Like many nerds in the 2010s, I became a big fan of the TV series, "Community." It was a sitcom truly designed to appeal to film fanatics, often layering its episodes with references to classic movies and pop culture. That's how I got introduced to Alison Brie, whose bright blue eyes, bubbly energy, and fearless commitment to the bit quickly won me over. Brie has made a good career for herself since then, adding one other cancelled-too-soon cult favorite TV show to her resume alongside moving into screenwriting herself. In particular, her and husband Dave Franco have become a quirky power couple. They appeared together in "The Rental," Franco's directorial debut and a decent modern slasher. That interest in horror continued this year with "Together," another buzzy title from buzzy distributor NEON and the first feature from director Michael Shanks. Certainly, having an actual couple star in a movie about a couple undergoing a bizarre transformation adds an interesting layer of subtext to the entire affair.
Millie and Tim have been together for a long time. He still hopes to become a rock star while she pursues a career as a teacher. Millie convinces Tim to move out to a small, rural neighborhood where she has a new job waiting, which conflicts with his wish to go back on tour with a band. Further adding tension to their relationship is the recent death of Tim's parents and Millie awkwardly proposing at the going-away party. After moving into the isolated home, the two go for a hike in the woods. A storm blows in and they fall into an underground cavern, home to a strange pool of water and distinctive bells. They drink from the spring and, the next morning, awaken to find a sticky membrane connecting their legs. This proceeds more bizarre behavior from Tim, who begins to feel a magnetic pull towards his girlfriend. Millie starts to be physically, uncontrollably drawn to him as well. Answers to the bizarre condition are revealed as the bickering couple begin to physically, painfully merge with one another.
A lot of modern indie horror flicks think of a thematic premise like that and have little else to offer, filling the meat of the movie with meandering ambiance and whispering characters. Michael Shanks' script is a little shapeless. The attempt to justify what is happening here eventually bends, somewhat inorganically, towards two cliches of "elevated" horror: Weirdo pagan cults and grainy video footage. However, Shanks is actually interested in and good at the horror stuff. Germain McMicking's cinematography includes a lot of striking visuals, like warped reflections in a glass door or drone shots of the couple moving in step with each other. Sean Lahiff's editing is strong, the cuts precise to establish the causal relations between events. The sound design is especially eerie, with lots of off-screen banging or distant ringing helping to build tension. While the film's set pieces sometimes feel a little disconnected, they are effectively creepy. Tim's monologue about uncovering his parents' final fate – which has sad parallels to the recent passing of Gene Hackman – ends on a nicely unsettling image. A nightmare, in which cave walls begin to pulse and wheeze like a blocked esophagus, suitably recalls the feeling of having a panic attack. A freaky, slimy, latex monster does show up eventually too.
Despite mining some humor from its implausible events, "Together" is not an insincere story. It takes the relationship at the center of the story seriously. Yes, there are long simmering tensions between Tim and Millie. They backbite and argue and brood in silence with each other. They also flirt, laugh, kiss and touch, and talk with the kind of warm familiarity evident in couples that have been together for years. There's no doubt that the very real chemistry between Franco and Brie goes a long way towards making the audience invested in these two. Both are excellent, funny and goofy when the material is relaxed, filled with the proper amount of fear and pain when shit gets crazy. We've seen Dave Franco's frizzy haired, adorable man-child act before. Alison Brie usually plays glowing balls of perkiness hiding larger insecurities. There's a case to be made for actors playing to type though and it works here. The issues pushing them apart are understandable, not contrived, and it's apparent that these two really do care about each other. The emotional climax of the story – loving someone enough to let them go, giving up everything for your partner, needing a person like you need oxygen – got to me. This kind of shit hits a lot harder when you've got a special someone in your life, let me tell ya.
Despite being as American as apple pie and lax gun control laws, Edgar Allan Poe's writing is beloved overseas. The Italians, in particular, seem fond of Baltimore's greatest scribe of the macabre. Perhaps ol' Eddie P.'s mixture of the psychological, the surreal, the gothic, and the grisly appeals to that operatic sensibility. For whatever reason, some of the most widely known Italian horror directors seemed especially attracted to "The Black Cat," Poe's 1843 story of alcoholism, animal abuse, and a guilty conscience. Sergio Martino would steal Poe's climax for his 1972 giallo "Your Vice is a Locked Door and Only I Have the Key." Dario Argento devoted his half of 1990's two-part anthology "Two Evil Eyes" to a take on the story. The same year, Dario's old buddy Luigi Cozzi would steal the title for a witchy schlock-fest. Most prominently, in-between two of his apocalyptic zombie movies, Lucio Fulci would try his hand at "The Black Cat."
The opening credits clarify that the film is "freely based" on Poe's story. This is an admission that, like most movies bearing this title, it has little to do with the original text. Fulci's "Black Cat" is set in a small English town, especially known for its old cemeteries and underground tombs. Photographer Jill arrives to snap pictures of the graves. This is how she meets Professor Robert Miles, a supposed medium. Miles owns a hateful, violent black cat but claims he can't get rid of it. At the same time, bizarre accidental deaths begin to plague the town. Inspector Gorley from Scotland Yard investigates and soon calls on Jill to operate as a make-shift crime scene photographer. Both become increasingly convinced that Miles' cat is somehow responsible for the deaths. This is the truth and the doctor attempts to stop the feline's supernatural murder spree himself but this is no mere pussycat.
The supernatural horror films Fulci made in the eighties all follow very similar set-ups. Almost all of them center around a person, animal, or object that triggers a free-wheeling curse that enacts increasingly grisly deaths upon the group of people unlucky enough to be near-by. (Sometimes with zombies.) The ghostly priest in "City of the Living Dead," the tome of eldritch knowledge in "The Beyond," an ancient amulet in "Manhattan Baby," and the comatose teen of "Aenigma" are joined here by the titular nero gatto. Which is to say that Fulci's "Black Cat" has screenplay largely composed of shit just happening. We are introduced to a group of people living or visiting the same town – the photographer, the Scotland Yard investigator, a pair of horny teens, one of their hysterical mothers, a town drunk – who all fall, one by one, to the improbable accidents the cat causes. All the subplots tumble around each other, each largely meaningless ways to waste time until the feline killer must kill again. Why the cat is evil, where it gets its powers, how this connects with Professor Miles' research into spiritualism or the town's history of death are never addressed.
In other words, Fulci's “Black Cat” is an exercise in grand guignol. In an almost literal sense. Like the plays shown in that infamous French theatre, the film is a collection of short scenarios that depict horrible things happening to people through crude but grisly special effects, in service of a bleak worldview. This is set up before the opening credits roll, as the stare of the cat wills a guy to crash his car, his head gorily smashing through the windshield. That is accomplished via the use of a clearly fake dummy. That same technique is utilized when the cat sets a house ablaze. We see a mannequin mechanically flail its arms around as it burns, inter-cut with close-ups on the melting face of a wax dummy in the shape of Dagmar Lassander. This isn't to say that the bloody set pieces of “The Black Cat” aren't occasionally cringe inducing. The best sequence involves the drunkard dangling from a post in a barn, the cat slicing at his hands until he falls upon some upturned spikes. However, the unconvincing special effects and frequently implausible details of the death scenes – such as the cat locking the love-making teens into a sweltering shed after turning off the air conditioning – are likelier to produce chuckles than shrieks.
“The Black Cat” is, in a lot of ways, a good encapsulation of everything good and bad about Fulci's style. The murder scenes are gratuitous and goofy. The visual direction is sometimes campy, with numerous tacky crash-zooms. The dubbing is distracting, star Patrick Magee's distinctive natural voice covered by someone doing a middling Boris Karloff impersonation. At the same time, as vulgarian and camp as the film can be, it is also capable of a suitably chilling ambiance. The shots of cemeteries or back allies bathed in fog, the actors creeping around in the darkness, provide the exactly called for feeling. The shots of the titular beast glaring from an obscure corner, growling softly, effectively make the kitty cat a threatening force. Pino Donaggio provides a score that recalls his work on “Carrie” while also suggesting the casually cruel, free-spirited attitude of a cat and the small town setting. Yeah, there is a lot about this one that does work, almost as much as doesn't.
What truly makes “The Black Cat” interesting to me is how it interacts with the usual trademarks of Fulci's work. I've commented before that I feel there is a genuine mean-spirited sense of misanthropy often emanating from Fulci's eighties work. His movies depict cruel worlds where everyone exists merely to die, usually in excessively gruesome and senseless ways, where the only certainty is the ever-enclosing folds of darkness and destruction. What made that especially uncomfortable is that it all felt so personal for Fulci. As if he was working through his own anger with these images. All the death and mayhem in “The Black Cat” comes from the fuzzy feline. The cat shares some sort of connection with Professor Miles. As it becomes clear his pet is pure evil, Miles attempts to destroy the cat, via the strangulation from Poe's story. However, it doesn't work. In the end, he admits that the cat is a psychic conduit for the hatred he feels towards everyone in the town. The doctor has subconsciously transferred his own resentment and bitterness into the cat. He tries to deny this enmity is a part of himself, expelling it by betraying the cat, but he ultimately must admit that these feelings of hate reside in his soul. If my interpretation of Fulci's work is correct – his horror films acting as release valves for his most sadistic desires – than “The Black Cat” is all but an admission of this. Assuming we can take the moody, withdrawn, and mysterious Patrick Magee as an intended author avatar for a director sometimes described as much the same.
That self-reflective quality makes “The Black Cat” a little more interesting to me than the director's more acclaimed work. “The Beyond” and “City of the Living Dead” have more realistically depicted gross-out moments and stronger senses of foreboding atmosphere. However, I've always been a little put-off by the hopelessness they presented. “The Black Cat” acknowledges that this is all one guy's hang-ups, projected via an especially nasty and magical little critter. His gialli remain more self-assured, in my opinion. Those work better for me, as they attempt to ground themselves a little more other than going buck wild the whole time. Still, perhaps I am slowly coming around on Fulci's style. “The Black Cat” is grimy, dumb-ass nonsense that is also a weirdly effective exploration of the shadows of the mind. [6/10]
The opening credits clarify that the film is "freely based" on Poe's story. This is an admission that, like most movies bearing this title, it has little to do with the original text. Fulci's "Black Cat" is set in a small English town, especially known for its old cemeteries and underground tombs. Photographer Jill arrives to snap pictures of the graves. This is how she meets Professor Robert Miles, a supposed medium. Miles owns a hateful, violent black cat but claims he can't get rid of it. At the same time, bizarre accidental deaths begin to plague the town. Inspector Gorley from Scotland Yard investigates and soon calls on Jill to operate as a make-shift crime scene photographer. Both become increasingly convinced that Miles' cat is somehow responsible for the deaths. This is the truth and the doctor attempts to stop the feline's supernatural murder spree himself but this is no mere pussycat.
In other words, Fulci's “Black Cat” is an exercise in grand guignol. In an almost literal sense. Like the plays shown in that infamous French theatre, the film is a collection of short scenarios that depict horrible things happening to people through crude but grisly special effects, in service of a bleak worldview. This is set up before the opening credits roll, as the stare of the cat wills a guy to crash his car, his head gorily smashing through the windshield. That is accomplished via the use of a clearly fake dummy. That same technique is utilized when the cat sets a house ablaze. We see a mannequin mechanically flail its arms around as it burns, inter-cut with close-ups on the melting face of a wax dummy in the shape of Dagmar Lassander. This isn't to say that the bloody set pieces of “The Black Cat” aren't occasionally cringe inducing. The best sequence involves the drunkard dangling from a post in a barn, the cat slicing at his hands until he falls upon some upturned spikes. However, the unconvincing special effects and frequently implausible details of the death scenes – such as the cat locking the love-making teens into a sweltering shed after turning off the air conditioning – are likelier to produce chuckles than shrieks.
What truly makes “The Black Cat” interesting to me is how it interacts with the usual trademarks of Fulci's work. I've commented before that I feel there is a genuine mean-spirited sense of misanthropy often emanating from Fulci's eighties work. His movies depict cruel worlds where everyone exists merely to die, usually in excessively gruesome and senseless ways, where the only certainty is the ever-enclosing folds of darkness and destruction. What made that especially uncomfortable is that it all felt so personal for Fulci. As if he was working through his own anger with these images. All the death and mayhem in “The Black Cat” comes from the fuzzy feline. The cat shares some sort of connection with Professor Miles. As it becomes clear his pet is pure evil, Miles attempts to destroy the cat, via the strangulation from Poe's story. However, it doesn't work. In the end, he admits that the cat is a psychic conduit for the hatred he feels towards everyone in the town. The doctor has subconsciously transferred his own resentment and bitterness into the cat. He tries to deny this enmity is a part of himself, expelling it by betraying the cat, but he ultimately must admit that these feelings of hate reside in his soul. If my interpretation of Fulci's work is correct – his horror films acting as release valves for his most sadistic desires – than “The Black Cat” is all but an admission of this. Assuming we can take the moody, withdrawn, and mysterious Patrick Magee as an intended author avatar for a director sometimes described as much the same.
After six years, I have arrived at the final episode of "Beasts," Nigel Kneale's overall excellent anthology on the theme of beastly horror. The last installment to air was "The Dummy." The title refers to the star creature of a long running series of horror films, who is neither man, beast, plant, nor mineral but an amalgamation of all four. Clyde Boyd has been the man sweltering inside the cumbersome Dummy suit since the beginning. A reporter is on-set during the production of the sixth entry in the franchise, "Jaws of the Dummy." Clyde is having trouble nailing a shot because he's got something else on his mind. His career is in shambles, as playing the faceless monster is the only thing he's known for, and he feels as if he's losing his sense of identity. His wife has recently deserted him, taking their daughter with her. Worst yet, the man she left him for is Sidney Stewart, the human star of the new film. And he's a bullying asshole. The producer convinces Clyde to go ahead with production, despite his fragile emotional state. That is when something inside the man snaps and he ceases to be an actor playing a part. He becomes the Dummy, a real monster rampaging through the studio and attacking all in his path.
The most recurrent theme in Nigel Kneale's work has been finding the link between the mythic and the modern. In Kneale's films and TV shows, the monsters of the past are not dead but are understood to be something else in the modern, scientific world. The on-set reporter in "The Dummy" is a curious sort. She makes an observation that, in African tribal folk magik, a mask is not merely a disguise or costume. Within the ritual space of the ceremony, the observers understand that the witch doctor is assuming the role of an otherworldly spirit while also believing that spirit to be real. The barrier between play and reality, dreaming and waking, ceases to exist. "The Dummy" contextualizes a film set as the modern extension of these ancient rites. Within the confines of the camera, and the movie houses the images will eventually be projected in, these images are real. The dream is alive and unspooling at 24 frames per second before us. This is why Clyde becomes the role he is playing, the barrier between the real and the imaginary blurring. This is further emphasized in a moment when the attacking Dummy knocks a bucket of stage blood over while very sincerely attacking someone. In that moment, the difference between what's fake and what's real might as well not exist.
Despite the silly looking threat, "Beasts" was never less than excellently executed. The sequence where Clyde stops acting and begins actually choking his co-star to death is effectively tense. The tight interiors of the film studio make for some intense attack sequences. The contrast between the petty egos of the cast – one actor complaining that they need to wrap up his scenes tonight, unaware that a man is genuinely dead – provide some intentional laughs. There's far more pathos though. Bernard Horsfall gives a weeping, shuddering performance as Clyde, truly coming across as a man at the end of his rope. A good chunk of the episode is devoted to the producer, Clive Swift at his most glad handing and insincere, convincing the actor to stick it out for one more day. You could definitely read "The Dummy" as a criticism of the entertainment industry, that churns out a banal product with little regard for the people left behind. It also functions simply as a compelling story, as Clyde's torment is both concerning and touching. Sidney Stewart is exactly the kind of asshole you can't wait to see get his just desserts, willfully refusing to leave the film simply so he can continue to torment his already beaten romantic rival. "The Dummy" isn't as unsettling as "During Barty's Party" or "Baby," nor does it hit as hard as "Special Offer," "Buddyboy," or "What Big Eyes." It is still a fascinating, keenly performed piece of horror television, rich with ideas and extremely easy to watch. [7/10]
A letter from Spain heralds the arrival of an old family friend to the Addams, the prestigious Don Xavier Francisco de la Mancha Molinas. As a lad, Gomez and the Don's daughter, Consuella, were playmates. In fact, it seems to have slipped Grandmama's mind that, at some point, Consuella was promised to Gomez as his bride. When he attempts to explain that he has a wife, the old man mishears them and believes Morticia is Gomez' sister. The misunderstanding escalates, once Consuella tells Morticia that she intends to marry Gomez. From there, an unfortunate eavesdropping on a conversation between the two men leads Morticia to believe that her husband has a whole harem of women all around the world. Heartbroken, Morticia debates murdering her spouse before the confusion is revealed. At which point the Don, having been insulted by his daughter being turned down, insists on challenging Gomez to a duel.
More recent “Addams Family” adaptations tend to emphasize that Gomez has Spanish heritage, the character being played by Latino actors in the most recent iterations. “Morticia's Dilemma” reveals this as an ingrained part of “Addams Family” lore. Grandmama refers to Spain as “the old country,” which certainly suggests Gomez' side of the family has roots there. I doubt this was a deliberate depiction of a mixed race couple on 1960s television – not that this was without precedent – so much as another indication that the wide and bizarre Addams' family tree has branches all over the place. Nevertheless, “Morticia's Dilemma” is an episode featuring heavy Spanish accents, mariachi shirts, flamenco dancing, and a running gag involving the word “si.” The Spanish characters are definitely tokenized, defined solely by their nationality, which is used as the set-up for multiple jokes. However, the Don and his daughter are never depicted in a negative light, so this might actually be one of the better depictions of non-WASP heritage in sixties television.
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