We're Going To Eat You (And You're Going To Like It)

A quick note: This is a review I wrote on March 12th of 2009 yet somehow forgot to press "publish" on Blogger because gosh darnit, I'm not quite the sharpest knife in the wooden knife holder. Anyway, it felt odd and dishonest to just say that I recently watched this film, so consider this vint-ahge.

Any movie titled We're Going To Eat You is pretty much bound to be fantastic. Notice how, despite the exploitationy name, there's no exclamation point? This movie is so confident in itself, it doesn't need overreaching punctuation.


Also, it's set on an island populated by hungry cannibals equipped with superior martial arts skills and tons of creativity. Hence, Hark Tsui's 1980 Hong Kong horror/action film qualifies as a classic. Still not sold? Let's throw in creepy masks, an amorous seven foot tall drag queen, multiple dismemberments, and a character who rolls a loose cigarette on a fellow combatant's head in the middle of a tussle.


You must see this movie.


Quick Plot: On a remote island village, the mostly male population has taken up a seemingly very tasty cannibal diet, much to the chagrin of Rolex (Melvin Wong), the right-hand man of the town's lonely but aggressive police chief (Eddie Ko). Enter a petite and graceful thief (Kwok Choi Hon) and Agent 999 (Norman Chu), a Never Nude pretty boy with pretty fierce fighting skills. 999 is on a mission to capture the fugitive Rolex, which proves to be quite difficult when the island's well-trained security force just wants some foreign cuisine.

The story is nonsense but the ride is divine. One thing that director Tsui does well is pacing: while some of the fight scenes go on longer than they need to, our focus is constantly alternating between a nice selection of wacky and fairly sympathetic characters. Thus, we never tire of seeing Agent 999 elude creepily masked madmen, a lascivious lady attempting to seduce a puny pickpocket half her size, or the townspeople feasting on the latest kill. The story movies and we just hang on.


High Points
The police chief's sensitivity while reading Oedipus Rex and tearing up over his lack of friends is just plain adorable

A bitchin' soundtrack includes a fitting contribution from Goblin


All the performances are a riot, but little Kwok Choi Hon steals the show as the tiny but tough vagrant with magnificent moxie


Low Points
While everything about his movie made me happy, I suppose I could quibble with the blood, which was thinner than Crystal Lite


A near tango scene during a viscous hand-to-hand battle is a tease


Lessons Learned
A basket of ducks, when used poorly, is a poor weapon


The best way to defeat a martial arts master is to hope that he eventually falls on a blade or stray piece of sharp bamboo


Syphilis is not a turnoff for a gigantress


Chain smoking will not affect your endurance


Stray Observation

The security guards' masks resemble the weirdly costumed background dancers who appear during Bette Midler's Broadway debut scene in 1988's Beaches. Did I just lose any horror cred by referencing the film that showcases The Wind Beneath My Wings?

Winning Line
"I'll feed you my farts!"
'Nuff said.


Rent/Bury/Buy
Despite the lack of special features, this DVD belongs in every home. I've never been a big fan of martial arts, but the work here is both beautiful and hilarious, from the savage opening to the um, hearty ending. An example of the awesomeness: my DVD skipped briefly, and the next thing I know, half the cast is on roller skates. A part of me is fairly confident that there was no actual explanation for this. That's the kind of movie this is. Brilliant fun and complete randomness. In other words, a classic in every sense of the word.

Help Me...Kill the Fly(s)

It may be cooling down up here in New York, but tell that to the sudden gang of musca domestica currently loitering in my apartment. Following an unsuccessful (though quite inglorious) lecture to my cats in my Lt. Aldo Raine voice, I spent about two hours swatting my walls with more fervor than Homer Simpson on Wacking Day. 

Naturally, this early hunting season got me thinking about where these winged little monsters fit in the realm of horror cinema. Since most don’t bite or have photogenic faces, the choices are not surprisingly limited but still, I submit my list:

Psycho

Who can forget the iconic last scene of Hitchcock’s classic, the grandmother of all slashers? Tucked under a blanket, a now catatonic Norman Bates stares ahead as a housefly buzzes around the head leased out to the spirit of his overbearing mother. Sure, she’s not a fan of hygienic blonds, but I guarantee you’ll never find Mama Bates’ fingerprints on a swatter.

The Fly 1958

If I were to make a list of the most disturbing scenes of all time, you can bet a beehive that the final moment of  Kurt Neuman's sci-fi horror classic would edge out any 70s midnight gang rape or scatological torture fest. There’s something that never fails to send sharp chills up my spine every time I see that closeup of a man-fly mummified in a silky spider web, shrieking in terror as a magnified arachnid approaches its prey. Is it the Munchkin-like plea for help? The fuzzy detail on the predator’s eight-eyed face? Or the mere fact that poor Andre Delambre’s best case scenario is to be crushed to death by a rock. Whatever the answer, those 45 seconds remain a nightmare, no matter how many legs you have.

The Lost

...and speaking of disturbing films...

This 2005 adaptation of Jack Ketchum’s novel is essentially a character study of one charismatic, insecure, attention craving psychopath. If you didn’t get that Ray Pye  was a human monster by the opening scene (where he guns down two innocent females simply because they may or may not be lesbians), then leave it to those pesky parasites to cue us in. Like a taller Pigpen with a shotgun license, Pye is constantly followed by an entourage of insects. We never actually see the flies, but a sublte, yet definitely audible buzz accompanies Pye throughout the film, particularly when his unstable blood seems to boil. There's no explanation for the sound, but the decision sends a clear message about the sheer wrongness of a man about to explode like an exterminator's flea bomb.

Phenomena

Before she danced with the Goblin King or survived Russel Crowe's mood swings, a teenaged Jennifer Connelly starred in this 1986 low fat giallo directed by Dario Argento, where she played a lonely exchange student whose only real friends are Donald Pleasance, his pet monkey, and creepy crawlers. While trying to survive a snooty prep school and solve a few murders, Connelly keeps her whithering sanity by smiling at the kind of things we normally step on. You may remember the striking movie poster and cover art where Connelly's face is half covered by (drum roll) flies! You'd think this would be a major scare factor of the film, but the spiders, wasps, and other multi-appendaged creatures play only a supporting role, occasionally making quick appearances to help our heroine navigate through murder scenes and elude a psychotic murderer. It's an interesting red herring of sorts in one of Argento's restrained, yet very solid little film.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Despite the presence of Paul Reubens, Rutger Hauer, and future Oscar winner/90210 regular HIlary Swank Josh Whedon’s first foray with California’s favorite undead huntress is, to put it simply, not good. So why does it make this (admittedly reaching-for-straws) list? Mostly because it contains a trick I've dreamed of carrying out: spitting a thumb tack at a wall and impaling a fly in the process. Sure, there are other ways to impress your friends or principal--like earning good grades or crushing beer cans on your head--but getting Dwight Gooden-like aim with a lethal pushpin? That's the true path to popularity.

The Fly 1986

You'll often find Cronenberg's doomed love story/ickily frightening classic battling John Carpenters's The Thing for best remake of all time, and rightfully so. Few films occupying the horror shelf contain such a perfect combination of sadness and terror and not surprisingly, we can put all the blame squarely on those flying black bodied buzzers. Just like its predecessor, this version features an earnest--if also romantically insecure--scientist attempting to teleport himself, only to be hampered by one tiny stowaway with a dynamic combination of DNA. Rather than the wacky trading places of the original, Jeff Goldblum's Seth Brundle and the unnamed insect get to mesh. After some parallel bar hijinks to rival Kevin Bacon's Footloose gymnast routine, Brundle's body morphs into a 6' tall oozing, sugar eating/regurgitating/eating again creature that can neither keep its dangly parts nor shake its love of leggy auburn haired journalists. Favorite fly-ish moments? Tough call. Is it Geena Davis' nightmarish childbirth scene that makes women around the world turn down any advances coming from a man with coarse body hair? Goldblum's heartbreaking self discovery about becoming a fly who dreamed that he was a man? The best arm wrestling scene of all time (said as I duck punches from the Hands of Steel). All are remarkable enough, but for me, it's that final moment where a now unrecognizable Brundle stares into the barrel of a shotgun held by the weeping Davis, his inhuman eyes saying everything his nonexistant tongue now can't.

Mosquitoes may have their bites and bees their stingers, but for now, let's take comfort in the shortened life cycle of the annoying, if harmless housefly. And Hollywood, take note: when I'm reaching into the pocket of Kristy Swanson's Buffy, you know you need to start making more films.

Yes, Virginia, There Is a Film About a Killer Bed

Where does one even start when reviewing a film about a killer bed called, innovatively enough, Death Bed: The Bed That Eats? Is this the utmost proof that if something exists, a horror film can be made of it? That anything you touch can indeed try to kill you? Could it have inspired M. Knight Shayamalon to villainize the wind in the recent bucket of festering feces The Happening or have made Stephen King say, “you know what nobody’s done? Wrote a story about a killer laundromat, that’s what!”


I. Don’t. Know.


A good deal of the not-so-high number of people that have seen Death Bed learned about it from comedian Patton Oswalt’s rant. Here, Oswalt discusses how the mere existence of such a film means that anything is possible when it comes to film. Why is he having trouble finishing a screenplay if someone not only dreamt, but wrote, directed, edited, and ultimately distributed a movie about a homicidal piece of furniture? His point is valid (and actually inspirational), even if he does in fact misremember the title as Death Bed: The Bed That Eats People...largely inaccurate since we will soon learn that the Death Bed has the non-picky palate comparable only to Homer Simpson.

Quick Plot: The ghost of a painter is trapped behind one of his paintings, but he seems okay enough with this as he tells us the story of the Death Bed, his own murderer that sleeps, snores, and, of course, eats a few feet away from him in an abandoned stone house in the middle of the woods. Occasionally, a horny couple armed with that aphrodisiac bottle of wine and bucket of fried chicken may stop by, allowing Beddy Bye-Bye to pull their bodies inside its yellow bile interior and dissolve their flesh. Sometimes this act of breakfast is followed with a hearty dose of Pepto Bismol.

Eventually, our main characters??? pull up to house sit and are pleased to find that the large king-sized bed will fit three. I won’t go into too much detail on character, since the three women have no discernible ones to be found. There’s the driver, Diane, who seems sassy by Lampchop standards. Her friend, Sharon, whose crimped butt-length hair makes Locks of Love salivate and Suzan, Diane’s insecure co-worker who frets about existing and thankfully dies first.

Yes, they die, with little variation in style (Beddy is a bit of a one trick pony). In case you haven’t guessed it yet, this is a pretty damn bad film. What’s more interesting, or not, is just how oddly bad a bad movie Death Bed is. For one thing, none of the characters--or maybe actors--seem capable of actually speaking to one another. Nearly 98% of the film is done in voiceover, with one woman musing about how annoying she finds the other, the artist narrating with puffy snobbery, or Sharon (who is apparently a runaway, which sadly is far less interesting than it sounds)’s brother trying to figure out what may be going on. The 80 minute runtime feels far longer than seems possible, and it all ends with the discovery that in order to kill a death bed, one must revive the non-rotting corpse of a fair maiden that resembles your sister and have sex with it. Or something.


High Points
The montage of Beddy’s past victims, though not particularly well done, is not without humor. Bonus points for the old woman’s magazine choice (“Oral Lesbians”) and the fugitives poker game, featuring what may be the first time a film character shoots bath suds after getting dealt the world’s best grammatically questionable hand: Haha. You. Are. Dead. No Joker!


Whether it was meant for scares or laughs, what happens to the male character’s hands when he reaches inside the bed’s biley insides is pretty much fantastic

Low Points
I wouldn’t expect great audio quality, but the lack of subtitles makes it sometimes impossible to understand anything being said


When I said the characters don’t talk to each other, I really wasn’t kidding

Lessons Learned
One should remove all necklaces before going to sleep if not planning on being strangled by a bed

Sheets can make great lassos, but pillows are rather lazy accomplices

We may not know if androids dream of electric sheep, but Death Bed has taught us that demonic beds dream of spinning newspaper headlines chronicling their takeover of major cities


A great mustache does not a great actor make


Winning Line
“This place looks clean for having been abandoned so long. I hope there’s not a maniac around.”
Because maniacs are highly regarded for their impeccable homemaking skills


Rent/Bury/Buy
My recommendation for Death Bed will be in the same vein as my advice on Mahakaal, the Bollywood version of Nightmare On Elm Street. It’s not good enough to be worthy of your time or money, but if the very idea that this film actually exists fascinates you, you kind of have no choice but to rent it. The lone special feature is an interview with filmmaker George Barry, who does give a pretty intriguing back story to the film’s release. Watch if you must, but don’t say I didn’t warn you (that this is indeed a film about a bed that eats people).

Take Me Down To the Nightmare City (where the zombies are mean and they sure ain't pretty)

Few sub-genres have such a vast range in quality as zombie cinema. From the satirically brilliant Dawn of the Dead and modern panorama of the apocalypse in 28 Days Later to the straight-to-not-even-good-enough-for-the-SyFy-channel vaults of homemade horror, documenting the undead is truly a toy for any filmmaker. It’s only fitting that George Romero’s black-and-white classic belongs to the world in the realm of public domain.


When it comes to shamblers, life truly is a box of chocolately brains; you really never know what you’re going to get. Hence, it was with some trepidation that I approached Umberto Lenzi’s Nightmare City, a 1980 entry into the Italian zombie canon. While I enjoy my share of 70s spaghetti guts with a large dollop of mozzarella, I rarely find them to actually scare me on any genuine level.


And thus, with some raised expectation and more than a little doubts, I sat down for some old school zombi action, courtesy of Mr. Lenzi's dubbed bloodfest. I was not disappointed.


Quick Plot: Journalist Dean Miller (Hugo Stiglitz, no visible resemblance to the Inglorious Basterd) arrives at a landing strip to interview a big shot scientist. Instead, an unidentified plane arrives and the military surrounds it with guns aimed. The doors open and a few grayish men stumble outside, followed by some messily rotted faced sprinters who quickly tear their way into the fleshy army, eating, stabbing, and shooting every human (save for the conveniently immune reporter) in their path.

What follows is a typical genre film, but with a mix of added bonuses that make it hold up with grisly glee thirty years after Nightmare City’s premiere. I don’t know that this is the first appearance of running zombies, but they make their mark like Olympians with high doses of national pride. Some massacres are committed with extra servings of cheese--like the televised aerobics attack, which features leotards, dubbed New Yawk accents, and, just because, several pairs of bare breasts. Other moments contain true suspense and enough horror to keep the audience holding their breaths.


That being said, Nightmare City is not without its flaws. Upon watching a 13 minute interview with Lenzi (the sole extra on my DVD), I realized that these “zombies”--much like the infected of 28 Days Later--are not actually supernaturally undead, but are meant to be products of a radiation leak. I may not have been paying close enough attention to get this bit the first time around, which, in hindsight, makes the very setup of the film much more interesting than the common zombie flick. There is some attempt to provide a government/military angle to the story, but it never really takes us anywhere. At the same time, there is a splattering of characters set throughout the city, few of whom earn enough of our sympathies to let us care about their fates. Then again, any film that provides a zombie priest wielding a mean altar candle gets my seal of approval.

High Points
The first attack is shocking, fast-paced, and actually scary


Kudos for utilizing a roller coaster in a unique and disturbing shot

Low Points
After hearing Lenzi’s explanation of his zombie look, the rotting roasted marshmallow look makes sense, but during the film, they just kind of seem crunchy


The whole “Oh thank God it’s you!” moment, followed by the ‘you’ being a fresh-faced zombie about the chomp his or her way through the daft human works fine the first time, but by the fifth or so repeat it gets a tad predictable


Lessons Learned
Contrary to what nearly any other film would like you to believe, climbing your way up a rope is not nearly as easy as it looks


Zombies are not fans of modern art


To avoid copying Romero-isms, use synonyms like “bullets can damage the cranium” in place of common phrases like “Shoot it man, shoot it in the head”

It is quite possible to shoot a man’s arm off and beat someone to death with a broom


Nurses are well-versed in evolutionary patterns and the consequences of entering the Age of the Robot, but also subscribe to many superstitions about vampires. And, most importantly, they’re quite talented when it comes to freshening up with the right lipstick in the middle of a citywide cannibalistic massacre


Nobody in Italy wears a bra


Rent/Bury/Buy
Although the extras are limited, Nightmare City will probably find its way into my personal DVD collection should I find it at the right price. This is not the most horrifying 70s zombie film of all time, nor is it laughably enjoyable. It’s a solid, scary, and unusual take on what quickly became a tired genre.

This Is a Dark Ride

As we pack away the bermuda shorts and citronella candles to welcome crispy autumn, there’s one summer institution that I’ll be slightly sad to watch hibernate: amusement parks. Sure, lucky Californians and other citizens get yearlong access to large scale outdoor playgrounds, but for those of us that must abide by Mother Nature’s mood swings, a mobile carnival that sets up in a supermarket parking lot is a temporary joy. 

Thankfully, like so many venues of our dimension, there are plenty of horror films that help to keep alive (and sometimes, undead) the memories of rickety ferris wheels, questionable carnies, and possessed bumper cars (that’s what Herbie: Fully Loadedwas about, yes?).

If you’ve seen the trailer for Zombieland (and let’s face it: if you’ve been anywhere near a movie theater or Internet connection, you’ve seen the trailer for Zombieland)then like me, you’re itching for the promising marriage of roller coasters  and cannibalism. For a brainy appetizer, check out Umberto Lenzi’s Nightmare City. While it doesn’t answer the question of whether zombies throw their arms in the air when descending down a big drop or if they take a good picture via those seizure-inducing photo flashes, this 1980 classic does does provide a nifty chase up my favorite staple of vintage theme parks, a wooden roller coaster (and by chase, I mean actual chase; these roasted marshmallow headed ghouls can run). A truly horrifying ending demonstrates what happens should the teenage ride operator not check your safety harness (20+ years before Final Destination 3 gave us grisly details. 

Roller coasters not your thing? There’s still plenty of rides that can instill insane levels of fear in under 2 minutes. Child’s Play 3 boasts one  of those unrealistically extravagant funhouses only seen in cinema. Motorized cars take you on a herky jerky spin through a maze of foamy gargoyles. The ride itself is hardly terrifying, but its physical setup--which includes 20 foot drops over mini-van sized fans--makes for the perfect grounds for soul possessing and doll hunting. Pity the poor maintenance man who has to patrol that death trap.

Appropriately enough, a more believable funhouse can be found in a film I’ve discussed here before, Tobe Hooper’s The Funhouse. This 1981 slasher is set in a weekend carnival overflowing with stale popcorn and ex-cons (the type of three day event my lax fire department sponsored every August). Best of all, its titular attraction is perfectly decrepit and looks like it’s already hosted the deaths of countless ticket holders, much less the naughty teens whose demise will follow.

Maybe you prefer stationary entertainment at your evening fair. Many a carnival goer enjoys some of the live shows offered, although unless your ticket says Disney or Dollywood, the odds are fairly high that you won’t be clamoring for autographs at the end of the show. Still, give Tod Browning some credit for amassing a real-life collection of sideshow workers in 1932’s Freaks. From giggly pinheads to limbless crawlers, this group doesn’t seem to rival Cirque de Soleil, but damnit if they don’t throw kickass parties. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that their boss gives them enough time off to occasionally deform anyone who disrespects one of their own. An alternative black-and-white after hours entertainment can be found in the German expressionist classic, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, where a somnobulist brings the house down by predicting the date of your death. Fun for the whole family!

For less authentic performers, visit Victor Salva’s Clownhouse, where a trio of mental patients escape the big house to kill and impersonate three bitter circus clowns. Sure, the whole chasing-three-teenagers-and-trying-to-kill-them thing is wrong, but what’s even worse is the actual clowns’ performance ettiquette. Dancing around like--well, clowns--they please the local kids fine enough, but why when it comes to choosing a volunteer, why does Cheezo the leader grab our young protagonist against his will? If a boy stares into your painted eyes with a look of true terror, shaking his head at your extended gloved hand, is it really wise to grab his clammy right and throw him in the center ring? You’re just asking for a kick in the nuts. The strangulation and identity theft? Not completely undeserved. 

Speaking of clowns, one can’t discuss theme parks without a wistful visit to Killer Klowns From Outer Space. A neon tent rivals Las Vegas’ Circus Circus and a drop down ball pit lands you in the Playboy Bunny mansion of rainbow headed jesterettes. Best of all is the prime selection of artery clogging food. I’ve seen my share of candy apples and fried oreos, but that’s nothing compared to the klowns’ selection of 4’ long blood-stuffed cotton candy, monster-making popcorn, and acidic cream pies that will melt even the surliest of night security guards.

Finally, to bid proper adieu to summer days and snow cones, stop by the hauntingly barren landscape of rigged games, flea ridden stuffed animals, and loose screwed rides in 28 Weeks Later. Sure, Carnival of Souls gets plenty of ghostly points for its artistic eeriness, but there’s something sad and understated about a carousel so clean of children’s laughter and motion sickness vomit. 

Have I missed any? Throw in your vote for best use of a tilt-a-whirl, haunted house, deep fryer, or any other treat found only inside those non-permanent gates of traveling fun.

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.

Someone Left the Satanists In the Devil's Rain

Having just started reading Brian Keene’s The Conqueror Worms, I enthusiastically queued up this month’s Final Girl Film Club pick, The Devil’s Rain, fresh in the mood for some truly terrifying precipitation.


Okay, who am I kidding? With Ernest Borgnine headlining the movie poster wearing a satanic priest’s robe and ram horns, plus the promise of a doughily shirtless, sideburn styling, prominent belt buckle wearing William Shatner, I knew exactly what I was in for. This 1974 Robert Fuest helmed horror emits a powerfully pungent odor of deliciously aged cheese from the opening credits to the gooey end. Know your limit for lactose tolerance before indulgence.


Quick Plot (if that’s what you can call it): A promisingly haunting credit sequence features creepy medievalish hell paintings, guttural moans, a set of disembodied ears holding a butcher knife, and one of the oddest listings I’ve ever seen: Technical Advisor: Anton Szandor Lavey, High Priest of the Church of Satan. I don’t know what technicalities Lavey advised on, but you Satanists should not be proud. No offense to Satanists; it’s just a really bad film.

Next, we jump into a dark and stormy night where Shatner awaits the return of his soon-to-be-melted father bearing a message to return the book to Corbus. If that makes no sense to you who haven’t seen the film, it makes about 3% more to me, and I watched the whole thing. Then again, I also missed John Travolta’s two second film debut as a waxy faced Satanist, so maybe I’m just not nearly as intelligent as Fuest’s intended audience.

Shat adjusts his cowboy hat and bravely heads into a ghost town in search of his vanished mother and to battle John Corbus (Ernest Borgnine...we’ll get to him) for the return of her soul (I think). Corbus has his sights set on a missing book once stolen by Shat’s ancestors. They have a showdown inside the “New England”-ish church (which, according to one character, does not belong in a western desert), which is actually a Satanic holy place (you can tell by the stained glass artwork straight off a metal band’s drumset). By showdown, I mean Shatner prays and shoots a few worshippers while Borgnine speaks Latin and smiles smugly.


Enter Tom Skerrit as Shat’s brother, a young doctor with a fabulous mustache and a conveniently semi-psychic wife who helps explain the history of our characters with a dreadfully lit flashback. Believe me, you haven’t seen American history until you etch into memory the image of Borgnine in full Pilgrim getup, shooting out lines like “Didst one of thee fall from the favor of Lucifer?” to what I imagine to be a group of escaped community theater actors in a dress rehearsal for The Crucible. It’s more wonderful than it sounds.


After being separated from his wife, Skerrit enlists the aid of his superhelpful mentor, Dr. Sam Richards, a parapsychologist who actually took ten minutes to read the sought after book and therefore has some semblance of what might be going on. Together they discover the world’s coolest faberge egg, complete with a television screen that displays all the lost souls trapped in hell. It also contains the titular devil’s rain, a force so powerful, it can melt any eyeless minion into a gooey pile, not unlike the result you get if you’ve ever tried to light one of those Spencer Gift Store’s novelty candles of glittery waxen wizards.

If it seems like I’m hopping through plot points like Leprechaun on a pogo stick, I do apologize, but The Devil’s Rain is simply not an easy film to summarize. It’s also not the easiest film to watch, as its grainy, dull lit action actually aggravates the eyes at times. There’s nothing frightening, clever, or particularly interesting about this satanic romp, but that’s certainly not to say The Devil’s Rain isn’t amusing.


High Points
Borgnine is kind of amazing as Corbus, and by that I mean he’s hammier than an out-of-work Miss Piggy at a French buffet


The melting effects are fairly impressive when watched on a small screen. This is vital as they take up a way too extended sequence that seems to run longer than the entire film

Low Points
Odd that the scant 86 minute run time contains such prolonged scenes as the Satanists’ desert march (which clocks in at 3 minutes) when a few quick bites of exposition could certainly have padded out the length while, you know, explaining stuff


While I didn’t exactly hunger for more Shatner (I may be a woman, but I am fairly immune to his muggy charm), the switch of protagonists at the halfway mark was a little jarring. It wasn’t that Tom Skerrit was awful or even that Shat was any good; as an audience, however, we have little to hold onto when we don’t know a thing about who we’re supposed to be rooting for

Lessons Learned
When he visits earth, Satan generally resembles any animal character played by a human on Shelly Duvall's Faery Tale Theatre

When you hear your mother screaming, it’s best to stare worriedly at the source of the sound before slowly jogging to see what the trouble is


Satanists bleed sour milk and have elegant penmanship


If when driving, an eyeless zombie creature pops up in your backseat, avoid removing both hands from the wheel to grab your hair as you scream. Sure, you may be frightened at the uninvited hitchhiker about to kill you, but that’s how accidents are caused


Winning Line
“Remember: no one knows what we’re about,” Corbus growls to his colonist clan, only to then open the door to an angry mob carrying torches and Salemnesque judgement

Rent/Bury/Buy
The Devil’s Rain is a pretty horrid film, but if conventionally horrid sounds like heaven to you, then by all means, rent it and crack open a bottle of some bitter water (because it’s so sweet). There seems to be two DVDs on the market, and unfortunately Netflix sends out the bare bones 2000 release, with mere a trailer, stills gallery, and a nice screen shot of John Travolta’s big closeup, complete with the signature chin cleft. If John Waters can record a commentary for Mommie Dearest, then surely someone with a touch of wit could put a nice audio spin on The Devil’s Rain. If nothing else, hire a grammar expert to pick apart everything from the tagling--Heaven Help Us All When The Devil’s Rain!--to Satan describing himself as “the highest, most exalted king” because a) is he not the only king? b) not the first king? and c) is there another king that was merely exalted?

Don’t forget to head over to Final Girl’s site for a roundup of other horror bloggists reviewing Borgnine’s satanic adventures. This is certainly a pick ripe for riffing, so be sure to read everyone’s reviews, then balance out your dairy intake with a hearty round exercise.


Or just by watching a better movie. Your choice.