Bechdel no? Bechdel yes!

Ah, the Bechdel test. No doubt it's a crude metric, and it's often overlooked that the comic strip character who first gave voice to it also refused to see any movies that didn't pass it -- a stance that, to use the term so in vogue these days, is a bit "problematic".

Still, it's an interesting yardstick by which to measure these two films. In the first, there are literally no women at all (though household appliances complicate the picture a bit), so it doesn't so much fail the Bechdel test as decline to even show up for the exam.

Meanwhile, we have a second, female-dominated film that -- but for the presence of a handful of men -- would have been a single-sex affair too. The ladies in this movie have plenty of conversations about things other than guys, but whether it should be seen as an exemplar of feminist values is, perhaps, best left as an exercise for the reader.

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A Passenger to Bali (1950)

Grade: C-

Ah, the legend of the Flying Dutchman: subject of many a tale told in seedy taverns by salt-speckled sailors, as well as multiple operas (most famously Wagner's), movies, and even episodes of Spongebob.

It's a well-worn yarn, and A Passenger to Bali is a well-traveled adaptation that ditches the story's supernatural elements in favor of a more philosophical approach. It's been produced as a radio play, published in print by Little, Brown & Co., and even seen on Broadway -- though that production was a box office disaster that lasted all of four performances.

And now it's been recycled into an episode for the TV show Studio One in Hollywood -- so yes, we're dealing with television here, for good or ill. And as you might expect from an early TV production (let alone one adapted from a play), A Passenger to Bali is a fairly stagy affair, with no real ambitions to go beyond the parameters of conventional theater.

Watching an effort like this underscores two things: first, that our modern sense of The Twilight Zone as a wild anomaly is clearly incorrect, as Serling's anthology series had plenty of precedents on the small screen; and second, that in general The Twilight Zone still did this sort of thing a lot better than its predecessors or contemporaries. 

That's not to say A Passenger to Bali is bad, as it certainly isn't. But if it has any aspirations toward excellence, the limits of its dramatic conception -- and its failure to take full advantage of the new medium -- stand in its way.

The main cast could best be described as "workmanlike". That's not meant pejoratively at all, as they all turn in professional but unremarkable performances -- and after all, sometimes being unremarkable is doing the job right.

All the better, then, to turn the spotlight on Berry Kroeger as the mysterious Mr. Walkes, a traveler who convinces the aptly-named Captain English (Colin Keith-Johnston) to grant him last-minute passage against the captain's better judgment.

Kroeger worked with Orson Welles, to whom several writers have compared his grandiose performance here -- though to our mind, it's more "Donald Sutherland channeling Kelsey Grammer channeling Orson Welles". Either way, Kroeger does his best to overcome the script's lack of momentum with sheer presence. He preens, struts, chews the scenery now and then, and encourages the camera to linger on his leering, overripe face.

Oh, and he gets in some light reading too. (We expected a Commie, but he's into something a bit more outré.)

Now, the funny wildcard in Mill Creek's presentation of A Passenger to Bali is its inclusion of vintage commercials -- whether from the original broadcast or a later one, we don't know. But twice during the feature, and once at its end, we're interrupted so that Betty Furness can try to sell us an entertainment center:

Or a refrigerator -- with the aid of a Mad Lib, whose blank a modern woman might buzz in to fill with a rather different answer:

And finally, burn-proof plastic countertops:

Among the people involved in A Passenger to Bali's production, perhaps it troubled the nobler souls to know its narrative -- and vague, noncommittal political critique -- would be subject to the repeated intrusions of unabashed consumerism. "Maybe it'll be better in 60-70 years," they thought, "and by then we won't have commercial interests meddling with our work."

If only they knew!

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Sisters of Death (1976)

Grade: C+

"Nuns or sorority girls?"

Upon hearing the title of Sisters of Death, did some nameless producer ask this natural question? If so it might have inspired the film's opening sequence, in which veiled women deliver ritualistic utterances in a unison monotone. Are we seeing the operation of a specifically religious cult, or just the kind that treats minorities badly during spring break in Cabo?

Naah, it's just the "Woo, party!" kind of sisters. And boy, do they have one hell of a hazing ritual!

So when something goes very wrong -- and it's telegraphed from the beginning that it will --

-- the question isn't whether someone will take revenge, but who that will be. Sure, it takes a while:

But ultimately, when a set of ominous-looking handwritten invitations arrive in the mail, it's clear the first gong of a very long game has been struck for these five young ladies.

Some of them have grave misgivings about going to this "seven-year reunion" (who has a 7-year reunion?), but reluctantly decide to come anyway.

Others are willing to hitchhike long distances to get there, even if it means accepting rides from sketchy Saddam-looking Mexican dudes with wandering hands.

And some are so excited that they speed and get pulled over by a cop straight out of Adam-12 (real-life policeman Vern Mathison, who's a trip to see).

In the end, all five converge in a parking lot in Paso Robles, CA, where two enterprising young men are tasked with the charge of delivering them to their destination. Transporting this vanload of attractive young women is a paying gig, but one gets the sense they might've done it for free.

All aboard for fun time? At first it seems that way, but it doesn't take long before doubt creeps in for even the most upbeat members of our party, as it dawns on them how seldom "I've brought you all here together" works out well for those brought.

True, a nice spread awaits them upon their arrival to the isolated estate where the reunion is to be held. (Who holds a reunion for five people?)

But signs indicate that out of this Hotel California, it may not be so easy to check. And that is something up with which they shall not put.

Soon enough, the good times have clearly come to an end, as "Woo, party!" inevitably gives way to "Ohmigod!" -- albeit an "Ohmigod" that apparently doesn't preclude solo showers, lone-wolf excursions, or other complete failures to employ meaningful survival strategies.

In fairness Sisters of Death is a bit older than it appears, as it sat on the shelf for several years before release, and slasher-movies tropes that were predictable in 1976 were marginally less so in 1972. But even contemporary characters in horror films would be hard pressed to anticipate the onslaught of...the art connoisseur of death!

Or the artisanal bullet maker (heh, "maker") of death!

Or -- most dangerous and unexpected of all -- the flautist of death!

Anyway, Sisters of Death (of death!) plays out on the slow side, but otherwise is an amusing little goof of a film in a well-established tradition. Naturally, it helps to have an appreciation for the aesthetics of the early 1970s, whether musical, textile, or feminine -- though the low-quality transfer employed here doesn't really do justice to any of that.

Also, full disclosure, the distaff side of our duo enjoyed it more than the spear side -- but both of us had our attention funneled well enough for its 87 minutes.

And that's about all we have to say on this one, so: play us off, Keyboard Cop!

No-knock warrants

Continuing with the Night Screams subset of the 250-pack, we bring you two tales of crime, imprisonment, madness, and barging into other people's lodgings without their permission.

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The Phantom (1931)

Grade: F

The first couple minutes or so of The Phantom offer us an imminent execution, followed by a daring jail break and a bold leap onto the top of a moving train. It's the kind of set-piece done so well by the Keatons, Lloyds, et al. of the silent era -- which was drawing to a close just as The Phantom was being filmed. All in all, despite frequent camera white-outs from overexposure, the opening does a reasonably good job of snagging the viewer's interest.

Then it all goes to hell, as The Phantom immediately devolves into what may be the most excruciatingly draggy, drawn-out, ponderous movie of its kind that we've yet seen. (And we've seen plenty.)

And if you're already thinking "Hey, it was 1931, cut 'em some slack!", we'll answer with a single letter: M. That's also from 1931, and it's terrific, so there.

In fact we can go back further for our unflattering comparisons, as there's almost nothing in The Phantom that wasn't already done far better in 1926's The Bat -- and most of what's left over was done better in 1934's The Ghost Walks.

Triangulate between the plots of those two films, and you've got a pretty good idea of what to expect from The Phantom: craven maids, escaped mental patients, ominous threats from nicknamed criminals, sympathetic characters operating under false pretenses, and so forth.

But all of that doesn't convey the film's crushing slowness, exhibited by nearly every parameter of its existence. Lines of dialogue are prefaced and followed by lengthy, needless silences. Minor plot developments that could be handled in three seconds instead take 30. Characters react slowly and with a delay, as if they've outsourced their nervous system to the Moon and are working through the signal lag.

Moreover, The Phantom is just plain stupid, to the point of incoherence. Not only could you drive a truck through the holes in the plot, but even the moment-to-moment behavior of the characters doesn't make sense: no matter how young and ambitious you might be, you're probably not going to hold your future father-in-law at gunpoint to advance your career, and probably can't expect to be forgiven if you do.

As others have noted our male lead, Guinn 'Big Boy' Williams, bears a remarkable resemblance to George W. Bush -- though P. was initially reminded more of Patrick Swayze, plus a bit of Andy Roddick, and a dash of a former college friend who's since turned into the worst sort of white libertarian douche.

Meanwhile our female lead, Allene Ray, has a squeaky voice that allegedly kept her from success in talkies à la Singin' in the Rain. While it's not so bad as all that, it was probably no accident but -- rather -- a tactical decision to have the film's other female character, Lucy the maid (the piquantly-named Violet Knights), talk like a helium addict.

About the only hint of a bright spot is William Jackie as Oscar, a Swede-talking, rubber-limbed freakshow who lives at a nearby asylum. In his first appearance he emerges from the floor, unknotting himself like a revived marionette, or a bizarre forerunner of that creepy shadow man from Drakkhen.

Though we weren't too yazzed about his "Yack and Yill" faux-Scandinavianisms, Oscar's rangy weirdness certainly livens things up a bit: hardly cause for celebration -- let alone a festive evening celebration -- but at least there's an umbrella in the mix.

Anyway, The Phantom was miserable, it sucked, it was terrible. But besides that it was fine.

Uh, except it wasn't fine at all, scratch that: it really is awful. You've been...

...warned!

And speaking of warnings:

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The Midnight Warning (1932)

Grade: C

Now this is a weird one. For starters we have William "Stage" Boyd, infamous for nearly (though inadvertently) destroying the career of the other William Boyd aka Hopalong Cassidy, thanks to a well-publicized descent into alcoholism -- and a newspaper that accompanied the story of his arrest with Hoppy's picture.

Anyway, by 1935 Boyd was reduced to shouting "Come in, Appollyn!" into a microphone at the behest of the sad, silly serial The Lost City, which we reviewed way back when (in its oh-so-long, Mill Creek-exclusive feature edit).

And then he died.

But The Midnight Warning dates from before all that, and Boyd's performance as Detective Cornish shows that he undoubtedly had presence, at least of the "overbearing gym teacher" sort. And Cornish certainly is overbearing, taking command of the entire situation from the moment his pal Dr. Steven Walcott (Hooper Atchley) mysteriously collapses in a hotel room.

If the hotel staff had their way, Dr. Walcott's collapse would've simply been chalked up to heat and exhaustion. But thanks to Cornish's super-powered binocular glasses and virtuosic lip-reading skills, a slender thread of anomaly begins to unravel a tapestry of conspiracy.

We can't tell you much more about The Midnight Warning's plot (which takes some rather unexpected turns) without spoiling the film. And that'd be a shame, since there's something engaging about its sub-Conan-Doyle stylings -- a comparison not made idly, as it does feel almost as though we're expected to already be familar with the brash Cornish and the more milquetoast Walcott, in a Sherlock-and-Watson sort of way.

Still, though The Midnight Warning moves rather briskly in its fashion and is refreshingly hard to anticipate, there's something subtly "off" about its direction and tone. It's one of those films where, as we watched (!), it took a long time to figure out whether it was good or bad, if that makes sense. Its narrative progression has an odd creakiness and -- for want of a better word -- impulsiveness to it, leaving us unsure whether we're being pulled along confidently or jerked around by half-assery.

Like so many of its contemporaries, it also has a mild case of IWGIHs syndrome, with much of the supporting cast presented in such a way as to offer no meaningful distinction between its members. Seizing on the odd mustache or last name helps a bit -- but still. (And we all know what's made there.)

The truth is probably that The Midnight Warning is a competent genre entry that's very much of its time, with some inspired moments and some pedestrian ones. Perhaps it's got a few unexpected and mildly intriguing quirks, but nothing much more than that. (It's also got some serious jitter in the film-to-video transfer, though mercifully that doesn't go on for too long.)

If it seems weirder than that to us, chances are it's half a product of our own inexperience, and half a consequence of early 1930s filmmaking working out its narrative kinks.

Oh, and by the way, the plot summary at IMDb for this film -- "Guests at a luxury hotel are horrified when they witness a man literally 'disappear into thin air'" -- is total horse pucky. The sleeve to the Mill Creek disc is also in error, but still close enough to the mark as to spoil several key plot points, so don't read it!