Halloween 2021: October 28th

The Lair of the White Worm (1988)

Bram Stoker is a writer in an interesting position. He is both one of the most influential writers in genre history while also, paradoxically, being a literary one-hit wonder. “Dracula” informs practically every vampire story that came afterwards, not to mention greatly influencing the entire gothic style of horror. It's also really the only thing Stoker ever wrote that most people have read. Most everything else non-”Dracula” related he's done has slipped into total obscurity. Which brings us to “The Lair of the White Worm.” Probably Stoker's most blatant attempt to emulate his one big hit, the novel is regarded by some as one of the worst books ever written. Yet it still ranks among Stoker's better known, non-”Dracula” works. Probably because Ken Russell, cult movie extraordinaire, loosely adapted it to film in 1988. 

In the Derbyshire countryside, there's the legend of the d'Ampton Worm. That's an enormous, white snake that vexed the land centuries ago, which was sliced in half by John d'Ampton. His descendant, James d'Ampton, still lives on an extensive manor on the same land. At a party, he meets Angus Flint, an archaeologist that has uncovered a strange skull on the neighboring land. He's living with two sisters, Eve and Mary, whose parents mysteriously vanished. That's because Lady Sylvia Marsh, d'Ampton's neighbor, is an immortal vampire-like monster that is wrecking havoc on the countryside. She worships Dionin, the ancient snake god that inspired the legend of the White Worm. Sylvia is determined to fully resurrected her god, eyeing Eve as her virgin sacrifice. 

Ken Russell thoroughly puts his own stamp on “The Lair of the White Worm.” He turns Stoker's novel into a story of the conflict between Christianity and paganism. Upon seeing a crucifix early in the film, Sylvia spews snake venom on it. She considers Christianity a modern usurper to her far older, far more powerful religion. And that religion is explicitly sexual and untamed. The snake is a phallic symbol, something the film is all too aware of. Sylvia is a vivacious female predator, openly sexual and happy to seduce and pray on any man she chooses. This stands in contrast to the innocent, chaste Eve and Mary and all the ideas about femininity that Christiandom encourages. Considering the film clearly connects the Worm and Sylvia with the Romans who were in Derbyshire before Christianity, you get the distinct impression that Russell is rooting for the giant, phallic snake monster and its worshiper. 

The link goes back further than that. A scene where the pointedly named Eve encounters the snake-like Lady Sylvia in a tree, while she wears an apple red leather suit, situations the Christian/Pagan rivalry as one that goes back to the beginning of time. This is far from the only on-the-nose visual symbolism Russell includes in the film. The huge white horn Sylvia wields in several scenes is a phallic symbol too, which becomes very literal in the finale. (And further connects Sylvia with the hermaphroditic wyrm.) The movie is dotted with snake-like images, whether its a hose uncoiling or Sylvia slithering out of a basket, as she's summoned by a snake-charmer's music. This is most clear in a wild dream sequence James has, where watching a pair of comely stewardess in thigh-high garters wrestle makes his pen rise. Russell uses the psychedelic effects of the snake venom to include a couple far-out visions. Such as trippy images of Roman centurions raping nuns, before a crucifix squeezed by a snake, or a series of perversely dancing, blue-skinned snake cultists. 

If all of this sounds thoroughly ridiculous, it is. Russell's movie has its (forked) tongue deliberately in cheek. The performances are delightfully campy. Hugh Grant takes his stuffy, upper-crust act to amusingly goofy levels. This heightened atmosphere even allows him to look kind of cool, when swinging an oversized sword around and reprising the legend of his ancestor. Peter Capaldi, as the archaeologist, ramps his Scottish accent up to almost indecipherable levels. Amanda Donahue, as Lady Sylvia, is an absolutely delightful villainess. She oozes sexuality in every frame, never appearing to be anything but confident and in-control of every situation. When seducing and destroying a horny boy scout, or teasing the mesmerized Eve, she's absolutely captivating. She slithers and smirks through all her scenes, absolutely commanding the screen. 

“Lair of the White Worm” was met with mixed reviews upon release. Russell's blending of camp, far-out visuals, and sexy horror has always rubbed lots of people the wrong way. Even Hugh Grant seemed unsure how to approach the movie, noting after it came out that he wasn't sure if it was supposed to be funny or scary. Yet, for those of us who can vibe with these kind of theatrics, “Lair of the White Worm” is a delightful experience. It would naturally become a cult classic. Russell creates a wacky, smart, and thoroughly entertaining concoction here, as hip and lively as the folk-rock song that plays several times over. [7/10]

The Grapes of Death (1978)

It was in 2012 – was that really nine years ago? –  when Netflix added a bunch of Jean Rollin movies to their streaming service. (Which was still a free add-on to their by-mail disc service at the time.)  This was finally the excuse I needed to expose myself to the films of this weird French director I often heard people talking about. I was immediately enchanted by the surreal, campy, sleazy sights I beheld. I reviewed a bunch of them at the time... Though one Rollin classic has escaped my grasp up until now. “The Grapes of Death” has been weirdly hard for me to get a hold up in all this time. Now, thanks to Kino Cult, it is finally streaming around the Halloween holiday. Time to check this one off my list.

In the rural French village of Roublès, a new type of pesticide is sprayed on the grapes at the vineyard. The wine made from these grapes – which is enjoyed at the wine festival the following weekend – turns everyone who drinks it into sore-covered zombies who act violently. Unaware of this, Elisabeth heads to Roublès via train to visit her boyfriend, Michel. On the train, an infected attacks her and kills her friend. Elisabeth flees into the countryside. The closer she gets to Roublès, the more people she meets who are infected. Soon, the entire town is consumed by madness. Elisabeth makes some friends – a blind woman, two hunters – who are willing to help her, as she tries to survive and find Michel. 

Almost every movie Jean Rollin made was a variation on a theme. The majority of his films feature often naked female vampires, friendships between women that seem more than platonic, tragic lovers, and visits to a beach with a distinctive rotten pier. People in clown make-up, walks through cemeteries, and twins are common reoccurring images too. “The Grapes of Death” had Rollin stepping outside of his comfort zone and doing a zombie movie. Yet it's still a distinctly Rollin-esque take on the genre. These zombies have diseased flesh and act on homicidal instinct. They still kill in mobs and spread their infection with violence. Yet they are also prone to asking for the sweet release of death. A tragic monster demanding an end to their suffering is another theme Rollin would revisit again and again throughout his career.

You can certainly spot some of the other Rollin trademarks in “The Grapes of Death.” Elisabeth's bond with the blind girl is a little familiar. And there's definitely some gratuitous nudity. Brigite Lahaie stripping her clothes off to prove she's not infected was a moment I definitely predicted. Yet “The Grapes of Death” still feels like a departure for the director. The plot is as loose as it ever is but the film is mostly grounded in reality, only hinting at the dream-like atmosphere that characterizes most of Rollin's work. There's also only a small amount of the campiness that usually keeps the director's work from being unbearably pretentious. A woman speaking nonchalantly about her face being horribly burned, before blowing herself up, is about it as far as unintentional laughs go. 

With less of the lyricism, eroticism, and goofiness that we crave from Rollin, what does “The Grapes of Death” have to offer? Not much, I'm afraid to say. There's little of the gory thrills we associate with the zombie genre here. A scene where a infected villager nails a girl to a wall, followed by a graphic decapitation, is fairly grisly. I can't help but read into the two farmers that come to Elisabeth's aide being beer drinkers, which is how they've avoided being infected, as some sort of social commentary. Especially since they have at least one long conversation about politics and how big business screws over the common farmer. I'm not sure there's much working class solidarity to be found in this otherwise. Until the ending, which attempts to be emotional, “The Grapes of Death” feels shapeless. And not in a fun way. 

Part of why I wanted to see “The Grapes of Death” for so long is because it's often regarded as one of Rollin's best movies. I guess this would be a good introduction to the director's work, since it's a little more accessible than “Rape of the Vampire" and the like.  At times, when the helpful farmers are shooting zombies and setting off dynamite, this even feels like an attempt to emulate George Romero's Living Dead series. (Or it would anyway, if it wasn't made a year before “Dawn of the Dead” came out.) Yet I think I prefer the sleazy weirdness of Rollin's vampire flicks, the dream logic of “The Naked Vampire” and the pure eroticism of “Fascination,” over this. [5/10]

Tetsuo: The Iron Man (1989)

So when did Japan's reputation for producing egregiously wacky pop culture begin? Does it go back to Godzilla? Or “Speed Racer?” Obviously, plain ol' xenophobia plays a role in America's willingness to dismay an entire country's output as goofball insanity. At the same time, this reputation is not entirely undeserved. Those sixties kaiju movies are energetic and inventive in a way American films of the same breed and time simply were not. Similarly, Japan has produced some seriously bent cult classics over the decades, uniquely Japanese in their aesthetic and utterly bonkers in their content. Such as “Tetsuo: The Iron Man!” Arising out the Japanese cyberpunk/industrial/noise rock underground, “Tetsuo” would break out internationally in the early 1990s, quickly becoming a cult movie phenomenon worldwide.

A man known as the Metal Fetishist inserts rusty metal into his body. After one of his wounds become infested with maggots, he flees into the road. There, he is struck by a car, driven by an average Salaryman. The Salarayman's girlfriend is aroused by the crash, the two having sex near the Metal Fetishist's body. Afterwards, the man discovers a small metallic shard protruding from his face. This is the beginning of his transformation. Soon, the man is more scrap metal than human flesh, absorbing anything metallic he touches. The Metal Fetishist, still alive and similarly transformed, reappears. The two entities, each gifted with bizarre powers, wage war throughout Tokyo. 

“Tetsuo” is a cyberpunk classic but with the emphasis on the “punk.” A wild, untamed energy courses through the entire film. A pounding, propulsive industrial score powers the madness. Director Shinya Tsukamoto, who also plays the Metal Fetishist, provides an utterly unique visual sense. Tsukamoto utilizes his live actors in elaborate stop-motion sequences. On multiple occasions, the characters rocket down the streets in a jerky fashion, sometimes while propelled by actual rockets. This is inter-cut with lightning fast montages of the buildings around them. There are also manic, laughing faces and bursts of static-y television snow. The characters make machinery and metal twist, bend, and morph to the beat of the pounding, frantic soundtrack. The result is a movie with an incredible sense of energy and movement that feels simply like nothing else. (Not even “Eraserhead,” which is its most obvious predecessor.)

“Tetsuo” pairs its punk rock energy with a similarly unconventional approach to its narrative. The film is full of long digressions that have little to do with its story. Such as the Salaryman being chased through the subway station by a metal-infected woman. Sometimes, it seems the film takes place on multiple levels of reality. As the Metal Fetishist exists both in an alley way, where a stray derelict can attack him, as well as battling with the Salaryman across the slums of Tokyo. Yes, even “Testsuo's” plot construction is perverse... Which is fitting, as the movie is full of perverse sex and violence. The Salaryman has an erotic dream where his girlfriend becomes a demonic figure with a phallic, flexible metal tentacle growing from her crotch. Take a guess where the ends up going. But the Salaryman later pays her back, after he grows an enormous drill penis of his own. Bizarre desires, always involving twisted metal, is at the center of everything in “Tetsuo.”

What truly seals “Tetsuo's” punk rock ethos is not its shocking content or its propulsive energy. It's how homemade the movie feels. The special effects are cheap but inventive. The towering monstrosity of scrap metal seem to be made, I suspect, from a lot of aluminum foil. Most of the movie takes place in a handful of locations. The film was shot on grainy, black-and-white 16mm, which only adds to its underground feeling. Though clearly working with little money,  Tsukamoto create a number of truly unforgettable mutations. The Salaryman is covered with metal shards. In one memorable scene, an unlucky cat is absorbed into his growing mass. There's all sorts of intense body horror, as human limbs and skin are pierced and warped by the interceding bursts of scrap and steel. 

A movie as aggressively bizarre as “Tetsuo: The Iron Man” certainly invites multiple explanations. Considering the protagonist is identified as the Salaryman, that faceless peon of Japanese capitalism, makes one suspect “Tetsuo” is some metaphor for modern man's struggle with technology. Looking at it another way, when the Salaryman rejects the woman around him to eventually form a bizarre (and literal) union with the Metal Fetishist, maybe this is a movie about men rejecting the polite standards of society and embracing an alternative life style. Whatever the hell you think it is, “Tetsuo: The Iron Man” is absolutely enthralling cinema. Its insane visuals, sexual and violent and utterly creative, are still not quite like anything else I've ever seen.  Shinya Tsukamoto's utterly perverse embrace of kinky sex, industrial rock, and twisted metal created a heart-pounding cult experience that is impossible to resist. [9/10]

Elevated (1996)

Before kicking off this year's Blog-a-thon, I wrapped up a Director Report Card for Vincenzo Natali. Before making “Cube,” his debut film, Natali needed to convince backers that a movie set in one room could be compelling and cinematic. This was the purpose of “Elevated,” a horror short set almost entirely inside an elevator. Ellen and Ben ride an elevator inside an office building late at night. That's when Hank, a stranger covered in blood rushes inside. He insists the blood is not his own and that monsters have invaded the building. Ellen and Ben, naturally, don't believe him. A tense confrontation between the three, as they debate getting off the elevator and Hank tries to convince them it's not safe, ensues. 

There are pros and cons to “Elevated.” On the plus side, you can see Vincenzo Natali's strength as a filmmaker on display here. “Elevated” looks good for a nineteen minute short. The interior of the elevator never feels cramped or limiting. The camera moves freely inside, crash-zooming on the overhead escape hatch or spinning around the inhabitants. A center degree of tension is created by this scenario, as the viewer is left to wonder if Hank is crazy or if his story of monsters is true. (He says they look like a cross between “Alien” and “Pumpkinhead,” the kind of deliberate genre shout-out Natali would use more subtly in his future work.) The short also has a pretty good twist ending.

Yet “Elevated” doesn't work as well as “Cube” did for a big reason. No matter how much the prisoners in that film might've argued among themselves, you still liked them as characters. This is not true of “Elevated.” The cast members – which includes Natali regular David Hewlett, as Hank – spend most of the run time yelling and screaming at each other. The characters strike the viewers as largely unreasonable, as they begin to argue and threaten one another mere minutes after the tension rises. While Natali's later films used their limited locations smartly, “Elevated” feels like its run out of ideas after a striking scene where blood runs down the elevator's walls. Still, the director did accomplish some impressive tasks here, paving the way for his later, better work. [6/10]