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