Thursday, October 30, 2014
Earlier this week, I trick-or-treated myself to two lesser known mid-'80s creature features. I wouldn't say I was tricked exactly, but I wasn't roundly treated either.
But what do you expect from a movie named TerrorVision from 1986? I'm not sure, but here's what you get: lots of hit-or-miss humor about metalhead boyfriends, survivalist grandfathers with fallout shelter bunkers, parental figures who are actually orgy-obsessed swingers, scrambled porn channels and early era ESPN. You get Warhol vet Mary Woronov from Eating Raoul, Gerrit Graham from countless DePalma films, Jon Gries from Real Genius, the autistic kid from St. Elsewhere just before it was revealed the entire series took place in his head (or was it a snow globe?), and Bert Remsen from just about everything else.
What you don't get is anything remotely scary. But, hey, it's a horror comedy. And you do get this guy (below), which is really what you came for, so just smile and shut up and take the tiniest Tootsie Roll in the candy basket, all right?
The next flick, Dolls, was based purely on the Stuart Gordon directorial pedigree. I've never been a fan of demonic doll and/or malicious toy movies. For me, that whole genre begins and ends with the creepy clown in the closet in the original Poltergeist. But I figured, hey, Re-Animator, From Beyond, even Edmond. There's got to something of interest going on here, right?
Mostly not. The killer dolls in Dolls have a certain old school stop-motion charm, but they don't get much action until late in this 78 minute film and are less than mildly threatening when they do. They're kind of like the smaller versions of those lethargic Walkers on The Walking Dead, a threat only if they attack you in packs and, even then, easily disposed. The octogenarian mansion caretakers/evil dollmakers are kind of fun in that Gordon treats them not so much as villains but benevolent old hippies. And the kid at the center is not bad for this type of film. She's no Gage from Pet Semetary or anything--don't get it twisted--but she's got charisma and nails at least one line reading that made me laugh out loud ("I'm only seven years old, what do you want out of me!"). Other than that, be forewarned: Dolls is not the sharpest horror-satire in the Stuart Gordon drawer.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
This weekend, it rained cats and dogs...but only in my DVD player. Common house pets turned horrific otherworldly menaces. Yes, I had sniffed out a theme.
The Cat (or Wisely's Old Cat, depending on who you ask) is an oddball sci-fi/horror hybrid by the same guy who brought us the eternally rewatchable Riki-Oh: The Story of Ricky. Without the Ricky director pedigree, I'm pretty sure I would have never stumbled across it. While not quite as much delirious fun as that movie, there are a number of quality cult film WTF moments such as: the best cat versus dog junkyard fight of all time, a menacing glob of unidentifiable space goop to rival anything in the original The Blob (or its '90s Kevin Dillion remake), the sweatiest woman ever captured onscreen.
You see, it's about a cat from outer space and this ancient octagon that...oh, screw it. Plot really doesn't matter here. Just watch this wonderful clip and see what I mean.
The Pack from 1977 was more standard when-domesticated-animals-attack horror fare, Jaws on four legs basically. Though it's more about the horrors of lazy tourism than canine terror, per se.
For some unexplained reason, the city vacationers to this Seal Island getaway have a tendency to adopt local dogs for the summer and then, when it's time go, leave them out in the wild tied to trees. Eventually, these abandoned mutts ban together and become a pack of feral Fidos, killing off locals on the island during the off-season. So old '70s stalwart Joe Don Baker as the town's resident marine biologist/badass must do his damnedest to keep the heavily Vaselined and ketchup-slathered mongrels at bay.
The flick's not really competent or troubling enough to make you give your own homebound Rover more than a second's worried glance. But the man-dog bonding freeze frame at the end is good for one hearty laugh, not to mention an odd tacked-on subplot about a father trying to get adult shut-in son laid at all costs.
Despite the Humane Association disclaimers on these films, I'm pretty sure some animals were harmed in the process in both. If not physically than psychically. But perhaps the animal in question was just me.
Monday, October 06, 2014
For this weekend's odd creature double feature, "it came from the woods"...and rather phlegmatically in both cases.
Grizzly is a mildly enjoyable, unapologetic Jaws-on-land cash-in. The bear in question is not that scary (obviously a domesticated chap) and the attacks edited in such a way that it's obvious he's 20 to 30 yards from endangering anyone in real life. Lots of looped growling and long lens paw swiping at the camera ensue. There's one gruesome kiddie kill that caught me by surprise (see below). Other than that, the most enjoyable thing about this '70s creature feature was Christopher George (Enter the Ninja, The Exterminator) as a very put-upon park ranger. The shouting matches he gets into with his supervisor offered more than a few gut-buster lines seemingly on loan from some inner city cop movie set in Detroit rather than the piney woods of rural Georgia.
2001's indie cheapie Wendigo may not be a rip-off of any specific movie. I'm pretty sure it's the first of its kind to center entirely around the shape-shifting mystery creature of Native American lore. But it seems to have taken one too many lessons from its blockbuster Blair Witch cousin two years prior...namely, "tell, don't show."
In other words, there's very little Wendigo in Wendigo. A couple blurry flashes here and there. A fast tracking POV moving through the woods with occasional branch-like feelers attached to the end. Actually, there's not even that much talk of a Wendigo other than the token Native American in a pawn shop (who, of course, may or may not be there). He tells the troubled child of a NYC family vacationing upstate about the beast, then gives him a whittled action figure of same before-- poof!!
For a low budget horror flick, there's some good acting and lived-in family dynamics in this thanks to Patricia Clarkson and Jake Weber. Fessenden can be an interesting director, though I preferred his sort-of vampire tale Habit far more. As far as creepy creatures go, the wooden Wendigo knickknack and the blurry blob you see only here and there scare about the same.
Wednesday, October 01, 2014
If memory serves, I don't think I've done a "sequel" month to any of Cashier's past random themes. I could be wrong and feeling a little search-averse right now. So let's call this follow-up month a first, shall we?
This October, I'm limited in viewing time and still have some leftover creature flicks from the October two years ago. Also, it's Halloween month, so more odd monster movies are perfectly apropos. Bring on the latex, the unidentifiable goopus and slime trails, bewildering beasts on four legs, two or none at all.
What? Why so sad? You were holding out for Coptober II, weren't you?
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Thirty minutes into the first film of his late-career Taishō trilogy, the Teutonically titled Zigeunerweisen, I realized that for the first time in many a film I was finally getting the pure product...Seijun Suzuki, raw and uncut. This was the great big (weird) epic waiting to leap out of him after all those years as a B-movie director indentured to a studio, the demented Lawrence of Arabia festering in his loins that had been suppressed like a dirty urge for far, far too long. All those brilliant, offbeat touches formerly relegated to the margins of his genre-bound yakuza, juvenile delinquent and cop programmers? The ones that could be spotted here and there, as in Tokyo Drifter's mad rainbow art direction or Branded to Kill's odd bits of actorly business (the hot air balloon, the boiling rice addiction, et al.)? Well, now they were front and center without apology or conventional narrative to tether them down. I quickly came to realize that Seijun Unchained can be both an awe-inspiring and exhausting thing.
Clocking in at a bulky two and a half hours (rather than his usual brisk 90 mins or under), Zigeunerweisen sounds like something you sampled at the biergarten a few weeks back. It could be. It too is ripe with hoppy weirdness: scenes of deep eyeball licking, a disabled Greek chorus that appears intermittently to sing scatological love songs, a form of early 1920s wife-swapping wherein the husbands not only exchange their brides bodily but also their brides' ghosts (or souls, possibly). And then there's this whole business with pink bones. "Whoever dies first, the other will get their bones" says one of the leads to the other, adding that when crushed into a fine powder these bones tend to be pink.
Huh? Trust me, it's less confusing than you think. Because the Z movie (I refuse to type that Germanic mouthful a third time) is actually the best and most coherent of the bunch. Everything comes together in a pleasing and far from obvious way. It has something to do with the Sarasate recording at the film’s center and its mysterious bit of mumbling captured on the phonograph. Other than that and the fact that this film reminded me at times of the best of Lynch and Jodorowsky, that's all I'm gonna say.
As the trilogy progresses, the Law of Diminishing Demento Returns begins to kick in (wait, there is such a law, right?). The weirdness starts to become more boondoggle then boon. Kagero-Za features a writer obsessed with a ghostly woman who crushes and later bathes in a vat of bladder cherries (look it up..I did). There is more business with supernatural doppelgangers, handcrafted dolls whose souls (and other vital organs) can be found by looking up their dresses. Then there is a stage play performed entirely by children which would seem to summarize the two-plus hours of adult interactions we have just seen. I'm not sure how much it explained or if it only confused me more. By then, I was just enjoying the visuals and happy the children's play wasn't one of Wes Anderson's.
By the time the last of the trilogy, Yumeji, rolled into my DVD player, I have to admit I was suffering a little Unfiltered Suzuki fatigue. The lead was a painter this time, and there was something to do with a cuckholded husband running around with a scythe looking for the man who slept with his wife. And boating...lots of boating. No bladder cherries or eyeball licking but lots of lovely, blood-spattered screen prints. Even at his oddest, eldest and most unrestrained, Suzuki always brings the visual panache. Thank you, Seijun. Some seven hours later, my corneas are still drenched.
Sorrow and sadness, sure. But more importantly...golf! And lady-golf at that. Lots and lots o' lady golfing!!
This is the first film Suzuki made following a ten year hiatus after being kicked out of Nikkatsu Studios for basically being too brilliant (probably not the term the studio chieftains would use) in 1967's Branded to Kill. His return to the screen is not quite a return to form but definitely a very odd duck in his oeuvre. A semi-comic psychological thriller about a fashion model being groomed for Japan's pro golf circuit (and the many product tie-ins therein) until she runs into a female stalker (literally, in her car) who then wants a piece of her fame/residuals. Identity swapping, blackmail and tricky putting greens ensue.
Remember one review earlier when I said Fighting Elegy at times felt like Suzuki's version of Stripes? Well, if that's the case, then this one is, by default, his Caddyshack.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Prostitute is, yes, a story about a military prostitute (or "comfort woman") at a Japanese encampment who has the great misfortune to be the favored leisure lady of a sadistic local adjutant. Though she frequently fantasizes about ripping him to shreds-- literally, in a Michel Gondry-esque sequence that sees him as a floating paper doll torn in half--Harumi doesn't give into despair or drug abuse like some of her co-workers but rests her hopes in a love affair with his meek assistant, Mikami. They manage to keep their liaisons hush-hush until Mikami is captured by the Chinese, at which point she prevents him from killing himself, apparently the expected Japanese custom in such a predicament.
After he's returned and court-martialed by his own troops and she's returned to the brothel, Harumi continues to "keep hope alive," fighting the good fight with a force of will far superior to that of any of the guys in uniform. Suzuki has made a film about a comfort woman, true, but also a strong woman (definitely the strongest in any of his movies I've seen). It's too bad she attaches her future (and, literally, herself in a tragic climax) to a man who's her inferior in almost every sense.
Though Suzuki reverts to black and white (probably by budgetary decree) for this one, there is style here to burn--no Technicolor required. Sumptuous slow-slow motion sequences abound. Stark desert framings pop. Tumultuous tracking shots (like the one above) astonish.
"Oh, Michiko, I will not masturbate.
I fight to sublimate my desires."
Did I say both of these flicks were uncharacteristically serious? OK, I may have overstated just a tad. Fighting Elegy, filmed a year later, definitely boasts its fair share of absurdist humor. Any movie about a teenager so desperate to resist the temptation to flog the bishop that he routinely engages in playground warfare (and, later, actual warfare) to tamp it down can't be but so poker-faced. It's not American Pie exactly (or Nippon Pie?), but there were a few scenes where I felt like I might be watching Seijun Suzuki's Stripes. Playing "Chopsticks" on a piano with your unzipped pee-pee? Engaging in rapid-fire haiku to drown out the image of your naked girlfriend? Yes, Fighting Elegy features both.
Actually, Catholic military school cadet Kiroku's boner-suppressing antics and latent brutality reminded me a lot of another ultraviolent fascist-in-training to come several years later. I'm talking Kubrick's Alex DeLarge. Extreme sexual repression as fervent militaristic motivator..check and check. The difference here is it's mostly self-imposed. Though Kiroku isn't forced by scientists to wear eye clamps and gag while watching snuff films, his severely regimented schooling definitely has a blunting effect that similarly backfires on his superiors/captors later on.
Though the lifeblood of Elegy is scathing anti-war satire, Suzuki does manage to innovate in other more visual ways. There's a great sequence in a school room where the cadets' call-and-response chant with their instructor reaches such a fever pitch that the screen itself begins to break apart, Suzuki flagging/eclipsing portions of the frame in time to the recitation. And, speaking of barriers, there's the perfect close-up of Kiroku and his lady love puncturing a partition screen (below) to touch hands before parting for good. Sadly for this young pent-up soldier, it's the most "action" he's likely to see anytime soon, apart from the battlefield.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
According to Wikipedia, the clumsily named yakuza-cop programmer Detective Bureau 2-3: Go to Hell, Bastards! is one of a handful of Seijun Suzuki's movies with the word "bastard" in its title. This is probably the only one of those bastards I'll ever see, unless someone's got handy YouTube links to The Bastard and Stories of Bastards that I've overlooked (if so, please send!). But more important than the fatherlessness of it all is that this is earliest Jo Shishido-Suzuki pairing I'm likely to find...unless someone's got tracks on Voices Without A Shadow, their actual first collaboration (again, please send if so!). That fact alone made it worthwhile late night viewing, even if the flick itself was a bit "chaste" by Suzuki standards.
Shishido plays a freelance detective who goes undercover for the police as a yakuza to try to get information on warring rival bosses. Light intrigue ensues. There's some amusing business with yakuza clans fumbling over each over to kill an informant who's just been released from prison. Better still, a Joe Shishido song and dance number!
Bastards is a serviceable primer, but Beast is the real deal. It's devil-may-care swagger hints at, perhaps, the finest Suzuki to come a few years later (definitely the best Suzuki-Shishido). Its name? Far less cumbersome...Branded to Kill.