Hope everybody's ringing on their own bell this fine morning

Hope everyone's connected to that long distance phone, just like all these characters in this so-late-let's-just-consider it-early holiday twin pack.

---

Don't Open Till Christmas (1984)

Grade: C-



Typical '80s slasher that would likely be utterly forgotten were it not for the Christmas motif. Substitute the ten slain Santas with any other category of person -- taxi drivers, clowns, bucktoothed gingers (this is British, after all) -- and it would essentially be the same exact movie, albeit with a lot less cheap red velour.



But, since the theme guarantees it a spot on everyone's IMDB list of "101 Xmas horror films" (good thing they put "Christmas" in the title -- 1984 and already thinking about SEO), at least a few people will likely screen it each December as part of a holiday movie marathon (ahem).


Festive!

As for horror, there's the typical blood and gore -- nothing terribly exotic, but extra credit for the wide variety of methods, including car battery electrocution, shoe knife to the groin, and spear through the head.

Though sometimes nothing beats a good ol' fashioned bullet in the mouth.

The killer isn't revealed until about 3/4 of the way through, and there's a weak attempt to keep the audience guessing among the various suspects, be it the not-all-that-mysterious Inspector, or the kind-of-a-huge-jerk fiance — who not only tries to coerce his girl to pose nude for his photographer friend, but also has her hold out the hat as he busks with his flute in the street. His flute!

Ian would approve.

And of course, it's inevitably revealed that the murderer was scarred for life and driven to kill by something witnessed in childhood.

Which involves sex, natch.

So, besides that silly flute, what does set this film apart? Nothing much, except for what seems like a serious telephone fetish. Phones in booths, phones in hallways, on coffee tables, in dramatic close-up -- it's all about the rotary dial.

All dressed up and nowhere to go.

In particular, two fetching models in red and white play a star role in the "experience booth" scenes.

Hey, she's not bad!

The propmasters must have liked them so much, they show up again in the interrogation room.

(Wait, aren't those . . .)

And AGAIN in the detective's office. He mostly uses the black one . . .

(Why don't you like us? We're just trying to be good phones.)

. . . but occasionally picks up the red one if he's feeling particularly merry, or presidential.

(YAAAAAY!)

Bottom line, nothing much to see here folks. Well, unless you're lonely on Christmas Eve, and might like to fantasize about what could have happened had peep show Santa coughed up that extra fiver before being so rudely interrupted.

If you go that route, just make sure to stop playback before 1:05:00

---

New Year's Evil (1980)

Grade: C-

(YAAAAAY!)

Another movie whose title gives the impression that the filmmakers had residuals on the brain; what better way to get trotted out annually than to use the one play on words that makes any sense for this holiday?


(OK guys, just tossin' these out there: Boo Year's Eve? New Year's Eerie? Fine, I'd like to see you do better.)

Though unlike the last one, New Year's Evil depends on the festivities for its schtick to make sense. The hours leading to midnight are a metronome by which our villain commits his murders -- or attempts to, at least.

A major redeeming factor for this movie is that the murderer himself has a few unplanned oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-shit moments that are rather refreshing in this age of Criminal Minds and the insane-yet-completely-omniscient unsub.

True, a countdown-to-zero series of slashings could happen on some other not-as-special night, but then you wouldn't have an aging Pinky Tuscadero ticking off the year's greatest hits and serving as New Wave Casey Kasem on Hollywood Hotline, an LA punk concert cum call-in show.

(Wasn't I already too old for this in Happy Days?)

Yup, I said call-in. The phones are out in force again right from the get-go.

White phones.

Black phones.

Nostalgic phones.

That TV is dead now.

Suicidal phones.

Phones disappointed that the murderer-protagonist misses the obvious opportunity for a Superman nod.



Besides the calling, there's a bit of chasing, a bit of killing, and a bit of blood -- unfortunately, not really enough of any of those last three to really satisfy a true horror aficionado. The music's OK -- a mix of horror-synthesizer and punky stuff -- but nothing lastingly memorable.



Bottom line, nothing much to see here folks. Well, unless you're lonely on New Year's Eve, and might like to fantasize about what could have happened had drive-in dude gotten to third base before being so rudely interrupted.



Eh, no thanks. We're cool.


proving that the blood is strong

Four faux fiends

Under the bed, in the bed, on the table, or in the sea: these are places monsters can be. And if you're a good parent, you'll warn your kids of all these possibilities and more.

But if you're looking to raise terrified children, don't turn to these four films, which uniformly disappoint in their attempts at fiendish offerings.

---

The Head (1959)

Grade: D+



"No, that's German for The Brain That Wouldn't The."

And indeed it is -- though here the brilliant scientist gets the John-the-Baptist treatment, and is kept alive against his will by his newly hired and alarmingly Aryan associate, Dr. Ood (Horst Frank). Meanwhile, a crippled young woman gets a brand-new and sexy-sexy chassis, much to her (eventual) horror, though it's a triumph for the unscrupulous Dr. Ood.



A stylish beginning gave us high hopes for this Teutonic tale of transplantation and torment, but it quickly fizzled out, leaving us with yet another humdrum saga of world-weary dancers, shaky science, crappy image quality, and Götteryämmerung.

Faux fiend the first:



From the beginning, The Head drops hints that Dr. Ood has some sort of...affliction...involving the full moon. As his behavior grew viler and more erratic, we rather expected a big reveal with lycanthropy, baying at the moon, and so on.



Instead, just another sociopath. Perhaps he should've just gotten the MBA instead?
 

---

Crypt of the Living Dead (1973)
(aka Hannah, Queen of the Vampires)

Grade: C



I've got news for you, kid: in 1973, the bad guys were the ones without mustaches. If you can understand this, many doors of perception will open for you.



Indeed, this moody vampire flick set on a Turkish island has many a mustache to offer, and it's there that you should seek your satisfaction, since the ladies don't have much. The titular vampire looks good while on her back, becomes less compelling once up and out of bed...



...and if that invites a smug remark about how a dude obviously wrote it, well, then there's Lois Gibson. And B.D. Wong.



Plus there's a Barbara Steele lookalike, but who cares?



Unfortunately, mustaches can't do much to repair the terrible sound on Mill Creek's print, nor can it restore the color that's mysteriously gone missing (sorry, Dad).



Faux fiend #2:

Well, at least she's actually a vampire (paging Peter Loew on Isle Üç), but Hannah herself was really kind of lame. She's either supine or lupine, and never does much of anything. Plus there's some guy that lurks around à la Torgo and doesn't do much.

Which leaves the mustaches, or lack thereof. Take heed, friends:

---

The Devil Monster (1946)

Objective Grade: F
Manta 'n' Mammary Modifier: C+



Oh Christ, this thing. Sorry, but we have to go into pottymouth mode for this one: people who blather about the "worst movie ever" don't know what the fuck they're talking about, because they haven't seen The Devil Monster yet.

Not that this is the worst movie ever -- it's far too amusing for that. And like chronic Lyme disease, the movie's incompetence mostly festers in its joints, especially where the main source material, The Sea Fiend (1936), is haphazardly spliced together with documentary footage taken from God-knows-where.



Highlights of that footage include seals, sharks, bare-breasted ladies of several different ethnicities, and an octopus and a moray eel having an epic battle in the bottom of a "lagoon" that's bounded by a strange, almost aquarium-like pane of glass.



Anyway, tropical island, Béla Lugosi accent, blah blah blah. Other people have written about this shit, we don't need to.

Faux fiend the fird:

The titular monster is a manta ray, for fuck's sake. It's a filter feeder! They don't hurt anyone! Hell, even Captain Caswell doesn't fight them! What's wrong with you people?

Well, nothing a little Grade-Z special effects won't fix, it seems:

---

A Walking Nightmare (1942)
(aka The Living Ghost)

Grade: C+



Wacky horror-mystery-comedy wherein Nick Trayne (James Dunn), a brilliant PI who got "fed up with the detective business" and became a huckster, is coaxed out of retirement by spunky Billie Hilton (Joan Woodbury) to solve the case of a missing millionaire. So it's off to the millionaire's mansion to meet a colorful cast of characters, and naturally, banter and bickering ensue.



Soon the millionaire turns up, alive but zombified. Cue more banter, some medical mumbo-jumbo, a murder, a spooky abandoned house, and a pro forma romantic subplot.



The (alternate) title notwithstanding, the only real specter in this film is the horrendous ghosting in the spooky-house scenes, which makes everything look like an acid flashback done 1930s style.

Still, it's all inoffensive and moves along relatively quickly. That, plus one or two good one-liners, helps to elevate this a bit above the usual B-grade screwball fare.



Faux fiend the final:



A Walking Nightmare feints at setting itself up as a comic zombie movie, but the two specimens of zombiedom amount to little more than lobotomized deer (hi, Faith!) meandering aimlessly around. There isn't even a supernatural explanation; it's just a couple guys who've turned stupid, without first enjoying the pleasures of a bagful of airplane glue (or a tankful of propane). That may be tragic, but it's hardly frightening.



Unless you count Joan Woodbury's hair and outfit. That's some scary shit.

That reminds me . . .

Sometimes writing a blog web journal review site can feel (to K, at least) a bit like being a cut-rate modern-day journalist: taking bits of this guy's blog, that guy's imdb review, and maybe some of that other guy's forum post*, cobbling it all together with a bit of wit, whimsy, and inside jokery, then hoping for the world there's a willing audience. Perhaps the makers of our next two action-adventure films were feelin' it too, because gosh darn it, we just kept thinking, "Haven't we seen this somewhere before?"

*and yes, they're all guys -- chicks, it seems, are too preoccupied with knitting¹, baking², and being fabulous mommies³ to pay any attention to the B-moviesphere.

¹ K is guilty
² K is also guilty
³ no

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Space Odyssey (Sette uomini d'oro nello spazio) (1979)

(aka Captive Planet, aka Star Odyssey, aka Metallica [?!] )

Grade: C-

Holy spaghetti space western! Taking its cues from a certain blockbuster of the time, this oddly-translated title throws together a motley crew of would-be heroes to help save humans from enslavement by an evil alien henchman who looks for all the world like a cross between the Hellraiser guy, Alan Rickman, and a crocodile handbag. The two tin can C3PO wannabes spend most of film arguing (in the most sickly sweet way possible) about their aborted suicide pact, or else channelling the Star Trek model of compassion and tolerance toward "lower" life forms (in this case, a suspiciously trashcan-shaped droid). There's the space outlaws working for the side of good, of course, and a futuristic dead ringer of our favorite Commando Mengele** gypsy acrobat.

Add in some ridiculous stock footage of explosions and African exploitation (in glorious grainy black-and-white, of course), and heck, you've got half the films we've reviewed so far. In many ways, it was reminiscent of an even better Star Wars rip-off, P.'s beloved Battle Beyond the Stars. However, the film's one standout feature (for us, at least) is the most ridiculous, head-scratching, time-to-lay-off-the-Sambuca editing mistake we've seen to date. (Curiously, it doesn't seem to be mentioned by many other reviewers, or is misidentified as a plot hole. Perhaps a corrected version exists, and we just happened to get lucky.) A seriously flawed, but strangely compelling effort.

P.S. -- To all those crafty people who are suddenly into everything mustache -- especially these folks -- I say please, please just stop. It's creepy. But, if you choose not to yield to good taste, be sure take some cues from this film's who has the gayest mustache? contest, where everyone is a winner!

**aka Angel of Death. P. mentioned this one in the previous post as well, but it seems we never actually reviewed it. Humph. If you have to choose one acrobat-related Nazi hunter film, make it this one.

---

Prisoners of the Lost Universe (1983)

Objective Grade: C+
K's Hedging Grade: B/B-

What a fun surprise! Essentially a medieval adventure tale shakily framed by the whole parallel universe device, this has The Princess Bride written all over it (William Goldman, perhaps you deserve royalties; Rob Reiner, perhaps you owe some). The princess in this case is the obligatorily spunky female reporter played by Kay Lenz, who seems to get drooled over by all the other reviewers (for explanation, see footnote to the introduction, above), but who we simply file away with the other interesting faces we've encountered. Rounding out the crew are the midget, the giant, the noble green dude from the forest, and of course our hapless hero, made not so hapless by dint of his being a Kendo champion (aren't they always).

Speaking of stock characters, reprising his role as "evil guy" for the nth time is our Battle Beyond the Stars favorite, John Saxon. As warlord Kleel he takes a shine to our poor man's Kim Basinger, and if the word inconceivable means anything to you, you can pretty much guess how the rest of the film goes.

Just to make sure we know we're in some parallel dimension (instead of, say, the South African*** hinterland), we're treated to a number of "exotic" foam rubber plants scattered through the landscape, à la Star Trek, though they only seemed to bother with the effect during the first few "new universe" scenes. Kudos to the sound guys too, for making sure the Wile E. Coyote falling-of-the-cliff descending whistle finds new life in inappropriate places.

Yes, I did say this was a fun surprise, and I mean it. Hey, the characters are pretty one-dimensional, and it all wraps up just a bit too neatly, but a film like this is a welcome reprieve from some of the dreck we've had to slog through on this set. A perfect home-sick-in-bed type of thing, if you know what I mean.

***where it was indeed filmed; ostensibly set in California, sharp-eyed viewers will see that something isn't quite right during Carrie and Dan's first, ahem, run-in. Oh, and turns out one of the bit players in this was also in our other favorite South African film, House of the Living Dead.