Fool's Views Reviews (F)

	*Fallen* (1998) An intriguing premise from screenwriter Nicholas Kazan combined with strong acting elevates this supernatural-thriller/crime-drama hybrid. Serial killer Elias Koteas is brought to justice in the electric chair, following his capture by cop Denzel Washington. The problem arises when the killer’s spirit reveals itself to be that of fallen angel Azazel who has the ability to “jump” from human host to host to continue its spree of killing. Washington seeks assistance from religious expert Embeth Davidtz, whose father may have previously captured the malevolent spirit in an earlier form. Director Gregory Hoblit’s use of a murky yellow filter to represent the demon’s POV is used to great effect, though the overuse of having the current host singing the Rolling Stones’ “Time is on My Side” is less successful. The film’s highlight is an electrifying scene in which Azazel pursues Davidtz on the street by jumping from person to person, getting closer to her with alarming speed. Washington does a superb job trying to keep control of a situation that is way over his mortal head, and is given great support from John Goodman, Donald Sutherland, and a pre-Sopranos James Gandolfini. However, the moody thriller does go on a long time and the ending is less than satisfying, as is the explanation why Washington himself cannot be possessed. Not a classic, but worth seeing.
	*Family Portraits: A Trilogy of America* (2004) I watched this masterwork by Douglas Buck three times in a row, and I plan on watching it again many more times before I shuffle off this mortal coil. Many thanks to Rue Morgue for including the first short film, “Cutting Moments,” on its list of 100 Alternative Horrors, as this is what spurred me to seek it out. CM is truly devastating, with enough gore for the hounds, but within a setting of such utter dread and unease that it settles in the pit of the viewer’s stomach and stays there for the rest of the movie, day and life. Perhaps it was a misstep to have the most disturbing of the trio as the first feature, as it sets the bar so high that the following films cannot help but fall a little short. That said, “HOME” and “Prologue” are hardly also-rans, both carrying a wily emotional depth that Hollywood films haven’t come close to in years. I’ve heard Prologue (which features another personal indie horror fave Larry [Habit, Wendigo] Fessenden in a small role) compared favorably to Atom Egoyan’s The Sweet Hereafter, and I would agree with that assessment, albeit with an even darker and bleaker undercurrent. This is not easy shock horror, this is horror that settles into your bones and subconscious. I can’t stop thinking about it, and Buck’s DVD commentaries, both on the short films themselves (provided in their original form on the other side of the disc) and on the complete trilogy with a professor friend, are highly illuminating on the challenges of creating an independent film, especially one that cannot be easily described in a pitch meeting. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.
	*Fantasy Film Worlds of George Pal* (1985) The tragedy is that despite being name-checked in Rocky Horror’s “Science Fiction/Double Feature”, most folks on the street today are sadly ignorant of who George Pal is or of his notable contributions to cinema. Thankfully, this affectionate tribute to the Hungarian-born filmmaker by Arnold Leibovit puts the spotlight on a Tinseltown figure whose list of influential and beloved films include such fantasy and sci-fi classics as 1950’s Destination Moon (the first true Hollywood sci-fi epic), War Of The Worlds, The Time Machine, Tom Thumb, The Naked Jungle, and The 7 Faces of Dr. Lao, not to mention his groundbreaking work in animation with George Pal’s Puppetoons (7 Oscar nominations). Leibovit’s documentary is filled with numerous eye-popping scenes from the films themselves, as well as insightful, loving interviews from the likes of Joe Dante, Forrest Ackerman, Charlton Heston, Ray Harryhausen, Russ Tamblyn, Tony Curtis and more. Well worth checking out.
	*Feast* (2005) Oh my my my. How sad is it that this, one of the most enjoyable horror films of last year, couldn’t find its way to a theatrical release? Big time kudos to the folks at Project Greenlight, who really ought to just become a genre umbrella, since this is the first movie to come outa there that actually succeeds as a crowd-pleasing effort. Director John Gulager (son of Clu, who also appears as a crotchtey old bardender) takes a terrific, well-worn scenario (varied group of people inside, scary beasties outside) and goes hog wild with it, tweaking expectations and conventions all the way. So much fun, so much energy and so much more well-done gore than we should have any right to expect from a semi-studio operation. Hats off to the game cast for being willing to get more than a little messy and to Gary J. Tunnicliffe for coming up with some amazingly ugly and fearsome monsters. I’m just sorry I waited to so long to see it.
	*Fido* (2006) Director/co-writer Andrew Currie deserves full marks for attempting to do something new with the ubiquitous flesh-eating zombie, and while he fails to match the zom-com-rom bar set by Shaun of the Dead, his Technicolored vision of an alternate 1950s (think Douglas Sirk meets George Romero) provides more than a few laughs, with its undead heart in just the right place. Following the “Zombie Wars,” revived corpses have become domesticated thanks to a impulse-blocking collar, now serving communities as menial laborers and even viewed as social status symbols. K’Sun Ray offers up a winning performance as a lonely boy who finds friendship in the rotting eyes of his family’s newly acquired zombie, engagingly played by Scottish actor Billy Connolly. But when Connelly’s collar malfunctions, the ensuing mayhem raises the suspicions of next-door neighbor and security head Henry Czerny. While deliberately painted in a two-dimensional fashion, the splendid cast finds a myriad of shadings to enliven their characters, with standout performances by Dylan Baker as Ray’s timid, intimacy-challenged father, Tim Blake Nelson who carries on a lascivious relationship with his zombie bimbo (a “zombo”?), and Carrie-Anne Moss as Baker’s affectionate wife who finds love in the unlikeliest of places. A splendid mix of belly laughs, warm fuzzies and limb-tearing pandemonium.
	*Final Destination 3* (2006) If you liked the first two…this one provides more of the same. This time, it’s a rollercoaster disaster (which is not nearly as impressive as #1’s plane crash and miles behind #2’s outstanding highway pileup) that is foreseen by a formerly non-psychic character, and death is averted for the time being. But the grim reaper will not be put off for long and soon those who escaped being rail-kill are creatively dispatched through an array of gruesome “accidents.” Granted, the set-ups are silly and the characters paper-thin, but we get a multitude of gory money-shots, which is really what we came for. My personal fave? The subway finale, closely followed by the weight room sequence. The equivalent of a horror film Snickers bar: You wouldn’t want to live on it, but it suffices in a pinch.
	*Final Terror, The* (1983) Chalk it up to low expectations, but this slasher/survival flick from future Fugitive director Andrew Davis is pretty…damn…good. Equal parts Friday The 13th, Just Before Dawn, Deliverance and Southern Comfort, what could have been just another maniac-in-the-woods programmer turns out to be loaded with suspense and boasts a raft of soon-to-be-stars in early, strong performances. Check out this cast list: Adrian Zmed, Darryl Hannah, Rachel Ward, Joe Pantoliano... For slasher fans looking for something a notch above the schlock, check this suckah out now.
	*Fly, The* (1986) David Cronenberg hits the jackpot in this updating and reimagining of the 1958 classic. Rather than the swapping of heads and hands (which never really made much sense), nerdish inventor Jeff Goldblum’s transporter pods inadvertently become gene splicers when a wayward fly enters the equation. Watching the slow and horrifying evolution as the insect’s characteristics make themselves known is where Cronenberg’s customary gross-outs excel, courtesy of Chris Walas’ Oscar-winning effects. But it is Goldblum’s brilliant muti-layered characterization (often beneath pounds of makeup) of a man at war with his own body that sticks in the memory and gives the film its heart. Geena Davis gives an equally strong performance as a reporter who is first attracted to the project as a story idea, but ends up falling in love with the doomed scientist. John Getz turns in a terrific sleazy portrait as Davis’ boss (and ex-lover), and Howard Shore’s score is one of his best. A thoughtful and thrilling combination of sci-fi, horror, love story, and meditation on disease, this remains (along with The Dead Zone) one of Cronenberg’s most easily accessible films. The sensitive and emotional script was co-written by Cronenberg and Charles Edward Pogue. One of the better horror offerings of the 80’s and arguably the finest genre re-make ever. The director also “delivers” a cameo as an O.R. doctor.
	*Flying Saucers Over Hollywood: The Plan 9 Companion* (1992) Mark Patrick Carducci’s exhaustive documentary on the fall and rise of Ed Wood’s classic clunker, which also provides a well-balanced and affectionate look at the angora-wearing auteur and his merry band of players. More trivia than you can shake a stick at and chock full of interviews with various cast and crew (Vampira, Conrad Brooks, Bill Warren, Verne Langdon), as well as chats with Wood aficionados Forrest Ackerman, Sam Raimi, Scott Spiegel, Harry Medved and Joe Dante. If you’ve ever struggled through Plan 9 yourself, you owe it to yourself to take in a double feature of this and Tim Burton’s 1994 love letter, Ed Wood (with Johnny Depp in the title role and Martin Landau’s Oscar-winning turn as Bela Lugosi).
	*Forgotten, The* (2004) Over a year after her son is killed in a plane crash, Julianne Moore remains mired in grief, unable to let go of his memory. When images of her child begin evaporating from photos and newspaper clippings, and even her husband begins to deny that there they ever had a son, she frantically searches to uncover the mystery. Despite this fine (if not totally original) premise, screenwriter Gerald di Pego is unable to do anything “memorable” with it beyond its sharp opening set-up. Like an overblown “Twilight Zone” episode, the movie slowly sinks under its own weight with clunky dialogue and leaden pacing. While director Joseph Ruben executes his moments of shocking visual effects (including a terrific car crash) extremely well, the majority of the film is by turns ponderous, derivative, and predicable. A predominantly tear-streaked Moore tries to stay afloat in the mess as she struggles to convince anyone who will listen (including the audience), but the rest of the cast is left staring blankly at each other. Only Alfre Woodard manages to anchor her scenes with her knowing, hard-nosed portrayal of a police detective, and when she disappears halfway through the film her absence is felt. By the time the all-too-obvious “twist” ending comes, we desperately want Moore to find her absent offspring, if only so she’ll stop whining and we can all go home.
	*Frankenstein 1970* (1958) When a film crew decides they want to do a Frankenstein-type horror movie, what better place to shoot it but at the castle of Herr Baron himself? And while cranky Boris Karloff is none too pleased to have these Hollywood types traipsing about the place, he’ll take their cash in order to finance the atomic reactor he needs to revive his latest creation. Cheap and silly, there’s not much going on here except a good ol’ fashioned “fun” horror flick, but if that’s your bag, you’ll have a good time. And Karloff is a treat finally playing the character he’d been erroneously called for much of his career (the doc, rather than the monster). Not quite sure what the whole “1970” is all about though, since nothing seems to be set in the future.
	*Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell* (1974) The final installment in the Hammer series has young protégé Shane Briant sentenced to an asylum for the criminally insane for trying to recreate some of Frankenstein’s more infamous experiments. As fate would have it, said nuthouse also houses the aging Baron F. (again assayed with authority and enthusiasm by the one and only Peter Cushing), who generally has his run of the joint thanks to a bit of blackmail concerning the asylum director. Victor’s hands have been badly burned – presumably at the conclusion of Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed – but with Briant there to perform the more delicate procedures, characters are soon dropping dead and being brought back to life before you can say “gratuitous brain transplant.” Sadly, the Paramount R1 DVD release is not the uncut version released to Japanese laserdisc: Aside from a few trims in the gorier moments, there is the unforgivable deletion of the scene where a game Cushing assists Briant by utilizing his teeth to hold some stitches in place. Even so, this is a very satisfying conclusion to both the franchise (considerably less erratic than the Dracula series) and Terence Fisher’s career as a director.
	*Frankenstein Conquers the World* (1966) In the final days of WWII, desperate Nazis steal the “immortal” heart of Frankenstein’s monster, sending it to their Japanese allies for experiments. Hiroshima is destroyed soon after by the atomic bomb and the heart disappears. Years later, street-smart research scientist Nick Adams is in Japan working with victims of radiation, assuaging his guilt over having participated in the A-bomb project. A young ragamuffin who is resistant to radiation attracts the interest of Nick and his colleagues, especially when the little scamp begins to grow at a remarkable rate (as do his clothes, apparently). Eventually called “Frankenstein” (yes, purists, they call the monster by his creator’s name, deal with it), the overgrown orphan sports Karloff’s classic flat head and protruding brow, with outrageous gaping teeth that would give pause to any orthodontist. Meanwhile, on the other side of Mt. Fuji, giant guy-in-a-suit dinosaur Barugon (in his first film appearance) emerges from the ground and (of course) it’s only a matter of time before the two massive mutants meet and the mashing begins. As styrofoam rocks fly with abandon, actor Koji Furuhata sells the heck out of his fights with Barugon, all without the customary cushion of a rubber suit. Unintentionally hilarious Toho offering, featuring side-splittingly bad dialogue, cheapo effects, and Adams looking wildly about for his career. Originally titled Frankenstein meets the Giant Devil Fish (with a oversized octopus added to the mix!), until scissor-happy American editors ditched the fish. Directed by Inshiro H(o)nda.
	*Freaks* (1932) Tod Browning followed up his success with Dracula with this unique film focused on the microcosm of “oddity” circus performers under the traveling big top. The simple plot revolves around the beautiful, venemous trapeze artist Cleopatra toying with the affections of Hans the midget for his money while she dallies behind his back with the resident strong man; but of equal interest is a peek into the backstage life of these extraordinary human permutations. While one is certainly astonished and shocked by these stranger versions of mankind, Browning’s ability to allow their humanity show is the real magic performed here. (The throwaway scene in which an armless, legless man lights a cigarette is a jaw-dropping gem.) Indeed, with the exception of a friendly clown and his sweetheart, the “normal” characters are far more revolting and abhorrent, with our sympathies clearly going to the “monsters.” When the freaks realize Cleopatra is poisoning Hans, they plot their revenge, and the haunting, nightmarish shots of them crawling through the mud are unforgettable, as is the villainess’ final horrific fate. All this turned out to be a bit much for the viewers of 1932, and the film was pulled from release for many years. Much was made of Browning’s decision to use real-life circus freaks, but in watching the film it is not distaste of exploitation that one feels, but wonder at the resilience and uniqueness of the human race, and how true horrors are often wrapped in pleasing packages.
	*Freddy’s Dead: The Final Nightmare* (1991) Skip the agonizing first hour of this monstrosity, and here’s what you’ll miss: pointless cameos from Tom and Roseanne Arnold, a yacker of a soundtrack comprised of songs with “dream” lyrics, a stoner kid being attacked by a huge road map, an absolutely hateful videogame dream sequence, a killer Q-tip, and red herrings galore. Whew. While the final third of the movie does not redeem it by any stretch of the imagination, it does provide some morbidly fascinating insight into the evolution of the man who would be Freddy. Watching the troubled Krueger child deal with abusive classmates and his sadistic father (Alice Cooper), one almost sympathizes with the future child-killer. (Though the ultimate motivation given for Krueger’s crimes doesn’t hold up under examination, it is interesting for a moment or two.) Yaphet Kotto lends welcome strength to his few scenes as a feisty teen counselor, though one wonders to whom the fine actor owed a favor. Best of all though, Robert Englund thankfully shifts out of merry jokester mode in the final reel to recover a bit of his original dark nastiness. Rookie director Rachel Talalay is completely out of her depth, giving the deplorable special effects sequences center stage over the characters; but considering that Michael De Luca’s execrably unfunny, unscary script offers nothing to work with, who can blame her? When the best part of the film is a “Freddy’s greatest hits” montage while the closing credits roll, you know its time to hang up the glove. Theatrical releases contained a 3-D sequence (in “FreddyVision”), subsequently removed from video versions.
	*Freddy vs. Jason* (2003) Since the closing shot of 1993’s Jason Goes to Hell, fans had been clamoring for this “Slash of the Titans.” A decade later, New Line Cinema answered their nightmares with a flick that is exactly the low-brow monster-mash masterpiece that the two screen legends deserve. Screenwriters Damian Shannon and Mark Swift concoct a storyline that builds upon history from the previous films (17 in all) and manages to generate a few new twists of its own. Freddy (Robert Englund, basking in his scar-tissue glory) is trapped in Hell after the parents of Springwood finally cover up all trace of his existence, thereby eliminating their children’s fear (which the dream killer needs to exist). In a stroke of demonic inspiration, he revives that misunderstood orphan of Crystal Lake, Jason Voorhees (Ken Kerzinger), to unleash a reign of terror substantial enough to allow Krueger to pick up where he left off. For a while, the satanic symbiosis works wonders, with expendable Elm Street teens being split, splashed, and splattered right and left, sleeping or waking. Trouble starts when Jason proves a little too efficient, robbing Freddy of his prey, and the stage is set for the climactic battle royale that combines high-flying wire work, CGI, and good old-fashioned Japanese monster-style mayhem. True, it’s a certain brand of fun, one with a core of casual misogyny and plentiful gore-laced violence. But since these elements have been integral to both series from the beginning, there’s little point in taking the moral high ground now. Hardcore F13 fans may be disappointed with director Ronny Yu’s decision not to cast veteran Kane Hodder as Jason, but Kerzinger swings a machete ably enough, and his towering, hulking presence is a nice counterpoint to Englund’s wiry chatterbox.
	*Friday the 13th* (1980) One of the most influential modern horror films, this surprise hit from producer/director Sean S. Cunningham spurred a spate of sequels and imitators, giving birth to an entirely new genre: the American slasher film. Unlike its most immediate influence, Halloween, where emphasis was placed on spine-tingling suspense punctuated by scenes of violence, here the body count is everything and audiences flocked to witness the mayhem. Rather than focus on the romantic couplings of Camp Crystal Lake’s attractive teenage counselors, of far more interest to screenwriter Victor Miller are the means by which they can be messily dispatched. Courtesy of Tom Savini’s terrific makeup effects, we get up close and personal with axes to heads, knives through throats, and arrows in eyes, all delivered with Henry Manfredini’s shocking musical stings. Considering the fright-free dreck that followed within its own prolific series and without, Cunningham’s successful combination of scantily clad (and scripted) victims and creatively executed homicides remains surprisingly effective. The performances (including an early screen appearance by Kevin Bacon) are hardly noteworthy, though Betsy Palmer exhibits considerable wild-eyed acumen in her role of the enigmatic Mrs. Voorhees, mother of unstoppable horror icon Jason. Of historical interest to today’s slavering gorehounds, who may be surprised how much tension is achieved with little splatter. The film’s climax contains one of the greatest “jump” scares to date.
	*Friday the 13th, Part 2* (1981) This worthy follow-up to the immensely popular 1980 slashfest places steadfast homicidal maniac Jason Voorhees center stage, setting him on the road to cinematic immortality. Writer Ron Kurz deserves kudos for expanding on Victor Miller’s original storyline, creating an astonishingly enduring mythology of Jason and Camp Crystal Lake. Far more interesting than the indestructible killing machine of the inferior sequels to come, Jason is a real flesh-and-blood character for the first (if only) time, exhibiting pain and confusion even as he paints the cabin walls red. Utterly ruthless, yet somehow fragile and freakish (á la Gunnar Hanson’s Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre), stuntman Steve Dash moves likes a wounded animal, conveying genuine emotion through a single eyehole in the flour sack worn in childlike embarrassment (Jason’s trademark-to-be hockey mask doesn’t appear until the third film). Director Steve Miner creates a fine recreational atmosphere filled with likeable characters joking and flirting (and plenty of nubile flesh on display) before the place becomes an abattoir. When the mayhem starts, Miner provides excellent suspense and scares throughout, finding inspired bloody application of varied murderous implements (ice pick, butcher knife, claw hammer, and of course, the trusty machete.) Highlights include an audacious eleven-minute pre-credits stalking sequence of the first film’s still-shaken survivor Adrienne King, and a particularly memorable double-impalement of two lovers in bed (inspired by Mario Bava’s Twitch of the Death Nerve). Despite being almost directly lifted from the original, the thrilling final moments are startling and deliciously effective.
	*Friday the 13th, Part 3* (1982) After delivering an admirably suspenseful, well-directed sequel to Friday the 13th the year before, director Steve Miner unloads this artless parade of thoroughly obnoxious characters meeting gruesome ends at the hands of perennial serial killer Jason. Regrettably, this is the template from which most future installments would operate, resulting in a long and unfulfilling trip downhill. Equipped with truly heinous dialogue, Martin Kitrosser’s lazy script pays little attention to what has gone before, and we feel not an ounce of regret (or anything, really) watching his thinly drawn characters as they are folded, spindled, and mutilated beyond repair. Even Jason (Richard Brooker) seems only marginally related to his previous incarnation, suddenly bald and deformed (despite it being the next day since we saw him last in Part 2, looking hairier and less mutated). Originally filmed in 3-D, with a neverending array of horribly obvious shots designed to have audiences jumping in their seats that succeed only in eliciting groans of annoyance. The opening effect of the cheesy titles jumping out over Henry Mandfredini’s putrid techno-bop soundtrack is but a taste of the awfulness to come. The final act’s flurry of screeching violins and screaming mimis culminates in a perfectly detestable “surprise ending,” sinking an already stupid film to a new level of twaddle. The only joy to be found in this pile of doo-doo is the deep, intense, secret thrill of watching Jason don his iconic hockey mask for the first time, immediately followed by an screen-popping speargun kill (the film’s best moment by far).
	*Friday the 13th: A New Beginning* (1985) A no-brainer sequel after F13: The Final Chapter made bucketloads of cash. This so-so installment’s serviceable plot picks up with TFC survivor Tommy Jarvis (John Shepherd), still shaken five years after his encounter with Jason, being transferred to Pinehurst, a mental facility located in tranquil wooded seclusion. Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as Tommy arrives on the scene, all manner of heinous murders begin to occur. Apparently, someone has adopted Jason’s hockey mask and M.O., wiping out loonies galore both in and out of Pinehurst. Has Tommy gone wacko, or is it someone else? Young male slasher fans should appreciate the abundant female nudity and double-digit body count (the highest thus far). Included are some respectably gruesome kills (garden shears to the eyes are always good for a squeal, and a man’s head belted to a tree provides welcome diversion from the routine impaling). With few exceptions, the characters and/or the acting are pretty darn unbearable, with the way-out hillbilly mom & son team receiving lowest marks. Shepherd does well as Tommy, creating a character lean and dangerous, yet still debilitated by fears of the boogeyman. Returning the series to its “who’s the killer?” roots lends a modicum of mystery, although the ultimate reveal is reminiscent of a “Scooby-Doo” episode. Though generally maligned by fans of the series as “the one without the real Jason,” it holds up better than the next three sequels (faint praise indeed). Also contains its share of high camp moments, including Miguel A. Nunez and girlfriend’s outhouse duet, and Tiffany Helm’s surreal pre-death breakdancing exhibition.
	*Friday the 13th Part VI: Jason Lives* (1986) An abrupt shift of gears for the Voorhees fellow: Instead of going for thrills and chills, the aim from writer/director Tom McLoughlin is to trot the big guy out of the grave for laughs. Back again is Tommy Jarvis, this time portrayed by Thom (Return of the Living Dead) Matthews, still suffering heebie-jeebies from Old Goalie Mask himself. So he does what any self-respecting nutcase would do: He gathers up Ron Palillo (Horshack from TV’s “Welcome Back, Kotter) to dig up Jason and cremate him. Through the miracles of plotting, melodramatic acting, and a lucky lightning strike, Jason is revived, reconstituted, and “stronger than ever.” Apparently buried with his best Sunday hockey mask, he slides that baby on, and is ready and raring to get back to Crystal Lake (re-dubbed Forest Green) to decrease the surplus population. There’s only one problem—none of it works. While McLoughlin’s intentions of injecting life into a tired storyline are admirable, his efforts are inept on all fronts. Combining scenes of suspenseless slaying along with awkward attempts at amusement, the hapless helmer repeatedly drops the cinematic ball for eighty-six long minutes. Characters are more thinly drawn than ever, now mere human shadows plentifully puppeted into range for Jason to eviscerate to his (and less discerning viewers’) heart’s content. In addition to smart-alecky youngsters, paintballing weekend warriors, and Alice Cooper’s painful 80’s rock songs, some questionable occult mythology is introduced in the final reel, bringing the claptrap to a welcome end (though left wide open for the inevitable sequel). Sad stuff.
	*Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood* (1988) “Now there’s a Friday for every day of the week,” ran the ads. Well, that’s something to be proud of, I guess. Unfortunately, the contents of this garbage bag of celluloid are less inspiring, as writers Manuel Fidello and Daryl Haney team up to produce the most outlandish exploit of Jason chasin’ to date. Apparently finding the hacking-up the-teens storyline too well worn (hey, no argument here), the scribes conspire to throw a psychic spanner (or is that Scanner?) into the mix. You see, troubled Lar Park Lincoln accidentally killed her father in Crystal Lake with her telekinetic abilities as a child. So as a grieving teen, she attempts to revive him from the dead (never a good idea, Lar). However, as fans of Part 6 will remember, guess who else is bobbing in Crystal Lake? Before you can say “Filet me now,” he’s shaking off his overalls to slice and dice in a trice. Terry Kiser (pre-Weekend at Bernie’s) appears as Lincoln’s shrink, intent on controlling her in order to…well, we’re not really sure why. But since his patient is not only telekinetic, but also able to tell the future and revive the dead, who can blame him? The dialogue here is so bad, the acting so profoundly inept, the gore so lackluster, and the murders so pedestrian (with the notable exception of the sleeping bag kill, a personal favorite), there is ab-so-lutely nothing to recommend here. Even the object-flinging showdown between our machete-lovin’ hero and Lincoln’s cut-rate Carrie stinks of desperation rather than inspiration. A thoroughly exhausting effort, with even Henry Manfredini’s recycled music (with a few new notes from Fred Mollin) sounding tired. Bright spot: stuntman Kane Hodder makes his debut appearance as Jason, a role he would assay three more times (and counting).
	*Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan* (1989) Well, it was bound to happen. Tired of the poison ivy and ticks near Crystal Lake (not to mention those pesky campers), Jason packs up his favorite hockey mask and hops a cruise ship headed for the Big Apple. And for the high-school graduation-party-going teens on board, death and dismemberment get added to shuffleboard and dancing as part of the maritime activities. While it is mildly diverting to see Jason hacking away in a different location, everything about the film feels extremely cheap, even for a F13 flick. Rob Hedden’s direction and writing reveal his television background all too clearly, as everything feels like a Movie of the Week—from the inept acting right down to Fred Mollin’s bruisingly bad pop-rock froth soundtrack (more horrifying than anything onscreen). The title itself is a misnomer, as only the final twenty minutes or so actually take place in NYC, with most of the scenes placed in generic back alley sets rather than recognizable locations. As Jason, Kane Hodder goes through victims with his usual gusto, with the urban atmosphere lending him powers of teleportation (how else to explain his ability to appear in front of people running away from him?) But as much of the onscreen violence was trimmed in order appease the ratings boards, it’s a matter of quantity over quality (18, for the record). Of these, only the endless rooftop boxing match sticks in the memory, due to its hilarious top-popping payoff. Even with a “toxic-waste-in-the-sewers” subplot, audiences stayed away in droves. This was the last slash for Paramount, who eventually sold the franchise to the “house that Freddy built,” New Line Cinema.
	*Frogs* (1972) From American International’s executive-producing team of Samuel Z. Arkoff and James H. Nicholson comes this highly entertaining low-budget schlockfest, raiding the entire reptile house (in addition to the titular croakers) to provide the creepy crawly chills. Riding on the earth-friendly movement of the early 70’s, screenwriters Robert Blees and Robert Hutchison whip up a tongue-in-cheek cautionary tale of embittered critters living around grouchy millionaire Ray Milland’s pesticide-ridden swampy island estate. When a rugged environmentalist photographer (Sam Elliot, in a rare non-mustached film appearance) shows up during Milland’s annual Fourth of July family celebration, the stage is set for a muggy, buggy good time. While watching the various obnoxious guests besieged by frogs, snakes, geckos, gators, spiders, turtles, leeches, (and in one side-splitting sequence, killer moss) is certainly the film’s raison d’etre, there is equal joy to be gained from the sultry soap opera scenarios and robust scenery chewing. Former Oscar-winner Milland’s obvious bitterness at having sunk to this cheese suits his cantankerous character brilliantly (1972 was big for Ray, with The Thing with Two Heads released the same year.) And imagining director George McCowan’s expression when handed the impossible task of making docile amphibians appear menacing is as hilarious as the end result. Resorting to frequent close-ups of flicking tongues and frogs hopping across lawns, the word “horror” doesn’t exactly leap to mind. Grand, goofy fun.
	*From Beyond* (1986) I love this flick, nearly as much fun as Re-Animator. Stuart Gordon re-recruits Barbara Crampton and Jeffrey Combs, and turns ‘em loose on the Resonator device. The duo show a terrific knack for playing heightened comedy without ever winking at the audience. Crampton gets her clothes torn off at one point by Ted Sorel’s icky Dr. Pretorious beastie and suits up in a sexy leather get-up at another, yet never loses her obsessive scientific cool. Combs, by contrast, swaps out his heartless Herbert West persona and turns in an awesome twitchy portrayal of “he who hath dabbled in things he should have left alone”…and really wishes he hadn’t. Ken Foree tries to keep up, but he seems more awkward than anything else. However, he does have an awesome heroic scene towards the end that makes up for anything else. Great f/x work here as well.
	*From Hell It Came* (1957) Before a South Seas prince is executed for failing to cure the tribal chief with “white man medicine,” he vows to return for vengeance. What form does he take to carry out his wrath? A walking, ill-tempered, grouchy-looking…tree. What is this fantastic creature’s name? Tabonga. Say it with me. TABONGA. What is Tabonga? Where did Tabonga come from? How much fun is it to hear the word Tabonga repeated over and over? Answer? A lot. Many thanks to Kitley for bringing this legendary B-monster flick and I together, after years of only seeing stills in various reference books. Watching wunderkind creature maker Paul Blaisdell’s branchy brute wobble after its victims is a slice of schlock heaven, though viewers must patiently endure the requisite pseudo-scientific claptrap and romantic entanglements of the oh-so-benevolent group of Anglo researchers in residence on the isle. Inside the stump is former pro wrestler Chester Hayes, who pulls double duty as the tribe member that warns the village of his own monstrous approach: “Tabonga come! Tabonga come!” Speaking of shrieking, Tina Carver’s cries for help as she is nabbed by the mossy menace are more frightening than anything else in the flick. More barking spider than Fay Wray, I’d say.