Film Reviews by NP

Is ‘Eugenie de Sade’ simply an excuse for Spanish Director Jess Franco to film as many shots of Soledad Miranda’s semi-naked body as possible? What do you reckon? Did he even need an excuse? Whether curled up in front of the fire, walking through the snow in a large hat and leather coat or sprawled out on the bed, Miranda (who plays Eugenie) is a true presence. Not just because she is stunningly beautiful. She exudes more than that. The fashions from Franco’s projects from this period (or many projects from this period) often strip anyone of dignity or appeal, but Soledad somehow rises above the red leather boots and the outsized shades etc, remaining captivating throughout. And mainly, as is proved here several times, she was a terrific, uninhibited actress.

Here Eugenie recounts the film’s story whilst lying broken in a hospital bed – horribly pertinent since Soledad was dead by the time of the film’s release. She relays her story to writer Atilla Tanner (Franco), who wishes to write a book about her father Albert’s life. He shadows her throughout the story, not condoning nor condemning her actions.

Albert Radeck de Fanvel (Paul Muller) is a writer of erotic books – when his daughter discovers one, it opens her mind to a new world of desire, and this is centred upon her father. They agree to go on a murdering spree, with Albert taking pictures whilst Eugenie commits the atrocities.

One such moment involves inviting a blonde Austrian hitch-hiker back to the family home, where a drunken evening brings on a selection of increasingly uncomfortable ‘games’. There is a definite sense of dread, because we are sure the girl will be murdered – but what form it will take isn’t revealed for a while, until things have become progressively perverse. All of this fuels their desire for one another.

This is rare for Franco in that the intended ‘eurotica’ is actually erotic. No ham-fisted fumblings here with the camera trying to keep up with things. When one of their victims is young, male and handsome (Paul, played by André Montchal), the inevitable happens, and Eugenie falls for him. Dad, who killed his wife for her unfaithfulness, is not happy.

One thing that separates this from many Franco films that are usually bathed in searing sunshine and exotic locales, is that this is set during the winter, and a pretty heavy one at that. It adds an extra element to the bleak unreachable debauchery of the father and daughter’s murderous escapades in what is often a three-hander: Miranda, Muller and Franco.

Only the ending lets things down a little. Low-key is one way of putting it. Like other such films, it doesn’t end, it just sort of stops, with (in this case) Franco as the last performer we see – and for all his skills as a director, his acting pales in comparison to everyone else on screen. A beautiful film, though, and probably the best showcase of Soledad Miranda’s talent.

This is a jazz-tastic, psychedelic Jess Franco film starring Stephanie Powers-alike Janine Reynaud as nightclub stripper and kinky ‘adult actress’ Lorna Green. The story begins focussing on her and doesn’t let up until the end. Franco centres on the statuesque former model in virtually every shot.

Like many such films, the specifics of the story are open to interpretation. To me, Lorna is either drifting into some mental abnormality, possibly as a result of her extreme lifestyle, or in fact is becoming under the influence of some demonic possession. She drifts in an out of reality and fantasy, and the audience is given no clue as to what is real and what is not. She is a sensuous, dangerous conflict of heady emotions, that girl!

Franco stalwart Howard Vernon (credited as Varnon) only features briefly in this maelstrom of exotic imagery. He has one fairly major scene, seducing the lovely Lorna, before being stabbed in the eye! The character of Pierce (Michel Lemoine) seems to exert some control over her. Some reviewers have speculated that he may be Satan, which is a possibility. In this, anything’s a possibility! It isn’t so much that it is incomprehensible, it’s more that Franco seems more concerned with communicating a series of images of unease, of psychedelic delirium, than anything that conforms to the limitations of linear story-telling. In that way, it succeeds.

‘Succubus’ was a financial success upon its release, despite having difficulties behind the scenes (one of the backers reneged on the project. Producer Pier A. Caminnecci agreed to finance the project, and pretty soon embarked on an affair with Reynaud).

This is the slickest Jess Franco film I have seen. In fact, the difference in production values between this and something like ‘Dracula Contra Frankenstein’ is so staggering, they seem like the work of two different directors. The actors, including a wild-eyed Klaus Kinski and a shifty-looking Dennis Price, look immaculate. Only the over-used footage of the Rio carnival betrays the less shiny quality of its spliced-in origins.

James Darren plays Jimmy Logan, a jazz musician who becomes obsessed with beautiful Wanda (Maria Rohm), whom he finds dead on a beach in Istanbul (this scene opens the film, with swathes of backstory told in flashback, narrated in film noir-ish style by Darren). We are then treated to a swirling, delirious cocktail of sex and horror intrigue, often threaded through with the image of a girl in furs who looks like a mannequin – there is one lengthy scene where she appears to seduce, torture and kill Price’s Percival Kapp whilst alternating between dream and reality. It is very weird, intoxicating and even more impressive because the fantasy is played without any dialogue.

One of my favourite characters here is the least complex. Rita (Barbara McNair) makes no secret of the fact that she adores Jimmy in spite of his infatuation with Wanda. McNair’s expressions of forlorn longing and subsequent dejection when she realises she has lost her love, are powerful, and we are relieved for her when she finally musters up the sense to make a dignified exit. However, she literally has the last laugh, as it is Rita who sings out the title song over the end credits, full of life ad gusto, which is more than can be said for her ex.

For such a delirious, jazzy cocktail of a film, it is Franco’s restraint that makes it work so well. His trademark zoom-ins are here, but used sparingly, and only to enhance a mood. Filtered camera effects also abound, but only in tone with what is revealed to be going on. I enjoyed ‘Venus in Furs’ very much for its consistent storyline (the twist at the end doesn’t make much sense, alas) and atmosphere. I also very much enjoy Franco’s tatty, less acclaimed works for opposite reasons.

Attractive, confident and haughty, Mrs. Julie Wardh (picturesque Edwige Fenech) has a plethora of men interested in her. Husband and lovers, some more depraved than others, pursue her in this heady, fast-moving chiller. What makes her increasingly fragile state of mind worse is the knowledge that she also appears to be haunted by a series of vicious killings. A coincidence? Her new lover, George (George Hilton) is somewhat intense. Could he have something to do with it all, do you think?

Otherwise known as ‘Next!’ ‘The Next Victim’ and ‘Blade of the Ripper’, this has acquired a reputation as one of the best giallo films, and it is not difficult to see why. The pace does not falter, it is very tightly written and the wonderful twists are delivered with expert ease, and don’t let up until the very end. The locations – as in many such productions – are mainly real, not studio sets, and as such are packed with colour and detail, from every rusted radiator to flaking window pane, and the lush expansive exteriors are never less than breath-taking. The direction, by Sergio Martino is faultless (at one point a letter, delivered with flowers to Wardh, reads: ‘Your vice is a locked room, and only I have the key’, which is also the (English) title of another of Martino’s giallo films).

For many films of this period, females are portrayed as pretty feinting screamers for pretty brave males to rescue, and yet here, Wardh has every reason for hysterics (Fenech is a legendary performer, due in part to this film – she has since become a prolific producer; her most recent film acting credit is in ‘Hostel 2 (2007)’) as she is given no respite in between scares and attacks. Crucially, the audience is entirely with her throughout, which makes the fact that she really doesn’t appear to stand a chance that much more powerful.

Child killings are the grisly subject of this Lucio Fulci Directed giallo. And he takes delight in some genuinely horrifying scenes.

A handful of vengeful men corner Maciara (Florinda Bolkan) in a graveyard and beat her with chains in probably the most disturbing set-piece I’ve seen in a giallo – and there have been a few. With unhurried deliberation, the blows are dealt slowly and viciously, followed by unflinching moments of blood emerging from new wounds. All this to the sound of triumphant ballads. After such prolonged suffering, you would expect Maciara to survive the ordeal – but no, after dragging her bloodied, broken body across the unforgiving heat of wasteland, she dies by the side of the road, for the most part unnoticed by passing vehicles. Horrifying indeed.

There is a carefully maintained sense of unease that permeates throughout the isolated Italian village where these horrors occur, and yet there’s a dark vein of … can I call it humour? … running through the more graphic moments in this film. Similarly, as the revealed miscreant is tipped loudly over a ravine, it’s probably a brave choice to continually cut to a close-up of his battered face being slowly smashed following every connection with the rock face he is tumbling down. Equally, the injection of more of the deeply inappropriately soulful soundtrack lends a perversion to his slow, violent death.

George Lazenby, in one of his first acting jobs since his solo stint as James Bond in 1969, here looks about ten years older, a lot thinner and less well-groomed. He is excellent as Franco, father to a little sweetheart called Roberta who is murdered. Lazenby has to share the spotlight with the sumptuously filmed streets of Venice, where most of the film is set, and Ennio Morricone’s relentless and sinister chanting soundtrack. The detailed, ornate architecture and glistening misty streets (also used to such good effect in ‘Don’t Look Now (1973)’ and 1989’s ‘Vampires in Venice’) make this one of the most atmospheric of giallo films. The cast of eccentric characters also add to the sense of heightened reality.

As a heterosexual male, I must point out Anita Strindberg (as Elizabeth Serpieri) and especially Dominique Boschero (as Genevra Storelli) as being stunning additions to the cast. It’s difficult to express an opinion on physical appreciation in what is in many ways an exploitation film without being seen to condone such exploitation. I would argue (at tedious length) that exploitation has existed sfor some time in virtually every film – especially mainstream, where anyone under the age of, what, 40 is invited to at least partially undress without unduly bothering any plot-line. Whether or not the approach to displays of flesh differs ‘now’, as opposed to ‘then’, is probably subject for a discussion elsewhere. In ‘Who Saw Her Die’, amongst other films, I like it.

This isn’t flawless – as often happens with giallo films, the pace slackens in the middle, but Lazenby’s increasing desperation keeps things ticking along. The unmasking towards the end and the reveal of the mysterious killer’s identity is satisfying. Recommended.

Way back on Monday 7th September 1981, amidst the police and hospital dramas, the light entertainment comedy shows and wildlife documentaries, the BBC transmitted the first of a two-part American TV Movie based on a story by Stephen King. I don’t know what its viewing figures were like, I am not aware of how critically acclaimed it was, but the following day, virtually everyone I knew was talking about it and how frightening it was. Two days later, after the final part aired, it was the only thing people were talking about. It was, as I remember, a phenomenon.

The story: The Marsten House, reputed to be haunted, has long been a source of morbid fascination for writer Ben Mears (an intense David Soul). It is based on the outskirts of the small town of Salem’s Lot, where Mears has returned after many years to write his latest book. Immediately he strikes up a closeness with Susan Norton (Bonnie Bedelia) and gets to know the characters who frequent the community, their relationships with one another and the stories they have to tell. Their lives are so meticulously intertwined that we are easily allowed into their world, into which enters Richard Straker, who is about to open an Antiques Shop there. Straker is played by James Mason, an actor of immense power. Charming, affable, elegant and capable of great evil, Straker is played to perfection. His partner, Mr Barlow, is spoken of in hushed tones, but never seen. Straker observes the peccadillos of the townsfolk from an amused distance, for he has bigger plans.

The first part of ‘Salem’s Lot’ puts the pieces into place. In the second, most of the characters die in a series of expertly handled horror set-pieces. The outbreak of vampirism results in wild-eyed, fanged children floating outside the window begging to be let in; a sick hollow-eyed gravedigger, Mike Ryerson (an incredibly sinister Geoffrey Lewis) falling from an upper story window and never hitting the ground; people rising from their graves with a familiar sickly pallor. It is difficult to imagine any of these set-pieces being handled better. Director Tobe Hooper keeps things sinister and uneasy, taking the situations from King’s book and transferring them seamlessly to screen.

When we eventually meet Mr Barlow, actor Reggie Nalder’s cadaverous features are well and truly plastered under whitening contact lenses, vampire teeth and Nosferatu-like prosthetics. He is a snarling, inhuman monster, used sparingly – perhaps too sparingly – but never without great effect.

‘Salem’s Lot’ is a triumph on every level and still packs a punch today. Only Marc Petrie (Lance Kerwin) threatens initially to irritate – but then, he is something of an outcast, a bowl-haired horror ‘nerd’ and monster-kid academic. Really, that should endear him, but it doesn’t somehow. Yet his swottish leanings are essential in battling what becomes a town of slavering undead, which he does with considerable expertise.

Barlow’s major scene, where he and Straker gate-crash a Priest’s visitation on the Petrie family, where he rises from a black cloak to about 7 feet tall, is one of many highlights. Straker’s patronising name-calling of ‘holy man’ and ‘shaman’, faith against Barlow’s blue-skinned, heavily-veined face, with crucifix proving frighteningly ineffective – all add up to a set-piece of immense proportions, which, like Barlow’s involvement, is over far too soon.

This begins with one of the best pre-credit scenes I’ve seen in a while, featuring a deer knocked down and apparently killed by a flustered van driver. Moments later, the crumpled body in the road judders back into life, struggling to stand. As it does so, we see its eyes – dead and milky. The creature has joined the ranks of the living dead!

Next we meet sulking child Soo-an (Kim Su-an), who is upset because her father Seok-woo (Gong Yoo) works all the time and spends no time with her. I have a problem with this kind of thing, and other similar scenes in other films. Perhaps the child would be less brattish if the parents gave up work and instead of a WII (or two) to play with, she had a stick and a clementine. Hardly! “Dads get all the bad rap and no praise,” says big soft husband Sang-hwa (Dong-seok Ma) at one stage. Seok-woo, however, has his own story to tell …

Anyway, this distant father and child are but two passengers who board the train to Busan, amid news reports of violence and rioting in the streets, and also a wayward passenger exhibiting symptoms of a strange and deadly disease.

And we’re off. Whilst the rapid transformations of many passengers into zombies relies perhaps too heavily on the actors’ facial mannerisms and comes across often as ‘over-enthusiastic’ acting, there’s no denying the effect of an enclosed body of people reverting into killers in some tensely choreographed scenes.

My favourite character might well be Michael Ripper-like Yon-suck (Kim Eui-sung), self-serving CEO who does everything, and betrays everyone, in order to survive amidst the spitting, fast-moving zombie creatures. In one of my favourite scenes, the ringtone of a mobile phone in another carriage is used to successfully deflect the attentions of the ravenous pack. Watching them charging as one toward the source of the sudden, tinny music, is very effective.

Every possible drop of tension is wrung out into the running time. For a while whilst watching ‘Last Train to Busan’, I felt there was something holding it back from greatness. Brilliant direction, acting and urgent pacing – however, I couldn’t get completely immersed in it. And then, somewhere along the way, that changed and I was hooked. The tension is impossible to resist. What a journey!

He gets a lot of stick for his style of horror films, does Rob Zombie. It is heartening in many ways, to find he appears not to care, and continues to release projects in his own raw, coarse style. It is no surprise to find wife Sheri Moon pretty central to the plot here; no surprise either that she goes through a pretty punishing time.

She (as Charly), alongside a Carnival van-load of other horny, chain-smoking Rob Zombie (RZ) staples, find their rock’n’roll lifestyle interrupted by a gang of organised game-hunters who insist they play the game of ‘31’ (this is set in the 1970s when a rock and roll lifestyle actually existed). Zombie stalwarts Malcolm McDowell and Judy Geeson star alongside veteran Jane Carr as the powdered and coiffured ringleaders of these ‘games’, seemingly set in some improbable palace with an interior comprised of dripping corridors and warehouse-sized killing grounds.

The killers are lazily-named Sick-Head and Doom-Head etc. Schizo, Psycho, Death and Sex make up some of the other Heads. All unable to growl through a sentence without at least a handful of ‘f*****g’s’ therein, they present a destructive, unhinged ensemble not dissimilar in personality from our alleged heroes. Pretty soon, we are knee-deep in campy, OTT gore, shrieking and black, tar-like blood, where the identity of the characters all melt into a melee, and come a distant second to the graphic killings. I certainly have no problem with this if in the right mood, just as I had no problem with RZ’s re-imagining of the ‘Halloween’ franchise – those films remain underrated in my view. Equally, his earlier ‘The Devil’s Rejects (2005)’ is somewhat over-rated, and it is this film with which Zombie compares ‘31’.

The problem with this for me is, after a while it ceases to shock and just becomes monotonous. Even the introduction of a German-growling fellow in a tutu attempting to club someone to death isn’t as much fun as it sounds. All the characters seem to have the same character, any lines are screamed and littered with so many profanities it goes beyond parody, and everything … just is. There is no lead-up to speak of, each violent act is loud, in your face and the familiarity with this repeated approach quickly wears thin.

I enjoy RZ films for their mad violence, wall-to-wall grotesques and graphic horror, but when that’s all there is, the results are a little wearing, but too loud to allow you to drift off.

A lurid title, day for night filming, a young couple indulging in some tepid sex venture, the discovery of what appears to be a corpse; all of this leads into some instantly lovely title music and leaves us under no illusions – this is giallo territory!

Brusque, humourless, hunk-cake poser Christian (Robert Hoffman) and his girlfriend discover an unconscious girl, Barbara (Suzy Kendall) on the beach and before long, she and rakish Christian have fallen in love. Soon, an intruder interrupts their courtship – before accidently getting killed with his own gun. His corpse however, disappears …

It’s madness, I tell you. And yet it moves briskly, has a typically addictive soundtrack (usual suspect Ennio Morricone, not quite firing on all cylinders but as always, providing an elegant score) and contains more intrigue than you could shake a stick at. ‘Spasmo’ is a lot less ludicrous than the trailer (an urgently choreographed selection of scenes with an actor yelling the title over and over in an increasingly feverish manner), but also a lot less fun. Tell-tale bloodstains, espionage, the main man’s miraculously self-cleaning clothes, corpse-like mannequins strewn about the place – all these things would add layers of intrigue if only the plot was more comprehensible. Someone seems to be out to drive Noel Edmonds-lite Christian mad and goes to extraordinary lengths to do so. He doesn’t make it difficult, driven as he is by his libido making him an easy target. Simply engage him with a woman almost as beautiful as he is, and away we go.

Eccentric in its story-telling to the point of delirium, it’s impossible not to at least partially enjoy this mad-fest. Not the greatest giallo, it nevertheless takes a while to leave you.

With their tongues firmly in their collective cheeks, a crew of television ghost hunters (lead by the diminutive and highly irritating Tim Royce, played by Matt Doherty) are reluctantly given permission to investigate an abandoned children’s orphanage.

One of the benefits of this style of found-footage stories is that, as the characters acquaint the viewers of their filmed footage with information about the building, we – the audience – are also being fed information that feeds our own feelings about the scenario. Equally useful is the less-than-serious attitude of the characters; when strange things begin to happen, they all assume one of their number is responsible. After all, they are filming a ghost-hunting entertainment show. The creaks and shadows are probably the work of their resident effects man, Bill (an underused Lance Henriksen) … well, aren’t they?

No matter how puerile their humour is to begin with, the crew’s hi-jinks serves a purpose too. The contrast between that and their more panicked, more real reactions later on is marked. And matters do become persuasively creepy. ‘Grave Encounters’, a similar project from 2011, seems to have been set up as a benchmark for this kind of film, and there are pleasing similarities – with a TV crew in an old abandoned building, there are bound to be.

The cast is very good. Only the breath-taking Bresha Webb as producer Julie fails to convince, although there is a post end-credits sequence that redeems her performance somewhat.

You’ll probably have seen this kind of thing before, but not always this enjoyable in the execution.

Baby-faced student Suzie Bannion (Jessica Harper) travels to a German dance-school which becomes a living nightmare for her. A selection of disco-lit killings take place before a peripheral character explains the origins of the place, and why it has become such a location of terror.

The unforgiving rain, faces staring, the darkness of night - all these things and more are accompanied (or drowned out) by the relentless, driving musical score. When the soundtrack is not present, it comes as a relief. So huge and all-encompassing is this crashing music that it all but smothers everything, especially the performances. And when something truly dramatic and horrific happens, the accompaniment storms back once again bringing with it an overpowering effect that works against proceedings rather than enhancing them. Equally the sets, so rich in colour and pattern clearly win the fight with the actors in arresting the attention – sometimes effectively, providing a lush, poetic, dreamlike environment, and others simply far, far too decadent not to work with the soundtrack in inducing a migraine. I can understand the intention to make everything heightened and not-quite-real, but whilst it sometimes works, often it is too loud and too much.

The character who does the most to make an impression amidst all around her is Miss Tanner, formidable gravel-voiced dance-instructress. Croatian actress Alida Valli plays her with a prison-officer deportment and ensures Tanner is every bit as fearsome as her reputation within the school suggests.

I’ve seen this described as a terrifying masterpiece of Italian cinema, but the overall effect, although commendably original, is mostly lost on me. Perhaps I prefer something slightly more subtle. That said, the last 15 minutes racks up the horror content rather and ensures that the experience at least ends on a high.

After a title sequence featuring credits superimposed over blurred copulation, this wonderfully titled production features a graphic orgy in which the host, the deeply unpleasant Oliviero (Luigi Pistilli) seems intent on publically humiliating his wife Irina (Anita Strindberg). Thus the tone is set for this fairly sexually charged giallo horror romp. In fact, the erotic content clogs up much of the tension the story brings, especially once Oliviero’s niece, stunning Floriana (Edwidge Fenech) arrives and seduces half the cast.

As the debauchery becomes entwined with murder, the presence of a black cat becomes suspicious by its ubiquity. Acknowledged as inspiration in the opening credits, Edgar Allen Poe’s short story ‘The Black Cat’ has a lot to do with the lustrous feline, named Satan, looking wide-eyed but unconcerned amidst various gory and bloody scenes. After its pop-eyed demise, the resultant spectre of the creature seems to become a supernatural catalyst.

Amidst the passions of the ever-horny characters and the growing amount of murders, Oliviero remains unconcerned, which seems to indicate he may well be the culprit. And yet, his apparent guilt is plastered too thickly for him not to be a red herring. Or so you might think.

As much a dark and occasionally grisly whodunit as a horror, Poe’s influence becomes more effective and apparent towards the finale. As ever, the scenery is breath-taking (when not bathed in darkness) and Sergio Martino’s direction takes full and impressive advantage of this. Bruno Nicolai’s score joins the ranks of must-have available soundtracks.

This is a cheap and cheerful horror entry from 1962 that could easily have been made twenty years earlier, where huge swathes of conversational plot contrivances are passed between static characters in virtually blank sets. With echoes of Frankenstein, this story alerts us to the experiments of accomplished Doctor Bill Cortner (Jason Evers) who may or may not have been stealing amputated limbs from the hospital in which he works, to further his mysterious efforts. When his fiancé appears and pours herself all over him (still in the same scant hospital set) and says “There is nothing that can keep us apart,” you hope against hope that nothing disastrous will befall the young couple.

Yet, the plot is cruel, and pretty soon an appalling and awkwardly (cheaply) staged car crash occurs that tragically separates Jan’s head from the rest of her. Worry not, for love conquers all and soon, her bandage wrapped head, fully made-up you understand, is brought back to life while Doctor Bill finds her another body.

My tone is glib, of course. And while I am a nobody who will never amount to anything, the people behind this film have recorded something that will live on on celluloid – however, the tone here is never entirely serious. Although it is played straight – possibly too straight – and the imagery is occasionally gruesome (indeed, this was completed in 1959 but claims of its ‘tastelessness’ delayed its release for three years), there is a drive-in Saturday afternoon, tongue-in-cheek quality to this designed, it seems to me, to make teenagers groan and roll their eyes whilst enjoying every earnest moment.

With 'Frankenhooker', chances are you get what you expect. ‘Trash’ and ‘screwball’ describe the knockabout humour on display here as Jeffrey (James Lorinz) brings back to life his decapitated fiancée by ‘building her a new body of Manhatten street prostitutes’.

A lot of the first part of the film relies on Lorinz, who is required to carry scenes by himself. He is somewhat expressionless but enters into the spirit of the proceedings with little inhibition. The second part is indebted to Patty Mullen as Elizabeth, parading under patchwork prosthetics, being seduced by a selection of horrendous macho 1990’s muscle men. Her jerky wide-eyed movements recall a certain sense of Elsa Lanchester from the original ‘Bride of Frankenstein (1935)’.

There’s plenty of flesh, lots of rubber limbs and some fairly graphic titillation on offer. Only when Elizabeth regains her memories does the grotesque humour make way for actual emotion, but that’s fine. “There wasn’t enough left of you to fry an egg with,” explains Jeffrey in one of his final pronouncements.

An acquired taste, especially now its garish, coarse visuals have a very dated quality, this is what it is. Deliberately goofy, wobbly, sleazy, popcorn nonsense worth a giggle.