Fool's Views Reviews (S)

	*Santa Claus Conquers the Martians* (1964) Aw man, the spoiler is in the title! Yes, after some rascally Martians learn that their TV-addicted tykes are glum, they hatch a plan to kidnap jolly ol’ St. Nick, hoping that the red-suited one can chase away their angry red planet blues. Not nearly as intentionally humorous as screenwriter Glenville Mareth and director Nicholas Webster might have intended, since most of the performers fall into the over-the-top children’s theatre school of acting, with wannabe lovable Bill McCutcheon’s Droppo the biggest cringe-inducer. There’s also a little interspecies civil disagreement tossed into the mix, as evil-mustachioed villain Vincent Beck tries to submarine Santa’s plan to bring holiday cheer and joy to all the blue/green-skinned boys and girls. Unsurprisingly a holiday TV standard, much to the chagrin of critics and discriminating filmgoers everywhere. With such an outlandish premise, it’s no surprise that no one even bothers to take the film halfway seriously, and the fact that the entire production takes place on cheapie cardboard sets only emphasizes the juvenile tone. A picture that truly can only be watched one a year, and by the time it comes around again, is watched only to share the misery with the uninitiated. Ho ho ho, indeed. Score by Milton Delugg, featuring the ear-bleeder “Hooray for Santy Claus.”
	*Satan’s Slave* (1976) Even more overlooked by American genre audiences than Pete Walker is his brother-in-arms, Norman J. Warren – one of the few British directors who kept the horror flame alight during the post-Hammer 70s. Known primarily for his 1981 Alien rip-off, Inseminoid (aka Horror Planet), Warren managed to bring plenty of gore and T&A to an audience bloodthirsty for more. This, the first of his horror efforts, teamed him with a script by Walker-regular David McGillivray and featured Candace Glendenning (Tower Of Evil) as an innocent lass who witnesses the death of both her parents in a car accident en route to visit her mysterious uncle (Michael Gough). As he takes her in to recover from the shock, it becomes increasingly apparent that Gough has plans for her that involve altars, sharp knives and reincarnations of long-dead spirits. Ah, family reunions are so much fun. While not a classic, SS does offer some effective jolts from the well-worn human sacrifice plotline and there’s plenty of flesh shown and blood spilled.
	**Save the Green Planet! (2003)** Looking at the DVD cover art, this looks to be a wacky Korean comedy about an goofy guy who thinks that the world has been invaded by extraterrestrials and that he is the only one who can save the earth. And yes, that is the basic premise, but it gets pretty damn dark at times, especially once our “hero” and his devoted tightrope walker lover have kidnapped the CEO of a powerful corporation and set about graphically torturing him in order to learn when the “invasion” is happening. Breathlessly directed, edited and scored, there’s nary a dull moment, but not one for the kiddies. Written/directed by Joon-Hwan Jong.
	*Saw* (2004) A kissing cousin to Se7en, actor/screenwriter Leigh Whannell’s brilliant high-concept scenario cries out for subtle creepiness. A pair of strangers (Cary Elwes and Whannell) wake up in a grimy underground bathroom, each chained by his ankle to a drainpipe. Also in said bathroom are a dead body and a rusty saw blade, too dull to cut through their shackles, but sharp enough to cut through...other things. As the film proceeds down its flashback-riddled path, we learn that they are captives of the Jigsaw Killer, whose calling card entails intricate scenarios designed to force victims to kill one another. It is in these flashbacks that the film’s power lies, depicting hellish scenarios and apparatus from H. R. Giger’s worst nightmares. Good, grim stuff, but rookie director James Wan shifts into overkill far too early and often. Attempting to shock, stun, and bludgeon his audience into submission, Wan employs frenetic editing and overblown industrial music with all the subtlety of a lead pipe; however, the film’s failure to soar lies primarily with Elwes’ abysmal cringe-inducing performance. Incapable of supplying anything vaguely resembling an honest human emotion, he prevents the viewer from fully investing in his all-too-horrific fate. The film’s mind-blowing twist ending is undeniably powerful and shocking, but falls subject to the “wait a minute” logic police seconds later. With a fierce strength of onscreen conviction, one gathers that Wan has made the film that he intended. It’s just not the film it could have been.
	*Saw IV* (2007) I have to say, every time another installment of the new millennium’s most successful horror franchise comes out, I find myself admiring it more and more. Other horror series have primarily concerned themselves with how to resurrect their seemingly slain antagonist from the previous film’s finale, purely to increase the body count (and box office gross) in relatively uninspired fashion. However, the Saw films continue to extend and expand their intricate storylines, building upon peripheral characters and incorporating elements from the previous chapters, and delivering their patented twist ending sucker punches. While I wasn’t that big of a fan of the first film, I will confess admiration for the series as a whole, which has proven greater than the sum of its parts. This time, the gory set pieces are just as gruesome (in addition to the bloodletting, we are treated to one of the most astonishingly authentic autopsy scenes ever captured onscreen), the imaginative human traps just as ornate and complex, and the characters just as flat and two-dimensional, in spite of the capable performers inhabiting them. (The one exception is that of Tobin Bell’s Jigsaw, and that’s only because of the extensive backstory provided over the course of the series.) Returning to his annual director’s chair after Saw’s II and III, Darren Lynn Bousman does what they hired him to do and does it with aplomb, while screenwriters Patrick Melton and Marcus Dunstan keep the plot twists and turns snarling like barbed wire.
	*Scanners* (1981) Convoluted yet compelling sci-fi tale from the unique imagination of writer/director David Cronenberg. Through an experimental drug given to pregnant mothers, a new race of psychic and telekinetic mutants (dubbed “scanners”) emerge, and some of them just aren’t very nice. Michael Ironside tears up the screen as Darryl Revok, a meglomaniacal scanner bent on destruction of the inferior human race. He is opposed by Patrick McGoohan as a scientist who knows the secrets of the scanners and seeks out a protégé of his own to infiltrate Revok’s inner circle. Unfortunately, Stephen Lack’s performance as the hero borders on somnabulistic, and Jennifer O’Neill as his partner is little help, though a little easier on the eyes. What saves the film is suspenseful pacing and some literally mind-blowing special effects, which gave the film strong word-of-mouth and further enhanced Cronenberg’s career. The final showdown is a wow, although you may not want to eat for a while afterwards.
	*Sea Serpent, The* (1984) After U.S. Forces drop a bomb into the Atlantic during a training exercise off the coast of Portugal, a giant slumbering sea serpent is awakened from its centuries-long slumber. Mayhem and hilarity ensue. The only thing faker than the titular menace, which rivals Reptilicus for sheer goofy monster puppetry, are the horrendous acting stylings of garishly miscast WASP Timothy Bottoms as a crusty sea salt tough guy captain (named Pedro, no less!) and Taryn Power’s fetching socialite, whose facial expressions upon seeing her American friend gobbled up resemble that of a heartburn sufferer. Blind Dead impresario Amando di Ossorio directs under the non-de-plume of Graham Green, an apt pseudonym considering how much recycling he does: In addition to repeating the same shot of the watery beastie rising out of the water with its ear-shattering shriek over and over again, he lifts John Williams’ Jaws theme nearly note for note as well as the lighthouse scene from Beast from 20,000 Fathoms. Ray Milland, in his final big screen role, seems to be enjoying himself (or at least his overseas working vacation), though one can still sense the “I used to be an Oscar winner” wistfulness in his eyes as he attempts to outsmart the dragon of the damp. Semi-noteworthy in the annals of giant monster movies for the fact that our overgrown sock puppet is allowed to survive past the final credits.
	*Secret Adventures of Tom Thumb, The* (1993) I hardly know where to begin in describing this bizarro descent into madness, because it truly is all about the visual experience. Employing a creative team of animators known as “the bolex brothers,” writer/director Dave Borthwith spins a version of the classic fairy tale that feels like Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer” video with a script written by Franz Kafka and directed by the tag-team of David Lynch and Takashi Miike. Winner of awards galore on the 93-94 festival circuit, this is an eye candy feast that has to be seen to be believed, and contains imagery (by turns terrifying, cute, hilarious, nightmarish and touching) that will burn its way into your subconscious. Perhaps not for all tastes, but well worth tracking down for the adventurous viewer.
	*Seduction, The* (1982) This overheated tale of an obsessed fan (Andrew Stevens) stalking the local bombshell news anchorwoman (Morgan Fairchild, at her plastic and soft-porn best) has little to recommend it in terms of actual tension or horror. But it is a hoot to watch and certainly fits the bill as a late-night guilty pleasure. The film opens with Stevens spying on Fairchild swimming nude in her pool, and the increasingly unwelcome phone calls, flowers, candy, and visits to her house follow from there. As Fairchild’s journalist lover, Michael Sarrazin spends the film bulging his eyes and declaring “I’m going to kill that guy!” every chance he gets, right up until he gets himself offed in a hot tub. When the cops can’t do anything, Fairchild goes commando, blasting away at Stevens with a shotgun and the whole thing ends in a whirling dervish of revenge fantasy. A sudsy, terribly-written, horribly-acted time capsule of the early 80’s era of blow-drying and huge sunglasses. Amid the froth, however, there is one inspired scene where Stevens sneaks a dark message onto the news teleprompter. Fairchild’s hysterical (in every sense of the word) on-air breakdown is a highlight.
	*See No Evil* (2006) Yes, it’s the “Kane the wrestler” horror flick, and it’s pure horror junk food for all who are so inclined. Stupid, ridiculous characters? Check. Gore galore? Check. Complete absence of logic? Check and double-check. The idea of co-ed convicts being given a work-release assignment of refurbishing an old hotel is a stretch to begin with, but then for them to be given basically free rein to wander about the premises, engage in amorous activities, etc. while their supervising officer mills about downstairs blows the circuits. The only way to enjoy this guilty pleasure is simply to switch off the synapses and giggle like the blood fiend you are as eyeballs are plucked, bodies are broken and brains are bashed. To the movie’s credit, Kane does a fine job, there are some good, gooey set-pieces, a couple of unforeseen plot twists and the over-the-top climax will have viewers shouting an appreciative “Yeah!” out loud. Big, dumb and loud, just the way WWE fans like it.
	*Serial Mom* (1994) With his first studio film, John Waters serves up this terrifically funny and biting satire, commenting both on the saccharine cookie-cutter qualities of suburban living and America’s fascination with serial killers and true crime drama. Kathleen Turner (in a brilliant, Oscar-worthy performance) stars as a “perfect mother” who secretly harbors the urge to do in those who offend her sensibilities. Walking a black comic tightrope, Turner embarks on a murder spree, mowing down her son’s math teacher, her husband’s annoying dental patients, and her daugher’s inconsiderate date, while all the time maintaining a hilarious “Who, me?” demeanor. Easily one of Waters’ most accessible films, possessing plenty of gore and weirdness to satisfy his fans yet remaining mainstream enough to amuse the masses. The supporting cast, which includes several Waters regulars, is beyond reproach, especially Sam Waterston as Turner’s blinkered, blinking husband who can’t believe his piece of apple pie has turned so sour.
	*Session 9* (2001) Highest marks go to director/co-writer Brad Anderson for cultivating this exceedingly tense tale of a five-man asbestos removal team tackling cleanup duty at an inactive mental asylum. When lawyer-in-training Steven Gevedon (who co-wrote the intelligent script) discovers a collection of audio recordings of patient sessions, a haunting dual storyline develops between the events on the tapes and the blue-collar crew’s increasing stress with the job and with each other. In addition, the not-quite-dead building has a few secrets hidden within its dark corners. Part character study, part haunted house tale, the film adroitly fosters an increasingly claustrophobic mood with clues and red herrings thicker than the dust from the moldering ceilings. In addition, the anguished recordings lend an excruciating aural soundscape, settling over the film like a cloud of doom. Skillfully diverting our attentions with sleight-of-hand, Anderson plays his audience like a maestro, delivering one surprising payoff after another. The wonder of it all is that ultimately, Session 9 is a remarkably slight story. The fact that it works as well as it does is a testament to its fine ensemble, both in front of and behind the camera. Scottish actor Peter Mullan is a simmering kettle of repressed anger as the stressed-out crew boss, ably matched by David Caruso, who does the macho-aggressive stare about as well as anyone. The location shooting (within the abandoned confines of Danvers State Hospital) offers a palpable dread along with the mildew and grime of years of neglect. A rock-solid modern psychological chiller, armed with a knockout denouement.
	*Shining, The* (1980) Carving out a niche of its own in the vaunted annals of haunted house cinema, Stanley Kubrick’s stunner is far from a slavishly faithful adaptation of Stephen King’s bestseller, which dismayed the author and baffled critics upon its initial release. Many complained that Jack Nicholson’s recovering alcoholic character, given the winter caretaking duties of the majestic Overlook Hotel, was crazy from the get-go and that Kubrick and co-screenwriter Diane Johnson’s take was confusing and inaccessible. However, time has been kind and many horror fans have come to appreciate these qualities as assets rather than faults. More than anything, it’s a gorgeously shot and well acted cinematic tour-de-force, with the many unexplained elements only serving to deepen the suspense and mystery. Kubrick, aided brilliantly by cinematographer John Alcott and production designer Roy Walker, glides his constantly roving Steadicam effortlessly throughout the intricate, grandiose Overlook sets. The hypnotic score, composed by Rachel Elkind and Wendy Carlos (along with a mashup of classical pieces) is unique in that the aural jump scares rarely coincide with the visual action – the bursts often occur in the middle of extended tracking shots, bumping up the unsettling atmosphere tenfold. True, Nicholson may indeed be deranged from the outset, but his skill as an actor allows him to soar where lesser craftsmen would have bumped against a premature emotional ceiling. Jack just keeps going and going, up to and beyond his infamous aping of Ed McMahon’s Tonight Show intro, “Heeeeeere’s Johnny!” As his troubled wife, Shelley Duvall is the ideal foil for Nicholson, with an unsung performance that is equally captivating – watch her face as she discovers Jack’s manuscript and try to argue to the contrary. Rarely has the essence of sheer, uncomprehending terror been captured so completely.
	*Shivers* (aka They Came From Within) (1975) Cronenberg’s first feature film (shot in fifteen days) is a sloppy, clumsy effort, salvaged only by its imaginative concept and Joe Blasco’s phenomenal makeup and creatures. On the fictitious Starliner Island just outside of Montreal, a high-rise luxury apartment complex becomes the site of infestation by scientifically generated slug-like creatures. A combination of “aphrodisiac and STD,” these parasites spread through human contact, inhabiting the human body and turning the hosts into sex-crazed love zombies. In addition to his own stodgy screenplay and clunky dialogue, the novice writer/director is saddled with a bizarre cast of mostly non-actors who do as much harm as good. Consequently, instead of being suspenseful or chilling, the whole affair comes off as cheap and sleazy. Still, Cronenberg knows how to get under an audience’s skin, and sucker punches us time and time again with plenty of squishy effects and nightmarish imagery. Like all of his earlier efforts, the film is more about its moments than its whole, with the “bathtub scene” (featuring Barbara Steele, no less) and the orgiastic climax (pardon the pun) in the pool memorable standouts.
	*Sisters* (1973) Brian De Palma’s first rip-off…er, homage to Hitchcock is an extremely suspenseful, haphazardly plotted tale of Siamese twins (both played by Margot Kidder), voyeurism, and bloodshed. When acerbic reporter Jennifer Salt observes the aftermath of a murder from her apartment, she turns amateur sleuth to expose the crime. Lifting devices from Psycho and Rear Window in particular, De Palma is in fine form, overtly emulating the Master as he spins a tricky tale of duality in which things are rarely what they seem. The sheer unexpected violence of the murder itself remains shocking, and extraordinary split-screen photography (rarely seen before in a feature film) ratchets up the tension to an armrest-grabbing level. The film’s biggest flaw lie primarily with Salt’s troubling assertions that she witnessed the murder, providing explicit detail, when the audience patently sees that she did not. A capable cast fleshes out the slim characters admirably, with Charles Durning’s private eye providing necessary comic relief between the nerve-jangling sequences. There are holes a-plenty (Salt’s implausible interference with the police investigation) and perhaps a twist more than necessary in the labyrinthine plot, but De Palma’s fervent energy propels the story fast enough that we don’t mind the bumps. Bernard Herrman’s strident Cape Fear-like score provides the grease on the rails. Originally released with “Special Shock Recovery Periods” between showings, a gimmick which Hitch would have certainly approved of.
	*Skull, The* (1965) An outrageously padded, crushingly tedious affair, all the more disappointing considering the talent involved. Based on a short story by Robert Bloch, Peter Cushing plays a collector of occult artifacts who purchases a skull reportedly possessed by the malevolent spirit of the Marquis de Sade and unwittingly inherits its accompanying curse. One of Amicus’ early efforts, the cheapie film has an off-putting “Hammer-Lite” look to it, with an obviously plastic skull as the titular object. Director Freddie Francis tries to inject some ingenuity into a dull story with colored filters, flashing lights, and trick shots from inside the cranium, all to no avail. Christopher Lee, Michael Gough, and numerous other Hammer alumni are on hand, looking as though they are doing their best to get through the proceedings without falling asleep. You may not have the same success. Skip it.
	*Sleepaway Camp* (1983) Every once in a while, a horror movie delivers a moment which is so unusual and startling, the viewer is compelled to recommend it, if only to have someone with whom to share the experience. Call it the “Dude, you gotta see this!” factor. Such is the case with this staggeringly inept Friday the 13th knockoff, which developed cult status due to “The Scene.” The rest of the flick, however, is an excruciating slog, unless listening to prepubescent campers swear like sailors is your idea of a good time. What plot there is concerns introverted teen Angela’s (Felissa Rose) persecution at the hands of the “cool” chicks at Camp Arawak. Soon enough, her tormentors begin to meet laughably unsavory ends. Scarier by far than the spree of outlandish slayings (murder by curling iron, anyone?), though, is the Salvation Army-reject 80’s clothing with which the errant costume designer saw fit to punish cast and audience. Death by pots of boiling corn? Killer hornet nests in outhouses? Counselor Ronnie’s orange muscle shirts and short-shorts? Who could make up this drivel? Why, none other than writer/director Robert Hiltzik, who opens his movie with a dedication “To Mom, a doer.” (Touching stuff, Bobby. Now go sit in that corner and think about what you’ve done.) While this cinematic burned marshmallow provokes neither goose pimples nor gag reflexes, the notorious ending lives up to its reputation as one of the most memorably bizarre…ever. (Dude, you gotta see this.)
	*Slumber Party Massacre, The* (1982) In the early 80’s’ slasher-flick explosion, what makes this pedestrian entry worthy of note is that was written, produced, and directed by women. More surprising is the fact that it does nothing to distinguish itself from its male-directed counterparts, with its helpless, screaming female victim characters just as objectified by an astonishing amount of gratuitous nudity. The only visible novelty is arming the male killer with a two-foot-long power drill (compensating for something?) and framing him onscreen with his (ahem) tool from various suggestive angles. Supposedly written by feminist writer Rita Mae Brown as a parody of the genre, director Amy Holden Jones does herself and the audience no favors by playing it straight. With the identity of the psychopath revealed at the outset and no variety in dispatching his victims (yep, he drills ‘em), we are left with a low-suspense, minor-gore, run-of-the-mill bloodletting which leaves us with an impressive body count, lots of T & A, and not much more. You go, girl.
	*Someone’s Watching Me!* (1978) First shown a month after Halloween hit theatres and now finally available on DVD, John Carpenter’s TV-movie about a psychopathic peeping tom preying upon female high-rise victims shows the writer/director near the top of his game. Lauren Hutton plays a sexy, funny offbeat TV director who moves to Los Angeles with her new station job, and soon is receiving strange packages and phone calls from a mystery stalker who seems to know her every move. Calling on new boyfriend David Birney and gal pal Adrienne Barbeau for help, she proceeds to engage in a bit of Rear Window detective work, confronting her fears head on (no passive victim she!) While the dated material may not resonate as strongly today in these more cautious times – my femalien kept laughing and saying, “This would never happen! A woman would never do this…” – Carpenter still manages to wring a healthy amount of suspense, as well as some wry humor, from his high concept thriller. Perhaps not completely worth the long wait, but certainly worth any suspense fan and Carpenter completist’s time.
	*Sorcerers, The* (1967) Master hypnotist Boris Karloff and his aging wife Catherine Lacey create a psychic bond with English lad Ian Ogilvy, allowing them to vicariously experience his actions. When she gets hooked and begins to demand increasingly antisocial behavior from their unwitting confederate, Karloff finds himself struggling for control. Michael Reeves’ second feature has a paper-thin sci-fi/horror premise (the mind control plot device isn’t fully explored and Lacey’s sociopathic tendencies seem to spring from nowhere), but the strong performances and nihilistic clubbing lifestyle atmosphere carry the picture. This dark morality tale found favor with audiences and critics alike, setting the young director up for his masterful Witchfinder General the following year. Susan George has a small but memorable part as a former paramour of Ogilvy.
	*Splatter University* (1984) When a maniac escapes from an insane asylum (you’d think these folks would learn the value of added security one day), he infiltrates a nearby university’s faculty, posing as one of the staff and bumping off random students and professors alike. Plucky Francine Forbes, with her bright smile and Breck girl hair, makes for a likeable heroine, newly hired to replace one of the last semester’s recently demised. While most of the characters and red herrings are pretty transparent, Splatter makes good on its name by providing abundant gouts and geysers of the red stuff, blasting the blood-balloons with gusto. Produced and distributed by Troma, there’s a fair amount of homespun charm, and anyone who has seen their fair share of low budget slasher flicks should not be terribly put off by the wonky acting and scattershot cinematography. In fact, the screenwriting team deserves a passing grade simply on the strength of their refreshing final-act tweaking of Final Girl genre conventions. Director Richard W. Haines would go on to co-direct the Troma underground classic, Class of Nuke ‘Em High.
	*Stepford Wives, The* (1975) Sexy and funny, inflammatory and spooky, William Goldman’s adaptation of Ira Levin’s bestseller is that rare animal: a socially relevant, yet thoroughly entertaining sci-fi/horror thriller. Frustrated photographer, wife, and mother Katharine Ross escapes the big-city madness with husband Peter Masterson, moving to the idyllic Connecticut suburb of Stepford. Before long, the liberated Ross (along with gal pals Paula Prentiss and Tina Louise) observe that Stepford’s female population are a submissive, domestic lot, unnaturally preoccupied with fulfilling their husbands’ every passing desire. With scenes both humorous and claustrophobic, director Peter Forbes ratchets up the tension as Ross grows increasingly suspicious of Stepford’s sinister “Men’s Association,” ultimately fearing for her life and soul. A genuinely chilling mystery that slyly keeps its social agenda intentionally ambiguous, leaving interpretation to the viewer. Cautionary women’s lib tale or gentle mocking of raving feminists? Nail-biting conspiracy yarn or satire on sexual politics? Science fiction or social fact? Audiences saw all of this and more, sparking controversy and heated discussions in print and/or coffee shops in 1975; and it is a testament to the film’s taut screenplay, sharp performances, and top-notch final act that it still packs a wallop today. Ross and Prentiss are particularly good, as is Patrick O’Neill’s creepy Malelis Chauvanis. Look sharp for Dee Wallace’s screen debut, with Mary Stuart Masterson doing likewise as daddy’s little girl.
	*Stigmata* (1999) A flashy, ultra-slick religious mystery that owes obvious debts to The Exorcist while wielding a fraction of that film’s power or gravitas. When a statue of Mary begins to cry tears of warm, red blood following a Brazilian priest’s death, Vatican investigator Gabriel Byrne is assigned to validate the “miracle.” When the priest’s rosary beads find their way into the possession of sexy, young (and atheist) urbanite Patricia Arquette, she begins to exhibit the Five Wounds of Christ, bleeding from her wrists, ankles, and forehead. Problem is, only the most devout Catholics are supposed to possess the stigmata, so Byrne is sent to “investigate” (i.e. disprove) the incidents. Music video director Rupert Wainwright amply demonstrates his background, combining extraordinary visuals and rampant symbolism with fit-inducing flash editing; but while the visual and aural assaults stimulate the senses they detract from the story’s weight, reducing this modern-day fable of faith and doubt to a jazzed-up possession flick (although this is one of the few times a spirit occupies a body with benevolent intentions). The scenes of bloodletting are undeniably powerful, with the subway train sequence particularly vivid. Arquette does her best with an underwritten role, with Byrne lending a committed sense of purpose, though a “tempted romance” subplot between the two leads seems utterly unnecessary. Ultimately, the film sputters out amid less-than-divine conspiracy theories and special effects, emerging as shallow as Jonathan Pryce’s villainously corrupt Vatican official.
	*Stir of Echoes* (1999) Unfortunately released in the same year as The Sixth Sense, this screen version of Richard Matheson’s novel lost a lot of its “I see dead people” buzz to its flashier, more successful rival. Seen for its own merits, Echoes still succeeds as a well-told modern ghost story, adapted and directed with verve by David Koepp. Kevin Bacon stars as a blue-collar Chicago telephone lineman who, after being hypnotized at a party, witnesses disturbing visions of a murdered young woman. Unfortunately for him, after he comes out of his trance, the visions continue. So begins a hair-raising downward spiral as he seeks answers to quiet the offended spirit while he and his family increasingly fear for his sanity. Koepp delivers some terrific jolts and chills, though the film meanders at times on the way to an ending that does not completely satisfy. Bacon turns in a bravura performance as a simple man obsessed by forces he does not understand, and he is well matched by a strong supporting cast, which includes young Zachary Cope as his psychic son.
	*Suspiria* (1977) Considered by many to be Dario Argento’s masterwork, this fiercely original tale of an exclusive (and haunted) German ballet school exhibits more personal style and verve in its opening ten minutes than many directors demonstrate in a lifetime. The arrival of American dance student Jessica Harper coincides with a series of bizarre, violent deaths within the academy, and while the film’s coven-of-witches storyline is tenuous at best, Argento’s striking camerawork and audacious colored lighting more than compensates. The celebrated opening sequence, which combines one of the most astonishing onscreen rainstorms with The Goblins’ driving rock-n-roll soundtrack, informs the audience they are in for a wild ride. Featuring a colorful array of characters highlighted by Alida Valli’s freakishly strident dance instructor, and filled with virtuoso set pieces (maggots falling from ceilings, random rooms of barbed wire, a seeing eye-dog attacking its owner), this is an unforgettable viewing experience. The dialogue is clunky, Harper is only adequate (no one would mistake her for the prodigy her character is supposed to be) and Argento lingers a little too lovingly on his less-than-convincing gore effects, but the sequences are executed (ha-ha!) with such obvious glee one is quick to forgive. And you gotta love those crazy slapping German male dancers in the bar. Co-written by Argento and Deep Red star Daria Nicolodi, (Argento’s longtime partner and mother of Asia Argento).