm, and then the hawk looking down signals an end to the scrimmage with his cry like a gym coach's whistle. You put it together in your mind, Sergei! Girdler's films aren't meant to be great gore pieces, but they are great for sick freaks in search of Cecil B. DeMille-levels of under-direction. Actors stand around in a 'funeral processions and snakes' kind of Cinemascope chorus line and wonder what to do, receive no guidance, and improvise.

It's hard to remember if I had a point to all this or if I even recommend Day of the Animals, though of course I do, if for no other reason than Nielsen and the amazing near-Morricone-level cacophonous percussion score by Lalo Schifrin. There may be nothing else at all to recommend it, scenery and Georges aside, but I love Day of the Animals, because even very young kids can tell when animals aren't being hurt or hurting anyone for real, no matter how many bared fangs, snarls and screams may come. Somehow, that's very reassuring, we can still be scared and intrigued but when we go to bed we don't feel sick to our stomach, we feel alive...(Full)

The Amazon Print is good except the color grading it a little intense - the result being that everyone looks magenta/red. but so what? Maybe that's the Ozone up there! (see also on Prime- Grizzly)
This is the point in the list where the children go to bed. Are they gone? Are you sure? Did you check under the couch? Are they hiding deep within? Get them up to bed, thermodynamically speaking!

The images above are from Island Claws
So let's talk. I know you may think this list has low standards but here's some examples of those that did not make the cut: SASQUATCH, ISLAND CLAWS, BIGFOOT, MONSTER and BOG were all films I wanted to review next, but hell, they were were either too boring (BIGFOOT and its mellow semi-documentary vibe) or murky (ISLAND CLAWS - images above) or just too half-assed (BOG) to finish. Enter their dubious confines at your own risk, or proceed along with me on this safe guided tour, where image is reasonably vivid and crisp or at the very least the content (as with Boggy) suits the form.

Luckily these next two films look and are divino.

(1979) Dir Sergio Martino
*** / Amazon Image: B+

Up to now we've been hanging out in the USA, in local areas like Bouke Arkansas or Crater Lake, but we mustn't forget all the imports from Italy that rounded out our drive-in and grindhouse triple bills. From the always endurable Sergio Martino, this undiscovered gem blends the tropes of the Jaws ripoff with the then super-popular cannibal genre and the disaster film, telling of a giant alligator god who wakes up and starts eating tourists at a newly opened resort deep in an unnamed jungle (It was filmed in Sri Lanka, though the locals are notably diverse). The resort's capitalist owner Mel Ferrer, has sunk a few million into the venture, and tries to keep the gator attacks quiet and avoid a panic, but handsome photographer Claudio Cassinelli wants to alert the tourists and local authorities, if there are any. Sexy Barbara Bach--rocking the same wet 70s bathing suit white shirt combination Jacqueline Bissett indelibly sported in The Deep two years earlier--agrees, but she works for Mel. That night, well, hell breaks loose by sea--thanks to the voracious giant gator--and by land with the angry natives (the white man woke up the giant gator with their interloping).

Amazon used to have a much worse print of this streaming - it seems to have been quietly upgraded. Fans can now better appreciate the pretty waterfalls and the well-lit climactic outdoor night scenes of nonstop carnage as everyone spills into the lagoon, the giant alligator devouring people like he's going for a competitive eating record and the natives stabbing and shooting the survivors with flaming hours as they stagger ashore (and if they try to go in-between are impaled on the spikes of the gator-proof fence). I love this movie because Martino never resorts to stock nature footage inserts for his gator attacks. The big gator itself might by only marginally convincing (its legs don't move; its eyes don't blink) but he's still awesome - the jaws go up and down atop screaming extras splashing gamely, and Martino knows how to film the melee so it's clear to follow and scary-fun crazy rather than traumatic, confusing, shrill and/or dull like... well, take your pick.

Rounding things out: well-crafted if obvious miniatures; a sprawling, well-directed cast (including go-to ginger moppet Silvia Collatina, Lory del Santo, Anny Pappa); plenty of stunts; gator-themed wicker headgear and breast plates for the natives;  rich sound design which weaves Stevio Cipriani swirling cocktail score gamely into a tapestry of thumping diegetic jungle drums, funky electric guitar, chanting, birdcalls, screaming that might or might not be human, and then ---suddenly -- a tiny splash along the water surface that quiets humans, birds, drums, on a dime- and sends the audience and natives alike jerking in its direction. Was that something? Or nothing...

(1980) Dir. Barbara Peeters
*** (Amazon Image - A-)

It's a kind of Jaws from the Black Lagoon as horny mutant salmon men infiltrate a Northwestern salmon fishing town to propagate with human women. It's all the result of a shady corporation's escaped experiment in fish hormones. Resident bigot Vic Morrow blames the local Native American Johnny Eagle (Anthony Pena), who's been trying to prevent the installation of a fish cannery on his native river. "Good" fisherman Doug McLure and his liberal son stick up for Johnny Eagle. Meanwhile, this is New World so chop chop, the monsters keep a-striking (Denise Galick, Cindy Weintraub and Lynn Theel are some of the unfortunate human women) and a cannery-sponsored genetic scientist (Ann Turkel) shows up to investigate (they're her 'children', so to speak). Directed by a woman, the monster rape scenes don't pack any kind of misogynistic undertone, so they don't traumatize innocent me like most such scenes do (they're so pre-cognitive deep id impulse they transcend morality, especially at the beach where feminine curves are so prominently displayed against the surging tides). Here, bathing suit tops may fly off but the girls never lose their dignity or resourcefulness -- even the scantily clad Miss Salmon (Linda Shayne) stops screaming long enough to bash her attacker's brains out with a rock.

To me, the most objectionable thing in the film is that a smirky toe-headed ventriloquist (David Strassman) almost gets it on with a naked fan in a tent, his puppet poking suggestively through the zipper of his bag. Yikes! Objection!

Whatever, a fast hour in, and boom all hell breaks loose in one of the best monster attacks on a local waterfront salmon festival in cinematic history.  The monsters themselves are good enough to not be bad, but not bad enough to be genuinely scary- with their long arm extensions and habit of swaying back and forth like bad Igor impressionists who just fell in a vat of sea weed, their incessant sexual aggression is almost refreshing in its innocence.  James Horner's subtle but familiar score of eerie strings and harp glissando stabs hurries things along and the moody Daniel Lacambra cinematogrpahy captures the Pacific Northwest's swirling mist and the deep reds of Cindy Weintraub's undershirt (above left).


(1974) Dir. Michael Findlay
**1/2 / Amazon Image - B

Terrible pacing, acting, framing, reaction shots, and a classical music library (Berlioz?) score all combine to make a truly spectacular--nay, Wagnerian!--chronicle of a weekend trip taken by four dimwitted college students and their professor Dr. Karl (Tawm Ellis) to hunt for the infamous Yeti on a remote island upstate NY island (don't ask). The beast got away from him the last trip, and now Karl's Ahab-level hungry for another shot. While the sole survivor of the last expedition raves and rants at a nearby party the night before the expedition (attended by cute girl Jennifer Stock (above), her towheaded idiot boyfriend is taken by Karl to eat at an "exclusive" restaurant, where he drops some creepy hints. Is he Count Zaroff or just gay and creepy? I won't tell you! It's best you go into it as I did, cluelessly, just agog at the mix of home movie roughness, odd bits of beauty (cheap as the film stock is, the transfer is clearly in HD with deep lovely blacks).

Director Mike Findlay is either a genius or an idiot, because he captures an uneasy de ja vu about paranoid nightmares and psychotic breakdowns, moments where you honestly aren't sure if the inconsistencies going on around you are your misperceptions or just a result of either conspiracy or crappy filmmaking In the words of Rosemary Woodhouse, "this is no dream this is really happening!" But her dreams never had a character like the Tim Carey-esque Ivan Agar as the mute body building "Indian," Laughing Crow chopping wood in the yard in a frisson bit that seems like the inspiration for similar moments in Jordan Peele's Get Out. As the Marilyn Burns / Rosemary character, Jennifer Stock plays only sane one in the room, the one the professor convinces the boys to think is just being crazu. Stock's super long straight auburn hair, Greta Gerwig body, black cape, and terrible acting skills leaves quite an effect on me. She's the only 'human' in the cast, the only one with any sense of what's happening - the one having the nightmare. And she's in all the best scenes.

It works because when the acting is really bad it brings out a whole extra nightmare level if you're dealing with a duplicitous character.  Though it looks like a homeless guy in a sheepdog costume, the sight of the yeti bounding around the woods is pretty endearing and when you're expecting a Scooby Doo- denouement it goes way darker, and then brings in a HAM radio! Findlay's wife Roberta did the cinematography (under the nickname 'Wings' in the credits).

Apparently this is the restored version so there's finally previously edited out random bits like a dying wife crawling along with a toaster across the bathroom floor to hurl it into her husband's bath to electrocute him, and a head-scratching decapitation prologue that will leave you wondering whether the the cocoanut head with a mask on falling into the swimming pool was meant to be ceremonial (like some effigy) or a human sacrifice that's just really really badly done? Then it hit me - that's what this kind of shit's all about - film is itself ceremonial. That cocoanut scene looks so familiar I feel like I shot it myself for a super 8mm Conan-inspired film Alan and I did in 1981. That's 'uncanny' all right. It even looks like the same mask. Same cocoanut! Same sword. What's going on? How is that even possible?

The Findlays were no fools despite being no millionaires - and they use their nonexistent budget to their benefit, for we can never be sure if the movie is intentionally bad, as in things aren't matching up for a reason that will be revealed later, etc. or the heroine is losing her mind, or we're just losing our mind. When key things seem to be missing in something we can't tell if we're supposed to notice it or it's red herring, danger signals, or directorial incompetence - and that's pretty cool if you're up for even considering it might be yourself who's crazy. Is this not the root of childhood nightmares? Adults can always make us think it's our fault, that we're wrong, when we're kids. It's their reality after all - we're just forced to live in it. That feeling never goes away. As a result, we're squarely with poor Karen who has one of the stupidest most passive and gullible boyfriends in the history of stupid gullible boyfriends, a guy who lets the professor convince him that cutting up her friend to use as bait in yeti traps is natural- that she's hysterical for even complaining, and the final act with all the round robin dingus dialogue and a hilariously chilling bit of 'forking' is straight up from the pages of my own childhood nightmares.

(1972) Dir. Andy Milligan
* / Amazon Image - A

There's nothing quite as matter-of-taste as Andy Milligan, the off-off Broadway theater geek's Ed Wood, a master of getting Victorian era value out of dusty mansions and historically preserved NYC and London gardens and storefronts. For this oddly-named gem, the acting is surprisingly good, or at the very least, spirited, with something of the flavor of Rocky Horror Picture Show if it had no music or sense of spirit (yes - I realize that makes no sense), or if John Waters characters tried to do a straight Dark Shadows soap opera version of House of Usher while coming down of a glue high and gamely pretending they know where they are. Jackie Scarvelis stars as Diana Mooney, a woman wearing a punishingly un-Victorian amount of white eye shadow and heavy black eyelash mascara. Those eyelashes are the scariest thing in the movie - you keep waiting for them to stick shut ... forever) returning after being away at med school, to the decaying family mansion with her new, urbane British husband Gerald (Ian Innes)--an unemployed 'painter'. He soon learns the family is all afflicted with lycanthropy and Diana is supposed to be busy working on a cure (it's why she was sent to med school). The family is a real mixed bag of decaying nutcases that make the Merryes seem bright. The younger brother is kept chained in his room and fed live chickens ala a carny geek; the bedridden old father drinks his every line like its Chatet Moulingon Blanc instead of Four Roses (but it is), the older sister who's sort of stepped in as the mother, and--my new favorite actress-- Hope Stansbury as the homicidal sister, Monica Mooney (below right).

A sexy willowy morass of Virginia Merrye and Mary Woronov (tall, assertive, and unafraid to project badass crazy without quotes), Stansbury's Monica is a homicidally amped young woman eager to own a horde of man-eating rats so she can name one Ben and later shout "Tear 'em up!" as was the big catch phrase from the year before, in case you forgot (see intro). The rats element seems like it's coming -- we see some rats at the 'rat store'--but they don't really arrive or 'tear' anyone up - at least not that we see. But the movie title never promised they'd arrive, only that they're coming.  Truth in advertising Supposedly the producer wanted some rats added in re-shoots to capitalize on Ben, the Willard sequel released the same year, but the rat craze abruptly ended, and the devil craze began; I think Monica was supposed to unleash them on someone, and maybe she did (it's hard to tell). Oh well, that's show biz! (1) If Rats are Coming! sat on the shelf another year before William Mishkin released it, it would probably be called  The Exorcist vs. the Werewolves or something - and scenes of a priest trying to exorcise Monica would be added instead of her buying rats from a guy with half his face and one arm eaten off from when he got drunk and fell asleep too close to the rat cage. In other words, this film is versatile! It could still be about, I don't know, creepy dolls? Saws?

Getting back to Stansbury, though. With her pale skin, long straight black hair, willowy physique and habit of darting around all amped up and giddy with hammy homicidal rage, teasing her deranged brother, chopping up her neighbor friend after she tries to blackmail her, or lunging out at her sister from the wardrobe closet with  a kinfe like a shot --she's a perfect embodiment of the Victorian era devil girl - moving so fast the camera has a hard time keeping up with her. Does Melora Cregar or Dame Darcy know about this movie? They must. If not, they must be told! Where's my old rotary phone?

There's some genuinely good British actors floating around aside from her, and alas her scenes are strictly supporting compared to the 'good' sister Diana and her hunky mellow husband - both of whom do a surprisingly fine job with the material, those lashes aside. Most scenes are single shot set ups between two hammy actors trying to make a short theater piece out of every exchange, no matter how slight to the story or meandering and repetitive the lines (or improv cues). No one can ever just buy silver bullets (a rare glimpse of Milligan as the gunsmith), they have to endure pages of Victorian shopkeep small talk as if Milligan thinks he is going to stumble on becoming Dickens or Todd Browning through sheer disconcerted effort.

When enough of such scenes accrue, there's a rushed, gory, poorly edited (censored, with gore restored?) climax of gore and blood that happens so fast after all the endless two-person talking shots, your head spins. Frankly, it's awesome. Milligan's habit of shooting on 16mm and 35mm as his film stock 'ends' arrive, all of varying quality, the Kuchar-style ability to mask lack of  budget with colored plastic light covers, the way his whites assume a death green pallor from blowing up 16mm to 35mm, I don't know - it just works. Unlike all the other crap in the crap bins, it's never boring, and you either want to keep hunting more down, or never want to read his name again, or both. Show one alongside a typical Derek Jarman from the same period and art critics would have to be awake to tell them apart - surely that counts for something - since they won't be (awake, I mean). Don't even bother wondering why or how this managed to be art, just dig the underground vibe, the way the camera spins and falls over when gore scenes come, as if the only time Milligan's camera can face gore is in passing by as he's running past it in the opposite direction. (except for a gruesome scene of Monica actually killing innocent little mouse. Unforgivable? Perhaps, but it's the kind of thing underground films had to have)

That's the trick, I guess, is to imagine seeing this on some late afternoon in the old 42nd St. grindhouse district back in 1972, nodding off on cheap smack in the back row and keeping your hand on your switch blade in case someone sits behind you and tries to lift your stash. Floating there in space, the whirr of the projector audible along with the sound of rain coming in from various leaks in the roof, is that not the best seat in the house to watch the worst movie in the world? Watching Werewolves today I keep wondering, why is this not a musical by now? The book writes itself, and having written, runs to America to shoot extra rat footage. Maybe it's because Milligan is already dead of AIDS (would he were alive in the age of director commentaries), a fact that once again makes us all grateful to John Waters for his years of relative monogamy (and/or caution). Milligan is gone but Waters' longevity has led to his deserved status as one of American independent cinema's true national treasures. His Female Trouble is coming soon on Criterion!! Milligan's Werewolves, on the other hand is here! 


Also check out these old Prime Lists, don't miss a one!

3/17: International Hallucinosis Pt. 1 - 12 Weird/Cool Italian Films streaming free on Prime
12/16: I never said it wasn't terrible: 10 Sci-Fi Curiosities on Amazon Prime
10/16: 13 Best or Weirdest Occult/Witch movies on the Amazon Prime
10/16: Taste the Blood of Dracula's Prime: 12 Psychotronic Vampire Films on Amazon Prime

1. You can still find rat and vermin (tarantulas) swarms devouring people in an array of post-Willard movies, from Italy (Rats; Night of Terror, Inferno, The Beyond)
2. See Halloween, Darkness and Tick-Tockality; Phantasm
3. See my bigfoot time traveller hypothesis posited to Joe Rogan Bigfoot is Real but Isn't Here. 

1 comment:

  1. I love these inventories and reviews. You have found several that I plan to watch over the summer. My question, how do you find these movies? When I browse Amazon Prime, I just end up with the same list they push on me every other time I start browsing. It's usually late by then, and I give up.


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