I gotta be honest. I did not expect to like House of Wax when I first saw it. The only reason I rented it was because of the prospect of seeing Paris Hilton get maimed. If not truly chilling, at least I could get a good laugh out of it and enjoy some run-of-the-mill teen exploitation. I was beyond surprised by the intensely visceral visual quality, the fabulous and truly eerie wax sets and the tragic backstory that parallels the love-hate relationship between twins Carly and Nick, who are on a trip with their friends to go to a sports game.
This film is truly delicious camp gold. It works because even though many aspects are part of a familiar formula, it is beautifully shot and it is executed with true emotional sincerity. The interactions between the group of friends are, for the most part, fairly genuine. Even Paris Hilton, who is numb and stiff as a board, seems to have somewhat of a pulse. She is, at least, willing to contribute to gags at her own expense and milk her less than sterling reputation. Every time you see her through Dalton's digital camcorder(especially while making out in neon green nightvision) you can't help thinking about the porn tapes. She even has a pseudo strip scene to a terrible rap song, while her boyfriend, Blake, gets revved up to get busy with her. I think this is my favourite scene with her, aside from her death scene which is also priceless and hilarious. I've gotta say, she's far more believable as a corpse than live person.
I would say that the Dark Castle House of Wax is an engaging remake. I know there's no Lionel Atwill, no Vincent Price (one of the evil twin's names is Vincent, though) and regrettably, instead of the disarmingly beautiful and alluring Fay Wray, we've got "If it looks like a ho, acts like a ho" Paris Hilton, queen of amateur porn and reality tv. She's no scream queen, to be sure, but nevertheless, she brings a certain level of hyperreality to this film by virtue of being a reality star celebrity. Suddenly, when you see her through the digital camcorder lense, it is metacinematic and oddly surreal. Paris is someone we all feel we know to a certain degree, even if we don't. It's the weird dichotomy of someone who seems so fake and false and yet allows an audience a voyeuristic intimacy that you can only get with reality and amateur porn stars. She's disgustingly close, yet forever intangible (mostly due to her lack of substance)
In the tradition of its predecessors, wax here, is a symbolic substance, both equating uncontrollable emotions and its artificial means of containment. Solid wax is the veneer that coats decomposing bodies and rotting flesh, pain and shattered dreams. Melting wax is passion taking hold of the senses. Wax is mudlike, fleshlike, it glows and yet it is opaque. Wax is the substance that most reselmbles the soft glow and pliability of human skin. And just so you know, all the wax in this film is real. It is incredible to see it being molded over still living bodies and at various stages of solidity. It drips, it bends, it cracks, all the textures run into eachother in the great finale.
This whole movie is about veneers and the nature of what we see. The House of Wax is really made entirely of wax. The wax in the film is all real. The consentual reality of story anf actors is a willing illusion we engage in as viewers. The wax people in the town look real and actually are real dead people(live actors) encased in wax. Wax figures have the uncanny quality of not really looking dead or alive.
In the original 1933 Mistery of the wax Museum, there is a very disturbing and erotic scene, far ahead of its time, with Fay Wray, bound, on her back, being showered with hot wax, while she screams and strugles to no avail. It is impossible for one not to think, in this context, that the hot dripping, spraying wax does not resemble another white substance often seen sprayed at women in certain types of 'films'. Much hotter, I've gotta say, than the Paris Hilton blow job or sex tape.
As a lead, Elisha Cuthbert is a very lively presence. She fights tooth and nail while being bound, maimed and even having her lips glued shut with superglue. She kicks ass and looks great doing it. The little town is definitelly very creepy and abandoned looking. It is like a mosoleum with electricity. Never mind that a house made entirely of wax could probably not survive in the sun or perpetually lit candles within, it looks freakin awesome, especially at the bottom level where there are faces coming out of the walls and it seems like something out of Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but in wax.
I had alot of fun with this movie. It is genuinely creepy, it moves along at a good pace, it takes its time to build atmosphere, so that by the time all the shit starts going down you are definitely weirded out and geared up for the mayham. I cannot believe some of the trully disgusting images of decayed corpses at various stages and once again, the wax effects, which are beautiful, cinematic, trippy and terrifying. It's definitelly an experience worth having.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
I can't believe I'm about to say this, but...
...Paris Hilton is one of the things that makes this film (yes, I called a movie a film in that snobby esoteric way) great cheese. And, it's one of the reasons I adore it. All you haters can suck it! House of Wax 2005 is better than the original classic.
"Oh no he didn't!" you might be saying.
Oh yes, I did.
Sorry I'm talking like this, but anytime I think about something featuring a performance by Paris Hilton my IQ drops. Whatev.
But there in lies the genius of this film. If you go into a horror film with your brain full, you're going to end up sorely disappointed. You just have to check your expectations at the door. You have to suspend disbelief. If you do that, you open up your mind to what's genuinely good, bad, and so bad it's good within the horror genre. The casting of Paris Hilton is both genius and wryly funny, and that's just one element that House of Wax '05 has going for it. People decry the film for featuring the heiress. She's not that bad of an actress (I mean, she faked it on that video, right?) and even if she isn't she's the perfect mold for the horror movie - there's always the dumb blonde nympho you just know is going to get slaughtered. And who better to slaughter than Paris Hilton? (Okay, Perez Hilton would have worked, too). But from minute one, you're awaiting that to happen...as it does in every horror film. It's perfection. You know that caricature character in every horror film. You know she's going to bite it, just like you know the black guy's going to die-off first.
But besides that little slice, there's so much more cooking here. For example, the cast is a quality horror film cast. Elisha Cuthbert is a nice diversion from the Tara Reid-wannabes that were clogging the horror flicks of this time. And yes, the film is nowhere near as classy as the original. It's different, decidedly eerier and creepier - it's no easy task to make a town with no pay phones spooky in this age of cell phones...but they do it. I'm sorry to our redneck readers, but rednecks are creepy as fuck. I know that "Deliverence" does not apply to the redneck or hillbilly nation as a whole, but small, Southern-fired towns scare the piss out of me.
Regardless of what you think - and that's the problem - House of Wax exists as high-grade camp, but still offers a few scares and paranoia. But let's not forget...Paris Hilton fucking bites it. And really, wouldn't that improve every horror film?
"Oh no he didn't!" you might be saying.
Oh yes, I did.
Sorry I'm talking like this, but anytime I think about something featuring a performance by Paris Hilton my IQ drops. Whatev.
But there in lies the genius of this film. If you go into a horror film with your brain full, you're going to end up sorely disappointed. You just have to check your expectations at the door. You have to suspend disbelief. If you do that, you open up your mind to what's genuinely good, bad, and so bad it's good within the horror genre. The casting of Paris Hilton is both genius and wryly funny, and that's just one element that House of Wax '05 has going for it. People decry the film for featuring the heiress. She's not that bad of an actress (I mean, she faked it on that video, right?) and even if she isn't she's the perfect mold for the horror movie - there's always the dumb blonde nympho you just know is going to get slaughtered. And who better to slaughter than Paris Hilton? (Okay, Perez Hilton would have worked, too). But from minute one, you're awaiting that to happen...as it does in every horror film. It's perfection. You know that caricature character in every horror film. You know she's going to bite it, just like you know the black guy's going to die-off first.
But besides that little slice, there's so much more cooking here. For example, the cast is a quality horror film cast. Elisha Cuthbert is a nice diversion from the Tara Reid-wannabes that were clogging the horror flicks of this time. And yes, the film is nowhere near as classy as the original. It's different, decidedly eerier and creepier - it's no easy task to make a town with no pay phones spooky in this age of cell phones...but they do it. I'm sorry to our redneck readers, but rednecks are creepy as fuck. I know that "Deliverence" does not apply to the redneck or hillbilly nation as a whole, but small, Southern-fired towns scare the piss out of me.
Regardless of what you think - and that's the problem - House of Wax exists as high-grade camp, but still offers a few scares and paranoia. But let's not forget...Paris Hilton fucking bites it. And really, wouldn't that improve every horror film?
Does It Suck: House of Wax (2005)
After suffering through Slashed Dreams, I was glad to get back to work on my passion project, the wax museum I run with old friends Vincent Price and Lionel Atwill. This wax museum was a place of tolerance and goodness, one where people were welcome regardless of how strange, how perverted or who sad they might have seemed to the outside world. There was free ice cream for the children and an intricately made wax giant monster zoo with actual size wax replicas of King Kong and other horror fauna. We were raising money to fight a form cancer that only occurred in particularly adorable puppies. Yes, the wax museum was a place of goodness and light where vintage horror appreciation would pave the way for a better future. Or so we thought.
Yesterday, Leza came in holding a chihuahua. Jordan was standing beside her with a gas can and next to them was guest contributor, Eric Mays author of Naked Metamorphosis and creator of the Authors Speak interview series.
"I come from the boss lady," Leza said.
This made no sense to me.
"What the fuck are you talking about? Did you buy expired box wine again?"
Lionel entered, head hanging. He was wearing his "Wax Sculptoff to End Domestic Violence" t-shirt.
"Garrett, I'm sorry," he said, "Vincent and I..."
Lionel was interrupted by the arrival of an excited Vincent.
"Hey guys! I just realized that we could put inner city gang members to work sculpting wax figures and it would increase their self esteem!" He turned white as a sheet when he saw the three visitors. "Uh oh."
I glared at my partners.
"What is this about, guys?"
Lionel sighed.
"Well, you remember how last week I lent all my money to John Barrymore?"
"Yeah, and?"
Vincent placed a hand on my shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Garrett, but a wax museum has overhead, particularly one with a snow leopard AIDS prevention lab."
"We sold our shares to Paris Hilton," said Lionel. He was starting to cry.
"But I thought we were turning a profit!"
"We are," said Lionel, face in hands, "but Paris Hilton doesn't understand math."
"Yeah," said Eric Mays, "so that's why we're burning your pretty little wax museum to the ground!"
Jordan highfived him. It was the evilest high five I had ever seen.
"Leza, you've got to stop this!" I begged her.
"I didn't like the original," she replied, "and the Vincent Price one couldn't be that great."
The thugs dumped out the gas can, laughing on their way out and dropping a lit match. My wax museum, my partners and the hope for HIV positive snow leopards went up in flames. I was hideously scarred, forced to wear a wax impression of my face, but I was live and bound and determined to get Paris Hilton for what she had done to me and vintage horror.
House of Wax (2005) is a travesty. Turning a turn of the century gothic classic into another brand x piece of redneck horror is sickening. It's akin to making The Man Who Laughs into a straight-to-video American Pie sequel. The plot makes barely any sense, the notion of a wax town surviving the elements for so long confuses the fuck out of me, and oh yeah, Paris Hilton is involved. Does anything about this make it sound like an even remotely good idea? Will there be a Doctor X remake set at a naughty sorority house and starring Kim Kardashian in the Fay Wray role...well, that might be kind of sexy. Forget I said that. Paris fucking Hilton, playing a part originated for Fay Wray...it's gross. 2005 was a bad enough year for Fay Wray with charisma challenged Kidman clone Naomi Watts taking over her part, causing the infamous Watts Riots. Hilton believes she is the iconic sex symbol blondes of all time and stealing the spotlight from Fay Wray shows just how deeply set this delusion is.
Paris thinks this because she does something that this generation of filmmakers and filmgoers does often: she patronizes the past. "It occurred before me and I am awesome, so therefore it must be inferior". Filmmakers and some misguided horror fans think that because the pacing is slower and because the films are pre-gore vintage horror is impossible for this generation to relate to. Madness, perversity and a feeling of otherness are universal and films like Mystery of the Wax Museum, Phantom of the Opera, The Black Cat, The Raven and Doctor X are some of the finest vehicles for these themes. We of the 21st century are the ugly Americans of the space time continuum, thinking "our century right or wrong" and threatening the 1930s with beatings if they try to creep into our homogeneous historical neighborhood. Nonsensical assemblyline garbage like House of Wax hurt our ability to relate to and understand our cinematic past. Not to mention, letting Paris Hilton act. She doesn't even give a convincing blowjob.
So I ask you, Dollarbin Massacre contributors: House of Wax (2005), does it suck?
Yesterday, Leza came in holding a chihuahua. Jordan was standing beside her with a gas can and next to them was guest contributor, Eric Mays author of Naked Metamorphosis and creator of the Authors Speak interview series.
"I come from the boss lady," Leza said.
This made no sense to me.
"What the fuck are you talking about? Did you buy expired box wine again?"
Lionel entered, head hanging. He was wearing his "Wax Sculptoff to End Domestic Violence" t-shirt.
"Garrett, I'm sorry," he said, "Vincent and I..."
Lionel was interrupted by the arrival of an excited Vincent.
"Hey guys! I just realized that we could put inner city gang members to work sculpting wax figures and it would increase their self esteem!" He turned white as a sheet when he saw the three visitors. "Uh oh."
I glared at my partners.
"What is this about, guys?"
Lionel sighed.
"Well, you remember how last week I lent all my money to John Barrymore?"
"Yeah, and?"
Vincent placed a hand on my shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Garrett, but a wax museum has overhead, particularly one with a snow leopard AIDS prevention lab."
"We sold our shares to Paris Hilton," said Lionel. He was starting to cry.
"But I thought we were turning a profit!"
"We are," said Lionel, face in hands, "but Paris Hilton doesn't understand math."
"Yeah," said Eric Mays, "so that's why we're burning your pretty little wax museum to the ground!"
Jordan highfived him. It was the evilest high five I had ever seen.
"Leza, you've got to stop this!" I begged her.
"I didn't like the original," she replied, "and the Vincent Price one couldn't be that great."
The thugs dumped out the gas can, laughing on their way out and dropping a lit match. My wax museum, my partners and the hope for HIV positive snow leopards went up in flames. I was hideously scarred, forced to wear a wax impression of my face, but I was live and bound and determined to get Paris Hilton for what she had done to me and vintage horror.
House of Wax (2005) is a travesty. Turning a turn of the century gothic classic into another brand x piece of redneck horror is sickening. It's akin to making The Man Who Laughs into a straight-to-video American Pie sequel. The plot makes barely any sense, the notion of a wax town surviving the elements for so long confuses the fuck out of me, and oh yeah, Paris Hilton is involved. Does anything about this make it sound like an even remotely good idea? Will there be a Doctor X remake set at a naughty sorority house and starring Kim Kardashian in the Fay Wray role...well, that might be kind of sexy. Forget I said that. Paris fucking Hilton, playing a part originated for Fay Wray...it's gross. 2005 was a bad enough year for Fay Wray with charisma challenged Kidman clone Naomi Watts taking over her part, causing the infamous Watts Riots. Hilton believes she is the iconic sex symbol blondes of all time and stealing the spotlight from Fay Wray shows just how deeply set this delusion is.
Paris thinks this because she does something that this generation of filmmakers and filmgoers does often: she patronizes the past. "It occurred before me and I am awesome, so therefore it must be inferior". Filmmakers and some misguided horror fans think that because the pacing is slower and because the films are pre-gore vintage horror is impossible for this generation to relate to. Madness, perversity and a feeling of otherness are universal and films like Mystery of the Wax Museum, Phantom of the Opera, The Black Cat, The Raven and Doctor X are some of the finest vehicles for these themes. We of the 21st century are the ugly Americans of the space time continuum, thinking "our century right or wrong" and threatening the 1930s with beatings if they try to creep into our homogeneous historical neighborhood. Nonsensical assemblyline garbage like House of Wax hurt our ability to relate to and understand our cinematic past. Not to mention, letting Paris Hilton act. She doesn't even give a convincing blowjob.
So I ask you, Dollarbin Massacre contributors: House of Wax (2005), does it suck?
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Slashed Dreams-Leave Your Brain at the Door
James Polakof is the Leni Riefenstahl of hippie propaganda. His opus, Slashed Dreams (previously titled even more oddly: Sunburst. WTF!) is a chilling glimpse into an addled and twisted mind (probably damaged by years of negligent liquid acid consumption like the infamous and lovable (not really) Marlboro College Film Teacher and independent filmmaker Jay Craven).
Nothing could be more unsettling, and to top it all, an ancient and creepy Rudy Vallee, who is some kinda schitzophrenic candy fanatic is the only voice of forewarning to two guilless teens on their visionquest to the mountains.
What could be sadder, what could be worse...
...To be raped after you finally make love for the first time in your life (with your bestest friend ever, no less), to be told to just get over it by your absentminded hippie buddy(the tragically miscast Robert Englund) , who you thought was the hippest cat ever 'cause he left your lame-ass school to go live in the mountains in a wood cabin, as he offers you some fucking tea and bitches about his itchy leg(he had a run in with some poisoned oak, poor baby). Oh, fuck me gently with a chansaw! ( please do, it might relieve the boredom)
This movie is torture. It makes you want to cut yourself or step on baby bunnies just to relieve the gut wrenching sensation of your mind turning to goo.
I've had my suspicions about Garrett's sanity(suspicions, come on, who's leg am I trying to pull here), but Jordan Krall really seemed like a cool guy. When Garrett told me he wanted to see this movie next, I wondered to myself who had the biggest brain tumor of the two.
Garrett has been trying to get me to see this stupid movie ever since he gave up on making me watch The Manipulator(I'm probably gonna have to watch it now anyway, since we have this site, though, dammit!). He kept saying how cool it was that Robert Englund is this chill hippie guy who counsels this girl who gets raped. How it's so ironic and strange. He was like "It's like if I Spit on Your Grave was an after school special."
Not really sure what he meant by that, and not really caring, I refused to watch it repeatedly until Jordan Krall decided it might be neat to review this shit pile of a movie. Thanks Jordan. I owe ya one.
If you like lengthy hiking montages to ear bleeding muzak and no plot you'll love this movie. If you think Freddy Krueger is lame, you'll love this movie. If you like fake hippie dialogue, you'll love it too. If you think that fucking someone you love will inevitably lead to rape, you'll love this movie. The list of uninteresting features is long, and I could go on, but I am already bored about being bored about this movie. So I will be brief and brutally honest.
Leza's Official Summary of Slashed Dreams:
Butterface girl frolics naked in lake (don't get too excited, you can't see shit even though it's broad daylight and I'm pretty sure she actually is naked), makes flaccid love to okay-looking guy, gets briefly and halfheartedly raped and slapped around by an ornery-looking, self-obsessed chatterbox, gets some comfrey and pep talk from an absentminded hippie douche and then some amateurish ax weilding transpires.
I want my fucking 74 minutes back! I swear to God, I am not watching this freakin movie again. Even if Jordan Krall threatens me at knifepoint while shoving licorice nips down my throat!
Nothing could be more unsettling, and to top it all, an ancient and creepy Rudy Vallee, who is some kinda schitzophrenic candy fanatic is the only voice of forewarning to two guilless teens on their visionquest to the mountains.
What could be sadder, what could be worse...
...To be raped after you finally make love for the first time in your life (with your bestest friend ever, no less), to be told to just get over it by your absentminded hippie buddy(the tragically miscast Robert Englund) , who you thought was the hippest cat ever 'cause he left your lame-ass school to go live in the mountains in a wood cabin, as he offers you some fucking tea and bitches about his itchy leg(he had a run in with some poisoned oak, poor baby). Oh, fuck me gently with a chansaw! ( please do, it might relieve the boredom)
This movie is torture. It makes you want to cut yourself or step on baby bunnies just to relieve the gut wrenching sensation of your mind turning to goo.
I've had my suspicions about Garrett's sanity(suspicions, come on, who's leg am I trying to pull here), but Jordan Krall really seemed like a cool guy. When Garrett told me he wanted to see this movie next, I wondered to myself who had the biggest brain tumor of the two.
Garrett has been trying to get me to see this stupid movie ever since he gave up on making me watch The Manipulator(I'm probably gonna have to watch it now anyway, since we have this site, though, dammit!). He kept saying how cool it was that Robert Englund is this chill hippie guy who counsels this girl who gets raped. How it's so ironic and strange. He was like "It's like if I Spit on Your Grave was an after school special."
Not really sure what he meant by that, and not really caring, I refused to watch it repeatedly until Jordan Krall decided it might be neat to review this shit pile of a movie. Thanks Jordan. I owe ya one.
If you like lengthy hiking montages to ear bleeding muzak and no plot you'll love this movie. If you think Freddy Krueger is lame, you'll love this movie. If you like fake hippie dialogue, you'll love it too. If you think that fucking someone you love will inevitably lead to rape, you'll love this movie. The list of uninteresting features is long, and I could go on, but I am already bored about being bored about this movie. So I will be brief and brutally honest.
Leza's Official Summary of Slashed Dreams:
Butterface girl frolics naked in lake (don't get too excited, you can't see shit even though it's broad daylight and I'm pretty sure she actually is naked), makes flaccid love to okay-looking guy, gets briefly and halfheartedly raped and slapped around by an ornery-looking, self-obsessed chatterbox, gets some comfrey and pep talk from an absentminded hippie douche and then some amateurish ax weilding transpires.
I want my fucking 74 minutes back! I swear to God, I am not watching this freakin movie again. Even if Jordan Krall threatens me at knifepoint while shoving licorice nips down my throat!
The Bear Necessities
"Wow," I thought at Best Buy two years ago,"Chilling Classics has A Bucket of Blood, Driller Killer and Bad Taste. Some other cool shit too, it seems."
"I hope this doesn't have as many shitty things on it as Drive-in Classics," said Leza in the check-out line.
"There's a lot of good stuff on Drive-in Classics."
"I guess you're right," said Leza.
When we got home, I eagerly opened up the new box of weirdass cinematic treasures. Over time I would find about twenty six of these to be kinda watchable. At that moment, however, Slashed Dreams caught my eye.
"Hey, there's a rape revenge thing with Robert Englund," I said.
"That sounds really unplesaant," said Leza. So we watched Bad Taste instead. But of course, the next time I was home alone, I had to check out Slashed Dreams. I thought perhaps my brain would come oozing out of my ears. What the hell? Preppy college students going to visit their hippy friend? This is the film? I was pretty pissed off. I got over my disappointment to try and show it to Leza. We didn't watch it. Not until a couple weeks ago. I laughed my ass off, Leza fell asleep. But not before telling me she hated me for this.
When I told Leza that Jordan had suggested Slashed Dreams, she was a little bit irate, but, I argued, it was certainly strange and offputting and we shouldn't just review movies that we think are super cool. And this was as far from a movie we thought was supercool as we could get. But then, I noticed something. When the protagonists of the film prepare to visit their friend on the mountain, they go to a general store. At the general store, they encounter Francoamerican singing sensation Rudy Vallee. Suspicious, sketchy, eager to sell them a knife or make them eat gross candy...this man was awfully sketchy in that Lynchian kind of way in which a person is horrifying that doesn't need to be horrifying. He acts like the gatekeeper of a whole new realm of menace, the man who warns them a la Crazy Ralph from Friday the 13th, that they are about to leave their whitebread world and enter a realm of terror. They should have bought that knife. They should have taken more candy. They should have followed the rules.
. A few minutes after the college kids start traveling up the mountain, the scariest thing in the film occurs. They are menaced by a bear. The bear seems innocent and cute, but at the same time, he wants to get in their way, to deprive them of their lifeforce. I had to wonder what this bear symbolized, until suddenly, it struck me, the bear was Rudy Vallee. And he had taken their snacks since they were not willing to take his or to stand up for themselves with the knife he offered to sell them. I thought perhaps this might be a bit critical of their bear protocol, so I had to consult my friend Bizarro author and bear expert Mykle Hansen, author of The Rampaging Fuckers of Everything on the Crazy Shitting Planet of the Vomit Atmosphere. I asked him five questions and here is how he responded:
1. If a bear wants your snacks, should you relinquish them or should you fight for them?
You should definitely fight for them if you are in a horror film. If you are in a
sensitive romantic date film, you should just hand over the snacks, allowing
your eyes to meet the bear's briefly, furtively, exchanging unspoken promises.
If you are in a film about being raped, you should close your eyes, bend over
and think of Werner Herzog.
2. What do you do if the bear doesn't like your snacks?
Sometimes bears are picky eaters. It helps to arrange the snacks in
an eye-pleasing manner, perhaps on a "Smøegma" bamboo-veneer serving
platter from Ikea, or, alternately, a log. Also, be aware that some
bears have food sensitivities. For instance, urban black bears
may prefer rotten food, whereas the polar bear only eats animals that
scream and thrash about when bitten. If the bear "turns up its nose" at your
snack offerings, try not to take it personally. You might consider
letting the bear rape you instead, as a way to reduce awkwardness.
3.What if the bear is actually singing sensation Rudy Vallee?
First, determine whether you are dealing with an immature
Rudy Vallee "cub" or with a full-grown adult. The former can
be discouraged with a sharp whack across the snout with a
tenor saxophone. The latter will not be discouraged by anything
smaller than a baritone.
4.Could Rudy Vallee play saxophone in bear form?
It is a widely-held misconception that bears cannot play the
saxophone. Circus animal trainers have in fact taught these clever,
versatile creatures a panoply of legitimate job skills including
woodwind and brass instruments, piano, tympani, unicycle,
swordfighting, balancing on a ball, dancing in a tutu, and raping
and dismembering a circus animal trainer.
5.Do you think Rudy Vallee controls his transformation like Apache Chief or a Viking berserker can? Or is it some kind of curse?
Excellent question! As you know, Rudy Vallee is a man of
many moods -- many of them documented in his breakthrough
1947 album "The Many Moods of Rudy Vallee." In fact,
moodiness was a cornerstone of Vallee's unique "crooning" style.
If one of Rudy's moods is a transmogrifying-into-a-rapist-bear
mood, or even a morphing-into-a-towering-robotic-saxophone-
and-humping-the-Pompidou-Center mood, can he be blamed?
Certain modern phrenologists define all "moods" to be mild forms
of mental illness, a disease to be cured by pills with names like
"Friendlax" or "Mediocra"; call me old fashioned, but I prefer to
be swept away in the moment. So I cried during the trailer for
the Karate Kid remake -- does that make me "sick" or
"dangerous" or a "lycanthropic sex-beast?" Sure, okay, I may
have raped one or two children afterwards, but it's not like I do
that every day. I may have "moods," but they don't control me.
Besides, all Girl Scouts are sluts.
But anyway, I guess the honest answer is "yes and no."
So, you see? Mykle Hansen, author of Eyeheart Everything cottons to this theory and we all know from the world of academia that if you can quote somebody on something it becomes empirically true. It's a moment of sheer terror as the heroes see the price for violating the covenant with the bear. They stumble blindly, traumatized by the loss of snacks and then there's some unpleasantness with a local frenchman and Robert Englund offers them tea. So, if you want to see dreams slashed by the talons of nature's vengeance, see Slashed Dreams.
Or don't, because I'm completely bullshitting you. This is the dullest movie ever made. Even if Rudy Vallee had shapeshifting powers, he wouldn't use them for this movie. The only thing you can get out of this is a halfassed rape scene, a couple halfassed nude scenes and a halfassed hatchet attack, which I didn't even think was possible. And then there's a halfassed epiphany after Robert Englund comforts the halfassed heroine of this halfassed movie over tea. I'm just lucky that I got over watching this movie with a cup of herbal tea and a little help from my friends.
"I hope this doesn't have as many shitty things on it as Drive-in Classics," said Leza in the check-out line.
"There's a lot of good stuff on Drive-in Classics."
"I guess you're right," said Leza.
When we got home, I eagerly opened up the new box of weirdass cinematic treasures. Over time I would find about twenty six of these to be kinda watchable. At that moment, however, Slashed Dreams caught my eye.
"Hey, there's a rape revenge thing with Robert Englund," I said.
"That sounds really unplesaant," said Leza. So we watched Bad Taste instead. But of course, the next time I was home alone, I had to check out Slashed Dreams. I thought perhaps my brain would come oozing out of my ears. What the hell? Preppy college students going to visit their hippy friend? This is the film? I was pretty pissed off. I got over my disappointment to try and show it to Leza. We didn't watch it. Not until a couple weeks ago. I laughed my ass off, Leza fell asleep. But not before telling me she hated me for this.
When I told Leza that Jordan had suggested Slashed Dreams, she was a little bit irate, but, I argued, it was certainly strange and offputting and we shouldn't just review movies that we think are super cool. And this was as far from a movie we thought was supercool as we could get. But then, I noticed something. When the protagonists of the film prepare to visit their friend on the mountain, they go to a general store. At the general store, they encounter Francoamerican singing sensation Rudy Vallee. Suspicious, sketchy, eager to sell them a knife or make them eat gross candy...this man was awfully sketchy in that Lynchian kind of way in which a person is horrifying that doesn't need to be horrifying. He acts like the gatekeeper of a whole new realm of menace, the man who warns them a la Crazy Ralph from Friday the 13th, that they are about to leave their whitebread world and enter a realm of terror. They should have bought that knife. They should have taken more candy. They should have followed the rules.
. A few minutes after the college kids start traveling up the mountain, the scariest thing in the film occurs. They are menaced by a bear. The bear seems innocent and cute, but at the same time, he wants to get in their way, to deprive them of their lifeforce. I had to wonder what this bear symbolized, until suddenly, it struck me, the bear was Rudy Vallee. And he had taken their snacks since they were not willing to take his or to stand up for themselves with the knife he offered to sell them. I thought perhaps this might be a bit critical of their bear protocol, so I had to consult my friend Bizarro author and bear expert Mykle Hansen, author of The Rampaging Fuckers of Everything on the Crazy Shitting Planet of the Vomit Atmosphere. I asked him five questions and here is how he responded:
1. If a bear wants your snacks, should you relinquish them or should you fight for them?
You should definitely fight for them if you are in a horror film. If you are in a
sensitive romantic date film, you should just hand over the snacks, allowing
your eyes to meet the bear's briefly, furtively, exchanging unspoken promises.
If you are in a film about being raped, you should close your eyes, bend over
and think of Werner Herzog.
2. What do you do if the bear doesn't like your snacks?
Sometimes bears are picky eaters. It helps to arrange the snacks in
an eye-pleasing manner, perhaps on a "Smøegma" bamboo-veneer serving
platter from Ikea, or, alternately, a log. Also, be aware that some
bears have food sensitivities. For instance, urban black bears
may prefer rotten food, whereas the polar bear only eats animals that
scream and thrash about when bitten. If the bear "turns up its nose" at your
snack offerings, try not to take it personally. You might consider
letting the bear rape you instead, as a way to reduce awkwardness.
3.What if the bear is actually singing sensation Rudy Vallee?
First, determine whether you are dealing with an immature
Rudy Vallee "cub" or with a full-grown adult. The former can
be discouraged with a sharp whack across the snout with a
tenor saxophone. The latter will not be discouraged by anything
smaller than a baritone.
4.Could Rudy Vallee play saxophone in bear form?
It is a widely-held misconception that bears cannot play the
saxophone. Circus animal trainers have in fact taught these clever,
versatile creatures a panoply of legitimate job skills including
woodwind and brass instruments, piano, tympani, unicycle,
swordfighting, balancing on a ball, dancing in a tutu, and raping
and dismembering a circus animal trainer.
5.Do you think Rudy Vallee controls his transformation like Apache Chief or a Viking berserker can? Or is it some kind of curse?
Excellent question! As you know, Rudy Vallee is a man of
many moods -- many of them documented in his breakthrough
1947 album "The Many Moods of Rudy Vallee." In fact,
moodiness was a cornerstone of Vallee's unique "crooning" style.
If one of Rudy's moods is a transmogrifying-into-a-rapist-bear
mood, or even a morphing-into-a-towering-robotic-saxophone-
and-humping-the-Pompidou-Center mood, can he be blamed?
Certain modern phrenologists define all "moods" to be mild forms
of mental illness, a disease to be cured by pills with names like
"Friendlax" or "Mediocra"; call me old fashioned, but I prefer to
be swept away in the moment. So I cried during the trailer for
the Karate Kid remake -- does that make me "sick" or
"dangerous" or a "lycanthropic sex-beast?" Sure, okay, I may
have raped one or two children afterwards, but it's not like I do
that every day. I may have "moods," but they don't control me.
Besides, all Girl Scouts are sluts.
But anyway, I guess the honest answer is "yes and no."
So, you see? Mykle Hansen, author of Eyeheart Everything cottons to this theory and we all know from the world of academia that if you can quote somebody on something it becomes empirically true. It's a moment of sheer terror as the heroes see the price for violating the covenant with the bear. They stumble blindly, traumatized by the loss of snacks and then there's some unpleasantness with a local frenchman and Robert Englund offers them tea. So, if you want to see dreams slashed by the talons of nature's vengeance, see Slashed Dreams.
Or don't, because I'm completely bullshitting you. This is the dullest movie ever made. Even if Rudy Vallee had shapeshifting powers, he wouldn't use them for this movie. The only thing you can get out of this is a halfassed rape scene, a couple halfassed nude scenes and a halfassed hatchet attack, which I didn't even think was possible. And then there's a halfassed epiphany after Robert Englund comforts the halfassed heroine of this halfassed movie over tea. I'm just lucky that I got over watching this movie with a cup of herbal tea and a little help from my friends.
Robert Englund, Rape Counselor (SLASHED DREAMS, 1975)
Remember the trick that Tarantino used in DEATH PROOF where the original title of the movie is sloppily covered by a new one? Well, SLASHED DREAMS uses the same trick but in this case, it’s a sincere attempt to cash in on Robert Englund’s success 9 years later in A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET. The distributors must have thought to themselves, “Hey… we have this movie sitting around and even though it has NOTHING to do with slashing or dreams, it does have Robert Englund. We can make some cash on this motherfucker.”
So they changed the title from SUNBURST (which is a weird fucking title to begin with) to SLASHED DREAMS and so cue the sappy 70s music complete with annoying female vocals.
And what we get is a movie that is pretty much the opposite of A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET.
On the bright side, Peter Hooten is in it. Who’s Peter Hooten? He not only starred in the original THE INGLORIOUS BASTARDS but also the DR. STRANGE tv movie from 1978. He’s like a cross between Billy Zane and Thomas Ian Griffith (who played Terry Silver in the KARATE KID PART III) but with curly hair.
Having been made in that great year that is 1975, SLASHED DREAMS relies on heavy themes like “purpose” and “roots” and “nature” and the “meaning of life” …all that pseudo hippie crap. Robert Englund plays a guy who dropped out of college to live in a shack in the woods. For most of the movie we only hear ABOUT him. Having a look at the college he dropped out of (the University of Lame?), that was a wise decision. What an embarrassing time capsule of college life in the mid 70s.
I’ve watched this three times. Why? Well, the first time I watched it, it was out of pure curiosity. The second time was so I could pretend that it was really Billy Zane in the movie in Peter Hooten’s role. The third time I pretended that it was really Thomas Ian Griffith in the role and that he taught Cobra Kai karate to Robert Englund so he can fight bears.
Back to the “movie”… look out for the stoned hippie at the Shell Gas Station eighteen minutes into the film. It may seem like a unnecessary shot but in fact, the director is giving us something to think about. What that is, I’m not sure but I know it’s there. I can just FEEL it.
So what the hell is the movie about? Peter Hooten takes his girl into the woods to look for their friend played by Robert Englund so they could see how he’s doing because, like I said, he dropped out of college to, you know, “find himself” or some shit.
That’s it. That’s the fucking premise. On the way they meet a creepy general store own played by the famous Rudy Vallee who you might remember from the brilliant 1947 epic THE SINS OF HAROLD DIDDLEBOCK (Criterion Edition due out in 2011). Valle also not only runs the general store but he sings musical numbers to invisible guests in the back room. Oh, and he also acts like a really fucking creepy candyman who insists Peter Hooten and his girl have some licorice nips. “Let them melt gently in your mouth,” he says right before giving them a knife.
Oh, and how can I forget. There’s a bear. A real bear. I would’ve preferred a guy in a bear suit but hey, they tried. Nothing really happens so it’s sort of anticlimactic but I guess if you can rent a bear for a few hours, you might as well put it in.
Then there’s lots of frolicking, “nature is great” shit while terrible music plays on the soundtrack. It’s mind-numbing but for some reason, it makes me feel all sweet and safe inside as if my organs turned into cotton candy and licorice nips.
Not too long after all that frolicking come the obligatory backwoods hicks. Really, the hicks, this cinematic threat, are just two guys who look like they just stepped out of any 60s-70s biker flick.
Then there’s the rape. Yeah, those scumbags rape the chick. I know what you’re thinking: Where the fuck is Robert Englund? Shouldn’t he jump in to save the day with his knife-fingers? Nah. He’s not there yet.
We have to wait for nearly and hour and then finally: ROBERT ENGLUND!
And so, in his really shitty nature shack, Englund counsels the girl. The botton line to his counseling boiling down to, “You gotta let go of the itch, forget about the scratchin’”
He tries to get a girl to accept her rape as fate, learn from it, blah blah blah. At the time, I’m sure it made a whole lot of sense but in hindsight, considering everything Robert Englund has done and the trauma that getting raped would bring, it’s a true WTF moment.
In case you’re wondering, yes, there is a half-assed revenge scene. Peter Hooten goes after the hicks who raped his girl but with pretty pathetic results. It boils down to a mud-covered tie and the hicks get to walk away. Big deal, right?
A big mistake of the “filmmakers’ is not exploiting the backwoods concept. Where are the cannibals? Where are the psycho slashers? Shit, they dropped the ball on this one.
Anyway, I started writing this blog entry thinking I might just defend this as a good movie to watch while having some beers but now I’m actually getting angry at it. This is pure lazy film-making even for 1975. I would have liked if they kept the title as SUNBURST and then have the movie end in some sort of apocalyptic explosion, the sun burning the earth, leaving only Robert Englund and his shack to survive. And maybe the bear. Yeah, definitely the bear.
So they changed the title from SUNBURST (which is a weird fucking title to begin with) to SLASHED DREAMS and so cue the sappy 70s music complete with annoying female vocals.
And what we get is a movie that is pretty much the opposite of A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET.
On the bright side, Peter Hooten is in it. Who’s Peter Hooten? He not only starred in the original THE INGLORIOUS BASTARDS but also the DR. STRANGE tv movie from 1978. He’s like a cross between Billy Zane and Thomas Ian Griffith (who played Terry Silver in the KARATE KID PART III) but with curly hair.
Having been made in that great year that is 1975, SLASHED DREAMS relies on heavy themes like “purpose” and “roots” and “nature” and the “meaning of life” …all that pseudo hippie crap. Robert Englund plays a guy who dropped out of college to live in a shack in the woods. For most of the movie we only hear ABOUT him. Having a look at the college he dropped out of (the University of Lame?), that was a wise decision. What an embarrassing time capsule of college life in the mid 70s.
I’ve watched this three times. Why? Well, the first time I watched it, it was out of pure curiosity. The second time was so I could pretend that it was really Billy Zane in the movie in Peter Hooten’s role. The third time I pretended that it was really Thomas Ian Griffith in the role and that he taught Cobra Kai karate to Robert Englund so he can fight bears.
Back to the “movie”… look out for the stoned hippie at the Shell Gas Station eighteen minutes into the film. It may seem like a unnecessary shot but in fact, the director is giving us something to think about. What that is, I’m not sure but I know it’s there. I can just FEEL it.
So what the hell is the movie about? Peter Hooten takes his girl into the woods to look for their friend played by Robert Englund so they could see how he’s doing because, like I said, he dropped out of college to, you know, “find himself” or some shit.
That’s it. That’s the fucking premise. On the way they meet a creepy general store own played by the famous Rudy Vallee who you might remember from the brilliant 1947 epic THE SINS OF HAROLD DIDDLEBOCK (Criterion Edition due out in 2011). Valle also not only runs the general store but he sings musical numbers to invisible guests in the back room. Oh, and he also acts like a really fucking creepy candyman who insists Peter Hooten and his girl have some licorice nips. “Let them melt gently in your mouth,” he says right before giving them a knife.
Oh, and how can I forget. There’s a bear. A real bear. I would’ve preferred a guy in a bear suit but hey, they tried. Nothing really happens so it’s sort of anticlimactic but I guess if you can rent a bear for a few hours, you might as well put it in.
Then there’s lots of frolicking, “nature is great” shit while terrible music plays on the soundtrack. It’s mind-numbing but for some reason, it makes me feel all sweet and safe inside as if my organs turned into cotton candy and licorice nips.
Not too long after all that frolicking come the obligatory backwoods hicks. Really, the hicks, this cinematic threat, are just two guys who look like they just stepped out of any 60s-70s biker flick.
Then there’s the rape. Yeah, those scumbags rape the chick. I know what you’re thinking: Where the fuck is Robert Englund? Shouldn’t he jump in to save the day with his knife-fingers? Nah. He’s not there yet.
We have to wait for nearly and hour and then finally: ROBERT ENGLUND!
And so, in his really shitty nature shack, Englund counsels the girl. The botton line to his counseling boiling down to, “You gotta let go of the itch, forget about the scratchin’”
He tries to get a girl to accept her rape as fate, learn from it, blah blah blah. At the time, I’m sure it made a whole lot of sense but in hindsight, considering everything Robert Englund has done and the trauma that getting raped would bring, it’s a true WTF moment.
In case you’re wondering, yes, there is a half-assed revenge scene. Peter Hooten goes after the hicks who raped his girl but with pretty pathetic results. It boils down to a mud-covered tie and the hicks get to walk away. Big deal, right?
A big mistake of the “filmmakers’ is not exploiting the backwoods concept. Where are the cannibals? Where are the psycho slashers? Shit, they dropped the ball on this one.
Anyway, I started writing this blog entry thinking I might just defend this as a good movie to watch while having some beers but now I’m actually getting angry at it. This is pure lazy film-making even for 1975. I would have liked if they kept the title as SUNBURST and then have the movie end in some sort of apocalyptic explosion, the sun burning the earth, leaving only Robert Englund and his shack to survive. And maybe the bear. Yeah, definitely the bear.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Cat in the Brain-It's Gonna Eat you Alive!
Orgasm, death, dissolution!
Know you now why her eyes
so fearfully glaze, beholding
Terrors and infamies
Like Filthy flowers unfolding?
Laughter widowed of ease,
Agony barred from sadness,
Death defeated of peace,
Is she not madness?
-Aleister Crowley. Diary of a Drug Fiend
In this fragment, Crowley speaks of the horror and deadly hunger that plagues the heroin addict. Cat in the Brain is Lucio Fulci's tongue in cheek cry of tortured agony.
It is a film within a film and it is his nightmare come true. It's the moment Dr. Frankenstein realizes he's really fucked. It is Alice, trapped in Wonderland because she can't wake up from something she's no longer sure is just a dream of even her own dream anymore. It's the moment when you realize that the dead end job you are still at is your fucking life and you walk over to the open window, gaze down to the street, and wonder if you are high enough up to actually kill yourself and not just end up with broken limbs.
For any creator of horror art, it is a daily realization; these are not brain farts, meaningless dreams, paranoid absurdities, this is your brain and you are stuck with it for better or worse.
This film is about a man who is a director. The man and the filmmaker are enmeshed, but they are not one and the same by any means. This is about a man who likes his job, sure, but he wants to be able to leave it on the set, like any normal human being. He wants to be able to go and eat a nice juicy rare steak on his lunch break,without seeing human flesh being ground up and chopped when he looks at it!
This film poses an interesting problem for the audience to grapple with as best they can, as they endure a visual onslaught of sex, violence, gore and derangement, with little breathing room between chopped limbs, women being slapped and violated, eyes being gouged, and so on.
Are you sick for liking this?
The character, Fulci, is asking himself if his fevered imaginings are driving him mad and could he really be capable of murder and rape?
The horror here is the very need for horror. As a viewer and a director, the eye likes what it sees, the libido is aroused, the senses all stimulated at once. At the end of a good horror movie you feel satisfied. You have been filled, sated, for now... The Id hungers for more and it must be fed. But what if, like the plant in Little Shop of Horrors, will simply not be sated, what if it eats everything you love and destroys your life? Where do you draw the line?
Is this why girls always fall for assholes who hit them, cheat on them, or just plain ignore them, and why so many alcoholics and drug addicts just can't stop no matter how badly they want to, as they watch their life fall apart and everything and everyone they love being destroyed along with themselves? What's a little pain, a lifelong hangover, a broken home, for a pulse quickening experience that reminds you you are still alive.
The horror director is constantly interacting with these forces that pull us down that spinning vortex of exess, madness and monstrous hungers. Call it what you like; the Id, the Shadow, The Unconsciouss, the beast within, it is alive and well always. It can be fed or starved, coddled or disciplined, repressed or let loose, but it is here to stay.
I don't know every person's individual reason for enjoying horror films, I'm sure there are many and variant, but I know mine. I am convinced that if we ignore our inner beast, darkness, whatever, it is bound to come out and bite us in the ass sooner or later. It's just a matter of time, but you can't hide, because its inside you, it may seem alien, but don't be fooled. It is always watching, and when the moment is right, it will jump out and tear right through your brain. It is a scavanger as well as a hunter and it will find its nourishment where it can find it.
I love the horror medium for its courage to harness demons, to accept into its heart the chilling horror and raging savage beauty of existence, understanding they are not mutualy exclusive. There is a reason sex and violence go so great together. A cynic might say, well, it gets asses in the seats. There's no arguing that. Fulci tells his therapist, sure, he could make romances, but he wants to sell tickets! There's no denying it, and there's no point, really.
Horror can be therapeutic, cathartic, inspiring, even healing. If you sit through this movie till the end, you'll know what I mean.
The nightmares need a place to live, I'd rather it be the movie screen anyday.
It is a film within a film and it is his nightmare come true. It's the moment Dr. Frankenstein realizes he's really fucked. It is Alice, trapped in Wonderland because she can't wake up from something she's no longer sure is just a dream of even her own dream anymore. It's the moment when you realize that the dead end job you are still at is your fucking life and you walk over to the open window, gaze down to the street, and wonder if you are high enough up to actually kill yourself and not just end up with broken limbs.
For any creator of horror art, it is a daily realization; these are not brain farts, meaningless dreams, paranoid absurdities, this is your brain and you are stuck with it for better or worse.
This film is about a man who is a director. The man and the filmmaker are enmeshed, but they are not one and the same by any means. This is about a man who likes his job, sure, but he wants to be able to leave it on the set, like any normal human being. He wants to be able to go and eat a nice juicy rare steak on his lunch break,without seeing human flesh being ground up and chopped when he looks at it!
This film poses an interesting problem for the audience to grapple with as best they can, as they endure a visual onslaught of sex, violence, gore and derangement, with little breathing room between chopped limbs, women being slapped and violated, eyes being gouged, and so on.
Are you sick for liking this?
The character, Fulci, is asking himself if his fevered imaginings are driving him mad and could he really be capable of murder and rape?
The horror here is the very need for horror. As a viewer and a director, the eye likes what it sees, the libido is aroused, the senses all stimulated at once. At the end of a good horror movie you feel satisfied. You have been filled, sated, for now... The Id hungers for more and it must be fed. But what if, like the plant in Little Shop of Horrors, will simply not be sated, what if it eats everything you love and destroys your life? Where do you draw the line?
Is this why girls always fall for assholes who hit them, cheat on them, or just plain ignore them, and why so many alcoholics and drug addicts just can't stop no matter how badly they want to, as they watch their life fall apart and everything and everyone they love being destroyed along with themselves? What's a little pain, a lifelong hangover, a broken home, for a pulse quickening experience that reminds you you are still alive.
The horror director is constantly interacting with these forces that pull us down that spinning vortex of exess, madness and monstrous hungers. Call it what you like; the Id, the Shadow, The Unconsciouss, the beast within, it is alive and well always. It can be fed or starved, coddled or disciplined, repressed or let loose, but it is here to stay.
I don't know every person's individual reason for enjoying horror films, I'm sure there are many and variant, but I know mine. I am convinced that if we ignore our inner beast, darkness, whatever, it is bound to come out and bite us in the ass sooner or later. It's just a matter of time, but you can't hide, because its inside you, it may seem alien, but don't be fooled. It is always watching, and when the moment is right, it will jump out and tear right through your brain. It is a scavanger as well as a hunter and it will find its nourishment where it can find it.
I love the horror medium for its courage to harness demons, to accept into its heart the chilling horror and raging savage beauty of existence, understanding they are not mutualy exclusive. There is a reason sex and violence go so great together. A cynic might say, well, it gets asses in the seats. There's no arguing that. Fulci tells his therapist, sure, he could make romances, but he wants to sell tickets! There's no denying it, and there's no point, really.
Horror can be therapeutic, cathartic, inspiring, even healing. If you sit through this movie till the end, you'll know what I mean.
The nightmares need a place to live, I'd rather it be the movie screen anyday.
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