Now you see it, now you don't

Or, really, the other way around.

(Including this entry, which was written in October but is only making its way to you now...waiting this whole time in our draft box, out of sight.)

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The Phantom of Soho (1964)

Grade: C



Seamy and stabby, this Teutonic tale of maritime mayhem and razor-edged revenge is really more of a police procedural than a horror movie. And there's a dash of FPS in there, too.



A string of murders in Soho, or the mit Sauerkraut version thereof, attracts the attention of Scotland Yard's finest. It would seem in everyone's best interest to crack the case, and the local underworld certainly doesn't welcome the police attention...

...but no one's eager to talk.



The elusive perpetrator -- from whom the film takes its title -- is a cipher to all but a few, who begin to suspect that a crime they committed long ago has come back to haunt them.



The case also piques the curiosity of Clarinda Smith (Barbara Rütting), an author who specializes in lurid crime novels. The spunky Ms. Smith soon takes a personal interest in the proceedings, aiming to penetrate to the heart of these foul deeds -- as fodder for her next book, naturally.

It doesn't hurt that she's a very close friend of the head of Scotland Yard (Hans Söhnker), though neither he nor his appointed investigator, Chief Inspector Hugh Patton (Dieter Borsche), are too happy about her preternatural ability to keep one step ahead of them -- and everyone else.



Whoever put together the English-language script had some fun with it, as the dialogue is uncommonly tight for a dubbed film; no doubt it helped that The Phantom of Soho is based on a book.

And if you like to see older gentlemen hit on attractive, half-naked 1960s chicks? Well, it's got that too, though their wares will only occupy about half of your screen thanks to Mill Creek's bizarro pseudo-letterboxing.



But ultimately this Crimi is little more than a glorified Agatha Christie story. There's little to complain about, but little that sticks in the mind afterward. And unlike Christie, here the plot isn't convincing enough to pull off that pleasant suspension of belief that makes a good mystery.

So instead, it's mainly a matter of pointy things. And also knives.

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The Sound of Horror (1966)

Grade: D+



We'd say "A group of treasure hunters gets more than they bargained for", but treasure hunters don't really bargain, do they? I mean, the idea is to find treasure, not to somehow transact for it. You don't make a proposition to the chest, unless you're P.'s high school social studies teacher (who made many such propositions, silently at least).



Anyway, we're in "Greece", there's a bit of pick-axing and dynamiting, and before you know it our merry band of bargain-hunters is under siege from an invisible foe. If this makes it sound a bit like Predator, well, kind of -- but with less Arnold and more dance scenes.



A bit of judicious editing would've done The Sound of Horror a world of good, if by "world" one means "significant, but insufficient for salvation". The cast is OK, the concept reasonable, but the movie has an almost suicidal compulsion to bring itself to a screeching halt every 10 minutes or so, with long scenes and extended shots that do nothing to advance the narrative. Examples include:

• a lengthy, static shot of an empty cavern, during which absolutely nothing happens as far as we could tell (unless something got lost in the crop from widescreen);
• an extended soliloquy on one character's affection for his car;
• the aforementioned dance scenes, which at least have a bit of eye candy going on if you're into that sort of thing (we're meh about it);
• and a lovely sequence, set in the kitchen, wherein the gang's superstitious maidservant fetches water and makes coffee.

Riveting stuff.



When the movie permits itself to (ahem) move, it occasionally rises to the level of "mildly engaging schlock", but it's a little too dumb and muddled to really come off, and drops promising plot threads with little fanfare: we were expecting a Monster from a Prehistoric Planet angle, or maybe a Night of the Living Dead standoff, but instead we get a nonsensical mix of hunkerin' down and foolin' around.

Plus the characters are interchangeable, the score is sub-Bartókian rambling that frequently crosses the line from homage to plagiarism, and the special effects...aren't.



But of course, that can be part of the charm: "NO EAT I", sayeth the (mildly damaged) Pumpernickel Loaf of Doom. Alas, you can't mindmeld through a fireplace poker, and besides, isn't it time to go gluten-free? Everyone's throwing out their white flour lately.

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Speaking of bodies completely drained of blood, we also caught a couple of Tod Browning flicks on TCM, namely: The Mark of the Vampire, a Dracula clone with Béla Lugosi, clever special effects, and a surprise twist that essentially ruins the movie; and The Devil-Doll, a silly tale of pseudoscience and revenge in France, with Lionel Barrymore as Mrs. Doubtfire.

No DVR = no screenshots, but we'd give 'em both a shiny D+, given the modest entertainment -- and copious opportunities for weary groaning -- they provided.

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.

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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.

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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?)

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.

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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?
 

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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:

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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:

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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.