Tanz der Kürbiskӧpfe (1996)

I have a fascination about Andreas Bethmann’s late-90s, S.O.V. horror film, Tanz der Kürbiskӧpfe (literally, Dance of the Pumpkinhead) (1996). 

Tanz begins with two dudes sitting by a moonlit fire and drinking beer, under a tree where a decrepit Jack O’ Lantern sits above.  They start bullshitting and are visited by an old man who stops by their fire and is welcomed with a beer.  The old man tells them a story, probably an evil legend, about the location where they are sitting.  Cut to a dungeon where a young woman is bound in chains, and a mysterious figure brandishing a spiked dildo defiles her.  After the credits, a daylight sequence begins in a cemetery where a junkie kneels at the foot of a grave to have a fix.  He is accosted by the old man from the campfire scene at the beginning of the film.  The junkie cooks, fixes, and passes out; and Tanz cuts to the bus stop where a young man passes and notices a sexy woman waiting.  He stops to linger at her; the camera strobes; and he has a fantasy about the woman:  she gyrates slowly in her underwear before spilling blood out of her mouth.  The young man goes back to his house and reads a pornographic magazine.  His girlfriend arrives, presumably from work, and the two have an argument, resulting in the young man leaving.  Cut to the street during nighttime and a young couple emerges.  One of the young men from the opening campfire scene appears with his girlfriend and he is carrying a pumpkin on his shoulder.  They have costumes on, as it is Halloween.  They each drink a bottle of beer in the street.  The young woman has to take a piss, so the couple ducks into the cemetery.  The young man puts the pumpkin on top of the wall.  The young couple pisses in each’s respective spot, and while their pissing is going on, a skeleton in the cemetery emits smoke from its eyes and mouth.  This smoke possesses the pumpkin on the wall of the cemetery, and the pumpkin becomes a Jack O’ Lantern.  It flies around the cemetery and finds the junkie at the base of the grave.  The junkie wakes up and is promptly decapitated.  This is just the beginning…

I believe in order to appreciate Tanz, as a prerequisite, one has to love weird cinema, be willing to cross the S.O.V. threshold, and relax a little bit when anything amateurish or logic-defying occurs on screen.  I met this criteria years ago, and as a reviewer, I feel Tanz is my bread and butter.  Tanz der Kürbiskӧpfe feels like Andreas Bethmann’s homage to John Carpenter, in the same way a wayward son is towards his distant father.  The campfire scene is reminiscent of the opening scene of The Fog (1980) where John Houseman’s Mr. Machen tells an evil legend which unfolds over the course of the film.  The music of Tanz seems a synthesis of Carpenter’s scores for both The Fog and Halloween (1978) except the score for Tanz is more ambient and removes the rhythmic tempo of Carpenter’s scores.  There is a lo-fi elegance to the scenes where the possessed pumpkin flies around:  against the grainy backdrop of the video quality, the camera glides around the tombstones, accompanied by the score.  The pumpkin is actually in the foreground of the screen, somehow mounted to the camera.  In an amazing scene, almost an exegesis of Bethmann’s screenplay, a man (presumably this is Bethmann) sits in front of his television in his apartment watching Carpenter’s Halloween.  There is a knock at the door, and the man answers, greeted by a door-to-door salesman selling sex toys and pornography.  The young man buys a videocassette, and the salesman ascends the stairs of the housing complex.  He enters the door of a darkened attic where he encounters his death.  This meandering route to arrive at a gruesome murder scene is Bethmann’s deus ex machina.  In fact, the junkie in the cemetery is only present in the film to fix and pass out to awaken at night to become a victim. 

I also love the amateurish scenes in Tanz.  When the old man receives his second beer during the opening campfire scene, he toasts the two gentlemen and also to the camera.  When the sexy woman from the bus stop gyrates during her fantasy sequence, she seems to be on the verge of busting out laughing before the blood spills from her mouth.  The young girlfriend, abandoned at home by her boyfriend, is visited by the Jack O’ Lantern in a sublime scene.  She defends herself from an attack with a butcher knife but as she is stabbing, she is grinning, perhaps at the thought a pumpkin is attacking her.  The dungeon sequence where the bound woman is defiled with the spiked dildo would be offensive or provocative, if only for the fact that the special effects look like a Barbie doll set.  Despite being amateurish, however, the majority of the special effects in Tanz are quite good and credible. 

I can see myself watching Tanz der Kürbiskӧpfe during Halloween.  Tanz is also the kind of film that is only going to interest those who seek it out.  For those that do, have fun.

The Phantom of Soho (Der Phantom von Soho) (1964)

The Phantom of Soho (Der Phantom von Soho) (1964) is an above-average Krimi film. (Krimi refers to a genre of German mystery films made primarily in the 1960s, set in London, and based upon the novels of Edgar Wallace and, to a lesser extent, his son, Bryan Edgar Wallace.)  While I have not yet seen a great Krimi film, I have seen some very good ones; and The Phantom of Soho is one of those few:  admirable detail is given to the sets and costumes, giving an appearance of a very credible-looking 60s London; the English dubbing and the jazzy score by Martin Bӧttcher are well composed; and finally, there is a panache to the direction by Franz Josef Gottlieb, especially (and unsurprisingly) in the phantom’s kill scenes.  However, and again like most krimi films, Phantom suffers from poor characterization sacrificed towards its formulaic plot.  Its story never allows for a particularly good performance; and when Phantom is not enticing the eyes, its talky bits become repetitive and dull.

The Phantom of Soho, based upon the story by Bryan Edgar Wallace, concerns the titular area in London, where a group of important men, like members of Parliament, are being killed by a knife-wielding phantom in its dark, shadowy alleys.  A cabaret located in the area is seemingly focal to the killings where many of the important gentlemen are seen shortly before their murders.  Not only are all of the murders linked to the doings at the cabaret, but the victims themselves are linked to an event in the past.  Chief Inspector Hugh Patton (Dieter Borsche) and Sergeant Hallam (Peter Vogel) are on the case.

Most of the characters in Phantom are pawns in service of the story:  nearly all are interchangeable and have no weight until the drama determines his/her function: red herring; genuine suspect; or investigator.  Two of the best characters are a mystery writer named Clarinda Smith (Barbara Rütting) and a pretty photographer at the cabaret named Corinne Smith (Helga Sommerfeld).  Phantom begins with Clarinda fireside with the head of Scotland Yard, Sir Phillip (Hans Sӧhnker), and their cozy fireside chat is interrupted by a phone call, detailing to Sir Phillip the finding of the first murder victim.  Over the course of Phantom, Clarinda appears auspiciously at key locations uncovering clues or in possession of insider information.  It is difficult to tell throughout the film whether Clarinda is playing Sir Phillip for a fool by extracting information from him to inform her new mystery novel or whether she is a genuine suspect or a budding amateur sleuth.  The screenplay of Phantom by Ladislas Fodor does not really flesh out her aspects of the story.  Helga Sommerfeld who plays the pretty photographer Corinne is as charismatic and captivating as krimi favorite, Karin Dor; yet she does not move beyond eye candy. Sommerfeld appears adept at comedy and drama in her few scenes. Unfortunately, Corinne appears early on and disappears just as quickly, not so much a character but a plot device.

The allure of Phantom is in its visuals and its atmosphere.  The smoky, dark alleys; the gliding, always moving camerawork (by Richard Angst); and the first-person camera kill scenes show this krimi is a definite distant cousin of the giallo and undeniable inheritor of noir cinema.  The cabaret sequences with their dance sequences are wonderfully risqué without being lewd.  There is an especially interesting and daring action sequence late in the film at a train yard.  Typically when I watch a krimi film, at some point I will zone out for a few minutes and miss a plot detail (which I have learned is not so much a big deal as plot holes are quite common in the cinema).  In Phantom, the plot is so mechanical it plays out with little need of focused attention.  When a little twist appears towards the motive of the killer, it results in either revenge or money.  I could have cared less.  I wished there would have been less talking and exposition and more focus on the characters and the visuals.  By no means is The Phantom of Soho a waste of time:  it can easily serve as representative of the genre; a standout; or a fine introduction to the krimi. 

Zombie Army (1991)

Zombie Army (1991) is an American shot-on-video horror film, directed by Betty Stapleford and written by Roger Scearce, filmed in Pennsylvania and Delaware (as per the credits).  It takes as its influence popular eighties zombie films, Redneck Zombies, Return of the Living Dead, and Day of the Dead (the former 1989, the latter two 1985).

Zombie Army begins with a classroom scene where a young scientist gives a lecture on the psychology of a serial killer, showing an adeptness at his subject.  In a nifty twist, at the conclusion of his lecture, a gentleman in a white coat reveals that he is not the lecturer’s colleague but his doctor; and this lecture has been a form of therapy for his patient.  The patient at the end of his lecture becomes violent and refuses to leave and is forcibly removed to the patients’ ward.  At the ward, the young scientist attempts to start a fire with one of his textbooks and audaciously tries to fuck one of the female patients in his room.  The orderlies escort both he and his consort to seclusion.  The instant the door closes upon the patient couple, the director of the asylum informs his workers that the government is shutting down the facility and moving the staff and patients to a new one. 

After the asylum is abandoned, soon after the United States Army arrives to prepare to occupy the facility.  Soldiers are divided into pairs and ordered to reconnaissance the facility.  An inventive pair of soldiers, with a fondness for bending the rules and smoking a little bit of weed, lumber through the asylum, playing with the patients’ abandoned toys and opening the seclusion room.  The smell emitting from the room is fetid, and the duo scatter while leaving the door ajar.  The patients locked in seclusion are still alive and are now free to roam to the facility with impunity.  The two soldiers, undaunted in their task, stop at the local tavern and pound a few beers.  They return to the facility to fuck around a bit more and are killed by the newly-loose patients.  The patient with the aptitude towards science rigs a makeshift reanimating unit and creates the first in an army of zombies.

Zombie Army is an artifact of its cinematic era; has a distinct charm in its DIY enthusiasm; and benefits from being truly focused and displaying its strengths well.  One has to bear in mind, at the time of the video release of Zombie Army, zombie cinema was scarce (unlike today’s saturated horror market).  Despite a huge desire from horror fans for more zombie films, Hollywood and its elk was silent.  Unsurprisingly, as the nineties progressed comics like DeadWorld, novels like Brian Keene’s The Rising (1999), and the emergence of new zombie films, like the famous trio of Japanese films, Wild Zero, Junk, and Versus (the former 1999, the latter two 2000) were heartily enjoyed by horror fans, opening the current tidal wave in today’s horror market.  Zombie Army, like a lot of DIY, shot-on-video films, was created by horror fans for horror fans.  In fact, almost the entire ethos of the direct-to-video horror genre was driven by horror fans who made films that they wanted to see.  Zombie Army does not shirk from the staples of the zombie genre:  the practical makeup effects are quite good.  The zombies have a blue tint to their faces, ala Tom Savini’s special effects work in Dawn of the Dead (1978).  However, one can see in Zombie Army the prosthetic detail in and around the eyes, making the zombie army look more like monsters.  There is plenty of intestinal chomping and exploding body parts, all of which look quite professional.  Once the army gets hip that soldiers go missing every time a unit patrols the hospital, they emerge with weapons and vehicles in tow, ready to do battle.  There is a standout scene where the army mows down a group of zombies in an underground tunnel with really excellent red lighting.  All of the weapons, vehicles, and fatigues look genuine and totally add an authentic feel to the film.  Zombie Army even includes a quite a sexy seduction scene where a hitchhiking soldier gets picked up by a sexy lady.  After becoming aroused, instead of fucking on a pile of trash, the two decide upon a classier place, the abandoned asylum.  The pair meet their end in the style evocative of the ending of George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968).

Zombie Army is recommended for fans of the original shot-on-video era of horror and old school zombie flicks.

Le foto di Gioia (1987)

Le foto di Gioia (aka Delirium) (1987) is an Italian thriller (or giallo, depending on how liberal you are with your labels) that no one seems to like.  Its participants are well-known to fans of the genre:  director, Lamberto Bava; cinematographer, Gianlorenzo Battaglia; screenwriter, Gianfranco Clerici; and actors Serena Grandi, Luigi Montefiori, Daria Nicolodi, and David Brandon, for example.  In short, Le foto di Gioia is a quite sleazy but standard thriller.  The requisite over-the-top kill sequences are present, but this film is more a Serena Grandi-centric showcase of eroticism.

Grandi plays Gioia, whose character I've read described as "a former porno actress (1)," "a former hooker (2)," and "a model for Pussycat, a skin magazine (3)."  In any case, Gioia is now the owner of the "skin magazine," and Le foto begins with a poolside scene at her house of a photo shoot involving up-and-coming model, Kim (Katrine Michelsen).    Her brother, Tony (Vanni Corbellini) "directs" the shoot by telling the models how to pose, while quiet Roberto (David Brandon) snaps the soon-to-be glossy pics.  Gioia's close friend and colleague (who also lives with her), Evelyn (Daria Nicolodi) handles the administrative duties.  A disabled young man, Mark (Karl Zinny), spies on Gioia with a telescope from the second story of the adjacent house.  He even calls Gioia and makes inappropriate remarks, but she only seems slightly perturbed.  At the end of the day's shoot, the group convenes for a drink.  Kim is the last to leave; and in a bizarre sequence leading to a very pedestrian murder scene, Kim becomes the first victim of the film.  Sales of the magazine skyrocket upon the discovery of the model's death; yet Gioia feels that this killer is targeting her in a very deadly game...

It does not take long after starting Le foto di Gioia to note the distinct lack of enthusiasm in this production.  I submit as evidence these two quotes from director, Lamberto Bava, in which each he makes a telling admission:

"I don't like thrillers, even though they say I can direct them.  After LE FOTO DI GIOIA, I had to make another one, but I find doing scenes where women get stabbed to death repugnant.  Dario Argento does it so well, but I feel like being sick as soon as I see the knife in the murderer's hand.  I reached my limit with that film, it's a genre that doesn't interest me.  I prefer fantasy.  To be a director, you have to enjoy what you do; the moment you stop enjoying yourself, you'd better stop, that's why I've stopped doing thrillers.  I'm better off doing something else. (4)

"At a distance of year, I can say that it was an error of mine to do a movie with Serena Grandi, who at that period was at the peak of her success in Italy.  Maybe I should have made a movie with a Black Mass, Serena on the altar with black goats, but I don't like eroticism.  I made a giallo I shouldn't have made.  If I was a professor and LE FOTO DI GIOIA was a composition, I'd give it a 6, 6+ [on a scale of 10]." (5)

Bava admits during his interview included as a supplement on the Media Blasters/Shriek Show DVD of Delirium that this film was made at the peak of Serena Grandi's popularity in Italy, and also that the production was centered around her.  (6)  He did note in the same interview that he did like some of the murder sequences (7); to which I agree, as they are very unique in conception.  For example, when Kim is murdered early in Le foto, the camera changes to a first-person, subjective point of view.  Cinematographer, Gianlorenzo Battaglia lights this point of view very much in the vein of Bava’s previous Dèmoni (1985).  The face of Kim changes radically, and her head is covered with a bizarre mask which resembles a giant eyeball.  Presumably, this point of view is to demonstrate the crazed mind of the killer.  Bava admits in his DVD interview that he was influenced by the paintings of Savini (presumably Tom Savini).  (8) These sequences are designed to have a surreal, disorienting, Buñuel-ian effect but unfortunately, they are done without any sensitivity.  In execution, the murder sequences appear almost silly.

Gianfranco Clerici’s script for Delirium is exceedingly easy to follow and mind-numbingly boring to boot.  Bava’s direction does not help much to either elevate or energize it.  For example, he paints almost all of his characters as red herrings in a very uninteresting fashion.  Daria Nicolodi’s character will make an offhand remark to Gioia and then brush it off as nothing.  Luigi Montefiori’s character has been hooking up with Gioia and then splitting town, but what is he hiding?  In a single take, Montefiori sits in front of a window in an office.  Behind him is the Colosseum.  He tells Gioia over the phone that he is not in Rome.  Really?

Since Le foto di Gioia was conceived with Serena Grandi in mind and the production centered towards her, it is no surprise that the film is truly a love letter to its voluptuous and beautiful star.   The film’s credits are intercut with a nude model pictorial of Grandi; the killer photographs all of his victims in front of a giant nude photo of Grandi; and in the office of Pussycat magazine, nude photos of Grandi hang from the walls.  Grandi has two love scenes with Montefiori, one in a bubble bath and one in a sauna:  in these sequences, the nearly seven-foot actor occupies less than a quarter of the frame.  In the quite sleazy finale, the killer rips the clothes from Grandi’s wardrobe nearly piece by piece to increase the ogling time for the viewer.

“Lamberto is a fairly good director but I only acted in BLASTFIGHTER and LE FOTO DI GIOIA to make money,” recalls Montefiori.  (9)  “I don’t think much of either film, though I’ll admit the former had more originality and style.” (10)  When asked if Le foto di Gioia was one of her least-liked films, Daria Nicolodi answers, “Yes.  I believe I love everything I do and all the experiences I live through, but these two films [the other, Paganini Horror] simply weren’t very interesting.” (11)  I’ve already detailed above what Bava thinks of the film.  In conclusion, given the talent involved, Le foto di Gioia is a missed opportunity to make a memorable thriller in the waning days of Italian horror cinema.  I love just about anything that these participants produce; but when they are not excited at all about the production, how are we to be?

I am, however, excited and proud to include this entry as part of the Italian Horror Blogathon being hosted by Kevin J. Olson at his blog, Hugo Stiglitz Makes Movies.  Kevin has written some fine pieces on Italian Horror this week and the previous contributions from other bloggers have been top notch, as well.  I highly recommend everyone to visit his blog and immerse him/herself in a little horror, Italian-style this Halloween season.

1.  Smith, Adrian Luther.  Blood and Black Lace The Definitive Guide to Italian Sex and Horror Movies.  Stray Cat Publishing, Ltd.  England.  1999:  p. 39.
2.  http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0093043/plotsummary?ref_=tt_ov_pl
3.  European Trash Cinema.  Vol. 2, No. 6.  Ed. Craig Ledbetter.  Kingwood, TX.  1992: p. 40.
4.  Spaghetti Nightmares.  Ed.  Luca Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta.  Fantasma Books.  Key West, FL.  1996:  p. 23.
5.  Della Mora, Max, Matteo Palmieri, Andrea Giorgi, and Manlio Gomarasca.  “The Lamberto Bava Interview.”  European Trash Cinema.  Vol. 2, No. 7.  Ed. Craig Ledbetter.  Kingwood, TX.  1993: p. 11.
6.  Interview: Lamberto Bava.  DVD Delirium: Photo of Gioia.  Media Blasters/Shriek Show.  January, 29th, 2002.
7.  Ibid.
8.  Ibid.
9.  Spaghetti Nightmares.  Ed.  Luca Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta.  Fantasma Books.  Key West, FL.  1996:  p. 109.
10.  Ibid.
11.  Spaghetti Nightmares.  Ed.  Luca Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta.  Fantasma Books.  Key West, FL.  1996:  p. 117.

El Hundimiento de la Casa Usher (1983)

El Hundimiento de la Casa Usher (1983) was the first Jess Franco film that I had ever attempted to watch.  About twenty years ago, I requested a print catalog from a film collector who advertised in the classifieds of either Fangoria, Gorezone or the like.  This particular collector (whose name escapes me after all these years) dealt in primarily obscure European horror cinema and offered VHS copies for sale.  He had about fifteen films for sale directed by Jess Franco (which, at the time, I thought was a large filmography, only to be oblivious to the fact that Franco had directed probably ten times that many films by that point!).  One of the titles for sale was The Fall of the House of Usher (bear in mind, that this was his listed title.  I cannot find a credible source which lists this title as an official release title).  Bypassing more exotic titles such as Vampyros Lesbos and Succubus, I decided to dip my little toe into the water with a film with very familiar source material.  When the tape arrived in the mail, sadly very little could be gleaned from its print:  it was a multi-generational copy; the imagery was washed-out and blurry; and the audio distorted with hums, hisses, and pops.  About five or six years ago, I purchased the region-one, Image Entertainment DVD of El Hundimiento de la Casa Usher under the title Revenge in the House of Usher and I have watched it three or four times over the last few days.  I also dipped into my library of arcane film knowledge and uncovered some very interesting tidbits about the production.

Alan Harker (Antonio Mayans), a young doctor, is summoned to the castle-home of Dr. Usher (Howard Vernon), Harker's former professor and colleague.  Dr. Usher is cared for by young Helen (Lina Romay) as Dr. Usher's physical health is failing along with him suffering bouts of mental incapacity.  Harker greatly admires his former professor, despite the fact that Dr. Usher adhered to some very controversial medical theories.  It would appear, at first blush, that Dr. Usher needs Harker's help with some medical experiments; but it soon becomes clear that Dr. Usher wishes to make a hefty confession unto someone who may understand his actions...

Revenge in the House of Usher has the potential to be a strong film in Franco's enormous filmography.  Franco really excelled at creating very moody and poetic cinema and he was especially adept at creating disorienting, other-worldly settings outside of the fantasy genre.  One of his best examples is Christina, princesse de l'érotisme (1973), where the main character encounters both real, corporeal people in the mansion that she is visiting; but she also encounters seemingly ethereal, unreal people also inhabiting the mansion.  Franco, unlike any other filmmaker, seamlessly is able to blend both types of encounters to make really sensuous and provocative cinema.  Lorna, the Exorcist (1974) works in the same way:  throughout the duration of the film, one never gets the sense that Lorna is completely "real," despite the fact that she is very present in familiar settings, like a crowded casino, or dreamily available in Lina Romay's bedroom sequences.  Usher has similar sequences:  during Harker's first night in the castle, he descends into the catacombs, where he encounters captive females, an imprisoned servant, and a spectral woman who all hint towards a malevolent past which Usher is hiding.  Later, in the final act of the film, Vernon's Usher, who has now lost his grip on classical reality, encounters his dead wife in a surreal encounter.  He also uncovers all of the women in the castle playing a taunting, child's game at his expense, which really undoes the belief that Usher is in control of anything going on in his life.  These dream-like sequences are the essence of Franco's artistic talent, and Usher has very strong scenes.

Unfortunately, El Hundimiento de la Casa Usher commits one of the cardinal sins of cinema, and I honestly believe it never recovers from this stigma:  the reuse of footage from Gritos en la noche (The Awful Dr. Orlof) (1961).  During the much-anticipated confessional scene between Usher and Harker, El Hundimiento de la Casa Usher cuts to lengthy clips of Franco's classic film.  As one could imagine, this use of the footage feels like padding and also feels like a really cheap, low-budget tactic.  It appears that Eurociné either co-produced or acquired the film after it was finished.  The company owned the rights also to the Orlof film (1); and additional scenes were filmed for the French version (2) (which is also the print on the Image DVD).  These additional scenes star Olivier Mathot as Morpho and Françoise Blanchard as Usher's daughter, Melissa.  These scenes are included, obviously, to make Usher an Orlof film.  (If I had to speculate, Mathot probably directed his scenes with Blanchard.)  With the exception of some festival showings, this print remained unreleased in Spain. (3)  I wish that El Hundimiento de la Casa Usher didn't contain these scenes.  I would have much preferred to have Vernon relay his confession to Harker in narrative form:  it would have allowed the expressive Vernon to convey his feelings of melancholy and guilt in a purer, more heartfelt form.

Finally, here is the most curious tidbit regarding Revenge in the House of Usher.  In an 1996 interview, Franco was asked "What would be the smallest crew you've ever used?" (4)  Franco responds:

"The smallest?  Let's see... I did the direction of photography myself in the 'Usher' film.  So one--I had an assistant for the camera.  I had someone for the makeup--two.  I had Mayans--three.  I had one more, more or less, for props and things. And Lina.  That makes four or five.  Five people."  (5)

Interesting to note in the vast filmography of Jess Franco, Usher has his smallest crew.  I find this very impressive.  Also, I really enjoy this film:  it's very moody and poetic in classic Franco style; and if one can appreciate the compositions, the disorienting vibe, and its somber tone, then it's well worth visiting.  Another film of artistry on the periphery.

1.  Bethmann, Andreas.  Jess Franco Chronicles.  Medien Publikations.  Tschechien, Czech Republic: 1999.  pp. 108-09.
2.  Obsession:  The Films of Jess Franco.  Eds. Lucas Balbo and Peter Blumenstock.  Graf Haufen and Frank Trebbin.  Munich, Germany:  1993.  p. 156.
3.  Bizarre Sinema Jess Franco El sexo del horror.  Eds.  Carlos Aguilar, Stefano Piselli, and Riccardo Morrocchi.  Glittering Images.  Firenze, Italy:  1999.  P. 133.
4.  "Interview with Jess Franco," by Kevin Collins.  European Trash Cinema Special #1.  Ed. Craig Ledbetter.  Kingwood, TX.  October, 1996.  pp. 27-28.
5.  Ibid.

El retorno del Hombre-Lobo (1981)

El retorno del Hombre-Lobo (Night of the Werewolf) (1981) is the culmination of a strong career in the fantasy genre for Paul Naschy.  While Naschy was often solely the screenwriter and performer on most productions, Night of the Werewolf afforded him the opportunity to direct himself as his most famous character, Waldemar Daninsky.  Utilizing very familiar themes from his past work, such as the heavy burden of history upon the present, tragic and doomed love, and the eternal battle between good and evil, Naschy creates with El retorno del Hombre-Lobo a very personal and special work in his filmography.

Unsurprisingly, Naschy is quite proud of the film.  In his autobiography, Memoirs of a Wolfman, he writes:

"El retorno del hombre lobo contains all the coordinates of my own life, fitting together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle:  the claustrophobic castle, the Gothic tombs, the ill-fated love affair, the menace of the undead, the ostracism of someone who is despised for being different and the all pervading shadow of death.  All of these elements go to make up my personality and my work.  Movies, even horror fantasy movies, can carry real depth of meaning because through fantasy we can convey a far deeper message than would appear possible at first sight." (Midnight Marquee Press.  Baltimore, Maryland.  1997. p.150.)

Night of the Werewolf begins in medieval times where Elizabeth Bathory (Julia Saly) is adjudged a witch, a Satanist, and a vampire and sentenced.  Her followers, including Waldemar Daninsky (Naschy), a werewolf under the control of Bathory, are sentenced to death before the royal court.  Cut to the present where lovely archeological students Erika (Silvia Aguilar) and Barbara (Pilar Alcón) are planning a special holiday trip to the Carpathian mountains.  At a fireside meeting on a dark and stormy night, Erika tells her professor that she has located the tombs of both Elizabeth Bathory and Waldemar Daninsky and intends upon traveling to the region to investigate the site.  She asks her professor if she may take a special talisman on her journey, a medallion bearing the demonic name of Astaroth, with the intention of performing a ritual at the grave of Bathory.  Her professor resoundingly says no, but Erika is channeling an evil vibe in her dreams and is determined to resurrect Bathory to all of her former glory.  Auspiciously, two dullards happen upon Daninsky’s crypt slightly before Erika, Barbara, and their friend, young Karen (Azucena Hernández) arrive in the region.  These two geniuses intend to loot the crypt’s contents for treasure.  One pulls the silver cross dagger from Daninsky’s heart, and the newfound crypt becomes their own...

I’ve seen a lot of Naschy’s cinema, and at first blush, one would think that El retorno del Hombre-Lobo is a retread of themes and stories from his previous films.  For example, think of the iconic opening of El espanto surge de la tumba (1973), where Alaric du Marnac (Naschy), a warlock, and his faithful servant, Mabille (Helga Liné), a witch and vampire, are adjudged by the royal court as criminals and executed for their crimes.  Later, during a present-day setting, the descendents of that past event are called upon from the grave by their evil ancestors.  The theme of tragic love is a strong and familiar one in Naschy’s cinema.  In El gran amor del conde Drácula (1973) (as in other films, for example), Naschy’s monster character may only find peace in death from the hand of a woman who completely loves him.  The appealing irony of this theme is through love life is worth living, but a happy life is impossible when a violent creature stirs also inside that same heart.  Finally, one can see the lasting influence of the Universal Studios’ classic, Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man (1943), in several of Naschy’s films, especially its classic final battle.  One needs only to look to Naschy’s previous La noche de Walpurgis (1971) as evidence.  El retorno del Hombre-Lobo contains all of these themes, and these themes are dramatized in sequences that eerily resemble their predecessors.

However, Night of the Werewolf really stands out from other Naschy work for this performance of Waldemar Daninsky.  Naschy is often praised for his athleticism and dedication to detail with his acting.  Rarely is kudos ever given for his emotive ability.  Naschy’s cinema is often talky, but Night of the Werewolf shows a judicious use of dialogue.  By this point in his career, Naschy was a veteran actor and he is able to bring a real sensitivity and tenderness to his Daninsky character.  For example, in a particular scene, Daninsky sits in front of a fire alone.  He is joined by his companion, an outcast who cares for Daninsky in his home, named Mircalla (Beatriz Elorrieta).  She is a beautiful woman who is horribly disfigured on the left side of her face.  Mircalla tells Daninsky that one of the young women will be able to free Daninsky from his curse.  He acknowledges the truth of what she says, and with a tender gesture, he rests his hand upon the left side of her face.  No long. heavy-handed, and drawn-out conversations.  Just quiet and intense character interactions.

Make no mistake, however, El retorno del Hombre-Lobo is a werewolf film; and Naschy is going to tear into quite a bit of ass during its running time.  If nothing else can be said about the film, it is so damn entertaining, well-paced, and handsomely-filmed.  I always giggle when Naschy as the werewolf grabs a rifle from an unsuspecting victims hands and breaks it in half before tearing into his victim’s jugular vein.  Who doesn’t love the sensuous imagery of the vampire women appearing at will upon the guests at the castle?  One also cannot forget the truly provocative imagery of Saly’s Bathory bathing in the blood of her victim.  El retorno del Hombre-Lobo ranks as one of the best of Spanish fantastic cinema.

I’ve seen Night of the Werewolf at least a dozen times and I will see it a lot more.  For those who have not seen it, check it out immediately (it was released on both DVD and Blu-Ray about six or seven years ago by BCI/Deimos).  For those who have seen it, Night of the Werewolf is worth revisiting, especially during this Halloween season.

Virus (Hell of the Living Dead) (1980)

Virus (Hell of the Living Dead) (1980) is Bruno Mattei's contribution to zombie cinema, following the commercial success of Dawn of the Dead (1978) and Zombi 2 (1979).  In the documentary, Hell Rats of the Living Dead (2002), included as a supplement on the Blue Underground DVD release of Hell of the Living Dead, Mattei intimates that Romero's seminal classic was his inspiration but that his take on the story would not be taken as seriously.  (1) Mattei's longtime creative partner and co-screenwriter Claudio Fragasso confirms that the screenplay for Virus changed much during shooting and reveals that, "The first draft was excellent and original, but it got mutilated because it would have been too expensive to make.  I'd conceived the idea of an entire Third World made up of an army of zombies against whom the armed forces of the industrialized nations would have had to fight.  In the end, sadly enough, although it was an excellent piece of work, the film turned out to be little more than an insipid imitation of Dawn of the Dead."  (2)

In its final incarnation, Virus is, at its heart, an episodic road movie, with strong episodes that make the film memorable and worth revisiting coupled with weak episodes that are detracting, boring, and overlong.  Its simple frame narrative involves a power plant in a Third World nation that suffers a contamination leak.  This contamination leak infects the population turning them into flesh-eating zombies.  A squad of four is dispatched (by the powers that be) to quell the menace, with Franco Garofalo's Zantoro character standing out.  Towards their mission destination, the four encounter a pair of foreign reporters, one of whom is comely Margit Evelyn Newton, who are in country studying the native culture and the subsequent outbreak virus currently infecting the people.  They reluctantly team up for the adventure.

The weakest episode of Virus begins promising.  Newton reveals to the group that she studied the locals for about a year and knows their customs very well.  She volunteers to scout the happenings at the local village to see if their group is welcome for some needed rest and relaxation.  Newton strips and covers herself in body paint.  At first blush, I thought this was an opportunity to see lovely Ms. Newton in her birthday suit, but unfortunately, as the sequence unfolds, Mattei utilizes the sequence to exploit one of his best commercial tools:  stock documentary footage.  "That movie [Virus]," explains Mattei, "was made in Spain and as there aren't any jungles there (laughs), we bought footage from a Japanese documentary."  (3)  The use of the documentary footage is almost Ed Wood-ian in its power, as it appears Mattei and company may have built the entire production of Virus around this footage.  The documentary footage is composed mostly of cultural rites, and most of the footage has a vintage, "Mondo Cane" feel to them.  A judicious use of this footage would have been welcome, but the sequence is beyond overlong.  One will easily nod off in between the cuts of Newton as observer and the various cultural rites unfolding in exacting detail.

The most famous sequence of Virus, perhaps, involves Franco Garofalo (a frequent collaborator with Mattei, see for example, La vera storia della monaca di Monza (1980) and L'altro inferno (1981)).  A group of zombies are seen by the group, shuffling down a hill and blocking the navigable path.  For whatever reason, the entirety of the group freezes and becomes oblivious as to what to do next.  Garofalo as Zantoro becomes ridiculously animated and begins to bait the group of zombies with nonsensical dialogue to entice the group to actually eat him.  As the group of zombies encroach upon Zantoro and get ready to feast, he reveals his baiting is a ploy and begins shooting the heads of the zombies at point-blank range.  For the first-time viewer of Virus, take note when Zantoro starts losing his shit and acting crazy, as the film is about to take a giant leap into quality entertainment.

The best sequence of Virus is a classic one of zombie cinema.  The group, closer to their destination yet have grown increasingly weary, find a dilapidated house and enter to take shelter.  The group splits up to search the house, and one of the soldiers finds a closet full of costumes.  The soldier mockingly puts on a ballerina’s tutu and a top hat and begins to dance around the house, alone.  No shit.  While he is playing alone, the soldier fails to note the rather sizable group of corpses on the ground in the basement:  a critical and fatal error in judgment.  Of note also in this sequence is a kitty cat found feeding with her previous owner (a scene which defies written description).  In between this beautiful nonsense, Mattei makes effective use of the classic setup:  the zombies begin a siege upon the house and the survival horror kicks in.

The final act of Virus is strong; and if Mattei had taken a serious approach to the subject matter, then I believe the final act is representative as to how it would have looked.  The group arrives at their mission destination.  The camerawork is strong as there is an overwhelming sense of dread over the location.  Mattei effectively uses the quiet atmosphere of isolation to heighten the subsequent (and inevitable) siege of horror by the zombies.  The use of Goblin’s score, here, also deserves mention.  By the way, does it sound familiar?  Mattei states that the production had no problem using Goblin’s score(s), “because we paid for the rights.  We have utilized music not only from Dawn of the Dead, but also Buio Omega/Buried Alive and the Luigi Cozzi film, Alien Contamination.”  (4)

I quite enjoy Virus but not as much as other Mattei cinema.  There is quite a bit of brilliancy within yet there is also a lot of boring bits as well.  For any student of the maestro, Bruno Mattei, however, Virus is essential viewing.

1.  Hell Rats of the Living Dead.  Directed by Gary Hertz.  9 minutes.  Included as supplement on DVD release of Hell of the Living Dead.  Blue Underground Entertainment.  Documentary date, 2002.  DVD date, 2007.
2.  Spaghetti Nightmares.  Ed. Luca M. Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta.  Fantasma Books. Key West, Florida.  1996:  p. 55.
3.  “An Interview with Bruno Mattei.”  European Trash Cinema.  Vol. 2, No. 5.  Ed. Craig Ledbetter.  Kingwood, TX.  1992:  p. 10.
4.  Ibid.