Sometimes in horror, a giant creature will do. It takes us back to a simpler time, I think. A time when an oversized spider, or a massive lizard sparked shuttered eyes at the Drive-In or local theatre. It feels almost like a cleansing; a reset of the scare-o-meter back to the innocent levels of the Saturday matinee. And if you were a kid in the ‘70s, Bert I. Gordon’s The Food of the Gods (1976) fit the bill nicely.
I’ve said it many times, but the early ‘80s roster of horror films is anything if not varied. As a consumer, if you want a slasher, you have your pick – My Bloody Valentine, Friday the 13th Part 2, etc. If you have a hankering for monsters, there’s The Incubus or The Funhouse. But let’s say you’re feeling lazy, and you just want something that combines all that, plus a little more? Well, here’s a suggestion: If you only watch one Slasher/Creature Feature/Old Dark House movie this week, make it Hell Night (1981), Tom DeSimone’s wildly entertaining amalgamate that miraculously holds together.
Undisputed Fact: Roger Corman is the greatest B picture producer of all time. His ability to find (and exploit, if we’re being honest) amazing talent and pull together movie miracles on miniscule budgets is nothing short of astonishing. However, it’s often downplayed what a smart, succinct director he was on many a project. X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes (1963) is a stellar example of his talent behind the lens.
Released by AIP in September, X turned a tidy profit on top of its $250,000 budget. Critics were generally kind, but dismissive, calling X well made hokum, essentially. And due to its meager fundage X certainly shows its pedigree through petty set design. But…there’s a kinetic buzz that permeates every frame of X, a swirling colorgasm that bleeds through with Corman’s gift for storytelling. X rises from pulp to a lucid perfection.
Every time a hospitalized man wakes up, he’s lost another limb. Meanwhile, London police are on the hunt for a serial killer who drains the blood from his victims before dispatching their bodies. Also meanwhile (again), a Nazi-ish regime is being thwarted from an insider in an Eastern European country. Again meanwhile (and also again), I’m thoroughly confused. And you will be too! Welcome to Scream and Scream Again (1970), a joint Amicus/AIP production that’s as delightful as it is confounding.
The above quote from the late, legendary American film critic Kael was most certainly not referring to Lamberto Bava’s Demons (1985), but a lot of films in our beloved genre bow to this description. Demons is great trash – it wants nothing more to assault your senses with a barrage of images and sound for 88 minutes before you even know what hit you, and does so while breathing that rarified Italian air.
It’s the eyes, isn’t it? Wide like saucers and twice as deep, they’re impenetrable. And the wooden leer of the wide open maw betrays them, separate and with its own agenda. Of course I’m referring to ventriloquist dummies, and the eerie spell they cast upon the viewer. The horror viewer, specifically; we’ll seek out anything that gives us a sense of unease. Which brings us to Richard Attenborough’s Magic (1978), a wryly creepy tale of encroaching madness and showbiz folly. (Aren’t they the same thing?)
As a horror fan, sometimes you just want to wade in the waters of the absurd and inane. To bath in the bathetic, and wash in the ridiculous. If you’re up for a swim, throw on your trunks and join me for Herbert J. Leder’s It! (1967), a modern retelling of the Golem legend dry humped by Psycho. And if that description piques your interest, take the plunge with me, won’t you?
The late ’80s provided a veritable potpourri for horror film fanatics. Slashers had petered out, and filmmakers were keen on exploring other avenues, everything from a parasitic drug slug (Brain Damage) to possession (The Unholy), and all points in-between. Of course, mileage may vary, and many have fallen through the cracks or are best forgotten. Possibly one of the oddest of the bunch is Anthony Hickox’s Waxwork (1988), a goofball mixture of Hammer and Amicus brought kicking and screaming into the modern era with a touch o’ teen comedy sensibility. And in horror, odd never hurts—and sometimes it even helps create an unassuming delight such as this.
From the mid sixties to the mid seventies, omnibus (or anthology, or portmanteau if you’re really fancy) horror films were big business. And Amicus Productions ruled the roost. Between ’65 and ’74 they released seven such films, starting with Dr. Terror’s House of Horrors (not to be confused with Dr. Tongue’s Evil House of Pancakes) and culminating with From Beyond the Grave. Today’s film lands in the middle, The House that Dripped Blood (1971) showcasing a company just starting to hit their stride with anthologies.
Well, here we are again, back in Corman waters. Why do we keep coming back? What is the pull of a Roger Corman production that calls to us like a syphilitic siren wailing from the rocks, beckoning us home? My guess is quality chafing the walls of quantity. There are a lot of exploitation movies out there, and most were justified their position on the lower rung of a double bill on a Tuesday night at the drive-in. But un film du Corman is different – he’s always had an innate gift for corralling talent on the rise, and kind enough to foster it on the way down. His turn of the decade monster mash Humanoids from the Deep (1980) is a perfect storm of his wondrous cinematic sensibilities.