zc

LOTT D: Roundup of Horror

/ League of Tana Tea Drinkers / 2 Comments

Lottdroundup Howdy Pardners! Tie up your horse and mosy on over to the chuckwagon. We’ve got steamin’ coffee and sizzlin’ beans, and a month’s worth of favorite posts from the notorious League of Tana Tea Drinkers horror ranch lined up and waitin’ for you…yeehaw! (This article originally appeared on March 2nd, 2009.)

And Now the Screaming Starts had trouble choosing a favorite, but here is its most visited post of the month, Sweet Little Thirteen. Perhaps the strangest phenomenon spawned by the Friday the 13th remilkshake is, unlike the treatment of the original, this flick has entered the pop culture sphere with a resounding shrug from the non-horror world.

The Vault of Horror explores what disturbs Karl Hungus in An Exploration of Fear. Greetings once again Vault dwellers, it is Karl Hungus here, so do not adjust your set, I am now in control of the transmission. It’s amazing how much excitement can be derived from exploring our own anxieties in this way, with a good Horror film, we come face to face with so many negative emotions, and come out thrilled at the end.

Dinner With Max Jenke shares the love for one of the lesser-loved Friday the 13th’s in Friday the 13th Part V: A New Beginning. This controversial attempt to continue Friday the 13th after 1984’s The Final Chapter didn’t win many fans at the time of its 1985 release. And in fact, it hasn’t won many more in the twenty-four years since then, either.

Mad Mad Mad Mad Movies was surprised by La Residencia (The House That Screamed). By this point in my movie-watching career, there are certain known quantities when it comes to watching Mad Movies. For instance, my tastes being what they are, I pretty much know going in to a movie by Paul Naschy, Jose Mojica Marins, or Jean Rollin that I’m going to find something to make my heart beat a little faster; similarly, I’m fairly confident that most Eurocine productions are going to leave me crankily unsatisfied.

Billy Loves Stu takes us on a 60’s romp with Nich&Katherine&Chad&Michelle, and Baghead. From its poster’s homage to that swinging 60’s romp, Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice, to its Blair Witch Project meets Body Double by way of Friday the 13th, Baghead is one beguiling and entertaining film.

Final Girl does something “a wee bit different” with a cheeky-monkey-hilarious comic strip review of Trilogy of Terror II. Don’t miss it!

Kindertrauma picks something it hopes is “not too weird” with Eden Lake. Maybe I’ve got a bit of that Stockholm syndrome because even though I got my ass handed to me, I can’t let go of the fact that EDEN LAKE, vicious as it may be, really is a good film.

So there you have it Buckaroos, until next time. Happy Trails to you!

The Horror Movie Victim’s Guide to Being a Good Victim

/ Reflections / Leave a Comment

VictimincarLet’s applaud the hapless victims in horror films. They contribute so much to our enjoyment of their terror, their hysteria, and their blood. They are sliced, diced, minced, blintzed, mangled, strangled, eaten, beaten, slurped, blurped–feel free to insert your own action verbs here–and grilled and chilled in countless ways, just to make us jump in our seats, upchuck our popcorn, or tickle our fright-bone. They lighten our distressing job’s tedium and those tomorrow’s and tomorrow’s and tomorrow’s doldrums. Their witless, death-attracting antics creep forth in an endless and frenetic pace from film to film, keeping us happy–because we are not them.

The more paranoid you are, the safer you are, that’s the public service message every horror movie leaves us with. Anyone who takes a dirt road detour, leaving the sureness of good solid tarmac beneath their wheels, well, what more can be said? If you follow directions from a toothless, unwashed, gas station attendant with expensive tourist swag in his unkempt excuse for living quarters, you’re just begging for it: the drawn-out and quartered, bloody end of it. But if all horror movie victims acted smart and careful we would be bored stiff because nothing bad could come of it. So why do we keep writing books that show potential victims how to survive?

…

The Horror Movie Victim’s Guide to Being a Good VictimRead More »

Some Personal Nightmares and Dark Landscapes

/ Reflections / 1 Comment

In my younger years, it was an odd thing, but in times of stress I dreamed about zombies. Not the pleasant “hey, let’s dress up like zombies and stagger around the mall” on Saturday kind, but night-sweat, run like hell, sorts of dream zombies. Perhaps it is not so odd, being a horror fan and all that, but it was still disturbing all the same.

Usually, the zombies were lying in wait in some dark place I knew I should not enter. Either a basement or hallway or a road I was driving lost on. The bad situation was like a movie cliche that repeats itself with a bit of new set dressing and characters each time, except for the zombies and the overwhelming fear that eventually forces me awake. What causes this fear is still a mystery to me. A clear case for psychoanalysis for sure.

It all started in my teens, intermittently at first, occurring more often until a sort of closure dream ended it for a long time. That recurring dream was either a door to a weird-looking house, or the opening to a dark cave, or a door to a room down a long hall. There were no zombies then, only an omnipresent fear that where I found myself I should not be, and what lay behind the door or in the dark cave should not be seen.

This went on for a long time too. I did not sleep then nearly as much as I do now, but still it made sleep an often nerve-tingling experience. Each time I seemed to be a little closer to reaching the doorknob or entering the cave, but each time the fear took control, forcing me awake to avoid it; unreasoning fear, visceral fear, a fear only the chaotic subconscious or dark Thanatos could wield so potently.

And then one night it stopped in this way. The closed door, this time, led into a large dark house with many windows. I stood outside, looking up at the windows, then looking down at the door. It opened! I froze. From one of the windows a man dressed all in black, and wearing a top-hat, suddenly leaned out and shouted to me “it’s showtime!” He disappeared for a moment, then reappeared, holding a skinned torso in his arms. He began to toss it down to me. Instead of the fear that had so often forced me awake, this time it forced me to run through the open door. Now here is where it gets really weird.

Entering the house suddenly placed me on a sloping, mountainside path. It was dusk, and snow started to fall, dusting the path. I was alone at first, but a man, dressed in a gray robe and holding a staff, from which a yellow lantern glowed, started walking up the path toward me. I could hear bells as he came closer.  When  he passed me without a word, I felt the need to follow him. I did. We continued walking in silence. The snow grew heavier, and his lantern glowed more brightly with each step we took up the mountain path. Suddenly, his lantern glowed a very bright white light, filling my vision until there was this–the best way I can describe it–pop. It was a feeling more than a noise, and I woke up with a feeling of complete peace. The fear, fostered by whatever lay behind those doors for so long, was gone, and did not return; until my later years.

Now, I dream of being on a strange train or bus going in the wrong direction or trying to make a connection but I keep getting on the wrong train or bus, suddenly stranding me in an unknown place: a weird seaside part of a city or a street with lots of cars but no taxis and no public transportation, where everything is closing and night is coming, and I have this urgent need to find safety.

Of course, there’s the other nightmare I have now and then, where I’m in some public place like a mall and need a bathroom, but there aren’t any, so I keep searching and searching. But being older, I think those dreams have more to do with my prostate than my pysche.

So, what nightmares are you having? Sleep much?

 

LOTT D Roundtable:
Evil Kids in Horror Movies

/ League of Tana Tea Drinkers / Leave a Comment

Thering01

Sugar and spice and everything nasty and not very nice; that’s the usual scenario when evil kids go out to play in the horror genre. But there’s something not quite right here. Children in real life rarely have power over adults (unless they are royalty or Disney-channel stars), while in the horror genre they wield enough power to make any and all adults quake in fear or drop dead. How can this be? What elements combine to turn all that sugar sour and comforting cinnamon spice into hot pepper? Why do they scare us so much, or traumatize us, or make us wish they would go away and play with their nastiness somewhere else? From zombie kids to Satan’s pride of joy, from juvenile serial killers to mutant offspring, the little evil ones bedevil us.

The following members of The League of Tana Tea Drinkers lend their thoughts on the subject for your edification pleasure. (This League of Tana Tea Drinkers article was originally posted on June 10, 2008)

 

Vault of Horror talks about the evil destruction of childhood:

For the longest time, horror films and the concept of childhood have had a complex relationship. This has much to do with the fact that one of the central themes of all horror entertainment—if not the central theme—is the corruption/destruction of good by evil.

Childhood as an ideal represents nothing as much as innocence in its purest form. And innocence itself is the ultimate distillation of “good”. Perhaps this is why both creators and audiences alike have often had something of a difficult time dealing with it within the horror medium. Because childhood represents the ultimate good, the corruption/destruction of that good is the most extreme form of evil that most of us can imagine. Very often it is simply too much to bear.

This is why, for as long as horror films have been around, the ultimate taboo, the one area most have avoided like the plague, has been the murder of children. True, there have been notable exceptions over the years, movies like Frankenstein (1931), The Blob (1988) and Sleepy Hollow (1999). But for the most part, filmmakers keep away from it, as exemplified most vividly in some of the Friday the 13th movies, in which Jason will literally walk past the beds of sleeping campers and keep his focus on the counselors. For most of us, violence against children is something we don’t really want to see in horror movies. It’s not fun or entertaining, and unfortunately, all too painful and real.

Which brings me to the original topic: Evil kids in the horror genre. Ruling out the literal destruction of the child, the closest most horror creators choose to come is the destruction of childhood. If horror is all about the corruption of good, then the corruption of the ultimate good, the innocence of childhood, is about as evil as it gets.

For this reason, the depiction of evil children stirs up deep feelings of dread and revulsion in many viewers. We innately perceive it as a gross affront to the natural order of things. Something within us senses this perversion, and recoils from it. Evil adults we can handle; most of us deal with them on an almost daily basis. But evil children? And by this I don’t mean the bratty kid on line at the grocery store who won’t shut up—I mean genuinely, truly evil children. An utterly alien concept.

Some of the genre’s finest works have mined this motherlode of subconscious terror: The Omen (1976), Halloween (1978), The Ring (2001), and most recently, The Orphanage (2007). It works to particular effect in William Friedkin’s masterpiece The Exorcist (1973), in which we literally witness the purest and most innocent little girl imaginable defiled and twisted by a wholly evil force into an obscene mockery of nature. Though flawed, Stephen King’s Pet Sematary (1989) pulls off a powerful combination by presenting us with the ultimate taboo (death of a child), followed by the perversion of innocence, as the child returns in evil form.

In short, it is this underlying sense of profound and incomprehensible wrongness that causes us to fear the so-called “evil child” in horror movies. It is also the subconscious connection to the ultimate act of corruption—the literal corruption of the flesh itself, i.e. the death of the child. Sublimating this primordial horror in the form of corrupted childhood thus becomes a safer way to scare the crap out of us, without offending.

  …

LOTT D Roundtable:
Evil Kids in Horror MoviesRead More »

Dead of Night (1945)

/ Movies (Horror) / 2 Comments

Deadnight
Zombos Says: Classic

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
(from William Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night)

“You must be kidding,” said Zombos, tossing the DVD over to me.

“No, really, it’s a hoot,” said Paul Hollstenwall. This time he brought along the straight to DVD movie The Blood Shed. The man has gone too far this time.

“Your average inbred, hillbilly, cannibalistic family,” I read out loud from the DVD cover.  “Paul, I’m not sure this is appropriate. I can’t imagine watching this while sipping my hot chocolate and Sambuca. How about we start with something more apropos of the holiday season? A cozy journey into hysteria and terror by a roaring fireplace might be good. And a twist ending. There’s nothing like hysteria and terror with a twist ending.”

“Something with a touch of ghosts and evil spirits, I think, and British accents,” added Zombos.

“Dead of Night,” we both volunteered.

“Well, okay. But then will you watch The Blood Shed afterwards?” asked Paul eagerly. “It goes great with popcorn.”

We grimly nodded yes. Such are the vagaries of the horror movie fan’s life. Maybe I’ll have the League of Reluctant Reviewers deal with The Blood Shed. They are my go-to people for reviewing the most questionable (or is that objectionable) in horror cinema. But for now, the Dead of Night beckons.

 

It is the starched collar, stiff upper lip in the face of the irrational that gives this British horror entry an unusual cadence, which still works its devilish magic today. Mervyn Johns, the quintessential Bob Cratchit in 1951’s Scrooge, plays architect Walter Craig. His modest appearance, his earnest demeanor, and his nightmare-bedeviled mind come up against the weird at a country estate where he unexpectedly meets those persons, now real flesh and blood, rattling him in his sleep. Is it déjà vu, or is something more sinister afoot?

Assembled in the living room of the country house he’s come to remodel, they are, at first, surprised by his assertions of familiarity. They quickly warm up to his odd precognition, however, and eagerly describe their own brushes with the preternatural, one by one, including the pooh-poohing psychologist, who saves the most chilling encounter for last.

This sets up the movie’s stories within a framing narrative, with each tale delivering a stronger jolt of the inexplicable intruding into the mundane world; culminating in a whirligig ending, with Craig smack in the thick of it, twisting back to the beginning. But the beginning is the main question he desperately puts the puzzling pieces together in search of an answer.

The caliber of acting is A movie. Michael Redgrave caps off the strong cast with his portrayal of a frazzled ventriloquist whose vent dummy won’t shut up. In the last and strongest story to be told, this one by the psychologist who admits he’s baffled by the encounter.

Ventriloquist Maxwell Frere no longer does all the talking in his act. When his dapper but nasty alter ego, Hugo, goes looking for a new lap to sit in, Frere goes off the very deep end and winds up bashing the dummy’s face to pulp. But you just can’t keep a bad dummy down in horror, so Hugo returns to run the act his way. Madness? Perhaps. But there’s still an air of the weird with Hugo appearing larger than his wooden life would normally allow.

Another strong segment involves a three-panel mirror bought in an antique shop. Old, ornate, and decidedly evil in its reflections, the mirror bodes ill to the poor fellow who receives it as a birthday present from his wife. Obviously not a watcher of the Antiques Roadshow, she decides to learn the provenance of the damned thing after she buys it, much to her regret. Of course, when the shopkeeper tells her about the mirror’s previous owner’s misfortune, prefacing his horrifying story with his hope she’s not superstitious, the chill-to-her-bone realization of what’s happening to her husband sends her straight away to set matters right. This story’s mood of impending doom comes from the mirror’s reflection of a sinister-looking Victorian room, and the deleterious effect it has on her husband who only sees himself standing in it even when his wife is by his side.

Separating these two tales of stark terror is a pawky romantic rivalry between two quirky golfers and their infatuation with a woman who can’t decide which to marry. Loosely based on H.G. Wells’ The Story of the Inexperienced Ghost, it is often criticized as the weakest of the five stories. However, it does provide an absurd humor interlude from the more serious scares. Told by the host of the country house who doesn’t have a real supernatural encounter to relate—but makes one up anyway—it’s an Alfred Hitchock Presents-styled twist ending involving an unwanted haunting and the need for fair play. Its whimsical nature fits in with the host’s personality, and provides contrast to the overall narrative of Craig’s predicament. It also provides a showcase for the British comedy duo of Basil Radford and Naunton Wayne (Charters and Caldicott in Hitchcock’s The Lady Vanishes).

As each story is told, Craig and the psychiatrist argue over their true supernatural experiences. More and more, the architect becomes trapped by events playing out according to his dream, leading him to an inescapable compulsion. But what is real, and what are whispers and shadows heard and seen only in the dead of night is anyone’s guess; especially Craig’s.

This portmanteau movie’s five segments were handled by four directors, and each story supports the main narrative of Walter Craig’s nightmare dilemma. In its initial American release, the opening Yuletide ghost story and the lighter golfing interlude were cut, muddling the pacing and leaving one lodge guest without a story to tell.

This classic compendium of the macabre had a strong influence on subsequent horror movies because of its eerie moodiness and is well worth a view, especially in the dead of night.

The Mysterious Case of The Blood Shed (2007)

/ Movies (Bad) / Leave a Comment

Bloodshed
Zombos Says: Poor

Although the chandelier was unlit, light from the brightly burning logs in the large fireplace shimmered through its crystals, sending beams of white into the high, dark corners of the ceiling, across the walls, and across the richly carpeted floor. Facing the fireplace stood a high-backed Chippendale wing chair with exquisite cabriole legs. The chair was upholstered in the same deep color as the carpet. A short man briskly entered the room and walked toward the chair.

“Ah, Mr. Bolton, you are early.” A small, stark white hand briefly appeared on the right side of the chair, flicked the ashes off a long cigar, then disappeared. “It must be a serious matter then?”

Bolton looked down at the ashes piled in the bronze ashtray resting on the oval-topped trestle table beside the chair. He pulled a DVD case from his worn messenger’s pouch. He addressed the back of the wing chair.

“Yes, it’s a serious matter. Seventy-three minutes of bloody hillbilly debauchery that defies sanity, convention, and good people’s decency. Bluntly put, it’s schlock with a capital S.”

“Excellent, I love a challenge!” said the voice, accompanied by a single clap of hands.

From the left side of the wing chair a stark white hand reached out expectantly. Bolton was relieved to hand over the DVD.

“You will find sherry and a polished Stiegel glass by the couch. We will be a short time, I’m sure.”

Bolton removed his overcoat and retreated to the couch in the other room. He sat down, poured the sherry, and waited, as he normally did, for the review that no one else would do; no one, that is, except for the League of Reluctant Reviewers.

 

What are we to do with Alan Rowe Kelly, then? The man is incorrigible. What infantilistic need drives him to dress like an aging, demonic Little Lulu, carry wicked-sharp garden shears, and wreak gory havoc worse than the dogs of war? Why does he find subject matter like inbred New Jersey hillbillies with a penchant for cannibalism and sadistic nut-cracking with pliers—not Walnuts, mind you—gleefully choreographed to the tune of the innocent Little Lulu song (and my sincere apologies to Marjorie Henderson Buell), fit for decent horror fans?

As the grotesque Beefteena Bullion, who dreams of becoming America’s Next Top Model, he charges ahead with a nightmarish blend of over the top
gore, grievous over-acting, and unsavory, outlandish scenes that play parody with too much off-the-wall seriousness. From the shallow end of the genre pool he drags it up with elephant stomps, falling short of delivering unnerving terror or witty black humor.

Yet his compositions are executed with a keen eye for ominous camera angles, foreboding, lingering shots of dread, and the conventions of glistening
viscera, sadism with a laugh, and uncouth characters overstuffing this independent horror.

In sum, The Blood Shed is art-house schlock that will appeal to some, be avoided by most, and provide ample forums for discussion by both.
Given a healthy budget and a mainstream script, no doubt Kelly would be a force to reckon with. But until that time comes, if ever, we must, reluctantly,
direct our critical attention to The Blood Shed.

On the plus side, Sno Cakes (Susan Adriensen) is fun to watch as she and Beefteena chit-chat, sell sour Lemonade, and join in the murder spree with reckless abandon. With her corny drawl, over-done makeup, trashy clothes, and silly hairdo, she’s repulsive yet oddly sexy and funny; a bright spot in this drive-in disappointment.

And it’s not that the acting is bad, it’s more a case of story-telling for the sake of being as outrageous and naughty as possible. Rhyme and reason do not put in an appearance here; not when Beefteena playfully pulls her little stuffed rodent Flapjack on a string as she skips through the woods; or when a local brat is “accidentally” pulled apart in a tug of war; or when dad pulls the shotgun trigger to shoot down airborne squirrels, with comic close-ups of the rigor-mortised rodents lying on the ground, while he and the boys whoop it up.

When the local sheriff’s most important asset is attacked with a pair of pliers, the absurdity becomes more disgusting than put-on-funny. Kelly works this gory theater of blood angle with heaviness throughout, putting The Blood Shed out of the range of parody, satire, comedy, or even serious horror because he doesn’t stick enough with any one of them to make a difference.

Beefteena’s climactic birthday party scene—why is there always a deviant party or wacko dinner scene in these inbred, cannibalistic, hillbilly movies?—with decaying bodies of past victims wearing party hats seated around a festive table, and terrified future victims waking up to the festivity. It’s a mélange of grossness, bright colors, Little Lulu song playing, and humorless torture. The buzz of the electric carving knife while it’s used on the long-suffering sheriff, and Beefteena’s ire at the modeling agency personnel who laughed at her photo session induce nausea throughout this ham-fisted spectacle of tasteless scripting.

Yet throughout this repugnant romp you will find quietly competent cinematography by Bart Mastronardi, who frames each scene with loving precision, making colorful use of inexpensive string lights in unusual settings to cast a deceptively warming palette across scenes of depravity. The resulting dissonance creates a disorienting atmosphere that invites you in, but subtly warns you to stay away.

I heartily recommend you stay away unless you just want to enjoy the scenery. Watching paint dry would be a more productive expenditure of your seventy-three minutes; possibly not as much fun for some of you, but definitely more productive.

The Victim (2006)

/ Movies (Ghostly) / 1 Comment


The-VictimZombos Says: Very Good

“Maybe you can reenact the mystery?” said Lawn Gisland. He stretched his unusually long legs out in front of him and yawned. “Like Ting, ‘cept less’n the melodrama a mite.” He pulled at his cookie duster. “Say, Zoc, squeeze me ‘nother one of those cappurino’s, por favor.”

“Sure pardner,” I said, firing up the old cappuccino steam engine. The sound of pent-up steam escaping echoed through the cinematorium.

Zombos continued to look high and low for his eyeglasses, holding up our viewing of the Thai horror movie, The Victim. We were half-way through it before Zombos needed to hit the toilet; three large mocha cappuccinos were a record for him. When he came back he realized he misplaced his second pair of eyes.

Lawn stood up, all six feet and three inches of him, and joined the search. Having starred in
numerous Westerns on the little screen during the 1950s and 1960s, he and Zombos went way back together. He had hung up his spurs and retired to Florida to wrestle gators for the tourists. Getting bored with that he scratched his itch by touring as a circus cowboy, doing trick shooting and fancy riding. He was visiting the mansion while the Smith and Walloo Brothers 3-in-1 tent show set up somewhere in Long Island. For a man his age, he didn’t show it. Zombos often joked that Lawn must have a decrepit looking portrait in his attic like Dorian Gray.

I bet he did.

“Here. Wet your whistle while you search.” I handed the cappuccino to him. He downed it in three gulps. Something crunched sharply under his right Black Jack Hornback Alligator boot heel as he handed me his empty mug.

Zombos froze, his eyes widened.

“Found them,” said Lawn. He stooped to pick up them up and handed the mangled eyeglasses back to Zombos.

After I hastily retrieved Zombos’ second pair from the library we continued our viewing of The Victim.

 

Considering Thailand’s strong superstitions about ghostly phenomena, it’s a wonder Ghost Hunters Jason and Grant haven’t visited that
country yet. In The Victim, spirits are everywhere, especially as the sprightly aspiring actor Ting (Pitchanart Sakakorn) goes around reenacting the victims’ parts in real-life crime scene recreations, places where bad karma is rife.

One spirit in particular piques her interest, and challenges her acting skills to the fullest as she reenacts the circumstances surrounding the disappearance and death of Meen, a former Miss Thailand.

It soon appears that Ting is losing herself as she prepares for the reenactment of the crime, succumbing to violent flashbacks involving Meen, and disturbing, sometimes bloody, visitations by earthbound ghosts looking for help or vengeance.

The ghostly  imagery, directed by Monthon Arayangkoon, moves between poetically eerie glimpses of a genuinely unnerving twilight world filled with pitiable and vengeful spirits at arm’s reach, and the usual shocks we are now accustomed to. The pacing slowly moves the story along, and the interplay of bright colors across light and dark scenes, contrasting with darker-toned scenes earlier in the movie, provides visual cuing for the sudden story within the story transition. Just when you think you know what’s going on, bingo! you scramble for the remote to go back and see if you missed something.

In an unusual move for Thai horror, Arayangkoon pulls the rug out from under Ting, Meen, and the whole criminal scene investigation storyline by beginning a new storyline, creating a story you thought was happening within the story that is happening. While it starts out as a ghost story, it morphs into a “who’s the ghost?” story, and even then, not satisfied with changing Ting’s role completely, and meddling with the principal ghost involved, the reasons for all the vengeful havoc befalling Ting and others is revealed to be entirely different from what it seemed to be.

The Victim is an ambitious, more complex movie than usually comes out of T-Horror cinema, and it can be confusing, especially with
the little helpful English subtitles that fail to capture the nuances of the Thai language; but it’s still a pleasantly surprising departure from the usually straightforward horror fare we’ve come to expect from Asia. The cultural oddity, for us, with Thai police reenacting crime scenes using actors and the alleged criminal to provide the press with a photo op, and perhaps the spirits of victims with a modicum of peace, separates us from the business as usual horror shown in American cinema, and puts us off-balance immediately.

Drawing strength from its cultural perspectives, the movie draws on real crimes, and was shot on the actual locations where victims met their violent deaths. Building on this unpleasant reality, the movie’s artificial reality has an earnest sense of its supernatural underpinnings. The carefully accentuated coloration of these locations, Ting’s flashbacks, and the ghostly phenomena that befalls unsuspecting victims creates stark contrasts against each other, especially the later scenes, using a carefully executed palette that is above the over-used blanched fluorescent lighting simplicity seen in Saw, Dark Corners, and other American hard horror endeavors.

With the revelation of the second story, entering on the heels of a revealed lesbian relationship, the movie becomes a who’s next? more than a whodunit, and characters are powerless against a malevolent spirit that neither a traditional Thai spirit house or magic-bestowing tattoo inked with a bamboo needle will appease or avert. In one notable scene, framed through a narrow doorway, a pair of ghostly hands, at the ends of stretching…stretching…stretching arms, reach out to grab one unsuspecting victim.

Watch this movie late at night, when all is quiet and the world is right, and you just may find yourself checking to see if the front door is locked. Again, and again. Just remember that doors don’t stop ghosts, especially when you’re alone and in the dark.

With them.

Frankenstein Versus the Creature
From Blood Cove (2005)

/ Movies (Bad) / Leave a Comment

Zombos Says: Poor (even with the lap dance)

Disclaimer: The following review is filled with cheap shots, cheesy double-entendres, and puerile, trashy writing. Read it at your own risk.

 

Rain began to sideslip across the windowpanes and the bedroom grew darker. Zombos alternately
draped himself over his bed, the settee, and the cushy leather wing chairs. We were at our wits end, he from a bad cold and the doldrums, and I from wet-nursing him. We had exhausted the claret, the sherry, and now our beloved green fairy—Absinthe—was almost gone. The situation was becoming intolerable. The thunder storm refused to let up, dwindle down, or simply go away.

Glenor Glenda broke up the tedium by bringing in the morning mail, then went about her tidying up ways. Among the bills, personal correspondence, and advertisements (Zombos loves receiving those reassuring adverts about cemetery plots, dirt cheap), there was a soggy package from William Wincler, director of Frankenstein vs. the Creature from Blood Cove.

“Well, it’s in black and white,” I said, unwrapping it. Zombos loves black and white movies. I waved it in front of him to tempt him.

He waved his hand in the air while blowing his nose. I took that for a yes. I popped the disc into the DVD player and poured out the last drops of Absinthe.

“Lap dance special?” Zombos said as the menu choices appeared. “What is that?”

I shrugged and clicked the remote to select it. The both of us were quickly nonplussed.

“My word, I suppose that gives new meaning to the phrase ‘Frankenstein’s Monster,’ ” I said.

“Good lord,” said Zombos, “if Zimba sees this she will pickle me. Quick, select something else.”

The rain was coming down in bucket-fulls by the time we started the main feature. At Zombos’ request, I held onto the remote and positioned myself close to the door, just in case Zimba popped in during one of the numerous ‘talent and asset’ cheesecake scenes. Frankenstein’s Monster and the Creature were not the only
big monsters in this movie.

We watched the Creature, a biogenetically-engineered one, escape the mad scientists’ lair by jogging out the front door and gate, heading straight for the beach.

“Did the Creature just walk out the front door and gate?” asked Zombos.

“Well, no, exactly. Technically, he jogged out the front door and gate,” I corrected him.

Loopy scientists, dressed in their Clorox-white lab coats, drinking coffee after dinner and chit-chatting, decide, on a whim, to go and find Frankenstein’s Monster to continue their experiments now that the Creature had escaped and is sun-bathing on the beach.

They travel to Shellvania, which probably lies next to Exxonia, in the Gulf of Transylvania. Faster than you can say boo! they easily find the Monster in an unmarked grave using their trusty pocket-sized Reanimated-Tissue Traces Finder.

“What in hell is that thing? Is that made out of Legos?”asked Zombos.

“It does look like it,” I said. “Why, just last week at Walmart I saw Lego kits for Star Wars and Transformers. Be easy to make a Reanimated-Tissue Traces Finder, I’d think.

“Amazing,” said Zombos. “In my day, it was Slinkies, Silly-Putty, or Mr.Potato Head.”

While digging up the Frankenstein Monster, a werewolf attacks them, is frightened off, then attacks them again—in broad daylight. After being viciously assaulted, sort of, by the well-groomed werewolf, and shooting it dead, the unperturbed scientists decide to chat on and on about its medical condition. Eventually they go back to digging.

“I would have been hauling ass right about then,” I said.

Zombos nodded in agreement.

“Hey, look, the werewolf is Eddie Munster all grown up.”

We watched the cursed thing transform back to its human shape. “No wonder the werewolf looked like his Woof Woof doll.”

Back in Los Angeles (I wonder how they got Frankenstein’s Monster past Homeland Security?), the mad scientists set to work on brainwashing the Monster to follow only their orders.

What? That’s what mad scientists do.

Meanwhile, Percy, Bill and Dezzirae are off to the deserted beach—where the Creature ran off to—to shoot a photo spread for Kitty Kat magazine, highlighting Gabrielle’s bosomy assets.

“Lord! Now those monsters are scary!” said Zombos.

Getting Creature-is-near vibes, mayhem ensues, sending them hustling back to the Kitty Kat magazine office, but their editor sends them right back to the beach for more photos; which leads to our next saucy and well-endowed model, Beula, making the mistake of swimming topless when danger is nearby. She obviously hasn’t seen Jaws
or even Piranha. The Creature pops up to bore us to death—oops, I meant claw her to death.

More mayhem ensues as the Creature follows our panic-stricken trio to the parking lot, then to the—I didn’t see this one coming—mad scientists lair. Calling for help by patiently ringing the doorbell, Bill, Percy and Dezzirae are invited inside, only to become prisoners because they’ve seen too much.

By this time, so have we.

Frankenstein’s Monster is sent to kick the Creature’s butt, but instead gets his butt kicked. Mad Dr. Lazaroff (Larry Butler) helps him recuperate. He also receives a  visit from the ghost of Doctor Frankenstein.

“Is that Ed Wood?” asked Zombos as the ghostly apparition appears to Dr. Lazaroff.

“Can’t be, he’s not wearing an Angora sweater,” I said.

“Roger Corman, then?”

“Not dead yet,” I answered.

“Oh, right. It must be old Henry himself, then,” Zombos concluded.

“Story aside, the cinematography is good, don’t you think?” I asked. “The action scenes between the Monster and the Creature lack bite, though. Seems more like they’re having a hissy fit.”

Zombos agreed. “The pacing is non-existent. The camera angles are fair and bosomy.”

When Selena Silver goes into her shamelessly gratuitous pole dance routine in a seedy bar, all hell breaks loose when Frankenstein’s Monster enters. It’s pointless for me to describe how he got there in the first place, or why we’re even there because this whole production is pointless.

“Is that Ron Jeremy?” asked Zimba, standing at the door.

“Why yes, I think it—” Zombos turned a shade paler than he normally is.

I sensed a battle brewing, one more horrific than the cat-fight between the Monster and the Creature. I turned off the movie and hastily left the bedroom.

Wait a minute, I thought to myself as I paused at the top of the stairs, how did Zimba know what Ron Jeremy looked like?

Silent Hill (2006)
Dear Mr. Ebert

/ Movies (Horror) / 4 Comments

SilenthillZombos Says: Good 

Dear Mr. Ebert:

I am aghast that you, as mentioned in your review for Silent Hill, cannot describe the plot for this movie. I, as you, have not played the video game, but even so I think
the plot woefully obvious. Allow me to illustrate it, with as much brevity as
possible, so you can better appreciate the nuances of this gripping horror story.

But before I begin, I was wondering what you use for a light source when you take notes during the movie? I’ve tried various book-lights and pen-lights, but they’re either too bright, annoying those sitting around me, or too awkward to position, or uncomfortable to hold for long periods of time. I was lucky with Silent Hill as there was an Exit sign which cast just enough reddish light for me to see what I was writing. Of course, I had to sit on the floor next to it, but it wasn’t too uncomfortable; except for the occasional person stepping over me to go to the bathroom or concession stand. It’s a good thing I don’t review Disney movies as I’d have had the little monsters and their rude parents incessantly running back and forth, trampling me.

Getting back to Silent Hill, the plot is a simple one, often repeated in horror and science fiction movies. It even reminded me of the Star Trek episode, And the Children Shall Lead, where Gorgon, an evil alien who appears to children as a friendly angel (played by real-life attorney Melvin Belli), takes advantage of their naivety to further his evil plans. He uses them as a conduit for his nasty powers. Now instead of an evil alien, in Silent Hill we
have a kid, Alessa, who’s being used by a malevolent demon to exact malicious mischief and revenge on the titular (I always love using that word: it sounds so naughty) townspeople that did her wrong.

Now—oh, wait a minute—is it a demon that is using the girl as a conduit or is it actually the dark half of
the girl that’s taking revenge on the townsfolk? The convoluted explanation toward the last quarter of the movie, oddly done in an inappropriate grainy faux-home-movie-styled flashback, describes how badly the poor kid was
mistreated, and how she eventually split into a dark half who curses and destroys the town and everyone in it, and a good half the dark half sends away, only to call it back after nine years. But then why bother to send the
good half away, only to have it return after nine years?

I missed something. I better start over.

Dear Mr. Ebert,

I’m surprised that you, as mentioned in your review for Silent Hill, can’t describe the plot for this move. I, as you, have not played the video game, but even so, I think the plot fairly obvious. Allow me to illustrate, with as much brevity as possible, so you can better appreciate the nuances of this atmospheric horror story.

Alessa, born out of wedlock, is tormented by her classmates, victimized by the school janitor, and cooked like
a hot dog by a wacky religious cult. The poor kid, amazingly, survives all this rude treatment and, naturally, develops an evil personification that can reach out from her badly scarred and bed-ridden body to maliciously destroy her tormentors. No wonder there.

Then again, you could look at it this way: a demon from hell takes advantage of the poor girl’s revengeful,
hate-filled state of mind to kill everybody in town and lock their souls into a very imaginatively depicted hell-like limbo filled with endless horrific punishments.

After wreaking chaos and horror on the townsfolk, she realizes she’s been acting rather badly and decides to
create a good version of herself—pre-nastiness and all that, which she then sends away to live with
total strangers until precisely nine years pass. Demon Alessa—or just a hell-spawned demon along for the ride—then summons pre-nastiness Alessa (now Sharon) back to town to…to…what? And what’s that weird, confusing
backstory about a witch burned by townsfolk and the town being on fire for years and years?

Oh, bugger! I thought I had it this time. I have to start over.

Dear Mr. Ebert,

I’m not surprised that you can’t describe the plot for Silent Hill. It can be confusing to those not all that familiar with horror movies. Allow me to explain, with as much brevity as possible, so you can better appreciate the nuances of this visually stunning and creepy movie.

But first, I must give kudos to the art direction. It’s a wonderful creaturefest of makeup, CGI-enhanced sets and coloration, and icky-monster costuming that’s quite a treat to watch. The creatures are nightmarish, in that nifty
damned-to-hell kind of way, and the sounds and music when Alessa’s mom goes deeper into that cursed town—especially when the siren blares a warning that the town is going ‘into the darkness’—is goosebumps inducing, evoking quite a horrific mood; and those embers glowing on the damned creatures’ bodies, and all that falling ash and pall over the town—again, Dante himself couldn’t have done any better.

The script is another matter entirely. The dialog, for instance, is atrocious. Many of the lines are eye-rollingly bad. The acting also needed better acting, especially during the climactic Barkeresque Hellraiser-styled confrontation in the church between Alessa’s mom and those evil cult members.

Mom does manage to walk through a congregation of crazed, kid-roasting individuals with amazing ease, doesn’t she?

And the verbal showdown between them is so contextually dry; I wish I had Visine to squirt in my eyes each time
they rolled around those groaners.

While I’m at it, what’s with the black, skin-tight, leather uniform on the female motorcycle cop: I mean really, could you get it any tighter? How DOES she get on the motorcycle dressed in those tight pants? All she needs
to complete her ludicrous ensemble is a pair of stiletto heels. Her weak acting during her own barbecue scene in the church is also very disappointing, especially when she’s the one being barbecued. A little more Ouch! or Ooh!
would have provided more drama.

But before I go off on a tangent, let me explain the plot.

Alessa, a poor kid born out of wed-lock and who winds up roasted like a turkey by an evil religious cult while
HER mom puts up little resistance, takes revenge on the townspeople of Silent Hill.

Though I’m not sure if this occurred before the fires broke out in the mines or afterwards. I’m also not
sure how the witch burning, thirty years beforehand, fits into the events with Alessa. There seem to be a few storylines going on here and little explanation to tie them together.

Anyway, from her hospital bed, the badly scarred and immobile Alessa, either through sheer malevolent will
power, or by the assistance of a hellish demon (maybe the witch’s familiar?) destroys the town and its citizens, forcing their spirits to ‘live’ in a nightmare world that puts Dante’s Inferno to shame. They must endure not only the hellish Limbo they’ve been caught in, but also the Darkness that brings Pyramid Head (you need to have played the video game, but a guy with a pyramid on his head) and his agonies (give or take a few like in the video game) to torture them if they’re unlucky enough to be caught outside their only sanctuary, the church.

Alessa, for some reason, sends off a good version of herself as a baby, now named Sharon, and then summons
Sharon back to Silent Hill after nine years. Since Sharon sleepwalks and blurts out “Silent Hill” in her sleep a lot, her mom, casting caution to the wind, takes her to Silent Hill.

Not exactly sure why since Sharon’s scared sh+tless of the place. Perhaps her mom is just taking that confronting your fears thing a little too seriously?

Yes, Silent Hill! The one with all the well-known, evilly-cursed stuff attached to it. A place so notorious,
Sharon’s father reads about it on the web at www.ghosttowns.com. This is the ABANDONED place that has had toxic fires burning beneath it for years, so much so that ash continually falls from the sky, and deadly fumes reek forth so badly not even a Glade Plug-in Air Freshener could cover it up.

So her mom takes her there, AT NIGHT, hoping to find out why her daughter keeps sleepwalking and saying
“Silent Hill” a lot and seems so frightened of the damned place.

Along the way they’re almost stopped by a dominatrix-looking motorcycle cop who dresses in impossibly tight
leather motorcycle garb (minus stiletto heels, though), but her mom is determined to bring Sharon (really Alessa) to that deserted, fires-still-burning, town (that nobody else wants to go near)—in the middle of the night no less—so she puts the pedal to the metal, promptly crashing her car in the process.

Mom wakes up, finds her daughter missing, and heads into town on foot. The motorcycle cop follows them, promptly crashes her motorcycle, and heads into town on foot, too.

Now, Mr. Ebert, here is where the subtlety begins.

You see, Sharon (really Alessa), her mom, and the motorcycle cop are actually dead, but they don’t realize it.
They died in their respective vehicular crashes. This is why they can be affected by the creatures and hellish darkness of Silent Hill while her husband, and the others searching for her, walk through the town unaffected and
unaware.

Now Alessa, as Sharon, has her mom and the cop go through quite a few trials and tribulations to find her so
she can use them to get into the church to send those evil cult members to Hell—well, more Hell that is, seeing as they’re all ready knee deep in it. Much gore ensues as Alessa gloats and tears them apart in a scene of ripping
butchery that Pinhead would be proud of. Sharon as Alessa–or Alessa as Sharon–and mom then walk back to the car, buckle themselves in for safety—this time—and head home.

Of course, there’s the confusing sequelization-antic ending (my term for forcing a sequel: clever, huh?), where
the husband is home as they return home, but he can’t see them and they can’t see him. The scene shifts between
husband in his nice sunlit home and them in their bleak, ominous-looking home. Sharon-now-Alessa, or the demon posing as Sharon-now-Alessa, gives us that sinister, look, so common in horror movies these days, to tip us off that it isn’t over until the franchise says it’s over.

With them being dead, though, how, exactly, does dead Alessa benefit from taking over now dead Sharon’s body?

And they (the script writers, I mean) still haven’t explained why the witch was burned or why the fires started
in the mines in the first place. Oh bloody hell. I thought I finally had it right this time. Crap.

Dear Mr. Ebert,

Never mind. You were right as usual.

Yours Truly,

Zoc

PS. We miss you.

Old Books for Your Horror Film Fan Gift List

/ Gift Ideas / Leave a Comment

So there you stand, scratching your head in dismay: what gifts to get that ho-ho-ho-so difficult horrorhead in your family? Why suffer the hordes of zombiefied holiday shoppers, overwhelmed store employees, and bargain bins of the damned when you can sail down the Amazon (or online waters of your choice) in comfort while sipping your favorite frothy beverage? To help you with your gift buying, From Zombos Closet has a few bloody oldie but goody books any fan of horror cinema would die and come back for, again and again.

Monsters a Celebration bookFor the classic horror enthusiast, Monsters: A Celebration of the Classics from Universal Studios, is an over-sized, hard-covered licorice treat of photos and essays paying tribute to the unforgettable creature features of Universal Studios. Beginning with The Phantom of the Opera, and ending with The Creature from the Black Lagoon, both moldy oldie and glowingly young horrorheads can relive the glory days of the horrors that started it all.

In the monster-sized Hollywood Horror: From Gothic to Cosmic, author Mark A. Vieira tosses in the atomic and the psychic also toHollywood Horror Book include the fright factory films of Universal Studios, and the post-atomic age drive-in horrors of the 1950s. From Val Lewton to Roger Corman, and on up to HAL 9000, the electronic monster in 2001: A Space Odyssey, Vieira provides an interesting, informative, and eye-popping photo-illustrated horror film history that would delight any horror fan. My favorite photo is a full-page shot of Ben Chapman in full costume as the Creature from the Black Lagoon, doing a little soft-shoe dance between scene takes.

More 1950’s monster and mutant mayhem can be enjoyed by reading D. Earl Worth’s Sleaze Creatures: An Illustrated Guide to Obscure Hollywood Horror Movies 1956 – 1959. Sure, these cheesy-good, could-have-been-a-B-Movie wonders are publicly derided by critics and horror snobs everywhere, but tucked away in many of their closets, to be watched only when the shades are drawn, are such gems as It Conquered the World, Attack of the CrabSleaze Creatures book Monsters, and my personal favorite, The Crawling Eye.

Alfred Hitchcock pop up bookPop-up books are always fun, and whoever came up with the idea for doing Alfred Hitchcock: The Master of Suspense, A Pop-up Book is a wicked genius. The pop-ups for Frenzy and Psycho are my favorites. The book is a guaranteed “Wow, what a great idea; how thoughtful of you!” Now, if only they would do  pop-up books for horror and terror films more often. I drool at the thought of a Roger Corman pop-up book or maybe even a Hammer Film’s one.

A Vault of Horror BookSpeaking of Hammer Films, A Vault of Horror: A Book of 80 Great British Horror Movies from 1950 – 1974 by Keith Topping, is a surefire horrorhead pleaser, and streamer-empowering stocking stuffer. Each film is covered with meticulous, often humorous commentary, arranged into categories which include Outrageous Methods of Dispatch, Logic, Let Me Introduce You To This Window, and The Story Behind the Movie.

While any one (or all!) of these books would give your significant other many hours of gruesome delight, if you give only one gift, make it Famous Monster Movie Art of Basil Gogos. Every monsterkid growing up during the reign of Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine remembers the stark, other-worldly and vividly saturated colors of Basil Gogos’s covers. From Bela to Karloff, and Chaney to Price, his portraits of the classic monsters of our willing nightmares are Famous Monsters Art bookforever etched into our memories. While this retrospective is a trip down memory lane for older horror fans, even the more gore-centric fan will enjoy the inspiringly eerie, impressionistic artwork.

Captain America (1944)
Mexican Lobby Card

/ Azteca/Mexican Lobby Cards / Leave a Comment

Here’s the Mexican lobby card (El Capitan Vencedor) for Marvel’s (known as Timely comics back then) first superhero movie, Captain America. Bucking Republic’s usual serial plotline, this one had the villain known to the movie audience right off the bat. Republic also altered the character from the comics by making him use a gun and modifying the costume. They also didn’t call him Steve Rogers or connect him to the military, and left out the unique shield he slings around, though the lobby card includes it. In spite of these changes, the action is good and provides a better treatment than the one given to Batman (1943).

Captain America Mexican lobby card