John Wick: Chapter 2 opens, perhaps incongruously, with shots from a Buster Keaton action sequence projected on the side of a midtown Manhattan office building. Make no mistake — that’s not homage. It’s a declaration of principles. Hell, it’s a boast.Read this review at FilmFreakCentral ...
Fondly remembered in cult circles as a surprisingly well-acted low-budget horror diversion, this Reagan-era creature feature boasts a roster of game performances, a plethora of vintage locations from the days when New York City was scary enough by itself, and, of course, that title–one of the most vivid and ludicrous acronyms in film history. A CHUD, as any red-blooded Fangoria subscriber could have told you many months before the movie itself made its way to their hometown, is a cannibalistic humanoid […]Read this review at FilmFreakCentral ...
So bad it’s good? I wouldn’t go that far. But Blood Diner is definitely something—a no-frills pastiche of 1950s disembodied-brain sci-fi potboiler, 1960s Herschell Gordon Lewis splatter movie, 1970s cannibal-cuisine flick, and early-1980s buddy-cop movie. I’m tempted to say it stitches together a Frankenstein’s patchwork of genre movies because it has no vision of its own, but that’s too glib. If nothing else, 20-something Asian-American director Jackie Kong (Night Patrol) loves L.A.: she wrapped all of those genre influences around a love letter to the city’s underground music scene circa 1987, casting punk rockers and rockabilly singers as extras, bit players, and movie stars in a story about a pair of pretty-boy sibling serial killers who run a popular foodie destination on Hollywood Boulevard where the vegetarian dishes are, unbeknownst to patrons, boosted by the presence of human flesh in the recipe.
Conceived as a direct sequel to the late H.G. Lewis’s Blood Feast (partly in hopes he would come out of retirement to direct the film himself), Blood Diner‘s characters’ names have been changed, though the new story picks up roughly where the old one left off. It opens with young brothers Michael (Rick Burks) and George (Carl Crew) being visited by their Uncle Anwar (Drew Godderis), who makes a quick detour in his flight from the cops to gift them with ancient Egyptian amulets before running back outside to be gunned down by police. Long story short, the boys grow up, disinter their uncle’s body from the grave, put his brain in a jar, and follow its spoken instructions. Uncle Anwar’s brain has them stitching together female body parts to create a vessel into which the goddess Sheetar (Tanya Papanicolas) may be summoned following a suitable “blood boo-fay.”
The tone is comfy, taking every opportunity to wink at the audience. Burks and Crew play their characters as jackass Angelenos whose pleasant handsomeness masks the American psychos lurking underneath. (One minute, Burks is asking his date if she’s ever heard of “battered girlfriends;” the next, he’s slathering her in an egg-and-flour mixture and shoving her head in hot oil.) The police duo assigned to investigate the murders is a mixed bag: while the guy is played very broadly by Roger Dauer as a sexed-up schlemiel who gets slugged by his boss on the regular, his straight woman, detective Sheba Jackson (LaNette La France, never heard from again after this movie), has cute bangs and a devastating side-eye. She should have had her own franchise of dopey serial-killer movies.
It’s lucky that a woman was at the helm of Blood Diner (a “PMS Filmworks” production), as Kong’s interpretation probably went some way towards diffusing the misogyny inherent in a script about men who take orders to seduce and murder everyday “tramps” in order to pave the way for the return of a mythical goddess. It’s not that Kong backs off on the film’s gonzo nature; rather, she embraces it and shapes its energy. When Uncle Anwar starts reminiscing fondly about his life in crime, Kong cuts in footage of old black-and-white “roughies” featuring scenes of sexual violence set to good-timey polka music as flashbacks—acknowledging her own movie’s place in the continuum of exploitation cinema while simultaneously criticizing its problematic nature. There’s a fun scene where one of the Tutmans interrupts a couple having sex, dispatches the man, and then comes at the nude woman with an axe. Instead of running and screaming or simply falling under the blade, she assumes a martial arts stance and beats the hell out of him. And during the big rock-concert set-piece, Sheetar comes back to life unexpectedly, revealing a chomping vagina dentata running vertically from between her breasts down to her belly button–all the better to chew your dick off.
Yes, Blood Diner is unfocused, with too many amateurish performances, but it is committed to its premise, and it somehow manages to fill 88 solid minutes with a new idea lurking around every corner. Topless aerobics! Zombie attacks! A wrestler called Little Jimmy Hitler! Think of it as outsider art. It’s not well-made by any traditional yardstick of quality, but it is simultaneously possessed of genuine wit, feminist sensibilities, and a weird aesthetic integrity.
THE BLU-RAY DISC
Blood Diner debuts on Blu-ray as part of Lionsgate’s Vestron Video Collector’s Series with a straightforward HD transfer that gives it an adequate but certainly not flashy revival. The box copy indicates that it was “restored from original vault materials,” and they have been handled pretty conservatively. The picture here is a little on the flat side, with low contrast and muted colors. If I generally wonder if Blu-ray images are cranked to pop too much, this is the rare transfer that could have used a tad more oomph. Dust-busting and grain-reduction don’t wreck the presentation but are definitely in evidence; the video bitrate runs at an average 27 Mbps, though I’d like to see what it looks like with less noise reduction at around 35 Mbps. The frame is opened up slightly from the theatrical 1.85:1 aspect ratio to an HDTV-friendly 1.77:1. (As with the concurrent Chopping Mall, the packaging misidentifies the AR as 1.85:1.) Sound quality of the 2.0 DTS-HD MA track is quite good. There’s not a lot going on in the monaural mix, but what’s there is clear and well-balanced. Much of the dialogue seems post-sync’d and is rendered with especially good definition. The selections from Wagner are clearly detailed, and the rock music from the climactic club scene has a decent, bassy thump that suggests a live-concert environment.
Extra features are fairly extensive, starting with Michael Felsher’s five-part, 65-minute documentary “Killer Cuisine: The Making of Blood Diner“. In part 1, screenwriter Michael Sonye (a.k.a. Dukey Flyswatter from L.A.-based horror punk band Haunted Garage) and Jimmy Maslon recount the movie’s origins—basically, Sonye and Maslon had bonded over a shared love of Blood Feast, to which Maslon owned the rights. After trying and failing to interest Lewis in directing, they cut the budget substantially in hopes of getting a green light. In part 2, Kong talks about coming onto the production after the success of her previous film, Night Patrol, got Vestron interested in finding a script for her. She reveals that Blood Diner was made on a $330,000 budget, and says the bond company was betting against her being able to complete it at all. Part 3 features interviews with actors Carl Crew, Roger Dauer, and Drew Godderis that add color commentary on how the project came together. (Rick Burks would probably be here, too, but the poor guy passed away in 1989, at the age of 29.) Part 4 is an interview with composer Don Preston vis-à-vis his synth score, and part 5 lets cinematographer Jürg V. Walther have his say about what it takes to make a good-looking movie on a tight schedule and a low budget.
For whatever reason, none of these interviewees appear on screen together. That’s the source of some frustration because they sometimes contradict each other. Specifically, Kong claims (both here and in her audio commentary) that the script she was given was “as serious as a heart attack” and that she had to work to inject humor into the proceedings. Yet Sonye relates a story about calling Maslon up to discuss his ideas for the film. He claims that if Maslon didn’t laugh—if the ideas weren’t inherently funny—he didn’t use them. It’s possible that Kong was just on a completely different wavelength from Maslon and Sonye when it came to humor, but there is a fundamental disagreement here on who was responsible for the picture’s overtly comic tone. Sonye also mentions that he had hoped to play a role in the film but was barred from the set by Kong, so there’s that.
I’m not trying to throw shade in Kong’s direction. I’ve sat through too many audio commentaries from directors of low-budget 1980s horror movies who talk about their film like it’s an unloved child to have any quarrel with someone who’s as proud of her genre work as Kong is of Blood Diner. Although it’s true that her yak-track covers much of the same ground as her 20-minute documentary segment, it’s nice to be able to see what she’s referring to when she describes a dolly move or makes the point, repeatedly, that she transcends her budgetary limitations in part by making sure shots have a foreground, a mid-ground, and a background to suggest the depth and complexity that’s often missing from movies made on the cheap. She also discusses her penchant for planning every shot in detail, down to drawing lighting diagrams in order to ensure the truck is loaded with exactly the lights that are required for specific effects, rather than a generic indie-film roll-out. I especially like her idea to go out unrated, which Vestron apparently embraced, as opposed to trimming this and that in an attempt to appease the MPAA. I don’t know how many indie directors have the talent or the temperament to be as demanding in this regard as Kong is, but it sounds like pretty good advice to me.
Also on board is an 8-minute HD interview (dating to 2009) with Eric Caidin, the owner of Hollywood Book & Poster Co., who had a hand in Blood Diner‘s development and who died unexpectedly last year. The film’s lightly comic trailer, featuring food critic “Phil A. Mignon” directing adventurous diners to dangerous eats at Blood Diner, is included in two versions (both HD), along with a pair of derivative TV spots and three unrelated radio ads. Closing this joint down for the night, a slideshow of production stills clocks in at 5:34.
Chopping Mall is not the shopping-center slasher-movie its title suggests. Here’s what you really need to know: It includes a scene where a woman clad in light-blue Playboy panties runs screaming through the spacious halls of the Sherman Oaks Galleria in a hail of laser fire, chased by a killer robot resembling a cross between a Dalek from Doctor Who and Number Five from Short Circuit. The opening sequence features Paul Bartel and Mary Woronov in a cameo as their Paul and Mary Bland characters from the cult classic Eating Raoul. The always-game Barbara Crampton, who had just shot Re-Animator, takes her top off. And, like the maraschino cherry on top of a soft-serve strawberry sundae, the great character actor Dick Miller plays a crusty janitor who trash-talks one of the malevolent tin-can tyrants like a Jet giving the finger to Officer Krupke. Continue reading
It’s one of those salutary coincidences of movie history that the final narrative film completed by Orson Welles would turn out to be this rumination on an old man’s obsession with storytelling. It’s not that Welles was exactly elderly at the time (he was 51 when he made it), but there’s a matter-of-fact finality to the work that becomes just a touch spooky in retrospect. Commissioned by the French national television agency as a Jeanne Moreau vehicle to commemorate the transition to colour television, The Immortal Story required that Welles work in colour for the first time, catalyzing a fairly dramatic evolution of his style. But it gave him the opportunity to adapt a short story by Karen Blixen (a.k.a. Isak Dinesen), one of his favourite writers, and to work again with Moreau, one of his favourite actors. Less than an hour long, it has remained an obscure film for a variety of reasons, but it’s intermittently remarkable despite its modesty. Continue reading
David Carradine wears a dress and nobody says a word about it for the duration of Sonny Boy, a low-budget thriller set in a timeless Panavision desert where the preferred modes of transportation are dirt bikes and dusty pickup trucks. It eschews mainstream cultural signifiers–the one glaring exception is the blonde with tousled music-video hair and ridiculous outfits straight out of Desperately Seeking Susan–and instead dedicates itself to world-building, making its arid small-town environment a microcosm for the cold world outside. So complete is Sonny Boy‘s conception of a cruel universe in miniature that it comes with a downbeat theme song written and performed, right there on screen, by Carradine himself. (A lyric from said song* is engraved, I kid you not, on Carradine’s tombstone.) Carradine is the big name, but the whole cast is better than it needs to be, and that makes a difference. They add a recognizably human element to an otherwise demented scenario and, even more importantly, they keep a film that sometimes feels almost like outsider art from amplifying its self-conscious idiosyncrasies to the point of out-and-out parody.
“Enough is never enough.” So goes a key advertising tagline featured in The Stuff, a bracingly contemptuous critique of consumer culture from Larry Cohen–a man who knows a thing or two about exploiting mainstream tastes. Well regarded among B-movie buffs as a master of high-concept screenwriting coupled with low-budget execution, Cohen was, in his 1970s and 1980s heyday, what auteurists call a smuggler: a writer-director who embeds subversive social commentary in otherwise innocuous genre storylines. The Stuff‘s science-fiction scenario offered some bare-bones corporate intrigue along with a few opportunities for the special make-up effects team, but it also lampooned the businessmen who hawk goods of dubious quality and the haplessly credulous populace that lines up to buy them. The film’s eponymous grocery product is a mysterious but plentiful and apparently tasty substance that burbles up, unbidden, from beneath the earth’s surface. Capitalism being what it is, the distinctive white gloop is quickly productized and monetized by a corporation that doesn’t realize (or doesn’t care) that The Stuff seems to move with a mind of its own.
Michael Moriarty plays ex-FBI agent Mo Rutherford, now a freelance industrial spy hired by Big Ice Cream to figure out what’s in The Stuff and how the company makes so much of it. One of Mo’s strategies for getting inside the factory is to woo marketing mastermind Nicole (Andrea Marcovicci) with phony promises of purchasing her agency. (Not only does she fall for his line, but she’s inviting herself back to his hotel room within minutes of meeting him–you’d think an ad exec would be savvier, but strong female characters have never been a Cohen forte.) Meanwhile, 12-year-old Jason (Scott Bloom) gets Mo’s attention by embarking on his own little suburban anti-Stuff crusade, demolishing in-store displays of the substance. Together, these three make up a surrogate family working to save the world. The supporting players include Garrett Morris as “Chocolate Chip” Charlie, a cookie mogul losing market share to The Stuff, Danny Aiello as a former FDA agent with a guilty conscience, and Paul Sorvino as an armed-militia leader who’s stirred to action when Rutherford reveals that The Stuff, not fluoride in the water, is the deadly contaminant threatening the American way of life.
In addition to the obvious, amorphous model of The Blob, one of the key forebears of The Stuff is Invasion of the Body Snatchers (both versions, but especially the 1978 Philip Kaufman remake), with its burgeoning army of calmly persuasive pod people insisting that their anxious friends and neighbors should simply relax and go to sleep. This film calls them “Stuffies”–people who’ve eaten enough of The Stuff that it lives in their bodies and can control their minds. Sometimes it leaves their bodies, too, resulting in a handful of eye-popping if unconvincing gross-out scenes that add just enough shock-value to qualify the generally comic proceedings as a horror movie. (“I kinda like the sight of blood,” grumbles Sorvino’s Colonel Spear as he watches the white goo issue from various fissures in a fresh corpse, “but this is disgusting.”) As a matter of fact, The Stuff is hard to get a handle on — it’s part conspiracy thriller, part creature feature, and part outright farce.
If The Stuff seems awfully simplistic at times, it’s hard not to admire its grace notes. For instance, Cohen shot phony TV commercials for The Stuff (one of them stars Abe Vigoda and “Where’s the Beef?” pitchwoman Clara Peller), and they add some tongue-in-cheek flavour. And when Cohen has Sorvino’s Jack D. Ripper/Rambo hybrid leading a raid on The Stuff factory, there’s the hint of a joke somewhere about the irony of an inveterate right-winger going Marxist by taking control of the means of production, although it doesn’t really cohere. So let’s not give Cohen too much credit simply for exhibiting a social conscience. John Carpenter sent a similar message a few years later in They Live, but his critique explicitly and satisfyingly targeted Reagan-era policies, implicating consumerism on a greater scale and with more working-class conviction than Cohen could muster.
One of Cohen’s talents is his instinct for casting, and The Stuff got him working again with Moriarty, whose idiosyncratic performance had elevated the earlier Q: The Winged Serpent. Moriarty plays Rutherford as a crafty and competent hustler who’s arrogant and fearless. In his first scene, he greets his new cadre of old, white bosses with a passive-aggressively hilarious “Hello, sweaty palms!” He has beady eyes and a poker face and delivers his lines hesitantly, like he’s thinking them up as he goes. (Moriarty is indeed a fan of the ad lib.) His ersatz southern accent is less impressive; just assume he’s from the same county where Kevin Spacey’s House of Cards character supposedly grew up. No wonder Cohen went on to make a total of five films with Moriarty: the guy energizes the director’s work in a way that other actors can’t quite manage. There is one more truly fine performance in this film, and it’s by Robert Frank Telfer, playing Jason’s father. Though Jason’s parents are clearly addicted, it’s his dad who takes it upon himself to convince the boy to stop worrying and love The Stuff. He does this in weird, affectless speeches delivered directly to the camera with a chillingly insincere “hey, slugger” smile on his face. I don’t know if Telfer is a great actor, per se, but those scenes are very effective and he’s great in them.
Ultimately, what really lets the movie down are the creature effects. I’m not talking about the serviceable miniatures work or even the make-up effects, which are transparently phony but deliver a gross-out in spite of their cheapness because of the lovingly sick imagination that went into their imperfect crafting. (One of the latex heads appears to have a bad case of acne on the inside of its mouth, which is top-notch squickiness in my book.) And some of the optical composites are clever and nearly seamless. Yet most of the shots involving The Stuff in motion are unconvincing. That would be fine were they unconvincing in awesome ways (like the ridiculous but endearing bird monster of Q), but instead they’re unconvincing in boring ways. Even busting out the old “rotating room” gag — as seen in Royal Wedding and A Nightmare on Elm Street — so that The Stuff can puddle up on the wall and ceiling doesn’t do the trick. Obvious time and budget constraints aside, it doesn’t help that The Stuff just isn’t a very compelling monster. Its soft, vaguely sticky white form suggests yogurt and ice cream gave birth to a marshmallow. And despite his considerable skills, Cohen doesn’t have quite the directorial chops required to make a marshmallow scary.
THE BLU-RAY DISC
Arrow Video’s Blu-ray release of The Stuff is, in a word, gorgeous. From the opening scene, an almost monochromatic chiaroscuro composition with strong diagonal lines (it was shot in an actual snowstorm), it’s clear that Arrow’s 1.85:1, 1080p transfer, sourced from a 2K scan of the original camera negative, is on the money. The picture has an exceptionally film-like texture and a tremendous sense of depth; it’s breathtaking. A very fine, organic layer of grain has been touched ever-so-lightly, if at all, by dust-busting algorithms, and the average video bitrate is a generous 35 Mbps. As a result, the image has a vibrancy and liveliness that’s rarely matched by transfers of indie genre pics, let alone big-studio Blu-ray titles, and the grain structure holds up, even when scrutinized on a frame-by-frame basis. Audio is only a centre-channel monaural track, reproduced here as uncompressed LPCM audio, but it’s crisp and clean and free of noticeable distortion, although the overall dynamic range is obviously limited. This is a model release.
Extras are limited to a talking-head documentary and a movie trailer. We get the trailer (it’s in 1080p though darker and grimier than the feature proper) twice, once with pithy commentary by director Darren Bousman (Saws II through IV) courtesy Trailers from Hell. The documentary, Calum Waddell’s “Can’t Get Enough of The Stuff” (53 mins., HD), is pretty good as these things go, offering plenty of face time with director Larry Cohen, who shares the spotlight with producer Paul Kurta, actress Marcovicci, make-up effects guy Steve Neill, and genre-savvy film critic Kim Newman. Cohen talks at some length about the idea for The Stuff, at one point tracing it back to cigarette giveaways during World War II. “The cigarette companies killed more American boys,” he muses, “than the Japanese and the Germans combined.” Kurta remembers that Cohen taught him “not to get too hung up on little things–like the screenplay.” He remembers getting scripts, worrying about how the crew would pull off the elaborate scenes required, and being told, “Don’t worry about it — I’ll change it.” Although Moriarty is not on hand, we hear about his on-set methodology, including a penchant for making up dialogue as he went along. Marcovicci calls the production “a hellzapoppin’ crazy scene.” And quite a bit of time is spent explaining what, exactly, was in The Stuff when it appeared on screen. “When we had huge masses of it,” Cohen says, “it was the foam that the fire department uses to retard flames, and that stuff is made of ground-up fishbone. And you can imagine what it must smell like.” Cue Marcovicci: “It was wretched. It was unbelievably horrible.”
While this piece probably delivers just as much information as an audio commentary would have (and Anchor Bay is in fact sitting on one from a 16-year-old DVD release), one might have made a nice complement. Too, it would have been nice to see some of the original in-film advertisements in their entirety, though Cohen all but admits in one of his interview segments that they’re lost. Completing the retail package is a “collector’s booklet” with an essay by Joel Harley that wasn’t provided for review.
Before Krzysztof Kieslowski became the standard-bearer for the latter-day European art film with ravishing portraits of unspeakably beautiful women living their lives under unutterably mysterious circumstances, he was a gruff but adventurous chronicler, in both documentary and narrative films, of lives lived in the rather more drab surroundings of communist Poland. Well, money changes everything. It was the arrival of funding from Western sources that bestowed the gift of abstraction: Beginning with the internationally-celebrated The Double Life of Veronique in 1991, it made Kieslowski’s expressions of ennui beautiful. But in the 1980s, Kieslowski had less time for beauty. Continue reading