Halloween 2026: September 9th

 

Psycho (1960)

Robert Bloch was living 35 miles away from Plainsfield, Wisconsin when the nocturnal activities of local handyman and taxidermy enthusiast Edward Theodore Gein were uncovered. Bloch would claim that his short novel, about “the man next door being a monster,” was nearly completed when news of the crimes reached his ears. However, the similarities between Norman Bates and Ed Gein seem impossible to dismiss. Either way, Gein's macabre acts and Bloch's book possibly or possibly not inspired by them were the butterfly wing flap that set off a tsunami of cinematic changes. “Psycho” surely deserves a placement on the list of Most Famous Movies Ever and its impact on the medium needs no introduction. Horror looks completely different without it. Adding a butcher knife to a genre more about gothic tropes or radioactive monsters up to then would be the spark that would set off a forest fire of slasher flicks and gore-fests. All of which is to say that another blog post in which a middle-age guy rambles on about the greatness of “Psycho” is unnecessary. But it's been a while since I've seen it, much less rambled about it, and I'm in the mood to do so.

“Psycho” is often compared with “Peeping Tom” and the two films definitely have one major component in common. “Rear Window” was Hitchcock's biggest dissertation on voyeurism but “Psycho” is also a motion picture obsessed with being observed. The opening sequence, starting from a God-like overview of Phoenix, slowly peeks into the privacy of Marion and Sam's hotel room. The intimacy of the two, slipping back into their clothes after a middle-of-the-day date, already makes us feel like perverts spying on people. Much attention is drawn to how Marion is observed by the rich client at the bank, before her boss looking in at her through the windshield of her car begins her journey. The highway patrolman who pulls her over glares in from the passenger side window, his own eyes blocked by reflective sunglasses. He continues to watch her from across the street as she attempts to swap vehicles at a dealership. During her anxious dinner with Norman, the taxidermed birds also glare over their shoulders at the two. While Lila tensely confronts Sam as his hardware store, P.I. Arbogast sternly watches from the doorway. Of course, the most blatant example is Norman watching Marion undress through his secret peephole. This is a movie keenly focused on being watched, whether with our knowledge or without, and seems split on which scenario is more uncomfortable.

And why should we care if someone is watching us? What have we got to hide? The characters in “Psycho” have plenty. Sam and Marion's affair is happening partially in secret, as if one of them is already married. After she steals the wad of cash from her job, Marion definitely has plenty to hide. A stray look from her boss or the glaring policeman are not merely unwelcomed voyeurs. They know she did something wrong. At least, that's what she senses. This nervous undercurrent of guilt, that our secret crimes will come to light, is what drives much of the tension of “Psycho.” Norman stutters and fidgets when interrogated by Arboghast or Sam. His attempt at a causal conversation with Marion is laced with a deeply uncomfortable feeling. His rambling about his mother, his dual devotion and resentment of her, points towards the real reason everyone is so secretive. We are all guilty, of some crime or misdeed, sure. When we are children, it's not the law or interlopers we typically answer to. It's our parents. We are all scared of disappointing our mother. It's the most primal of paranoias, that our Mom will find out we aren't good little boys or girls after all.

From a modern perspective, Sam and Marion being so secretive about their relationship is silly. Who cares if two consenting adults are sleeping with each other? Moral pressures were stricter in 1960. The main tension in the affair is that Sam doesn't want to get married, so that Marion can finally present their passion as a clean, socially acceptable relationship and not a dirty, dirty sex thing. Two unmarried adults humping because they are attracted to each other is perverted, in the way all sex is perverted, but it's “normal” perversion. Marion's own guilt over her out-of-wedlock boning is what pushes her to commit a crime, truly getting the story rolling. Her own thoughts, imagining how the conversations between her boss and the man she defrauded would play out, drive her further and further into illegal actions. Still, this could perhaps all be explained to a reasonable authority. The option of returning the money is still there. This kind of sketchy but understandable “perversion” stands in stark contrast to the twisted world of Norman Bates she is about to stumble into. If Bloch was indeed inspired less by Ed Gein directly and more by the idea of an unassuming small town resident secretly being a murderous, incestuous, cross-dressing wretch, that is carried over into the film. What Marion is doing has relatable motivations. What Norman is doing is the result of a fragmented, sick mind that hopefully most viewers would not relate too closely to. It's an intriguing contrast, between someone who thinks they are really morally transgressing and a person who is genuinely mad.

Of course, Bloch's Norman Bates is a balding, short, pudgy alcoholic who collects books on occultism and “pathologically pornographic” imagery. It was Hitchcock's idea to cast Anthony Perkins, a slender and willowy teen idol, and Joseph Stefano's script subsequently softened a lot of Norman's more outwardly off-putting attributes. This was ostensibly done to help along the narrative misdirection Hitch was playing here. The twist of “Psycho,” that Marion Crane is not the protagonist, that she dies a half-hour in, is the kind of masterful trickery the director was known for. The film's advertising was largely built around discouraging audiences from spoiling the surprise. I don't think that's the real reason, or at least not the only reason, “Psycho” is structured like this though. Norman is definitely creepy from the beginning. His intense moods during his sandwich dinner with Marion is about as crimson as a red flag can get. Obviously, the audience already knows that he's at least a peeping tom by this point. 

However, Marion's death is a switcheroo that leaves viewers with no one else to follow but Norman. (Certainly not gruff, stand-offish Sam Loomis, shifty Arbogast, or the mostly undefined Lila.) Perkins playing Norman as a deeply nervous man, obviously broken by a lifetime of henpecking from his mother,  makes us sympathize with him too. That makes the film's focus on guilt far more unsettling. Hitchcock was a pervert too who, impishly, delighted in making his killers and villains likable. Despite the extremity of his perversion, Norman is too pathetic to be repulsive. We like the guy or, at the very least, think he's more sad than dangerous. The implication is clear: If Norma Bates had been our mom, we probably would've turned out like this too. You probably didn't have a shrieking harpy of a woman as a mother and a hotel full of codependency and emotional incest issues. However, you probably did something that caused mom to be angry, frustrated, or – worst of all – disappointed in you. Sufjan Stevens said it more succinctly: On our best behavior, we're really just like him. 

 

Regardless of how neurotic our moms made us, odds are good we all have some sort of hang-up or another about sex. It's a sweaty, sticky, messy thing. Fueled by not always easily controlled desires wrapped up in frequently thorny emotional contradictions. From the moment Norman sees Marion Crane, he's sexually attracted to her. He hesitates before giving her the key to room 1, because he feels bad about wanting to spy on her undressing... But he gives her the key anyway, because he's really fuckin' alone out there and she's really pretty. Which brings us to the shower scene, which has been referred to as the single most analyzed piece of filmmaking in history. I'm sure I'm bringing nothing new to the conversation when I point out that the murder plays a lot like a sex scene. Marion's slow disrobing, her ecstasy once the warm water is running down her face, is clearly sensual in its framing. The actual murder is an act of penetration and Bernard Hermann's shrieking soundtrack could easily be cries of orgasmic release. Hitchcock and his team were all too aware that the fleeting glimpses of Janet Leigh's body were likely to titillate viewers not too horrified by what they were seeing. The act leaves her body collapsing, because she's just been brutally stabbed but not dissimilar to the same way a good screw leaves a person feeling utterly exhausted. Norman's mommy issues are so intense, his approach to sex so wrapped up in his guilt over feeling these things at all, he stains the tub with genetic material and then runs off. 

The practically clinical sequence devoted to him cleaning up the murder scene includes a lingering close-up of that same bodily fluid dripping down his hand and between his fingers. It's blood, not cum, but the moment still reads like a masturbatory postmortem. Every guy in the world has had to discreetly wipe up, hoping someone won't walk in as they reach for the tissues or paper towels or whatever. That's what it feels like when Norman drags Marion's body until the shower curtain, wrapping it up, neurotically cleaning every corner of the room. (The blatant pun in his last name getting clearer.) It's another way Hitchcock draws a parallel between Norman's behavior and far more common sins anyone watching can relate to. You film your murder scenes like sex scenes is directing 101 but all of “Psycho” is filmed like a sex scene. Marion's car pausing in the muck of the swamp is a cinematic edging of the audience before the vehicle slips into the water, like a cock into a hole. Norman's look of fear is also a look of anticipation. Cause that's the thing about doing something naughty: We don't want to be found in such an unguarded, intimate moment... But also the fear of that possibility makes it exciting, doesn't it? Every horny teenager – and every adult they grow into – knows the irresistible drive to do something their parents won't approve of. And that mixture of anticipation and fear over such a secret act. 

Hitchcock couldn't take it any further than that in 1960. When he did, twelve years later in “Frenzy,” it resulted in a pricklier, harder to defend film. The story had to pull back and refocus on Lila and Sam and Arbogast and Sheriff Chambers and his wife at this point, so as not to be too horrible for censors already scared of a flushing toilet. “Psycho” is still tentatively, eagerly pushing us into Norman's twisted world in the back half. The camera assumes the perspective of its characters more often, such as when Lila approaches the door to the Bates home. Now we aren't watching or being watched. It's us that's on this journey. The film carries that dreamier undercurrent in its last hour, the noir-ish shadows of John L. Russell's cinematography getting darker and more expressionistic. The murder of Arbogast is detached from reality, the man seeming more to float down the stairs than plummet after the slash of blood appears on his face. The camera angles in that scene and Norman moving mom down to the cellar are to disguise the incoming truth, yes. It's also to leave us more adrift as the narrative sinks deeper into the darkness of the man's world, like the impression of Norma's body in her bed sheets. 

The climax, the discovery of Mother's taxidermied corpse, sees the film escalating to pure dream logic. The shrieking strings are back. The cries of “I am Norma Bates!” never match to any set of lips, the voice instead becoming a demonic announcement from the subconscious. Perkins' face writhes and body twists in religious awe or sexual abandon as he's revealed under mama's dress. It's a moment so effective as an assault on the senses that only a re-watch reveals how strange and unearthly it is. We are deep in the fruity underground by that point, getting a closer look at Norman's personal Hell than your average movie-goer could probably handle in 1960. 

That's why “Psycho” has to end with that monologue from Simon Oakland, explaining every detail of Norman's psychosis, to the squares in the audience and the annoyed Paramount censors. It's a filmic post-nut clarity, a slow return to the concrete world of logic and Freudian excuses after a dip into a kinky, nightmare land of a loner with serious Mommy Issues. It's a testament to how charming a presence Oakland is that such a didactic denouncement still works. Hitch couldn't resist himself though. Norman, sitting alone in a room that looks like some sort of abandoned building, framed to the left of center, is a return to the dream logic of the climax. So is the grinning skull face glaring right at us before the cut to the car withdrawn from the murky depths. That's another metaphorical post-coital visual, that feels like the harsh light of day breaking through into the goon cave of our minds. Or that split second shock of walking out of the theater, the dread-filled tones of Hermann's score making sure that chilly feeling follows audiences out.

I've rambled on far too much myself here, so I'll wrap it up. Getting into the psycho-sexual shade of Hitchcock's most enduring masterpiece is hard not to do at times. Whether the film can be said to still be shocking or horrifying after sixty-six years of imitation and parody is besides the point. This is still a deeply textured, fascinating motion picture that people will be studying and unraveling for another sixty years. Other directors could go further into the inhospitable horror of a mind like Norman Bates' but few of them had the skills to back them up like the master. This is why “Psycho” remains a towering high-water point for horror and cinema in general. [10/10]

 

Killer Tomatoes Strike Back (1991)

The reprise of the famous theme song in "Return of the Killer Tomatoes" refers to it as "part two of only two parts" while conceding that, should the sequel be successful, a third part would follow. This was a savvy recognition of how franchise-hungry the late eighties and soon-to-be early nineties were, for even the most improbable candidates. Four Squares Production, John DeBello's company, initially never intended to make more "Killer Tomatoes." However, clips from the first film were featured in an episode of, bizarrely, "Muppet Babies." This episode was so popular that New World Productions, who owned the animation company that made the aforementioned baby-centric spin-off, approached Four Squares about making more... This did not include merely a live action sequel to the original either. A Saturday morning cartoon based on "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes," though actually drawing most of its plot from "Return," would debut in 1990 as part of the fledgling Fox Network's kiddie offerings. This was in the aftermath of a weirdo indie comic book with a silly name becoming a pop culture phenomenon among children. "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes: The Series" was one of many coattail riders, attempting to take oddball cult favorites and turn them into successful cartoons and toy lines. (And not even the strangest example...) The cartoon "Killer Tomatoes" did add one innovation to the franchise. From the beginning, the posters for these movies featured tomatoes with scowling eyes and big toothy mouths. The movies themselves notably did not but the cartoon would, turning the blood-thirsty fruits into expressive, talking characters. Which meant that, when the prophesied third "Killer Tomatoes" movie did arrive, it brought this element into the films. I bet you did not expect this series to have lore, did you? 

Despite that, "Killer Tomatoes Strike Back!" seems oddly disconnected from the previous two movies or the cartoon. Wilbur Finletter is now a police captain, instead of a restaurant owner. Neither him, his nephew, nor Tara the Tomato Babe are the main characters of the sequel. Instead, "Strike Back" follows man-child police detective Lance Boyle. Grisly murders are occurring around Crystal Mountain and he's assigned to the case. The presence of tomato sauce at the crime scene leads to Kennedy Johnson, a lady scientist who studies tomatoes, being brought into the case. Boyle believes murderous tomatoes to only be an urban legend but he soon learns otherwise. How does this connect to extremely popular daytime talk show host, Jeronahew? Well, that's the new assumed identity of Dr. Gangrene, who has hatched an evil plot to brainwash the masses via the insidious power of television. 

Part of why "Return of the Killer Tomatoes" was a big improvement over the original was because of its lovable group of heroes. Instead of building on that, part three mostly discards them. Only F.T. returns here, with Gangrene and his handsome Igor being the only other prominent reappearing cast members. Instead, the film centers around the new characters of Lance and Kennedy. They are played by Rick Rockwell and Crystal Carson. The latter was a veteran of slasher "The Zero Boys," did some television, and would begin a three year run on "General Hospital" shortly after her role here. (Her Wikipedia article, which I suspect her or her agent wrote, also says she's an acting coach with "many well known Hollywood clients.") Rockwell, meanwhile, has only one other claim to fame: He was the prize on reality show one-off "Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire?" That program owes its infamy to the after-the-fact discovery that Rockwell was not a multi-millionaire, had abused and stalked an ex-girlfriend, and that the subsequent marriage was immediately annulled. All of which is to say that building an entire movie around the comedic stylings of these two was not the wisest decision. Rockwell mugs extensively and never shows much charisma or charm. He's just kind of annoying, with a screen presence best described as bratty. Carson is better, I guess, though also lacks magnetism or comedic timing. The two have zero chemistry together. "Killer Tomatoes Strikes Back!" goes completely inert whenever the focus is on these two's supposed growing romance. 

Part two also reorganized the original's barbless cultural satire and middling spy/B-movies parody around a standard teen sex comedy premise. This one leaves that behind. Instead, the structure here seems to be that of a buddy cop movie. Lance is treated like a rules-bending cowboy cop, despite not acting much like one. John Witherspoon appears as his partner, invoking the white guy/black guy combo of "Lethal Weapon." However, the film features little of the two interacting, with Witherspoon's disappearance being a motivating factor in the second half. The cop-investigating-a-murder plot is merely the clothesline upon which the film hangs a series of parody scenes. This includes a pretty well done opening riff on a "Friday the 13th" movie and a mildly amusing stab at "Psycho's" shower scene. I'm not sure if the timing is right but I think another early bit is poking fun at the crime scene investigations of "Silence of the Lambs," which piles on the sight gags in the Zuckerian tradition. Unfortunately, the rest of "Killer Tomatoes Strikes Again"  is incredibly shaggy, its gaggery mostly coming across as unconnected. A random, lengthy spoof of rock video visual tropes or an extended "Temple of Doom" set-up feel tossed in. The result is a plot that is shapeless even by the standards of this franchise.

Disappointingly, most of "Killer Tomatoes Strikes Back" is poking fun at trash talk television. Gangrene's "Jeronahew" persona is obviously a spoof on Donahew and Geraldo types, his program indecisively set between inflammatory freak show and faux-inspirational schlock. His grip on the public's consciousness is cult-like in its intensity, which seems to overstate the influence talk shows had on America. This ties into the series' on-going disdain for the media, TV reporters once again being mocked stuffed-shirt types that place ratings and fame over integrity. If all of this feels very Boomer-ish in its attitudes, I suspect that was intentional. There's weird, unfocused jabs at P.C. culture, resulting in the cops carrying paint guns instead of pistols and the police force being promoted as especially multicultural. An irritating scene involves a bank teller being offended by nothing. Gangrene's motivation turns out to be the pettiest kind of complaints about society at large, which the film indecisively depict as ridiculous or justified. "Killer Tomatoes Strikes Back" has a vague sense throughout about being annoyed at the direction the culture is headed in without any center of legitimate anger or outrage behind it. The result feels non-specific and fangless, lacking the sharpness of good satire or even the conviction of modern conservative grievances about wokeness or whatever. 

The result is a comedy that isn't very funny, probably the least entertaining kind of cinematic failure you can make. Every once in a while, a "Looney Tunes"-like cartoonish energy emerges. Such as when Kennedy perfectly mimics Lance's movements or when the woman produces a number of unlikely objects from her bag. A scene where Rockwell has to punch off attacking tomatoes or gets his car papered with parking tickets the minute he walks off made me chuckle a little. By the end, my hopes that this would be as amusing as the second were sadly deflated. John Astin does his best to bring a wacky energy to his scenes. Those muttering, monster-faced tomatoes are cute. Kind of like what you'd imagine a live action "Madballs" movie might be like or something. That's very little to power a whole movie around unfortunately. The biggest sign that someone missteped here is that the theme song only appears as a brief melody in the score. Come on, guys, that's the part everyone liked! [5/10]

 

 

Wednesday: A Murder of Woes

After seven long hours, I’m finally at the end of “Wednesday’s” first season. Wednesday has learned via her telepathic visions that Tyler is actually the monster that has been killing people. An attempt to confront him results in Wednesday performing some advanced interrogation techniques, which gets her nearly arrested and Tyler very much not. That’s before a call from Eugene reveals that Wednesday’s shrink is not Tyler’s master but someone else. The actual perpetrator quickly reveals their motivation, origins, and master plan. That would be to resurrect Joseph Crackstone, so he can rain holy hellfire down on the school. In other words, Wednesday’s prophesied status to either destroy or save the school comes to past, along with some other dramatic confrontations and transformations.  

I previously referred to “Wednesday” as Netflix taking Charles Addams’ eighty year old comic strip characters to reverse-engineer their own “Harry Potter,” “Twilight” and a CW superhero show from it. These are the primary influences on the season one finale. Which means all the hackiest tendencies of the writers’ room take control here. Both of the primary villains drop their entire motivations via a speech. The latter happens because of some shakily explained split personality shenanigans. The other is just bad writing, a sudden personality shift being accompanied by a heaping helping of exposition. This is before a resurrected zombie witch-hunter appears via magical ritual. It would seem that “outcasts” is the show’s accepted term for any non-normie person. A better show would comment on how John Crackstone, in his fanatical quest beyond-the-grave to wipe out “outcasts,” he’s become a supernatural entity himself. Sadly, “Wednesday” can’t pause to do that on its way to the special effects filled action finale. 

That the final episode feels so rushed truly makes me wonder why previous episodes wasted our time with bullshit subplots. The “Harry Potter” resemblance becomes unavoidable when you’ve got a pale-faced villain trying to blow up a prep school. The “Twilight” comparison appear when you’ve got a CGI werewolf of debatable quality wrestling with another bug-eyed monster. Since her primary love interest has turned out to be a monster, the show must drag the other male lead back out – I had already forgotten about him – and give them a few pregnant pauses together. Which continues to be pointless, when Enid is the only character on the show that Wednesday has actual tension with. She does wolf-out to save her in this episode, which is not enough to justify a moment after the climax that feels especially out-of-character.

In fact, “Wednesday” has still not found a way to balance its need to be a supernatural romance/adventure show with its technical status as an “Addams Family” adaptation. Jokes about Wednesday’s proclivity towards torture or insanity play as especially senseless when put into a setting where these things have consequences. Or they should anyway. Unfortunately, the death of a semi-major character is treated as a barely paused at aside and Wednesday escapes death herself through the intervention of a ghost. She has a big sword fight with the villain too. I simply cannot put into words my disdain for how generic, uninspired, and lifelessly executed this all is. Season one wraps up with a gratuitously set-up cliffhanger for the next season, a final confirmation to me that I am simply not the target audience for this program. Wednesday and Enid are cute together and all that. But I am allergic to bullshit streaming series pacing and Y.A.-style melodrama. I do not recognize much of what I love in “The Addams Family” in this iteration and will not be continuing with watching it. [4/10]
 

 

Tales to Keep You Awake: La pesadilla

The previous two episodes of “Tales to Keep You Awake,” Narciso Ibanez Serrador’s influential and beloved (in Spain) horror anthology series, I’ve written about where of non-standard length. The first episode, “The Birthday,” only ran about ten minutes following a lengthy entry. The second I watched, “The Ragman,” was from the later season after the series’ installments had expanded to feature length. That makes “La pesadilla” – “The Nightmare – the first normal episode of the program I’ve watched. The story takes place in the Carpathian Mountains in the 1880s. A rash of young women have died in the village, succumbed to a strange fever with a distinctive mark – two small holes – left on the neck. The grieving fathers of the dead girls become convinced a vampire is responsible… And they know who he is too. Mr. Lolakin lives on the edge of town in a dusty old home. He’s never seen in the daylight or at church. The town doctor, meanwhile, insists that him and his daughter Catalina have had dinner with Lolakin several times. That he’s an ordinary man and not a creature of folklore. The locals are not so convinced and assure the doctor that, if another girl ends up dead, they are going to drive a stake through Lolakin’s heart.

Through no intentional planning on my behalf, this is the second anthology episode I’ve watched this season to confront the morality of a lynch mob. The second scene is a lengthy conversation in the town pub between the doctor and the would-be leader of the vampire slayers. For every hysterical claim the man makes, the physician counters with a more logical conclusion. He repeatedly insists that vampires are not real. This is the idea that most of the episode seems to run with. It’s quickly revealed that Catalina is desiring a relationship with Lolakin, who insists he’s not interested. When he rejects her final offer, she reveals a plan to blackmail him. That she has collected trophies from each of the dead girls and, if he doesn’t run away with her, she’s going to tell the eager lynch mob that she found them all in Lolakin’s yard. The way this plays out is quite inevitable. Reason fails. Hysteria prevails. The mob rules.

Considering how adamant he is about refusing Catalina, and that it’s stated his only companion is a live-in man-servant, maybe the implication is that Lolakin is gay. This would make the man another victim of a social outsider being blamed for unrelated crimes. Catalina performs a degree of scheming to allow these events to play out but no other explanation is provided for what is killing the girls. This leads us to assume, quite logically and just as the doctor first suggested, that a fever is responsible. Outbreaks of disease are usually pin-pointed as the culprit behind most historical vampire panics. That makes the nightmare referenced in the title to be one of social breakdown. Grief and fear have driven otherwise normal people into committing a ghastly crime. The focus on a stake being driven into someone’s heart, the bloody effects unusually focused on for sixties television, makes a similar observation as George Romero’s “Martin.” A stake through the heart is just as effective on a living person as on a vampire.

“Historias para no dormir” was clearly a low budget production. Most of “La pesadilla” is composed of people standing in rooms and talking. The production values are limited. Despite that, Serrador does summon a decent bit of quiet atmosphere here. There are several lingering shots, of an empty home at night or the door of a business, that create a bit of an eerie feeling. The series also has a clear sense of humor about itself. Serrador’s introduction is very tongue-on-cheek, with several deadpan jokes worthy of an “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” opening. That same sense of humor comes back around with the last scene, which makes the title more literal. I’m not quite sure how to interpret that move, though it is an amusing note to take us on. Overall though, this is a pretty intriguing forty minutes of vintage television. [7/10]

Halloween 2026: September 8th

 

TimeCrimes (2007)
Los cronocrímenes

Nacho Vigalondo had a good thing going for a while, didn't he? One of his early short films was nominated for an Academy Award. His Spanish language features received positive notices on the festival circuit. He was soon a talked-up name in the indie and genre press. He began to make movies with big Hollywood stars, like Elijah Wood and Anne Hathaway. The guy seemed primed to really break through. Instead, he's mostly worked in television in the last decade. Perhaps he decided Hollywood wasn't for him. Either way, the film that really made Vigalondo's name was his 2003 feature debut, "TimeCrimes." (Whose original Spanish title, "Los ChronosCrimeses," sounds even cooler.)  The film marked its director as part of a wave of interesting, buzzy filmmakers coming out of Spain at the time. It remains something of a cult favorite to this day, though that might just as much have to do with its bitchin' poster. Horror fans love a creepy guy in bandages and a ratty trench coat. We really do.

Héctor is moving into a new home in the countryside with his darling wife, Clara. A very normal day is soon intruded upon by odd occurrences. He receives a strange phone call. While idly looking into the woods through binoculars, he spies a naked woman. After his wife leaves for the store, he goes into the forest to investigate. He soon discovers the nude woman unconscious. He's then attacked by a man in bloody bandages, clutching a pair of scissors. He flees to a near-by research facility, picking up one half of a pair of walkie-talkies. On the other side is a scientist, who warns him that the killer is still pursuing him. Héctor follows the voice's instructions, arriving at a lab containing a large vat full of viscous fluid. This is a time machine and Héctor is instructed to climb inside. He travels an hour backwards in time and unwittingly kicks off a series of events with paradox-inducing, deadly consequences.

"TimeCrimes" is the kind of science fiction that grapples with high-minded, perhaps headache inducing ideas of time travel, causality, and events folding in one themselves. However, Vigalondo's script smartly doesn't get too lost in its own sauce. The technology and mechanics behind time travel are not explained, nor are they important. While there's a single monologue describing how this paradox stuff works, it's not delve into too deeply. Instead, "TimeCrimes" allows the viewer to get their brain around the premise by presenting it simply as a matter of choice. Every day, we are given a hundred inconsequential choices that send us down different paths. Héctor sees a beautiful, partially naked woman in the woods. He makes the decision to follow her and figure out what's going on. I asked a friend of mine. If an attractive, partially undressed lady where to appear at the edge of his wooded property, would he follow her? The answer was yes and I imagine would be true for most anyone. By choosing to look for the young woman, Héctor sets off a chain reaction of events. The dominoes start falling at that point, one singular choice leading to a dozen others, each with consequences of its own. It's the butterfly effect put to use in a narrative, the flutter of an insect wings causing a man's entire life to slowly undo itself, one unfortunately choice at a time.

This is the most ironic thing about what happens to Héctor: He makes the prison that encircles him through his own hastiness. More than once, the scientist operating the time travel machine - played by the director himself, in what was either a deliberately meta choice or a simple lack of casting options working out nicely - tells him not to use it. He does so anyway, insisting that he can make right what went wrong before while only screwing it up more. This is understandable and the film does a good job of making its protagonist not too much of an idiot. Instead, it's more so an inability to resist his own curiosity paired with a chance to undo mistakes, something we'd all probably leap on. What makes this especially ironic is that Héctor ends up performing certain actions because he knows his past self made a certain choice because of them. It's the ripple effect of a stable time loop in action: This person must be standing here or do this thing or else the future events that lead back to this moment would not occur. In other words, Héctor is responsible for all his own misfortune in a very literal sense. This is, perhaps obviously, a good metaphor for all of our lives. The rotten situations we end up in are usually the result of our own bad decisions.

We must also consider the possibility that Héctor makes the choices he does because he's, like all men, potentially a creepazoid. We never see Héctor say anything rude to a woman, assault them in a sexually aggressive way, or make outwardly sexist statements. Him and his wife seem to have a pretty healthy love life. However, the fact that it's his decision to look for a topless and decidedly younger than him woman that leads to everything that happens brings an unavoidable sexual air to the film. A guy that seems relatable enough is eventually forcing a woman to strip at knife point, not for reasons that are sexual within the context of the whole picture but because the circumstances bizarrely dictate upon them. As previously established, its his own movements that cause this trap to take shape. In a way, it seems like some unspoken sense of inner perversity is the engineer of Héctor's predicament. Vigalondo runs with this undercurrent further, in how two women end up being mistaken for each other at a key moment or in the suspiciously white and slimy liquid within the time machine. The psycho-sexual thread makes the unfolding story seem more like a bad dream come true for its main character.

To pull off the narrative balancing act "TimeCrimes" is attempting requires an extremely well organized script. When a time displaced character reappears in a later scene, asserting he was actually always there, it's inviting the viewer to rewind and re-watch the earlier moment. Luckily, this is a circle circling back on itself that doesn't cheat. The script immediately draws the viewer in with that salacious inciting incident and pushes us along for every screw-up and bad turn that follows. When a seemingly insignificant object ends up contributing to a detail established earlier, it feels like the puzzle pieces brilliantly snapping together. All of the movie is like that, a well oiled series of gears doing a very tricky alignment that somehow never misses. The cinematography swings between gritty and intentionally plain, with unexpected bursts of movement like a sharp zoom-in almost feeling like visual punchlines. This is supported by a precisely chosen cast. Karra Elejalde truly does seem like an average joe while also being able to summon a degree of menace and seriousness in later scenes.

Vigalondo has admitted that the seed of an idea that grew into "TimeCrimes" was a simple slasher movie. That's probably where that cool image, of some crazy with scissors in pink bandages, came from. However, blending that set-up with a lo-fi take on time travel produced something a lot more interesting than a mere body count movie. (Coming from a professed lover of body count movies.) As far as debut calling cards for up-and-coming directors go, "TimeCrimes" is about as sturdy an example as you could get. It shows an intensely clever creative mind at work, while managing to be thrilling, consistently interesting, grim, and unexpectedly funny a few times. An American remake has been bandied about over the years, David Cronenberg supposedly involved in some capacity at one point. While Cronenberg's involvement surely would've resulted in something interesting, I can only see an American studio making this story a lot less weird and exciting. The only feature Vigalondo has made since 2016 is also about a man foolishly perusing a woman through unconventional means, this time lucid dreaming. I'll have to check that one as, clearly, these are themes that the filmmaker excels at. As for "Los ChronosCrimeses," it's still a good time. [8/10]

 

Return of the Killer Tomatoes (1988)

Never underestimate the power of a funny title and a catchy theme song. "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes" was not an especially funny comedy. However, that memorably absurd name and wacky poster art probably pushed a good number of VHS rentals. And that unforgettable theme song lodged the title in the memories of everyone who saw the movie, even those that fell asleep after the first ten minutes. As I'm fond of saying, the eighties is the decade where fluke one-off horror movie successes became on-going horror franchises. "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes" wasn't a horror movie but it was a horror parody, ostensibly, and that was close enough. Clearly, whatever success the original had was enough to justify John DeBello and Costa Dillon getting back together to do it again a decade after the first.

Ten years have passed since the Great Tomato Uprising. In that time, the red fruit has been outlawed in America, forcing pizzeria and Italian restaurants to get creative. (Or else rely on the active tomato smuggling underground.) One such business is owned by veteran of the conflict, Wilbur Finletter. Among his employees are his nephew Chad and Chad's roommate, would-be ladies' man Matt. Chad delivers a pizza to the home of mysterious scientist, Dr. Gangrene, and immediately falls for the doctor's shapely female assistant, Tara. But looks can be deceiving because Tara is actually a tomato transformed into a human. Yes, Dr. Gangrene was the secret mastermind behind the produce revolution and his plan has evolved. Now, using different types of music to trigger the process, he can change everyone's favorite pasta ingredient into obedient humanoid slaves. Tara has a change of heart after Gangrene decides to kill an adorable fuzzy tomato creature. She flees to Chad's place, as he is the only other person she knows. While he's overjoyed to have a hot chick suddenly very interested in him, it soon becomes clear that Tara is no ordinary blonde....

As I probably mentioned in my first review, nearly ten years ago itself, I became acquainted with this motion picture after my buddy got it in an old four-pack with some other horror comedies. Among those films was fellow late New World release, "Elvira: Mistress of the Dark." Like that one, "Return of the Killer Tomatoes" seems like it should be a raunchy comedy. Tara bluntly describes herself as Gangrene's personal courtesan. There's no ambiguity about her ideas to treat Chad similarly. The couple visit a sex shop at one point, during a montage set to a double entendre filled love ballad. Matt is always trying to get laid, topless beach bunnies are a running gag, and Karen Mistal provides some foggy shower door obscured semi-nudity. As outwardly horny as "Return of the Killer Tomatoes" appears, like the aforementioned "Elvira," the movie can't help but come off as weirdly innocent. This is PG-rated ribaldry, a sex farce that feels designed for children. While the male leads are obsessed with the idea of fucking, I can't imagine any of them actually doing it. Fornication is a far-off hypothetical for this gang, just like it would be for the twelve year old boys the film was written for and possibly by. While Matt's methods veer towards the underhanded, a movie about transmogrifying tomatoes into people is too silly to read as sleazy. 

Refocusing the premise around two guys naively trying to score does help center the scattershot spoofery of the original. The sequel's form-shifting premise does largely remove the central gimmick of marauding, enormous tomatoes. However, the sequel commits to being a horror spoof in other ways. Dr. Gangrene is a stereotypical mad scientist, with wild grey hair and a white lab coat and a collection of bubbling beakers. He has an Igor and hangs out in a spooky old mansion too. However, both of those expectations are playfully subverted. This Igor is a tall, blonde, John Tesh-looking type who hopes to become a TV reporter. The mansion, meanwhile, is usually represented as an intentionally fake looking matte painting, with water sprinkled on it to simulate rain fall. Both gags represent a willingness to poke fun at audience expectations around classic horror trappings and its own filmic status. In fact, the entire conceit of "Return of the Killer Tomatoes" is a meta one. The opening scene presents the movie as a TV broadcast on some cheesy local station, a program unflatteringly called the "One Dollar Movie." This is the first of several times the film makes its lack of a budget part of the joke. The use of stock footage from part one is commented on. One of the best running gags involves money dwindling halfway through, forcing the film to rely on blatant product placement. While making a "bad" movie on purpose is a slippery slope, "Return of the Killer Tomatoes" is likably self-assured in its willingness to be the butt of its own jokes. 

The feeling is a bit like hanging out and goofing around with some friends. The cast certainly supports this. Anthony Starke emphasizes Chad being a very non-Chadly dweeb who is never entirely comfortable with Tara's sexual pliability, a good decision to keep him from coming off as a creep. George Clooney as Matt definitely is a bit of a creep but Clooney's already established persona of being a self-aware handsome guy makes that easier to swallow. Karen Mistal's unblinking robotic quality goes hand-in-hand with the movie's technical naughtiness coming across more as innocent tomfoolery. She is a tomato sex-droid but also a pure-of-heart naif who knows nothing else about the world. A character like Dr. Gangrene is, naturally, the type of broad silliness that John Astin specializes in. (Inevitably, the guy hanging out in a creaky old mansion leads to an "Addams Family" reference.) When the film brings back more cast members from the original, with their one-note joke premises, is honestly when it starts to flatter a little. The last third devoted to Finletter and his old war buddies creeping around the mansion are a lot less amusing. The new cast is a lot more charming and far more capable of carrying the wacky energy necessary for a spoof like this. 

Aside from Astin, nobody does more heavy-lifting in the cast than F.T., the fuzzy tomato creature that helplessly flops around multiple scenes. That this is a squeaking, immobile plush toy getting thrown back and forth is clearly another self-aware jab at the sequel's lack of budget. He is also a mockery of highly merchandisable eighties movie critters like Gizmo or E.T. While poking fun at how the Ewoks and ALFs of the decade were blatantly toyetic creations, F.T. is charming too. His overall fuzziness is genuinely adorable and his never-say-die attitude, despite his lack of eyes or mobility, makes you root for the little guy. That's a good example of how part two improves on the original's mostly lame jokes. The gags here, like Tara's oddball obsession with toast or the appearance of a belligerent mime, are funny and weird in a way the original's formless satire was not. There's some of that here. Part one's villain reappears, now in an awfully cozy prison. The reoccurring jokes about gross pizza toppings aren't the best. Things really start to flag during the last act, probably peaking during a Friedberg/Seltzerian "look at this reference" series of celebrity impersonator cameos. 

If "Return of the Killer Tomatoes" can't keep up a zany verve until the end, that certainly doesn't make it unusual among sight gag-centric comedies like this. The sequel has enough reliably silly bits and a cast we enjoy hanging out with. That's the ideal compliment to its winking sense of loose goofiness. The original was clearly aiming at that but could never quite achieve it, making this a big step-up as far as sequels go. Also, the movie ends with a grandmother figure demanding the audience stay behind and watch the credits, as a tribute to all the people who worked hard on the movie. This is, in fact, why I like to watch the credits too. Hey, all these folks made this thing. Least I can do is acknowledge their names. Also also, DeBello or someone on his team really had a knack for composing theme songs that are unforgettably catchy despite the chorus being nothing but the overly descriptive title being repeated. "When Those Big Breasted Girls Go to the Beach (and Take Their Tops Off)" is almost as much of an ear worm as the classic "Killer Tomatoes" theme song. [7/10]

 

Wednesday: If You Don't Woe Me by Now
 

Since “Wednesday” is a typical serialized streaming series, it follows the typical serialized streaming structure of dragging a plot thread out for multiple episodes before actually starting to resolve it an hour or two before the end. In “If You Don't Woe Me by Now,” Uncle Fester stops by Nevermore Academy and helps Wednesday out with her investigation. It turns out the monster she's been pursuing is called a Hyde, a shape-shifting murder-beast who becomes bound to a human master. Xavier is acting increasingly suspicious and soon becomes Wednesday's number one suspect. She becomes more certain of it after spying him sneaking through the woods and into Dr. Kinbott's car. After she confronts her therapist about her possible connection to the Gates family and the murders, Dr. Kinbott ends up being the Hyde's next victim. The mystery heating up occurs alongside other subplot distractions: Someone attempts to murder Thing. Tyler actually convinces Wednesday to go on a date with him, which she is receptive to in her frosty way. Her schism with Enid continues and then resolves itself off-screen, Wednesday's room mate simply deciding to move back in. How interested do you think I am in any of that shit? 

I'm beginning to see why Netflix, or whoever the production leaders on “Wednesday” were, looked at “The Addams Family” and decided to turn it into this kind of show. It's a highly recognizable brand, with enough lore to build on but not so much that the public has a highly specific perception of it. It's technically based on a comic book and Fester can generate electrical currents from his body. Hey, it's basically a superhero show then! This is, of course, a gross misreading of the material but that's the takeaway I can see some galaxy brained exec having. Thus, “Wednesday” reinterprets Fester as a cross-country back robber who sparks bits of Force Lightning from his hands. He's introduced here with a sword fight with Wednesday. That moment is very silly in its melodrama but the episode soon tops it. Thing, a disembodied hand, dying via stab wound and needing to be revived via Fester's make-shift defibrillator is an utterly absurd image. Instead of playing up the obvious comedic potential here, “If You Don't Woe Me By Now” barely nods at how wacky this is. In fact, Wednesday almost tears up at the thought of Thing finger-shuffling off this mortal coil. 

What makes the juxtaposition between the sitcom simplicity of these characters and the CW show plotting of “Wednesday” is that it still has to show some fidelity to the source material. Fred Armisen is brought on to play Fester and he does a fairly close impression of Jackie Coogan. He's riding around on a dalmatian themed motorcycle, slurping ketchup like it's chocolate syrup, trying to eat Eugene's bees, and making lots of dorky callbacks to previous shenanigans. This occurs alongside utterly earnest sequence like Wednesday's first date, info-dumps about the monster, and the bloody cliffhanger. Surely I can't be the only person who sees the obvious disconnect between these two tones?

But, once again, I think this improbable mix could have worked, with a less hacky approach. The cast remains pretty strong. Ortega's big eyes actually got me feeling sad for Wednesday in a few scenes. Her falling for such a blatant normie – and the inevitable reveal concerning him – is still lame garbage but their date scene borders on cute. Armisen's manic energy is a good wall for her to bounce off. The scene where Wednesday and Enid talk it out is utter nonsense but the yuri baiting in their interactions is definitely captivating. The production design in this series is still top tier and this installment throws in some Elfman-esque willowy choirs on the soundtrack. The episode wisely puts all the garbage about Nevermore's history, the various secret clubs and conflicts with the town, on the back burner. The lingering D-plots about Siren Girl's mom or whatever are all but forgotten, the fate they deserve. Trying to turn a Mr. Hyde style transformation into a stock monster type, even going so far as to call it a Hyde, is exactly the kind of shit I would do. I would also take more steps to distinguish it from a werewolf, which this show really doesn't. If separated from the more aggravating tropes of the medium and format, I probably would've dug this show. At least there's only one more hour left. [6/10]

The Outer Limits: The Form of Things Unknown
 

Among monster kid types like myself, "The Outer Limits" is best remembered for its variety of bug-eyed monsters and otherworldly entities. ABC insisted that these monsters-of-the-week, which head writer Joseph Stefano nicknamed "bears," were necessary for the show's broader appeal. Show creator Leslie Stevens preferred to focus on more philosophical sci-fi concepts. This means that a handful of "Outer Limits" are bear-less. Such as the season one finale, "The Form of Things Unknown." The episode concerns rich ne'er-do-well Andre, who seems to have manipulated two women into being his lovers. They are the young and anxious Leonora and the older and more assured Kasha. Andre plans to blackmail Leonora's father and insist the women help him. Kasha hatches a plan to murder the man by mixing a poisonous plant into his cocktail. The scheme seemingly works and Andre falls dead at a pond. The women load his body into the trunk of their car. A thunderstorm blows in as they prepare to dispose of the corpse, Leonora becoming convinced that Andre is still alive. She flees into the woods, followed by Kasha, and the two arrive at a stately manor. The occupants are a blind man named Colas and a scientist named Tone Hobart. Hobart is an eccentric who believes he can "tilt" backwards through time via a process involving a room full of magnetic wires and countless clocks. That he himself previously returned from the dead via this process. Leonora reveals the horrible guilt she feels over murdering Andre and Hobert takes it upon himself to "tilt" the past so that the man is alive again. This has unforeseen consequences for all involved. 

While the monsters are my favorite, two other elements are heavily associated with "The Outer Limits" in my mind. The first is the show's frequently shadowy, stylized cinematography. Conrad Hall photographed the episode a year before receiving the first of his ten Academy Award nominations. (Three of which he won.) He takes this hour of television as hard as possible in a moody, noir influenced direction. The result is certainly impressive. "The Form of Things Unknown" is characterized from its opening minutes by askew angles, close-ups on panicked or stern faces, brooding silhouettes, and crisscrossing patterns of light and darkness. The interior of the house becomes a series of surreal hallways, all jagged angles and arching ceilings. The result is so striking as to be unmooring. The episode is clearly seeking to put the viewer in Leonora's anxious, partially hypnotized mindset. It succeeds maybe too well, disorientating the viewer as often as it impresses. Yes, "The Form of Things Unknown" looks cool, creepy, dreamy, and compelling. It's also overbearing at times, self-consciously impressed with its own artistry. 

The second thing I associated with "Outer Limits" is writing fixated on high-minded ideas and science fiction philosophy. As an episode without aliens or space ships, Stefano's script instead zeros in on everyone's fixations. Andre can't go a minute without talking about his plans of blackmail and murder. Leonora is so racked with guilt that she becomes hysterical, spending the entire hour mid-breakdown. Kasha is stone-faced in her attempted control over the situation. Tone is such a weirdo as to appear inhuman and his seemingly blind butler is a figure of grave announcements. The dialogue is extremely arch and stilted. When the doctor reveals the Freudian trauma that birthed his obsession with time travel, I was not intrigued so much as left wondering why he felt the need to share that information. The mechanics of "tilting" and resurrection appear more like alchemy than science, furthering the feeling that this is all one big brain tangler to unravel. 

The result is an hour of television that I found a bit confounding. In practice, the episode plays a bit like a group of people dicking around a spooky mansion. While they broadly exclaim their thoughts and feelings, and casually say things like "Thanatos means death in Greek," everyone also seems to be keeping dark secrets of their own. The effect is that you are constantly wondering where this is going. Not in a suspenseful way but a slightly irritating way. Like does Hobert have some connection to the dead man? Is that why he's lurking around like a creep so much? What's the deal with the blind guy? Is this building towards some time travel induced identity switcharoo? Following the obvious debt this story has to "Les Diaboliques," does Kasha have schemes of her own and is Leonora merely her pawn? The answer to most of these questions is a big fat no, making the end of the episode feel anticlimactic. The performances are decent. David McCallum makes a good creepy doctor, Vera Miles is adept at the appearance of slowly cracking up control. Striking as "The Form of Things Unknown" is, I was flummoxed. I'm gonna go ahead and say that this one could've used by a big scowling, rubber bugbear or two. [6/10]

Halloween 2026: September 7th

 

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes (1978)
 

The idea of what American culture was like during the childhood of people who grew up in the fifties and sixties – yanno, boomers – is based on nostalgia. And nostalgia isn't a true reflection of reality but rather an idealized fantasy filtered through collective memory and cultural cliches. There certainly were plenty of cheesy B-movies playing at drive-ins and on late night TV around that time. Aside from truly oddball outliers like "The Killer Shrews" or "From Hell It Came," there actually weren't that many low budget horror flicks in which comically un-serious threats became society threatening monsters. People are scared of regular sized bugs and lizards, so big ones are extra scary. Bug-eyed alien invaders, radioactive dinosaurs, and evolutionary throwbacks all represent real social anxieties about war and science. However, the idea of some obscure B-movies from the recent past in which random bullshit is rendered enormous and homicidal propagated through parody. A sketch comedy segment, background gag in a sitcom or cartoon, or ambitious commercial is really where ideas like these emerged. That's the same environment that John DeBello and Costa Dillon's "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes" sprouted from, beginning life as an amateur short in 1976. That must've generated enough interest for the same team to expand the idea into a slightly less amateur feature film two years later, kicking off an improbable franchise of produce-themed yuks and mock-terror. 

Somewhere in California, a woman is murdered in her kitchen by an autonomous tomato rising from her sink. This is the first of many such attacks, in which the edible berry of the tomato vine inexplicably claims lives around the country. Press secretary Jim Richardson is told to calm public panic while secretly assembling a team of experts to get to the bottom of this gazpacho affair. Intelligence agent Mason Dixon and Wilbur Fenletter lead the covert operation, reporter Lois Fairchild soon becoming involved as well. They work together to find the responsible party and stop the tomato uprising. 

"Attack of the Killer Tomatoes" is undoubtedly better known as a title than an actual motion picture. I know this is the case. As recently as my childhood, I can recall hearing people mistaking the film for a deeply misguided but sincere attempt at a horror movie rather than an obvious parody of them. People probably saw the title in an ad, on a marquee, or at a video store. They had a healthy chuckle at such an absurd premise for a motion picture, moving on without bothering to actually watch it. If the original film can be said to have any greater cultural impact beyond its goofy title, it's probably that goofy theme song. Playing over the opening credits' images of splattering tomatoes, the song is undeniably catchy. The name is sung with operatic gusto alongside silly rhyming verses. The thumping military-style march melody embeds itself in your ear drums. Truly, a classic of Halloween party mix tapes and Dr. Demento compilations. 

There's another reason why the title and associated song are better known than any actual jokes inside "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes." The film has a couple of good gags. An establishing shot of what is blatantly, obviously San Francisco is captioned as "Washington D.C." There's a brief line about submarines that always makes me giggle. A military meeting occurring in a tiny closet is some okay physical comedy. The film comes the closest to actually spoofing the melodrama of classic B-movies when a scientist studying an oversized killer tomato grimly states that this is merely a cherry tomato. (A possible homage to "Gorgo?" Probably not.) Other than that, DeBello's film has a lot of long stretches without any solid laughs. The film lacks the specificity of "Young Frankenstein's" homages or the social critique of "Blazing Saddles." 

Without that, the film relies on two style of jokes. The first of which are the kind of good taste pushing gags that the Zucker brothers would employ a lot more skillfully in their better films. A Japanese man being badly dubbed, the sudden appearance of someone dressed as Hitler, and a blunt dropping of a homophobic slur are less "jokes" so much as they are half-hearted attempts to goad laughter out of viewers with shock value. Fenletter displays the kind of macho disregard for the feelings of women could've been commentary on the casual sexism of fifties sci-fi if it was deployed with any sharpness. Instead, it feels more like we are simply supposed to laugh at one of the heroes calling a woman a "strumpet" for no reason. Edgier jokes like these exist alongside a general sort of zaniness. Each members of Dixon's team have a silly outfit, such as Fenletter's always-deployed parachute. Another is always in scuba gear, another dressed like an Olympic gymnast. The fourth member puts on that Hitler outfit, among other unlikely disguises. There are car chases, foot chases, manic misunderstandings, random pogo sticking, and deliberately crappy pop songs. Each of these bit lack an essential snappiness. Coming across as both too desperate to amuse and too lethargic to be convincingly fun. The impression is of a script that was largely improvised on the spot. Not in a way that pulls from the chemistry and energy of the cast but, instead, feels like the filmmakers just throwing around stupid, unfunny bits in order to get their movie to feature length. 

This is most apparent in the movie's three musical numbers. The second of which is an embarrassingly un-energetic song and dance from the military, a scene that is indicative of the movie's overall comedic fatigue. The first of which is delivered by the head of an ad agency, about how they cook up the slogans and campaigns that drive public opinion. This is part of an extended dunk on Gerald Ford's Whip Inflation Now campaign, a then relevant government boondoggle that has faded completely in the public consciousness. You might notice that this joke has nothing to do with Killer Tomatoes. In fact, the murderous fruit story line and the wacky gang of special operatives don't interact much. Most of them are disposed of after a few scenes. Dixon's investigation eventually bends in a direction unrelated to the perilous produce before circling back around. That's because most of the characters in the film were recycled from another of De Bello's shorts, a spoof of silent films and spy movies called “Do They Accept Traveler's Checks in Babusuland?” 

Now, complaining about the messy plotting in a movie called “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes” obviously makes me the idiot here. But it points to the film's general lack of coherence. To learn that this was an expansion of a short is unsurprising. It has that sweaty discomfort, of an amusing enough idea for a gag tediously stretched out to feature length. I would never besmirch the appeal of some solanum lycopersicum going on a rampage, that absolute banger of a theme song, or the legendary poster art. However, the actual experience of watching the original “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes” is considerably less amusing than simply learning of its existence. [5/10]

 

Bhoot (2003)

The ghost is a concept that exists in all cultures. The exact appearance, behavior, and tangible quality are different around the world but the general premise is the same. Wikipedia provides the usual definition of "the soul of a deceased person, spoken of as appearing in a visible form, and often restless or perturbed." Perhaps we owe the universal quality of this folklore to its hopefulness. The belief in ghosts insists that human existence is more than physical, that there is a spiritual quality to ourselves that persists after death. Frightening though they may be, ghosts are an ultimately optimistic answer to any uncertain questions about mortality. As old as a belief in ghosts themselves is the understanding that a noisy spirit can be appeased or contained. That food or wine left out can satisfy them. That binding the corpse or performing a mystical rite can expel them. Or that solving an unsolved murder can set the wandering soul free. This too is a hopeful idea, showing that the actions of the living can reverberate into the afterlife or that the guilty can't always get away with it. In India, ghosts are called bhoota and belief in their existence is an integral part of Hindu and Buddhist religions. Unsurprisingly, this means the topic has come up in Indian cinema from time to time. If I'm going to try and get a little more culturally specific  with Bollywood horror – as both of my previous two journeys into this territory were remakes of American films – why not start with a movie so emblematic of local folklore that its title literally translates to simply "Ghost?" The success of "Bhoot" in 2003 is credited with reviving interest in the horror genre in India. Sounds like a good pick to me. 

Vishal is looking for a new home for himself and his wife, Swati. He finds a stylish apartment in a high-rise building, selling at an unusually low price. While touring the residence, he learns why the rent is so reasonable. The previous tenant, a woman named Manjeet, murdered her child there before leaping to her death from the balcony. Vishal hides this information from his superstitious wife and they move in. Soon afterwards, Swati begins to see strange things and act oddly. Doctors dismiss her as simply sleepwalking but, after a night watchman is found killed, Vishal comes to believe that his wife is possessed by Manjeet's restless spirit. At the urging of the family maid, he seeks out an exorcist to get to the bottom of this. 

Like I said, my previous two entries in this region during my Horror Around the World series were unofficial remakes of American slasher movies. I wanted something a little more inherently Indian than Bollywood guys riffing on "A Nightmare on Elm Street" or "Scream" this year. "Bhoot" probably fits the bill but the film is still indebted to some international hits. Modern medicine failing to help a woman, her husband seeking out a supernatural expert instead, and the spiritualist confronting the entity as the host is tied to a bed clearly recalls "The Exorcist." "Bhoot" was also released during a boom period in horror, and ghost stories especially, across multiple Asian film markets. Manjeet's spirit is a vengeful spectre with long black hair, a local variant on the archetypal Asian ghost girl. The haunting taking place in a modern metropolitan area, consuming a young woman, and specifically a spooky ghost boy tagging along seem to recall Takashi Shimizu's "Ju-On" series. Director Ram Gopal Varma has never spoken on any similarities and "Bhoot" was only released a year after "Ju-On: The Grudge" became a breakout hit. So it could be a coincidence but I don't know, man. 

The cliches about Hindi films is that they have long run times and contain random musical numbers. Their characters and stories are archetypal, and the tone can randomly shift towards theatrical action, melodramatic romance, or shrill comic relief without warning. This is not always true and "Bhoot" defies the something-for-everybody masala style in several ways. It's less than two hours long. Though songs were composed for the film, only one plays during the end credits. This is a non-singing-and-dancing movie, with no car chases or broad slapstick. The intention is instead to scare and unsettle the viewer. This is literally announced in the first scene. "Bhoot" begins with the disclaimer that, due to his strong personal convictions, the director wishes to stress that the movie in no way endorses a belief in the occult and that its only purpose is to scare you. And "Bhoot" does an okay job at that at times. A sequence where Swati is approached at the beach by the ghostly woman, the spectre looming still and watching, renders a bright and crowded area as frightening. The final sequence also generates a nice little chill up your spine. In general, the camera work often suggests an otherworldly presence watching the characters within a cramped apartment with modern – which also means quite cold and impersonal – architecture. There's also one surprising jolt that genuinely caught me off-guard, even if it's quickly revealed to only be a dream sequence. 

That "Thriller"-esque title card also warns that pregnant women shouldn't watch the film, should it frighten them too much. This might be some William Castle-like hucksterism, and cultural standards are different everywhere, but it is difficult to imagine this film frightening anyone to death or into premature labor. Most of the attempts at scares in "Bhoot" struck me as very corny. The film uses a goofy looking stuffed toy as a reoccurring sign of the ghost child's presence. In general, most of the scenes with the spectral boy simply involve the kid stepping on-screen while sinister music plays. Another scene where Swati experiences a vision while at a movie theater watching, of all things, "Spider-Man" veers into the comical quickly. While "Bhoot" is less exaggerated than the other Bollywood films I've seen, it's no less melodramatic. The presence of numerous characters who exist only to give ominous warnings – the family maid, the night watchmen, the apartment landlord – lays it on a bit heavy. A subplot involves the doctor attempting to help Swati being pulled away because his daughter is dying of some terminal condition. This is a rather weighty topic to introduce only to keep a side character occupied. The involvement of a police officer is another subplot that feels too dramatic. It exists mostly so all the back story around what really happened can be explained in excruciating detail. This all builds towards a conclusion that starts off decently but then pulls back on the throttle (while utilizing some cheesy special effects) right when events are coming to a proper climax. 

This points towards a problem I've experienced with other Indian-made horror movies. The country's equivalent to the MPAA can deny films a commercial screening licenses if any nudity, sex, violence, and political or religious themes are deemed offensive. That last sticking point seems to enforce a very limited moral view point on "Bhoot." The denouncement awkwardly prevents any body but the villain from doing questionable things, seemingly not to offend any moral guardians. The reveal that people are more dangerous than ghosts, while not a terrible writing choice, also seems included more to tiptoe around the story's obviously darker or more violent ideas. There's this unavoidable sense in "Bhoot" that the filmmakers are too conservative, or too timid, to address more complicated issues. From the beginning, the obvious implication is that Vishal and Swati's marriage is doomed. He lies to his wife about the truth concerning their new home, which obviously endangers Swati. The script frames his mistake more as not believing in ghosts than manipulating his wife, the couple reuniting at the end only now minus an angry spirit. In general, these two bicker a lot. Swati is patronized and her concerns are not taken seriously. Ghosts or possession as a metaphor for a marriage crumbling would be standard stuff for the horror genre. Instead, the film does not seem to recognize the existing problems in this relationship before the spooky shit starts happening. 

All of this seems to suggest some cultural differences at play here. "Bhoot" was popular in its home country. Varma would make several more horror movies afterwards, with the genre in general becoming more common in India afterwards. A direct sequel would follow in 2012 and an in-name-only reboot came around in 2020. People who watch a lot more Bollywood movies than me seem to say this one is pretty good. Maybe my perspective as a vulgar American used to bloodier, sexier, and more morally grey entertainment is getting in the way. There's some okay atmosphere in "Bhoot," some interesting ideas, one or two good shocks, but the movie can neither come together to be as scary or intriguing as it clearly longs to be. [6/10]

 

Wednesday: Quid Pro Woe

The sixth episode of “Wednesday” shows a stark divide in what this show does well and the incomprehensibly boring bullshit it wants to be instead. “Quid Pro Woe” is set on Wednesday's birthday, which the series seems to place on the 13th of November. The different people in her life have different reactions: Her parents send her a taxidermy kit with frozen dead squirrels. Enid gets matching snoods for the two of them. A group of her school mates throw a surprise party at a tomb. That moment, in particular, climaxes in the image of Thing wearing a little birthday hat. We also get flashbacks to past childhood birthdays, which include Wednesday's first electric chair and a pinata full of spiders. See, this is the shit “The Addams Family” was made for! While the writing remains as debatable as ever, Jenna Ortega has a way with a deadpan one-liner and her chemistry with Emma Myers remains dependable. The terse discussion/flirting between them during the snood scene is actually momentarily charming. 

Unfortunately, “Quid Pro Woe” is also a very plot-heavy episode and that is, by far the stupidest part of this program. We've got Wednesday doing seances with her identical ancestor, who delivers vague hints about her destiny. Her psychic superpowers get more screen time. She is now referring to herself unironically as a detective, pushing the focus on the so-called mystery to the forefront. I simply cannot imagine any self-respecting Addams snooping around a spooky old mansion for any reason other than it amuses them. (Similarly, Wednesday has a key moment where she expresses a desire to save Nevermore Academy. I'm sorry, I do not believe this character would desire to “save” an institution as oppressive and standardized as a fucking prep school.) Instead, this show has Wednesday sneaking into the Mayor's car and unraveling leads. I don't care about that. I especially do not care about the lore dump we get concerning the Gates family. This thread was not important two episodes ago. Now the series is clearly building up to the Gates being a rival family to the Addams or something. They couldn't have named them the Hillard family at least? Show some respect for real “Addams Family” lore, you cowards. 

The episode concludes with such a misguided sequence, that I don't know how it made it into the final cut. Wednesday is moping about being alone. Our anti-social queen?! Someone must have realized how miscalculated such an admission is, as they have to justify it with a hoary line in her interior monologue. Combine that with the growing need to tie everything together, via the mess of back story and prophecies and romantic tension that make up this program, and it becomes truly dire. No, I do not give a shit about the siren girl and the one prankster guy possibly getting together. Why is that scene in this episode, if not a single living soul could ever be invested in it? Ya know, it sucks that so much of this series is utter grey bland bullshit because... That scene where Wednesday and Enid are hiding in a dumbwaiter while a monster tries to get at 'em? Not half bad. I don't hate the idea of an “Addams Family” variation actually going into full-on horror territory. Unfortunately, “Wednesday” is not that show either but rather a Teen Supernatural Romance Season-Long Mystery Cliffhanger-a-thon for Harry Potter Adults. [5/10]

‘Way Out: William and Mary

Roald Dahl's children's literature is beloved for its imagination and whimsy but also well known for its underlying cynicism and cruel streak. It should not be surprising then that his slightly less well known horror and thriller fiction is especially acerbic. (Or that his erotica is downright antisocial.) Only one episode of the Dahl-hosted, largely forgotten but quite good anthology series "'Way Out" adapted the author's work. That would be the first, "William and Mary," which was supposedly so gruesome by 1961 television standards that viewers complained. The titular characters are William Pearl, professor of philosophy and noted author, and his timid, submissive wife. William is dying from an ailment of the body, which does not stop him from criticizing and belittling Mary for everything she does and does not do. As the end draws near, a doctor proposes an experimental treatment. Why should William's healthy, brilliant mind die with the rest of his sickly body? Dr. Landy has a treatment to remove the brain from the skull, attach it to a machine that will pump fresh blood to the organ, and keep William's consciousness going. His only link to the outside world will be a single eye, floating in a basin of nutrient fluid. His sole method of communication will be an EKG, reading off his brain waves and alerting others to his emotional state. While Pearl finds the idea ghastly at first, he agrees to it because it'll give him a way to torment his wife from beyond the grave. Mary, however, has other plans...

Bitterness and spite are, indeed, powerful emotions. Anyone who has visited a terminal ward for the elderly has likely observed that impending mortality only makes some people bigger, even more entitled dickwads. A desire to annoy, burden, or further observe someone fail can keep a weakening heart beating for a bit longer. "William and Mary" presents the viewer with a perfectly despicable example of such a person right away. Mary wears an unnoticeable amount of lipstick, which is still too much for her griping husband. He tells her to leave him alone before changing his mind and instructing her to sit down. But not in that chair, the one over there! What an insufferable prick. It's no surprise that news of his death causes Mary to play loud music and dance. 

 

Despite the obvious toxicity of this relationship, she is loyal to him, cowed by cultural standards about what a "wife's duties" are and years of endless abuse. Of course, William's eventual fate provides a suitably ironic example of the tables being turned. Watching the expression on Mary's face change as she realizes that she has all the power over her husband now is delightful. There's a degree of sexism in the premise. William notes that he didn't curse Mary with any children but it's evident she wanted a kid, as she immediately sees her disembodied husband as a forever-baby. Women, am I right? Despite that, it is still deliciously satisfying watching such a loathsome curmudgeon finally get a taste of his own medicine from the person he's tormented the most. 

Dahl's macabre fiction rarely featured obviously supernatural scenarios. While the exact details strain credulity, certainly for the time, the situation William is put in does seem to exist on the fringe of plausible science. Fritz Weaver, in his first of many appearances in classic genre television, seems overjoyed as he describes William's mind being trapped in an immobile vat, unable to speak, hear, taste, or touch anything with only a static perspective of the universe. "Has science gone too far?" is a common, usually hysterically presented fear in classic sci-fi. Weaver does a good job of displaying the enthusiasm scientists can have for advancement paired with an apparent obliviousness to the ethical concerns. He describes a mind being unmoored from physical sensation and bodily autonomy as a limitless chance at cerebral exploration when it actually sounds like a great way to drive someone completely insane. He talks about only being able to stare up at the same spot on the ceiling, forever, like it'll be neat. Henry Jones can similarly bite into all the vicious dialogue he's given, while Mildred Dunnock plays Mary as so used to it that she takes it all with a smile. The quality of acting and writing certainly makes up for the subpar surviving prints of "'Way Out" and the limits of early sixties television. Seeing people constantly smoking, mandated by sponsors Liggett and Myers Cigarettes, does create the suggestion that William is dying of lung cancer. Probably an association the corporate sponsor did not intend... [7/10]