La bimba di Satana (1982)

La bimba di Satana (1982) is a Gabriele Crisanti production, written by Piero Regnoli, and stars Mariangela Giordiano. This trio, previous to this production, were frequent collaborators and are now known to present memory among cult film fans of having created true curiosities in Italian genre cinema. Amongst their collaborations are Malabimba (1979); Patrick vive ancora (1980); and Le notti del terrore (1981), for example; and likewise, this trio has produced many an opportunity for cult film fans to take a humorous stab at their cinema, myself included. Today, however, I will not be taking such an approach with La bimba di Satana."I've always been hired by producers who had just had a big flop," says director Mario Bianchi, "because I was good at stopping the bleeding." Bianchi begins his approximately twenty-minute interview, included as an extra on Severin's DVD release of La bimba, with humility. Bianchi's interview is either wonderfully or frustratingly cryptic as many questions regarding this production go unanswered. Bianchi tells an anecdote of working with the maestro, Lucio Fulci, in which Fulci asks Bianchi to film some incidental shots for his film, Sodoma's Ghost (1988). Bianchi concludes his anecdote by admitting that he ended up shooting a third of the film. This is a serious admission against interest, but it seems as if Bianchi is just attempting to describe his career in horror cinema. A very limited one, at that. If one were forced to categorize La bimba, then perhaps intuitively the most fitting description would be as a horror film. Bianchi continues: “When Crisanti, the producer, called me I was enthusiastic. I never had done anything like it. But, as I said, the problem was that we were working on a very low budget. In Rome we call them ‘pizza e fichi.’ We had very little time to do the shooting. You judge the results for yourself.” Bianchi concludes with this telling statement, “The budget was so small that it was impossible for Crisanti to lose money on the film.”

Perhaps with his limited background in horror cinema combined with the creative freedom allowed by the low budget, Bianchi’s La bimba di Satana is a film which appeals really to no one group. Seasoned horror buffs can scoff at the lack of scares; those seeking to satisfy their prurient interests are better suited going elsewhere (even with the extended XXX version); and the art house intellectuals won’t find much material to deconstruct. To me this aspect is damned impressive. So what is this film about?

Maria (Marina Hedman) has died, leaving as survivors her husband, Antonio (Aldo Sambrell), her daughter, Miria (Jacqueline Dupré), and her disabled brother-in law, who is cared for by a novitiate to the convent, Sol (Mariangela Giordiano). Miria is understandably upset by the death of her mother whose corpse is placed in the crypt of the family’s castle. While her body awaits embalmment, will her soul remain at rest? Two guesses, one of them is right.

Bianchi relates, again cryptically: “The only thing I didn’t like is the technique of the shooting. Anyway, I think it’s the same feeling for a novelist. Right after he writes the words ‘The End’ he wants to rewrite his book again from the beginning.” I disagree with Bianchi as he has some beautiful compositions, for example:

The family castle is a genuine location, and Bianchi frequently uses wide compositions, save the intimate, dramatic confrontations between characters. Interestingly, not only do these wide compositions contribute to the unreal atmosphere of the film, they also make this very small family seem even smaller. In other words, it makes this dysfunctional family seem all the more so. “I want to say ‘congratulations!’ to myself because of Mariangela Giordiano’s strip-tease scene. At the time it wasn’t easy to shoot a sequence like that without seeming vulgar.” [Please bear in mind despite the presence of exclamation punctuation in the preceding quote, Bianchi is delivering this statement in the same manner in which he gives his entire interview, kind of shy.] I think this scene is quite lovely, and Bianchi’s self-congratulation is merited, as it is not vulgar. This visual sequence is one of the richer scenes. Sol is undressing to go to bed, but her overtly theatrical mode of undressing really appears as a subtle striptease for the viewer. This aspect is heightened by the presence of her ward, Antonio’s disabled brother, peering at her through the doorway. He begins to fantasize about Sol pleasuring herself in front of him; and with a bizarre dissolve and harsh crosscut, Bianchi switches to his p.o.v. Bianchi also comments upon the presence of Giordiano’s white stockings and how they enhance the erotic aspect of the scene. He is one-hundred-percent correct, and I love how this one small scene becomes representative of all male fantasies with nuns: behind their habits and reserved demeanors resides human sexuality, all the more enticing, because it is, in some regards, forbidden. One of the other scenes which Bianchi likes is one of the few with Giordiano and Hedman embracing. As a visual composition, these actresses are quite stunning: Hedman with her voluptuous and soft body with light blonde hair and fair skin juxtaposed with svelte Giordiano and her darker complexion and hair. These two characters ambiguously hide a secret, and one arresting composition might reveal everything: from the floor the camera tilts upward capturing Giordiano standing straight with her hands at her side while Hedman, almost kneeling, caresses Giordiano with her hands and her lips. Hedman’s submissive position and Giordiano’s stoic position give the composition a perversely religious aspect but also an equally powerful erotic one. In AntiCristo: The Bible of Nasty Nun Sinema & Culture, its author writes: “The original Italian version was shot with hardcore sex scenes, which are not in the general domestic release version and shorter (69m) Spanish print. Vivi’s Italian video version is strictly softcore.” (p. 61, FAB Press, Surrey, U.K.: 2000, author Steve Fentone.) Strictly for purposes of review, I have seen this explicit version via the German, region 2, X-Rated Kult DVD. Ms. Hedman performs the majority of the sex within, and like the softcore version, the hardcore version is overall very odd and disorienting. In one sequence, its set-up very obvious even in the softcore version, Hedman performs in close-up. Nico Catanese’s score for both versions, a creepy, chanting tune, plays over Hedman’s performance. Almost humorously, Catense’s score plays to no rhythm: it just loops over and over. Hedman’s Maria controls the tempo, despite the scene climaxing with a literal climax. Regnoli delivers another dysfunction-filled script to create the dramatic conflict. He penned a really rich role for Giordiano, and her character gets to sample the dramatic range from maternal caregiver to sexual temptress to defiant captive to submissive lover. Giordiano and Aldo Sambrell are consummate professionals and give very good performances. Bianchi’s legacy in cinema is an intriguing one, and kudos to Severin for releasing this film. All quotes and facts from Bianchi are taken from his interview included as a supplement on the Severin DVD of La bimba di Satana. Those seeking a trippy, surreal and sick little flick are advised to seek it out.

Kárate a muerte en Torremolinos (2001)

Karate is funny. By no means do I wish to be disrespectful to its practitioners, as I’m well aware that the martial arts have deep cultural roots and have important significance to unique cultures. I respect that. However, if I were ever confronted by an opponent who entered into a karate stance and made a readying battle cry, then I would completely lose my shit. Game over before the battle ever started. Some of the greatest martial arts films that I have ever seen, have not only impressed me but made me laugh immensely. For example in Fists of the White Lotus (1980), Gordon Liu and Lo Lieh square off in a phenomenal sequence: Lo Lieh as the White Lotus Chief is meditating in the bath. Liu’s character attempts to get the jump on him by attacking him in the bath. Not only does Lieh exit the bath and put on his clothes, but he manages to fend off Liu’s attacks and win the fight. One of the greatest martial arts films ever. To further gauge my own sense of humor, I also laugh immensely when the vending machine kicks the shit out of the little league coach in Stephen King’s Maximum Overdrive (1987). Go figure.
I discovered a little gem recently entitled Kárate a muerte en Torremolinos (2001).
Torremolinos is a Spanish resort town whose primary source of income is tourism. Jess (José María Cruz Piqueras) is a twenty-year-old surfer with a beautiful girlfriend named Danuta (Sonia Okomo). Jess is a member of the Catholic Brotherhood of Surfers and has made a vow of chastity until he is twenty-four. This is a problem for Danuta as she really wants to fuck. It may be a blessing, however. Torremolinos also houses a local legend: that of Jocantaro, a half-crab, half-octopus monster who lives off the coast and under the sea. Enter Dr. Malvedades (Paul Lapidus), a diabolical genius, who plans on raising Jocantaro from his watery depths to take over the world. With his zombie ninja henchmen, Dr. Malvedades needs five “newly-screwed virgins” to complete his plan. Oh shit. I was initially attracted to Kárate a muerte en Torremolinos by learning of the inclusion of Jess Franco as one of its actors. Its director, Pedro Temboury, according to his IMdB credits, served as an assistant director for some of Franco’s latter-day efforts such as Lust for Frankenstein (1998) and Tender Flesh (1998). Franco has always acted in his own films, and I have to admit that he’s pretty funny in Kárate a muerte. By the time Franco appears in the film, Jess has recruited his fellows in the Brotherhood of Catholic Surfers to combat the impending evil upon Torremolinos. Franco appears as a karate instructor named Miyagi who appears from an ethereal plane to instruct the desperate group in combat. In twenty four hours all the secrets of karate are revealed. The most humorous thing about this sequence is Franco’s delivery of his dialogue: he goes from quiet and meditative to ridiculously animated. While everyone in the cast gives enthusiastic performances, perhaps Oliver Denis deserves special mention. Denis plays, according to the film’s ending credits, one of the zombie ninjas but also served as fight coordinator for the film. In one hilarious sequence, four to five black-belt students at the local dojo head outside to practice. The zombie ninjas interrupt them and dole out some ass-whippings. Each karate student is wearing a white t-shirt with the logo “Karate Denis” on the back, so I take this as an indication that Denis teaches karate somewhere close to the location. If I had to choose my favorite character in Kárate a muerte, then it would have to be Denis portraying a mercenary, karate master named “Chuk Lee,” who is hired by the mayor of Torremolinos to stop the mayhem. Yes, he ultimately fails, but it is an entertaining failure. Denis is very good at karate and he’s dead serious when performing. I’m certain that he’s in on the joke, but that’s incidental. Denis’s performance and contribution, like all of Kárate a muerte, is perfect camp humor: never too self-aware, always straight, and when necessary, absolutely dead serious. Paul Lapidus, as Dr. Malvedades, also deserves mention. Temboury and Pablo Álvarez Almagro, screenwriters, give Lapidus the best dialogue in the film. No cinematic evil genius deserves this much ripe material. (The English subtitles are well-done.) Like all diabolical and evil masterminds, Dr. Malvedades has to relate his plan to everyone that he meets, and he is having a wonderful time doing so. He even has a copy of the Necronomicon (which is interesting that he owns it, as it appears non-essential to his plan.). His nemesis, named “Dr. Orloff,” played by Temboury, has a wonderful late-nite occult television show. I could watch this show over and over. When Dr. Orloff is finally recruited by the mayor after the failure of Chuk Lee, Dr. Orloff plans on using toys. Like plastic swords and dry-erase boards, I bullshit you not. While all of the characters have a glimpse in their eyes that this man is going to combat the ultimate evil with toys, none makes any mention. The only complaint that I can make about Kárate a muerte en Torremolinos is the opening credit sequence is too long, but it appears as if the collaborators put a lot of time into making it look spiffy. The entire film runs less than eighty minutes, and I could have watched a film twice as long. The film is low-budget, has a rubber-suited monster causing havoc on the beach, martians appearing out of nowhere, and a tremendous amount of heart. As much entertainment as Kárate a muerte en Torremolinos has provided me, it’s earned the tag: brilliant, phenomenal, amazing. I purchased the Region 2 disc here.

Bentley Little and The Disappearance (2010)

Despite the fact that the most popular horror fiction writers have names which begin with the letter "K," such as King, Koontz, Ketchum, and Keene, for example, my favorite horror writers have names which begin with the letter "L," such as Lee, Laymon, and Bentley Little. And, despite my clever fucking observation, both classes of authors, "K" and "L," are talented writers whose work provides me with many an hour of entertainment. Now, with over two decades of reading horror fiction, if I had to pick a favorite author, then it would have to be Bentley Little. Why?
Bentley Little's 1989 debut novel, The Revelation, showed a strong influence from Stephen King (especially King's seminal and phenomenal 1975 novel, 'Salem's Lot); and would garner Little the Bram Stoker Award for Best First Novel. The Revelation would also introduce Little's favorite antagonist: the "lurking horror," one which silently moves into an area, begins a path of pervasive evil, and then threatens to overwhelm and consume the populace. A band of good-hearted and courageous few inevitably confront the evil, determined to stop it at all costs.
Little's 1996 novel, The Store, would become not only his most representative work but also his best-loved by his readers. Tightly-plotted, swiftly-paced, biting satire and social criticism woven in between horrific prosaic imagery, The Store is signature Little. A concept intimately familiar to American readers, a large chain of retail stores, dubbed simply the Store (amusingly the Store pops up in many of Little's subsequent novels) announces the construction of a new store in a small town. Little takes his reader from concept to construction to completion of the Store with his reader; humorously yet also rendered quite creepily, the Store alters the entire culture of the town. The Store is almost perfect as either Swiftian satire or stand-alone horror. In either case, The Store is one of the best horror novels of its decade.
Little's brand of satirical horror has never let up. He would revisit the successful formula from The Store with different cultural targets: for example, home owners' associations in The Association (2001) and charter schools and public education in The Academy (2008). While neither is as quite a perfect storm as The Store, like all of Little's work, they are compellingly entertaining reads.
However, while Little has strong intellectual geneses for the premises of his work, his true creative talent lies in his rendition of the visceral. From the innocuous to the nonsensical, Little crafts superior horror prose. The creation of truly nightmarish imagery is a difficult task to accomplish; and at times, Little's creation of such seems totally organic. Little is superior to his contemporaries not only in his objective descriptions but he goes one step further: he takes the time to render the subjective feelings of fear and repulsion within his protagonists. For example in The Town (2000), Little creates some memorable sequences. Within the novel, an old banya rests in a field behind a house. While I cannot remember what this banya looked like, years later I can still remember how these characters reacted and felt when each gazed upon it. Each character felt the overwhelming sense of evil emanating from it, and Little with adept prose successfully channels these feelings into his reader. Little's epilogue for The Return (2002), an account of Zane Grey writing in his cabin in isolation in Arizona, is one of the most beautiful sequences that the author has ever written. It is also one of his creepiest. In fact, reading The Return is one of two times in recent memory that I can actually remember my heart beating fast during certain passages. The other time is from another author which I will save telling for another day.
Plot-driven fiction is the norm with today's commercial fiction. While Little has clearly demonstrated the ability to create intricate plots with multiple twists and turns with likable characters, my two favorite novels by Little have very simple premises. The Return is certainly one while the other is The Resort (2004). The Resort takes the simple premise of a family visiting an all-inclusive resort for a vacation. Not long after the family arrives, the shit hits the fan. The idea of a pleasure vacation takes a perverse and horrific turn, and the novel escalates in its depravity, its violence, and its scares. A perfect blend of signature Little horror, both from the innocuous to the nonsensical. In one sequence the mother from the family peeks out of her hotel room to witness the groundskeeper at work. The groundskeeper notices her gaze. He responds by doing a little dance. The dance isn't lewd; the groundskeeper doesn't turn into a werewolf; and the sky does not darken into a chasm. It's just a little dance, and it's an extremely creepy sequence. In a bout of furious reading, I had to finish The Resort as I couldn't, at times, believe what I was reading. I've since then read it many times as I have The Return.
Little's command of third-person, omniscient narration is evident by reading any of his work. Little has changed his style from time to time. His 2005 novel, Dispatch, shows his rare foray into the difficult first-person narration. Considering the limitations of the technique, Dispatch was a serious commercial risk for Little. I have no idea how successful it is amongst readers, and while it is not my favorite Little novel, Dispatch is admirable in both its conception and execution. The House (1997) employs an interesting design: alternating chapters, each focal on a specific character. All characters are tied to the titular house, and by the novel's climax all characters and events are tied together. The House, more than likely, will be remembered for containing perhaps Little's most perverted and transgressive imagery, however.
Bentley Little publishes a novel about once a year. The last novel of his that I read was The Academy back in 2008 shortly after its publication date. I haven't really flipped out over a Little novel since The Resort. I missed reading his 2009 novel, His Father's Son, although I do have it currently sitting at the side of my bed and am fairly certain I will read it soon-ish. I did, however, over the Christmas holidays finish reading his latest work, The Disappearance (2010). Here we go:
Gary and Joan are boyfriend and girlfriend. Along with their friends from UCLA (where all are attending), the group takes a trip into Nevada for the Burning Man festival: for one week out in the desert a makeshift community of artists and craftspeople meet and the event culminates with the burning of a large wooden effigy, a la The Wicker Man. This is a cultural event with which I am unfamiliar, but I get the jist. On page sixteen, Joan disappears. Here is an excerpt of Little's prose prior to Joan's disappearance:

Joan was no longer Joan. She was a button-eyed, life-sized rag doll lying unmoving amid the bloody bodies of his slaughtered friends. Two bansheelike shapes emerged from the fog enveloping the outskirts of the scene and picked up the huge doll. Her arms and legs flopped limply as the cloaked and hooded figures lifted her over Brian. His neck had been slit, and both his eyes and his mouth were wide open. Next to Brian, the bodies of Reyn and Stacy were little more than pulped meat.

Gary tried to scream, but only a tiny puff of air was expelled from his mouth. The air became visible, a round vibrating sphere. It darkened, lengthened, grew wings, then turned and attacked him, a chubby vampiric bat with sharp fangs and cold pinprick eyes. He tried to scream again, and the bat flew into his mouth, forcing its way down his throat, the rubbery winged body disgustingly tactile.

Though he was gagging and choking, he saw through teary eyes that Joan was no longer a rag doll but a little girl, and she was crying and struggling, trying to get away from her mysterious kidnappers. In the background, in the fog, the Burning Man was walking, its limbs, body and head ablaze as it moved in herky-jerky, stop-motion animation away from the carnage that was Black Rock City.

Then all was white.

Then all was black. (13-14)

Classic Little prose. Wonderful. I was flipping out and was not even through reading the exposition for The Disappearance.

The exposition for The Disappearance ends around, say, page twenty-four. I sensed with Little's efficient use of exposition and his initial imagery, this was going to be the work of a commercial writer at the peak of his talent. For the subsequent three hundred and seventy pages or so, it became painfully evident to me that this was not the case.
An interesting question, one which I cannot expound upon too much here, is to gauge the effect of our nation's current economy and climate upon the art that it is producing. Is there any correlation between people's fiscal conservatism and fearful nature towards any financial risk and the art which we are producing? I've noticed this considerably in commercial cinema of the last few years. While I've seen quite a bit of it, I rarely write about it. I much prefer to devote my time writing and celebrating the cinema where risk-taking is the norm. I've only noticed this recently with contemporary fiction. Are our artists sticking to tried-and-true, sellable formulas for success? I cannot answer this question with any certainty, but I do know that Little's The Disappearance is plodding, wholly conservative, and at times, very pedestrian.
I rarely read one book at a time; and when I took a break from The Disappearance and picked up another, truth be told, had its author not been Bentley Little, then I would have never finished it. Once Little begins his plot, there is too much time devoted to his characters engaged in tedious dialogue, and when they do act, it is always towards an unsatisfying goal: a long drive, a missed lead in the mystery, or some mundane task. No fear is generated at all (although a couple of early sequences are very good). To be fair, Little picked as the source for his antagonists a very touchy subject, one which most readers will have a strong opinion. Little doesn't side with any popular opinion, but his reticence to show his preference for any opinion doesn't come off as fair: it just appears as if he doesn't want to offend any of his readers. None of the intellectual ideas or social criticism, often ripe in Little's prose, is stimulating or interesting. I blazed through the final twenty pages, mostly skimming its predictable finale.
In conclusion, do not let The Disappearance be the first novel read by Bentley Little. I will never abandon this author, even if his next ten books are total shit. (This outcome is highly improbable.) However, if you think my opinion is full of shit, then please leave a comment below or...as I always encourage, make up your mind for yourself and purchase The Disappearance and other Little work here. This link also serves for reference for the quote above and its parenthetical notation.

L'Aldilà (1981)

"It's the most fascinating game: life, death," says Lucio Fulci. "What is more intriguing than death defied? The dead stay dead in police films and TV shows, but the dead returning from the grave are a beautiful mystery all religions have somehow contemplated. I'm not talking about the slaves of Haiti or some magical tradition, I'm taking about God and religion.
"You have examples of living dead in the Bible or the Koran; stories about spirits returning to their own world, as if refusing whatever future lies beyond death." (Shock Masters of the Cinema, ed. Loris Curci, Fantasma Books, Key West, FL, 1996, p. 68.)Lucio Fulci's 1981 film, (...E Tu Vivrai nel Terrore!) L'Aldilà is about a hotel in Louisiana under which is one of the seven doorways to hell. Liza (Catriona MacColl) has inherited the hotel from her wealthy and estranged uncle and she is determined to fix the old hotel up and make it a commercial success. The doorway to hell, unfortunately, is going to be a hindrance.

The beauty and creativity of L'Aldilà are hidden behind its commercial veneer which often comes dangerously close to obscuring it. Its flaws are legion. As with his previous Zombi 2 (1979), for example, L'Aldilà suffers from an extremely inefficient use of exposition. L'Aldilà begins with a beautifully-shot, monochromatic flashback sequence (photography by Sergio Salvati), set sixty years prior to its present day. During this sequence, an artist living in the hotel is lynched by the locals for being a warlock. He begs for mercy as he warns also of the hotel housing a doorway to hell. His corpse is sealed in the basement. During this opening flashback sequence, a woman is also glimpsed in one of the hotel rooms reading from the Book of Eibon (readers of fantastic fiction should be aware of this allusion), and the book describes the doorway to hell. This woman character later reappears in the present day setting, having not aged at all and now completely blind. Her reappearance is one Fulci's most audacious and powerful compositions: set on one of the long bridges going over Lake Pontchartrain, the young woman stands with her dog, blocking Liza's vehicle from proceeding. [Incidental note: I've just recently driven on the new expressway, erected after Hurricane Katrina, connecting Slidell, La. to New Orleans. I must have driven across this same stretch where this sequence was shot hundreds of times since my youth. Why this shot is so disorienting is during the myriad times traveling it, it has never been empty of cars. The bridge is vast and expansive and is often a bustling thoroughfare. Free from cars, the bridge appears desolate and ominous. The composition of the young blind woman and her animal make them appear as gatekeepers at a crossing. Bridge imagery is very powerful in Fulci's work.] However, the young woman's reappearance is seriously undercut, because of Fulci's poor treatment of her character during the flashback sequence: her face is often obscured behind a book or she is arbitrarily framed in a shot. The only real link to identifying her character are her eyes: from the hazy, monochromatic shot of actress Cinzia Monreale's beautiful eyes to her new ones, totally opaque. As a character's reappearance, the sequence is haunting; but to an initial viewer, it is difficult to see her character as actually reappearing.

David Warbeck plays Dr. John McKay and his character suffers from an annoying flaw typical to horror cinema. As a physician, his character must be exclusively logical and rational in his thinking. Typically, at some point in the film, the character in the horror movie who keeps insisting that there is a rational explanation for escalating horrific events, eventually accepts the source of the horror (as in L'Aldilà , yes, there is a gateway to hell and yes, it is blown wide open.) Warbeck's character goes way beyond the threshold of acceptance: almost until the end of the film, he still is incredulous, despite everyone, including the viewer, seeing otherwise. Not to forget to mention the pacing in L'Aldilà : Warbeck's character has plenty of time to investigate the odd goings on, because the overwhelming majority of the film is one long build-up to its ending, punctuated at times by a seriously over-the-top gore scene. As a piece of traditional horror cinema, L'Aldilà is clearly daft and clumsy and fails at several levels (exposition, characterization, and pacing.)

But I rarely see films this way. Here is Fulci's description of L'Aldilà :

"What I wanted to get across with that film was the idea that all of life is often really a terrible nightmare and that our only refuge is to remain in this world, but outside time. In the end, the two protagonists' eyes turn completely white and they find themselves in a desert where there's no light, no shade, no wind...no nothing. I believe, despite my being Catholic, that they reached what many people believe to be the Afterworld.
"I'd like to emphasize that I wanted to make a completely Artaudian film out of an almost inexistent script by Sacchetti and working with me was the same crew that had done Zombi 2 and which did my other five so-called 'historicized' films: Salvati as director of photography, Franco Bruni as cameraman and Lentini as architect. An extraordinary crew! Also, we got on marvelously with Fabrizio De Angelis, a producer from the Fulvia film Company, who concerned himself solely with how to sell the film in the best possible way. He never came bothering us and left us free to do what we wanted; that's why I was able to make this Artaudian film, harking back also to an old western of mine: Le colt cantarono la morte e fu: tempo di massacro, a western that went beyond time and space." (from Spaghetti Nightmares, ed. by Luca M. Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta, Fantasma Books, Key West, FL, 1996, p. 60.)

Perhaps not lost in L'Aldilà is Fulci’s sensitivity to detail with his creativity. The film truly begins with a painting. The artist, holed up in the hotel until the lynch mob descends upon him, is putting the finishing touches on his canvas. It is only during the final sequence of the film that the viewer recognizes the landscape in the painting. Also, it only becomes clear during the final sequence of the film what happens to the characters when they witness this landscape. The artist in the initial sequence, however, seems untouched by what he is recreating with his painting (this is an amazingly provocative yet obscure concept towards artists). There is a scene when the young blind woman, who reveals herself to Liza as Emily and is portrayed by Cinzia Monreale, senses the painting near her. She cannot see it but is aware of what it depicts; and when she touches it, her hands begin to bleed. A warning? A brilliantly creepy scene follows later when Emily is confronted by visitors out of the doorway to hell. A hellish stigmata? A symbol for those who have been touched by the doorway (Liza’s hands begin to bleed also later in the film.)? The painting is a mystical and cryptic motif, not easily digestible. Rarely is supernatural and fantastic cinema so subtle and sensitive in this respect.

Less subtle yet equally sensitive is the focus that Fulci puts upon his characters’ eyes. Everyone is familiar with the saying that “the eyes are the window to the soul,” and this sentiment resonates throughout L'Aldilà . In fact, Fulci prefers close-ups on his characters’ eyes more than on their faces. What is focal is absolutely not what these characters are seeing--there is a wonderfully-rendered manipulative sequence in a cemetery with a child. When she opens her eyes at the end of the sequence, Fulci’s intentions are revealed.

Fabio Frizzi delivers another amazing score for a Fulci film. As it plays over the credit sequence, it creates such emotion and is more affecting than any gore or scare scene. Cinzia Monreale easily gives the most emotional performance and her character is the most intriguing and attractive. (In fact, Catriona MacColl as Liza is the main character of Dardano Sacchetti’s traditionally-scripted narrative. I prefer to see Monreale’s Emily as the main character of Fulci’s “Artaudian film.”) Interestingly, the violent, gore scenes really show Fulci’s sadistic side: the lynching during the beginning is extremely brutal, punctuated by zoom shots on the wounds. Not to forget to mention that Warbeck’s character hits a crack shot with his pistol to the head of a child--easily the most repellent and violent scene in L'Aldilà ’s final act.

By the way, there are zombies in L'Aldilà . I first saw this film well over twenty years ago on a dupe of a Japanese VHS. I purchased a DVD from EC Entertainment (from where these screenshots are from) over a decade ago. Much better DVD versions have followed in the ensuing years with more supplements and better audio and video. I decided to give the old disc an spin and expected to revisit an old gore classic. L'Aldilà is still that, but over the years, I’ve never appreciated Fulci’s artistry, his contradictions, and his depth and sensitivity. Seeing L'Aldilà today is a totally different experience.

The Shock Labyrinth (2009)

Takashi Shimizu is talented. His best known film in the West is the traditional-styled and American remake, The Grudge (2004), of his own equally traditional Ju-on: The Grudge (2002) (with the latter a remake of his superior, non-linear video project, Ju-on (2000)). Like fellow countryman and filmmaker, Shinya Tsukamoto, Shimizu has a fertile imagination and grasps fringe and weird concepts in ordinary contexts. Shimizu's best work expands on these ideas: Ju-on (2000) (victims of extreme violence remain among the living as vengeful spirits, committing acts of extreme violence against the living, solely because they resent those around them); Marebito (2004) (a freelance cameraman spends his days walking and filming while what he sees with both his eyes and camera begin to change); and Rinne (2005) (a film crew attempts to re-enact events and make a film about a mass murder at the very location where the murders occurred). One of his most recent films, The Shock Labyrinth (2009), continues his trend. Imagine a spiral staircase. It is a powerful symbol for both time and space. Imagine the bottom of the stairs as the origin of a specific time and imagine its top as the ending with its climbing stairs as time’s progression. The concept as a whole can be seen by viewing the stairs from the side; however, by looking down upon the stairs from above, one only sees its top circle. How many actual steps there are remain hidden. Finally, imagine the spiral staircase collapsing upon itself: several circles of stairs lay in close proximity, almost jumbled. This collapsed spiral staircase, now as a symbol for both time and space, to put it in an understated manner, causes time and space to become jumbled. This is the shock labyrinth, serving as Shimizu’s narrative technique for his film (also a powerful visual motif within). Ken (Yûya Yagira ), now in his early twenties, returns to his childhood village. He reunites with his friends Motoki (Ryo Katsuji) and Rin (Ai Maeda). It begins raining. An unexpected visitor arrives, another childhood friend, Yuki (Misako Renbutsu). Ken’s exit from the village was known: his mother died which prompted his father to move the child away; and his return was expected by Motoki and Rin. No one knows where Yuki has been for several years or why she decided to return on that particular evening. Specific imagery within the film holds the key to its understanding--at first, disorienting and ridiculous: a child's backpack. This particular backpack is a stuffed bunny wherein its belly a child's keepsakes are found. Two straps connect the bunny's shoulders to its hind legs, and a child can wear it on his/her back. An endearing image, perhaps, but seeing the backpack absent from a child is just ridiculous: this item belongs in the world of adolescence, and it holds no particular significance to any adult. However, imagine a different association with the item: what if the stuffed-bunny backpack was associated with a specific person linked to a moment in childhood? When Ken, Motoki, Rin, and Yuki reunite this image has a specific association, tied to an incident that occurred during their childhood. This incident is returning to them in a powerful recall during the present night. Seeing events through these characters' eyes is deftly crafted by Shimizu. On this level, The Shock Labyrinth is a narrative and visual mystery.The Shock Labyrinth is a haunted house in an amusement park where the main characters visited as children. Now as young adults, they revisit the place. The Shock Labyrinth where the events and players of the past literally meet the players of the present to create an ending for each. The Shock Labyrinth was filmed and presented in 3-D (which adds an incidental (?) layer of meaning to the film). Unfortunately, I suffer often from baggy eyes and never had the inclination to view the film in that format (coupled with having little interest in the format). However, it is available in a two-disc set from Taiwan. It is English-subtitled and contains both a disc for the 3-D version (with glasses) and the non-3-D version. The set is encoded Region 3 and can be purchased here. Like most of Shimizu's best work, The Shock Labyrinth leans more towards the arthouse than the multiplex and merits more than one viewing. Also like most of Shimizu's best work, The Shock Labyrinth stands as a fantastic alternative to traditional contemporary cinema. The less said about the film the better--most definitely suited for those seeking the offbeat and unique.

The Sole Halloween Post

With Halloween 2010 shortly approaching, here are some thoughts towards scary experiences to be had outside of cinema. These would-be scary experiences are, however, undeniably, cinematic. With the right technological tools, atmospheric and visceral horror awaits in the virtual realm--that’s right...video games. I’m from seemingly the first generation of children to have access to home gaming systems, was a wee lad during the mall/arcade fad, and have continued to play video games throughout my whole life. Here are my thoughts on some of the best games for the Halloween season.

Dead Rising

While Capcom developed the influential Resident Evil series back in the 90s, the game that coined the phrase “survival horror” and introduced zombies as menacing enemies, it wasn’t until a few years ago that Capcom revisited the walking dead with startling results. Resident Evil was unfamiliar to zombie lore, at least in Romero-esque terms--it was about an elite group of soldiers who encounter a zombie outbreak in a large manor on the outskirts of a small city. Zombies shuffled sparsely throughout the mansion as there were other horrors awaiting. The real experience was yet to come.

Frank West is a freelance photojournalist who gets a scoop that something big is going on in Williamette, Colorado. He asks his helicopter pilot to drop him on the roof of the local shopping mall and to come and pick him up in three days. Not long after his arrival, the makeshift barricades quickly crumble and the zombies flood in--thousands of them. Frank has to get his story, help rescue the survivors, and most of all, survive 72 hours until his pick-up comes.

I think Capcom was going for a really fun experience with this game. Virtually everything within the mall is a weapon. I picked up a bowling ball and good-ol’ Frank reared his arm back and threw a strike, knocking over about eight to ten zombies. In the myriad clothing stores, Frank can try on and change outfits, some really outlandish. Running around and playing with the various stuff and exploring stores is a lot of fun.

I don’t think Capcom realized how truly bleak this game is. Although there are plot missions which drive the main narrative of the game, the majority of Frank’s time is spent rescuing survivors. And it’s a bitch. In one specific encounter, Frank meets a woman crying alone in a jewelry store (of course, hundreds of hungry zombies parade outside, chomping at the bits). The story she tells Frank is more than a little unsettling. As Frank escorts his survivors to safety, watch closely as one zombie attacks a survivor, seemingly eight more come to munch. If Frank doesn’t move quickly, then the gamer is treated to a truly stomach-turning, survivor death scene. There are also about ten to twelve psychopaths who Frank can encounter most of whom are holding survivors as hostages.

Frank’s seventy-two hours is a truly intense experience. Not a whole lot of time to goof off. Certainly, Dead Rising is the closest experience to a George Romero film.

Condemned: Criminal Origins

Ethan Thomas is an FBI agent on the trail of a unique serial killer--one who targets other serial killers. During the game’s initial investigation, something goes wrong and Thomas gets set up. He has to flee from the FBI and uncover the identity of Serial Killer X to clear his name. Condemned: Criminal Origins is definitely not Silence of the Lambs.

Thomas visits some of the darkest and scariest places ever during his investigation. Walk around a corner and some drug-addicted thug waits to rack a steel pipe around his head. Although Thomas has the rare access to firearms, the majority of combat in Condemned is very intense melee combat. Every fight (and there are a lot of them) feels like a fight for life.

The atmosphere of Condemned is beyond equal. Thomas visits a school which is eerily reminiscent of the one David Hemmings visited in Dario Argento’s Profondo Rosso. During a visit to a dilapidated fashion store, take a peek at a few of the mannequins--they also look eerily similar to a doll scene in Profondo Rosso. I can safely say that none of these places, if they truly existed in the real world, would ever be visited. Hellish is an apt description.

The Silent Hill Series

The original Silent Hill game appeared shortly after the original Resident Evil and surpassed it in terms of pure horror. The series revolves around the titular town and the bizarre curse which surrounds it. In terms of fear created, a true sense of isolation, and a tension-filled atmosphere, few games have topped the Silent Hill series.

The original Silent Hill game involved a simple premise but an effective one--a father wakes from a car crash on the outskirts of Silent Hill. His young daughter who was accompanying him is nowhere to be found. All alone, he must enter the fog-ridden town and find her. The streets are totally devoid of any human presence.

While the series of games has wavered in quality, the atmosphere, music, and sense of isolation has remained constantly effective. Silent Hill is melancholy and sad while at the same time being fiercely frightening and extremely intriguing. Definitely the most dream-like horror series ever.
　
Postscript

I tried to whip this post up this afternoon to really update my blog. I wanted to take a break from writing, because as I sit writing this, I’ve seen nothing in terms of cinema (my primary blog topic) worth writing about. The passion that I once had for cinema has diminished in the last few months. I’m certain, however, that I’m a film or two away from finding the one that will re-ignite my passion--something really cool. I’m still kicking and will get back around to more consistent posting. Finally, there are plenty of other cool games worth mentioning. These are just a few that came to mind. Happy Halloween to all.

Shivers (1975)

This post is part of the Cronenberg Blogathon, hosted by Tony Dayoub at his blog, Cinema Viewfinder. Click the link and check out his work and, of course, the other submissions.

Shivers did start with a dream I had about a spider that emerged from a woman's mouth at night while she slept. The dream was very casual. It wasn't a horrific dream at all. It was just "Oh yeah, the spider that lives in her mouth." It seemed that the creature just lived there, inside her. It would come out at night, go round the house and go back into her mouth. Back into her body. During the day she knew nothing about it. Afterwards, on reflection, I thought, "My God, that image is really giving a physical presence to the idea that things go on within us which are strange and disturbing." Also, it seemed the spider in some way gave her life when she was awake. Embodying that in an insect or creature was really the unique thing about the dream. That was really the crystal at the centre of what became Shivers. (43) Shivers, written and directed by David Cronenberg, is set almost wholly in Starliner Towers, only twelve minutes away from Montreal, on Starliner Island in isolation. A slide-show sales pitch plays behind the credits, detailing the amenities which the apartment complex has to offer. It is a small world unto itself. Janine (Sue Petrie), a Starliner resident, is experiencing marital problems with husband Nicolas (Alan Migicovsky) who has grown extremely distant and cold towards her. Meanwhile on a upper floor, an older man assaults a very young woman in an apartment. The older gentleman is fixated upon her stomach. He opens it and burns the young woman's insides with acid. The police arrive to investigate the death. Doctor Roger St. Luc, Starliner Towers' resident physician, discovered the young woman's corpse. Dr. St. Luc was summoned to the apartment by his old teacher at medical school, Dr. Emil Hobbes (Fred Doederlein). Hobbes is the older gentleman who attacked the young woman. He has killed himself, as well. "Roger," says Lynn Lowry's character, who plays Roger's nurse and lover, "I had a very disturbing dream last night. In the dream, I found myself making love to a strange man. Only I'm having trouble, you see, because he's old...and tiny. And he smells bad, and I find him repulsive. But then he tells me that everything is erotic. Everything is sexual. You know what I mean? He tells me that even old flesh is erotic flesh. Disease is the love of two alien kinds of creatures for each other. Even dying is an act of eroticism. That talking is sexual. That breathing is sexual. And even to physically exist is sexual. And I believe him. And we make love beautifully." Shivers is Cronenberg's debut feature-length film as a professional filmmaker. Despite the film being thirty-five years old, it undoubtedly is still very much shocking and provocative. From the idyllic modern setting of Starliner Towers, its residents present the diversity of civilized folks of both genders in a wide range of ages, living in harmony, together. The original title of the film was "Orgy of the Blood Parasites" (35)--a wholly apt yet deceptive description. In the brief set-up which I detailed for the film above, all psychological and physical problems, abnormalities, manifestations, etc., all result from the presence of a parasite. As the parasite infects one resident that resident infects two who infect two more and etc. Their actions become violent, perverse (-ted), and sexual. David Cronenberg offers his insights:

The standard way of looking at Shivers is as a tragedy, but there's a paradox in it that also extends to the way society looks at me. Here's a man who walks around and is sweet: he likes people, he's warm, friendly, articulate and he makes these horrible, diseased, grotesque, disgusting movies. Now, what's real? Those things are both real for the person standing outside. For me, those two parts of myself are inextricably bound together. The reason I'm secure is because I'm crazy. The reason I'm stable is because I'm nuts. It's palpable to me. ¶ The older you get, the more children you have, the more accepted you become in your society and the more a part of the establishment you become, the more tenuous the grip on your 'insideness' is. Your awareness of yourself is driven deeper because the layers or veneer of civilization become thicker and thicker, but inside you know. I'm just much more in disguise. There's a strength to be taken from that. There's also a certain sadness at the same time. (50-51) Roger's old teacher (and perhaps mentor) Dr. Hobbes has a wonderfully allusive name which hides much of the film's philosophical background. Cronenberg, a serious court jester of cinema, is not content with just exploring philosophical ideas but contrasting them: those with a cursory knowledge of Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche will see quite a bit of his philosophy, as well. The film is by far not totally cerebral: it's quite organic. Cronenberg presents philosophical ideas and questions or rejects them. The genesis for the creation of the parasites is a wonderful perverse joke which reflects this. I don't know where these extreme images come from. It seems very straightforward and natural and obvious to me as it happens. Often they come from the philosophical imperative of a narrative and therefore lead me to certain things that are demanded by the film. I don't impose them. The film or the script itself demands a certain image, a certain moment in the film, dramatically. And it emerges. It's like the philosophy of Emergent Evolution, which says that certain unpredictable peaks emerge from the natural flow of things and carry you forward to another stage. I guess each film has its own version of Emergent Evolution. It's just like plugging into a wall socket. You look around for the plug point and, when you find it, the electricity is there--assuming that the powerhouse is still working. That's as close to describing the process as I can get. (41) Shivers is driven by raw energy from an extremely fertile and creative mind; and the film runs with subversive, perverse, and wicked themes and imagery. (Imagery at times is evocative of Pasolini's Salo, made and released around the same time.) Subtle sexual imagery like Lowry getting rebuffed by a preoccupied Roger only to disrobe in front of him while he handles an important phone call to the taboo--Roger opens the door to witness an older man who introduces a young woman as his daughter who then embrace. In another brilliant brief sequence, Roger encounters a man and a nude woman tussling in the hallway. He points his revolver at the couple but he cannot discern whether one or both is infected; whether they will lose interest in each other and attack him; or whether they're having kinky fun. Roger's reaction is ambiguous but interesting. It's an at-times rough-looking film but also has some very creative compositions. Indisputably, Shivers is one of the best horror film debuts, ever. All parenthetical numbers that follow facts or quotes represent page numbers from Cronenberg on Cronenberg, edited by Chris Rodley, Faber and Faber, London, 1992.