Cleansing the doors of cinematic perception... for a better now

Wednesday, September 18, 2019

Til Human Voices Wake Us: THE BERMUDA DEPTHS (1978)


Hurricane Dorian spiraled over the Bahamas over this past Labor Day as I watched the ABC Friday Night Movie THE BERMUDA DEPTHS (from 1978) via Warner Archive DVD-R. Crystal blue skies, clear crystal white beaches, clear turquoise water, coral reef footage humming with moody folk love song theme, beautiful young lovers dripping with salt water, mostly tranqyilized sea levels and oceanic temperatures, and giant (and I mean giant) turtle occasionally rising like Moby Dick x Gamera to bump his head on an unconvincing helicopter in the name of Triangle-style Satanic vengeance. After it, before it, during it, I was regularly checking in with the wide-eyed barometrically-hip denizens of 'Weather Underground' on The Weather Channel, checking to see what that crazy hurricane was projected to do next, and gawking at the crazy footage of in-progress devastation. Bahamas in tatters! Will... Bermuda be next?

Here's what you got to know about the DEPTHS: once upon a time, circa 1977-79, the whole nation was "that way" about the Bermuda Triangle. From children upwards, all of America and maybe the world were thinking about that triangle and what might be hoovering up half the ships and planes that dared traverse it. We'd all learned about it thanks to the premiere of a special triangle episode on the Leonard Nimoy-narrated docu-series In Search Of.... Suddenly the book rack at the grocery store was flooded with Triangle books, the movie marquees with Sunn Classics documentaries. The Bermuda Triangle... the name carries a sexy sea spray currency, like some cult around a strange expensive boutique water that promotes male potency. 

Flick the channel ahead now to 2019: meteorologists stand before giant maps, caressing the predicted motion lines of swirling energy, pressure, precipitation, like zephyrs in the sparkler air. Electric with apocalyptic anticipation, repeating themselves and their predictions, chanting national scientific barometric readings like druidic incantations and the unholy name -- Dorian... Dorian... Dorian, we worship thee. A thousand Moby Dicks worth of water and air swirl towards the TWC Atlanta headquarters, all so they might stand out in the wind and rain and be lashed while trying to talk to the camera; all so we--at home--might feel extra dry and cozy. 



When I saw The Bermuda Depths over Labor Day, Dorian was circling around the Bahamas, twirling and whirling as if to bring the island chain to some monstrous extinction level vaginal vortex orgasm, a Cenobite maenad rending. The linked necklace of basic comforts that chokes us in the trap of civilized leisure snaps under Dorian's fury. Dorian leaves drowning souls clamoring at the ark's moss-slick sides' pairs of serpents coupled in the portholes nip the toes and fingers of the damned as they try and climb. Those who drown don't die for long --but grow Satanic tails and squiggle towards a giant moon/egg/eye in the center of the center of the rift. The weather people scuttle over to B-roll of Floridians buying bottled water by the Price Club forklift. 

I hit play on the DVD player at the commercial, back ... to The Bermuda Depths and to.... her. 


Have I only imagined her?
I still the feel the warmth from kissing her
I'll spend my whole life missing her 
Jenny....
Jenny....

Jennie Haniver (Connie Sellecca) appears at first like a distant black flame, framed in the picture window of a rocky outcrop (below): walking closer through the eye of the island where Michael Pitt-lipped wanderer Magnus (Leigh McCloskey) naps. She brings her own theme song--the indelible guitar of Vivaldi's "Concerto in D major for Lute and Strings RV:93 Largo"--and gazes down at him with loving eyes, evoking a stirring flashback of their time as children on that same beach, raising a giant sea turtle together, even carving a heart with their initials on its shell. She eventually left, without a word, while Magnus napped, swimming off on the turtle's back. He almost drowns trying to swim after her. And then, the night his marine biologist dad decided to conduct some ominous experiment in a grotto under their beach cliffside house, some unseen monster knocks half the foundation on top of him while Magnus frets upstairs in his childhood bed. So many questions, but save them. Slow it down, baby... we got commercials coming.

The music is gorgeous; there are no clumsy voiceovers; no words spoken--nor read at all--or the first 12 minutes of the film- only Vivaldi, and that achingly lyrical folksy theme song (a signature of production team Rankin/Bass)... already burrowing into our souls and leaving us with a plaintive spiritual ache for our own lost ocean animas.. Jenny....

Magnus, now grown, back in Bermuda. He and Jenny meet again, along the day-for-night shores; we're as obsessed with her flawless raven-haired beauty as he is, suddenly. But he's only back in Bermuda to do a stint on a marine research vessel helmed by Burl Ives, with Carl Weathers! Weathers' beautiful black muscles glisten in the blazing blue sun. A marine biologist collaborator with his Magnus' late father's, Ives is researching gigantism in ancient triangle species, i.e. a turtle the size of a football field, the animal familiar of Jenny, or maybe a guise of the devil, her master, dictating her relentless lure of smitten sailors to the briny depths... of the Bermuda Triangle. She's an unsinging siren! 

Note similarity in outline of the rock to his hatted head as he sleeps,
Jenny emerging from his pineal gland, or where land meets ocean;
maybe the most beautiful photographic image in the history of Jungian archetypal symbolism?
(female/dream/ocean vs. conscious/man/sky.
Ives' wide-eyed black housekeeper (Ruth Attaway) tells Magnus that when Jennie was alive a century ago she was so vain and beautiful that all the men on the island were in love with her. When her ship was caught in a storm and about to go down she made a deal with "the other god, the one who swims below" to stay beautiful and young forever in exchange for an eternity of 'service' to the leviathan. She lives, notes the housekeeper, "out there" in "what you folks call... the Triangle."  Magnus refuses to believe his Jennie could be a ghost until she reminisces about when her father used to host 'quadrilles' and invites him to dance to her ever-present Vivaldi soundtrack.... And is it the same giant turtle she swam away on that crushed his dad and house?

ABC Friday Night TV movies like Depths made deep and lasting impressions on children like myself (I was 12), who had no voice in the prime time choices. Lucky for me my dad loved this kind of shit (unless football was on). We all loved In Search Of..., so a movie this weird and wondrous couldn't be missed. Somehow, though, I did. I have no memory of it. What else would we have been watching?

After its initial premiere, this weird intensely haunting film lay dormant for decades, gradually considered to be a folk myth. But decades later, through the giant claw machine of the Warner Archive, it is dredged from the depths, and it is a treasure. Though only a TV movie, its filmed on location and Bermuda has never seemed so beautiful. Jerry Sopanen's brilliant cinematography plus a perfect color restoration results in a blue sky, clear water, white sand, tanned limb clarity that leaves a hole in the heart, evoking among other things, Dali's magical paintings of Costa Brava. 

A kind of oceanic ghost story, Bermuda Depths sails the same currents as Night Tide and even the doomed romance between Bonehead and Lorelei in Beach Blanket Bingo. Maybe it's because I'm a Pisces, but I'm even haunted by Rankin's theme song. I was dissatisfied with the end but, after I switched back to the Weather Channel watched the twirling storm still just hovering over the Bahamas, I couldn't stop thinking about it, and her--Jennie-- with her raven hair, perfect olive tan, waterproof no-smudge eyeliner and the ability to reflect light from her eyes so they glow like a a pair of lighthouses beckoning before an otherwise jet black curtain


It's not an easy role to pull off well, as one needs to be--in a sense--a blank screen, to nudge the viewer's anima into using the coiled energy of the far-off hurricane to fire up its projector and WACK! focus right in on Jennie, to get the pining ache that comes from one of the male psyche's all-too-rare reunions with our ever undersea/seen animas. How could I blame the film for being true to the anima's nature, i.e., for all too quickly shutting the projector off again, before we can ever get quite enough? Carl Weathers busting in on us like a big black alarm clock like some resistant superego, we can only pine for her to come again the next time we dream.

And this is--alas--the anima relationship at its purest. The anima appears to us only that her absence may be all the more keenly felt. She does read our letters but doesn't answer. In a way, she even helps us write them - for we're a projection of her unconscious as well.

It doesn't matter anymore. I am glad I bought this on DVD, and that the image is so gorgeously clear I can count the ocean's beaded rivulets down Connie Sellecca's luxuriant gamin limbs. I applaud the way the giant turtle is used so sparingly - appearing mainly at the climax, and fading away with an unforgettable dive into the depths and all the ensuing tarot-card ready references that connect The Bermuda Depths with the arcane language of the collective unconscious.

My early childhood anima - the mermaid girl from the old Marine Boy 
anime, that used to be on when I was around 3-4. I was so
enthralled I think I cried when the show stopped airing. I still
remember her vividly, though not her name.

Though this dream girl aspect ("have I only imagined her?") often irritates me in other films, it works here as there's plenty of evidence she's more than just a male fantasy or a psychotic hallucination. The men who don't believe she's real are--after all--a pair of normal guys on a tiny dinghy who actually believe they'll be able to catch and reel in a turtle the size of a Victorian mansion all by themselves, and that's way weirder. And besides, Jennie is real to Magnus, and to us, watching. We never see him talking to the air, for example. Though she's never seen by anyone else (except Eric--at the very end--and then we don't see the version of Jennie he sees, the image that causes him to buckle over in horror, but it's clearly not Connie Sellecca). 

Besides, if the Jennie the Mermaid element of the film was all done as some kind of Harvey-Walter Mitty style fantasy, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. I would have never watched it. Unless it's Sherlock Jr., I have no interest in movies about the cinematic dream lives of workaday schmucks. Instead, by revelaing nothing whatsoever the Depths delivers the full mythic power of an actual dream, the kind spend the rest of our lives trying to get back to. The Bermuda Depths is one of the few films to ever tap fully into the true power of anima projection. The filmmakers know that if there was some big twist at the end, i.e. a mad scientist is behind it all and/or it's a scam and the scammer would have got away with it if not for those rascally kids, or if the film relied on any rational or even metaphysical 'explanation' for the mysteries, it would undo the spell. But the way it's all filmed, the way the story goes down, it never loses its Jungian "on-the-one" beat, where the film itself is a dream from which there is no waking, only a renouncement of one layer of the dream, which may or may not be a transition to adulthood, for another.

The problem is--as besets all young boys once they reach the end of elementary school--Magnus can't get a moment to woo his lady love because of his girlfriend-less rowdy buddies, his shipmates, ie. the Apollonian 'group' of men that lie in dialectic opposition to the male conscious/female unconscious Dionysian pair-bond. In other words, he's trying to score but his buddies find him wherever Jennie brings him, even to a secret, gorgeous grotto (his late dad--whom he learns was 'eaten' by marine life--was washed out to sea; his mom--we learn--was lost at sea earlier, but luckily in all that time no one has touched the wreckage of his family home, nor found the hidden grotto).

Why did he not hide from Carl? We did he heed that manly call, that friendly but nonetheless cockblocking Captain Bligh all-hands? He's Fletcher Christian pulled from his languid island hammock with comely Mauatua for another endless slog across the seas. Without a second thought, presuming she'll be waiting when and where he deigns to look for her, Magnus leaves his ghostly love to go fishing with Eric and Dr. Poulis, as they set about trying to catch a creature so massive that there is no boat big enough to do anything on but drown should they be unlucky enough to hook into it.

Earning his masters in marine biology while spending the summer with Poulis, Weathers' Eric mispronounces "coelacanth" but he's letter perfect as the kind of guy whose energy is like a magnet for lost boys. After pointing out he and his father used to laugh at Magnus as a boy and his imaginary girlfriend, he then shrugs it off with a swig of beer, telling his young charge, "you're all right, you're home." This brusque fraternal protectiveness is something Magnus is clearly drawn to (or he wouldn't be on the boat at all) and needs on some basic level. And we need it too! So does Weathers! He's clearly having a great time in Bermuda; he improvs freely, cracks open beers that you know are real beers, and struts around loving the sun just as the sun loves illuminating every striation of his rippling shoulder muscles.

Like she did with Tera (Valerie Leon - left) in Blood from the Mummy's Tomb, my own anima (1) fixated on lovely Sellecca during my viewing of this film, using the crackling energy of Hurricane Dorian to start the projector to life again, beaming herself onto Jennie. I longed for her as Magnus does (he spends his time with the Carl and Burl brooding over her, talking about her. even as they shrug her off as a figment of his imagination). But Magnus loses both Jennie and his shipmates because he refuses to understand the link -- that she and the turtle are so intertwined that the harpoons pierce her as much as him. He refuses to make a choice, playing stupid when she asks him to cut the harpoon loose, as if he owes Carl a giant sea turtle prize. But we know what he must do: choose Jennie over Poulis and Eric and there will be no need for words --thoughts will be told in currents, shifts in oceanic temperature, and a kind of perpetual mix of whale cries, muted through bubbles in the current that light up the soundtrack the way sunlight maps the waves in the film's many day-for-night shots. 

Choose the boys and you will all drown. Certainly, they will.

Is my anima the dreamed or the dreamer? Does she dream herself across the membrane into concrete space-time reality through dreaming up a dreamer like me to dream her? 

James Villers in Blood would probably purr that we already know the answer to that one, don't we? (CinemArchetype #2)

It doesn't make any sense--that Poulis and Eric would dismiss Jennie but think they can catch a deep sea leviathan with a tug boat and a little net--but that's part of the film's dreamy unease. Even in the safe normal reality championed by Eric and Poulis, things don't add up. Their quest exists as a kind of perennial cockblock. Any young man in the throes of a sexual (but ultimately "dry") dream knows that torturous frustration. Our anima will always be ours, only ours, forever.... but first --before she surrenders herself -- you have to just go do one little thing. The boys are calling you back from the siren's rocky ledge, just as she called you away from their slippery gangplank. Their calling back and forth ensures you are never really with either. "Wait here and I'll be back," you tell her. But of course she's never there if you do return. Either that or you never make it back. Not for years, though what does time matter for the unconscious? Time and space are the dream. 


Magnus, though, too, is an archetype. He's not just some dweeb as so many lesser movies of this sort are saddled with (the sort played by Matthew Broderick or Tom Hanks). He is the Parsifal (and McCloskey does a great job with this vague role); Burl Ives is once again the Fisher King (see #12 of CinemArchetype 24) and there's also Weather as the hanged man (literally, in a tarot sense, as man is dragged to the depths by his foot - those are pearls that were his eyes, etc.) - all on the one side; and the alluring anima, her monstrous familiar (in a Gamera-logical sense) and even a wild/wise woman (Attaway's amazing one scene as the black housekeeper / conjure woman / folksy exposition provider) on the other.

It breaks my heart but is because Magnus does leave Bermuda that this becomes myth. If he didn't, he'd be snared in the faerie bower of Eros (1). Aphrodite's scallop shell would close down on the he and Jennie like a submersible honeymoon coffin.  The dreaming ego always goes off with the guys when he can, otherwise there is no myth, only an enchanted knight slowly dying of hunger under the poppy trees, ministered to by a dozen doting fairies til he withers down to a junky skeleton. ++

Some call him Kurma

BACK, STORY!

The production team behind the Depths are Rankin-Bass, names familiar to kids all over the world for the puppet-animated catchy tune-spattered Xmas specials we all saw every December, and still do, like Rudolph and The Year without a Santa Claus; and the first two animated catchy tune-spattered Tolkien specials - The Hobbit and Return of the King), so they clearly knew a few things about how to tap into the deep strain of Jungian archetypal myth that can structure kids' psyches as they merge into the adult lane. Here they're working with same Japanese crew and director: Tsugunobo Kotani, with whom they'd teamed up with for the more-conventional The Last Dinosaur from the year before. But while that movie stayed a 'boy's life' Hemingway meets Edgar Rice Burroughs dissertation on machismo, The Bermuda Depths is infinitely more even-handed and light in its touch. Trying to talk about its brilliance is, as Tyrone Power says in Nightmare Alley, "like trying to put the ocean into bottles."  Like the waves going in and out on those beautiful white sand Bermuda beaches -- it captures that all things are fleeting.  At best, consciousness is just a skittish series of opportunities to practice the fine art of letting go, for one must let go, of everything, in the end - and the end is soon. It's been real, but now the sea nymph must return to the depths, lest she melt into a skull ala Sandra Knight in THE TERROR (1963) and the Vivaldi concerto end, replaced by... Diamanda Galas...


BACK TO THE STORM

Enter 3 meteorologists, tracing their batons back and forth around the barometric reading map like junkies combing the carpet after the last grain is licked off the table, or conjure wives summoning demons from the depths of their cooking pots, roiling like coiling clouds over the Bahamas. Gesturing at the mimetic map as if to move the vortex through their swirling mimetic hand magic.

So as the swirling moves across time, space, and the spinning planet surface, is Bermuda's cosmic bill paid or will the hammer come down? No amount of blowing or fanning will change that spiral's mind. 

Up at Niagara, the Native American art museum is shaped like a turtle... It's been vacant for 22 years. I was there in 1989 with my girlfriend when it was open and full of Iroquois turtle imagery. The turtle carrying the world on its back, the incessant Falls, the force from which it gains its mighty roar...... my girl, her raven hair and crystal blue eyes... the turtle with the world on its... 

Am I still there? Am I ghost wandering that stricken empty shell? My ex had crystal Bermuda water blue eyes and raven black hair, pale skin and a lovely lips. But though she was everything I dreamt of, the roar of my band, of whiskey, and of inertia, all came first- no amount of hating myself could prevent it. 

Wait right here, I'd say....  I have a turtle to catch. It took me 20 years to get over her loss, yet I was so glad to be free of her (more of that in My Long Day's Journey into NIGHT OF THE IGUANA

Life was always going to be fleeting. We signed the waiver before we sailed. We're bound to remember we are all just waves that crash on the shore and leave only children, maybe, and photos of ourselves,  and mentions on the web that are only really 'there' if someone reads them. 
see: Godasiyo, the Woman Chief

The Bermuda Depths' theme song knows that horror, yet is sweet as any Rankin/Bass folksy theme. It might be friendly but it knows the power music had in the age of holding tape recorders up to TV speakers. It knows how we were once so anxious to capture any fleeting images of our beloved we would take photos of the TV, to somehow 'own' a reflection, knowing how futile that is. The sadness in the song "only imagined her" knows the almost religious importance we placed on things like 8x10 glossies, trading cards of our favorite movies, bands, and shows, of decals and buttons, of pictures cut out of magazines, traded like furs and guns. 

Now, in this internet age, the anima is harder to find for being so available. We are flooded with potential anima screens now, like the parade of hurricanes rolling out from Africa and around the and up the Florida coast before peeling out east  towards Bermuda or Nova Scotia. The Weather Channel crew traces their path on the empty blue  screen, commenting and gesturing, but there is no making the 'sea wife' come, only letting her go... when she's ready... Until then, she just sits there off the coast, in the deep, twirling in place, grinding the Bahamas down to a treelss, roofless nub. 

 It's only in her absence that she stays forever. That's the anima. 22 years later and the Niagara Great Turtle museum still stands, empty in shell but present in corner real estate. If you see her, say hello, but do not linger, lest your consciousness dissolve in the brine, its husk bobbing up and down in the waves, as she makes way for the next drowning man. 

But isn't that you, too? 

I still the feel the warmth from kissing her
I'll spend my whole life missing her 
Jennie...


NOTES:

Relevant Archetypes:


(Note: the key to this power is the image - Keep the old tactile 'real' photos of her on the beach or in front of the Falls from when you were young. Never look up her virtual pixel image on Facebook decades later, she will not look the same. No empty turtle shell still immortal just absent this time -your anima will shriek as if you caught it in the morning bathroom before it put its 'face' on. The true Jennie Hanniver at last.. Now your old photos just seem 'dead' - the anima has gone from this screen forever. That's Hollywood, and it's your problem. You looked back. And now your gaze itself is salt. 

Saturday, September 07, 2019

Hurrah for Luigi Cozzi! HERCULES (1983) and the Mighty Coates Canon!


Luigi Cozzi is 72 years.... young today. Though he's not made a film in some time, how nice is it that he's lived to see his most fertile period become immortalized on disc and stream? His place in the pantheon of trash auteurs assured thanks to the rise of cults like Alamo and boutiques like Shout, Scorpion, and Severin, Cozzi can know this is truly a golden age of the sort denied to those who died too soon to see their immortal glory become assured (like Ed Wood). Ignored, too poor to stay as high as he'd like, it was if Ed's cult couldn't rise except like a no-so-virgin spring from his own self-despoiled corpse. Well, many of us debauched libertines would gladly die in anonymity if we were assured of posthumous immortality, even as a cult 'so-bad-it's-good' auteur like Wood. 

Cozzi may shrink from his "Italian Ed Wood" label on some level, but I get the impression that--from his perspective behind the counter of his sci-fi store--that on another level he gets it's a term of endearment. He knows those of us who call him that love Ed Wood. We love Wood way better than we, say, love Robert Wise, Fritz Lang, or Stanley Kramer. Better to be loved than respected, better to rule the cult fest midnight revival hell than earn polite applause from tony bourgeois in film snob heaven. And if you can be alive to see your cult cheer your name onscreen, so much the better, even if it is only your anglicised nom du plume ("Lewis Coates").

Today we see Cozzi drifting merrily through DVD extras, palling around with Quentin Tarantino and the rest. And hey, Cozzi's canon is completely on DVD and available to all mankind (barring a few later works like The Black Cat/Demon 6 [1991] which are avail. sometimes on Prime streaming). Two are even on Prime (in the US)! For now!

I mention Ed Wood for a reason: like his Bride of the Monster, Plan Nine and Night of the Ghouls, Cozzi's most iconic work was released in a brief fertile period, approx. 1978-85--Stretching from Star Wars-influenced Starcrash in 1978 through to Alien-influenced Contamination in 1980, to the Conan-influenced Hercules in 1983 (and its sequel in 1985 - both below)And if, as with Wood, we laugh while watching, it's the best kind of laughter, for it's in a joyful realization Cozzi genuinely loves his chosen genre, maybe more than he should for the good of the narrative. He aims for the stars and lets the small stuff melt into abstraction. We who love him cheer the way that--like Wood's-- his movies go racing through gonzo set-ups with clear love of the sources they borrow from (in addition to the Star Wars borrowings, Starcrash affectionately nods to Golden and Seventh Voyage(s) of Sinbad, and Flash Gordon). We can watch Cozzi's films, over and over in ways we may not be able to do with the originals, or 'better' movies, because his love of those referenced films is so palpable. 

More than just rip-offs or homage, his films become like pagan idols, bowing to down to the celluloid image themselves. It's the kind of thing we see in the DIY recreations of blockbuster films in Michel Gondry's work, or that 1989 Mississippi homegrown student film Raiders of the Lost Ark: The Adaptation. Not to say Cozzi's work is amateur-ish, but rather it makes a kind of reverential ceremonial mimetic magic of genre film as myth. Unlike so many of his less cosmic-minded contemporaries, Cozzi would rather fail on a big stage than just show some fake-breasted frizzy-haired lady racing around an empty warehouse chasing a shambling rubber monster for 90 minutes like many of his contemporaries (I'm looking at you, Fragasso!) Cozzi's films never skimp on ideas nor do they waste time with long dialogue scenes or laborious set-ups; they zip around from planet to planet, from labor to labor, climax to climax, packing their vignettes with savages, monsters, gods, demons, stop motion animation and video infinity effects and most of all... lovely women in strong roles. 

Cozzi loves strong women. There might be cleavage involved, but his camera seldom stoops to leering. Stylish restructured costumes clothe strong, capable characters with Bechdel scores that outpace any of his better-known contemporaries (like Tolkien and Lucas). Far ahead of the curve on that aspect, Cozzi gives us a bevy of heroines and villainesses, rather than just princesses or imperiled doormats, they are space captains, CDC colonels, witches, queens (not mere princesses), goddesses, and agents of chaos magic. For this alone, he deserves a special lionization. 


So here's wishing you the best of birthdays, Luigi Cozzi. And to celebrate, a round-up of past reviews olf the cannon + deep look into one of my recent and most cherished discoveries, an unfairly ignored and forgotten relic from Cannon films in the wake of the post-CONAN sword and sorcery craze 

 HERCULES (1983)
****

When your only takable umbrage with a Cannon neo-peplum is a tacky corset worn by Sybil Danning (top) as the evil princess Adriana, then you know you are blessed by the refreshingly primitivist and un-tacky Lewis Coates (Cozzi's Americanized alias) once again.  File it, as I did, in my emergency reserves, right next to Plan Nine or Mesa of the Lost Women, something to bring on your laptop over Xmas when you need a break from your brother's loud shouting at Alexa. Most Hercules films are unpleasant to see once, let alone often but I can see Cozzi's Hercules over and over until the end of time. To get to the perfect 'all-flaw' gem facets of lovely classics like  The Car, The Devil's Rain, and Ghosts of Mars a sword-and-sandal film needs to have a wild imagination and a love of movies that overrides limitations. Cozzi would rather try for a time lapse change from an old witch face to a lovely enchantress than to just cheat it out with cut-to another character's surprised reaction shot the way lesser directors would (no matter if it works or not), and better to have a hydra --even if it only has three heads, none of which move, except to slightly raise or lower the necks to breathe fire--than to have no hydra at all. Better to have Hercules stand semi-transparently in the middle of outer space, flexing his mighty biceps, then to just see him rolling around in the De Paolis dust. In each of his 'effects' Cozzi all but salutes some older movie he's clearly in awe of. Like Tarantino, he's a true fan of the genre/s. And if you have fond memories of making movies as a kid (or now) and love seeing the seams, ala Ed Wood (like a magic show where the wires are visible), then you love Cozzi. 

And he clearly loves you.

Mirella D'Angelo (Tenebrae) as Circe, the witch
disciple of Athena who helps Hercules
See, Hercules isn't just about a muscle-head smashing foes, there's also lessons in astronomy and of the everlasting battle between science and chaos vs. the forces of the gods: we learn the planets were formed from broken shards of Pandora's water jar; we learn how the constellations got their names and shapes (Hercules threw monsters into deep space, like a bear who became Ursus Major, etc.); and that the four elements that comprise the universe are: night, day, matter, and air. (Never mind how day and night are measured before the formation of a spinning Earth). We learn that the gods were the first beings, fashioned on the Earth, and they settled on the moon to better observe and judge the tests of mankind, dressed in the high art gowns, crowns and shawls that were the divine fusion or art deco and Italian disco. We spend quite a while out there in the forming universe, for this is a Hercules that never loses sight not only of the gods but of higher representatives of magic like 'fire' (the imprisoned firebird, never seen except as orange light) and chaos (whose spirit manifests in Eva Robbins, in a bat-winged gold lamé skullcap and a gold codpiece (carrying weird echoes of her 'heel'-work in the flashback sequences of the previous year's Tenebrae).

Thus, there on the surface of the moon, do we find Zeus (Claudio Cassinelli) refereeing a bout betwixt the astringent Hera (Rossana Podesta) and the compassionate Athena (Delia Boccardo) over Hercules' fate, sending in their respective servants on earth to aid or abet him on his epic quest, sometimes speaking directly to the audience before appearing in a crude overlay on earth to eye laser-zap some serpent or other into existence to aid or abet mighty Hercules. With his huge jaw set against the world, Lou "TV's Hulk" Ferrigno (well-dubbed by familiar voice artist Marc Smith) may get a lot of flak for his limited range, but he does have a gift, a way with seeming deep inside himself, unfazed by threats or challenges, but then reacting to stimulus with the sudden reckless energy of a five year-old, eyes squinting to indicate focus on some magical spectacle and they widen when roused to sudden violence. When he hears his father has been slain by a bear he drops his harness (he's ploughing a field by yoking himself to a Carnac-like row of massive stones) and shouts "WHAT?" It's like he just saw his car getting a ticket from across the street. He goes racing across the fields with these little but super fast steps, like a six year-old might run from a barking dog. He reacts fast in fights, like a bantam weight prize fighter as opposed to a heavy pro wrestler. In short, he is the perfect choice for the mighty Hercules! He has that rare gift where he's not a good enough actor to hide his real self from us--there's no duplicity in him or his Hercules. We can see Lou is trying hard, giving it his all, but wisely he's not trying so hard he casts a dour pall over things. It's a delicate balance that makes a perfect fusion with Cozzi's innate cosmic primitivism.

As Herc's romantic lead/ princess-in-distress, Cassiopea (Ingrid Anderson) spends most of her scenes in sexy hanging white linens, first wearing a veil over her face then, after Herc lifts the veil and gives her a kiss, she's abducted and next time we see her she's wearing a trippy golden crown, natural breasts tastefully cupped by scallop shells (no leering by the camera, but beautiful side views). Made "sweet and submissive" thanks to the 'black lotus' (mmmm!) waiting to be burned alive as "a bride" of Minos' captured firebird/phoenix, she becomes a kind of dormant anima to Hercules, keeping him pure so that he resists the come-ons of both his benefactor witch friend Circe (Mirella D'Angelo). But both evil (agent of Hera) Adriana (Sybil Danning) and good (agent of Athena) D'Angelo are very much active in Hercules' life, as is, indirectly, Eva Robins as a glam chaos agent named Daedalus (above, left), with the ability to raise up giant monsters from an erector set series of toys atop her giant waxy head in the land between time and space.its suitable that Daedalus, representing "chaos in the name of science! Science in the name of chaos!" collapses sexual boundaries while staying all the time beguilingly pretty, alighting the eyes of evil king Minos (William Berger) with the macabre delights of her monsters. As Daedalus tells him, time and space are relative, so that miniature erector set monsters made dsiplayed by a lady in a codpiece and batwing skullcap atop a giant skull candle can still grow as large as houses once 'subject' to the atmosphere of Earth. Compared to all this, the ponderous posturing of Laurence Olivier and Vanessa Redgrave in the overlong Clash of the Titans is like sitting through math class vs. sneaking out to play video games at Space Port. 

Though Cozzi stacks his decks with strong female characters there are also some cool characters on the male side, though their faces are often obscured by unconvincing beards: Gianni (Sartana!) Garko shows up in a crazy red and gold-winged refurbished centurion costume with a helmet ridge that look like a giant fan paint brush; William Berger (5 Dolls of an August Moon) is the evil Minos; Cassinelli should be familiar to Italian crime genre fans (though with his droopy white beard as Zeus he carries a kind of Linus Roche-ness); and Bobby Rhodes (the pimp in Demons) is the King of Northern Africa, who shows up on a rocky beach for one scene (but has a languid white chick drooped at his side, and a coterie of all-white hipsters carrying his litter) after being called forth by Circe: Hercules will build his people a waterway in exchange for the magic chariot stashed in yonder cave ("and that's how, with the help of the Gods, Hercules created the great continents," intones the chorus-like narrator, adding the right measure of rock-straight dignity to the film's Pecos Bill/Paul Bunyon-style tall tale mythos, "by separating Europe from Africa"). Rhodes has a pretty cool elephant skeleton litter, but Cozzi's budget couldn't swing a Pegasus, so mighty Hercules has to throw a big temple boulder out of orbit and have Circe fashion a magic rope to tie it to the chariot (there's a great stop motion bit where the rope ties itself into a very cool sailor's knot, seriously, that is some wild-ass knot). Soon Circe and Hercules are soaring across the solar system, completely out of our planetary orbit, being pulled along in an open air chariot by a giant.... rock ("the winged horses are lost in infinity!") Lesser directors would never even dare try to get away with that, or using erector sets to make stop motion monsters. Cozzi never says 'never.' And if you listen closely to all the magic spells, a whole uniquely fractured cosmology bends and weaves into a new sort of physics, right before your ears. 


As he did with Starcrash, Cozzi somehow even manages to get an A-list composer to deliver a dynamite full-bodied score to something that would normally be subject to "library" tracks. He got John Barry to outdo John Williams in intergalactic bombast with Starcrash. Here he gets the legendary Pino Donaggio to deliver a prime mythic, hugely entertaining, even more bombastic score, full of Rocky-style coliseum brass and moody deep string ominousness. Did Cozzi prevent him Donaggio from seeing the movie during his composing, like he famously did with John Barry? I'd almost wager... Otherwise they would have, at the very least, lightened the heroic mood. But it's just that heroic mood that makes it all work. A single Les Baxter-style wink and the whole thing would deflate like a soufflé.

The dubbing too is all first-rate too, even the minor characters get professional well-recorded treatment, with Donaggio giving every absurd action the benefit of the doubt. This is a film never tries to be realistic, it gets that it is myth in its purest form, and evoking the gods is seldom far from any characters' lips, as it would be in any Greek tragedy (the Gods sometimes even seem to address the camera directly) and the lengthiest monologues are all incantations.  as if this pre-ordained saga, reflected in macro and micro dimensions as surely as any archetypal myth. This approach explodes the barriers between accidental Brechtianism, pure escapist mythmaking, and a child showing off his toy collection. Cozzi throws everything he has in the box at us, including Zeus-knows-what kind of filters and pieces of rainbow-reflective mylar held over the lens, mismatched matte paintings overlaid with multi-colored stars (white, red, blue, yellow, green, even purple). It's never too much; it is, in its sublime perfection, the very nature of magic. 

Then the sequel in 1985: Lots of light effects, overlays, fan art inspiration, clips from the last film, and everything a-nice.

ADVENTURES OF HERCULES (1985)

Sixteen viewings in and I'm still trying to stay awake through it all, and I don't mean that as a negative. For me, it's like falling into a peaceful dream, one punctuated by occasionally druggy reveries, mythic parallels and name-that-influence excitement, like you'd get from a child proudly waving his tracing paper drawing of the Sinbad cyclops, rousing you from a languid nap. My only caveats: the terrible bangs on the overly-layered, super square wigs of all the female characters (they're so bad they have a 'my mama did the costumes for the high-school version of Phaedra); and the tired look of surprise in the 'Colin Ferrell as an old queen trying one last time to get into Studio 54'-red feather glam of the evil priest (Ventatino Ventinini), his red eye shadow barely visible against his ravaged face (but his red feather coat is dreamy). But all is forgiven when a fire monster animation comes out and, in grand Cozzi homage fashion, it's rotoscoped from Forbidden Planet's Monster from the Id! Another monster looks like a shaggy dog on two feet, and when Hercules sends in his electric outline to battle King Minos (back from beyond), they become rotoscoped outlines of the ('33) King Kong fighting the T-rex and the snake (and Minos' goofy spinning sword fighting style is back from the first film); there's also a (fairly primitive but nonetheless badass) claymation Medusa / giant scorpion hybrid (mixing two Clash of the Titans monsters into one); plenty of Tron-like light video game effects (the funniesT being when Herc punch-bounces a ball of light around a canyon), and an Excalibur-referencing forest of hanging souls ruled by a white knight. The Nino Rota coliseum theme music is back, and still great, but the dubbing is badly mixed; Lou Ferrigno gets to keep the great Marc Smith doing his, thank goodness, and he stays refreshingly deadpan, but there's a different guy doing Minos's voice and he mispronounces 'Daedalus'! And he's kind of a jerk.

One other caveat: all the costumes have grown so layered, overstuffed and bulky it's as if their trying to sneak out of their hotel without paying. And the choices in wigs and headwear are appalling: Zeus is still played by Claudio Cassinelli but instead of his simple tiara and droopy-bit-distinguished white beard, he's given a big 'Santa Clause performs a christening' robe with a weird crown that's like a cross between a yarmulke and a mixing bowl. 

Ferrigno however stays shirtless; he's totally shredded. The sets have painted on features so they resemble Dubuffet sculptures. But there are free standing parks and ruins they visit include a tangle with the slime people at the ever-eerie Parco dei Mostri in Bornazo, with the stone monsters' eyes glowing purple and red.


The plot has the gods basically divided, as a cabal of rebels try to overthrow Zeus by stealing and hiding his six thunderbolts! Most of the rest of the cast is back, though not all.  The lady playing evil Hera is different and suddenly we get Laura Lenzi (the cute mom in Manhattan Baby) as another evil goddess, Flora (?), who thinks it's a good idea to revive the evil Minos via that old upside down blood donor trick from Hammer's Dracula, Prince of Darkness ("Minos..... not again" groans Hercules). Berger flashes his best maniac grin once he's imbued with the power of "cunning, connivance, and chaos" thanks to Daedalus (again played by Eva Robbins) and given an ice sword forged by Cronus. Lots of other overdressed rebel gods zap in and out of the dimensions of time and space, or stand on giant surrealist mesas above bubbling matte paintings and below rainbow-starred outer space, evoking the weird trans-dimensional zones of 60s Jack Kirby comics. 

In short, I could watch this movie endlessly on repeat. There's not a single dull moment. Cozzi may not be the best director in the world, but he knows how to bundle mythic influences together in such a way as to make a movie endlessly fascinating, and as relaxing. He unerringly zones in on the things that make our favorite genre movies so re-watchable. In Herc's case you can tell what movies were on his mind, but it's one thing to ape the Olympus scenes in Crash of the Titans and Jason and the Argonauts and another to have a sexy agent of Chaos in the zone beyond time and space help the evil king kill all the gods in the nwme if science. When mortal characters step outside space and time to consult the gods they wave their arms around to give off trippy trails, supporting my theory on where the many arms of Hindu deities come from (see my post on Dvinorum Psychonauticus). 

And even more important is what is missing, those boring stretches of comic relief that other films seem to think is so important. No Bobo the owls or little cabin boys hoping to be a-plus captain one day, or little boy genies, or klutzy disciples holding onto the horses. 

I haven't even mentioned the lasers, sexy mermaids communicating via telepathy (ala Voyage to the Planet of Prehistoric Women?), the crazy painted/scratched-on lightning, or that the cast consists of at least 3/4 women and none of them either sexually objectified or maternally consoling. A horny Amazon queen might turn out to be a giant spider, but that's to be expected.  

Sure, it's still a step down for the mighty Cozzi after the 'heights' of the previous film/s, but priceless lines abound: "Quick! Step inside the stone mouth!"; "Mother, give me the kiss of death." ; "Didn't you say the little people always spoke in truth?" ; "Your death shall free the souls!" ; "Be careful of the queen, Hercules, she is the most evil of all!"and Zeus raising his arms up high "Grow, Hercules! Growww!" If Cozzi's the Italian Ed Wood, this is clearly his Night of the Ghouls and that's a high compliment. Look fast for a shot of the rock-pulled chariot from the first film pulling into view from behind the moon during one of the many astral zip-arounds. 

Is it merely a sign Cozzi is using the same footage from the first film, or is Hercules truly outside of time and space, so the past and future exist simultaneously? 

Both? BOTH, i.e. the source of myth, time and space itself! It is here that Cozzi reigns. 


 SINBAD OF THE SEVEN SEAS (1989)

Lou Ferrigno is back in Cozzi country for this dopey-but impossible to dislike entry in the pre-CGI fantasy genre. The great Marc Richards isn't doing his dubbing this time, and his hair makes him seem like a juiced-up Eric Bogosian (with earrings), but he's OK; the main voice problem is an nearly omnipresent narration by a a dubbed Daria Nicolodi, reading to her little daughter. Sigh, you can adjust to those little caveats, the hair and the voice, it's typically looney-tunes Cozzi, nonstop weird fun action, strong female characters (including a bodybuilder with an odd pitch-shifted voice), and a total lack of bad vibes. It was co-directed with Enzo G. Castellari (1990: The Bronx Warriors and Warriors of the Wasteland) but he couldn't finish it so Cozzi stepped i. My guess: Enzo shot the earlier (relatively) ornate village scenes, but our dear "Coates" took over from around the 1/4-in point in, which is when it gets awesome. The boilerplate Thief or Baghdad adventure (Jafar--John Steiner hypnotizing the king, throwing Sinbad and his crew in jail, and making plays for his comely daughter) suddenly skips ahead to something resembling Adventures of Hercules, as the evil Jaffar (John Steiner) throws a bunch of  gems or something all around the world and whisks Sinbad onto a wild fractured voyage to liberate various gems from inside various monsters (ala Zeus's thunderbolts). Thus we get to skip around to lots of crazy scenes of monster fighting with very little in the way of connectors and establishing shots, which is A-OK. 

The drawbacks are there: the mom narration, the hair, and Steiner is wayy too campy, as in telling his pitch-shift-voiced female bodybuilder ally Soukra (Teagan Clive): "you're really spoiling my biorhythm!" (she snaps later "have you taken your medications this morning?" ugh!), but at least he seems to having a good time doing very little but tottering around a giant weird red geodesic set while watching Sinbad's adventures via crystal ball while the gorgeous princess Alina (Alessandra Martines) lays tied up and helpless below. Somehow this blood-red liquid in the tubes above her is... something something to bend her to his will, his love. He seems to really camp up his hetero-normative yen for her - and we can see why but there's something missing there.

But hey, Ferrigno gets to do lots of flexing, as when he wrestles with animated bird cage (a very long sequence in which Ferrigno gives his all) or knocks heads off rock monsters. He has the habit of throwing his sword away at the first sign of trouble, so he can use his fists (though he can't be punching hard, as the foes just bounce back up and attack again with no loss of vigor). In the justifiably famous climax, he fights himself --which side won? We did! In prime TV wrestling style, after winning a fight he points at Jafar watching him from the ball and declares he's next.


Thwe cast includes--as usual for Cozzi--plenty of strong women, like a bunch of Amazons, whose queen (Melonee Rogers) makes men fall in love with him through her evil dances. Sinbad gets his own girl, Kyra (Stefania Goodwin - Bronx Warriors), the fun and capable daughter (with refreshingly endearing, natural-voiced dubbing) of a terribly overacting Depp-x-Mike Meyers-ish wizard with zee ridiculous mustache. There's some great footage from the basket  of what must be an actual balloon floating over the water towards an actual ship, while Sinbad blows into the balloon to keep them all from sinking. It's silly but it's clearly real people down there on a real slim period boat, filmed from a real balloon, with the real actors in it. Pretty cool. 

Aside from rudeness to snakes, the general air is compassionate. Little person Cork Hubbert is a comic relief member and, though forced into some ridiculous contrivances, is at least treated with relative dignity; the crew is a little too 'colorful' for their own good though, each trying hard in costume and facial hair to make sure you get that this one is a Viking or Asian or Scottish, but hey, they all fight with rollicking good cheer and relative skill (were they stuntmen?) and they don't get in the way when its time for Ferrigno to do some wild feat, like break chains, run and/or swim in slow motion, knock a horse to the ground, climb up a ladder made of snakes, fight an empty suit of armor that shoots lasers out of its eyes, or resist the temptation of the Amazons!

The superfluous presence of bodybuilder Soukra, is a misstep; she never actually gets to throw a punch (her arc fizzles out), she ain't no Eva Robbins's Daedalus, sporting a codpiece and hanging out on a floating Kirby-esque pedastal over a giant wax head in the land of chaos beyond time and space while plying Minos with erector set monsters in the two Hercules films, though that's clearly her antecedent. Luckily we can take solace in Martines, a knockout even if all she does is lay around, and Kyra (left) as Sinbad's new love is wondrous in her chill realness: fun, relaxed, not afraid to deliver some serious punches and kicks in the battle with the gooey lepers. Did I mention the amazons? Cozzi forever!!!! 

As with Starcrash (also with amazons), the Achilles' heel del Cozzi is in full effect, namely a badly-mixed English dub that makes everyone sound like they're right up close to the microphone (i.e. voices not mixed in relation to character's distance) and clearly lacking a good English speaking dialogue director/ On the other hand, the cinematography is great, giving it a far more expensive patina than one would expect; and that two-tier, red metal-banded supervillain play pen / set is brilliant, and, hair or no, Ferrigno is impossible to dislike - his romance with Kyra is a late-inning highlight that's just so strangely right it makes me feel young and invested again. So just get over it, and savor the Cozzi Sinbadness while ye may.

 PAGANINI HORROR (1989)

A music video shoot for an all-girl rock band goes down at the historic landmark home of infamous violin virtuoso Paganini. It all goes awry when the all-girl rock band start disappearing during the breaks. Seems a masked ghost ala the Phantom of the Opera is stabbing them with a bladed violin after luring them forth via candles and typical horror-rock fantasy settings. Cool as that all is, it's plenty clear something or someone prevented Cozzi's full vision from being realized; a producer somewhere along the line nixed the kind of lunatic touches that would have made the film distinctly late-80s Cozzi. (I hear there's a German version that includes a prologue showing planetary movements, a celestial hourglass or scales or something indicating the cosmic balance). This naysaying producer clearly wanted this to be a gory slasher movie and to the devil with Cozzi's cosmic fatalism.

See, Italy had a kind of film subject future's market of bandwagon jumping --which meant they would find out what big new film was in the works, then make a smaller, quicker riff on the same subject, to kind of ride free on someone else's publicity budget. But to make sure the quick cash-in film was released at the same time, before, or right after with titles and a big budget you had to start production before said bigger budget film was even released, hence the gamble. So this big budget Paganini biopic was coming out, and there was already a rip-off version in the works at other studios. Hence Paganini Horror. BUT then the epic main movie tanked out, so Cozzi lost the high art tentpole he probably planed to use in defense of the high weirdness going on and the quick easy buck of the slasher took over. 

The final compromise involves a booby trap-rigged house, steeped in occult ritual thanks to Paganini's horrible history--that Daria Nicolodi rents out to a video shoot run by a Dario Argento-style horror maven who can't quite figure out how to keep shooting when the (very cool) all girl 80s Euro-rock band starts disappearing (he solves it by making use of the copious available mannequins). The only way to survive is to master Paganini's final score (copped from Donald Pleasance in a back alley of Venice) well enough to play it backwards before the maestro's masked spirit kills again!

The worst part of it all actually is that Donald Pleasance is dubbed by someone else!! What's the point? His voice is everything! Still, as with the best Cozzis (above and below) what saves it all and makes it a true gem is the real palpable love and respect for the genre, and for strong women, that suffuses everything. When they gaze into camera for the video, you can read deep into the girl band's souls and they seem to be having a high old time making this film. The cinematography is lovely, captured in burnished oranges and browns, with lots of candles, and --alas--it's all too short, with a hyper-ironic, if unsatisfying, ending. Maestro! Did you have to kill the cute bassist chick first! Aye shalom! (full review of Blu-ray here)


Earlier COZZI CANON (previously covered)

STARCRASH (1978)

Starcrash moves so fast from cliffhanger to cliffhanger it has less to do with its obvious 'inspiration' and more in common with one of those compressed feature film versions of the 1936 serial Flash Gordon (right down the helmets, and the hero's escaping his/her stint shoveling fuel into the enemy blast furnace) crossed with the Golden and 7th Sinbad Voyages. And it has even less to do with actual science, which is a relief. The John Barry score is far better than John Williams' score for Star Wars; the sets, guns, and costumes are all super kinky and wild; outer space is laden with lava lamp overlays and stars as varied in color and size as a drunk Xmas tree. Christopher Plummer--decked out in a kind of Versace sci-fi hallucination-- gets to shout out to a far off space ship that he will now "freeze time itself!" and as his son, David Hasselhof has never looked prettier. Clearly Cozzi lavished attention on weird details like kinky cool costumes, crazy sets, and wild giddy imagination, but left choices for the clunky English dub, and editing, in less wondrous hands. The cast is great but only half of them, since the extra value they would have brought doing their own voices is lost. (Plummer keeps his though). There's also the issue of Marjoe Gortner who comes off like a tooth-whitened Vegas magician crossed with an over-caffeinated animatronic Peter Pan (and his hair is curly). Stella has a lot of sexy and slick outfits though, with wide Vampirella collars. The diaper/chastity belt thing is not a good look however. Released in America by New World Pictures, so as with their other films, it has to clock in at under 90 minutes irregardless of how many sets and action set pieces are going on, leading to a giddy rushed feel (Star Wars lest Roger forget, clocked in at a healthy 2+ hours)  (full review here)

CONTAMINATION (1980)

This Italian ALIEN-inspired sci-fi adventure gets a bad rap in some circles but I adore it. Rather than just have some amok alien eating crew members, this keeps itself on Earth in the present, and decides to focus in on the pod-to-stomach-stage, with rows of ugly watermelon slime pods that explode when ripe and cause instant explosions in the stomach of everyone in horseshoe vicinity. I dig the obvious phone book size padding under the victim's shirts before the explosions; I dig the traumatic Freudian-cave-on-Mars flashbacks; the unearthly humming whale-ish noise the pods make when they're fixing to blow. I dig the vibe between the NYC cop who discovers the initial shipment (Marino Mase), the female colonel (!) of the Army's special disease control unit (Louise Marleau) and the traumatized astronaut (Ian McCulloch). The three team up in a sexy 'gentleman's agreement' synergy and head down to Colombia where they're soon ensnared up in a big slimy alien's world domination plan, ala It Conquered the World. 

Louise Marleau's heroine finds a worth opposite number in lovely blonde Gisela Hahn as the evil mastermind's right hand, and I love the alien itself, especially that bicycle reflector eye and the glistening artichoke coloring. Lastly, what really earns my goofball admiration is the Goblin soundtrack. That late-70s-80s European prog rock style has aged well. I don't know what else you need to make you love this dumbass film the way that I do. Whatever's missing, you don't need it.

THE BLACK CAT 
AKA Demons 6: De Profundus  (1989)

A parallel program to the Argento-Bava-Soavi school, this unofficial metatextual sequel to Argento's Suspiria (and sixth in the catch-all Demons series) factors in post-modern self-reflexivity to keep you guessing, including the Mater Suspiriorum  source of sources (Thomas de Quincey's Confession of an Opium Eater). Argento is name-checked and there's even some familiar Goblin cues from Suspiria.Screenwriter Marc (Urbano Barberini) writes a treatment for the story of a witch named Lavania. He thought he made the name up. But there was a witch by that name, and she's rising from her grave a little farther every time the word 'Lavania' is spoken. Her face and hands are grotesque pustules (ala Lamberto's first two films), but she begins to take over the mind of Marc's wife, Anne (Florence Guérin) and causes her to hallucinate guts flying out of the TV. A hot local psychic encourages Marc to change the character's name to something else, but he won't.  Meanwhile, without even knowing the story he's writing, new mom Ann starts to demand to play the role, saying she "is" Lavania. How would she know? But what about sexy Caroline Munro, who starts luring Marc into the sack for the Lavania part? Michele Soavi plays the director. I didn't even have time to mention the undead financial backer! Confused? Join the club. Still I'd rather go on a Cozzi ride-- even if its bumpy, and dangerously near collapsing--than play it safe on some competent piece of junk like Lost Souls or Stigmata -hai capito? (full review here). 


NOTES:
“I urge you to look at bad films, they are so often sublime.”– Ado Kyrou
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