From Zombos' Closet

Movie Review: The Grapes of Death (1978) Les Raisins De La Mort

Zombos Says:
Have a glass of wine instead.

Seriously, have a glass or two of wine instead of seeing this movie. French directors (that would be Jean Rollin in this case) often have trouble handling the subtleties of horror and science fiction; namely that there are no subtleties.

Instead of a clean and clear message delivered through visual and visceral tension and terror, they'll pause the camera on a scene until it's threadbare, insist their characters prattle on and on with soul-searching ruminations, and then have them make interminable philosophical arguments about their predicament, stalling everyone in place while the pace unfolding around them screams for celerity and action. Of course, when you get to movies like In My Skin, the scale tips well past the clean and clear measure and goes sailing out the window, but that's another discussion entirely. Just recall Alien: Resurrection and you will get my drift.

Here are my review notes in lieu of a more polished review. This movie is simply not worth more of my time or effort beyond compelling you, with sufficient information, to make your own judgement on whether to watch it or not. But if you watch it your crazy. 

Review Notes for The Grapes of Death:

(Misc. Notes: Interesting, the IMdB lists a 6.2 rating on this. Wonder what their reviewers are smoking. Wait, they even rate 6.3 for Alien: Resurrection. Must be good stuff. Don't forget to mention the poster art comes from drfreex.com).

Opening beat on worker being overcome from pesticide used on wine grapes. Told to suck it up and get back to work. He does. Foreshadowing trouble to come. Next opening beat on two young woman traveling on empty train to countryside. They are friends. They talk a lot. Comment on how freaky it is traveling with no one else aboard (aside from the conductor, I guess). No attendants, either (budget saver). They stop at one village. Silent guy boards train. What's wrong with him? He's leering. Right. He's infected. Silent, now violent, guy kills one girl, goes to sit in the car with the other.

Takes a long time for Elizabeth (Marie-Georges Pascal) to notice he's the silent, leering, crazy type. He starts oozing--what the hell, is that grape juice? Cheesy effects here we come. Great. Finally she gets the message. She runs to find her friend. Finds her mauled to death in the loo (could get fancy here and say train de salle de bains). Elizabeth stops train and runs away.

And keeps running for a long while.

(Note: drawn out sequence here; too much time between  beats. French directors do that a lot. Unless it's about chocolate, food, or sex, they can't handle down time well.) Good cinematography of countryside (or is it good countryside lends itself to photography?)

She enters cottage, sees man and woman by the dinner table, pleads with them to help her, must call the police, etc. She's hysterical, yelling, she needs to phone cops, he pores a glass of wine for her. Woman standing by him is immobile. What's up? Oh, right, the guy has some creepy looking plastic makeup on his--I mean rotting flesh--showing. He's infected, too.

Extreme, and unnecessary, close ups splice back and forth between her face and their's. She's told to calm down and stay, rest awhile. Sure. She heads upstairs to find a comfy bed. Conveniently open door leads to finding a body in a room. She pulls the sheet away, finds woman with throat cut open. Guy's daughter tells Elizabeth he's insane, killed mom. Right. Kind of caught that before she headed upstairs. Erratic beat here. Can we get on with it? Every scene is lingered over too much, ruining the pacing. Were we that obtuse in 1978?

Finally, he acts violently and kills his daughter with a pitchfork. He makes sure to rip open her blouse first to show her ample breasts. Country living I suspect. She was also infected. Interesting. So story point is men and women are infected differently. Also explains why he didn't kill his daughter before then. Only kills her now because she's helping Elizabeth escape?

But then he regrets killing his family. Elizabeth runs for it. To the car. He stops in front of the car and insists she finish him off. She does, after thinking it over. A lot. She rams the dinky car into him. (Note: dinky cars ramming into people is unintentionally funny.) She drives around. Comes across another crazy guy, stops long enough for him to thump his head through her side window again and again and again. Long take closeup of his rubber appliance--I mean weeping sores from his infection. She shoots him dead. (Crap, where'd she pick up the gun(?). It had to be in the farmhouse she drove away from. How'd I miss it? After crashing his head into her side window the dinky car won't start. Sure, that makes sense.

She's on foot again and walking around (no budget for gas?). And walking around a lot (before the next beat kicks in.) Wait, now she's running. Waiting for that damn beat!

A twig snaps, she pulls out her gun, a woman comes stumbling towards her, arms outstretched in front. The woman is blind. Seems okay and not infected. Lucie (Mirella Rancelot) has been going around and around since the morning. Elizabeth and Lucie now stroll toward the village, chatting, arm in arm. They take the long way around.

(Finally, the next beat kicks in. This movie screams "edit me!")

They come across a dead guy, then a lot of dead guys. Lots of time spent walking through the carnage of dead guys. Lucie keeps insisting on knowing what's happened. Elizabeth doesn't tell her. Not sure why. Lucie starts screaming "Luca," looking for him, but then they're walking again.

(Note: I don't think there was this much walking in the Lord of the Rings movies, combined.)

Both women hugging each other now as they walk. Finally, they find Lucie's house. Where's Lucas (Paul Bisciglia)?  If Lucie pores a glass of wine for Elizabeth I'm going to--wait, Lucas shows up, not looking too good. More infected people show up. They're not looking so good, either. Whole village must be wine drinkers. Lucie stumbles off on her own, Elizabeth pulls out her gun and loads it. (Wait. Where'd she get more bullets? Crap! I thought I was paying attention.)

Lucie, now walking, with villagers descending on her. Pretty creepy scene. She keeps calling for Lucas. More close-ups of zombiefied faces. Lucie tells them to go away, thinking they're there to make fun of her. They don't (go away or make fun of her). She starts walking again, through them.

Let's see how long this takes before the next beat kicks in. Rollin's going for a record here, I know it.

Lucas finds her. He's all weird, starts drooling and laughing. And promptly strangles her with a rope as the villagers watch. Lucie's screams don't prompt much urgency from Elizabeth. She does manage to shoot one villager, though, then finds Lucie nailed, topless of course, to a farmhouse door.

Lucas brandishes axe. Really bad special effect of Lucie's fake head being chopped off her blatantly obvious dummy body ensues--in close-ups, and Lucas carries the head around by its long hair. (Note: Wait a mo, when did Romero do The Crazies? Right, 1973. Rollin must have seen it. This whole rabid village thing is a lot like The Crazies in spirit.)

Lucas chases Elizabeth, head in hand. Villagers stagger after them. She runs away. Again. Then she's pulled into a house by a blond bombshell. (Note: It's Brigitte Lahaie the porn actress!) They sit on a couch and chat away. Lahaie pores Elizabeth a drink, too. Can't beat that country hospitality.

And they chat some more.

We are told the house's owners are dead, but she had the key, so the house is hers now. Good foreshadowing as to who may have killed them. Really subtle. Hint, hint. Lahaie says the villagers try to get in every night but they can't (that scenario sounds familiar? --yes, Vincent' Price's The Last Man on Earth). Then she changes clothes so they can go out to find safety. Say what? If the villagers can't get in, they were safe inside weren't they?

And Lahaie's acting pretty weird; enough to connect the dots for us, but Elizabeth remains clueless. I sense more running in her future.

Lahaie tricks Elizabeth and the villagers come around. Wow, didn't see that coming. More close-ups of badly made up infected faces. Lots of prolonged hysterics. Lots of villagers-mingling-around shots to fill time between beats.

La grande femme blonde (as Brigitte "Lahaye" is noted in the credits) soon carries a large torch and holds onto two mean-looking dogs (so what's Rollin implying here?). More annoying closeups fill time until two guys can drive up in their truck with rifles and dynamite. 

Yes! --I mean, of course Rollin has her disrobe to show the two guys she's not infected. How could Rollin not let Lahaye (nee Lahaie) showcase her assets to the fullest?

More running ensues as Elizabeth escapes while the two guys get an eyeful. And more close-ups of faces ogling through their infections wastes camera time. Elizabeth returns with the torch, but not the dogs, gets too close to Lahaye, and they start fighting. The two guys almost shoot her, but realize she's not infected and Lahaye is the crazy one. Lahaye grabs the torch and blows up the truck and herself.

Which leaves us with the two guys and Elizabeth walking. Again.

(Note: mention the really annoyingly inappropriate score to this movie while they walk. A monkey with a zither could do better.)

Daylight. They pause for a long chatty rest. Continue walking, do some climbing, then chat some more about needing a pint of beer, realize they just missed the New Wine Festival (could definitely use the Song of the New Wine from Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man to liven this turkey up), argue over military bases and nuke plants, and politics (I swear to god this is torture to listen to), and who should carry the lone rifle they have. Obviously Elizabeth should, since she can shoot well and produce bullets when needed. And she looked like such a dainty little thing, too. Go figure.

They finally arrive at a farmhouse. One guy makes a phone call while the other plunders the larder and pulls out the food. Ah, French movies. The two guys drink wine (guess they missed the memo about the tainted wine?) and argue a lot, then agree to disagree. She leaves to stagger around outside. She staggers into the barn. Staggers up the barn stairs. Conveniently finds her friend, Lucien (Serge Marquand), hanging out in the barn. Seems a bit abrupt to have him just appear.

He's infected. They talk about it. He created the pesticide that's killing everybody. They talk about that. He's feeling equally guilty and homicidal. She gets closer to her boyfriend and hugs him, infected warts and all. Ah, the French and true love.

The two guys stop arguing and realize Elizabeth had left. They go looking for her. One of them shoots Lucien dead. She then shoots the two guys dead. One last, long, closeup of blood dripping onto her face as the credits roll. My guess is she became infected, too. The end.

Like I said, just open a bottle and have at it. Forget this one, unless you like smelly cheese with your wine.

Halloween Frankenstein Light-Up Necklace

Note the placement of the neck bolts to tie the necklace string to. 

Halloween 2014: Home Depot Spooky Phone, Witch Way Flight School and Chia Zombies

Found these entertaining Halloween treats at Home Depot today. The Spooky Phone is killer. Scary sayings when you pick up the handset (or set the sensor), and the eyes on the skull light up. The Witch Way Flight School lights up as the witches fly around overhead. The Chia Zombies are wild and cool looking enough to keep out all year long. Nicely made items and fun additions to your decorative endeavors. 

Book Review: Amicus Horrors Tales from the Filmmaker's Crypt

Zombos Says: Fair to Good

This review first appeared in We Belong Dead magazine, issue 14, published by Eric McNaughton. I highly recommend you pick up WBD, any issue. No. 14, in particular, is 100 pages, packed with articles, not commercial fluff, written by passionate fans of classic horror movies. Remember when Diabolique was actually good? Or when Fangoria wasn't trying to sell you their DVD junk? Don't sulk, start reading We Belong Dead.

 

Disappointed is the feeling that comes into play after reading journalist Brian McFadden’s Amicus Horrors. For someone who visited the British studio owned by two Americans, conducted interviews with Peter Cushing (arguably the best chapter in the book) and Vincent Price (the most threadbare chapter), there is an expectation of a more rewarding read to be found here. McFadden, however, writes as if he is churning out newspaper articles, leaving his book’s chapters disconnected from each other, causing noticeable repetition across them, and the inclusion of much material not related to Amicus padding their length and blurring his title’s focus. Like me, by the time you finish his book you may also be a tad annoyed at having read, again and again, why The Deadly Bees turned out so badly.

The Vincent Price at Amicus chapter, for instance, goes well beyond his movie efforts at Amicus. Redeeming its unnecessary movie career rundown are McFadden’s few interview notes: among them Price gives credit to Daniel Haller, the art director for Roger Corman’s Poe-inspired movies, as the man who gave them their expensive look, and an explanation for how Price spent his sizable expense account from AIP when he was on loan to Amicus—buying artwork, lots of artwork.

McFadden gives the history of Amicus, detailing how Milton Subotsky, who would come to handle the day to day production in Britain, joined with Max Rosenberg, who stayed in America to handle the financing. More or less, just blaming-the-teen-musicals seems to be the chief instigator. McFadden draws parallels between Subotsky’s script-writing experience with the multi-segment storylines supplying the musical numbers, threaded together by a simple plot, and Amicus’s notable portmanteau movies that followed, beginning with Dr. Terror’s House of Horrors. In this chapter can also be found extensive background on Amicus’s first movie, The City of the Dead, where McFadden hints at Subotsky—a voracious reader—possibly being influenced by Richard Matheson’s Psycho, and how budget constraints helped the movie achieve its creepiness factor instead of hindering it.

Again and again, McFadden notes the key facets to the strategy Amicus used for keeping costs down and production values high. Aside from “renting a small bungalow at Shepperton Studios,” shooting scenes using the same set back to back to eliminate relighting and repositioning the cameras saved time and money, and hiring star actors for specific shoots that lasted only 2 or 3 days instead of having them wait around and getting paid for the wait kept budgets low. Subotsky also reasoned that paying for one or two stars for a segment in a portmanteau movie would attract an audience to sit through the entire movie, even if those stars appeared briefly.

Mentioned, but not fully explored, is why Amicus strayed from their successful horror portmanteau movies, coming at a time when Hammer’s success was waning, to do less successful movies that didn’t follow the omnibus format; or as McFadden wonders “why Amicus started trying to serve martinis when their stock and trade was beer and ale.” McFadden should have wondered more on this for our benefit.

After his promising and interesting second chapter, McFadden spreads the rest of his chapters thinly across the notable stars and supporting actors appearing in Amicus movies, an Amicus Filmography and Commentary, exploration on Amicus-Related Films and Amicus Imitators, two chapters best left to another book, and chapters on the music scoring and the Shepperton and Twickenham studio locations. His penchant for rattling off movies ad nauseam and straying from his Amicus focus becomes distracting, although you may find some of the straying rather interesting, like Peter Cushing’s adventures trying to attract studio attention in America and his brush with the Canadian Mounties.

Unnecessary is his chapter, A Brief Side Trip to Hammer, especially after McFadden’s premise that Hammer receives most of the attention and Amicus so little. He adds nothing new here, and leaves the reader wondering if he had a lot of notes and thoughts and decided to uncork them to flow in this book without seriously considering their relevance or discussion integrity as a whole. There’s one production note I did find surprising: I, Monster was supposed to be “3-D without classes” (the Pulfrich Effect) but wound up 2-D instead, leaving a lot of unnecessary camera movement to confound its audiences and annoy Christopher Lee.

While there is much to read here and there, more coverage on Amicus-related material is left wanting, leaving the reader wanting more than the pint he offers.

Halloween Rubie's Spooky Decoration Skull, Dracula, Ghosts

These illustrations are killer. The execution of this novelty, not so much. That black 'Press Here' label wasn't meant to be removed (underneath is wiring and solder), so these beautiful decorations are marred by that big black dot in the center. And you can't change the button battery unless you cut into the back to find it. Tsk, tsk.

Halloween Paper Art Witch and Cauldron

Halloween Pumpkin Patch Decoration

And a hearty Boo! to you, too. Unfortunately, I don't know who produced this wonderful paper decoration. It strikes a nice balance between cute and scary.

Halloween Paper Art Trick or Treat Cat

Can't you just die from all this cuteness?

Halloween Beistle Assorted Cutouts

Movie Pressbook: The Land That Time Forgot (1975)

I picked up my first Edgar Rice Burroughs paperbacks at Phil Seuling's comic shop in Brooklyn. The pages were tanned, the stories exciting. Also snagged a leather-bound set of Charles Dickens works. Oh, yes, and I bought a lot of comics, met Roy Thomas and other comic and Warren magazine notables, and had the time of my life. I would ride my bike to the shop after school just about every day. And yes, my bike had the chrome bullet headlight, fox tail, banana seat, and long handlebars. Somebody stole it one day and I've not been able to fully capture the magic back ever since. Of course, now that I'm all grown up, my Mustang helps soothe the loss. Maybe I should tie a fox tail to its antenna. 

Movie Pressbook: Piranha (1978)

Tommy Boy A Zombie Short Story

Here's my short story, Tommy Boy, which first appeared in Shadow Masters: An Anthology from the Horror Zine, edited by Jeani Rector, to put you in the mood for the smell of pumpkin innards, seductive taste of chocolate candy treats melting in your mouth, and the spirit-lifting giddy abandon that accompanies a walk through a moon-lit Halloween night swirling with Autumn leaves, dressed in your fears.

Tommy Boy
by JM Cozzoli

With great effort, Frank hoisted himself off the treehouse floor and up to the glassless window. The sun would be up soon so he had to be ready this time. He had only one chance left and the steady leak of blood from the deep, jagged, rip along his right leg was making him woozy. Duct tape could only go so far.

He knew this time he couldn’t miss and with more light he wouldn’t. He was sure of that.

The pain made him vomit. Again. He wiped his lips as best he could with whatever clean space he could still find on his sleeve, and steadied himself by grabbing the windowsill tight, although the growing numbness in his hands made that difficult. He leaned over the sill, biting his lower lip hard, making it bleed as he concentrated all his remaining strength on getting a long, good look. The cool morning air fanning across the sweat on his face helped clear the nausea growing in his stomach. But only a little.

In the fluorescent glow from the porch lights sixty feet away, he could see Tommy was still pinned under his BMX bike. With its chrome handlebars caught in the slats of the picket fence, Tommy didn’t have any leverage to free himself. Even if his small arms weren’t chewed to the bone in spots, they’d still be useless to help him. They kept flopping mechanically, back and forth, like he was at a baseball game doing the wave. Tommy loved baseball, thought Frank.

A bright orange pillowcase with the word “Booty,” written in big black letters with a magic marker, hung loosely from one of his wrists, its hoard of candy spilled on the ground in a neat arcing line that followed his useless back and forth motion. A badly aimed, yellow steel-tipped, crossbow bolt was stuck fast through Tommy’s wrist, pinning the pillowcase to it.

Frank turned to look at the pistol crossbow. It was supposed to be Tommy’s Christmas present. With all the goddamn push and rush for holiday shopping, Frank couldn’t resist. He’d wanted some playtime with it anyway. His eyes dropped to the beat up, dried up, flat-top leather steamer trunk it rested on. They had found the trunk at a yard sale. It was the only furniture in the treehouse. It was Tommy’s pirate treasure chest. Frank still wondered how he ever managed to carry it up the rickety ladder, let alone fit it through the narrow trap door in the treehouse floor.

Damn it caught in Frank’s throat as he looked back at Tommy, now more visible in the growing morning light, and tallied his misses: two yellow bolts were stuck deep in the picket fence close to the boy’s constantly bobbing head and another had flattened the BMX’s front tire, and another bolt stuck out of Mr. Wilson’s back, a neighbor.

Shitty shot, murmured Frank. He stared with fascination at Mr. Wilson’s eyeballs, bouncing from their sockets like bungee jumpers while the old man stumbled back and forth, first bumping into the picket fence, then into the telephone pole, then back again, around and around, like that damned yellow rubber duckie at a shooting arcade.

No, not any arcade, but Funfair’s; I was how old?

Frank’s heart raced. His palms sweated more. He was known as Frankie then. His memory skimmed shallow, then plunged deep, drowning him again with how shitty it felt to keep missing every time he tried knocking down that one stupid yellow duckie, smudged with grease, coming around and around, each of his shots hitting everywhere else. His dad had laughed at him, it was so funny. Eventually the scabby grunt agent running the arcade joint pulled the Duckie Shoot rifle out of his hands—Sonny, start smoking and grow a pair, will ya, then come back—coughing up sputum and tobacco with each word puffed over his hand-rolled cigarette. Frankie endured it. No different than being piss-soaked and frustrated, egged by name-calling—By my friends? My birthday friends?But I invited you…it wasn’t my fault I couldn’t hold it anymore, I lost control and…

Frankie. Shorts get a little wet? Get a little sticky and warm? You wuss up good, you never get to forget. Right, Frankie? Frankie boy, you sucked bad. Baby boy, you sucked it really bad. Bet you suck now.

Shitty duckie, said Frankie through Frank’s lips. For a moment he could feel the small Duckie Shoot arcade rifle being yanked from his hands. Stupid duckie, he thought and wiped his palms on his pants. His eyes fell on Mr. Wilson, again. Poor stupid duckie,he whispered,then changed his mind when he realized they were all poor stupid duckies, including him. Frankie and duckie and those dead duckies and Mr. Wilson and…Tommy. Tears welled in his eyes and he screamed so loud it hurt his throat. The pain shut his mind down, enough to bring him back to what he had to do.

The sun was tipping over the horizon a little more now. The light he needed was coming harder and brighter. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful fall day. He had one bolt left. He couldn’t miss now. He wouldn’t miss now. He repeated to himself, Don’t you miss, don’t you miss, don’t you—

The arm reaching through the window for his throat didn’t miss. He suddenly realized those poor stupid dead duckies could climb trees, especially when your scream sounds like a dinner bell. The stubby, mottled fingers choking and ripping his throat tightened, but one bitten-off pinkie and a split thumb gave him the leverage he needed. This chewed-up dead duckie was going down.

Frank slammed the invading arm against the window edge again and again until it cracked and the fingers let go. He gulped air, staggered back on his bum leg, screamed again to get through the stars, and reached around for Tommy’s Maple-solid Louisville Slugger bat. Tommy liked the feel of a solid wood bat. To Frank, the bat in his hands felt almost like the Duckie Shoot arcade rifle. This time, though, he wasn’t letting go.

He got into his batting stance and waited until a partially chewed head, minus one eye and both ears, poked through the window. He swung the bat up and out, going for a homerun. It felt good.

It also knocked him off his good leg and sent him rolling, nearly plunging him through the open trapdoor. Crap, I thought I closed that, he almost said out loud, but the thought flashed quicker than his tumbling. His bum leg dipped through the opening before he stopped rolling. Another dead duckie grabbed the opportunity.

Out of breath, aching in places that already were aching, and sprawled like some dumbass softball rookie, Frank couldn’t put enough energy into his ground-out swing and the bat only bounced off the dead duckie’s beak, breaking it. The duct tape on his leg tore away as the hand tightening on it pulled downward, letting his blood seep out, egging the dead duckie on even more. Okay, Mr. Thick-Nasty-Head-Dead-Duckie, it’s now or never.

Coming through the trapdoor, pulling itself up with the help of Frank’s leg, Mr. Thick-Nasty-Head lunged forward with broken teeth clicking. Frank flipped the bat end over end and jammed its handle tip into Mr. Thick-Nasty-Head’s left eye socket until it tapped the back of its skull.

Hey, I found a new sweet spot on the bat, thought Frank.

Mr. Thick-Nasty-Head slumped down, blocking the trapdoor opening, blocking any further distractions for the moment; but the dead weight kept Frank from slamming the trapdoor shut. He was running out of time anyway. He had more important things to worry about.

The sun was shining golden light into the treehouse when Frank picked up the pistol crossbow and loaded the last yellow bolt. He barely made it back to the window, crawling as much as he could, and when he tried to stand up, he vomited. This time he didn’t wipe his mouth.

What really bothered him more than anything was he couldn’t hold his pee anymore. He’d been dying to piss for hours. Oh, what the Hell. Not like anyone’d notice. As his pants leg got warm, he thought about the arcade and the yellow rubber duckie and his ruined birthday and his stupid friends…

…and now another dead duckie was tugging on Mr. Thick-Nasty-Head from below, and inch by inch, the body would soon be free of the opening, allowing more dead duckies to go around and around, too many for Frank to handle. Frankie, the pissing kid, started screaming out of frustration. Again. He almost threw the pistol crossbow out the window before he realized what he was doing. What stopped him were the Almond Joy candy bars on the floor. They had fallen out of his coat pocket. They were Tommy’s favorite candy.

Tommy.

Both Frank and Frankie stopped screaming. They ignored the pain. They ignored the sticky blood and warm piss dripping down their leg. They looked at the yellow bolt cocked in the pistol crossbow, spit on it for good luck, and looked at the pirate treasure chest. They crawled over to it and pulled on its handle with one hand while the other one helped drag them and the chest to the window, inch by inch, until they reached it. They pulled themselves up, using the trunk as support, then sat on the lid.

Frank held his breath as Frankie took aim. Shaking hands braced against the window’s edge. The sound of Mr. Thick-Nasty-Head sliding free of the trapdoor didn’t make them turn around. They waited for that grease-smudged rubber duckie to swing around again into firing range. This time, they were leaving the arcade a winner.

Once more, for no more, thought Frank. Warmth pumped through his arms.

Screw you, duckie, thought Frankie.

The yellow bolt fired. It went through Tommy’s right eye as it should have done before. Tommy stopped doing the wave. Zombies could only be stopped by a head shot.

Frank slumped, sliding off the steamer trunk. Frankie screamed with joy. Both of them reached for the fallen Almond Joys, lying there in the golden light of morning on a beautiful fall day.

“And for the rest of you yellow duckies,” said Frank out loud while Frankie unwrapped a bar, “no Almond Joys for you. They’re all mine. Man, I do love coconut.”