Comedy

It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World (1963)

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madworldSocial-issues auteur Stanley Kramer (Judgment at Nuremberg) really cut loose with It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, a comedy that bears no agenda beyond driving its superficial plot. Perhaps feeling guilty that the project wasn’t Important Enough, the crusty Kramer couldn’t resist bloating the material into an epic 202 minutes that begin with one of those old-fashioned musical overtures that play against a blank screen. It’s about the only moment of respite.

The goofs get going when a crook (Jimmy Durante) accidentally drives off a cliff; coming to his aid are five fellow drivers (played by, in ascending order of irritation, Jonathan Winters, Sid Caesar, Milton Berle, Buddy Hackett and Mickey Rooney). Just before croaking, the dying man tells them that $350,000 — an amount that seems positively quaint today — is buried under “a big W” in a California state park. His news sets off a veritable rat race to snag the loot first; because the money is stolen, a bulldog-faced cop (Spencer Tracy) monitors their progress.

madworld1Problems and hangers-on pile up in equal numbers along the way, per rules of the slapstick subgenre. The sheer size of the cast is so big — and so loud, thanks to Ethel Merman — that Mad World‘s imitators curl like Shrinky Dinks in comparison. Had the adjective “zany” not existed beforehand, Kramer’s comedy would coin it — and likely concurrent with the occasion of a paint can landing atop someone’s noggin.

But is the film funny? Personally, if not for the final set piece that violently hurls the leading men off an uncontrollable fire ladder, I’d say no. I suppose that once upon a time in Hollywood, the sights of cars weaving, people yelling, objects falling, structures collapsing and Dick Shawn gyrating automatically translated into laughter. Ah, those were the days, weren’t they, Meemaw? —Rod Lott

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Sex

Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure (1964)

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fannyhillBefore Russ Meyer found his groove exercising his autonomy across a well-built body of work, he took on the for-hire job of adapting John Cleland’s notorious erotic novel of the mid-1700s for the silver screen of the mid-1960s. The result, Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, is far more faithful to its source material than to what we today consider the Meyer aesthetic.

At least the black-and-white period piece opens with a hint of That Meyer Touch, drawn in broad brushes of suggestive humor such as a fish landing in the cleavage of our heroine. The mayhem that ensues in this slapstick sequence would do Mack Sennett proud — a nod to him exists on the street’s “Pie Maker” sign — yet as if the film already tired itself out, it settles into an extended stay of conversation.

fannyhill1Orphaned teen Fanny (Letícia Román, The Girl Who Knew Too Much) falls into work at a curiously idle brothel run by the matronly Mrs. Brown (Miriam Hopkins, 1932’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde). Not only is the place staffed with girls not up to up to Meyer’s minimum standards of pulchritude, but Fanny is amateurish to the point of virginal. That hymen won’t stay intact forever.

Being a sex comedy with no sex shown is one of many reasons this version of Fanny Hill remains noteworthy. Others include Fanny’s true love being played by future Boogey Man director Ulli Lommel, and that the pushy producer is Albert Zugsmith (Touch of Evil). For all those asterisks, however, the movie isn’t any good — just a largely lifeless farce that would be all tease if it contained a libidinal pulse. It’s for Meyer completists only, and even that’s questionable. —Rod Lott

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Reading Material

Hidden Horror: A Celebration of 101 Underrated and Overlooked Fright Flicks

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hiddenhorrorWhile certainly well-intentioned, the idea behind Hidden Horror: A Celebration of 101 Underrated and Overlooked Fright Flicks is hardly new. For example, I immediately was reminded of a book that’s now 10 years old: Fangoria’s 101 Best Horror Movies You’ve Never Seen: A Celebration of the World’s Most Unheralded Fright Flicks. Hell, the titles are almost the same!

Yet that’s not a complaint. At least not when so little overlap exists, when so many more movies have yet to get their due, and when the results are as finely polished as editor Aaron Christensen’s trade paperback is. Pay no mind to it being print-on-demand; this book exudes professionalism on all levels without sacrificing its pure indie spirit.

It’s also a good sign that I didn’t care that I have seen more than half of the 101 featured films and heard of all but two. No matter how deep your knowledge of the genre goes, Hidden Horror is a fun read above all else. While I suspect it will be used by burgeoning film buffs looking to expand their horizons in the years to come, it serves dual purpose as simply a fine collection of criticism and an opportunity to reconnect with titles that may have escaped your memory.

Following a foreword by no less an icon than Maniac director William Lustig, Christensen admits in his introduction that the movies covered in Hidden Horror may not truly be hidden at all. Degrees to which a film is “underrated” and/or “overlooked” is arguably as subjective as whether it is scary.

That’s why something like 1978’s notorious (or noxious, depending on your POV) as I Spit on Your Grave is included. Yes, the rape-revenge shocker has plenty of fans and caused plenty more furor in its time, but no, you’re not likely to have read about it quite like you will here, as BJ Coleangelo — a rape victim herself — defends the oft-maligned exploitation thriller as empowering cinema. Now that’s a refreshing take to read.

And so it goes with 100 other essays from writers, journalists and bloggers, each taking roughly three pages apiece to share and spill their love over a particular work, from the low-bar schlock of Horror of Party Beach to the high-minded artistry of Andrzej Zulawski’s Possession.

Only the spaghetti Western Django Kill … If You Live, Shoot! — no matter how surreal — strikes me as suspect for this lineup. Still, the piece on it is well-written; all of them are, which is more than a little surprising, given the sheer number of cooks in the kitchen.

Also worthy of a shout-out is John Pata for his terrific design work. What so DIY indie authors and publishers fail to recognize is that how a book looks is just as important as how it reads — and maybe even more so, since it creates that first impression upon flip-through. Bad design — or simply nonexistent design — can do harm to good work. Just look at Christensen’s previous collection, 2007’s Horror 101, the guts of which are as drab as to repel the eyeballs connected to interested minds.

Hidden Horror has no such problems; I’m not sure it has any problems, other than that soon after 300 pages, it comes to an end. —Rod Lott

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Action

Lady Cocoa (1975)

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ladycocoaSinger-turned-actress Lola Falana (The Liberation of L.B. Jones) stars as Lady Cocoa, a spoiled, sassy “hot piece of cheese” who gets out of prison for 24 hours in order to testify against a mob boss. Under the watchful eye of two cops in a Nevada hotel, she bats her eyelashes, throws temper tantrums and scoffs, “You poo-poos!”

After she tires of tossing off the insult “Buster Brown,” she ventures into the casino and soon finds herself in a heap o’ trouble, being pursued by no fewer than two teams of hitmen, one of which contains football player-turned-soda pitchman “Mean” Joe Greene (The Black Six); the other, a dude in drag. The best scene has a car being chased through the casino by a cop on foot. Do the math.

ladycocoa1I’ve long believed that there was no such thing as a bad theme song for a blaxploitation movie, but then I heard this film’s, appropriated from “Pop Goes the Weasel” (an alternate title for this cup of Cocoa). Director Matt Cimber (Butterfly) has it played over and over and over. —Rod Lott

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Mystery

The College-Girl Murders (1967)

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collegegirlmurdersOne of many Edgar Wallace adaptations Alfred Vohrer directed for the big screen, The College-Girl Murders begins with a scene straight out of Business 101: A scientist invents a new, odorless poison that’s 100-percent efficient in causing immediate death in its inhalants. As soon as he sells his find, he’s killed by the buyer.

We know not who this mysterious purchaser is, but we know what he intends to do with it: Annihilate some co-eds. One of those Dr. Mabuse-ian villains who rules over a hideout with a built-in crocodile lair, this enigmatic antagonist has more than one nut doing his bidding, including felons snuck in and out of their prison cells via garbage cans.

collegegirlmurders1Most notable, however, is a whip-wielding monk clad in hooded duds that look like a Ku Klux Klan uniform accidentally got mixed with a load of reds in the wash. The robed menace runs amok in a girls’ dormitory, planting booby-trapped Bibles that spray the deadly gas upon opening. He then exits via the fireplace, which raises to reveal a secret passageway, natch.

Colorful in look and swinging in sound, The College-Girl Murders is such a blast on several levels that I’m willing to overlook the title’s unnecessary hyphen. The German film marks a solid krimi — not just among the Wallace adaptations, which number so many that they make up their own subgenre, but among the country’s thrillers of that era. It boasts a genuine whodunit plot, lovely ladies ripe for the offing, gadgetry galore and one way-out ending in which the authorities scamper out of frame as soon as they notice a card reading “ENDE” floating in the turtle aquarium behind them. —Rod Lott

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