Halloween 2025: October 16th

 

Kuroneko (1968)
Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko

Near the start of this year's Halloween Horror-fest Blog-a-thon, I talked a little bit about the history of scary movies about cats. In my typically Anglo-centric, ignorant American fashion, I completely forgot to mention that Japan devoted an entire fuckin' subgenre to scary cat movies. They are called kaibyo eiga and Japan has been making them since at least 1910. Ghostly cats obviously first appeared in Japanese folklore and stories about them first became popular in Kabuki theater. As a cinematic genre, these monster cat movies took off in the thirties, reoccurred in waves about every ten years, and finally died out in the sixties. That's when what is the best known example in English-speaking territory arrived. After making psycho-sexual Japanese folk tale “Onibaba” in 1964, director Kaneto Shindō would put his own spin on the ghost-cat movie with “Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko” – “A Black Cat in a Bamboo Grove” – which is simply known as “Kuroneko” abroad. 

Set in the same Warring States era as “Onibaba,” the film begins with a similar set-up. Hachi is off at war. Yone and Shige, his mother and wife, have been left alone. A group of samurai descend on their house, raping and killing them both. Afterwards, both women are resurrected as predatory ghosts who can transform into black cats. They begin to lure every samurai that comes across the gate at Rajomon back to their lair, seducing each one and then tearing their throats out.  On the battlefield, Hachi kills an enemy general and presents his decapitated head to samurai governor, Minamoto no Raiko. Hachi is made a samurai himself and renamed Gintoki. Raiko then tasks him with the mission of killing the ghost cat women that have been knocking off samurai near-by. Shortly after encountering them, Gintoki recognizes the spirits as his wife and mother. Since they've pledged to kill all samurai, the spectral women are conflicted about what to do next. Passion, honor, and a thirst for vengeance ensue.

While “Onibaba” had some extremely moody black-and-white cinematography of its own, “Kuroneko” takes the same visual style much further. The opening sequence, devoted to the women's violation and murder, takes place entirely without dialogue. From the moment the ghostly cat-women appear, the film is arrested by a dream-like tone of other-worldliness. The spectres are dressed all in white, appearing in a shadowy world of high contrast darkness. Their abode is depicted almost as an expressionistic set, vague and square interiors that stretch on into infinity. Figures disappear with a look, their appearances change just as quickly. During confrontations, the ghost women tumble through the air like the bad guy in a kung-fu movie. By the final act, every inch of ground under the actors' feet is covered with swirling white fog. It looks fucking cool, is my point. 

Such stylized visuals immediately evoke the feeling of a traditional folk tale. And the characters in a folk tale don't know they are in a folk tale. There were no cell phones in 16th century Japan, so each samurai falling to the ghost women in the exact same fashion is understandable. When Gintoki comes across two ghostly maidens who happen to look exactly like his dead wife and mom, he must wait several minutes to mention that. When certain conditions of the ghostly curse are broken, this must be explained via extensive dialogue. Most egregiously, the climax involves a strange old woman knocking on Gintoki's door and him letting her in, buying her story when she goes “Oh yeah, I'm totally not the vengeful ghost that's been pursuing you the whole movie.” “Kuroneko's” script is well aware of its status as a traditional Japanese ghost story. Minamoto no Raiko was a real historical figure who is also the main character in a well known myth featuring some crazy monsters. He mentions this to Gintoki, assuring him that tall tales are more politically advantageous than the mundane truth. How this relates to the movie's own relationship with the stereotypical folk tale structure it invokes, I'm not sure. 

In fact, there's a great many things about “Kuroneko” of which I am not sure. Ghost stories about vengeful female spirits are very common all across Japan and Asia, if that wasn't already obvious. As it is any time a horror film features women using their sexuality as a weapon against men, using the desire they inflame in the opposite sex to destroy them, a feminist reading is likely to emerge. While all the samurai that came before him are total assholes who get what's coming to them, Gintoki seems to be a nice enough guy. He loves his wife, is faithful to her, and wants to be with her. Their romance is destined to be doomed and Gintoki's eventual fate, perhaps, is a commentary on the idea that even “good” men benefit from a patriarchal system that punishes women. Like so many revisionist samurai movies made in the fifties and sixties, the inevitable feeling to “Kuroneko”s ending once again suggests that the concept of Bushido honor was actually a self-destructive trap for all who believed in it. 

Whatever meaning can be taken from “Kuroneko,” one thing is for sure: Kaneto Shindō fuckin' hated samurai. If the same guy makes two separate movies in which a pair of women repeatedly lure in and murder a specific type of warrior from his country's past, that makes his feeling on that particular cultural figurehead unambiguous. Ultimately, I think I found the repressed sexual desires emerging as murderous instincts of “Onibaba” a more satisfying experience than the more straight-forward ghost story structure of “Kuroneko.” Nevertheless, it's certainly a gorgeous movie. Its images are striking and unlikely to be forgotten any time soon while its dream-like tone successfully puts a spell on the viewer. Not as much evil ghost cat shenanigans as the title might make you expect though. [7/10]

Spider (1992)
Zirneklis

From 1944 to 1991, the nation of Latvia was under occupation by the Soviet Union. This brought with it strict regulations over what could and could not be depicted in art. Latvian cinema absolutely existed during this time, with a number of historical epics and crime dramas being produced during those years. However, as in many other Soviet ruled nations, topics of the macabre and supernatural were off-limits. After the establishment of independence in 1991, the first Latvian horror movie would be produced. "Zirneklis," or "Spider" in English, was directed by Vasili Mass and would be released in 1992. It's an artsy fever dream full of nudity and weird sex. One imagines this must have felt like a release of pent-up, repressed fantasies and desires after forty years of Soviet censorship. 

Vita is a young, virginal maiden living in the Latvian countryside with her mother. While attending school, she is approached by Albert, a local artist that has been commissioned by a nearby church to paint a religious scene. He wants Vita to be his model for the Virgin Mary. Upon arriving at Albert's studio, she is met by other nude models, collections of spiders, and erotic paintings. The man begins to hold a strange sway over her, leading Vita to have vivid nightmares and erotic fantasies. While visiting a castle in the countryside, Vita meets a young man that also inflames her lust. As her dreams grow stranger, the young woman finds herself pulled between different men with different intentions for her. 

I suppose it says a lot about the nature of European horror films throughout the sixties and seventies that a movie as aggressively weird and willfully transgressive as "Spider" does not seem as unusual to me as it once might have. The film follows the tradition of erotic, dream-like, dark fairy tales about young women coming into maturity, discovering they are desired, and navigating a world that wants to own and control them while exploring their own budding imagination. "Valerie and Her Week of Wonders" and Borowczyk's "La bete" are the most obvious influences. A scene, where Vita imagines herself prone and naked on a gallows, might be inspired by Laraz' "The Coming of Sin." You can see traces of Vlacil, Franco, and Zulawski here. I fell into "Spider's" groove quickly, understanding immediately that this would be the kind of movie that traipses between dreams, fantasies, visions and reality without warning. 

Some of those dreams are quite a sight to behold, to be fair. The title of "Zirneklis" is presumably a metaphor for the various webs of desire that Vita finds herself entangled in. More literally, it refers to the big-ass spider that is the primary reoccurring figure in her erotic nightmares. We first see it holding her nude figure in its eight arms, almost tenderly. Later, it attacks her in bed and tries to spread her legs apart. This proceeds the film's most infamous sequence, where the girl and the Volkswagen sized arachnid consummate their relationship. When a pulsating ovipositor appears on-screen, the film officially straddles – so to speak – the line between the arthouse and a notorious subgenre of hentai. The audience is never entirely certain if the maiden is a willing participant or not as the giant sized creepy crawler takes her doggy style (spider style?), adding to the idea that she is adrift in her own stimulated fantasy. Say what you will about "Spider's" obvious relationship to the artsy-fartsy kinky Eurohorror freak-outs of the past, I've never seen that before. "Earth Vs. the Spider" sure didn't go there. The film showed me something new. 

The merits of whatever substance “Spider” has is debatable. The pacing is sleepy, the narrative is loose. Before the end, the grotesqury on-display gets a tad tedious. The story of a young girl defining her own sexuality, away from the wants of the men around her, still ends with her being molded by the fantasies of others. Choosing the right guy is her happy ending, not self-realization. Aurelija Anuzhite is gorgeous and wide-eyed, in such a way that you can project your own fantasies and feelings onto her easily. On the merits of style, “Spider” has a lot going for it. Gvido Skulte's cinematography is absolutely gorgeous. Almost every frame of “Spider” looks like it could be a painting. The lighting is perfectly composed in each shot to be warm, glowing, like a dream come to life. A moment when Vita imagines one of Albert's paintings coming to life is stunning, almost Bosch-ian in the depth of its color and the decadence on-screen. When the setting switches to an aged castle in the last half, the movie leans fully into a shadowy ambiance. Visually, “Spider” is fantastic.

I suppose “Spider” should also be commended for successfully capturing an older feeling. If not for a random appearance from a Walkman, there would be no way to know when exactly the film is set or made. It's in Russian but, drawing so much from other European films means it's hard to pinpoint the film as specifically Latvian. Not that I'd know what a Latvian movie would look like off-hand, I suppose. A couple of other horror films have been made in the country since this one, so “Spider” does not stand alone as the sole example of Latvian horror. The movie is absolutely worth seeing if only because there's no other film that shows you the mating habits of giant spiders and that gorgeous cinematography. The lack of depth in the rest of the film keep this from a higher recommendation, despite the strength of those images. [7/10]

Nite Tales: Ima Star

Despite being a self-taught musical prodigy who can play fifteen instruments, Flavor Flav will always be remembered as the goofy guy in Public Enemy who wore the big clock. Mr. Flav certainly did this perception no favors during his re-emergence into pop culture in the late 2000s. He parlayed an appearance on an embarrassing reality show and a brief relationship with Brigette Nielsen into several other embarrassing reality shows. After that but before his go at restaurant ownership, Flav would give being a horror host a shot. “Nite Tales” started life as a made-for-TV horror anthology film on BET, with the Public Enemy hype-man playing a macabre M.C. called “The Time Keeper.” The movie must have gotten decent ratings for the network, as “Nite Tales: The Series” followed shortly. The series presumably did not get decent ratings, as it lasted all of six episodes. Nobody has thought about this show in 16 years but my continued quest to find ever-more obscure horror anthology programs has led me here. 

The star of “Ima Star” is Ray J, best known for his appearance in the Kim Kardashian sex tape. He plays a wannabe rapper named Stormy O. His audition before some record execs go wrong when present big shot, Z Diddy – that's a reference that aged great! – dismiss his rhymes as whack. Dispondant, Stormy hits the club for a rap battle in hopes he'll regain his confidence. Instead, he looses the contest. Right as Stormy is about to give up on his rap dreams, he is met by an agent eager to sign him. What Stormy O doesn't know is that this agent is in deep with some sketchy types and has to make some money soon. The publicity stunt cooked up to make Stormy's record a hit – the rapper faking his own death – ends up going horribly wrong. 

The production values for “Nite Tales” were slightly higher than “Strange Frequency” and “Hollywood Off-Ramp.” This episode actually has about three different sets! The record executive's room, the rap club, and a funeral home. Either way, you'll probably notice that an awful lot of “Ima Star's” runtime is devoted to the main character showing off his rap skills. As the whitest of white boys, I have no ability to judge the abilities on-display but I did find this sequence mildly amusing. However, these moments being focused on suggest that there wasn't much of an idea for a narrative here. “Ima Star” doesn't really become a horror story until its very end. 

It's clear that “Ima Star” is more farcical than grim. The record execs repeatedly answering their cell phones during the audition, the goofy P. Diddy parody, a supporting part for Kel Mitchell: It all points towards comedy. The ending makes the entire episode feel like the wind-up for a punchline, which ends up being a simple gag about rapper's LPs selling better after their untimely death. The twist is extremely easy to predict and rather poorly pulled off. This is true of all of “Ima Star.” The cinematography is quite shaky, with multiple long montages of honies shaking their ass on the dance floor. Ray J's acting ability extends no further than goofy mugging. The host segments are devoted to Flavor Flav in a silly Dracula costume doing his typical shtick in front of a green screen. It's not very good. If I had been aware of this show when it aired, I probably would have watched every single episode and told all my friends about it. [6/10]

A Rose for Emily (1983)

 

Of all the trademarks that clarify the gothic tradition, none is more persistent than a fascination with death. A morbid fixation on the end of life and all the trappings around it is, most probably, the primary characteristic of the genre. This extends to what we call Southern Gothic, the local off-shoot of the same literary movement that draws from a distinctly American version of being obsessed with that which has passed and is no longer. Rather than the moldering tombs and churches of old Europe, it focuses on is the fading niceties and blatant racism of Antebellum and early Reconstruction life in the Southern states. William Faulkner is the scribe most associated with Mississippi, a really rather southern state. Naturally, that means he penned a few entries into the Southern Gothic subgenre himself, none more well-regarded than “A Rose for Emily” from 1930. 

You might have read the story in high school English class, where it's often used as a way to demonstrate shifting tenses and non-linear sequence of events. If you read the story as a teenager, you might have also watched the 1983 made-for-TV short film adaptation starring Angelica Huston. It follows the plot of Faulkner's story closely: A funeral director reflects on the life of Emily Grierson, the daughter of a rich old family settled in Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha county, shortly after her passing. She was left traumatized by the death of her belligerent father upon her 30th birthday, refusing to give up his corpse to the mortician for several days. Afterwards, she became a recluse and a frequent topic of small town gossip, as the estate she lived in began to crumble and age. One of her few interactions with the outside world was the courtship of a Yankee foreman named Homer Barron. After a brief but seemingly intense romance, Homer is never seen again. It is widely assumed he skipped town. Searching through Emily's cobweb strewn home after her death, the far more unsettling truth is discovered. 

If the gothic story type reflects an inability to let go of the past and to linger on the dead and dying, that means themes of necrophilia commonly occur there as well. What better metaphor is there for being unable to move on from an event than continuing to treat a deceased lover as if they were still alive? This provides the final morbid twist in “A Rose for Emily” and it's quite easy to predict, even if you haven't read Faulkner's story. Director Lyndon Chubbuck – who went on to work largely in television after this – handsomely adapts Faulkner's text, maintaining a good deal of his lovely prose with a respectable degree of period costumes and set-dressing. Angelica Huston, with her perpetually forlorn face and raven hair, is well-cast as the title character. The last act of the twenty minute short is suitably spooky and unsettling. A slow motion shot of the bedroom door being knocked in has stuck with me since seeing this in school, a long time ago. Chubbuck's “A Rose for Emily” doesn't come close to capturing the sense of longing and feeling of decaying tradition that Faulkner's story did. Not that you could really expect such a humble production to. However, it is a decently executed little film and hints at the wider themes – a deep south longing for an idyllic past that never truly existed, a sickeness that persist to this day – of the source material well enough. [7/10]

Halloween 2024: October 20th

The Devil (1972)

Diabeł

When I first encountered it, Andrzej Żuławski's "Possession" was merely known as that weird movie where Isabella Adjani fucks a squid. In the last twenty years or so, the film's reputation has been re-evaluated to the point that "Possession" is now regarded as one of the greatest horror films made. Turns out the A24 crowd loves tentacle sex when you shroud it in hyper-real hysterical emotions! The cult following of "Possession" has grown to the point that Żuławski's earlier films have started to garner some attention too. "Possession" was actually the third part of a trilogy of art-horror movies Żuławski made early in his career. "The Third Part of the Night" is a doom-shrouded journey through Nazi-occupied Poland, filled with lice, obtuse dialogue, and apocalyptic dream logic. Frankly, I'm too dumb to understand it. Having been thoroughly baffled by that one – which has few explicit horror elements anyway – I decided to give Żuławski's second feature a shot. "Diabeł" was considered so inflammatory in 1972 that the Polish government immediately banned it. The film, with its themes of madness and murder, slots more comfortably into the horror genre than the director's debut too. I'm also too dumb to understand "The Devil" but, at the very least, I have enough thoughts about this one that I can formulate them into some sort of hopefully coherent review. 

During the Second Partition of Poland, a mysterious man in black rides into a town torn apart by war and madness. He frees Jakub from prison and grabs a nun in white, sitting the two on a horse and instructing the young man to go home. Upon arriving at his family estate, Jakub finds his father dead. His mother works in a brothel. His brother has married his sister and regularly inflicts beatings on her. Along the way, he discovers his best friend has married and mentally broken his fiancée, as well as a trope of perverse actors hiding in the woods. All along, the stranger in black reappears to him, urging him to commit evil acts over and over again. Soon, Jakub is totally consumed by madness. 

"The Devil" is a film that clearly operates on an allegorical level. As in "The Third Part of the Night," it depicts a Poland that isn't merely ripped apart by war but reduced to an almost post-apocalyptic level, where madness seems to spread like a communicable virus. Multiple characters talk at lengths about how God has abandoned them and how life has no meaning, an example of the often verbose and frequently obtuse dialogue. The stranger is black can magically reappear wherever Jakub travels too, and seemingly knows everything, with the implication growing throughout that he is a symbol of evil itself. The nun in white is clearly more of a symbol than a character too, representing a God helpless to do anything but watch its creations run amok. That feels true of everyone in the film, each person Jakub encounters on his journey being symbolic of some deeper meaning. What exactly "The Devil" is supposed to mean is less clear to me. The film seems to be specifically about Polish history, dealing with the Second Partition era and talking a lot about the king, loyalists, and a bought-out parliament. I can't say I'm familiar with this particular historical period. Moreover, "The Devil" also seems to be commenting on what was currently happening in Poland during the seventies, which is presumably why the Communist government was so offended by it. At the same time, philosophical and religious themes occur throughout too, the film seemingly being about man's ability to do either good or evil in a world where the latter never seems to be punished. It's all so draped in metaphor and stylized detachment that it's hard to get a grip on any of it though. 

Perhaps the suffocating layers of meaning are intentional, in order to make the viewer feel more like the protagonist, a man losing his mind. As a horror film about a descent into utter depravity and madness, "The Devil" is most successful. All throughout the film, Jakub is confronted with the idea of incest. His half-brother married his sister, who later admits their father molested her. His mother is now a literal prostitute and nearly sleeps with him as well. There's a spiritual incest at work here too, with his best friend stealing his girl and then later implying that he's gay for Jakub too. (One of two depraved homosexuals in the film, which are admittedly depicted as hang-ups on the protagonist's part and not reflective of all gay people.) The moment when Jakub finally, truly snaps happens in an underground orgy pit. He is told everything is permitted and takes that to mean murder is okay. In fact, all the sexual encounters in the film seem to proceed acts of gruesome violence. While Żuławski is obviously operating on countless levels here, "The Devil" mostly seems to be about a guy trapped in a world designed specifically to make him go entirely insane. The last act is an explosion of self-destructive violence and retaliation, showing a lead character who has completely given up on everything and has nothing left but a desire to destroy. While the political subtext of the film largely goes over my head, perhaps "The Devil" also contains commentary on how war makes monsters of us all. 

While I'm the first to admit that "The Devil" is thoroughly operating on levels beyond me, I do think it's a well made film. Maciej Kijowski's cinematography features many long shots and quite a lot of frenzied handheld camerawork, deeply establishing both the sense of madness and stated detachment that drives the film. The Polish countryside certainly looks like a blasted-out hellscape here, alternatively grey and snow-covered in ways as to be totally inhospitable. Wojciech Pszoniak's performance as the stranger in black is unhinged and theatrical a way I find appealing, Pszoniak skipping through the movie like a pill-popping, debauched philosopher. The rest of the cast are harder to read, though Leszek Teleszyński and Monika Niemczyk, as Jakub and the nun, have a fittingly shell-shocked quality to their performances. "The Third Part of the Night" had a full-on acid rock/free jazz score that was intriguing but sometimes distracting. Andrzej Korzyński returns to provide the music here, which is slightly less groovy. It's more harsh tones and heavy bass lines that break through the chaos of the film, to put exclamation points in its various impactful moments. I don't think I'd listen to a whole record of it but I do think it's good. 

After "Diabeł" was banned, Żuławski would migrate to France, where he spent most of the rest of his career. (Though he did return to Poland long enough to make a sci-fi epic that is also respected by high-minded critics with less brain rot than me.) Sources describe many of his later films as "romantic dramas" that don't seem to be discussed too passionately, though he did make at least two more films that stray somewhat into the horror genre. I liked "Possession" because it was rooted in a universal feeling, the maddening sense of betrayal and loss that follows the end of a serious romance. "The Third Part of the Night" and "The Devil," meanwhile, are much more specifically about being Polish during times of disaster and political upheaval, in ways I'm obviously not well read enough to thoroughly grapple with. Both films can work for me, somewhat, as doom-laden mood pieces. Of the two, "The Devil" resembles genre frameworks that are easier to get my head around. It's kind of like the art house version of "Demons of the Mind," maybe? I guess this is what happens when exploitation movies inform your filmic understanding more than the further reaches of the Criterion Collection. Either way, sometimes you have to simply admit when a film has defeated you. I admire "Diabeł" on a technical level and can appreciate some of the things it is doing while also realizing that I simply did not get it. [6/10]

Mystics in Bali (1981)

Mistik: Punahnya rahasia ilmu iblis leák

I've always been a monster kid. As a small child, I was fascinated by Halloween decorations and masks, despite often being terrified too. This blossomed into an interest in beasties and ghoulies from all sorts of sources. If a book contained a bunch of pictures and info on many different types of mythic creatures, I was sure to spend hours looking over it. As I've gotten older, this interest spread beyond the typical entities of English folklore, Greek mythology, and pop culture. Turns out the world is full of all sorts of weird monsters! An especially nasty folkloric concept that reoccurs throughout Southeast Asia is a vampiric being that typically preys on pregnant women or newborn babies, sucking their blood with a proboscis-like tongue. It's usually depicted as a beautiful woman's head that has detached from her body, lungs and entrails dangling from her neck stump as she floats through the air. In Thailand, it's called a Krasue. The Malay know it as the Penanggalan. On the Indonesian island of Bali, this demon is named Leák. Despite – or perhaps because of – how gruesome this beast is, a number of movies have been made inspired by these myths. Perhaps the most notorious is "Mystics in Bali," a 1981 horror flick that was influential in its home country and has become infamous among cult movie fanatics. 

An anthropologist named Cathy arrives in Bali to write a book on black magic. She meets with her boyfriend, a man named Mahendra whose uncle is a good wizard. Mahendra introduces Cathy to the idea of Leák magic, said to be the most powerful form of sorcery on the island. They seek out the Old Queen of the Leák who, in exchange for some fresh blood, begins to teach Cathy her accursed ways. Unbeknownst to her, the Queen begins to use Cathy to acquire more blood and spread her dark magic over the village. Soon, Cathy's head is detaching from her body and flying around town at night, sucking the afterbirth from the bellies of pregnant women. Mahendra and his uncle team up in hopes that they can save Cathy and stop the Queen of the Leák. 

The Leák being such a gnarly monster sets the precedence for "Mystics in Bali" being an especially fleshy, slimy creature feature. The special effects of Cathy's head separating from her neck and flying around are crude, to say the least. However, once the leák is floating through the night sky, it certainly makes for a captivatingly bizarre sight. "Mystics in Bali" is full of stuff like that. Throughout their magic rituals, Cathy and the witch transform into boa constrictors or pig people, which result in quite a lot of greasy special effects. The elongated snouts and squirming bodies that follow will certainly cause you to wonder at exactly what you're seeing. The sequence where the leák attacks a pregnant woman, climaxing with a person being defenestrated in slow motion, certainly has to be seen to be believed. The way the good mystic deals with the creature – placing toothpicks into the vacated neck of Cathy's body – is so direct and practical as to be hilarious. Especially when paired with the floating head's solution to the problem: To gently pick the toothpicks out with her teeth. Where else are you going to see shit like this, man? That's what cinema is all about. 

While the flying leák is certainly the focus of "Mystics in Bali," it's far from the only insanity on display here. There's not a whole lot to the movie, narrative wise. Most of the runtime is devoted to Cathy meeting with the Queen and partaking in her magical rituals. In the tradition of Indonesian topeng, these scenes involve a lot of dancing, furious drumming, and figures in bizarre and colorful masks lunging about. Such a loose structure allows the film to ramble off on odd digressions. One of the most notably inexplicable scenes has the Queen transforming into a floating ball of fire and fighting off another floating ball of fire, which seems to be her greatest rival in the world of evil witchcraft. For its big finale, "Mystics in Bali" goes completely into the realm of far-out, martial arts movie style mystical combat. Mahendra's uncle levitates through the air while meditating and the Queen shoots bolts of light at him. Figures grow in size, shift in density, and toss all sorts of neon colored special attacks at each other. That's before an entirely different character, that we've never seen before and played by the same actor as the uncle, appears to save the day. After this explosive burst of bizarre, unconvincing but incredibly charming special effects, "Mystics in Bali" then abruptly ends, leaving the viewer with the best kind of whiplash. 

The version of "Mystics in Bali" that is most commonly available runs 86 minutes and is dubbed into English. It's possible some things have been cut out of this print, as some sources list a 116 minute runtime. Nevertheless, I'm confident in saying that no version of the film is more coherent than the other. In fact, the cheesy dubbing adds to the charm of the movie. The dub actors, as you'd expect, give baffled and stilted performance. Whoever played the Queen of the Leák absolutely went to town. I think every other sound that comes out of her mouth is a loud, piercing, stereotypical witch's cackle. I can't imagine watching the film in its original language changes its order of events much. The romance between Mahendra and Cathy – played by a German tourist in her sole screen credit, by the way – is hilariously awkward, especially in the scene where he instructs her to wear special underpants or marvels at a tattoo on her thigh. As for the mystical heroes of the film, clad in traditional robes and intoning very seriously about this insane business, that is a rich source of camp as well. I hope I'm not treating "Mystics in Bali" with less seriousness than it deserves. The film certainly strikes me as a good nature exercise in brightly color, comic book imagination that isn't asking the audience to view it importantly but instead dazzle us with a series of unexpected and fascinatingly strange images. 

"Mystics in Bali" came about because of a push by the Indonesian government in the late seventies and early eighties to increase film productions meant for foreign markets. Despite this, and the existence of that English dub, the movie was mostly distributed in mainland Asia and Japan. Nevertheless, its reputation as an insane overseas offering slowly spread. When it was given a North American disc release in 2003 – once again, by our good friends at Mondo Macabro – the film's cult following intensified. Honestly, it's well earned. "Mystics in Bali" is exactly as delirious and delightful as I had been told, living up to the rumors and whispers I've heard about it over the years. Indonesian genre cinema would get a lot more sophisticated in the decades after this but "Mystics in Bali" certainly set the mood, as far as being unpredictable and nonstop entertaining goes. If any horror fans with a taste for the weird and wild haven't seen it yet, float your head on over to your nearest specialty retailer and pick up a copy. [8/10]

Into the Dark: Down

I always thought of Blumhouse's "Into the Dark" as the ever-busy studio's training ground for new filmmakers. While some of the feature length episodes of this Hulu exclusive were made by relative newcomers, such as Paul Davis or Mike Gan, most of the involved directors were established. Patrick Lussier, Nacho Vigalondo, Sophia Takal, Carter Smith, and Adam Mason all had at least one indie hit to their names. This was especially true of Daniel Stamm, whose "The Last Exorcism" was probably the most high-profile title from all of the involved filmmakers. Stamm would direct the fifth installment of the series, "Down." The plot is related to Valentine's Day but, since I've already reviewed both of the Halloween set episodes of this series, I figured I might as well give this one a try. 

Office worker Jennifer hopes to spend Valentine's Day weekend with her estranged ex, patching things up. As she's leaving work that night, she gets into an elevator with a guy she doesn't know. The box soon becomes stuck, trapping the two in a small space with no idea when they might be rescued. She gets to know the man, who says his name is Guy. As they spend the next 24 hours talking and finding ways to pass the time in such an enclosed area, things quickly get heated. After their impromptu tryst, Jennifer tells Guy that she has no plans to make this into a relationship. That's when "Guy" starts to get possessive and violent, revealing that none of this was an accident and that he's not going to take "no" for answer. 

Setting an entire film inside a space as small and practical as an elevator probably seems like a great idea to a low-budget filmmaker. Requiring no more than four walls, a floor and a ceiling saves a ton of money on production values. The challenges inherent in such a setting may also provide a chance for actors and cinematographers to stretch their muscles and show off, proving a lot of space isn't necessary for them to be distinctive. However this idea can't sustain something as short as a 78 minute runtime. That's when "Down" starts to trot out a series of increasingly preposterous twists. That "Guy" is actually a psycho-stalker who contrived this whole scenario to be alone with Jennifer is only the first of several narrative left-turns. By the time his actual backstory is revealed, "Down" is starting to feel more and more like a desperate attempt to justify a catchy pitch. Unsurprisingly, the film violates the simplicity of its own premise before the end. By the half-way point, the characters are already making the unlikely decision to climb up into the elevator shaft. The last act takes place largely outside the confines of the elevator all together, "Down" totally abandoning its gimmick. 

A suitably strong enough screenplay could overcome these challenges. "Down" doesn't have that either. Once Guy and Jennifer are humping on the elevator floor – itself a pretty unlikely event – you can guess that he's a psycho with a crush. That his behavior escalates from slightly uncomfortable to outwardly violent and unhinged shortly after that further represents "Down's" unwillingness to trust the tension of its own premise. It all bends towards a point we've seen made many times before. The man is an unhinged misogynist who thinks he's entitled to sex and love, immediately becoming violent the minute he's denied those things. Since the term "incel" was not quite mainstream when this was probably written, "Down" makes its villain another easily hated stereotype: An alpha-douche corporate exec. (Which, yes, requires quite a lot of narrative backflipping to justify.) None of these elements are lacking in potency or truth. However, the relative lack of backstory that Jennifer receives, in comparison to the male villain, really makes this look less like incisive commentary on male entitlement and more like the writer was worried about being called sexist. The climax goes for empowerment, which is hard to take seriously after an hour of a woman being physically and mentally brutalized by a man. 

It's possible that a script as insecure as this one might have been saved by two strong performances. When your story is devoted to two people trapped in an elevator, it would ideally be a showcase for the strength of its stars. Neither Natalie Martinez nor Matt Lauria are bad in the lead roles, with Martinez summoning a kind of gutsy determination in the more violent moments. Lauria is suspiciously good looking enough that his eventual move towards unhinged madness seems telegraphed far in advance. He's enough of a brute to be physically intimidating, despite never comes off as especially scheming. If nothing else, the two performers have enough chemistry together to make their earlier scenes of physical intimacy seem plausible even if, in retrospect, it's probably the most unlikely part of the story. 

The most memorable part of "Down" ends up being an over-the-top gore gag in the last third, the kind of moment every elevator related horror movie has to touch on in one way or another. A little bit of visual inventiveness that elevated "The Last Exorcism" above the look of your average found footage movie is shown here, Stamm and his team at least finding a way to make the limited location look cinematic. Ultimately, "Down" is not clever enough to overcome the challenges of its premise or subvert them in especially clever ways. Its attempts at social commentary are warmed over . A mildly compelling first act suggests this probably should've been a half-hour episode of an anthology show, instead of a double-length quasi-movie. [5/10] 

Guinea Pig 2: The Flower of Flesh and Blood (1985)

Ginî piggu 2: Chiniku no hana

Earlier this month, I watched “Snuff,” the earliest example of a horror movie attempting to replicate a genuine snuff film on-screen. This morbid simulation has been attempted many times since, especially once the found footage format started to become popular in the new millennium. Of all these titles, none is perhaps more notorious than “Guinea Pig 2: The Flower of Flesh and Blood.” The second entry in a direct-to-video series of hyper-gory Japanese short films, “The Flower of Flesh and Blood” would supposedly be pulled from shelves in its home country. It would be connected with an infamous real world serial killer and was deemed obscene by the British. In this country, anyway, “Guinea Pig 2” owes its infamy to a now-legendary 1992 incident where Charlie Sheen viewed the film and became convinced it was a recording of an actual murder. He called the FBI who quickly deemed the 45 minute film was fictional but that was enough to ensure “The Flower of Flesh and Blood” a place among “extreme” horror history.

What of the film itself though? Plot wise, there’s almost nothing to “Guinea Pig 2.” An opening disclaimer claims that the short is a recreation of an actual film its director, mangaka Hideshi Hino, was sent. It begins with a woman in a black dress being abducted off the streets of Tokyo. She awakens in a dungeon, strapped to a table, with a pasty-faced weirdo in a samurai costume standing over her. He injects her with a drug that converts pain into pleasure and then proceeds to graphically dismember and disembowel her, all the while going on pretentiously about how he’s going to transform her into a blooming flower of flesh and blood. 

On an aesthetic level, “Guinea Pig 2” is a motion picture of debatable merit. Shot on grainy video, the early scenes of the girl being chased through the city are shaky. Once we arrive in the dungeon, the film features some unfortunate rough-zooms and slow-motion shots. The acting is quite hammy, especially from the guy playing the murderous samurai, who spits up some truly ponderous dialogue. Of course, “Flower of Flesh and Blood” is not a movie interested in traditional tenets of filmmaking such as these. No, this is a movie designed entirely to display its graphically violent special effects. Consider the way the killer injects his victim with a magical drug that intertwines pleasure and agony. That she’s nude the whole time, that the film is so fetishically focused on the violence, causes this to be a possible literal example of “torture porn.” It’s difficult not to imagine this less as a traditional horror film than as an elaborate example of the especially disreputable Japanese genre of pornography known as “ero guro.” Much as pornography reduces all human interactions down to the mechanical pumping together of genitalia, “Flower of Flesh and Blood” is focused intimately on the destruction of human body. 

The unavoidable feeling that someone is cranking their hogs to this grotesque display – all the more evident in the ecstasy the killer display in the final minutes – makes “Guinea Pig 2” unpleasant on a meta level beyond its stomach-turning effects. If one where to try and find some deeper meaning in this production… The samurai goes on about his philosophy that this ultraviolent act is akin to a beautiful flower. Considering “Flower of Flesh and Blood” is a show reel for its vivid special effects, one assumes that this is a testament to the skills of the make-up artist. On that level, “Guinea Pig 2” is impressive. The hand and arms being slowly cut apart is sickeningly realistic, with tendons and bones protruding through the bloody sinew. The disemboweling scene is equally detailed. On that same level, some of the gore effects are rather crude. If Charlie Sheen thought this was real, it suggests that his state of perspective was altered. While I can appreciate the scientific accuracy of the gore effects, it’s hard to consider “Flower of Flesh and Blood” having much worth beyond shock value. If you simply want to see some fucked-up gore, this’ll satisfy. There’s a certain doomy, nihilistic tone to the film that might’ve been effective, if paired with any skill in direction. Otherwise, “Guinea Pig 2’s” notoriety doesn’t extend much pass its extensive gruel for a reason. There’s simply not much else here to talk about. [5/10]

Halloween 2024: October 12th

The Fan (1982)

Der Fan

It says a lot about the state of things in 2024 that many people have unironically adopted the term “stan” – from a song about a serious case of erotomania that ends with a murder-suicide – to refer to themselves. The internet unendingly accelerating every aspect of our lives has made individuals basing their entire fucking personality around their favorite singer or celeb a not atypical sight. Everyone broadcasting all their thoughts 24/7 via social media has made this behavior more visible. A new strata of quasi-celebrity “content creators” who depend on forging parasocial bonds with their followers has only increased disturbing hyper-fixations such as these. It's nothing new though, as the countless stories of celebrity stalkers since the beginning of time make clear. The push and pull between stars and their adoring public has always been a fertile ground for fiction. Eckhart Schmidt's “The Fan” – usually referred to as “Der Fan,” to help distinguish it from the several other movies with that title –  was overlooked and obscure for years. However, fancy Blu-Ray releases and revival screenings have pushed the German movie back into the critical consensus, making this “Fan” a certified cult classic. 

Simone is a disaffected teenage girl living in West Germany. She fights with her parents, skips school, and avoids eating. The only thing in life that matters to her is R., a pop singer that she adores. She writes letters to him daily, listens to his music endlessly, plasters the wall of her room with his pictures, and fantasizes about him non-stop. Eventually, upon hearing R. will be in Munich to record a television appearance, she hitchhikes to the city. Upon meeting him in person outside the studio, Simone faints from excitement. This intrigues the pop star and he invites the teenage girl into his entourage. He thinks Simone is another groupie that he can use and discard. He doesn't know that the girl is in love with him. Nor how dangerous she is.

“Der Fan” is, in some ways, the spitting image of a stereotypical, humorless German art movie. Bernd Heint's cinematography is cold and distant, Simone often appearing as a silent image in the wider tableau of cramped interiors. Notably, the script – which Schmidt adapted from his own novel – does not probe too deeply into the girl's mind. We never learn why she is so lonely that she begins to obsess completely over a pasty, blank-faced Gary Numan wannabe. It's hinted that she has a rough relationship with her parents, getting into a fight with her dad after he changes the channel from one of R.'s music videos. She has no friends in school but boys like her, attention that she rejects. Despite the lack of insight into Simone's psyche, “Der Fan” envelopes us completely in her sad, lonely world. She writes letters in her head to R. constantly, the voiceover playing across many scenes. She kisses the life-sized poster of him she's assembled on his wall. She contemplates suicide when her fan letters go unanswered. The hows and whys of her obsession are less important than the details, the frosty isolation that infects every corner of her world. 

The reason Simone's lonely existence is so compelling is largely thanks to Désirée Nosbusch's performance. She doesn't say much but her face speaks volume. Her wide, expressive eyes are infinite pools in which we can read sadness and an obsessive kind of devotion. Her body language is fragile and delicate, yet precise. The way she reclines and stretches, in a succession of form-fitting and shoulder-padded outfits, brings to mind a ballerina, a wilting flower, but also a venomous spider about to spring. Does she reject other men because she only has eyes for R.? Or is there some trauma in her past we can only speculate about? Either way, she is an endlessly compelling figure. One of the most striking images in the film takes the camera right inside her mouth, a sign of how sucked into her world we are at this point. All the heartbreak and emotion is in her face, the way she holds herself, as we move towards a sickening climax. 

Because, of course, we know what's going to happen when she meets R. The best case scenario is the pop star ignores her, causing the girl to have a mental breakdown. What ends up happening is far worst, the adult lothario taking notice of this pretty but definitely underage girl. From the beginning, there's a tension inside “The Fan,” this unavoidable feeling that all of this is going to end very badly. The minute R. makes contact with Simone, that graduates into a full-blown seasick sensation. The New Wave warbler does not have pure intention towards this starstruck girl, as rock stars rarely did towards the young fan girls at their feet. The audience knows that the rock star sees the groupie as a disposable perk of the job, a release valve he can blow the stresses of touring inside of. Simone doesn't understand that, obviously, which is where the film's quickly disturbing tension comes from.  

As bad as we fear it's going to go, what happens is so much more nightmarish. In its last third, “Der Fan” graduates from uncomfortable thriller about fandom obsession into a full-blown, grotesque horror movie. The bloody events that follow play out as a ritualistic activity, few details spared from the viewer. Without any explanation of her motives, everything Simone does makes perfect sense. She finds a way to be with R. forever, while shedding the image of herself she had created up to that point. The icy visuals, when combined with stylized eroticism and gory special effects, create an absolutely chilling finale that leaves the viewer stunned. That's before a gut punch of a final line. There's only so much one can say about the ending without ruining it. Needless to say, this is a slow burn horror film that certainly doesn't snuff out suddenly but escalates to a sickening wild fire. 

There's so much more to say about “Der Fan.” Simone's rejection of affection from other men in favor of the put-on-a-pedestal perfection she ascribes R. is a sign of a youth eager to escape the systems of control found in modern society. When the rock star turns out to be another symptom of that same system, she unsurprisingly freaks the fuck out. An early shot contrasts a photo of a crowd of people doing the Nazi salute with a poster of R. His band symbol, that Simone decorates herself with, are two stylized lightning bolts that resemble the S.S. insignia. Is Simone's blind devotion to her pop idol a commentary on how easily swayed to fascism people are? The robotic, inhuman perfection projected by so many New Wave acts do, in a sideways sense, reflect Übermensch imagery. The slowly churning soundtrack – made up of synth music from Rheingold, whose lead singer plays R. – further establishes a mood of freezing discomfort. Perhaps I'm not German enough to understand all that stuff. What I do know is that “Der Fan” contains a brilliant central performance, is orchestrated to create maximum anxiety in the viewer, and has a gobsmacking finale that I won't soon forget. I can already tell that this is a movie I'm going to be thinking about a lot in the days to come. [9/10]

Dear Dead Delilah (1972)

If you read Grady Hendrix's indispensable history of the eighties horror literature boom “Paperbacks from Hell,” you might be familiar with the name John Farris. If you're already an aficionado of written words designed to frighten, you probably already know that Farris is a perpetually underrated talent. Farris had his fair share of success, including a few brushes with the mainstream via film adaptations. The most well known of which is Brian DePalma's version of “The Fury.” That wasn't Farris' first encounter with celluloid though. In fact, the author took a hack at directing himself in 1972. “Dear Dead Delilah” would trade in the Southern Gothic tropes that Farris thoroughly explored in his writing, while being the somewhat inglorious final on-screen appearance of Agnes Moorehead. That factoid is what has drawn the film whatever minor attention it's gotten over the years. 

In 1943, in the backwoods of Nashville, a pregnant woman named Luddy would hack her mother to death with an axe. Two and a half decades pass before Luddy is released from a mental institute. A chance encounter has Luddy being hired as a caretaker for Delilah Charles, the wheelchair-bound matriarch of the squabbling Charles clan. Delilah has invited what remains of her bloodline – niece Ellen, junkie brother Alonzo, broke brother Morgan, sister Grace, and Ellen and Morgan's partners – to the decaying family estate. She announces that her passing is imminent and that no one will inherit the house. However, she has hidden 600,000 dollars – money her late father made from selling his race horses – somewhere on the plantation grounds. The infighting increases and it's not long before someone starts chopping people up with an axe. Has Luddy's murderous nature resurfaced or is the Charles brood knocking each other off? 

I don't know how John Farris ended up trying his hand at directing with “Dear Dead Delilah.” He wrote the script too. That makes me wonder if a director dropped out at the last minute, forcing the author to get behind the camera for the first time. This is also, notably, Farris' only credit as a director. It's not too difficult to see why the writer wouldn't make a second feature. Instead of a grand old gothic thriller like “Hush... Hush, Sweet Charlotte” or “The Spiral Staircase,” the film most resembles a television soap opera. “Dear Dead Delilah” is a uniformly bland looking motion picture. The movie is full of scenes of people standing in rooms, having long conversations. The camera apathetically cuts between them in medium shots, the cinematography doing little to distinguish a setting that should be atmosphere. Long stretches are without music, though the score that does appear is utterly forgettable. “Dear Dead Delilah” carries this made-for-TV feeling through to the end, where the actor's faces appear next to their names in the credits, in a way that recalls a television outro than a typical theatrical film. 

The resemblance to a soap opera doesn't end at the visual presentation either. Plot-wise, “Dear Dead Delilah” feels a lot like a melodramatic television serial. The story is devoted largely to the family members bickering among themselves. The script is full of red herrings, each of the Charleses having good reason to knock each other off. However, the movie foreshadows far in advance who the actual murderer is. It's most assuredly not Luddy. Despite the elderly caretaker always ending up at the site of the killings, sometimes holding a bloody axe, it is immediately apparent that she's being set up to take a fall for someone else. This is a good example of how thinly developed the characters are. Delilah is a hateful old biddy. Morgan is a greedy schemer, his girlfriend Buffy a brainless bimbo, the addict brother defined by nothing but his habit. The bickering is often and not distinct, the characters never proving likable or all that memorable. Naturally, this means the viewer is not all that preoccupied with who lives, who dies, and who is swinging the axe.

As a horror movie, “Dear Dead Delilah” is positioned at an interesting time in the genre. The Southern Gothic setting and the presence of an old guard icon like Moorehead recalls the hag horror thrillers that were somehow still popping up in the early seventies. The exploitation title has the same verve to it as “Baby Jane,” “Auntie Roo,” and countless others. Scenes where Delilah has hallucinations of her dead father or Luddy's slipping sanity certainly fit right in with these grotesque melodramas. However, since the plot is devoted to a large group of characters slowly being killed off, the film is something of an early slasher movie too. If you go in expecting a gore-fest, “Dear Dead Delilah” is likely to disappointed. There's a well done horseback decapitation. The finale features a surprisingly well done shotgun blast to the face. However, packing most of the carnage into the last half-hour gives a definite feeling of too little, too late. 

A clearly exhausted Moorehead hams it up but not enough to make Delilah anything more than a bitchy stereotype. Despite ostensibly being the story's protagonist, Patricia Carmichael as Luddy gives a broad and cartoonish performance. Michael Ansara provides some campy fun as the greediest brother while Robert Gentry – notably, most well known as a soap opera star – has some slimy charisma as the niece's lover. There's an amusingly silly shot of an empty wheelchair rolling out of a mausoleum. “Dear Dead Delilah” needed more ridiculous moments like that if it truly hoped to entertain more often throughout its ninety minute runtime. If you want to see an aging actress swing an axe, watch “Strait-Jacket.” If decapitations in an old building amid relatives arguing over inheritance is your thing, check out “Dementia 13.” And if you're hoping to get into John Farris, read “All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By.” Lurid title and bizarre poster art aside, “Dear Dead Delilah” doesn't have much to offer that hasn't been done better in other sources. [5/10]

Pet Shop of Horrors: Despair

Anime is so accessible today. Hundreds of series are available at your fingertips. When I first became interested in Japanese animation, you had to rely on whatever your local Suncoast had in-stock. A title that was seemingly always on the shelf was "Pet Shop of Horrors." Based on a long-running manga, the series revolves around Count D, the mysterious and androgynous owner of a Chinatown pet shop. He sells his frequently heartbroken customers mythical animals, usually in the form of humans. The buyers always break the rules Count D lays down for the creatures, leading to their own destruction. Though "Pet Shop of Horrors'" title always stuck out to me, I never actually watched the series. Horror anthologies are rare in anime, so given the international theme of my marathon this October, I decided to finally give the OVA a look. 

The most highly regarded of "Pet Shop of Horrors'" four episodes seems to be its third, "Despair." Actor Robin Hendrix became famous for his role in a science fiction blockbuster. However, he was typecast afterwards and has struggled to find further work. After his wife leaves him, he forms an obsession with raising reptiles. While visiting Count D's pet shop, he's sold a very rare creature: A beautiful, blindfolded woman from the waist up but a serpent from the waist down. Robin names her Medusa and soon becomes committed to the silent, alluring serpent. He is warned to never remove her blindfold but, after fumbling a high-profile audition, that's exactly what he does...

Every episode of "Pet Shop of Horrors" follows a formula. Count D's customers are always heartbroken in some way. The "pets" he sells are always human versions of mythological beasts and act as symbols of their owners' strife. Inevitably, the buyers violate the rules Count D provides and doom themselves. In the first episode, it's a pair of grieving parents who spoiled their drug addict daughter to death. In the second, it's the manager of a pop star who recently committed suicide, due to a love triangle. In the fourth, it's an up-and-coming politician and his advisor, a childhood best friend whose fate he's intertwined with. And in "Despair," it's a fading pretty boy actor. The melodrama around each protagonists' lives, and how the mythical beasts they've acquired ties into it, is always meticulously explained. Despite the brief twenty-two minute runtimes of each episode, the backstories are rarely left unelaborated on. The ironic fates their new "pets" send them towards are telegraphed far in advance, with Count D and the clueless detective investigating him often discussing the story's themes during lengthy denouncements. 

The result is a slow-paced, melodramatic series that holds few surprises. The maudlin, smooth jazz score doesn't help the pacing problems. Nor does the stiff animation and gangly, bishonen character designs. This means the show's attempts at horror are often ineffective, veering more towards weepy tragedy than macabre terror. This is also true of "Despair," Robin's obsession with his Medusa playing out more as a doomed romance than an inevitable nightmare. The episode treats their mutual destruction – revealed in the first scene, as "Despair" plays out largely in flashback – as something of a noble end for them both. 

Despite its dragging execution and underwhelming horrors, "Despair" is the best episode of "Pet Shop of Horrors." It's not as choked by melodrama as the other three, Robin coming off as somewhat likable. The finale ruminates on how stars that are considered washed-up often have their legacies secured by tragic ends, a frequently true observation about fame. Robin Hendrix's reevaluation starts at his funeral, a phenomena we observed with Michael Jackson and Paul Walker. As far as Medusas go, this one favors beauty over fear. Yet the sad monster element did appeal to me some, more so than the overcooked entanglements of the other three. The small cult following of "Pet Shop of Horrors" revolves more around the homoerotic rivalry between the effeminate Count D and the macho, blustering – but still very pretty – detective than the monster stuff. (If you're curious, the other creatures featured in the series are a flesh-eating mermaid with a siren song, a kirin that grants political power at a terrible price, and a weird rabbit girl named Alice.) The show's formulaic and heavy-handed writing, mediocre animation, and total lack of chills and thrills makes it hard to recommend. [5/10]

The Addams Family: Lurch, the Teenage Idol

Gomez and Morticia notice that Lurch hums along while playing his harpsichord, finding the melody catchy. Gomez decides to call up a record exec, who immediately loves Lurch's grumbling song. They sign to a contract and, overnight, Lurch becomes a sensation. His song is so popular that a crowd of fans gather outside the Addams mansion and the record company decide to send him on a world tour. However, this means Lurch is neglecting his butler duties, annoying the rest of the family. 

This show has managed to squeeze a surprising amount of comedy out of Lurch's dismayed moaning and corpse-like demeanor. Having the monosyllabic butler become a pop star is obviously meant to further contrast with his Frankensteinian behavior. Ted Cassidy manages to make Lurch simply cracking a weird smile, either while posing for a portrait or greeting his horde of fans, amusing. Naturally, the butler gets a bit of a swollen head about him following his newfound fame, though only Uncle Fester seems genuinely angry about their lack of service. The episode can never quite build this into a complete arc though. The last third involves a sudden case of laryngitis for the manservant-turned-crooner, a desperate bit of drama. Lurch's dilemma between his duty to the Addams and his sudden stardom is resolved abruptly. 

Despite a rushed ending and a somewhat shapeless form, "Lurch the Teenage Idol" is still amusing. Shrieking, fainting fans allow for decent set-ups. Props – like a golf ball, a boiling cauldron of newt soup, and Granmama's stick pin – pay off well enough. Probably the cutest moment has Gomez marking a spot on his wife's arm, so he can pick back up there later, or Wednesday doing the Watusi to Lurch's beat. The Beatles, Freddie and the Dreamers and (fittingly) the Zombies are all referenced, making it clear that this episode was a somewhat backhanded but ultimately harmless response to the British Invasion. Lurch's mumbling being compared to the folk movement is probably more insulting. Still, this episode is probably a little funnier than "The Munsters'" take on a similar premise. And if you don't know, there was an attempt to turn Lurch into a pop star in real life too, though it didn't resemble his in-universe song much. [7/10]