Fool's Views Reviews (I)

	*I Dismember Mama* (1974) Sadly, the title is the only inspired thing in this no-frills, no thrills affair. Low budget doesn’t begin to describe this colossal bore about whiny psycho Albert (Zooey Hall) who fantasizes about killing his mother for locking him up in an institution. Why did she lock him up? Oh, because he tried to kill her. Hmph. Of course, he escapes, but since he never even gets close to her throughout the entire film, there is no matricidal dismembering (Sorry, folks). However, he does off his mother’s housekeeper in a rather icky and depraved sequence, then spends the rest of the film in a size-too-small fedora, pseudo-courting her young daughter. Thoroughly creepy, yes—entertaining in the least, no. Meantime, the inept psychiatrist and Albert’s inept mother all sit around and do….well, nothing, while an inept detective eats a lot of hot dogs and makes a few pointless phone calls. The cheapo musical score is as bonkers as Albert is supposed to be, and if there is anyone who deserves to be dismembered, its Rocket Roden for penning the painful ballad “Poor Albert,” which is more horrific than anything else in the movie. Laugh at the title and move on.
	*I Don’t Want To Be Born* (aka The Devil Within Her (1975) After years of hearing about this flick as one of the preeminent Exorcist/Rosemary’s Baby rip-offs, I was very excited to sit down and actually take it in. My enthusiasm proved to be completely unwarranted, as it will be hereafter referred to as I Don’t Want To Ever Watch That Again. Joan Collins outdoes her Empire of the Ants melodramatics here as a former showgirl giving birth to the spawn of Lucifer, brought on by a spurned dwarf’s curse. (Damn, talk about having a lot of pull.) Howls of laughter ensue as Joan rolls her eyes, breathes heavily and devours the scenery whole, which doesn’t leave her embarrassed co-stars Ralph Bates (wrestling with a slippery Italian accent) and OB Donald Pleasance anywhere to hide. The lovely Caroline Munro is utterly wasted, except as a wardrobe rack for a seemingly endless supply of fur coats. There’s a lot of offscreen roaring and crashing, always concluding with a cut back to the supposedly possessed infant’s bored expression. What hath God wrought indeed.
	*I Drink Your Blood* (1970) The first film to receive an “X” rating from the MPAA for onscreen violence (as opposed to sexual content), this exploitation classic has been gathering a larger and larger fanbase since its release on DVD a couple years back. The plot is high concept and lowbrow: When a group of Satan-worshipping hippies invade a small town and start causing trouble, an enterprising youth decides to exact revenge by injecting the blood of a rabid dog into the local bakery’s meat pies, thus setting the picnic table for foamy-mouthed murder and mayhem. Filled with waaaay over the top manic performances from its cast of amateurs, including Lynn Lowry (The Crazies, Shivers), this is unadulterated shock schlock. A good time for those who enjoy their shamelessly nasty set pieces accompanied by howl-inducing dialogue.
	*Images* (1972) Robert Altman’s moody (and shamefully overlooked) foray into the horror genre is ripe for discovery, and I’m going to be trumpeting its merits for a while. Filled with more twists and turns than a bag of Rold Gold Pretzels, when you’re not wondering, “What the hell?”, you’ll be screaming, “What the HELL??!!” My deepest thanks go out the IMDb horror boards for bringing it to my attention after Altman’s passing last year, and Kim Newman’s Nightmare Movies for reminding me of it. My biggest question is: Why doesn't anyone talk about this film? And more importantly, why don’t people consider this a horror flick? I think a campaign should be launched by genre fans to annex this puppy. It sits squarely in Persona and Repulsion land in terms of the main character losing their marbles, a pretty decent body count, and an amazing, jarring score from John Williams before he got all string-and-horns happy. Quirky, extremely well-crafted, featuring an outstanding lead performance by Susannah York. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.
	*I Married a Monster from Outer Space* (1958) Believe it or not, despite the groaner of a title, this is really a terrific little sci-fi mystery. As one can guess going in, groom Tom Tryon is replaced by an alien the night before his wedding. New bride Gloria Talbott quickly observes that that her new mate just “isn’t the man I fell in love with,” only to have every onscreen female simply nod their head in rueful agreement. While managing to cover the fantastic terrain of cosmic kidnapping, screenwriter Louis Vittes also touches on every newlywed’s fear: that things inexplicably “change” after marriage. Before long, all of the husbands in the small town are being taken over by the aliens (rather spongy, frog-faced creatures in their natural state). The sanctity of marriage (not to mention the fate of the world) now lies in the hands of a few resourceful females (and one lone bachelor, lucky devil). The handsome Tryon, who would soon achieve fame as a novelist (The Other), does a fine job as the emotionless alien leader and Talbott is credible, if a little stiff, as his frightened wife who can’t get anyone to believe her. Covering similar terrain as Invasion of the Body Snatchers, this is a well-told tale of conspiracy and paranoia from director Gene Fowler, Jr., with minimal special effects well employed. Worth a look.
	*Incredible Melting Man, The* (1977) Sigh. Take a perfectly acceptable B-movie premise: Astronaut Steve West (Alex Rebar) is exposed to solar flares while exploring the rings of Saturn and returns to earth, where he slowly begins to dissolve. Add makeup whiz Rick Baker into the mix. Stir vigorously, and voila! A big fat bore. This exhausting movie is an unmitigated disaster due to the absolute inertia of William Sachs’ script and direction, coupled with some astonishingly bad acting. Logic and pacing are thrown out the window in favor of scenes of the melting man standing there…um…melting, amid endless flashbacks containing the immortal lines “You've never seen anything...until you've seen the sun through the rings of Saturn!” And you’ve never seen anything until you see such time-capsule moments as an overweight nurse’s endless slow-motion run through the hospital hallway, Rainbeaux Smith’s “modeling” session, and Burr DeBenning’s Dr. Ted Nelson repeatedly telling people that he is, in fact, DR. TED NELSON. Occasionally, for reasons unexplained, the incredible melting man kills someone. If only he had started with the filmmakers.
	*Incubus, The* (1982) A dark, confusing tale of demonic rape and murder from Legend of Hell House director John Hough, based upon Ray Russell’s equally challenging novel. Small-town doctor John Cassavetes is drawn into a series of macabre attacks in which an unseen assailant leaves its female victims either dead or catatonic. George Franklin’s script introduces several of Russell’s plot points and adds a few more, notably Cassavetes’ unnatural fixation on teenage daughter Erin Flannery. While Hough creates a fine sense of unease and dread through his striking, original camerawork, the film suffers from slow pacing, loose ends, and the cast’s general malaise. Cassavetes, while lending his customary intense presence, never seems particularly invested in the situation, and Kerrie Keane’s stereotypical nosy reporter grates on the viewer in her every scene. There is a generous amount of nudity and blood spilled (there is, in fact, a morbid preoccupation with bodily fluids and cadavers), and the vivid attacks are sufficiently shocking. The uber-rational Cassavetes’ investigation generates a fair amount of tension as he struggles to accept the increasingly mystical explanations. The revelation of the demonic despoiler’s identity provides a hammer blow conclusion that lingers in the brain afterwards. A mixed bag, but worth looking into. Yes, headbangers, that is Bruce Dickinson (of Iron Maiden fame) as the rock singer in the oddball movie theater stage show.
	*Initiation, The* (1984) This middle-of-the-road slasher movie cribs plot devices from about five different films, but basically boils down to: 1) Daphne Zuniga has bad dreams, 2) She wants to be a sorority girl, and 3) Her friends, enemies, and others keep ending up dead, dead, dead. Unfortunately, for the first hour screenwriter Charles Pratt, Jr. plods through voluminous dream therapy claptrap, criminally bad yuks, and an inane Hell Night prank that involves Zuniga & Co. sneaking into dad Clu Gulager’s shopping mall. (Clu at least has the good sense to get himself killed off early on; not so for mom Vera Miles, who is in for the long haul, saddled with bad dialogue and a truly unfortunate red hat.) Thanks to a bungled dream sequence at the film’s outset, you’ll have the film’s major “mystery” figured out before you knew there was one. Shaky “killer POV” shots were already old news in 1984, and director Larry Stewart doesn’t manage anything new with them. And though our psycho does utilize a variety of implements (including garden rakes, machetes, and spearguns) and the fake blood is liberally tossed around, the special effects are limited to close-ups of cloth stretched over blood packs—the cinematic equivalent of stabbing a couch. Even as the nighttime body count in the mall adds up, Pratt’s script continually breaks the tension with tearful confessions of childhood molestations, and touchy-feely pillow talk that ends in bloodshed (Character development? Now?). Zuniga’s acting ranges from inept to annoying, but she’s given little competition from others in the middling cast. The wacko “twist ending” is a big cheat, but its good for a laugh.
	*Innocents, The* (1961) Deborah Kerr is the prim governess assigned to a country estate to care for two children in this spellbinding screen version of Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw. Upon her arrival, in addition to having her hands full with her duties, she slowly begins to suspect that the spirits of the former valet and governess have begun to influence – or even possess – her youthful charges (Pamela Franklin and Martin Stephens). Can she exorcise their ghosts, or are they her own? With an eye for hypnotic, symbolic imagery, producer/director Jack Clayton and cinematographer Freddie Francis conjure a haunting onscreen atmosphere, one where the sunlit scenes are frequently more chilling than those set at night. Truman Capote and William Archibald’s screenplay also introduces layers of sexual frustration, repression and hysteria, which, while eliminating some of the original story’s ambiguity, supply an intriguing psychological angle that modern viewers will appreciate. Franklin, in her screen debut, is terrific as Flora, while Stephens manages to top his captivating turn from the previous year’s VILLAGE OF THE DAMNED. But it is Kerr who is the film’s anchor and rudder, and through her brilliant performance, we walk the tightrope between strength and fear, conviction and doubt. One of the finest ghost stories ever committed to celluloid – not to be missed.
	*In the Mouth of Madness* (1995) “Have you read Sutter Cane?” With echoes of Lovecraft’s mythology and blatant parallels to bestselling author Stephen King’s career, this represents one of genre icon John Carpenter’s most intelligent and daring efforts. Called in to investigate the disappearance of popular horror writer Sutter Cane, insurance investigator Sam Neill attempts to determine whether or not the whole thing is a huge publicity stunt. Meanwhile, the release of Cane’s latest novel coincides with outbreaks of violence and maniacal behavior among the reading populace. Written by Michael De Luca (who also exec-produced), this is as imaginative and apocalyptic as Carpenter’s 1987 bomb Prince of Darkness, minus the cheesy acting and lame attempts at comedy. Nightmare imagery (such as shifting painting figures, the double wakeup and the “all roads lead to the angry mob” sequences) combined with a strong stripe of dark humor creates one of the finest horror films to examine the dodgy line between fiction and reality. Julie Carmen, whom genre fans will recognize from her sexy vampiric turn in Fright Night II, plays Neill’s traveling companion to the mysterious Hobbs’ End, a cursed town depicted in Cane’s novels (an obvious substitute for King’s Castle Rock, and a nod to Nigel Kneale’s Quatermass and the Pit). Look sharp to catch Skywalker-to-be Hayden Christensen as the mysterious nighttime paperboy.
	*Intruder* (1989) Terrific little low-budget slasher that elevates itself above the norm by setting itself in novel surroundings (a grocery store), surprisingly oogy f/x work and plenty of inventive camera work by director Scott Spiegel. Clearly inspired by his buddy Sam Raimi (who, along with brother Ted, puts in a little screen time), Spiegel isn’t as interested in breaking new ground as simply throwing a new layer of fertilizer over the existing crop and he succeeds mightily. There’s a head crushing effect that rivals The Fly II’s melon mayhem, and while the twist ending isn’t much of one, the twist-twist ending leaves a wicked aftertaste in the viewer’s mouth. Goofy and gory, this is one that slasher fans will definitely want to give a glance to.
	*Island of Dr. Moreau, The* (1977) This well-intentioned but flawed attempt to remake the 1933 classic The Island of Lost Souls deserves a trip to the House of Pain. Armed with a couple of big stars (Burt Lancaster and Michael York) as the human antagonists, the standout of this big budget redux is the man-beasts’ impressive facial latex appliances (on top of humanoid bodies) by Planet of the Apes maestro John Chambers. Lancaster presents a quieter version of Moreau, more driven scientist than overtly insane megalomaniac, while York’s shipwreck victim fares less favorably with the hero role, giving over all too often to snicker-worthy histrionics. (And his blow-dried 70’s good looks are laughably out of place in the rustic island setting.) The blame for the lumbering enterprise ultimately lies with Don Taylor’s lackluster direction and screenwriters Al Rumrus and John Herman Shaner’s hammy attempts to make Wells’ story more “realistic,” rather than embracing its inherent fantastic elements. Sexy Barbara Carrera appears as a cursory love interest, as the subplot of her being one of Moreau’s creations was jettisoned at the last minute in the editing room (keep an eye out for her pointy ears towards the end). Not a classic by any means, it does have its own campy charm and a suitably fiery climax. By and large though, stick with the Laughton version. A lively, if overactive, score by Laurence Rosenthal.
	*Island of Dr. Moreau, The* (1996) This infamous misfire of the classic H. G. Wells story succeeds only at being a freak show, and we’re not talking about Stan Winston’s notable man-beast makeup creations. As in the previous 1933 and 1977 film versions, Marlon Brando’s Moreau is a man on a mission, intent on converting the various beasts on his sequestered island into human beings. But in this case, Brando himself seems equally driven to create the most bizarrely eccentric role of his storied career, pulling off the feat with outlandish aplomb. Garbed in flowing robes and white pancake makeup, his buck-toothed, British-accented aberration is the thespian equivalent of a car crash: grotesque and quirky, repellent, yet one cannot bear to look away. However, his character astoundingly disappears halfway through the film, leaving the bewildered audience with only Val Kilmer’s stoned, sarcastic flunky and David Thewlis’ caustic plane-wreck survivor to carry us through the dark night. Fairuza Balk and Ron Perlman are moderately engaging as two of Moreau’s more successful experiments, and Kilmer occasionally amuses with a wicked Brando impersonation. But director John Frankenheimer’s fever-dream visuals and leaden pacing only accentuate the fact that there is ultimately no one here to root for. The whole venture slowly sinks under its own nihilistic weight and heavy-handed cautionary messages, with its audience left equally exhausted and frustrated. On a lighter note, there is unintentional hindsight humor, watching Brando’s pint-sized companion predate Austin Powers’ “Mini-Me” by several years.
	*Island of Lost Souls, The* (1933) The first cinematic telling of H. G. Wells’ The Island of Dr. Moreau jumps right in, with nary a break in the action until the final credits roll. Shipwreck survivor Richard Arlen is taken to a off-the-charts small island (is there any other in these movies?) where he meets Moreau, played with barely restrained glee by Charles Laughton. As the story quickly progresses, we find out that the genius doctor has been experimenting, transforming animals into “men” with varying degrees of success in his laboratory, dubbed the “House of Pain.” The film is extremely well shot, with terrific usage of shadows. Laughton gives a terrific performance, sly and mischievious, sinister yet never stark raving mad. Bela Lugosi, who had achieved fame as Dracula in 1931, hides behind a mask of fur and is quite compelling as a creature striving to be human, yet slowly realizing that the savagery between animals and humans is a very fine line indeed. The heroes are not terribly interesting, but they serve their purpose, which is to show off the twisted relationship between Moreau and his creations. A true classic.
	*Isle of the Dead* (1945) It’s Karloff’s show all the way in this odd little Val Lewton production set in Greece during the 1912 war. Playing the ruthless General Pherides, who respects only the letter of the law, he quarantines a group of civilians on an island when an outbreak of plague strikes. However, as the tiny community dies one by one, he begins to believe an old crone’s accusations—that beautiful young servant woman Ellen Drew is really a “vorvolaka,” a wolf-spirit with vampiric tendencies. The unusually curly-headed Karloff is a wonder to watch as he creates another memorable character, and Katharine Emery’s dying woman terrified of being buried alive leaves a strong impression. However, the love story angle between Drew and American reporter Marc Cramer is devoid of chemistry, further slowing the already lethargic pacing by director Mark Robson (who would fare much better the following year with Bedlam.) Still, the quality Lewton production values are in place, with a chilling sequence in the island crypt that will cause nightmares for many.
	*Isolation* (2005) Slathered in grime, mud, blood and bovine lube (!), this highly realistic shocker from Irishman Billy O’Brien takes horror down on the farm – by the time the credits roll, you may never look at that steak on your plate the same way ever again. With top notch performances from his game cast (in particular vet-for-hire Essie Davis and John Lynch as a hapless farmer caught in the wheels of “progress”), O’Brien takes his time laying the groundwork for his tale of bio-engineering, anchoring viewers in the tactile muckiness of day-to-day life of tending to pregnant cows, then gradually lets the creature feature ooginess take center stage. Brought to savage and scrambling life by designer Stephen Brown and makeup maestro Bob Keen, the resulting critters are quite possibly the ugliest beasties to skitter across the screen and they’ve got the attitude to match their grisly exterior. Released with little to no fanfare here in the States, this is the kind of underground sleeper that demands the attention of horror fans everywhere: Original, believable and memorable. (Heck, the “birthing” scene alone is worth the rental price.) Recommended.
	*It Came From Beneath the Sea* (1955) While marking the first collaboration between the stop-motion genius of Ray Harryhausen and producer Charles H. Schneer, this giant octopus yarn is regrettably less satisfying than their subsequent efforts. The opening sequence of an underwater attack on an atomic submarine is sharply directed, but then the film bogs down with “documentary-style” narration and an unnecessary love triangle of jarhead Kenneth Tobey and egghead Donald Curtis vying for comely oceanologist Faith Domergue’s attentions. The six-legged octopus (de-limbed by budgetary constraints) appears in its full glory around the halfway point, and its assault on the Golden Gate Bridge is hugely enjoyable. There exists an occasional uneasy mix between the live action and rear projection effects throughout, more noticeable than it would be in future Harryhausen/Schneer films. The final third of the movie is a terrific display of mayhem as the mutant cephalopod attacks San Francisco, although the climax is a letdown. Overall, not a bad time, and a glimpse at wonders to come.
	*It’s Alive* (1974) “There’s only one thing wrong with the Davis baby…” Expectant couple John P. Ryan and Sharon Farrell end up with more on their hands than just dirty diapers in this low-budget shocker, which became an unexpected hit with drive-in audiences everywhere. From its jaw-dropping delivery room massacre to the absurdly moving climax in the Los Angeles sewers, this is the scary mutant baby flick to end ‘em all. While writer/director Larry Cohen is the mastermind behind this inventive spin on a parent’s worst fears made flesh, equal credit must also go to f/x maestro Rick Baker’s nightmarish nipper creation (complete with bug eyes, claws, vein-studded scalp and a serious teething problem). Additional points for the blurry, fish-eyed “Baby-cam” cinematography, and for Ryan’s convincing, dedicated performance (especially considering the outlandish and outrageous subject matter). Followed by two inferior, but still engaging, Cohen-directed sequels, IT LIVES AGAIN and ISLAND OF THE ALIVE.
	*It! The Terror from Beyond Space* (1958) At the conclusion of this sci-fi/horror yarn, hero Marshall Thompson dramatically intones, “Another name for Mars is death.” Perhaps, but Y-A-W-N is another word for this historically significant but shabby B-movie schlocker, to which time has not been kind. A spaceship travels to Mars to apprehend Thompson, who is suspected of murdering his fellow crew members. His claims that the crimes were committed by a “mysterious creature” are soon borne out when the monster boards their ship and proceeds to literally suck the life out of the party one by one. Often cited as the blueprint for Alien, though there is little of Ridley Scott’s gut-clenching tension generated here. While there are superficial similarities, “quickie king” Edward L. Cahn’s major coup here is the good fortune of Jerome Bixby’s script being the first to place a mean-tempered E. T. aboard a spaceship of hapless humans. Beyond that, the simplemindedness on display is pretty impressive. We have a supposed mass-murderer freely allowed to wander around, a trigger-happy crew that thinks nothing of blasting away with pistols and grenades aboard a spacecraft, a guy-in-a-rubber-suit (complete with zipper) monster whose frozen big-teeth expression fails to impress, and a hilarious melodramatic alien death scene that reaches Shakespearean proportions. And pacing? A scene of astronauts walking down the ship’s outer hull feels longer than T. E. Lawrence’s trek across the desert to Aqaba. One question: How does one actually get “beyond space?” Just asking.
	*I Walked With a Zombie* (1943) A haunting, suspenseful thriller from director Jacques Tourneur and producer Val Lewton, following their successful collaboration with Cat People. Canadian nurse Frances Dee is called to the West Indies to care for plantation owner Tom Conway’s ailing wife, simultaneously catching the eye of his ne’er-do-well sibling James Ellison. When common medicinal treatments do not help the woman’s catatonic condition, the island natives fear that the wife has become one of “the living dead.” The brothers’ dark family history is revealed through the inventive device of Sir Lancelot’s spooky Calypso minstrel. The film contains numerous memorable scenes, with the moonlit walk through the woods a hair-raising highlight (Darby Jones’ eerie zombie Carrefour will give even the strongest viewer bad dreams). Dee is a wonderful vehicle through which to take this supernatural journey; expressive, human, and conflicted, she serves the film very well. Conway is excellent, a composed facade of stiff superiority offset by an underlying vulnerability. He is well-matched by Ellison, whose terrific drunk scenes reveal untold layers of anger, defeat, and despair in a manner of seconds. Through skillful manipulation of light, shadow and sound, Tourneur conjures an elegant atmosphere of tangible dread. Great touch of “any resemblance to persons living, dead or possessed is purely coincidental” in the opening credits.