Dr. Phibes (Vincent Price) is quite the talented man. Not only is he a doctor, he is also a successful concert organist and, by the looks of things, some sort of mechanical engineer. He was also married to the beautiful Caroline Munro (who goes uncredited) until Phibes suffered serious facial injuries in a car crash on his way to see his seriously ill wife, who ended up dying on the operating table. Believed dead but instead in hiding and seriously pissed, Phibes begins to hunt down and imaginatively murder the nine doctors he holds responsible for failing to save his wife, building up to Dr. Versalius (Joseph Cotten), in the style of the Ten Plagues of Egypt from the Old Testament.
It would be easy and indeed lazy to label Dr. Phibes as camp. With it's wildly colourful sets and outlandish performances (Price is wonderfully over-the-top), this shares more with the kitschy futuristic feel of A Clockwork Orange, which came out the same year, than, say, the original Batman TV series. All realism is left firmly at the door, as we are introduced to Phibes, sat hunched and wildly bashing his organ (no euphemism intended), in the middle of what appears to be some kind of macabre ceremony. Left unable to speak following his accident, Phibes has also created a device which, when inserted into his neck, allows him to speak to his dead embalmed wife. It's deliciously free-spirited, never allowing something like logic to get in the way of fun, acid-trip horror.
It shares a lot in terms of narrative with the superior Theatre of Blood (1973) - which is often labelled Dr. Phibes 3 by it's fans - so the filmis little more than murder after murder. But it's the inventiveness and the sheer audacity of the set-pieces that makes the movie so much fun. We have death by bats, a doctor who sits back and lets Phibes drain him entirely of his blood, skull-crushing-by-frog-mask, and a face eaten by locusts. There's something morbidly fascinating in watching the predictability of the events unfold, and the murder scenes provide buckets of black humour, in a tamer and more Carry On-style than Theatre. Price is unsurprisingly a joy to watch, while Cotten is surprisingly game. One of the wildest horror films ever made.
Back in 2006, it seemed like Brett Ratner's third instalment of the X-Men saga was a textbook way to kill a lucrative franchise. The Last Stand kept the satirical undertones of the previous two, and even introduced some new, interesting ones. It also had the biggest set-pieces yet, climaxing in a mutant brawl on Alcatraz that pits the saga's big bad Magneto (Ian McKellen) and his army of cronies against an earnest and inexperienced X-Men led by Wolverine (Hugh Jackman) and Storm (Halle Berry). However, gone was the love injected into the franchise by Bryan Singer, and gone was any form of coherency and care. But it seems that The Last Stand was not the franchise-killer many envisioned, and, now that Days of Future Past (2014) has apparently eradicated it from the time-line, it is little but a dark blip in an overall successful series of movies.
Horrified by the announcement of a new mutant 'cure', developed from a power-draining mutant child named Jimmy (Cameron Bright), Magneto reforms his Brotherhood of Mutants and sets out kill the boy. Sensing trouble brewing, Professor Charles Xavier (Patrick Stewart) enlists the help of former student and current Secretary of Mutant Affairs for the U.S. Cabinet Dr. Hank McCoy (Kelsey Grammer), also known as Beast. After disappearing at the end of the previous film, Jean Grey (Famke Janssen) resurfaces but re-born as the Phoenix, a mutant fuelled by rage and unbelievable power. When Xavier fails to subdue her mind, Jean allies herself with Magneto, whose army is growing steadily stronger.
The X-Men movies have always succeeded in channelling larger issues such as segregation and racism through the eternal battle between mutants and humans, and if The Last Stand is successful at anything at all, it's in bringing to mind the many differences people are born with, and how these 'afflictions' damage their ability to fit into regular society. Naturally, the issue will divide those affected into those who have fully accepted and embrace how they were born, and those who are eager to slot nicely into the mainstream. The cure offered in the movie also comes with a choice. Magneto sees this as an affront to mutants, who he feels are the next natural step in evolution. Yet Rogue (Anna Paquin), cursed with being unable to come into human contact with anyone, sees it as a way to finally end her pain.
But this is not enough to save The Last Stand from being a complete mess. The two previous movies managed to keep enough of a hold on it's massive ensemble to still tell a decent story. The Last Stand introduces a ridiculous amount of new mutants, from the impressive but little-seen Angel (Ben Foster), whose screen-time betrays his position on the poster, to the ridiculous abomination that is Juggernaut (Vinnie Jones), a wafer-thin villain whose induces cringing every time he opens his mouth. The plot is little more than a way to get the goodies fighting the baddies, and lazy plot-holes and inexplicable tactics on both sides riddle what is an incredibly dull and simplistic climax.
The development of Jean Grey into Phoenix, one of the key X-Men plot threads beloved to fans, admittedly allows for the odd visually spectacular set-piece, but on the whole is a massive let-down. Janssen is perfectly fine in the role, convincing as a seductive yet extremely dangerous mutant capable of God-like powers, but is seriously underwritten. And it's this aspect that really sums up The Last Stand - careless, scattershot, and insulting to its loyal fans. It seems to care far more about how much money the movie can put into it's wallet than creating anything of artistic merit. As said before, the film is such a mess that Bryan Singer had to find a way to quite rightly delete it from the X-Men timeline, and that sums up this pap better than I could ever dream of.
Made to recoup on the financial losses caused by the commercially unsuccessful Pinocchio and Fantasia (both 1940), Dumbo is one of Disney's shortest and narratively simplistic works to date. Ironically, it's also one of their finest. With Disney's 'nine old men' working on other projects to hopefully re-vamp the studios financial prospects, Dumbo was developed by Dick Huemer and Joe Grant, two of Disney's founding fathers, who took an unconventional approach to adapting the story from Helen Aberson's children's story. Written almost like a book, the film's charm and appeal lies in it's no frills approach.
There's no heavy-handed morality message, just a simple tale about a cute elephant with a physical affliction trying to get by in a world that will not accept him. In fact, away from Jumbo Jr., cruelly dubbed 'Dumbo' by some unsavoury elephants, and his only friend in the world Timothy Q. Mouse (Edward Brophy), Dumbo's world is full of unkindness. The faceless men who run the travelling circus Dumbo is apart of, do little but hammer and build with a depressing resignation. The other elephants, apart from Mrs. Jumbo (Verna Felton), refuse to accept him due to his comically large ears, and do everything to ridicule and exile him. There's no moment of realisation for these characters, just a satisfying pay-back.
It's strange that this is rarely mentioned as one of Disney's finest. Perhaps it's the lack of musical numbers or the use of silent-era slapstick and facial humour as opposed to the usual quipping sidekick. But for me, this enhances the enjoyment, putting more focus on the wonderful animation, and reducing the story down to something we can all relate to. Much has been said about the crows encountered by Dumbo towards the end of the film, and their racial stereotyping. I will not deny that some of Disney's early output do leave a nasty taste in the mouth, but, in fact, the crows are part of a select few who are sympathetic to Dumbo's plight, and Dumbo feels too innocent to be accused of such. And it's in this innocence that lies the magic, something that was lost once Disney came out of it's Golden Era.
Seemingly using the first film to practice big-budget movie-making, Bryan Singer followed the mediocre X-Men (2000) with X2 (one of many dodgy titles attributed to the film), a balls-out, mutant mash-up full of genuine characters focus, an intriguing storyline, and set-pieces worthy of the money it earned. In fact, the opening scene, which depicts newcomer Nightcrawler (Alan Cumming), a mutant with a forked tail and the ability to teleport, attack a small army of helpless government agents to get through to the President, blows anything the first film had to offer right out of the water.
With mutant antagonist Magneto (Ian McKellen) imprisoned in a plastic cell, Professor Charles Xavier (Patrick Stewart) is focusing his time on helping the maturing students at his school for gifted youngsters. He has sent Wolverine (Hugh Jackman) to Alkali Lake, in the hope of helping him discover more about his past, but he finds nothing but an abandoned military base. After the attack on the President, government operative William Stryker (Brian Cox) leads an attack on the unsuspecting Xavier's school, capturing Xavier and Cyclops (James Marsden) in order to strengthen his mysterious plans.
The plot summary is as compressed as can be, as, like the first film, X2 has a lot of big personalities with big, special powers with their own individual stories to tell to cram into a two-hour film. Although there are mutants with far more interesting powers and greater physical potential, the focus remains on the fan-favourite Wolverine. It's Jackman's enigmatic performance that makes him so easily likeable, and he is finally allowed to roam free here. There are no soft fights where nobody dies as in X-Men; Wolverine massacres many of Stryker's men during the attack on the school. When he first drives his claws into an agent who makes the mistake of firing on him, it is the first of many air-punching moments throughout the film.
It's hard to fathom a threat that could actually make a dent in a race of people with such unbelievable powers, so Stryker, a man with no liking for mutants but a fascination with harnessing their powers, has found a way to subdue them. Seeing a mutant like Magneto so helpless is oddly affecting, so, after his spectacular prison break-out, he becomes a sort of anti-hero, doing the kind of dirty work Xavier would not lower himself to. But ultimately, it's the Xavier-Magneto good vs. evil fight that remains the most fascinating, and even with Stryker playing the main villain, Magneto is far from forgotten and has plans to bend Stryker's actions to his own personal gain.
It's a shame then that X2 marks the high-point of the series. There is now a remarkable 7 instalments set in the X-universe, and although X-Men: First Class (2011) injected some life back in the series, and hopes are high for the new X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014), none have come close to the kind of energy and invention of this. Though you could complain about the lack of a coherent narrative, and that some of the minor characters are left out to dry, X2 is a near-perfect superhero movie, and is still Marvel's greatest achievement. And with almost 15 years of men in tights and capes, that is high praise indeed.
It's hard to believe that back in 2000, Marvel's first crack at creating a superhero universe on the big screen, X-Men, was a near perfect summer movie. 14 years on, and the cracks are as clear as day in Bryan Singer's hesitant and rather tame blockbuster. Don't get me wrong, X-Men still has plenty to enjoy, but the meatier, more confident recent efforts such as Christopher Nolan's Batman trilogy and Marvel's own Iron Man (2008) and Thor (2011), as well as the vastly superior sequel two years later, form a rather large shadow over Professor X and his pupils' first outing.
In the near future, evolution has taken a huge leap forward, creating 'mutants' - humans with special powers and abilities that defy anything science has seen before. Tensions between humans and mutants is at an all-time high, with the idea of mutant cataloguing being passed around by Senator Kelly (Bruce Davison), despite the efforts of telepaths Professor Charles Xavier (Patrick Stewart) and Jean Grey (Famke Janssen). Mutant Magneto (Ian McKellen), a Holocaust survivor with the ability to control anything magnetic, has different ideas, and plans to induce mutation on world leaders gathering on Ellis Island.
As the machine, powered by magnetics, could easily kill him, Magneto seeks Rogue (Anna Paquin), a young girl with the ability to temporarily steal a mutant's power. Having just met Wolverine (Hugh Jackman), a beast of a man with a skeleton covered in an indestructible metal, which he can shoot out like claws, and an uncanny healing ability, Rogue's abduction fails and is foiled by Storm (Halle Berry) and Cyclops (James Marsden). They end up in Professor Xavier's school for gifted children, where Wolverine learns about mutant struggle and falls in love with the powerful Jean Grey.
With a film this packed with personalities and powers, it's only natural that it loses it's grip on a lot of its characters. Sensibly, the main focus is on Wolverine, who has always been the most interesting X-Man, and is perfectly played by Jackman, a performance that made him a huge star. The rest of the characters, with the exception of Professor X and Magneto, do little but fall flat. They either suffer because their powers aren't particularly interesting, or spend the duration of the film using what little dialogue they have to explain who they are and what they can do. The movie also has one of the worst lines in cinema history, uttered by Storm. You'll know it when you hear it.
For all its lack of ambition and absence of any real set-pieces, X-Men is still the first of its kind. Refusing to give in to the idea of comic books being light, colourful and mainly for kids (which was still the general idea back in 2000), the opening scene depicting a young Magneto in a concentration camp ensures this is something that should be taken seriously, yet still enjoyed. Singer grew in confidence and made X2 two years later, which is still considered by myself and many others to be one of the best superhero movies ever made. X2 showed that the vast ensemble can be given room to breathe, and had the set-pieces to match, and in hindsight, makes X-Men a much tamer, yet still very entertaining, animal.
When God asks Cain where his brother is, Cain replies, "I know not, am I my brother's keeper?". Documentary film-makers Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky shed the light of their focus not as much on the brother's guilt over the accusation of killing his brother, as on the massive social divide caused by this incident in a small rural village in New York. Living almost in solitude on the farm owned by their family for generations, the three remaining brothers Ward - Delmar, Lyman and Roscoe - were largely ignored by the townsfolk and dismissed as harmless simpletons until the media circus that engulfed their surrounding following the death of eldest brother William descended.
Shot in cinema verite style (Berlinger and Sinofsky worked under the Maysles brothers for a time), the three Ward brothers prove to be strange yet oddly sweet characters. They clearly haven't bathed for weeks, possibly months, their farm is half crumbled, and their living room is cramped and dank. When approached about the topic of women, it becomes clear that they probably haven't ever been with one, therefore inevitably condemning their family line. The main reason the townsfolk quickly gather their support for Delmar after he is accused of murder is because of their simple innocence, and because they have simply never caused any bother. On the opposite side of the spectrum, things are different, with hick stereotypes and cries on incest being broadcast of national TV.
Like Berlinger and Sinosky's Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hoods Hills (1996), the court room scenes are tense and overwhelmingly unfair. One of the most powerful scenes has one of the brother's, a man clearly of social ineptitude, lose his breath on the stand, requiring serious medical attention. This is a world almost alien to them, and they suffer in it due to illiteracy and possible retardation. But it's more than a simple court-room documentary, this is about how society fears and judges people and cultures they simply don't understand. The 'simple' folk seem to easily distinguish right from wrong, yet the fat suits sat behind their big desks play God against people not educated enough to properly fight back.
Produced by Ealing Studios, Scott of the Antarctic is a stiff upper-lipped depiction of Captain Scott's infamous, ill-fated expedition to the South Pole. Facing freezing storms, starvation, lack of fuel, and having just digested the sobering revelation that Norwegian rival Roald Amundsen had beaten them too it, Scott and his remaining team of four settled and died just 11 miles from camp, where food, warmth and undoubtedly survival awaited them. Trading very much on the legend of Captain Scott, the film charms thanks to it's post-WWII optimism and gorgeous colour cinematography.
Beginning with a determined Scott, played heartily by John Mills, rounding up his crew, the film takes it's time to get to the Arctic. Relying on Captain Scott's beautifully written diary for its source of information, the film feels more documentary than straight feature. It is all the more detailed and authentic for it, but it comes at the expense of any real character development. By the time the credits roll, we know little more about Scott than when we started, apart from that he was obviously a determined and courageous man. But it makes up for this neglect with a startling final third, where director Charles Frend puts us through every step of Scott's exhausting final thrust to get back to civilisation.
Mills and the supporting cast (James Robertson Justice, Kenneth More, Harold Warrender et al) are excellent throughout, starting out as eager and boisterous, and later, as the last survivors wait to die in the tent that would become their tomb, withdrawn and contemplative. The setting plays as the main villain, and it's captured as both a place of isolated beauty and uninhabitable terror , thanks to Jack Cardiff's stunning cinematography, and it's the encroaching sense of doom that gives Scott of the Antarctic a raw power. Although it obviously ends badly, Scott's death proved to be the making of him. Amundsen was (somewhat cruelly) dismissed as a bad sportsman, and Scott was instantly labelled a hero for daring to stare such overwhelming odds in the face and hold his head high. For a country still recovering from the ravishes of war at the time of the film's release, it must have been a powerful sentiment indeed. One of Ealing's most overlooked efforts.
Thanks mainly to Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs (1992), the 1990's saw the re-emergence of crime noir - talky, violent thrillers packed with colourful characters and even more colourful language. Bryan Singer's The Usual Suspects was one of the best of the bunch, thanks mainly to the director taking influence from past masters such as Hitchcock, Lang and Kurosawa, rather than the many Tarantino copycats that flooded the 90's cinema market, who did little but poorly imitate the big-chinned one's chatty screenplays and outlandish, darkly humorous violence. It also had a killer twist; one that will baffle as much as it will surprise, or possibly induce cries of cheap manipulation.
After what appears to be a heist gone wrong on an exploded boat, the only surviving witness, Verbal Kint (Kevin Spacey), a disabled con-man, is brought in to be interrogated by customer officer Dave Kujan (Chazz Palminteri). Having already been acquitted by some mysterious higher powers, Kint is probed by Kujan for more information. He tells a story of five criminals who meets in a line-up - Dean Keaton (Gabriel Byrne), a steely criminal gone straight, Michael McManus (Stephen Baldwin), an entry man with a short fuse, Todd Hockney (Kevin Pollak), a hijacker, Fred Fenster (Benicio Del Toro), McManus's partner, and Kint himself. Having being picked up one time too many, the group hatch a plot to pay the crooked cops back, and eventually start taking jobs from the shady Redfoot (Peter Greene).
While the build-up to the explosion seen at the beginning of the film is relatively formulaic in its execution, Singer and screenwriter Christopher McQuarrie (who won an Oscar for his efforts) inject enough humour into the script to bring these characters alive, and bring them over to your side. The clever thing is that it soon becomes apparent that everything were seeing either isn't true or isn't at all relevant, and it's the increasingly looming presence of the mysterious and infamous criminal mastermind Keyser Soze, who may in fact hold all the cards. The twist is not particularly clever at all, and isn't that hard to guess, but the director's skill in capturing it is what makes it so memorable.
The now-iconic poster wouldn't be so iconic if the characters hadn't been so memorably played by it's cast. With the exception of Kint, the characters are little but stock characters, but there is genuine chemistry, especially in the line-up scene where they crack up after Baldwin's over-the-top delivery of a line. Byrne proves again that he is much more deserving than the mediocre roles he tends to land, and Spacey bagged a Supporting Actor Oscar for his puppy-dog con-man. It's far, far from deserving of its place as #23 on IMDb's top films of all time, but The Usual Suspects is riveting stuff, even after it's umpteenth viewing.
Steve Coogan, for all his comedic popularity in his native UK, has always struggled when it came to the movies. The recent Alan Partridge movie aside, his credits consist mainly of sub-par comedies such as The Parole Officer (2001), or indie oddities for Michael Winterbottom like the excellent 24 Hour Party People (2002) and the disappointing A Cock and Bull Story (2005), none of which really show the full talent of the man. His performance opposite Judi Dench in Philomena will no doubt bring him the success he really deserves. He also co-writes an Oscar-nominated screenplay with Jeff Pope, which helps elevate Philomena from being your usual hankie-demanding movie-of-the-week, to a well-rounded, deeply sad film about two people who are brought impeccably to life by the actors.
Martin Sixsmith (Coogan), recently sacked as a Labour government advisor, is looking for a new direction in his life. A book about Russian history seems the logical way to go, but after a chance encounter with Jane (Anna Maxwell Martin), who tells Martin an intriguing story about her mother Philomena (Dench) and her quest to find her long lost son, he sees not a story of redemption, but a way to simply keep himself busy with a simple 'human interest' story. He travels with Philomena to Sean Ross Abbey in Ireland, where she was left abandoned by her parents and soon found herself pregnant. She was permitted to see her son for only an hour a week, until he was taken away by adoptive parents to America.
On the surface, this is a mismatched-buddy comedy with an emotional thread running through its centre, but Philomena is much more than your average tale of redemption. Normally with these kinds of films, the lead characters are at each other's throats for the entire movie, only to learn from one another and see things in a new light. There is no such emotional manipulation here. Martin is posh, cynical and sarcastic. Philomena is naive, warm, and enjoys Mills & Boon novels. They end the film the way they start, and it's their conflicting attitudes to the events that unfold that form the film's main strength. On one hand, the film seems angry and unforgiving, and on the other, it shows us the power of forgiveness.
Not to say the film isn't funny, it just goes about it in a much subtler way. Martin's first-time experiences amongst the working-class provides most of the funnier lines ("I've never been to a Harvester before,"), and the dialogue between these polar opposites as they find themselves in close-quarters in the hotel, feels unforced. If you don't know this alarming true-life tale, then it's best to stay in the dark until you either see the film or read Martin Sixsmith's book, as what is uncovered is truly shocking. It doesn't have a rousing score or any long-speeches - director Stephen Frears keeps things simple - but the film is all the more effective for it. One of the best understated dramas of the year.
Bringing Alan Moore's cerebral and sprawling novel to the screen was always going to a near-impossible task. It's very much an anti-superhero story, where the 'heroes' are merciless psychopaths, government weapons of mass destruction, or sexually impotent. Spanning decades and featuring snippets from books, comics and newspaper reports within the world Moore creates, any film adaptation simply could not match the level of details and authenticity of the much-lauded novel. Zack Snyder, a fan of the original, and a director who was just off the back of the surprisingly excellent Dawn of the Dead (2004) and the shouty, crass 300 (2006), puts all of his heart and soul into Watchmen.
Using a no-name cast, a convoluted and dangerously slow story, and an adult rating thanks to all those snapped bones and a massive blue willy, it's a wonder this ever got made at all. It was in development hell for years, with names such as Terry Gilliam and Paul Greengrass becoming attached and then quickly detached from the project, and even the nerve-jangling possibility of Arnold Schwarzenegger as the movie's only true superhero was banded around in the mid 1990's. It's almost impossible to think of a more faithful adaptation than Snyder's, often re-creating frames from the comic in the minutest of detail, and even including Tales from the Black Freighter, the comic-within-a-comic from the novel with the voice of Gerard Butler (this is a review of the 215-minute cut, which I feel is the best version out there). Yet, you could still argue that Moore's book is un-filmable.
The 1980's, and President Nixon is running his fourth term in office, and superheroes have been outlawed. Ageing government assassin The Comedian (Jeffrey Dean Morgan), a former member of two superhero groups named the Minutemen, is murdered in his home. Vigilante and wanted man Rorschach (Jackie Earle Haley) investigates the murder, and brings his theory that someone is hunting down retired superheroes to his friend and former partner Dan Dreiberg (Patrick Wilson), formerly known as Nite Owl. With the threat of nuclear war with the Soviets becoming frequently more inevitable, heads turn to Dr. Manhattan (Billy Crudup), a neo-God with the ability to bend matter to his will. But when he learns that he may have given his friends and loved ones cancer, he flees to Mars, leaving the world vulnerable to complete annihilation.
The Watchmen world is thick and meaty, re-writing history as if masked heroes and super-villains actually existed. In the film's opening titles, we are treated to an impressive collage of famous historical events, such as the Moon landing, but here it's Dr. Manhattan photographing Neil Armstrong. It's a hell of a lot of back-story to fill in, and the movie spends most of it's time filling in the gaps between the 1940's and the 1980's. Luckily, the characters Alan Moore wrote so beautifully, are fascinating, and the extended segments dedicated to portray their personal evolution are arguably more interesting than the movie's main plot. These are not flawed superheroes like Batman or Wolverine, they are complete fuck-ups, getting sexual stimulation from violence, battering minor offenders to a bloody pulp, or, in Dr. Manhattan's case, literally losing every trace of his humanity.
Moore's novel made them a parody of the idea of masked superheroes protecting the weak. The Comedian especially is a piece of work, gleefully frying a Viet Cong with a flame thrower, while a giant Dr. Manhattan stalks the jungle vaporising any enemies in his way, helicopters whizzing by his head while 'Ride of the Valkyries' plays. Like with 300, Snyder way overplays it. The comic itself wasn't exactly subtle, but Watchmen the movie amps everything up to 11, and while this admittedly makes the film more exciting, it makes the themes heavy-handed and sometimes plain laughable. Dreiberg can only get it up for the Silk Spectre (Malin Akerman) after he's murdered some criminals, but when he finally does, Snyder captures it like a soft-core porn movie starring Shannon Tweed, with the cringe-worthy use of Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah' in the background. In fact, the entire soundtrack feels as if it's been picked by some stoner student with Jimi Hendrix posters on his wall.
It's no surprise that, after a very successful opening week, Watchmen plummeted once word-of-mouth got around. Audiences drawn in by the possibility of another superhero spectacle were no doubt left baffled by the existential musings of it's characters and the extreme darkness of the film's themes. Perhaps it was what the film deserved, as when it's good, it's the work of a true artist, and when it's bad, it's quite embarrassing. But it's the best that us fans are likely to ever get, and we must be thankful that a director who really knows and loves the source was on board, and insistent that it wasn't destroyed by the studio butchers. Snyder has also rounded up an excellent cast, with Haley and Crudup standing out especially (Akerman suffers from some dodgy delivery occasionally but she sure pulls off that costume). It will continue to divide it's viewers, but it'll be somewhat cherished by it's fans.
Of the countless Italian-produced zombie movies that came out in the late 1970's and 1980's, many of them can easily be labelled the worst of the lot. Nightmare City, a silly, gun-and-knife-wielding zombie attack movie directed by hack Umberto Lenzi, is certainly up (or down) there. With it's bland, beardy lead, nonsensical story, lazy plot devices and extremely dodgy make-up, Nightmare City is very bad indeed. But it just manages to squeeze a toe hair over the so-bad-it's-still-bad-but-bearable line and raises a few titters with it's ludicrous execution, and can also boast that it's not quite as bad as Zombie Creeping Flesh (1980).
'American' news reporter Dean Miller (Hugo Stiglitz) travels to the airport to await the arrival of a scientist, whom he is to interview following a recent nuclear accident. When the plane arrives, it is surrounded by the military when no-one responds or opens the door. After a brief stand-off, the plane opens it's doors and dozens of bloodthirsty zombies pile out and attack the soldiers with guns, knives, bats and teeth. Eager to report the outbreak, Miller is halted by General Murchison (Mel Ferrer), who wants to hush the incident to save face. When his television station is attacked during the filming of some disco aerobics programme, Miller must find his wife and escape to the countryside.
Looking between a mixture of an out-of-date potato and a used teabag, the zombies here are much more human than your traditional Romero zombies, using weapons, moving at pace, and even clearly taking some sadistic pleasure when slitting a throat and carving a woman's breast off. As the film plods on, at a breakneck pace that somehow still manages to be boring, the make-up department seem to lose interest in the 'new' zombies and simply smear their faces with some dirt. But if Lenzi deserves credit for something, it's in keeping the violence inventive. There's eye gouging, stabbings, exploding heads and blood-drinking, and the fact that the gore looks absolutely crap makes it all the more fun.
The other familiar Lenzi traits are there, recognisable from his large collection of bizarre giallo such as Seven Blood-Stained Orchids (1972), Spasmo (1974), Eyeball (1975), and Cannibal Ferox (1981). This means lots of boobs. Every female attacked by the zombies seem to have their tops torn off. Didn't nurses wear bra's back then? We also the obligatory wrinkly has-been actor (Francisco Rabal - who made three films with Luis Bunuel) fondling a beautiful European model scene. It's quite despicable film-making if taking seriously, which you simply can't, you can only try and enjoy this for what it is, a film designed to make money by spilling some blood and showing some skin. But even that is hard, as when the film finishes with a 'twist', you feel like you've had 90 minutes of your life snatched away from you in some cruel joke. Pure dread, but it's earned an extra star through sheer audacity.
It would be easy and indeed lazy to label Dr. Phibes as camp. With it's wildly colourful sets and outlandish performances (Price is wonderfully over-the-top), this shares more with the kitschy futuristic feel of A Clockwork Orange, which came out the same year, than, say, the original Batman TV series. All realism is left firmly at the door, as we are introduced to Phibes, sat hunched and wildly bashing his organ (no euphemism intended), in the middle of what appears to be some kind of macabre ceremony. Left unable to speak following his accident, Phibes has also created a device which, when inserted into his neck, allows him to speak to his dead embalmed wife. It's deliciously free-spirited, never allowing something like logic to get in the way of fun, acid-trip horror.
