dmacewen

It's true that a myth has been built around Elisabeth Bathory. But that myth is not her reputation as a monster: that is wholly deserved and borne out by historical fact. The myth is that of Bathory as vain, beauty-obsessed blood-bather. While there might be some genuine basis for this -- serial killers, after all, have been obsessed with stranger notions than the ones legend has attributed to Bathory -- the bottom line is that this lesbian murderess was a sadistic fiend who extracted intense sexual pleasure from the torture and murder of young girls. The revised version was manufactured in the Victorian era, because people couldn't bear to acknowledge that the "gentler sex" could be as bloodthirsty as men. This was, after all, the era of John Ruskin, "separate spheres," and the notion of woman as civilizing influence. Thus, Elisabeth Bathory was turned into a supernatural fiend whose story mainly served to warn women of the evils of "female vanity."

Apparently, we have not come very far from the mentality of the nineteenth century, for we still live in a culture that cannot or will not view women as anything other than wholesome pillars of moral rectitude. Thus, Karla Homolka's depredations were whitewashed in a loathsome and factually corrupt straight-to-video movie. Aileen Wuornos is turned into some kind of culture hero. And gender feminists refer to the likes of Homolka and others as "classic examples of female victims of male sadism."

Now we have this pack of lies, in which Bathory is victimized by power hungry men while she valiantly strives to protect her children. Yes, the old standby, folks: when you want to make excuses for evil women, just portray them as nurturing and self-sacrificing, willingly shouldering the burden of undeserved ignominy for the sake of their children. The kind of characterization which has nauseated feminists and gelded Marxist males for generations, but which they never fail to exploit when it suits their purposes.

I'm a huge fan of the beautiful and talented Anna Friel. Her presence and performance are the only reasons I give this piece of dreck two stars. May everyone else involved with its production rot in hell.

One of the other reviewers summed it up well when he wrote, "By no means would anyone consider this a really good movie but it is a really fun movie -- even if it wasn't intended to be funny." Well, it obviously _was_ intended to be funny, but it's the type of humor that acknowledges the essential awfulness of the enterprise. That said, Mikels was smart in having his cast play it with a straight face, because z-grade films of this sort can become unbearable when the actors are in on the joke. The result is a cheery vulgarity that makes the The Corpse Grinders quite enjoyable, and there are even a few moments of genuine wit: the ad campaign, for example, proclaims, "For cats who like people." You'll get that joke when you see the film. Enjoy!

Joe Sarno was a special and talented filmmaker, and his erotic films were always a cut above the general run of such fare in the 60s and 70s. "Confessions of a Young American Housewife" is the story of a young wife, her husband, and her swinger friends. When the young woman's mother comes to visit, her introduction to their sexual ways becomes the movies main focus. Sarno manages to elicit a rough dignity from his actors, and the characters are more than pieces of meat. The final scene is surprisingly touching: early in the film I disliked the characters for their lifestyle, and by the end I had come to see they were not the emotionally shallow people I had taken them to be. If you are one of those dismal unfortunates who watch HBO and Showtime garbage like True Blood and Tell Me You Love Me to spice up your flaccid middle-aged sex lives, then you will be unable to appreciate this film. For the rest of you with taste, check it out.

Not liking this film is one thing, and XachEx has some legitimate criticisms. But the smug, self-righteous tone of his condemnation leaves one wondering why he even watches horror films in the first place. Particularly risible is the claim that "you feel bad for the girl who comes off as being uncomfortable and being taken advantage of by the filmmakers." As if the viewer is capable of discerning that an actress feels uncomfortable in what she's depicting on camera. Furthermore, there is absolutely no way in which an actress can be "taken advantage of" unless there is unethical behavior on the part of the filmmakers. Both these claims require the viewer to be present at the time of shooting, and I think it's safe to say that XachEx was not. This is the realm of representation: nothing depicted on screen can be said to be an exploitation of the actors involved.

For the viewer who claimed Stephen King "ripped off" huge parts of this film for Misery: don't flatter yourself. Your insight simply isn't that sharp. Yes, it's apparent that the general scenario for Misery is indebted to this (vastly inferior) film, but that is where the resemblance ends. King is a profoundly original artist, and as is usually the case, his prodigious talent and inimitable vision transform the influences derived from his encyclopedic knowledge of the field into a finished product that transcends its sources. The Strange Vengeance of Rosalie is even less memorable than Starret's mediocre Race with the Devil. In fact, I am quite amused by the intellectual restrictions of these viewers and readers who fancy themselves sophisticated because they are able to spot the things that King has supposedly "ripped off": as if he's trying to get away with something. On the contrary, King is usually very forthright about his influences and urges his readers to check them out for themselves (unlike the creatively and ethically bankrupt James Cameron). That he didn't do so with Misery is likely due to a lack of cognizance of the influence. In short, those with developed critical skills assess the creative process at work. Those with a stunted artistic and intellectual capacity merely note that story scenarios and plot elements were lifted by King and yell "Rip Off!" And then they pat themselves on the back.

Sleazy exploitation doesn't get any better than this. If you're one of the multitudinous sheep, weaned exclusively on Hitchcock films and easily swayed by AMC, TCM, AFI, and all the other establishment factories who claim to know the films That You Should Watch, you will absolutely hate it. On the other hand, fans of Joe D'Amato, Bruno Mattei, Andrea Bianchi, et. al., will be treated to a misanthropic delight. Bring a few bars of soap and a rosary: you'll be needing both after you view this one. If you decide to rent the DVD, you will be treated to Jose Larraz's equally sordid Black Candles, although those averse to bestiality need not apply. Enjoy!

"It appears that many critics find the idea of a Woody Allen drama unpalatable." And for good reason: they are unbearably wooden and pretentious imitations of Bergman. And let's not kid ourselves: critics were mostly supportive of Allen's Bergman pretensions, Allen's whining accusations to the contrary notwithstanding. What I don't get is this: why was Allen generally applauded for his originality in imitating Bergman, but the contemporaneous Brian DePalma was excoriated for "ripping off" Hitchcock in his suspense/horror films? In Robin Wood's view, it's a strange form of cultural snobbery. I would have to agree with that.

As Tim Lucas has pointed out, Jess Franco has made some of the best and some of the worst of European exploitation. The man made so many films that the majority fall somewhere in between, usually falling on the negative side of the spectrum. Two Undercover Angels is one such film. On the plus side are a terrific soundtrack, some good photography, and the occasional moment of genuine Franco lunacy. The downside: everything else. That the storyline is a mishmash of genres wouldn't be so important if Franco knew what kind of spirit or tone he wanted to aim for. The editing alternates between avant-garde and sloppy. But absolutely inexcusable are the English-language script and the dubbing. I have a high tolerance for much of the Franco dialogue that some critics refer to as "relentless and risible," but this was too much even for me. The banality of the dialogue seems inherent to the material: the dubbing-script translation makes matters worse by making much of it incoherent. As far as the technical aspects of the dubbing are concerned, there are repeated scenes in which characters speak but the actors' lips don't move. While not a disaster, this is a far cry from such amazing fare as She Killed in Ecstasy and The Bloody Judge.

This film is awful. Not simply because of its non-budget -- PRC's Strangler of the Swamp achieved some fine results because a talented director, Frank Wisbar, was at the helm. These skid-row films of the 40s by PRC and Monogram were bad because of a dearth of imagination and talent on the part of the filmmakers. The stories were ridiculous and childish and the directors simply pointed the camera in the right direction. Movies like The Devil Bat and The Invisible Ghost are a sad coda to Lugosi's legacy -- let's not fool ourselves into thinking they have any value beyond pleasurable nostalgia. And let's stop this absurd over-rating of Lugosi's performances during this era: he had no real acting opportunities after The Dark Eyes of London, and he was tragically descending into morphine addiction. It's always a pleasure to watch Lugosi simply because he's Bela and because there is a sincerity that always comes through -- up to a point. But he's essentially playing the same exact character in every film from this point forward, and with no gusto or panache. Remember the Bela of the 30s, not the Bela who appeared in dross like this.

This scene has two or three sex scenes. One of them is quite long and happens to be about the hottest and most exciting softcore sex scene you will ever see in a Skinemax film. Contrary to what the other reviewer says, there is not that much sex in the film: there is far too little in fact. Producers know why we watch these movies: they should get the hint and not try so hard to make a good film when the best they can produce is mediocrity (on a good day). Do yourself a favor and watch this if you ever run across it on cable for the one sex scene mentioned above. The rest of the movie you can skip. This scene has two or three sex scenes. One of them is quite long and happens to be about the hottest and most exciting softcore sex scene you will ever see in a Skinemax film. Contrary to what the other reviewer says, there is not that much sex in the film: there is far too little in fact. Producers know why we watch these movies: they should get the hint and not try so hard to make a good film when the best they can produce is mediocrity (on a good day). Do yourself a favor and watch this if you ever run across it on cable for the one sex scene mentioned above. The rest of the movie you can skip.

I love these bourgeois lemmings weaned on swill like The Exorcist, Alien, Jaws, The Omen, Poltergeist, The Silence of the Lambs, and other such Hollywood swill. They love to talk about "storytelling" and movies where you "care about the characters," as if that were the only one way of making a legitimate horror film (and let's face it: the "characterizations" in these films are often laughable in their pretensions and shallowness). Here's a bit of news for those who haven't figured it out yet: there's no such thing as "gore for gore's sake." There's only apologetic gore and unapologetic gore. Ishii was a terrific filmmaker. You people need to expand your horizons beyond Stephen King. (A great writer, by the way.)

I agree with Gracchi with his criticisms of this film and of the fact that it was even made; and it is also heartening to see that he/she is as equally capable of recognizing right-wing prop as left-wing prop. What I find disgusting is this comment: "After seeing this film, it makes you think twice about the Hollywood black list in the 1950's. Perhaps a necessary evil during the cold war against leftists who could make Marxist-Stalinist crud like this movie." No, it doesn't make one think twice; blacklisting is an un-American activity that emulates the Communist regime so self-righteously denounced as un-American. As far as I'm concerned, FDR was a Marxist who turned our republic into a semi-socialist state. But there's no justifiable reason to support, tolerate, or even mitigate the heinousness of blacklisting and witch-hunting. By the way, Jack Warner -- an ardent anti-Communist -- was suspected and openly accused of Communist sympathizing by McCarthy. Makes you rethink the idea of thinking twice about the Hollywood blacklist.

One wouldn't expect an individual to own up to how genuinely effective this film is when said individual refers to Wes Craven's "Last House on the Left" as "mediocre." (The junk Craven has been churning out since Scream 1 deserves that label, not "Last House.") A viewer should have the maturity to admit that he found a film shocking even when he disapproves of it. Note one viewer who claims the film is nasty and overly graphic and yet lame at the same time. Is it possible to find a film "dull" when one obviously had such strong reactions against it? Or, to quote Stephen Thrower, is it possible to be bored and outraged simultaneously? The answer is obvious. At least Roger Ebert, a critic I despise (note that his parry to the filmmakers' defense, had the honesty to admit that the film affected him and that he could not deny its impact, and this was in a zero star review. But some people can't stand to admit when they are genuinely bothered by a film like "Chaos," so they try to have it both ways, so they cop a stance of combined disaffectedness and moral/aesthetic outrage. I.e., "The viewer doth protest too much."

As for the predictable, banal, and tiresome claims that the violence and rape don't "help the plot," not all movies -- or books, for that matter -- are about "plot." No one complains that the philosophical inquiries in a Bergman film don't "advance the plot." "Art" and "Exploitation" have more in common than originally meets the eye, as evidenced by the source material for Wes Craven's original film. So stop obsessing over Alfred Hitchcock and his plot-driven style of film-making: his method is not the only valid method with which to craft a thriller. Besides, the obvious is right in front of your nose and you can't even see it: this film's story is about the depredations that befall the two teen-aged girls. The thing done to them in the woods ARE the plot. Get it?

"Author: Brian Washington (Sargebri@att.net) from Los Angeles, California This was a weird sort of science fiction comedy from "Professor Corman". This film pretty much reminds me of a spaced out version of the short lived show "The New People", which came out a year earlier. The whole idea of everyone over 35 being killed by a gas that didn't work on the younger population was a wild idea to begin with, but the surrealism of this movie even made it wilder to look at. Too bad that Corman's last film for A.I.P. couldn't have been a schlock classic like many of his earlier. At least on the bright side we get to look at a very young Cindy Williams, Talia Shire and Ben Vereen in what was one of, if not their first roles in a motion picture." Wonderful little films like "A Bucket of Blood" and "Little Shop of Horrors" were not "schlock." Using childish terminology isn't helpful in a review.

TRP Dean says: "A major criticism: this movie has the kind of mindset that launched feminism. Women exist either to ensnare men to their doom with their beauty or to nobly suffer, praise and forgive their heroic, if unfaithful-in-the-heart, men. Time and again, we hear of the "unfeminine" curiosity of one woman (whose interest is entirely prurient), and we see the absolute SHOCK on Peck's face when his client says that an adulterous affair in her past was at her initiation." If that's how you feel, you may as well read imbeciles like Simone de Beauvoir or Kate Millet rather than watch a Hitchcock film.

"A minor criticism: there is no explanation why an American (Peck) is a barrister. Rex Harrison would have been a better choice." Apparently, you are unable to distinguish between the actor and the role. Peck's character is an Englishman, so since the barrister is not an American.

Some people are never satisfied. It's too humid today, my back hurts, there's too much sex and violence on TV, kids don't respect their elders any more. And any deviations or changes in a favorite series are met with hostility. These people are on a constant, vigilant search for any opportunity to show the world that said series is simply no longer up to their demanding standards of excellence. These people contrive to place themselves in a special position of superiority and manage to feel like John Simon or Pauline Kael in the process. Of course Stottlemeyer and Disher are no longer hostile to Monk: their friendship has deepened over the course of six seasons. After six seasons Monk is still the best show on TV, superior, in fact, to the first two-and-a-half seasons with the obnoxious Sharona -- and "Mr. Monk Goes to the Bank" is one of the most fun episodes in the entire series.

Let me quote one viewer's criticism of this wonderful film:

"Am I the only one who found the ending to be completely contrived, if not nonsensical? This has nothing to do with the fact that she died, and that it was sad. I have no problem with sad endings, when they MAKE SENSE. The thing I don't understand is WHY she had to die? In what way did it help the narrative, the plot, the story, or the lesson to be drawn from it? Here we have a story about a girl, her dream, and her struggle to live out that dream, despite her horrible family, and all the odds being against her, and as she is about to realize even the tiniest portion of that dream: BLAM, you're paralyzed... Why that? To me it seemed like it came TOTALLY out of left-field. It was like Eastwood had this great movie going, had everything worked out perfectly and suddenly realized that it was getting too long and he needed to end it and that's the first thing he could come up with.

"It just didn't make sense in relation to the rest of the story. Now some people will say 'well that's life, sometimes *beep* happens.' And yeah, that is life, but MDB isn't life, it's a movie. Her injury seemed totally useless and left me wondering where in the hell Eastwood pulled that idea from.

"Mystic River = Eastwood movie with a SAD, SAD, SAD ending, but one that MADE SENSE."

First off, the so-called ending is actually the final third of the film. So stop calling it "the ending"! Second, note the emphasis on WHY and MAKING SENSE. This is one viewer who is stuck on plot and thinks that if an incident does not advance the plot in some overtly obvious manner then it is somehow faulty. The final portion of the film wasn't there to "help the narrative." The movie is ABOUT this part of the story, right from the very beginning. And yes, sometimes "*beep* happens," and that's life, and some movies are about life, as opposed to those that are about car crashes or explosions or Adam Sandler making his girlfriends laugh or Robin Williams impersonating a woman. If the controversial plot turn were arbitrary, then it would have sunk the film; life can be random, good art cannot be random. If it seeks to create a story that reflects life's randomness, there must be an underlying logic at work, and in Million Dollar Baby there certainly is. Here we have a strong, determined woman who dragged herself out of a dead-end life to achieve heights of athletic fame and accomplishments as a prizefighter. As is so often the case in life much of our fates are left to chance, and in a single, random, fateful moment in the ring (not her bathtub or street corner or local candy shop, so there is an element of plot causality after all), all that she had built for herself was taken away. Now she's left in a position where her pride and integrity are compromised, because she was once a great fighter and she is now a vegetable who feels she no longer has a reason to live -- and so she turns for help to the manager with whom she had her most intimate relationship. The man who helped her become what she was now has to ponder whether his responsibility to her is to help her live or help her die. (Unlike some of those who both love and hate this film, I don't think it makes a definite "pro-euthanasia" stance.) In other words, people who are in the position of begging for a mercy killing have lives that preceded their predicament, and Million Dollar Baby lets us experience that. Of course, grasping this requires some mental dexterity not possessed by those whose perspectives are purely linear. And those who think that movies are not life, "just movies" (whatever that means) will be completely lost. Sure, art can't do it the same way life can, but I think I covered that already earlier in this paragraph.

In other words, the story of Million Dollar Baby is more about two characters and a relationship than the construct we call "plot." Some movies are very plot-driven, and there is nothing innately inferior in that. Some of them are great films. They can, in their own way, reveal just as much about our external or interior lives. I even like outright action movies when I feel there's creativity and wit on display. I think Robert E. Howard (creator of Conan) is a great American writer. I don't think any work of "literary fiction" has captured so incisively the workings of our sexual sub-conscious as Dracula. I have a soft spot for John Carpenter's Big Trouble in Little China, for crying out loud. I mention these seemingly irrelevant and diffuse trivia lest I be accused of "highbrow" elitism.

Many works of art are great because they help us understand human nature better (although I don't agree with another viewer who feels that great films try "to improve the world at least a little bit"; some works of art may try to do this, but I feel this is incidental to what makes them great). Million Dollar Baby falls into this latter category of art that sheds light on what one nineteenth century writer (I forget who) called "the human heart in conflict with itself."

...and which adults might enjoy, too. Fulci's best western was the imperfect but striking and alchemical "Four of the Apocalypse," which was alternately shocking and touching, and meandered along at an engaging pace, letting the viewer soak in the detail and peripheral touches. While this is not up to the standard of that film, I find Silver Saddle to be preferable to his conventional, by-the-numbers "Massacre Time" (which, for some strange reason, its director insisted on referring to as "oneiric," although there is nothing dreamlike about it). If you enjoy this film, you might want to check out "White Fang," also by Fulci.

"I Am Curious: Yellow" is a risible and pretentious steaming pile. It doesn't matter what one's political views are because this film can hardly be taken seriously on any level. As for the claim that frontal male nudity is an automatic NC-17, that isn't true. I've seen R-rated films with male nudity. Granted, they only offer some fleeting views, but where are the R-rated films with gaping vulvas and flapping labia? Nowhere, because they don't exist. The same goes for those crappy cable shows: schlongs swinging in the breeze but not a clitoris in sight. And those pretentious indie movies like The Brown Bunny, in which we're treated to the site of Vincent Gallo's throbbing johnson, but not a trace of pink visible on Chloe Sevigny. Before crying (or implying) "double-standard" in matters of nudity, the mentally obtuse should take into account one unavoidably obvious anatomical difference between men and women: there are no genitals on display when actresses appears nude, and the same cannot be said for a man. In fact, you generally won't see female genitals in an American film in anything short of porn or explicit erotica. This alleged double-standard is less a double standard than an admittedly depressing ability to come to terms culturally with the insides of women's bodies.

This little, low-budget flick has a great deal of charm and is tons of fun to watch. This is not the so-called "so bad it's good" variety of film-making, like Plan 9 from Outer Space: it's not "bad" cinema, unless you're the kind of viewer who enjoys such middlebrow slop as Titanic and The English Patient. It's quirky, perverse, creative, and entertaining. Furthermore, the photography is excellent, which should come as no surprise: the cinematographer went on to write a classic instructional book on cinematography for film students. So if you're looking for something offbeat, and if John Sayles's films make you want to regurgitate all over the place, then place this one on your rental queue. Or better yet, buy it.

I'm a big fan of low- to medium- budget horror films from this period, but A Study in Terror -- from sexploitation specialists Compton, who thought they could create high class horror because of their success with Roman Polanski's Repulsion -- is almost pure mediocrity and wastes a great cast. It can't hold a candle to Bob Clark's masterful Murder by Decree; even From Hell, which suffers somewhat from Big Studio bloat, is preferable. I might recommend the film based solely on the opportunity to see actors like John Neville and Judi Dench; but beyond this factor, there is little to enjoy here. Stick with the above-mentioned movies. Also, try The Lodger and The Man in the Attic.

I found this film to be pompous hogwash: much more honest and interesting films dealing with the same subject matter have been made by exploitation directors like Jess Franco and Joe D'Amato. Try Franco's The Sex Demons, Joe D'Amato's Images in a Convent, Mingozzi's Flavia the Heretic, or Bruno Mattei's True Story of the Nun of Monza. In fact, Franco, at his best, could run circles around so-called "serious" directors who churned out pretentious "respectable" films such as this one. Skip it and stick with the others I named. And if you like them, you might want to branch out and try some of their other works, such as Franco's Soledad Miranda trilogy.

While John Landis's Thriller video was not a rip-off, it has never deserved the accolades it has received. As a horror-comedy it can't hold a candle to a film like Polanski's Dance of the Vampires. Basically a facile, superficial concoction, it contributed to the death of the horror film in general and the zombie film in particular, as movie after movie in the '80s rushed to emulate that video's glossy MTV style dominated by overwhelmingly blue lighting and bad haircuts. Given that the video couldn't have existed in the first place if it wasn't for cult directors like Fulci and Romero, it was extremely gratifying to see Roger Watkins – director of the sublimely depraved Last House on Dead End Street – produce a version of Thriller as vile porn film. For those of you who have been craving revenge, look no further: Driller is it.