By no means is this next pair of reviews our first foray into the Night Screams (sing it, Neil!) subset of the 250-pack. We've covered six of those films so far, ranging from the Sapphic musings of Kiss Me, Kill Me to the bottomless battles of Killers of the Sea (as opposed to the topless titillations of Devil Monster, with which we sometimes confuse it).
But these two films share another trait besides being part of Night Screams, since they both prominently feature pretty ladies gettin' photographed (and then offed -- not much of a spoiler, that). And yet, both are also dominated by a charismatic male actor whom we found more memorable than any of the XXs on display.
Bloody Pit of Horror (1966)
Grade: D+
Silly robes aside, there's a solid case to be made that Mickey Hargitay was actually the most attractive member of his family. We've never thought Jayne Mansfield was much of a looker, and Mariska clearly takes after her; meanwhile, though we knew Mickey was jacked, we didn't realize how pretty he was.
Somehow a mental image of one of those circus strongmen with a big mustache crept into the "Mickey Hargitay" filing drawer of our brains, but he's not Karnov- or Zangief-esque at all; if anything he looks and moves more like a dancer. His screen presence is a bit off-kilter, but no less palpable.
However, Mickey Hargitay certainly wasn't the best actor in his family -- his daughter deserves that title (even if these days SVU has reduced her to trotting out rote expressions of pained sympathy and righteous indignation, in whatever sequence is necessary to fill that episode's quota).
He gives Bloody Pit of Horror his best shot, but -- like a washed-up actor doing porn to make money -- his efforts feel out of place and, at times, faintly embarrassing.
And of course, Bloody Pit of Horror basically is porn -- torture porn, to be precise, that's allegedly adapted from the writings of de Sade. Oh, there's a framing story about a group of models and photographers who foolishly blunder upon a haunted castle and ignore numerous warning signs telling them to get the hell out.
With their blasé attitude and loose morals, they ultimately offend Hargitay -- who (now that we think about it) plays a washed-up actor, so there you go -- and thereby seal their fate. Throw in a medieval legend about the "Crimson Executioner", an obsession with bodily purity, and a handful of underlings who all wear striped shirts for some reason, and you've got a movie.
But, to vaguely evoke that famous line from 1984, the torture is the point of Bloody Pit of Horror -- not a means to an end, but an end in itself. And, well, if you're into seeing women tormented to the tune of looping Italian lounge music, then we suppose this here is your jam. It's got skewerings, slashings, burnings, an iron maiden, death by crossbow, and an elaborate setpiece involving a web of wires and the goofiest-looking spider this side of Martha's Orphanage.
As demonstrated by the persistence of shows like SVU and Criminal Minds (not to mention the recent U.S. election), virulent sexual sadism is rather fashionable these days. But while Bloody Pit of Horror is too distasteful to be laughed off, the years have dulled its edge, and -- despite some impressive sets and a fairly attractive cast -- ultimately it left us bored and disinterested.
City of Missing Girls (1941)
Grade: C+
This crisp little effort from Poverty Row manages to be a film about prostitution that never actually uses the word, nor any of its synonyms. But that's clearly the subtext -- here couched in euphemisms about "out-of-town jobs" to which the titular girls are assigned, never to return.
Swooping in to save the day is James Horton, an ambitious young A.D.A. (played by John Archer, whom we recently saw in Bowery at Midnight, and rather reminds us of Robert Sean Leonard in this appearance).
He's flanked by a philosophical old police captain (H.B. Warner) and -- could there be any doubt? -- a young, spunky female reporter, Nora Page (Astrid Allwyn). She's good-naturedly amoral in her search for front-page news, though like all spunky female reporters, she eventually sees the error of her ways.
She's also in for a grim discovery, as her father is an investor in the "Crescent School of Fine Arts" -- a talent agency that's more or less a front for the film's sex trafficking operations. So the deeper she digs, the closer she unwittingly gets to dear old Dad.
(Don't you see? This is what always happens to -- ugh -- career women. Hence why no spunky female reporter's career outlives the runtime of the film she's in, not to mention the conspicuous lack of middle-aged spunky female reporters in these movies.)
One thing that's refreshing about City of Missing Girls is the unexpected civility of the cast. Officers of the law and criminals have actual conversations, and treat each other with a degree of respect, even when hinting at the gravest of threats. And this paradoxically makes the villain King Peterson (Philip Van Zandt) seem more menacing, since like a big dog that doesn't bark, he has no need to boast to prove his power.
If you enjoy the fashionable absurdities of past decades (as opposed to the fashionable inhumanity of the present era), then City of Missing Girls offers a pleasant smorgasbord of preposterous peacockery. We get silly hats (obligatory in any film with a SFR), silly outfits, and silly dances galore.
But the real star is H.B. Warner, who's the kind of old fella we'd all love to have in our corner, and steals every scene he's in. (We suppose that's no surprise coming from a guy famous for his portrayal of Jesus -- which he pulled off the age of fifty-two!)
As Captain McVeigh, he's warm, witty, patient, sharp as a tack -- and astonishingly spry when the moment calls for it.
By our lights, McVeigh is the film's real protagonist. He's the first onscreen and last to leave, and gets most of the best lines:
Horton: "If you were a gangster and you wanted to frame somebody --"
McVeigh: "Yeah, well, I'm not a gangster, and I don't want to frame anybody. I want to go to sleep!"
Horton: "Mac, this is important!"
McVeigh: "All right, I am a gangster, I do want to frame somebody, and I don't want to go to sleep."
Horton: "All right, now who would you get to take a picture like this?"
McVeigh: "A photographer."
At heart City of Missing Girls is a formula piece, with a plot whose twists and turns hardly qualify as such. But it's still an enjoyable one, and if you don't agree, may H.B. Warner haunt you with his Duck Face of Disappointment.
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