Taking inspiration and influence-with more than a marginal heist-from such occult, supernatural fare as The Exorcist, The Omen and Rosemary’s Baby, Lucio Fulci’s Manhattan Baby is nonetheless a very enjoyable, late-middle period entry from the Italian godfather of gore, Lucio Fulci.
Released in between Fulci’s gore-soaked efforts Conquest and The New York Ripper, this film from the maestro’s actually holds back here a bit in the blood department, relying more on slow burn suspense and set piece creepiness to darken this mood of spiritual possession and otherworldly forces, plotting to take control of an archeologist and his New York family. Although Manhattan Baby possesses its fare share of inventive special effects, the lion’s share of gore and violence is reserved only when the situation calls for it, and to be honest…it works.
Sure, Manhattan Baby is nowhere near as over the top or gratuitous as Fulci classics Zombi or Gates of Hell, but when the blood does flow here, it’s memorable and jarring, serving the film quite well, and making all of the dramatic sequences that much more tolerable, overall. Fulci’s impeccable talent for mood lighting is also set on display excellently here, setting up all of the possession and ghost scenes with a kitschy/scary feeling a la Poltergeist…albeit with a much larger mean streak; one which cuts (literally) to the bone.
So while Manhattan Baby may not exactly be mentioned in the same breath as Fulci’s classic films…it a’int no Door Into Silence, either, and definitely worth a view or two for Fulci fanatics the world over.
Notable for its mixture of comedy, stop animation and excessive gore, this debut from writer/director Frank Henenlotter has achieved its status of ‘cult classic’ with good reason: it’s a shit-ton of fun.
Although no one would ever accuse the actors who appear in Basket Case of having any excess of talent-apart from star Kevin van Hentenryck, who possesses an inexplicable, Brady-like appeal-herein lies the true of appeal of Basket Case and its exploitation thrills.
Obviously shot on a micro-budget, Henenlotter nevertheless gets the best performance out of Hentenryck, who plays the doomed character of Duane Bradley, one half of a Siamese twin who, along with his deformed brother Belial, begins a vengeful rampage across New York City, in search of the doctors who separated them, and tossed the monstrous Belial in the trash.
The catch phrase “What’s in the basket?” never really gets old here, as Duane carts Belial ’round town in an unassuming wicker basket, just itching to be released and to exact his very bloody retribution. And bloody this film is, indeed, as we are greeted to numerous scenes of deformed twin vengeance, complete with marauding jugular bites, sliced faces and saw slicing.
All is pretty much well and good for Duane, until he meets a pretty young receptionist named Sharon-played by Terri Susan Smith, in her only film role; perhaps this is why she seems to be wearing a wig throughout?-with whom he begins a relationship. Belial, predictably, does not respond well to his apparent brotherly abandonment, and becomes, shall we say….pissy.
Without revealing anything further, Basket Caseeschews its limited production values and performances-again, Hentenryck’s engaging, telepathic self-dialogue with Belial is the acting’s one saving grace-by delivering laughs ‘n splats for days in all its low budget, grindhouse glory.
Serving as not only one of the me-decade’s more under-exposed slashers, but also one of Harvey and Bob Weinstein’s first releases under Miramax Films, The Burning has survived as a gem of vintage 80s splatter.
The film gains the most points for the likable cast, surprisingly decent acting and the ever-impressive-and always extra gory-special effects of genre legend Tom Savini.
Within a film style which seems to revel in teenage extermination, we the audience actually begin to CARE for these unfortunate teens at Camp Blackfoot, doing their best-in between bouts of showering, swimming and sexing-to avoid being turned to human fertilizer via the pointed garden shears of our villain Cropsy, a former camp caretaker who has been badly burned and viciously deformed at the hands of a camp prank gone wrong.
Featuring the early talents of future stars Jason Alexander, Holly Hunter and Fisher Stevens, the performances of The Burning cast is multifaceted and engaging, showcasing an impressive level of layered characterization and genuine camaraderie. Alexander is especially fun to watch as the eternal prankster Dave, while also sporting a surprising full head of hair. Funny, I thought the actor who played Seinfeld’s George Costanza had ALWAYS been bald.
The Burning also bucks the slasher trend by not featuring a ‘final girl‘: the typical story arc which leaves us with the sole, virginal female as our final protagonist against the marauding, serial killing monster. In its stead, The Burning gives us two ‘final guys,’ who seek to end Cropsy’s reign of terror while our lovely females race off back to camp for help.
This brings us to Cropsy himself, and where The Burning falters a little bit. Although the means in which out villain deals his death are bloody indeed, Cropsy’s mythology tends to be a bit vapid, with a fairly unconvincing back story as to exactly WHY our former campers decided to inflict fiery revenge upon the caretaker. Although the film implies Cropsy might have been a pedophile, and that his ways were harsh, bitter and cruel, we the audience don’t really care one way or the other about Cropsy or his sad tale, at least not in comparison to 1980′s watershed Friday the 13th and its Jason Voorhees mythos.
Although one could argue, as Tom Savini does, that there is, in fact NO Jason after the original Friday the 13th, what remains indisputable is the film franchise’s longevity, staying power and bare-bones adoration from horror fans. Moviegoers just didn’t seem to flock the same way to Cropsy or The Burning, although, given that the Weinstein’s never decided to sequel the film, maybe we’ll never know; perhaps burn victim masks and bloody garden shears would have replaced hockey masks for popular Halloween costumes.
Regardless, Cropsy and his shears cut a wide swath of bodies here on The Burning, all backed by the neat symphonic throb of former Yes keyboardist Rick Wakeman, who scored the soundtrack. Despite the Cropsy’s slightly crooked back story, and the unwieldiness of his chosen weapon, The Burning remains a solid 80s gem of hack ‘n slash, deserving of some modern day love.
The Italian giallo tends to be a ‘love it or hate it’ sort of genre.
Some horror fans find these murder mysterious to be heavy on the slow-burn suspense, while remaining a bit too light in the gore department. Of course, genre aficionados know that, although rampant bloodletting is a giallo trademark, many of the films rely primarily on the ‘whodunnit?’ aspect to drive their respective plot.
While 1976′s excellent giallo film The House With the Laughing Windows doesn’t do much to change this fact, the film remains one of the most engaging, entertaining examples of the genre ever put to celluloid.
Directed by the varied and prolific Pupi Avati, The House With the Laughing Windows deals with a painter who arrives at a tiny, remote island village, hired to restore one particularly violent piece of art which is hanging on an old church wall. Stories fly back and forth between the village’s nosy citizens regarding the murderous reputation of its previous painter, who-along with his two equally callous sisters-was known to engage in ritualistic torture of his subjects during the creative process.
Well, soon enough people start dying around our young painter, and he decided to get to the bottom of all these strange goings-on around town.
Impeccably shot and expertly paced, The House With Laughing Windows bucks the ‘slow’ trend to often found within most giallos, in favor of likable, engaging character performances and brisk scene set up the whole way. Even though there are only a few scenes of carnage to be found within Avati’s vision, there exists this inescapable creepiness which permeates the entire film, right up until the final, shocking twist ending.
We grow to root for Stefano, our protagonist, the whole way, dying for him to search out just what’s happening in this weird little town. Whereas some giallos never really develop their characters with enough emotional depth to really drive home that all important audience connection, Avati knows just what he’s doing the entire way through The House With Laughing Windows, and the end results speak for themselves.
By far one of the finest giallos I’ve ever seen, The House With Laughing Windows deserves to be tracked down by the fanatics and curious alike.
Better known as Cemetery Manhere in the U.S., this Italian horror-comedy was made in the nineties-long after the giallo and horror booms of the prior two decades-yet stand easily up to the country’s high standard of macabre excellent.
Indeed, Dellamorte Dellamore was referenced by Martin Scorseseas “one of the best Italian films of the 1990s,” and with good reason-it absolutely RULES.
Starring a then-unknown Rupert Everett-of My Best Friend’s Wedding fame-the movie combines the best aspects of black comedy and blood-soaked horror to create a niche film which balances both styles in a blatantly effective way. Fans of Peter Jackson’s Dead Alive or Sam Raimi’s work with Evil Dead 2 and Army of Darkness should find Dellamorte particularly fascinating in its usage of over-the-top gore, stylish photography and Rupert’s wink/nudge acting, as if he KNOWS he’s having fun with the film.
Plot-wise, Dellamorte Dellamore tells the tale of Francesco Dellamorte, the caretaker of a haunted a cemetery; place where the dead rise from their graves on a nightly basis, seeking to feast on the living. Unsure as to whether or not this is the start of an epidemic, Dellamorte-together with his handicapped assistance Gnaghi-makes it his duty to dispose of the zombies on a case-by-case basis, before any of them are allowed to escape the graveyard grounds. All is well until a mysterious woman (Anna Falchi) enters Dellamorte’s life, which proceeds to spiral out-of-control into obsession, madness, murder…and perhaps redemption.
The zombies-who are referred to as “returners” by Dellamorte-look mean, vicious and ugly…just the way they should in such a film. The special effects are gross-out gangbusters, and Rupert’s gleeful murder spree as death’s angel is stylish and fun to watch. Falchi is impossibly attractive as the love interest, as well, and Dellamorte makes no ‘bones’ about exploiting the sexual relationship between her character and Everett’s. In other words…if you like your bloodbaths sprinkled with some boobies, this one’s for you.
Dellamorte Dellamore is a lot more than that, however; it’s a film with a compelling story, filled with curious characters and likable performances. The pacing is brisk, the effects and colors brilliantly evocative. It’s simply a great horror film which has remained under the radar for too long a time, truly deserving of new life in 2010.
Also known under the titles of Zombie Creeping Flesh and Night of the Zombies, this epically bad Eurotrash wonder comes from the world of legendary Italian hack Bruno Mattei; a place where no idea is sacred…not even those of other filmmakers.
This is because Mattei and the Hell of the Living Deadcrew apparently felt NO shame whatsoever for the unabashed plot and score thievery going on here, with Hell ending up basically a cut-up ‘best of’ screen show of the zombie genre. Hell, even the film’s cover art gleefully adopts the skull visage from Lucio Fulci’s City of the Living Dead with no remorse or repentance…simply adding on a hastily and crudely drawn lower half, so as to avoid legit copywrite infringement.
Taking aim at both Romero’s social commentary take on the undead in its opening scene, Hell of the Living Dead just even consider stopping for a moment, instead delving headfirst into voodoo/cannibal territory within the film’s second act with ludicrously over-the-top results. Rather than coming up with any original genre ideas or takes of its own, Hell instead adopts cliches as it goes along, flying by the seat of its pants with a recklessless which is almost fun to watch…if it wasn’t so transparent.
Of course, this sort of disaster is to be expected from a Mattei production, given the director’s notorious and habitual practice of ripping off any basic idea which crosses his path. His partner Claudio Fragasso has proved no better over the years, working with Mattei on the unfinished Fulci master for Zombi 3 before unleashing his true ‘masterpiece’ in the legendarily laughable Troll 2.
Though there are a few brief moments of quality creepiness-particularly in an early scene which features a remarkably proficient child ‘zombie ‘actor-Hell of the Living Dead is more of a really bad romp than anything remotely frightening or even thought-provoking. Even the stolen music from Goblin-yes, Mattei decided to utilize the band’s classic score music without even asking for consnet-doesn’t possess the same effect within this film’s context. Hell of the Living Dead is just a hodgepodge.
Though this British director’s work has often been criticized in the past-a plight similar to that of our beloved Uncle Jess, a.k.a. Spain’s Jesus Franco-a less critically jaded, revisionist eye reveals that Pete Walker’s 70s work remains a staple in over the top, lovably evocative British horror.
Though Pete Walker hasn’t been a prominent figure in the scene since the early 80s, the man’s limited output has aged surprisingly well in the computer generated age; a fantastic reminder of just how atmospheric these admittedly over the top films could be, and a true example of getting the most done for your budget.
Frightmare one of Walker’s best films, and a twisted example of British shock cinema at its best and most creepy. The film deals with the typical English family structure…only with a salaciously UN-typical twist: Mummy dearest is actually a murderous fiend with a taste for human flesh.
The film opens up with a chillingly successful black and white sequence of Mother (played by Sheila Keith, a Walker staple) being sentenced to a asylum with her husband-accomplice before fast forwarding many years later to the couple’s two daughters, played by the lovely Deborah Fairfax and Kim Butcher. The Butcher character of Debbie is a troubled teen prone to violence and delinquency, placed in the care of elder daughter Jackie-a product of the husband’s previous marriage-while both parents live in a comparatively serene, post-asylum country home.
It isn’t long before things begin to go awry, and people begin winding up dead, however, and what follows is a legitimately suspenseful and shock-filled ride through the human mind’s most depraved recesses. Walker manages, as usual, to get a surprisingly high level of sympathy and emotional availability from his actors-we genuinely care about how the whole thing is going to end-and leaves the audience guessing from twist to turn about what’s going to happen next in this dysfunctional family world.
The music of Stanley Meyers provides wonderful orchestral accompaniment to all the nefarious skulduggery going on here, while the film’s bright and rich colours strike an amazing contrast between all of the big city hustle-bustle scenes and the typical, pastoral English countryside.
For your money, the films of Pete Walker-four of which were released in a killer box set by Shriek Show a couple years back-are a worthy addition to any horror collection, and a chilling reminder of how far a good story, honest performances anda chilling atmosphere can take the viewer, when placed under capable hands.
In yet another one of my caveat emptor posts this month, it’s now time here at Blood Horror and Metal to talk about another Italian horror classic which, though decent, doesn’t hold up as one of my absolute favorites.
I’m talking about Lucio Fulci’sHouse By the Cemetery, the cult director’s 1981 haunted house feature which gave a whole new meaning to the phrase, ‘don’t go down to the basement.’
When one takes into account the fact that House By the Cemeterywas released smack dab in between up a scream sandwich of Fulci’s best work to date-Zombi, City of the Living Dead, The Beyond and The New York Ripper-it comes as somewhat of a surprise to find that House is comparatively slow and ponderous, with the film’s first half serving as a particular endurance test against The Sandman.
Hey bloodhounds! It’s October, and you know what that means, right? Horror movie MANIA!
Yes, it’s that time of the year when the whole world gets down with the macabre, and you can find a wealth of quality scares on your T.V. and on sale at your local record or video store. We’re also going to be celebrating Halloween month here at Blood Horror and Metal, delivering double the posts for the month, trying to cover all your bases for the sinister, sleazy and downright scary out there, while also making a much needed excursion to Worcester, Massachusetts’ annual Rock and Shock horror/music convention!
First things first, however: the post at hand. This time out we have Dario Argento’sTenebre, also known as Tenebraeand Unsane, in its heavily censored U.S. format. Now, I consider myself a massive fan of Mr. Argento’s work, from his earliest masterpieces (Deep Red, Four Flies On Grey Velvet) to his latter works (Mother of Tears, The Stendahl Syndrome), and 1982′s is yet another solid exercise in excess for the Macabre Maestro.
While I wouldn’t consider Tenebre to be my favorite of Argento’s works-this honor changes upon the mood and day, currently residing with 1977′s Suspiria-there’s a lot to enjoy here, as well…that is, if you can push by the bothersome sameness of pacing which hampers a lot of the film.
Before we get there, however, let’s examine the positives of Tenebre for a moment, first and foremost the exception score by Goblin. Argento has long stressed the importance of musical scoring to his films-having collaborated with Keith Emerson on 1980′s Inferno and the great Ennio Morricone on his early giallowork-and Tenebre is no exception, with Goblin’s relentlessly catchy progressive rock score serving as an enduring template of atmospheric movie music to this very day.
Say what you will about big budget Hollywood remakes-I’m no fan of them either, believe me-the one great aspect surrounding October 1st’s Let Me Inremake of Swedish director Tomas Alfredson’s masterful vampire film Let the Right One In is the rebirth of Britain’s legendary Hammer Films company.
If you ask any evocative extreme metal band worth their salt-gothic decadents Cradle of Filth particularly-you’re liable to find a rabid Hammer Horror fan amongst their number, and with good reason: the studio set the bar almost single-handed when it came to lush, atmospheric productions. While it remains to be seen whether or not Let Me In will usher in a new Hammer renaissance-the studio has lain dormant for many years now-the simple joy of seeing that iconic ‘HAMMER’ logo on a film in 2010 is enough to send shivers of joy down my spine.
Taking inspiration and influence-with more than a marginal heist-from such occult, supernatural fare as The Exorcist, The Omen and Rosemary’s Baby, Lucio Fulci’s Manhattan Baby is nonetheless a very enjoyable, late-middle period entry from the Italian godfather of gore, Lucio Fulci.
