Daffy Dames Taking Names

Audiences have always been able to depend on William Castle for one thing: showmanship. It’s a unique quality of talent that has proven to shine through even the thinnest of lesser works.

Most importantly, Castle knew how to cash in on a trait unique to genre pictures — the more over-the-top, the better! A pioneer of theater gimmicks and audience interaction at his screenings, Castle soon established himself as a true Hollywood horror maestro.

Well spent on a career in ghouls and ghosts by the early sixties, the director of such films as House on Haunted Hill and 13 Ghosts decided on a slightly more sophisticated shocker in 1964 with Strait-Jacket. He produced and directed the picture under his own William Castle Productions and the film was granted a wide release under distribution by Columbia Pictures. Though a major studio effort, Castle’s ghostly touch remains ever present, much thanks to Van Alexander‘s soundtrack. Chilling and other-worldly, Alexander’s melodies force Strait-Jacket’s characters to stew in their own paranoid delusions.

The film features Joan Crawford (Mildred Pierce, Sudden Fear, Berserk) matching baby Jane’s madness here as Lucy Harbin, a farm-raised house mom who comes home one night to find her husband asleep in bed with another woman. Mommy grabs an axe, chops up her hubby and his girl. The sequence is executed in a delightfully Castle fashion and is surprisingly shocking.

Years later, Lucy’s daughter Carol, who witnessed the tragedy, is all grown up and played by the pretty Diane Baker (Journey to the Center of the Earth, Silence of the Lambs). She has just received word that her mother is returning home from the asylum where she’s been for twenty years. Still rattled by blood-soaked childhood memories, Carol fears for her mother’s sanity in the outside world.

Crawford’s role originally belonged to Joan Blondell (The Corpse Came C.O.D., Nightmare Alley) but was replaced after an accident. Crawford demanded the script to be rewritten to her specifications before she agreed to sign onto the film about a maternally challenged loon. Once on board the project, however, it became apparent that Crawford wasn’t unlike her crazed onscreen counterpart.

Not only was she given final script and cast approval on the picture, but she arranged for Pepsi-Cola vice-president (and non-actor) Mitchell Cox to play the doctor in the movie without consulting producer Castle. Crawford was endorsed by the Pepsi-Cola Company at the time and demanded that product placement shots be present in all of her pictures during this period.

I have an endless fascination with otherwise low rent B-pictures scooped up by major studios that eventually become A-list films. You’d be surprised at whose names end up under the tires. For example, Lucy’s husband who gets the axe is played by a certain six million dollar man you might recognize from waxing indestructible on television. That’s right, Lee Majors plays the cheating husband in the film’s opening, all because his pal Rock Hudson did him a solid and asked Castle for the role for the then 23-year-old actor.

Though a major studio effort, Castle’s spookhouse touch remains ever-present, much thanks to Van Alexander’s soundtrack. Chilling and other-worldly, Alexander’s melodies force Strait-Jacket’s characters to stew in their own paranoid delusions. The lighting and bleak rural setting of the film call to mind Charles Laughton‘s southern-gothic fever dream Night of the Hunter (1955) but Castle’s thriller provides all the mystery of a De Palma whodunit as the tension tightens with each passing moment. Will something eventually trigger Lucy’s dormant dementia, allowing her sex-driven homicidal urges to come boiling to the surface? You’ll have to rent this one to find out!

Maneaters on Motorbikes!

After his strange Magic Land of Mother Goose offended nursery-rhymers everywhere in 1967, Herschell Gordon Lewis returned to fetid form with She-Devils on Wheels. 1968 saw this she-exploitation biker classic about a gang of dames so lewd, they’d make Tura Satana wanna run home and tell her mama. Here’s betting you’ve never seen role reversal this crude! Or nut-crunching…

One thing is certain in the film’s crude and brutal premise: The Maneaters don’t dish out what they can’t take. A rag-tag motorcycle clan of white-knuckle sexpots, these girls care just as much about speed limits as they do condoms. When they’re not raising hell on their hogs, they’re lining up the local studs for use as sex slaves. The hilarious and fully-clothed orgies only keep piling up in this pleasure fest on wheels!

Lewis is a modern master of sleaze and few of his contemporaries have been at the game as long. His swiftly subversive films take place in an atmosphere of psychedelic violence all their own, and She-Devils is no exception. Think a Russ Meyer movie on LSD.

Highlights of the film include a bevy of boy-girl beat downs, sultry sex-dealing motorheads and a high-speed decapitation scene to the sounds of throbbing acid jazz. However, like many B-movie classics, She-Devils does have its share of narrative awkwardness, perhaps unintentionally so, but learning to appreciate the anti-climactic is a familiar exercise for any diehard fan of low-budget art. In fact, certain disappointments are actually quite charming in over-the-top features like She-Devils. If the film’s awkward left-field ending doesn’t kill your biker buzz, then it was never alive to begin with.

If She-Devils waves your kinky flag and you’re interested in further viewing, the “Godfather of Gore” released another delinquent exploitation classic the same year called Just for the Hell of It. It’s an  81-minute immature romp as babies, the blind and the handicapped are subjected to random acts of violence by a gang of four teenage punks. They even drive their cars on the grass! Too rude…

Now thanks to Something Weird Video, these two films are available to purchase on DVD. If you don’t already know, I suppose it’s worth mentioning that Something Weird, which takes its name from the 1967 Lewis film of the same name, is the best company in the universe and I am blessed to have them headquartered so locally. I guarantee you’ll thank yourself for getting weird with these two rag-tag Lewis gems.

Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy

Not often does a film come around that has the muscle to not only define a genre, but to defy it as well. Panned by leftist critics when it hit the big screen in 1973, Michael Campus’s The Mack is a strongly political film with teeth too sharp for Hollywood consumption.

Max Julien (Up Tight!, Thomasine & Bushrod) is John Mickens, AKA Goldie, a former drug dealer who has just been released from prison. With big dreams of pimping his way to a life of ease, Goldie climbs a ladder of money, manipulation, women and violence in a futile attempt to rise above the prejudices of white America.

The facts surrounding the conception of Campus’s urban hustling masterpiece are about as hard boiled as its narrative. Ex-con Robert Poole wrote a forty page treatment in his cell on strips of toilet paper while doing time. When Poole brought the treatment to producer Harvey Bernhard, he had no idea that his story would go on to become the highest grossing blaxploitation film of its time. Sadly, The Mack would remain Poole’s only writing credit to date.

Meanwhile, Max Julien was writing and producing Cleopatra Jones when Harvey Bernhard called him up about the project. Bernhard was so confident in the classically trained actor that he told Julien last call on casting for the picture was his if he wanted it.

Julien recruited Dick Anthony Williams (Five on the Black Hand Side, Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off) and comedian Richard Pryor (Hit!, Silver Streak) for the project. In 1972, Julien, Campus and Pryor sat down with Poole’s treatment and penned the last five final drafts of the shooting script together. The team also rounded up Motown artist Willie Hutch who oversaw the film’s memorable soundtrack.

Principal photography commenced in 1973. With a strong background in documentary film making, Campus felt social commentary this raw should feel as authentic as possible. While scouting locations in downtown Oakland, Campus met the Ward brothers, four of the most powerful gangsters in the bay area. They were pimps and drug dealers. Campus met with Frank Ward in private to discuss shooting in their territory. When Ward said, “What’s in it for me?”, Campus offered to feature Ward in the picture. Ward agreed.

In the beginning, director Campus thought little of the importance of their meeting. Later, however, while in a hotel room where he was staying during the shoot, he got the message. All of a sudden the door flew off the hinge and landed flat on the carpet and Black Panther co-founder Bobby Seale stood in the doorway. He said, “You’re in Panther territory, boy.”

Several days later, the shoot was interrupted by bottles and garbage thrown from the rooftops of residences near where they were filming. Ward felt enraged at the throwing of bottles. He felt like it was his picture. After all, the crew was under his protection, not the Panthers’. He assured Campus that if he and his brothers could run underground Oakland, silencing a few Panthers wouldn’t be a problem. Campus and his crew finished a brisk shoot with zero distractions.

The Mack stands as one of the most criminally underrated movies of all time. Loads of credible mammals have attested to its brilliance such as the Hughes brothers, Samuel L. Jackson and Quentin Tarantino, though historically, it never managed to garner much mainstream acclaim. Did you know that between 1963 and 1982 not one black actor was the recipient of an Academy Award. No stuffed shirt, sausage-fingered leftist critic can tell me that’s not proof that Hollywood serves its own in the end. Just take a look at Max Julien’s powerful performance in The Mack. I dare anyone to say he wasn’t robbed.

It’s Dark in Here

The most beautiful thing about genre cinema is the devotion of its underlings. The most inspiring thing is experiencing that love firsthand with other cinema-warped souls.

On Sunday, February 17th, 2008, I was at Noir City in McCaw Hall, hosted by the “Czar of Noir” himself, cultural archaeologist Eddie Muller. I was leaving the evening’s double-bill of two 1948 noirs, John Farrow‘s The Night Has a Thousand Eyes and Frank Borzage‘s Southern Gothic masterpiece Moonrise. Both films starred one of Hollywood’s sexiest suicides, the great Gail Russell.

Snaking through muttering clusters of noir hounds so I could scope the festival swag, I overheard words between Muller and a movie-goer who was thanking him for his efforts as a travelling B-movie brain. All festival prints are originals. Muller’s San Francisco-based Film Noir Foundation excavates the prints from Paramount, Columbia and other heavy hitter studios.

The attendee went on to explain his particular distaste for modern noir cinema. He complained that so called “neo-noir” is preoccupied with cliches and therefore strangles itself with genre formula. If only he knew where to look, I thought.

In fact, the most organically bleak and doom-laden pictures aren’t typically dressed up in shadows and fedoras at all. Christopher Nolan‘s Memento (2000), Cronenberg‘s A History of Violence (2005) and the Coen brothers’ No Country for Old Men (2007) all proudly boast the noir stamp without compromising substance for a stylized approach.

Also steeped in noir-heavy gloom is Martin Scorsese‘s 2006 Best Picture winner The Departed. The film is taught with suspense, spotlighting a Shakespearean downward spiral for its two main players, Matt Damon and Leonardo DiCaprio. Though a remake of Hong Kong thriller Infernal Affairs (2002), Scorsese’s Boston cop caper is incredibly intense with pitch black wit achieved by William’s Monahan‘s air-tight script and Scorcese’s lightning momentum. Its character snowball with tension until they damn themselves indefinitely.

I too find myself yearning from time to time for that authentic nihilism of film noir from the classic period (1941-58). But I always snap out of it when I consider the range of like-minded filmmakers out in force today whose moodiness in their films is ever-present. In the end, it’s just the job of the genre junkie to keep up with what’s out there.

He Who Lives by the Sword

During the late 60s and early 70s, American gender roles were in a shakeup. Thank goodness for Jo Heims who lassoed the idea and phoned up veteran television writer Dean Riesner with a concept for a gender-bending new psychological thriller.

Heims’ story was about a harmless one night stand that mutates into a deadly obsession. When Riesner swooped in to help, the two quickly crafted a prickly morality tale of a psychotic seductress and the ladies man caught in her web.

Hollywood tough guy Clint Eastwood had just completed work on Don Siegel‘s sexually complex The Beguiled when he picked up the script for Heims and Riesner’s hip new thriller. He was so crazy about it that in 1971, he told Lew Wasserman of Universal Pictures that he wanted to direct the film, despite his inexperience. Wasserman agreed only under the condition that Eastwood waive his usual acting fee. Unwaveringly inspired, Eastwood agreed, and after just 21 days of filming he made his startling directorial debut with Play Misty for Me.

Clint, himself, underwent the role of portraying ladies man Dave Garver in the film. Garver hosts a jazz radio program in Monterey County, California. He drives a cool car, occupies a swanky bachelor pad and is hard at work pitching his program for nationwide syndication. On a night like any other night at his local watering hole, Garver meets a gal named Evelyn Draper, played with psychotic sting by sultry TV veteran Jessica Walter (Arrested Development, Murder, She Wrote). They go home together, and before long a one night stand transforms into a torrid love affair. It suddenly seems to Garver that he’s got himself a stalker, and a staggering downward spiral into Evelyn’s crippling madness ensues. The film becomes so loaded with tension, the pressure finally erupts into a climax as bloody as it is unexpected.

The innate attraction of the film stems from Eastwood’s organic and inspired approach to the directing craft. Completed four days ahead of schedule and $50,000 under budget, the film resonates with the kind of wild passion that is typical of rookie talents.

Shot entirely on location in Carmel and Monterey, California, the film is ripe with the greens and blues of the coastal environment, all captured in beautiful technicolor. There is even one bold segment that takes place on location at the Monterey Jazz Festival. Eastwood, with a profound real-life affinity for jazz music, shot the festival footage like the real McCoy: candid audience shots, 70s split-screen, you name it.

Other highlights here include James McEachin (Adam 12, Dragnet) who gives a poignant and funny performance as Garver’s sexually liberated, reefer-puffing DJ pal Sweet Al Monty. Also, John Larch (Dirty Harry, Dallas, Dynasty) shines as trustworthy hard-ass Sgt. McCallum who takes the Garver’s stalker case.

The film roundly addresses the notion of freedom of the self. It reflects our gravitation towards happiness and the desire for self-betterment. Evelyn is a symbol of the corruption of self-fulfillment. Where Garver looks inward for happiness by way of rectifying his love life and scouting upward career mobility, Evelyn quickly begins to rely on Garver for happiness. Her neurosis is the antithesis of emotional freedom.

Eastwood’s stylistic approach to the source material is simply inspired and moody. Play Misty for Me also cements the fact that Clint’s got a great voice for jazz radio. Make sure to catch him singing some jazz (that’s right, singing) during the end credits of Gran Torino (2008)!

The Iron Badge of Courage

After his 1975 ninjitsu-fueled The Killer Elite bit box-office dust, Sam Peckinpah sought redemption in a script penned by an industry pro. Despite a lifetime of work in romantic comedies, screenwriter Julius Epstein (Casablanca, Arsenic and Old Lace) was commissioned to write the adaptation of Willi Heinrich‘s German war novel, The Willing Flesh. In 1977, Peckinpah got a hold of Epstein’s adaptation and Cross of Iron became the only war film of Peckinpah’s prolific career.

The film takes place in 1943, in the Russian front. Peckinpah favorite James Coburn plays the highly decorated and recently promoted Rolf Steiner. Just as he arrives to camp after another successful mission, Prussian Captain Hauptmann Stransky (Maximilian Schell) arrives to take Steiner’s position. When Steiner’s squad, led by the brave Lieutenant Myer, engages in gruesome combat with Russian troops, Meyer is killed in action. Stransky reports to the figurehead that it was he who led the troops and requests to be awarded the Iron Cross. Steiner is called upon as a witness to Stransky’s valor and, naturally, he refuses to play ball.

War pictures, like prison films, typically feature highly diverse casts, and Cross of Iron is no exception. The two genres also resonate with similar senses of space, which is important in so much as character development is concerned. Prison blocks and battlegrounds both provide terribly oppressive environments, perfect for character tension to peak.

Coburn maintains a blue-collar swagger in his portrayal of Steiner. A born leader, Steiner displays commitment to his duties and expert tact on the battlefield. However, he is also a man rich in wisdom and justice. Unlike Prussian aristocrat Stransky, Steiner is in touch with reality, well aware of how war can rot a man’s conscience.

Cross of Iron is a bold entry among 70s war pictures for many reasons. Namely, Peckinpah’s sympathetic portrayal of the enemy is something distinctly uncharacteristic of Hollywood. Also uncharacteristic of war pictures at the time was the overt homosexuality in the film. Peckinpah challenges our traditional notion of what heroism means with a tale of sexually repressed men in uniform. Stransky cements his perverse notion of heroism when he professes to Steiner that “Without the Iron Cross, I couldn’t face my family.”

The film’s ending is a bit clunky, but it doesn’t actually detract from the film’s visceral punch. Anyhow, the ending is a little dodgy because the budget ran dry. Many are not aware that Cross of Iron was funded with dough put up by a West German porn producer. After all the money was gone, Peckinpah turned to Coburn to basically “improvise” the last scene. Well it’s at least better than the studio hack-job on Peckinpah’s Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid (1973). But we won’t go there — not today anyhow.

Go see this one!

“I’m a hero, God help me!”

It’s safe to say that Hollywood maintains a stigma against gratuitous violence in cinema. However, there is a point when gratuitousness evolves into an art form of its own. Genre fans would agree that if ever there is a chance to push an envelope, then push. Hard.

This is why I don’t have a problem saying Buddy Giovinazzo‘s debut feature Combat Shock (1986) is perhaps the boldest movie of the 1980s. Period.

Some film’s jolt your brain so hard it’s like a chemical reaction. Combat Shock‘s nightmarish opening sequence has such visceral suction that we’re pulled right into the mind of Frankie Dunlan, a Vietnam veteran with post-traumatic stress disorder. His family is poor and his wife, Cathy, played by Veronica Stork (Class of Nuke ‘Em High Part II: Subhumanoid Meltdown), is pregnant with their second child. Their infant son is deformed because of Frankie’s exposure to chemical agents in the jungle. The grotesque puppet Giovinazzo used for the baby bears an uncanny resemblance to Henry Spencer’s writhing tot in Eraserhead.

Along with Eraserhead’s broken home dynamic, Combat Shock also recalls the bleak sense of societal disconnection that David Lynch‘s 1977 feature expresses in high-contrast black and white. Frankie suffers from chronic flashbacks of his experiences in combat and water torture. In one scene, the mere opening of an eviction notice coupled with the sound of the dripping faucet trigger a terrifying flashback. Later, during a heartbreaking phone call he makes out of financial desperation to his father, Frankie apologizes having not phoned for years only to hear that his father is dying and broke.

As the dread and misfortune pile up, it becomes increasingly more unbearable for the protagonist and his audience. He saunters down graffitied alleys in the shadow of a sizable debt he owes some thugs who are threatening to kill his family. Even the Department of Unemployment turns him away.

As far as character studies go, Combat Shock pulsates with enough grim energy to rival that of Scorsese‘s Taxi Driver. It has such urgency towards doom that at times, it becomes almost too uncomfortable to watch. Contributing to the movie’s biting nihilism is its organic technical approach. When a director’s vision is focused enough, a no-budget production can actually accentuate a film’s effect on us. An audience translates this rawness as attitude.

Not only did Buddy G (as he is credited in the original print) write, produce and direct the film but in doing so he also offered an unrelenting glimpse at the drug-addled psyches of addicts. Frankie’s friends squirm around the city scraping up enough dough for a hit. Swift and brutal, Combat Shock is a jarring experience all the way to the film’s final shocking frames.

Like his loner vet counterpart Travis Bickle, Frankie is a biological time bomb that, as Paul Schrader once wrote, moves towards violence as the earth moves towards the sun. The violence in the film strictly repels, never amuses. Combat Shock‘s unflinching microscope on one man’s post-war mental collapse is a justifiably jarring experience that builds to a climax too shocking to mention.

Director Buddy enlisted his very own brother Rick Giovinazzo to play Frankie. It is the only acting role Rick has ever done to date. However, on an interesting side note, he has since been the musical orchestrator on such A-list Hollywood franchises as X-Men, Transformers and Pirates of the Caribbean.

If movie fans were required to thank Lloyd Kaufman and Michael Herz at every meal of the day, it still just wouldn’t be enough. They distributed this masterpiece in a great new two-disc DVD featuring a commentary with Buddy Giovinazzo and Jorg Buttgereit (Nekromantik, Nekromantik 2). Tack another gold star up on the wall for the Troma Team for knowing serious art when they see it.