director Jonathan Yudis
Come for the boobs, stay for the penis.
Pervert! is a throwback style sex comedy-cum-horror flick. Made in homage to Russ Meyer, you can probably gauge your likelihood or the opposite of enjoying this stuff. Patently and intentionally lowering the brow and showing buxom women, most notably star Mary Carey.
The stop-motion animated penis is emblematic that this is not pure Russ Meyer stuff all the way through, rather something of its own.
Hardly deft, it’s also hard to totally dis.
director Dan Curtis
There is a major dividing line for viewers of the 1975 made-for-TV movie Trilogy of Terror, and that dividing line is between those who saw it back in the day (original airing or another time in the tender years of childhood) and anyone coming upon it elsewise.
Because if you saw this as a kid, you never forgot the Zuni fetish doll come to life and madly trying to kill Karen Black with all its meager, mighty warrior terror. Or that hilarious ending where Karen Black smiles Zuni doll teeth. A lot of folks rate this as one of the biggest freakout terror movies made for television in the 1970’s heyday of such stuff.
Even now it’s somewhere between terrifying and hysterical. It’s almost as if the first two segments of the film cease to exist at all.
But it’s Karen Black in her prime in each of these stories, all from the pen of Richard Matheson originally, but tellingly, the one screenplay he actually wrote was the finale.
I don’t know that I was as scarred by this film as others were. My mom always had a thing against Karen Black (I don’t know why) which probably vaguely shaded my childhood viewing of the film.
The Zuni doll bit is silly brilliance eternal.
director Alfred L. Werker
Shock is a film noir starring Vincent Price and Lynn Bari, set supposedly in San Francisco and the Bay Area, though not a frame of the film looks to have been shot on location.
The “Shock” of the title befalls a young woman (Anabel Shaw) who has come to the city to meet her husband returning from WWII. Her husband, though, is running late, and in a distressed state of mind, she witnesses a murder (by candlestick) in a neighboring room and is later found catatonic. Conveniently enough, the murderer is also a crack psychiatrist and is also Vincent Price, who takes her to his sanatorium for treatment. Only his conniving nurse/lover (Bari), a true femme fatale, thinks they should brainwash or kill her or just call her crazy.
On the edgier side of the style and genre is an early dream sequence of Shaw’s that involves some surreal imagery and is kind of interesting. Outside of that, it’s neither the richest or the poorest noir you’ll ever see, though it remains consistently interesting throughout its concise 70 minutes.
Films in the public domain aren’t always in the best shape, but Shock is certainly worthwhile. And the poster is pretty sweet.
director Paul Harrison
The best thing going for the “zombie” flick, The House of Seven Corpses, is the house itself. The Utah Governor’s mansion is quite an interesting-looking place. Sadly, what goes down there isn’t all that notable.
A crew is at the house to make a horror picture. Only when they start to read from the Tibetan Book of the Dead for added realism, it manages to bring back to life the corpses buried nearby. You’ve seen this plot or its facsimiles in other, better movies.
For its lameness, it’s not a cheaply produced sort of film. John Carradine is still moderately spry for the 1970’s.
Toward the end, when the action (so to speak) ensues, the film shows flashes of switching into outright comedy. But that is a head-fake. It’s just a movie without a lot to offer or recommend.
director Jim Jarmusch
When one of your favorite directors makes a documentary about one of your favorite bands, that is pretty much a cinematic slam dunk, right?
Unfortunately, Jim Jarmusch’s Stooges documentary Gimme Danger isn’t the great construct that it might have been. On the plus side, you’ve got Iggy Pop reminiscing widely on the birth, life, and death of the Stooges, as well as some input from other members, managers, and family. Certainly worthwhile for a fan.
But the style of the documentary isn’t great, hardly signature Jarmusch, not that he’s known for documentaries. It’s nice that it covers the period of reunion for the band, especially since the deaths of the Asheton brothers since. In fact, it might have been interesting to spend more time on the brothers’ lives between the break-up and reunion. It certainly seems like stories are there.
I have this thing I think about writing about something you love versus something that you have more critical distance from: it’s harder. Not that this is a love poem, but it feels like the story might have been more interestingly crafted with some critical distance.
As a document, it’s cool enough. It surely demonstrates that when you are too far ahead of your time for commercial success in your day, hopefully you’ll live long enough to have your cool recognized by the masses.
director Jesús Franco
If you produce films by the hundreds, perhaps it’s not unusual that style and content may diverge from one film to another. Having only seen a fraction of Jesús Franco’s output, I’m a little loath to draw any broad sweeping conclusions, but based on The Awful Dr. Orlof (1962) and now The Sadistic Baron Von Klaus, it seems that his earlier films were made with greater production values, with more full studio production, and gorgeous black-and-white aesthetics.
By the late Sixties he was much more his own man, producing his own films and weaving his weird world of Eurotrash cinema. But these early 1960’s films would look good next to works by Georges Franju or Mario Bava. They are good-looking movies, bristling with a not yet fully unleashed perversity.
The Sadistic Baron Von Klaus is a sort of horror film and has been cited as a pre-giallo, which is most apt. As good-looking as it is, it’s also a bit slow-going, especially at first. Girls are being murdered in a countryside haunted by tales of a long-dead murderous Baron Von Klaus, and a reporter is dispatched and the police are on the scene, while things develop.
It’s not until the end when the torture scene cuts loose that Franco’s passion for perversity flashes to the fore. For 1962, this sexual sadomasochism seems rather pronounced. It’s vivid and surprising, especially given the rest of the film.
The ending, too, is beautifully-shot. It’s amazing what Franco could achieve with the right production staff. One might be tempted to suggest that these aesthetic qualities came more from the crew than from Franco himself since he abandoned lush aesthetics pretty quickly.
I need to read up more on him so I won’t be as speculative. These early films are visually pleasing, but it seems Franco preferred freedom to quality.
director Tom Hanson
The Zodiac Killer is an interesting artifact. It’s an Exploitation picture made by Tom Hanson on the quick and cheap primarily as a stunt to try and trap the actual Zodiac Killer himself in the theater, coming to see a movie about his doings. Hanson premiered the film in San Francisco, self-promoting, and set up an elaborate, highly flawed scheme involving questionnaire cards and a motorcycle raffle, and a guy in a freezer to try to catch the killer (Temple of Schlock has a interesting interview with Hanson on the details).
What’s left for viewers in 2017 is a freshened-up print of the film from AGFA and Something Weird, where it plays out as a sleazy little thriller made on the serious cheap. Based on some facts of the case and some wildly speculative additions, it oozes misogyny, grit, and grime.
It opens with a bit of a head-fake, suggesting that the killer might be a middle aged scumbag truck driver but quickly shifts to a younger, disaffected rabbit-loving devil worshiping mailman (played by Hal Read).
Considering its low budget and swift production as a means to an end, it’s unsurprisingly inconsistent but alternatively effective.
director Michael Carreras
I really had to challenge myself to figure out that I have indeed seen The Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb before. It’s the opening moment, when an archaeologist is killed and his hand cut off that most rang a bell. Also, a more innocuous scene not long after when his body is dropped in front of his daughter seemed familiar, as did the ignoble end of the mummy in this picture when a sewer system falls on top of him (which is seems like he initiated).
Actually, my favorite thing in the movie was Fred Clark as Alexander King, a kind of low-lever Carl Denham (of King Kong) or general American huckster who wants to tour the mummy as a show, unveiling and unveiling for audiences hungry for thrills. His loud-mouthed American both clearly obnoxious and also kind of charming.
But really, the mummy in this movie doesn’t get moving until pretty late in the show. It kind of picks up in the last act, but it’s still pretty weak stuff. You too will be forgiven for forgetting if you’d seen this one before.
director Peter Perry Jr.
The Nudist film genre isn’t perhaps the most fecund of genres in cinema, but the weirder they get, the more interesting.
Revenge of the Virgins is low-budget nudie cutie Western about a group of would-be profiteers heading into dangerous Indian territory in search of gold. Only the Indians in this case are a small tribe of topless women (all the men are dead), led by a sole blonde, who was raised by the tribe since birth. All of the buxom beauties are clearly Caucasian, and they’re also might good with a bow and arrow.
Topless Indians is one thing, but this film goes one step weirder and lives up to its title. At less than an hour’s running time, I hope you won’t mind the spoiler, but the native girls do get their revenge and murder all of the white people who came to take the gold. In fact, the “Virgins” toss the gold back in the river at the end.
This unintentionally semi-revisionist ending comes from writer Ed Wood, Jr. who scripted this thing. Oddly enough, the production values are higher than anything Wood directed himself, and vaguely more coherent, though also painfully derivative Western slang and terms abound.
It’s terrible and pretty darn slow, but I kind of liked it.
director Marina de Van
I had queued up Marina de Van’s In My Skin back when I started revisiting the “New French Extremism” of the early Aughts. It’s through randomization that it came to me recently.
Marina de Van stars as Esther, an up and coming something or other in an office, who randomly injures her leg and quickly becomes obsessed with her wound and wounding herself more and more. It seems apt that it’s Marina de Van herself doing all this self-mortification, because from that perspective, it’s a pretty gnarly thing. The FX are convincing and gruesome and her body is her canvass.
But there is also something missing here, and I want to say it’s the psychology of the character. The descent into madness is made as easily as stepping in dog poo on the street. It doesn’t feel coherent exactly.
But carve away as she does, the viscera is visceral, and even without the psychological logic or connection, her knifework is keen. While it doesn’t fully achieve its goals, it has some things for which to recommend it as well.