Zombos' Closet

Frankenstein Meets the Space Monster (1965) In Futurama

by Professor Kinema

Since the name, as well as the basic premise, of Frankenstein was in the public domain, it turned up in film titles generally synonymous with the word "Monster." Throughout the classic Universal series the name was alternately given to the descendants (sons, daughters, grandchildren, and distant relatives) of the original mad doctor/creator as well as to the undying creature itself. It was also a name familiar enough to attract moviegoers. This would seem to explain why Frankenstein (in name only) turned up in Frankenstein Meets the Space Monster.

In this film, Frankenstein is a robotic astronaut--an Astrobot--named Col Frank Saunders (Robert Reilly). The generic sounding "Space Monster" proves to be a caged beast doing the bidding of pseudo-humanoid aliens. Since these aliens have a mega destructive plan for Earthlings, they all could be considered Space Monsters. Their plan also involves kidnapping a a number of nubile women to be used as breeding stock. Hopefully, their offspring wouldn't inherit the obviously poorly fitted skullcaps that adorn the male aliens' heads.

The alien invaders have names like Princess Marcuzan (referred to only as 'Princess') and Nadir (a name that could appropriately mean "the pits?"). The Frankenstein/robot element functions ultimately as the hero and savior, in a truly surreal combination of characters and plot elements, topped of with genuinely horrendous and amateurish makeup work, setting the scene for a cultish film. It's all presented '...in Futurama,' to boot.

At the end of the trailer for Frankenstein Meets the Space Monster, an announcer states it's "...in Futurama," but the only other mention of Futurama turns up in the opening credits as "Futurama Entertainment Corporation Presents." The end credits mention "Interiors Photographed at Seneca Studios, Hempstead, New York." The exteriors were lensed in Puerto Rico.

At the beginning of his career, a young James Karen plays Dr. Adam Steele. This is his premier feature film. Staying primarily a TV and stage actor he would go on to appear in over 80 movies (to date) including Poltergeist, and The Return of the Living Dead (Parts I & II), and also be a spokesman for Pathmark.

Frankenstein Meets the Space Monster was initially released on a double bill with Curse of the VooDoo. Space Shield Eye Protectors were given to lucky first-run patrons (as long as supplies lasted). Presumably these eye protectors could also be used to protect the eyes from any VooDoo Curses. The film had several re-releases, turning up with titles like Duel of the Space Monsters, Frankenstein Meets the Spacemen, Marte Invade a Puerto Rico and Mars Attacks Puerto Rico (and not Hempstead, NY?). The only mention these space monsters are from Mars is found in the shot of a newspaper headline, which reads, "Earth Scientists Warn of Martian Threat."

A four page promo feature of Frankenstein Meets the Space Monster turned up in Famous Monsters of Filmland #39, June 1966. The article states this film was chosen as the lead-off film at the (prestigious) 1965 Science Fiction Film Festival in Trieste.

An archival print exists in the Museum of Modern Art's film collection. A short article in the New York Times, January 1, 2010, states, "The impaired cognition of New Year's Weekend make's it an ideal time to encounter Robert Gaffney's enjoyable, goofy drive-in movie here in an improbable screening at the Museum of Modern Art."

It was the final entry in the museum's series titled Nuts and Bolts: Machine Made Man in Films From the Collection.

A Real Freak Out Frankenstein's Castle of Freaks (1974)

ZC Rating 1 of 7: Poor (but goes well with crackers)

 

“Atrocious lighting, abominable story, ludicrous Neanderthal men dressed in furs and carrying clubs, and thrift store couture from the costume department; shall I go on?” 

I folded my arms tightly, waiting for Paul Hollstenwall to counter my argument. I dared him to find a shred of decent creativity or craft in Frankenstein’s Castle of Freaks. 

“Michael Dunn as Genz, the necrophilic, breast-squeezing pervert,” he replied. “He brings a little respectability to it, don’t you agree?” Paul’s wide, earnest, eyes drilled into me. 

“So you’re saying the small part Dunn plays was a wise career move?” 

“Well, it’s not like he can pick and choose from a variety, really. He’s a dwarf. After the Wild, Wild, West, what else is there?” 

I thought about what Paul said. “True. But Genz is a long drop from playing the mirthfully nefarious Dr. Miguelito Loveless. A very long drop.” 

Paul leaned back and took a sip of lemonade. We were sitting in the solarium, enjoying the warmth, peace, and quiet, next to the pelargoniums, whose scent of chocolate wafted through the room. Zombos and Zimba were out and about, hence the peace and quiet. The aftertaste of that movie still lingered in my mouth, no matter how much lemonade I drank. 

 

There is no peace or quiet in Frankenstein’s Castle of Freaks, otherwise known as Terror! Il Castello Delle Donne Maledette. The plot ignores incredulity, but makes for a perfect accompaniment to crackers when viewed after two or more glasses of Chianti. Dr. Frankenstein (Rossano Brazzi), using a Walmart-bought laboratory, operates on Goliath, one of two Neanderthal men terrorizing the countryside. The other is Ook, but I’ll get to him in a minute. For now, just sit back, close your eyes, and think about it. That’s right. It’s that awful and dopey. This is the first time I’ve ever used the word dopey in a review. Genz is one of Frankenstein’s assistants, but his habit of feeling up the nocturnal goods, fresh from the grave, gets him into trouble. He’s sent packing, to roam the countryside simmering with revenge on his mind. He and Ook find each other and become fast friends. Ook is the other Neanderthal terrorizing the villagers. Genz teaches Ook all he knows about sexual deviancy, which terrorizes the villagers even more. Even Mexican horror movies don’t stoop this low.

Frankenstein’s other assistants include a lecherous hunchback (“come with me, we go to woodshed!”), who fools around with the cook. The cook looks a lot like the ugly sister, Doris, in Shrek. Their pantry hanky-panky upsets her husband, the clumsy butler, Hans (Luciano Pigozzi). Visiting the castle are Frankenstein’s daughter Maria (Simonetta Vitelli) and fiancé, and her friend Krista (Christiane Rucker), who studies science and becomes fascinated by the savings Frankenstein accomplishes by using all that Walmart laboratory equipment.  A portrait with moving eyes watches Krista take a bath, and eyes behind a wall clock’s glass door watches Maria make love to her fiancé. We watch in horror—not the good movie kind—as flaccid close-ups, lethargic pacing, and choppy zooms make high-school theatrical endeavors appear to have more carefully arranged production values. The accompanying music sounds mostly like someone gargling throughout the movie.

While Frankenstein shows Krista his “accumulator,” Genz shows Ook how to cook meat in Ook’s real man-cave. Gratuitous nudity is provided by Maria and Krista bathing in the man-cave’s natural hot tub, but they act like sisters unfortunately. Not much heat is generated by the sparse showing of townsfolk, who light the torches to go after Ook when a local girl is killed. When Genz sneaks back to the laboratory to free Goliath, that Neanderthal brute kills the hunchback, the butler, and Frankenstein. I confess I was glad he did that. After Ook grabs Krista--she returned to bathe in the man-cave again--he and Goliath go into smackdown mode. Both smack each other back and forth until Goliath kills Ook.  (Note to self: suppress urge to write he does it with a left (h)Ook).

The villagers show up to kill Goliath. Inexplicably, Krista hugs Genz, the homicidal pervert, as the movie ends on a philosophical note when someone sums it all up: “There’s a bit of a monster in all of us.”

Travelogues have more drama. Watch one instead.

A Whole Mesa Mess Mesa of Lost Women (1953)

ZC Rating 1 of 7: Poor (but hilarity abounds)

Leering dwarf faces keep intercutting at inappropriate times, producing an effect not unlike the subliminals inTerror in the Haunted House. The spider women, with the notable exception of Tarantella, all dress like extras in She. Adding to the Woodian confusion, if you look quickly enough, you will see Mona McKinnon (Plan 9) and Dolores Fuller (Glen or Glenda?, Jailbait) among them. (Bad Movie Report)

There are movies that act like ridicule magnets. Anyone who’s watched enough television or eaten too much popcorn at the cinema can easily name at least one special instance of ignominy felt from being spectator to a cinematic catastrophe, or feeling resentful from having time, better spent elsewhere, sinfully squandered and ticket money regrettably wasted.  Then again, there are people like Paul Hollstenwall.

“Wasn’t that a hoot,” said Paul, pulling up the collar of his raincoat and pulling down the brim of his hat.

No, wait a minute, I was imagining he was standing in front of a sleazy theater. I adjusted my mental eyesight better. After watching the movie he brought over, Ron Ormand’s Mesa of Lost Women, I needed to do a lot of adjustment. We were in Zombos’ library and Paul was sitting on my left, dressed in his usual brown tweed sportcoat, faded jeans, and worn Pumas. Zombos was sitting on my right and—wait, where’d he get off to?

“More like a howler,” I told Paul. “I’m not sure what jarring close-ups of leering dwarves, non-speaking hoochie cooch-dressed women, and a hairy spider with eight legs that doesn’t move them--the legs I mean--much, has to do with the title. No, wait, come to think of it, just about everybody was lost most of the time, including me and Jackie Coogan as the mad scientist Dr. Aranya, hanging out in a cave and doing what I’m still not sure of.”

“He was mutating spiders into giants and mutating women with his spider venom,” supplied Paul.

 “Why? And why were those women and dwarves constantly underfoot? It doesn’t make sense.”

 “He’s a mad scientist. What’s to make sense? Don’t they always mutate, create, or destroy things in horror and sci-fi movies? Because they’re crazy, I mean. The movie’s definitely a double-biller for a drive-in, so adding some feminine pulchritude kept eyes peeled on the screen more than Aranya or loopy Dr. Masterson (Harmon Stevens) would have.

Paul had a point. And he actually used the word pulchritude in a sentence.

“What surprises me is how good the cinematography is compared to the rest,” I said.

“That is because the directors of photography were too good for this dreck,” said Zombos, entering the library. “Ice cold mint juleps should be arriving just about…now.”

The bell on the library’s dumbwaiter buzzed. I headed over and extracted the drinks. Chef Machiavelli’s mint juleps would have even satisfied Tennessee Williams.

“The photography,” continued Zombos, “was done by Karl Struss and Gilbert Warrenton. More than adequate for this otherwise incompetent opus." He took the glass I handed to him and sat down on my right. "All that desert photography made me thirsty.” He took a sip then continued.

"Judicious use of dissolves, wipes, and recall the first meeting between Dr. Masterson and Aranya in the cave laboratory. That set was the size of a walk-in closet. Yet look at how they moved our view left to right, from in front of the lone lab table,. It gives depth and liveliness to a tight and narrow space."

"Shame they couldn't clip the cantina scene with Tarantella (Tandra Quinn) doing her endless tarantella," I quipped.

"No!" Paul said. "She's so dark and mysterious. Don't forget she's really a spiderized woman."

"Well, she certainly had the legs for it, even if only two of them. Now, maybe you can tell me what Masterson going all loopy and weird was about?"

"He goes dopey after Aranya injects him with a drug," said Paul, "to stop him from interfering with Aranya's nefarious work--"

"--Making dwarves and spiderized woman. Okay then, what about the cantina scene? He shows up, sits down with a couple of perfect strangers, watches Tarantella dance--how'd she get there in the first place?--and dance. And dance some more. Said spiderwoman glares at him while he talks to the couple, a man and woman who don't know him from Adam. And he talks, and talks some more. And then they leave the cantina. He insists on them all taking a plane ride, with a little persuasion from his gun, the plane engine catches fire and conveniently they all crash land on Aranya's mesa." I stopped to take a breadth.

"Did you notice how the pilot did not turn his steering wheel at all during the flight," said Zombos. “He must have graduated from the Plan 9 school of method acting."

I continued. "Now they're all on the mesa, along with that giant spider that doesn't move much, and assorted dwarves and pretty women who stand around like a chorus in a Greek tragedy, only they don't say a word. We even see them, most of the time, standing a scant few feet away from everyone else, but everyone else doesn't see them at all. Then Wu, the token Chinese guy, buys it in the woods. Of course he has to mutter a proverb or two before getting killed about being killed, which is why they needed him in the first place I guess. And I think the mesa set was even smaller than the lab." 

"Indeed," added Zombos. "When the pilot takes out his penlight to light the way through the woods, everyone keeps moving back and forth through the same narrow path, holding hands."

"Then more close-ups of grinning dwarves and pretty women ensemble standing around an arm's length away while the pilot and the woman from the cantina hit it off by the campfire. Out of the blue he's telling her what kind of woman he likes and they kiss." 

"At least much humor ensues with one fellow jumping toward the nearly comatose giant spider when he see's it, and the effusive potential for derisive commentary throughout," said Zombos.

"So," I summed up, "we've got a music score that runs rampant from the get-go, ignoring the action on screen much of the time, a confusing triple bypass flashback going on between characters to tell an all ready incoherent story, and a crummy script that opens up a world of mirth in the viewing, not to mention some bizarre scene cutting and paper mache mise-en-scène. Oh, and I shouldn't forget the ponderous Criswell-styled narration to aid in our understanding of this nonsense."

"And deliciously potent mint juleps to make it all go down agreeably," said Paul.

We all drank to that. 

Dylan Dog: Dead of Night (2010) No Bark or Bite

ZC Rating 2 of 7: Fair

It's stupefying how movies can deviate so much from their original sources of inspiration. Dylan Dog: Dead of Night is a good example. The screaming doorbell, Groucho (I can understand dropping Groucho), and the London locale are gone. Replacing them is a New Orleans sticky gumshoe who looks amazingly like Brandon Routh, but acts like a cardboard standee of him, a threadbare plot that rolls up very much like True Blood and all that slick vampire jazz, and Marcus (Sam Huntington), a lively sidekick turned lively zombie oozing all over the place for comic relief.

Even if the source material wasn't ignored as much, the movie would still flatline. The story reeks of too many writers huddled around cups of warm coffee and piles of stale Danish, and Kevin Munroe plays it straight--hold the chaser. The quirkiness, the differential feel of weird sliding along zany, and Dylan Dog's anti-establishment leaning is missing in action. This 'nightmare investigator' is plain as day, although he still dresses smartly in a red shirt and black jacket. He carries bigger guns, too.

At 250.00 dollars a day plus expenses, Dylan's settled for taking photographs of cheating spouses. He lives in a cruddy office, drives a two-miles-from-the-dump Volkswagon Beetle, and wants to forget the lost love of his life, but can't. He's Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe rolled into one--Routh even provides unnecessary noir-appropriate voiceover--but without their chippy dialog or trenchcoat style to match.

He's shaken out of his career stupor by the daughter of a man mauled to death by an intruder in the Ryan Mansion. She got his "No pulse, no problem" business card from a priest, but Dylan brushes her off, telling her he's out of that business. She insists, he resists, until his buddy Marcus is mauled to death by an intruder. A quick change of clothes into the red and black, and he's back chasing monsters. And explaining ad nauseum about his paranormal business. Routh, honey, crack an inflective now and then, will you?  He explains New Orleans is chock full of vampires, werewolves, and zombies, and before he started chasing bedsheet bingo players he was the chief investigator appointed by the netherworld to maintain the peace. I would have liked to have seen that movie.

Now hot on the trail of the monster mauler, Dylan visits Vargus (Taye Diggs) at the vampire nightclub Corpus, where the love of his life was murdered, and the meat packing plant where the werewolves hang out. In between, he's helping Marcus get used to his new zombie lifestyle that includes maggots served fresh on a bun (no pickles), and regular visits to Big Al's Body Shop for replacement parts.

Huntington plays his Being Human self, which I enjoy watching because it matches his physical presence well, but without enough writer support his zombie-angst filled interludes--including a zombie support-group meeting--stretch thin. There's one good line. It comes just after Marcus wakes up undead, when he's told "Good thing about being the living dead, no more jogging."

While it's no Maltese Falcon, there is an artifact all the commotion is over called the Heart of Belial. The owner of it gets to bring back a demon who will destroy everyone the owner doesn't like. Or so the legend says. No one ever reads the fine print.

There is one good thing here. It comes after the movie, when you can read the comic book series.

 

Red Riding Hood (2011) Hoodwinks Audience

ZC Rating: 2 of 7 (Fair)

"I still want my money back," insisted Zombos. He gets like that when we see a movie he doesn't like.

"Fine, then," I relented. Here's your six dollars. But I'm not paying for the popcorn and Junior Mints. You ate most of those anyway."

Zombos folded the money and pocketed it, then rushed back to the concession stand. Probably to buy more Junior Mints. While I waited for him, I thought through my impressions of Catherine Hardwicke's Red Riding Hood.

A child's imagination of fairy tale prettiness infuses everything. Clothes, people, the surrounding medieval forest, it's all colorful, cheerful, and naively pretty. Clothes are clean and neat, people are clean and neat, and the village is clean and neat. No Dark Ages grunge or malaise to be found here. Cindy Evans' television series costuming (the way rustic villagers in Stargate SG-1 episodes are dressed, for example), reinforces this lightness. And although snow is falling and winter is upon them, no one is bundled up against the chill. No frosty-breath comes from mouths and the ladies' bosoms are bared for Spring, especially Valerie's (Amanda Seyfried).

When Grandmother (Julie Christie) gives her the red hooded cloak, it's a fashion statement, not a garment to wear because it's cold. The Village of Daggerhorn has been beset by a killer wolf for many years, yet the village is happy, a thriving place with everyone well-adjusted, immaculately groomed, and nattily attired. The forest is happy with its bright fields of flowers, and the village idiot is happy, and as pretty and well groomed as everyone else. He doesn't act too idiotic, either, just enough to be adorably off.

Father Auguste (Lukas Haas) is the only one who is dour and shows concern. He's sent for the witch and werewolf hunter Father Solomon (Gary Oldman playing Gary Oldman). Father Solomon's  prior experience with a werewolf left him traveling around in an armored carriage with heavily armed guards. Arriving in the village, one guard, sitting atop the carriage, keeps aim with his crossbow, sweeping it back and forth as if he expects trouble any second. It looks pretty silly. Solomon also travels with a large, hollow, bronze elephant, with a door in one side. He locks people he doesn't like in it and lights a fire underneath to torture them. This is as medieval as it gets.

Before Father Solomon arrives, Valerie's sister is killed by the wolf, sending the men off to hunt it down. They find a gray wolf, kill it, bring its head back, and show it to Father Solomon, claiming he's not needed. He disagrees and gives them the standard rundown on werewolfism. They ignore him and hold a rave party instead (or what would be the equivalent of one for medieval times). The computerized werewolf shows up, chews up the scenery and townsfolk, and speaks to Valerie before he leaves. She notices his big brown human eyes as he tells her to run away with him or else he'll put the bite on the entire village.

Valerie now has a difficult decision to make. Run away with the darkly handsome, tousle haired, woodcutter Peter (Shiloh Fernandez), stay and marry the handsome, tousle haired blacksmith Henry (Max Irons), or run away with a real stud, the tousle haired werewolf. There is no tension or suspense produced by this turmoil: Hardwicke's tone is non-committal, David Johnson's story is vapid, and Seyfried's performance is overshadowed by her hooded cloak.  I had a harder time at the concession stand making up my mind between Junior Mints and Reese's Pieces.

The romance turns into a whodunit as Valerie stares into people's eyes, wondering who's the werewolf. When the revelation comes it's like an ending from an Agatha Christie mystery.

Come to think of it, I want my money back, too.

Skyline (2010) Not Much to See

ZC Rating 2 of 7: Fair

Here it is in a film cannister: if you've seen the trailer for Skyline, you've seen the most exciting part of this slimy-aliens-from-space pulp drama of Borg-like ( part machine, part organic, all regenerating),  Matrixy-looking, multi-tentacled creatures vacuuming up humanity through a sparkly blue light as easily as dust mites are sucked up an Oreck.

In this war of the worlds special effects opus of us losing against them big time, the kicker here is they want our brains, which they use like Energiser batteries to power either themselves or their machinery, or maybe it's both. I will, with difficulty, refrain from making any dead battery jokes just because they're attacking Los Angeles, but feel free to infer whatever you like, or even change the locale to suit your preference.

It looks like Independence Day, but it doesn't have that movie's patriotic enthusiasm or energetic characters; it looks like War of the Worlds (old and new versions), but it doesn't have either of those movies' overwhelming sense of decimation, growing futility, or soul-numbing despair; it even looks like 1954's Target Earth, whose hunting mechanoids scour the city's streets for survivors in hiding. With Skyline  mashing dramatic ingredients from many science fiction movies, the Brothers Strause fail to add any of their own sugar and spice to the familiar effects to make this more satisfying than the Coke and Reese's Pieces I had while watching it.

I will pin much of the blame on the dialog: it's stultifying.  None of the pretty people trapped in Terry's (Donald Faison) penthouse speak in their own words. They bicker, they yell, but in stock, one-line sentences. Pick any two people and switch the dialog around; there would be no difference. The ugly aliens have more personality and they don't talk.

As Los Angeles is vacuumed clean of residents, Terry's house guests hide from the invaders with the blinds drawn. His automatic window blinds reminded me of the house shields in Forbidden Planet. They weren't very effective either. There's Jarrod (Eric Balfour), his girlfriend Elaine (Scottie Thompson), Terry's girlfriend Candice (Brittany Daniel), and Terry's personal assistant (emphasis on personal) Denise (Crystal Reed).

They disagree on whether to stay or make a run for it. Eventually they reluctantly run, but a giant alien stomps on their escape. Oliver (David Zayas), the concierge, comes to their rescue. He and Jarrod disagree on whether to stay or make a run for it. Much of the movie seems to be spent on everyone disagreeing on what to do next. A possible tension-mounting relationship between Candice, Denise, and cheating Terry is quickly stomped on, too.

They watch as the military shoots nukes at the motherships--over Los Angeles--but the blown apart ships regenerate.  A few soldiers are dropped by helicopter to fight the maruading aliens, but they lose. Jarrod takes Elaine up to the roof, hoping they can escape by helicopter. The aliens intervene and they are captured. We get to see inside the mothership, how nasty the aliens are, and the groan-inducing potential for a sequel. However, I'll admit I do like the ending: it's hokey but pure pulp science fiction in tone.

Skyline is a straight to DVD movie that somehow got a lot more money to add a lot more fiery special effects. Now that's science fiction.

Gasping For Air The Last Airbender (2010)

ZC Rating 2 of 7: Fair (watch the animated series instead)

What is a vibrantly fun and engrossing animated adventure series has been rendered drab, ponderous, and has had the crap kicked out of it before conversion to live-action.

When everyone kept mispronouncing Aang's name in The Last Airbender I realized M. Night Shyamalan was holding true to form, which means once again he exhibits his propensity toward ponderous, preachy, hubris-driven moviemaking. It's the kind of moviemaking that comes from writing and directing inwardly for one's self and not outwardly to others. George Lucas is the king of hubris-driven moviemaking (the best episode in the Star Wars series, The Empire Strikes Back, was not directed or scripted by him). I now crown Shyamalan the prince and heir apparent.

The Last Airbender (really Avatar: The Last Airbender, but possible confusion with James Cameron's Avatar led to "Avatar" being dropped from the movie's title) is an American anime series filled with engaging, colorful characters living in a mystical world divided into Four Nations according to the four elements of Air, Earth, Water, and Fire. These nations include the Water Tribes, the Earth Kingdom, the Air Nomads, and the Fire Nation. Within each of them are gifted individuals who can manipulate the natural element of their nation using martial arts-like movements: they are called Airbenders, Earthbenders, Waterbenders, and Firebenders respectively.

Keeping a peaceful balance between each Nation is the Avatar, a person who's been reincarnated many times and the only one who has the ability to bend all four elements with mind-blowing power when his (or her) Avatar Spirit state is awakened. When the Avatar goes missing the Fire Nation conducts a military campaign to subjugate the Water and Earth Nations. Fearing the reincarnation of the Avatar within the Air Nation, Fire Lord Sozin has it destroyed and its people killed.

The series ran for three seasons on Nickelodeon. Shyamalan begins with Book One: Water from Season One, when the Avatar, missing for 100 hundred years, returns to stop the Fire Nation and restore harmony to the world. 

Young Aang (Noah Ringer) is the Avatar. Katara (Nicola Peltz) and Sokka (Jackson Rathbone) of the Southern Water Tribe free him from a ball of ice, where he's been trapped in suspended animation, protected by his Avatar Spirit state after getting caught in a tumultuous storm. Katara and Sokka, after a long-winded and unnecessary explanation of the spiritual nature of their world and the significance of the Avatar, accompany Aang on his quest to learn manipulation of Water, Earth, and Fire in preparation for fighting the Fire Nation. Prince Zuko (Dev Patel), ostracized and disfigured by his tyrannical father, Fire Lord Ozai (Cliff Curtis), for speaking out of turn, is obsessed with restoring his father's approval by capturing the Avatar.

What makes the animated series endearing, charming, and just plain groovy fun to watch is the interplay between its characters, their humor mixed with serious situations, and the overriding spirituality--a mix of 1960s Psychedelic Movement, Eastern Religions, and New Age riffing--that imbues its story with purpose and contextual sensibility. The combination of American cartoon and anime styles creates a unique visual playfulness and verve that is never overly dark in tone or preposterous in its unfolding. None of these endearing qualities made it into this live-action movie, which is ponderous to tears and burdened with tedious voice-over explanations and lengthy exposition crumpling the sparkling creativity of the animated series.

Shyamalan's casting choices do not fit their animated counterparts well at all. Acting ranges from wooden to pretentious: Katara is a smart, confident, go-getter in the anime; here she's awkward, uncertain, and burdened with clumsy dialog; Sokka, lighthearted and Jim Carrey-styled improvisational in the anime is rendered broodingly serious and a killjoy; Aang, the pivotal character who's aangst over facing his Avatar responsibilities and his fear of causing harm through his unbridled anger provide room for emotional growth in the anime,  tempered by his boyish spirit of adventure, cannot muster a strong presence here. Look at any still picture of Noah Ringer as Aang and you will see no chi energy emanating from his posturing. He has the Avatar tattoos and glider staff but that's all. Appa is a big fuzzy plush toy of flying bison perfection (Aang rides him through the clouds), but we don't see much interaction between Aang and his cherished Appa, although they are practically inseparable in the anime.

The showdown between the Fire Nation's armada of ash-belching ships and the Northern Water Tribe is rendered incomprehensible for anyone who hasn't seen the animated series, and near gibberish for those who have. The movie appears to be missing important bridging scenes for what eventually wound up onscreen and a key dynamic of Aang's involvement, a more plausible reason for why he traveled to the Northern Water Tribe in the first place, is pushed to the side. Shyamalan's insistence on drawn-out movements to bend anything exaggerates those motions to absurdity, and his action-stopping slow-motion overuse during battle scenes undermines their intensity and suspense. When Aang finally enters his Avatar Spirit state to combat the armada, this live-action confrontation appears anti-climactic when compared to the similar animated sequence, where his destructive power is rendered more awesomely than shown here. The movie's texture is dark with bright colors muted. Even the flares of fire are dull and lifeless, and do not convey a sense of heat. Critics have noted the retro-fitted 3D version is even darker. I watched the 2D version and it is pretty murky.

As a fan of the anime series I'm disappointed in this confused, overly complicated, and pedantic adaptation. As a movie critic I can say that for a spiritual journey filled with wonder and energy this first movie in a potential series does little to emotionally involve us and gives even less to wonder at. Unless you're wondering what I'm wondering--and it's not to find a duck and a hose at this hour. I'm wondering how a heavy-handed director is given a movie that requires a touch as light as air. That's what I'm wondering.

 

Jonah Hex (2010) The Spell is Broken

"President seems to think your special. Magic, even."

ZC Rating 2 of 7: Fair (read the comic series instead)

I miss Doctor Miguelito Quixote Loveless (Michael Dunn), the diminutive villain with grand schemes on the 1960s television series The Wild Wild West. He was a villain to reckon with, one far above John Malkovich's burlap sack portrayal of renegade madman Quentin Turnbull in Jonah Hex. Loveless devoted his creatively criminal and misguided scientific genius to endless schemes embellished with his weapons of mass destruction, gleefully challenging government agent James West to stop him each time they crossed paths.

Paths are crossed in Jonah Hex, but they don't seem to head in any sensible direction. They meander around with the artlessness of that silly Wild Wild West movie with Will Smith, then saunter a well-trod vengeance trail much like The Outlaw Josey Whales, and finally stop plumb cold at the usual quest-between-mundane-here-and-mystical-there with less force than The Crow.

A Nightmare on Elm Street (2010) Not a Dreamy Remake

ZC Rating 2 of 7: Fair

Look, here's the thing in a nutshell: if you're going to do a remake, reimagining, reboot, or whatever you'd like to call it, you better come to the table ready to ante up big and play it for all it's worth. Otherwise, why bother?

Freddy Krueger may be properly dressed in his signature striped sweater, brown Fedora, and nasty blade glove, but he has nowhere to go in this unimaginative reimagining of Wes Craven's original nightmare. Under a deathmask's worth of immobilizing rubber makeup (although I admit it appears more medically correct), Jackie Earle Haley's perpetually pouting face made me pine for Robert Englund's glistening bald pate, leering, spongy flesh-burned face, and his manic, gleefully malicious dream-devil in the boiler room enthusiasm.

The outrageous, lethally-twisted dream intrusions that are the hallmark of this franchise are put to bed in Samuel Bayer's cardboard standee version of Freddy, where winking consciousness between Elm Street's dreamland and wakefulness is less important than an almost back to back line-up of dead-teenager-walking kill-fests, escalating the body count while decreasing emotional involvement from us for those being stalked. This is a painting by numbers, pretty to look at (it is superbly photographed by Jeff Cutter), but rote in its execution of mayhem: there is no sizzle when we should feel the burn as much as child-molester Fred Krueger did.

Don't Watch Out For This One Santa Claws (1996)

ZC Rating 1 of 7: Poor

Disclaimer: Zombos' Closet cannot be held libel for the loss of precious holiday time or mirth should any reader decide to ignore the numerous warning signs in this review and purchase, open, and view Santa Claws alone and/or sober. By reading this review, said reader releases Zombos' Closet and its heirs, in perpetuity, from fault, risk, and all future liability or damage that may occur from such viewing.

"How long has he been like this?" I asked.

"For the past half-hour," Glenor Glenda said.

"You should have called me sooner?" I felt Zombos' faint pulse.

"He said he wanted to watch something different," said Glenore. "I didn't know."

"How can you not know?" I held up the offending DVD, Santa Claws, while admonishing her.

"Paul Hollstenwall said Zombos asked for it specifically—"

"Paul! So he's the one to blame for this. The last time he was here he wasted our time with Neon Maniacs. I can't believe he'd stooped this low. The man is incorrigible; a menace to decent horror fans everywhere."

"I told Paul he shouldn't. I told him he should have gone to you first," Glenor said with tears in her eyes. "But Zombos said it didn't matter, that he wanted something new, something totally different to watch. He said he was too old to play it safe anymore. He's been that way ever since his birthday."

"Well, the damage is done. I hope you've learned your lesson," I said, lifting a brandy snifter to Zombos' lips. The color was gone from his cheeks. "At least with Paul Naschy films I have a chance, but this? I'm not sure how to bring him back to sanity." Zombos was grayer than usual and his breathing was short and shallow.

"What was that?" I asked. I leaned closer. Zombos' lips had moved, and a faint whisper caught my ear. "Say again?"

"Nudie-cutie," he managed to whisper. "I just...wanted...to see...nudie-cuties. My god, it was beyond horrible." He took the brandy snifter from me and held it in his trembling hands.

"Nudie cu—" Glenor started to say.

"That will be all, Glenor," I said, interrupting her. "I can take it from here. Thanks!" She left the room. Zombos slowly recovered in-between sips of brandy.

 

Nudie-cuties, scream queens, bodacious tatas--none of this can save Santa Claws. It’s a movie not to see alone or sober. It stands as the perfect equivalent to bituminous coal: sufficient punishment for any horror fan on your Naughty Horror Fan holiday list. Sleazy synthesized background music, ear-numbing dialog delivered through cereal box acting, and sloppy camerawork all bump and grind together, along with the T and A, in this shoestring-budgeted movie.

The cinema-train wrecks in the first five minutes when dubious horror overwhelms the night before Christmas cheer and another young soul is damned and primed for future killing. Director John A. Russo mires blue-tinted, mismatched close-ups with a wobbly pan to find little Wayne (Christopher Boyle) sleeping on the couch in the living room. In the bedroom, his mom is frolicking with a naughty man. The man wants to open his present early, but she's afraid Wayne will wake up. He tells her he spiked Wayne's hot chocolate with two sleeping pills to knock him out. She smiles and quickly displays her ample stocking-stuffers. Wayne, who apparently dislikes hot chocolate, wakes up and interrupts their sleigh ride. The boy is so upset --though you cannot tell by his acting—he, easily, pulls a loaded gun from a dresser drawer. They plead with him using dialog so bad I also wanted Wayne to shoot them. He does, they scream, and the years and holidays fly by.

Now free from prison, grown-up Wayne (Grant Cramer) is working publicly as a teacher's aide and acting privately as a weirdo. When he receives his very own Raven Quinn (Debbie Rochon) life-size--but armless--mannequin from Scream Queen Magazine (a dubious promotional tie-in to be sure), he starts getting all dreamy-eyed as he admires its certificate of authenticity. Now there's a true collector: I would have been happy with the 12-inch doll.

The mannequin looks nothing like Debbie Rochon, the real-life scream queen who plays the fictional Raven Quinn scream queen. Rochon has arms, killer legs, and a beautiful smile. Apparently the props department did not have enough budget for doing a life mold of her, so they used a mannequin's torso instead, cutting off its arms and adding a black wig. One clever and creepy touch--actually the only clever and creepy touch--has Wayne dropping packing peanuts over the mannequin's head as they dance. This is as artistic as it gets.

While Wayne admires and listens to his mannequin, the real Raven Quinn picks up her two children from her in-laws--her gallivanting husband's mother and sister--who chide Quinn on her chosen profession. We learn Wayne lives next door to Quinn and acts like an uncle to her kids. As the kids run off to play, she and Wayne spend the next three hours sitting on the sofa--wait, I’m wrong, it only seems like three hours—proving film is a visual medium by discussing nothing of interest. Shouldn't they be doing something instead of talking on and on like this? For a psycho-teacher's-aide-horror-memorabilia-collector (no insult intended to any teacher aides who are horror memorabilia collectors), who has the ‘real’ object of his obsession this close, not much heat or psychosis is shown. When Quinn comes on to him, he still doesn't do anything. No, wait, he does: he goes back to express his love to the armless mannequin. Then he decides to start killing people. Just like that.

He goes to Scream Studios and kills a nudie-cutie, but not before she gyrates and completes her important shower scene acting; then he goes after the producer, who shoots Wayne at point-blank range. This being a no-budget film, the blanks do no harm. Scratch one producer. Now let me reveal the spoiler. Are you ready? To kill his victims, Wayne uses a prop from one of Quinn's horror films on gardening. I think it was called Fertilizer of the Damned, or Weed Be Gone to Hell, maybe. Anyway, the gardening tool is a puny three-pronged weed-puller. We never actually see Wayne use it. He waves it around, then there are a few drops of blood followed by a body slumped on the ground.

Let’s move on. Wayne complains to his stoic mannequin how everyone needs to pay. It’s not clear for what, but he’s certain everyone needs to pay. Meanwhile Quinn tries to get back with her husband, but he’s bedding down with another nudie-cutie, providing ample opportunity for more T and A. With no one noticing the producer is missing, more nudie close ups fill screen time while "Uncle" Wayne drugs Quinn's two little girls' hot chocolates and goes shopping for a Santa Claus suit. Right. That’s the tie in to the movie title. It’s the only tie-in.

Followed by more nudie-cutie shower scenes with another potential victim; she answers the phone, chats for a moment or two, then goes back to take a bath. But didn't she just take a shower? Who is she anyway? We don’t find out. It’s a randomly inserted shower/bath scene with a randomly inserted naked woman. Wayne, dressed as Santa, shows up and kills her. I don’t know why and you wouldn’t, either. I don't think he even knows; but it’s in the script. This is the only time he wears the red Santa Claus suit. He spray paints the suit black. Another inexplicable action left unexplained.

In a flurry of scenes, it is Quinn's turn to flash her T and A--but we cut back to Wayne doing?--not sure what he is doing because we quickly cut to Quinn's errant husband returning home to find the kids knocked out on the sofa--but we're back with Quinn being naughty with a cuddly stuffed toy--now back to the house and a frantic call to the in-laws--and Quinn struts her assets for the camera, takes her top off--now back to her husband running over to crazy Wayne's house--back again to Quinn playing with her two big Christmas presents. The tension is the only thing killed during this time-consuming scene shifting.

But like a bad infomercial, “Wait, There’s More!” Black-suited Santa Wayne attacks Quinn's husband, then goes after her. In one last breathtaking struggle--I was excited the movie was almost over--Wayne and Quinn's husband go hand to hand (more like hand in hand the way the action was filmed). Quinn grabs the weeder and plunges it into Wayne. The end.

Bring Christmas cheer by leaving this one on the shelf. Give a tie instead.

What the Hell? Tokyo Gore Police (2008)

ZC Rating 2 of 7: Fair 

 

I grabbed Glenor Glenda's elbow as her foot slipped on the ice water puddling across the Mongolian teak wood floor of Zombos' study. She composed herself, slid the steaming hot mug of Satan's Balls back to the center of her serving tray, and properly presented Chef Machiavelli's frothy and zesty spiced rum-cocoa concoction--splashed with peach-ginger--to our shivering and quite unexpected guest. Our housekeeper waited expectantly as he took a sip and neatified her uniform with much suspicious intent.

"May I get you a blanket...Mister...? Glenor asked.

"Lucifer. Oh, hell, let's not stand on formality; just call me Luc, okay? You're a darling, but I doubt a blanket would help." Lucifer's long red tail waved excitedly as he sipped his drink. "By Tartarus! This drink is wicked bad! And you say your Chef doesn't use any black arts? Amazing! My cook couldn't find her way round a souffle, even with her three heads. Damn creature burns everything. Ah, this sinful beverage is heating up my rump. In spite of all the fur in my nether region I was going numb down there, you know." He winked at our unusually flirtatious housekeeper. Glenor giggled.

I cleared my throat. She stopped giggling.

"Oh, jealous are we? You needn't be." He winked at me and flicked his tongue in a devilish manner. Glenor clapped her hand to her mouth stifling another giggle, which was doing its best to burst forth. My withering glance at her helped keep it at bay.

I was desperate. "Zombos? Any luck?"

Zombos was standing behind his Carlton House desk, holding the phone in one hand and a thick legal document in the other. Every now and then a few more sheets of paper slipped from the document and fluttered to the floor. He shrugged. "Sosumi is looking into it. He doesn't know how this could have happened."

Sosumi 'Jimmy' Jango was Zombos' crackerjack lawyer.

Lucifer finished his drink and smacked his lips. I motioned to Glenor to bring another one for our frisky guest. It looked like evening vespers would be well over by the time Zombos found the document we needed.

"What is that Jimmy?" said Zombos into the phone. "It is in Attachment 66? Okay. Okay, I will look for it." Zombos hung up the phone. "He is almost here. He said to look for--"

"Attachment 66, yes, I heard," I said.

"Ouch! Oh, you devil!" gasped Glenor with delight.

I looked at Glenor.

"He pinched me," she said giggling as she hastily left the room.

I looked at Lucifer; he shrugged and smiled and winked again. I looked back at Zombos imploringly. "Let's find that attachment pronto, shall we? Did you check the Wooten? You tend to bury stuff in there pretty well."

"Of course!" Zombos turned around and quickly opened the doors of his Wooten desk. The two places Zombos relies on to hide, store, or forget things are his closet and his cherished Wooten desk. Since the Wooten desk is smaller than his closet, I figured it would be easier to search first.

"Well, I'll be," said Zombos.

"You found Attachment 66?" I excitedly asked.

"What? Oh that, no. I found my set of Brasher Doubloons. I was wondering what happened to them.”

"Great, I'll let Philip Marlowe know. What about the legal document?" My spirits were sinking fast.

"No, I do not see--wait a minute."

"Yes?"

"I found it!" Zombos said triumphantly.

"Thank god," I sighed. Lucifer cleared his throat. "Sorry," I said, shooting a glance his way. When I looked back to Zombos he was doing the walk the dog move with his gold-trimmed Duncan YoYo. He found that, too. I sighed again. There but for the grace of god I thought. Lucifer cleared his throat more loudly and gave me a smoldering stare.

"We really need that legal document...now," I implored Zombos.

"Oh, yes, yes. Let me see." He put the YoYo back and opened another draw. "Here it is." He held up Attachment 66. "Let me see, now. Jimmy said to check the waiver at the bottom of page 13. Hmmm...hmmm...not good. Here, you better read it."

It's a Crime The Video Dead (1987)

ZC Rating 1 of 7: Poor (but oddly engrossing)

"Slow down a minute and let me get this straight," said Detective Web. He paged through his notebook. "You say this Paul Hasselhoff--"

"--Paul Holstenwall," I corrected him.

"You say this Paul Holstenwall is to blame for Zombos's death?"

"Yes. It's all his fault. He insisted we watch another one of his inane travesties of straight to video horror called The Video Dead. Zombos keeled over dead away toward the end. It was horrible."

 I held back the tears. Glenor Glenda, our housekeeper, stood in shock over his body. Thank God Zimba and Zombos Junior were at the theater to see the livelier Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa.

"I told him, I did," said Glenor, between blowing her nose and dabbing her wet eyes. "I told him to go with his son and get away from all this nasty horror. Oh, how will we explain this to his son? The missus will be so upset!"

"Hey, has this been dusted for prints yet?" asked Detective Web as he reached for The Video Dead VHS tape.

"Yeah, done," said a voice from the other side of the room.

"Haven't seen one of these in a while," he said, picking it up. "So tell me about this movie. I find it hard to believe the guy croaked just from watching it."

"I...I don't know where to begin," I said.

"Start with the facts. Just the facts. That will do fine."

"Let me think," I said. "Okay. It's about a TV set that looks like it came from the house in Night of the Living Dead. The TV is delivered, by mistake, to a writer who is promptly killed by the zombies who enter our world through it."

"Flesh-eating zombies?" asked Detective Web.

"Well, not quite. They strangle people, mostly, then toss them into washing machines and start the spin cycle."

"I thought you said the television set came from the house in Night of the Living Dead. Didn't those zombies eat people?"

"Yes. I mean no. I mean I didn't say the set came from the house in Night of the Living Dead, it just looks like it did. Now, one neighbor does get eaten, sure, but that happens later in the movie, and we don't see it happen, just the messy aftermath. The rest of the time the zombies giggle a lot, oh, and want to go dancing, too. And there's this Garbage Man fellow that appears briefly in the TV, but we never find out why, or what he's actually doing in there, or even how he got there in the first place. Then again, I'm not sure how the zombies got into the television set, either."

"So...this is a Japanese horror movie?" asked Detective Web.

"No. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you said they come out of the TV. I remember seeing that ragu film--"

"Oh, you mean Ringu, or The Ring, as the Americanized version is called," I said.

"Yeah, right, that's the movie."

"No, this movie is from 1987. Ringu came later.

I looked up at Detective Web. He scratched behind his ear with the pencil in his hand, closed his notepad, and thought for a moment.

"Maybe we should view the evidence to get a better idea of what this is all about," he suggested.

I reluctantly took the tape from him and put it into our old VHS player. We pulled our chairs close to the screen as The Video Dead started playing; after I fast-forwarded through the trailers and such of course.

A Closet Fetish Prom Night (2008)

ZC Rating 2 of 7: Fair

Prom Night's life-size theater-promotion cardboard standee of a door, strategically placed to pique interest for this teen thriller, is a good indication of how much effort went into this movie. When I opened the door it only produced a halfhearted, single scream. The teenagers walking by when I did this looked surprised and laughed. Even they were expecting something a bit more slasher-scream-full.

When I watched the movie, I found boredom made my mind wander a bit when Donna (Brittany Snow) and her boyfriend, Bobby (Scott Porter) exchange corsages as Donna's aunt and uncle look on, beaming with happiness. I imagined a prom night filled with monster corsages devouring boyfriends, Carrie-like J-horror prom nights stalked by ghosts seeking vengeance, or maybe even tuxedoed zombies crashing the prom night party; anything else but this unnecessary reworking of Jamie Lee Curtis' more violent and relevant 80s slasher. I didn't attend my senior prom. Perhaps I have unresolved issues with that. Or perhaps this movie has unresolved issues with terror, tension, and thrills. I think that’s more likely.

Director Nelson McCormick has done a large amount of episodic television work so maybe that’s why his movie is paced around imaginary commercial breaks. Each time tension builds he moves away from the action to show people dancing or crowning the prom king and queen. Like an episode of CSI, nothing appears out of control or erupts into hysterical terror. He also seems to have a fetish for closets. I lost count how often someone opened, reached into, looked in, or hid in, a closet. Donna hides under a bed twice, but I didn't find that as annoying. Not much tension builds from opening closets, I can tell you that. I’d sum up this movie this way: give sinister look, slash a victim, show dancing in slow motion, show someone opening a closet; give sinister look, slash a victim, show more dancing, show someone else opening a closet; slash a victim, stop the dancing long enough to show prom king and queen being crowned, show someone opening a damn closet again, slash another victim; and so on…

Donna is stalked by her college teacher (probably her chemistry teacher; they're all nutzy from handling toxic substances). It's not clear why he needs to kill people in order to get close to her, but this is a slasher movie so reasons are not always necessary, only lots of slashing. He's so good at it he leaves a bloodless trail suitable for this PG-13'er. After her family is massacred, three years pass before Donna's back to normal enough to attend her senior prom. Not surprisingly, her stalking teacher escapes in time to rent a tux and join the festivities.

The teacher (Johnathon Schaech) gives overly sinister looks and acts like a Charles Manson wannabe. He wears a black golf cap, tweedy sport coat, and needs a shave. He looks intensely at you when spoken to without saying a word. Only in movies do psychos dress and act this way. In real life, the only guys who dress and act this way are directors and bloggers of horror movies. I admit I did wear a black golf cap before seeing this movie. Now I realize it does make you look like an oddball if you're not golfing, so that's it for me. I'm happy to say I haven't worn a tweedy sport coat in years. I do still need to shave.

When Donna realizes she's being stalked again, the action is chopped, but not in that good, horror-chopped-up sort of way. We keep shifting, never staying long enough in one place to be scared or cause popcorn tipping seat-jump. The opening few minutes promise much but deliver little, and I won't pin all the blame on the PG-13 rating requirements. All the action is homogenized around those imaginary commercial breaks, and starts and stops with little tension or visceral involvement. It's all glossy, television-slick—not cable, mind you--with no blemishes to fret over.

The prom is held in a lavish hotel with beautiful young people who don't worry about recessions or social inequities or our out of control national debt. The police are adequately inept to help increase the body count, but Detective Winn (Idris Elba) goes through the motions anyway, and Elba does a good job in spite of the character he's written into. When Donna is left almost friendless, I imagined how different this might have been.

What if Polly Pureheart Donna was a black-haired goth with punky attitude? Perky goth Donna flirts with her chem teacher (or maybe lit teacher is better: they like tweedy jackets, too), and going too far, regrets it. He goes nutz when she calls it off and can't hold a test tube without breaking it just thinking of her. So now there's her guilt and his feelings of rejection adding to the terror. Guilty terror with feelings of rejection is always great for building tension. To stay alive, she's forced to make nice with the vixens from hell--the envied, fashion-conscious, hip girls at school who despise her Ubergoth ways. Her Doom Cookie boyfriend finds out all about the side fling and joins the chem teacher and both go after her and her newfound friends. Much collateral damage ensues, add lots of blood. The end is a multi-ambulance tear-jerker.

But, sadly, Donna is not goth, and her friends are the socially coolest in school. Everyone but the stalking psycho is dead set on having fun at the prom. Even the girly rivalry between Donna and Paris Hilton--sorry, my bad--between Donna and the spoiled rich girl who despises her is lukewarm and goes nowhere. Her boyfriend doesn't even get the chance to protect or save her. What's a boyfriend good for if he can't at least do that? When the end comes, it's exactly like the ending you'd see in a non-continued television episode just before the commercial break.

And roll credits.

Wait! There's a glimmer of tension when her best friend Lisa (Dana Davis) realizes who the creepy guy in the black golf cap and tweedy jacket reminds her of, but no, that fizzles out without much frazzle. Instead there's lots of predictable running away from potential help and through translucent plastic curtains hung in dark rooms as Lisa hides from the killer in a deserted part of the hotel under renovation. I was hoping she would stop and improvise a defense from the paint cans and tools lying on the workmen's tables, but her character wasn't written to be that clever.

At least she didn't open another closet.

A League of Reluctant Reviewers Mystery The Perplexing Case of Shrooms (2006)

ZC Rating 2 of 7: Fair 
None of the creative people involved in the movie Shrooms apparently ingested any during its production, making it one big, unmagical, mystery tour. The mystery is how it ever got green-lighted in the first place.

 

Down a forgotten street somewhere in New York City there stands a used-up, ashlar-surfaced office building waiting to be torn down. Should you enter through its bell archway, walk towards the solitary elevator that's seldom used, and turn right, you would find yourself in a narrow hallway. In its heyday, you could find the finest business agencies rubbing elbows, hustling and bustling, here. But that was in its heyday. If you walk past those frosted-glass doors now, with their chipped and peeling lettering looking like the worn names on tombstones, and continue all the way to the end, you would come to a frosted-glass door whose lettering still shines. That's my office. My home. My name is Sicular Greensleeves. Since my regular business has been slow, I decided to pick up some extra cash by working for the League of Reluctant Reviewers. I didn't realize how busy I'd be.

I'm always here until three, waiting, with one eye on the mail slot. It's always the same. A knock hasn't sounded on my door since the war, but the sound of footsteps clicking down the hallway lets me know when another movie is coming for review. Quick footsteps. Click, clack, click, and another DVD pops through the mail slot; then click, clack, click echoing back down the hallway. 

While I waited for the sound of footsteps today, I stared at the lithograph above my trophy case again. It's called The First Prayer of Congress. Everyone in it is either bowing his head and kneeling or looking up towards heaven, very pious-like, as if seeking spiritual guidance--or maybe looking for forgiveness? If you look close enough you can see places where it's torn and foxing. I still like it, though. 

When the click clack of footsteps came this time they sounded unusually hurried. Before the DVD slid free of the mail slot and hit the floor they were already fading away, leaving me alone with Shrooms. I read the cover, looking for a clue as to what I could expect. The tagline, "Get Ready to Get Wasted," didn't fill me with confidence. The soundbyte "Blair Witch on Acid" from a lucyvine.zoo didn't do it for me either. Who the hell is lucyvine.zoo?

 

Once again a group of American teenagers head abroad to get into mischief. As usual in low budget horror, the actors look a tad older than 'teenzy' would allow, but I won't quibble. They do a wonderful job with a listless, by the body count, story. 

Heading over to Ireland they meet up with shroom master Jake, who drives around in a Mystery Machine reject. I guess being a mushroom expert doesn't pay all that much these days. Soon they're off to find magical mushrooms in the forest. Only this forest is populated by two drooling, unwashed, dim-bulb--stop me if you've heard this before--axe-carrying ne'er-do-wells who don't communicate well; which is fine since after seeing them you wouldn't want to hang around and chat anyway. 

Unperturbed, the magical mushroom seekers venture deeper into the woods to steep some toadstool tea. At this point, you realize all of them are expendable: no one is likable and the catholic girls are having non-catholic thoughts while the boys aren't catholic to begin with. So you can see what's brewing goes well beyond a simple cup of mind-bending tea. 

Stirring the pot further, Jake tells them the creepy tale of the evil black brothers of Glenn Garig, who tortured and murdered their young charges--orphaned boys with no place to run except those woods. After one abused boy sneaks some bad-ass shrooms into the communal soup, seventy-eight kids, assorted brothers--and the janitor, I suppose--wind up massacred by one crazed surviving brother carrying a sharp blade. That brother might still be stomping around the woods since no one really knows what happened to him. At this point, the girls can't take it anymore and tell Jake to zip it. Lucky for them, Glenn Garig is not close: sure, it's about a ten minute walk from where they're camped, but it's not that close, so they should be able to sleep in their flimsy tents without any trouble whatsoever.

 

While I waited for the sound of footsteps today, I stared at the lithograph above my trophy case again. It's called The First Prayer--wait a minute. I was confused. The plop of the DVD hitting the floor nudged my attention. I picked it up. It was Shrooms. Again. But I could have sworn I already watched it. Maybe I was having visions like Tara (Lindsey Haun), who went off to enjoy nature while Jake was giving his lecture on which mushrooms to stay away from.

 

In a fit of pique, Tara eats the bad-assiest one of the "don't" group. After her near death experience, she becomes a regular Esmeralda the fortuneteller, and has visions of her friends being stalked and butchered, one by one, by a hooded creepazoid with long nails, a sharp blade, and rotted teeth; looking like a cross between your typical J-horror vengeance ghost and a Hills Have Eyes mutant, this black brother is a tree-hugging nightmare. But is he real, or are they all just tripping from the mushrooms? 

Her friends, meanwhile, have made themselves pretty damn easy pickings with their sudden arguing. Just once I'd like to see a horror movie with friends that act like they are friends and not acquaintances. Of course the group splits up to make the slaughter, and the writer's job depicting same, easier. While a group of people screaming at each other is somewhat easy to victimize, it's just easier to victimize screaming singles instead. 

 

"Don't forget to tell them about me," said the cow.

 "Sure, I won't--" I blinked. For a minute there I could have sworn a cow slid through my mail slot, blew up to full size, and talked to me, like in the movie. I mean, there's no mail slot in the movie, just a cow that talks to Bluto (Robert Hoffman), who goes running off --that's Bluto, not the cow-- after drinking the entire pot of mind-tripping tea. Of course--sorry, but "of course" is a natural with most horror movies these days--he's the first idiot to get whacked. On a personal note, I really have to stop drinking those venti-sized espressos from Starbucks. I pulled myself together. This review was starting to get to me.

 

 Hack and slash, and run run run...to Glen Garig. The one place in the forest they really shouldn't be going is where they wind up. Before that, everyone is screaming at the top of his or her lungs for everyone else. So my question is this: when being stalked in the forest, can anyone hear you scream? Based on this movie, the answer is no. As panic sets in, Tara manages to do a Looney Tunes bonk! into a tree, face first. While I think Elmer Fudd had better timing, she's not bad at it.

 Holly, meanwhile, runs to the scary-looking dilapidated shack nestled quietly--ominously--in the woods. Now who, pray tell, would be living here? You guessed it: the Jonas Brothers! No wait, it's not them. I keep getting them mixed up with Ernie and Bernie, the two drooling, dim-bulb conservationists seen earlier in the movie. She--sorry, but I can't avoid it this time--of course walks right into the shack as Burt and Ernie--I mean Ernie and Bernie--look on and drool a lot. Maybe because there are no carcasses or raw meat hanging around she doesn't realize you don't enter decrepit shacks in the woods looking for a phone while two unwashed guys talk a lot about goats with fondness in their voices. And you wonder why the academy awards never takes horror movies seriously?

 While there's a bit of oh-my-god-how-stupid-can-she-be? in watching Holly walk into that shack, the tension doesn't quite build enough to raise the scare factor beyond tepid. Director Paddy Breathnach also lingers on those peering-through-holes-too-closely moments, but with little suspense. His direction is by the numbers with little V8 creative juicing to liven up the one down, two down, three down slasher momentum. There is one bright moment regarding how the black brother, real or not, can sneak up on you unawares, but that's the brightest it gets.

 

 Well, it's almost three. One more thing before I go. You will find out at the end whether the black brother is real or not, if that's any consolation. Shrooms is not all that terrible. It's just not the acid trip it could have been. Maybe the writers and director should have drank a few venti-sized espressos to perk them and this story up.

It Will Make You Sick The Sick House (2008)

 ZC Rating 2 of 7: Fair

"I don't have time for this," said Anna (Gina Philips), the comely archeology student in The Sick House. Zombos and I looked at each other. We agreed with her. Once again Paul Holstenwall, the scion of inconsequential cinema, had underwhelmed us with another exercise in pointless filmmaking.

Anna has just discovered the four punk metal wannabes who are freaking out because one of them appears to have the plague. For shame: that will teach them not to go kicking about in stolen cars for joy rides and breaking into bio-hazard excavation sites previously used as plague hospitals. And shame on Anna, too. Here she is yelling at them for breaking and entering when she did it first, releasing a centuries old evil--and former member of that notorious 1665 London touring group known as the Black Priests--in the process.

The five of them, the usual mix of underachieving and overachieving victims you’ll find slamming into each other in supernatural slasher films, are in for a rough night of it. So is everyone else watching this whoozy, blurry, head-spinning shock cut apparition, and zoicks! music extravaganza. Whatever originality and novelty inherent in the story is undercooked by director Curtis Radclyffe's palsied camera and over-reliance on J-horror hackneyism.

"Why can he not keep the bloody camera still!" cried Zombos.

"He's sustaining the tension by forcing your disorientation with his constantly moving frame," explained Paul.

"Tension? My neck is tense from all the quickcut splicing and visual chittering," Zombos retorted. "And those flickering fluorescent light fixtures must go. Could they not afford better lighting? I cannot see what is going on."

Plague doctors? London's Black Death of 1665? A capital idea for gut-wrenching suspense and terror is reduced to a half farthing's worth of overdone digital and cutting room trickery, making sense the first victim in this suspense-less nonsense. My mind drifted among the possibilities if less confusing herky-jerky motion and more stillness were the norm, to let the actors convey the terror overwhelming them.

Gina Philips gives a fair performance, though she seems too calm, too emotionless, at times when you'd expect some "oh, shit, it's the plague, we're so fucked!" or "blimey, what the hell is that thing what wants to eat our souls and kill us!" Instead, she's so proper, so academic. At least the others provide some frenzied bickering and craziness, and run like the dickens through the halls of the orphanage away from the not so good reawakened doctor making his terminal rounds. Lots of aimless running is part and parcel to horror movies, but here it’s more aimless and unintentionally confusing.

"Help me out here," pleaded Zombos. "Are you pondering what I am pondering?"

"Not if it involves cocoa butter and bananas," I said.

Zombos and Paul stopped arguing and looked at me. I quickly pulled my thoughts back to landfall. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"What do you think? asked Zombos. "Paul thinks this bloody movie is a punky masterpiece of new horror style and I am too old to appreciate it. Talk some sense into him will you."

I took a deep sip from my hot mocha latte, embellished with Chef Machiavelli's secret mix of herbs and spices he calls the Bombay tincture. I looked at Zombos, then at Paul. They waited expectantly with folded arms. I took another long sip and pondered. Was it simply bad direction or bad directorial choices? Was the acting mediocre or just hacked to pieces by all the scene juggling? Was the story poorly written or intentionally ground into a confusing mash? The Bombay tincture fortified my thoughts enough to proceed.

"It's obvious the choices made here point to commercially shaping the movie for a younger audience, especially with the odd addition of that acid-drenched-metal song screeching over the opening credits. Today’s kids' snippet-drenched YouTube attention spans are primed for choppy narrative, so they probably wouldn't notice the yawning chasm of missing structural coherence in the visual narrative of this movie." There. I said it.

Zombos and Paul continued to look at me. Each slowly unfolded his arms. They ignored what I said and started arguing again. Good. At least now they would leave me alone to enjoy my mocha latte in peace.

But what is the matter with The Sick House? Although it contains cliché after cliché repeated in numbing succession, the acting is strong, the historical context intriguing, and the atmosphere almost menacing, in spite of the overused Saw-styled tinting in the saturated lighting.

Ludgate Orphanage, aside from its spookhouse-flickering fluorescents, is dark-- often too dark to make out what is happening--and filled with brooding rooms and hallways. Then there's the tall, unstoppable, plague doctor dressed in his bizarre clothing and bird-like mask, stalking around with a bevy of grotesque children, murdered by him back in the 1600s. There is also a kicker ending that twists the story back on itself, but it will leave you just as confused as before.

The archeological dig that Anna's been working on in the basement of the orphanage leads to another chamber further down. Before she can dig deeper, the authorities find evidence of lingering plague. Being an A student, Anna ignores the grave danger to herself--and the public at large--and breaks into the condemned orphanage after hours, to continue her work. While she's digging around in the basement, the miscreant fun-loving four hoody punksters crash their stolen auto near the orphanage. Finding the door open—thanks to Anna-- they hustle inside to avoid the English Bobbies and all those nasty lectures on grand theft auto and public menace behaviors they've obviously heard before.

It all goes down at midnight. Time becomes frozen for everyone in the building as the plague doctor (John Lebar), brought back from the netherworld by Anna's academic zeal, makes his killer appearance. There seems to be satanic purpose to his malevolence, but in J-horror fashion, the story doesn't give you much to go on and the director is so hellbent on gimmicking the action, it becomes impossible to follow at times-- actually, most of the time--to the point of annoyance.

One clue: it all revolves around a baby to be born, but that is all you get. Although there is not much gore, you do have people yelling at each other a lot and frantically running to or away from danger, people becoming possessed and frantically chasing other people, and people slippin' 'n slidin' in something white, gelatinous, and filled with pukey-looking nastiness. Which leads to an illogical but plot-convenient bathing scene—this is the creepy, insane killer infested orphanage remember--in thousands of blood sucking leeches (used to treat the plague back then: go figure). The ending neatly leads into a sequelization antic for another set of plague doctor's rounds ad nauseam, but I don’t think this doctor got to make another house call on DVD yet.

Maybe Paul is right. Maybe Zombos and I are too old to appreciate the style of The Sick House. Or maybe a script doctor, and a steadier hand, would have made it a more memorable, even classic, frightfest instead of another cinematic victim in a plague of factory assembled horror movies infecting each other with their sloppy storylines and visual confusion.