Before their falling out, director Don Siegel and actor Clint Eastwood made some great films together, beginning with Coogan's Bluff in 1968 and ending with arguably their finest work, Escape from Alcatraz in 1979. Like Eastwood's character Frank Morris, Escape from Alcatraz is lean and no-nonsense, set completely within the walls of the infamous island prison. It's also a masterpiece of visual storytelling, with Siegel displaying a skill for capturing the routine of life in Alcatraz, from the small individual cells to the mundane work cycles, all combining to create an overall sense of hopelessness for those destined to rot away on the Rock. Morris has been placed there because he has escaped from every other prison he's been sent to, and nobody escapes from Alcatraz. He is quickly informed by a fellow inmate that should you even manage to get out of your cell, it's a mile away from land and the cold will kill you before the next prisoner count.
This revelation would crush the souls of most men, but Morris simply sees it as another challenge to overcome and quickly starts to plan a break-out. It will take time however, so he must endure the harshness of prison life in the meantime. Alcatraz is a place of punishment, not rehabilitation, and the quietly sadistic warden, played by Patrick McGoohan, appears to be proud of the prison's reputation of making good prisoners, not citizens. We are gradually introduced to the other inmates: There's the eccentric Litmus (Frank Ronzio), who convinces a new arrival that he is actually Al Capone, artist and amateur botanist 'Doc' Dalton (Roberts Blossom), black librarian English (Paul Benjamin), and eventually Morris' old acquaintances and brothers Clarence (Jack Thibeau) and John Anglin (Fred Ward). Morris quickly makes an enemy in Wolf (Bruce M. Fischer), when he clobbers the would-be rapist for making advances in the shower room. With Wolf waiting impatiently in solitary for revenge and the threat of a cell move looming, Morris steps up his efforts, finding hope in the crumbling concrete around the grille in his cell.
The escape itself is a magnificent, meticulously researched sequence that arrives at the climax, but before that we are ushered into the harsh realities of prison life, and what it takes to survive and maintain your sanity in such brutal surroundings. Siegel skilfully builds dramatic tension in a suffocating, cramped confinement. Alcatraz was no ordinary prison. It was an intricate machine designed to crush the spirits of those serving time, where a luxury could be taken away in an instant for the pettiest of reasons, leaving you with nothing but walls and your thoughts. Siegel doesn't necessarily side with the prisoners - with one exception, they all certainly deserve to be locked up - but he is keen to point out that such mental abuse doesn't do anybody, especially society, any good. This sense of injustice is certainly what seems to be driving Morris, and you'll be willing him on when the date is finally set. The escape is actually relatively straight-forward, but Siegel makes it nail-biting nonetheless. This also fits in with the whole docudrama feel, sticking closely to how it actually went down back in 1962. The ending eerily lets you ponder their fate for yourselves. They were never seen again, nor were their bodies discovered.
Before the stream of sequels, spin-offs, video games, board games, and it's own incredibly underwhelming origin story, and before this year's shameless yet occasionally entertaining rip-off Life, there was Ridley Scott's Alien, a masterclass in how to create an A-picture out of a B-list idea and budget. Even before that of course, there was Mario Bava's Planet of the Vampires, but Scott infuses his film with such elegance, sheer horror, and it's very own mythos (which would be tirelessly explored in the aforementioned extended multi-media universe), that to label the seminal sci-fi classic as plagiarism of Bava's interesting, if schlocky, 60's space opera would be preposterous (although it clearly draws inspiration). As a favourite of most children growing up in the 80's and 90's, Alien joins the likes of Jaws, Back to the Future, The Goonies and Close Encounters of the Third Kind as one of the untouchable genre classics.
The crew of the Nostronomo, a starship freighter owned by the Weyland-Yutani Corporation are awoken from hypersleep by an urgent message from the on-board computer, Mother. A signal has been detected coming from a nearby planetoid, and by the terms of their contract they are obligated to investigate. The crew are a rag-tag bunch of what can only be described as working-class space truckers; scruffy, chain-smoking, and constantly complaining about pay. Many of them, including Warrant Officer Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), object to the unnecessary risk, but Captain Dallas (Tom Skerritt) overrules. Touching down on the dark, desolate planet, they quickly come across a crashed alien ship containing the dead body of a large, unknown species. Executive Officer Kane (John Hurt) probes further, eventually discovering what appears to be a nesting area. One of the eggs opens, and a spider-like creature attaches itself to his face, rendering him unresponsive but alive.
It's isn't difficult to work out how things unravel from this point. After the shock of the 'chestburster' scene (which I still recall seeing for the first time as a youngster), Alien follows the tradition of the slasher flick. But one of the many things that separates the film from the formulaic tedium of the slasher genre is the care Scott takes with showing you very little. The brief glimpses of the xenomorph, growing rapidly as the film progresses, are terrifying enough, but it's the long moments between the kills that makes Alien so engrossing. The design of the ship's interior is dark and dank, almost reptilian in appearance, purposely sculpted to make it seem that the creature could pop out of any corner of the screen, at any time. Our fears are confirmed in one particularly effective sequence involving the search for the ship's cat Jones, where what appears to be some harmless tubing in the background suddenly turns into an oozing, snarling face..
Now one of the most iconic monsters in cinema history, the xenomorph is a clever accumulation of our worst fears. A creature of pure survival, it serves only to prolong the existence of its species, whether it be to wipe out any possible threat, or using its victims as hosts for its offspring. James Cameron's admittedly excellent sequel threw more of them at the screen, and the subsequent films opted for CGI. But there is nothing scary about special effects, and Bolaji Badejo's performance inside the suit proves that practical effects can stand the test of time, and completely terrify when employed correctly. The alien isn't the only star of the show however, as Sigourney Weaver's badass survivor Ripley is one of the silver screen's most recognisable and much-loved heroines, in a role that could have been a simple 'last girl' routine in the hands of a lesser actor. She is backed up by a fantastic cast that also includes Veronica Cartwright, Ian Holm, Harry Dean Stanton and Yaphet Kotto, all making their archetype characters feel alive. But the real star is Scott who, having gone off the boil in recent years, reminds us of a time when he was capable of delivering pure cinematic magic.
Long before pornography of every kind was but a thumb-swipe away, the industry was defined as scuzzy video stores and grimy peep shows; low-budget productions headed by open-shirted, bling-covered gangsters who were out to make a fast buck. Written and directed by Taxi Driver scribe Paul Schrader, Hardcore, also known as The Hardcore Life, forces its God-fearing hero into a repulsive world of sleaze, prostitution, and, most ridiculously, murder. Now almost 40 years old, Hardcore's portrayal of an industry that can now be discussed without such social stigma attached has certainly dated, but still packs a punch thanks to a terrific central performance.
Dutch Calvinist Jake Van Dorn (George C. Scott) leads a well-respected life as a prosperous business man in Grand Rapids, Michigan. A single father, he lives alone with his daughter Kristen (Ilah Davis) and surrounds himself with his Church-going friends, working hard to establish himself as a functioning member of the community. His life is turned upside down when he gets a phone call informing him that Kristen has gone missing during a school trip. Receiving little help from the police, Jake hires private investigator Andy Mast (Peter Boyle), who quickly spots the young girl's face in a low-budget porn film. Feeling that Andy isn't quite up for the job, Jake immerses himself in the industry in the hope of finding clues to his daughter's location, posing as an amateur director looking to get a new project off the ground.
Hardcore has a lot going for it, especially the central performance from Scott, whose reaction to seeing his daughter defiled on film is one of the film's most powerful moments. Schrader's script tries to unravel Jake's character slowly as he digs deeper into this unknown world, but the subtle, interesting hints spotted throughout are left frustratingly unexplored. Essentially a film of clashing morals, Schrader does a good job capturing the grimy look and feel of sticky-walled private screening-rooms and poorly-disguised brothels, bringing the two worlds together in Jake's relationship with hooker Niki (Season Hubley). Taking its themes very seriously, this is a bold and honest piece of work that sadly falls apart during the climax, where it seems like a whole new movie begins and ends simultaneously.
Desperate to make a career on the big screen in order to prolong his soaring stand-up career, Steve Martin wrote the premise for The Jerk based on one line from one of his routines - "I was born a poor black child." As so Navin B. Johnson - the dim-witted adopted son of a family of black sharecroppers - was born. Light on plot but heavy on laughs, The Jerk is a shaggy-dog tale of an idiot's pursuit of the American Dream, and his downfall once he finds it, all shaped around Martin's stage persona by the writing team of Martin, Carl Gottlieb and Michael Elias.
After learning from his mother that he is adopted ("You mean I'm gonna stay this colour?"), Navin sets out on the road to experience the big wide world and make it on his own. Along the way, he takes a variety of odd-jobs, from a gas station attendant to a weight-guesser at a travelling carnival, finally making his fortune with a ridiculous contraption called 'Opti-Grab' - a device that allows a pair of glasses to be removed and placed on the face with relative ease. He also falls in love with the doe-eyed Marie (Bernadette Peters), and the two share a lovely scene singing Tonight You Belong to Me on the beach before things start to fall apart as Navin becomes insufferable due his increasing wealth.
Described (and criticised) as a film of 'funny hats' by Roger Ebert (as opposed to 'funny logic' - the reason for the funny hat), your enjoyment of The Jerk depends very much on your sense of humour. If sight-gags and goofiness is your thing, then there is much to love about The Jerk. Martin and director Carl Reiner clearly set out to give you a laugh a minute here, and while some jokes fall flat or come across as simply bizarre, they largely succeed. It's frequently crass but never mean-spirited (Navin innocently names his dog 'Shithead'), and it's a throwback to a less politically correct time when the white leading man could drop the 'n' word and get away with it. It's also a reminder of just how great Steve Martin used to be before he lowered himself to the family-friendly pap he is now better known for by modern audiences.
I knew little to nothing about the 'mods' and 'rockers' of Swinging Sixties London and the fierce rivalry that bristled between them before going into the film, but Quadrophenia, Franc Roddam's film based on The Who's rock opera of the same name, completely immerses the viewer in their world. The images I tend to conjure of this important era in Britain's history is that of The Beatles running from a screaming crowd of ecstatic girls in A Hard Day's Night (1964). While Richard Lester's film has the fortune of being made at the time this movement was thriving, it's light-hearted fare, albeit a terrific one.
Quadrophenia doesn't pull its punches, and portrays the mods, in particular the young, alienated Jimmy (Phil Daniels) in all of their rough-and-tumble, amphetamine-popping glory. Adorned in the latest fashion and riding around London on his customised scooter, Jimmy funds his lifestyle by begrudgingly working as a post room boy for the kind of stiff-upper-lipped types he loathes. Outside of his job, he is a living nightmare for his parents, constantly out all hours listening to rock music with his friends and popping blue uppers to keep him on edge.
He is romantically invested in Steph (Leslie Ash), who is currently involved with another chap, but after he does finally sleep with her, he discovers that the experience didn't have the same lasting effect it did on him. Jimmy also learns that his friend Kevin (Ray Winstone), fresh out of the army, is a rocker and therefore an enemy. A sense of alienation builds inside of the protagonist, with only the sense of belonging within the gang and cheap drugs to help drag him through his depression. It all builds up to a visit to Brighton where, along with super-cool mod Ace Face (Sting), meet up for a huge brawl with a gang of rockers.
Backed by a terrific soundtrack from The Who, Quadrophenia recreates a fashion craze now long-gone, and does so convincingly with a real sense of time and place. Jimmy and his gang are all working-class, slumping through dead-end jobs to fund their lifestyle in spite of their humble upbringings, infusing the film with a sense of social-awareness. The group show no desire whatsoever to fit in the social structure of a society they feel is unfair, with Jimmy in particular feeling left hung out to dry. But the most impressive aspect of the film is the young Phil Daniels as the raging tearaway whose character often treads dangerously close to being plain loathsome. He plays the role with an irresistible charm and swagger that make him entirely sympathetic. An underrated cult gem.
Although this is an origin movie, Max (Mel Gibson) himself is kept very much in the background for the first half of the film. After taking out notorious criminal Nightrider (Vincent Gil) in a violent opening sequence, Max, a member of MFP (Main Force Patrol) - a band of cops trying to maintain order in an increasingly hostile world - is relegated to the sidelines as Miller explores the world he inhabits. Seeking revenge for his friend, Toecutter (Hugh Keays-Byrne), the leader of a gang who looks like a member of Kiss but rules with the iron fist of Hitler, arrives in town and immediately starts to kill, rape and rob every law-abiding citizen in sight. When Max's partner is maimed in particularly brutal fashion, he flees with his wife Jessie (Joanne Samuel) and child, only to find that this bleak world is not quite done with him.
Through keeping Max's screen-time limited in the first half, we actually get a better understanding of him. Violence breeds violence - and every time Max finds himself facing down one of his foes, he finds that he's actually starting to enjoy it. By witnessing the exploits of Toecutter and his crew - one particularly disturbing scene sees a couple chased down, beaten and raped - and the growing futility of the efforts of the MFP (Captain 'Fifi' McAffee - Turkey Shoot'sRoger Ward - longs to bring heroes back into society), we can sympathise with Max's growing disillusionment and impatience with the system that is failing them. This is, of course, how Max became 'mad', so it begins with him embodying the fresh-faced voice of reason, but by the end he is serving his own kind of justice.
Made during Australia's exploitation boom (dubbed 'ozploitation') for a meagre $400,000, Mad Max holds up phenomenally well. Miller demonstrated a real flair for action set-pieces as his career progressed, and the adrenaline-fuelled smashes and explosions here are edited with such precision that it makes you wonder how such carnage was staged without serious casualties to the actors (makers of the Taken and Fast and Furious franchises such take extensive notes on how to stage an exciting, coherent action scene). Mel Gibson says little but demonstrates the charisma that would later make him a world star, but the real star here is the world George Miller created. Civilisation would get even more sparse and brutal as the films progressed, but the originalis what would inspire generations of film-makers. Despite a narrative dip in its third-quarter, Mad Max is pure action cinema, frequently imitated but never bettered.
With his final big-screen movie, the Sergei Eisenstein of skin-flicks, Russ Meyer, festoons Beyond the Valley of The Ultra-Vixens with his usual cynical and scornful look at small-town Americana. With the birth of video-tape and audiences preferences leaning in favour of penetrative, hard-core porn, Meyer bowed out with dignity, refusing to bow down to audience demand and lower himself to such a cheap and easy form of entertainment (although he would briefly return over twenty years later with Pandora Peaks (2001)). All the Meyer traits are here - blockhead male chauvinists, sex-mad townsfolk, a grizzled narrator, women blessed in the mammary gland area - and are loosely stringed together in what makes up the 'story'.
Set in the small town of, er, Small Town, USA, our narrator, The Man From Small Town USA (Stuart Lancaster), shows us all it's wacky inhabitants. There's a well-endowed evangelical radio preacher (Ann Marie) who has sex inside of a coffin, a man-eating junk-yard owner (June Mack), and a randy dentist/marriage counsellor (Robert E. Pearson). In the centre of it all is the beautiful, big-breasted Lavonia (Kitten Natividad) and her lug-head husband Lamar (Ken Kerr). They are happy enough, only Lavonia's unquenchable thirst for sex and Lamar's preference to 'entering through the back door' means that they must find themselves before they can finally 'come together'.
Co-written with Roger Ebert, Beyond the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens is less a story and more a collection of comic, fruity vignettes. Some of sharp, energetic and funny, others can be plodding. The satire is less sharp here than in his better movies, for instance Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (1970) or Up! (1976), but his admiration of the female form is possibly clearer here than any of his other movies. He's often called anti-feminist, but, with Meyer, it's the women who hold all the power, outwitting and overpowering the numb-nut males, even raping one, a 14-year old boy I may add, in one scene. He certainly doesn't seem to mind though. It's often delightful and even titillating, but ultimately lacks the sharpness and daring of Meyer's best work.
When looking at Abel Ferrara's entire body of work, his feature debut (aside from his dabble in porn - 9 Lives of a Wet Pussy (1976)), The Driller Killer, has many of the same themes theme that run throughout his filmography. In a urban, decaying setting, a central character flourishes while simultaneously destroying themselves in the process, physically and/or mentally. Here, artist Reno (Ferrara himself, credited as Jimmy Laine) undergoes a psychological decline brought on by bill and rent troubles, a demanding boss, the loud punk rock band next door, and the depressing, crime-filled area that he lives. After seeing an advert for an electric drill on the television, Reno begins a killing spree, mainly targeting the homeless and drunk.
Whereas the likes of King of New York (1990) and Bad Lieutenant (1992), two of Ferrara's finest achievements, maintained this feeling of grime and general street filth, they were helmed by a far more experienced director, and were anchored by Christopher Walken and Harvey Keitel, two of the finest American actors of their generation. The Driller Killer never manages to crawl out of its bargain-basement Taxi Driver (1977) credentials, filmed by a director seemingly more concerned with controversy than creating a serious picture. In fairness, the gore levels are relatively low and features only one scene of full-on blood-shedding - being the iconic moment depicted on the cover that caused so many Daily Mail readers to blow their top in the 1980's video nasty debacle - but it's just so bloody tedious.
Ferrara cannot act, but he certainly looks the part. He's always been a strange character in the movie business, which is one of the main reasons why the bulk of his later films are so intriguing. His near-supernatural ugliness and strange mannerisms made me believe that there could be something genuinely wrong with him, that helps to add at least of bit of weight to the film. Yet his screen-time is oddly limited, and the attention frequently shifts to the No Wave punk band The Roosters, who seem to practice endlessly, spout lyrical nonsense, and behave even more bizarrely than Reno. Is this shift of focus Ferrara's way to juxtapose Reno's mental decline with the rise of the New York punk movement, intertwining them somehow? Well, no. You know a film is in trouble when repetitive music scenes primarily there as a diversion is more interesting than the central story of a man drilling into people's skulls with a power tool.
The Driller Killer was single-handedly responsible for the video nasties list, so I guess we can 'thank' it for that. Although the films on the list are generally terrible, it created an interesting little story in recent cinema history, and helped save a few titles from absolute obscurity. It's certainly far from the worst nasty on the list (for me, Snuff (1976) holds that title), and is an embarrassing reminder of the nation's reaction to the scaremongering of the 80's, given the film's lack of gore and unconvincing effects. Ferrara would flourish in the 90's, so we all know what he is capable of and how much better this film could have been, but this is repulsive, amateurish film-making.
It has been stated before, here on 'The Wrath of Blog', and no doubt it will be said again, that Italian genre cinema (particularly through the 1960's, '70's, '80's and '90's) has had a tendency to emulate (or rip-off, if you like) successful American cinematic tropes. From the imitations of Jaws (1975) and Star Wars (1977), to the multitude of "re-imaginings," mainly of lucrative box office horror's, Italian film producers would regularly ask of a proposed project, not what the script is about, but what Hollywood film is the script like. Whilst Zombie Flesh Eaters' screenplay was conceived and written before the release of George A. Romero's uber-special zombie masterpiece, Dawn of the Dead (1978), the script was altered to "cash-in" on the success of it's American counter-part.
Written by Dardanno Sacchetti (but credited to his wife, Elisa Briganti), and originally titled 'Island of the Living Dead,' the film was at first conceived as an adventure yarn, with elements of horror. Sacchetti was influenced by older, pre-Romero zombie films, such as I Walked With a Zombie (1943) and White Zombie (1932), films that looked towards the Caribbean mysticism and the then largely unknown pseudo-religion of Voodoo. In these narratives, the zombie could easily be seen as victim rather than outright monster (like the somnambulist in the seminal The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920)), who is ultimately under the control of sinister magic, and dominated for nefarious purposes. The screenplay's influences are further illuminated with Zombie Flesh Eaters's Dr. Menard (Richard Johnson), the mad scientist, who's original conception was taken largely from H. G. Wells's science fiction novel, 'The Island of Doctor Moreau'. However, much of these more "classic" horror devices were thrown aside in favour of an attempt to address the same audience that saw Dawn of the Dead (but more specifically for the more national cut that Dario Argento released in Italy as Zombi).
Whilst the majority of Zombie Flesh Eaters is set on a Caribbean island, the first and last scenes have the backdrop of Manhattan, New York. According to Sacchetti and director Lucio Fulci, these scenes were added to the script to attach it to Dawn, acting as the codification of American zombies. These scenes could either represent what the Italian producers would have called a sequel, but it could just as easily be reviewed as a prequel. The film opens as an unmanned yacht enters the waters surrounding the big apple. Coastguards board the boat finding a pit of decaying food, and eventually a zombie. It is a fantastic opening, creating tension through simple static camera shots. Fulci and cinematographer, Sergio Salvati, take their time to get to the gore in this opening, and seem to have been visually influenced by Sergio Leone's cinema of pro-violence. Like Leone, Flesh Eaters makes the audience wait for the violence that is inevitable, the masts and the New York skyline acting as the onlookers, or the eventual witnesses to the devastation to come.
The abandoned yacht leads its owners daughter, Anne Bowles (Tisa Farrow) and pushy British journalist, Peter West (Ian McCulloch), to the mysterious and locally vilified island of Matul, where Anne's father had been, and where they discover these zombie's originate from. The dead, it seems, are rising to "tear the flesh of the living". It would be impossible to talk about Italian horror cinema without discussing the graphic nature of blood and gore. Argento and Fulci are the masters of this kind of imagery, and Flesh Eaters delivers these moments with glee. From the ripping of flesh from the neck of a coastguard, to the infamous scene where Mrs Menard's eye is pulled towards a wood splinter (eye gauging being a particular relish for Italian filmmakers, acting - like Bunuel and Dali's eye-slicing Un Chien Andalou (1929) - as a literal assault on the audience, who's eyes are essential to the viewing of cinema), the excessive blood-letting of Italian horror will delight fans of the genre, but more specifically gives Italian Horror its raison d'etre, and (at the time) distinguished it from American horror - although the influence of these directors would inevitably transfer.
Whilst the cinema of Fulci is easily lambasted, with his narratives becoming increasingly incoherent, there is no disputing his visual flare (incidentally, Argento has been accused of the same unintelligible narrative structures). Seeing Zombie Flesh Eaters in its original aspect ratio highlights his love of the image. This was a problem for Italian horror in the 1980's, as it was served badly by pan and scan video releases. Whilst this is no cinema classic, it is a whole lot of fun. Fulci's zombies look fantastic, dripping with vulnerable flesh, clearly only recently exhumed from the dusty grounds, oozing with maggots, worms, and newly ripped flesh. As with the opening scene, the closing moments frames the Brooklyn Bridge, pointing towards the world famous city, as the marauding dead slowly move towards apocalypse. A chilling final image, as the sound of a radio presenter is devoured by the intrusion of flesh eating monsters.
Former Time Out critic, Christopher Petit's directorial debut, Radio On, shows its European credentials well. I say this for a couple of reasons. For one, like the French New Wave participants, Petit began as a film critic, and the sparing nature of this existential road movie, was self-consciously attempting to move British cinema towards a European style. Secondly, and far more telling, is the influence and participation of the New German Cinema of the 1970's. Whilst interviewing Wim Wenders, the subject of Petit's own screenplay arose, and Wenders was impressed. Therefore, Wenders became associate producer, and also lent the use of his cinematographer, Martin Schafer.
Beautifully shot in monochrome, the black and white imagery displays its artful intentions. We follow Robert (David Beames) as he drives from London to Bristol, after being informed that his brother has committed suicide. On his journey, he encounters several unhinged British citizens, including a Glaswegian squaddie with anger management issues, as well as meeting Sting at a petrol station, who seems to be obsessed with Eddie Cochran. Not much really happens in the film, but the most significant (at least the longest) "relationship" is with a German woman, Ingrid (Lisa Kreuzer - who was in Wenders' Alice in the Cities (1974 - Review #96)), who is searching for her missing daughter named Alice (a possible reference to the aforementioned German film.
This is a bleak representation of 1970's Britain. Not a hard task in itself (you could have pointed a camera anywhere in '70's Britain, and it would have been depressing). But what was fundamental to Petit's intentions, was actually a comment on the decline of British cinema. The main output of British cinema was within the prurient genre of the repressed "sex comedies" such as the on-going Carry On.. films, or the equally lamentable Confessions... series with Robin Askwith. When there was any serious attempt at British cinema, they were barely seen. Petit, felt that the Americanisation of our cinema's and the fact that our national cinema was laughable, was decreasing our cultural identity. Radio On is an attempt to move our cinema towards a more European, existential path, and with a more political consciousness.
Maybe it's my age, or maybe it was due to the fact that I was rarely allowed to watch children's television, but my early life was sadly without Jim Henson and his hugely successful creation The Muppets. Because of this, I've always felt somewhat reluctant, and almost undeserving, to tackle the Muppet movies, feeling that my lack of childhood experiences of Kermit, Miss Piggy et al with hamper my enjoyment of them, or I will somehow not 'get it'. Well, after 27 Muppet-free years, Marc swayed me into finally taking the plunge, and, I'm happy to say, The Muppet Movie was an amazing experience, and one that made me feel like I'd known the vast array of characters for years.
After a chance meeting with a Hollywood agent, Kermit the Frog leaves the comfort of his swamp in order to travel to Hollywood for an audition. Yet he is pursued by fast-food chain store owner Doc Hopper (Charles Durning), who sees Kermit as the perfect face to head his advertising campaign to promote his failing French-fries frog legs business. Kermit has other ideas, and after a punch up in the El Sleezo bar, he escapes with Fozzie Bear (a-wacca-wacca!) and his Studebaker. Further down the road he picks up more eager passengers, such as Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, the Great Gonzo, and Miss Piggy, who falls in love with Kermit after winning a beauty pageant.
While the 'origin' movie is quite often the route that TV series take when taking the leap into movies, The Muppet Movie benefits from taking an almost classical take on the road movie. It is not about the destination, but the journey, and the journey is peppered from hilarious set-pieces, satirical swipes, and quite beautifully written (and performed) songs. The Muppets always appealed to all ages, and adults have the pleasure of enjoying many self-reflexive moments and audience awareness (Kermit turns to camera and says "I hope you appreciate I'm doing all my stunts!"), as well as cameos from the likes of James Coburn, Mel Brooks, Bob Hope, Steve Martin, Richard Pryor, Madeline Kahn, Elliot Gould, and Orson Welles.
Amongst all the mayhem, there is also a quite beautiful moment in Gonzo crooning "I'm Going to Go Back There Someday", recollecting his past in the sky and desire to return someday. "Rainbow Connection" is also a great song, but my favourite musical moment has to be "Movin' Right Along", gleefully sang by Kermit (on his banjo) and Fozzie - the movie really came to life for me here. It's moments like these that really make this movie special, and something that can hopefully still be cherished by modern consumerism-obsessed children (if they can pull themselves away from their i-Phone). Marc warned me that if this film didn't leave me feeling warm inside then there is no hope for me. Well, thankfully it did, so maybe there's hope for me yet.
After the Watergate scandal had been uncovered by two Washington Post journalists, Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, and was published as All the President's Men (which itself was adapted into the award winning film, excellently directed by Alan J. Pakula), investigative journalism, and particularly in the reporting of institutionalised conspiracy, became incredibly "hip" - the new rock and roll stars. This character trait was even evident in 1978's Superman, with the tempestuous (actually incredibly annoying) Lois Lane. This level of journalism and conspiracy are the basis for the "environmental" machinations of a nuclear power plant, recently installed in California.
After a visit to the plant, television news anchor, Kimberley Walsh (Jane Fonda), begins to unravel a cover-up concerning the construction and safety. Along with camera man Richard Adams (Michael Douglas - who also produced), and eventually a concerned employee of the plant, Jack Godell (Jack Lemmon), they begin to come closer to the truth, with the standard conspiracy movie "villains" attempting to stop the damning information being made public.
The China Syndrome's title refers to a nuclear process, which proposes that if the reactor were to be opened (in the plants construction, there were many corners cut to save in expenses), and a pipe fails, the nuclear reaction could potentially pass through the earth to China. It's not a bad movie at all, not the best of these '70's conspiracy films, but there are some solid performances, particularly from Jack Lemmon. There are multiple scenes within the control desk of the nuclear base, which at times become rather tedious, due to a lot of exposition concerning the working of the reactor. Still, worth a watch.
Not specifically emblematic of the "nunsploitation" subgenre signifiers, which were so prevalent in the 1970's after Ken Russell's The Devils (1971), Guilio Berruti's Killer Nun is less exploitative. It doesn't offer a wildly extravagant, gun-toting nun. Nor does it have a convent of sexually repressed nuns, using crucifix's to subvert Christianity in any way. Sister Gertrude (Anita Ekberg, who's image of Sylvia in Fellini's La Dolce Vita (1960) became iconic of European cinema), complains of severe headaches after undergoing neurosurgery, and appears to be suffering from hallucinations. These progressively become exacerbated by an habitual use of opiates, and Gertrude's behaviour on the ward of the geriatrics hospital, and her work is disturbed. In one outburst, she is annoyed by a patient, Josephine (Nerina Montagnani), who has left her false teeth in a glass of water, Sister takes then out and stamps until they break.
A series of strange deaths occur in and around the hospital, and the suspicion begins to focus upon sister Gertrude. Her personal confusion is spiralling out of control, and she is not even aware if she is the culprit. Killer Nun is not exactly what I was expecting. As I stated, there are none of the obvious imagery associated with the nun subgenre. So whilst it was not the fun, exciting and possibly humorous experience I expected, it wasn't exactly a bad place to spend 90 minutes. It had some over-the-top but good performances from Ekberg, and also from Andy Warhol regular Joe Dallesandro, who plays Dr Patrick Roland, who eventually becomes seduced by a subversive woman in a habit.
The film tries to have a more psychological aspect to the narrative, but I can't help but miss the rampant nuns, writhing around in their own sexual debauchery, attempting to obliterate and subvert every religious image possible. A nun with a gun is also something of a pleasurable juxtaposition. Killer Nun is also purported to be based on a real life incident, but I have not verified this.
Another film in the horror genre that takes part of it's influence from both Ed Gein and Hitchcock's Psycho (1960), Don't Go in the House, originally titled - more appropriately - The Burning (this was altered due to the release of a slasher-camp film), it focuses on a troubled man who has been perpetually abused by his dominating mother. After a burning incident in an incinerator that Donny Kohler (Dan Grimaldi) witnesses at work, he returns home to find that his mother has passed away. Immediately, Donny hears disembodied voices telling him that he is now free to do whatever he likes. Donny shows a fear of fire, even when using matches. His memories flash back to his mother holding his arms over a burning hob, "punishing" the young boy, presumably due to the fact that he reminds her of his father.
After finding pleasure in burning his mothers body (he keeps his mother in the chair that she died in), he constructs a steel-lined room, purpose built to burn any woman he can get back to the house. He seems throughout to be tortured by these women, even seeming to believe that they have all done wrong with him. We only really see the first victim, Kathy Jordan (Johanna Brushay), being torched in the room, as she stands tied and naked, Donny enters the room with an all over fire resistant suit, before "opening fire" with the blow torch.
It's not a bad film, considering it is essentially a slasher film (without the slashing of course), which were so prevalent at the time. It is quite different also to this sub-genre, and it often feels more grimy, even dirty than the average fare (The Prowler or Final Exam (both 1981), for example). Of course some of the acting is appalling, but strangely, Donny's descent into madness seems quite palpable. Donny is that disenfranchised man, completely cut off from the world, and only due to his mother. As with many (even real) males who have had an abusive matriarch, this can often translate into an overbearing, all-encompassing misogyny. This madness crescendos in a now cliched, but still quite chilling, disturbing end.
Psychotherapist Dr. Hal Raglan (Oliver Reed) has founded a breakthrough technique called 'psychoplasmics'. This unconventional new technique involves sessions where deep rooted anxieties and memories manifest themselves in a kind of hypnotic state where the patient and doctor can play different roles. This causes the patient's bodies to change as a result of these sessions. Frank Carveth (Art Hindle) discovers bruises on his daughter's body, and knows that it is the doing of his mentally unstable wife Nola (Samantha Eggar), who is under Raglan's care. As Frank tries to form a case against Raglan, various people begin to be murdered by disfigured children who seem to be protective of his daughter.
It's a glowing testament to Canadian director David Cronenberg that a film such as The Brood, a relatively low-budget, silly-sounding horror, can get itself made, let alone avoid being a catastrophe. For a film about killer-children that appear out of nowhere that butcher people in various and inventive ways, the film is remarkable. It's not scary like I would imagine it once was, but it is certainly unnerving. But this isn't just a great horror film, this is simply a brilliant piece of film-making. This simply should not work. But it does. And it is possibly his finest work to date.
Cronenberg's style is unmistakable. His distinct style of character-building before unleashing shocking pieces of crazy horror is usually backed-up by a great script and genuinely brilliant film-making. It is a style that he would hone and develop into other great films of this era - Scanners (1981), Videodrome (1983), The Fly (1986), Dead Ringers (1988) - all fantastic films, all memorable pieces of horror. The Brood really comes alive in the exchanges between Raglan and his patients. Opening with a long scene in which Raglan and an emotionally damaged patient with some serious father issues interact in front of an audience, the scene is blandly shot with a black background. Yet for what is just a long conversation becomes immediately engrossing thanks to some fantastically complex dialogue, and builds a tense atmosphere that would prevail throughout the film.
The film is amazing throughout, but nothing prepared me for the ending. Obviously I won't reveal it, but it's a divine mixture of the truly inspired, the sickening, and the outright ridiculous. No other film-maker could make such a scene so horrifying and effective, yet not make you question what you are seeing. I'm not sure what was happening in this era, but there was definitely a fear of women and their capabilities when it comes to birth, and this was reflected in some films of the time - Larry Cohen's It's Alive (1974), Rosemary's Baby (1968), Xtro (1983). Directors seemed to have a fascination with the gruesomeness of birth and the power that it holds. Cronenberg has calmed down of late, making dramas such as A History of Violence (2005) and Eastern Promises (2007). Both are solid films but his true legacy lies in the films made between 1975 and 1988, where he made some of the best horror films ever made.
I have decided that I wanted to tackle an entire franchise of films. When posing this idea to Tom, he immediately stated that I should see all of the Star Trek films. Eek, I thought!! Not ever being a fan of it, I had only been exposed to the original series that was shown constantly on BBC Two as I was growing up, and the later series The Next Generation, that I had seen a few episodes of from the late '80's, and I was never enamored by it - I am certainly no 'Trekkie'. My only experience of the films was the very recent J. J. Abrams 'reboot', that I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed. With trepidation, I began the series, inevitably, from the very start. And I have to confess I was pleasantly surprised with it, despite it being an odd number film (if you are unaware, the fan world suggests that only the even numbered Star Trek films are any good).
The main crux of the story focuses on an unidentified phenomenon that is heading towards Earth, destroying everything in it's path. This brings back together the original crew of the Starship Enterprise: Kirk (William Shatner), Spock (Leonard Nimoy), Bones (DeForest Kelly), Scotty (James Doohan), et al. Their task is to stop the strange enemy. The villian of the piece is certainly an interesting one. A more cerebral monster, in a state of existential crisis, the team have quite a task to penetrate it's unknown dangers.
Aside from the awfulness of Shatner - he genuinely can't act - the characters are interesting, and with Kirk's usurping of the Enterprises captain at the start seems to create an interesting duality. This is quickly thrown to the side. There is an interesting and theoretically disturbing scene at the start of the film, we see the teleportation units that 'beam up' crew members go horribly wrong. The result - whilst not seen - is horrifying, as the fundamentals of teleportation require that the body is broken into it's most basic molecules and reconstructed in a different place. This transaction was never completed, and therefore the bodies of the travelers, are never fully restructured.
With some science consultancy from the great sci-fi writer, Isaac Asimov, the film surely had some credentials. The special effects were overseen by Douglas Trumball and John Dykstra, and the results are often astounding, even today. Whilst not capturing the fun and excitement of Star Wars (1977), this more cerebral, esoteric space adventure, offers a more 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) stance on space than the Flash Gordon/Buck Rogers elements of Star Wars. It's not a great film, but I was absolutely amazed that it was actually good. However, at an exhausting 132 minutes, the film could have been tighter with a few trims here and there. It would have benefited with a 100 minute running time.
In the late 1970's and early 1980's Stephen King was everywhere. His books were churned out like so much burger meat, and these were being very quickly greenlit for both film and television. Carrie (1976) of course was the springboard for this trend. Following the huge success of Brian De Palma's cinematic version, Warner Bros, who had the rights to King's vampire tale, decided after failing to get the screenplay correct (even the great Larry Cohen had a stab at it), to make the film for TV in two feature-length episodes (a mini-series), which could stay quite faithful to the source material - i.e. they could extend the film to 3 hours. But as a child this did not matter. I was unaware that it was made-for-TV.
As with practically all of King's work, the main character of the film is a writer: Ben Mears (David Soul) is new in the small town of Salem's Lot, where he has come to research a book he plans to write about the house of evil in the town - it's not really expanded upon that Mears was originally from the town. Also new to town is James Mason's Richard Stracker, who is opening an antiques store; but his sinister and mysterious character is seemingly just a custodian of the elusive Kurt Barlow (Reggie Nalder). As townsfolk begin to die, then become resurrected as vampires, the story unfolds, and the standard vampire hunt begins.
This is quite a languid but effective shocker. It is one of those films that I fondly remember form my childhood. The sequences where people are attacked by the vampires also sticks in my mind - and produces a knowing smile to my face - as the action is paused as the camera zooms into the teeth and the entrance wounds. What is also effective are the scenes where the young boy who was first victim, floats up to a friends window, smoke billowing behind him, as he taps on the window with a sound effect that gets to your teeth. The head vampire is an image I remember well as a child, but with hindsight (and a lot more film knowledge) it is clearly just a mimic of 1922's Nosferatu's Max Schreck rat-like vampire.
Directed by Tobe Hooper of Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) fame (he never has made a film close to his seminal debut), and he retains some interesting flourishes within the parameters of the television format. Whether this is still effective to a more modern audience is unknown. It certainly has it's many flaws, but holds it's charm for someone who watched it several times as a pre-teen.
This revelation would crush the souls of most men, but Morris simply sees it as another challenge to overcome and quickly starts to plan a break-out. It will take time however, so he must endure the harshness of prison life in the meantime. Alcatraz is a place of punishment, not rehabilitation, and the quietly sadistic warden, played by Patrick McGoohan, appears to be proud of the prison's reputation of making good prisoners, not citizens. We are gradually introduced to the other inmates: There's the eccentric Litmus (Frank Ronzio), who convinces a new arrival that he is actually Al Capone, artist and amateur botanist 'Doc' Dalton (Roberts Blossom), black librarian English (Paul Benjamin), and eventually Morris' old acquaintances and brothers Clarence (Jack Thibeau) and John Anglin (Fred Ward). Morris quickly makes an enemy in Wolf (Bruce M. Fischer), when he clobbers the would-be rapist for making advances in the shower room. With Wolf waiting impatiently in solitary for revenge and the threat of a cell move looming, Morris steps up his efforts, finding hope in the crumbling concrete around the grille in his cell.
