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A Phantom Even a Grandmother Could Love
15 June 2007
Warning: Spoilers
"The Phantom of the Opera" has enjoyed numerous film adaptations since it was first published nearly a century ago. Claude Rains, Herbert Lom, Maximilian Schell, Charles Dance, and even Robert "Freddy Kreuger" England, have all played the tragic, disfigured protagonist of Gaston Leroux's 1910 novella. The king of the Phantoms was Lon Chaney, whose startling appearance and bravura performance in Universal's 1925 silent version is still the benchmark by which others are measured. No other actor conveyed the level of pathos and ferocity that Chaney brought to the role. Not only was Chaney a commanding actor, he was willing to abuse and physically distort his own face by means of wires, collodion, fish skin, tape, and other painful devices by which he achieved a level of realism that remains unmatched to this day, even with state-of-the-art prosthetics. Chaney's appearance as the Phantom remains iconic not only because it is so bizarre, but because it cannot be duplicated.

Chaney's Phantom is also the most authentic in appearance. Leroux describes Erik's face as resembling a skull, with almost no nose that could be seen "sideface," with parchment-yellow skin pulled tight over the bones. Leroux's Erik was not a handsome, dashing figure who wore a quarter-face mask to hide a modest blemish. He was a thing of horror, a murderous psychopath whose grotesque deformities might have put him in good company with John Merrick or Quasimodo. Among the reading public in France at the time, he was the closest thing they had to an alien horror creature.

Next to Lon Chaney, the most memorable interpretation of the Phantom was that of Michael Crawford, who originated the role in Andrew Lloyd Webber's ingenious stage production, and who elevated the character by empowering him with the gift of song. Much as I liked that production, the peril of making the character more romantic is that it renders him less sinister.

Joel Schumacher's film version pushes this conceit even further by turning Leroux's horror story into a Harlequin romance. To make the Phantom younger, studlier, and more sympathetic, as Schumacher has done, is to denude the character of his near-spectral power. Imagine if somebody decided to do a film about a younger, more sympathetic Hannibal Lecter. (Oh wait, they did that, didn't they?)

Schumacher's desire to make the characters younger and sexier should be no surprise, coming from the man who added nipples to Batman's costume. Even so, Gerard Butler is an odd piece of casting. He is a decent actor, however he doesn't come across as particularly "young," on top of which he can't sing. Johnny Depp can't sing either, however he would have made a much more interesting Phantom if looks and acting skill had been the only prerequisites.

With all of the actors that have gone before him, the only novel quality that Butler brings to the role of Erik is a kind of uncharacteristic ruggedness that one doesn't usually associate with Leroux's wraith-like villain. If it was youthful machismo Schumacher was after, one wonders why he didn't cast Colin Farrell in the role, since they've already done a few movies together. Perhaps Schumacher wanted a more testosteronal Phantom in order to dispel the "twee" factor. After all, any man who spends his time poncing around an old theater in gowns and evening-wear is automatically suspect. We can be thankful that Schumacher chose not to show the Phantom in an unguarded moment, bare-chested and wearing a black bow-tie, though I wouldn't have been entirely surprised.

After Universal's lavish 1943 musical remake, in which Claude Rains's phantom was little more than a sad subplot to a giddily witless love triangle, one reviewer observed that there was far more "opera" than "phantom" in the Technicolor extravaganza. Another critic was sufficiently underwhelmed by Rains's makeup in the climactic unmasking scene to write that the Phantom's ostensibly acid-scarred face looked less like a disfigurement than an unpleasant skin condition.

Which is one of the problems with Schumacher's version. As anyone who has seen the stage production can attest, the original makeup design, while not overly gory, was nonetheless horrific and repellent--the suggestion of congenital deformity as might be exacerbated by the leprous effects of a flesh-eating disease. Schumacher had the temerity to re-write Webber (with Webber's consent, apparently), by inventing the least unpleasant-looking Phantom in the annals of stage and screen. At the first glimpse of Butler unmasked, I was a little confused. The only thing I could tell was that his hair color had changed. Before, he looked like Antonio Banderas in a mask. Now he looked like Simon LeBon, which was an improvement.

I played the scene back, and got really close to the screen to see what Erik's disfigurement was, and why he had been wearing that mask, because I had obviously missed something. The only thing I could see was that it looked like he had a little rouge rubbed onto the side of his face. Which was baffling, because I had read about how many hours it took them to do his makeup. I thought to myself, that's it? If Claude Rains's makeup was an "unpleasant skin condition," Gerard Butler's was a birthmark. A large freckle. I've seen uglier people on prime time television! Which made the whole thing seem even more ridiculous,because we're expected to believe that this poor fellow was mentally scarred for life, and became a murderous lunatic, and felt the need to hide his face from the world, on account of--a change of hair color and a slightly ruddy complexion?

Then again, I remembered something Schumacher had said in an interview. Prior to the film's release, he had explained to a journalist that he didn't want the Phantom to be so ugly that a woman wouldn't want to kiss him.

Oh, the indignity. I suppose the Disney animated version will be next.
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"What're you gonna do with those pies, boys?"
1 April 2007
"Killer Klowns from Outer Space" is one of the few 80s horror comedies that actually seems to have gotten better with age. When I first saw it on late-night cable about ten years ago, I thought it was a fun little throwaway movie, but having recently seen it again on DVD, I was surprised to find that it was better than I had remembered.

Before the Wayans brothers ran the genre into the ground with their ham-fisted (and increasingly boneheaded) "Scary Movie" franchise, horror comedies were usually odd little, low-budget movies that often didn't do well, either because audiences didn't know what to make of them or the producers didn't know how to handle the material. The best horror comedies are those that work on both levels. They're funny, but they also maintain a sense of unease. In this respect, movies like "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes," "Young Frankenstein," and even the "Scary Movies" aren't true horror comedies because the rampaging tomatoes, Peter Boyle's monster, and the Wayans' pot-smoking slasher are objects of derision, not fear. Those movies were broad slapstick comedies, the point of which was not to create a sense of menace, but to say "look how ridiculous this is."

"Killer Klowns" is one of those rare horror comedies that actually gets it right. Unlike other films, in which the jokes are often at the expense of the horror elements, the creepiness is never short-changed for the sake of a cheap laugh, though there are plenty of those. One of my favorite scenes occurs when the evil clown-things arrive at a closed amusement park and are confronted by a security guard. The guard—a deadpan Broderick Crawford type—takes one look at the cream pies they're holding, and says sternly, "What're you gonna do with those pies, boys?" Yep, it's a shameless setup, and you can see the payoff coming a mile away, but it's still laugh-out-loud funny.

One of the reasons the movie works is that director Stephen Chiodo has shot it like a straightforward horror film, in which the monsters just happen to be extraterrestrial clowns. The actors are on the same page. In a film like this, it would be easy for the actors to over-arch into high camp or self-parody, but the acting is convincing and surprisingly restrained, especially the two leads, Grant Cramer and John Allen Nelson, both of whom play it completely straight in that 1960s, Steve McQueen sort of way. The only actor who does any scenery-chewing at all is the great John Vernon as a snarky, bombastic cop who is convinced the entire town has gone mad, and who has some of the movie's best lines. (On the phone with an alarmed citizen: "They took your wife away in a balloon! You don't need the police, you need a psychiatrist!") Other reviewers have compared the movie to 'The Blob," which it does resemble in some respects. The movie takes place in a small town with a small police department (only a couple of cops on duty), and the events all unfold over the course of a single evening, which lends an almost real-time immediacy to the action.

I've read that the movie was made on a modest budget, but the production value is high, the clowns are creepy and funny, and the monster effects are quite good. This is a great, fun little movie, that delivers more sheer entertainment value than a lot of the bigger, slicker movies that have been produced in the last couple of decades. If you're ever bored of an evening but don't feel like going out, you could do far worse than to put a bag of Jolly Time in the microwave and spend a guiltless hour-and-a-half chuckling at the sinister intergalactic buffoonery of Chiodo's "Killer Klowns." It's killer. Really.

Just remember: "In space, no one can eat ice cream!"
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And The Heavens Brought Forth The Wonder of Woman!
24 June 2004
If there were an Oscar category for most sincere performance in a ridiculous movie (and there should be!), Lester Brown and William Mayer would surely have been nominated for their work in Doris Wishman's "Nude on the Moon," a jaw-dropping sci-fi "nudie cutie" in which Brown and Mayer play a pair of intrepid astronauts who discover the first interplanetary nudist colony.

Brown, a handsome Wishman veteran who also appeared in Doris's "Blaze Starr Goes Wild" (1960), "Gentlemen Prefer Nature Girls" (1962), and "Behind the Nudist Curtain" (1964), plays dedicated young scientist Jeff Huntley, who decides to use his $3 million inheritance to finance a trip to the Moon along with mentor and colleague William Mayer (i.e., the "Professor.")

One of the amazing things about the film is the amount of time and care devoted to its exposition and set-up. The extended opening sequence is surprisingly well written, and is easily on par with any sci-fi "B" movie from the early sixties. Brown and Mayer are credible and convincing throughout, which only makes the lunacy (no pun intended) all the more surreal. Their straight-faced, deadpan performances help make the film the giddily preposterous gem that it is.

Top billing is afforded nudie model "Marietta," who appears in the double roles of Brown's secretary, Cathy, and the Moon Queen. She was obviously cast on account of her physical attributes, yet she's actually a decent actress, and her brief scenes as Brown's lovestruck secretary are sincere and believable.

The film opens with a cheesy and inexplicably lengthy shot of the twinkling heavens as might be viewed from the moon, accompanied by Judith J. Kushner's catchy title song, "Moon Dolls," sung by Ralph Young, who would later partner with Belgian singer Tony Sandler to form the famous recording duo of Sandler and Young. (Another interesting footnote: Doc Severinsen of Johnny Carson's "Tonight Show" not only contributed to the musical score but also appears in the cast list, though I challenge anybody to recognize him as one of the half-naked "moon men.")

One of the great things about this movie is the sunny, Florida-travelogue photography. And there are one or two beautiful and almost breathtakingly unconventional shots of our heroes driving along rain-slicked Miami blacktop under a menacing canopy of thunderheads.

There's also a clever in-joke that occurs whilst our intrepid astronauts drive through Miami Beach on their way to the launch pad. Just as Clint Eastwood walked past a movie marquee advertising the Eastwood-directed "Play Misty for Me" in Don Siegel's "Dirty Harry," Brown and Mayer drive past Miami Beach's Variety Theater, the marquee of which is emblazoned with the title of another Doris Wishman film, "Hideout in the Sun" (in "Nuderama!")

The great drive-in movie critic Joe Bob Briggs listed "Nude on the Moon" as one of his "Sleaziest Movies in the History of the World," however I would respectfully disagree. For sheer sleaze, the film hardly measures up to Wishman's "Bad Girls go to Hell" (1965), "The Amazing Transplant" (1970), or her latest offering, "Satan was a Lady" (2001). In spite of the liberal above-the-waist nudity, "Nude on the Moon" is one of the least sleazy movies I've ever seen. I've seen many films with far fewer bared breasts that were a thousand times sleazier. If anything, this most famous of Wishman's films strikes the viewer not with its venality but its astounding innocence.

One of the most interesting things about the film was that it was shot at the oddball south Florida tourist attraction, Coral Castle, the bizarre history of which is detailed in Florida journalist Eliot Kleinberg's entertaining book "Weird Florida." Coral Castle was also used as a location in James L. Wolcott's "Wild Women of Wonga" (1958) and Herschell Gordon Lewis's obscure fantasy opus, "Jimmy, the Boy Wonder" (1966).

Cult fans will immediately recognize blonde cutie Shelby Livingston in a non-speaking part as one of the fetching "Moon Dolls." Shelby is best remembered for her role as disaffected housewife Bea Miller, who gets her arm hacked off in H.G. Lewis's southern-fried gorefest, "Two Thousand Maniacs."

A delirious mixture of campy humor, harmless nudity and Florida kitsch, "Nude on the Moon" is a priceless cinematic gem from a more innocent time. A silly, wonderful, charming little film.
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The Body Shop (1972)
Hayseed Frankenstein Opus
17 June 2004
Warning: Spoilers
During the audio commentary on Anchor Bay's DVD of "Dracula, Prince of Darkness," actress Barbara Shelley praises the charm of the "hand-crafted" special effects, observing that modern CGI effects are so perfect as to be unreal. She cites the theory of the "flaw in the rose," which says that the minor imperfections of a thing actually make it more beautiful.

Sort of like Scarlett Johansson's nose.

The theory also explains why low-budget indie horror films (particularly those from the 60s and 70s) are so entertaining. The lousy camera-work, amateurish acting and crummy production values serve to highlight the occasional flashes of brilliance, and nowhere is that more evident than in "Doctor Gore," a hayseed Frankenstein opus shot in the foothills of North Carolina.

Originally released as "The Body Shop," the film was produced and directed by J.G. "Pat" Patterson, who also starred in the film. A former TV horror host from Charlotte, North Carolina, Patterson had appeared in a supporting role in Herschell Gordon Lewis's "Moonshine Mountain" (1964), and had served as production assistant on several other Lewis films including the lighthearted sci-fi comedy, "How To Make A Doll" (1969). A year before "Doctor Gore," Patterson had written and directed "The Electric Chair" (1972), an obscure death-penalty shocker that played almost exclusively at drive-in theaters in Georgia and North Carolina.

Filmed near Asheville, North Carolina, "Doctor Gore" tells the story of "famous scientist and plastic surgeon, Dr. Don Brandon," who, after losing his wife in a car accident, sets about getting a new mate with the help of his inarticulate hunchbacked assistant, Greg. That's right, Greg.

It takes chutzpah for a director/producer to cast himself as the lead in a horror movie, especially when he looks like Don Knotts and sounds like Pa Kettle, which Patterson does. With his white short-sleeved smock and perpetually hangdog expression, he looks more like the town barber than a mad scientist. Cary Grant he ain't. Neither is he a spring chicken, and the scenes of him smooching and rolling around with nubile twenty-year olds are almost disturbing. Patterson does have spooky eyes, though, which helps because it allows him to use hypnotism as the device by which Brandon is able to get the little hotties to ignore the bad comb-over and thirty-year age difference.

Our aging Lothario's dilemma is that none of the girls quite pass muster. One has the right arms but the wrong legs, which is a problem for a man of discriminating tastes. So Brandon decides to create his ideal woman from scratch, to which end he sets about murdering and grave-robbing in search of the perfect parts.

The first of many astounding scenes occurs early on, when the doctor attempts to reanimate a girl's corpse using aluminum foil, alligator clips, and duct tape. Yup, duct tape. (A thousand-and-one uses, that stuff!) Of course, things go awry as they always do in such movies, and Brandon (a chain-smoking Patterson, with the ever-present cigarette dangling out of his mouth) dashes around flipping switches amid a shower of bottle-rocket sparks, like something out of a poor man's Peter Cushing Frankenstein film. Which is really what this is.

In all fairness, the laboratory sequences aren't bad. The lighting and photography almost aspires to the level of a Hammer film--but not quite--and the gore effects are surprisingly effective. Moreover, several scenes were shot at historic Seeley's Castle near Asheville, a fortress-like structure that looks so impressive, the footage could've been swiped from an Italian Gothic horror film.

Unfortunately, it's all downhill from there. Which is not necessarily a bad thing.

In the scene in which Brandon brings his patchwork bride to life ("Anitra," played by statuesque cutie Jenny Driggers), Patterson made the critical discovery that Driggers couldn't act. She was so awful, in fact, that Patterson expunged almost all of her dialog in favor of a hilariously sappy voice-over. Till this point the film is fairly lucid, however it rapidly descends to a level of incoherence that suggests the director either died or ran out of money. Amazingly, neither was the case. After a surreal montage of previous scenes--set to the mournful strains of country singer Bill Hicks's "A Heart dies every Minute"--the film ends with the bikini-clad Anitra hitching a ride from some guy in a beat-up van while hubby sits in jail, mad as a baboon. It's not clear how he got there, but be sure and watch for the slate-board sticking through the bars.

"Doctor Gore" is hardly what would be called a "critic's picture," but neither does it sink to the level of an Andy Milligan film, and it's actually a more polished production than most anything by Ted Mikels, Ray Steckler, or H.G. Lewis. Moreover, it's got lots of pretty girls, and some flourishes of genuine lunatic humor. "Doctor Gore" wasn't meant to be taken seriously. Patterson was kidding the genre, only nobody got the joke.

Not a movie for film snobs, however drive-in movie aficionados will eat it up.
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Check in to the Hunter Arms!
14 June 2004
Released in 1964, "Two Thousand Maniacs" was director Herschell Gordon Lewis's followup to his successful "Blood Feast" the year before. As with its predecessor, the film was rich with gore and crackpot humor. Like "Blood Feast," it was also shot in Florida, though a little further north, near Orlando.

The concept was inspired by "Brigadoon," which Lewis's partner, Dave Friedman, had just seen on the New York stage. Lerner & Loewe's romantic musical was hardly a horror tale, but Friedman was intrigued by it's story of an enchanted Scottish village that reappears every hundred years. He wondered aloud to Lewis whether they couldn't do a similar story set in the deep south, only with a more sinister edge.

Friedman was a southerner, born in Alabama. Lewis was born in Pittsburgh, but his stint as a literature professor at Mississippi State University had imbued him with a love for southern Gothic. The two master showmen shared a mutual appreciation for what Joe Don Baker's character in Martin Scorcese's remake of "Cape Fear" referred to as the South's "fine tradition of savoring fear."

Just as "The Blair Witch Project" played to our primal fear of being lost in the woods, "Two Thousand Maniacs" exploited the urbanite's nightmare of being trapped in a town full of murderous hicks. The gimmick here is that the rednecks are all ghosts. In fact, the entire town is a ghost!

It seems that the town of Pleasant Valley was wiped out by Union forces during the Civil War, and in order to avenge the atrocity, the town reappears every hundred years--on the anniversary of the massacre--to exact ghoulish retribution on unsuspecting "yankees," whom they find by waylaying motorists with northern plates.

Former Playboy playmate Connie Mason ("Blood Feast") turns up again as Lewis's female lead, but her driving skills are even less improved than her acting ability: at one point she accidentally drove the film's borrowed convertible into a brick wall. Not one to waste time or money, Lewis simply shot the rest of the day's scenes from the undamaged side of the car.

As proudly stated in the end titles, the film was shot entirely "in the picturesque and beautiful city of St. Cloud, Florida," which is next door to Kissimmee. In the audio commentary on the DVD, producer Dave Friedman mistakenly asserts that the locations are "all gone," having been subsumed by post-Disney development. In fact, most all of the original locations are still there. Unlike Kissimmee, sleepy little St. Cloud was largely bypassed by the Disney-driven growth, and visitors today will be surprised to find the town changed very little from the time when Lewis was shooting his masterpiece.

A centerpiece of the film is the Hunter Arms Lodge, which still exists in downtown St. Cloud and looks exactly as it did in "Maniacs," though it's been painted a different color. It's now an upscale bed and breakfast, and is frequently used for weddings and the occasional film shoot.

One of the grisliest scenes in "Maniacs" occurs when Shelby Livington's character has her arm hacked off in front a large stone fireplace. The scene was shot in the lobby of the Hunter Arms, and that fireplace is still there to this day. When the hotel was renovated a few years ago, the fireplace was left untouched. Visitors to St. Cloud today can peer through the front door of the Hunter Arms and see that infamous stone fireplace, looking just as it did in "Two Thousand Maniacs."

A few years ago there was talk in Hollywood of doing a big-budget remake of "Two Thousand Maniacs," starring Kris Kristofferson, of all people. So far, nothing's happened.
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