Saturday, December 7, 2013

The Black Cat

Karloff vs. Lugosi. Need i say more?
Can i at least add that Edgar G. Ulmer is refereeing ? The dismaying duo made eight films together, six of them under the legendary auspices of Universal Pictures in its glory days. The Black Cat is probably the best among them -- the plot gets a little dicey, but its got atmosphere, aesthetics and two of the most charismatic stars in horror film history.
I somehow feel like this film is very dear to Peter Murphy's heart. I have visions of him and Daniel Ash in their art school days, cuddled up in someone's bedsit after band practice, watching The Black Cat on the telly, eating popcorn and drinking absinthe and painting each others' nails black. (I don't know if i can go far enough to conjure up them quarreling over who gets to be Bela like we used to argue over who got to be Kelly Garrett when i was a little girl in the suburbs... Actually, i never got to have that argument: As the blonde, i was automatically Farrah.)

So, we begin with a young couple on their honeymoon in the forests of Eastern Europe. Because that is not asking for trouble. (Oh, Brad! Oh, Janet! Oh, those dumbasses in Howling II: Your Sister Is a Werewolf!) But maybe they're Twitards and are hoping for a vampire honeymoon. There's a knock on their train compartment door and their wishes are granted, as a famous bloodsucker steps across the threshold...
Dammit! We expected that dead-eyed pouty girl whose only personal recommendation is that Joan Jett wanted to fuck her. Or at least that guy who puts lube in his hair. But never you mind, for Bela Lugosi is not a vampire at all! (Please stop and reread this part in your Count von Count voice.) He is actually Dr. Vitus Werdegast, a psychiatrist who is returning home after fifteen years in a Russian prison camp! (Shit, that might be even scarier than coming back from the grave! Go back and read that in the Count von Count voice too.)

So, they get off the train to get on the bus. because you want to be taking a bus through the Carpathian Mountains in the middle of the night. In a torrential downpour. On your honeymoon...



Nope, didn't see any of that coming. We also expected the craggy rock and the gravestones and the need to take shelter in the spooky palace, but not that said spooky palace would be more Chrysler Building than Medieval castle. And it is this palace that will dominate the style of the The Black Cat: Everything is sleek and gorgeous, down to the bedside clocks. The aesthetic is a hybrid of German Expressionism and Streamline Moderne -- asymmetrical angles and skewed perspectives combined with chrome fixtures and glass bricks.
It's more than just the meticulously sleek aesthetic that unifies The Black Cat -- it also has an all-pervasive soundtrack that backs almost all of the actions. It's the best use of Beethoven's Fifth since Demy's Lola, although the "Moonlight" Sonata may be familiar from your favorite TV soap opera....
Things you may not have known about Boris Karloff. One, his real name was Billy Pratt and he was British. Two, so British indeed that he stopped every shoot he was on for four o'clock tea. Three, he was known as an animal lover and much loved by animals, including his pet pig, Violet. Four, not only loved by animals, but loved by the ladies, with Karloff having five (Or was it six? Or seven? No one is quite sure...) wives and widely rumored to be, erm, gifted in the same way as Frank Sinatra and Milton Berle. Five, he helped found the Screen Actors' Guild.

As far as Lugosi... did you know he played Vegas once? In a variety show at the Silver Slipper?
So, anyway, it seems that Lugosi holds a bit of a grudge against Karloff. It seems they were soldiers together in some random Eastern European war. And it seems that Karloff was the commander of their fort and sold Lugosi and 9,999 of his comrades in arms out to the Russians. And it seems Lugosi wound up in that prison camp. And somewhere in there Karloff stole Lugosi's wife. And then Karloff built a luxe moderne mansion on the site of his murderous treachery. Just minor shit that can cause awkwardness between old pals....

Did we mention that he's a devil-worshiper, as revealed by his bedtime reading...
Also, down in Boris' basement, there are a number of women hanging in glass boxes...



One of these ladies in the bias-cut nightgowns and the display case is -- well, was -- Lugosi's wife.You'd think this sight would be Lugosi's cue to off Karloff -- as if that whole traitor/war criminal/Satanist thing wasn't enough. But Lugosi is still hanging around. He makes some noise about waiting for his revenge, to which i can only say: Karloff's gotta sleep sometime. Sure, maybe you've got some kind of operation planned that combines the best effects of a Rube Goldeberg machine and a Jacobean revenger's tragedy. Nice and all but, really: Just kill the motherfucker in his sleep, burn the house down and get on with your life.
They do make some vaguely allusive excuses about Lugosi's obsessive phobia of black cats (the sole nod to the Poe tale that this film is ostensibly based on). He also pronounces that "this place is so undermined with dynamite that the slightest move by any of us could be the destruction of us all." Um, okay. So don't burn the house down. Quick dead-of-night smothering and you're off...
Despite the passivity of the Prince of Darkness, things do accelerate pretty quickly from there. Karloff decides to kidnap Miss Newlywed for his NRFB collection. And maybe she'd also be useful at that demon-summoning shindig he's having Friday night...



Back when people used to really dress for a Satanic ritual.


Oh, and it seems that Karloff has married Lugosi's daughter, who has a great set of hair extensions and seems to be tranq-ed out of her gourd. Bela discovers this, finally snaps and...

Oh, this can't end well....

Suffice to say, vengeance is finally had. Today's torture-porn merchants would make a protracted blood orgy of it, but The Black Cat would do nothing so unimaginative and tacky. Seeing the poised, icy Lugosi go gibbering psycho and the stoic, domineering Karloff weak with fear is enough. Sometimes, when it comes to horror, the old ways are the best. But, of course, we don't have Karloffs or Lugosis to work with anymore either.
As Lugosi himself intones, "Supernatural... perhaps. Bologna... perhaps not."

Monday, November 18, 2013

Master of the Flying Guillotine

What's my favorite martial arts movie? Well, Enter the Dragon, of course -- it's in a class by itself. But my second fave is Master of the Flying Guillotine, which has more fight action than any other film of its genre -- hell, perhaps of any film ever!
The plot of the film is simple: The blind Master of the Flying Guillotine is out to kill the One-Armed Boxer. Yes, this is a fighting film in which the two protagonists are, ahem, differently-abled. This does not prevent them from kicking insane amounts of ass. Master of the Flying Guillotine is one ass-kicking after another. Hell, in the middle of the movie they stop dead for a martial arts tournament that absorbs about a third of the film's running time with nothing but one warrior after another duking out to the death in whatever bizarre fighting style they favor. It's basically Mortal Kombat or Street Fighter in film form (and both those games would rip off ideas and characters from this sequence).

So, we open with Fung, the eponymous Flying Guillotine Master getting some kind of braille message via domino via carrier pigeon that his two disciples have been killed by the One-Armed Boxer. Never mind that said disciples set out to kill said One-Armed Boxer, somehow they must be avenged. So Fung Master jumps through his roof, whips off a bunch of fencepost skulls with his flying guillotine, blows up his house and sets off to dish out the comeuppance!
Cue the opening credits, distinguished by some nice action stills but, more than that, an amazing garage-distorted, wah-wah-pedaled theme song that sounds like the Butthole Surfers trying to impersonate T. Rex. This is not the first or only piece of brilliant musical incongruity in Master of the Flying Guillotine -- Fung is constantly accompanied by a grinding Krautrock soundtrack (yes, that is actually Can and also some Neu!) that adds to his menace -- two other characters will be fighting or talking, but most likely fighting and suddenly this industrial grind n' groan rises on the soundtrack and WHACK! someone's headless.
The flying guillotine itself is a sort of birdcage-sawblade contraption -- you throw it at your enemy, it lands on their head, pull the chain and Voila! Instant decapitation. Such is the fate of Fung the Guillotine's first victim -- a three-limbed wino who cadges free drinks by telling everyone he's the famous One-Armed Boxer. You'd think in Martial Arts Battle Universe one would know better than to impersonate a legendary fighter, as legendary fighters always have someone out to rip their fucking head off with a doubled-bladed frisbee on a bike chain.
In the meantime, the real One-Armed Boxer -- played by director Jimmy Wang Yu -- is running his Kung Fu School and nobly refusing to participate in the upcoming big-money battle royale.

And so we come to said martial arts tournament. And, literally, it is one wacky fighter after another getting in the ring and battling until one's corpse is carried away. Behold...

Fake Bruce Lee vs. Fake Bruce Lee


Pointy-Hat High-Jump vs. The Man With Strategically Exposed Nipples

Mighty Choking Pigtail vs. Mustache Leatherdaddy

Little Guy Who Kicks People in the Nuts vs. Big Guy Who Punches People in the Face

Princess Eagle Claw vs. Monkeybutt-asshole.

Two Guys Who Fight on Poles Over a Pit of Knives
Yes, that's how good this movie is: Fighting on poles over a pit of knives is a throwaway battle.


Blades n' Jammies vs. Gadget Arms Yoga Guy

Uncouth Muy Thai Douchebag vs.Snakestyle Fancypants

Mantis-Style Moptop vs. The Wrong One-Armed Boxer 

Of course, Actual One-Armed Boxer gets dragged into this once he realizes Old Blind Nazi Monk Who I Bet Digs Throbbing Gristle Too is on a mission and will not be stopped.
Well, think about it: He's blind. It's not like he can carry around the photo -- sorry, the little domino with the bas-relief one-armed man -- and check it. Better to just kill 'em all.

One-Armed Boxer shoos his kung fu students off to safety, takes a challenge from Uncouth Muy Thai Douchebag (who is in cahoots with Flying Guillotine, somehow) and Gadget Arms Yoga Guy (Did you really think they were only gonna use that one once?). Master of the Flying Guillotine understands that good martial arts movies are like porn in one crucial aspect: The audience is here for the action. Plot is downtime. Get to what we came to see. Thus, Master of the Flying Guillotine has a crazed, balls-to-the-wall fight every five minutes and often more frequently than that.


Finally Flying Guillotine and One-Armed Boxer duke it out in a no-holds-barred battle, with a warm-up duel against Uncouth Mui Thai Douchebag.. All of this took a lot of location scouting -- we even see them renting the coffin shop (Yes!) for the closing fight. The One-Armed Boxer is as much about strategy as he is about force. I bet he can chessbox too...
Again, to reiterate, Master of the Flying Guillotine is a must-see in the world of martial arts flicks. It has inspired remakes, hip-hop albums, T-shirts, action figures, countless ripoffs and its own Urban Dictionary.  entry. Can you say the same about Citizen Kane or Last Year in Marienbad?

Sunday, November 3, 2013

The Scarlet Lady

I watch movies for witty dialogue, high drama, cinematography, kung fu, explosions and zombies. I also sometimes watch them for the costumes. Actually a lot of the time. Sometimes the costumes come with the dialogue and the drama and the cinematography... not so much the kung fu unless you feel up to writing a thesis on the visual similarities of Hero and The Cook, the Thief, his Wife and her Lover (actually i may do that, now that i think of it). The Scarlet Lady has great outfits, but it also has a great mod/existential vibe led by the alternately whimsical and despairing performance of the fabulous Monica Vitti.

La Vitti plays Eva, a glamorous young executive who heads her own perfume company. In the first scene, her sleazy boyfriend rolls over one morning and announces that he has tricked her out of the business. Literally: Somehow she hired him for the marketing department and he's managed to get hold of her bonds, foreclose the mortgage and sell the joint off in one fell swoop. After announcing this, he rolls over, lights a cigarette and says mildly that he'll be leaving soon. Which, i mean, it's not like you'd want him after that, but he should have had the decency to at least let the lady yell "Get the fuck out!" and perhaps throw something. She goes to her office, meets with her accountant, and utters the words women -- and some men -- have uttered since time immemorial.
Then Eva does what any unemployed, financially ruined, single woman would do: sells off the contents of her Baroque villa and her penthouse flat, pawns her jewelry and jets off to Paris. In thigh-high black boots and a stunning leopard coat. If that is not a response to disaster, i do not know what is. Except that Eva plans on killing herself as soon as she gets to Paris. Okay, well, if that is not also a response to disaster, i do not know what is.

She winds up at a modest hotel in Montparnasse, where she promptly heads for the bathroom, pours a glass of water, pulls out her trusty bottle of Super-Duper-Euro-Sleeping-Pills and... there's only one left. Damn! You never see this happen to people suicide-ing in movies, but i bet it does happen more than you'd think.

So, she heads out to pick up another bottle of Super-Duper-Euro-Sleeping-Pills -- because in that civilized continent all you have to do is ask some old lady in a white coat and she hands 'em over. Fuck, i bet she'd give you Dilaudid! Especially if you were Monica Vitti. Rocking a lorgnette and the world's most awesome leopard coat.
Well, second most awesome, after the one i have that Moss keeps trying to get from me. Anyway, as you can see, after loading up at Frau Feelgood's, she picks up some caviar and champagne for her final exit. Once back at her modest -- albeit beautifully tiled -- hotel room, she also changes into the first of several sets of delicious white silk satin lounging pajamas. Because everyone should have several sets, each in a different style. I call this one the Russian. Note the high collar, asymmetrical closure and fringe around the hem.
Exactly what i would wear to add a little panache to a desperate, lonely attempt at ending my own life. Anyway, just as she's about to do the deed, Eva has an important epiphany: Why should I die alone when I can take that miserable fucker who ruined my life with me!?!?! A realization more people should have. (I've had mine: Hope you get yours soon.)

Miserable Fucker will not arrive in Paris until Friday. Thus, our heroine had almost a week to Live, Live, Live as Auntie Mame would say. Her first step? Okay, well, her first step is buying a gun. She, with much put-on femininity, convinces the clerk to step into the back in search of something "Oh... mmmm. plus petite." You know, "Fits unnoticed in my red patent-leather purse until just the right moment for me to shoot someone. Also leaving enough room for compact, keys and credit card, of course."
 
 ...and then runs out of the shop and around the corner with patent-leather-purse-sized gat in hand. Next step? Buying a luxury automobile. And not any puny Cadillac, Rolls or Bentley. No, our girl has waaaay more style than that: She buys an Austin Princess. The same car the queen drives. She buys it by pulling the guy over and handing him a wad of cash. While wearing a lovely beige princess-line coat and matching go-go boots outfit. They match the new ride because you should always buy your car to go with your ensemble and not the other way around. Although somehow it is the exact same look she was wearing earlier when she was stealing guns, except it was green then. I'm not sure if that's intentional or not. My good friend Laura has also pointed out to me that La Vitti's hair length changes throughout the film. We don't mean the wigs.
Outfits? Did i say outfits? Cut to the obligatory shopping montage! The Scarlet Lady gives the people what they want!
This delightful coat (from Christian Dior) is apparently the reason for the title, although the film is also known as The Bitch Wants Blood, which is also an awesome title, although for another film, probably one starring Barbara Steele and Bette Davis, a guest appearance by the mighty, mighty Charles Gray if we're lucky... where was i? Oh! Yes! Monica Vitti checks into the Paris Hilton. (You may insert your own witticism about how many people have checked into the Paris Hilton, how much baggage can fit into the Paris Hilton lobby, the lack of carpeting at the Paris Hilton...) Yes, i was hoping for the Georges Cinq as well, but i guess they didn't have a Pierre Cardin suite or whatever this is:
And, then, of course, we put on an glitter-encrusted flapper dress and a wig (although hopefully our wig would be more Clara Bow than Vicki Lawrence) and stuff our purse with popsicles and go to the opera. Actually, that sounds exactly like what i'd do, but our heroine is bored.
Probably because she's seems to be at a performance of Tristan und Isolde. Yup, nothing like Wagner for the old mirth in the face of disaster. That'll lighten your spiritual load. Now, if she had gone to see Der Rosenkavalier she'd had enjoyed that far more. The last week of one's like lived to the hilt is Richard Strauss. Perhaps a little Puccini or some Nozze di Figaro.
So, anyway, the next day she's wandering around her hotel dressed up as a cross between Lee Van Cleef and Margaret Hamilton -- love the hat -- and wanders into a press conference for some ersatz mock-Beatles British rock group and somehow immediately charms a legion of men by pretending to be Swiss, sneezing a lot and persuading them all to get married. I know! That's how cool Monica Vitti is: She does this shit and it's utterly charming! But there's absolutely nothing coy or little-girlish about her.
The next morning, Eva awakens in the Pierre Cardin suite wearing yet another set of white silk satin pajamas. I call this one the Asian since it has a sort of kimono-sleeve, Judo outfit look. You can't quite see the detail, but you can see the awesome Pop-Art phone and the vintage turntable (Yes!) next to the bed. Also the dozens of roses sent by her new legion of admirers. See how sexy realizing life is meaningless makes you?!
 
Anyway, then the legion of admirers take her out. She changes for each one. For the lawyer, this pale-pink, one-sleeved evening gown with big ol' head of Liz Taylor-circa-1970 hair.
For the rock band manager, naturally, she dresses up as Anita Pallenberg.
 For her date with the band itself--all four members--she repeats on the dress, wig and (a bigger) boa from the opera scene. Well, hey, dressing for the opera does kind of send that "Don't jam a shark up my ladyparts" message.
While all this merriment is happening, some guy that Eva had lunch with on the Eiffel Tower is looking for her. See, somewhere between buying the luxury car and the fur coat, she wanted lunch, didn't want to eat alone, picked up some not-terribly-interesting guy and shared a large meal with him. During which she intensely discussed how to strain strawberries for desert, casually mentioned killing herself, picked up the check and snuck out without giving her name. So every now and then we cut from the dizzying highs, bitter lows, and stunning gowns of La Vitti to poor schlub running around Paris trying to find her. Seriously, if you really got this kind of action from existential pangs and a death wish, i'd have been married more times than all three Gabor sisters combined.
Eva continues kicking ass and taking names as death's even-increasing proximity makes her more and more flirtatious. Although this is not always as much fun as it seems, as when she sits in a bar, smoking what seem to be Nat Sherman Cigaretellos (or perhaps Telly Savalas Mores) and waiting for one of the men surrounding her to say something interesting (i know how she feels). Observe her gorgeous deep teal-green satin, poet-sleeved minidress.
Finally, the band and its manager and lawyer show up, pursued by screaming fans. But fuck those groupies -- well, actually, no, we're NOT gonna fuck those groupies. We're gonna play a private gig for Monica Vitti and a bunch of guys who are trying to bang her! They eat a fancy dinner why we play bad Yardbirds knockoffs and then they get up and dance!
 Groovy, baby! Has anyone ever told you that look look like Angie Dickinson!?
After which the manager somehow lands the prize and lures Eva La Vitti back to his hotel room. Where she finds his stash. And he gets her high.
 Not knowing that all the weed in the world will not make that anything but one ugly-ass rug you've got on your head, my friend. And then you went and put on a caftan. Jesus, why didn't you just chop your dick off and throw it out a window?

Finally, we have our rendezvous with Miserable Fucker.
They go back to her hotel room. She shows off a lovely red Lurex-knit dress with lace-up front and sleeves. The perfect dress to distract any heterosexual male from your plans to murder him.
But for how long?
Wait! That's not the gun she stole! Scroll back up there! See -- that gun. In the gun shop. It's much bigger. But, well, her hair changes from short and straight to long and curly, her coat changes from green to beige: I guess she can change a revolver into an automatic. She is, after all, Monica Fucking Vitti.

So, does she kill Miserable Fucker? Does Poor Schlub ever find her? Eh, what does it matter? You know what does matter? This:
Cartier. Petrossian. Vivier. Vitti.