Winchester (2018)

Reclusive widow Sarah Winchester (Helen Mirren, The Fate of the Furious) owns 51% of the gun company that bears her name, but the board of directors fears she’s lost her marbles since losing her husband and only child to the Grim Reaper. After all, what possible good reason could a person have to purchase an eight-room home, only to add 92 rooms onto it?

That’s what Dr. Price (Jason Clarke, Dawn of the Planet of the Apes) is going to find out! Hired by the board, the whore-lovin’, opium-droppin’ doc is dispatched to the Winchester house in San Jose, California, to assess the missus’ state of mind. What he finds is that the abode is twistier than she is, what with its maze-like stairwells, false doors, secret rooms, hidey-holes and gh-gh-gh-ghosts! Yep — with a straight face, she tells Price that her increasingly spacious house plays host to many specters: one for each life snuffed by the brand of rifle that brings her riches, which is why the residence is in perpetual renovation. (Lucky for her bank account, the story takes place in 1906.)

Topical only on the surface, Winchester finds inspiration from true events — namely, the widow’s Winchester Mystery House, long a tourist attraction — yet could stand to find more, whether in fact or in fiction. After setting up the home’s funhouse uniqueness, sibling directors Michael and Peter Spierig (Jigsaw) do not do enough with it, jettisoning it quickly for a rote possession storyline and haunted-house jump scares that could take place in any Insidious sequel.

Still, being talented pros, neither Mirren nor Clarke — nor third lead Sarah Snook (the Spierig brothers’ Predestination) as Sarah’s niece — half-ass the half-baked material, which is admirable on their part. Winchester is well-made mediocrity. —Rod Lott

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The Janitor (2003)

Perhaps the time was right for a horror comedy about a crazed practitioner of the custodial arts. So God gives you The Janitor — often laugh-out-loud funny and more often gleefully offensive.

In this tiny-budgeted labor of love from California, a dumpy janitor named Lionel (Honest Trailers mastermind Andy Signore) works at the offices of Generico Corporation, where members of the workforce either scorn him or ignore him, naturally. He carries a torch for a female employee who is repulsed by his very mop-pushing presence. It’s enough to drive a guy mad.

Lionel’s ambitions do not end in the halls of Generico; his dream is to ply his no-diploma-required trade at a college sorority house. He’s about to get his big break, until his janitorial partner/mentor, Mr. Growbo (Bruce Cronander, The Poughkeepsie Tapes), sweeps swoops in to steal the position out of spite, feeling despondent and betrayed by Lionel’s desire to leave. It’s enough to drive a guy even madder. At that point, Lionel — who by now already has terminated a few co-workers — embarks on a full-blown sorority house massacre.

A mix of raunchy comedy and messy splatter, The Janitor is so over-the-top, one wonders if there was a tiled ceiling to begin with. For example, Lionel has to cover up a homicide by lubricating his hand with spit in order to jerk off a fresh corpse. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before decapitating a hooker,” scolds Growbo; it’s a long story.

For a piece of self-financed microcinema, The Janitor bears quite the coat of polish while also looking back in the well-Windexed mirror. The gore effects are H.G. Lewis-level terrific, while Russ Meyer fans will appreciate the gargantuan helpings of gratuitous nudity. Co-written and co-directed by Signore and TJ Nordaker, the movie reminded me of 1989’s infamous Las Vegas Blood Bath, yet entirely self-aware. —Rod Lott

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Reading Material: Short Ends 4/25/18

In case Stephen Thrower’s recent two-volume look at the man’s filmography is too pricey for your tastes, Jess Franco: The World’s Most Dangerous Filmmaker may be more your wallet’s speed, particularly for Franco neophytes. The second of crime-fic purveyor Stark House’s titles to be issued under its “Film Classics” label (a 2006 reprint of the late, great Ed Gorman and Kevin McCarthy’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers: A Tribute was the first), Kristofer Todd Upjohn’s paperback examines roughly 45 Franco films, arranged in no order whatsoever. This randomness fits Franco’s anything-goes approach, as the ever-prolific director doused and dabbled in horror, sex, crime, comedy and the occasional Fu Manchu adventure. The Diabolical Dr. Z, Venus in Furs, The Erotic Rites of Frankenstein, Countess Perverse, Bloody Moon, Faceless — all of these and more undergo Upjohn’s critical eye, probing enough to whet the reader’s appetite for first tastes or return visits. The author clearly knows of what he writes, although his constant referencing of “Thanatos and Eros” (death and sex) seems like a needless attempt to add a layer of academic-minded icing to the cake, when such a move is unnecessary — after all, it’s cake: delicious and irresistible as is.

Indeed, Chris Nashawaty’s Caddyshack: The Making of a Hollywood Cinderella Story does tell the tale behind the 1980 crass comedy, but only after doing the same about the founding of National Lampoon magazine and its move into film with Animal House. One can’t fault the author for doing so, because the making of Caddyshack equals the un-making of Kenney. Whereas Nashawaty’s previous book (the 2013 Roger Corman bio, Crab Monsters, Teenage Cavemen, and Candy Stripe Nurses) presented its subject by way of an oral history, this Flatiron Books hardcover is a tightly written narrative of debauchery on Warner Bros.’ dime, and full of what the beloved movie lacks: actual plot. Some of its key storylines are legendary: Kenney’s vacuum-like coke habit, Bill Murray’s mad improv skills and Chevy Chase’s legendary assholiness. Others, however, are comparatively revelatory: Cindy Morgan’s struggle to be treated with a modicum of kindness, Rodney Dangerfield not knowing what to do when director Harold Ramis called “Action!” and Ted Knight’s old-pro frustration with coke habits, improv skills and assholiness. The result? A behind-the-scenes, you-are-there(-and-stoned-as-fuck) account for the record books, if cinema kept such a record. So it’s got that going for it, which is nice.

Readers are more apt to enjoy Indie Science Fiction Cinema Today: Conversations with 21st Century Filmmakers when they have seen the movies in question. Luckily for co-authors Kathleen Fernandez-Vander Kaay and Chris Vander Kaay, the films covered — from aliens and superheroes to alternate histories and other dimensions — are more commercial and readily available than that “indie” tag might suggest. For example, the Julie Benz vehicle Circle is a Netflix fave; the Tim Burton-produced 9 played theaters nationwide; and so many others already have earned cult followings, including Iron Sky, Turbo Kid and Pontypool. Directorial duo Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead are represented by, appropriately enough, two separate interviews: one for Resolution, one for Spring. While the Vander Kaays’ Q-and-As about the creative process and budgetary constraints mean that much of the McFarland & Company release may be more transcribed than written, that lends the book the feel of overhearing casual conversations, many of them worth the eavesdropping. —Rod Lott

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Enter the Game of Death (1978)

As Bruceploitation pictures go, Enter the Game of Death is hardly the craziest, but it still is semi-“out there.” Bruce Le (Challenge of the Tiger) dons Lee’s iconic yellow jumpsuit to play Chang.

After winning an arena kickboxing match (a nearly unbearable sequence at seven minutes), Chang is offered a job as a bodyguard. When he politely refuses, his would-be employer sics a team of shirtless fighters (reportedly including American Ninja’s Steve James) on him. Chang handily beats these wussy-dubbed hooligans, but then some Japanese guys rape his cousin, who’s so ashamed she kills herself.

So enraged at this turn of events, Chang joins the Blue Robe Organization and agrees to help its proprietors recover a stolen military document that will save his country. Said document is located at the tippy top of a pagoda, through each level of which he must fight:
• The first level finds him battling a bald guy who throws fistfuls of death marbles.
• Level two is inhabited by a guy tossing poisonous snakes. When he’s nearly defeated, he bites the head off one serpent and sprays Chang with its blood as if it were a water hose.
• On floor three, Chang spars with a white-haired fellow with nunchucks and lotsa candles.
• The gimmick of the fourth floor is a lame one: It’s all red.
• Finally, at the penthouse level, Chang tussles with the Asian version of Grizzly Adams.

Naturally, this five-story sequence is where director Joseph Kong (The Clones of Bruce Lee) rips off the real Bruce Lee’s Game of Death; naturally, this is where the film gets fun. Then it’s outside for even more punching and kicking more bad guys, including big bad Bolo Yeung (Bloodsport). You could do worse! —Rod Lott

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The House That Vanished (1973)

As many glamorous models do, Valerie (Andrea Allen, Old Dracula) exhibits terrible taste in men; her boyfriend, Terry (Alex Leppard, Crowley), is a two-bit thief whose idea of a date is taking Valerie with him to a remote mansion in the woods … and ordering her to stay in the car while he goes for a little B&E. Bored, she disobeys and joins him. Inside the house, the two have to hide in a closet upon realizing they’re not alone. From their vantage point, they watch in terror as a busty prostitute (Barbara Meale, Sex and the Other Woman) is brutally murdered by a man they cannot see, beyond the genre-appropriate black leather gloves covering his grabby, stabby hands.

A horrified Valerie hightails it outta there. The next day, Terry’s car shows up, but Terry himself does not. Nor does he later, and given the circumstances, it’s not exactly the kind of disappearance she can report to the police. In an attempt to locate him, friends accompany Valerie to the scene of the crime … if only she could find it. Why, it’s as if they’re looking for The House That Vanished.

That title is a bit of a ruse, as House does not reside in the realm of the supernatural, where so many of director José Ramón Larraz’s best-known works do, including Black Candles and Vampyres, to name only two. That’s not to say he’s out of his element, but with the Spanish filmmaker shooting British actors in British locations, one could make the case that screenwriter Derek Ford (Don’t Open Till Christmas) possesses a greater claim of authorship. In Larraz’s favor, The House That Vanished noticeably bears a dominant stamp of suspense, although hardly “in the great Hitchcock tradition” shouted by its ad campaign.

However, if you want to talk Hitchcock blondes, Allen is as functional as Tippi Hedren and as gorgeous as Kim Novak. Vanished (also released under the nonsensical and overly punctuated title of Scream — and Die!) gives her nearly every frame to fill, which she does with considerable allure and enough aplomb. Her Grace — er, grace — makes up for deficiencies elsewhere, such as a herring so red, it’s sunburned. —Rod Lott

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