|
|
Abandoned, The
(2006) Spanish auteur
Nacho Cerda, who dazzled short film horror audiences with his festival
favorites Aftermath and Genesis, takes the helm for his
first feature-length effort and proves he’s got the stuff for the big
leagues. Set in Russia, the challenging and rewarding ghost story
(co-scripted by Cerda, Richard Stanley and Karim Hussain) follows an American
émigré (the haunted-looking Anastasia Hille) as she returns to her birthplace
to claim her inheritance after her absent father passes away. Soon,
however, she is coming face to face with long-lost siblings, hypnotic visions
from the past, and some nasty-looking doppelgangers. While not filled
with the lunch-buckling f/x work of Aftermath, there are enough
visual delights (the “kitchen resurrection” scene is one for the memory
books) and nasty chills, all wrapped in a dank and misty atmosphere of dread,
on display here to keep genre fans satisfied. |
|
|
Combining the
comedy hijinks of Bud and Lou with a smorgasbord of Universal monster mashing
turned out to be a winning formula, providing a satisfying final note for the
aging series. Though the goofy plot (Lawrence Talbot, aka “The Wolf
Man,” attempts to thwart Dracula’s plans to transplant freight handler
Costello’s brain into the Frankenstein monster) is less than inspired, it
provides ample opportunity for A&C’s particular brand of slapstick and
verbal jousting. The coup of returning Bela Lugosi to the role he made
famous (as well as Lon Chaney, Jr. reviving his tortured lycanthropic soul,
and Glenn Strange as old Flat-top) adds a sense of legitimacy to the affair,
although the monsters are played much more buffoonishly to allow for broader
comedy. Chaney’s plentiful man-to-wolf transformations (that’s a lot of
full moons) still manage to be effective, even in their abbreviated
state. (This film marks the first time Jack Pierce’s remarkable, but
time-consuming, makeup efforts were discarded in favor of rubber
appliances.) The animated vampire-to-bat transformations are handled
well, though there is one notable goof where Lugosi casts a very
un-Dracula-like reflection in the mirror while putting the bite on sexy doc
Lenore Aubert. The success of director Charles Barton’s crowd-pleasing
entertainment set the stage for future installments of the comedy duo
encountering Universal’s beloved spookers. This, however, remains the
best of the A&C horror spoofs, and is one of the team’s best efforts,
period. |
|
|
The unforgettable
tag-line “In space, no one can hear you scream” heralded the arrival of this
masterpiece of sci-fi/horror from director Ridley Scott. When the
commercial space vessel Nostromo responds to a distress signal on an
unknown planet, one of their crew is attacked by a bizarre life form.
Over the course of several hours, the seemingly indestructible creature
threatens all of their lives, evolving and exhibiting horrifically
distinctive characteristics: acidic blood, rows and rows of retractable
teeth, white-hot intelligence, and a fierce predatory instinct.
Combining the “Boo!” factor of a suspenseful haunted house story with the
dread of an unstoppable psychopathic slasher, Scott ratchets the tension up
to a heart-stopping level that is often sought but rarely achieved.
With the elements of a superlative cast (including newcomer Sigourney
Weaver), Dan O’Bannon’s unrelenting screenplay, astonishing scenic design,
Oscar-winning special effects, and H. R. Giger’s nightmarishly original alien
design, the film delivers dramatic scenes and gory images that sear the
viewer’s mind, lingering long after the final reel unspools. Unveiled
in the wake of Star Wars and Close Encounters’ fuzzy,
friendly extra-terrestrials, the film knocked audiences for a loop, and has
lost none of its power after 25 years and multiple sequels. |
|
|
What could be
more nail-biting than Ridley Scott’s Alien? More Aliens, of
course. What could easily have been an exploitative disaster turns into
cinematic gold in the hands of writer/director James Cameron, who delivers
that rare and wonderful thing: a sequel that actually rivals its source. The
action picks up fifty-seven years later, with Nostromo’s lone
survivor, Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), found drifting in suspended
animation. Upon awakening, she reveals her encounter with the creature,
only to discover that industrious business types have colonized the planet in
question. When contact with the colonists is lost, a gung-ho group of
space Marines is sent to assess and rectify the situation, with Ripley
reluctantly accompanying as advisor. The sharply directed film places
its emphasis on explosive action and suspense, and the memorable heroes and
villains (human and otherwise) in Cameron’s script are colorfully fleshed out
by his game and willing cast. Weaver returns to the role with a
vengeance, creating a multi-layered character that believably evolves from
frightened victim to machine-gun toting heroine, and her efforts earned her
an Oscar nomination for Best Actress (astounding not only for the genre, but
for a sequel, no less.) Special effects whiz Stan Winston pulls out all
the stops, giving us hordes of ill-tempered aliens that assault the human
infantry with breath-taking ferocity, and the climatic showdown between
Ripley and the mother of all Aliens isone for the ages. |
|
|
After the
astonishing one-two punch of the original and its sequel, this glum and ugly
installment in the series is an unequivocal let-down. In his feature
directing debut, David Fincher displays immense style and flair, but without
the affection for his characters that his predecessors possessed, presenting
instead a cold and sterile world where the Aliens have twice the personality
of their human victims. This proves to be an unfortunate misstep, as
the audience is given no one to root for, and the awe-inspiring suspense of
the original is reduced to a simple guessing game of who will meet their gory
end next. The film is set on an all-male planetary penal colony, where
the survivors from the previous film crash-land. Sigourney Weaver is
back as Ripley, but along with her hair (clipped off in order to fit in with
her male counterparts), she has been stripped of the spirit and charisma that
were her most appealing characteristics. (This is all the more
disappointing considering Ms. Weaver is listed as one of the film’s
producers.) While Fincher does provide a few cinematic surprises, such
as the whirling “Alien-cam”, ultimately the whole affair comes off as an
exercise in depressing nihilism, complete with its heavy-handed downer
ending. |
|
|
Screenwriter Joss
Whedon (creator of TV’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer) and director
Jean-Pierre Jeunet (Delicatessen, City of Lost Children)
have each made significant and enjoyable contributions to the horror/sci-fi
genre, but here their efforts only manage to defile the beloved reputation of
the first two Alien films. With the most anemic of storylines,
Sigourney Weaver, (looking sleek and much, much richer after contract
negotiations) is brought back as a clone of her former Ripley self, aboard an
interstellar science lab where scientist baddies are working to artificially
re-create that pesky Alien for military use. Predictably, the monsters
escape and the assorted humans become E.T. lunchmeat, with a lot of blood,
guts, and slime slung about in the process. If it weren’t so offensive
to the spirit of the original, the results would be laughable. Whedon’s
dialogue is a patchwork of well-worn machismo and pithy one-liners, and while
the characters are superficially distinguishable (one is an android, one is
in a wheelchair, one has scars, etc.) not one has a distinctive personality
of his or her own. Jeunet tries to spin gold out of straw with dizzying
action set pieces and endless close-ups of spurting bodily fluids, but
ultimately cannot overcome the blasé quality of the proceedings.
Believe it or not, the movie gets exponentially worse as it progresses, with
an ending so appallingly inept that the bad taste lingers for days. For
completists only. |
|
|
Considering that
the title accurately conjures up images of a Japanese monster mash, any
expectations of an intelligent sci-fi classic are ill-advised. And
while the film bears little resemblance to its classic origins, if one can
manage to switch off the brain and enjoy the mashing, this is an adequate
popcorn burner. The film begins with the discovery of an Aztec pyramid
buried deep in the ice of Antarctica, with wacky billionaire Lance Henriksen
(smirking at his own presence in yet another Alien film) leading a
group of archeologists on an exploratory expedition. Upon their arrival
(and through some very sketchy translating), the team discovers that two
thousand years ago, the pyramid served as an Alien hive for the
extra-terrestrial race of dreadlock-wearing Predators, who would enter and
combat the Aliens as a rite of passage. As the cinematic fates would have it,
it’s time for the next Predator class to start and soon there are spaceships
landing, Aliens bursting out of chests, and the clash of the sci-fi titans is
on with the humans caught in the middle. With passable CGI effects,
minimal character development, and yawning plot holes, AvP only
succeeds as the big, dumb fun that it intends to be. Purist fans of the
originals will probably be horrified, but after numerous inferior sequels,
how high could expectations be? Ultimately, the level of enjoyment will
depend on the viewer’s mindset and preconceived notions. Rated PG-13,
even though all of its predecessors were R-rated films (!). |
|
|
Picking up immediately after the close of the previous film where the union of the two galactic goliaths seemed inevitable - and not in an olive branch kind of way, this latest installment features a Predator "cleaner" (shades of Harvey Keitel's "Wolf" character from Pulp Fiction) sent to erase any evidence left behind on earth of either race. A relatively intriguing jumping-off point, but the whole endeavor goes south in a big, big hurry, thanks to Shane Salerno's mean-spirited body-count screenplay and the ham-fisted, sniggering, "see how they splatter" direction by siblings Colin and Greg Strause. With nary a sympathetic character in sight, be they human, Alien or Predator, the viewer is left with little to do but watch helplessly as myriad human inhabitants of a rural Colorado mountain town are trotted out, given perfunctory two-dimensional background information before being face-hugged or laser-blasted into oblivion. What our nimble scriveners seem to have forgotten is that the keys to success for both franchises' early installments were the realistic and appealing characters that we grew to care about before they met their messy ends. Not so here. We have stock figures so thinly drawn that to call them stereotypes would be an insult to stereotypes - we don't care one iota about any of them, making this the equivalent of a slick and mindless slasher flick, with monsters in place of machetes. Having no real plot to speak of, gorehound immaturity reigns supreme with a nihilistic sense of "Heh, heh, watch this" pervading throughout. Refrain from buying popcorn for this one as you'll probably not be able to resist hurling it at the screen. A requiem is called for indeed, because the filmmakers' intentions to bury the series (not to praise it) are all-too-evident. |
|
|
Why settle for
just one crazed killer when you can have three or four? During a
citywide blackout, inmates of an asylum for the criminally insane liberate
themselves and proceed to have a high old time in the outside world.
Top-billed Jack Palance and Martin Landau are two of the merry murderers, and
Donald Pleasance plays a head therapist as bonkers as his patients. A
bespectacled Dwight Schultz (later of TV’s A-Team fame) holds the
movie together as best he can as the new psychiatrist in town, struggling to
keep his family (a handful in and of themselves) safe. Writer/director
Jack Sholder’s dialogue is not the sharpest, nor does he do anything creative
behind the camera, choosing instead to simply give his cast of veterans the
freedom to chew the scenery to their hearts’ content. There are a few
worthwhile scenes, including an under-the-bed menacing of the nubile
babysitter and a final showdown at the family home, á la Straw Dogs.
Sadly, much of the suspense is sucked out of the abundant array of “creative”
deaths by a heavy-handed musical score, which consistently tips us off much
too far in advance. Producer Robert Shaye would quickly go on to much
bigger things as producer of the Nightmare on Elm Street film
series. |
|
|
Set in the woods
of the Pacific Northwest, this sturdy “vacationers in peril” tale follows a
group of mildly annoying yuppies looking for a little R&R and finding
M&M (madness and murder) instead. Sarah Torgov makes a strong
impression as a young woman recovering from a recent mental breakdown, for
whose benefit the excursion is being undertaken. When the weekend warriors’
airplane runs low on fuel, they are forced to land on an isolated island
where they encounter “Pa” (Rod Steiger), “Ma” (Yvonne de Carlo) and their
offbeat family, composed of three adult children still running around in
little girl dresses and short pants. One by one, the obnoxious urban
interlopers disturb Steiger’s idyllic spartan existence and meet unsettling
ends at the hands of his overgrown adolescents. Ultimately, other than
the intriguing juxtaposition of Torgov struggling to retain her sanity while
Rod and his merry brood happily embrace their madness, there is not much new
ground covered in John Hough’s direction or screenplay (co-written by Terry
Lens). Ultimately, it is the top-notch performances of Steiger (who
dominates every scene) and his whacked-out family that hold our interest,
bumping the creep factor up a notch by dispatching bloody carnage with
childlike giggles. Fairly routine stuff, elevated by clever twists in
the final reel. |
|
|
After reading
Bret Easton Ellis’ notorious novel (and admiring it a great deal for its dark
wit and horrific imagery), I was curious to see how they would handle the
unfilmable gore sequences for the screen. Answer? Writer/director
Mary Harron chooses to focus on the book’s other target: the skewering (both
figurative and literal) of the excess-drenched, materialistic “Me-Generation”
80s. Englishman Christian Bale is deliciously shallow in his depiction
of wannabe power player Patrick Bateman, and the story’s dark humor is given
more breathing room and broadened for the general public. But
while Harron and Co. do a fine job in adapting the source material’s spirit
and plotline, I recommend that fans of the movie also check out Ellis’
literary rabbit hole – it cuts far deeper, tickling gag reflexes and moral
hindbrains at the same time. |
|
|
Maligned by
critics on its release, this screen version of Jay Anson’s “true-account”
haunted-house bestseller has some moments of real fright and just as many of
unmitigated silliness. Newlyweds James Brolin and Margot Kidder move
their family to an upstate New York residence, whose idyllic exteriors belie
a dark past of madness and murder. Visiting priest Rod Steiger receives
the first indication that all is not well in a memorable early scene (that
spawned the movie’s famous “Get out!” tagline), and things head quickly
downhill for the new homeowners. The main problem with Sandor Stern’s
script is its lack of cumulative effect, with its onslaught of weird
happenings that are rarely addressed afterwards. Plot holes abound as
director Stuart Rosenberg strives for a roller-coaster ride, but for every
inspired moment, there are dozens ripped off from other, better efforts.
The film grows progressively hokier until the desired fever pitch is reduced
to hysterical melodrama from all concerned, generating as many laughs as
shrieks. Lalo Schifrin’s sing-song, Oscar-nominated score will stay in
your head much longer than anything else, for better or worse. |
|
|
Ah, leave it to
the Italians. Also known as The Tempter, this could have been
just another run of the mill Exorcist rip-off, but it offers a few
twisted bits that almost make it worth checking out. It’s about 25
minutes too long, so it’s hard to be really enthusiastic, but our lead
actress Carla Gravina gives it her Linda Blair all as a daddy-obsessed
invalid who gives it up up to Satan (yes, that “it”). She drools and
blows pea soup for all she’s worth, and does things with her tongue that
would make Jenna Jameson green with envy. It’s got its moments, but
sadly, not enough of them. However, on a completely different level,
watching Arthur Kennedy (as an ineffective priest) attempting to conceal his
self-hatred is a rather compelling element throughout. |
|
|
In attempting to
honor its plot twists, it is impossible to properly roast this turkey.
Which demonstrates far more respect toward this wretched exercise than it
shows its audience. Suffice to say that seven years after his chilling When
a Stranger Calls, Fred Walton’s return to the genre generates little but
teeth-clenching annoyance. By this stage in horror films, the slasher
formula had grown tired, leaving the picking ripe for writer Danilo Bach to
attempt a new spin. Unfortunately, Bach and Walton’s solution, with its
multitude of unfunny practical jokes and stupefyingly obnoxious teenage characters,
only mocks the convention without offering alternatives. Strangely, it
is the horror fan, the film’s apparent target demographic, who suffers the
most. Accepting the burdens that come with being a low-budget
aficionado, he/she endures Fools’ lame script, shoddy gore effects,
and dreadful acting with the optimistic hope that a decent story and/or
memorable villain will emerge. The movie’s “mystery party weekend”
setting, is a big cheat, with no scares, no suspense, no gore, no nudity, no
nothing. And when the big “surprise” ending comes, it laughs right in
the audience’s face, rendering their substantial efforts to forgive the
film’s shortcomings completely unjustified. “April Foooooool’s!”
We are not amused. Wes Craven would offer a much more satisfying
comment on the genre with 1996’s Scream, which managed to parody
slasher conventions without insulting its fans. |
|
|
One of the better
Amicus anthologies, with Robert Bloch’s quartet of stories deftly directed by
Roy Ward Baker. Budding psychiatrist Robert Powell, applying for a
position at an institute for the “incurably insane,” must interview various
patients to determine which of them is the former head of the asylum, who has
reputedly gone mad himself. The inmates’ tales, each with a twist
ending, run the gamut from the supernatural to the psychotic, and are
well-executed by an able and willing cast of British regulars. “Frozen
Fear” covers the familiar territory of man murdering wife, with her going
“all to pieces.” Trouble is, the pieces start going after him.
“The Weird Tailor” stars Peter Cushing as a mysterious customer who
commissions a special suit, with sinister results. “Lucy Comes to Stay”
features Charlotte Rampling recovering from a breakdown with ravishing Britt
Ekland as her close (perhaps too close) friend. “Mannikens of Horror” deals
with Herbert Lom’s fixation on creating a voodoo-like race of miniature
robots with human form. This final tale spills over into the framing
story, deliciously providing both chills and chuckles. Not the greatest
special effects, to be sure; but Bloch’s writing is sharp, and Baker’s
direction clips right along. |
|
|
From producer
Gene Corman (brother Roger exec-produced) comes this steamy tale of oversized
bloodsucking annelids terrorizing the local swamp rat population, with a dash
of moonshine, adultery, and suicide tossed in for good measure.
Shabbily directed by Bernard L. Kowlaski, this is vintage grade-Z schlock,
highlighted by Attack of the 50-Foot Woman’s inimitable homewrecker
Yvette Vickers. Hotter than any cat on a hot tin roof, Vickers oozes
trampy sex appeal as an adulterous baby-doll wife, fanning the flames of her
tubby husband’s jealous rage. For the ladies, well-chiseled Ken Clark
frequently answers the door shirtless and models his sculpted frame in
swimming trunks and scuba gear. His heroic game warden looks carved out of
stone, which is aptly consistent with his thespian efforts. As for the
laughably cheap creatures themselves (their gigantism accounted for in a
throwaway reference to Cape Canaveral’s radioactive fallout), watching the
unfortunate actors lurch about within their shiny black banana-shaped costumes
is as hilarious as it is sad. Still, the subterranean scenes of the
leeches feeding upon their stored victims do manage a perverse creepiness, as
do the drained bodies floating eerily to the surface. Screenplay by
frequent Corman scribe/character actor Leo Gordon. |
