She's still the boss

In many films, the women are pretty while the men are clever. In our next three, it's the opposite: sure, the male leads are hunky and charismatic, but when it comes to cunning leadership, it's the ladies who own the day.

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Shock (1946)

Grade: C

On the eve of reuniting with her long-lost husband, a woman (Anabel Shaw) witnesses a psychiatrist (Vincent Price) murder his wife, and is so traumatized that she falls into a catatonic state. And guess who ends up supervising her care?

Though competently made, Shock isn't long on suspense, thrills, or grim noirish atmosphere -- in other words, the things that help make a film like this great. What it does have is Price, genteel and faintly sinister (as always), whose indisputable stage presence and imposing frame help him to easily take command of every scene he's in (as always).

He's well-paired here with Lynn Bari as a scheming nurse who, Lady Macbeth-like, goads him into compounding his sins. She's a fully believable love interest for the brooding psychiatrist, and has enough physical presence of her own to stand up to Price.

Less impressive is Anabel Shaw, whose performance somehow doesn't connect. She reminded us very much of Cathy O'Donnell from The Amazing Mr. X (also starring Lynn Bari!), but while O'Donnell's innate warmth encouraged us to care about her character's travails, Shaw just comes off as overwrought and hapless.

We also might have enjoyed Shock more were it not for the terrible audio quality of Mill Creek's print. Distorted and muffled, it's hard to understand without aggressive EQ, and even after filtering it's still a tough listen.

But we did get a bit of a "shock" ourselves, when this popped up in a montage:

(And yes, no need to Google it if you don't remember -- it was a Tuesday.)

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Teenage Zombies (1959)

Grade: D-

Oh, Don Sullivan. We'll always love you for "The Mushroom Song", but your boyish charm isn't enough to elevate Teenage Zombies to respectability. When the film you're in compares unfavorably with freakin' Bloodlust, that's a bad sign.

Fact is, Teenage Zombies is only one or two standard deviations above the likes of Manos: The Hands of Fate. It's not as flagrantly incompetent as Manos, but its hulking manservant -- and long pointless travel shots -- are surely cut from the same cloth.

A few touches, e.g. having a female mad scientist for a change, keep Teenage Zombies from occupying the very bottom of the trash heap. But it lacks the charm of a Giant Gila Monster, without which its dull stretches and atrocious line readings are much harder to forgive -- and boy, is that canned soundtrack overbearing.

But don't worry, Don. Teenage Zombies may have made us sad little mushrooms for a while, but we can still summon laughter -- "ah-wonderful" laughter -- at least where chicken-wire "jail cells" are concerned.

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Colossus and the Headhunters (Maciste contro i cacciatori di teste) (1963)

Grade: F

Eh, truth be told, our heart's not much in this famously bad Maciste flick either. The print looks like ass, the production values are half-assed but not endearingly so, and none of the principals command much attention, not even the big guy himself (Kirk Morris).

So what's left? Well, a strong queen, who fights, wears funny hats -- 

-- and naturally falls in love with Maciste, thanks either to his chiseled physique or his ability to walk off serious arrow wounds.

Or maybe it's his uncanny ability to find neatly mowed grasslands through which to lead his party of displaced persons? Who knows.

Anyway, evil brother, imprisoned father, blah blah blah, badly choreographed swordfights, blah blah. Oh, and an interminable dance scene, speaking of bad choreography.

Should we write any more? Let's ask this guy, who's doing Thorgrim-goes-Hawaiian cosplay or something:

Naah, we've done enough. We don't need to log every detail of a movie like this.

One for the three of Price

If you know who said "Creatures crawl in search of blood / To terrorize your neighborhood!", you'll want to stick around for this entry.

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The Bat (1959)

Grade: B-



Stagy-but-serviceable chiller starring Agnes Moorehead as a mystery writer who rents an old mansion, only to end up in the center of a tangled web of murder, money, and Microchiroptera.



The chief villain is the titular Bat, a serial killer whose M.O. of choice is ripping people's throats out with steel claws. Edgy stuff for a mainstream movie in 1959, but it's rendered toothless by the fact that even the film's onscreen killings are totally devoid of blood. When a character has her throat slashed, her neck and dress remain as pristine as the driven snow.



In his role as the genially sinister doctor who lives nearby, Price displays his usual fey elegance, though a couple scenes subtly highlight his imposing stature.



But the real star here is Moorehead, whose sharp-tongued and sharp-witted performance helps to energize material that, truth be told, is roughly comparable to an above-average episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents: still pretty good, but a bit anemic at key moments.

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The House on Haunted Hill (1959)

Grade: C



Moderately entertaining potboiler about five people who are selected, seemingly at random, to be locked in for a night with a millionaire (and his wife) in the "haunted" mansion he's renting. Whoever survives until morning gets 10 grand, which is equivalent to over $80k in 2013 dollars.



This should be good, schlocky fun, and to some degree it is. But several of the characters are miscast or otherwise unappealing, especially Elisha Cook Jr.'s one-note performance as the perpetually plastered homeowner, Watson Pritchard (though in fairness, who could do a damn thing with THAT role?).



More damagingly, the plot has holes you could drive a truck through, and on our second viewing that became all too apparent. (How did the rope move? How could either Mr. or Mrs. Loren invite Dr. Trent without arousing the other's suspicion?)



Still, you can't go wrong with Vincent Price as the ghoulishly genteel millionaire, whose relationship with his wife is more poisonous than a bottle of Vampire Bat™ Sleeping Pills.



We particularly enjoyed the dreamy, unfocused look he gets in his eyes while imagining the different ways in which he and his wife might off one another.

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The Last Man on Earth (1964)

Grade: D+



This ambitious adaptation of Richard Matheson's I Am Legend has its heart in the right place (so to speak), but winds up being a dreadfully draggy, dreary affair. It'd seem to have everything one could want: a relentlessly grim worldview; long, bleak stretches without dialogue or narration; and an adaption of the book that, we're told, is far more faithful than other versions of the Matheson story.

Plus, of course, it has Vincent Price as our fearless vampire killer, facing an endless stream of undead foes.



And these are things that work well in other movies, but somehow, it never gels here.

Maybe the problem is the film's pacing, or maybe Price really was miscast (as Matheson apparently believed). He doesn't really seem like a man possessed with righteous fire, but more like a vaguely dandyish older gentleman for whom the marauding vampire-zombies are an intrusion on his OCD rituals and evening libations.



In any event, we suspect The Last Man on Earth is one of those films where the idea of having seen it, or (at least) the idea that it exists, is preferable to actually watching it.  It's a bit like having children, or at least when your neighbors have children.



Or like when your friend recounts a funny scene from a movie, and you think to yourself "Jeepers, I've gotta see that one, it's sure to be a laff riot!" But when you do, no laughs ensue, and you are blue.

Certain things, after all is said and done, aren't much fun.