An extension of the Mondo-style documentary, with their "mission" to illustrate, and exploit unknown or forgotten cultural practises and habits, Doris Wishman's (see Review #298: 'Deadly Weapons' (1974)) Let Me Die a Woman follows the work of sex reassignment surgeon Dr Leo Wollman (who also acted as the films adviser), and his work with both post- and pre-op transsexuals. The film has interviews with the aforementioned doctor, along with several transsexuals in various stages of transformation, and also throws in some re-enactments and dramatisations of some of their experiences.
Whilst this is billed under the exploitation banner, and would have been shown in these types of cinema, the film is not overly exploitative, and presents the stories and their participants in quite a sympathetic manner. However, the film does explore, in a very graphically visual manner the operations required to alter the genitalia. Of course with this being made in the 1970's means that the screen is filled with incredibly hairy, militant-looking pubic areas, whilst these men with tits flash their flaccid cocks for the camera. In one scene the doctor probes a post-op vagina with his fingers - a sexual orifice so hideous that I simply had to avert my eyes.
Aside from the Mondo movies (and of course Faces of Death (1978) et al), I am not really aware of any other exploitation film that used this documentary style to expose new, sometimes weird phenomenon - except for Being Different (1981) that focused on exploiting circus sideshow acts, and included a modern day Elephant Man - so I am unqualified to state whether this film is emblematic of it's kind. What does strike me is the fact that this type of documentary was so new, and also that it was marginalised to the exploitation/grindhouse circuits. The subject matter, and the gratuitousness of the film highlights to me how this kind of "exploitation" is in fact now a fundamental part of prime-time television, with shows such as Embarrassing Bodies or any others of the many, many similar formats that infest our screens, in our homes, whilst we fucking eat our dinner! Given this parallel, and shift in the ways in which the participants are exploited in the modern-day TV show and the cinematic format, the film is pretty naive.
During the early 1990's (when I was just a young 'un), I grew up amidst the colossal popularity of the WWF and its host of superstars. The likes of Hulk Hogan, The Undertaker, Bret 'The Hitman' Hart and Ultimate Warrior were household names amongst snotty nosed kids such as myself. The idea of burly men dressing up in spandex pretending to hit each other never really appealed to me (I was too busy mentally scarring my young brain watching the likes of Watership Down (1978) for all that), yet I still found myself buying the action figures and playing the computer games. Naturally, the success of wrestling during that era led to many of its stars taking the next step into movies, rather than playing to a live crowd in a ring. Unfortunately, due to the obvious limitations of their acting abilities, they found themselves primarily in kids' movies, and this monstrosity is probably, and tragically, one of the best remembered.
Space warrior Shep Ramsey (Hulk Hogan) escapes from an enemy ship after seeing his commander killed at the hands of intergalactic villain General Suitor (William Ball). Due to his failure on the mission, he is sent on vacation to rest and re-charge, and he is forced to crash-land on Earth after destroying his controls. Shep ends up staying with strapped-for-cash Charlie Wilcox (Christopher Lloyd) and his family, and naturally, the two learn many life lessons from each other. Only two bounty hunters (one played by fellow WWF star The Undertaker) are in pursuit of Shep, and Charlie unwittingly finds himself caught up in an intergalactic battle.
Even as a kid I found this film to be a steaming pile of turd, but still found myself drawn to it for some reason. Upon re-watching it, my memories were confirmed, and discovered that this is indeed awful, and would attract flies if left out in the open. The opening 45 minutes are so are just a bunch of small-scale set-pieces that highlight Shep's physical superiority over the Earthlings, that are neither funny, sweet or original. The main problem with the film is that it simply defies logic and thought, I mean, how would a space warrior who deals with hi-tech gadgetry and space-ships on a daily basis be so confused into thinking a video game he's playing is really happening? "I hate Earthlings!", Shep repeatedly tells us. Strange that, given that he looks and acts like one, speaks English, and even has an American name. Bull-shit on a large scale, only slightly redeeming itself with the presence of Christopher Lloyd. People will say that maybe I should just take the film what it is, but I will argue and say that I am - a fucking catastrophe.
I was under the impression that the medical toxin Botox was a modern phenomenon in terms of its use on vacuous, rich, stupid peoples faces. However, watching this 1975 movie actually proved me completely wrong. The "actors" in this film seem to use the substance on a meteoric scale, and its as though the late '60's concept of drug sharing is taken to another level, like 'Fraternity of Men', "Don't bogart botox my friend, pass it over to me", seems to be what was happening between scenes. The faces of all involved here barely move. Their expressionless, vapid, and monotone deliveries are almost laughable; they simply have no emotions - even when delivering some (incredibly pedestrian admittedly) dialogue that simply drips from their chins, and is hardly audible.
Well, the film does also kind of have a story. It's about scientists who are experimenting on what appear to be implants that can extend life - becoming the epitome of love and immortality. Basically, they have discovered a way to revive the dead, bringing them life as cold, zombie-like creatures of control (like H. P. Lovecraft, but without any outrageous fun - of even simply fun for that matter). There are some strange figures in black robes who seem to kill those who find out. It's pretty hard to work out what is going on at times, it is a rather convoluted narrative. So it is yet again another pathetic, and preposterous entry into the video nasties list. All I can say here is simply that I curse the stupid choices that the director of public prosecutions made in the early 1980's, and also I want to extend my fist towards the man who's idea it was to review all these fucking films - cheers Tom, you knob.
The work of prolific Italian director Lucio Fulci is most notable for his output in the horror genre, where he made some genuinely good films, such as The Beyond and The House by the Cemetery (both 1981), and some not-so-good, yet still fondly remembered, such as Zombie Flesh Eaters (1979). His entries into sci-fi are somewhat less well-remembered, which is almost a shame, as this, Warriors of the Years 2072 (also known as New Gladiators) is at least an intriguing idea. Set in a future where TV corporations seem to rule, airing gladiatorial battles in order to boost ratings, popular champion of the intelligently named Kill Bike, Drake (Jared Martin), has been framed for murder in order to lure him into a new to-the-death game show. Sensing the audience are desperate for blood and death, the ruthless TV network plan to set a band of Death Row prisoners against each other in a motorbike battle, complete with nasty weapons.
It plays like an earlier cheap version of The Running Man (1987), but with cardboard sets, dodgy costumes, and the guy that played Black Caesar. This is a pretty terrible film. The obvious budgetary constraints lead to a very slow build up that sees Drake planning and training with his new Death Row colleagues for a long time before we get to the climax. That said, when the finale does finally arrive, it's actually pretty exciting given the actors are clearly waving plastic weapons and merely karate chopping each other on the back of the head (which seems to be the standard exploitation fight move). Fulci seems unable to resist throwing in a splash of gore any chance he gets, which makes it obvious as to where his heart really lies. Sci-fi is not his forte, and it's clear that this was a quickie. But there are a few things to enjoy here, namely the basic idea which is, as I said earlier, although badly executed, is certainly quite interesting.
Not known for his ability for comedy, pioneer of American Independent Cinema, John Cassavetes, is on romantic comedy grounds here, taking the traditional movie love-story and turning it very much on its head. Eccentric parking-lot attendant Seymour Moskowitz (Seymour Cassel) re-locates to California, working the same job and living in a small rented room. Museum curator Minnie Moore (Gena Rowlands) is an emotionally damaged yet extremely attractive 40-something woman who is in an abusive relationship with her secretive partner Jim (Cassavetes himself). A chance encounter puts Minnie and Moskowitz together, and two fume at each other for the duration. Only Seymour falls in love with Minnie, who he feels looks down on people, and Minnie becomes reluctantly curious about this strange man.
While following the long tradition of the romantic comedy, anyone expecting a squeaky-clean Rock Hudson/Doris Day Technicolor screwball comedy will be sorely disappointed. Cassavetes sticks to his game using extreme close-ups, a hand-held camera, and semi-improvised performances to tell a story that feels real, but maintains the warmness and the satisfaction that the best of the genre have provided in the past. The film is very much about how movies mid-lead you, and as Minnie states 'they set you up for disappointment'. Minnie and her friend watch Casablanca (1942), and discuss how there are no Humphrey Bogart's or Clark Cable's out there, because they don't exist. Who does exist, however, is Seymour Moskowitz.
Cassel is absolutely exceptional in the role, playing his long-moustached, pony-tailed character as quirky and warm, as well as aggressive and often plain insane. He seems to win Minnie over by yelling at her, explaining how it isn't fair how a less-attractive and relatively poor man can't be with Minnie simply because she's richer and physically desirable, but Minnie finds his frankness fresh. With show-stealing cameos by Val Avery and Timothy Carey, as two strange men who the two leads meet over the course of the film, Minnie and Moskowitz is a strange and interesting look at love through the eyes of two sometimes unlikeable, yet utterly compelling people.
Shelley Winters stars in this combination of modern, macabre film making, along with fairytale interpretation, Whoever Slew Auntie Roo? focuses on the seemingly giving widow, Mrs Forrest (Winters), who offers food, shelter and presents to local orphans at Christmas time. The film wastes no time in showing the darkness, and weird psychosis of this lonely woman. In the opening scene she takes the decaying body of a child (later shown to be her dead daughter), out of a cot in a secret room in the house. This instantly gives the film it's post-Psycho familial tragedy. This is often more disturbing as we never really know exactly what happened to the child. It is seen briefly in a scene involving a fall from a bannister, but there always seems to be the spectre of something more sinister.
After siblings, Christopher and Katy Coombs (Mark Lester - you know, that posh titular "orphan" of the Oliver! (1969) musical - and Chloe Franks), secretly enter the mansion, and a relationship between the girl and Mrs Forrest ensues that develops into a strange obsession, that leads to Winters connecting Katy with her dead daughter. This is where the film falls into fairytale territory, using the Hansel and Gretel narrative, the children are trapped in the house and either she is, or the children believe that she will cook them.
It's certainly not the best of it's kind, but then again, it's not the worst. Winters does however, have some of the best/worst "crazy-eyes" in cinema history. In one scene she violently takes a bite of an apple, her eyes rolling around, wild, frantically. The film does also boast some good, but small performances from the great Ralph Richardson and Lionel Jeffries, but as with Oliver!, I still have great inability to believe that Mark Lester would ever have been orphaned or poor - he is just too well-spoken.
It's pretty difficult to judge this film fully. The first half is erratic, and filled with jolting edits, characters that appear and disappear without any introduction. It's a damn shame. The scatological nature of this epic project, adapted from the Russian classic by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, was due to it being horrendously cut down by the studio that funded it. Originally, Akira Kurosawa had created a 266 minute cut of the - incredibly faithful to the source novel - was shortened by 100 minutes. Unfortunately, it would seem that the world may never see the original version, as even when Kurosawa hunted for the missing scenes in the vaults several decades later, he was unable to locate them.
As it is in its now 166 minute format (the longest version available), it is still an incredibly important piece of melodrama. After the devastation of the war, Kinji Kameda (Masayuki Mori) and Denkichi Akama (Toshiro Mifune), travel back to a remote island. Kameda claims that he suffers from an illness, cause by the suffering of war, and simply referred to as idiocy - when expressed on film, this idiocy seems simply to be an innocent, and fundamentally naive view of people. He simply only sees good in people, even if this is not the case. On arriving they both seem to fall for a disgraced woman, Taeko Nasu (Setsuko Hara), who was someones concubine since the age of fourteen, and is being offered for marriage at a price.
What ensues is a strange love triangle that divides not only the two male protagonists, but the community. The film is beautifully shot in black and white by Toshio Ubukata, who had worked with Kurosawa on his previous film, Scandal (1950). It is unfortunate that the films first half suffers so evidently due to extensive cutting. However, it is the relationship between Kameda and Akama that provides the climax (which is seemingly more intact) that provides the films central theme, and its most poignant elements.
'L'enfer c'est les autres' (Hell is other people), wrote the French existentialist philosopher, Jean-Paul Sartre, in his play, 'No Exit' (sometimes referred to - and has been performed - as 'In Camera'), that surmised the narrative of three deceased individuals locked in a room, one that they eventually realise they will be spending eternity together in. Luis Bunuel used this simple meta-narrative concept of people trapped, to create one of his finest satires, and his first explicitly surrealist film since L'Age D'Or (1930). After Bunuel's previous film, Viridiana (1961), was condemned by the Vatican and banned in his native country of Spain (and where it was made), he moved back to Mexico where he had been making films throughout the 1940's and 50's, and produced a scabrous attack on General Francisco Franco's Spanish fascist dictatorship, and the institutions, and bourgeois facets of the country that were founded on the destruction of the poor and the proletariat, during the civil war that ended in 1939.
Whilst the film works as political allegory, on a base narrative level, it functions as an irrational comedy; or farce. The guests arrive for a lavish dinner, but as they arrive, the maids leave, and progressively all the hired help leave them. Once dinner is complete, the guests congregate in the living room, but they all begin to realise that they are unable to leave the room at all. When this is discovered we observe that they attempt to go, but are either distracted or simply stop or break down at the boundary of the room. This continues through days, possibly months - the characters concept of time completely obliterated. The group falls into decay, primitive urges overwhelm them, and as this representation of Western Civilisation breaks down, the group become brutally savage, turning on the host of the dinner, demanding sacrifice. The group slaughter the lambs that were originally to be used in a dinner prank.
At first the guests seem to simply ignore what is happening to them, and continue with inane chat. Exterior to the "party", the grounds are surrounded, but not even the police are able to enter, given the same mysterious barrier that prevents entry. It's almost a perfect parable, illustrating the ignorance of the Spanish bourgeoisie, as they strip the rights and dignity of the proletariat (here the maids leave on their arrival), whilst divorcing their minds from the violence and corruption of a dictatorship. But with this, it also shows how even the "civilised" sections of society, once they are stripped of their social status, their inherited manners of "education", and their ability to use wealth, the fall into absolute decay, probably falling apart greater than the lower classes, with their lessened moral outlook, and an almost infantile inability to deal with regular obstacles.
Winner of the 1962 Palme d'Or at the Cannes film festival, this was to begin what become (rather belatedly for the 62 year old) his most productive, celebrated and interesting period of his career, based in Paris, beginning with Belle de Jour (1967) and ending with That Obscure Object of Desire (1977). This is the period that he developed and expanded his own style, and his unique vision on film. The Exterminating Angel has also given inspiration for others. It is a clear influence on Jean-Luc Godard's wonderfully bleak and satiric depiction of the bourgeoisie and the end of Western Civilisation, Week End (1967). The idea was also utilised in one sketch from Monty Python's Meaning of Life (1983), that saw the guests leaving as ghosts. This is by far, one of his greatest achievements, beautifully realised, with comic touches, and moments of surrealism that both bemuse and amuse.
Genius, alcoholic, misogynist, poet, borderline psychopath. These are some of the words and labels branded on 'Beat' poet and author Henry Charles Bukowski Jr. during this extremely detailed and informative account of his life and work. For those unacquainted with his blue-collar genius, Bukowski started out drifting through meaningless jobs across America in the 1940's, drinking and writing all he could in his spare time. It wasn't until the 1960's when a collector of 1st editions and manager of a printing company offered to publish a collection of his works, when his career took off. He wrote possibly thousands of poems and was asked to write a novel. This work was Post Office, an deadpan account of his 16 years working for the U.S. Post Office.
Although he was, and still is, recognised as a 'Beat' writer (alongside the likes of Jack Kerouac and Alan Ginsberg), he was very much a man of his own style. Where Kerouac wrote about his personal journeys in a structured, detailed way, Bukowski wrote about mundane things in a straightforward way. It was very much poetry for the blue collar workers. In this documentary, John Dullaghan pieces together interview footage shot by the likes of Taylor Hackford and Barbet Schroeder, as well as pieces conducted by Italian and Belgian TV, to create a portrayal of a very complex and misunderstood man (there are also interviews with the likes of Sean Penn, Bono, Tom Waits and Harry Dean Stanton).
Like A Man Within (2010), which focused on fellow beat writer William S. Burroughs, Born Into This tries to tackle the various attributes that made the man. While telling a relatively chronological story of Bukowski, it covers the subjects of his childhood abuse at the hands of his father, his alcohol abuse, his treatment of women, his reaction to fame, and how this led to an influx of women begging for his 'purple onion' (as he called it). Running at 130 minutes, this is an incredibly (and necessarily) detailed documentary that really gets to the heart of the man who created some incredibly pieces of literature. I remember reading Post Office and Factotum when I was younger, and being blown away by its simplistic beauty and honesty. A must-see for any fans.
A film that could easily be a how-to guide, 'How to Destroy Lives and Topple Corporations', sees Barbara Stanwyk's Lily Powers move from the drab surroundings of rural Eerie, to the bustling city of New York, Baby Face is a film about the power of sexuality, and it's inherent dangers. A local friend in Eerie, Professor Adolf Cragg (Alphonse Ethier), reads sections of Nietzsche's 'Will to Power', and asserts that she should move to the big city and exploit her sexuality to manipulate men to get what she wants. Powers proceeds to gain power and position in a bank, using men with sexual favours to climb the ladder, and fundamentally gain material wealth.
This was quite a common theme in Hollywood cinema of the 1930's, with the depression well under way, things were scarce. Jean Harlow had played a similar role in Jack Conway's Red-Headed Woman (1932). Of course this was exactly the kind of amoral characterisations that the Production code, often known as the Hays Code (after it's head Will Hays), was targeting as subversive and depraved for cinema audiences. The morality of the 1920's lingered for a short period into the Great Depression, which was seen by conservatives such as Hays, as a contributing part of the Wall Street crash.
With the progression of Powers through a succession of men within the bank, she inevitably leaves a line of men besotted with her. She becomes a kept woman by the head of the bank, and the confused and simple minds of the men are led to deceit. It's a terrifically twisted plot, but also it does not necessarily give the femme fatale her deserved conclusion. But she does learn the importance of people over the accumulation of material wealth - perhaps the perfect end to decadence in poverty stricken '30's America.
A common occurrence with film titles, particularly in the international horror genre, is that many territories have different names - this film is on our grindhouse project list as Doctor Butcher M.D., but is also (exhaustively) known as: Island of the Last Zombie; Medical Deviate; Queen of the Cannibals; and even Zombie 3. The version of this film had the original Italian title. And boy is it a standard, generic cannibal/zombie film. After a series of strange mutilations and amputations in hospitals, a team make an expedition to the East Indies, in search of the answers to the strange ritualistic symbol left at each "murder".
The film is essentially two previous Italian schlock movies, Slave of the Cannibal God (1976) and Zombie Flesh Eaters (1979), combined. The team encounter what turns out to be a "crazy" doctor who has been experimenting on the dead local cannibals, manipulating them to his power. It's not a particularly memorable inclusion into a very crowded market. There are some effective gore sequences, but it doesn't at all save a very tired, predictable, and often clumsy narrative. There is one piece of dialogue that amused me, that occurred towards the beginning of the film, after a hand has been severed and stolen from a body used for medical education. A conversation between two medical students goes as follows: Student 1: "I bet it was you who chopped that hand off". Student 2: "Why would you say that?" Student 1: "Well, didn't you say you needed a hand to help you study?"
Being a football fan (that's 'soccer' to any Americans reading), it has been an increasingly frustrating past decade or so seeing the sport turn into a greedy, money-orientated business. The gap between the rich super-clubs, and the smaller teams that have been forced into becoming 'feeder clubs', is becoming larger and larger with every progressing season. The takeover of Manchester City a few seasons ago by Arab oil tycoon and politician Sheikh Mansour bin Zayed Al Nayhan saw the club spend over £150 million in one transfer window, and now sit second in the league as a result, with a host of superstar playboys littering their team-sheet. This transformation from sport of the working classes to a capitalist business is the focus of Moneyball, but the sport is baseball, America's equivalent to football.
It tells the true story of failed baseball player Billy Beane (Brad Pitt), who is now General Manager of Oakland Athletics, a team who are struggling to keep up with the pace of the New York Mets, a rich club who have just nabbed three of Oakland's key players. Disillusioned with the financial distance between the clubs, he approaches Peter Brand (Jonah Hill), a Yale-graduated economics analyst who seems to have made a breakthrough studying statistics rather than player valuation. Brand suggests three out-of-favour has-beens and rejects to replace one of the superstars they lost, to which Beane obliges. Oakland become the laughing stock of the sport, until they go on a winning run which will soon break all baseball records.
Like I said, I am a football fan, and I love to watch the game. But my love of the game is hampered by feelings of self-loathing as I watch these over-paid primadonnas whine and dive their way around the pitch, while earning more in a week than I will in twenty years for kicking a piece of leather around a pitch for 90 minutes. Billy Beans shares this view. He says 'it's impossible not to be romantic about baseball', but he has watched the sport he loves become merely dollar signs in the eyes of suit-wearing tycoons who treat it as something to play with in their spare time. Beane does not want to simply win a trophy, a ring, or a record, he wants to change the way the game is run.
Pitt became involved in the production way back in 2007, and became almost a labour-of-love for the actor. He also produces as well as giving an impressive performance. It's alarming how he has transformed himself from a mere pretty boy of the 1990's, into a passionate actor and producer, starring in excellent films such as Babel (2006), The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (2007) and Inglourious Basterds (2009). He received an Oscar nomination for this film, as it's fully deserved, portraying Beane as a mixture of determination, eagerness and concern, as well short-tempered rage. Jonah Hill is also excellent, following his creepy performance in Cyrus (2010) as the dutiful, super-intelligent Brand (he also received an Oscar nomination).
Moneyball is a welcome passion project that goes as far as translating the love of a sport that escapes us Brits. Although there is very little focus on the playing of the sport itself, it makes it clear why the sport is loved so much and is seen in such a romantic light. It does for baseball what the underrated Friday Night Lights (2004) does for American football. The script by superscribes Steven Zaillian and Aaron Sorkin is suitably fast-paced and complex, giving the film a weight and a darkness that made The Social Network (2010) so good (in Sorkin's case). Informative, insightful, and occasionally gripping, UK audiences should not shy away from this film due to the sport, and instead embrace a film that tackles larger issues of greed and class division.
Whether this Hammer studios production was meant to bring in the teenage "youth" market that the commercial film world had only just realised existed, or whether it was created to completely insult the then "hippie" youth is difficult to tell. In the opening sequence of the 20th century (the film opens with Van Helsing's defeat of Dracula in 1872), we are introduced to a group of young males and females, as they have seemingly crashed a party in a large house. The original guests, aristocratically establishment in their appearance, stand around the edges of the room in horror. A hippie rock band plays, but the gate crashers are there because of the band? Wrong; the band was already there (?). Really? Why on earth would a group of establishment folk, a generation naturally reviled by youth culture, hire a "funky" youth music group to play at their soiree? It's just a bit confusing.
The film pretty much continues with this strange depiction of the young, as a group lead by Johhny Alucard (for those intelligent eyes will notice that his surname is an anagram of Dracula - so ridiculous), who proposes a plan to celebrate a black mass, and in the process resurrect the infamous Count. Coincidentally, one of Johnny's friends in the group is Jessica (Stephanie Beacham), who is granddaughter to Professor Van Helsing (Peter Cushing), who is conveniently studying the occult, which has been studied in his family for generations. With the newly resurrected Dracula (Christopher Lee) searching for both the Van Helsing's, the film is overwhelmingly predictable.
If this was an attempt to pull in the teen market, it must have failed miserably. Not only does it insult any ones intelligence, it also throws all the hippie cliches at you in some of the worst dialogue ever. "Groovy", "Happening", "Far out", and "Man" are excessively used, and it's as if someone from the outside of the counter-culture had simply got his information from an anti-youth public service film. Of course these out of control young, with their ideas, are going to all eventually get involved in black magic and witchcraft. It was clearly expected in 1972. Hammer, for shame.
Like many horror films back in the 1980's (and even today), The Boogeyman takes its influence from John Carpenter's landmark in horror, Halloween (1978). While Michael Myers was the physical embodiment of the 'boogeyman' legend (I say legend, but it is more a term given to whatever scares little children at night), Ulli Lommel's shockingly shit video nasty goes the extra mile and adds a supernatural spin to the story in the shape of a haunted mirror.
The quite effective opening has a young girl and boy spying on their slutty mother as she seduces a man with a stocking on his head. They are spotted, and the man ties the boy to a bed while they have sex in another room. The girl cuts him loose with a large knife, and the boy then uses it to murder the man. Years later, the boy Willy (Nicholas Love) is mute, and the girl, Lacey (Suzanna Love), is psychologically troubled by the events of her childhood. Her psychiatrist Dr. Warren (John Carradine, looking like he's hoping nobody will notice his presence in the film) advises her husband Jake (Ron James) that she should go back to her childhood home to confront her demons. She does, and while there she sees the man wearing the stocking in the bedroom mirror, which she smashes. Jake pieces together the mirror and takes it home, when strange deaths start occurring.
Yes, this is as daft as it sounds. Horror movies have long made killers out of strange things (tomatoes, clowns, a house), but a mirror that influences suicides? Mmm. It's one of the strangest choices for a killer 'bad guy' I've come across in horror since the strangely likeable Death Bed: The Bed That Eats (1977). If anything, this at least separates it from other mundane entries into the slasher genre, but the film struggles along trying to juggle a story a sibling connection, psychological torment, and standard stalk-and-slash. There is a half-decent death involving a 'long kiss', but apart from this, it is instantly forgettable.
Walter Ruttmann's documentary love letter to the German capital, shows the city from the morning proletariat on their way to work, to the decadent bourgeois night of Wiemar Republic, 1920's high living opulence. It shows the shops and market stalls opening, the streets filling, industry moving. The almost constantly static camera captures both the poverty and the affluence. Along with the single shots of the surroundings, there are the occasional flourish of the avant-garde; kaleidoscopic, spinning images similar in experimental joy as Al Bricks Looney Lens series (Split Skyscrapers, Tenth Avenue, NYC (both 1924)), often using split screens and other such optical effects to create hall-of-mirror comparisons.
The films style also often reflects the influence of Sergei Eisenstein and Dziga Vertov's Soviet montage, a style that suggested sub-textual meaning using a series of juxtaposing images. At the start of Berlin... the working classes, walking to their factories, moving uniformly, then images of cattle, and soldiers are sliced, creating the metaphor. Whilst not as politically motivated as the Soviet's, this is still an interesting document of a city living in stark contrasts, in a country still ravaged by the failures of WWI. But watching it now, you become reflective of the changes to this important city. It's history since the making of this film (events that the director would never see, due to his death in 1941), which is devastated by war, and divided by a wall. It's always fascinating to see visual "objects" of the past. Whilst this doesn't have the interesting longevity of the more political Soviet films, this is an important piece of silent-era documentary, and would go on to influence the British documentary movements of the 1930's and 40's.
The Wild Child's (1969) premise of an animalistic human being found in the forests and brought into the "civilised" world, is given a slight twist in this sometimes troubling tale of a violently misogynist patriarch. Having discovered a feral female roaming through the woods, Chris Cleek (Sean Bridgers) makes a plan to capture her and bring her into the cellar of the family home, his justification being centred on the premise of civilising the woman (Pollyanna McIntosh). Lucky McKee and Jack Ketchum's screenplay use the uncivilised woman, bound to the will of a man, to increasingly reveal the inherently psychotic hatred this central character has for woman in general. Cleek's meek wife, Belle (Angela Bettis), and teenage daughter Peggy (Lauren Ashley Carter), begin to unravel, Peggy with a hidden pregnancy of dubious inception (her concerned teacher turns up to speak with the Cleeks as she suspects she is pregnant, and the patriarch replies that Peggy does not have any boyfriends, "I'd know if she did").
Whilst the male head of this family is deeply misogynistic, and the inevitable rape of the captured woman leads to influence his teenage son, Brian (Zach Rand), and the dominating thought about it's subject during the watching, was that the film was intrinsically hateful towards women. But as I was in the kitchen, doing the dishes, you know, women's work (sic), I considered a it feminist reading, after all, this is fundamentally about the entrapment and abuse of women. The feral woman, chained and sexually abused, juxtaposed with the "civilised", family unit, locked in a clandestine world, a secret insular house of family oppression, the truth behind the societal veneer of communities. But, contrary to this initial thought, a feminist treatise this is not - it simply falls apart, when the violence towards women turns to the rape of the shackled woman, and then the sons attack with pliers which alters the films effects, and panders to the horror cinema fans, and uses torture-porn tactics, and gruesome gore.
Apart from these moments, the film often plays, laconically, as self-consciously "indie". It is a very well made film, and some of the performances are very good. But I wonder about the intentions of the films central premise. It's a little ambiguous, and is sometimes difficult to truly decipher if the film is celebrating the misogyny in the father and son; or is this a tract about the gender divisions that still prevails in 21st century society? But ambiguous gender politics aside, it does state the theme that generally, the civilised are not far removed from the primitive, animal tendencies, and the barrier of property changes not some of these instincts.
Two drag-racers, named The Driver (James Taylor), and The Mechanic (Beach Boys drummer Dennis Wilson), travel across America looking for quick money racing their souped-up '55 Chevy. They pick up a hitch-hiker, The Girl (Laurie Bird), who they both form a strange attraction to. Meanwhile, a lonely and quite desperate man drives his Pontiac GTO (played by Warren Oates) and comes across the two, and they agree a race to Washington, D.C. for pink slips. While this is the overlying focus of the film, Two-Lane Blacktop is more of an existential odyssey across 1970's America following a group of misfit characters drifting through an increasingly alien landscape.
Very much a mood piece, Two-Lane Blacktop can now be viewed as a key film of 1970's American film-making, encompassing the feelings of both the young and the ageing. This is pure Americana - we see the beautiful desolation of Route 66, road-side diners, dusty gas stations, and empty, one-horse towns. There is minimal dialogue, but with frames and characters so beautifully empty, there is no need. The landscape tells the story. The open road was the focus of many films of the late 1960's and early 70's, many of them misconstrued as simply car-porn. Films such as Easy Rider (1969) and Vanishing Point (1971) channelled feelings of anger and the longing for freedom that were brought on by events such as the Kent State massacre in 1970, causing a generation gap and the isolation of youth.
Not to say there isn't car-porn on show here - the '55 Chevy is rusty and ugly, but the growl it gives out when revved is invigorating. The majority of the races and driving scenes are shot from the interior, allowing us to hear every mechanical clank and gear-change. But the main focus is on the characters. The Driver and Mechanic say little but tell their story with their eyes. They live for their car and care for little else. Although the Driver clearly has feelings for the Girl, he does little to truly act upon it, and therefore causes her to experience loneliness and the feeling of being used. But the most fascinating is GTO, played to perfection by the ever-reliable Oates. We see him at the start of the film telling the same story twice to one of the many hitch-hikers he picks up. He acts out of desperation, reaching out to anyone who will listen. It's a painful portrayal of a very human character.
Not a second is wasted in the film. Director Monte Hellman captures every single sound and feeling out of the most mundane situations, and we are therefore transported back to 1971 America. It is almost as if the film is about absolutely nothing, and maybe that's the point. These characters seem to be speeding to an unknown goal that will always be out of reach. Maybe they know it and maybe they don't, but as long as they get to drive, they're happy. An outstanding piece of 70's cinema.
Perhaps a comment on celebrity culture, and particularly the intangible gloss as presented by celebrity gossip magazines and television shows, Sofia Coppola has produced a sombre, sparse and vapid portrait of a movie star, Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff), focusing initially on his vacuous life of parties, women and strange and sycophantic encounters with the media and empty women who probably make a career out of shagging celebrities. The only problem with the character initially is that he is blissfully unaware at how empty his life truly is. That is until his ex-wife informs him that she has to go away, and has to leave their daughter, Clio (Elle Fanning), in the responsibility of him.
The films early scenes function is to present Marco in almost exclusive isolation. He is visited by women, including twins who seem to visit him for a pole-dancing act. He is constantly framed alone, in regular protracted shots: in one he is left seated upright with Plaster-of-Paris covering his head (he is having a cast made for a movie role), the camera slowly pans in, his breathing (through nose only) becoming the only audio, as it increases in intensity.
The time spent with his daughter becomes a clearly revolutionary event in the mans life, and he becomes increasingly dependant on the company. This is not in any way the best that Coppola has produced in her (so far) good directing career. The fact that she grew up with a famous father more than likely gives this film some realism. However, it seems to me to be a bit pretentious. Are we really supposed to care about this guy? Perhaps the Coppola woman should try living a regular life, and perhaps produce a film that doesn't centre on privilege.
Long before the likes of the Daily Mail newspaper incensed the British parental population, and indelibly creating an irrational fear, and the idea that there are paedophiles on every street corner, this subject was rarely tackled. Previously, Fritz Lang's excellent M (1931) gave Peter Lorre's child murderer a sinister screen presence, but in terms of directly commenting upon this sexual perversion, it wasn't until Cyril Frankel directed this little known gem of the Hammer studios. With none of the scaremongering tactics that would probably infect a film of this subject these days, this project - whilst observing a credible story of a young girl confronting a local "lover" of children - it's main purpose seems to be to highlight the power of money and social position.
The Carter family, new to a small insular town in Canada, are told by their daughter Jean (Janina Faye) of the events of her afternoon, which involved visiting an old man, Clarence Olderberry (Felix Aylmer), who gave her and her friend, Lucile, some sweets (referred to in the film in the American terms of candy - which also lead to the change in the title for the US release). Jean also advises that Mr Olderberry got the two girls to take off their clothes. Against all the advise from the townspeople, the Carters decide that this needs to be heard in a court of law. Unfortunately for the Carter family, Mr Olderberry is the head of the most powerful family in the town. They soon discover that the transgressions of the old man are well known within the town, and due to his social standing, the concept is forgotten - brushed under the carpet so to speak.
Beautifully shot by Hammer regular Freddie Francis, the film is absolutely stunning to look at. The tensions forming within the insular town - the gossip, which essentially accuses the "outsiders" of deliberately stirring the gentle balance of the community - is palpable. This is subtle, and sometimes sinister storytelling, which highlights the corruption within communities built upon commerce and familial business - as well as an indictment of the small-town small-mindedness. Never Take Sweets from a Stranger could be one of the finest examples of the Hammer studios output, demonstrating that they were not all about the traditional Gothic settings. A true and tragically forgotten piece of British cinema.
Whilst this is billed under the exploitation banner, and would have been shown in these types of cinema, the film is not overly exploitative, and presents the stories and their participants in quite a sympathetic manner. However, the film does explore, in a very graphically visual manner the operations required to alter the genitalia. Of course with this being made in the 1970's means that the screen is filled with incredibly hairy, militant-looking pubic areas, whilst these men with tits flash their flaccid cocks for the camera. In one scene the doctor probes a post-op vagina with his fingers - a sexual orifice so hideous that I simply had to avert my eyes.
