Deathdream (1974)

Black Christmas wasn’t the only horror film Bob Clark directed — just the best and most influential. However, let us not allow history to neglect Deathdream, at once an unofficial adaptation of W.W. Jacobs’ classic short story, “The Monkey’s Paw,” and a feverish allegory on the PTSD of our Vietnam vets.

The family of soldier Andy Brooks (Richard Backus, The First Deadly Sin) receives some tragic, not entirely unexpected news: The young man has been killed while fighting the unwinnable war in ’Nam. Hours later, an apparent miracle follows: In the Dead of Night (to borrow Deathdream’s alternate title), Andy appears in the entry hall, as if he’d come marching home.

He seems a bit, well, off, because he’s a member of the walking dead. The Brookses either are too overjoyed to notice or are in denial — perhaps a helping of both. As viewers, we are not privy to scenes of prewar Andy, but certainly he wasn’t always quite this pale or quick to strangle dogs, was he? Unremarked upon, the Scooby-Doo light switch cover in his childhood room serves as a nice contrast to his sinister new ways, and a reminder of the innocence irrevocably lost in the jungle.

Although he ended up writing for daytime soaps, Backus is awfully good as the prodigal son who joined the Army as a boy and left it as a zombie. The movie doesn’t ask him to display, oh, range, yet as his character’s physical body gradually fails him and falls away, Backus need do little more than remain still and slowly turn his all-American smile into an unholy rictus. The more homicidal he becomes, the more horrifying his face, providing Deathdream with most of its shivers.

If Andy is one-dimensional — and he is — Clark and scriptwriter Alan Ormsby (Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things) let John Marley play far more shades. Assured a spot in cinema history for being That Guy Who Wakes Next to a Horse’s Head in The Godfather, Marley has this film’s most complex performance as Andy’s father. In many ways, it establishes the template for what Gregory Peck would do a mere two years later in the showier The Omen: Be torn between the allegiance to his only son and the responsibility for ending his bad behavior. His journey encapsulates the punch line of an old Bill Cosby routine: “I brought you into this world and I’ll take you out.”

With a Pepto-Bismol color palette that mirrors the uneasiness of his tale, Clark nails making the most of not a lot. That he did it twice in one calendar year (with Black Christmas following this to theaters about four months later) makes each picture all the more impressive. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

10/31 (2017)

For a terrific horror anthology in which several directors contribute stories themed around All Hallows’ Eve … stick with 2015’s Tales of Halloween. Sorry to say, but 10/31 is an embarassment for the parties involved, most of all the viewer. Heck, let’s throw the actual date of Oct. 31 in there, too, and encourage it to sue for defamation; the movie is that bad.

The poster pegs the project as “from the creators of The Barn, Bonejangles, The Dooms Chapel Horror and Volumes of Blood.” If those titles resonate with you, perhaps you’ll get more out of the Indiegogo-funded 10/31 than the average bear. Expect very little; even the Elvira-“inspired” wraparound — bookends, really — is so barely there, it hardly merits mention.

The five stories contained within fall prey to the severe limitations of so many microbudgeted projects of the horror genre: They appear to have been made by men who are fans first, and filmmakers a distant second. What this means is that in each of their shorts, the directors (Justin M. Seaman, Zane Hershberger, John William Holt, Brett DeJager and Rocky Gray) seem concerned only with gore and makeup and John Carpenter-esque synths, to the detriment of acting, pacing and storytelling.

I’m certainly not against scarecrows and slashers and spooky hags who haunt quaint-but-unprofitable B&Bs. I am, however, opposed to padding a 15- or 20-minute segment with 14 to 19 minutes of filler. Among the worst offenders — in a flick so full of them, it’s practically a police lineup — are Hershberger’s “Trespassers” and Holt’s “Killing the Dance.” While the former offers first-date conversation so interminable, your mind will swipe left, it’s the latter that truly tries one’s patience; with its roller-rink setting, prepare for skating, skating and skating — and more skating! — before getting around to the inevitable stabbing.

I doubt neither the validity nor intensity of the guys’ love of horror — likely, it extends to being sacrosanct. But their infatuation clouded and doomed 10/31’s execution. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

The Road Movie (2016)

Here now, something you may not mind the Russians for doing: The Road Movie. For the problematic-to-Google documentary, “director” Dmitrii Kalashnikov has assembled a shapeless smorgasbord of vehicular wrecks and yuks, all captured by his country’s drivers’ dashcams. To say Comrade Kalashnikov has plumbed the depths of YouTube so we don’t have to is no exaggeration; as the end credits reveal, the clips indeed come extracted from that digital rabbit hole.

Like the Jackass-ery of this generation’s narrative-free docs, there exists an undeniable rubbernecker quality to the proceedings, as cars and trucks and the occasional pedestrian careen into one another before our eyes. Oddly, amid all the chaos, the one element the pic lacks is pacing. In a likely effort to take his Frankensteined project over the one-hour mark, Kalashnikov lets many clips drift too long on both ends, whereas other bits arrive mercifully brief (read: those in which passengers had to have perished).

Context is nonexistent; even with bumper-to-bumper English subtitles, you’ll wish The Road Movie addressed the one burning question its mere existence raises — no, not “WTF is wrong with this country?” but “Who is recording all this footage? And why?” For the upvotes and the ad revenue, one assumes.

While not the slam-bang demolition derby of a flick as the clickbaiting trailer sells, it’s an ADHD-friendly mix of the hilarious and the horrifying. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

It Came from the Video Aisle!: Inside Charles Band’s Full Moon Entertainment Studio

In 2013, Dave Jay, Torsten Dewi and Nathan Shumate chronicled the long, strange trip of schlock-movie purveyor Charles Band in Empire of the ‘B’s. The only thing “wrong” with that book is that it ended with the collapse of Band’s Empire International Pictures studio, thus denying us the rest of the story: the indie legend’s pivot to the home-video biz under his Full Moon banner.

Turns out they had a great reason for ignoring that second chapter: because it demanded its own book — and one even larger than the first. Now we have it in It Came from the Video Aisle!: Inside Charles Band’s Full Moon Entertainment Studio. From Schiffer Publishing, the hefty trade paperback is co-written by Jay, Dewi and William S. Wilson — the latter in for Shumate, who nonetheless provides occasional assistance as one of several other contributors.

While a sequel to the previous volume, Video Aisle approaches things a little differently, eschewing the title-by-title chronology in favor of divvying up its history lesson by whichever entity Band had convinced to fund his endeavors, from the highs of Paramount Pictures to the current lows of Band’s own wallet. It is a story of Hollywood-outsider hubris (or something close to it), with the rubber Band bouncing back from the theatrical detritus of his crumbled Empire Pictures by blazing a trail to direct-to-VHS product. Birthing the Puppet Master series, Trancers sequels and Stuart Gordon lit-horror adaptations, the results were — for a time — quite golden. Low in budget yet high (enough) in production value, these genre pictures found favor in the Blockbuster age and, in tacking VideoZone featurettes at the tape’s end to show how the sausage was made, Band built a fervent fan base as he presaged the bonuses appeal of the DVD format.

But the man’s title-and-a-poster development process could generate solid returns for only so long, and his quest to deliver more quantity than quality took its toll. Luckily, Jay, Dewi and Wilson do not shy away from being critical of the movies that demand and/or deserve it. Although their affection for the Full Moon brand clearly makes them more receptive to, say, Seedpeople or Shrunken Heads than the average bear, they don’t hesitate to call a turd a turd, and neither do the subjects they interviewed. The deeper into the page count (480!) the reader dives, the more of a lashing Band takes, particularly in his “personal penchant for minuscule monsters.”

Perhaps putting it best is effects man Tom Devlin (Unlucky Charms, Reel Evil, et al.): “Sometimes Charlie makes these decisions, most recently with the Gingerdead Man vs. Evil Bong movie, where he just won’t let some of the worst ideas go.”

Candor like that helps mitigate the one true fault of the book: photos so small, they strain the eye. For a project on a man who presold flicks that existed only as colorful artwork, it’s a shame we can’t revel in those visuals. Then again, enlarging them beyond their postage-stamp size might result in having to lose some of the material, which I would not be willing to do. Bearing well-earned stripes for completeness, It Came from the Video Aisle! covers seemingly everything there is to cover among Full Moon’s many phases: the Moonbeam line of kiddie films; the Torchlight Entertainment/Surrender Cinema line of softcore porn; the short-lived, William Shatner-hosted Full Moon Fright Night TV series; and — from Puppet Wars to The Primevals — even the movies that never had a fighting chance to be completed. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Reading Material: Short Ends 11/13/17

Two years ago, editor Stephen Jones delivered a coffee-table book for the ages with The Art of Horror, and now he and his gang of talented writers and artists are back for another go-round, this time silver screen-cemented, with The Art of Horror Movies: An Illustrated History. Again published in a handsome hardback by Applause Theatre & Cinema Books, this full-color follow-up tackles its admittedly intimidating mission by slicing and dicing the subject matter into by-decade chapters, starting with a broader look at “The Sinister Silents.” In doing so, whether accidentally or purposefully, the book presents a compelling visual history of cinema’s bastard child, as we see its ad campaigns evolve before our very hungry eyes. While Jones and company primarily are focused on providing broad-stroke, bird’s-eye views, it’s also not unusual to see them get creative in themed pages that celebrate everything from Rondo Hatton and Sherlock Holmes to covers of fanzines and hand-painted flour sacks used in African villages!

With Kong: Skull Island a massive hit earlier this year and sequels to Godzilla and Pacific Rim already on deck, the oversized-creature feature is enjoying quite the colossal resurgence, and Giant Creatures in Our World: Essays on Kaiju and American Popular Culture is but one piece of the proof. The McFarland & Company release comes co-edited by Camille D.G. Mustachio and Jason Barr, and while the latter dealt with this subject all by his lonesome in last year’s The Kaiju Film, this unofficial (but worthy) companion widens the net to let its contributors dig into the niche. Thus, while Barr theorizes about the nostalgia drive of the adult toy collector, Se Young Kim examines how American superheroes like Spider-Man become enemies of justice when incorporated overseas, and Karen Joan Kohoutek wonders if all those Gamera episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000 aren’t maybe a wee bit racist. As Godzilla proved in his ’54 debut, rampaging monsters are to be taken seriously, and this collection does just that, examining these cultural giants with the gravity they deserve, but also the fun audiences expect.

If there will be a better encapsulation of the history and evolution of the medium than David Bianculli’s splendidly penned The Platinum Age of Television: From I Love Lucy to The Walking Dead, How TV Became Terrific … well, I doubt it will occur in my lifetime. A longtime TV critic for NPR, Bianculli takes what had to be a bear of a self-imposed assignment by foregoing the expected chronological route in favor of genre. For each of those — workplace sitcoms, medical dramas, Westerns, miniseries, et al. — he chooses five series that best represent the forwarding of the format and explains not only what they did and how they did it (and, in the case of something like The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, how they got away with it), but also how their DNA thrives in the programs of today, in the style of this-beget-that. It’s rather amazing how essays so compact yield so much fascinating material; even the chapters on genres I have no interest in (like war) proved unskippable. Interstitial interviews with/profiles of key players — such as Carol Burnett, Carl Reiner, Ken Burns and, um, Kevin Spacey and Louis C.K. — make an already excellent book that much more rewarding. Tune in immediately.

It is strange to remember a time when The X-Files was just another under-the-radar, possibly doomed-to-fail show on the fourth-ranked (and occasionally fourth-rate) Fox network, rather than the cultural touchstone it has been for, oh, two decades and counting. But Ireland-based critic Darren Mooney sure does, and lays out that progression in Opening The X-Files: A Critical History of the Original Series. From McFarland & Company, the book opens with a foreword from superfan Kumail Nanjiani (whose 2017 romcom The Big Sick practically gives the series a subplot) before a headfirst plunge. Admirably, rather than following an episode-by-episode formula, which would get dull, the author discusses each season largely in standalone terms, while weaving in the various spin-offs and 1998 feature film. I’m calling it a success because it made me eager to revisit the Blu-ray box set; in fact, if The X-Files studies were a college course (and I’m sure it is somewhere), Mooney’s book would have to be one of its essential texts. —Rod Lott

Get them at Amazon.

Random Genre & Cult Movie Reviews