Billy the Kid Versus Dracula

Abraham Lincoln may have tangled with vampires, but the Old West's most notorious outlaw beat Honest Abe to the punch. Prolific B Movie director William Beaudine (Bela Lugosi Meets a Brooklyn Gorilla) teamed Billy the Kid and Count Dracula in a genre-bending showdown.

Billy the Kid (Chuck Courtney) outlaw days, working on the Double Barb-B ranch and wooing pretty Betty (Melinda Plowman). But when Betty's uncle (John Carradine) turns up, things. Turns out the Uncle is really Count Dracula, with less-than-pure intentions towards his so-called niece. With the help of a crusty doctor (Olive Carey) and a German immigrant couple (Virginia Christie and Walter Janovitz), Billy seeks to foil the vampire.

At just 73 minutes, Billy the Kid versus Dracula contains more cliches per minute than your average summer blockbuster. Beaudine provides shootouts, saloon brawls, stagecoach chases and bloodthirsty Indians for the Western crowd. Horror fans can relish, erm, a bat on a string and wacky theremin music. Beaudine's inverse auteurism unites bad movie fans of all colors.

The movie's mindboggling incompetence can't help but be endearing. Carl K. Hittleman provides laughably overripe dialogue, as when Dracula calls Carey a "backwoods female pill-slinger." Besides the pathetic bat effect, Beaudine symbolizes Dracula's hypnotic powers by having Carradine goggle with red light splashed on his face. After burning through the expected plot points, Billy climaxes in a way no sensible person would expect.


John Carradine played Dracula so many times he could have sleepwalked through this movie. Instead Carradine opts for scenery chewing, boggling his eyes and growling angrily like a tiger with the slightest provocation. Chuck Courtney makes a bland Billy and Melinda Plowman provides only generic prettiness; against these squares, we're definitely rooting for Carradine. Olive Carey (The Searchers) gets big laughs as a grouchy frontier doctor ("I don't like the looks of this!" she deadpans over a vampire-bitten corpse). Character actors Roy Barcroft, Bing Russell, Virginia Christie and Harry Carey Jr. make brief appearances.

Billy the Kid Versus Dracula provides a treasure trove for bad movie fans. And unlike Cowboys and Aliens, it lives up to its magnificent title. What more can you ask for?

Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992)

Excess is an art form, as much as anything else. Many filmmakers go for broke, whether through striking images, sprawling storytelling or splashy sex and violence (or all three), but it's difficult to achieve high art instead of mere self-indulgence. The line separating, say, the controlled excess of Luchino Visconti and Baz Luhrmann's inane monstrosities is razor-thin.

With Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992), Francis Ford Coppola tramples that line to dust. This lurid adaptation of the venerable vampire tale ranks among Hollywood's most schizophrenic films. It's a wildly uneven mixture of the sublime and ridiculous: beautiful imagery and lurid set pieces, operatic storytelling and absurd dramaturgy, solid acting and histrionic buffoonery.

Title aside, Coppola takes considerable liberties with Stoker's novel. He explicitly ties Dracula (Gary Oldman) with Vlad the Impaler, the Romanian ruler who terrorized the Turks with abominable cruelty. After Vlad's wife commits suicide, he renounces God and becomes Dracula. Centuries later, Dracula lures Jonathan Harker (Keanu Reeves) to his lair, absconding to London while trapping Harker in his castle. Dracula snacks on Lucy Westerna (Sadie Frost), but he's intrigued by Harker's wife Mina (Winona Ryder), the spitting image of his long-lost wife. Harker joins Professor Abraham Van Helsing (Anthony Hopkins) and Lucy's vengeful suitors to destroy Dracula.

No one can deny Bram Stoker's Dracula is a richly crafted film. Coppola employs a riot of visual treats, all impressive practical effects: Michael Ballhaus's otherworldly color schemes, matte effects, warped set design, ludicrous costumes. He excludes no lurid idea: elegant dresses swirl in windstorms, characters self-inject morphine, Mina and Lucy gleefully make out. Coppola marshals influences from German expressionism (Dracula's eyes brooding over Harker) to Mario Bava's horror flicks (a ghostly carriage out of Black Sunday). He serves up bloody decapitations and bestiality, then adds a running gun battle in the Carpathian Mountains! Why the hell not?

If one accepts the insane craftsmanship, Dracula's dramatic silliness becomes easier to swallow. Many Dracula films turn the Count from walking venereal disease to supernatural lothario, but Coppola's is the most egregious. Writer James V. Hart imagines Dracula as a hopeless romantic, pursing Elisabeth/Mina across the centuries. That's fine in theory, but how to reconcile it with the shape-shifting demon ravishing Lucy and causing animals to shudder at his approach? There's an awkward dissonance that Coppola never quite reconciles, veering between Gothic melodrama and absurdist horror film.
 
Coppola's all-star cast proves a mixed blessing. Gary Oldman reconciles Dracula's crazy-quilt characterization in a tragic, richly textured performance: brooding lover, blood-crazed demon, tormented soul. If anything here is an unqualified success, it's Oldman's Dracula. Winona Ryder, dodgy accent aside, gives the right mixture of haughtiness and vulnerability. Sadie Frost spends most of the show writhing seductively, something she excels at. Tom Waits proves especially inspired casting, playing Renfield as an intelligent, cunning madman rather than a drooling lunatic.

These effective stars are balanced by atrocious supporting players. Keanu Reeves's non-emoting and London-via-Venice Beach accent are infamously bad; just his uttering "Carfax Abbey" inspires raucous laughter. Cary Elwes, Billy Campbell and Richard E. Grant compensate for limited screen time with shameless overacting. But they're rank amateurs compared to Anthony Hopkins. Taking his dubious Oscar win as a license to ham, Hopkins raves, shrieks, gesticulates madly, spews over-baked dialogue and frothy curses in a slurred Dutch accent. By film's end he's painful to watch.

Bram Stoker's Dracula defies easy characterization. Is it a baroque masterpiece or cinematic vomit? After two viewings I'm not sure myself. Watch at your own peril.

Nosferatu The Vampyre (1979)

Werner Herzog's Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979) has a considerable reputation, with some critics deeming it better than F.W. Murnau's original. Yet this viewer found it underwhelming. Despite creative imagery and a pitch perfect Klaus Kinski, Herzog's movie largely feels like a pale imitation. Only in later passages does Nosferatu take flight.

Herzog adheres to Murnau's story while restoring Bram Stoker's character names. Jonathan Harker (Bruno Ganz) goes to Transylvania to sell land to Count Dracula (Klaus Kinski). Dracula returns to Harker's hometown of Wismar, where he takes up residence while spreading disease. Harker returns but seems traumatized (or worse) by his encounter with Dracula. That leaves Harker's wife Lucy (Isabelle Adjani) to confront the vampire.

Nosferatu starts slowly. Herzog recreates the original iconic line by line, often shot-for-shot: the trip through the Carpathians, Harker's tense dinner with Dracula, Lucy sleepwalking, Dracula's shipboard rampage. To be sure, Herzog's artistry is unmatched: Jorge Schmidt-Reitwein provides languorous photography, complemented by Popol Vuh's classics-inflected score. Yet it seems more tasteful homage than original movie. When a remake adheres so closely to the original it can't help feeling superfluous.

Fortunately, Nosferatu gradually gains momentum. Once Dracula arrives in Wismar, Herzog grafts his own vision to the material. He expands on Murnau's rat motif, with hundreds of teaming creatures decimating the town. Herzog stages surreal scenes as Wismar descends into funerals and anarchy, a pagan saturnalia presided over by rodents. In one darkly humorous passage, a surviving official demands Van Helsing's arrest - even though there's no town council to pass laws or no police to inform them!

Herzog stakes his ground by subverting pieces of Dracula lore. Professor Van Helsing (Walter Landengast) is a skeptical busybody who poo-poohs Lucy's warnings. Renfield (Roland Topor) mainly annoys Dracula, who sends him on a ghoul's errand to Latvia. More striking is the fate of our nominal protagonist: Harker grows weaker and weaker, Dracula apparently casting an amnesia spell on him to get in with Lucy. But Lucy won't be had, becoming the heroine by default. It leads to a low key but disquieting finale.

Klaus Kinski owns the film. Besides his striking makeup job, Kinski gives an usually muted, sensitive performance. He mixes Max Schreck's ratlike wraith with the tragic angst of most Draculas: he laments his inability to age, die or be loved, an ugly monster with an incurable curse. It's an interesting fusion that serves Nosferatu well, allowing Kinski one of his most unique performances.

Kinski's costars, unfortunately, don't measure up. Bruno Ganz, an actor rarely lacking in passion, is understated to the point of dullness. Even Harker's end revelation adds little. Isabelle Adjani does well in a role mainly requiring beauty and bafflement. Walter Landengast and Roland Topor prove awkward comic relief; Herzog doesn't know quite how to handle their alternate characterizations.

Despite some striking moments, Nosferatu the Vampyre isn't the sum of its parts. Those seeking a different take on this familiar story might enjoy it.

Dracula (1931)

Universal's '30s monster movies are the rare works that overwhelm both source material and subsequent variations. Dracula and Frankenstein originate from classic novels, yet our image of them comes from Hollywood. And no matter how radically recent incarnations diverge from it (Twilight, True Blood, etc.), the stock vampire remains Bela Lugosi, slicked hair and clipped accent, admiring the "children of the night," swishing his cape and leaning hungrily over a sleeping Frances Dade...

Many modern viewers find Dracula (1931) stiff and dated. Certainly, after 80 years of parody and imitation, it can't but have lost some of its original power. That it's based more on Hamilton Deane and John L. Balderston's play than Bram Stoker's novel accounts for many of the flaws. But there's still plenty to enjoy: Tod Browning's atmospheric direction, striking photography and Bela Lugosi in the role of a lifetime.

English realtor Renfield (Dwight Frye) travels to Transylvania, hoping to interest reclusive Count Dracula (Bela Lugosi) in London's Carfax Abbey. Renfield falls under Dracula's spell and escorts the count back to England. Dracula, bewitching Lucy Wisterna (Frances Dade) before turning his attentions on Mina (Helen Chandler), fiance of John Harker (David Manners). Only Professor Abraham Van Helsing (Edward Van Sloan) guesses Dracula's true identity as a vampire. 

Driven by budget more than dramatic considerations, Browning and writer Garrett Fort severely compress Stoker's story. They elide Harker's adventures in Transylvania, pare down the cast significantly and leaves several plot threads dangling. Censorship undoubtedly took its toll: Dracula's wives are reduced to walk-on parts, and much of the finale occurs off-screen. Worse, a transmogrified Lucy's seen terrorizing young children, yet she and her victims go unmentioned afterwards! Classic or not, Dracula's storytelling feels awfully sloppy.

It's also true, as detractors claim, that Browning's direction often feels static, matching Fort's talky script. But Dracula's far from boring. Photographer Karl Freund makes beautiful play of light and shadow, the Transylvanian moors and London's back alleys equally eerie. Dracula's castle presages even more impressive works in James Whale's Frankenstein films, a decaying monolith draped in cobwebs (though armadillos seem out of place). The foreboding atmosphere compensates for any plot shortcomings or lack of fancy camerawork.

Unlike Nosferatu, which made its ratlike Orlock an elemental evil, Browning makes Dracula an overtly sexual menace. Lugosi acts like a bloodsucking Don Juan, irresistible to women, foreign and exotic, a charming corrupter spreading a personal plague. He blends into society without being part of it, mixing insatiable blood lust with angst at his immortality. Let's face it: the brooding hunks of Interview With a Vampire and Twilight are but an extreme extension of Lugosi's characterization. No longer a feral monster, Dracula becomes urbane, sexy, fearsome but almost tragic.

Bela Lugosi earned cinematic mortality, with a role he never matched (or lived down). He'd assayed Dracula on stage, using his commanding presence and Hungarian-accented voice to great effect. Browning plays both aspects to the hilt, adding mesmerizing close-ups to the mix. From his clipped diction to his mesmerizing eyes, Lugosi commands the screen, charming and repulsive in equal measure. Lugosi did relatively few worthwhile films after Dracula, succumbing to drug addiction and winding up in Ed Wood movies. A sad waste of an actor who, in this role at least, proved himself an all-time great. 

Dwight Frye gets flak for his rambunctious performance, but it fits the role perfectly. Renfield is a raving madman after all, not a character given to subtlety. Less effective are Edward Van Sloane, a bland Van Helsing, and Frances Dade and Helen Chandler's nondescript females. Joan Standard and Charles K. Gerrard provide effective comic relief.

Dracula may disappoint viewers expecting a faultless masterpiece. How can possibly live up to its reputation? That movie remains entertaining is praise enough.

Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror

The granddaddy of all vampire movies, Nosferatu (1922) holds a special place in cinema history. Todd Browning's Dracula (1931) established the standard screen vampire with Bela Lugosi's sinister, sexy count. But F.W. Murnau's work holds up better through its uniqueness: almost a century later, few vampires evoke the same dread.

The story follows Bram Stoker's Dracula, with names and locations altered. Realtor Knock (Alexander Granach) sends Thomas Hutter (Gustav von Wangenheim) to Transylvania, offering property to mysterious Count Orlock (Max Schreck). After a frightening journey through the Carpathian Mountains, Hutter meets Orlock. Back in Germany, Hutter's wife Ellen (Greta Schroeder) starts sleepwalking, dreaming of meeting the Count. Orlock brings plague and death with him upon arrival in Germany. Hutter enlists Ellen in a desperate scheme to eradicate the vampire.

Nosferatu came at German Expressionism's height, in-tune with baroque dream pieces like The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Murnau faultlessly mixes mood and technical invention. Different color schemes provide character themes: yellow (usually) for the Hutters, green for Orlock, red for the countryside. Murnau adds more surreal touches: under-cranked scenes of Orlock loading coffins; a photographic negative for Hutter's entry into Transylvania; Ellen envisioning a beach strewn with headstones. Murnau made other worthy films like Sunrise and Tabu but none quite match his artistry here.

One sequence guarantees Nosferatu immortality: Orlock's shipboard passage to Germany. Most Dracula films elide this scene; Murnau makes it Nosferatu's key set piece. Murnau builds the scene with crew members falling ill, tormented by feverish visions of the vampire. A crew member busts open the coffins, finding dozens of rats. The climax with Orlock bolting rigidly upright still has the power to scare viewers 90 years later. Murnau intercuts the scene with Hutter traveling overland, adding urgency and menace.

Murnau eschews the romanticism which not only Stoker but J.W. Polidori's The Vampyre instilled in vampirism. With ratlike claws and rodent teeth, Orlock is neither seducer or tragic antihero but an unstoppable, elemental Evil. Murnau sublimates Stoker's sexual symbolism for disease and decay. Orlock arrives with an army of rats in tow, spreading plague. His victims don't even receive immortality, just death. Many see Nosferatu as metaphor for Weimar Germany, presumably with Knock as a Spartacist inciting Bolshevik-vampire subversion. But a surface read is unnerving enough.

Max Schreck dominates any discussion of Nosferatu. No, he wasn't really undead as Shadow of the Vampire posits, but was by all accounts a strange and eccentric actor. Schreck's other films have faded into obscurity, while Count Orlock remains iconic. Terrifying makeup aside, Schreck shows silent film acting at its best. His cadaverous features play into a primarily visual, with habitual awkwardness and brusque, animal mannerisms.

Other actors are perhaps more interesting for back stories than performances. Greta Schroeder makes a radiant love interest. She remained active through the Nazi era (including a role in the infamous Kolberg), her last film coming in 1953. Gustav von Wangenheim, a Communist, fled to the USSR and played a minor role in Stalin's show trials. Alexander Granach stands out as the gnome-like, gleefully repulsive Knock. Granach became a venerable Hollywood character actor with roles in Ninotchka, Hangmen Also Die! and For Whom the Bell Tolls.

Even if not conventionally scary, Nosferatu still commands respect. Few other vampire movies are as unsettling, with an antagonist not tragic or human but monstrously evil. This approach, along with Murnau's strong direction, makes Nosferatu an enduring classic.

Phenomena

There's a consensus among Dario Argento fans that his talent's dropped off precipitately. Since Opera (1987) his movies have grown increasingly poor, style smothered under rampant absurdity. His most recent effort, Dracula 3D (2012), reached its nadir when the title vampire morphed into a giant mantis. Not to mention Argento's fetish for showing daughter Asia naked, beaten and raped. 

Phenomenon (1985) represents an early dent in Argento's skill. An odd supernatural thriller, it's full of gratuitous gore and weird ideas that never gel. Jennifer Connelly keeps the show from being a complete disaster, but the movie delivers few frights and little pleasure.

Jennifer Corvino (Jennifer Connelly), daughter of an American film star, arrives at the Richard Wagner Academy for Girls in Switzerland. She alienates her schoolmates when she's revealed to have a primal connection with insects. Her only friend is John McGregor (Donald Pleasance), an etymologist helping police track a gruesome serial killer. When girls at the school start falling prey to the murderer, Jennifer uses her newfound powers to track them down.

Of all the potential Phenomena shows, it's the main idea that disappoints. Jennifer's insect connection provides one arresting set piece, when she silences mocking school girls with a swarm of "friends." Yet Argento makes surprisingly little of it. The bugs help Jennifer uncover a murder clue and once save her life, yet otherwise feel tacked on. Jennifer makes a key discovery following swarm of maggots, surely something a non-"gifted" protagonist would spot equally well. It's a bad sign when the movie's central conceit feels superfluous.

The whole film's equally messy. Argento was never strong on plot, yet his films generally make sense - even the demented dream logic of Suspiria and Inferno. Phenomena chucks so many ideas at the screen that none really stick. Is it a murder mystery? A supernatural thriller, Carrie-style? Gothic horror? A movie can be all those things, but Argento doesn't tie them together. Bits of story hang there without amounting to much: characters leave without fanfare, people die gruesomely, plot strands vanish unceremoniously.

When Argento does try to make sense of anything, he fails spectacularly. Periodically the action stops cold for lifeless exposition and cringeworthy dialogue. Characters overreact to mundane developments in comical ways. Jennifer sleepwalks one night, so she's accused of schizophrenia! How does that work? Even better is a scene where Jennifer takes shelter at Frau Bruckner's (Daria Nicolodi) home, where (after friendly introductions) Jennifer instantly turns nasty and Bruckner spontaneously starts insulting her guest. Is it sublimated tension rising to the surface? More likely, it's bad writing and atrocious acting.

Even stylistically Phenomena is a letdown. Argento's baroque touches, so effective elsewhere, seem labored and ludicrous. The killings become parodic, with characters barging into abandoned houses to be carved up. One scene, with Jennifer trapped in a pool of decaying corpses, is surely as disgusting as any set piece ever filmed. The problem is it's too gross to be genuinely scary. Not to mention the killer's reveal, or McGregor's chimp with a razor fetish. Goblin's score incorporates tracks from Motorhead and Iron Maiden to little effect.

Jennifer Connelly makes Phenomena watchable. With a badly written character, she nonetheless exude scharm and charisma, propelling her to instant stardom. The other stars register little. Donald Pleasance flounders in an empty part, complete with pathetic Scottish accent. Daria Nicolodi froths and devours scenery as a mad villainess. Patrick Bauchau and Michele Soavi putter about, even more useless than most giallo policemen. The schoolgirls are interchangeable harpies.

Phenomena is a major disappointment. Far from a stylish chiller, it's a stilted collection of oddities without aim or direction.

Tenebre

Tenebre (1982) exemplifies Dario Argento's directorial MO: take a mundane murder mystery, invest it with style, splatter blood everywhere and call it a wrap. But Tenebre's marked also by clever self-reflection, as if Argento's considering (and answering) criticisms leveled at his work.

American writer Peter Neal (Anthony Franciosa) arrives in Rome to promote his latest novel, Tenebre. Unfortunately, one of Neal's biggest fans begins replicating the book's murders. Police Detective Giermani (Giuliano Gemma) fear Neal himself will be a victim, even as the author and his secretary (Daria Nicolodi) try to ferret out the killer. The killing extends to Neal's friends and associates, with an obsessed critic (John Steiner) the most obvious suspect. But when he turns up dead...

Argento reportedly based Tenebre on a stalker who threatened his life. But its reflexivity goes deeper, examining Argento's oeuvre through a critical lens. A feminist critic (Mirella D'Angelo) labels Neal a misogynist for making women victims in his book; Neal counters that he supports the Equal Rights Amendment! Neal testily denies a homosexual character is "deviant," provoking a semantic debate over the word's meaning. Argento ultimately gets the last word, using axes to rebut his critics and silence Neal's testy agent (John Saxon).

This sick humor leads to a curious ambivalence. Here Argento's "deviants" (a lesbian couple, a sluttish kleptomaniac) are victims rather than perpetrators - though since they're attractive women, the point's muted. Pretty women brutally killed - isn't that every slasher movie? Argento also shows bizarre flashbacks where Neal's humiliated by a lover (Eva Robins) cramming high heels in his mouth. Having established his misogynist credentials, Argento spends the second act murdering men. This leaves Tenebre self-aware but not quite satirical.

Tenebre's violence is typically extreme: throat slashing, dismemberment, impalement and paper suffocation. But Argento isn't some splatter hack; his slayings come with bravura style, accompanied by Goblin's funky soundtrack. One murder features a three minute, multi-floor crane shot, Argento and photographer Luciano Tovoli sizing up their victims. Another set piece shows a girl chased through a foggy forest by a vicious dog, echoing Neal's affection for The Hound of the Baskervilles. Argento incorporates familiar touches while making them his own.

Like many whodunnits, Tenebre eventually succumbs to attritional logic. Everyone's a victim or a suspect, so the field narrows as Argento ratchets up the body count. Argento avoids predictability through clever sleight of hand. He sews ingenious red herrings, like the homeless man ogling the first victim and Neal's disturbed ex-wife (Veronica Lario) flitting around. Even the climax is a head fake, replaying Psycho's expository epilogue then adding a beat. Hard to call Tenebre predictable with so much midsirection.

Anthony Franciosa (Across 110th Street) makes Neal alternately likeable and arrogant, providing a solid center. Giuliano Gemma (The Price of Power) is a detective more interested in Neal's novels than the murderer. Daria Nicolodi is more subdued than in Deep Red, to the film's detriment. John Steiner plays his menacing figure a bit too broadly.

Like any good horror film, Tenebre offers plenty for dissection, literal and philosphical. Pseudo-snobs like me can chew over Argento's intertexual musings. Gore mavens can relish the stylish slayings. Everyone walks away happy.

Suspiria

Suspiria (1977) is Dario Argento's best-regarded work, yet I'm ambivalent towards it. Judged purely on aesthetic grounds it's a masterpiece, a riotous meshing of imagery, sound and blood. Yet its deliberate incoherence only works up to a point, fizzling out in an unsatisfying conclusion.

American ballerina Suzy Bannion (Jessica Harper) arrives at a German dance academy. Weird things are a-doing: a student was recently murdered after running away from the school, Suzy becomes ill shortly after arrival, maggots infest the academy's attic. Other murders occur, and Suzy's friend (Stefania Cassini) hints at supernatural occurrences. Turns out the dance academy was founded by Helena Markos, a Greek emigre accused of witchcraft. Is this mere superstition or a horrifying truth?

Suspiria is a cinematic fever dream like no other. Argento and photographer Luciano Tovoli employ a wild visual scheme, splashing the screen with primary colors that contrast with odd art deco design. This unworldly quality is echoed in Goblin's soundtrack, surely one of the most memorable even: its combination of rasping whispers and shrill musical stings can induce nightmares without the imagery. The soundscape terrifies too, with evil's presence signified by raspy snoring and the finale's horrifying screams. On style points, Suspiria ranks among the greatest horror movies ever. 

Slasher movie fans will delight in Suspiria's ghoulish slayings. There's the bone-chilling opening, where a student (Eva Axen) and her friend meet a gruesome end. The gore effects are extreme (a shot of a heart getting stabbed?) but stylish enough not to seem exploitative. An even stronger set piece follows a blind man (Flavio Bucci) and his dog through a colossal amphitheater. Argento stages much of the scene in wide shot, the forces of Evil sizing up their next target, Goblin's soundtrack subdued for eerie silence and dog barking. Even the build-up can't prepare us for the pay-off - surely the worst imaginable way to go.

All of Suspiria's superior artistry doesn't stop it from being a mess. The lack of strong narrative isn't fatal: Deep Red had a simple plot, but maintained drive despite its predictability. Suspiria, on the other hand, stalls repeatedly between killings: one egregious sidetrack has Suzy visit a psychiatrist (Udo Kier) and professor (Rudolf Schundler) who provide reams of belated back story. The last 20 minutes go completely off the rails; Susan's confrontation with the Big Bad proves underwhelming. After all the build-up, vanquishing the Mother of Sighs just seems too easy.

Jessica Harper makes an appealing heroine, completely baffled yet determined to puzzle out the situation. Harper did relatively few films: her best role remains My Favorite Year. Stefania Cassini makes a good counterpart. Argento casts some interesting supporting players: Alida Valli of The Third Man and Senso plays one of the headmistresses, alongside Joan Bennett (TV's Dark Shadows). Udo Kier plays the psychiatrist. Argento enlists Rudolf Schundler as a mythology professor; that actor has a pedigree stretching back to Fritz Lang's Testament of Dr. Mabuse. Daria Nicolodi cameos as a victim.

Suspiria is a mild disappointment. I admire Argento's manic style, but his storytelling ability deserts him here. That's not to dissuade you from watching: it's certainly a unique film, just not a great one.

The Silence of the Lambs

Jonathan Demme's The Silence of the Lambs (1991) is so iconic through parody and imitation that it's impossible to regard it fresh. It provided a tremendous critical and box office success, greeted like The Godfather and Jaws two decades prior: a pulp novel transmogrified into high art. Its influence proved pervasive, from lurid thrillers like Se7en through a slew of TV shows (The X-Files, Criminal Minds). Nonetheless, I found Lambs rather uneven, unsure if it's a gritty procedural or a Gothic horror pic.

FBI Agent-in-training Clarice Starling (Jodie Foster) gets assigned by boss Jack Crawford (Scott Glenn) to interview Hannibal Lecter (Anthony Hopkins), a psychologist-serial killer serving a life sentence. Their initial meetings go nowhere, but Hannibal hints he may have a connection with another killer. The FBI's tracking Buffalo Bill (Ted Levine), a murderous transvestite who gets his jollies skinning women alive; he kidnaps the daughter of a US Senator, drawing intense media focus. Hannibal draws Clarice ever closer with tantalizing hints and penetrating insight, always eying his own dramatic exit.

The Silence of the Lambs mostly succeeds as a high-toned thriller. Viewers expecting a warped gore fest will be surprised by Demme's restrained presentation: even a gruesome autopsy remains mostly off-screen. Rather than an absurd body count, Demme focuses on sinister atmospherics and character drama throughout: Clarice's struggles with FBI bureaucracy occupy as much time as Buffalo Bill's deprivations. Story elements strain credulity (how's Hannibal powerful enough to parlay with a Senator?) but Lambs scores with its well-crafted cat and mouse game.

It's Jodie Foster, though, who makes Lambs work. Clarice Starling transcends pretty much any female cop in movie history. Clarice is well-rounded enough to take seriously; her femininity isn't always an asset, but Clarice plays it to her advantage in disarming superiors. Her inexperience proves a bigger hurdle, as in her sloppy confrontation with Buffalo Bill. Foster gives an intelligent turn, subsuming deep-seated anguish within a smart, capable FBI agent.

But Demme and writer Ted Tally can't fully cast off Thomas Harris's overwrought source novel. The scene where police discover the gory aftermath of Hannibal's escape makes an arresting image, yet it's rather out of place after the grounded build-up. If Buffalo Bill's disturbingly credible, Hannibal is the sort of Renaissance monster who exists only in movies: smart, cultured, a psychologist who makes Robbie Coltrane's Fitz look like a novice, yet a killer with superhuman strength. When Hannibal eludes capture by wearing a victim's face, we've slipped into Texas Chainsaw territory.

And here's where I'll part ways with most viewers. Anthony Hopkins won an Oscar for playing Hannibal Lecter, whose iconic villain status extends to two sequels. Yet frankly, I found Hannibal the Cannibal tiresome. Hopkins, brilliant in shows like The Bounty, The Remains of the Day and Nixon, indulges in endless hammy affectations: a sinister hiss, a strange affected drawl, leering and beaming monstrously. This ridiculous caricature weighs against the film's docudrama pretensions, especially when Hannibal's very involvement seems contrived.

The Silence of the Lambs is entertaining but hardly the masterpiece it's made out to be. Readers are welcome to dispute my dislike for Hopkins, but he's emblematic of the film's failing: It's part clinical thriller, part sanguinary cartoon.

Straw Dogs (2011)

Rod Lurie's Straw Dogs (2011) passed largely unnoticed by critics or audiences. With good reason: it turns Sam Peckinpah's controversial masterpiece into a boilerplate thriller. It's bland, inoffensive and forgettable, three words that neither fans nor detractors have ever applied to Peckinpah's original.

Screenwriter David Sumner (James Marsden) movies with actress wife Amy (Kate Bosworth) to the latter's hometown of Blackwater, Mississippi. While writing a World War II epic, David hires contractor Charlie (Alexander Skarsgard) to refurbish his house. Charlie's a charming roughneck who happens to be Amy's old flame. David's haughtiness alienates Charlie and his friends, while Amy's disgusted by his unwillingness to stand up for her. Then David encounters Jeffrey (Dominic Purcell), a local simpleton whose feelings for an underage cheerleader (Willow Holland) has tragic consequences. Said cheerleader's father (James Woods) organizes a lynch mob and... erm, haven't you seen the original?

The 1971 Straw Dogs still generates passionate plaudits and intense hatred. Its defenders (myself included) celebrate Peckinpah's film as an intense, gripping allegory of man's propensity for violence. Critics blast it as an exploitative gore fest whose visceral thrills undercut the point. That's not even touching the debates over misogyny (or worse) generating from its portrayal of Amy, especially the unnerving rape scene. Few films are as radically polarizing.

Any classic remake also suffers not by direct comparison to the original but its influence. Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho has been imitated so many times that Gus Van Sant's "shot-for-shot" remake feels like superfluous onanism. Even John Carter, not exactly a remake, perversely suffers from the original Edgar Rice Burroughs stories inspiring Star Wars, Avatar and a million lesser sci-fi flicks. Thus with Straw Dogs: what shocked in 1971 falls just this side of mundane today, subsumed by a million lesser movies. Familiar title aside, it feels like just another thriller.

Lurie does himself no favors, either, by gorging on cliche and condescension. Relocating from Cornwall to Mississippi allows Lurie to play on Deep South stereotypes propagated by everything from Deliverance to Squidbillies. Everyone in Blackwater has nothing better to do than watch TV, drink booze and attend football games. That most of them turn out to be violent, rapacious louts won't shock anyone: hasn't Hollywood been teaching this lesson for over a century? The friendly black Sheriff (Laz Alonso) in an otherwise all-white town further points up Lurie's simplistic worldview.

Indeed, making the hero a screenwriter besieged by flyover yokels feels like some sick Hollywood joke. In fairness, Lurie probably meant David to be an unlikeable antihero, but the unpleasant subtext lingers. Early on, David tells a redneck slob that he writes films the redneck wouldn't recognize, as if Southerners consider war movies as inscrutable as Satantango. Then he walks out on a church sermon and mocks Charlie's Christianity. But the capper comes when David explicitly explains the title for us dummies in the audience. After this, it feels less like David's a smug jackass than the director is.

The story follows Peckinpah closely, touching all the plot points, character relations and cat mutilation. But everything's inexplicably neutered. This Amy is more assertive and self-reliant, making her taunting Charlie and Co. more inexplicable. The rape scene's still here - shorn of violence, nudity or visceral impact. So why bother? As if justifying his aforementioned arrogance, Lurie indulges in laughable montages (the rape intercut with David shooting a deer! Rapping hammer counterpointed with rapping keyboard!) that play like Jay Sherman's student film. The climactic violence is as nasty as ever, but without credible setup it's just another action scene.

The actors seem out of sync with the material. James Marsden smartly plays up David's obnoxious side, but his conversion to action hero isn't especially credible. Kate Bosworth struggles with a character torn between Susan George's skanky original and PC feminism. Alexander Skarsgard plays Charlie as a low-key, likeable guy who inexplicably becomes a predator. Save James Woods, embarrassing as a hambone hick, everyone gives performances that are professionally fine, but dramatically off-key.

As remakes go, Straw Dogs isn't bad enough to be insulting like Van Sant's Psycho or the 2002 Four Feathers. It's disposable junk, mindlessly killing two hours before you filter it out of your brain and move on to something more substantial.

The Ghost and the Darkness

There's a problem with making "old-fashioned adventure movies" today. True, modern budgets allow for extensive location shooting, period detail and actual Indian/African/Arab actors instead of Alec Guinness and C. Henry Gordon in blackface. But our post-colonial world frowns upon the racial and imperial attitudes that shows like Gunga Din take for granted, leaving filmmakers in a bind. Thus you get queasy compromises like The Four Feathers (2002), which play to each sensibility and fail at both.

The Ghost and the Darkness (1996) is like that. Stephen Hopkins's loose adaptation of The Man-Eaters of Tsavo (which previously inspired 1952's Bwana Devil) ran afoul of egomaniacal stars Val Kilmer and Michael Douglas, altering this adventure story into a bloated star vehicle. Critics sniffed at the movie as "Jaws with lions" while audiences largely ignored it. The film has its moments but sinks under some ill-advised narrative decisions - namely a profoundly obnoxious deuteragonist.

Colonel John Henry Patterson (Val Kilmer) is recruited by an English railroad magnate (Tom Wilkinson) to construct the Uganda Railway through British East Africa. Patterson finds the work camp riven by tensions between native Africans and Indian coolies, even before a larger threat arrives. Two lions begin attacking workers, with Patterson unable to stop them. Desperate to stop the attacks, Patterson calls in Charles Remington (Michael Douglas), an eccentric American hunter to help trap the seemingly unstoppable predators.

The Ghost and the Darkness draws on John Henry Patterson's colorful memoirs. The Tsavo lions slaughtered dozens of workers before Patterson killed them. Historians and biologists alike still debate what drove these creatures to a murderous rampage. Patterson himself is a fascinating personage, a soldier, engineer and hunter who served in India, oversaw construction of the Uganda Railway and discovered a new species of eland. During World War I he commanded a battalion in Britain's Jewish Legion at Gallipoli and Allenby's Palestinian campaign, remaining a lifelong advocate for Zionism. Between the lions and their hunter there's plenty of cinematic material.

The Ghost and the Darkness certainly has moments of high adventure. Val Kilmer's Irish accent is dodgy but his actual performance works well-enough, a single-minded professional out of his depth facing lions. (Whether it's fair to the real Patterson is another issue.) Vilmos Zigmond's photography makes Africa alternately beautiful and menacing. To Hopkins' credit, he stages several effective set pieces: one lion fighting his way out of a rail car trap proves more terrifying than the actual attacks. Jerry Goldsmith's rousing score adds a touch of grandeur. So where does Ghost go wrong?

One culprit is William Goldman's script. The writer of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid tries to mash the silliness of '30s adventure serials with modern PC sensibilities. Thus we have Tom Wilkinson's mustache-twirling tycoon, who actually tells Patterson that he enjoys torturing his employees. There's also narrator Samuel (John Kani), a modern Man Friday who swills booze and cracks jokes with the heroes like a frat brother. Ghost hints at supernatural explanations for the attacks, generating cheesy opticals of Patterson and Co. bewitched by lion eyes, but doesn't fully commit to it. When all else fails Goldman falls back on cliches (a dream sequence, seriously?), clunker dialogue and set pieces cribbed from Jaws.

But the biggest miscalculation by far is Remington. Goldman claims Michael Douglas came on board, took a minor character as his own and beefed up the part accordingly. Remington is an ill-conceived Great White Hunter caricature, an ex-Confederate soldier living with Masai warriors, all shaggy hair and deranged leering. In other words, someone H. Rider Haggard would consider too outlandish. Douglas's frightful hamming doesn't help, twitching, bugging his eyes and even paraphrasing Dirty Harry's "Do I feel lucky?" speech. This awful character sinks the movie almost singlehandedly, reducing a likely indignant Val Kilmer to virtual spear carrier.

The Ghost and the Darkness really should be a lot better. If Goldman had a clearer handle on the story, or if less "difficult" stars played the leads, it could be fine escapist fun. Instead we're stuck with an overwrought, dramatically hollow creature feature.

Deep Red

 

My strongest memory of freshman film class (save revisiting Sergio Leone's oeuvre) is discovering Italian slasher movies. I didn't care for Mario Bava's rococo craftsmanship but Dario Argento's stylish gialli hit the spot. The American slashers who shamelessly copy them pale in comparison.

Deep Red (1975) is probably Argento's best film. Like the best horror movies its rich subtext and impeccable style overwhelm the paper-thin plot. Combining the twisted psychology of Alfred Hitchcock with Michelangelo Antonioni's voyeur preoccupations, it packs a bloody punch.

Mark Daly (David Hemmings) is a jazz musician-turned-teacher living in Rome. He witnesses the murder of psychic Helga (Macha Meril), who'd had a vision of a long-ago crime. With the help of flirty reporter Gianna (Daria Nicolodi) and wastrel friend Carlo (Gabriele Lava) Mark edges closer to the truth. The killer stymies Mark by offing key witnesses and threatening him. Grim discoveries at an abandoned mansion finally lead Mark towards the killer - just not in the way he expects.

Deep Red is a triumph of style. Argento employs skillful POV shots, with the killer watching a psychic conference or surveying their weaponry. He matches this with ocular imagery: one chilling medium shot has a single eye open within a dark closet. Argento crams scenes with occult symbols, garish paintings, classical statues, cavernous mansions and an eerie lullaby leitmotif (complemented by Goblin's rockin' techno score). Having co-scripted Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West, it's not surprising Argento uses similar fragmented flashbacks.

Indeed, Argento plays the homage card extensively. Besides Hitchcock's Psycho, he uses imagery from Rebecca and The Birds. He borrows from Antonioni's Blow-Up, with David Hemmings witnessing an ambiguous crime scene. Argento differs from Antonioni in making the murder real, but having Mark misremember a crucial detail. Sources as disparate as Edgar Allan Poe (the wall-entombed body) and Charade (a dying message scrawled on steamed glass) also get shout-outs. Deep Red blends these borrowings into a pleasingly nasty cocktail.

Deep Red delivers some twisted death scenes. One unlucky victim gets scalded in a bathtub, another harassed by a ventriloquist dummy before being bludgeoned. Both villains meet decidedly gruesome ends, including a unique decapitation. That's not even mentioning unfortunate birds and lizards. Blood aside, its sheer nihilism may put viewers off.

If Argento and Bava owe Hitchcock a huge debt, American slashers pilfered them even more flagrantly, borrowing the murders while missing their skill. John Carpenter lifted Argento's image of a child pondering a bloody knife for Halloween, while Friday the 13th outright stole several murders from Bava's Bay of Blood. Deep Red is positively tasteful compared to dreck like Saw and Hostel, where sadistic defilement is the only attraction.

Using Psycho as a template, Argento probes psychological trauma that makes Norman Bates look well-adjusted. Gender identities are constantly at play: after Mark asserts masculine superiority, Gianna beats him at arm wrestling! Carlo proves a closeted gay with a drinking problem, his mother (Clara Clamai) a bit too close. One clever twist comes when Gianna is non-fatally stabbed; the real killer wouldn't be so, erm, impotent. This isn't mentioning the creepy little girl (Nicoletta Elmi) impaling lizards on straight pins...

Deep Red skilfully uses humor to set up deaths. One subplot largely cut from earlier releases sees Mark harassed by a boorish police inspector (Eros Pagni). Indeed, Argento implies that an impending police strike forces Mark to do their work! Painful irony dominates: a crack about Mark bashing the piano keys like his father's teeth turns sour when a murder victim meets that very fate. Similarly, Mark gets scalded by an espresso machine shortly before the bathtub encounter.

Admittedly the story takes a familiar whodunnit track: if nothing else, the limited cast narrows the suspect field. Yet Argento transcends this with a double-twist and misleading clues. By employing such rich visuals, Argento sneaks subtle hints undetectable at a naked glimpse. It's chilling to revisit the initial crime scene with foreknowledge of its twist. A grisly drawing at the mansion is a red herring yet leads Mark indirectly to the real killer. Deep Red misdirects the audience with uncommon skill.

Acting is not Deep Red's strong point. David Hemmings (Charge of the Light Brigade) plays Mark snide and sarcastic, a less appealing take on his Blow-Up protagonist. Daria Nicolodi (Mrs. Argento) is charming but her character seems inconsistent: one scene playful, the next ambitious, finally romantic. Gabriele Lavia makes Carlo a pathetic sad sack while Clara Clamai broadly overacts.

Deep Red isn't everyone's cup of tea: it's short on story, likeable characters or nuance, and full of bloody mayhem. Yet Argento's intoxicating direction elevates this butcher's yard into something like art. From a blogger who usually loathes slasher flicks, that's saying something.

Prophecy (1979)

John Frankenheimer's Prophecy (1979) is a curious misfire. This potentially decent creature feature sinks under the weight of outsized pretensions, plus one of the dumbest-looking monsters ever.

Fed up with a soul-crushing city job, Dr. Robert Verne (Robert Foxworth) accepts a job with the EPA. Along with his pregnant wife Maggie (Talia Shire), he travels to Maine, where a land dispute between a paper company and local Indians rages. Plant owner Isley (Richard Dysart) blames Indian leader John Hawks (Armand Assante) for the disappearance of several loggers. The Indians blame Kahtadin, a mythical beast protecting their land. Verne discovers that pollution has mutated local wildlife, and that the loggers were killed by a particularly nasty byproduct.

Ken Begg of Jabootu's Bad Movie Dimension pegs Prophecy's primary failing: it's too damn serious. Frankenheimer and writer David Seltzer cram their monster movie with every conceivable issue. Environmentalism is a given, but Indian rights, urban squalor and even abortion get a work-out in the overbaked script. Our hero is introduced treating a rat-bitten black baby in a DC apartment, to give you an idea. Frankenheimer approaches this with utmost solemnity, but when an Indian and lumberjack hold a chainsaw-axe duel, it's hard to buy in.

For all its pretentions, Prophecy doesn't mind employing black-and-white morality. The Natives are Noble Savages out of a Billy Jack movie, and no points for guessing how Frankenheimer portrays the lumbermen. The paper mill's intro is hilarious: we get a two-minute establishing shot while Leonard Rosenman's score blares portentiously on the soundtrack. On the other hand, since Maggie's dumb enough to carry a Kathadin cub around, it's hard to root for the heroes either. 

Unfortunately the horror angle is equally botched. Mercury creating murderous mutants might pass muster in a Roger Corman flick but Seltzer's long, pseudoscientific explanations are laughable. Characters describe the Kathadin as a chimera, but in practice it's a dessicated bear. Frankenheimer can't even stage decent attacks, preferring faux-artistic details (shots of mutilated corpses set to Brahms) to frights. The scariest scene involves a racoon, a good indicator of the film's quality.

Talia Shire is mostly somnolent, though she goes into Connie Corleone screaming mode towards the end. She's nicely balanced by Robert Foxworth, who bites off dialogue like a hippie Charlton Heston. Armand Assante, Victoria Racimo and Richard Dysart come off as well as the script allows. George Cluetsi's deluded elder makes a tragic figure, at least until his ludicrous death scene.

Prophecy is laughably misguided schlock. Everyone involved treats this story of murderous bear jerky like an Ingmar Bergman flick. Viewers are more likely to treat it like crap.

Prometheus

After two solid decades of mediocrity, Ridley Scott returns to his early work with Prometheus. Ostensibly a prequel to Alien, it's a fine stand alone film. A respectible stab at cerebral science fiction, it falls short of its ambitions through muddled themes and weak characters.

In the year 2089, scientists Elizabeth Shaw (Noomi Rapace) and Charlie Holloway (Logan Marshall-Green) find a cave painting that points to an alien civilization. The Weyland corporation sends them to join an expedition to a far-off planteoid, led by the ice-cold Vickers (Charlize Theron) and accompanied by Lawrence of Arabia-obsessed android David (Michael Fassbender). On this planet they find signs of an advanced civilization: a race they dub the Engineers, who left traces of advanced civilizaton and may hold the key to human existence. However, they've also left a biological entity that threatens the crew's lives - and may have designs on Earth.

Prometheus is Scott's most ambitious film in awhile, creating another remarkable fantasy world. He crafts another remarkable planet scape, with its forebidding deserts, dripping caves and wind storms to rival Alien's gloomy universe. CGI's rarely been used to such strong effect, with or without 3D, especially the alien holograms and David's first visit to the Engineer control room. Only the creature designs are underwhelming - though if you want to see a big alien vagina go down on a hulking, bald white alien, you'll be satiated.

Scott and writers Joe Spaiths and Damon Lidelof populate the script with intriguing ideas. The Engineers prove to have created human life, but may have more sinister intentions. Shaw's meaning of life ponderings are pointedly rebuked by David, himself created by a "higher power": why must they have a reason? This establishes a pointed fact-vs.-faith dichotomy which provides an interesting thematic anchor. These are worthwhile themes, unoriginal but quite provocative. It's frustrating that the movie abandons them in favor of a third act splatter fest.

Possibly this is due to the script, but Scott's mainly to blame. My gripe with Ridley is that his movies rarely realize their full potential. A capable showman, he lacks the tools to make big ideas work. Alien is basically an extraterrestrial slasher, and Blade Runner proves hollow under the gee-whiz spectacle and florid dialogue. His epics Gladiator and Kingdom of Heaven have flashes of greatness but fall back too readily on crowd-pleasing melodrama and violence. Even his best recent film, American Gangster, cribs too heavily from The French Connection to give Scott overmuch credit.

Prometheus continues this disappointing trend. The movie dilutes its drama through an oversized cast, forestalling most character development. The story takes some odd and unnecessary turns in later scenes: one twist involving a character thought dead seems especially superfluous. Like its predecessors, its intellectual pretensions are undermined by a finale which falls back on creepy  monster cliches. The inconsistency in how creature DNA reacts with humans irked me too. The final reels drag on forever, with little of import revealed beyond the possibility of sequels.

The cast disappoints. Noomi Rapace (the original Lisabeth Salander) is supremely bland, having motivation but no depth. For all the horrors she experiences, Shaw remains single-minded and one-dimensional. Worse still is Logan Marshall-Green, whose contributions are limited to significant glances and booze swilling. Idris Elba (Thor) is ill-used, and Rafe Spall (Anonymous) and Sean Harris are beyond annoying. The less said about Guy Pearce, the better.

There are two standouts. Michael Fassbender (Inglourious Basterds) steals the show, mixing a conscious Peter O'Toole impression with shades of David Bowie, creating a character who's smart, efficient and likeable, but not quite human. Fassbender's a really hot property right now: here's hoping he gets to play Harry Flashman, as rumored. Charlize Theron does fine work with an underwritten character, allowing periodic warmth and vulnerability to shine through her icy exterior. Vickers' near-robotic coldness makes an interesting contrast with the almost-human David.

Prometheus is an enjoyable mixed bag. It's Ridley Scott's best film in awhile, and shows that, if he really puts his mind to it, he's still capable of competence.

Alien

In preparation for Prometheus, I gave Alien (1979) a long-overdue rewatch. I mostly remember this movie featuring in an especially annoying film class: we spent nearly two hours debating whether the two-minute scene of Sigourney Weaver in her undies undermined her toughness by defining her as a sex object. Lord deliver us from feminist critics!

Before Ridley Scott became a wildly overpraised hack he at least showed some creative thought and visual dynamism. In its striking visuals, set design and creepy creatures, Alien certainly delivers. Too bad about the story, which segues from eerie stage-setting into Ten Little Indians cliches.

The space freighter Nostromo gets assigned to answer a distress signal on an unknown planet. While exploring, crew member Kane (John Hurt) gets attacked by a strange being. Against the wishes of Warrant Officer Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), Captain Dallas (Tom Skeritt) takes Kane onboard, but he and Science Officer Ash (Ian Holm) are baffled by the creature. Kane seems to recover, but rudely interrupts dinner when a further-grown alien bursts out his chest. The full-grown creature gradually wipes out the crew, with Ripley discovering that their employers consider the crew expendable.

Alien starts on a perfect note. The elaborate sets seem like a grungier version of 2001's endless corridors, adorned by elaborate-yet-plausible technology, its crew not super-smart astronauts but working class spacemen. The gang's early banter has the right naturalist touch, and the Nostromo's descent onto the foggy alien world is appropriately chilling (helped oh-so-much by Jerry Goldsmith's low-key music). These sequences work best, with an interesting atmosphere, low-key yet disturbing, somehow fusing mundanity with futuristic awe.

Then there's the alien, one of the nastiest creatures in all science-fiction. Working with surrealist H.R. Giger, Scott crafts a frightful beast, both a Freudian nightmare and an unstoppable monster. The creature undergoes interesting evolutions, from the octopoid face huggers to the monstrous xenomorph, represented variously by miniatures, models and costumed man. The alien's appearance, with its bulbous head, rubbery body, crustacean appendanges and mouth-within-a-mouth, makes him a uniquely scary antagonist.

Critics make much of Scott's heavy sexual imagery, which in fact becomes obvious and overwrought. The rape metaphor is chilling, with the crew becoming unwilling broodmares for an alien race. The unsettling alien designs add to the disquiet, as does Kane's "impregnation" and Dallas's fate. But the constant genital analogues eventually grow tedious, reaching a low point when Ash rams a porn magazine down Ripley's throat. Subtle Alien is not.

Alien is a haunted house flick at heart, phallic symbols or no. Halfway through, Scott begins the inevitable process of whitling down his cast. Characters crawl down air vents and wander into dark rooms alone, begging to become alien chow. Harry Dean Stanton's character wins the booby prize, chasing a cat all over the ship, through multiple rooms, until the creature finally finds him. The dramatics aren't much smarter than slasher movies where the victim, being chased by a killer, locks herself inside the house. For a B movie thriller this is fine; for an allegedly cerebral sci-fi film it's cheap.

Sigourney Weaver already shows the no-nonsense toughness which made Ripley an enduring heroine. Yaphett Kotto and Harry Dean Stanton provide a hilarious doubles-act as disgruntled engineers. Ian Holm makes an unsettling presence, with ever-so-subtle hints pointing to his big reveal. John Hurt (A Man for All Seasons) eclipses his entire career with the most gruesome movie death ever. Wooden Tom Skeritt and annoying Veronica Cartwright (The Children's Hour) make up the negative side of the ledger.

Alien is a mixed bag. For all its impressive visuals, it's ultimately formulaic. No matter the lavish sets or dick-headed aliens, it's still about a monster jumping out to say boo.

Grizzly

"Why are you looking at me? I'm a *BEAR*!"

William Girdler's Grizzly (1976) was among the earliest Jaws rip-offs, and possibly the most successful. Teaming with indie producer Edward L. Montoro, Girdler delivered a chintzy Jaws-in-the-woods that made an impressive $30,000,000 against a $750,000 budget. The best that can be said is that Grizzly isn't painful to watch.

A National Park is the site of several vicious bear attacks. Park Ranger Michael Kelly (Christopher George) enlists naturalist Scott (Richard Jaeckal) and helicopter pilot Don (Andrew Prine) to help kill the bear, which Scott believes is an extinct Grizzly subspecies. But Kelly's hamstrung by his obnoxious boss (Joe Dorsey), who refuses to shut down the park, allowing a gaggle of idiot hunters to track the bear. More fatalities occur before Kelly finally gets to face his furry foe mano a garra.

With a competent cast, beautiful Georgia scenery and a lean 91 minute runtime, Grizzly goes down fairly easy. But it so blatantly steals from Jaws it's impossible to ignore. Girdler lifts the plot structure, characters and specific scenes directly from Spielberg, reworking them in subpar fashion. Quint's USS Indianapolis monologue is replaced with a goofy Indian legend, while the Superintendent not only keeps the park open for no reason, but invites the press to cover the bear hunt (!?!). Jaws clearly cared about its story and characters, while Grizzly just marks time between killings.

What really sinks Grizzly is the bear. The filmmakers employed Teddy, an 11 foot captive Kodiak bear, and there are some nice shots of her running and rearing up (apparently prodded by marshmallows). But they're mixed with an obvious guy in a costume, dampening the effect. The attacks are inept; we get close-ups of bear hugs and gory severed limbs, but thanks to incoherent editing the effect is comical. Displays of its power (busting up a cabin, swatting a helicopter) are silly. Certainly the finale, where Kelly incinerates the ursine with a bazooka (!!!), is hilariously absurd.

Christopher George (El Dorado) emerges relatively unscathed, giving a low-key and likeable performance. But Richard Jaeckel (The Gunfighter) and Andrew Prine (Gettysburg) come off badly trying to out-ham each other. Joan McCall's love interest is annoying and Joe Dorsey's villain wouldn't pass muster on a bad Scooby-Doo episode ("Meddling bears!"). Susan Backlinie, a shark victim in Jaws, expands her range playing a bear victim.

Grizzly is a goofy B Movie knockoff, nothing more or less. At the very least it lacks Orca's turgid self-importance, for which we can all be grateful.

Orca

In the years following Jaws, theaters were overrun by killer creature features. Among the non-shark offenders: alligators, ants, barracuda, bats, bears, bees, bigfeet, crocodiles, dogs, elephants, giant squid, Loch Ness monsters, octopuses, piranha, prehistorical fish, sea turtles, sharktopuses, spiders, worms. Almost all of these ripoffs suck bilge, some achieving epochal bad movie status. Who can forget Grizzly, where Christopher George dispatches the titular bruin with a bazooka?

The most infamous is Orca (1977). Producer Dino De Laurentiis seriously thought he could outdo Steven Spielberg, resulting in this overblown monstrosity. It has moments of camp hysteria, but is mostly boring and ponderous.

Drunken sea captain Nolan (Richard Harris) kills a pregnant female killer whale, earning him the wrath of its mate. The surviving orca goes on a vendetta, laying waste to the Newfoundland town Nolan takes refuge in. After several of his buddies are killed, Nolan sets out to settle scores, with marine biologist Rachel (Charlotte Rampling) and a wise Indian (Will Sampson) in tow. Through a tragedy in his past, Nolan feels a personal connection to the whale, but his finny antagonist won't let bygones be bygones.

Orca hilariously kicks off with a whale killing a great white shark (take that Spielberg!) and goes more insane from there. Apparently thinking Jaws lacked sufficient pathos, the filmmakers jam early scenes with nauseating sentimentality. We see carefree orcas frolicking through the ocean. Director Michael Anderson provides close-ups of a whale eye weeping as its mate gets harpooned. Then the damned thing roars like a bear as Mrs. Orca miscarries a fetus onto the ship's deck (!).

I did not make up any of the proceding paragraph.

Orca sadly abandons this silliness for stultifying pretension. Characters spew an incomprehensible mixture of biology, nautical nonsense and tribal lore that undermines any credibility. Nolan and Rachel fall for each other, seemingly to mark time as they have nothing in common. Writers Luciano Vincenzoni and Sergio Donati (far removed from their Sergio Leone films) provide Nolan a tragic backstory which, all things considered, is laughable. Killer whale rampages don't lend themselves to deep character drama.

But the last straw is the ludicrous attack scenes. This is a resourceful cetacean, blowing up half the town by gnawing through a gas line, then pulling an entire house off its stilts. Of course it gloats over the destruction, leaping in the harbor as the town burns. Most amazingly, this marine Macguyver wants a mano-a-aleta showdown with Nolan. Perhaps Donati and Vincenzoni conceived this as a Spaghetti Western, complete with stylized flashbacks, ocular close-ups, and Ennio Morricone score. Even so, the protracted polar finale slavishly recycles Jaws.

Richard Harris's scenery-chewing provides some laughs, especially when the film tries for pathos. By contrast, Charlotte Rampling and Bo Derek find emotion a foreign concept. Will Sampson (One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest) is an annoying stereotype, while Robert Carradine (The Long Riders) and Keenan Wynn (Dr. Strangelove) play whale munchies.

Orca is a whale of a flop. The movie neither makes sense nor scares, and even the unintentional humor wears thin pretty fast. If you're inclined to check out Jaws ripoffs, stick with Alligator, which is at least intentionally funny.

You know Warwick Davis is the Real O.G.

Yesterday I was browsing Wikipedia and came across news that Lionsgate and WWE are teaming up for a "reboot" (God I hate that word) of Leprechaun.

Sadly this isn't an early April fool's joke. Apparently Hollywood is so desperate for ideas that they think rebooting direct-to-video Warwick Davis vehicles is a good idea.

The best part of this article is this comment by a tone-deaf, double-speaking executive:

As for its deal with Lionsgate, Luisi said: "We have been looking for ways to continue our relationship with Lionsgate and we saw 'Leprechaun' as the perfect opportunity to take a well-known franchise and put a modern-day spin on it. This is a property that we believe our audience will respond to and we continue to look for ways to surprise and engage them."

Oh, they'll "respond to it" all right.

As for the "modern spin": this is a very valid concern, inasmuch as cheapo horror films about avaricious Irish goblins made in 2003 date very quickly. Are they going to have the Leprechaun Tweeting or complaining about Obamacare? Ooh, handy!

Plus, having the WWE on board makes casting fairly simple:



So color me excited. By excited of course I mean mortified beyond belief.

Se7en

Before films like Zodiac and The Social Network earned him auteur buzz, David Fincher was an ex-music video director with a middling output, mixing a bleak visual style with hamfisted direction. Fight Club remains extremely divisive, and Alien 3 and Panic Room have few fans. Groggy will never forget The Game (1997), a carefully-constructed thriller sabotaged by a twist ending worthy of R.L. Stine.

The one early Fincher movie most people like is Se7en (1995), a grisly serial killer saga that tries to one-up The Silence of the Lambs in grotesquery. It's a slickly made genre product, with good acting and stylish direction covering a thin plot and shaky premise.

Grouchy old cop William Somerset (Morgan Freeman) and his testy new partner David Mills (Brad Pitt) investigate a series of gruesome homicides. A serial killer is targetting victims who have committed the Seven Deadly Sins, slaughtering them in appropriately grotesque fashion. Somerset and Mills cultivate a friendly relationship, though Somerset learns that Mills's wife Tracy (Gwyneth Paltrow) isn't exactly satisfied with life in the big city. Things take a bizarre turn when the killer (Kevin Spacey) turns himself in, hinting that there are further victims to uncover - saving the nastiest twist for last.

Se7en certainly gets points for style and atmosphere. Fincher and photographer Darius Khondji craft a memorably nasty atmosphere, a rotting city filled with bums, cockroaches and corpses. None of the murders are actually shown, but the hideous aftermaths (mutilated corpses, swarming bugs, hideous murder weapons) are disgusting enough. Individual set pieces work wonderfully, even if the internal logic is phony. On a visceral level, Se7en is extremely engrossing.

The surface gloss covers up a fairly shaky film. Fincer and writer Andrew Kevin Walker frame their intriguing premise in an implausible fashion; John Doe's Machiavellian tortures make the Joker look like a petty thug. Somerest and Mills' partnership plays like warmed-over Lethal Weapon, probably not the comparison a horror film desires. Even the ghoulish ending doesn't make much sense upon reflection: an innocent person dies, hence negating the killer's own rules. Its shock value, however, negates logical considerations.

Morgan Freeman is perfect for the world-weary Somerset, a far more interesting role than his poor man's Poitier schtick. On the other hand, Brad Pitt is supremely annoying. Pitt overacts like a 9th grade drama student, showing none of the subtlety or self-effacement of his recent turns. Kevin Spacey is wonderfully chilling, making his absurd villain almost believable. Gwyneth Paltrow registers strongly with minimal screen time. Strong support comes from R. Lee Ermey (Full Metal Jacket), Richard Roundtree (Shaft), John C. McGinley (Platoon) and Richard Schiff (TV's The West Wing).

Se7en is a well-made but fairly routine thriller. The movie requires more suspension of disbelief than your average sci-fi film, but on another level it's a morbidly engrossing spectacle.

Black Swan

Well, if I needed further proof that critics rarely know what the fuck they're talking about, here's Exhibit X. Black Swan, the latest Darren Aronofsky (The Wrestler) film, is a pile of derivative, feverishly-melodramatic drek. It will fill most people's quota for graphic lesbian sex, gratuitous gore and over-the-top silliness, but those desiring quality should look elsewhere.

Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman) is a seasoned ballet dancer who yearns for the big time. She lands the lead in a production of Swan Lake, ousting aging prima donna Beth (Winona Ryder) but her director Thomas (Vincent Cassel) fears she doesn't have the passion to play the seductive Black Swan. An additional problem surfaces when talented neophyte Lily (Mila Kunis) catches Thomas's eye, and Nina's success precipitates a rift with her overprotective mother (Barbara Hershey). Finally, Nina goes out of her mind and breaks down, her life becoming intermingled with the character she plays onstage. This not being The Diary of Anne Frank, rest assured this isn't a good thing.

Black Swan is a melange of ideas borrowed from better films. It uses every show biz cliche in existence, with scenes, characters and thematic conceits lifted wholesale from 42nd Street, All About Eve and The Red Shoes: the overly-friendly, scheming neophyte, the demanding director, the interweaving of a performer's life with their character. For some variety and questionable shock value, Aronofsky throws in giallo-esque body horror, weirdo fantasy scenes and some graphic sex. Yawn.

This would be fine had Aronofsky done something interesting with these cliches. After all, there are only so many original ideas under the sun, and a skilled artist can make old elements seem new. Black Swan, however, commits a double sin: not only does it regurgitate bits of other movies, it doesn't even have fun with its material. Everything is in deadly earnest, which is frankly stupid when the story and style is so feverishly overwrought and melodramatic. The sophomoric screenplay supplies mouthfuls of godawful dialogue: "Look how pretty!" says Nina, gaping moronically at a grapefruit. Character development is nonexistent, but to be fair it's hard to develop nonexistent characters to begin with. You can claim it's deliberately campy if you wish, but Aronofsky plays things absolutely straight, resulting in a movie that's nowhere near as fun, clever or dramatically powerful as it thinks it is.

Aronofsky's direction is equally uninspired. A few interesting concepts - Nina transforming into the swan onstage, Nina's mirror-bedecked foyer - are undermined by uninspired camera work, boring blocking and overuse of CGI. Visual ideas pilfered from Dario Argento and Mario Bava flicks (the talking paintings, Nina's mutilation fantasies) come off cheesy and overwrought. It doesn't help that Aronofsky resorts to the most cartoonish symbolism imaginable: ooh, Nina put a black top over her white one! Look her throw her stuffed animals in the garbage! Gag. And what the hell is with the goddamned shaky cam!?! Powell and Pressburger didn't need no shaky cam for their ballet movie!

Natalie Portman is the film's saving grace. Hers is a demanding performance, and Portman manages her character's monstrous personality change and descent into madness, even if the script doesn't. The supporting cast, however, is weak. Vincent Cassel shines in the Anton Walbrook role as the obsessive, sleazy director, but Mila Kunis is a one-note bad girl, Winona Ryder has nothing to do and Barbara Hershey's (The Stunt Man) character is ridiculous.

So yes, Black Swan isn't very good. It's not good horror, it's not good camp and it's not good melodrama. However, it just might make good fertilizer.