The night is dark. The girl is young. And frightened. She didn't want to go to the store. She didn't want to get the cornmeal. She knew about the leopard that had escaped from the club and was frightened. But her mother chided her for being afraid, and her little brother made fun of her. So out she went into the dark. Her mother bolted the door behind her and told her she would't be allowed back in unless she came back with the cornmeal for the tortillas.
On her way back from the second store (the first store she went to was closed, and the owner's wife didn't want to open up again, if even for a minute), she must pass beneath the train bridge again. In the darkness, she can see two points of light--the glowing eyes of the escaped leopard. A train suddenly passes overhead. When she looks again, the eyes are gone. but when she emerges from the underpass, the leopard is sitting atop the embankment. She screams. The leopard springs after her. She runs for her life, spilling the cornmeal.
She pounds on the door of her family's home. "Mamacita!" she screams, "If you love me, let me in! Mamacita!"
Her mother is unimpressed and thinks her daughter silly for being so afraid. "It's coming closer--I can see it!" The girl screams one last time. There's a sickening "thud" against the door, and what sounds like an animal snarling. "Wait, Teresa," the girl's mother says. "I come. I will let you in." But it's too late--the only answer her mother receives to her cries is her daughter's blood flowing beneath the door.
The scene above, one of the most intense and unnerving in any horror film, is from The Leopard Man, the third collaboration between RKO producer Val Lewton and director Jacques Tourneur (after Cat People and I Walked with a Zombie)--and, unfortunately, the last. They play with big kitties again in this mystery set in New Mexico.
The agent (Dennis O'Keefe) for a dancer (Jean Brooks) devises a plan to draw attention away from her rival, a flamboyant flamenco dancer (Margo): His client will walk into the club where they perform with a leopard on a leash. Great plan...till the flamenco dancer frightens the cat and it dashes off into the night. When the young girl is killed, the agent and dancer are torn apart with guilt. But when two more women die in a similar manner, the agent becomes suspicious: Is the leopard responsible for these new deaths, or is something--or someONE--else responsible?
It's not too difficult to figure out what's going on in The Leopard Man. Because Tourneur and screenwriter Ardel Wray spend a lot of time on introducing us to characters who, in very short order, are knocked off, there are very few characters that carry from the beginning of the movie to the end, thus cutting the suspect list down to next to nothing. And we know it's not the leopard killing off all the pretty girls--the title tips you off to that, and the trailer (included on the newly released DVD) flat-out says there's a human killer on the loose. That leaves the viewer to admire the style of the movie, which, like all of the Lewton/Tourneur features, is great to look at, visually elegant and restrained. (Go back to the scene above. We don't see Teresa die--hearing her beign torn apart is more than enough for the imagination to fill in the rest.)
But The Leopard Man is less engaging than most of Lewton's other features, perhaps because the mystery is so easily solved, because there is no supernatural element present (despite what the title implies) and because all of the characters who get terrorized in this movie are young, beautiful women, thus qualifying The Leopard Man as an early prototype of the mad slasher film.
I'm not sure that's necessarily a good thing.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Reveiw: Weird Tales (1919)
The anthology horror film, in which several short stories are presented with a framing story or a narrator to link them, has come and gone in popularity, with high points in the 1940s (Dead of Night) and the 1970s (The House That Dripped Blood, Trilogy of Terror). But the form's roots go deeper and farther back than that, with the German-made Weird Tales (which has also been shown under names like Eerie Tales, Five Sinister Stories and Tales of the Uncanny) possibly being the earliest surviving example.
An antiquarian book dealer is shutting down for the night when three aggressive, mischievous spirits--one of whom is played by Conrad Veidt, the somnambulist from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (also released in 1919)--chase him out. The spirits, two men and one woman, then start picking up books at random and reading stories. We get to see the five stories they read, each of which involves a lover's triangle of one kind or another (and features the three actors playing the spirits as well):
Story one: A man walking through the park helps a young woman who's being accosted by her seemingly insane husband. He takes her to a hotel room for safekeeping and (of course) falls instantly in love with her. The woman in question, however, is far more--and far less--that she appears to be.
Story two: Two men fall for the same woman. (Don't you hate it when that happens?) One strangles the other and, years after he's married the woman of his dreams, is haunted by the spectre of the man he murdered. (Don't you hate it when that happens?)
Story three: A drunken man murders his beautiful wife and seals her body up in a wall. Unfortunately for him, he seals up their cat as well. (Sound familiar? It should: It's a fairly faithful adaptation of Edgar Allen Poe's famous short story, "The Black Cat.")
Story four: A man walking through the woods spots an unusual house (always a bad sign). He's told that the house is empty, but when he visits again he finds it abuzz with activity. He sees a beautiful woman (of course) in one of the windows and is captured by the inhabitants, who turn out to be a secret club that plays a game every night: everybody draws a card, and the one who pulls the Ace of Spades must die. This leads to a tense duel of wits between the man from the woods and the club's gamemaster--a duel to the death.
Story five: The bored wife of an aristocrat becomes fascinated by the stories of a fop (who looks a hell of a lot like modern British comedian Rowan Atkisson), who brags of all sorts of acts of bravery and daring-do when he is, in reality, a coward. The husband gets pretty annoyed with this nonsense and leaves on a trip. Before the lying fop can seduce the lady of the house, though, strange things start happening, like objects moving on their own and....
Director Richard Oswald tells most of the stories with strange, ominous shadows and low-key lighting--typical of German Expressionism--with the second story as probably the closest to scary and the fourth story as the most engaging, worthy of a feature-length treatment. Only the last tale is played for comedy, which weakens the film as a whole--it would have been more effective to end with a more powerful, truly scary story than to conclude with a laugh.
Still, it's a reasonably entertaining silent film--which was long thought to be lost--carried off with considerable style. And a restored print of it recently toured the country, so who knows? Maybe it'll be on DVD sometime soon--a survivor from an era from which the majority of films (90%, by some estimates) don't exist at all.
An antiquarian book dealer is shutting down for the night when three aggressive, mischievous spirits--one of whom is played by Conrad Veidt, the somnambulist from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (also released in 1919)--chase him out. The spirits, two men and one woman, then start picking up books at random and reading stories. We get to see the five stories they read, each of which involves a lover's triangle of one kind or another (and features the three actors playing the spirits as well):
Story one: A man walking through the park helps a young woman who's being accosted by her seemingly insane husband. He takes her to a hotel room for safekeeping and (of course) falls instantly in love with her. The woman in question, however, is far more--and far less--that she appears to be.
Story two: Two men fall for the same woman. (Don't you hate it when that happens?) One strangles the other and, years after he's married the woman of his dreams, is haunted by the spectre of the man he murdered. (Don't you hate it when that happens?)
Story three: A drunken man murders his beautiful wife and seals her body up in a wall. Unfortunately for him, he seals up their cat as well. (Sound familiar? It should: It's a fairly faithful adaptation of Edgar Allen Poe's famous short story, "The Black Cat.")
Story four: A man walking through the woods spots an unusual house (always a bad sign). He's told that the house is empty, but when he visits again he finds it abuzz with activity. He sees a beautiful woman (of course) in one of the windows and is captured by the inhabitants, who turn out to be a secret club that plays a game every night: everybody draws a card, and the one who pulls the Ace of Spades must die. This leads to a tense duel of wits between the man from the woods and the club's gamemaster--a duel to the death.
Story five: The bored wife of an aristocrat becomes fascinated by the stories of a fop (who looks a hell of a lot like modern British comedian Rowan Atkisson), who brags of all sorts of acts of bravery and daring-do when he is, in reality, a coward. The husband gets pretty annoyed with this nonsense and leaves on a trip. Before the lying fop can seduce the lady of the house, though, strange things start happening, like objects moving on their own and....
Director Richard Oswald tells most of the stories with strange, ominous shadows and low-key lighting--typical of German Expressionism--with the second story as probably the closest to scary and the fourth story as the most engaging, worthy of a feature-length treatment. Only the last tale is played for comedy, which weakens the film as a whole--it would have been more effective to end with a more powerful, truly scary story than to conclude with a laugh.
Still, it's a reasonably entertaining silent film--which was long thought to be lost--carried off with considerable style. And a restored print of it recently toured the country, so who knows? Maybe it'll be on DVD sometime soon--a survivor from an era from which the majority of films (90%, by some estimates) don't exist at all.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Review: The Black Hole (1979)
A good friend of mine likes to refer to Disney's The Black Hole as "the best '50s sci-fi movie made in the '70s."
He has a point. Of all of the movies and TV shows that came in the wake of Star Wars trying to capitalize on the sci-fi craze it generated--Battlestar Galactica, Moonraker, Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, Flash Gordon, Battle Beyond the Stars and Star Trek: The Motion Picture among them--The Black Hole is, in many ways, the most old-fashioned of the bunch--which, considering most of those titles listed above are outright remakes, is really saying something. Then again, The Black Hole is a remake of sorts, too--its basic plot follows the general outlines of the 1954 version of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (also a Disney picture), with bits of Forbidden Planet (which featured the work of several Disney special effects artists on loan to MGM) thrown in and an ending that tried to out-trip 2001: A Space Odyssy.
The Palamino, commanded by Captain Dan Holland (Robert Forster), comes across the title cosmic oddity, and something even more odd: A large spaceship hovering close to the black hole, seemingly immune to its gravitational pull. The ship turns out to be the Cygnus, presumed lost with the father of Kate McCrae (Yvette Mimieux) aboard. The crew of the Palamino, which also includes Lieutenant Charlie Pizer (Joseph Bottoms), Scientist Alex Durant (Anthony Perkins), reporter Harry Booth (Ernest Borgnine) and a smartass little floating robot named V.I.N.C.E.N.T. (voiced by Roddy McDowell) who has an ESP connection with Kate (robots have ESP?), decides to get a closer look at the Cygnus.
Bad idea. Really bad idea.
After almost getting sucked into the black hole, Holland and crew board the Cygnus, only to find only one living human left: the brilliant-but-batshit-crazy Doctor Hans Reinhardt (Maximillian Schell), who plans to sail the Cygnus straight into the black hole because he thinks he'll discover the answers to all of life's mysteries. Or something. His crew consists of nothing but robots (or so it would appear), including the psychotic Maximillian, who looks like a combination of Darth Vader and Gort from The Day the Earth Stood Still dipped in red paint. (If he had been painted black, George Lucas would have sued for sure.) Holland just wants to make repairs to the Palamino and get the hell out of there, but Kate wants to know more about what happened to the human crew of the Cygnus (Reinhardt says they all died after abandoning ship...riiiiiight), and Alex has some kind of science-crush on Reinhardt. And, of course, Reinhardt has no intention of letting any of them leave--alive.
All of this would be fine as simple space opera, but a lot of time gets wasted following V.I.N.C.E.N.T. and another cute robot named Bob (voiced by Slim Pickens) around as they alternate between "funny" scenes of outwitting the robot guards and serious stuff as they discover what Doctor Reinhardt has really been up to all these years--and what he plans to do now.
The cutesy robots also highlight the weaknesses in the production design, which veers wildly from brilliant (the cathedral-like look of the Cygnus, complete with stained-glass control panels on the bridge, and the gritty look of the Palamino) to extremely cheap (V.I.N.C.E.N.T., whose "aw, isn't he precious!" look often doesn't match the harder-edged dialogue spoken by Mcdowell, or the tin-foil headgear planted on Kate when Reinhardt tries to kill her). Some of the design even looks like it came straight from outtakes of Forbidden Planet. There are brilliant, poetic moments--Harry Booth staring into the reflective face of a robot, or the descent of the Cysgnus into the black hole--and equally brilliant but highly improbable ones--during a cosmic storm, a huge meteor crashes into the Cygnus and rolls down the center of it, straight toward the majority of the cast; are meteors round enough to roll, and wouldn't everybody have been sucked into space? And do I need to mention that the black hole itself looks sort of like a swirling, Technicolor drain?
The script is just as inconsistent, trying to bring up major philosophical and religious issues (Dante's Inferno is mentioned) on the one hand while serving up unintentionally hilarious moments, like Reinhardt slapping his forehead repeatedly over Maximillian's incompetence or the twitching expression on the face of a Palamino crew member as Maximillian's whirling blades slice and dice. Characterization wanders all over the place, too--Alex seems way too smart to be so smitten with Reinhardt (and for no apparent reason), while Harry goes from cynical sidekick to self-centered coward in nanoseconds.
Even the music is all over the place, sounding moody and evocative in some places and cribbed from a Saturday morning cartoon in others. Some of it wouldn't even sound out of place in a James Bond film--perhaps because it was composed by John Barry, who scored many of the James Bond films.
The biggest problem with The Black Hole is the journey into the black hole itself. It's set up throughout the film as something amazing, spectacular and life-altering, but the head-trippy visuals and attempts at profundity, irony and closure instead provoke giggles--and that's from the potheads in the audience. The rest of us just stare and mutter, "That's it?"
Somehow, I don't think that's what Disney was going for.
He has a point. Of all of the movies and TV shows that came in the wake of Star Wars trying to capitalize on the sci-fi craze it generated--Battlestar Galactica, Moonraker, Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, Flash Gordon, Battle Beyond the Stars and Star Trek: The Motion Picture among them--The Black Hole is, in many ways, the most old-fashioned of the bunch--which, considering most of those titles listed above are outright remakes, is really saying something. Then again, The Black Hole is a remake of sorts, too--its basic plot follows the general outlines of the 1954 version of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (also a Disney picture), with bits of Forbidden Planet (which featured the work of several Disney special effects artists on loan to MGM) thrown in and an ending that tried to out-trip 2001: A Space Odyssy.
The Palamino, commanded by Captain Dan Holland (Robert Forster), comes across the title cosmic oddity, and something even more odd: A large spaceship hovering close to the black hole, seemingly immune to its gravitational pull. The ship turns out to be the Cygnus, presumed lost with the father of Kate McCrae (Yvette Mimieux) aboard. The crew of the Palamino, which also includes Lieutenant Charlie Pizer (Joseph Bottoms), Scientist Alex Durant (Anthony Perkins), reporter Harry Booth (Ernest Borgnine) and a smartass little floating robot named V.I.N.C.E.N.T. (voiced by Roddy McDowell) who has an ESP connection with Kate (robots have ESP?), decides to get a closer look at the Cygnus.
Bad idea. Really bad idea.
After almost getting sucked into the black hole, Holland and crew board the Cygnus, only to find only one living human left: the brilliant-but-batshit-crazy Doctor Hans Reinhardt (Maximillian Schell), who plans to sail the Cygnus straight into the black hole because he thinks he'll discover the answers to all of life's mysteries. Or something. His crew consists of nothing but robots (or so it would appear), including the psychotic Maximillian, who looks like a combination of Darth Vader and Gort from The Day the Earth Stood Still dipped in red paint. (If he had been painted black, George Lucas would have sued for sure.) Holland just wants to make repairs to the Palamino and get the hell out of there, but Kate wants to know more about what happened to the human crew of the Cygnus (Reinhardt says they all died after abandoning ship...riiiiiight), and Alex has some kind of science-crush on Reinhardt. And, of course, Reinhardt has no intention of letting any of them leave--alive.
All of this would be fine as simple space opera, but a lot of time gets wasted following V.I.N.C.E.N.T. and another cute robot named Bob (voiced by Slim Pickens) around as they alternate between "funny" scenes of outwitting the robot guards and serious stuff as they discover what Doctor Reinhardt has really been up to all these years--and what he plans to do now.
The cutesy robots also highlight the weaknesses in the production design, which veers wildly from brilliant (the cathedral-like look of the Cygnus, complete with stained-glass control panels on the bridge, and the gritty look of the Palamino) to extremely cheap (V.I.N.C.E.N.T., whose "aw, isn't he precious!" look often doesn't match the harder-edged dialogue spoken by Mcdowell, or the tin-foil headgear planted on Kate when Reinhardt tries to kill her). Some of the design even looks like it came straight from outtakes of Forbidden Planet. There are brilliant, poetic moments--Harry Booth staring into the reflective face of a robot, or the descent of the Cysgnus into the black hole--and equally brilliant but highly improbable ones--during a cosmic storm, a huge meteor crashes into the Cygnus and rolls down the center of it, straight toward the majority of the cast; are meteors round enough to roll, and wouldn't everybody have been sucked into space? And do I need to mention that the black hole itself looks sort of like a swirling, Technicolor drain?
The script is just as inconsistent, trying to bring up major philosophical and religious issues (Dante's Inferno is mentioned) on the one hand while serving up unintentionally hilarious moments, like Reinhardt slapping his forehead repeatedly over Maximillian's incompetence or the twitching expression on the face of a Palamino crew member as Maximillian's whirling blades slice and dice. Characterization wanders all over the place, too--Alex seems way too smart to be so smitten with Reinhardt (and for no apparent reason), while Harry goes from cynical sidekick to self-centered coward in nanoseconds.
Even the music is all over the place, sounding moody and evocative in some places and cribbed from a Saturday morning cartoon in others. Some of it wouldn't even sound out of place in a James Bond film--perhaps because it was composed by John Barry, who scored many of the James Bond films.
The biggest problem with The Black Hole is the journey into the black hole itself. It's set up throughout the film as something amazing, spectacular and life-altering, but the head-trippy visuals and attempts at profundity, irony and closure instead provoke giggles--and that's from the potheads in the audience. The rest of us just stare and mutter, "That's it?"
Somehow, I don't think that's what Disney was going for.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Review: Phantom of the Opera (1962)
Toward the end of his career, Cary Grant was interested in doing a horror film--something he'd never done before--and he approached Hammer Studios, which had successfully revived the classic monsters of the Universal stable of the 1930s with a string of hits like Curse of Frankenstein, Horror of Dracula and Curse of the Werewolf. Hammer responded by presenting Grant and his agent with the script to its adaptation of Gaston Leroux's Phantom of the Opera, which had already been filmed a couple of times (in 1925 and 1943 by Universal. Grant's agent rejected the script, turned off by Anthony Hind's lurid, violent take on the classic tale, and Grant never made a horror film.
Sometimes, agents are right.
This version of Phantom of the Opera, co-produced with Universal, is a dreary affair, with the action inexplicably moved from Paris to London, Where Professor Petrie (Herbert Lom) tries to enlist Lord Ambrose D'Arcy (Michael Gough at his reptilian best) as the patron for his music. Instead, Ambrose steals the music and puts his own name on it. Petrie tries to destroy all of the copies of the music by burning them, but the fire gets out of control and, when he tries to throw what he thinks is water on the flames, Petrie catches a face full of acid instead. Petrie escapes the fire and throws himself into the Thames, but a dwarf (Ian Wilson) finds him in the sewer and rescues him.
Meanwhile, at the opera, Christine (Heather Sears) is set to play the lead in a production based on the story of Joan of Arc, but loses the part when she won't sleep with D'Arcy, who wrote the opera (except he didn't--Petrie did). Christine gets fired, along with her boyfriend, Harry (Edward de Souza) and just about anyone else who doesn't like D'Arcy (which is, in fact, everybody), but the dwarf kidnaps Christine so Petrie can "teach" her how to use her voice. (His "teaching" method includes slapping Christine and splashing her face with sewer water.)
In fact, the dwarf gets most of the nasty bits the Phantom usually does, like hanging nosy stagehands and stabbing a ratcatcher (a pre-Doctor Who Patrick Troughton) in the eye. He even precipitates the "exciting" conclusion, where he causes the chandelier to fall, at which point the Phantom tears off his own mask (why?), leaps onstage to shove Christine out of the way (quite a jump--maybe the lack of a mask made him more aerodynamic?), and is crushed by the chandelier himself, even though the chandelier doesn't look much bigger than the one that used to hang in my grandmother's living room.
That chandelier points to another huge problem with this version of Phantom. Many of Hammer's movies were low-budget productions, but the studio was able to mask (no pun intended) that fact with gothic sets and fast pacing, both of which kept you from looking too carefully at anything but the action. But the opera sequences here look like they were put on by a particularly hard-up community theater (especially compared the 1943 version), and Terence Fisher can't pump much energy into the proceedings.
Lom's Phantom has the scariest mask of any of the big-screen "opera ghosts," but that's not the point. It's the man under the mask who's supposed to be scary. And this Phantom fails on that score. Just as the movie as a whole fails on every other score.
Sometimes, agents are right.
This version of Phantom of the Opera, co-produced with Universal, is a dreary affair, with the action inexplicably moved from Paris to London, Where Professor Petrie (Herbert Lom) tries to enlist Lord Ambrose D'Arcy (Michael Gough at his reptilian best) as the patron for his music. Instead, Ambrose steals the music and puts his own name on it. Petrie tries to destroy all of the copies of the music by burning them, but the fire gets out of control and, when he tries to throw what he thinks is water on the flames, Petrie catches a face full of acid instead. Petrie escapes the fire and throws himself into the Thames, but a dwarf (Ian Wilson) finds him in the sewer and rescues him.
Meanwhile, at the opera, Christine (Heather Sears) is set to play the lead in a production based on the story of Joan of Arc, but loses the part when she won't sleep with D'Arcy, who wrote the opera (except he didn't--Petrie did). Christine gets fired, along with her boyfriend, Harry (Edward de Souza) and just about anyone else who doesn't like D'Arcy (which is, in fact, everybody), but the dwarf kidnaps Christine so Petrie can "teach" her how to use her voice. (His "teaching" method includes slapping Christine and splashing her face with sewer water.)
In fact, the dwarf gets most of the nasty bits the Phantom usually does, like hanging nosy stagehands and stabbing a ratcatcher (a pre-Doctor Who Patrick Troughton) in the eye. He even precipitates the "exciting" conclusion, where he causes the chandelier to fall, at which point the Phantom tears off his own mask (why?), leaps onstage to shove Christine out of the way (quite a jump--maybe the lack of a mask made him more aerodynamic?), and is crushed by the chandelier himself, even though the chandelier doesn't look much bigger than the one that used to hang in my grandmother's living room.
That chandelier points to another huge problem with this version of Phantom. Many of Hammer's movies were low-budget productions, but the studio was able to mask (no pun intended) that fact with gothic sets and fast pacing, both of which kept you from looking too carefully at anything but the action. But the opera sequences here look like they were put on by a particularly hard-up community theater (especially compared the 1943 version), and Terence Fisher can't pump much energy into the proceedings.
Lom's Phantom has the scariest mask of any of the big-screen "opera ghosts," but that's not the point. It's the man under the mask who's supposed to be scary. And this Phantom fails on that score. Just as the movie as a whole fails on every other score.
Sunday, October 9, 2005
Review: The Corpse Bride (2005)
The TV commercials shown for Tim Burton's Corpse Bride prior to its release might well confuse the casual viewer: A brief look at the animation style combined with the Danny Elfman music playing underneath could easily give the impression that Corpse Bride is a sequel to The Nightmare Before Christmas.
But that impression would be wrong.
Corpse Bride may be done in the same style as its illustrious predecessor, with stop-motion/computer aided animation and features songs by Elfman, but it's no more a sequel than The Year Without a Santa Claus is a sequel to Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town.
Still, the recycling of the Elfman track from Nightmare Before Christmas for the Corpse Bride commercials invites--practically begs--comparisons between the two movies. And that isn't fair to Corpse Bride, especially considering the nearly beloved status the previous film has attained over the years since its release in 1993. Also? It's not as good.
For Corpse Bride, Burton co-directs (along with Mike Johnson) the story of Victor Van Dort (Johnny Depp), who is about to enter into a marriage to Victoria Everglot (Emily Watson) arranged by their mutually odious parents, the Van Dorts (Tracey Ullman and Paul Whitehouse) and the Everglots (Joanna Lumley and Albert Finney). Victor is extremely shy and nervous, badly fumbling the wedding rehersal before Pastor Galswells (Christopher Lee). He wanders out into the forest and practices his vows, eventually hitting them flawlessly and even slipping the wedding band on what looks like a gnarled branch.
But, of course, it's not really a branch at all, gnarled or otherwise: It's the ring finger of Emily, the Corpse Bride (Helena Bonham Carter), long ago murdered by her fiancee, and now claiming Victor for her own--well, he said the vows and slipped the ring on, didn't he? This leads to a tour of the Land of the Dead, which looks much more colorful, interesting and fun than the Land of the Living, which is all black-and-white and shades of gray and not very fun at all. Even so, Victor wants to get back to Victoria, whose parents are all-too-happy to cancel the engagement to Victor and marry off their little girl to the smooth, smarmy, mysterious Barkis Bittern (Richard E. Grant).
There's really not much more plot than that, other than Victor's efforts to return to life and the question of who killed Emily in the first place. But Corpse Bride isn't about plot--it's about visual style and tone. The animation is delightful, playing even more closely to the Rankin/Bass holiday specials from our childhoods than Nightmare did. The Land of the Dead, in particular, is a wonder, with dancing/singing skeletons, a maggot (Enn Reitel) who sounds like Peter Lorre, a helpful Black Widow (Jane Horricks) and various ambulatory undead. As dull as life is among the living, it's strange that Victor wants to go back at all.
Burton has assembled a formidable cast of actors he's worked with before (Depp, Carter, Finney, Lee, Elfman, Michael Gough and Deep Roy) and a few other recognizable names, but aside from Lee and Gough (as an under-the-ground wiseman), most of the vocal performances lack passion and energy. Depp, in particular, sounds flat, possibly because he and Burton were shooting Charlie and the Chocolate Factory at the same time. Elfman's score isn't impressive or memorable, either, with four songs that left my head as soon as they stopped playing.
But Corpse Bride does look great, is very short (76 minutes) and has a reserved sweetness that keeps it from just being leftovers reheated one too many times. It may not match giddy heights of The Nightmare Before Christmas, but it's grimly charming in its own right and deserves to be seen as something separate--and fun in its own special, slightly demented way.
But that impression would be wrong.
Corpse Bride may be done in the same style as its illustrious predecessor, with stop-motion/computer aided animation and features songs by Elfman, but it's no more a sequel than The Year Without a Santa Claus is a sequel to Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town.
Still, the recycling of the Elfman track from Nightmare Before Christmas for the Corpse Bride commercials invites--practically begs--comparisons between the two movies. And that isn't fair to Corpse Bride, especially considering the nearly beloved status the previous film has attained over the years since its release in 1993. Also? It's not as good.
For Corpse Bride, Burton co-directs (along with Mike Johnson) the story of Victor Van Dort (Johnny Depp), who is about to enter into a marriage to Victoria Everglot (Emily Watson) arranged by their mutually odious parents, the Van Dorts (Tracey Ullman and Paul Whitehouse) and the Everglots (Joanna Lumley and Albert Finney). Victor is extremely shy and nervous, badly fumbling the wedding rehersal before Pastor Galswells (Christopher Lee). He wanders out into the forest and practices his vows, eventually hitting them flawlessly and even slipping the wedding band on what looks like a gnarled branch.
But, of course, it's not really a branch at all, gnarled or otherwise: It's the ring finger of Emily, the Corpse Bride (Helena Bonham Carter), long ago murdered by her fiancee, and now claiming Victor for her own--well, he said the vows and slipped the ring on, didn't he? This leads to a tour of the Land of the Dead, which looks much more colorful, interesting and fun than the Land of the Living, which is all black-and-white and shades of gray and not very fun at all. Even so, Victor wants to get back to Victoria, whose parents are all-too-happy to cancel the engagement to Victor and marry off their little girl to the smooth, smarmy, mysterious Barkis Bittern (Richard E. Grant).
There's really not much more plot than that, other than Victor's efforts to return to life and the question of who killed Emily in the first place. But Corpse Bride isn't about plot--it's about visual style and tone. The animation is delightful, playing even more closely to the Rankin/Bass holiday specials from our childhoods than Nightmare did. The Land of the Dead, in particular, is a wonder, with dancing/singing skeletons, a maggot (Enn Reitel) who sounds like Peter Lorre, a helpful Black Widow (Jane Horricks) and various ambulatory undead. As dull as life is among the living, it's strange that Victor wants to go back at all.
Burton has assembled a formidable cast of actors he's worked with before (Depp, Carter, Finney, Lee, Elfman, Michael Gough and Deep Roy) and a few other recognizable names, but aside from Lee and Gough (as an under-the-ground wiseman), most of the vocal performances lack passion and energy. Depp, in particular, sounds flat, possibly because he and Burton were shooting Charlie and the Chocolate Factory at the same time. Elfman's score isn't impressive or memorable, either, with four songs that left my head as soon as they stopped playing.
But Corpse Bride does look great, is very short (76 minutes) and has a reserved sweetness that keeps it from just being leftovers reheated one too many times. It may not match giddy heights of The Nightmare Before Christmas, but it's grimly charming in its own right and deserves to be seen as something separate--and fun in its own special, slightly demented way.
Saturday, October 8, 2005
Review: The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993)
Imagine a Rankin/Bass holiday special written by Charles Addams and designed by Edward Gorey, and you've pretty much got the gist of The Nightmare Before Christmas.
Based on a story by Tim Burton (hence his name in the title), The Nightmare Before Christmas is the story of Jack Skellington (speaking voice by Chris Sarandon, singing voice by Danny Elfman, who also provides the score and songs), the "Pumpkin King" of Halloween Town, where all of the frights and scares for All Hallow's Eve are manufactured by various creeptacular denizens--werewolves, vampires, witches, etc. Jack is the best at what he does, but he's bored with it all and wants something more, something new, in his (after)life.
While walking through the forest with his ghost-dog, Zero, Jack stumbles onto the doorways to the homes of other holidays, including Christmas Town, where Santa Claus (Ed Ivory) is busily preparing for the upcoming yuletide season. Jack falls through the door and is enthralled by what he finds on the other side: Snow! Lights! Tinsel! Ornaments! Presents!
When he returns to Halloween Town, Jack is determined to have a go at this Christmas thing himself--which, of course, would mean putting this "Sandy Claws" fellow out of the way until the holiday is done. Jack enlists Lock, Shock and Barrel (Paul Reubens, Catherine O'Hara and Elfman, respectively), three little trick-or-treaters who are scarier with their masks off, to kidnap Santa without doing him harm. Unfortunately, they work for Oogie Boogie (Ken Page), a burlap-wrapped, maggoty, malevolent ghost who'd be more than happy to take over Halloween Town if Jack's so tired of it.
Meanwhile, Jack goes on trying to duplicate the Christmas spirit (filtered through his Halloween sensibilities, so you wind up with stuff like bat garlands and gifts that try to eat you) with the help of mad scientist Doctor Finkelstein (William Hickey). Only Finkelstein's assistant/creation, Sally (O'Hara), thinks this is all a spectacularly bad idea. Of course, she's also in love with Jack, even though he can't see it (I feel your pain, girlfriend).
All of the above is, of course, plot summary for The Nightmare Before Christmas and nothing more. It doesn't convey the wonder of the stop-motion, computer-aided animation directed by Henry Selick It doesn't properly capture the charm, wit and cheerful morbidity (can one be cheerful and morbid at the same time?) of Caroline Thompson's script, which dances carefully between comical creepiness and holiday/romantic sentimentality while throwing in sly references to classic holiday specials. (Zero's little pumpkin nose just happens to glow like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer's--wonder who will wind up pulling Jack's sleigh?) It doesn't speak to the catchiness of Elfman's songs, most of which will be stuck in your head for days.
If this movie were just a satire of all those seasonal specials we grew up with, it'd still be great fun. But throw in its serious message about taking risks (for both satisfaction with your life's work and for someone you love), its gothic charm and its ultimate sweetness the final scene is tear-inducing), and The Nightmare Before Christmas becomes something unique: An animated feature that has itself become a classic for not one, but both of America's most popular holidays.
Based on a story by Tim Burton (hence his name in the title), The Nightmare Before Christmas is the story of Jack Skellington (speaking voice by Chris Sarandon, singing voice by Danny Elfman, who also provides the score and songs), the "Pumpkin King" of Halloween Town, where all of the frights and scares for All Hallow's Eve are manufactured by various creeptacular denizens--werewolves, vampires, witches, etc. Jack is the best at what he does, but he's bored with it all and wants something more, something new, in his (after)life.
While walking through the forest with his ghost-dog, Zero, Jack stumbles onto the doorways to the homes of other holidays, including Christmas Town, where Santa Claus (Ed Ivory) is busily preparing for the upcoming yuletide season. Jack falls through the door and is enthralled by what he finds on the other side: Snow! Lights! Tinsel! Ornaments! Presents!
When he returns to Halloween Town, Jack is determined to have a go at this Christmas thing himself--which, of course, would mean putting this "Sandy Claws" fellow out of the way until the holiday is done. Jack enlists Lock, Shock and Barrel (Paul Reubens, Catherine O'Hara and Elfman, respectively), three little trick-or-treaters who are scarier with their masks off, to kidnap Santa without doing him harm. Unfortunately, they work for Oogie Boogie (Ken Page), a burlap-wrapped, maggoty, malevolent ghost who'd be more than happy to take over Halloween Town if Jack's so tired of it.
Meanwhile, Jack goes on trying to duplicate the Christmas spirit (filtered through his Halloween sensibilities, so you wind up with stuff like bat garlands and gifts that try to eat you) with the help of mad scientist Doctor Finkelstein (William Hickey). Only Finkelstein's assistant/creation, Sally (O'Hara), thinks this is all a spectacularly bad idea. Of course, she's also in love with Jack, even though he can't see it (I feel your pain, girlfriend).
All of the above is, of course, plot summary for The Nightmare Before Christmas and nothing more. It doesn't convey the wonder of the stop-motion, computer-aided animation directed by Henry Selick It doesn't properly capture the charm, wit and cheerful morbidity (can one be cheerful and morbid at the same time?) of Caroline Thompson's script, which dances carefully between comical creepiness and holiday/romantic sentimentality while throwing in sly references to classic holiday specials. (Zero's little pumpkin nose just happens to glow like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer's--wonder who will wind up pulling Jack's sleigh?) It doesn't speak to the catchiness of Elfman's songs, most of which will be stuck in your head for days.
If this movie were just a satire of all those seasonal specials we grew up with, it'd still be great fun. But throw in its serious message about taking risks (for both satisfaction with your life's work and for someone you love), its gothic charm and its ultimate sweetness the final scene is tear-inducing), and The Nightmare Before Christmas becomes something unique: An animated feature that has itself become a classic for not one, but both of America's most popular holidays.
Friday, October 7, 2005
Review: Dracula's Daughter (1936)
When Universal announced in trade publications that they intended to finally produce a sequel to the film that started the horror boom of the 1930s, Dracula, they made it clear that the followup would eclipse the original--and every other Universal horror film--in scale and importance, with James Whale (director of many of the studio's horror hits) in charge and Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff and Colin Clive set to star. (Lugosi would only appear in flashbacks, since his character died at the end of the original.)
But by 1936, the horror boom had waned, with monster movies being censored or outright banned here, there and everywhere. Universal still went forward with Dracula's Daughter, but they scaled the production down significantly, keeping Whale, Karloff and Clive off of the project. (Lugosi remained under contract for the movie, even though he doesn't appear in it, even in flashback, and wound up getting paid more than he'd made for Dracula.)
This doesn't mean that Dracula's Daughter is a less effective movie for its reduced budget and lesser-known cast. In fact, it's one of the most interesting (if least-known) of the horror cycle of the 1930s, even if it comes at the tail end of that cycle.
Dracula's Daughter picks up immediately after end of Dracula, with Doctor Van Helsing (Edward Van Sloan, reprising his role) having driven a wooden stake into the Count's black, black heart. The police tend to frown on such antisocial activities, though, and Van Helsing gets arrested and charged with murder. Sir Basil Humphrey (Gilbert Emery) of Scotland Yard presents Van Helsing with his options, which are pretty limited: Either he's convicted and sent to the gallows, or he'd declared insane and spends the rest of his days in an asylum. Van Helsing asks for the help of one of his former students, Jeffrey Garth (Otto Kruger) to prove that he's neither crazy nor homicidal.
Meanwhile, Countess Marya Zaleska (Gloria Holden) comes to see Dracula's body--and then kills the attendant, steals the body and, with the help of her manservant, Sandor (Irving Pichel), burns it (actually, a wax dummy taking the place of Lugosi).
As you might have guessed, Zaleska is also the title character. But the Countess isn't a typical vampire--she hates what she is, believes that she's being dominated by her father's will, even from beyond the (now-permanent) grave, and wants Jeffrey to help change, even as Sandor (who appears to be a bloodsucker himself) scowls and doubts not only that she can change, but that there's any reason for her to change.
When she and Jeffrey discuss her compulsions (in the most general terms, of course--wouldn't want to tell a psychologist that you're a 100-year-old vampire), it sounds much more like they're talking about drug or alcohol addiction (Jeffrey even refers to treatment for alcoholics) than a taste for O-positive. Jeffrey recommends that she confront her impulses straight-on: "The next time you feel this influence, don't avoid it. Meet it. Fight it. Score the first victory." The Countess acts on Jeffrey's advice and sends Sandor out to find a victi...er, a volunteer to come back to her studio in Chelsea to "model" for her. Sandor finds a lovely young girl, Lili (lovely young Nan Grey), and brings her back to Zaleska, who finds herself unable to resist her bloodlust after all.
This scene with Lili has become famous because it plays very much like a lesbian seduction--something one doesn't expect to find in a mainstream horror film from a major studio. When Lili comes to Zaleska's studio and is offered food and warmth by the fireplace, the Countess can't take her eyes off the girl, especially when Lili removes her blouse and holds the front of her undergarment up with her hands. Zaleska stares not just with interest or even longing, but pure hunger. It's an erotically charged moment, no question. The legend of vampirism has always had sexual connotations--what with domination of another will, penetration, sucking, etc.--but said connotations were usually pushed to the margins in the horror films of the '30s and '40s. To see them displayed overtly in a movie of the period can be startling.
Alas, the Countess not only can't deal with her need for the red stuff, but can't control her emotions, either: She falls in love with Jeffrey and wants him to become undead, too. To this end, she kidnaps Jeffrey's wisecracking socialite secretary, Janet (Marguerite Churchill), who's also in love with him, and travels back to the old homestead in Transylvania to lure him there. Jeffrey, of course, charges off (since, of course, he's in love with Janet), with Van Helsing and Sir Basil in hot pursuit, toward the exciting conclusion.
Director Lambert Hillyer (who also helmed The Invisible Ray with Karloff and Lugosi that same year for Universal) and cinematographer George Robinson (who also lensed the Spanish version of Dracula a few years earlier) fill Dracula's Daughter with great mood and atmosphere, making the foggy streets of London even more alluring and menacing than usual. Holden, who never became a star and made very few movies period, gives a restrained, underplayed performance unusual for the Universal horror cycle where subtle acting was a rarity. Even when Holden delivers Lugosi's most famous line from the original--"I never drink...wine"--she does so offhandedly, as if Zaleska is acknowledging her dark nature without embracing it.
Hillyer and Holden's restraint helps make the title character a more-or-less sympathetic one, even as she's giving in to her destructive impulses. Given that, in most horror films, the audience looks forward to the defeat of the monster, it's very different--and refreshing--to feel sadness, even pity, when that defeat is delivered.
But by 1936, the horror boom had waned, with monster movies being censored or outright banned here, there and everywhere. Universal still went forward with Dracula's Daughter, but they scaled the production down significantly, keeping Whale, Karloff and Clive off of the project. (Lugosi remained under contract for the movie, even though he doesn't appear in it, even in flashback, and wound up getting paid more than he'd made for Dracula.)
This doesn't mean that Dracula's Daughter is a less effective movie for its reduced budget and lesser-known cast. In fact, it's one of the most interesting (if least-known) of the horror cycle of the 1930s, even if it comes at the tail end of that cycle.
Dracula's Daughter picks up immediately after end of Dracula, with Doctor Van Helsing (Edward Van Sloan, reprising his role) having driven a wooden stake into the Count's black, black heart. The police tend to frown on such antisocial activities, though, and Van Helsing gets arrested and charged with murder. Sir Basil Humphrey (Gilbert Emery) of Scotland Yard presents Van Helsing with his options, which are pretty limited: Either he's convicted and sent to the gallows, or he'd declared insane and spends the rest of his days in an asylum. Van Helsing asks for the help of one of his former students, Jeffrey Garth (Otto Kruger) to prove that he's neither crazy nor homicidal.
Meanwhile, Countess Marya Zaleska (Gloria Holden) comes to see Dracula's body--and then kills the attendant, steals the body and, with the help of her manservant, Sandor (Irving Pichel), burns it (actually, a wax dummy taking the place of Lugosi).
As you might have guessed, Zaleska is also the title character. But the Countess isn't a typical vampire--she hates what she is, believes that she's being dominated by her father's will, even from beyond the (now-permanent) grave, and wants Jeffrey to help change, even as Sandor (who appears to be a bloodsucker himself) scowls and doubts not only that she can change, but that there's any reason for her to change.
When she and Jeffrey discuss her compulsions (in the most general terms, of course--wouldn't want to tell a psychologist that you're a 100-year-old vampire), it sounds much more like they're talking about drug or alcohol addiction (Jeffrey even refers to treatment for alcoholics) than a taste for O-positive. Jeffrey recommends that she confront her impulses straight-on: "The next time you feel this influence, don't avoid it. Meet it. Fight it. Score the first victory." The Countess acts on Jeffrey's advice and sends Sandor out to find a victi...er, a volunteer to come back to her studio in Chelsea to "model" for her. Sandor finds a lovely young girl, Lili (lovely young Nan Grey), and brings her back to Zaleska, who finds herself unable to resist her bloodlust after all.
This scene with Lili has become famous because it plays very much like a lesbian seduction--something one doesn't expect to find in a mainstream horror film from a major studio. When Lili comes to Zaleska's studio and is offered food and warmth by the fireplace, the Countess can't take her eyes off the girl, especially when Lili removes her blouse and holds the front of her undergarment up with her hands. Zaleska stares not just with interest or even longing, but pure hunger. It's an erotically charged moment, no question. The legend of vampirism has always had sexual connotations--what with domination of another will, penetration, sucking, etc.--but said connotations were usually pushed to the margins in the horror films of the '30s and '40s. To see them displayed overtly in a movie of the period can be startling.
Alas, the Countess not only can't deal with her need for the red stuff, but can't control her emotions, either: She falls in love with Jeffrey and wants him to become undead, too. To this end, she kidnaps Jeffrey's wisecracking socialite secretary, Janet (Marguerite Churchill), who's also in love with him, and travels back to the old homestead in Transylvania to lure him there. Jeffrey, of course, charges off (since, of course, he's in love with Janet), with Van Helsing and Sir Basil in hot pursuit, toward the exciting conclusion.
Director Lambert Hillyer (who also helmed The Invisible Ray with Karloff and Lugosi that same year for Universal) and cinematographer George Robinson (who also lensed the Spanish version of Dracula a few years earlier) fill Dracula's Daughter with great mood and atmosphere, making the foggy streets of London even more alluring and menacing than usual. Holden, who never became a star and made very few movies period, gives a restrained, underplayed performance unusual for the Universal horror cycle where subtle acting was a rarity. Even when Holden delivers Lugosi's most famous line from the original--"I never drink...wine"--she does so offhandedly, as if Zaleska is acknowledging her dark nature without embracing it.
Hillyer and Holden's restraint helps make the title character a more-or-less sympathetic one, even as she's giving in to her destructive impulses. Given that, in most horror films, the audience looks forward to the defeat of the monster, it's very different--and refreshing--to feel sadness, even pity, when that defeat is delivered.
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