THE CURRENT STATE OF AFFAIRS, AND AN AMAZON COMES TO THE RESCUE

Back in the Slope, clearing my mind.

Got back to the Slope around 3:30pm, and upon dropping off my EMT pack, I left my apartment and went for a walk to clear my head. I had come back from my latest time in Westport an emotional and psychological train wreck. Though I made Mildred a belated Thanksgiving feast, I wanted to pick up some turkey wings and stuffing that I could make and have in my fridge, as fake Thanksgiving leftovers that I can enjoy over the coming week back here in the slope. But obtaining those items would come after my walk and its attempt at clearing my head.

 

During my weekend with Mildred, it became clear that her breathing is becoming more and more difficult, with her wheezing sounding like she's swallowed several harmonicas and a set of bagpipes. It makes her miserable, plus she serially breaks out in fits of coughing that sound like she's trying to cough up her very soul, and the bouts of this can go on for hours at a time. I made sure she had water close by, but neither that nor repeated sessions on the nebulizer seem to do any good. According to Roger, this sort of breathing had been a thing but went away after Mildred's most recent hospitalization, but now it's back and I am very concerned. I will be calling Dr. V in the morning and alerting her to this, and I will also badger Mildred to get an appointment with Dr. V, in case something can be done. Seeing her like this is gut-wrenching, but I kept it frosty while at the house, and I did my damnedest to meet her needs. 

 

Mildred's capabilities seem to dwindle by the day, and she even has to have one of her professional helpers assist her with taking showers. I know my mother, and having to rely on someone to serve as the modern answer to a Roman body slave must be galling her to the point where she could bite a railroad spike in half out of sheer frustration and anger.

 

Lately Mildred sleeps a lot, and I do mean A LOT. Between my arrival on Friday afternoon through this morning, I would say she was asleep, either in her favorite chair in the living room or in her bedroom, perhaps 80% of the time. She can conk out in less than five minutes, and when she's just laying there wheezing, she reminds me of a naked and helpless baby squirrel. It's a truly disheartening state to bear witness to, especially when stacked against a lifetime of memories of her as a fierce and utterly indomitable force of rigid nature that I preferred not to be around, simply out of the need to protect my own mental health and self-esteem. What was once a 24/7 engine of vitriolic reproach, judgment, merciless criticism, infantilization, emasculation, condemning damned near everything I said or did is not a mere shell of a life-form, a creature to be tended to as its time runs out, and it's all just soul-crushngly sad. Those who know me best are aware that there were years when I openly opined that I wish she would just die and free me of her relentless harridan behavior, but now I see her as an entity to be pitied, which I'm sure she would hate. She raised me to be a warrior and, with full acknowledgement that the two of us have a "complicated" relationship, she likely would think it a sign of weakness for warrior to take pity on their arch-nemesis. Well, this is real life, not some cheap Conan knockoff, and this warrior just cannot harbor hatred for a weakened opponent. So I just maintained a level attitude while there, and I worked to make her time awake as pleasant as possible.

 

Last night's other-than-nicotinal smoke break with an old friend did me a world of good and soothed my hidden anxieties quite nicely (the two huge slices of blueberry and apple pie that I devoured side by side on one plate also didn't hurt), but once I was on the train home this afternoon, upon taking my seat, I attempted to read a thick volume of Gail Simone-scribed Wonder Woman comics, but I could not concentrate as my mind mulled over what I had witnessed over the past 48 hours. Instead, I publicly broke down and wept. I'm talking a textbook ugly cry, complete with sobbing, and the lady seated across from me offered me tissues and said "I know. I know. Holidays are rough..." I accepted her tissues, cleaned myself up once the emotional sluices finally closed, and then I was able to concentrate on and enjoy my massive chunk of Wonder Woman adventures. 

 

The volume in question.

 

It has been previously noted that it was Mildred who got me into Wonder Woman when I was an under-10, citing that Diana was her favorite hero when she was a child, with those stories being one of her few escapes from the restrictive and abusive household where she endured a miserable childhood and adolescence. The character's resilience spoke to her, and she imparted her love of the amazing Amazon to me. Unlike Mildred, I have been deeply versed in world myths and legends since age seven, especially the Hellenic classics, so Wonder Woman being a 20th Century take on the classical Greek mythic hero made me an easy mark. Since 1972 I have read countless tales of Diana, both good and bad, and I have to say the volume I immersed myself in on the train features some of the best of her stories from a recent era. It was just what I needed at the right moment of an emotional low, especially an arc in which Diana gets her ass savagely, and I do mean SAVAGELY, kicked by a creature named Genocide. She was battered, bloody, broken, and left for dead, but she soldiers past her defeat and shattered confidence, and soon returns to the fray, reminding me that a true warrior can break, but they possess the capacity to once more pick of a sword, axe, spear, what have you and continue to fight on. 

 

That four-color example was just the inspiration that I needed, and I will soon enough return to the battlefield of my mother's dwindling time on earth, frosty attitude and resolve freshly energized. Christmas is just over three weeks away and I expect more of the same, with the likelihood that Mildred's health will have declined even further, but so be it. All things must end and Mildred would have made for a miserable immortal, so it is what it is. I'm just going to strive to be the best that I can be for her and for those who have been helping her in so many ways. Quite a bit of character growth from how I felt toward her thirty years ago, but we all have to grow up at some point, I guess. Whether we read and enjoy superhero comic books or not.

 

GLADIATOR II

 

 Director Ridley Scott returns to the sands of the arena.

 

GLADIATOR II (2024) is a decent sequel, filled with all of the elements fans of the ancient world epic genre want, but with one glaring problem: its protagonist is by far the least interesting character in it. The narrative would have been much better served if it focused solely on Pedro Pascal's war-weary Roman general who only wishes to retire and spend time with his wife, but it's made clear by the twin emperors that he is their bitch and must therefore never cease conquering in the name of the empire. Also fun is Denzel Washington as an owner or gladiators who seeks to use the film's hero, the son of the original's Maximus, as his stepping stone to usurping the throne. 

 

But, whatever. 

 

There is enough pageantry, lavish costumes, well-choreographed and realistic fight scenes, cartoonish CGI animals,graphic violence, and flamboyant camp that the genre has provided since the days when Rome's Cineccita studios was cranking out badly-dubbed peplum imports by the dozen seemingly every other week to keep fans of the genre entertained. And extra points for the inclusion of Derek Jacobi, a favorite and an immortal in my eyes for his unforgettable performance in the classic I, CLAUDIUS (1976). 

 

Worth seeing, but better if seen at at cheap matinee or via streaming on a huge flatscreen at home.

 

Poster for the theatrical release.

THE CURRENT STATE OF AFFAIRS

 Musing during a rare day when I am neither stuck in treatment nor hospitalized.

Mildred, aka she who bore me, will be getting a chair flit installed this coming Wednesday, an item that will lift her from the ground floor, which is where most of her in-home activity now occurs, to the second floor, where her bedroom and bathroom with the gods' own favorite shower are. Tragically, that renders the world inside her pristine dollhouse fortress that much smaller, as it eliminates the downstairs level where the laundry room, the huge flatscreen, and the screened-in back porch are. Those of you who grew up with me are quite familiar with the back porch, as it was were we spent many nights getting baked while mom slept upstairs none the wiser, and the family room was our private clubhouse/screening room where many cult items were shown and fond memories made. The downstairs area used to be where Mildred would spread out on her favorite couch and lounge for hours while watching TV, but in recent months her preferred perch is the super-soft chair in the living room that looks out onto the driveway. Seeing her ensconced in its comfy confines while gazing into the outside existence beyond her human-sized terrarium brings to mind a cat or dog that sits in front of their house's biggest window, dreaming of running free outside once again, of perhaps of a freedom that they are but an open door away from experiencing for the first time.

 

It was not that long ago that Mildred was still a world traveler, going on yearly cruises and jaunts to various spots of interest in Europe, and it was then that she was the happiest I have ever seen her. Witnessing her decline to her present state of frail, cancer-ridden dotage at just two months short of age 92, and observing her unavoidable incarceration, just reaches into my chest and squeezes. Some of you knew her when you and I grew up together, so you may remember her for her iron-willed aspect, but also for occasional bursts of kindness and favor that she showed to a select few of you — contrary to how some perceived her, she absolutely did NOT like the majority of you, and that was for no reason other than the fact that your presence showed that her unrealistically and unhealthily idolized and obsessed over "perfect little boy" was growing up, and you lot were cruelly stealing my attention from her — but today you would scarcely recognize the borderline helpless shadow that shuffles round her house that is now her cage.

 

My own situation prevents me from being a presence 24/7, which I know would make her waning days among us happier (while driving me mad, if I may be honest), and it kills me to have to rely on the help of the support team local heroes who give of themselves all day, every day, while my ass is either stuck in dialysis, or recovering from its unpleasant side-effects. I certainly cannot step up to the plate, it's a simple and unavoidable fact of life, and it's an Herculean amount of work that is being put in by her helpers, a debt that she and I can never repay. When. she finally ascends to Valhalla — she is a lifelong Christian, but I will eat my own butt cheeks on live television with a few jots of Indi-Pep West Indian sauce if her lifetime of rigid bitchery and warrior spirit don't qualify her for Valkyrie status — and it falls to me to deal with her house and estate, I am hoping that there's some kind of scratch left over after the bank claims everything due to her having taken out a reverse mortgage that she frequently dipped into for expenses and necessary home repairs. If there's anything substantial left, I will give it to those who eased her suffering and loneliness during this coda to her time on Earth. They have more than earned it.

 

This week I have the usual dialysis, plus a followup with my cardiologist and and endoscopy, so it's going to be a full week in the ongoing rotation, and I won't be able to return to see my mother until the Friday of the following week, which is the day after Thanksgiving. Since my regular treatments are inescapable, with attempts to book service at a center near Mildred ending up a bust, for the past few years we have adjusted the once-inflexible times of my presence during the holidays to work with my schedule, and we have both gotten used to accepting that the situation is what it is. The only thing that really sucks about this arrangement is that I can only be there for two nights and two days before I have to return to Brooklyn's Borough Park to resume my never-ending dialysis. 

 

Being at home for extended periods has proven quite contentious over the decades, but my mother is my only remaining blood relative with whom I have contact and interaction, so every year I would butch up, hold my tongue (mostly), and if shit got too thick I could escape to the safe house of the lovely and understanding parents of a dear old friend, both of whom got to know Mildred via church and attempts at social interactions, thus them coming to fully grok my issues with her over the years. But that safe haven is gone, as those two beacons of emotional/psychological safety left Westport for warmer climes, so I now have to rely on too-brief interactions with my few old friends who remain in and around the town where we all came of age. But it's okay. They all have spouses and families to deal with, so whatever time they manage to spare for me is more precious than the rarest of gemstones.

 

So now I steel myself for the holiday season of 2024, which may or may not be Mildred's last. Though she will want to do it, her cooking the traditional lavish southern Thanksgiving feast is out of the question, and in my debilitated medical state, I don't currently possess the stamina to wrangle the logistics and physical work of an 8-hour marathon of holiday cooking. Last year we did a simple Oven Stuffer roaster chicken with sausage stuffing and minor sides, and that was good enough. At Christmas, we had prime rib or something, I honestly don't recall, and a nice meal at the town's most venerable Chinese restaurant (whose fare was good when I was growing up, but my palate has been educated and utterly spoiled by real NYC Chinatown Chinese cuisine and regular doses of quality dim sum), and as for our Christmas celebration, the presents were minimal, an acknowledgement of neither of us wanting or needing anything, and also because it was an unspoken reminder of Mildred's inevitable and imminent passing. While we managed not to fight, I would be lying if I said that it wasn't one of the most depressing experiences of my then 58 years, and I am readying myself for a repeat performance in this 59th annum. 

 

Sorry to ramble, but sometimes when I start to write about what I am thinking and feeling, the floodgates simply open and the torrent flows. Thank you for being here and bearing with my blather. Believe me, it helps. And with that said, time for a couple of bonghits of Sativa from the now-blessed Boom Tube, then some STAR TREK reruns as mental comfort food. Maybe some DEEP SPACE NINE. It's been a good while.

 

ELECTION DAY 2024: DOING MY PART TO DEPOSE "HAIR FUHRER"

It's ELECTION DAY!!! (soundtrack: "American Ruse" by the MC5)

Insomnia once again kept me awake, but at least it was constructive, because I hauled myself out of bed to stand on line outside of the local elementary school that serves as a polling station, and I was the eleventh person in the queue before the doors open. It was the first time I went to vote before the sun had come up, so I felt like some sort of socially-conscious vampire.

When I got inside PS 282, I presented my voter registration information (plus I had my raised seal birth certificate, a recent bill, and my passport, just in case; nothing was going to stop me from voting in this specific election) and was met with confusion. My voter registration card was of the old school paper variety, and the workers could not figure out where my district was, as none of the numbers on the card corresponded with any of the signage for districts. I was bounced to three different sign-in tables before an old Jamaican lady, a veteran poll worker, saw my situation and took the reins. At the three previous tables, they checked and double-checked my registration, each time telling me I was in the wrong location, only for me to tell them I made sure online that I was in the right location, as referenced against my zip code, and each time the final check showed I was in. the right place. I have no idea why there was confusion, as my registration card is valid, but whatever. It finally got sorted. However, before I could receive my ballot and get down to business of saving the nation, I had to wait for fifteen minutes because the guy who had been in front of my had been properly entered into the system by the volunteer, so two poll workers had to be sent out to find the guy. It took them fifteen minutes to find him (they assumed he went out to his car, but he was actually at the privacy booth, taking his sweet damned time), during which time I, still weak from the previous day's dialysis, requested a chair for while I waited. I had my hiking pole with me, but hunching over it while standing for an extended time is not comfortable. The guy, a 20-something Asian immigrant who was voting for the first time, was eventually located, and things proceeded. To prevent further such delays, I will request the modern scannable key fob.

Due to my registration being old, I was handed an affidavit ballot and explicitly told to circle my choices with the provided pen, which I did, but when I went to scan the ballots, the screen stated "Unreadable Document." Two poll workers came over to assist me, and it was determined that I had to darken my circles, which I did, but it once again would not scan. I was sent back to the table where I got my original ballot and was handed a new one, but the original had to be voided before I could proceed. That took another five minutes, as all of my info had to be entered and checked again, and the screen was slow. Upon receiving my replacement ballot, I filled it out again, and again it would not register. Thoroughly annoyed, I was instructed to further darken my circles, which I did, leaning into the pen so hard that I thought I was carving a groove into the privacy partition's writing surface. Whatever the case, that time my circles were dark enough and my choices were scanned. I was given several "I Voted" stickers and, my civic duty done again, I made my way back home. the rest of the day will be about recovery and utter laziness, but I rest secure knowing that I did my meager part to excise the orange cancer that has caused this nation to metastasize. 

Oh, and on the way out, I saw that the school had set up a bake sale. I perused the available goodies and settled on the brown butter Rice Krispie Treats, cleaning out the entire lot. I enjoyed two, but the rest I bagged and will bring home to mom. 

 

A responsible metal-American.

 

 

School bake sale Rice Krispie Treats: better than heroin.

31 DAYS OF HORROR 2024 - Day 31: LATE NIGHT WITH THE DEVIL (2024)

 

When a Sweeps Week stunt goes horribly wrong.

As the 1960's gave way to the turbulent 1970's, television more than ever brought the horrors of the world directly into our living rooms, and that dire deluge was pointedly offset by fare such as late-night talk shows, with THE TONIGHT SHOW with Johnny Carson becoming a broadcast monolith. In1971, the UBC network launches NIGHT OWLS, hosted by former radio personality Jack Delroy (David Dastmalchian), who seeks to challenge Carson's late-night supremacy. Welcomed to the network with a five-year contract, Jack builds an audience, but he and his show remain in the shadow of his rival.

Jack is happily married to stage actress Madeleine Piper (Georgina Haig), his deeply-loved muse,  and their marriage is hailed as one of the most solid in the entertainment biz, but his other support is the Grove, a men-only club sequestered deep in the redwoods of California. Established in the 1800's and comprised of politicians, entertainers, and captains of industry, the Grove presents itself to the outside world as a harmless diversion for the rich and powerful, complete with rituals and accompanying owl-based garb, but it somehow has the power to make or break careers. 

A ritual at the Grove. 

By the end of Jack's fourth year with the network, the ratings still can't touch Carson's and though repeatedly nominated for prestigious awards, Jack remains an also-ran. Then, in 1976, Madeleine is diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. When Madeleine dies, a distraught Jack vanishes to parts unknown for a month, but Jack soon returns and, in a bid to bolster ever-flagging ratings, books controversial and exploitative guests. As ratings steadily plummet, a desperate Jack plans a live Sweeps Week Halloween installment that will hopefully turn things around. With the cultural impact of THE EXORCIST (1973) and the perception that the world had entered a satanic era very much in the zeitgeist, the night's featured guests include a spiritualist (Fayssal Bazzi) who claims to hear the voices of the dead, a former magician (Ian Bliss) who debunks metaphysical frauds, and a parapsychologist (Laura Gordon) whose star patient and subject of a best-selling case study, an eerie 13-year-old girl (Ingrid Torelli), is the sole survivor of a satanic cult's mass suicide and who purportedly is host to the demon Abraxas. What results is a live event that shocked the nation and that is presented to us as the found master tape of that episode, plus behind the scenes footage, and none of it goes well for any and all involved.

Regan McNeal redux.

I wanted to close this year's round of 31 DAYS OF HORROR with something truly good and of recent vintage, and LATE NIGHT WITH THE DEVIL more than meets that criteria. In fact, I'll go out on a limb and preemptively hail it as a modern classic, one of the finest horror offerings of the 21st Century thus far.

The film perfectly captures the smarmy and trite banality of the 1970's late-night talk show genre, a look and feel that will be instantly recognizable to those of us who experienced the decades-long reign of THE TONIGHT SHOW, and the entire cast perform their roles with utterly believable verisimilitude while the narrative examines the price of fame and power. Jack Delroy is a study in ruthless show biz narcissism and lust for power, no matter who is exploited or hurt, and when the proceedings veer deep into the dark side, things become quite unnerving and downright Lovecraftian. To say more would ruin the fun, so I'll just sign off by giving LATE NIGHT WITH THE DEVIL very high marks indeed. It's a must-see for all horror devotees, especially those who feel that the whole "devil junk" teat was milked dry after fifty years of attempts at topping THE EXORCIST. Proof positive that quality, intelligent, genuinely creepy and scary horror still exists.

And that concludes another round of 31 DAYS OF HORROR, my own humble annual veneration of the frisson that the cinema of the macabre bestows upon our hearts and minds. Thank you for reading my blather, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed reliving these flicks. See you back here next year for more!

Poster for the theatrical release.

31 DAYS OF HORROR 2024 - Day 30: SLEEPAWAY CAMP (1983)

  Fun in the sun...NOT.

1975: Young siblings Angela and Peter go on a boating trip with their father and his male lover. When the boat capsizes, the father and kids end up in the path of careless teens in a motorboat and are struck. The father and one of the children are killed.

1983: The surviving kid, Angela (Felissa Rose), has grown into a traumatized and withdrawn teen who lives with her weirdo psychiatrist aunt and her cousin Ricky, who's for all intents and purposes Angela's surrogate brother. Angela and Ricky are sent to Camp Arawak for the summer, where Angela's shy and quiet nature instantly finds her marked for abuse by bullies and the camp's pedophile cook. Ricky does his best to protect her, but he can't be everywhere. The usual summer camp movie tropes and hijinx ensue, but then "accidents" begin to occur, and then a series of killings that escalate in levels of nastiness. As the bodies pile up and the mystery deepens, the question is who is the killer? The answer is revealed in a disturbing flashback that leads to a now legendary shock ending.

 

Just one of the many fun summer activities at Camp Arawak.

Of the many '80's slasher movies set at a summer camp, SLEEPAWAY CAMP is perhaps the most unusual. We get a decent number of kills, including vaginal penetration with a hot electric curling iron and death by active beehive, and the script treats the audience like it's not composed solely of drooling idiots. We automatically identify with the traumatized and abused Angela, so it's cathartic seeing her tormentors meet horrible fates.  

                   A slasher movie first: death by vaginal penetration with a hot electric curling iron.

I was late to the party on this one, not seeing it until the early 2000's, when I should have seen it at the legendary Norwalk Theater during, but at the time I was in the midst of my first semester of college, so I seldom went to the movies and spent more time doing my damnedest to pursue college girls. I regret missing it in the theater, but when I finally got around to it, I was surprised by how good it was. Yes, the bar for quality was quite low when it came to films from the '80's deluge of stalk 'n' kill flicks, so this one being as good as it is was a welcome surprise, and I think it may have gotten lost in the shuffle if I saw it during the sub-genre's heyday.

You'll not I do not go into much detail regarding the plot, and there's a reason for that. SLEEPAWAY CAMP is best approached with little or no knowledge of its particulars, and the information that I outlined is just the bare basics, so nothing was ruined. If you have not already seen it, avoid other reviews, as most of them give away everything, and some of the recent posters for the film spoil the ending, presumably because, much like PSYCHO (1960), its final twist is now famous, even to those who have not seen the film. It's not a masterpiece, but it is a solid little summertime shocker, and it deserves to be seen without much foreknowledge. Definitely one of the Top 10 slashers of its era.

Poster for the theatrical release.

31 DAYS OF HORROR 2024 - Day 29: EVENT HORIZON (1997)

Space is infinite... and so are its terrors.

2047: A rescue mission is sent to the orbit of Neptune, where seven years earlier the spaceship Event Horizon activated an experimental gravity drive and disappeared without a trace, but it has now suddenly returned. The designer of the gravity drive (Sam Neill) accompanies the rescue team and informs them that the gravity drive creates a black hole within its ship, which folds time and space, thus bypassing lengthy space voyages where the crew would remain in stasis until the destination is reached. Upon entering the Event Horizon, the rescuers find what remains of the crew to be dead, killed in horrific ways, with no explanation immediately apparent. The ship's log tape is reviewed, and its imagery cuts out just as the Event Horizon's captain initiates the gravity drive. The rescuers and the designer explore the ship, and what they find amounts to, well... Basically, the Event Horizon fucked off to another dimension, a place that's basically our concept of Hell, and the gravity drive has gained a malevolent sentience. It does not go well for the rescuers.

EVENT HORIZON wears its ALIEN influence on its sleeve, and features a game cast, great sets, and is gerally well-crafted all around. That said, It's definitely not for me. One of my least favorite flavors in horror is the haunted house. There are exceptions, but for the most part haunted house stories just don;t do it for me, and EVENT HORIZON is nothing if not a haunted house story set in deep space. It's good, but I kept check my watch to see how much longer I had to go until the end. Your mileage, however, is likely to vary. I know many who love it, and that's fine, but when it comes to haunted house chills, I'll take POLTERGEIST over this in a heartbeat. Anyway, it's a free country (for now), so you decide.

Poster for the theatrical release.

31 DAYS OF HORROR 2024 -Day 28: THE NIGHT STRANGLER (1973)

Relentless investigative reporter Carl Kolchak (Darren McGavin) returns. 

Seattle, Washington — 

Having been run out of Las Vegas in the wake of the previous year's Janos Skorzeny vampire murder spree, investigative journalist Carl Kolchak (Darren McGavin) relocates to Seattle, Washington in search of work. He is once again hired by former boss Tony Vincenzo (Simon Oakland), who is also now in Seattle, just as young women being turning up murdered. All were strangled, or, more precisely, their necks were crushed by an assailant possessing superhuman strength, and the corpses each feature a small hole at the base of the skull, from which their blood was stolen via a hypodermic needle. 

 

An invulnerable superhuman strangler hunts the nighttime streets.

Kolchak's investigation uncovers a cycle of such slayings every 21 years, beginning in 1868, with the killer operating within a window of eighteen days, after which he disappears for another 21 years, after which the cycle resumes, over and over. Witnesses to the slayings describe the murderer as having a skull-like visage or resembling a rotting corpse, and during a very much one-sided run-in with cops witnessed by Kolchak, the killer is impervious to bullets. Aided by a graduate student (Jo Ann Pflug) who's working her way through college as a belly dancer, Kolchak discovers that the killer is a 19th Century physician named Dr. Richard Malcolm (Richard Anderson), a surgeon in the Union army during the American Civil War, who has mastered alchemy and discovered the Elixir of Life, which grants him immortality.  

But the elixir requires blood from female victims, six to be exact, to remain effective, lest its user begin rapidly aging, and Malcolm is nothing if not savagely relentless in the pursuit of the required component. The trail leads to a final confrontation in the ruins of an underground city, the famous Underground, beneath the living sidewalks of Seattle, where Malcolm proves to be coolly urbane, but clearly and quite homicidally mad, and Kolchak is trapped in his eerie lair, a morbid sanctum that presages the dining room from the climax of THE TEXAS CHAIN SAW MASSACRE the following year.

The eternal Dr. Richard Malcolm (Richard Anderson). So what if innocent women have to die horribly to sustain his immortality?

With 1972's THE NIGHT STALKER proving an unexpected ratings smash, a sequel was quickly rushed into production, and THE NIGHT STRANGLER is the end result. It's pretty much a remake of its predecessor, albeit with a shift in location and murderous creature, and as such it's merely okay. Its saving grace is Darren McGavin returning as Kolchak, and he remains as endearing as ever while his efforts are forever scoffed at, frustrated, and suppressed by his boss and hostile authorities. But we have seen this basic setup before, and previously done far better, so despite being-well-made and sporting a script by  returning horror master Richard Matheson, the proceedings are rather dull, though it does come to life during the final act, when the killer relates his history to Kolchak, who has invaded his lair. 

When immortality comes to a sudden halt and time catches up.

My re-watch of this was the first time I've seen this film since sitting through it during a family trip to Atlanta 51 years ago, and I clearly recall finding it entertaining because it distracted me from my parents' endless fighting during the vacation, as it was close to the last legs of their marriage. I liked the character of Kolchak, if not much else about the film, so I was on board when the character was granted his own weekly series, KOLCHAK: THE NIGHT STALKER, which lasted for one season (1975-1975). That show was a monster kid's dream, bringing a different monster to the screen with every installment, and I, along with most of the American monster kids of my generation, never missed an episode. I did not see the original THE NIGHT STALKER until I was in high school, and I understood why it was popular enough to warrant a sequel and subsequent series. 

This one's only for Kolchak completists, of which I unabashedly am one, but even I found this to mostly be a slog. I nearly fell asleep on it twice, and I was watching it during an afternoon. That said, you can skip this and miss nothing. I cite it solely for historical purposes, and also to advise you to skip straight to the weekly TV series instead.

 TV GUIDE ad for the film's broadcast premiere.

31 DAYS OF HORROR 2024 - Day 27: THEATRE OF BLOOD (1973)

Brush up your Shakespeare.

Master thespian Edward Lionheart (Vincent Price) has trod the boards of the British stage with his performances of the works of Shakespeare for decades, crafting an impressive legacy, but when it is time for his career to be recognized with a prestigious award, his deserved accolade is instead bestowed upon some newcomer nobody by a panel of nine theater critics who have viciously used their reviews to tear down and ridicule the actor for years. 

Master thespian Edward Lionheart (Vincent Price).

Secure in their own haughty self-presumed superiority, the critics think nothing of how their snubs humiliate and destroy the men and women who work so hard to hone their craft, all in the name of promoting the arts, honoring the classics, and entertaining an audience, and their treatment of Lioneart drives him to throw himself to his death from penthouse room where the critics panel goes to celebrate after the awards ceremony. But Lionheart survives, fished out of the river by a gang of alcoholic derelicts, and takes up residence in an opulent abandoned theater. From there he plots revenge upon his critics with grisly reenactments of murders from the works of the Bard, plays for which he was renowned. Aided by his loyal daughter, Edwina (Diana Rigg), Lionheart works his way down the roster of those who humiliated him, while also staying one step ahead of the police. Aided by key theatrical detractor Peregrine Devlin (Ian Hendry), the authorities rely on Devlin's familiarity with Shakespeare and Lionheart's repertoire to predict which famous murder will next be enacted in real life. Unlike the other critics, Devlin holds genuine respect for Lionheart's talents, but he used his critical platform to attempt to goad the actor into stepping into genres other than Shakespeare, as he felt that sticking strictly within the Shakespearean was holding Lionheart back. Nonetheless, hell hath no fury like a thespian scorned, and Lionheart is one vengeful and creative homicidal maniac.

Shylock, from THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, prepares to extract his pound of flesh.

Ah, the utter delight that is 1973's THEATRE OF BLOOD, perhaps the ultimate showcase for the singular excellence that was Vincent Price. One of the grandmasters of cinematic horror, Price has long been one of my favorite actors, for his ability to portray the sinister and the kindly with equal aplomb, but it was as a villain where he was sublime. Some considered his approach to be overwrought, rather fey, and even downright hammy, but I delight in seeing him chew the scenery like nobody's business, and this film provides him with a banquet for his scenery-chewing appetites.

The immolation of Joan of Arc in HENRY VI Part 1, given a 20th Century spin.

Reportedly Price's favorite of his films, THEATRE OF BLOOD allowed Price to go hog wild and play several of the classic Shakespearen roles that he was denied during his career, perhaps due to him being forever pigeonholed as merely a horror actor. In 104 minutes, Price unleashes superb interpretations of characters and murderous scenarios from JULIUS CAESAR, TROILUS AND CRESSIDA, CYMBELINE, THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, RICHARD III, ROMEO AND JULIET, OTHELLO, HENRY VI Part 1, TITUS ANDRONICUS, and KING LEAR, and it's a joy to see him flex his legit stage acting chops. He's simply fantastic, simultaneously classy, chilling, and dryly hilarious as Lionheart, and though the character is insane and homicidal, I could not help but root for him to achieve his goals against his critics, whom are a pack of arrogant and pretentious assholes.  

 

Lionheart, in disguise as flamboyant hairdresser "Butch."

As per the works of Willy S., we are treated to a multiple stabbing, a spear impalement, 

 

decapitation, 

 

a pound of flesh extracted (a heart removed steaming from the victim's chest), 

 

drowning an a wine barrel, a sword fight, the orchestrated strangling of a wife by her jealous husband, electrocution to replicate the immolation of Joan of Arc,  force-feeding, 

 

and more. Played totally straight, it's all the blackest of black comedy and it is glorious, especially if you happen to be a Shakespeare nerd.

The entire cast is game, and the ever-classy Diana Rigg tackles the role of Lionheart's equally-Shakespearean daughter with gusto, spending much of the movie unrecognizable in drag in order to throw the authorities off of suspecting her as being her father's accomplice as the body count escalates.

 Diana Rigg.

 

As is no doubt readily apparent, I love THEATRE OF BLOOD and I cannot recommend it highly enough. Price was clearly having the time of his life, and his sense of fun is downright infectious. A must-watch.

Poster for the theatrical release.

31 DAYS OF HORROR - Day 26: THE WOLFMAN (2010) Unrated Director's Cut

When more is less.

When the lush remake of  Universal's classic 1941 werewolf tragedy came out, I of course flew to the cinema to see it on opening night, me being that hardcore werewolf fan that so unabashedly I am. I reviewed the film immediately after seeing it, expressing my disappointment with it as a stolid MASTERPIECE THEATER treatment of what should by all rights be an exciting and visceral shocker. Its werewolf scenes featuring makeup effects by the legendary Rick Baker, he of hard-earned AN AMERICAN WEREWOLF IN LONDON renown, are savage, brutal, and bloody, and the CGI-assisted transformation in a London asylum for the insane is outstanding, so it's worth sitting through for the carnivorous lunar mayhem. That said, seeing THE WOLFMAN once in its entirety was enough for me, though I have watched all of the werewolf sequences on YouTube several times over the years. And now it's fourteen years later and the film has been issued in an unrated director's cut that restores seventeen minutes left on the cutting room floor, those minutes reportedly shorn in order to get the narrative to the transformation sequence faster. Considering how the film was already a dull slog, another seventeen minutes wouldn't have hurt the theatrical release, as it flopped anyway, but what the hell do I know? Anyway, upon becoming aware that a director's cut was available, for the sake of being able to comment on it, I resigned myself to see it.

I really should not have bothered.

The restored footage adds assorted bits of character business that mostly doesn't add anything of note to the story, and in the version found on Amazon Prime Video, an excellent deleted scene that's available on YouTube is not included. During the Wolfman's rampage after escaping from the mental asylum during a full moon, his bloody path leads him to a posh fancy dress ball where a blind opera diva performs for an enthralled masked crowd. 

 

The werewolf walks in from the back of the ballroom, so no eyes are on him until he makes his way through the crowd toward the singing woman. Onlookers remark on how excellent his "costume" is and how he's sure to win first prize, but things swiftly turn savage when an attendee attempts to lead him away from the sightless diva, whose voice seems to fascinate and calm him, and werewolf registers confusion at her not reacting to his appearance even though he's right in her face. 

 

Of course, she cannot see him, hence, the attendee grabbing the monster's arm to haul him away. You can guess how that works out... It's a great bit, and I have no idea why it was left on the cutting room floor. If you're making a lavish werewolf movie and can afford the makeup effects wizardry of Rick Baker, why would you cut a scene where the werewolf gets up to more butchery and mayhem? Anyway, you can find that sequence on YouTube. It may also be on the multi-disc Blu Ray edition, but I have no info on that. 

Bottom line, if you've already seen the theatrical version, you can skip this director's cut. Just make sure to check out the scene with the diva on YouTube.

Packaging for the director's cut.

31 DAYS OF HORROR - Day 25: ANTLERS (2021)

 

Flesh-eating indigenous horror approaches.

Oregon: A teacher suspects one of her young students is being abused, and her suspicions escalate when her younger brother goes missing. She investigates, and her findings bring her into direct confrontation with the ancient indigenous horror of the Wendigo, a cannibalistic spirit that has possessed the boy's father and has left a trail of half-devoured human bodies in its wake.

ANTLERS is a well crafted piece, but it the slowest of slow burns, and I had to repeatedly scan back to where I left off because I kept falling asleep on it. That said, the film has more mood than actual visceral scares, and the gore is relative restrained. The realization of the Wendigo is impressive, but it takes about an hour for it to show up and let us see it for its impaling and devouring thing. 

Bottom line is that out of this year's films that I watched for the first time, this one ranks at the bottom of the list, despite not being what I would consider "bad." It was just too tepid and plodding for my tastes, though it gets points from me for breaking out a Native American monster. Your mileage may vary.

Poster for the theatrical release.

31 DAYS OF HORROR 2024 - Day 24: THE FRIGHTENERS (1996)

Psychic investigator Frank Bannister (Michael J. Fox). Some call him a charlatan, but his connection to the spirit realm is all too real.

Fairwater, California — After suffering trauma from the drunk driving accident that killed his wife, and accident that he caused, architect Frank Bannister (Michael J. Fox) finds that he has gained to the ability to communicate with ghosts and perceive the realm of the un-restful dead. Despondent over the loss of his wife, Frank moves into their unfinished dream home, and we catch up with him five years later, when he earns a living as a psychic investigator. Working with friendly ghosts in his employ, Frank leaves his business card at funerals in hope of drumming up work, and his spectral employees enact hauntings that Frank is then called in to exorcise. 

When our story begins, Fairwater has been experiencing a rash of mysterious, apparently reasonless and unconnected deaths, in which the deceased are all revealed to have had their hearts crushed from the inside. Frank soon becomes involved when he starts seeing glowing numbers on the foreheads of impending victims, and with each sighting the number escalates. Frank witnesses the entity responsible for the deaths, a figure that looks exactly like classical depictions of the Grim Reaper, but as his investigation presses forward and the murders continue, Frank is dragged into a widening gyre of apparent familial abuse, the impact of an executed serial thrill-killer's rampage from thirty years prior, encounters with assorted spectres, a near-death out-of-body experience, and insane FBI agent (Jeffrey Combs) who's sent to investigate the mysterious deaths and ends up blaming Frank, all of which is punctuated with the question of how does one stop the literal spectre of death itself? Aided by a recently widowed doctor (Trini Alvarado), Frank is about to find out, but at what personal cost?

The Grim Reaper prepares to strike.

The sixth film by New Zealand director Peter Jackson, and his last before he made cinema history with his beloved and mega-successful adaptation of THE LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy, THE FRIGHTENERS displays the director's familiar flair for crazy comedy blended with the grotesque, as seen in BAD TASTE (1987), the infamous MEET THE FEEBLES (1989), and the impossibly gory BRAINDEAD (1992, aka DEADALIVE), and the result is one of the few horror comedies that's as scary as it is funny. When the scares and violence come, they are as serious as a heart attack, and the imagery of the Grim Reaper and assorted hauntings would have scared the living shit out of me if I'd seen it as a child. 

The story is solid, the direction brisk, and the performances are all top notch. Michael J. Fox is fantastic as Frank, which only makes his real life career-derailing affliction that much more tragic. And Trini Alvarado as Dr. Lucy Lynsky is always a welcome presence, as she is an actor who has never really received the attention or accolades that she so richly deserves. I've been a fan since TIMES SQUARE (1980), and Dr. Lynsky just may be my favorite of her roles. And what more can be said about the exquisite Jeffrey Combs, who never brings less than his A-game, and who here effects one of his most memorable turns as twitchy and clearly insane government operative Milton Dammers.

 My man Jeffrey Combs strikes again.

The supernatural elements are a lot of fun, with Chi McBride as Cyrus, a brutha who died in the 1970's, the Judge (John Astin), a wild west gunslinger whose jawbone dislocates when he speaks, and R. Lee Ermey as pretty much his legendary Master Sergeant character from FULL METAL JACKET (1987) being the standout ghosts.

It's a living. Or not.

There's other stuff going on that's quite compelling, but that's best left for you to discover for yourself when you seen this oft overlooked little gem. Absolutely worth your time. And though rated R, I say it's actually suitable for those age ten and up.

Poster for the theatrical release. (I would have used the better-known design, the white one with the eerie skull manifesting through a wall, but every image I found of is was blurry.)

31 DAYS OF HORROR 2024 - Day 23: CURSE OF THE UNDEAD (1959)

Drake Robey (Michael Pate), a gunslinger with a difference.

CURSE OF THE UNDEAD (1959) is a cheapie western with an unusual twist: the story's hired gunfighter is a vampire who preys on the locals. 

A product of the mid-20th Century era when entertainment was for some reason absolutely dominated by westerns, the film was clearly an atempt to add something, anything, different to a genre that was getting quite stale and that would not truly cease glutting the market for another full decade or so. The narrative violates many of the common rules of cinematic vampires, but it's a decent yarn that plays like a weird episode of any garden variety 1950's oater. It's eerie enough to hold the interest of fledgling monster kids, and it's certainly a hell of a lot better than the abysmal and unintentionally hilarious BILLY THE KID VERSUS DRACULA (1966). Definitely worth a watch for vampire completists, but don't expect any real scares.

Poster for the theatrical release.

31 DAYS OF HORROR 2024 - Day 22: CIRCUS OF HORRORS (1960)

 

The gravest show on Earth.  

I watched CIRCUS OF HORRORS (1960) in two installments, thanks to me falling asleep while watching it last night. It was in no way boring, I was just very sleepy, so I finished it a few minutes ago.

The story begins in 1947 and revolves around Dr. Rossiter (Anton Diffring), a renegade plastic surgeon in England who works miracles with a scalpel, but some of his early and illegal experiments leave some of his patients permanently disfigured and driven mad by their irreversible facial deformity. 

 

One of Dr. Rossiter's plastic surgery disasters.
 

Rossiter flees the authorities, running over and killing one while driving through a barricaded road, totaling his car in the process, but he makes his way to the home of his surgical assistants, a brother and sister team, and has them surgically alter his face. The trio then escape into France where Rossiter, now operating under the name Schuler, comes into possession of a failing circus when the previous owner (Donald Pleasance), in an act of financial desperation, signs over the rights to the circus to the surgeon, after which the former owner is mauled to death by a bear while drunk. Rossiter witnessed the incident and could have helped the previous owner, but he lets him die in order to have no possible resistance to his claim on the circus. He also takes over raising the dead owner's young daughter, whom he performed surgery on to fix the facial scars she suffered during the bombings of World War II.

Dr. Rossiter/Schuler and accomplices.

The story then skips ahead by a decade and finds the circus making money hand over fist under Schuler’s management. He staffs the circus with women he found on the street, prostitutes and criminals, all of whom had facial disfigurements that he fixes for free, and they then join his circus in various performance capacities, some of which are highly dangerous. The big top travels all over Europe and gains a reputation as “the jinx circus,” thanks to its female stars occasionally meeting grisly fates during their acts, so the potential of witnessing live death puts asses in seats and the public eats it all up. During all of this, Schumer has affairs with several of his performers, all of whom he beautified with his surgical wizardry, but when they express a desire to leave the circus or if they step out of line in any way, with the help of his male surgical partner he orchestrates their deaths during performances, always ensuring it looks like an accident. But the circus’s gruesome reputation catches the attention of a reporter who begins investigating the circus, a journalist who happened to have covered the Rossiter case ten years earlier and would love to see that case closed. His investigation leads him to deduce that Schuler is the vanished Rossiter, and as he gets closer to solving the case, the bodies pile up and Rossiter becomes more unhinged…

Released a year after the not dissimilar HORRORS OF THE BLACK MUSEUM and the same year as the epochal PEEPING TOM and PSYCHO, CIRCUS OF HORRORS merrily doles out its sleazy thrills in a manner that was no doubt quite shocking to the British audience of its era. Hammer horror, with its “Kensington gore”and emphasis on femine pulchritude, was still a relatively new flavor, and its success guaranteed that other studios would imitate its lurid content. CIRCUS OF HORRORS look and feels like a grubby pulp novel brought to vivid life, and it’s a lot of fun. The kills are all telegraphed a mile away, but it’s a matter of building suspense until the inevitable happens, and getting there was quite nail-biting for its era.

The performances are all solid, and Anton Diffring is terrific as Rossiter/Schuler. And if you pay attention, you’ll notice that the cast features a number of soon-to-be-familar faces, including Donald Pleasance, Yvonne Monlaur (the heroine in Hammer’s BRIDES OF DRACULA), an uncredited pre-R2-D2 Kenny Baker as a circus dwarf, Yvonne Romain (best known as the mute servant girl who is raped by a feral dungeon prisoner and subsequently gives birth to a werewolf in CURSE OF THE WEREWOLF), and an uncredited Walter Gotell, who would later appear in seven James Bond films, first as the major domo of SPECTRE island, and then appearing six times as Soviet General Gogol.

Bottom line: CIRCUS OF HORRORS is solidly entertaining in ways that were sure to have outraged genteel British sensibilities at the time, but must have been a favorite among the more viscerally-inclined audience members. RECOMMENDED.

Poster for the theatrical release.