Remembering

In our last entry we made some noises about "unfinished business with a few films" in our mammoth Horror Collection box set from Mill Creek. A careful count of our viewing habits would reveal that, of the Horror Collection's 250 films, we'd only watched 247 from the actual box set (counting the two halves of the The Lost City separately).

Will we be reviewing Night of the Living Dead -- a film we skipped in our first pass through the Nightmare Worlds portion of the box set, since we watched it on public TV on (gulp) Halloween 2009?

No, we won't -- though at least we finally watched the version on the box,. Even in Mill Creek's middling transfer it remains a taut, effective film.

Its only major flaw is a bit too much of the "hysterical/helpless woman" act from Judith O'Dea -- the film's decoy protagonist, so to speak. (Duane Jones is the true protagonist, obvs.)

Or will we be covering Metropolis, the 1927 epic that launched a thousand film studies classes -- and which we also skipped over, since we figured Mill Creek's print was probably crap?

No, we won't, though we realized neither of us had ever actually seen the film (K. thought she had, but hadn't), and so here too we watched the Mill Creek product. And even in a cut-down, grainy version that can't bring itself to fit the film's title on screen --

-- we enjoyed Metropolis and would like to see the restored version sometime. That said, the cuts in the 118-minute version we watched weren't at all obvious to us: it's hardly a hack job like some we've seen. (Looking at you, Planet Outlaws.)

No, the real unfinished business we have is with a third movie -- one that, in at least two different senses, is the thing that started this whole project. Of all the films on the box, it's the first one we ever watched together; of all the films on the box, it's (almost certainly) the first one either of us ever saw.

So, without further ado (and just shy of 2019), here's #250 of 250:

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Warriors of the Wasteland (1983)
[aka The New Barbarians, I nuovi barbari]

Grade: C-

In retrospect, the 1980s seem like the transitional decade -- the period where we went from the way things were to, basically speaking, the way things are now.

For instance, take entertainment: in 1979 you probably had a rooftop antenna, and you watched what was on TV or in the theaters. You read what you owned, or what the library had, or what a buddy would lend you.

Come the early 1990s, we had cable TV, video rentals, and services like Prodigy that weren't so different from the modern Internet, where you could chat with other people interested in all the weird stuff you liked.

OK, it cost money (and charged per minute), and it was your friend's father that had it, not your family. But at least you got to try it once or twice for a few minutes, whereupon you saw the future. (And hopefully your friend's dad didn't flip his shit.)

Nowadays, almost nothing is out of reach. Nearly every childhood memory can be dialed up somewhere on YouTube; nearly every movie, song, video game, book you were ever curious about can be bought online, or even downloaded for free.

Heck, even people can be found, if you're resourceful enough. One classmate's dead from suicide or smack, another has detestable political views, and that little blonde you had a crush on in 5th grade? She's happily married with a couple kids. Good for her.

But back in the late 1980s, such things were still on the horizon (except video rentals, we had those). 

And so, enter a childhood friend of P.'s: let's call him Dog Pound, though that wasn't his real nickname. Dog Pound was at least 5 years older than P., probably more, but only a couple years ahead of him in school.

Picture greasy black hair, wide eyes enlarged by Coke-bottle glasses, thick lips, and a subtle limp. Now add to that shitkicker boots, a Canadian tuxedo, and a trucker hat.

If you're imagining this guy as a redneck with mild special needs, you're exactly right.

Dog Pound was awkward and a bit "off", but willing to be a friend when few others were. It was Dog Pound who stood with P. at the bus stop, and never once made a cutting or nasty remark about him, ever. It was at Dog Pound's house that P. first played Intellivision, and where he ate a dog biscuit on a dare from a mutual friend.

And the first pornographic movie he ever saw? That was Dog Pound's VHS tape, which featured the sordid tale of an android who learns about sex by watching...well, you know the rest.

And speaking of VHS, Dog Pound used to wax lyrical about a movie he called "The Templars". All these decades later it's impossible to recall exactly what he said, but it probably amounted to his version of "This movie is really bad-ass."

So sooner or later, we sat down and watched it together. And not too long after that, Dog Pound and his family decamped for parts unknown (the rumor was Alaska).

Even just a few years later, P.'s impressions of the movie would have been vague: something about a post-apocalyptic landscape akin to The Road Warrior, with a roving band of men determined to kill everyone, everyhere. And that was about it.

Yet it stuck, somehow -- maybe because it felt like some bit of underground knowledge, of a piece with the Intellivision and the porn tape and everything else. Something illicit, hidden, and at risk of being forgotten.

(He was interested in roots and beginnings..."There must be great secrets buried there which have not been discovered since the beginning.")

The impression remained long enough to prompt P. to look it up in the Leonard Maltin book years later, and learn that it was named Warriors of the Wasteland and/or The New Barbarians. Cool.

Then in 2008, in the course of chasing down a DVD of the haunting TV movie I, Desire (aka Desire: The Vampire), we start thinking about B-pictures, and Ed Wood, and Warriors of the Wasteland comes to mind again. (If you're keeping time, that's about 15 years later.)

So we do our research, and find out about the Mill Creek 250-pack. In the weeks before it arrives at our door -- or the months before we order it? -- we download a copy of Warriors of the Wasteland  from Archive.org, and watch it on an iBook sitting on our coffee table, in our little apartment.

For sound, we have the boombox P. salvaged from a dumpster, running off a car stereo adapter in one of the tape bays (which doesn't even spin), and which had the nasty habit of erupting into horrible static now and then.

The audio is about a second ahead of the image, so we route it through a program that adds delay. Later, the sync error gets worse and worse, and we add more and more artificial lag, until we're processing it with about 4 seconds of delay just to keep the dialogue in sync.

Maybe somewhere around that time, P. finds himself thinking about Dog Pound. So he looks him up and, sadly, finds out that someone with Dog Pound's (fairly common) name died about a decade ago. 

Not definitive evidence, to be sure...but on some level he wants to believe things ended there. It makes a better story than a sad existence in some group home, with little to show for the past decades but a history of custodial jobs -- or, all too plausibly, a permanent place on the sex offender registry, thanks to some clumsy and utterly inappropriate attempt at seduction.

(Sorry, Dog Pound, but that kind of thing does happen on the regular: just ask Brian Peppers.)

And now, ten years later, we have a big flat-screen TV and a whole house to ourselves. We're watching Warriors of the Wasteland, the very last film in this box set that we haven't actually cued up yet (Disc 46 notwithstanding, and that'll come in time). With the click of a button, we could watch a hi-res transfer on Amazon Prime, but somehow that would defeat the purpose.

You'll forgive us if we don't bother to opine on whether Warriors of the Wasteland is good, bad, or indifferent (it's all three), or talk about how it's really a Western in homoerotic Road Warrior clothing (which it is). Somehow, those things seem irrelevant right now.

("All the 'great secrets'...had turned out to be just empty night: there was nothing more to find out, nothing worth doing, only nasty furtive eating and resentful remembering.")

Instead, we'll think about where we are: right on the cusp of a new year -- the very year in which Warriors of the Wasteland is set -- and at the end of a decade-long journey. And we'll think about Dog Pound, who turns out to be alive and well as far as we can tell, living just a handful of miles from where he and P. grew up.

(And, we're pleased to note, he's not on the registry.)

So here's to you, Dog Pound. You'll forgive us if we don't seek you out to reconnect, in what would almost certainly be a series of one-sided interactions made awkward by occasional flashes of bitterness -- or, worse, obvious signs of lust for some proximate woman whose kindness confuses you.

But you were there at the beginning of many things that still matter. And you, too, still matter -- especially from a comfortable distance.

I've just seen a face

A distinctive demeanor, a memorable mien, an unforgettable countenance: however you put it, sometimes the silver screen is graced with a visage that -- be it handsome or homely, ugly or beautiful, familiar or exotic -- stops you in your tracks.

And whatever adjectives may be apropos in this case, the following two films surely feature a face we'll not soon forget. Nor shall we forget the time or place, for the films themselves are quite singular as well, albeit in two very different ways.

---

The Sadist (1963)

Grade: B+



Nowadays, making a movie about a deranged serial killer is pretty straightforward. Hell, there are multiple TV programs exclusively devoted to the topic, and shows like Criminal Minds bring a steady diet of torture-porn to eager audiences.  Every week they offer a fresh take on man's inhumanity to man, and a new contribution to our extensive vocabulary dedicated to the agonies of -- and violent trespasses upon -- the human body.



But back in 1963, a film about this subject was a very different proposition. Even as the boundaries of the possible in art began to seem very shaky indeed (or downright arbitrary), there was still a prevailing sense that certain things should not be shown -- that some basic sanctum of human decency and dignity should be preserved, at least within the sphere of public life (of which film is a part).



Now, given that Nanking, Auschwitz, Katyn, and Hiroshima were within recent memory, that notion -- we suppose the right word would be "decorum", though that's too limiting -- might seem like an obscene indulgence. And that's not to mention the endless array of pre-modern atrocities any historian with a strong stomach could reel off -- and which, taken collectively, put paid to any idea that there's ever been a time when human beings weren't doing terrible things to each other.



But a real sea change in public discourse hadn't quite happened yet in 1963. The worst televised horrors of the Vietnam War were still a ways off, the communitarian (and socially normative) spirit of the 1950s was still the dominant voice in the United States, feminine hygiene products still resembled medieval chastity devices...in short, many envelopes were just about to be really pushed.



Or as Philip Larkin once wrote,

Sexual intercourse began
In nineteen sixty-three
(which was rather late for me) –
Between the end of the "Chatterley" ban
And The Beatles' first LP.



And that tension -- between what is and what will be, between what can and can't be shown, between a normative present and a rudderless future -- is probably a big part of why The Sadist is so unexpectedly effective. Sure, on paper it's a thinly veiled cash-in on the Charles Starkweather/Caril Ann Fugate murder spree, with Arch Hall Jr. as "Charlie Tibbs" and Marilyn Manning as the pointedly non-underage "Judy Bradshaw".



And it's hard to imagine it cost much to make; the plot allows 90% of the film to be set in the same place, the cast barely numbers half-a-dozen and features no "name" actors, and the budget demands for costumes, special effects, and the like were -- one assumes -- minimal.



But though The Sadist is hardly perfect, it's not the cynical, half-assed exploitation film one might expect; instead, we get an uncommonly tense and well-crafted little film that easily overcomes its few missteps. Central to this achievement is Arch Hall Jr., whose performance is something we don't often see in these films: genuinely and unexpectedly frightening.

Much like the real Starkweather, his Charlie Tibbs is a bizarre combination of boyish preening and damaged Neanderthal coarseness, with dull, hateful eyes glaring out from beneath a beetle brow and carefully coiffed pompadour. Nothing good can come of a face like that, you'd think, and you'd be right. He veers between detached, giggling sociopathy and sudden fits of rage -- the latter usually prompted by his sense that the other characters look down at him or think he's stupid.

And to be fair, he's usually correct. The other characters underestimate his intelligence and pay a price for it, for Tibbs is crafty indeed.

But not too crafty, for The Sadist is mercifully free of a common trope.  Too many serial killers in film and TV are made out to be omniscient, omnipotent geniuses, capable of meticulous, watertight planning and able to foresee every move their prey might make. Not Tibbs; he's dangerously sharp, and his insecurity and paranoia give him a realistic ability to sniff out trickery -- but he still has limitations (both mental and physical, though the latter disappears and reappears at random) and blind spots.

We can't however, say that we much enjoyed watching The Sadist -- the subject matter is too deeply and unremittingly unpleasant for that -- nor do we have any real urge to watch it again. It's the cinematic equivalent of a certain type of short story where, in essence, one thing happens, and the drive towards that thing is the fabric of the story.  And in The Sadist, that one thing is the systematic psychological torture of a group of people.

As such it's a complete success, and has all the elements of a good dramatic arc, but there's no layering, no cinematic polyphony, no secondary narrative: in other words, there's nothing here that would reward repeat viewing. It's a highly effective and straightforward film with a short half-life, and there's nothing wrong with that.

But seen from the present day, The Sadist looks like the harbinger of things to come. And while we admire its unflinching approach to the subject matter, it's one step down a path that's since been well-traveled indeed -- and we're not sure walking that road has been good for us, or anyone.

---

Eegah (1962)

Objective Grade: D-
Tasty Shaving Cream Bonus: B+

... and then, there's Eegah.


("The name written in blood!")

Primitive love-starved caveman encounters modern culture; a bizarre mixture of hijinks, ho-hum, and holy cow, wtf? ensues.



Many folks on the bad movie circuit will know this one from its treatment on MST3K, or else for keeping company with The Beast of Yucca Flats and From Justin to Kelly on IMDB's Bottom 100. It was P. who organized our back-to-back Arch-a-thon, and K, not knowing what was coming, fully expected that he of the Cro-Magnon face would be the titular cave dweller.

Instead, we're treated to a handsome-ish young Richard Kiel, in the days before he rose to (relative) stardom in the James Bond franchise as the steel-mawed villain Jaws.



What, then, for Hall? In a complete reversal of his role in The Sadist, Arch plays the clean-cut, gee-whiz, wow-zee-wow-wow* teenager Tom Nelson, a gas station attendant with a swell dune buggy and sweet electric guitar -- both of which receive more than their fair share of screen time.

*actual quote



Unfortunately for Hall, the only thing flatter than his generic smart alecky lines is the crooning he foists upon us during the film's musical breaks (complete with phantom back-up singers!) The action (as it were) screeches to a warbly halt as we're treated to songs about "Vickie" ...


("Vickie! Oh-oo-whoa Vickie! / I'm so alooone...")

... and "Valerie" ...


("If I had a thousand paintings / in a marble gallery / every single picture / would be of" ... you know who!)

... but not, conspicuously, about his girlfriend Roxy Miller (Marilyn Manning). Frankly, we don't blame him -- thanks to some very unflattering hairdos, Manning could easily be mistaken for the mother of Judy Bradshaw, the gum-smacking 14 18 year old she goes on to play a year later in The Sadist.



Eegah's not so picky about his ladies though, which leads to one of the more bizarre hostage situations we've yet encountered. There's a master's thesis worth of material in what goes on in that cave among Eegah, Roxy, Roxy's wounded pith-helmeted father, his shaving kit, a bubbling sulfurous cauldron, and the corpses of Eegah's dead relatives. Trying to explain all the nuances here wouldn't do the film any justice -- it's one of those times where you've just gotta experience it for yourself.


(He even shows her his etchings!)

It's notable that our supposed hero, he-of-the-face, is entirely absent from all that wacky cave action. Instead, Arch Hall Jr.'s father could think of nothing better for Tom to do during the middle 1/3 than wander ineffectually around the surrounding desert landscape. (Oh, did we forget to mention that it was Arch Hall Sr. who directed this ... thing ... and played Roxy's dad? Ah, the pungent smell of nepotism!)



Despite this being essentially a vehicle for the younger Hall and his musical career (as it were), Richard Kiel ends up stealing the show with his youthful Schwarzenegger visage, ludicrous false beard, and community theater animal skin costume. However, credit for our favorite moment in the film goes to the random chef who, in the midst of Eegah's rampage, casually offers up a forkful of meat as through the caveman were just one more bored buffet patron.


("Wait, don't tell me...rare, right?")

Despite this and other chunks of meaty goodness, Eegah is still, at its heart, a bad, bad movie. Bad dialogue, bad lighting, and lots of pointless scenes of driving, singing, swimming, hiking, and otherwise not getting back to the real action. Plus, don't forget about the stock footage!


(Hump?)

But unlike The Sadist, which is far and away the better of the two films, this movie is much more amenable to repeat viewing, if only to catch all those little wtf moments that might have gone unnoticed the first time around.  While we've probably had more than our fill of the scrunched up, scowl-faced, punchably pompadoured "hero" and his off-key serenades, we'd be more than eegah to pay a visit to our new favorite gentle giant and his fabulous facial hair.


(Seriously?)

Ripoff city

Today's entry features two movies that were clearly "inspired" by other films.  How do they stack up to their predecessors?  Let's see...

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Monster from a Prehistoric Planet (1967)

Grade: D



Two-thirds Godzilla and one-third Jurassic Park, but not half as good as either, this film seems like a rebuke to every reviewer who's ever complained that a B-movie is too "talky".

The titular monster -- or rather, monsters -- are the Gappa, giant bird-lizards who vaguely resemble Sam the Eagle, who lead quiet lives on a secluded island (surrounded by a primitive people who worship them).



Enter a party of explorers, who can't quite decide whether they're treasure hunters, reporters, or scientists.  Maybe it's all of the above, but either way, they're sponsored by (ahem) Playmate magazine and its avaricious owner.  And they sure do smile a lot.



When the Gappa's newborn offspring is stolen by the party, and brought back to Japan...well, you can guess what happens next, and what it takes to resolve the situation.

Which is: a kid in blackface.



Sure, we know Monster from a Prehistoric Planet was meant to be a satire of monster-movie clichés; yes, the Gappa are kind of cute. But holy mother of Vlad, the action sequences in this thing are interminable.  Minute after minute of Gappa wreaking havoc, people shooting, missiles flying, buildings laid to waste, fleeing bystanders screaming...it's enough to make you pine for an Ed Wood-style monologue.

If an endless barrage of 1960s shock-and-awe special effects is enough to keep you entertained, then by all means, sit down with Monster from a Prehistoric Planet for 90 minutes.  But it'd be better for everyone if three-quarters of its effects sequences were siphoned off and sprinkled onto a half-dozen other movies with smaller budgets.

(The Day the Sky Exploded came to both our minds, for some reason...)

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Bloodlust (1961)

Grade: D+



Mediocre ripoff of The Most Dangerous Game, with Mike Brady at the helm of a quartet of "teenagers" who end up trapped on an island as prey for the mad Dr. Albert Balleau (Wilton Graff).



This crossbow-wielding character was once a mild-mannered museum curator, but a stint as a WWII sniper left him with an incurable hankering for hemoglobin...a passion for platelets...rarin' for red cells...or, uh, the title of this movie...



So, caged in, they take to numbers. (It aids them in their clamor.)

There are a few little wild cards here and there, like the crazed hipster who shows up, "reckless and loose", for no particular reason (other than our mild amusement).



But overall, Bloodlust is a by-the-numbers affair, and our memories of it resemble the quality of Mill Creek's transfer: fuzzy and grey.