All posts by Rod Lott

Thriller

A Christmas Tale (2005)

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xmastalePart of Spain’s Films to Keep You Awake series, A Christmas Tale takes place in December 1985, and the year can’t be coincidental. That summer saw the release of the Steven Spielberg production The Goonies, which this film so closely resembles it’s like the unauthorized Spielbergian-tribute counterpart to J.J. Abrams’ official one in Super 8.

With virtually no apparent parental supervision, four tween boys and one girl ride bikes and hang out and watch VHS tapes. One day in the woods, they happen upon a deep pit, into which has fallen a grubby woman in a Santa Claus suit. Upon learning from the TV news that she’s the “extremely dangerous” bank robber Rebeca Expósito (Maru Valdivielso, Romasanta: The Werewolf Hunt), they decide against helping the injured fugitive to safety, but for keeping her as their “secret pet.”

xmastale1They even get a crash course in extortion, exploiting her hunger to learn the whereabouts of the millions she stole. An escape, however, is only a matter of time, and Rebeca’s shuffling, ax-dragging body chasing them through an abandoned amusement park reminds the kids of Zombie Invasion, a film-within-the-film (starring Beyond Re-Animator‘s luscious Elsa Pataky) whose rules of undead-killing they appropriate to get out of their particular pickle alive.

The only thing running more heavily through A Christmas Tale (aka Xmas Tale) than danger is nostalgia. These kids play Milton Bradley’s Simon, worship Star Wars, and rewind the crane-kick climax of The Karate Kid in amazement. That’s not to suggest the film doesn’t have balls; [REC] franchise director Paco Plaza appears all too happy to burst out the gore when it’s called for, and the ending leans more naughty than nice. —Rod Lott

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Horror

Silent Night, Bloody Night (1972)

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snbnOn Christmas Eve 1950, the only thing roasting at the Wilfred Butler mansion was Wilfred Butler himself! Mysteriously dying by fire, he left his estate to his only surviving family member, grandson Jeffrey (James Patterson, In the Heat of the Night), with explicit instructions to leave the house untouched. Twenty years later, Jeffrey and his attorney (Patrick O’Neal, The Stepford Wives) — neither of whom has stepped foot inside the place — come to town to negotiate its sale.

Coinciding with their yuletide arrival, the sleepy small town is terrorized by an escaped lunatic out for revenge, citing the ol’ crimes-commited-years-earlier reason. What director Theodore Gershuny (Sugar Cookies) attempts to pass off as suspense is actually poor story structure. By not revealing pertinent facts until the second half, viewers are left to wonder just what the holy hell is going on.

snbn1That’s why the back half of this mouse-quiet shocker is better, if not gorier. The extended asylum-revolution flashback is genuinely disturbing, as is the finale. Alternately stylish and amateurish, Silent Night, Bloody Night is often slow-moving, but effective in building atmosphere that’s palpable even in the shoddy public-domain prints.

Over the years, I’ve found it’s a movie that improves a bit with each viewing — all but its gratuitous Mary Woronov voice-over — once you come to peace with what it is and what it is not. And it is most definitely not Silent Night, Deadly Night, so don’t confuse the two. —Rod Lott

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Reading Material

Hollywood Surf and Beach Movies: The First Wave, 1959-1969

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hollywoodbeachsurfJust because it’s currently cold outside doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy Hollywood Surf and Beach Movies: The First Wave. In fact, since Thomas Lisanti’s book is dedicated to the sunniest of cinematic comedy subgenres, it might even make winter life more pleasurable.

The title of this paperback — a more affordable reprint of the book’s original hardcover release in 2005 — tells you everything you need to about it, as Lisanti provides the reader without spirited overviews of arguably the first 32 films, from the ones that birthed the craze to the ones that killed it.

Ironically, I’ve never seen Gidget, which started the craze, nor any of AIP’s Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello pictures, yet I’ve consumed more beach movies than I had realized, including the horror spoof The Ghost in the Invisible Bikini; the early Sharon Tate vehicle, Don’t Make Waves; the original Where the Boys Are; and Catalina Caper, thanks to its now-legendary appearance on the second season of Mystery Science Theater 3000.

Well, Lisanti has seen them all, and now I pretty much want to, as well. Even when he dogs a picture, there’s an affection to his voice — especially given the bevy of bikini babes who romp through these pictures with the skimpiest of coverage; not for nothing did he have to type the phrase “buxom blonde” so often. (With the book being published by McFarland, scads of photos are contained within, in case the reader desires visual proof.)

These films represent a squeaky-clean Americana that likely never truly existed outside of the screen, but they’re a blast to visit and revisit. Through his gossipy but substantive behind-the-scenes stories culled from many personal interviews (many of which also informed his recent, recommended Drive-In Dream Girls), Lisanti guides us through the gamut, from terrific to terrible.

He notes not only which flicks succeed on their merits, but delves deep into those merits, from whose curves best filled swimwear to whose songs fell as flat as a surfboard. (Semi-related on that note: his takedown of The Supremes’ appearance in 1965’s Beach Ball: “Diana Ross is a fright with her chipped tooth and big beehive wig. Her close-ups are scarier than anything found in The Horror of Party Beach.”)

At nearly 450 pages, Hollywood Surf and Beach Movies: The First Wave concludes with profiles of 23 actors often associated with the subject, including John Ashley, Yvette Mimieux, Sandra Dee, Chris Noel, Quinn O’Hara, Shelley Fabares, Aron Kincaid (who provides the book’s foreword) and — meow — Susan Hart. It says a lot when you can get joy from reading on-set stories for movies of which you’ve never seen a frame. I’d love to see what Lisanti had in store for The Second Wave, but considering this First Wave hit seven years ago, I’m guessing we may not be so lucky. —Rod Lott

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Kitchen Sink

The Happy Holiday Hearth (2002)

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Is it too much for a man to ask to get him some Xmas lovin’? This here Happy Holiday Hearth is like having a fireplace on your TV, know what I’m sayin’? That’s the whole plot: There’s a fire and it burns.

And since fires are s’posed to be, like, all romantic and shit, I done put it in the player, hoping I’d get me a little sumthin’ sumthin’ with my girl. But she just laughed at it. And even though the Happy Holiday Hearth peoples done made it so one can manipulate the audio to be cracklin’ logs, Christmas music or cracklin’ logs and Christmas music, she didn’t want no bonin’! Bah, humbug. —Rod Lott

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Mystery

Midnight Cop (1988)

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midnightcopYou know that segment of the German population that refuses to acknowledge the existence of the Holocaust? Perhaps they should focus such futile energies on the Krauts’ kraptastic Midnight Cop instead.

It’s a dull, dreary, thrill-free thriller starring Armin Mueller-Stahl (The Game) as Alex Glass, a sloppy and depressed jazz-loving, turtle-owning, pickle-eating police commissioner out to bust a serial killer who slathers Vaseline on the faces of the young women he’s killed.

Weaving in and out of the supposed mystery are Frank Stallone, Sly’s brother, as Jack, a drug-pushing heavy who wears a towel far higher on his waist than any man should; Michael York (Logan’s Run) as Armin’s close pal Karstens, whom York has chosen to play in “sleep” mode; a late-night cafe owner with some kind of funky bloody nub on his shaved head; and Morgan Fairchild (whom I’m slept with) as Lisa, a high-class hooker who falls in love with Glass and sports one incredible behind.

midnightcop1Trust me: Armin’s hands are all over it in several scenes, and I do not blame him; she’s a gorgeous woman.

You’ll have the plot figured out before what little actually happens happens. Mueller-Stahl is typically a fine actor, but you wouldn’t know it with this half-assed German production. You haven’t seen a Terrible Acting Showdown until you witness Stallone and Fairchild go airhead-to-airhead. And the ending is jaw-droppingly terrible on so many levels that I’d almost recommend watching the movie just to see it. Easy there, horsey, I said “almost.” —Rod Lott

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