Howling II: Your Sister Is a Werewolf

I like to think that Christopher Lee has no shame. So he can look back at  Howling II: Your Sister Is a Werewolf and feel okay about it. This movie is a fine example of the "so bad it's good" concept. I recall first watching this flick at my friend Jeremy's place in Los Angeles several years ago. We had just come home at around 1 a.m. with some last call In-n-Out, flicked on the TV for a brief, idle accompaniment to our double-doubles and landed square in the first ten minutes of Howling II. And we could not look away. Not until the very end. Not until we'd seen Sybil Danning rip off her top 18 times in succession.

The movie (i was going to write "film," but that seems wrong somehow) begins with Mr. Lee floating before a field of stars, intoning from the "Mother of All Whores" passage from the bible. It's kind of like the bit with Lilian Gish that opens The Night of the Hunter, except Christopher Lee has a skeleton next to him and is talking about whores -- and, of course, Lilian Gish is in a movie that all thinking people agree is a masterwork, as opposed to one where even the dimmest bulb in the sign can still tell that it sucks.

So, blah blah, funeral for Karen White, who was murdered. Her blonde denim-clad dunderhead brother is sad, Christopher Lee comes up to him and says some enigmatic shit about her death, then some dipshit blonde newslady runs up and announces, "Your sister is a werewolf!" and we cut to a new wave band in a graffiti-painted basement. A crowd of extras mimes enthusiasm. Get used to the band. They're called Babel and they will never be more than 90 seconds away from here on out. Which wouldn't be (quite as) objectionable if they had more than 1 1/2 songs and had shot more then two minutes of footage.

You know who else is in the crowd?

 

   Yup. Wearing wraparound new wave sunglasses.

This particular scene and this particular song will be revisited literally dozens of times during the movie. Marsha Hunt picks up some repulsive locals and lures them to an abandoned warehouse to rip 'em up and feed. It's kinda of like that scene at the beginning of The Hunger, where Catherine Deneuve and David Bowie pick up Ann Magnuson at a Bauhaus concert except nowhere barely even near as glamorous. Which is too bad. Marsha Hunt should have been able to pull off something -- she was best known in her day as a backup singer for a number of big British bands, Marc Bolan's paramour and collaborator, the woman who "Brown Sugar" was written about and Mick Jagger's original babymama.

So,Christopher Lee shows Denim and Dipshit some footage of sister turning into a werewolf, there's some tussling in the graveyard with some werewolves. I would like to note that, while Dispshit may try to come off all assertive career woman, when the chips are down, she's just an old-fashioned, stand-there-and-scream type of girl. Christopher Lee drops some yadda yadda about Stirba, the evil werewolf overlord (Overlady?) who Must! Be! Stopped!

So we all head for Eastern Europe. Marsha Hunt and her sunglassed co-wolves are picked up by two of the local werewolf sycophants and ride to the local castle. Now, i'm not the Queen of the Werewolves or anything, but even i travel under more luxurious conditions than in the back of a military surplus truck, carrying luggage that was a freebie with a Drakkar Noir giftset. And if i stop for road food it's a milkshake and some kind of ostentatiously garnished fries from Mad Greek or Sonic, not "food" in the form of a pair of lederhosen-sporting German tourist types.

Christopher Lee rides in the back of the minicar while Denim and Dipshit bicker and flirt. This is actually the only time he actually looks pained and/or mortified during the entire misbegotten debacle that is Howling II. Off to the tiny medieval town with its sinister, superstitious, pointy-toothed populace locked into their perennial festival of death, chortling at puppet shows and accordion music and inept dancing.

Meanwhile, the werewolves are having their own shindig, which resembles an HBO After Dark swinger's convention.

After some bullshit, they raise Stirba from the dead -- well, not dead, but really old, which is even worse for a blonde with big tits. Stirba is played by none other than Sybil Danning, who starred in the Giallo glamourslasher The Red Queen Kills Seven Times, the Roger Corman Star Wars knock-off Battle Beyond the Stars, Chained Heat with Linda Blair... and, yeah, under all of that, somewhere in the resume fine print is Howling II. Especially the fine work during the werewolf three-way.  I'm sure her Method training helped tremendously...

During this, we are treated to a simultaneous montage of Denim and Dipshit finally Doing It. I've never understood the whole idea of "We're surrounded by zombies/we're fleeing from Nazis/the Terminator is on his way--let's fuck!" The moment one is out of danger, sure, absolutely, with gusto. (This is one of the many reasons i enjoy the outstanding Romeo Must Die: Jet Li and Aaliyah have chemistry for days and some intense moments, but the "Let's go home," is saved until the bad guys are dispatched,) But as far as remembering to suck in my stomach or suppress my gag reflex or relax enough to enjoy it, no. Dipshit has no such problems. But she seems to be an exceptionally laid-back chick. I mean, i'd have to be married to a man for 30, 40 years before i'd let him see me in a Quacker Factory sweater. But Dipshit: Hell, right after the first bang, she rolls out of bed and puts on her best red n' green n' embellished acrylic knit.

And the werewolves continue to party down.

Impressively, they seem to have flown the band out.  Along with all of the band's fans. And the band's club. Wait... these sequences in The Howling II -- and there are many -- cut carefully back and forth between the Transylvakian palace werewolf orgy and the cheesily graffiti-ed "club" like they want us to believe they're in the same place. But, given that both sets look completely different and we've already seen all of this footage several times already. How could they expect us to believe it? Or do they think -- not incorrectly -- that by this point the audience has not suspended their disbelief, but is simply sitting on it to pad out the running time.

So, Christopher Lee and Denim and Dipshit and some other stooges go off to try to stop the werewolves from doing... whatever it is they're going to do. But i hear it's bad. We get some special effects that might be gruesome were they not so ridiculous. Lots of movies toss dwarves. But tossing an undead dwarf culminating in impalement? Sure, most movies have little demon puppets. But skull-fucking, egg-laying blasphemous demon puppets?

Let's just say we can be sure of one thing: At the end of The Howling II: Your Sister Is a Werewolf, the band will still be playing. And we'll all be howling....

Sex and Fury

This movie is a fucking masterpiece. I am not exaggerating. Sex and Fury is one of my all-time favorite films. I have never watched it with anyone whose mind was not utterly and completely blown.

Sex and Fury is a period piece, set in Tokyo circa 1905, the conflicted Meiji period. (Also the setting of Jet Li's Once Upon a Time in China movies.) Like many martial arts movies, it begins with a "they killed my family/master/dog and now i will spend the next decade-plus training for my eventual vengeance" bit. In this case, our heroine's police detective father is suddenly murdered (with horrible Burroughs-esque ripping sounds), leaving behind several playing cards elaborately decorated with a boar, a deer and a butterfly.

After some psychedelic opening credits -- our now-grown, tattooed and katana-wielding heroine Ocho, posing amidst the graphics, vaguely like James Bond and Bond Girl rolled into one. Then the movie proper begins, with a pallsy meeting between the new Yakuza President (as in he is a Yakuza and the President), local politicians and a few roundeye devils. Suddenly, a guy in a Dracula cape and emo-manga bangs tries to stab Yakuza President (y'know, that would be a good band name) and flees into a maze of streets. He is hidden by Ocho, who pickpockets a locket from him ("Force of habit.") with a sepia-toned photo of a fetching brunette lass inside.

On to the gambling house. A man is caught cheating at cards, followed by brawling and stabbing. The cheater confesses to Ocho (through a mouthful of blood) that he did it to buy his sister's freedom from a whorehouse. He entrusts Ocho with the money to free her but, hell, our girl could probably handle this shit without cash.

Next follows one of the film's great set pieces: The swordfight in the snow. Ocho is bathing when she is attacked by dozens of thugs; without missing a beat or putting on any clothes, she grabs a sword and dispatches them, the bloody battle crashing through the house out into the snow. It is one of the most stunning action sequences ever. Let me reiterate: It is snowing, she is naked and slicing Yakuza in half like blood is worth money and she intends to outfit herself in Prada from panties to earmuffs.

But, back to the plot! To win the girl's freedom, Ocho must play against a "western female gambler" at a mansion called the Guinness. The gambling lady is the one whose picture had been in Manga Bangs' locket and none other than Christina Lindberg, whom the truly erudite amongst you may recognize as the heroine of  Eurosleaze sex n' violence revenge flick They Call Her One Eye aka Thriller, A Cruel Picture. She plays a dancer/gambler/spy who dresses as Cinderella -- her first entrance is descending a staircase in hoopskirts, ringlets and tiara. Although she spends most of the film naked, when she is wearing clothes, it's straight-up Disney Princess.

The ladies play their game but are interrupted by Manga Bangs who's trying to stab someone again and Christina wants to shoot him, but is bewildered by flashbacks of the Cinemax After Dark flick the two of them apparently made together -- by the time she regains her senses, a bunch of Ninjas and Gilbert & Sullivan policemen are fighting in the ballroom, so they go back to their cards. Did i mention that it's 1905 and they have multicolored plastic poker chips?

So Ocho wins the game, but the guy decides to rape little sister before turning her over. Ocho finds the girl sobbing and talks her out of suicide but, man she is pissed. She is even more pissed when the girl adds that the man had a deer tattoo on his back -- just like one of the guys who killed Ocho's dad. Oh, a motherfucker is going to pay!

Sex and Fury is a stylish, action-packed picture, but it does have a few more plot twists than it can use. Suffice to say that once Ocho finds one of the bastards she needs to kill, the others are not far away. But it won't be easy. Not with the platoon of switchblade-wielding nuns in her way.  Or the bizarro psychedelic-blasphemous torture sequence. Not to mention the enmeshed political intrigue of several nations that somehow involves far-right President Yakuza, some Jack the Ripper-mustached guy who is Christina Lindberg's boss and wronged lefty Manga Bangs. And an Opium War. It's complicated. We also do tend to stop dead for more softcore sexytime. And some rather heavy-handed comedy bits. And a Romeo and Juliet-meets-Anna Karenina death scene (among many other death scenes). But did i mention the magic lantern light show? The fringed buckskin bikini? The poisoned lube?

Reiko Ike is remarkable as Ocho, a warrior of singular purpose and implacable wrath. She hacks through dozens of opponents -- swinging her blade through crowds that disintegrate into dismembered limbs and puddles of tempera-paint stage blood. By the end, entire gangs flee, knowing that all you can do is try to run because there is simply no stopping her.

If you see just one female martial arts exploitation vengeance flick -- and there are many, thank our lucky stars -- make it Sex and Fury. Even if you're not a fan of the Pinky Violence genre, it does not disappoint.

Phantom of the Paradise

I remember this one from when i was a kid. The Phantom of the Paradise -- not to be confused with Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park, a completely different piece of over-the-top 70s rock n' roll cray-cray -- was on late-night TV quite often back when one's selections for late-night viewing were limited indeed. The story is a weird hybrid of Phantom of the Opera and the Faust myth with a bit of The Picture of Dorian Gray, directed by Brian DePalma and starring Paul Williams -- who wrote all of the music -- as a sort of Satan/Phil Spector figure and the villain of the piece.

Paul Williams was the sound of the 70's. He wrote "We've Only Just Begun," "You and Me Against the World," "Evergreen," and many, many more. He wrote most of the songs for The Muppet Movie (yes, "The Rainbow Connection" was his) and did the music for Bugsy Malone, the Scott Baio/Jodie Foster preteen gangster musical that was one of the most mystifying filmic efforts of 1976 and a longtime favorite of mine, as well as one of the most popular children's movies of all time in Britain. (I'll get to it...)

We open with a celebration of the enigmatic writer/singer/producer Swan, with Rod Serling intoning, "He brought the blues to Britain. He brought folk and rock together...." and some ersatz Sha Na Na act doing some kind of faux Shangri-Las teen-death doo-wop number. Then we get the greasy-haired manager bitching about his recalcitrant singer "now she wants to give free concerts for gook orphans." Swan is unconcerned, he's mostly worried about opening the Paradise, a glorious vintage theater and finding the right music for said opening.

Right on time with that new music, our hero, Winston, a nebbish with a bowl cut, nerd glasses and crewneck over a turtleneck, thumps away at a soundstage piano. (How many movies have featured the "discovery" at that practice piano?) Manager tries to get Nebbish's songs, but Nebbish will not part with them, since they're part of his 200-page Faust cantata. Yup.

Nebbish gets the (surprisingly contemporary) brush-off at Swan's Death Records. (Fun Fact: It was originally Swan Song, but Led Zeppelin beat De Palma to the copyright for the label name. Thus, if "Death Records" seems to be awkwardly painted/superimposed onto things, that's because it is.) He heads for Swann's gothic mansion (actually a Texas government building on Dealey Plaza.) and is met by a Babel-like scene of auditioning singers. Of course, the only one singing in tune, shining like an angel on the stairway is Jessica Harper, who you might recognize from Suspiria. She beat out Linda Ronstadt and Sissy Spacek for the part. I'm not sure she should have.

 Anyway, it turns out Tiny Evil Paul Williams has stolen Nebbish's cantata as bait for poontang... oh, and to open the Paradise. Jessica Harper passes on the round waterbed orgy, but Nebbish sneaks in (in drag) and is soon roughed up by security. Shortly thereafter, he is framed for drug dealing, goes to prison, has his teeth replaced with metal dentures, escapes from prison and gets his face melted in a record press (okay, so we finally found a downside to vinyl), thus becoming... The Phantom of the Paradise! This sequence is supposed to be horrifying, but it's so over-the-top one can't help but snicker. I also think there's some overcranking going on.

Of course, the Phantom in his bitchin' new leather n' metal drag goes after Tiny Evil Paul Williams but it only takes Tiny Evil Paul Williams thirty seconds to rip off the Phantom's mask, make him cry and get the him to work rewriting his precious cantata for Tiny Evil Paul Williams. As long as Tiny Evil gets Phoenix to sing the lead. Yeah, once a Nebbish, always a a Nebbish. Throw in some vague promises of possible pussy somewhere down the road and he'll work all kinds of overtime.

The Phantom of the Paradise is at its best when its odd blend of horror, comedy and camp churn together, as when Tiny Evil Paul Williams -- coming off like a cross between Truman Capote and Barry Gibb -- gets the Phantom Nebbish to sign over his soul with a contract the size of a phone book -- "All articles which are excluded will be deemed included." Or when it's sharp musical wit shows, as in the ever-morphing Juicy Fruits/Beach Bums/Undead or the scene where Tiny Evil Paul Williams sits in the middle of his awesome gold record desk and chooses what kind of artist will replace Phoenix, as acts from from folk rock to singer-songwriter to country to R&B to glam rock appear in an unbroken pan. Phantom is not only slick with its genres, but also spoofs the self-indulgence of the 70s rock scene, with suitcases full of pills, limos full of groupies, doped-out stars, money-grubbing businessmen and boot-licking hangers-on.

Our replacement star is Beef, a bizzare prissy-macho glam queen. Gerrit Graham turns in a performance of Walken-level weirdness, from the moment he emerges from his private jet -- in a coffin, wearing a breastplate. There's plenty of during-rehearsal diva-business and microphone twirling and Beef kicks through the musical numbers like David Lee Roth possessed by Dr. Frank N. Furter, cock rock with a limp wrist.

A showertime visit from Phantom Nebbish (best and briefest Psycho parody ever) and Beef is scuttling away in a Santa Claus coat, babbling that "The karma is so thick around here, you need an aqualung to breathe!" Greasy Manager brushes him off, but Beef continues the hysterics: "You just pass the stuff out! I take it! I know drug-real from real-real!"

But, of course, neither we not the Phantom Nebbish will be denied a big finale. I must say, Glen Danzig and Jerry Only must be furious that someone got to this staging first, for Faust opens on a Caligari-inspired set with naughty undead nurses, audience mock-dismemberment, pyrotechnics and Frankenstein. (I must admit that this is where i get a little confused. So, Beef the glam-rocker took Phoenix's role in the Faust cantata. So she was supposed to play Frankenstein? I don't get it... I mean, i really like the idea, but i'm not sure how it would work. If the idea is that she was supposed to be the Gretchen/Marguerite figure to begin with, then why the problem with having someone play Faust? Or is Frankenstein the Devil?

The Phantom of the Paradise has developed its own fanatical cult over time -- like most cult flicks, it flopped on arrival, expect in Winnepeg, Canada, where it ran for almost two straight years. There's been a variety of Rocky Horror-style audience participation screenings, stage productions, a possible remake. And it really is a solid, watchable film, if a bit eccentric and on the higher-end of DePalma's work. Sure, it's no Scarface or Carrie, but it sure as hell ain't Bonfire of the Vanities or Mission to Mars or The Black Dahlia either.