Since I've been all misty eyed over the passing of Petrus T. Steele for the better part of 2 weeks now and I see no signs of this melancholic mood lifting, I might as well wax messianic on another dearly departed artist who confounded critics and left behind a legacy of art both heretical and laced with religious allegory. I'm speaking of course on the godfather of gore, the often imitated, never duplicated, deceptively complicated Lucio Fulci. Now, I never met the man and his art wasn't inextricably linked to my past hormonal upheaval, so I doubt this tribute will be as cryptic and heartfelt as the Pete Steele retrospective, but there is plenty of meat on this carcass to pick through and examine for profound morsels and egregious gristle. In the spirit of brevity and with no small debt of inspiration to the illustrious Uncle Bill from Deadpit radio's recent musings on the Deadpit message board, here are my thoughts on the films I have seen from the much maligned maestro.
Zombie: If there was one thing Fulci understood above nearly all other genre film makers, it was how the symbolic power of decay could be used to create and sustain an atmosphere of total desolation and desperation. It's not the half hearted adventure script from Dardano Sachetti that sticks with you, it's the inescapable sense of impending dessication, the destruction of flesh and disregard to ocular sanctity. It is the terror of physical violation and ignominious death that permeates the most potent frames of this fetid film. This is a picture so powerful it actually smells. It reeks off the screen and puts you at arms length. Zombies attack sharks and conquistadors go for the jugular with unrestrained aplomb. As much respect as I have for George Romero's original "Dead" trilogy, this film is possibly the single best thing to come out of it. What if there were no political or social subtext to take from an epidemic of the undead? What if it were simply the end of man played out grand guignol with no remorse, sophistication or meaning on 35MM accompanied by a bowel shaking Fabio Frizzi score? Zombie is what. Recognize.
House By the Cemetery: Slow burn... Giovanni Frezza... Paolo Malco's beard... On top of being great potential band names, the previous 3 phrases all succinctly sum up what is essentially Fulci's delirious and incomprehensible take on Kubrick's The Shining. Haunted house, mad scientist, psychic potboiler, a visibly flummoxed Catrionna MacColl, it's all here and it's all great. This film makes less narrative sense than a James Gandolfini fever dream brought on by a meatball parm sub before bedtime, but goddamn if it isn't one evocative sum'bitch. The pseudo classical score fosters the delusion of grandeur and old world, stately elegance in what is basically an hour and twenty minute build up to one of the most effective children in peril moments ever captured on film. Not the best, but well worth more than one viewing.
Aenigma: I dunno, something about a prank resulting in a coma resulting in naked snail retribution. It's pretty ridiculous and a blatant Patrick and Phenomena rip off. From the preponderance of inexcusably 80's hairdo's and blouses to the garish lighting design and color palette, this film verily dares you to watch it. If you're up to the challenge, you can one day trade war stories with the other unfortunates who no doubt used clinical insomnia as a means to conquer the daunting task that is Conquest.
Conquest: Originally titled Cocaine the barbarian, this misguided Conan cash in has precious little to recommend it unless you can't get enough of billowing smoke and silk draped over the camera lens obscuring the "action". I suppose you could get off on the shapely woman lasciviously draping a writhing python across her genitals or the dog men who tear cave dwellers limb from limb or the neon arrows drawn from thin air by a sub Marc Singer Cimmerian if it weren't all so dull and tiresome. Note to Blue Underground: Some films actually deserve obscurity and oblivion.
The Black Cat: Patrick Magee does the acting of 10 men and Daielle Doria suffers another nude and ignominious death. A cat stalks around a small town, David Warbeck struts his unimpressive stuff and us gorehounds are left all Clara Peller asking, "Where's the grue?!?".
The Beyond: All mockery aside, it truly doesn't get any better than this for a fan of horror films. This is the rare motion picture that has the brass balls to stroll up to you and say, "I don't give a blue fuck whether you have any idea of what's going on or not, I simply want to portray the awful, unknowable mystery of the horror that awaits after our collective, inevitable expiration." Clearly fake tarantulas make hotel blueprints disappear, jovial painters take a dinger off scaffolding after seeing a blonde with contacts, doorways become stairways, ginger's get shot in the fucking face and the original Joe the plumber gets what we all hope is coming to John McCain's Joe the plumber. Somehow both cosmic and terrestrial, this film will shrink your shlong, trigger your gag reflex and make you secretly pray for something as silly and simplistic as the traditional Judeo-Christian concept of life eternal's existence as some sort of soporific security blanket to fend off the all too probable cavalcade of atrocity that no doubt awaits us when we cease to breathe and our heart tires of beating. The true definition of terror.
City of the Living Dead: Chris George chomps both cigar and scenery. Giovanni Lombardo Raddicce lusts after blow up dolls and under age girls and gets his cranium perforated for the transgressions. Danielle Doria is allowed to die clothed, but her demise is all the more spectacular for focusing on her insides. Suicidal priests, self absorbed psychiatrists, spooked tavern patrons and cinematic perfection await all who choose to spend an evening with this faultless film, coming soon to bluray.
Cat in the Brain: A.K.A a crabby, bitter old fucker cobbles together crappy gore scenes from his shittiest movies and tries to blame the American film industry for the ostracization he suffered in his homeland. Kind of funny and entertaining, but in no way good, a meta-messterpiece of shit that stinks in a sweet, sad fashion. A strangely fitting epilogue to a monumentally disjointed and capricious career.
Admittedly, I've seen more of his films, but the less said the better. The bottom line is that while erratic, when the man hit, he knocked it out of the fucking park with a forceful violence that could make all pretenders to the throne quake with shame and knowing, insufficient embarrassment. No matter the varying degree of competence, god bless every frame of film that beautiful, angry, ugly closet Catholic ever shot. I am a better man for having slogged though and endeavored to dissect it.
Zombie: If there was one thing Fulci understood above nearly all other genre film makers, it was how the symbolic power of decay could be used to create and sustain an atmosphere of total desolation and desperation. It's not the half hearted adventure script from Dardano Sachetti that sticks with you, it's the inescapable sense of impending dessication, the destruction of flesh and disregard to ocular sanctity. It is the terror of physical violation and ignominious death that permeates the most potent frames of this fetid film. This is a picture so powerful it actually smells. It reeks off the screen and puts you at arms length. Zombies attack sharks and conquistadors go for the jugular with unrestrained aplomb. As much respect as I have for George Romero's original "Dead" trilogy, this film is possibly the single best thing to come out of it. What if there were no political or social subtext to take from an epidemic of the undead? What if it were simply the end of man played out grand guignol with no remorse, sophistication or meaning on 35MM accompanied by a bowel shaking Fabio Frizzi score? Zombie is what. Recognize.
House By the Cemetery: Slow burn... Giovanni Frezza... Paolo Malco's beard... On top of being great potential band names, the previous 3 phrases all succinctly sum up what is essentially Fulci's delirious and incomprehensible take on Kubrick's The Shining. Haunted house, mad scientist, psychic potboiler, a visibly flummoxed Catrionna MacColl, it's all here and it's all great. This film makes less narrative sense than a James Gandolfini fever dream brought on by a meatball parm sub before bedtime, but goddamn if it isn't one evocative sum'bitch. The pseudo classical score fosters the delusion of grandeur and old world, stately elegance in what is basically an hour and twenty minute build up to one of the most effective children in peril moments ever captured on film. Not the best, but well worth more than one viewing.
Aenigma: I dunno, something about a prank resulting in a coma resulting in naked snail retribution. It's pretty ridiculous and a blatant Patrick and Phenomena rip off. From the preponderance of inexcusably 80's hairdo's and blouses to the garish lighting design and color palette, this film verily dares you to watch it. If you're up to the challenge, you can one day trade war stories with the other unfortunates who no doubt used clinical insomnia as a means to conquer the daunting task that is Conquest.
Conquest: Originally titled Cocaine the barbarian, this misguided Conan cash in has precious little to recommend it unless you can't get enough of billowing smoke and silk draped over the camera lens obscuring the "action". I suppose you could get off on the shapely woman lasciviously draping a writhing python across her genitals or the dog men who tear cave dwellers limb from limb or the neon arrows drawn from thin air by a sub Marc Singer Cimmerian if it weren't all so dull and tiresome. Note to Blue Underground: Some films actually deserve obscurity and oblivion.
The Black Cat: Patrick Magee does the acting of 10 men and Daielle Doria suffers another nude and ignominious death. A cat stalks around a small town, David Warbeck struts his unimpressive stuff and us gorehounds are left all Clara Peller asking, "Where's the grue?!?".
The Beyond: All mockery aside, it truly doesn't get any better than this for a fan of horror films. This is the rare motion picture that has the brass balls to stroll up to you and say, "I don't give a blue fuck whether you have any idea of what's going on or not, I simply want to portray the awful, unknowable mystery of the horror that awaits after our collective, inevitable expiration." Clearly fake tarantulas make hotel blueprints disappear, jovial painters take a dinger off scaffolding after seeing a blonde with contacts, doorways become stairways, ginger's get shot in the fucking face and the original Joe the plumber gets what we all hope is coming to John McCain's Joe the plumber. Somehow both cosmic and terrestrial, this film will shrink your shlong, trigger your gag reflex and make you secretly pray for something as silly and simplistic as the traditional Judeo-Christian concept of life eternal's existence as some sort of soporific security blanket to fend off the all too probable cavalcade of atrocity that no doubt awaits us when we cease to breathe and our heart tires of beating. The true definition of terror.
City of the Living Dead: Chris George chomps both cigar and scenery. Giovanni Lombardo Raddicce lusts after blow up dolls and under age girls and gets his cranium perforated for the transgressions. Danielle Doria is allowed to die clothed, but her demise is all the more spectacular for focusing on her insides. Suicidal priests, self absorbed psychiatrists, spooked tavern patrons and cinematic perfection await all who choose to spend an evening with this faultless film, coming soon to bluray.
Cat in the Brain: A.K.A a crabby, bitter old fucker cobbles together crappy gore scenes from his shittiest movies and tries to blame the American film industry for the ostracization he suffered in his homeland. Kind of funny and entertaining, but in no way good, a meta-messterpiece of shit that stinks in a sweet, sad fashion. A strangely fitting epilogue to a monumentally disjointed and capricious career.
Admittedly, I've seen more of his films, but the less said the better. The bottom line is that while erratic, when the man hit, he knocked it out of the fucking park with a forceful violence that could make all pretenders to the throne quake with shame and knowing, insufficient embarrassment. No matter the varying degree of competence, god bless every frame of film that beautiful, angry, ugly closet Catholic ever shot. I am a better man for having slogged though and endeavored to dissect it.
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