Fool's Views Reviews (T)

	*Tales from the Crypt* (1972) Boasting arguably the most uniformly solid collection of individual tales – as well as one of the crummiest wraparound stories – this Amicus omnibus (the 4th in the series) continues to hold up quite well nearly 35 years after its release (unfortunately, the same cannot be said of my ancient VHS copy). For reasons they cannot explain, five disparate individuals pull in to visit a museum of sorts, and find themselves face to face with the Crypt Keeper (Ralph Richardson, a far cry from Kevin Yagher’s puppet design from the HBO series). Over the next 90 minutes, the hooded one unfolds each visitor’s destiny: Murderess Joan Collins must face a murderous Santa Claus in “All Through the House”; Ian Hendry leaves his wife and family to be with his mistress, only to crack up literally and figuratively in “Reflection of Death”; In “Poetic Justice,” Peter Cushing plays badly abused rubbish collector Arthur Grimsdyke (one of his most gentle and empathetic performances) who gets his heart-ily deserved revenge on antagonist Robin Phillips; “Wish You Were Here” has Richard Greene finding an Oriental statue that grants wishes…and wishes that he hadn’t; and sightless Patrick Magee leads a revolt against heartless Nigel Patrick in “Blind Alleys.” Cushing’s tale has a particularly macabre verisimilitude: Grimsdyke is a widower who communicates with his wife through a ouija board; TFTC was the first picture Cushing had made following his wife Helen’s death, and it is her photograph to which he speaks in the film.
	*Tales from the Hood* (1995) An ambitious omnibus from director Rusty Cundieff, fusing elements of horror, comedy, and social commentary, all depicted from an African American point of view. The script (by Cundieff and producer Darin Scott) tackles numerous hot-button issues within a genre context, including police brutality, child abuse, racism, and gang violence. As the sinister mortician who introduces each story, Clarence Williams III steals the show with his over-the-top portrayal, exuding comic zeal and menace from every strand of his Don King hairstyle. The first tale deals with an idealistic black cop who witnesses the brutal slaying of a civil rights activist at the hands of his racist squad mates. When the spirit of the murdered activist returns for vengeance, it spells plenty of red for the white in blue. The next story concerns an abused young boy who blames his frequent bruises upon the “monster in the closet” (David Alan Grier, playing well against comic type in an unsympathetic role). The third offering features an unrepentantly racist politician (Corbin Bernsen) who inadvertently incurs the wrath of the spirits of murdered slaves in the form of bloodthirsty dolls. Brought to life through stop-motion animation, these pint-sized terrors are quite memorable and vicious. A violent gang member’s attempted rehabilitation is the subject of the final chapter, a combination of A Clockwork Orange and Boyz N the Hood. While the social angle is none too subtle and the onscreen brutality often overwhelms the sense of fun that Cundieff appears to be striving for, the film remains an accomplished injection of diversity into a notably pale genre.
	*Tales of Terror* (1962) Star Vincent Price, screenwriter Richard Matheson, and producer/director Roger Corman take a stab at the anthology format with this three-course banquet loosely based on the writings of Edgar Allan Poe. The first, “Morella,” gets things off to an inauspicious start, covering the blandly familiar terrain of dusty mansions, family curses, and vengeance from beyond the grave, complete with a blazing climax (utilizing footage from House of Usher). “The Black Cat,” the next and best of the lot, introduces a comic tone, combining Poe’s feline story with elements of “The Cask of Amontillado.” The star attraction here is Peter Lorre’s hilariously grumbling performance as pickled tippler Montresor Herringbone, whose boorish drunken behavior sends his long-suffering wife into the arms of Price’s effete wine connoisseur. The farcical wine-tasting competition between the two old pros is an absolute gem. Things get deliciously darker when Lorre sobers up to the affair and exacts his morbid revenge. The final tale, “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar,” focuses on hypnotist Basil Rathbone’s sinister bargain: offering to relieve old geezer Price’s pain in exchange for permission to mesmerize him at the moment of death. This, the darkest of the three, builds to an exciting (even a tad gruesome) climax that leaves the viewer well-satisfied. In addition to making money, the film sparked a trend of horror movies featuring classic stars, introducing them to a new generation of fans.
	*Tattoo* (1981) In honor of my lovely femalien’s recent encounter with the inkman, we decided to bust out this studio-endorsed bit of exploitation, directed by one-time offender Bob Brooks and scripted by Joyce Bunuel (daughter-in-law to Luis). Bruce Dern turns in another committed nutbar performance, this time as an obsessive tattoo artist who sets his sights on fashion model Maud Adams. When she rejects him, he resorts to abduction, then proceeds to use her unconscious body as a canvas for his increasingly intricate designs. Sadly, what could have been a splendid psychological thriller – along the lines of The Collector – bogs down with melodrama, a decided lack of logic, and some shamefully poor acting. As the damsel in undress, Adams is the biggest offender, her sorta-American accent drifting in and out. But considering the amount of time she spends in the nude, one gets the impression that the future Bond girl’s assets were of a slightly different ilk. You wanna remake something, Hollywood? Remake this.
	*Ted Bundy* (2002) Having deliberately avoided the “real-life serial killers” series (Gacy, Dahmer, Ed Gein), I decided to check this one out for two reasons: A strong recommendation from good buddy Gert and my undying devotion to scream queen Tiffany Shepis. Well, Ms. Shepis literally kicks ass in her small role as “the Bundy victim that got away,” and the film itself is quite successful on its own terms. Skillfully acted and directed, the killer presented here is closer (or so the director’s commentary would have us believe) to the real “creepy” version of American’s most prolific serial killer than the media’s presentation as the guy next door. I can’t weigh in on its authenticity, but the brutality and efficiency of the slayings are discomfiting, and Michael Reilly Burke is thoroughly convincing in the title role. I personally don’t like the marketing of real-life crimes as titillating genre material, but I’ll give props where they’re due. Appropriate subject matter or not, it’s a well-done flick.
	*Teenagers from Outer Space* (1959) When a film is ready to fry a cute little yapping dog into a pile of bones within the first two minutes, you know you’re in for a treat. Huge name-above-the-title David Love (in his only credited film appearance) stars as the oh-so-sensitive alien invader sent to find suitable grazing pastures for his people’s main source of food, the Gargan Herd (realized as giant, rear-projected shadowy lobster monsters, or monster, since we only ever see one). Fleeing from his heartless, pooch-zapping compatriots, Love takes refuge by posing as a prospective boarder at odd-duck heroine Dawn Anderson’s house in Small Town, USA. Baddie crewmate Bryan Grant gives pursuit, focusing his furrowed scowl and demolecularizing ray gun on anyone and everyone that crosses his path. (Seriously, this flick has an amazingly high body count, and the numerous shots of flesh-free skeletons crumbling to the ground never fail to please.) Pretty standard, low budget late 50s sci-fi fare that moves quickly and is enthusiastically performed by its cast, although I kept expecting Love to burst into song at any point, serenading his newfound lady fair about the wonders of earthly love. Directed-produced-edited-written-scored by Tom Graeff, who also plays eager beaver reporter Joe as “Tom Lockyear.” (It’s too bad he never learned to delegate.)
	*Tenant, The* (1976) You may never want to sign another lease after watching this haunting masterpiece of paranoia and mental dissolution from Roman Polanski, who also turns in a spellbinding performance as the title character. Polanski appears as Trelkovsky, a Polish immigrant-cum-French citizen who moves into gruff Melvyn Douglas’ building in Paris, and learns with some trepidation that the vacancy is a result of the previous occupant having inexplicably thrown herself from the window. What follows is a meandering series of encounters with the unfortunate victim’s friends and fellow tenants that grow unrelentingly darker and more mysterious until he begins to fear for his own life and sanity. Based on Roland Topor’s superb novel, Trelkovsky’s world turns increasingly claustrophobic and nightmarish, as events in his life begin to mirror those of the dead girl, leading him to suspect his new neighbors of conspiring to drive him mad. Polanski’s exemplary cinematic gifts are on full display here, manufacturing a hallucinatory atmosphere of isolation and persecution with surprises around every twisted corner. A worthy companion to Repulsion, this enigmatic film challenges its audience with its leisurely pace and refusal to provide easy answers. But it is exactly these qualities that make it so rewarding, with new layers revealed every subsequent viewing.
	*Terror* (1978) Norman J. Warren’s blatant homage to Italian cinema (Suspiria in particular), this demented and nonsensical flick possesses (ha ha) a certain charm that succeeds best during its murder and mayhem set pieces. There’s a prologue straight out of Bava’s Black Sunday with a captive witch unleashing a curse against the families of her accusers, then things zip forward to a present day screening room where we find that it’s just a new horror film. Unfortunately, said film is based upon a true story and following a wrap party hypnosis session that goes awry, the spirit of the giggling witch is set free and all hell literally breaks loose. Swords fly about, lighting instruments crush victims below, and in one so-cheesy-it’s-brilliant sequence, a police car floats ever-so-slowly among the treetops. Amusing enough, and never takes itself seriously enough for audiences to feel insulted.
	*Terror, The* (1963) A legendary curiosity item from producer/director Roger Corman, more famous for its origin than the finished product. When Corman wrapped shooting on The Raven ahead of schedule, he took advantage of Boris Karloff’s two extra contracted days to slap together this tale of a reclusive baron with a dark secret. With the sets for the previous film being torn down around the actors’ ears, Corman shot all of Karloff’s scenes back to back, then composed the rest of the movie to fit. Belying his towering screen presence to come, novice Jack Nicholson turns in a blank-faced performance as a Napoleonic officer separated from his regiment. A beachside encounter with a peculiar young woman (Nicholson’s then-wife Sandra Knight) leads him to reclusive Karloff’s castle sanctuary and the ghostly haunts that lie within. Leo Gordon and Jack Hill’s flat and clunky storyline never manages to be particularly captivating, even with a few last-minute plot twists. On the other hand, veteran Karloff is terrific with his underwritten role, fully committing to goofy bits of business (i.e. repeatedly opening the crypt gate, obviously disconnected from its pull chain) and descending endless staircases. There are a few haphazard moments of drippy goo, and Corman regulars Dick Miller and Jonathan Haze enliven their supporting roles. Fans of Corman, Karloff, and Nicholson will find things to enjoy here – for less dedicated viewers, it’s a messy drag. To add to the mayhem, Nicholson, Francis Coppola, and Monte Helleman are rumored to have taken uncredited stints behind the camera for various scenes.
	*Terror is a Man* (1959) The first seeds of Gerard de Leon and Eddie Romero’s “Blood Island” flicks were planted with this slow moving but atmospheric spin on HG Wells’ Island of Dr. Moreau. Frances Lederer is the mad surgeon intent on transforming a panther into a man with decidedly mixed success, justifiably outraged Richard Derr appears as the shipwrecked outsider and, as the mad doc’s wife torn between the two, Greta Thyssen agonizes prettily. The moody b/w photography helps immeasurably – avoiding the cheap and sleazy feel of the future de Leon/Romero collaborations – but the absence of the sassier exploitation elements to come combined with the overly familiar plot results in the pic bogging down from time to time. Also, if Lederer is such a brilliant surgeon, why hasn’t he lopped off those goofy teddy bear panther ears a loooong time ago? Just asking.
	*Theatre of Blood* (1973) A fun little romp that will delight both fans of gore and the Bard. Vincent Price has the time of his life as critically-reviled Shakespearean actor Edward Lionheart, who sets out to even the scores with his enemies in the press. Interestingly, the film predates the trend of future slasher movies in that it’s less a question as to whether his victims will perish, but rather how they will be done in. Here, Anthony Greville-Smith’s clever script rises above the norm, as all of Lionheart’s messy murders are creatively inspired by the works of Shakespeare, i.e. drowning in a wine vat (Richard III), a bedtime beheading (Cymbeline), etc. Price gleefully dons wigs and nose putty as he runs through the canon with wild abandon, spouting verse as the blood spurts (and there is quite a bit of it). Diana Rigg delights in her turn as Lionheart’s daughter, assisting in the offing with barely contained zeal. The supporting cast is comprised of superb English character actors who, along with Douglas Hickox’s sly camerawork, enliven the proceedings markedly. Perhaps not a classic, but certainly a bloody good time.
	*13 Ghosts* (1960) From the opening parade of ghosts coming straight off the scene in 3D amid shrieks and howls, director/producer William Castle lets the crowd know that they are in for a spooky/kooky good time. Down-on-his-luck paleontologist Cyrus Zorba (Donald Woods) learns that he and his family have inherited a mysterious mansion from, an equally mysterious uncle. The adventure begins when they realize they have also inherited a dozen unearthly squatters, who may or may not be willing to share livingquarters with the living. Reveling in his reputation as a purveyor of “good, fun, scary movies,” Castle came up with the gimmick of shooting the film in “Illusion-O,” a process by which the onscreen ghosts were outlined in red. When the characters in the film donned a pair of special spectral goggles, audiences would put on theirs (a pair of 3D glasses with lenses of red and blue), which caused the ghosts to stand out in bold relief. In a pre-credits introduction, Castle advises his audience that “if they get too scared,” they could close their “blue” eyes to make the ghosts disappear. But even without the Illusion-O gimmick, this is still an entertaining romp with spirited (sorry, couldn’t help it) performances from both its human and ghostly casts. Filled with fun, frightful scenes involving Ouija boards, candlelit séances, and a ghoulish creature stalking the halls of the Zorba estate. And yes, that is “Wicked Witch of the West” Margaret Hamilton as the shadowy housekeeper.
	*Thir13en Ghosts* (2001) This remake of the gimmicky-but-fun William Castle film borrows only the trace elements of the original, opting instead for a loud, violent, effects-driven flick that ultimately can’t decide what it wants to be. Tony Shaloub stars as a recently widowed father of two who inherits his eccentric ghost-chaser uncle F. Murray Abraham’s estate. Of course, upon arriving, it becomes clear that this is no ordinary house, nor is it entirely empty. Matthew Lilliard shows up as Abraham’s former ghostbusting partner to give the unsuspecting family the lowdown: The house actually serves as a holding container for a horde of restless spirits, seen only through special eyewear (one of the few holdovers from the Castle film). When the ghastly, blood-soaked apparitions are revealed, they are decidedly not happy with sharing their space. Sean Hargreaves’ production design is a thing to behold, with the mansion’s walls and floors constructed of see-through containment glass inscribed with Latin scripture, and partitions and rooms constantly shifting positions. Director Steve Beck fails to give his film a clear voice, trying at once to be thrilling rollercoaster, mystical funhouse, and spooky haunted house, coming up short on all counts. The acting is competent, if unremarkable, though Lilliard grates with his ironic would-be comic schtick.
	*30 Days of Night* (2007) Based upon the graphic novel by Steve Niles (who also worked on the screenplay) and Ben Templesmith, this big budget adaptation from Sam Raimi’s Ghost House Pictures suffers mightily from the realization of how good it could have been, which unfortunately obscure how often it manages to deliver the goods. Beginning with its brilliant high-concept plot (an Alaskan village is waylaid by vampires during the month-long period during which the sun fails to rise), there is much to enjoy here. David (Hard Candy) Slade’s visual style provides some striking imagery – the overhead shots of the first night’s carnage are both horrifying and poetic – while the individual performances are strong on both sides of the undead fence, including Josh Hartnett’s small town sheriff, Melissa George as his spirited, estranged spouse, Danny Huston’s natty head vampire and Ben Foster’s show-stealing turn as “The Stranger.” Additionally, the vicious band of bloodsuckers themselves, outfitted with rows of saw-like teeth, are a welcome change from the time-honored capes and fangs. However, on the downside, Slade totally drops the ball in conveying the passage of time, and not just due to the lack of sunrises. What is sorely lacking is any sense of the mundane and the excruciating waiting for the day when the sun would finally rise, replaced instead by jump cuts to longer facial hair on the male cast members. Also, with the savagery of the first night’s massacre, one wonders why they needed a 30-day time frame if they were going to wipe out the population in one night. Not a big fan of the extensive shaky-cam either (Horror directors take note: it’s time for a new technique). The overall impression is that of a missed opportunity for what could have been an amazing and original vampire classic.
	*Tomb of Ligeia, The* (1965) The last, and certainly one of the best looking of Roger Corman’s Poe adaptations, due to terrific exteriors shot in the English countryside (a rarity for the notoriously tight-fisted producer/director). Adapted from Poe’s slim story “Ligeia” by Chinatown scribe Robert Towne, the film revels in its morbid gothic atmosphere and excellent leading performances. In the midst of a well-photographed foxhunt, Lady Rowena (Elizabeth Shepherd) comes across grieving widower Verden Fell (Vincent Price, behind groovy period shades). Immediately drawn to his mysterious nature, she insinuates herself into his life, and the two happily court and marry. Following their honeymoon, however, Rowena observes the return of her husband’s dark mood, accompanied by increasingly strange behavior. Under hypnosis, she reveals Verden’s darkest fear: The spirit of his previous wife, the dark, exotic Ligeia (also played by Shepherd), is intermittently inhabiting the body of his new bride, fulfilling her dying curse that she “would be his only wife.” If all this seems a little much, it is, with Corman and Towne blatantly borrowing elements from previous AIPoe outings (hallucinatory dream sequences, black cats, fiery climax). But the costumes and sets look great, and Price dives into the role of madman clinging to sanity with his usual aplomb, ably matched by Shepherd in her dual roles of tormentor and savior.
	*Tombs of the Blind Dead* (1971) The early scenes of this haunting Spanish zombie flick are so overwhelming in their thick gloomy atmosphere that, while not everyone’s cup of tea, they cannot help but be admired for their sheer confidence and audacity. Writer/director Amando de Ossorio provides a brief introductory setup of three romantically entwined companions on a train ride through the Spanish countryside, then embarks on a breathtaking twenty-five-minute, dialogue-free episode that must be experienced to be believed. During this astounding sequence, the jangling, chanting, percussive musical score and lively environmental soundtrack combine with eerie visuals to create an intoxicating dream-like aura. (The slow-motion scenes of the recently revived undead riding horseback are particularly inspired.) Sadly, the rest of the film (despite an intriguing, original plot centering on the devil-worshipping Templar Knights) cannot live up to its remarkable opening act due to underdeveloped characters, stiff acting, and cheesy effects. De Ossorio does his best to recapture the mood throughout, but the effort is apparent and not as effective. The gleefully sinister railway ending, though, does provide a smile. The success of this light-gore-and-nudity import spawned three more films in the series: Return of the Blind Dead, Horror of the Zombies, and Night of the Seagulls.
	*Toolbox Murders, The* (1978) Obviously having consulted the Exploitation Movie Handbook, director Dennis Donnelly gets right into the wet stuff with enough fervor to satisfy gore lovers everywhere, ur resident homicidal maniac using the tools of his trade (claw hammer, electric drill, nail gun, etc.) while humming his favorite country/western tunes. Within its first fifteen minutes, this luridly titled 70’s splatter staple delivers four graphic deaths, a racy bathtub masturbation scene, and a kidnapping. Unfortunately, with nowhere to go after such a “gutsy” opening, the film shifts gears into a detective story/character study and the movie goes straight to hell (admittedly, not a long trip.) Delivering ham-fisted motivations and way-out plot twists, things slog along as the murderer reveals he is punishing “immoral” young women for their various sins of drinking, sexuality, and so on—although it could also have something to do with his irritation at wearing a ski-mask in balmy Los Angeles. Top suspects include Cameron Mitchell, hamming it up as a lollipop-lovin’, spiritual-singin’ apartment manager, and Wesley (Land of the Lost) Eure, who seems determined to speak all his lines through coolly clenched teeth. Supposedly based on a real-life 1969 incident, according to the highly suspect closing credits.
	*Trouble Every Day* (2001) An intriguing and occasionally messy modern vampire tale that never quite lives up to its potential. Vincent Gallo plays a experimental scientist looking for the cure to a “blood plague” that he keeps at bay with various pharmaceuticals. When he takes his new bride Tricia Vessey to Paris for their honeymoon, it soon becomes clear that his interest in tracking down the leading edge hematologists is a bit more personal than scientific. Gorgeously shot by director/co-writer Clare Denis, there is much to admire here, but those looking for a strong, cohesive narrative or having easy answers provided may be frustrated as the credits roll.
	*20 Million Miles to Earth* (1957) Following an unimpressively realized crash landing in the Mediterranean Sea, a returning probe from Venus brings to earth one of Ray Harryhausen’s most magnificent stop-motion creations: the Ymir. Looking like a dinosaur with gills, beak, and a weightlifter’s torso, the creature arrives in a specimen canister in larval state, but upon exposure to our atmosphere it increases in size at an astonishing rate. While much of the story concerns scientist William Hopper’s attempts to capture the monster while the Italian government seeks to destroy it, the film transcends itself every time Harryhausen works his onscreen magic. The battle between an unfortunate zoo elephant and the Ymir is a highlight, as well as a thrilling climax atop the Colosseum in Rome. Like its cinematic elder King Kong, the audience sympathizes with the beast flailing in a world that it never asked to be a part of, a testament to the personality and character given to it by its creator. Armed with an intelligent screenplay and crisp direction, this is one of the better monster-on-the-loose opuses, to be enjoyed by adults and kids alike.
	*28 Weeks Later* (2007) To be fair, Danny Boyle’s bleak and terrifying 28 Days Later set the bar pretty high, so it’s not all that surprising that this follow up (directed by Intacto’s Juan Carlos Fresnadillo) falls a bit short. Set 7 months after the initial rage-virus devastation, US forces have begun to reintegrate the surviving Britons into a cordoned-off section of London. While the reintroduction of “the infected” is handled well enough, there are far too many “wait a minute” moments of illogic where events simply occur in order that the plot can move forward and mayhem can continue. If you can switch off your brain to simply enjoy the frenetic shaky-cam and well-executed jump scares, then you won’t be disappointed. For me, much of the Boyle pic’s appeal came from its intelligent, organic storyline – the sequel just isn’t as smart, all too often taking the easy way out and apparently hoping the audience won’t notice or care. I did and do. Not saying it’s a bad film, not at all, just one whose flaws are all too easy to point out. That said, 28WL’s pre-credits sequence with Robert Carlyle and Catherine McCormack is one of my new favorite modern scare scenes – easily on par with the opening moments of Zack Snyder’s Dawn of the Dead remake.
	*Twice-Told Tales* (1963) This mildly engaging trio of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s supernatural stories acquires the star of American International’s Poe series (Vincent Price), but director Sidney Salkow displays little of Roger Corman’s enthusiastic storytelling zeal. (The opening image of a rather limp skeleton hand opening a rather limp volume of stories doesn’t inspire much confidence.) In the first story, “Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment,” old coots Price and Sebastian Cabot (via some pretty awful old-age makeup) discover a youth-restoring elixir. When it also revives their long-dead sweetheart Mari Blanchard, romantic rivalries are sparked anew. “Rappuccini’s Daughter,” the best of the bunch, offers the dark fable of an embittered scientist (Price) who infuses daughter Joyce Taylor with the essence of a toxic plant, making her touch lethal to human contact. All this plays havoc with suitor Brett Halsey’s social life, as he learns that his first kiss with the lovely lass could be his last. The final tale, an incredibly truncated version of “The House of the Seven Gables,” follows the scheming Pynchon family searching the ancestral mansion for an hidden inheritance amid family curses, ghostly music, and otherworldly lovers. This dramatically uneven segment features spectral effects both impressive (houses imploding in slow motion) and ridiculous (Price lamely throttled by a disembodied skeleton hand.) As anthology films go, this is by no means a disaster, just not terribly inspired.
	*Twilight People, The* (1973) Call it the Revenge of the Other Romero. The schlock king behind the “Blood Island” trilogy, Eddie Romero, is back with a tale that tosses The Island of Dr. Moreau and The Most Dangerous Game in a blender, then serves it up in a tall plastic glass labeled “Welcome to the Philipines!” John Ashley, who really seemed to enjoy island living, stars as a superstar hunter/scuba diver/all-around he-man who is kidnapped by an eeeevil scientist Charles Macaulay) and his eeeeeviler big game hunter partner (Jan Merlin), whisked away to a private laboratory and introduced to such characters as Antelope Man, Bat Boy, Wolf Woman, etc. And yes, that is the Pam Grier as Panther Woman, just prior to her blaxploitation breakout in Coffy. Like most of Romero’s efforts, this one is sloppy and goofy as hell…and entertaining as all get-out (the Bat Boy climax alone is worth the price of admission). You might wanna hate it, but you just can’t.
	*Twins of Evil (1971)* The third, and many would argue, the best of Hammer’s Karnstein trilogy, the first two of which were The Vampire Lovers and Lust for a Vampire. Well-directed by John Hough, the plot opposes a puritanical witch hunter (Peter Cushing, in one of his darkest roles) and the Satan-worshipping vampire Count Karnstein (Damien Thomas), battling over the fate of two gorgeous twins recently come to reside under Cushing’s roof (Playboy centerfolds Madeline and Mary Collinson). When one of the nubiles takes a liking to Thomas’ darker side, the challenge is for hunky good guy David Warbeck to determine which of them is the goody-good girl and which is just looking for a quick bite. Vampire films often turn on the motif of the sexually active woman versus the virginal love object, and here we have both presented to viewers wearing identical faces – a intriguing and thought-provoking concept. Unless, of course, you’re too occupied watching Cushing burn up every little suspicious chickie he can find or ogling the array of female flesh on display. Either way, Twins comes up a double winner.
	*Two Thousand Maniacs* (1964) Herschell Gordon Lewis’ notoriety as the Godfather of Gore earns him a prominent spot in the horror pantheonand he certainly succeeds here in creating mood and shock value, although modern day audiences expecting a high water mark in the gore department may be disappointed. The story, what little there is of it, centers on two cars detoured into the mythical southern town of Pleasant Valley which emerges (á la Brigadoon) every hundred years, with its inhabitants seeking revenge on “the Yankees.” The unsuspecting newcomers are taken to the hotel, and one by one become the main event in a huge carnival of death. While the acting is less than A-list, Lewis maintains a fever pitch of high-spirited mania throughout, and his images and concepts transcend the poor production values. Much of the disturbingly upbeat mood is supplied by the pickin’ and a-grinnin’ soundtrack and the overwhelming enthusiasm of the bloodthirsty townspeople. In a way, one wishes that there had been a darker tone to the film, that the murders might be given more emotional weight. But it is exactly the unapologetically wacky comedic quality that imbues the film with a darkness all its own. A true original.