Posts Tagged With: Arrow

Robert Ginty On The Rocks… WHITE FIRE Reviewed.

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Don’t get Ginty’s goat!

BD. Region Free. Arrow. 18.

“C” grade Action Star seeks 2,000 carat diamond…

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Hold on to your hats, ’cause this is a wild one… White Fire kicks off with a man (played by director Jean-Marie Pallardy) and woman being killed in a forest (we never find out exactly why) by paramilitary types, their two children rescued and adopted by a guy (Jess Hahn) in a dodgy pullover. Fast forward 20 years and the kids have grown into Ingrid (Belinda Mayne) and Boris ‘Bo’ Donnelly (Robert Ginty). She works at a diamond mine outside of Istanbul which is run like a prison camp by an oaf named Olaf (Gordon Mitchell), who summarily executes any sticky-fingered employees. Ingrid still manages to smuggle out plenty of gems for Bo to fence to interested parties. A criminal trollop named Sophia (Mirella Banti) and her gang are trying to muscle in on the Donnelly’s action (cue some rather lively fight scenes) and things are further complicated by the discovery of the legendary White Ice, a beautiful but radioactive diamond. In the ensuing kerfuffle, Ingrid is killed (with a blow pipe dart) during a bungled kidnap attempt. Bo picks up Olga (Diana Goodman) during a bar room punch-up. She bares a vague resemblance to Ingrid, so Bo persuades her to undergo plastic surgery to complete the illusion, in order that she may enter the diamond mine and help him half-inch that hot ice. About an hour into the proceedings, Pallardy wheels on Noah Barclay (Fred Williamson) and his own gang of desperadoes as further contenders for that diamond… why deny Fred his chance to beat the kitchen sink into this already overcrowded narrative?

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Admirers of well-proportioned narrative and thespian finesse are probably best advised to steer clear of White Fire but you should be sprinting rather than running to pick up a copy if your tastes run to brainless action, ludicrous dialogue, inept dubbing, gratuitous tit’n’ ass, ’80s fashion crimes (Gordon Mitchell is probably in his bloody eighties and should never been allowed anywhere near that red jump suit, below) and random outbreaks of violence involving aikido, flame throwers, bandsaw castrations, dynamite tossing and chainsaw duelling (the sound you’re currently hearing is that of James Ferman rotating in his grave at high velocity). Action fans certainly won’t consider themselves short changed by White Fire, though I reckon its running time could comfortably have been reduced by about 20 minutes.

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If the aforementioned weren’t sufficiently outrageous for you, it’s worth pointing out that all of this sound and fury is arguably intended to divert your attention from the spectre of incest (I know, White Fire is the second Arrow release in succession where I’ve had cause to raise this taboo subject!) Bo seems very fond of his sister, punching out anybody who talks disrespectfully of her and shamelessly ogling her after ripping her towel off when she gets out of the shower. “Don’t look at me like that” she protests (a little half-heartedly), to which Bo responds: “You know, it’s a pity you’re my sister!” (?!?) You get the impression that he would soon have consummated his illicit lust, had the bad guys not bumped off Ingrid. At least he drew the line at necrophilia but subsequent scenes in which he grapples amorously with a character who’s been surgically transformed into his sister’s double (and is now played by the same actress) are pretty stomach churning.

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If this is one of his mainstream efforts, Christ only knows what stuff went on in Pallardy’s earlier skin-flicks (I’m told that he made one called Erotic Confessions Of A Lumberjack, though that sounds just too good to be true). The director, a former male model, comes across in his bonus interview as a kind of low(er) rent Jess Franco and certainly share’s Franco’s eye for free, more bang for your buck locations. He talks about how the diverse cast was assembled to attract financing from various territories and it’s interesting to learn that his “human torch” stunt in the film’s prologue was every bit as misfiring and life threatening as it looks. Other bonus materials include interviews with Williamson (expounding the familiar Gospel about Fred according to Fred) and editor Bruno Zincone. The first pressing only comes with an illustrated collectors’ booklet featuring new writing on the film by Julian Grainger.

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In Kat Ellinger’s commentary she takes issue with the whole concept of “so bad it’s good” Cinema, putting herself on a collision course with Williamson, who describes White Fire as “a bad film that’s good”. Careful Kat, you might be the fastest wordslinger in the West but in a no holds barred, dynamite tossing “jeet kune do with explosive arrow heads” showdown between you and The Hammer, there could be only one winner…

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Credited as this film’s music supervisor we find no less eminent a personage than Deep Purple’s Jon Lord (ask your grandad), though the late Hammond-meister’s supervision seems to have extended no further than mounting the eponymous theme song on a loop… and White Fire is (cough, cough) no Burn (could have gone for Smoke On The Water but hey, way too easy!)

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Virgin On The Ridiculous… BLOOD TIDE Reviewed

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BD. Region Free. Arrow. 15.

Arrow’s ongoing quest to bring you every possible Nico (Island Of Death) Mastorakis-related movie they can lay their hands on gathers pace with this 1982 effort, which Nico co-wrote (with its director Richard Jefferies) and produced.

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A doomed virgin models seaweed earrings. Yesterday.

Neil Grice (Martin Kove, just before he became a fixture in the Karate Kid franchise) and his new bride Sherry (Mary Louise Weller) sail to a remote Greek island in search of Neil’s sister Madeline, who’s been mysteriously incommunicado. They experience little trouble finding her (in the luscious shape of Deborah Shelton) but can’t persuade her to leave with them because she’s become obsessed with local mythology about the sacrificing of virgins to placate a fearsome sea monster. Neil and Sherry investigate various mysterious goings on, in the process incurring the wrath of the town elders, principally José Ferrer, who takes great exception to outsiders meddling in the Islanders’ ancient customs. There’s also a chapter of creepy nuns (presided over by Lila Kedrova) which made me wonder if Blood Tide had been an influence on the conception of Mariano Baino’s  Dark Waters (1993) though that film’s co-writer / associate producer Andy Bark assures me that this was not the case.

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Is Shelton being prepared as a human sacrifice? More pointedly, are we honestly expected to accept that a woman who’s so alluring that Craig Wasson felt compelled to fish her discarded panties out of a bin (in Brian De Palma’s Body Double just two years later) is a virgin? Yes, I know it’s theoretically possible but she’s hardly the most obvious casting choice. Such considerations are soon rendered academic anyway, as James Earl Jones’s Frye (a bang on portrayal of somebody who thinks he’s “a bit of a character” but whom everybody else regards as a total dick) dynamites the island’s undersea caverns in search of some obscure treasure and ends up releasing that sea monster. To say it doesn’t quite measure up to the Kraken from Clash Of The Titles would be a significant understatement, nevertheless it starts noshing its way through the local population, virgo intacto or otherwise.

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Ooh, scary!

Jefferies keeps this preposterous “Wicker Man with a side order of moussaka” concoction bubbling along engagingly enough (until the appearance of that risible monster) and it’s beautifully shot by Aris Stavrou (though the undersea cavern scenes, inevitably, look a bit grainy in this 4K restoration from the original camera negative). There’s a bonus interview with the indomnitable Mastorakis, conducted by one Ari Gerontakis. Although the latter is billed as an “actor / voice over genius”, this feaurette is directed by Mastorakis himself so you just know this isn’t going to be some kind of Paxman-style grilling. Instead, our man talks up his friendship with John Carpenter and his clashes with the late Don Simpson at Paramount. Just when you think he’s going to skirt around the subject of his notorious “video nasty” Island Of Death, he remembers it as his attempt to “out-Texas Chain Saw Massacre the Texas Chain Saw Massacre”. You also get a new audio commentary from director Jefferies, a reversible sleeve featuring original and newly commissioned artwork by Graham Humphreys and (in the first pressing only) a collector’s booklet featuring a new appraisal of the film by Mike Gingold.

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OK, I accept that Shelton’s character could be a virgin. But I’m still troubled by the er, over enthusiastic kissing between her and her brother after he’s rescued her from that monster. What the fuck was that all about? Shelton also sings (pleasantly enough) over the closing credits. Cor, what a gal!

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Such a pretty present for a Christmas cracker Kraken…

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A Warning To The Pure Of Heart… AN AMERICAN WEREWOLF IN LONDON On Arrow BD.

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BD. Arrow. Region B. 18.

Just a couple of weeks or so into 2020 and I’m happy as a pig in shit (Mrs F just suggested that I also look and smell rather like one… thanks, I love you too Darling!) Following hot on the heels of the beautiful new Shameless edition of Fulci’s The Beyond, Arrow’s 4K restoration of An American Werewolf In London (1981) revives further vivid memories of a time, something like 40 years ago, when life wasn’t running too smoothly for Yours Truly but, guided by Starburst magazine (the fantasy film fanatic’s bible in those days) I was able to take regular solace down at our local fleapit, catching the original theatrical runs of such classics as The Evil Dead, The Thing, Tenebrae, Phantasm, Blade Runner and Paul Schrader’s Cat People remake, not to mention any amount of seminal slasher flicks, an unstoppable flood of ferocious Fulci fare and… last but by no means least… the item under consideration here.

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John Landis was on a proper roll at this point (for a while there, my interest in his work rivalled my obsession with Dario Argento’s), AAWIL coming after Kentucky Fried Movie (1977), Animal House (1978) and The Blues Brothers (1980). Having attained pre-eminence as a director of Comedies, Landis now leavened the mix by indulging his fondness for the Horror genre, with such impressive results that countless subsequent British films (American Werewolf is sort of a British film… the final beneficiary of the Eady Levy, no less) have mixed the two genres… to generally woeful effect (though every so often there’s a welcome exception to the rule). Despite Horror and Comedy being proverbially two sides of the same coin, spinning them into a coherent movie is no mean feat. Landis not only managed the right blend of scary and funny, he also balanced elements of eroticism and yep, romance plus high octane action set pieces to supremely satisfying effect. Brilliant stuff…

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… and yet, in the absence of a review copy, I’ve been studiously avoiding Arrow’s recent Blu-ray edition, following my adverse reactions to previous Universal DVD and Blu-ray releases of this film. For all the past promotional puff of Universal’s contemporary featurettes (included among the plentiful extras here), how could they possibly think they were doing justice to one of my cherished movie memories with those grainy travesties? And was there any realistic hope of the Arrow job looking any better? Doesn’t 4K just automatically exacerbate any such pixillated imperfections? (City Of The Living Dead, I’m looking at you!) Well, Santa having slipped a copy into my stocking while I wasn’t looking (what, you think I’ve got nothing better to do all day than sit around looking at stockings? Depends who’s wearing them…) its gratifying to be able to report that this new restoration from the original camera negative, supervised by Landis himself, finally looks and sounds (in blood-curdling 5.1) every bit as splendid as it always should have. To think I hesitated… (what a schmuck!)

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Here’s why Griffin Dunne didn’t get the red puffa jacket…

2fed2fa912e1355ab1ccf4b7be5802cc.jpgMuch of the cocky genius of Rick Baker’s masterful FX work (so good they invented an Oscar for him to win and never bettered… many have tried, but only Baker’s protege Rob Bottin came remotely close) was that it stood up to brightly lit scrutiny and now you can watch it unfold under optimal conditions in the comfort of your own lair… ditto the sublime spectacle of Jenny Agutter, at her career loveliest, as the nurse (Alex Price) for whom doomed protagonist David Kessler (David Naughton) takes an understandable turn.

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From a sexy nurse in American Werewolf to a nun in Call The Midwife… pah!

… and of course there’s a woodshedload of extras for you to wallow in, some of them familiar from previous editions. David Naughton and Griffin Dunne’s audio commentary is a treasure trove of amusing anecdotes and reminiscences while Paul Davis, who authored the comprehensive guide Beware The Moon takes an appropriately “soup to nuts” approach. Davis beats Naughton and Dunne hands down for Landis impersonations and also contributes the feature length doc version of his book. Further documentaries, cast and crew interviews and featurettes (several of them dating back to the film’s release) reinforce each other in a compelling narrative of AAWIL’s Universal antecedents, its genesis in Landis’s encounter of supernatural beliefs while working as a runner on Kelly’s Heroes (1970) in Yugoslavia, his struggle to get it green lit, the simultaneous, synergetic emergence of The Howling by Joe Dante (one of the many luminaries interviewed here), its brilliant realisation, cult kudos / critical mauling and subsequent rehabilitation.

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It would have been nice to see wider acknowledgment of cinematic lycanthropy outside of the mainstream tradition (e.g. the Iberian exploits of Mr Naschy, above) though of course the werewolf is the only member of  the classic Monster pantheon whose rulebook is copped neither from some literary source (like Frankenstein, Dracula, The Mummy et al) nor, contrary to popular belief, from ethnic folklore, rather from an earlier (Universal) film, George Waggner’s The Wolf Man (1941), whose Jewish writer Curt Siodmak fled Nazi Germany and had harrowing personal experience of reasonable looking people transforming into wild beasts overnight.

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In the video essay I Think He’s a Jew: The Werewolf’s Secret, Jon Spira labours a point that even the dimmest viewer must surely have got after the “nightmare within a nightmare” home invasion sequence, if not long before, i.e. that this film is an allegory of precarious Jewish consciousness in the second half of the 20th Century. Indeed it is, but Spira lays it on a bit too thick when he interprets Anne-Marie Davies’s line “I think he’s a Jew” as signifying her character’s barely concealed anti-semitism. By Spiro’s contention, Agutter’s Alex should have responded: “Why does it matter?”, but in the context of the nurses’ attempts to establish the origins of the mysterious patient, it’s by no means an inadmissible observation. And if Nurse Gallagher does have an ulterior motivation, is it really beyond the realms of possibility, in a film directed by the man previously responsible for Animal House, that it was the lascivious one to sneak a peek at a fit young guy’s dick? I would also suggest that if somebody as obviously smart as Landis wanted to personify privileged WASP bigotry, he’d have chosen a more appropriate avatar for it than a red haired nurse named Gallagher! Familiar with the expression “No Dogs, No Blacks, No Irish”, Jon?

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There’s  much discussion of the pre-CGI miracles wrought by Baker, of course (with fascinating “making of” and unused footage, plus SFX artist Dan Martin and Tim Lawes of The Prop Store drooling over precious props and costumes from the film. Out takes include the amusing (unfortunately soundless) encounter between Landis and the See You Next Wednesday cast (Linzi Drew and co). You get the original (and now somewhat cack handed looking) theatrical trailer plus teaser and TV spots, also a gallery of over 200 images and the option to display this one on your shelf sporting either original or new Graham Humphreys art work.

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It was great to see our old mucker Pete Atkins waxing eloquent about werewolf lore in one of the docs (I quoted one of his best lines earlier, for those of you paying attention), whereas David Naughton seems to have undergone an even scarier transformation that the one suffered by his character in the film, now bearing an uncomfortable resemblance to David Cameron! In a sadly ironic sidebar, during one of the contemporary promotional featurettes, while talking about running the three ring Piccadilly Circus climax to the film, Landis comments that “no movie is worth hurting somebody for”. Now there’s a line that would come back to haunt him.

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Lift To The Scaffold… HITCH HIKE TO HELL Reviewed.

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BD. Arrow. Region B. 18.

Once again, Arrow take us on a thumb-tripping detour down the dangerous backroads of indie American scuzz Cinema with a cautionary tale torn from contemporary (*) headlines which moralises mealey-mouthedly while wasting no opportunity to cash in on the dishonourable ’70s tradition of serial killing.
(* Nobody seems too confident about pinning a date on this one).

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Howard (Robert Gribbin) is a total schmendrick who lives with his Mom and works as a dry cleaning delivery man. The edgiest thing he ever seems to do is drinking root beer (have any of our readers ever actually tried that stuff? Yeuch!) while working on his hobby, putting together model cars. Nobody knows about his other hobby, though… raping and strangling hitch hiking runaways. It’s strongly suggested in John Buckley’s screenplay that Howie himself is not too aware of this regrettable sideline, going into some kind of spazzed-out fugue state as soon as his victims start expressing dissatisfaction with their home life or dissing their own Moms (contented homebodies just get a free ride to wherever they’re going). Apparently Howie’s domineering mother was upset when his sister Judy hitch hiked out of their lives. “I’m going to do Mama a favour, you tramp” he rails as he rapes the hapless hikers and throttles them with wire coat hangers: “You ran away from Mama… I’m going to do something to you, Judy… punish you for all you did to Mama” he continues, over their limp protests that they’re not bloody Judy! One victim was even amenable (to the sex, if not the strangling) on the time honoured principle of “a ride for a ride” (despite observing, harshly but fairly, that Howie’s “no Burt Reynolds”). The little trollop had it coming, just like Mom says.

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Whaddya mean, I put too much starch in it?!?

Bit careless though, to use the coat hangers with which his delivery van is littered…. that’s the bright red “Baldwin Cleaners” van, which must be so inconspicuous when picking up the girls. Careless also of Howie to leave his milk bottle glasses at one of the crime scenes. Then again, he doesn’t even know he’s doing this, does he? And anyway, the investigating officer Captain Shaw (Russell Johnson… yes, “The Professor” from Gilligan’s Island) is completely clueless, so Howie’s reign of terror continues. He extends his murderous attentions to a young guy who’s left home due to his parents’ disapproval of his sexual preferences and a cute little girl (though it’s not made clear whether either of those are sexually assaulted) before finally winding up confined to a booby hatch (looks like the good folks of Crescent City will to find somebody else to clean their baldwins). “Spazzed-out fugue state”, my ass… somebody strap this guy into the nearest electric chair!

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The final shots of Howie wearing a strait jacket in a rubber room, babbling about his Mom, are obviously intended to underscore the purported Norman Bates parallels, as is so often the case in these things, though Robert Gribbin’s Howard reminded me of nobody so much as Dan Grimaldi’s disco-dancing pyromaniac  in Joseph Ellison’s Don’t Go In The House (1979). While we’re admonishing people not to do stuff, Gribbin’s other notable credit (under the highly apposite nom de screen “Crackers Phinn”) was Gar aka Mark, the time travelling cannibal caveman in Lawrence D. Foldes’ truly jaw dropping “video nasty” Don’t Go Near The Park (1979). No doubt if HHTH had been released on VHS back in the day, it would have joined that one on the DPP’s proscribed list. Whatever, it was picked up for US distribution by Harry Novak, so you should know pretty much  what to expect…

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The main feature and its trailer are presented in two optional screen ratios (1.33 and 1.78). Extras wise, Stephen Thrower does a characteristically engaging job profiling the prolific, promiscuous career of director Irvin Berwick, whose stint with Sci-fi legend Jack Arnold inspired one of the most memorable Creature From The Black Lagoon knock-offs, his The Monster Of Piedras Blancas in 1959. Alexandra Heller-Nicholas narrates a new visual essay on the darker aspects of hitch-hiking culture on the screen and in real life.

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This never happened to Jack Kerouac…

Country singer Nancy Adams talks about recording the title song for a film which is clearly not her cup of tea (“I don’t want that sort of thing in our house”) and we are treated to an incongruous mash-up of the picture’s opening visuals and the original version of that number, then entitled “Lovin’ On My Mind”. Adams gives one of the name droppiest interviews ever but, to be fair, she has had a long and interesting career.

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If you’ve got a BD capable PC or Mac you’ll be able to access the original press book and the reversible sleeve will feature original and newly commissioned artwork by those Twins of Evil guys. The first pressing only will contain a collector’s booklet featuring Heather Drain’s appraisal of this torrid trash effort. Enjoy.

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No Lon, No Lucio… MAN OF A THOUSAND FACES Reviewed

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“A man only shows his true face when he is on the lavatory or on his deathbed”… Louis-Ferdinand Céline.

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BD. Arrow Academy. Region B. PG.

I know, I know, that title is a gross oversimplification… but there’s a lot of gross stuff on this blog and we’ve never knowingly let factual niceties get in the way of a snappy headline. Suffice to say, although Lucio Fulci had already compiled an impressive CV by 1979, the director would be remembered very differently today had he not been called upon to outdo Tom Savini’s gory handiwork in George Romero’s Dawn Of The Dead (1978), which he did (with the sterling assistance of Giannetto de Rossi) in Zombie Flesh Eaters (1979)… and Savini, by his own admission, would never have embarked upon his illustrious career in make up FX  (the same is allegedly true for Dick Smith and Rick Baker) but for a youthful viewing of the picture under consideration here, directed by Joseph Pevney in 1957.

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In “Hollywood’s Jubilee Year”, Universal deemed it fitting to make a biopic of one of the silent era’s greatest stars (in one of the bonus featurettes on this disc, Kim Newman reminds us that Lon Chaney was right up there with Charlie Chaplin), casting the scarcely less stellar and virtually as versatile James Cagney to play him. It goes without saying that Cagney gives a characteristically committed and nuanced performance, but much has been made of the difficulties posed for the film’s principal writers, Ralph Wheelwright and R. Wright Campbell, by Chaney’s supposed secretiveness (publicists had dubbed him “the Man of Mystery” before the “Thousand Faces” gag stuck). The received wisdom is that this obliged them to fabricate much of the film’s narrative  but in fact the salient details of Cheney’s biography were well known (and in at least one respect, notorious) and apart from one contentious passage, the film takes only minor liberties for dramatic impact. Nor does it skirt around the notorious bits.

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The invention of movie make up.

Leonidas Frank Chaney was born on April Fool’s Day 1883, to deaf parents. Obliged to converse with them via sign language, he developed pantomime skills that he successfully parlayed into a Vaudeville career that lasted from 1902 to 1913. On April  30th that year, backstage (not on stage, as depicted in Pevney’s picture) at the Majestic Theatre, LA, his estranged wife, the former Francis Cleveland Creighton (aka “Cleva”), drank a bottle of mercuric chloride in an apparent suicide attempt that only succeeded in wrecking her vocal chords and ending her singing career. Lon’s own theatre run was terminated by the scandal over this incident and the subsequent divorce, prompting him to try his luck in Hollywood’s nascent motion picture industry, where his work ethic, versatility and mastery of screen make up (a discipline he effectively invented) rapidly propelled him to stardom, notably for our purposes in such genre milestones as Wallace Worsley’s The Hunchback Of Notre Dame (1923), Rupert Julian’s The Phantom Of The Opera (1925) and such Todd Browning classics as The Unholy Three (1925) and his 1927 brace, The Unknown (the obvious template for Alejandro Jodorowsky’s Santa Sangre, 1989) and the now lost London After Midnight.

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Pevney, subsequently a prolific TV director, convincingly ascribes Chaney’s driven and seemingly masochistic (in terms of the prosthetic discomforts he was prepared to endure) approach to his career to a desire for financial security that would enable him to take custody of his son Creighton, the future Lon Chaney Jr. of Wolf Man fame. His success in this endeavour was assisted by his subsequent marriage to Hazel Hastings. Chaney completed his first talky, Jack Conway’s remake of The Unholy Three, before succumbing to throat cancer in 1930. Hollywood legend has it that had Lon lived, he rather than Bela Lugosi, would have played The Count  in Tod Browning’s Dracula the following year…

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… it’s a life story rich in pathos and irony, of which Pevney and his screen writers take full advantage. It seems reasonable to connect Chaney’s sympathetic portrayal of monstrous outsiders with the prejudice he and his parents faced. The film’s one jarring misstep (useful in terms of melodrama but unforgivable in a biopic) is the truly cringe-inducing (and completely fictitious) scene in which Cleva (Dorothy Malone) is presented to her in-laws and disgustedly rejects them. A more accurate account of the breakdown in the Chaneys’ marriage would include her youth, insecurity and incipient alcoholism. Malone’s Cleva fears that her son Creighton will be born a deaf mute but the real life Lon Jr’s most disadvantageous inheritance from his parents turned out to be his mother’s drink problem.

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The other significant bone I’d pick with this picture is that Chaney’s principal collaborator (and fellow former vaudevillian) Tod Browning remains conspicuous by his absence throughout, while we see rather too much of Universal / MGM nabob Irving Thalberg, as portrayed by former sports wear executive / future movie mogul Robert Evans. If you’re unaware of the bizarre circumstances surrounding Evans’ acting debut, Tim “Man Of A Hundred Commentary Tracks” Lucas will put you wise. Characteristically erudite stuff from Mr Watchdog but hey, Tim… maybe less of the vocal impressions next time, huh?

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Mary Philbin, Lon Chaney in Phantom Of The Opera, 1925.

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Nancy Kilgas, James Cagney in Man Of A Thousand Faces, 1957.

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Lon Chaney, 1883-1930

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It’s Electrafying… TOYS ARE NOT FOR CHILDREN Reviewed.

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BD. Arrow. Region B. 15.

“Every so often comes a Major Motion Picture that dares to deal with the taboo subject of… (whatever)” . Hollywood has never exactly been shy about patting itself on its corporate back when it feels it’s getting edgy, tackling taboos and generally pushing envelopes. For the American independents immortalised in Stephen Thrower’s Nightmare USA tome (and indeed exploitation film makers anywhere) doing that was just their bread and butter. One such director was Stanley H. Brasloff, who after a career wearing many showbiz hats, wrote and produced Charles Romine’s 1968 “roughy” Behind Locked Doors, wrote and directed the similarly rough Two Girls For a Madman the same year and wrote / directed / produced the title under consideration here, which after a long incubation / pre-production emerged to mixed indifference and indignation in 1972, prompting Stan to return to a life of treading the boards as a stand up comedian.

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TANFC could have been a supremely sick and sleazy cinematic experience but Brassloff handles things (and strong performances from his largely unheralded cast don’t exactly hurt) with exemplary subtlety and sensitivity. So much so that the publicity blurb about “a haunting and devastating climax that lingers long after the credits roll” is, for once, more than mere hyperbole. One might well think that Mario Bava himself took note of this film’s closing shots before shooting his own Lisa And The Devil the following year. It’s a pay off of truly Sophoclean impact, in the build up to which Stanley H. brilliantly intercuts different time frames to convey the extent of  Jamie’s projections and acting out… if he was similarly adept at delivering his stand up act, I imagine he rarely left a dry seat in the house.

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Arrow’s good looking 2K restoration of this title is complimented by some predictably nifty extras including Thrower’s introduction to the film and its director and an audio commentary from Kat Ellinger and Heather Drain. There’s a video essay from Alexandra Heller-Nicholas (directed by Marc Morris) which starts off on an interesting tack by comparing and contrasting TANFC with Todd Haynes’ Carol (2015) and the novel that inspired the latter, Patricia Highsmith’s The Price Of Salt,  before touching on such kindred fare as Carroll Baker in Elia Kazan’s Baby Doll (1956), the Nabokov and Kubrick Lolitas, the 1963 Twilight Zone episode Living Doll, William A. Fraker’s A Reflection Of Fear from the same year as Brasloff’s film, the whole Barbie phenomenon and the truly creepy Baby Burlesque series of shorts showcasing the precocious talents of Shirley Temple, plus an isolated audio track of T.L. Davis belting out TANFC’s OTT theme song, Lonely Am I. You get a trailer, of course and bonus ones for Behind Locked Doors and Two Girls For A Madman.

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This is a real find and very welcome addition to Arrow’s ever expanding catalogue.

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“A World Unto Itself”: Al Pacino Is CRUISING For A Bruising In An Exemplary New Arrow Release…

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BD. Arrow. Region B. 18.

In 1979, radiographer Paul Bateson was arraigned for one of several killings that had recently disfigured New York’s underground gay scene. Bateson’s previous claim to fame / notoriety was performing the cringe-inducing cerebral angiography in William Friedkin’s The Exorcist (1973). The director visited him on Riker’s Island and by his (disputed) account, was both alarmed and fascinated when Bateson told him that he’d been offered a reduced sentence if he copped for other murders, to make NYPD’s clear up ratio look better. This, plus a Gerald Walker novel based on the killings, became the inspiration for Friedkin’s Cruising (1980)…

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Steve Burns (Al Pacino) is an ambitious young cop looking for a short cut to his detective’s badge. Because he shares many physical characteristics with several gay men who’ve already fallen foul of a serial killer, Capt. Edelson (Paul Sorvino) asks if he’s willing to pose as psycho bait. Burns readily assents but is warned that the milieu he’ll be moving into is “a world unto itself… heavy metal… S/M”. Reborn as “John Forbes”, Burns goes deep undercover in the meat packing district (ooh er, Missus!), frequenting such legendary establishments as The Ramrod and The Mine Shaft (Friedkin filmed in the actual venues, populated – with the understandable exception of the principal actors – by regular patrons) to bone up on his hankie etiquette and get closer (increasingly dangerously so) to the killer and / or killers. Unable to talk about his secret posting, Burns / Forbes realises that his relationship with girlfriend Nancy (the always adorable Karen Allen) is suffering and Nancy soon notices how he’s changing. Is he developing a taste for the gay life? Or something much darker?

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Even before shooting began, Cruising divided opinion in and beyond the gay community. The aforementioned heavy leather S/M crowd got right behind it but there was a strain of more mainstream homosexual opinion which held that a decade after the Stonewall riots, the director of such sensationalist fare as The Exorcist might be about to unpick the tentative social progress that had been and was being made. As Friedkin himself concedes, water sports, fist-fucking and serial killing might well not constitute the community’s “best foot forward” in this regard. Attempts were made to disrupt the films shooting (much of the dialogue exchanges had to be subsequently re-looped) and there were civil disturbances at early screenings. Cruising was and remains controversial stuff, with each revival / re-release serving as a weather vane for where we are now, attitude wise…

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Having said that, I must confess that this is the first time I’ve watched Cruising since its theatrical release in the UK. I remember that in 1980 I was fairly impressed by its gritty edginess (though of course its orgiastic tableaux now look pretty tame compared to, e.g. the opening / closing scenes of Gaspar Noé’s 2002 effort Irreversible) and found myself irresistibly drawn into its mystery, only to be frustrated by the film’s increasingly wayward narrative en route to a “WTF?” denouement, leaving the theatre with the impression that Friedkin had… er, blown an intriguing premise. In addition, of course, there was the lurking suspicion that Cruising was, yes indeedy, homophobic.

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39 years later, viewed through the prism of the cinematic obsessions I’ve accreted in the past four decades, my initial impression was how much influence Cruising (itself a vaguely gialloesque proposition) has exerted over another, perhaps even more notorious offering, Lucio Fulci’s The New York Ripper (1982), way over and above that of the other obvious precedent, Brian De Palma’s Dressed To Kill (1980). Of course Cruising wasn’t exactly fresh in my mind by the time I finally got to see Fulci’s much-banned giallo.

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Pacino’s attempts at dancing with amyl-fuelled gay abandon still look pretty risible (then again I think everybody – with the probable exception of Fred Astaire – looks pretty silly when they’re dancing)… and what exactly the fuck is it with the scenes in which a humungous black guy straight out of Tom Of Finland steps into interrogations, slaps suspects around then shimmies out the door?

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Friedkin makes fantastic use of Joe Spinell’s unforgettable physiognomy at various points and I’ve always cherished the entry that turns up in one suspect’s diary (“I feel my thoughts being born in my head. I can feel them taking shape. If only I could stop thinking. I can’t help but feel I’m on the verge of a discovery of some sort. Yesterday in the park, I saw an enormous dark shape. It seemed to hang suspended and dripping from the trees like a tar jelly. At its centre was a bright red glow”) because I love it when killers in these things have some kind of cracked mystical motivation. Still, not a patch on David Keith’s insane cosmological speculations in Donald Cammell’s White Of The Eye (1987, below).

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That demented diarist is only one of several candidates that Al’s got his eye on and I have to concede that I’m still as baffled as I was in 1980 regarding who exactly is killing whom… and why. Different suspects speak with the same creepy voice (and recite the same macabre nursery rhyme) as the hallucinated father of one of them. Is this a really lame attempt to forge some kind of link in the viewer’s mind between Cruising and Friedkin’s megahit The Exorcist (the director deploys subliminal footage to unsettling effect in both)? It doesn’t exactly help that a lot of the victims and possible killers look exactly like each other. Isn’t that what prejudiced people always say about minorities? Am I homophobic? Nah, just confused. I’ve spoken to gay friends and fellow pundits about Cruising and the general consensus seems to be that the film is problematic but probably not homophobic. But when Friedkin opines in one of the commentary tracks that “some of the cops were also degenerate”, you have to wonder.

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The impossibility of pinning down a single killer in Cruising leaves it open to the interpretation that even if you could put somebody away, there are always going to be more killings because “that’s what homsexuality is all about… deviance and premature death, innit?” Other possible interpretations emerge during the course of the supplementary materials on this disc. Apart from a trailer and two useful featurettes concentrating on the film’s genesis, production and controversial impact, you get a couple of commentary tracks. The archive one by Friedkin is a curiously unenlightening affair, for long stretches of which he merely describes what’s happening on screen. I really surprised myself by my positive response to the second, more recent track, in which BF’s comments are mediated by Mark Kermode…

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“Surprised myself” chiefly because I’ve never quite understood the esteem in which Kermode is rated as a critic. One of the biggest problems I have with him is his ongoing insistence that The Exorcist is, rather than some superior, turbo-charged variation on William Castle‘s formula of conveyor belt shocks, the best / most profound movie ever made. I mean… really, Mark? Come on…

DvW9_OMWwAAUoLa.jpg-large.jpegHere, however he relentlessly nags at Friedkin to explain himself and the unfolding explanation is one where the narrative dead ends down which this film cruises are more attributable to intent than ineptitude on the director’s part. By his contention, WF was loath to hand viewers an easy wrap-up (“like a hamburger in a paper bag”) for a complex situation. As he was articulating this position, it occurred to me that I’d been maintaining a double standard by kvetching about this aspect of Cruising while Antonioni’s Blow Up (1966) remains a fixture on my all time Top 10 (quite possibly Top 5) films list. Friedkin even offers a plausible (albeit still a tad far fetched) explanation of the black guy in the cowboy hat and jockstrap.

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The main feature has never looked or sounded better than here, in a 4K restoration / 5.1 sound reworking. I still entertain nagging doubts about it but after consuming this edition I appreciate Cruising a lot more and understand it maybe a little better. Isn’t that precisely what these collector’s editions are supposed to do for us?

It was particularly helpful, while marshalling my thoughts (such as they are) on this film, to chat with @jonnylarkin from those Screaming Queenz. Here’s their SQ podcast on Cruising. Enjoy.

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“They Called Her The Countess…” Twice The Vice In Riccardo Freda’s DOUBLE FACE.

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BD. Arrow. Region B. 15.

Arrow’s creditable crusade to afford decent BD releases to as many Riccardo Freda films as possible continues with this timely edition of Double Face (“A Doppia Faccia”), an Italian / West German co-production that initially emerged in 1969 on the very cusp of Germany’s “krimi” adaptations (and alleged adaptations) of Edgar Wallace potboilers and the Italian giallo cycle that was heavily influenced by but ultimately supplanted them.

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Here John Alexander (Klaus Kinski on uncharacteristically restrained form for one of his earliest leading roles) romances Helen Brown (his frequent Eurotrash co-star Margaret Lee) in whirlwind style (and amid some of the crappiest blue screen work in cinema history) but finds time to repent at leisure as his new bride rapidly cools on him in favour of female lovers, most notably Liz (Annabella Incontrera). On the upside, she makes him the beneficiary of her controlling interest in some ill-defined business empire or other, in the event of her death. Some upside… when Helen’s jaguar crashes (in one of the film’s two poorly mounted miniature RTAs) and she’s burned to an unidentifiable crisp, he becomes Scotland Yard’s number one suspect for her murder (somebody planted an explosive device in the jag…)

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As if he doesn’t have troubles enough, John returns to his impressive country pile from a recuperative break to find that sexy hippy squatter Christine (Christiane Krüger) has moved in. Dismissing her as one of his wife’s ditzy conquests, John is lured to a groovy sex / drugs / motorbike party where he catches a blue movie starring Christine and a veiled woman who, her distinctive jewellery and distinguishing neck scar strongly suggest, is Helen. You’d have to be particularly dim not to suspect that John is being set up for something and he’s probably not too dim to have worked that out for himself, but his curiosity and the tantalising suggestion that his beloved, albeit estranged wife, might still be alive propel him ever further down the rabbit hole…

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Like any self-respecting giallo (and this one is, any way you cut it, more giallo than krimi), Double Face owes much to French crime novelists Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac, whose ongoing concerns with thwarted sexual obsession, personal identity and characters who might or might not be dead were adapted to the screen most notably as Clouzot’s Les Diaboliques (1955) and Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958). Long before he was sucked into Italy’s giallo feeding frenzy, Freda had shown his affinity for these themes in that 1962 milestone of Gothic Cinema known, not coincidentally, as The Horrible Secret Of Dr Hichcock, wherein their necrophiliac foundations were laid startlingly bare.

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Converseley, the Goth trimmings of that one and it’s non sequential companion piece The Ghost Of Dr Hichcock (1963) infect Double Face, whose entrepreneur class inhabit antique mansions scarcely less sumptuously appointed than that of Dr H himself. Freda has a ball indulging his fussy visual style while driving his compelling narrative forward at such pace that you don’t register how little sense it makes until after the end credit has rolled. DB’s FX scenes are as risible as anything in Freda’s Iguana With The Tongue Of Fire  (1971), Tragic Ceremony (1972) or Murder Obsession (1980) and he stages a visit to The Grand National (Edgar Wallace’s parents hailed from Liverpool, incidentally) in true Am-Dram style but he never bailed (as was his wont) on Double Face (though Kinski briefly did after these alpha males had butted heads)… when you sense that his mercurial mind is tiring of the proceedings, the director amuses himself by sending Kinski out sleuthing in a Philip Marlowesque mac and fedora for a paranoid perambulation down Fritz Lang Street… Freda was a more cultured character than many of his contemporaries and when I see this sort of thing, I can’t help feeling that it’s closer to the passages of stylistic parody and pastiche in  Joyce’s Ulysses than standard cheapjack film thievery.

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Hyped as a Wallace adaptation for its German release, Double Face was actually co-written by our old pal Lucio Fulci, who liked its wobbly plot so much that he rehashed elements of it in his own Perversion Story aka One On Top Of Another (which takes its Vertigo fetish so far as to be set in San Francisco) the same year and Lizard In A Woman’s Skin (1971). Nora Orlandi’s beautiful main theme was similarly reworked, to spectacular effect, in Sergio Martino’s extraordinary The Strange Vice Of Mrs Wardh (1971).

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Speaking of Orlandi (with pals, above), in his bonus featurette OST guru Lovely Jon gives us the run down on the great woman and her circle, with some priceless vintage clips. Better still, the lady herself is then interviewed and proves to be a formidable prospect, who by her own account battled to make her way in a man’s world but never took any shit off anybody. She flatly contradicts Lovely Jon’s assertion that she must have learned much from Alessandro Alessandroni, implying instead that without what he learned from her, Alessandroni would never have amounted to much. She’s particularly catty about another rival, Nino Rota and although she got on fine with Romolo Guerrieri (for whom she scored The Sweet Body Of Deborah, 1968), predictably fell out with Freda over his accusation that she recycled cues from picture to picture. Frankly, he had a point, as acknowledged by Orlandi when she jokes: “Better to steal from myself than from somebody else…”

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… unless they lived in the middle ages, of course, Orlandi happily bandying about the volume of medieval music from which she pinched her most celebrated theme. When it was recycled in Kill Bill: Vol. 2, she had to take steps to ensure that she got paid. Endearingly, she admits to not even knowing who Quentin Tarantino was at the time, though now she believes it enhanced her prestige to have her music associated with him. Why not the other way round? Cultural imperialism is a curious thing…

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Other supplementary materials include Amy Simmons’ video essay on Freda’s forays into giallo, an extensive image gallery from the Christian Ostermeier collection (including the original German pressbook and lobby cards, plus the complete Italian cineromanzo adaptation), original Italian and English theatrical trailers, also a reversible sleeve featuring vintage and newly commissioned Graham Humphreys artwork. The first pressing only will include an illustrated collector’s booklet featuring new writing on Double Face by Neil Mitchell.

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Tim Lucas’s commentary track is as erudite and informative as ever, though representing something of a change of tack. Unsure about which of the films many edits (see below) he was going to be discussing, TL delivered a lecture rather than the usual scene synchronised commentary. If you close your eyes or turn the picture off this works OK, otherwise there are points at which Tim discussing scene A while scene B unfolds is as jarring as a Dinky toy traffic accident.

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Lensed by Gábor Pogány (who also shot Pink Floyd: Live At Pompeii, among many others), Double Face’s bold primary colours, which previous releases have contrived to mute, really pop in this beautiful transfer. At 1:31:26, the main feature runs about four-and-a-half minutes longer than the previously circulated French language / English subtitled bootleg print of “Liz Et Helen” and a full thirteen minutes longer than the Das Gesicht Im Dunkeln version on Universum Film’s epic Krimi DVD box set. I’ve never seen the French version with hard core inserts featuring Franco favourite Alice Arno… hey, what kind of a boy do you think I am?

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Move Like Jagger… THE ANNIHILATORS Reviewed

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This is what you want…

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… this is what you get. Try not to shoot each other, boys.

BD. Arrow. Region B. TBC.

While Joe Zito was filming Invasion U.S.A. for Cannon in Atlanta, with a $10 million budget and Chuck Norris in the starring role, another action film was being made just down the block… Charles E. Sellier Jr was shooting The Annihilators (1985) for Roger Corman’s New World outfit, with a considerably less starry (albeit interesting) cast and predictably meaner financial resources at his disposal. Zito’s film made something in the region of seven and a half million dollars profit and was, until 2007, MGM’s second highest selling home video title (only Gone With The Wind kept it off the top spot). As for The Annihilators, well…

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The action commences with a crack team of American special forces operatives socking it to the slopes in Vietnam. Apparently nobody questioned this kind of thing back in 1985… nobody at New World, anyway. It definitely occurred to somebody that the local park setting of these shenanigans wasn’t entirely convincing, so we also get a bit of actual ‘Nam stock footage, some of it looking suspiciously similar to that used in the title sequence of Antonio Margheriti’s Cannibal Apocalypse (1980).

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The Atlantan cannibal outbreak depicted in that classic has thankfully now subsided,  only to be replaced by the scourge of gangs such as The Scorpions, The Turks, and The Rollers. It’s the latter, led by (I kid you not) Roy Boy Jagger (as played by Paul Koslo, arguably the oldest and bushiest coiffed gang banger in Cinema history) who enter the grocery store of Joe Nace (Dennis Redfield), one of the special forces guys we saw in the film’s opening but now confined to a wheelchair, to have a word with him about the resistance he’s been organising to their protection racket. This involves groping and fatally stabbing one of his female customers and beating his head in with a steak tenderiser. Perhaps Charlie Bukowski and his buddies are, after all, still living and dining in the area? Whatever, Dekalb County has definitely seen better days…

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Swept aside by the simple act of annihilation… murder! (Nice hair, Roy Boy.)

Obviously a fan of such Vet Vigilante opuses as James Glickenhaus’s The Exterminator (1980) and Patrick G. Donahue’s Kill Squad (1982), Colonel Bill (Christopher Stone) decides to reconvene his crack ‘Nam team to seek justice for their buddy. Ray Track (Gerrit Graham) is now a successful yuppy but years behind a desk have left him just itchin’ for action. Lawrence-Hilton Jacobs (as martial arts ace Garrett Floyd) is a happily married man, possibly seeking atonement for the part he played in Death Wish (“Mugger in Park #2… uncredited”). Woody (Andy Wood) has been fighting a losing battle with the bottle since being demobbed, but a mission to clear the scum off the streets (plus the prospective love of a good woman) is exactly the kind of motivation he needs to turn himself around.

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Like a cut-price Seven Samurai, the gang conduct crash courses in martial arts for the besieged citizenry and – even more crucially – teach them to knock three times on the nearest worktop, drainpipe or whatever, whenever threatened by bad guys. Sorry, I couldn’t resist it…

 

These tactics are improbably successful in degrading The Rollers’ power base but Colonel Bill ups the ante by hijacking their latest drug shipment, prompting Roy Boy to walk up and down the high street with a flame thrower, demanding his dope back. Faced down by a bit of a drainpipe tapping, he commandeers a school bus a la Scorpio in Dirty Harry (1971) at which point the kids he’s been grooming as future Rollers turn on him… jolly good thing, too. During the narrative wrap up, the ongoing mystery concerning the identity of the squad’s intelligence handler in Vietnam is finally revealed… as if you could give an actual rat’s ass!

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Despite its magpie borrowings from all of them, The Annihilators is no Seven Samurai, it’s no Assault On Precinct 13… it’s not even The Exterminator… but it is a cheesey urban Western, so very cheesey that its elements probably have to be stored at or below 35 to 45 degrees Fahrenheit. From those elemental chunks of emmental, Arrow have fashioned a nice 2K restoration, whose extras include an in-depth examination (a little too in-depth, probably) of the boobs’n’blood stabbing scene that the BBFC excised from previous editions, new Graham Humphreys art work and interviews with Lawrence-Hilton Jacobs and David O’Malley, an erstwhile collaborator of the late Chuck Sellier (below).

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O’Malley talks about Sellier’s unlikely involvement in the Grizzly Adams movies and a series of “Chariots of The Gods” type speculative schlockumentaries and suggests that he didn’t really like introducing any element of confrontation into his films. Those viewers for whom The Annihilators doesn’t really live up to its title (we’re promised “heat on the street” but those sidewalks barely get tepid) might well see the justice of this observation… Sellier must certainly have got out of the wrong side of the bed when he dreamed up the Daddy of all the Killer Santa flicks, the ultra mean-spirited Silent Night, Deadly Night (1984).

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Rules Is Rules… Teruo Ishii Addresses A Significant Gender Gap In YAKUZA LAW

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BD. Region B. Arrow. Cert 18.

Although a perennial, prolific and promiscuous genre-jumper, Teruo Ishii is undoubtedly most famous… nay, notorious… in the West for the series of “pinky violence” epics he initiated in 1968 with Tokugawa Onna Keibatsi-Shi (The Joy Of Torture / Shogun’s Joy Of Torture) and we’ve already covered his Zankoku Ijô Gyakutai Monogatari: Genroku Onna Keizu (Orgies Of Edo, 1969). Constrained by contemporary domestic censorship restrictions on images of the naked female form, these films routinely doubled (and indeed tripled) down on imagery of women’s BDSM debasement, to increasingly delirious and (from today’s vantage point… “the Sadism inherent in The Male Gaze” and all that) decidedly troubling effect.

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Although women are routinely insulted, groped and slapped around for getting uppity in 1969’s Yakuza Law (original title Yakuza Keibatsu-Shi: Rinchi!), it’s main thrust is the dire punishments handed out to (male) Yakuza members who break the code of the underworld (give or take the moll who ends up in a cement block with her gangster boyfriend)… and it’s unrelentingly grisly stuff, at levels consistently way above and beyond the well known scene in Sydney Pollack’s The Yakuza (1974) where Robert Mitchum cuts off one of his finger as honourable atonement for a misdeed.

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After a mind bogglingly gruesome opening compendium of tortures that don’t even occur in the main body of the feature, Yakuza Law begins to unfold, like Orgies Of Edo, as a portmanteau movie told in three instalments though, unlike that film, they play out over discrete historical eras. In that Edo Period, various samurais plot against and double cross each other for advancement in the organisation. I must admit that I found the plot of this section quite difficult to follow (Jasper Sharp’s commentary track helped a bit) but the outcome was clear enough – a stack of mutilated corpses. Fast forward to the Meiji Period, where Ogata (Minoru Oki, later one of the dreaded Masters Of Death in Shogun Assassin) comes out of the slammer, having taken the fall to protect his Yakuza master. No gratitude or payback is forthcoming and when Ogata sees how his allegedly honourable brethren mistreat the locals, he relinquishes his vows, resulting in another predictable pile of mutilated corpses. Stand out moments include somebody hacking out his own eyeball and throwing it in the face of the guy to whom he owed a debt of honour. A word of advice to Mino (Ryôta Minowada), whose criminal colleagues beat and piss on him for some misdemeanour… probably best to register your protests over this treatment with your mouth closed, dude!

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Finally, the action is brought bang up to date (ish) with another tale of internecine gang conflict, headlined by Teruo Yoshida (who plays the idealistic doctor Gentatsu in Orgies of Edo). Technological advances mean that in the late ’60s, traditional swordplay has been replaced by guns, faces are burned with cigarette lighters and renegade yakuza can be locked in cars that are then crushed into cubes. The “guy dangled out of helicopter” sequence and casino scene are straight out of the James Bond franchise (which had visited Japan two years previously with Lewis Gilbert’s You Only Live Twice) and the unlikely feats of marksmanship, eccentric whistling henchmen and prominent poignant poinging of a jew’s harp on Masao Yagi’s soundtrack, not to mention the plot device of a maverick / Ronin playing two factions off against each other, suggest a desire to cop a dollop of Spaghetti Western box office…

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… and yes, I know that virtually the whole of Leone’s A Fistful Of Dollars (1964) was an outrageous pinch from Kurosawa’s Yojimbo (1961) but Ishii was undoubtedly oblivious to such niceties, more concerned instead to pack a plethora of audience attracting elements into these portmanteau pictures to tempt contemporary viewers away from their beloved TV sets. Sharp points out that like contemporary Amicus releases, these films ran on narrative patterns more in tune with people’s telly watching habits, while simultaneously serving up stuff that couldn’t possibly be broadcast on the box.

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Ishii always was a commercial film maker rather than auteur with any kind of message, as he is at great, er, pains to point out in the bonus interview here. The late director was not without a social conscience though, explaining that he stopped directing episodes in the ongoing Supergiants franchise (below) after reports that kids wearing capes were jumping out of windows  and injuring themselves.

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Tom Mes contributes new writing to a collector’s booklet that will appear in the first pressing only. Jasper Sharp’s commentary track, as previously mentioned, is useful in maintaining a running score card on who’s doing what to whom and periodically drawing our attention away from the ongoing outrages to e.g. a particularly painterly piece of composition or the merits of Yagi’s score. He also name checks Morihei Magatani’s Girl Divers At Spook Mansion (1959, below) whose IMDB synopsis makes it sound like an especially deranged episode of Scoby Doo. Any chance of releasing that one, Arrow?

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It’s indicative of this film’s severe imagery that Mr Sharp can introduce its second episode with the observation that it’s the least violent of the three, his comment coinciding with Ogata storming into a rival gang leader’s place and chopping his arm off… that’s  Yakuza Law for you!

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“Hardboiled eggs and NUTS! Huh…”

 

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