All posts by Louis Fowler

The Living Dead at Manchester Morgue (1974)

Released under a myriad of titles — Breakfast at the Manchester Morgue, Let Sleeping Corpses Lie, Don’t Open the Window and so on — the Spanish-Italian film The Living Dead at Manchester Morgue calls itself a comedy, but in the 44 years of watching subpar movies, I never thought it was a comedy. Boring, maybe … but a comedy? I don’t think so.

As the swinging, swanky theme plays, a buxom lass flashes her wares to no one in particular. I don’t know who that is or what they want, but that’s replaced with chemical runoff, overflowing trash bags and a stiff upper lip. I guess it’s an ecological film now?

After a fender bender with with Edna (Cristina Galbó), George (Ray Lovelock) hitches a ride with her to the English town of Windermere. While asking for roadside directions, some of the local farmers are testing some machinery utilizing sound waves. It wakes the dead and, thank God, one of the character’s heroin habit. Yeah.

Meanwhile, the inspector (Arthur Kennedy) has some serious anger issues that should be dealt with, until he is barely strangled in the finale.

With the exception of a few well-executed zombie designs, this tries to be five or six films and, as we learn, Manchester Morgue can barely get one off the ground. The mixing of ecological themes, zombie dirges, police procedurals, ill-fated drug drama, British sex comedy and some sort of weird ritual to revive the dead via their eyelids, it is too much.

I did like the randy breasts, though. Pip-pip, my good sir! —Louis Fowler

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Blow Out (1981)

Set in the high-stakes world of a sound-effects designer, Brian De Palma’s Blow Out follows everyman technician Jack (an effective John Travolta) plying his wares in the world of trashy films and outré smut. Late one night, scoring some sounds, he records an accident on the road.

While most people would get a commendation from the police force, Jack suspects foul play. A man obsessed, he goes deeper to excavate the mondo world of sound effects as he’s targeted with political intrigue, cold-blooded killers and sweetly affected Nancy Allen and her baby voice.

As he gets to the deeply overwhelming conclusion, Jack uses his well-trained ears to unravel the mystery and, ever more so, using his wits to catch at killer. Taking inspiration from Michelangelo Antonioni’s 1966 film Blow-Up, the mystery of Blow Out is not the killer, but instead the ramifications of the killer.

A true testament to De Palma’s 1980s brilliance, this is a complex film that weaves a dirty brilliance in its Philadelphia freedom, bringing everything from rote slasher skinflicks of screen to John Lithgow’s eel-like presence as the hands-on strangler; he hits all the buttons. While this well-timed thriller had semi-glowing reviews upon reception, Blow Out seems to be forgotten by most parties; I guess a coke-fueled movie like Scarface will do that do you. —Louis Fowler

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Massacre at Central High (1976)

When I was around 8 or 9, an edited-for-television version of Massacre at Central High played one evening on an UHF station. A few minutes into it, my mother came in the living room and started watching. She recalled she had seen it and, even worse, that Andrew Stevens was in it.

I don’t remember anything else, except mostly that my mother knew who Stevens was; either way, this snippet of conversation was rediscovered when I watched the new-to-Blu-ray Massacre at Central High, which leads to more questions, but I digress …

As the syrupy song “The Crossroads of My Life” imbues on the soundtrack, Robert Carradine is pushed by a bunch of bullies in the school hallway, which sounds bad, but to be fair, he was drawing a swastika on a locker. Good for the bullies, I guess.

Even with that exercise of antifascism, they are pretty bad, too; their gratuitous disciplining includes a chubby student trying to scale a rope in gym class, the school’s hearing-impaired librarian being harassed and, yikes, raping some girls in the chemistry lab.

As the new student David (Derrel Maury) sees the terrorism taking place, he seeks what any student would: revenge. On my count, he takes down a rockin’ hang glider; a rockin’ surfer in a van driven off a cliff; and a rockin’ swimmer who takes to a pool with no water.

You would think everyone would be satisfied by this conclusion, but they are not, instead repeating the cycle, but with a bigger body count and so on. The characters are so strange, even with director Rene Daalder’s foreign direction skills, they act like they are in a stage play in an actual stage play. It gives the movie a real meta scenario, even if they don’t know it.

But to think my mother saw this at a first-run theater in the ’70s: What other skeletons does she have in the closet in there? More importantly, is Andrew Stevens in there? We’ll never know. —Louis Fowler

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Cool World (1992)

As hot as sex kitten Kim Basinger was/is, the cartoon version of her in Cool World, Holli Would, might be a bit better, if only for the way she cockteases anthropomorphic dogs, cats and a young Brad Pitt. Yowza! According to the ads, “Holli would if she could …”

Ralph Bakshi’s Cool World really adapts the video of the Rolling Stones’ “Harlem Shuffle” by way of a cheap skin flick, leading to a great good okay movie. Coming out of the clink for, I guess, murder, artist Jack (Gabriel Byrne) drives around his comic studio and comic shop, letting all the early ’90s nerds know graphic artists drives girls crazy, especially Holli.

From his mostly drawn Cool World, Holli entices Jack to cross over into our world primarily by using sex as a weapon (to be fair, so was Kim Basinger). On her tail is Pitt — whose acting talent was apparently not always there — as a 1940s cop who has to take her down, as well as a few abrasive — but very Bakshi-lite — cartoons.

The breathy intonations aside, trailblazing animator Bakshi created a new playground in 1992, but sadly, everybody instead was watching progeny like Tiny Toon Adventures, The Ren & Stimpy Show and other post-ironic viewing. Meanwhile, Cool World was a smutty sex comedy, as was the custom in ’92. Monkeybone vibes, anyone?

Byrne is mostly fine and Pitt is all about the baby blues, but the selling point is the miniskirted Basinger, animated or not. But what I really dug was the closer tune, “Real Cool World” by David Bowie; maybe the movie should’ve been about some puppets? —Louis Fowler

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Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands (1976)

When I met Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, it was in the mature section of the video store. Surrounded by beaded curtains, the titillation of promised soft porn — “cable version,” the box exclaimed — just around the fuzzy corner to syrupy heaven and carnal self-pleasure.

Instead, it was a Brazilian art film about the dual nature a woman goes though channeling love and lust. I was thoroughly pissed. But now, some 25 years after I first saw it, I have viewed Dona Flor with new eyes.

After a night of hard partying, Vadinho (José Wilker) dies. His widow, the titular Flor (Sônia Braga), brings new meaning to long-suffering; during their marriage, he went from cockfighting and gambling to countless affairs and wife-beating, as one does.

Flor goes on with her life. She meets and marries Teodoro (Mauro Mendonça), a pharmacist she believes is a good man, but also a boring one. It’s okay, though; Vadinho’s ghostly visage is fine with performing all his late-husbandly duties — all sexual, of course. I guess Teodoro does, too.

While I originally thought this was tale about a new wife and the trials and titrations about marriage, it’s actually a sexy wish-fulfillment fantasy, with Braga’s Flor being the sultry object of South American desire. It’s concerning that she puts up with Vadinho’s abuse, but I guess she makes peace with it, because Flor gives both men a kiss goodnight, even if one’s a ghost.

Dona Flor was first remade in 1983 as Kiss Me Goodbye with Sally Field, James Caan and Jeff Bridges. The original’s sex appeal was monstrously gone, replaced with a brown swatch of neutered khaki fabric. —Louis Fowler

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