HAPPY BIRTHDAY, WONG FEI HUNG

Sifu Wong Fei Hung (1847-1924).

Today is the birthday of the supremely awesome Wong Fei Hung. If you don't know who he is, there's way too much for me to even begin telling you about, so I suggest you look him up. Those of you who do know his deal, represent. And make sure to thank him for existing, if for no other reason than being the inspiration for countless kung fu flicks that bear little or no relation to reality, the best of which (IMHO) are probably DRUNKEN MASTER (1978) and DRUNKEN MASTER II (1994).

PUNK ROCK'S SVENGALI PASSES ON: R.I.P. MALCOLM McLAREN (1946-2010), THE MAN WHO BROUGHT US THE SEX PISTOLS AND BOW WOW WOW

Malcolm McLaren in his completely appropos "Cash from Chaos" t-shirt, as seen in Julien Temple's THE GREAT ROCK 'N' ROLL SWINDLE (1980).

And so another Icon of my youth bites the dust, this latest passing due to mesothelioma, an almost ironic end for the man who inflicted what was once considered a cultural cancer upon the public of Great Britain.

Malcolm McLaren's story is a fascinating one and can best be appreciated as part of the equally compelling tapestry that is the chronicle of the British punk movement, both in terms of fashion and music, and since I was merely a fan and observer of that whole thing I suggest checking out the excellent documentary THE FILTH AND THE FURY (2000) for the curious layman, perhaps the last word on the rise and inevitable implosion of the Sex Pistols. Along with his involvement with the Pistols, McLaren also managed the New York Dolls during that group's waning days and he also came up with Bow Wow Wow, one of my Top Ten favorite bands and one of the most overlooked and underrated groups of all time.

The excellence that was Bow Wow Wow, circa 1983.

Just about every account I've ever read about McLaren flat out states he was a fucking douchebag, Sex Pistols frontman John Lydon (aka Johnny Rotten) being particularly vitriolic in his assessment, but I will always be grateful to him for bringing the world the Sex Pistols and Bow Wow Wow.

The original Sex Pistols lineup (meaning with Glen Matlock, pre-Sid Vicious).

THE VAMPIRE LOVERS (1970)

This first in Hammer Films’ “Karnstein trilogy” — comprised of THE VAMPIRE LOVERS, LUST FOR A VAMPIRE (1971) and TWINS OF EVIL (1972) — is far and away the best of the lot and deservedly made a horror star out of Polish-born Ingrid Pitt. Though rather tame by current standards, THE VAMPIRE LOVERS was just the hit that the ailing Hammer studio needed, fueled by a letter perfect combination of the usual Hammer tone and the then-new explicit rather than implicit lesbian angle allowable thanks to British censors shifting the “X” certificate from age sixteen and over for admission to eighteen and over (essentially equivalent to the MPAA’s “R” rating and allowing for nudity, simulated sex and gore, but not gynecologically detailed or pornographic content).

The haunting Ingrid Pitt as Mircalla/Marcilla/Carmilla Karnstein.

Based on Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s novella CARMILLA (1875), THE VAMPIRE LOVERS lays out the eerie events set in motion in the early 1800’s (I think) when a beautiful and mysterious woman (Ingrid Pitt) arrives in the Duchy of Stiri and works her way through the populace, killing off members of the local populace with her vampiric feeding. Her M.O. is to insinuate herself into the house of an aristocratic family and feed on that family’s virginal young daughter (who is invariably cute as hell) until the girl wastes away, presumably because of anemia, and then the sultry vampiress moves on to her next victim. The vampire in question is Mircalla Karnstein, the last of a line of undead suckfaces who were believed wiped out years earlier, and she operates under the anagrammatically rearranged monikers of “Marcilla” and “Carmilla,” as the possibly unwilling thrall of a mysterious horseback-mounted man in black John Forbes-Robertson) who’s obviously a master vampire. First working her baleful magic upon the niece of General Spielsdorf (Hammer mainstay Peter Cushing, in a role that amounts to slightly more than a cameo), the vampiress soon moves on to the doll-like and smokin’ hot Emma Morton (the adorable ginger-tressed Madeline Smith, who sports a pair of alabaster Brit-breasts that you just want to latch onto with eager lips and tongue), and it’s that literally unnatural relationship that drives the movie.

Carmilla and Emma share a tender moment.

As the vampiress slowly drains away the poor girl’s life, members of the household slowly twig to what’s up, so it’s only a matter of time until Emma lies dead or Mircalla is thwarted. Let us not forget that Peter Cushing, cinema’s most notable and formidable Van Helsing, is in this flick, so it’s a no-brainer as to how thing simply must turn out; following the miserable demise of his niece, Cushing’s General seeks the aid and advice of Baron Hartog (Douglas Wilmer), who some years earlier avenged the death of his own daughter by taking out what was presumed to be the last of the vile Karnstein clan, and from there it’s time to kick some fanged ass.

Though set in various identifiable European locales and sometimes foreign lands such as Egypt, the Hammer horror world may as well all take place in the same stylized realm, so instantly recognizable is their atmospheric style. Replete with isolated country back-roads, misty graveyards, busty peasant women in dairy-showcasing bodices — one of the things that got me into these films during my formative years — and lavish period sets and costumes that drive home the fantasy and bring to mind MASTERPIECE THEATER as filtered through a Dan Curtis sensibility, the Hammer efforts are as unique and fun as the Universal Studios that preceded them. The Universal influence comes as zero surprise since Hammer’s horror films launched from a template established by their Yank antecedents, starting in the 1950’s with gored-up re-interpretations of Dracula, Frankenstein and the Mummy, followed later by their take on the Wolf Man, and those films were always worth a look. Filled with terrific eerie visuals, including a great bit with an earlier Karnstein lady searching the graveyard for her burial shroud (without which she cannot return to her tomb) and two shocking beheadings by sword. THE VAMPIRE LOVERS has much to savor from both the visual and narrative standpoints, and its interest has only increased with each passing year.

Perhaps most renowned for its lesbian content, the film is nowhere near as shocking in that respect as it was some forty years ago, and when looked at today it reveals layers far more rich than its initial prurient value. Mircalla does not appear to enjoy her state as one of the undead and seems to commit her evil acts either as a result of being compelled to do so by the mysterious (and unexplained) man in black, the occasional basic need for sanguinary sustenance or simply out of a need to defend herself against those who have figured out what she is. When it comes to her relationship with Emma, what at first may seem predatory or a symbolic mission to destroy innocence in the face of the girl’s obvious and untried womanhood is revealed to be a genuine affection, and Mircalla prolongs the inevitable by feeding on a couple of unfortunate locals so she can enjoy as much time with her inamorata as possible. The scenes of sexual intimacy between “Carmilla” and Emma are tastefully handled and have an almost childlike innocence in their emotional content, at least until the vampiress kisses her way south — if you know what I mean and I think you do — as the camera remains focused one the wide-eyed and ecstatic face of Emma.

Which brings me to Ingrid Pitt. One of the short list of indelible female figures in pre-1980’s horror cinema, Pitt simply owns THE VAMPIRE LOVERS in much the same way as THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK was Darth Vader’s movie and I simply cannot picture anyone else in the role of Mircalla (unless the film was remade with Monica Bellucci). Pitt’s vampire is graceful, somewhat terse unless interacting with the object of her desire, and wears an expression that’s a curious mix of indifference and resignation to her lot in un-life. Mircalla is definitely creepy, but there is some indefinable something about her that evokes sadness to such a degree that one almost cannot help but pity her despite the trail of carnage she leaves in her wake. Pitt is also extremely easy on the eyes and has an air of commanding elegance that is evident even when she’s sponging her nekkid self in a bathtub or frolicking topless with Emma during a preamble to their first Sapphic encounter.

As I stated previously, the film’s naughty content is tame by modern standards, and I sat there for roughly the first half hour wondering why the film received an “R” rating form its U.S. release after witnessing only the most minor display of blood and one bare tit from the general’s niece during a brief post-mortem medical going-over, but then the bathtub scene where “Carmilla” engages in initially innocent girl time with Emma came on and all was right in the world…

THE VAMPIRE LOVERS is one of the last times when the horror engine that was Hammer fired on all cylinders, and it is very much recommended to horror fans and followers of the whole lesbian vampire sub-genre. Available on one of those reasonably priced MGM-released Midnite Movies DVDs in a double feature with the vastly inferior COUNTESS DRACULA, THE VAMPIRE LOVERS is a very welcome must-have for aficionados and those looking to remember the days before vampires were ruined by Anne Rice’s pussification and that fucking TWILIGHT bullshit.

The marvelously cheesy poster from the American release. None of the stuff seen on this poster happens in the movie.

COUNTESS DRACULA (1970)

Ingrid Pitt as the title character, freshening up with the blood of one of her many innocent victims.

Britain's Hammer Films was renowned for infusing the somewhat moribund U.K. horror market with an instantly identifiable look, atmosphere and tone, as well as spicing things up with a then-controversial emphasis on graphic gruesomeness and sexual content, and as their movies progressed from the 1950's into the 1970's the stakes were raised when studio went all out in an attempt to win back an audience stolen by filmmakers who gave audiences lurid concoctions filled with content that reveled in explicitness at the cost of both story and good taste. Not being one to gone down without a fight, Hammer sexed things up considerably in its waning years, famously coming up with their lesbian vampire "Karnstein trilogy," consisting of THE VAMPIRE LOVERS (1970), LUST FOR A VAMPIRE (1971) and TWINS OF EVIL (1972), each drawing inspiration from Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu's 1872 novella CARMILLA. That trio of films has a fond place in the hearts of many Hammer-philes and soft-core lezzie flick junkies, largely for coming off like better-produced installments of the old DARK SHADOWS soap opera, only with shitloads of tits, ass and Seventies bushola. Looked at now, especially in the wake of far more graphic material, it's a little hard to see what the big deal about the Karnstein trilogy was (with THE VAMPIRE LOVERS easily being the best of the lot), and that confusion is only further compounded when one takes time to consider 1970's COUNTESS DRACULA, a film that could easily have been shoehorned into the whole Karnstein thing, but wasn't.

Borrowing from the real-life atrocities committed by Hungarian Countess Erzsebet Bathory (1560-1614), COUNTESS DRACULA casts sultry Polish-born Ingrid Pitt (born Ingoushka Petrov, but a fox is still a fox by any other name) as Countess Elizabeth Nadasdy, an aged, hateful, cunty and generally evil bitch and a half who cares not one whit for the impoverished plight of her fearful subjects. When her husband dies and a number of friends and relatives are summoned for the reading of his will, among those who arrive is Lt. Imre Toth (Sandor Eles), the son of one of the Count's old war buddies, and the crone-like Countess feels her nethers twitch at the mere sight of him. Her attraction to the young officer does not go unnoticed by castle steward and all-around asshole Captain Dobi (Nigel Green, better known as Hercules in JASON AND THE ARGONAUTS), who has been putting the meat to the Countess for years and for some reason loves the miserable old bitch, and now that the Countess is legally free he seeks to rightfully acquire more power and position through marrying her. The Countess' young daughter, who was sent away to safety some two decades early in the face of a Turkish invasion, is also on her way home for the reading of the will, but while she's in transit the Countess accidentally discovers that she can regain her youth by bathing in the blood of young women, so the Countess arranges to have her own daughter waylaid and imprisoned in a woodland shack so she can assume the poor girl's identity and woo the young Lieutenant (much to Captain Dobi's chagrin).

The Countess rejuvenated.

The Countess has a grand old time as her own daughter and since since no one in the court has seen the girl in twenty years, no one is any the wiser (except for the Countess' handmaiden and willing accomplice, Julie), but things begin to fall apart when the restored youth proves temporary and brings even more severe aging when it wears off, prompting the Countess to have a growing body count of girls brought to her for slaughter. But when the Countess bathes in the blood of the village's cheapest whore (Andrea Lawrence), she ages to a point where she resembles a bowl of dry corn flakes, which leads to the discovery that the magical youth restoration only works properly with the blood of virgins.

The Countess' victims are discovered.

Once that bit's been sussed out, the murders continue right up to the point when the Countess is ready to publicly marry the Lieutenant (who now knows the truth and has been blackmailed with going along with the Countess' plans or else be framed for all the murders), but she doesn't count on her daughter having escaped from the shack in the woods, or her youth wearing off in front of dozens of witnesses...

Though technically not a vampire film, COUNTESS DRACULA certainly has the look and feel of one of Hammer's several vampire flicks, but it unfortunately lacks the verve and interest found in its brethren. The film is very slow-moving and surprisingly sparse on the sex and gore one had by this point come to expect from Hammer, with very little blood actually seen except for that found in the memorable sponge bath sequence (a shot from which opens this post), and the film's requisite nudity mostly supplied by the sponge bath and a bit where the Countess and the Lieutenant get their hump on in a haystack as the Lieutenant hungrily noshes on the Countess' "lefty." Despite years of having seen the blood-smeared Ingrid Pitt in various books and magazines on horror movies and being led to believe that COUNTESS DRACULA was much more than the meager sum of its parts, I have to confess to being majorly disappointed by it and recommend it only for Hammer/vampire completists and those desperate for even a glimpse of nude female flesh (there's no bushola in this since it was rated PG during its American release). Nonetheless, both Pitt and the movie in general are quite appealing to the eye.

ALLIGATOR (1962) by I*n Fl*m*ng

Back cover bio of author I*n Fl*m*ng.

Among my many passions can be counted the adventures of James Bond, in both prose and cinematic form, but my real interest in the character lies in his literary incarnation.

The James Bond of the movies is for all intents and purposes something of a superman (that trait beginning in earnest with 1964's classic GOLDFINGER), but his literary antecedent would surprise those unfamiliar with the books by being, as my friend Kevin so concisely and accurately put it many years ago, "a fucking mess." The Bond of the books is a borderline alcoholic, chainsmoking sadistic asshole, not at all like the fantasy figure found in the films, and he fascinates because of his very human failings while serving as a combination investigator/hitman for Her Majesty's secret service. 

Prior to the advent of the 007 movies, author Ian Fleming's novels enjoyed great success worldwide and even counted President John F. Kennedy among their avid fans (1957's FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE reportedly being his favorite among the novels), so the character and his author's signature prose style were very much in the public consciousness, and anything that gains such a measure of public familiarity is destined to at some point fall prey to parody. That would have been no easy feat at the time of the novels' releases, due in large part to the then-extreme levels of sex, shocking violence and sadism that defined the series and rendered some of the books downright controversial in some circles. Thus it fell to a respected organ of humor produced by collegiate scribes, namely the Harvard Lampoon, to give Fleming's work a much-needed satirizing, and the result was 1962's ALLIGATOR, a dead-on parody of the Fleming oeuvre that's so on target that it's barely distinguishable from an actual James Bond novel, save for a few moments of quite ludicrous exaggeration of Fleming's stylistic tropes.

Front cover to ALLIGATOR.

Back cover to ALLIGATOR.

To those familiar with the Bond editions as they appeared in the 1960's (the versions I grew up with), the first thing to notice about ALLIGATOR is its flawless mimicry of the series' cover design style, right down to the cheesy author's photo on the back, and once the reader dives into the text, it even reads just like a Fleming novel. 

The plot is a hash of several elements that will be familiar to the experienced Fleming reader (this book is not advised for those unfamiliar with the 007 novels since it is such an accurate stylistic parody) and details J*mes B*nd's clash with Lacertus Alligator, an over-the-top megalomaniac whose freakish physical attributes (including a mouth full of sharpened steel teeth) go hand in hand with his behavioral quirks (such as sating his fetish for the color purple by constantly whipping out a spray can of purple vegetable dye and liberally applying the pigment to anything and everyone around him). Alligator would be very much at home among such villainous Fleming creations as Hugo Drax and Doctor Julius No, only in this parody he brings to mind how Chuck Jones or some of the other classic era Warner Brothers animating directors might have handled such a figure with their trademark satirical flavor.

B*nd is brought into direct conflict with Alligator when B*nd's boss, *, tasks him to discover if Alligator is cheating at cards at an exclusive London men's club (a plot lifted directly from Fleming's MOONRAKER) and once B*nd takes the villain for an outrageous sum of cash, the agent is assigned to investigate the murder of a British intelligence section head in Bermuda (a nod to the plot catalyst of 1958's DR. NO). That seemingly routine assignment soon spirals into the expected web of sex, violence and mayhem that one has every right to expect from a 007 yarn, and it's all communicated with astonishing brevity since the book is but a mere seventy-seven pages in length (which is just fine because a goosing of Fleming's storytelling could easily be achieved in short order by a talented parodist). 

But while it's a great idea to give the world a knowing spoof of the Fleming books, the problem with ALLIGATOR is that it simply isn't funny. It hews far too close to its source material and other than a few moments having fun with B*nd's general arrogant assholism, Alligator's bizarre/insane villainy and B*nd's in your face and totally irritating flaunting of his epicurean leanings, there's nary a chuckle to be had, and what little laughs are generated depend heavily on the reader's intimate familiarity with the ten 007 books ranging from 1953 through 1962. When all is said and done, ALLIGATOR is best left to Bond completists and curiosity seekers who want to check out just how closely a writer can ape one author's style.

Having been an avid collector and reader of Fleming since my early teens, I picked up a copy of ALLIGATOR a little over thirty years ago but never got around to reading it in full because I didn't get what it was going for at the time, a lack of understanding stemming from only having read the first two or three of the original novels, so I set it aside to be read at some later time. During the years since those formative days, I lost my copy of ALLIGATOR and pretty much forgot about the book's existence until recently, shortly after re-reading all of the Fleming novels over a two-year period, so I recently found the cheapest copy I could get on eBay for around $36. Simply put, it's an item of interest, but it wasn't worth the wait or the cash expenditure. Save your money or shell it out for a worthy parody, such as the infinitely better and frequently hilarious BORED OF THE RINGS (1969), written by Henry N. Beard and Douglas Kenney, both founding editors/contributors of the NATIONAL LAMPOON magazine. (Doug Kenney notably wrote "First Blowjob" for the magazine and later co-authored NATIONAL LAMPOON'S ANIMAL HOUSE with Harold Ramis and Chris Miller, so that'll give you an idea of how funny that guy was. Kenney died as age 32 in 1980 after a fall from a cliff in Hawaii, a death that may have been a suicide).

LADY SNOWBLOOD AT THE JAPAN SOCIETY

A study in lethal elegance: Meiko Kaji as the vengeful Yuki.

Last night I went to Manhattan's Japan Society to see a rare screening of LADY SNOWBLOOD (1973), and while the movie was excellent and remains one of my favorite chambara films, I was once more reminded of why I fucking hate seeing just about any Asian film in a festival setting with a New York audience.

A page from the original manga, illustrated by Kazuo Kimamura.

Based on an early-1970's manga series written by LONE WOLF AND CUB scribe Kazuo Koike and illustrator Kazuo Kimamura, LADY SNOWBLOOD is the grim tale of Yuki (the haunting Meiko Kaji), a woman literally born to avenge the heinous murders of her father and older brother, as well as the serial rape of her mother by one of the killers. Upon stabbing her rapist to death, Yuki's mother is sentenced to life in prison, where the woman proceeds to indiscriminately have sex with every available male guard in the place, earning her the hatred of the other female prisoners and a reputation as "a bitch in heat," in hope of giving birth to a strong son who can carry out her wished-for vengeance. Instead of a son, she gives birth to Yuki and dies shortly thereafter, and the baby is entrusted to another prisoner who, upon the completion of her sentence, raises the girl with a retired master swordsman who is now a monk. From early childhood, poor Yuki is forged into a stoic engine of her dead mother's vendetta, trained without mercy in various skills, but most importantly as a swift and utterly deadly swordswoman who conceals her blade in her parasol. Upon turning twenty, Yuki — now operating under the nom de revenge "Lady Snowblood" — embarks on a bloody trail of retribution as she seeks out the three remaining villains who have gone unpunished for the past two decades, slashing her way through all comers in the process.

As is typical of chambara films of the period, LADY SNOWBLOOD is drenched in spewing arterial spray that looks a lot like thinned-out red paint and is over-the-top along the lines of the Black Knight sequence in MONTY PYTHON AND THE HOLY GRAIL (1975), but while the Python flick played its graphic violence to stunning and hilarious comedic effect, the gore in LADY SNOWBLOOD has the exact opposite intention and its excesses serve to punctuate a story that's already as serious and depressing as a heart attack. Which brings me to the point where I start bitching and moaning.

One of the things that drives fans of Asian cinema in general and Japanese film in particular crazy is seeing screenings of Eastern movies among festival audiences composed of curiosity seekers who are unfamiliar with styles of filmmaking other than what they run into every week at their local multiplex. These moviegoers may have read or heard about Asian movies in some article extolling the perceived hipster virtues of getting into such stuff, and so off they go to an Asian film festival and collide head-on with another culture's style of film craft, often with zero grounding in how that culture tells stories, or what those storytelling tropes mean within that rich cultural context. While filmmakers like Kurosawa strove toward and achieved stunning results with a realistic approach, many of the makers of Japanese film sought to appeal to an audience raised on centuries-old traditions of unabashed melodrama, stories marked with sometimes broad and over-wrought emoting and lashings of sanguinary displays that straddle the line between intentionally excessive narrative punctuation and seemingly pointless gratuitousness. When it comes to their storytelling, the Japanese tend to milk a narrative for all that it's worth, bringing audiences heroes who are practically superhuman in terms of their skills, focus and virtues, villains who are vile in ways that make you want to leap onto the screen and kill them yourself, and sequences of action that take things to completely insane levels of carnage, all in the name of keeping the paying theater-goers entertained. In that respect, Japanese cinema has a hell of a lot in common with our own home-grown efforts, but the difference lies in cultural aesthetics, and that's where the problems can start.

While watching LADY SNOWBLOOD, in an audience containing a large percentage of Japanese attendees, the majority of the Westerners in the theater laughed heartily at the melodrama of the piece, despite the fact that the movie contains not one shred of anything that could be considered comedy. As you can gather from my brief synopsis, the story is one very dark motherfucker, yet many in the audience cracked up repeatedly, offering up interjections of "Sweet!" or "Nice!" during moments of raw emotion and terrible violence. The one gory image that did not elicit would-be-ironic comment from the hipster Peanut Gallery was a stark flashback shot of Yuki's perhaps eight-year-old brother laying dead by the side of a river after the killers bashed his brains in, immediately after which we are treated to the (thankfully) non-explicit rape of Yuki's mother as the criminals turn the violation into drunken entertainment (one of their number is even a woman who takes obvious enjoyment in watching the proceedings).

While I'm a big fan of LADY SNOWBLOOD, I'm the first to note that, though compelling, it's a very depressing affair for a number of reasons, and even given the cross-cultural disconnect of Eastern versus Western sensibilities, I was appalled at anyone finding the tragedy that played out onscreen as funny. LADY SNOWBLOOD's melodrama was roundly mocked by an amused audience that could most likely watch American soap operas and not crack jokes about the over-the-top emotional torments endured by the characters, and it just brought me down. Would they have found the very same elements laughable if they had been presented in the context of a Clint Eastwood western? I kinda doubt it. Then again, I've heard reliable reports from people who were in the audience when the infamous and ultra-graphic to the point of being nigh-unwatchable gang-rape landmark I SPIT ON YOUR GRAVE played theatrically, and they said that several members of that audience cat-called and guffawed as actress Camille Keaton (Buster Keaton's grand-niece, by the way) was put through abuses that would have offended the most hardened of regular grindhouse patrons, so I guess such inappropriate and disheartening reactions are nothing new.

Poster from the original Japanese theatrical release.

Anyway, my experience last night was very much off-putting and on several occasions I wanted to stand up and scream "What the fuck are you people finding so goddamned funny? Does human suffering amuse you?" I had not attended an Asian film festival since the mid-1990's and after last night I plan on resuming that stance, unless there's a decent marathon of Toho's giant monster flicks or a run of the LONE WOLF AND CUB films. I just wish those shit-for-brains sunsabitches would stick to their multiplexes and showings of TRANSFORMERS: REVENGE OF THE FALLEN and suchlike...

Oh, and for a more clinical overview of exactly what LADY SNOWBLOOD is all about, check out the excellent review found here.

WICKED PRIEST (1968)

I finally got around to checking out the first in the GOKUAKU BOZU (“Wicked Priest”) series of chambara (“swordfighting”) flicks and was not disappointed in the least, thanks in no small part to the performance of my man Tomisaburo Wakayama in the title role. For those not in the know, Wakayama was the intensely stoic actor who played Itto Ogami in the LONE WOLF AND CUB films, and if you’ve seen those you know that the guy was one hell of an actor and absolutely the very last guy you would ever think about engaging in sword combat.

Portrait of a complete and utter badass: the late, great Tomisaburo Wakayama in his signature role of Itto Ogami in the LONE WOLF AND CUB series (1972-1974).

Wakayama’s swordsmanship is a thing of beauty to behold, on the level of Baryshnikov or Bruce Lee in terms of physical wonder, as is that of his equally talented younger brother, Shintaro Katsu, aka Zatoichi, but I’m veering quite a bit off topic. The LONE WOLF AND CUB and Zatoichi films are more than worthy of their own discussions, so I’ll just leave you with a recommendation to see them and get back to the Wicked Priest.

The GOKUAKU BOZU films preceded Wakayama’s work as Lone Wolf and will come as a bit of a surprise to those who know him only from his later, ultra-gory Itto Ogami movies because, although quite the capable badass, the protagonist of the GOKUAKU BOZU series is an all-around fun guy who thoroughly enjoys life, in other words the polar opposite of Ogami. Here Wakayama portrays Shinkai, a Buddhist monk in the Japan of the 1920’s who ends up getting booted from his order on a bullshit charge and is relegated to a one-year probationary exile to some backwater town’s temple. Cut to five years later and Shinkai is seen having a blast engaging in all the stuff an observant Buddhist monk is not supposed to be doing, namely gambling, drinking, merrily frequenting whorehouses, getting into karate/jiu jitsu fights in which he is clearly the baddest motherfucker in the room (even when faced with firearms), and seducing married female temple-goers.

Pussy and saké: two great things that go great together!

He’s a lovable and fun guy who performs his duties as the town’s monk (always for an expected fee, er, “donation”), but his lust for life only earns him the bitter hatred and disgust of the rather corrupt priests in his former order, a pack of total assholes who get up to all kinds of shit while putting out a public front of piety and respectability. Their abbot, however, is a decent guy who raised and has a tolerant and avuncular relationship with Shinkai and as a result looks the other way at the so-called wicked priest’s transgressions, an attitude that fosters plots for the abbot’s ousting in the face of disgrace under threat of blackmail for past indiscretions.

The main plot follows Shinkai’s bitchin’ and utterly shameless lifestyle and brings him into the path of young Kentaro, a rather ineffectual would-be yakuza tough guy who makes his questionable living by luring innocent young girls to his slimy boss’ whorehouse, where they are either forced into prostitution or sold into sex slavery in Shanghai. Kentaro cares nothing for the innocents whose lives he destroys, but his heart belongs to Kogiku, a sweet girl who is nearing the end of her three-year prostitution contract at the whorehouse, and the two intend to get married when her time is up. Kentaro meets Shinkai when the monk prevents him from luring yet another innocent, and the lad has his attitude seriously adjusted after Shinkai kicks his ass (twice) and those of his goofy accomplices. You see, although he’s a rampant womanizer who enjoys the pleasures of women, Shinkai genuinely likes women as people — a breath of fresh air in this misogyny-laden genre — and will brook no mistreatment of the fair sex, so he seeks to stop Kentaro’s foul ways before the boy is beyond redemption (too late if you ask me, but I didn’t write the script). Learning from Shinkai’s example — to say nothing of the aforementioned pair of back-to-back bitch-slapped beatdowns — Kentaro tries to get his act together for when he and Kogiku get married, but his refusal to further deceive innocent women for purposes of exploiting them does not sit well with his scumbag boss, so what follows is a tragic tale of escalating cruelties that sees the abuse and death of assorted innocent people that finally galvanizes Shinkai to hand down some much-deserved death to bad guys who seriously need to be removed from the face of the earth. (NOTE: unlike what is depicted on the film’s poster/DVD box art, at no point does Shinkai personally engage in any swordfighting, so Lone Wolf fans, caveat emptor.)

While this synopsis may make the film sound action-packed, the truth of the matter is that it’s more of a study of the fun-loving Shinkai and the peripheral characters than the swords-a-slashin’ bloodbath one usually expects (and gets) from this kind of flick, and the film is all the better for that. Chambara cinema is rife with drama and tragedy and could be fairly described as soap operas for men, and to a certain extent that’s exactly what this first GOKUAKU BOZU film is. There are highly emotional subplots involving single-parenthood and the stigma that falls upon the women who selflessly raise their bastard kids in the place of social ostracism, bitter daddy issues from the perspective of now-grown abandoned children, political intrigue within the monastic order, sympathy for the plight of whores, and a whole bunch of other stuff, so if you decide to check this out, be prepared for more plot than action, but also keep in mind that you will not be bored. It’s not a classic or anything, but it is solidly entertaining from start to finish.

From what I could determine in my admittedly brief research on it, there are apparently five films in the GOKUAKU BOZU series and I am eager to sit through the rest of them. I picked up four of them when I came across them a while back, but the one I’m missing is the second one in the sequence, so I’m going to hold off until I can find it and then continue, While not all chambara series continue directly from one film to another, there are many that do, so I’ll err on the side of patience and wait to experience some more cinema of Wakayama that I have not yet seen. He’s one of my all-time favorite actors and ass-kickers, so I’m perfectly happy to endure the wait.

GONE TO JOIN THE ANGELS: R.I.P. JOHN FORSYTHE (1918-2010), THE VOICE OF CHARLIE

I hated CHARLIE'S ANGELS but I always dug their enigmatic boss who was never seen, but heard from a small speaker sitting atop a desk. R.I.P., Charlie.

LIANE, JUNGLE GODDESS (1956)

My buddy and Marvel Bullpen brother Paul alerted me to this 1956 West German jungle girl flick the other day and told me in no uncertain terms that I had to see it for its star, the mouthwatering Marion Michael. When he mentioned the title, it rang a bell in my head and then I remembered it was one of several features included on the mostly wretched 5-disc JUNGLE GIRLS GONE WILD boxed DVD set, a collection I've had laying around the Vault for the past two years but could not get all the way through because what I'd watched of it was just plain awful. Emboldened by Paul's recommendation, an opinion I learned to trust implicitly over the past two decades, I popped in the disc containing LIANE, JUNGLE GODDESS at Jesus o'clock in the morning and sat riveted as the film's (mostly) G-rated imagery stirred much naughtier musings within my febrile imagination.

Our heroine. Jumpin' Jesus in a basket of chicken...

An apparently German expedition into darkest Africa — the intended purpose of which is never actually explained, but I think they were there to gather animals, also for an unexplained reason — runs across a tasty and topless white girl (Marion Michael) living among the local "savage" Boto tribe, clearly at home in the jungle and very comfortably a part of the tribe's culture, which raises the question of just who this tasty bit of "Sue Lyon meets Hayley Mills" piece of Burroughs-fantasy jailbait is (Michael was sixteen when this was shot) and how the hell she got there. The young hottie is swiftly captured in a big game net by a sleazy expedition member (who we know is a horny rotter after witnessing his borderline rape attempt on the party's cute brunette doctor), but she ends up under the protection of clueless Kraut-hunk hero, Thoren (Hardy Kruger), a handsome lunk who only recently twigged to the fact that the aforementioned doctor is sweet on him. In no way the mighty and savage jungle queen one would naturally expect from a film like this, the non-English-speaking girl is swiftly revealed to be a total innocent and very much a child-woman in need of a real he-man to protect her fine blonde ass, but after Thorsen violently defends her from the horny dude, she begins to feel stirrings that can be clearly read on her lovely face and via her body language. The uninhibited young thing is now totally smitten by our Aryan Apollo and she spends the rest of the movie trying to get next to him.

"Don't mind me...Just hangin' out, bein' hot..."

After some minor hoo-haa when her tribe attempts to take her back, the expedition leaders decide to see if anyone has heard tell of a white child possibly having been lost in the jungle some years previous, and their only clue to her identity is a locket engraved with the letter "L." When the news reaches the world at large, a wealthy West German industrialist is convinced that the girl is none other than his grand-daughter, Liane, last seen some eighteen years previous as a two-year-old and presumed dead when the ship her parents were traveling on sank off the coast of Africa. Gramps remembers that the girl was accompanied by an African nanny, so if she did indeed survive it stood to reason that the nanny would seek to rejoin her people, taking her young charge with her and raising her as a native.

NOTE: most reference sources for this film cite Liane's age as sixteen, but the English-dubbed print I saw stated she was two when lost and that the story takes place eighteen years after her presumed death, therefore she's twenty. That said, she doesn't look a day over sixteen or seventeen.

Thoren takes Liane back to Europe to find out if she is the long-lost grand-daughter, but the old man's slimy nephew and appointed corporate head and heir, Viktor Goehring (rat-faced Reggie Nalder, best known in the U.S. as Albino in 1970's infamous witch-finder torture opus MARK OF THE DEVIL and as master vampire Barlow in 1979's made-for-television SALEM'S LOT), stands to lose a fortune if Liane is conclusively proven to be the old man's actual flesh-and-blood, so he actively plots to discredit her and make her appear to be a gold-digging fraud. Fortunately Liane has Thoren and her tribesman friend, Tanga (Jean Pierre Faye), looking out for, but Viktor will stop at nothing to ensure his inheritance, not even cold-blooded murder...

Liane and Tanga (obviously before their sojourn to West Germany).

LIANE, JUNGLE GODDESS starts out with a lot of promise but is swiftly fucked over by the one element that is almost always guaranteed to scuttle a story like this, namely having the wild protagonist be discovered to be an heir to some vast European fortune, thus necessitating a trip to civilization that utterly removes the fun fantasy elements that we watch such jungle fare for. The film is loads of fun for roughly the first forty minutes and filled with tons of topless eye candy (although Liane's breasts are always strategically covered with her hair, we get the idea and it was reportedly controversial for its time, which I totally believe), but once efforts are made to "civilize" Liane by cutting off most of her spectacular and untamed mane of hair, getting her to wear clothes (although I did not complain about her fetching shorty-shorts), teaching her a smattering of German (English in the dub) and suchlike, the film loses a great deal of its charm and potential. What could have been a cool distaff Tarzan adventure, or even a return trip to territory already mined in 1936's THE JUNGLE PRINCESS, is completely squandered and would not have been worth watching through to its conclusion if we hadn't already come to like (and like looking at) Liane, as well as wanting to see just how far Viktor was willing to go to make sure he came out a winner. Liane herself is also way too docile/submissive and would disappoint fans of the genre who like their jungle heroines tough and capable if not for her considerable charm and drop-dead-gorgeous looks (the photos accompanying this piece do not do her justice). I mean, even her requisite animal pal is a very young and utterly un-menacing lion cub named Simba, ferfucksakes!

Liane and Simba (and nipple).

But whatever the case may be with the final result, the film was a hit and gained Marion Michael screen immortality (among jungle girl fanatics, anyway), also spawning a sequel, alternately known as JUNGLE GIRL AND THE SLAVER or NATURE GIRL AND THE SLAVER (1957), a film that's reportedly pretty poor.

Poster for the 1957 sequel.

It may suck as bad as I've heard, but I'm nonetheless intrigued and intend to seek it out.

An image from the sequel that thankfully restores Liane's out-of-control locks.

MY FAMOUS SLOW-COOKED PULLED PORK (and Barbecue Loooooooooove Sensation Sauce)

What's not to love about a grill-master in a shirt celebrating an infamous Wisconsin cannibal?

Spring is upon us and that means it's time for me to start doling out heaping helpings of my famous slow-cooked pulled pork. It's a favorite among my friends and family, and now I will share its secrets with you, o lucky Gravy-Groovers!

The process is simplicity itself:

• First, get two pork shoulders with the bone left in, aka "pernil." (if you don't shop at some would-be fancy schmancy supermarket and keep it real by going to a commoner's market, the average one of these will cost you around ten bucks, max.) Poke holes into the meat to accommodate however many garlic cloves you like — crack the garlic open first on a flat surface with the side of a wide knife to smack over it — and once the stuffing is done place the meat into a deep roasting pan.
  
• Season as you like, but I recommend salt and pepper, liberal sprinkling with adobo and that orange seasoning in packets that can be found along with Goya products in the "ethnic" food section at the local supermarket — specifically Sazon Goya Sin Achiote (Without Annatto) — making sure to season both sides, add about an inch of Dr. Pepper (some go with root beer, but I don't recommend it; the root beer flavor overwhelms the natural porky awesomeness, so fuck that) and then place pork uncovered in a pre-heated oven at 300 degrees for about two hours.
  
• Once the two hours are up, take the pork out and add a few shakes of liquid smoke — found in the aisle with the barbecue condiments — then seal the roasting pan with a double thickness of heavy-duty foil and return the meat to the oven. Drop the temperature to about 210 degrees and forget about it for the next fourteen hours. I mean it, just ignore the fuckers. When all is said and done, your pork should look like this:

Actual shot of pork just out of the oven in Jared's kitchen on Saturday morning.

The meat will be tender like you won't believe, and take care to peel off the skin in one piece if possible (more on that shortly).

With the skin removed, the pork will reveal a glistening layer of artery-clogging tastiness and it's up to you to decide how much fat you want to leave attached when you pull it into a form more conducive to eating in a shredded mound, wrapped up in tortillas or on a sandwich. As anyone will tell you, the flavor is in the fat, so don't dump too much of it. But then again, if you're gonna eat this stuff you know what you're in for.

Once you've solved your fat issues, use a pair of meat tongs and grab the large bone that's visible in the pork. Grasp the bone firmly and tug; the bone will dislodge with the ease of pulling a finger out of a velvet glove.

The ease of the pull: note the complete and utter lack of meat adhering to the bone.

Once that's removed, poke around with a fork to locate any remaining smaller bones and gristle and remove that stuff. Then take a sturdy fork like one of those big fuckers some people favor for the grill — I don't, because poking meat lets the juices out; only use tongs or spatulas for grilling! — and gently swirl through the meat like you're using a frosting-spreader. The meat will fall apart like magic, and once you've made sure no excess bones or other such crud remains I would advise tasting the pork to determine if it needs any additional seasoning or tarting up. I'd go with some more adobo, salt, pepper or sage, but only you can know what's best for your by-now-drooling audience. Serve as is with some sauce of choice — I recommend making some of my patented Barbecue Loooooooooove Sensation Sauce — or throw that gorgeousness onto some white bread or a good potato roll and prepare to watch your guests go into spontaneous culinary orgasm.

The aforementioned Barbecue Loooooooooove Sensation Sauce is also a study in simplicity:

INGREDIENTS:

Cheap barbecue sauce
Honey
Garlic powder (I prefer Badia brand)
Brown/Deli mustard (Gulden's or Nathan's both rock)
Hot sauce (optional)

Take as much cheap barbecue sauce as you may need and put it into a big pot; blend in honey and mustard to taste and add a huge motherfucking shitload of garlic powder. Blend until somewhat smooth but thick, and keep in mind that the flavor should be sweet and garlicky. At this point it's up to you to add hot sauce if you want a bit of a kick to the concoction; if you seek that flavor I recommend Indi-Pep West Indian pepper sauce, but you use what you like (except for the green Emeril sauce; it's tasty but it will throw off the color. And the shit is pointlessly expensive).

And as for the previously set-aside pork skin, put it non-fatty side down onto a baking tray or cookie sheet and hit it with a little adobo and finely ground cayenne pepper. Heat the oven back up to about 300 degrees and put the skin there for about a half hour to forty-five minutes, checking occasionally with a spatula to prevent sticking. When it's crispy enough for your taste, take it out and cut into appropriate sizes for homemade pork rinds, but don't serve them until they've almost at room temperature. Can't you just feel your heart seizing up like a rusty and mud-mucked chainsaw?