Universal Monsters

I'd like to preface this by extending thanks to those who requested films for me to view and write about. I appreciate your readership and involvement! So, without further ado:

Dracula's Daughter (1936)

Apparently (according to this marvelous book about Universal horror), this was to have been filmed by James Whale from a script by R. C. Sherriff which was a loose adaptation of Bram Stoker's short story, Dracula's Guest. It would have been something of a prequel, beginning in the middle ages, with the count ravaging the land and abducting women, one of whom would become his adoptive daughter. The story would then flash forward to shortly after the events of the first film, focusing on said daughter. It seems this take was rejected outright for having such "horrific and sexual implications". I personally would have preferred that to the resulting effort, especially if Bela Lugosi would have reprised his role as the Count.

What we have in its stead is a bizarre, leaden affair with some admittedly decent atmosphere, but an unfortunate preponderance of vaudeville and Keystone cops styled humor. It picks up in the crypt of Carfax Abbey with Edward VanSloan's Van Helsing confessing his murder of Dracula to two policeman who promptly arrest him. In custody, he pleads with the chief of Scotland Yard to send for Jeffrey Garth (Otto Kruger), a former student of his whose eminence in the field of Psychiatry is inexplicably supposed to help prove his innocence. Meanwhile, a strange, mannish woman (Gloria Holden playing the Countess Maria Zaleska) absconds with her father's corpse and cremates it in an effort to free her from the curse of vampirism. This rite does not have the desired effect, so Zaleska fixates on Garth and his Psychiatry to either release her from the bonds of eternal hunger, or failing that, to join her in damnation.

The problems with the film are many. The aforementioned humor, never my favorite element in genre fare, is disproportionate and totally at odds with the tone of the film. Kruger is a terrible lead. A chain smoking, ugly bully of a man. A puny gadfly that is never heroic or likable, let alone seemingly capable of offering any help to the Countess, VanHelsing or his kidnapped secretary he rushes off to ostensibly save in the third act. I frankly can't imagine what it is he's supposed to do for anybody here, so his character is pointless. Gloria Holden as Dracula's Daughter fares better. She has a striking look, that of the haunted, haunting kind. But her presence is undermined by the decision to present her ordeal as a psychological malady as opposed to a supernatural curse. This esoteric approach was done deftly in the Val Lewton RKO thrillers of the 40's, however here it's a total misfire, robbing the film of any right to refer to itself as horror. Much has been made of the purported Sapphic underpinnings that sailed past the censors at the Breen office, but it's much ado about nothing really.

It's not entirely without its charms though. VanSloan is always a welcome presence and the androgynous brute Sandor (Irving Pichel) who serves as the Countess' right hand man is a marvelously off putting heavy with a wonderfully sonorous speaking voice I could have stood to hear a great deal more of. It is an interesting film, if not a successful one.

Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954)

The last significant monstrous creation from the studio, coming more than a decade past the horror heyday of the 30's and early 40's, The Creature is something of an anomaly. Science fiction/Adventure film at heart, the film eschews the blue print of a Gothic, old world European setting for the Amazonian jungle in then modern day. A group of scientists funded by a wealthy, assholish entrepreneur journey down the Amazon in search of the fabled Black Lagoon and the unspoiled wonders they expect to discover contained therein. They of course encounter the Creature, an aquatic missing link who seems intent on carrying off the fetching Kay (Julia Adams), the paramour of the expeditions lead scientist (Richard Carlson). They clash with the Creature several times after he makes some unwanted amorous advances on our understandably recalcitrant heroine, inexorably leading to a violent confrontation between man and fish-man.

I've never been a big fan of this film, but hats off to Voodoo Doll from the Deadpit boards who recommended it to me, cause this viewing really did the trick. It's fascinating how forward thinking and compassionate toward that which we do not understand this film is. Sure, it's action packed and contains the prerequisite monster attacks and human reprisals, but a great deal of lip service is payed to the plight of the natural world and how a commerce based society tends to ruthlessly infringe upon the environment in the interests of financial gain and personal glory. Richard Carlson is remarkable as the lead. The total antithesis of Otto Kruger in Dracula's Daughter, he's thoughtful, compassionate and heroic in a way that makes him a joy to root for and the sort of action film lead we could do with a bit more of these days. Once he's ensured the safety of his woman and crew, he calls off the attack on the Creature, allowing it to slink back into the swamp. A refreshing change of pace to the mass murdering lunkheads who've populated the silver screen this last summer.

The Creature himself is an astonishing example of make-up FX that was surely considered the apotheosis of the craft in its day. The stunt swimming by Riccou Browning adds a believable physicality and credible menace to the monster. The underwater sequences are clearly filmed in a set dressed tank, but, far from detracting from the film, benefits it by lending an eerie, otherworldly atmosphere. In fact, all the film making is beyond reproach. The action scenes are masterfully edited and the underwater photography is crystal clear. All the while choreographed in such a manner that it's clear where people are in relation to the Creature at all times, a much appreciated detail, oft overlooked by today's film makers. All in all, this is an excellent example of film making and open minded, respectful science fiction and I recommend it highly.

The Invisible Man (1933)

Fresh off the monumental success of Frankenstein (1931), individualistic auteur James Whale brought this wicked tale of science, horror and madness to cackling life. The story is simple: A lone man (in possibly the most gloriously atmospheric opening in all of Universal horror) trudges into town through a blizzard, pelted by snow and howling, maniacal winds. He enters the local tavern/inn, cutting a peculiar figure, his face completely bandaged, wearing black goggles and a fake nose. He demands a room, to which he retires and begins performing clandestine scientific experiments with unknown chemicals. After some time dealing with his cursing and general orneriness, the innkeeper attempts to eject him, at which point he reveals that he is completely invisible. He discards all his clothing and runs rampant through the town, mischievously tormenting the villagers on his way out. This creates a panic throughout the countryside and as he forcibly enlists the assistance of a former colleague, law enforcement officials alert the public to this unseen deviant in their midst. A cat and mouse game ensues, with the Invisible Man losing touch with his sanity and humanity, and what was pranksterish tomfoolery rapidly escalates to murder and mass scale terrorism.

Good lord what a wildly entertaining film! James Whale's penchant for dark cynicism, morbid humor and dry wit is given free reign here and the results are brutally hilarious. It's actually kind of shocking to see what a nasty, unrepentant son of a bitch the Invisible Man becomes with the many stranglings, beatings and bludgeonings he inflicts upon the terrified and unwitting. Whale's endlessly inventive use of peculiar camera angles are matched note for note by John P. Fulton's groundbreaking optical effects in this campy symphony of horrors. Special mention must also be made of the performance of Claude Rains as the titular menace. His harsh baritone barks orders and threats as if he were born to do so and he convincingly portrays the characters bitter frustration and eventual descent into an outright megalomaniac.

I can appreciate the humor in a Whale horror film much more than his contemporaries. There's a winking intelligence behind it and one can't help but picture the erudite English gentleman behind the camera giggling with delight at the mayhem he's orchestrating. One caveat though: I know Whale had a profound affinity for Una O'connor and her shrieking histrionics, and I can tolerate her in small doses in Bride of Frankenstein, but he could have reined her in a bit on this one. Her over the top caterwauling threatens to make some of the first 20 minutes a tad tortuous. That minor complaint aside, this is a playful, clever and pitch black film. Shockingly violent and malevolent for the time, it's every bit as entertaining today as it no doubt was when first released.

Thanks again to all for the recommendations. This has been so much fun I'm going to follow it up with a slate of films featuring the inimitable Bela Lugosi. See you all for Part 2!

My 5 favorite films: Videodrome

It's been a while since I made an entry in the favorite films series (having a hell of a time finishing off those last 2!). In honor of the impending bluray release from Criterion December 7th, I give you this brief meditative piece on the horrifyingly prophetic nature of Videodrome.

"America's getting soft Patron, and the rest of the worlds getting tough. Very tough."

Even though I found my initial viewing of David Cronenberg's masterpiece Videodrome to be a frustrating affair, I could intrinsically sense the foreboding prescience in that menacing line. The intervening 15 years since I first tried to wrap my brain around the film have seen not only the meteoric rise of computer technology, but also the advent of social networking and the realization of the disembodied Internet persona. A persona whose lineage can be traced back through the character of media prophet Prof. Brian O'blivion to his basis, the Canadian communication theorist and educator Marshall Mcluhan. In the wake of 9/11, we've also witnessed an ever darkening global situation in which facets of the American intelligence, political and business communities have come to be perceived by some here and abroad as a shadowy cabal endeavoring to achieve world domination. It should be noted that Videodrome tells its sordid tale free from moral judgements and devoid of political allegiances. It is a complex and vague depiction of a world populated by unscrupulous media pornographers and conspiratorial power brokers, both intent on exploiting cutting edge technology in the interests of manipulating the masses to gain ever more power and control. If that's not the world you see staring back at you from your computer and television screen, I don't know what is.

At the time of its release, Videodrome creator Cronenberg was touted as the Baron of blood and credited with the creation of his own sub-genre, referred to as body or venereal horror. Videodrome had plenty of transformative imagery concerning the flesh, but what arguably has left a stronger impression than its literal hand guns or stomach vagina's, is its revolutionary notion that in the future, the body would become an outdated relic. A cumbersome corporeal representation of self to be shrugged off. Free to travel coaxial cables as a pre-recorded ghost, endlessly droning personal philosophy into a labyrinthine echo chamber. O'blivion's monologues detailing a life conveyed through playback of thousands of recordings once seemed like the ramblings of a senile crackpot. Now we have Youtube, where people use accounts under an assumed name to disseminate their most intimate thoughts and deeply held beliefs. There are plenty of these people whose videos we watch that may well have passed on and unbeknownst to us, fulfilled the socio-technological prophecies of O'blivion. In fact, there are very few of us (and certainly less and less each year) who don't use some "special" name to go to and fro in the cyber-universe, electronically walking up and down in it.

The specter of Barry Convex looms large over the second half of the film and represents everything from glad handing politicians to world swallowing corporate behemoths to the almighty military industrial complex at the core of American foreign policy. At one point, he pointedly asks James Woods cable access impresario Max Wren why anyone would watch a scum show like Videodrome. Woods drolly responds that his reasons are "professional". But Convex knows that isn't the whole story. He inherently understands that which titillates the average consumer is also that which makes the most profound impression, and thereby that which can best be utilized to implant product preference and enforce the party line. The medium is the message indeed. When I first saw the film, I found the idea that even a small station would broadcast video of political prisoners being tortured outlandish and distasteful. Imagine my shock when less than a decade later I heard the Daniel Pearl beheading audio played on the local morning zoo during my commute. Suddenly, streaming video of this horrendous act began popping up all over the web, and that was only the beginning. It's not hard to see the through line from Videodrome's electrified, clay walls and stripped, strangulated victims to Abu Ghraib's naked dog piles and hooded prisoners, trussed up with wires in a Jesus Christ pose.

These lamentable incidents seem to have mostly faded from public consciousness, supplanted by the latest reality show meltdown or internet meme, but the psychological scar remains. Extreme, challenging cinema is capable of exerting a similar effect on our psyche and Videodrome exemplifies and personifies that fact. It forcefully questions the very nature of reality and the manner in which we interact and ultimately exist within it. Horror and Science Fiction are the two genres most capable of holding an unflinching mirror up to the society that spawned them. Videodrome is the perfect melding of their respective aesthetics and preoccupations and an eye opening education on who we are and what we're becoming.

What hath Rosenthal wrought?

Good god, do I hate summer. Don't mistake me for some misanthropic goth kid decked out in zippered black parachute pants or anything, but I genuinely detest humid days that go on forever and the endless flood of garbage movies that lap at our nations collective door. This summer's offerings in particular have been most tiresome. The big deal blockbuster of the season, Iron Man 2 was sort of enjoyable at first, but upon reflection was a grating, jingoistic screed that wasted Sam Rockwell and Mickey Rourke while hinging on a predictable Downey Jr. performance that made me wish he'd have a cocaine relapse and do something interesting again. Toy Story 3 was well done and had the most powerful single sequence I've yet witnessed in a film aimed at children, but even that couldn't hide the fact that it was essentially part 2 all over. To think, I was under the impression that Pixar was above such laziness. Oh well, bring on Cars 2 I suppose.

Most of the summer was overstuffed with hi-fiving men on a mission type movies that wore on my frayed nerves like a talkative drunk at a sports bar. Self congratulatory and poorly edited train wrecks that forgot the importance of character development and cohesively staged action. Then of course came the juvenile, degrading experience of Piranha and the less said about that, the better. I will however reassert my belief that all the supporters of that film are going to have an ugly morning after when they try to sit through it again on home video.There were standouts though. Inception, Scott Pilgrim and Machete varied from dumb fun done right to hallucinatory art film made touching comic gold to downright goddamn modern masterpiece. So I shouldn't be so hasty in cursing these last few months. Oh wait, I forgot about Get Him to the Greek. Yeah, fuck last summer.

The point is, through some curious, blessed meteorological mystery, my beloved home state of Minnesota underwent a one-day transformation into Fall. The hateful yellow orb lost its potency seemingly overnight and cool, clean, fresh Fall air started blowing through town. The days instantly felt shorter and the descending gray chill signaled something deep in my reptile brain that Halloween was upon us. Nothing (aside from this scene from my favorite show EVER) encapsulates the feeling and meaning of nostalgia for me like Halloween. It was a fateful sleepover on that most wondrous of all Holiday's in 1985 that cemented my genre fandom forever. After a particularly successful bout of trick or treating, my friend and I retired to his safe, suburban home to gorge on candy and watch festive films edited for television. In succession I took in Halloween 2 and Night of the Living Dead and was irrevocably altered. It had something to do with how Rosenthal slyly inserted the opening graveyard scene from Romero's classic into his slasher sequel and my nascent, burgeoning understanding of the connective tissue and tropes of the genre. I was hooked.

Even before that epochal evening, I had been for some time spending my Saturday nights watching Universal Monster classics on our local Fox affiliates horror host show, Count Dracula presents, which featured a hammy local actor playing the titular bloodsucker with aplomb on dry ice shrouded sets amidst cardboard coffins and papier mache tombstones. I would drift off to dreamland, enthralled by the fog covered moors that made up Talbot's stomping grounds and the impossibly arcane laboratory in which Colin Clive plied his ghoulish trade. I was for some reason especially fascinated by the Lon Chaney Mummy films. No doubt something to do with the blunt, angry physicality he brought to the role.

In any case, time willing and entirely dependent on my inspiration not waning, I plan on having an old school Universal throwdown this coming weekend and should like to relate the affair in no small detail on the hallowed, rarely visited cyber-pages of this here blog. If you'd like me to watch and write up a certain film, respond below and I'll try to work it in providing I have it in my collection and I end up completing this self appointed task in the first place!

Machete and the return of action done right

It's about goddamn time. This summer has been full of preening, snarky assholes pretending they knew how to get the job done and bloated, steroid ridden has-been's phoning it in. I have been shocked this last month to see all my fellow internet movie geeks fawning like brain dead 12 year-olds over The Expendables and Piranha, the two worst movies I've seen all year. It's as if everyone suddenly forgot about the necessity for sound narrative mechanics, even in lowbrow entertainment. Sure, I enjoy grade-A bull plop like VanDamme in Lionheart or Seagal in Hard To Kill and Out for Justice. Not just cause I actually saw that shiznit in the theater and have fond, nostalgic memories of broken arms and gratuitous splits, but because as simplistic and elemental as those films were, they told stories a 10 year old could understand and were populated with larger than life heroes and hissable villains. It isn't difficult to make bone headed morality tales drenched in brutal violence entertaining, but I'll be damned if Sylvester Stallone didn't find himself a way with The Expendables.

For the record, Stallone was a god to me growing up. I'm not exaggerating that assertion even one bit. He was more important to me than God, Jesus or Ronald Reagan. The only person as mythic and all consuming a presence in my warped, adolescent imagination as Sly was of course Arnold, but that is another (no doubt coming soon) post. Rambo: First Blood Part Two was the first VHS tape I purchased with my own money and I probably watched it 75 times over the course of the summer of 1987. I could, upon request, act out the entire film as a one man play, replete with sound effects, musical cues and accurate character impersonations. So, before I move on, let me make sure no one is requesting that, cause I'll do it. No takers? Ok, forget it then. The point is, I should have LOVED The Expendables. I adored Rambo 2008 and am a big time Statham fan, so what gives? I'll tell you what gives. It falls apart before even getting out of the gate with the most excruciatingly unwatchable credit sequence ever filmed. Not even a minute and a half in and I was looking at my watch (I don't wear a watch, but you get the idea).

It only gets worse from there. The hallmark of action films is simplicity and this turd drops us face first into a poorly lit, poorly shot and poorly edited Somalian pirate (topical!) rescue by a group of, oh, I don't know, let's say 38 mercenaries, all of whom have different personalities, hang ups, weapons expertise and interpersonal baggage and then expects us to fend for ourselves while it goes about ham fistedly plowing ahead though their incomprehensible and shockingly dull adventures. Everything from there on doesn't make a lick of fucking sense. Whatever the hell is going on between Eric Roberts and the Hispanic dude from Dexter is NOT the makings of a loathsome, two tiered bad guy structure for the good guys to ass kickingly take revenge on. It doesn't make sense and it doesn't inspire our hatred for anything other than Eric Roberts agent. If your action film doesn't have a bad guy you want to see get his, there is no point in watching it. These films are about righteous vengeance and serve their purpose as wish fulfillment because no such thing exists in the real world.

Also, there is a PAINFUL scene where Mickey Rourke tells this pitiful story to Stallone that's supposed to serve as the powerful emotional push for Sly getting over his reservations about MASS MURDER as a way to save a life. Rourke clearly hadn't done more than peruse the script as he mumbles, doubles back over his lines, drools and generally makes an ass of himself, all of which Stallone frames in extreme closeup on Rourke's ruined face. It was hands down the most miserable five minutes of film I've sat through this year and to read Harry Knowles go on about the deep meaning and significance of it in his predictably moronic review was nearly enough to make me want to stop watching film forever. It's an ugly, pointless, horrible film with jagged action scenes that never manage to exhilarate.

As for Piranha, well, fuck that movie. Fuck its post conversion 3-D hatchet job giving me a splitting headache. Fuck its pandering Comic-Con mentality. Fuck its laziness and obvious distaste for its audience. Fuck its ingratiating, faux for-the-fans hi-fiving. Fuck it being a film made for fanboys without any consideration given to telling a story. It's boring, it has no likable characters and it has no wit. It is a film that is so overtly pornographic in its display of female flesh, it somehow becomes un-sexy. An endless parade of indistinguishable, plastic, blow up doll women grinding robotically to crappy techno so as to pad the run time until the obligatory KNB effects reel. I've seen rubbery limbs and gallons of fake blood done before and done better with the added bonus of actually giving a fuck who was getting torn to pieces.

Of course, people will say I'm just being contrary and prudish and a buzzkill. I will not drink the Kool-aid on this film, folks. You can't just show me boobies and bloodshed and expect me to give a damn. Piranha has no tension, no development, no arc. It's not exciting and since you don't ever once care about anyone surviving, there are no stakes. Alexander Aja went from being the most promising horror stylist of the new millennium to an indistinguishable Hollywood sell-out in less than a decade. There is no indication of any individuality, heart or purpose in Piranha. It's a callous, mean film that treats its audience like date rapists, sadists and perverts. So, if I may iterate again, FUCK THAT MOVIE!

When I stated above that it was about goddamn time, I was referring to Machete showing up with little fanfare and kicking the ever loving shit out of these wanna-be exploitation and action films. Now here is a movie that understands simplicity and structures its story accordingly. You have Machete, a stoic, threatening and bad ass (that Rodriguez need only film Trejo in close up to convey this is astonishingly indicative of his magnetism and star power) ex-federale wronged by Steven Seagal's portly south of the border drug lord. He gets wrapped up in a double cross by some political goons and sets out to settle the score. Throw in a puffy Don Johnson as a shady shitkicker and Michelle Rodriguez as the legendary freedom fighter She, and you've got the makings for a rollicking, rock concert of a movie that moves breathlessly from one action set piece to the next with purpose and style to burn. It also manages to be sexy by having attractive women who aren't vapid whores playing actual characters and not shoving their gyrating torso's in our faces every time the film maker had nothing to offer in the way of character or story development. You see, the titllation is supposed to be a by-product of the films overall aesthetic, not the kleenex box that the wags the dog.

I infinitely respect the film makers for crafting Machete as a response to a real world issue they genuinely feel strongly about. Maybe that's what lowbrow film or just plain genre film in general needs more of these days, a reason to exist outside of arousing its leering core audience with explicit sex and violence, which lets be honest here, can be found in more hardcore and plentiful variety elsewhere. With Machete, Rodriguez has created an entire world of gritty cool that will always be fun to visit. A satisfying diversion from the banality of existence that manages to raise a question or two about the way our country works and posits an entirely new kind of hero through which we can vicariously, murderously vent our frustrations and enact our imaginary revenges. THAT is the point of movie like this and Machete did it a damn sight better than anyone else all year long. Here's hoping we get the trilogy promised before the end credits rolled!