Film Reviews by NP

Malison McCourt is a hypersensitive young woman who, it is fair to say, has a lot on her plate. Living alone in a run-down apartment with her cat, the job she needs involves working for a euthanasia company. Her deeply superstitious landlord disapproves of this and makes her homeless. For all the unpleasant things that happen in this film, I don’t mind admitting the moment I ‘teared up’ is when she abandoned her cat in the wilderness.

Malison is teamed up with Olivia Bletcha: sexy, confident and every bit as lonely as Malison. Together they travel to a remote castle for the latest ‘closure’ (the company word for euthanasia). This interesting premise is diluted by the arrival of Edgar (Tim Burd) who is the heavily clichéd creepy host, complete with emaciated gait and growling whisper. Naturally, there is a somewhat eccentric ritual to accompany this latest passing.

Sadly, moments of interest become more and more isolated as the ominous ruminations of a typical haunted house are further rolled out, including sinister whisperings from a ‘ghostly’ little girl which are delivered with all the disinterest you would expect from a bored 8 year old drama student. Malison becomes possessed by the evil – we know this because she suddenly starts using profanities. The demonic host looks not unlike a white-haired Kiwi Kingston from 1962’s ‘Evil of Frankenstein’. Events continue to spiral, becoming very visually impressive, but sadly the drama becomes increasingly disjointed and less and less easy to relate to. It is a shame things become so patchy because so much is well done here – rich direction from Jesse Thomas Cook, excellent locations, good production values and mostly very competent performances.

The first thing that strikes me about this studio-bound chiller is its cast of (mainly) British actors labouring under soft American accents. Presumably designed for ease of selling to an international market, it nevertheless seems an otherwise unnecessary distraction and slight deviation from the heady atmosphere of this Milton Subotsky-scripted production. Produced by an uncredited Max Rosemberg, this could be seen as a fledgling Amicus project. Amicus were to become rivals to Hammer’s horror output over the next decade.

Stunning Venetia Stevenson plays Nan Barlow, whose occasionally wooden performance is recompensed by her extraordinary screen presence. Her prolific acting career would be over the following year, and she remains something of a cinematic enigma. Here, she is joined by a scowling Christopher Lee and Valentine Dyall, as well as a formidable Patricia Jessel in the dual role of Elizabeth Selwyn and Mrs. Newless.

“I warn you, young feller. They don’t like strangers in Whitewood.”

Douglas Gamley and Ken Jones’ music score veers from traditional horror accompaniment, which enhances the gloom, and light jazz, which doesn’t; it does, however, lend a sense of laconic style to some scenes, especially those featuring Stevenson.

The ending is unlikely given the circumstances and I can’t imagine that didn’t dawn on the players and those behind the scenes. And yet everything is played very seriously and the low budget is used to fine effect, giving everything an ethereal, not-quite-real sense of displacement.

Karin (Harriet Andersson) has recently been released from an asylum having undergone electroconvulsive therapy. She returns to her isolated family home and rejoins her father, writer David (Gunnar Björnstrand), teenage brother Minus (Lars Passgård) and husband Martin (Max von Sydow), with whom she has an awkward sexual relationship. In fact, she seems more flirtatious with Minus, who is confused by his feelings for her. Unable to sleep one night, she finds and reads David’s notes about her ‘incurable’ condition, and his desire to record her ‘disintegration.’

This is a Swedish film directed by Ingmar Bergman in bitingly bleak black and white. The only cast are the four characters, and the only setting is their remote island home, which Bergman manages to make both idyllic and claustrophobic at the same time. Karin’s decline is slow, and she is lucid enough to be tortured by it.

Also tortured of course, are those around her. There is an impotence about Karin’s family, as quite clearly they do not know how to handle the prospect of her instability – but in the case of David, has his detachment contributed to Karin’s inability to relate to her own husband? Or has she always been unreachable? We never know, despite the very talky nature of the production (and the English subtitles). The fact that Karin’s condition seems to be the reason Minus and his father finally grow close is scant reason for celebration.

People are flawed.

A very intense, open-ended study in human behaviour.

I have for years bored people rigid with my belief that some of Hammer’s most interesting films came during the last few years of their existence as purveyors of horror, as they attempted to boost their fading market. This lead to experimentation, which worked beautifully with some of their output. As always, there were exceptions – and this curio is one.

Peter Cushing, apparently now too old to play the Baron, is superseded by Ralph Bates in a bid to bring sex appeal to the role of Frankenstein. He is surrounded by a bevy of beautiful young women, including Elizabeth (Veronica Carlson) and Alys (Kate O’Mara). Bates is always enjoyable and nicely intense, although inevitable comparisons with ‘how Cushing would have done it’, would never be kind – after all, Bates is playing a philanderer, a young stud. A different take on the Baron.

The jokes are very familiar to audiences of the time – everyone is horny, and the prospect and consequences of sex is tip-toed around for comedy effect, that and an amputated arm giving Victor a two-fingered salute. Dennis Price, a hugely talented and respected actor in his younger days, is much fun here as a lackadaisical grave-robber and gives the best performance in the film.

The resultant story is not that different from ‘Scars of Dracula’, with which it was released, and which also disappointed at the box office. If anything, ‘Scars’ went further into later ‘Carry On’ territory than this – at least there are a few amusing asides here other than skin-flick slapstick.

Dave Prowse’s lumbering, bald-headed creature has a hulking effectiveness about him. The sound of his heavy, chain-crunching footsteps presses at least a few of the required horror buttons, although he is entirely devoid of any personality. Whenever he appears, Malcolm Williamson’s soundtrack echoes H.J. Salter’s music heralding Lon Chaney’s monster in 1942’s ‘Ghost of Frankenstein’ from Universal.

The story itself shadows that of the 1958 Hammer original in a sedate style. This isn’t a bad film (although the budget limitations are as obvious here as many Hammer films from this period), just rather under-whelming. As if aware of this, director (and co-writer) Jimmy Sangster seems deliberately to end the story in the most downbeat way possible.

Planet Film Productions, who distributed (as far as I can tell) a total of six films, beginning in 1951 and ending their run with this, have put together a good, solidly made production featuring an scholarly Peter Cushing. Also, amidst the nicely creepy locations beautifully captured by director Terence Fisher, are the reasons for the ‘terror’ extolled by the title: b-movie style slithering ‘Silicates’, long-necked snail-like creatures that move around with staggering slowness. These monsters either destroy the nicely conveyed spooky atmosphere, or provide a somewhat silly high-point among the serious faces and long coats – depending on your point of view.

The bodies of a series of murdered humans/animals have one gruesome thing in common: their bones have been liquefied, leaving the cadavers ‘all soft and flabby.’ Dr. Bryan Stanley (Cushing) and his authoritarian gang Drs David West and Reginald Landers (Edward Judd and Eddie Byrne) investigate, together with Toni Merrill (Carole Gray) – who has constantly to fight against their ‘stay here, things might get dangerous’, and then screams in terror whenever they are confronted by the Silicates. Girls, eh? The actors do a good job of staring in terror at these wonderfully daft creatures, who occasionally exude slimy spaghetti when attacked. Gray in particular does her best with Merrill, who looks pretty but is written as the wilting female who needs to be looked after.

Terence Fisher doesn’t make much of effort to make these monsters look particularly terrifying. A couple of zoom-ins, otherwise it seems to be a case of ‘point the camera at them and let them get on with it.’ (“They don’t seem to be moving very fast,” Stanley says at one point.) And yet the briefly seen boneless corpses are very effective, as is the depiction of something unpleasant happening to stoic Dr. Stanley’s hand toward the end, which is genuinely shocking.

Overall, this is good fun. The island setting is authentic and the sets are packed with convincing rural detail. It remains a lesser-known Peter Cushing film, however. “We were lucky this is an island. If it had happened anywhere else, I don’t think we would have been able to destroy them,” says West shortly before the film ends with an ominous final scene. Tremendous.

I believe they call this kind of film ‘world building.’ It’s an apt description of the results of a talented production team using budget and effects to sustain a convincing environment in which you can immerse yourself. In my view, such is the potency of projects like this, actors are there primarily to compliment this imagined civilisation. In 1982, the original ‘Blade Runner’ achieved this perverse enigma very convincingly. Here all these years later, is the sequel.

There was some mild controversy concerning original composer Vangelis not being assigned to provide a soundtrack for this, but Benjamin Wallfisch and Hans Zimmer’s score is impossible to fault. Vast, weird, laced with industrial swirls and chunky klaxons. Denis Villeneuve’s direction is vast and eccentric, exactly as it should be, and the myriad of art directors ensure that the society, the interiors, the streets, even the habitat of Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford of course: grizzled, isolated, but still very much the same character we knew 35 years ago) is as impressive and spacious as it could be, an arena so absorptive and convincing, you can completely drink it in. My problem is, at 2 hrs 44 minutes, I really felt the need for a change of flavour after a while.

It’s impossible to be impressed at wonderful representations of an intricately carved tale for that length of time with no change of tone throughout, no levity, no particular sense of strident drama and only an irregular threat (Sylvia Hoek’s splendid Luv). We have K (Ryan Gosling) and his girlfriend Joi (Ana de Armas, who, as a perfectly pouting, characterless hologram, is very good) and the very slow story of Deckard’s ‘improbable’ child Rachael, and the long trek to locate her. It is good, but thinly stretched over such huge running time. Wrapping it in the beauty of almost overwhelming effects and atmosphere is an impressive compensation, however.

I believe they call this kind of film ‘world building.’ It’s an apt description of the results of a talented production team using budget and effects to sustain a convincing environment in which you can immerse yourself. In my view, such is the potency of projects like this, actors are there primarily to compliment this imagined civilisation. In 1982, the original ‘Blade Runner’ achieved this perverse enigma very convincingly. Here all these years later, is the sequel.

There was some mild controversy concerning original composer Vangelis not being assigned to provide a soundtrack for this, but Benjamin Wallfisch and Hans Zimmer’s score is impossible to fault. Vast, weird, laced with industrial swirls and chunky klaxons. Denis Villeneuve’s direction is vast and eccentric, exactly as it should be, and the myriad of art directors ensure that the society, the interiors, the streets, even the habitat of Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford of course: grizzled, isolated, but still very much the same character we knew 35 years ago) is as impressive and spacious as it could be, an arena so absorptive and convincing, you can completely drink it in. My problem is, at 2 hrs 44 minutes, I really felt the need for a change of flavour after a while.

It’s impossible to be impressed at wonderful representations of an intricately carved tale for that length of time with no change of tone throughout, no levity, no particular sense of strident drama and only an irregular threat (Sylvia Hoek’s splendid Luv). We have K (Ryan Gosling) and his girlfriend Joi (Ana de Armas, who, as a perfectly pouting, characterless hologram, is very good) and the very slow story of Deckard’s ‘improbable’ child Rachael, and the long trek to locate her. It is good, but thinly stretched over such huge running time. Wrapping it in the beauty of almost overwhelming effects and atmosphere is an impressive compensation, however.

Of all Jess Franco/Erwin C. Dietrich collaborations during the mid to late 1970s, this is the most bizarre. The two prolific auteurs here turn the tables on the ‘women in prison’ dramas for which they are collectively best known, by making ‘respectable’ men very much the prisoners, and seductive, glamourous women are in charge. Blue Rita (Martine Fléty) demands total obedience, sexual and otherwise, of her female co-horts, and their various forms of indoctrination are dwelt upon in typically lingering scenes of softcore lesbian activity. Franco achieves some haunting compositions with these scenes – which serves as a precursor for the kind of thing he did, more explicitly, in his latter-day One-Shot Productions – with many liaisons filmed through a fish-tank, and with misty disorientation within the sci-fi love/torture parlours.

The look of this film is very different from the usual perception of an Uncle Jess film. No swaying palm trees or majestic, sun-drenched beaches. Instead, we have Parisian walk-ways, exotic, bustling streetways and picturesque city-scapes. Interiors are confined – or perhaps that should be unconfined – to chambers that wouldn’t look out of place in ‘Barbarella’ or ‘Logan’s Run’; spacious and featureless, less like a sensuous boudoir and more like a set for an early music video, complete with dry ice.

The characters are not massively well-defined, lost somewhat beneath the impressive and heavily stylised visual trappings, but my favourites include the briefly known Moira (Vivky Masmin) and the apparently naïve Sun (Dagmar Bürger).

Regular musician Walter Baumgartner excels with a mad fusion of gurgling electronica, tribal and jazz, with a repeated brass section track that sounds like the theme to Coronation Street. It might be his most eccentric musical concoction.

The story involves Rita, who hates men as a result of former abuse, and her female brigade, who kidnaps and tortures wealthy men and male ‘spies’ and makes them talk by sexually stimulating them to the point of insanity. This espionage nonsense is interspersed with Franco-favourite sleazy club scenes that are elevated by garish costumes, purple wigs and pink walls. Interesting use is made of colour, infusing every scene with a kind of garishness that provides a palpable contrast to the ‘ordinary’ world ‘on the outside.’ That contrast, I think, is my favourite element in this film. You really don’t know what goes on behind closed doors.

Wronged woman Nancy (Daryl Hannah) gets zapped by a laser from a flying saucer and as a result, grows to giant size whenever she gets angry. With a premise like that, how could so much of the running time have turned out to be such dull viewing?

And yet, all the ingredients spell better things. There is a phoney, tongue-in-cheek recreation of 1950s America, in which actors are encouraged to overplay events to make it clear we’re not to take them too seriously. There are some (presumably) deliberately cheesy effects to replicate the style of B-movies of that era (a genre in which the original 1958 version of this snugly fitted). Problem is, whilst everything is competent, the script isn’t terribly funny, nor is it poignant despite Hannah’s vulnerable appeal. Chunky philandering liar and cartoon husband Harry (Danny Baldwin) balances well a hateful and comedic persona.

As you may imagine, her increased stature gives Nancy a sense of empowerment. No longer a wallflower, she still makes it her business to track down her errant husband. Yet it isn’t solely personal empowerment she feels, but a strength on behalf of all women, giving this a feminist flavour, all the while looking great in a cavewoman-style outfit. Hannah carries the fifty-foot look very well, and is lithe enough to actually convince. She isn’t perhaps the most personable actress, and it occurs to me from time to time, for someone of her renewed gravitas, she underplays it somewhat. The image of this towering, haunted victim of circumstance dazedly and pathetically scanning the streets and calling out her husband's name in the doomed hope he can help her, however, is effective.

The ending sees Harry, and a handful of other presumably deceitful/unfaithful men put very much in their place by Nancy, who has now been reclaimed by the flying saucer and is in the company of other 50 foot women. Whether this is supposed to be seen as one ‘in the eye’ for menfolk or philanderers everywhere, is unclear.

Alongside ‘The Reptile’, a film made back-to-back with this, ‘Plague of the Zombies’ is widely considered something of a diamond in Hammer’s crown. And it is. Whereas ‘Reptile’ was infused with a rich Cornish atmosphere on which to base its tale of terror, only the realisation of the titular creature let things down. No such trouble here – in fact, the appearance of the zombies depicted in this John Gilling directed production went on, coincidentally or not, to influence many of the living dead productions to this day. Milky eyed, rotting, stumbling creatures, they are truly a sight to behold, especially in their first appearance: Diane Clare’s Sylvia Forbes stumbles through the night after her fragile friend Alice (the mighty Jacqueline Pearce) only to find her presumably dead, and in the arms of a shockingly revealed, grinning dead man. It is sterling stuff.

Peter Bryan’s screenplay sets the ball rolling immediately with a fox-hunt being carried out across countryside and village by a handsome troupe of violently arrogant upper-class young bloods. We immediately despise these cowards, and therefore hold Squire Clive Hamilton in both fear and high regard, as he appears to be their master. Hamilton is played by one of my favourite actors, John Carson, a superbly spoken gentleman who seemed to specialise in well-bred rotters. Had Christopher Lee not been available, I am convinced Carson would have made an equally well-received Dracula.

Andre Morell, another Hammer stalwart, is also a great presence here, as he is in all of his appearances. He plays Hamilton’s nemesis Sir James Forbes, a stuffy but very appealing professor. Brook Williams is also very good as the harassed young Peter Thompson. A word too, for the formidable Denver, Hamilton’s lackey and first class bully - Alexander Davion plays him wonderfully.

Apart from some unfortunate day-for-night sequences not quite convincing (a common problem from filmic productions of this time), the Cornish location is magnificently used. Superstitious villagers, scared locals, a charmingly manipulative and evil aristocrat, Michael Ripper, something strange going on in the mines – all terrific horror staples. And that dream sequence celebrated by Hammer fans, deserves all the accolades it gets.

I am not sure there are any film-makers currently as prolific as Andrew Jones, who, with production company North Bank Entertainment, continues to release low-budget horror films at a fast rate of knots. Most are enjoyable, some very much so. Never afraid to ‘pay homage’ to other projects, Jones here writes/directs something very close to Quentin Tarantino’s ‘Inglourious Basterds’, but on his terms.

It is bargain basement stuff, of course. Hitler’s briefing room is backed with black drapes, while he sits in front of an un-ironed swastika drape, whilst true to Jones’ direction, many scenes are a collection of close-ups. The best performance probably comes from Suzie Frances Garton as the resolute and duplicitous Ilsa (what else?) Koch – with suggestions of sensuality beneath that pristine cool veneer, she attacks the role with relish. In a disappointingly brief appearance, sometimes Jones regular Jared Morgan plays the bar-tender; he is always good to see. Perhaps it is ubiquity to blame, but I find it more difficult to be convinced by Lee Bane as ‘Mad Dog’ Murphy, someone too stylised to ever truly exist; whispering every line Eastwood-style, his avowed intent and catch-phrase, to ‘kill Nazis’ becomes more irritating than threatening. As ever though, he plays his role to the hilt and offers the key: don’t take things too seriously. Other performances (and accents) vary greatly. Hitler, for example, provides Oliver Fritz an opportunity to display the Fuhrer as a bizarre, ailing grotesque.

There are some interesting choices being made here and as is often the case with Jones’ projects, the more you watch, the more these choices take you in. The long conversational scenes, the slow-burning story-telling, and some ripe performances combine with simmering interest, a good build-up of threat and as ever, some nice location filming that does enough to allow you to believe events are taking place in Nazi Germany 1944. That’s another thing with films from the North Bank Entertainment stable – they cannot be accused of being unambitious. This could have been set in England with no Hitler appearance at all – but no, we have approximations of American accents, two curious werewolf hybrids and a bucket-load of Nazis.

For a story with ‘werewolves’ in the title, we have to wait a long time for even the first mention of them by name. The reveal comes at the time the two main story-strands come together, in a midst of monster masks and CGI blood-splattering. Like the rest of the film, some moments will leave you impressed, others not so much. But it seems the adventures of (don’t call him) ‘Mad Dog’ Murphy and his band of men are not quite over, as the post-credit flier tells us.

Something that has dogged the prolific horror stable of Andrew Jones is occasional lapses in sound quality. That is an affliction that blights this otherwise enjoyable exorcist tale. Such are the mumblings of actors Lee Bane and Jeff Raggett that you can barely hear what they are saying, and this kind of problem drains many of the scenes of any impact they might have. When the (very) familiar profanities from the demonic influence are similarly obscured, this proves more than an annoyance.

Otherwise, writer/director Jones does what always does: turns in a perfectly serviceable slow-burner that dwells on intimate, low-key scenes rather than spectacular theatrics, and puts his own stamp on the ‘possession’ genre.

Tiffany Ceri is excellent as the titular character. An unusual departure for a story dealing with demonic possession is that we only get to see her once she under the influence of evil – even the very long opening credits are interspersed with images of her writhing on a convent bed – so we lose the effective build-up of terror as she goes deeper under the evil spell. But there’s a reason for that, and even I won’t give away that spoiler. Lee Bane gives one of his better performance here, restrained and reflective, as the uncertain Father Richard Lamont. Jeff Raggett plays the reassuring Father Theo Reisinger with calm authority.

All in all, another competent production from Jones’ North Bank Entertainment company. Is it frightening? Despite all the wailing and gnashing, no. The enhancements of milky contact lenses and modulating voices to sound like a kazoo go through the motions, rather than effectively scaring us, much like the venture itself. It is ‘Andrew Jones does The Exorcist’ which is playful and entertaining in an economic way, but doesn’t go beyond the familiar.

It’s not always possible, but I try to watch films blind, without knowing anything about them. For a long time, there was no dialogue in ‘The Pack’ and I was trying to identify the location. At first, I seemed sure it was America, then Britain and finally – when characters begun to speak – Australia.

Wild dogs are notoriously difficult to get right. Several otherwise worthwhile adaptions of ‘Hound of the Baskervilles’ have been somewhat let down by their depiction of the titular mutt. Here, effects are only slightly awkward. A mixture of quick glimpses of slavering jaws, crimson splattering, what I suspect to be a puppet and scampering mongrels do a good job convincing, except when you see the sleek and happy complete animal, darting uninjured out of shot after an attack, it is clear that ‘no animals were harmed (or stressed) during production’. And quite right too, of course.

The acting throughout is top-notch, from the first victim of the pack (an unctuous money-lender) to the occasionally brattish but well-rounded juveniles. The story-line of a likeable couple, Adam and Carla Wilson (Jack Campbell and Anna Lise Phillips) with money troubles under siege in their own house by a pack of blood-thirsty canines is treated seriously and directed with real flourish by Nick Robertson. Campbell may overdo the rugged deep voice thing, but he provides a solid character.

It is true to say that once the ‘siege’ was underway, the interesting elements of the build-up became more standard, and the excellent actors were somewhat reduced to reacting to the attacks. But that is the way it goes, and there were several moments of genuine tension.

Enjoyable, solid, well-made whelp chiller.

Here’s something – a Jess Franco ‘Women in prison’ film (his first), with Harry Allan Towers and not Erwin C. Dietrich, who would be associated with future incarceration endeavours. It is interesting to note the differences – this is nearly a decade before the Dietrich projects and the usual lesbian and titillation hasn’t reached graphic levels yet. Also Bruno Nicolai’s soundtrack almost seems to have been loaned from a blockbuster movie, lending more doom-laden atmospherics to the terrifically austere surroundings than is sometimes strictly necessary.

There’s a good cast here. Herbert Lom is always very watchable: I’m surprised he did this – his perverse cold-hearted Governor Santos is someone Howard Vernon or Paul Muller (or Franco himself) might usually play. Having said that, his peccadillos are always off-screen. Marie Schell is hardened and glamorous as Leonie Caroll, brought in to observe the activities of current governor Thelma Diaz. Diaz is played by the magnificent Mercedes McCambridge, short on stature but a performance as arch and camp as can be imagined. McCambridge (whose main point of interest for horror fans might well be her voicing of the demon in 1973’s ‘The Exorcist’) appears to relish each moment and steals every scene. Maria Rohm plays Maria who, blonde and pretty, is always in Diaz’s sights. And it is always a pleasure to see Rosalba Neri, here as constantly smouldering Zoie: a former ‘exotic dancer’, I’m delighted to say.

The Alicante location is delicious and the building used for the prison is suitably Spartan and yet crammed with interest. Flaking paint, featureless walls, paradise-like views always out-of-grasp. The whole production looks terrific and might well be Franco’s most restrained, coherent and ‘mainstream’ WIP picture. It also might just be my favourite. Things move at a fair rate, the relentless austerity is broken up by the flashbacks that flesh out the back-stories for the main inmates. The violence and torture takes place for the most part, just off-camera, and is no less effective for that. And the story builds up a genuine sense of frightening momentum towards the end, which makes the very satisfying finale tragically inevitable. Thoroughly recommended to those familiar with Franco, and those who are not.

The soundtrack is enlivened by the occasional insertion of variants of the theme song, ‘The Day I Was Born’ (sung by Barbara McNair, the wronged and wonderful Rita from Franco’s 1968 ‘Venus in Furs’), which is guaranteed to bury itself into your brain for a long time after you first hear it.