Beatniks, Nazis, AND Long Island!

Some remember 1964’s The Flesh Eaters as the first in a long and most likely neverending line of ‘gore films.’ Netflix, however, prefers to shout this as its selling point:

“the only film of its type made entirely on Long Island.” 

As a proud Suffolk countarian, I felt my duty to support. 

Quick Plot: A young couple are carelessly sunbathing on the Long Island Sound, mixing things up with a skinny dip that turns deadly.

Cue mysterious underwater menace with instrumental score!

Moving on, a boozy big name actress and her sensible personal assistant hire a rogue private plane pilot to get them a few states north. Moody weather causes an emergency landing on an almost deserted island, occupied only by a slithery German marine biologist and the titular hungry sea monsters.

Also, terrifying skeletons!

The Flesh Eaters is a simple tale that, for whatever reason, works fairly perfectly for what it is. The small cast helps to keep it completely focused, especially since disgruntled de-licensed pilot played by Byron Sanders is a far more interesting lead than so many bland pretty boys of the era. The effects generally come off as ridiculous and antiquated, but also adorable and quite ambitious for the time period and black and white limitations. There’s even a hilarious beatnik named Omar tossed in just to spice things up, and much like The Wire, a little Omar makes everything better.

High Points

As the maybe genius, maybe evil doctor, Martin Kosleck is rather glorious, radiating charisma in his vocal chords and sneer

Low Points

I’m writing this review a few weeks after watching and taking my notes on this film, but I don’t remember NOT enjoying anything about it. Sure, the film is slightly limited to certain conventions based on its time period, but otherwise, it’s perfectly fine

Lessons Learned

In 1964, the price for a slightly used life was precisely three times a regular salary

Yes, a gun will not work without bullets, but when there are more bullets to LOAD the gun, one still must exert caution with a villain

Having your flesh eaten hurts. Also, it glows

Stray Observations

Maybe I was just in a randy mood when watching this film, but there were an awful lot of lines that felt...um...just tell me if I’m reading too much into the following:

“I can assure you we are in for a good pounding.”

“Those tailwinds are still too rough for my ship.”

“Bring me my suitcase. The one with all my *night* things”

The Winning Line

“You’re very practical. And very exciting.”

Fan yourself ladies! We’re agreed that this is the hottest pickup ever, correct?

Rent/Bury/Buy

As much as I enjoyed The Flesh Eaters, the film is definitely still a product of its pre-Night of the Living Dead time. Hence, those with no interest in pre-modern horror may not be as amused. For others--particularly those who enjoy documenting the genre’s evolution--The Flesh Eaters is a fun little slice of history that shows early steps towards gore.

Plus, Strong Island represent!

Doin' the Kinski Crawl(space)

David Schmoeller is responsible for one of my favorite Doll’s House discoveries (Tourist Trap) and biggest failures (Netherworld). Forrest Gump might even liken the man’s style to a box of chocolates. As much as I hate biting into a hard fruit nougat, I’ll risk the disappointed tooth chip if there’s even the slightest chance I’ll discover coconut.

So in keeping with my chocolate theme (stay with me) let’s read the ingredients: Klaus Kinski. Nazi doctors. Instant Watch. 1986. 80 minutes.

I’ll bite.

Quick Plot: A pretty gnarly prologue follows a young woman discovering a room filled with a caged prisoner and implements of torture. Enter the Kinski. 

“It’s a shame. I liked you.”

Stab.

I’ll have another chocolate, please.

Kinski plays Karl Guenther, a creepy apartment landlord with a face that makes the Crypt Keeper cry. Despite his intense Kinskiness, Guenther somehow attracts the deposit of a seemingly intelligent (though an ill-advised haircut might suggest otherwise) grad student who needs a new room in order to escape her possibly vampiric previous neighbors. Or something.

Meanwhile, Kinski’s other female tenants have all sorts of fun. The token ‘80s blond plays rape games with her boyfriend and inexplicably ruins a perfectly good lacy bra by cutting out its nipples (listeners of GirlsOnFilm Radio know of my hatred of bra shopping. What is wrong with this woman?). A sassy Southahn brunette serves tequila milkshakes to her friends and another airhead tenant attempts to seduce a wealthy paramour by comparing him to her grumpy old uncle. Oddly enough, it only mildly ruins the mood.

Neat. The only thing of interest my neighbors do is sing along to gospel music at 6 in the morning on the weekends. My neighbors are awesome.

Guenther keeps tabs on his ladies by watching them from his titular crawlspace, a movie-big AC vent that connects throughout the whole building. Occasionally, he grabs a few almost Food of the Gods-sized rats to come for the ride and make the night more fun.

Secrets are revealed about Guenther’s not so pure past. At one point, he wears more makeup than Mickey Rooney in The Manipulator. At another, he’s luging through the vents with the best odd smile a man could make. All of this in just 80 minutes, why would you NOT queue it up?

High Points

Ah, Kinski. Even when performing subpar material, he simply remains such an incredibly odd enigma that warrants your total attention. It certainly helps that he actually seems to care, approaching genuinely sad resignation during his regular games of Russian Roulette

Low Points

So about 4 characters are murdered. Offscreen. That’s a shame.

Lessons Learned

After future pet DJ Chocolate Thunder, my next cat will be named Claws Kinski

Rich bachelors have difficulty staying in the mood with the distraction of mouse scurries

When hunting a man you suspect of multiple homicide, one should exert some form of caution

Rent/Bury/Buy

Holy Hitler this was a fun movie. Bizarre as what you’d imagine Kinski’s third grade art project looked like, with a quick pace that always offers something weird. The film is streaming on Netflix and at 80 minutes, is easily worth a quick watch. There are expensive and rare DVD and VHS copies floating around the NetherNets, but with its brisk pacing and slickness, this isn’t necessarily worth the big bucks. Though I could see revisiting it in the not so distant future, it also doesn’t quite climb into the pantheons of great gotta-own movies. Watch it with ease and happily await a real release.

Where's Mein Gold?

As you might guess from the title of this post, Nazi zombies have more in common with homicidal leprechauns than history textbooks tend to admit. And with that snappy intro, I give you Dead Snow.

Quick Plot:

A group of Norwegian medical students take a sure-to-be-doomed vacation in a snowy mountain cabin. Armed with beer and bad coffee, they revel in the typical young people-on-holiday-soon-to-be-atacked-by-R-rated-menace sort of way: snow mobiling to blasting music and sports channel editing, having sex in outhouses, and referencing the fact that they’re in the ideal situation for horror carnage.

And of course, they are, this time due to the unwelcome presence of buried Nazi soldiers with super strength, super speed, and an insatiable appetite for human flesh (Kosher or Aryan okay). Before you can say marzipan, our somewhat likable (nah; they’re all rather bland or annoying) human gang is whittled down in body parts and beating hearts. 

For whatever reason, filmmakers seem to pair Nazis and zombies like peanut butter and honey. Shockwaves, Blood Creek, Hard Rock Zombies (actually that’s not fair; the Nazis are responsible for the zombies, but the Germans of that classic big-hair ballad stick to eating themselves). On one hand, Dead Snow is simply another entry into a surprisingly packed subgenre filled with other familiar elements of cabin fever and pretty young people in peril (though to be meanly fair, the majority of the cast wouldn’t make it into the door of Melrose Place).

So plot and character-wise, Dead Snow is hardly innovative. At the same time, director Tommy Wirkola thankfully has a few new tricks up his thermal sleeves. After a been there, seen that opening act, the fun eventually picks up. The monster makeup looks great. The longer lifespanned humans demonstrate some spry self-defense and a few of the action sequences give us pleasantly icky twists. 

High Points

As I do a German folk dance around spoilers, allow my lederhosen to tear ever so suggestively with the compliment that the “final girl” twists were refreshingly new

Once Dead Snow gets kicking, there are some nifty gore-riffic moments that we haven’t really seen before, including a cliff-hanging via large intestines and a full-limb tear-off that calls to memory Captain Rhodes demise

Low Points

It’s personal taste (or lack thereof) but the rested metal soundtrack played during early montages made me feel cranky and old

Lessons Learned

Don’t be too surprised if your claustrophobic girlfriend isn’t turned on by you smothering her face with a couch pillow

On the other hand, pooping + slashers = huge turn on for select loose women

One more reason not to listen to heavy duty thrash metal: the volume turned up to 11 means your chance of hearing dying friends’ screams is below zero

Birds don’t respond to the human voice saying “ssshhh”

Rent/Bury/Buy

For the first 45 minute of Dead Snow, I felt a giant cloud of ‘meh’ floating over me. There just wasn’t quite enough promise to lift my expectations above “this is it?” territory, but once the mayhem started rolling, I genuinely had fun. Much like the recent I Sell the Dead, Dead Snow is an earnest and well-made horror film that never really rocked me, but was entertaining in a refreshingly 21st century with a hint of ‘80s throwback kinda way. This is the type of film that easily warrants a direct-to-DVD sequel, but doesn’t necessarily earn a $15 for a purchase. Rent it with friends and a case of Heineken.

Clip your coupons & make your will...

There was a time in my past when six hours spent in a shopping mall was just about the most incredibly magical way a Saturday could be spent. Thankfully, I'm no longer a 14 year old suburbanite and now dedicate weekends to more noble pursuits (such as watching gems like Jack Frost 2 and The Stabilizer) and reserve department store excursions solely for updating zombie survival blueprint plans. While I wouldn't mind shuffling my way past Cinnabon and Game Stop free of charge during martial law, a shopping spree now seems more odious than a dentist's appointment in October.

So rather than haul myself to Macy's for the yet-to-be-started holiday shopping, I'm spending my Friday Pop Syndicate column browsing a few great (and not-so-good) horror titles set in...you know. Where the dead go when hell gets crowded on Black Friday.

Come for a read and stay for the Orange Julius.

Otherwise you face the wrath of Nazi made toad-eating elves. And really, who needs that when you haven't even begun wrapping?

My Lait Reavyoo Ov Ingaloorius Basstreds, a Philm Bye Kwenten Tarrenteenoe

Whenever someone discusses a Quentin Tarantino film, it seems necessary to first explain what your general take on the world’s most successful video store clerk is. Some hurl bolts of expletives at the sharp chinned auteur, labeling him a copycat just surfing his way to the top of Hollywood on waves of 70s Asian cinema influence. Others declare him to be the second coming of Orson Welles, a true genius with a handle of actors, camerawork, and dialogue unlike any filmmaker of the last fifty years.


I’ll take the middle road on the big QT question. I acknowledge that he did indeed influence--if not completely redirect--the status of film in the late 90s. I get a huge kick out of Kill Bill Volume 1 and an even deeper, more thoughtful enjoyment of Volume 2, but while there’s a lot in Pulp Fiction that makes me smile, there are also stretches of dialogue that feel far too indulgent for my tastes. Ultimately, I’ll always respect and usually enjoy a QT film, but I have my issues with him.


I wasn’t too sure how to approach his latest film, particularly since I’d heard such heaps of praise that would make Eli Roth blush blood red. So with an armful of heart attack happy popcorn, I made my way into the theater two weeks after the successful opening of Inglareouse Bastirdz.


Quick Plot: World War II is upon us, and who knew it was so much fun? Well, at least for one secretive band of American banshees, the titular Basterds who prowl through Europe with one goal and one goal only: kill Nahzees, whether by baseball bat, gun shot, or shame. Meanwhile, a smart young French Jew (Melanie Laurent as Shosanna/Emmanuelle) who survived a terrifying Nazi raid on her family plots a grand attack on the high command of the SS, who have made plans to attend the premiere of a German war film being held in her cinema. Their stories interact (indirectly) when Diane Kruger enters the picture as a double agent actress helping the Allies. Weaved through everyone’s tale is the incredible Christoph Waltz (best actor at Cannes), aka Hans “The Jew Hunter” Landa who earned his nickname with his unique brand of intelligence, charm, and pure soullessness.

Ingelawreos Bastrds is a blast. Not a perfect one by any means, but certainly QT’s most disciplined film that still manages to entertain in as-big-as-you-can get style. Some scenes--such as the hold-your-breath opening and Landa’s strudel sharing with Shosanna--offer incredibly tense moments of suspense, while others--including the Basterds attempts to speak Eye-talian--are funnier than most comedies released on screen in recent years. The storyline itself is quite well-presented, with a nice balance between the slower moments of Shosanna’s plotting with the insane hijinks of the Basterds bashing in a few skulls. It’s an excellent script with near perfect execution.


High Points
There’s not a bad performance in the bunch, which is quite a feat when nearly every main actor takes big risks with their work. Brad Pitt’s lieutenant amuses with every curl of his lip, Melanie Laurent’s understated take on vengeance adds much needed heart, and Christoph Waltz’s SS officer has terrifying charisma that would make Hannibal Lector choke on fava beans

I have a pet peeve with films that take place in other countries, are recorded for English speaking audiences, yet insist on using regional accents. It makes no sense. Inglorious Basterds, with its quatralingual dialogue, gets it right by simply letting its characters speak the language they would be speaking, thereby respecting the audience enough to give us the right presentation


I listened to one review that claimed Engloereaouse Baztirds had a misogynist undertone in how it ultimately treated its females. I would completely disagree; while neither Bridget or Shoshana have fairy tale endings, they both are portrayed as strong, determined, and intelligent women whose fates are not unrealistic to the choices they make. It's actually quite refreshing

Maybe you've noticed, but the brutal abuse of titular spelling has allowed me great joy at finding new ways to write the words "Imbloreous Bazztrds"


Low Points
Samuel L. Jackson’s narration gave the audience a nice little wink, but considering its obvious placement, it felt a little too much like QT trying to insert his signature right smack in the middle of the film


I know that Tarantino’s soundtracks tend to receive loads of sales and snobbish music experts’ haughty approval, but too many of his choices--opening on Beethoven’s most commercially used sonata, for example--felt too recognizable and pulled me out of the story


Lessons Learned
Old film reels are highly flammable


When eating strudel, wait for the cream

French people respect directors


Germans signal the number 3 in a different manner than Brits and Americans


If male and drinking in a European tavern, always assume there is a gun pointed at your testicles

See/Skip/Sneak In
You owe it to yourself to see this film, as it’s most likely to remain the most discussed theatrical release of the summer. Plus, you know...it’s fun. And genuinely a great movie. Yes, it’s a tad long and sure, it takes more liberties with history than Philip Roth or Hard Rock Zombies could ever dream, but you will leave the theater with a hearty dose of impressive filmmaking, fascinating acting, and an extremely involving story more than deserving of your $12.

Un Chien Nihiliste

Many films are broken by poor narration--woe be to Diary of the Dead, which can function as a good movie if you ignore the monotone rambling of an incredibly unlikable character--but every once in a while, the right voiceover can open a story to new depths. Dexter would lose a lot of dry wit without Michael C. Hall's briilliantly honest musings, and Fight Club's rabid punch would be much softer were Edward Norton not such a linguistically gifted insominiac. Nobody likes hearing dull speakers recapping their autobiographies; the same goes for a bland performer underscoring the events of a film plot.


Since film is primarily a visual medium, narration must also be justified by the needs of a story. The studio cut of Blade Runner is such an abomination because Decker never seems to be the kind of man to articulate his feelings, much less ramble on about them for an unseen audience to share. On the other hand, The Prestige plays with a diary reading, Cockney speaking Christian Bale as he ties Hugh Jackman's magician in knots and advances the plot along the way.

Thankfully Baxter, a 1989 French thriller (of sorts) utilitzes one of the most refreshing and necessary narrators of recent film history: a sociopathic, philosophically minded, and positively adorable bull terrier that may or may not have been the European answer to the all American, Bud-Lite swilling Spuds McKenzie.


Quick Plot: With the Camus-esque voice of Maxime Leroux, Baxter tells us how he has always been fascinated by human beings. Soon he is plucked from a dog shelter and placed with an elderly, not overly canine-friendly woman who can't decide what to think about her underwear-sniffing companion. Baxter, however, is fairly sure how he feels: he loathes his new madam for her bland lifestyle (best represented by her sterile odor) and wastes little time finding a replacement family in the young, amorous couple next door. It's a dog's life until the arrival of a weak, disgusting creature commonly referred to as the baby. Luckily for Baxter, a young boy in desperate need of a best friend lives nearby. The typical game of fetch and obstacle course adventure follow cheerfully and it seems that our purebred has finally found his soulmate...except, of course, said soulmate happens to be a budding Hitler afficionado already constructing a neighborhood replica of the Fuhrer's suicide bunker.

I've met dogs like Baxter--usually, they're shiba inus, chows, or some other beatuiful but aloof breed--and, as someone who spent a few years working in the dog industry can say, I wouldn't put it past some canines to spout off Sartre or muse about the importance of discipline during their generous spare time. While I truly believe that most dogs want nothing more than a scratch on the belly and a bowl of kibble, there are certainly exceptions. Observe a police dog interacting with his master and you'll notice little affection but serious respect. There are indeed animals that prefer the latter. Personally, I'll keep my lick-happy lab mix, but damned if I'm not thoroughly fascinated and impressed by the complexities of the Baxters in the world.

High Points
The choice of a bull terrier as the lead is perfect: as dogs go, they have the capacity to do serious damage, but those petite bodies and oversized football heads (they always remind me of the Canadian South Park residents) add such a unique cuteness to their overall impression that it's easy to sympathize immediately with our antihero

Young Francois Driancourt's performance as Charles is thoroughly unsettling


Baxter's self-loathing during a sex scene (no doggie style jokes, please) is just plain hysterical


Low Points
Some of the human drama, including a typical teenage rebellion, fall a little flat when all we really want is to hear Baxter's observations


Lessons Learned
Telling a girl she looks like Eva Braun will get you some L-O-V-I-N', at least in 1980s France

Pavlov knew his shit


For a typical French teenager, the death of four puppies is far more tragic and unforgivable than the death of 6 million Jews


The Itching Flea Question
I had some hesitations about watching this movie as I fall into that ridiculously unbalanced demographic of people who can stomach monsters ripping open human stomachs but get teary eyed and offended at the slightest suggestion of animal violence. There is a small amount of dog attackage in Baxter, but thankfully, the editing makes it fairly clear that no bull terriers were harmed badly while filming. In terms of the story, the dog is portrayed as such an animorphosized character that you don't really look at him the same way as say, Will Smith's dream shepherd in I Am Legend. The best example of this comes during Baxter's Baby Plan: as you watch, consider where your sympathies lie and if and how they change.

Rent/Bury/Buy
Sadly this DVD is rather empty, with no special features explaining how many pups played Baxter or what happened to disturbingly good child actor Driancourt. Still, it's a wonderfully weird and unsettling film that's unlike anything I've ever seen. You probably won't recognize anybody involved with the production, but Baxter--a favorite of camp king John Waters--is certainly something to remember.

France: The Final Frontier(s)

Of all the historical villains in recent history, it's hard to top Nazis when it comes to real-life monsters. Anybody that's watched a beauty pageant should know that white confidence is scary, and who's more confident in their own genes than Hitler's loyal fans? Retired Nazis are even more disturbing. What does a zealot--in this case, one with the religion of Aryan superiority--do when his or her cause has been defeated?


In the case of Frontier(s), you move to the French countryside, start procreating to produce very tall children, bait wayward travelers and cook some human flesh. The fact that France is now a fascist state in violent turmoil is just gravy.


Our hero/victims are a young group of thieves on the run: a shy Muslim, an obnoxious bleach job straight out of a teen sex comedy, a gun-waving angry guy, his pregnant ex-girlfriend and her bleeding brother. After a botched robbery and even botchier ER stop, the youths split up and set for the border, eventually reuniting at the kind of roadside inn that makes Motel Hell look like a five star resort (okay, maybe just a Best Western with free HBO). Two hostesses--one seemingly escaped from a haute couture runway, the other with more blond rage than Daryl Hannah's Kill Bill stunt double-- offer/demand carnal credit as an appetizer to what turns into a full family meal. The only real drawback is that said family includes a psychotic Third Reich exile and his gargantuan sons.

Frontier(s) follows a long, sometimes illustrious but more often low-rent tradition of hillbilly horror. Terrible things happen to our young cast, some of which is suspenseful and all of which is plain nasty. Recent years have shown that if there's one thing the French do well that isn't croissants, it's blood-soaked slashery flicks. From unique classics (Inside) to deeply flawed yet well-made gorefests (High Tension), French horror is stomping on the roses of Uncle Sam's turf and using the thorns to slowly bleed anyone that gets in the way (at least in the PG13 version; anything stronger usually involves more attacks on genitalia or filleting in the style of the Iron Chef). Frontier(s) is, in the modern definition, your fairly standard torture porn, but it's certainly worth its weight in guts and bones. And let's face it: fertile Nazis make nasty patriarchs.

High Points
A tunnel crawl chase makes the best use of claustrophobia since The Descent


From the vertically gifted family to leading lady Karina Testa, the actors attack their roles with energy and intrigue

The final imagery of our heroines has a paper dollish quality that adds beauty to extreme horror


Low Points
The political backdrop tries to set a chaotic mood, but it's lost too quickly once the predictable cannibal craze kicks in

The middle female child seems to have boiling resentment that's never explored


Call me greedy, but one or two quick glimpses at deformed mine-dwelling children just doesn't satisfy my appetite


Lessons Learned
When fleeing an isolated home at the end of the road, do not jump into the first car you see that's heading in the very direction you just crawled through pig shit to escape from


Nazis will honor last requests with promptness and efficiency


If you knock out one racist murderer with two very large and equally racist brothers, always remember that gloating just buys time for the next one to come along


French hospitals are not particularly hospitable


Rent/Bury/Buy
Rent: It's a definite horror experience, but I don't see Frontier(s) having a strong re-watchability factor. My Netflix disc was rather barebones, and while the gore is unique and refreshingly rough, the plot offers little innovation or food (of the non-human kind) for thought. I would love to see a prequel that allows for a more creative storyline rather than the by-the-numbers backwoods massacre formula that seems to be required of a film of this type. I'm certainly intrigued to see director Xavier Gens' next foray; let's home he keeps the executions but finds a new buildup.