Showing posts with label H.P. Lovecraft. Show all posts
Showing posts with label H.P. Lovecraft. Show all posts

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Film Review: CITY OF THE LIVING DEAD (1980, Lucio Fulci)

Stars: 3.5 of 5.
Running Time: 93 minutes.
Tag-line: "From the bowels of the earth they came to collect the living..."  From the bowels of somewhere, anyway.
Notable Cast or Crew:  Written by Lucio Fulci and Dardano Sacchetti (DEMONS, THE BEYOND, 1990: BRONX WARRIORS) and inspired by the writing of H.P. Lovecraft (!).  Starring Christopher George (ENTER THE NINJA, PIECES), Catriona MacColl (THE BEYOND, THE HOUSE BY THE CEMETERY), Carlo De Mejo (TEORAMA, THE HOUSE BY THE CEMETERY), Giovanni Lombardo Radice (THE OMEN, CANNIBAL FEROX), Michele Soavi (director of STAGEFRIGHT and CEMETERY MAN).  Music by Fabio Frizzi (ZOMBI, THE BEYOND).  Cinematography by Sergio Salvati (ZOMBI, 1990: BRONX WARRIORS).  
Best One-liner:  "It contains man's first recorded description of his... his boundless mortal fear in the face of malice itself."

In a familiar, darkened alleyway:

"Okay, what now?"
–"Mamma mia!  It'sa time'a for a little Fulci!"
"Halloween is over."
–"It ain't over till I say it's over.  It ain't over till Thanksgiving."
"That's a bold claim.  So what the hell is this thing?  Zombies take over New York City or something?"
–"Not really.  Though that's sort of the ending to Fulci's ZOMBI.  But even then they just cross a bridge and infiltrate a radio station."
"So what city do they take over?"
–"It's more of a town, really.  'Dunwich.'"
"Like from 'The Dunwich Horror?'"

–"Yeah, I guess Fulci thinks this movie has something to do with Lovecraft.  But maybe it shoulda been called TOWN OF THE LIVING DEAD."
"WHISTLE-STOP OF THE LIVING DEAD?  HAMLET OF THE LIVING DEAD?"
–"Something like that.  So we kick things off with some rockin' Italo-electronica grooves (courtesy of Fabio Frizzi) that directly rip off Goblin's DAWN OF THE DEAD soundtrack.  They didn't even try to hide it.  I like that."
"Nice."
–"So then a priest is wandering an empty cemetery in Dunwich and decides to hang himself.

When the rope of the noose swings over the tree branch, it cracks like an explosive bullwhip."
"Gotta love Italian dubbing."
–"We then cut to New York City where a medium is apparently frightened to death because the priest hanged himself three states away.  I think.  Then the cops show up and they're screaming things like "WHERE'S THE STASH, IN THE TOILET?" and there's a rug fire and an M. Emmet Walsh lookalike.

M. Emmet Walsh lookalike on the left.

And then we have the incomparable Christopher George as a bizarre, wisecracking journalist (and soon to become romantic lead), interested in the unexplained death and the rug fire and all that jazz.

Sometimes a mere screengrab can show the entire scope of a man's acting talent.

And then a cat shows up, and I said aloud, 'I betcha that cat's about to be thrown,' because it's an Italian horror movie, and within ten seconds of my utterance, the cat was thrown.


It's dark, but you can still the tossing of its furry body.  See also:  Dario Argento's INFERNO.

And there's a near-eye trauma psych-out–

(don't worry, this is a Fulci movie, there will be eye trauma later) 

and then we're back to Dunwich where all sorts of weird stuff is happening, like when the gates of hell split a wall wide open right next to two signs for "Early Times" bourbon,

a bourbon so cheap and evil-tasting that it caters to the sort of people who would probably say something like "it's never too early for early times" and so it's a perfect kind of tableau for a rift in the space-hell-time continuum or whatever's supposed to be happening here.  I hope none of that makes too much sense to you, because next up is a self-inflating blow-up doll and a creepy guy with lascivious intentions



and they have kind of an Italo-stare-off, and  I bet you thought this was supposed to be a zombie movie, didn't you?"
"Whoa-ho-ho-ho!  You need to slow down. What are you talking about?  You're talking gibberish."
–"Have you never seen a Fulci film?"
"I've seen plenty o' Fulci."
–"Then you know it's going to be full of amazingly stilted storytelling, as if the editors and dubbers decided in post-production to project whatever plot they fancied onto the footage of somebody else's fever-dream.  Don't believe me?  Then explain to me why there are random monkey noises throughout.  I'm not even joking."
"I got nothin'."
–"I mean, for those with an interest in stilted storytelling, look no further than this scene:
"There's a lollipop in the glovebox?'  And why does he pronounce 'galloping cadavers' that way?  Er, wait– why does he say 'galloping cadavers' in the first place?"
–"There's another terrific scene where a man sees the ambulatory undead for the first time and reacts with this wondrous, low-key response."

"Did he just say 'I don't believe in the Twilight Zone, so I guess I'll call the sheriff on this matter?'"
–"Yup.  There is no logic in a Fulci film.  Not even dream-logic.  And that's sorta the draw for me.  And I love when he sets a movie in America.  The man was obsessed with New York City– he uses it, at least in part, in MANHATTAN BABY, ZOMBI, NEW YORK RIPPER, MURDER ROCK, and CITY OF THE LIVING DEAD.  It's where he learned all the authentic American patois.  Like when a hardboiled cop sees a pile of earthworms and says, 'WHAT THE DICKENS IS THIS?'  It's very true to life."


"WHAT THE DICKENS IS THIS?"

"Well, that's kind of a good point.  Why, indeed, is there a pile of earthworms?"
–"If you have a question about CITY OF THE LIVING DEAD, the answer is always 'earthworms.'  The zombies are always smackin' you in the face with big wet wads of 'em.  Cause they like it."

KER–SCHMACK

"Don't be so hard on the man.  I like Fulci zombies.  They're more visceral than the Romero ones.  They're so goopy and maggoty."

–"Did you just ask about maggots?  Cause we got 'em.  Hoo boy, we got 'em.  Lemme qualify my earlier statement:  'If you have a question about CITY OF THE LIVING DEAD, the answer is either 'earthworms' or 'maggots.'  You want maggots in the face? 

Maggots on the phone?

Maggots in yer hair?  On yer cheeks?

Maggots all over your whole damn living room?

It's a practical effect.  And that practical effect is a truckload of actual maggots.  So many maggots.  So many.  Maggots."
"Wow."
–"Knock, knock."
"I get it."
–"No, just do it– knock, knock."
"Who's there?"
–"Maggots."
"Maggots, who?"
–"An entire truckload of maggots."
"Okay.  So what else happens in this movie?"
–"Um, let's see.  A woman cries tears of blood.

It's a stirring visual, but, if I know my Fulci, it probably involved exposing the actors to toxic chemicals.  Afterward, she vomits up her own intestine, but– pro tip– it's only sheep intestines.  And I guarantee you she wasn't even making SAG minimum."

"Some actors are just in it for the love of the art, I suppose."
–"Also, for the gorehounds, there's a scene where a sweaty dad impales the head of blow-up-doll-guy on a table-mounted drill while his girlfriend watches."






"Gruesome.  By, 'the girlfriend,' do you mean the blow-up doll?"
–"No, he's got a real girlfriend, too.  Don't ask me.  Kind of a 'Dad, stop murdering my boyfriends' moment."
"Is he a zombie at the time?  I thought this was a zombie movie."
–"No.  It's unrelated to the zombie activity.  Maybe the idea is that the evil from the gates of hell or whatever is pervading everybody in town, but that point is never elucidated in the least.  Probably Fulci just wanted to do a 'drill through the head' scene and didn't want to wait for a more appropriate context."
"Anything else of note?"
–"Did I mention that the zombies' preferred mode of killing is to rip out a handful of your brains from behind while you stand still?"

"That seems pretty specific."
–"Yeah.  I also love this screengrab, which depicts zombies and 'Schlitz on tap' in the same ghoulish tableau."

"Pretty nice.  I'd hang out there at that bar.  A bar where everybody knows Fulci's name."
–"Yep.  So we build to a finale where our heroes must face off against the undead priest and his bevy of zombie-maggot-ghouls.  Our hero grabs a giant wooden crucifix to do battle.  He has to stake him like a vampire, I guess.

Then– I swear– he stakes the priest in the nuts.  Right in the nuts.



It's very clear.  That ain't the heart.  You can't deny that the priest is being staked in his undead nuts.  But why?"
"Maybe the man just likes a good low blow."
–"Maybe.  And then the coda is even more confusing."
"Go on..."
–"So there was this kid who was basically unimportant to the movie till now.  Our heroes emerge from the crypt, and the kid runs toward them.  We have no reason to suspect the kid is evil, or a zombie, and he's not even acting nefariously.  He just wants a hug.  But then there's an ominous wind and they begin to look horrified and scream and then the screen spiderwebs, via cel animation, into a dark void.  Then the credits roll.
Even by Fulci standards, this makes no sense.  Now, I heard a rumor that coffee was spilled on the actual ending and they had to improvise this one in the edit room.  Okay.  Sure.  But I'm going to modify that rumor for when you spread it along:  I'm going to say that they spilled maggots on it.  Makes sense."
"Would you stop with the maggots?"
–"Fulci wouldn't.  Why should I?  Three and a half stars."


–Sean Gill


2014 HALLOWEEN COUNTDOWN– OVERFLOW!

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Film Review: X: THE MAN WITH THE X-RAY EYES (1963, Roger Corman)

Stars: 4.5 of 5.
Running Time: 79 minutes.
Tag-line: "Suddenly, he could see through clothes, flesh, and walls!"
Notable Cast or Crew:  Ray Milland (DIAL M FOR MURDER, FROGS), Diana Van der Vlis (THE SWIMMER, THE INCIDENT), Harold J. Stone (SPARTACUS, THE WRONG MAN), John Hoyt (SPARTACUS, BLACKBOARD JUNGLE), Don Rickles (CASINO, TOY STORY), Dick Miller (THE TERMINATOR, GREMLINS).  Written by Ray Russell (William Castle's ZOTZ! and MR. SARDONICUS) and Robert Dillon (PRIME CUT, 99 AND 44/100% DEAD, Castle's 13 FRIGHTENED GIRLS!).  Produced by Corman, Samuel Z. Arkoff, and James H. Nicholson.
Best One-liner:  "The city... as if it were unborn. Rising into the sky with fingers of metal, limbs without flesh, girders without stone. Signs hanging without support. Wires dipping and swaying without poles. A city unborn. Flesh dissolved in an acid of light. A city of the dead."

A Corman B-Movie with a William Castle pedigree, Lovecraftian sensibilites, and TWILIGHT ZONE-y aspirations...  and it works!   This is legitimately a good movie.  Visually imaginative, incredibly ambitious, and bleakly existential, it fulfills every aspect of a successful lower budget Sci-Fi/Horror flick.  With this small bankroll (and a headlining Ray Milland!) you can't sate those A-List appetites, but, by God, you can show them something different.  And that's precisely what X: THE MAN WITH THE X-RAY EYES ("X," for short) sets forth to do.  
Pictured: something different.

Much of X's power lies in its ability to surprise, if not shock; therefore, I'd prefer not to spell out or spoil  the wonderful enigmas in its plotting, or even the full dimension of what "X-Ray eyes" means in the context of this film.   Instead, I will share with you my five favorite elements of the picture:

#1. 1960s Doctors Being 1960s Doctors.

MAD MEN– eat yer heart out.  These 60s professionals are chain smoking in the lab (amid volatile chemicals)
and using syringes to measure out 10ccs of dry vermouth while mixing the perfect martini.
This is clearly fantastic.



#2.  Ray Milland Dance Mania.

Ray Milland is as stiff as his starched collars; he's the apotheosis of a "square."  I love this about him.  His character is a Serious man who does Serious things.  He'd wear a suit to the beach.  Is there any doubt that this character voted for Nixon in the '60 election?  None at all.  This is all very well highlighted by his attempts at dancing The Frug during a wild staff party.
I think even Tricky Dick let his hair down a little more convincingly during his appearance on LAUGH-IN.  I wholeheartedly approve.



#3.  When It Becomes a Carny Movie.

I won't divulge the circumstances, but X briefly transforms into a "Carny Movie" about mid-way through, though it doesn't last.  It does, however, grace us with Ray Milland-silk-Zodiac-kimono action:
and nobody can ever take that away from us.  Nobody.

We also have Don Rickles as a shady carnival barker in a non-comedic role:
Don Rickles' face: Huggable or slappable?  You decide.


#4.  Dick Miller.
There can apparently never be enough Dick Miller.  The man pops up everywhere.  Here, he's an uncredited "heckler" and he gives the bit part a little more depth than you'd expect.  He's a three-dimensional heckler, if you will.  His heckling is rooted in lost love and self-hatred and fear.  He's a heckler with a backstory, dammit.



#5.  The bold imagery.
I love these 60s colors, the trippy effects, the madness, the sadness, the kaleidoscope of beauty and pain and forbidden knowledge.  It's a dark and cosmic film, and I stand by it.  Four and a half stars.


–Sean Gill

2014 HALLOWEEN COUNTDOWN– OVERFLOW!

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Book Review: THE GHOST MAKER: A HALLOWEEN TALE (1988, John Carpenter)

In continuing John Carpenter week, here's a little oddity- originally published in the New York Times on October 31, 1988, this short story is extremely derivative of H.P. Lovecraft, but is certainly enjoyable enough as a miniature horror yarn designed to complement your bowl of Count Chocula or what-have-you on a Halloween morning. It recalls most readily Lovecraft's "The Outsider," one of his most famous short stories (which in turn, is rather indebted to Poe).

Carpenter additionally injects the theory of Schrodinger's Cat into the narrative, which imbues it with a touch of Science Fiction. He peppers the story with references to Lovecraft, from "Dr. Necron," to the asylum frame story, to simply the language itself- and, as such, it feels more like a mere pastiche than, say, Carpenter's Lovecraft-inspired films like IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS or PRINCE OF DARKNESS (or to some extent, THE THING), which take on distinct lives of their own. In short, it's not a piece of any literary significance, but an interesting curiousity for the Carpenter (or Lovecraft) fan. The original story appears below:



The Ghost Maker: A Halloween Tale
© 1988, John Carpenter and The New York Times.

I live my days in silence, behind the barred in windows of this asylum, in a cell of shadows. Until this moment I have spoken to no living person of the events of that Halloween night five years ago - because I could neither ask for nor expect belief.

But today, my doctor has given me paper and a pen, as he hopes I shall be compelled to write out my tale of horror and madness - once and for all expelling the demons that hold me in their catatonic embrace. I know this horror shall never leave me. So my purpose, Dear Reader, is to finally put before the world the events of Oct. 31, five years past, as I experienced them, that no man may follow me to this hideous darkness in which I dwell, awaiting the only mercy I shall ever know - my release - the moment of death.

It was a bitterly cold night and I welcomed the warmth of the hearth in Howard Necron's study that All Hallow's Eve five years ago. I settled myself comfortably into an armchair by the crackling fireplace and waited as Necron poured two large snifters of brandy. He then turned to me with the oddest smile...

"I suppose, William, that you wonder why I have asked you here this evening," Necron said as he poured the amber liquid.

I admitted that I had been somewhat curious, as for the last 15 years we had been bitter professional rivals. We had once been partners in science and the closest of friends as well, but a dark schism had developed over our opposing research ethics. Necron had always wanted to prove that which should have, to my mind at least, remained in the ephemeral world of mathematics and theory. Disagreement had turned to debate, which in turn had become cold enmity.

"What would you say, William, if I told you that using universally accepted scientific principles, I could create a ghost?"

"I would say, Necron, that you were as mad as a March hare." My smile of derision must have been obvious, for he turned quickly away, pausing for a moment with his back to me before he slowly crossed the study to hand me the brandy snifter.

"To science, eh, William?" As he raised his glass to mine, his gaze seemed to burn into me, as if a shrewd smokey secret passed behind his eyes. I nodded and took a sip of the brandy. It had a sharp undertaste, and as I started to mention something about it, Necron settled himself closer to me on the ottoman at my feet.

"What is Schrodinger's cat?" he asked in a whisper.

"There's no need for this. We both know what it is." I suddenly felt unfocused. Drowsy. Probably the heat from the fire, making me sleepy. "It is a... a... thought experiment used to demonstrate the paradox of observer-created reality," I answered.

Necron seemed unbearably close to me now, his face but inches from my own.

"Yes," he said, "Nothing is real until you observe it."

Necron now stood, staring down at me with triumph and ice, the fire flickering on his face, shadows squirming like mad, devouring insects. A wave of dizziness washed through me.

Necron continued: "Imagine a box. The size of a coffin. Inside it is a radioactive particle with a 50-50 chance of decaying in, say, one minute. Also in the box is a glass bottle containing cyanide gas, and a Geiger counter. And, finally, into the box, is placed - an unconscious man."

"A cat, wasn't it?" I broke in. I was having a difficult time maintaining any line of reasoning, but there was a chill to his words.

His eyes began to drift strangely above me, as I sipped once again from my drink. That metallic undertaste assaulted me again. What had he put in my brandy? Could Necron be that insane? I tried to focus on his face. His features seemed to melt in the heat of the fire.

"If the radioactive particle decays, the Geiger counter so records it, trips a hammer, smashes the glass bottle, thus allowing the cyanide gas to escape and kill the man."

Necron's words were running all together.

"You mean... the cat," I mumbled weakly.

"Or," he said, "if the particle does not decay, the Geiger counter is silent, the hammer not tripped, the man allowed to live."

The room was spinning like a child's music box. The heat from the fireplace... Necron looming above me... My eyes bobbed open, closed. "What did you put... in my drink?"

But Necron ignored my slurred question.

"Don't you see, William? I could be either a murderer or a savior, because until human eyes see inside the box, the man inside is both dead and alive at the same time - a complex, linear combination of the two. The man in the box is a ghost of all possibilities of dead and alive, condemned to live in a limbo until the box is opened and he is observed by human eyes." His voice had dropped to a sibilant rasp, eyes glowing with a fury.

The snifter of brandy suddenly fell from my fingers. As I lost consciousness Necron's face was the last thing I saw.

"I am the ghost maker," he said, grinning. Then there was nothing. Blackness. Silence.

I awoke. I was lying down. Enclosed. Trapped. I couldn't move. Listening. Trying to breath. Then suddenly I threw up my arms. Touched a solid surface above me, no more than a foot away from my face. A lid. I was buried. In a coffin. A box.

I pushed up the lid a fraction of an inch.

A sliver of morning sunlight appeared as the lid opened, illuminating the inside of the box.

I suddenly saw the thing above me. It was hovering, just a foot away. Its body prone, it was staring down at me. Fuzzy. Indistinct. Its arms reached for me and at the same time another pair of arms lay at its side.

It was a blurred composite. A living transition. A contradiction. All possibilities, dead and alive. It undulated. Gazing eyes. Dead eyes. Living eyes. Blue decaying flesh.

In the fraction of a second before it disappeared I saw the creature's shape crawling, diffracting - indefinite, exploding anew out of rippling flesh.

A leering death's head began to scream down at me, disintegrating, crumbling and decomposing, growing and rejuvenating, humanity degraded and corrupted, dead and alive, revealed in an instant.

And then it was over. The thing disappeared. Its features settled, collapsed into definition. I looked around - the glass bottle at my feet was unbroken, the cyanide gas contained. The Geiger counter at my side was silent.

My mind raced frantically. Dead plus alive. Alive minus dead. Dead plus the square root of minus alive.

And then, as I continued to push upward, the impact of Necron's experiment hit me. As my fingers lifted the underside of the lid, the thing made man stared back at me in horror, screaming a long, sustained shriek of utter annihilation. Touching the unfeeling surface of a mirror - I realized the hideous image had been a reflection - it was I.

-John Carpenter

Friday, February 19, 2010

Film Review: IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS (1994, John Carpenter)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 95 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Sam Neill (THE PIANO, JURASSIC PARK), Julie Carmen (THE MILAGRO BEANFIELD WAR, Tarantino's epiosde of ER), Frances Bay (BLUE VELVET, TWIN PEAKS: FIRE WALK WITH ME), John Glover (52 PICK-UP, THE EVIL THAT MEN DO), Jürgen Prochnow (DAS BOOT, BODY OF EVIDENCE), Bernie Casey (REVENGE OF THE NERDS, SHARKY'S MACHINE), Peter Jason (PRINCE OF DARKNESS, THEY LIVE), Charlton Heston, David Warner (MY BEST FRIEND IS A VAMPIRE, TRON).
Tag-line: "Lived Any Good Books Lately?"
Best one-liner: "You're my mommy. Know what today is? Today is Mommy's Day!"

"What about the people who don't read?" –"There's a movie." IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS is the last great horror movie of the 1980's (yes, I’m aware it was made in 1994). It's the sort of film that deserves a rightful place in the critical canon, yet was perhaps too intricate, too esoteric, or too labyrinthine for mass consumption. The visuals are sharp, glossy, and atmospheric, whether depicting an unearthly New England town on the cusp of autumn:

or a foreboding, black Byzantine church rising from the earth like a Stygian fist.

H.P. Lovecraft and his Cthulhu mythos are a point of departure (and the source of many a reference), but the film bursts with tropes from film noir (an insurance investigator, interrogational storytelling, and plenty of smoking), Philip K. Dick (mindfucks and illusions within delusions abound- "Reality isn't what it used to be"), and Stephen King (maybe it took a film with no concrete relation to any King story to perfectly nail the man's vibe!).

Most of the film's success rests upon Sam Neill's capable shoulders, and he remains entirely connected to the role whether he’s a debonair contrarian or a deranged head case.


AWWW, SHIIIIIT

We're afforded bold glimpses of the monsters Lovecraft deemed "indescribable," and Neill captures the ineffable dread of one's mind recoiling in terror at the sight of said monsters.


Jürgen "Did I ever tell you my favorite color was blue?" Prochnow IS Sutter Cane- bringing the ideal balance to a character who is equal parts bestsellin' hack and Judas to the human race.


The supporting roles are quite vivid, as well: an incomparable, twitchy John Glover:

Talk about the lunatics running the asylum! One of the greats.

a stately, grim David Warner:

David Warner- always a class act.

a likable, bewildered Bernie Casey; a gruffly fraudulent Peter Jason; and a charmingly off-kilter Frances Bay.

Frances Bay- she's the terrifying Grandma you always secretly wished you had.

This film takes us deep into the abyss- an endless, repeating chain of psychosis and decay- and forces us to look again and again, as if we were a playing card trapped in a bicycle wheel or a blade fused to a creaky, rusty windmill.

And the end- if we can call it that- strikes the perfect note of senseless absurdity. We’re left with no alternative other than to sit in the darkness, cackling at our own foolishness.

PFFFFFT!

Five stars.

-Sean Gill