Friday, June 03, 2022

Recent Favorites: Ten Weird Cinema Discoveries

Don't panic, but picking out a movie to watch is becoming ever more impossible. No filmmaker, artist or writer can help but be dismayed by the internet's total everything all the time availability. With hundreds more movies coming out every month and none of older stuff ever disappearing, it's harder and harder to find choice nuggets since it's easy to close yourself off to new sensations. Thus content aggregators zero in on our specific tastes and so our tastes shrink instead of widen. Tubi chooses for me an array of 30s-80s horror and science fiction. And I have to obey --because otherwise I will be drowned in options. Just the number of independent SOV outsider horror films alone could send even the most open-minded film critics running screaming into the night from despair.

When I was working as a film critic I rarely got to pick my assignments; as a result, I had to see a lot of stuff I'd never watch in a million years on my own. I covered everything from cliche-ridden gay romcoms like Big Eden  to weird but effective black family-aimed spiritual comedic-soaps like Medea's Family Reunion. As a result my horizons were expanded far beyond my comfort zone. I wouldn't watch any of those movies today on my own, not ever, especially not in a theater or screening room where I was compelled to actually pay attention. Nonetheless, with the exception of Alexander Sukorov's closeted steam fantasia Father and Son (2003) and the the Ned Flanders-friendly The Pirates who Don't do Anything: A Veggie Tales Movie (2008), I'm glad I saw them. 

But that job is done; my comfort zone has gotten very narrow. Now if something doesn't grab me from the get-go, I stop watching. With a thousand channels, and hundreds of thousands of movies on each one why would I waste time with something aimed at a different demographic? Or something that has kids, animal abuse, pedantic Christian messaging, convincing torture scenes, depressing truths, fake breasts, snickering frat boys, or tacky 80s perms? Or anything other than shot on 35mm and given a solid HD translation with vivid colors? Not on my watch... list! Life's too damn short.

Yet the long hunt is worth it when I finally strike gold--stuff my aggregator's and I both like. Viola! 

(1978) Dir. Kim Ki-young
via Mondo Macabro (Korean - with subtitles)

Here at Acidemic we have a yen for legit weird films but they got to be weird for a purpose. Sometimes weirdness is a specific code used to get critiques of Catholic or Communist ideologies past their home country's censors (i.e. the films of Bunuel or Parajanov); sometimes weirdness is just arch intellectual posturing (some Godard, Robbe-Grillet, Resnais, Carax) or merely a callow showcase for macabre art direction and effects (Burton, Jeunet). Sometimes weirdness translates to shamanic archetypes straight from the unconscious, captured on film prior to any conscious structuring (Jodorowsky, Lynch, Zulawski Rollin), that's the kind I love - and then sometimes there's Kim Ki-young's Woman Chasing the Butterfly of Death-- it's all those weirds and none of them, a surreal meditation on death and the eternal self that's at quietly absurdist, terrifying, and droll, resisting with ease any attempt to categorize or predict the origin or direction of its next offense--that kind of cinematic experience I'll give my steel pot to any day, to quote Gene Evans as Sgt. Zack. 

A man begins a long and strange odyssey by accidentally drinking poison with a girl he meets at a park while chasing an elusive and strange butterfly. Miraculously he doesn't die, but she does, so now the cops think he killed her, or was hallucinating. A wandering bookseller senses our hero's near brush with death and appoints himself his guru, announcing defeating death can be done through will alone. Our hero isn't interested. Even after he dies, the bookseller keeps hounding him. An ancient skeleton stolen from a huge cavern tourist area wills itself into flesh and become his cannibal demon lover. It turns out the daughter of his soon-to-be archeologist mentor/employer was going to drink the poison with that dead girl from the park but was late, and now is jealous and pissed our hero took her place and that now she'll have to die alone. She too collects butterflies (transfiguration's ultimate symbol!). They're pinned all over her room, and he's next. This club has everything: disembodied heads blow out birthday candles, excavators as assassination weapons; vicious archeologists fighting over a primitive man's skull, and gangster assassins. It all doesn't add up to much cumulative effect but then again neither did Holy Mountain, or Twin Peaks. It's the ride not the destination, because there's only ever really one destination, isn't there? No point arriving at it any time soon if you can avoid it.

The Mondo Macabro transfer has a kind of rough-around-the-gills look that doesn't do it much favors, but let's not ask for the wound, we have the scars. 

(1968) Dir. Yoshiyuki Kuroda
via Arrow streaming (in Japanese with English subtitles)

A wondrous Arrow release this year has been the 60s Yokai Monsters trilogy (plus a CGI-using Takeshi Miike remake). Of the three original films, this one is easily the best and the only one with a nonhuman villain. Like the similar but much less fun Giant Majin trilogy, the Yokai films are all set in small rural period piece Japanese villages where local peasants are subject to the cruel whims of human oppressors, until weird folk legend monsters finally show up and kick bad guy ass. The oppression parts can get pretty manipulative, especially with the Maijin series--how much more suffering can these peasants endure until that pokey statue finally lumbers into action for the unsatisfying pay-off (at a certain level of prolonged abuse, no mere stepping on by a big stone giant is sufficient catharsis). The Yokai are more child-friendly, to a point, and scatter monster vengeance bits throughout, but only Spook Warfare--the second in the Yokai series--stacks the deck more evenly, using an ancient Babylonian vampire monster who can assume any form--and even split himself into numerous different human forms via vampire bites--instead of a cruel human landlord, gangster, or tyrant for a villain. The resulting all out brawl between this powerful demon and 100 or so different folk monsters is like if the residents of the Star Wars cantina all went over to somebody's backyard pool after closing time to drink more beers and fight the monster from A Chinese Ghost Story. Like all the best spooky movies, it occurs mostly at single night, in beautifully-lit soundstage gardens and eerie graveyards, with moody low end ominousness pulsing in the score (courtesy Sai Ikeno). It would be fine choice for brave children, never talking down to them and directly threatening them at the same time (as the vampire villain especially loves to drink their virgin blood), and "adult" kaiju fans will find plenty to groove to. 

Lastly, the psychedelic warriors amongst you just need to know a wild umbrella monster with a very long tongue in appears the movie--you're not hallucinating. It's a real Japanese folktale spirit called a kasa-obake) and the way it bounces around with its wild eye and obscene tongue just may give you one one of those coveted acid flashbacks we're always hearing about but--for me at least--have never actually occurred. Either way, with so many other ghosts and goblins--even if they're more or less actors in suits-- Spook Warfare will make you rethink your lifestyle choices, in the best of ways.

(1983) Dir. Avery Crounse
Severin via Shutter  (English)

The awesome and otherworldly and long-unavailable (excepts as a chopped-up HBO cut or cropped old VHS) period piece is one of the real surprises of the year (coming in as part of Severin's unmissable folk horror collection All the Haunts be Ours). It's horror-adventure period piece magical realism along the same general plot and time frame as The Witch --i.e. late-1600s America, when the wilderness was still largely the domain only of Native Americans, trappers, a few British or French military-maintained outposts, wandering fur traders, and small, remote religiously uptight enclave, and--of course--wild witches and shamanic tree spirits roaming unchecked in the woods. As with The Witch, we have a an iconoclastic patriarch of the kind that essentially made the laws privileging white males so deservedly obsolete--in this case an itinerant preacher who takes up with the wife of a long-absent fur trader and her gaggle of kids. They end up needing to escape downriver when the town tries to hang a redheaded girl stepchild just because she knows herbology and how to speak with the trees. (Say what you will about this preacher, at least he's not a witch hammer). Sailing on a wooden raft, shot at by Native Americans, they end up finding a place of their own by setting up shop in a patch of woods the local tribes fear to tread, haunted by a malicious soul collecting tree spirit magus who is soon sucking them all down to his web of interlocked roots and shroom filaments. Gradually the survivors barricade themselves into their fort walls defending against the tribes and even an evil changeling shuttled into their midst that the preacher takes as his own.

These woods are personified in the power of this shamanistic force, a real earth elemental in the grandest form. The preacher himself gradually goes plum loco in an Aguirre thinking he's Col. Kurtz but actually being Royal Dano in There Will be Blood kind of way. The kids stand fast, under the protective wing of the barefoot wild-haired dirt-eating, herb-picking redhead in their midst. With great use made of the misty forest and a cockeyed Badlands-style child narration--as the story is told to the incredulous French officer (Mike Genovese)--highlights include all the spirts embedded in slimy grey tree bark; the running around ghost slaves of former visitors, now turned into mud wrestling pagan sort of dancers glowing red, the blowing leaves, the people trees, wild shamanic fights; the vanishing into the mist; and a bizarre and the sudden wink of an ending that left me, for once, feeling bullish about the natural world again, like it just might have this shit under control.

(1972) Dir. Francisco Lara Polop
via Arrow (in Spanish with English subtitles)

Another all-in-a-single dark and foggy night wild ride movie, my favorite kind of spook show (ala The Old Dark House, The Black RavenHouse on Haunted Hill, Cat and the Canary, and Something Creeping in the Dark.) In a rather ingeniously-edited overlapping open stretch along the late afternoon, we follow a pretty hitchhiker (Lisa Leonardi), a young motorcyclist, and an array of cars full of interlocked rich connivers--and the rich they marry and/or prey on--along a winding one country road through and along a moody Spanish tree-lined woods and countryside. They soon all get lost in the rural Spanish fog and thus seek shelter at the same gloomy mansion owned by creepy-sexy Evelyn Stewart (Persephone in Bava's unmissable Hercules in the Haunted World) in a town gone empty and uninhabited after a lot of rumors about vampires. Rural Spain is superstitious! Analía Gadé is the dissolute redhead heiress who is probably being driven mad by the ghost of a brutish glowing red eyed chauffeur and the old severed head in the closet gag (a shout out perhaps to House on Haunted Hill!), Figuring out the twist-upon-twist ending in advance needn't diminish the shivery pleasures to be found, especially now that it looks so damned good (thanks to an Arrow HD clean-up). Besides, after the expected twists come several more. They don't call it Murder Mansion for nothing. 

 ("Im Banne des Unheimlichen")
(1968) Alfred Vohrer
Youtube (in German with English subtitles)

This beautifully color-restored HD German film--now seeable on Youtube with English subtitles! probably misses a lot of potential viewers because of its misleading American release title sounding too much like other films (and probably it was in a badly cropped print, with bad dubbing). But those days are about to change! Turns out, there are about three million Edgar Wallace adaptations from Germany from the 60s-70s, most from director Alfred Vohrer and featuring a sputtering Col. Klink-style Scotland Yard chief Sir Arthur (Hubert von Meyerinck) as comic relief, his capable little girlfriend assistant (this time Siw Mattson) and the handsome dashing lead detective Higgins (here Joachim Fuchsberger) dealing with, variously, supposedly dead people who may not be dead, masked killers, spooky fogbound estates, imperiled heiresses, mysterious criminal organizations and Bond-style escapes; the usually have an English language pop/rock theme song, color credits even if the film is in black-and-white, and a jazzy psychedelic look. Thanks to the folk hero Simon Bart bull they've been collected and subtitled into English on YouTube (see the list hier). 

As usual for Wallace films, the 'zombie' is probably not real, just a mysterious assailant in a glowing skull mask with glowing skeleton hand gloves who runs around offing people with that ultimate in Edgar Wallace murder weapons, a spring lauded scorpion ring laden with an undetectable poison. A scene of him attacking someone pulled over in the fog on the road--the fog itself and the green mask all aglow--is especially spooooky and fun, evoking Bava and the Batman at the same time. The cast are all either suspects, dead, or heroes, including Claude Farell is the intrepid young female reporter regularly getting to the crime scene mere seconds before Higgins. Wolfgang Keitling is a haunted aristocrat who inherited the estate from his brother (who's recently maybe killed in a suspicious plane crash). 

 Vying for the estate are competing charities his brother supported, including  a shady clinic operated by cold-eyed doctors and nurses (a Wallace staple), and a religious organization that tries to stop Higgins from examining the body of the supposedly dead brother.  There are plenty of suspects to go around: an evil nurse, a green-faced alcoholic grave digger; a priest and his evil looking right hand woman; a female author of a books about rare poisons; and a doctor who can't attest to his own whereabouts the night before. It's got the perfect blend of comic touches, all-in-a-night spook show momentum, stunning HD night photography, endless easy-to-follow plot twists, swirling fog, comedy, gloomy crypts, nightclubs,  Bava-esque deep gel colors and a fun Scooby Doo-style denouement that makes it just the right film to watch between Blood and Black Lace (1964) and The Ghoul (1933).

(1978) Dir. Enzo Castellari
Severin (in English and German)

Director Enzo Castellari sucks us in from the very beginning of this Dirty Dozen-inspired full bore over-the-top Italian WW2 action extravaganza. Like so many Italian imitations of American box office hits, it proves way more fun and faster moving than the original. Offering the same basic premise --a bunch of stockade-bound US soldiers vs. mostly anonymous Germans. Forgoing all the training montages, sneaking around, war games, brawls, lip service from arrogant generals, mission planning and carousing and anti-authoritarian posturing that ate up the first 2/3 of Aldrich's film, Castellari keeps his loose and in the moment. About five minutes in, a lucky shelling frees a group of prisoners on their way to the stockade. Boom! They decide wander through the war-torn landscape, hoping to find Switzerland and immunity. They end up teaming with an AWOL German Wermacht soldier (Raimund Harmstorf), accidentally wiping out a squad of Nazi-disguised Allied commandos, and then taking their place on a mission with the French or Belgian resistance to blow up a train carrying a Nazi rocket scientist and his new warhead aboard. So many explosions and guns! I started watching this more out of just searching around the web for a moment's distraction, and soon my childhood obsession with WW2 sparked right back up and I sucked down the whole thing like a desert wanderer sucks down a cold can of beer. How we would have loved this back in my tweenage war years if only we'd not been such snobs over post-sync sound and Italians in general. Well, it was worth waiting for (this would probably be much less effective on fullscreen VHS), all looking suave and majestic on HD widescreen. And man is it a bloody hilarious riot. All this, and Fred Williamson too! Count me in. 

(1980) Dir. Antonio Margheriti
Code Red (in English)

I loved Bastards so much I found and followed up with this far different Margheriti war movie from just two years later. This time he's imitating Apocalypse Now and The Deer Hunter, i.e. a much less popular war than the one fought in Inglorious. A decidedly odd but engaging epic, The Last Hunter stars everyone's favorite Brit, David Warbeck (The Beyond) as a combo Martin Sheen from Apocalypse Now and Robert De Niro in The Deer Hunter, but way cooler. After his crazy friend kills himself over his AWOL girlfriend at a Saigon bar, Warbeck is sent on a mission behind the lines to find and destroy a hidden Tokyo Rose/Axis Sally-style propaganda radio station operating somewhere upriver. A big twist at the end harkens it all back to the beginning and seriously jades our hero out so that the final shot eerily anticipates the big key image of Platoon Scrawny maniac John Steiner is the Col. Kilgore to Warbeck's Willard, holding shit down in a remote river outpost that's has a a snack machine and bar. Showing he's loco, Steiner's favorite music is his reel-to-reel of gunfire and explosions ("dig that beat!"). Tessa (Zombie) Farrow lends feminine presence meanwhile as the usual endangered but fearless photojournalist who's almost raped (Steiner's sex-starved soldiers "haven't seen a woman in months.") Luckily the crazy colonel distracts them by sending one of them across enemy lines to get him a cocoanut. Ah, the genius of command! 

This being an Italian movie, they're all soon besieged by attacking VC and NVA--bullets flying and people falling back into crates and through mud walls, and the crazy action resumes anew: gunboat explosions, lone survivor rescues, heroics, imprisonment in bamboo cages submerged in the rat-infested river (to get those Deer Hunter tokens) and of course, endless explosions. The climactic confrontation at the radio transmitter station makes this a sublime winner of disillusionment and pro-violence anti-sentiment. 

A big surprise here is how Riccardo Pallottini's cinematography makes the Philippine jungles look airy and crisp and inviting. Usually in films shot there the sky seems always white with a haze of solid cloud; the humidity makes everyone and everything seem shellacked and hazy with perspiration and gnats. I get sweaty and find it hard to breathe just watching 90% of movies shot there. That's not the case with The Last Hunter. The water looks fine, and the air is crisp as a new dollar bill. 

No surprise here is how cool, calm, and always with a sideways disbelieving smirk is our Warbeck. There's a reason he's so beloved of Italian genre film fans. A kind of a Cary Grant without the dandy feyness nixed with Pierce Brosnan without the Esquire vanity, all smothered in a "who the fuck are you kidding?" kind of a cock-eyed look that makes me wish he could be in every Italian action and horror film ever made. Of the ones he did, this is probably the best. It's certainly the best looking (I found it in HD floating around YouTube, but plan on getting the Blu-ray soon, cuz Code Red rawks.  

1988) Dir Ngai Choi Lam 
(DVD) in Chinese with English subtitles

Ngai Choi Lam doesn't waste any time or include any filler. We're plunged into the heady melange of a devil, his young daughter (Narumi Yasuda), and ancient curses destined to be fulfilled and the sky being blotted out by inky clouds of evil when she comes to her 16th (I think) birthday and opens the gates of Hell as foretold in the prophecy. There's no time to think twice or wonder why an animatronic dinosaurs exhibit is being set up in the midst of a grand opening department store--we know it's so the monsters can come alive and battle a pair of odd couple Buddhist disciples, separated at birth by their respective Zen masters, one from Japan (Hiroshi Mikami) and one from HK (Biao Yen), now there to save the soul of the devil girl. No need to wonder why they take her to an amusement park--it's so weird little touches like stop-motion animated little creatures hiding in the trash on the Hong Kong street are like shots of joy to the heart. So we have two separately trained young monks helping to turn Satan's little girl to the side of good before her key turning moment comes--at an amusement park! We're still reeling from how cool the dinosaur department store fight was and here we are climbing up a rollercoaster (for real) to rescue a person stuck up on the track.  

The only (minor) flaw I could find is perhaps that Lam is a bit too enamored of the special effects shots of a giant reptilian mouth emerging from a villain's bendable back, and the massive gates to Hell shooting up from the ground and slowly opening. Lam is so psyched for these two moments that they stretch on way too long and kill the momentum. The whole film seems to stand still while these effects slowly unfurl. But otherwise, from the get-go, it's a solid blast. HK's ultra sex symbol Gloria Yip is even along for the ride. Look out! In a lot of ways, Lam does what Tsui Hark does but better --less slapsticky and speed-addled/confusing, more fun and easy to follow, grabbing you from the get-go and never letting go. The only comparison I can think of how I felt watching this was the first time I saw Raiders of the Lost Ark, the perfect flow from grand set piece to grand set piece, never exhausting or confusing or boring,  is hard to do but Lam does it here, and also in the equally great THE SEVENTH CURSE!

(1997) Dir. Jean Rollin
Severin / Kino-Cult - in French with English subtitles

No one who loves Jean Rollin will argue that in many ways he's not the greatest horror director -- but only he brings that dark, moody sense of kinky and uniquely French decadenceHe absorbed a great wealth of decadence and poetry as a child ("Story of the Eye"-author Georges Batailles was a family friend) and it meshes with the memory of his first kiss on the beach into a miasma of work that seems like the beautiful but macabre dreams of an absinthe-poisoned aesthete--classic vampire motifs, weird twin-Alice surreal imagery violent, sudden sex and death, and--of course--that same beach. Rollin fans know that beach very well. Expect a gory and fast-paced good time and expect in vain! But if you let the slow pace lull your mind into a receptive alpha state, his macabre Baudelaire / Corbière-esque poetic monologues--often waxed direct to camera by a deep-eyed beauty holding a skull--might just beam right into your subconscious-- and there's nowhere you'd rather it beam. This is especially true if he keeps his focus on his favorite archetypal image: two mysterious young vampire girls walking around old castles or graveyards in search of blood and adventure. And he has in just this in Two Orphan Vampires a pair of amazing actresses (Alexandra Pic et Isabelle Teboul) who have a great, wondrous rapport and a line of patter that perfectly encapsulates Rollin's oeuvre in a fun, almost playful way. Soaring on each other's wings of madness across numerous times and identities, they're more in the vein of Kate Winslet and. Melanie Lynskey in Heavenly Creatures than the usual, often mute, somewhat vacant Rollin heroines.  Scenes of them with their eyes glazed and Rollin's requisite big dopey hanging out of the mouth fangs are kind of dumb, but the rest is sublime. 

Rollin has never been comfortable with just wholeheartedly embracing the familiar vampire tropes, and here--instead of needing to sleep in their coffin to avoid sunlight-- these girls are totally blind by day, replete with canes and dark glasses but at night they come alive with delirious evil. It's an ingenious idea and I love that there are barely any men at all. Men are often either rapist crooks or effete dreamers in Rollin films, so when the two orphan girls are adopted by a widowed (?) businessman, we cringe--will he be abusive and/or unbearable? No, he's dutiful and often absent. His only crime is he shoots one of them by mistake after they're late coming home from one of their bloody wanderings. The closest thing to a villain in the film is a guy chasing the girls after catching them in the act at a nearby graveyard.

Filmed in 1997 (we even see Pete Tombs' indispensable Immoral Tales--which includes a large chapter devoted to Rollin--proudly displayed on an altar at the ruined church) and looking very crisp and HD, it's clear this is kind of a Rollin capstone. After decades of terrible reviews and bad box office, he's now a legend, his films recognized as fine art as well as terrible trash.  Older, wiser, aware of what works and what doesn't, freed from the need to deliver rote sex and violence (and maybe too old to want to anyway), he changes to a macabre sense of playfulness . These girls spin flights of fancy, remembering their past incarnations via books from the nunnery library on Aztec history and French circus magicians (but not in the irritatingly twee way of some French films), as well as the expected graveyard hauntings. On their travels, they encounter various solo-flying versions of themselves--lonely loner monster women (a bat girl who flies over cemeteries at night; a werewolf girl who hides from packs of wild dogs in misty rail yards), each hidden but radiating a strong independent presence via proud explanatory monologues, explaining why they avoid all human contact, speaks to the deadening effect of masculine energy on creative female energy more elegantly than an ocean of rapey backstories.

Best of all, there are no sudden distractions from the front-and-center female friendship--no boys come between them. In the past, Rollin often brings in a Yoko-style pretty boy to come between them, and soon one is killing the other just for trying to kill him for coming between them. We get this little outcome in Requiem for a Vampire, Fascination, Grapes of Death and, in variations in Poland's The Lure (2015) and the Canadian Ginger Snaps (2000). This intrustion fits the fairy tale archetypal motifs at work (you gotta grow up sometime!) but can have a disillusionment aftertaste (that's not why we come to le cine). Instead, well, no spoilers, but f you took the marvelous Baudelaire but shocking but strangely moving climax of another French film with a similar thrust, Don't Deliver Us from Evil and spread it to a whole film, monsieur! No growing up needed.

This incarnation of Rollin seems calmer, happier, less inclined to either moribund emptiness, callow anima pining, or slow burn destruction of innocence. The girls declarations and past life imagination borders on whimsical but stays on the dark side of fairy tales ( Grimm rather than HC Anderson) so it's OK by me. Reality is more or less forgotten--for example, though they're clearly not carrying any baggage, the girls easily produce oversize volumes of magic and Aztec history they stole from the nunnery library wherever they happen to roam, and their experiences with the other magical girls are like mythic encounters in Greek or Brechtian dramedies or Cocteau's Testament of Orpheus. In my favorite scene, one of them has shot and is dying in bed, but the other brings her back to health by vividly describing memories of ancient blood ceremonies (which they claim to have witnessed firsthand) atop an old Aztec pyramid: thousands of hearts ripped out of sacrificial bodies, enough blood dripping down the upon the pyramid steps to color the entire edifice a deep red. The actresses nail the love and transfigurative power of blood with such pure hearted bliss our whole notion of good and evil are thrown in the dustbin. Viva la mort!

PS - Make sure you watch the subtitled version in the original French. I hear the English dub is atrocious.  

(1972) Dir. Jess Franco
Arrow, Kino, etc. - in French with English subtitles

Special Note: There are various versions of this film, some with hardcore inserts, some with dream-like slow-mo zombie attacks demanded by the distributor (zombies were very 'in' at the time) shot by Rollin shot them as Franco was busy and didn't want them added anyway. I don't think they detract, though the hardcore sex certainly does. Either way, you can always scroll past.

My admiration for both Rollin's and Jess Franco's works depends largely on whether a film of his breaks through to me in just the right place/mood/time. Often I find them insufferable but late at night when I'm half-asleep or delirious, alone in my chambers, bust of Pallas above the door and all that--magic. Now and then though, the doors between unconscious' dream and dream cinema open, Franco knocks one home and a kind of full scale magic overwhelms me - a timelessness envelops me like molasses and I'm suffused with an enjoyable melancholic delirium, a Rimbaud/Baudelaire kind of drug-like spell where the film and I merge.

I had been sober for a year before discovering his work and was far from an instant fan. This was back when seeing his work involved renting a lot of VHS tapes from the Kim's Video--unattractive pan and scanned unrestored images or worse, terribly faded and widescreen (vs. anamorphic) DVD or VHS. The first DVDs of SUCCUBUS and KISS ME MONSTER were terrible. Half the screen was missing, colors gone. Rather than pan and scan, they transferred by just cropping off the right half of the image so we saw a lot of people in profile talking to the tip of someone's nose. 

Even then, the magic could shine through in the right mood. 

Ah but NOW, now it's all different. 

Before I fall into hazy reverie, let me sum up by saying the films I like/love from Franco are few and far between. The man made hundreds of films and maybe ten are worthwhile: Succubus, Venus in Furs, and Diabiolocal Z  get me excitedly combing my Pete Tombs and Stephen Thrower volumes for a lead on my next big fix. But even they pale in comparison to the haunting elegiac beauty--with a little sex in it--of Virgin Among the Living Dead. It's everything great about Franco and is probably the one best to show doubters who 'don't get it' . A  truly nightmarish vision of an orphan innocence too bereft of parental guidance and starved for family to realize the danger she's in when she comes to her father's remote ancestral estate to hear the reading of his will. She comes to find the chateau occupied by a quintet of strange relatives. Her uncle (Howard Vernon, of course), a deranged bombshell (Carmen Yazalde) who is "one of the family" on some level Christina never quite gleans, a mute dopey but sinister servant (Franco),  and the beady-eyed aunt Abigail (Rosa Palomar).

Clues arise when neighbor boy tells her the chateau has been uninhabited for years; and other locals try to warn her away.  It turns out the Queen of the Night (Ann Libert--the blind bird girl from Franco's Erotic Rites of Frankenstein) is involved, holding them all - including the spirit of her father (Paul Muller) in her sway. Her father's ghost tries to warn her to leave before it's too late--but she's so starved for familial connection she can't. Anyway, she has nowhere to go. Even if they might drink her blood or attack her, she's too starved for familial connection to want to leave. 

Franco's cinematography never misses a natural light uncanny effect (particularly magic hour deep shadows over faces) hinting at the unknowable uncanny nature of even von Blanc's innocent beauty. There are shots and scenes so powerful they rank among the best poetic surrealism in 70s cinema. I avoided this film a long time mixing it up in my head with Erotic Nights of the Living Dead, which I heard horrible things about. It worked out anyway. Seeing it now is 'the right time' in my decades-long international genre cinema journey. 

Maybe that's why films have so much magic and why--in the end--all this paralyzing availability, this endless access to bottomless archives of films, is such a good thing. Fate is able to sometimes able to save just the right movie for just the right moment in one's life, so that art and self intertwine and annihilate each other. In a good way. For 90 minutes or so, we're truly liberated from the bondage of self. 


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