Month: July 2024

1987’s THE CALLER is far beyond being a horse of a different color, this funky filly is a kaleidoscope of hues I’ve never even laid eyes on before. My biggest question may be why isn’t it much more notorious? Madolyn Smith portrays a nameless young woman who occupies an isolated cabin in the woods who is waiting for the imminent arrival of a lover. Instead, a questionable stranger in the form of Malcolm McDowell arrives on her doorstep claiming his car has broken down and that he requires the use of her phone. The two lone characters (literally the only two people in the entire film) butt heads, juggle red herrings and suspiciously dissect each other’s every word to the point where the viewer has little reason to trust either of them are who they present themselves to be. It’s basically a two character play with one fixed setting yet it is remarkably intriguing right up to the closing credits thanks to sly direction (by Arthur Allan Seidelman (astonishingly the same guy responsible for the horrendous HERCULES IN NEW YORK), an unpredictable script (by Michael Sloan, creator of THE EQUALIZER and husband to Melissa Sue Anderson), a potent score by the great Richard Band (RE-ANIMATOR) and the limitless talent of Mr. McDowell (who has rarely been better than he is here). My advise is to put a pillow on the floor in anticipation of a (literal) jaw-dropping conclusion that is so bizarre that it required the help of special effects legend John Carl Buechler to tackle it. Seriously, if anyone tells you they figured out the central mystery of this oddball oddity before it was revealed they are either lying to your face or are completely insane and should have their brain studied by science.

I may be a little too comfortable when it comes to dishing out hyperbole but I rarely use the word masterpiece if I can help it. I gotta say though, I do think WHITE OF THE EYE ( again, 1987) is a masterpiece and a genuinely fascinating work of dark art. Directed by Donald Cammell (who sadly took his own life in ’96), this is an unblinking psychological thriller like no other that boasts a truly remarkable central performance by David Keith (FIRESTARTER) with a surprisingly subtle assist from Cathy Moriarty (RAGING BULL and more importantly, CASPER). I’m talking sterling serial killer epic here folks and it’s a crying shame this fine film isn’t more widely heralded. Keith plays Paul White a sound system installer who has the curious habit of frequently being in the vicinity when a serial killer who preys upon wealthy women strikes. Moriarity portrays his wife Joan who begins to suspect her hubby may be on the down low when it comes to the act of brutally murdering women and rightfully worries for the safety of their innocent young daughter. Set in a blazing, almost unearthly Arizona and tapping universal fears of the inability to ever fully know anyone, including a loved one, Cammell’s film (which is based on the book “Mrs White” by Margaret Tracy (a pseudonym for siblings Laurance and Andrew Klaven (A SHOCK TO THE SYSTEM, DON’T SAY A WORD) is a steep, fearless nosedive into unfathomable mental depravity with richly disturbing images, a hypnotic score by Rick Fenn (10cc) and Nick Mason (Pink Floyd) and a brutal, piercing tone that’s likely to haunt you long after viewing.

Sometimes ya just gotta treat yourself to a John Carpenter film. They’re always there when you need them and PRINCE OF DARKNESS (hey, 1987 again!) is right up there with his very best. In fact, it somewhat captures various elements of some of his previous movies and swirls them together in an almost compilation mix. It’s got the building under seige dilemma of ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13, the unknowable supernatural forces of THE FOG and the creeping paranoia of THE THING, Plus his HALLOWEEN cohort Donald Pleasence is there to help anchor it all together. PRINCE involves a group of quantum physic students who volunteer to assist their professor (BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA’s Victor Wong) in a creepy rundown church. The group, led by Jameson Parker (whose mustache makes me believe he’s a stand in for Carpenter himself) and Lisa Blount (with red hair that thankfully distances her from her role in DEAD AND BURIED which I’m forever traumatized by) discover that the church’s basement houses what appears to be a sentiment mass of green goo in a giant jar whose dad is likely Satan himself and is generally focused on contaminating any and everyone with bad skin and muck spewing demonic possession while bringing on the apocalypse. Lots of bugs, worms and Alice Cooper are also involved. What really works in this movie is the gritty, limited urban setting that feels so far away from the safety of Hollywood slickness and Carpenter’s innovative use of choppy video visuals that seemed transmitted from another movie, if not another world entirely. This is one of those rare films that truly does have the power to slip into your nightmares and infest your psyche and its gale force pessimism feels even more potent and relevant today.

My first attempt to watch the made -or-TV cats run amuck flick STRAYS (’91) starring Timothy Busfield (TRUCKS), Kathleen Quinlan (THE TWILIGHT ZONE MOVIE) and Claudia Christian (THE HIDDEN, MANIAC COP 2) was an absolute cat-astrophe. That's because all the wailing of the ornery felines within the film so agitated and alarmed my own kitties that they began to fight each other. Thus, I had to finish the film donning earphones so as not to inspire a riot. Now, usually I stay away from cat attack movies because I hate to see people off camera throwing the poor confused felines about in order to simulate their attacks (yep, I’m side-eying INFERNO as well as 1971’s BLOODFEAST aka NIGHT OF A THOUSAND CATS amongst others) but as this movie came out in the early nineties I was somewhat confident that it was made in a more enlightened era after basic animal protection laws were finally established (plus the movie was written by Hardy Boy Sean Cassidy and if you can’t trust a Hardy then who the hell can you trust?). Anywho, this jaunt is refreshingly simple (family moves into a new home and are attacked by hordes of pissed off cats), has a nice case of the zoomies (yay, only 83 minutes!) and is routinely hilarious and even somewhat cathartic (how can anyone not root for the cats to kill them all? Well, everyone except Quinlan who I have a decades long soft spot for). STRAYS may never win a best in show award but it's fun enough escapism that knows just where to scratch.

ALLIGATOR II: THE MUTATION (’91) has somehow alluded me for decades. For reasons known only to the big kahuna in the sky, it never graced the shelves of any video store I frequented or worked at (which is many). Sadly, as it turns out, I wasn’t missing much and even though this loose sequel has an impressive cast including the likes of Joseph Bologna, the perpetually lovable Dee Wallace and our super creepy old pal Richard (BAD DREAMS) Lynch, it has none of the wit, charm or cleverness of its impressive John Sayles-penned predecessor. You’d think all you’d need is a giant gator and a dark sewer and you’d be more than half way to awesome-ville but frustratingly this John (WATCHERS) Hess directed toothless dud crawls lethargically in endless circles and never gets its land legs.

RUSH WEEK (1989) is a mostly standard slasher film that made little impact when it was released at the tail end of the eighties horror boom. It’s not the most original film in the world and I’m afraid there’s a regrettable lack of bloodshed but If you are comforted by campus set slasher flicks (like URBAN LEGEND, FINAL EXAM and HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME for example) and their predictable tropes, you could do much worse. If nothing else, RUSH WEEK stirs up a pretty impressive spooky atmosphere and boasts a compelling lead in Pamela Ludwig (1979's ever awesome OVER THE EDGE). Ludwig plays perky Toni Daniels, a Nancy Drew-esque ace reporter for the college paper who attempts to figure out why so many students are inexplicably disappearing and why there is a robed figure with a giant hatchet lurking around the halls of school. You’ll surely figure out who the killer is long before poor Toni but it’s kind of fun to watch her go through the motions of looking for clues and getting herself into sticky, by the numbers situations anyway. It may do so barely, but RUSH WEEK passes the grade thanks mostly to its spirited cast (which includes a random quirky cameo from Gregg Allman of all people) and its hard to resist (for me), classic slasher stalking scenes.

I wasn’t too impressed with AMERICAN PSYCHO when I saw it in the theater way back in 2000. Maybe it was the early scene depicting the killing of a homeless man’s dog or maybe I just didn’t care to be reminded of how callous people were capable of being in the pursuit of success. Let’s face it, it was probably the ATM machine (I still want to call them MAC machines) demanding to be fed a kitten that rubbed me the wrong way and insured I’d never watch it again. But watch it again I did recently and I have to admit that it’s pretty entertaining now that the time period it is critiquing is much further away and that I finally understand that its full blown satire. In other words, when I was younger I just looked at the screen and saw the type of smug, affluent people I felt aversion toward but now I can see clearly that the writer (Guinevere Turner with the impossible task of cutting through the endless chaff in Brett Easton Ellis’ somehow popular book) and director (Mary Harron, I SHOT ANDY WARHOL) probably weren’t looking at them with admiration either. It’s actually a very funny movie (sans animal abuse) and ironically Christian Bale gives one of his most charismatic performances as a blank-eyed soulless monster who kills for sport and has cheekbones that could cut glass. The sad thing is that there are some who probably do see serial killer Patrick Bateman’s empathy deficit disorder as a strength and the clearest path to get ahead. Personally, I don’t like the guy but I wouldn’t mind bending his ear in regards to eighties pop music. We might not have much in common but we could always bond on the many musical gems Huey Lewis and the News have graciously shared with a sometimes unworthy world.

PAPERHOUSE (’88) is a haunting, visually poetic film directed by Bernard Rose who also helmed the classic stunner CANDYMAN (’92). It concerns a young eleven year old girl named Anna (Charlotte Burke) who doesn’t quite fit in at school, constantly bickers with her mom (the late great Glenne Headly) and feels abandoned by her father whose job keeps him far from home. In her alienation she takes to living inside a fantasy world that she is able to draw herself on paper and visit in dreams. There she meets a young boy with rapidly declining heath and a shadowy threatening distortion of her absentee father who stalks her and her new friend with a hammer. This movie would make a great double feature with the kindertrauma classic THE NEVERENDING STORY due to its focus on a child’s ability to use their imagination to cope with pestering issues. It also reminds me a bit of Frank LaLoggia’s brilliant LADY IN WHITE (of the same year) in the respectful way it treats the complexities of being young. With powerfully stark, dream-like images and the aid of a beautiful score (by Stanley Myers and Hans Zimmer) Rose creates a dark fantasy that ultimately takes on the difficulties of accepting loss, death and life's random cruelties in a moving, memorable way.

I’m not completely sure Oz Perkins’ new supernatural serial killer movie LONGLEGS comes together in a completely satisfying way but one thing is for sure, it’s creepy as all get out. It’s quite the juggling act to make something both so hyper-grounded that it resembles a documentary at times but also so wacked out bonkers that it borders on a deranged comedy skit. I’m not sure it even plays fair, it’s almost as if every loose end is shrugged off with explanations of unknowable dark magics at work. But in the end, the performances are so strong all around (Nick Cage delves into his deepest well of insanity, Alicia Witt goes full Margaret White and makes a strong case for award consideration, Maika Monroe oozes twitchy disquiet and Blair Underwood and keirnan Shipka deliver quality support) and the palpable tension is ratcheted up to such a degree that it’s nearly impossible to accept it as anything less than a watershed moment in the arena of conjuring dank foreboding. This is a movie that for better or worse (and the implausibilities are legion) understands pure, concrete horror, the kind that makes you want to jump out of your skin and smash an eject button.

Monroe stars as Lee Harker, a morose, “partially psychic” FBI agent determined to identify a Zodiac-like serial killer known for somehow inspiring families to kill themselves and for his impressive talent when it comes to creating life-like dolls (I know that sounds crazy but it’s all about delivering the creeps here and what’s creepier than a life-like doll?). What she discovers is not only a Satan worshiping psychopath that resembles an unholy mash-up of Tiny Tim and Mickey Rourke (Cage, barking mad and carving himself beyond legendary status) but that she herself shares a complicated (to say the least) history with the twisted, squealing, birthday-happy nutcase and that her very own habit-wearing laconic mother (Witt) is somehow entangled in the unfathomable mess as well. What follows is a singular swirling mash-up mix of police procedural and surreal, occult fever dream with traces of pure unmitigated madness that actually leaves me slightly concerned for writer/director Perkins’ mental health. In other words, me thinks he’s crazy in the coconut but hey, that’s what true art is all about and I can't help being a bit in awe.

Not everyone is going to dig this movie (the talkative woman sitting next to me certainly didn’t, she threatened to scream if things got too scary but ended up making a big show of yawning and sighing instead) but it’s hard to dismiss a movie that hits the bell of insanity so resoundingly and frequently. It’s like drowning in molten angst at times and some of the visuals are sure to remain with me for a long, long while. Some of the images (the house, the station wagon, the assorted homey/hoarder details) felt strangely yanked straight out of my own memories which fueled my apprehension even further. And again, the performances are worth the uncomfortable viewing alone, Cage’s fearless audacity is well known and documented so for me, the true stand out revelation is the outstanding Alicia Witt (URBAN LEGEND), who absolutely mesmerizes as a stoic and fiercely determined (understatement of the year) mother. Do I fully understand much of what I’ve seen and experienced while watching this dread spewing contentment annihilator? Not really, and I’m not sure it matters as the lack of logic, normalcy and sense certainly adds to the epic unease. LONGLEGS speaks the language of nightmares and it speaks it loudly in psychotic spades. It means to disturb and it instills real-deal, irrefutable fear. That’s worth a lot in my book even if I continue to (nervously) scratch my head.

The year is 1985, John Parr’s “St. Elmo’s Fire (Man in Motion)” is roaring up the charts, VHS is alive and kicking, Tipper Gore is making a hero out off Dee Snyder, Angeline is gracing billboards and the world (particularly Hollywood) is a low tech un-Disney-fied, glowing, glorious, albeit perilous place. Star-eyed Maxine Minx is trying to put her dark past (which includes both porn and murder) behind her by auditioning for the sequel to a successful fictional horror film ironically titled THE PURITAN. Unfortunately, a shadowy figure with a brimmed hat and strangle-ready gloves is trailing her every move and offing seemingly anyone who she has contact with. Maxine is still very much mirroring her previous enthralled assailant (Pearl) with her furious longing to differentiate herself from the crowd by transforming into a lauded celebrity. But of course, in the world of horror the past itself is an inescapable monster and her attempts to shine are consistently foiled not only by directors, cops and would be muggers but also memories, apparitions and disturbing nightmares. Her default position is succinctly clear thanks to a mantra she learned from her preacher father (seen briefly but prophetically on TV in the first film) “I refuse to accept a life that I do not deserve”.

Following the excellent X (2022) and its phenomenal prequel PEARL (2022), MAXXXINE, the final installment in Ti West and Mia Goth’s collaborative character study/horror trilogy has finally been unleashed upon the world. Where X took inspiration from Tobe Hooper and seventies era grind house films (the events of which are even referred to as THE TEXAS PORN STAR MASSACRE in a newspaper headline in MAXXXINE) and PEARL’s woebegone angst was draped in bright swatches of WIZARD OF OZ technicolor, the eighties set MAXXXINE (which is a direct sequel to X) heartily embraces Bava-esque giallo stalkings in a deliciously seedy (think VICE SQUAD, HOLLYWOOD VICE SQUAD, ANGEL, STRIPPED TO KILL et.al) neon strewn boulevard of broken dreams (with shades of De Palma's BODY DOUBLE (complete with randomly inserted Frankie Goes To Hollywood video) and Lynch’s MULHOLLAND DRIVE). I’ve heard rumblings that some folks feel this grand cinematic troika deserved a more sophisticated closing but I have exactly zero complaints as I’m completely helpless and awestruck with this brilliant quilt assembled from my every aesthetic fetish. I suppose there are some who can resist synth-y eighties music, video stores, phony horror movies (here’s hoping West someday makes THE PURITAN and its sequel), Satanic panic, Night Stalker hysteria, grimy peepshows, heart of gold hookers, the PSYCHO house (fresh from filming part II), Bette Davis quotes and more than one (!) reference to ST. ELMO’S FIRE but that person is not me. That person is not me by a very long shot.

Theoretically, sleaze-glitz nostalgia pandering will only get ya so far (far enough for me) but don’t fret, MAXXXINE may systematically push all the right retro chic buttons but it also boasts another mesmerizing performance from masterful Mia, a surprisingly frisky character turn from legendary Kevin Bacon, impressive supportive work by the likes of Giancarlo Esposito, Bobby Cannavale (perfectly cast to channel both Alex Rocco and Cliff Gorman) and even musicians Moses Sumner and ( a barely recognizable) Halsey. Plus, I'd say it has got plenty on its decapitated noggin’ concerning delusional exceptionalism, Hollywood corruption, the exploitation of disposable dreamers and the scorching hot hypocrisy of religion. The final act and ultimate reveal may be too easy or obvious for some but I’m rather relieved that we didn’t get a shoehorned swerve to thwart audience expectations and I believe for the triptych pieces to click together smoothy it was the natural and most honest way to go (in any case, it's exactly what I would have done). I’m only sad it’s (likely) over. Honesty, I feel privileged to have witnessed such an unprecedented artistic feat. Like the previous two films, MAXXXINE slyly uses its setting to remind us that our current culture’s mad quest for identity by way of notoriety is nothing new and yet all three sibling films remarkably retain their own unique style and view things through contrasting yet symbiotic lenses. Above all else though, this is a movie that LOVES movies in general and wholeheartedly respects the value and necessity of genre/cult films in particular. Once again, for the third time, West and Goth have created something truly special and worthy of applause.