Showing posts with label syringes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label syringes. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 19, 2020

Have a little Faith: or, here comes the choo choo anew

If The Umbrellahead Review had to be represented by just one actress -- if our reasons for doing this could be summed up by one woman's cinematic oeuvre and its lasting effect on us -- then, naturally, that divine emissary would be Faith Clift, aka Faith Yordan.

True, we haven't seen much of her work, but films like The Nightmare Never Ends and Savage Journey are the epitome of why we love to watch movies "from the wrong side of the tracks", so to speak. And her marriage to screenwriter Philip Yordan, why, how felicitous that it offered recurring opportunities to practice her craft!

Now, we find ourselves here once more, summoned back to her warm and apple-cheeked embrace. And -- speaking of tracks -- it's all thanks to that steamiest form of transportation, the locomotive.



Horror Express (1972)

Grade: C+

It's a lazy cliché to point it out, but lazy clichés are often true: the presence of actors like Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing pretty much ensures this tale of glowing eyes, smooth brains, and hairy hands will be at least watchable.


In fact, the equation cuts both ways: having those two legends on board probably encouraged the film's screenwriters to make an extra effort beyond just saying "Hey, let's put a monster on a train!" 

The extra drafts were worth it, as from the beginning, the script is noticeably more crisp and intelligent than your average, brainless horror fodder.

True, there are occasional dud lines, as when the striking Countess Petrovska (Silvia Tortosa) greets Lee's character, Prof. Saxton, by reeling off a series of banalities about his home country:

"Ah, yes, England. Queen Victoria, crumpets, Shakespeare."

And Shakespeare this ain't.

On the other hand, take the scene where Dr. Wells (Cushing) is enjoying the dining car's services with the mysterious Natasha (Helga Liné), who looks a bit too much like the Countess for the film's own good.

(Things got confusing as hell when one of them got killed off: only then did we realize they were two separate characters. Isn't it a casting director's job to foresee this kind of thing?)

When his pleasant meal is interrupted by a request for his medical services, he asks his colleague and assistant Miss Jones (Alice Reinheart) for help, and she gets off a nice one-liner at his expense:

Wells: "Miss Jones, I shall need your assistance."
Jones (glances at Natasha, then smirks): "Yes, well, at your age I'm not surprised."
Wells (indignantly): "With an autopsy!" 
Jones: "Oh, well, that's different."

That said, at least one review of Horror Express describes the first half as banal, the second as riveting. We found it rather the other way around: the first half was intriguing, but after the all-important halfway point, the film's plot began to get mired in silliness.

The second half is also marred by the abrupt arrival of a character who gets shoehorned in, hogging the spotlight for several minutes while adding little to the proceedings...

...but we don't mean Faith Clift! She does make her first appearance in the second half, true, as an American traveler. However she only gets a few lines of dialogue over the course of a few scattered scenes, and her delivery of those lines is -- dare we say it? -- utterly unremarkable. Competent, even.

The only odd thing about Ms. Clift's performance is that she blinks so frequently that it's hard to get a screenshot that doesn't look like she's drugged, or half-asleep.

Then again, in one of her scenes, she actually is asleep -- which is a very effective way to minimize awkward line readings.

No, the unwelcome interloper is Telly Savalas as Captain Kazan -- an irreverent, sadistic martinet who spends most of his limited screen time chewing the scenery. Some reviewers seem to have thought highly of Savalas's work in Horror Express, but from our point of view, he's an annoyance whose boorish screen presence breaks the movie's spell.

And -- speaking of irreverence -- Horror Express continues the trope, seemingly inevitable in Yordan-related films, of featuring a conflict between science/atheism and piety/religion. Our spokesperson for the latter group is mad monk Father Pujardov (Alberto de Mendoza), who bears a vague resemblance to the perennially put-upon Spanish tennis ace, David Ferrer.

For further background on Horror Express, and all things Yordan, we warmly recommend Bernard Gordon's book Hollywood Exile: or How I Learned to Love the Blacklist. Many of the stories Gordon tells are illuminating or funny, but at least one is rather sad: apparently this was Peter Cushing's first film after the death of his wife Helen. Cushing always struggled with nerves right up until the start of shooting (after which he was fine), but in this case his depression was so crushing that he was determined to back out at the last minute.

Some clever tactics from Christopher Lee rescued the situation, and shooting began the next day as scheduled. Still, one hopes that Cushing -- who outlived his wife by two decades, but once said that "the heart, quite simply, [had] gone out of everything" after Helen's death -- took some comfort, or at least found temporary relief, in his work and the company of his colleagues.

Oh, and a word to the wise: if sharp things going into eyes make you uncomfortable, you might want to skip this one.

You also might want to avoid ordering the whole fish, just in case the knife slips. (Pop!)




Night Train to Terror (1985)

Grade: F
Variety Is the Spice of Life Bonus: D-


And now the Class-O-Meter takes a precipitous dive -- which (once again) could be foreseen if you knew in advance that Night Train to Terror is essentially a salvage job. It takes two movies that had already been released, plus one unfinished project sitting on the shelf, and mashes them all together into a 90-minute anthology film.


And how does it accomplish this? Why, with that freshest of devices, the wraparound story -- though at first it seems like a wraparound song, since Night Train to Terror starts proceedings by offering up this troupe of fresh-faced youngsters:

You see, this is a family affair in more ways than one: young Byron Yordan (front and center above), son of Philip and Faith, is the leader of the "rock band" riding Night Train to Terror's titular locomotive.

The band pops up again after each segment, gamely dancing and lip-synching their way in piecemeal fashion -- one verse at a time -- through the only song they know how to play, "Everybody But You".

This number, a kind of 1950s throwback using 1980s instruments, deserves to have its lyrics documented in full somewhere on the Internet:

Daddy's in the dining room, sorting through the news
Mama's at the shopping mall, buying new shoes
Everybody's got something to do -- everybody but you!

Come on and dance with me, dance with me, dance with me, dance with me [x2]
Everybody's got something to do -- everybody but you!

Sister's on the telephone, gossiping again
Junior's at the arcade, smoking with his friends
Everybody's got something to do -- everybody but you!

(chorus)

Johnny's been a bad boy, staying after school
Principal is working hard, making new rules
Everybody's got something to do -- everybody but you!

(chorus)

It pretty much defines "incessant repetition". And splitting it up into a total of four discrete appearances over the course of the film? Not such a clever idea.

His costuming may have zero continuity, but at least Byron Yordan is handsome enough in a clean-cut way -- and a passable enough breakdancer -- that he doesn't make an ass of himself.

Anyway, the VIPs on this train ride are God and Satan, credited as "Himself" and "Lu Sifer" onscreen, but actually played by Ferdy Mayne and Tony Giorgio, respectively. They spend the ride arguing over the characters in the recycled segments, and whether their souls should go to Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory.

All setup for an "As I watched..." routine, naturally.

We've read that Mayne was, justifiably, embarrassed when he saw the finished film. No word on whether it was because the script required him to describe the band's music as "quite touching".


We also get a serenely imperturbable and impeccably polite black conductor (Gabriel Whitehouse), which vaguely feels like a lazy racist trope, though it's hard to pin down exactly why.

Then again, given that the only other black character in Night Train to Terror is named "Prince Flubutu" (Mark E. Ridley), maybe it's not that hard to figure out.

He shows up in the second segment -- adapted from the 1984 film Gretta aka The Death Wish Club, which pretty much tells you the plot of that one -- and they don't even get his exit line right: "Excuse me while I smoke!" should clearly have been "I hope you don't mind if I smoke!", don't you agree?

Some of the decisions that went into compiling Night Train to Terror go well beyond the bizarre. One of them is the inclusion of two different segments in which Richard Moll (here billed as "Charles") is a major character. Did they think we wouldn't notice that the murderous orderly in the first segment --


-- is the same, incredibly distinctive-looking man who plays a strident atheist in The Nightmare Never Ends?

Yes, we're blissfully reunited with that watershed film, though here it gets hacked down to about a third of its original length -- which still gives it a higher percentage of Night Train's running time than any other segment.

As a result, the Nightmare narrative is largely undamaged, with all our favorite Papini moments intact. (Brigham Young sure is looking rough these days.)

In fact, we get bonus content of a sort, as The Nightmare Never Ends has now been augmented by some seriously off-the-wall claymation sequences. They showed up earlier in Gretta, and we don't know if that film already had 'em, though it's hard to imagine how the scene with the killer fly played out otherwise.

But they sure do add an odd twist to Nightmare -- even if the net effect is to make us expect a California Raisins cameo.

The other weird thing about Nightmare is that several characters' lines have clearly been overdubbed by a different voice actor. Once again, this had already happened in Gretta, as whenever the loony Mr. Schmidt (William Charles) speaks, it's with a thick pseudo-Russian accent and a totally different acoustic from the other characters.

But things strike much closer to home, for -- brace yourselves -- Faith Clift has had all her lines replaced by another actress! We were wondering why her performance seemed so un-cervine and cortically intact.

Given that a few tweaks were made to the Nightmare plot, maybe it was necessary for continuity purposes. But still, is there no justice? Is there no exemption for family?

Comfort her, "Charles". Comfort your apple-cheeked truelove.


Sunday, December 11, 2016

CIB

Some people collect action figures, or video games, or unemployment. But the three films we'll discuss below all feature deviant souls who have chosen, instead, to collect...women.



The Peter Hurkos Story (1960)

Grade: D



We couldn't help but be offended by The Peter Hurkos Story, for much the same reason we were mildly irritated by The Night America Trembled. And that, to remind our loyal readers once again, is because it's bullshit.



From all reports Hurkos was a typical "psychic" con artist, using an array of manipulative tricks to prey on people's hopes and fears. So while this film -- really a two-part episode of One Step Beyond, sponsored by Alcoa and edited together (rather badly) into a single 51-minute feature -- is, in terms of pure craftsmanship, a reasonably well-made example of TV entertainment...

...we can't quite will ourselves to believe anything in the narrative, because Hurkos himself trafficked so unrepentantly in lies.

Was he really a member of the Dutch Resistance? Did a fellow Resistance member, believing Hurkos to be a traitor, really try to smother him in his sickbed -- only to stop when Hurkos read his thoughts? Is there any truth at all to the story, or is it just another fiction from a master manipulator and serial liar? And why on earth did Alcoa sponsor such a cavalcade of cynical crap? 


At the end, the real Hurkos even pops up to offer the following proclamation:

"So long as I live, I offer myself for any test, any study, under any conditions that scientists may impose."




The Embalmer [aka Il mostro di Venezia] (1965) 

Grade: D+

The Embalmer's original Italian title translates, shockingly enough, as "the monster of Venice". And just like it says on the box, a depraved killer is roaming the streets (or really scuba-diving the canals) of Venice, drowning young women before adding them to his collection.


How does he ward off the stink and keep them NM+/NIB, or at least NM-? Well, that's where the English-language title comes in, natch.

But formaldehyde fiddlings can't thwart a reporter's houndlike ability to sniff a good story from a mile away -- and naturally our spunky colleague (Luigi Martocci) rapidly outpaces the police in his efforts to crack the case.

The nexus for all this activity is a sketchy hotel that -- conveniently enough -- is hosting a gaggle of schoolgirls and their chaperone (Maureen Brown). That's, uh, some spectacularly ill-timed tourism.

The Embalmer is one of those films that plays better in memory than in actuality. Before rewatching it to write this review, we had some recollection of it as a middling effort, a bit like (say) Phantom of Soho: murky, meandering, but at least competent in the basics.

But truth be told, it's not really very good at all. The biggest problem is the film's presentation of its own plot, which simply falls down at the task of giving us important information in a way we can understand and retain. That's something crucial in a murder-mystery, even in one with pretensions toward being a horror film.


It'd be easy to blame the dubbing for the fact that (for example) we had no idea who the killer was until we went back and reviewed several key scenes in the movie. Oh, we saw his face, but we didn't recognize him at all, or remember him from earlier in the film.

But we'll hazard a guess that the issue is just as present in the Italian original: whatever the language, if a character doesn't get the necessary screen time or have the needed presence, the issue remains the same.


The real blame probably lies with the film's director and editor. Especially on second viewing, The Embalmer is just loaded with padding that masquerades as suspenseful buildup, and characters who serve no structural purpose in the film, however interesting their faces might be...

...or however amusing it might be to see the Italian Elvis pop out of a coffin.

And even now that we understand the killer's identity, the movie's third act is ultimately a dismal affair. Despite a few memorable images and set-pieces, the inevitably violent conclusion offers no real catharsis, but simply a downbeat shrug of indifference.

However we were hardly indifferent to the actress who played Grace (pictured on the left below), who stood out from the dreary surroundings like a sequined suit in a pile of black velvet.


Her screen time is sadly limited and her name remains unknown to us (thanks, IMDb). But we couldn't help but take note of this fetching young woman, who clearly possessed a certain nous ne savons quoi...

...or maybe we savons exactly quoi it was, now that we think about it, and clearly the cinematographer knew it too. Tanto meglio.



The Atomic Brain [aka Monstrosity] (1964) 

Grade: D-


It's almost never a good sign when a movie opens with a lengthy voice-over delivering exposition that ought to be shown, not told -- and that's just one of several ways in which The Atomic Brain is a sub-mediocre mess. In offering up the tale of a rich old woman (Marjorie Eaton) who teams up with a mad scientist (Frank Gerstle) in pursuit of renewed youth, The Atomic Brain succeeds only in being tacky and half-assed without mustering any real charm.

It's not as if it's a secret why old Mrs. March has placed an ad for a new servant-girl (applications must include your bust, waist, and hip measurements!). Nor is it a surprise what sort of treatment -- in either sense of the word -- the three naïve young women who answer the ad are soon to be in for.

But The Atomic Brain plods forward, undaunted, trailing that half-baked collection of vignettes, clichés, and confrontations it hopes to pass off as a plot.


We were particularly amused by Judy Bamber's attempt at an English accent, yielding a strange hybrid of Texas and New Zealand (plus a dash of South Africa). She's apparently the sexpot of the bunch, and when she swings her hips as she walks -- or just bounces on her bed -- her bodily motions are accompanied in the soundtrack by what we can only describe as "sexy xylophone".

Now that's a word-pair (let alone a concept) that, outside of a particularly hard-fought game of Scrabble, really has no right to exist.

Anyway, the body count is high, the body beautiful count is low, and the door for a sequel is left open in a rather hamfisted manner.

But who would really care to watch The Atomic Brain 2, or Monstrositwo for that matter? It's hard enough to imagine an audience for this film which, though not the very bottom of the barrel, still offers no real rewards for even the most tolerant viewer.

(Unless you really like cats. It's got some of that, at least.)