We also have tons of scary movies, which I've already spent most of the month watching. I've made it through the first two films of Dario Argento's Three Mother's Trilogy (Suspiria and Inferno) and I had every intention of finishing up with Mother of Tears tonight. Except I don't think that's going to happen. Not because it's a bad movie (it is, oh it is!) but I'm just not up to seeing demons strangle a museum curator with her own intestines, kids being gobbled up by witches, limbs being hacked off, orifices violated by sharp instruments, and giggling, murderous harpies who look like they just walked out of a Victoria's Secret photoshoot (as does the Mother of Tears, herself). These days you can see most of the same stuff on F/X but my threshold for extreme cinema may be at its limit, at least for this month.
Suspiria, of course, is a classic (the 1977 version, not the remake) and has one of the most audaciously unnerving and gruesome opening sequences of any film I've seen. It starts out in fourth gear and never lets up. The score by Goblin is an essential movie soundtrack: loud and in-your-face, the music ramps up the suspense and queasy terror generated by Argento's nightmarish imagery. Sumptuously photographed in vibrant primary colors, Suspiria succeeds in turning all the ghastly bloodletting into an aesthetic tour de force. What little plot there is seems to exist in a dream world, serving merely as a pretense to highlight the filmmaker's virtuosity.
In a nutshell: a young New Yorker named Suzy Bannion (Jessica Harper) arrives at a German dance academy one dark and stormy night and finds herself thrust into the maelstrom of Mater Suspiriorum (the Mother of Sighs) and her coven of evil acolytes and supernatural assassins. The subsequent deaths, occurring on the heels of the opening credits, are brutal and graphic, although in the case of Suspiria, these types of scenes come infused with the baroque potency of a painting by Caravaggio or Gentileschi. Never mind that the character of Suzy, our protagonist, is considerably under-developed. Strolling through the proceedings with the disconnected air of a sleepwalker, Suzy seems both intrigued and oblivious to the increasingly dangerous situation unfolding in the dance academy. Still, the barely-there plot and lack of characterizations notwithstanding, Suspiria remains a masterpiece to many filmgoers.
If Suzy sleep-walks through much of Suspiria, the nominal hero(es?) of Inferno seems almost comatose by comparison. In New York City, a young woman named Rose (Irene Miracle) purchases a cursed book from the crippled, skeevy antiques dealer, Kazanian (Sacha Pitoeff). After returning to her curiously under-populated apartment building across the street, Rose begins reading "The Three Mothers" and quickly deduces that her building was originally constructed as the abode for Mater Tenebrarum (the Mother of Darkness). Taking her cues from the book, a nosy, but oddly detached, Rose embarks on a quest that climaxes with her dive into a flooded, subterranean ballroom beneath the building's basement. This scene (idiotic if you stop to think about it) is insanely gorgeous and wonderfully photographed by Romano Albani; it also offers the movie's biggest jump scare.
Meanwhile, across the pond, Rose's brother Mark (Leigh McCloskey), a musicologist studying in Rome, has problems of his own. Unbeknownst to him, Mater Lachrymarum (the Mother of Tears) is one of his classmates. With a professor droning at the lectern, an ill wind suddenly gusts through the auditorium. Feline fashionista Lachrymarum fixes Mark with an evil glare, and strokes an enormous grimalkin (I'm thinking that's occultish for cat) perched incongruously atop her desk. Metaphoric, to be sure. Soon, with characters being hastily (and gorily) dispatched in both Rome and New York, Mark heads back to the States after receiving a puzzling, urgent phone call from Rose. From there, the plot gets even more disjointed and a few more nasty deaths occur before the explosive, yet distinctly underwhelming, finale ends the reign of Mater Tenebrarum. Stylistically, Inferno offers up the same flamboyant sensibility as Suspiria, and Keith Emerson's soundtrack (along with selections by Verdi, among others) is excellent, though strikingly different from Goblin's eerie, hard-driving Suspiria score. Even so, none of this really makes up for the idiocy of Inferno's script. Whatever negligible complaints I have about Suspiria are compounded in Inferno, which completely falls apart by the end. Truthfully, Dario Argento has always favored flashy, melodramatic visuals over detailed plotlines: mood over matter, in a way. At their best, his earlier films cast a bewitching, and often bewildering, spell that hooks us with their sheer dazzle; at worst, they're ventures down a rabbit hole, albeit an opulently fitted rabbit hole. Interestingly, the lead actors in both Suspiria and Inferno (and, to some extent, actor Asia Argento in Mother of Tears) are on hand less to emote than to serve as guides through Argento's Dantean hellscape of blood, occultism and high-style set pieces.
Halloween has come and gone, and it is now the day after. Indeed, I did skip Mother of Tears last night, and instead settled in for 2 hours of Cary Grant in the 1944 classic, Arsenic and Old Lace. I've had the DVD for years, and, in fact, originally saw the film when it was shown on my local PBS station in Oklahoma City way back in the 80's. I loved it back then, and I still liked it pretty well when I watched it again after buying the DVD 10 or 12 years ago. Maybe extreme stress is acting as an inhibitor to my pleasure receptors these days--sorry, there have been the best of times and there have been the worst of times, and 2020 definitely falls into the latter category of times. At any rate, it didn't take long before Cary Grant's shrilly energetic antics began working every last nerve in my body. Bouncing around the set with manic intensity, swinging up and down the staircase while shouting his high-velocity lines at jet-engine decibels, Cary was just too much. Way too much. In happier times, I found his performance charming; now, it's simply maddening. Priscilla Lane has the thankless task of playing his much put-upon fiancee, a role that requires her mainly to be an attractive and understanding doormat, which I found inexplicably irritating, as well (actually, very explicable, all things considered). On the other hand, Raymond Massey still convinces me that he really is a sadistic psychopath, and Peter Lorre is rather fun as his fey, drunken henchman. The old ladies (Josephine Hull and Jean Adair) are still my favorites, though, along with "Teddy Roosevelt" (John Alexander) and Edward Everett Horton (as the director of the insane asylum). The movie, based on a Broadway play by Joseph Kesselring, is a screwball comedy, which can tend to go either way in most films; sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. For instance, I've never been a fan of Bringing Up Baby, one of the films often cited as a defining fixture in the genre. (I do, however, LOVE What's Up Doc, Young Frankenstein, and The Philadelphia Story, so go figure). I've also never been a fan of Arsenic director, Frank Capra. I know, I know: sacrilege! I have especially never liked his Christmas classic, It's a Wonderful Life. There, I said it. Go ahead and sue me already.
So anyway, back to a few other movies in my Halloween-o-thon. I'll start with two of my favorites. First up: the 1961 cult-classic Pit and the Pendulum. This is another of those Roger Corman/AIP collaborations that brought Edgar Allan Poe's greatest hits into mid-20th Century theaters, and terrified youngsters like me when it was televised on Halloween a few years later. Vincent Price is at his self-indulgent best as Don Medina, a recently widowed, verklempt Spanish nobleman mourning the mysterious death of his beautiful wife, Elizabeth (Barbara Steele). Elizabeth's younger brother (John Kerr) shows up at Don's clifftop castle, which is pretty obviously a studio matte painting with boulder-crashing waves superimposed on it, but it doesn't matter. For a low-budget production, the rest of the sets are exquisite, none more so than the spectacular secret dungeon housing the titular pendulum (located below the main dungeon which, I guess, the Spanish Inquisitors used to torture those accused of minor infractions). Oh, there's also an Iron Maiden down there for those pesky adulterers. Anyhow, the secret dungeon is AWESOME! Does anyone even use that word anymore? And who cares? I'll say it again. That secret dungeon is fucking awesome! It's a huge room with hues of bright blue and purple and deep red, and there's a raised platform in the center where the unfortunate torturee is strapped to a table while the swinging pendulum is lowered from the ceiling above. Way, waaaayyyy cool, unless you're the one strapped to the table, I suppose.
So John Kerr decides to hang out and play detective because he's not buying the story Don and the local doctor (Antony Carbone) concocted around Elizabeth's demise. Luana Anders, who was in a lot of low-budget stuff that I liked and never really got her big Hollywood break, is on hand as Vincent Price's sister, Catherine, even though he's clearly much older than she is (in their childhood flashback scenes they're presented as almost the same age). Eventually, an apparent ghost shows up, music mysteriously plays on the drawing room mandolin, phantom voices torment Don Medina (already distressed by John Kerr's constant badgering) and Catherine showers virtuous concern on all. British horror vet Steele doesn't get all that much screen time, but her creepy Gothic beauty lends itself perfectly to Poe's fevered imaginings. Pit and the Pendulum is a short movie so it doesn't give the viewer much time to get bored, even when it ever-so-slightly bogs down in the middle. Actually, I don't even mind the flat American accents of the cast members (excepting the splendiferously toned Price, who gets even better as the crazy train speeds up); the movie is too much fun to be bothered with phony accents. And, of course, it looks fantastic! By the time, the edge-of-your-seat climax rolls around, you may just feel compelled to familiarize yourself with Poe's work, if you haven't already. Be aware: the Poe short story is NOT the same as this movie. Not even close. Still, it's classic literature and how the hell did you get through high school without reading something by Edgar Allan Poe anyway?
I also like Dellamorte, Dellamore (aka Cemetery Man in the U.S.), a 1994 Italian film by Michele Soavi. Based on a character in the popular Dylan Dog comic, Dellamorte stars Rupert Everett as the caretaker of a village cemetery where the dead won't stay put. Dellamorte's primary job seems to consist of popping bullets into various zombified heads after recent corpses return to the land of the living after a few days rest in the grave. These ghouls are not only gross but they are legion. Assisting Dellamorte in this never-ending battle is Gnaghi (Francois Hadji-Lazaro) the mostly-mute (he can only say, "Gna".), mentally challenged, spitting image of Curly Joe, of 3 Stooges fame. Gnaghi is nearly as grotesque as the zombies and tends to vomit when he gets sexually stimulated. Not a welcome development when a pretty girl flirts with him at an outdoor cafe. When Dellamorte isn't killing the cemetery's recently resurrected inhabitants, he longs for companionship (Gnaghi isn't exactly a thrilling conversationalist, much less a suitable romantic interest).
Luckily (or unluckily, as it turns out), a series of gorgeous, willing and ill-fated seductresses (all played by model Anna Falchi in a running joke) await him in the wings. Gnaghi also scores with the mayor's comely daughter, but only after she dies in a horrific car crash and her head ends up the only part of her left animated: the ensuing stir created when her head decides she wants to marry Gnaghi leaves her father aghast, among other things. Yes, Dellamorte, Dellamore is a gorefest, but it's also very funny, and serves up an unexpectedly poignant ending. The splattering brains, decapitations, crushed skulls, rotting carcasses and Gnaghi's revolting meals are offset by a nice performance by an often unshirted Rupert Everett, who manages to being a measure of sensitivity and deadpan humor to the role of the homicidal Dellamorte (who eventually deems it necessary to kill the living as well as the dead in a scene slightly reminiscent of "American Psycho"). As much comedy as horror film, Dellamorte, Dellamore is a great deal of fun, and despite my description above, not even close to the goriest film I've ever seen.
Another Soavi film, much further down on the list, is La Chiesa (The Church), a 1989 horror thriller that starts out with a village of 12th Century (possible) devil worshipers who are ambushed and slaughtered by the Knights Templar (or some similar group). After shoving the dead villagers into a mass grave, the priest-in-charge decides it would be a good idea to build a huge cathedral on the spot to mark the event. Well, not so much. Cut to: 1989. With a church restoration underway, an elementary school group touring the premises, a bridal fashion photoshoot in progress, a new librarian categorizing the church collection and a cranky old priest saying Mass, the restoration supervisor discovers a strange document tucked away in a hole in the basement wall and, soon enough, all hell breaks loose. Literally. Everyone in the cathedral begins hallucinating while the ghosts of the dead devil-worshippers (or the Knights, or maybe both, I'm not sure) possess various characters, causing bloody carnage so that an ancient demon god can be resurrected. Well, something like that. I think. Dario Argento (brilliant director, terrible screenwriter) had a hand in writing the script so it's no surprise that the story doesn't make much sense. The visuals are fine, and equal to Soavi's work in Dellamorte but, in this case, the director's style can't make up for the film's lack of substance. There's a little bit of Keith Emerson and a lot of Goblin comprising the film's soundtrack, and location filming included Matthias Church in Budapest.
Italian director, Mario Bava's The Whip and the Body rounds out the Italian contingent of films in my month-long marathon, and it's a beaut! Set amidst upscale, castle-icious surroundings ablaze in gloriously lurid hues of blue, green and violet, The Whip and the Body eschews graphic violence (not yet ubiquitous in 1963), while employing a dollop of tasteful kink in this classy, S&M-ish ghost tale of a wayward European nobleman (what is it with these nobles, for Christ's sake?) who comes home to claim his birthright, sass his father, harass the hired help and resume canoodling with his brother's unsatisfied wife. This prodigal son also happens to be a sadist who wields a mean whip during sessions with sister-in-law, Nevenka, with whom he has a love/hate relationship. It's not long, of course, before everyone gets pissed off at Kurt and, for one reason or another, he ends up getting his throat cut. As tends to happen in these films, Kurt doesn't dilly dally in his crypt, and soon he's back to business as usual, terrorizing the castle's inhabitants and flagellating Nevenka with even more zeal than usual. Or is he? When another throat is cut, the hysteria mounts as Kurt's brother, Cristiano (Tony Kendall), and trusty servant, Losat (Luciano Pigozzi), try to get to the bottom of things before Nevenka completely loses her shit and they're forced to take up flogging her themselves. Has Kurt really returned from the grave or was he ever even dead in the first place? Or is someone else slinking around the dark corridors snapping a whip and brandishing a dangerously sharp dagger? While it may not sound like it, The Whip and the Body is dementedly entertaining, and beautifully shot. Christopher Lee, taking a break from playing Count Dracula, portrays cruelly depraved Kurt with ruthless efficiency, and Israeli starlet Daliah Lavi (channeling Barbara Steele) is every bit as convincing as poor, tormented Nevenka: betwixt the two, they seem to have a mating ritual similar to Dracula and Mina Holmwood, only, in this case, the villain's accoutrement is a whip instead of vampire teeth. The rest of the cast is equally impressive, and both Carlos Rustichelli's excellent score and Ubaldo Terzano's luxe cinematography presage their next Bava collaboration--the deliriously fabulous Blood and Black Lace. Really, there's nothing I dislike about The Whip and the Body. Definitely in Bava's top 5.
There were a number of other films in this year's Halloween marathon but I think it's time to put this puppy to bed. Tomorrow is election day (yes, two days have passed since I started this) and I'll need a distraction so I may (or may not) add a Part 2 to my Halloween ramble. In the meantime, I'll be battening down the hatches for whatever tomorrow brings. Oh, and here's a mean-looking cat decked out in Christmas bows.
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