Liquid solutions

Homer Simpson famously toasted alcohol as "the cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems". And as we ugly bags of mostly water know, you can't have a solution without liquid.

So while you're bobbing for apples this Halloween weekend, consider these two films in which nearly incompressible fluids play a problem-solving role:

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Terror Creatures from the Grave (1965)

Grade: D+

Oh, God, not her again.

Look, we know Barbara Steele is revered among horror movie buffs, who seem thoroughly captivated by her unusual, vaguely mantis-like features. But it seems like every time she shows up in a film, it inevitably turns out to be a tediously murky effort that takes itself too seriously and doesn't make much sense.

Sadly, Terror Creatures from the Grave is no real exception. True, it manages to conjure a modestly creepy atmosphere, redolent with imagery of plagues, conspiracies, and spiritualism.

Plus the movie starts out with death by horse, always a nice touch.

But Terror Creatures suffers from the same syndrome that torpedoes -- dare we say, "plagues" -- so many similar films. Its symptoms include largely interchangeable supporting characters:

Long stretches of talky exposition:

And a protagonist who engages in lengthy voiceover soul-searching, but only figures out the meaning of the movie's biggest clue about 20 minutes after the viewer does.

In this case, that clue is an (ahem) "ancient lullaby" -- set to modal music that cribs heavily from the "two pretty children" bit in Night of the Hunter -- with the following lyrics:

Death is approaching

Approaching for you

Remember pure water

Pure water will save you

The water will save you

This warning's for you

Remember, remember, this warning's for you

Yes, the movie comes with its own walkthrough. It ain't subtle, folks.

Now, if you're looking for some barenaked ladybugs then, sure, Terror Creatures will hook you up, at least from the upper thigh down.

And the underutilized maid Louise -- Tilde Till, in her only film credit -- is sort of cute, certainly cuter than the leads (aren't they always?).

But all the practical effects or insectivorous flesh on display can't hide the fact that, for any but the most dedicated Steele fans, Terror Creatures from the Grave is a slog from which pure water can't save you: that particular salvation can only be given by the end credits.

Frankly, we're getting to the point where the only positive association we have with the word "Steele" is when it's prefaced by "Hands of".

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The Devil Bat (1940)

Grade: B+

Here at the plush offices of The Umbrellahead Review, we sometimes worry. After all, this project of ours inherently means that we have to cover a whole lot of turkeys -- films that have no redeeming value, give us no pleasure, or simply blend into a sea of undifferentiated mediocrity (at best).

Inevitably, notes of snark, cynicism, or world-weariness creep into our writing. Might we be giving the impression that we've lost our love for second-tier cinema?

Well, if there's anyone who can cure those blues, it's Béla Lugosi. Even in the worst stinkers, his inimitable charm, unmistakable presence, and committed intensity always manage to make the experience worthwhile.

And the great news about The Devil Bat is that it represents Poverty Row at its best: filmmaking on a threadbare budget that nevertheless manages to entertain without insulting the intelligence of its viewers.

Tightly constructed, well paced, and full of amusing one-liners, The Devil Bat avoids all the usual pitfalls of low-budget filmmaking: the principals aren't idiots, the action actually follows a logical progression, and the criminal mastermind is motivated by a grievance that, whether or not it's justifiable, is certainly understandable.

(Not to mention that the other characters are kind of dicks about it. Well-meaning dicks, but still dicks.)

All the film asks in return is that you accept a single premise: that a vengeful (but brilliant) scientist can grow giant bats and train them to kill. With that in place, there are no additional leaps of faith or plausibility required -- everything else flows quite logically from that starting point.

If there's a major flaw in The Devil Bat, it's more in the vein of a missed opportunity. Before we know much of anything about Lugosi's Dr. Carruthers, he's already telling his bats that they "will strike to kill". In fact the opening text crawl specifically paints him in a sinister light:

But wouldn't it have been better -- and more tragic -- if instead of being Neutral Evil from the get-go, Dr. Carruthers started out Lawful Neutral, and his decision to seek revenge were a response to his treatment in the movie, rather than a fait accompli?

The method of dispatch in The Devil Bat is certainly novel. While in Terror Creatures from the Grave good ol' aitch-two-oh was your salvation, here it's aftershave, tinged with "an Oriental fragrance" from Tibet, that spells your doom.

Once the murders begin, a spunky male reporter -- Dave O'Brien, who famously starred in Reefer Madness -- picks up the scent of a good story and decamps for Heathville.

Accompanying him is photographer "One-Shot" McGuire (Donald Kerr), whose role as comic relief is mercifully limited to a few minor scenes, none of which overstay their welcome.

Naturally there's a beautiful young heiress (Suzanne Kaaren) on the scene, whose main suitor is quickly eliminated, leaving our correspondent to horn in on the charms of Ms. Mary Heath.

 

There's even someone for "One-Shot" -- a pretty French maid (Yolande Mallott) whom he easily persuades to show her knees for the camera. Why she takes a shine to him, one can only wonder.

Practical effects are seldom a strong point in a Poverty Row production. An uncharitable observer would probably describe the title character in The Devil Bat as a pretty laughable piece of work, and it'd be hard to argue the point.

Yet somehow it doesn't matter, perhaps because the bats are really a tool, rather than an end in and of themselves. They're not meant to be particularly horrible or terrifying; they're basically just the bat equivalent of a trained falcon.

And The Devil Bat even "hangs a lampshade on it" by having a subplot in which our hero and his sidekick, unable to snap a decent picture of the bat, decide to fake one instead...and end up getting caught, briefly making them a laughingstock (and royally pissing off Mary to boot).

Scriptwriter John Thomas Neville knew exactly how to write for Lugosi, giving him grimly funny dialogue that maps perfectly onto Béla's wry sense of humor. The most obvious example is Dr. Carruthers's habit of bidding a somber farewell to all of his intended victims:

Roy: "Good night, Doctor."

Dr. Carruthers: (pointedly) "Goodbye, Roy."

We also enjoyed this exchange when he asks his second victim to sample his (indirectly) lethal aftershave:

Tommy: "Oh, that feels great! Very soothing!"

Dr. Carruthers: "I don't think you'll ever use anything else."

Is The Devil Bat a masterpiece? Not at all, but that's hardly the point. As a showcase for what might be called "mid-period" Lugosi, it could hardly be bettered, giving him center stage without compromising his dignity (hi, The Ape Man) or wasting his talents (hello, Mark of the Vampire).

And the supporting cast pulls their weight without trying to steal the show: they know who's boss, and rightly so.

So if you too need a reminder of why you started watching these films in the first place, look no further than The Devil Bat. Karloff may crumble, Cheney may tumble, but our Béla's here to stay.

Just, uh, don't borrow his toiletries.

Those dogs? Still dead now.

And so are the "exotic" brunettes with arched eyebrows -- no dogs, they -- who constitute the other common thread in this pair of movies.

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The Rogues' Tavern (1936)

Grade: C-

With apologies to Lemmy.

So, a detective (Wallace Ford) and his also-a-detective fiancée (Barbara Pepper) decide to get hitched one dark and stormy night --

"Suddenly I'm feeling lactose-intolerant."

-- but end up stranded at a foreboding inn, to which a cast of sketchy characters have all been summoned for purposes unknown even to them.

Most of these folks are utterly indistinguishable, with the exception of haunted fortuneteller Gloria Robloff -- portrayed by perennially panicky (and perfectly plucked) Joan Woodbury, who overplays her cards in more ways than one, but sure gets a lot of attention from the camera.

I'm "Mexican".

But before our protagonists even get a chance to settle in to their (grudgingly provided) rooms, the body count begins to pile up, and at first the culprit appears to be -- horror! -- a Very Bad Dog.

Why they say "Good boy!" when I act like bad boy?

They capture him soon enough, and things look grim for Fido, but canicide is not on the menu at The Rogues' Tavern. Pity, since that would have been a novel (if unsettling) twist.

"Now where's my Spicy Bold?"

Instead, we soon start seeing the kind of tactics you always get in these "I've gathered you all here because..." films: sudden power outages, scream queens, and murderous props that creepily approach, Dr. Tran-like, from the side of the frame.

This cheese is burning me too.

We'd like to say The Rogues' Tavern is a fun romp (heck, Shadows_Girl does exactly that), but it's too dull and muddled to qualify. With neither a coherent plot nor crisp dialogue, the film has little to offer beyond a short and painless experience, plus a couple of campy death scenes.

"Shmeh."

In fact the most intriguing thing about The Rogues' Tavern is an audio dropout about 23 minutes into the film, just as Barbara Pepper starts talking about "practicing [to be] the dutiful wife". During those twelve seconds, while the cast make horrified faces at the camera for some unknown reason, a fragment of conversation -- clearly unrelated to the film -- can just barely be heard in the background:

"I won't be going long enough...there or not...I'm gonna...by tomorrow morning..."

"All right!"

What fragment of human experience was accidentally preserved, and when? Who knows!

"Shmeh?"

But a few memorable shots aside, The Rogues' Tavern is nothing more or less than a half-assed effort designed to fill up sixty-odd minutes of your time. When we finally learn the villain's identity (which comes with a generous helping of maniacal laughter), it's hard to muster up more than a shrug of "Sure, whatever", with barely enough time to lower our shoulders before the predictable denouement.

And unless you have a thing for smoldering Woodbury, you'll probably do much the same.

"Shmeh!"

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The Island Monster (1954)

Grade: D-

...but not his voice.

Italian policeman (Renato Vicario) travels to island to bust drug-smuggling ring. Upon arrival, who does he meet at the local bar but noted philanthropist Don Gaetano (Boris Karloff), who's all smiles and welcome.

Hail fellow, well met.

But is there a dark side to this friendly old gentleman?

You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch.

Soon enough our intrepid policeman attracts the attention of the local vamp (Franca Marzi), with whom he shares oceanside chats whilst they dine on the "fruits of the sea".

"She called me gallant!"

Meanwhile his wife and daughter, whom he left behind on the mainland, brilliantly decide to come visit -- because there's nothing a policeman working undercover needs more than a surprise visit from his family. His meddling, cockblocking, less-attractive-than-what-he's-already-got-going-so-why-couldn't-you-just-stay-home-and-let-me-have-some-fun family.

But at least they brought the dog.

"The soft parade / Has now begun..."

Sure enough, his cover is soon blown, and with the help of a not-so-clever ruse that fools his not-so-clever wife, the criminals take his daughter hostage.

Suffering from APOS (Acute Post Oom Syndrome).

What to do? Why, it's Wonder Dog to the rescue! He bravely swims:

Banzai!

He craftily stows away on boats:

Not a bathtub, but it'll do.

He carefully spies from rocky promontories:

"Ras I rotched..."

Our canine friend, who doesn't even get a credit, is probably the only real redeeming feature of The Island Monster -- which, under normal circumstances, would merely be a tedious, turgid movie whose decent nautical cinematography can't compensate for its plodding plot.

"Do you own another game system, besides your Sega Dreamcast?"

But the nail in the film's coffin is the English dubbing. First off, the policeman's daughter is voiced by the single most irritating "adult woman trying to be a little girl" voice actress you'll ever hear. It's a bit reminiscent of June Foray's work in "The Bewitchin' Pool", aka the last episode of The Twilight Zone, but ten thousand times worse.

The only time she's onscreen and not actively annoying us.

This turns The Island Monster from an unremarkable experience to an intermittently unpleasant one. But to top it all off, the film doesn't use Boris Karloff's real voice, but instead -- no joke -- overdubs him with a Karloff impersonator.

SRSLY?

In fairness it appears the English dub may have been done after Karloff died, so if the original sound elements weren't available (or didn't have a clean capture of Karloff's English-language dialogue), it's possible there was no alternative. But still.

He seems unaware that Ms. Marzi is totally over it.

It's not like The Island Monster is totally worthless, nor is it remotely close to being the worst movie we've ever seen. But all in all, it's easy to believe that Boris had the exact same thought while making this film as we did while watching it:

"I'm getting too old for this shit."