Weekly Mondo Round-Up: The Non Stop Whitman's Sampler Mix

The past week has been a veritable carousel of getting assorted article and film writing related activities done and out there. In short, it's been ideal. The biggest, by far, was getting to participate in the the tuber-fantastic William Castle Blogathon, hosted by the fine ladies at both GoreGirl's Dungeon and The Last Drive In. The assortment of different writers and Castle related goodies has been any genre film lover's dream. I would highly recommend checking out all of the entries, especially if you are a fan of the man. Getting to craft both a tribute, as well as delve into his pink-cheeked spy film, “13Frightened Girls!”, was a ton of fun. The man & legend that is William Castle has left a thumbprint on the world of cinema that will never be duplicated and this blogathon gives you plenty of examples why.

 

More on the not so quiet on the film front, my contribution to the “Underrated Dramas” feature on the fine site, Rupert Pupkin Speaks, went live this week. It was a great challenge, especially since the word “drama” has always made me a little itchy. Everything I love usually does not fit cleanly into any box, especially one as mainstream-respected as “drama.” But doing this list made me think outside of my own box, which is always a healthy thing. So I hope everyone enjoys it and immediately runs out to check out all the titles listed.

Earlier in the week, I appeared on my friend Frank Cotolo's podcast, “Cotolo Chronicles.” Last time around we discussed the living dead and this time around we discussed the living end of character actors. I didn't get to mention all of my favorites and while I think we got hit with the dreaded brain lapse that comes with the territory of live radio, as a whole it was fun. Plus, I got to plug my holy trinity of character actors: Joe Spinell, Rip Torn & Timothy Carey. Start building your altars now, if you haven't already.

One actor I did not get to mention that I desperately wanted to was Anthony James. He maybe a classic example of “Hey! It's that guy.” but once you see his mug, you will never forget him. Such an amazing face with the talent and presence to back it up. The lanky frame, sharp cheek bones, black-as-a-ravens-wing eyes and thin,wide smile—these are all just a few of the awesome things about Anthony James. My favorite James appearances include his turn as the lead villain in the Jay North-Angel Tompkins exploiter, “The Teacher,” the creepy chauffeur in “Burnt Offerings” and, of course, his fabulously sleazy agent in the music video for Poison's “Fallen Angel.” My only beef with that is the girl doesn't realize how good she's got it...nice clothes, great hair and the presence of a real, albeit highly oily man. Some girls...pffft. 

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Wet Nights on Neon Ground: Bill Milling's ORIENTAL BLUE

The world of fantasy can be a fertile playground to work out our most base and elementary level perceptions of culture. It's not necessarily a bad thing and the lines between stereotypes and fantasy role playing can get fuzzy. Nowhere is this more apparent than in erotica, where the mind can indulge in comic-book level caricatures. The horny cheerleader, the love-starved housewife, the world's luckiest pizza boy, etc etc. They're all there, big-eyed & ready for your lurid Archies-comic-from-the-depraved underworld-of-your-Id action.

One of the oldest of these sexual archetypes and certainly one of the least politically correct, is what I like to call the “erotic mysteries of the East.” For centuries, there have been all sorts of Western stereotypes and assumptions about our friends in Asia. It was looked to be a source of all things mysterious, exotic and dangerous. This was mainly because it was a different culture that people were very poorly educated about. Rumors of geishas' and women in general that were trained in the ancient arts of lovemaking flourished.

By 1975, the year that Bob Milling's film “Oriental Blue” was released, these stereotypes were firmly entrenched in mass entertainment. China dolls and dragon ladies could be found in Hollywood fare, so for it to permeate into a slightly seamier ambiance makes sense. The plot is classic chow mein. Based on the stories of “Lady Fang” by Chiou-Len Huk, which is about as accurate as the cuisine at your local Hong Kong Honky Buffet, “Oriental Blue” centers around Madame Blue (Peonies Jong). Flanked by her stylish slave, Angel (C.J. Laing), she runs a prostitution ring out of her lovely apartment/operation headquarters. (All of which is located underneath a bustling restaurant, the perfect cover since all the dining din masks the assortment of screams and moans emanating from her “training” rooms.)

She is soon visited by Max (the always magnificent Bobby Astyr), a representative of the W.B.A. (World Bordello Association...I cannot make this up). His entrance is wonderful, turning on the charm with a grin and a “Madame Blue...Madame Blue...How do you do?” The man improves everything in his orbit just by being Bobby Astyr. 

Anyways, Max is needing a very specific list of girls. How specific? Well it includes a French girl who likes 2 guys in Tangiers, a beautiful black woman for a client in Munich, etc etc. Knowing of her reputation for “quality personnel”, he has come to Madame. They end up making a very lucrative deal. She naturally eschews paperwork, but seals the deal with Angel and herself. To give him an example of how she will procure all of his required ladies, she shows him her most recent acquisition-a pretty blonde actress (Kim Pope) who ends up getting drugged with Madame Blue's patented “love juice.” This concoction, an ancient herbal mix, is sort of like if Spanish Fly had a bastard child with Molly. Max is initially skeptical, pointing out that aphrodisiacs rarely, if ever, work. But he ends up proven wrong as the transformation from nervous young lady to unbridled wanton begins. Madame joins in the fun, since apparently her vagina has some kind of transformative, hypnotic powers on whoever touches it. Her new client is most pleased and the mission to find the rest of the women requested begins. 

Each loyal henchman does what he is told and in order, snaps up each girl. It's hitch-less until Madame employs her wild card, Brock (Jamie Gillis). Described as the “only one I cannot control,” Brock immediately rebuffs her advances, stating that “my cock is not for sale.”

  

Nevertheless, he takes the job, with his task being to recruit an innocent girl-next-door type. Serendipity must love Brock, because almost immediately he spots a distressed young lovely (Bree Anthony), weepy, fresh off the turnip truck via Nebraska, recently mugged and all alone in the big city. And “my how big your teeth are,” anyone in their right mind would ask this roguishly handsome man, but not her. In fact, the best part is after he invites her to stay with him for a couple of days, she asks, “How do I know I can trust you?” Brock replies, with a wolfish grin that only Jamie Gillis could pull off, “You don't. I might be a white slaver out to abduct you.” She smiles, laughs and walks off with him. What? Ladies, listen, if a strange man makes “jokes” about him kidnapping you and putting in the white slave sex trade, get the hell away from him. A cute face is just not worth it. 

He takes her back to his pad, located in a spectacularly faded building and gives her some love juice. She only takes a sip, since she immediately starts griping about the taste. But it only takes a sip and Brock has his buddy and fellow Madame Blue henchman, Antonio (Tony Richards) come in to help sauce her up. It works and interestingly enough, no Madame Blue for this scene. Turns out Brock has become sweet on the lady and decides to keep her for himself. This angers Madame to no end, so in retaliation, she threatens Antonio's life if Brock does not hand the girl over. He relents but hatches a plan involving a double cross that could turn deadly.

“Oriental Blue” is a hot and cold film. The heat lies within the absolutely gorgeous cinematography and lighting. There are scenes here that are near Radley Metzger level of cinematic eye candy. The camera work is solid and fluid, not to mention the composition. There's one close-up of Brock's face, his eyes dark with murky emotion, lips pursed thoughtfully around a cigarette, that is nothing short of exquisite. Taken out of context, it could belong in any art film. The music, hodge-podged from assorted libraries, ranges from eerie to cheery, but all underscore their respective scenes fairly well.

Some of the actors are great, with Gillis and Astyr being the standouts. Bobby's clearly having a lot of fun with his role, as if he is on just how ridiculous the story really is. Gillis plays it straight, giving a performance that is better than a film that implements “love juice” really deserves. Laing and Alan Marlow (playing Conrad, one of Madame's right hand men) are memorable, despite being given very little to do.

Speaking of acting, Jong does not really leave a very sinister imprint as Madame Blue. She is enthusiastic, though, and at least tries, so points for that. At least they cast a woman of color and not just throwing some heavy eyeliner and a cheongsam dress on a white actress. Bree Anthony, who is so gorgeous, is a little grating as Brock's potential true love/kidnap victim. To the extent that is hard to buy that a guy like Brock, whom at one point is described as a mean-hearted bastard, would risk so much for this whiny voiced Midwest cutie. I kept hoping that he would put his finger to her mouth and go “Shhhhhhh.”

The plot's obviously goony, though one thing I will give this film is that there is interracial sex all over the place, including one scene with a really striking woman from Jamaica (?), all of which is played like consenting adults having a good time. As hideous as it is, it was not that long ago where interracial was viewed at best as kinky and at worst, a move that would hurt your career. (Marilyn Chambers was the exception, but how many actresses started off which as much fame and clout as her? Not many.) It's funny because reading the synopsis of “Oriental Blue,” you might be expecting one racist, rapey hoe-down of a film. Mercifully, it's not really either. It's just one visually luscious, silly comic-strip level piece of erotica. 

Bless Vinegar Syndrome & Distribpix (two companies always out for my heart) for releasing this film, especially with such love and care. Even better, it's available on a double bill with the Kung-Fu sex oddity., “Vixens of Kung Fu.” (Keep an eye out for a review of that one later.)

Hullabaloo & Horror: A Tribute to William Castle

Special thanks to both The Last Drive In & Goregirl's Dungeon for inviting me. Please check them out. They are marvelous!

 

Hullabaloo is one of the greatest and yet, underused words in the English language. Defined as “a clamorous noise,” it was something that used to be a fun element of showbiz. And no figure brought the sense of pure, wondrous hullabaloo better than the man himself, William Castle. A larger-than-life figure, complete with a big smile and an even bigger cigar, Castle left his indelible thumbprint in the world of cinema around 70 years ago and yet, no one has ever come close to overshadowing him. (Though one of his biggest fans, legendary cult filmmaker and eternal fan, John Waters, has come close.)

The biggest ruse, however, with a cat like Castle is that if he had been only pure hullabaloo, then the odds of this tribute happening are slim-to-none. If you're only icing, people will forget you or best case, you get a size 8 font footnote and filed under novelty. Castle made some of the most inventive and memorable horror films, on top of producing classics like “Rosemary's Baby.” After all, no one retains the level of shock-and-awe by mere schlock alone.

William Castle first came into my life when I saw “House on Haunted Hill” as a little girl. The horror house thrills that abound in that film instantly wooed me. (Not to mention ever since, I've had a thing for guys with Vincent Price mustaches---but only if they can carry it with the same suave-sinister panache.) If you were a horror loving kid like I was, then Castle was your Walt Disney. Titles like “The Tingler,” “Straight Jacket,” “13 Ghosts,” the aforementioned “House on Haunted Hill” and “Mr. Sardonicus” were custom built for people like us.

Not to short-change the gimmicks. Not at all, especially given how bloody good a lot of them were, with my personal favorites being the world-wide beauty contest for “13 Frightened Girls” and the million dollar insurance policy taken out for Hercules, the lead cockroach in 1975's “Bug.” Given the tenacity of some of the roaches in my old apartment, dollars to doughnuts no one still has collected on that one for ole Herc.

But to remember Castle mainly for that is overlooking the fact that there was some good film making involved. Even some of the cheesier films, like “Bug” or “13 Frightened Girls,” have some deft charm. Most importantly, you are never ever going to be bored watching a William Castle film. Others from his era have faded into the fine print in dusty old film tomes, but William Castle, his legacy, his showmanship and his films will live on, shiny and almost new for years to come.

The Candy Web: William Castle's 13 Frightened Girls!

When one thinks of the classic tell-tale images of a typical William Castle film, what exactly comes to mind? An arm rising out of a bloody bathtub? A skeleton tapping a lovely, scared lass's shoulder? An aging Joan Crawford holding an axe? One swanky Vincent Price? How about an intrepid, undercover spy/blonde piece of jail bait in the form of Candy Hull? Okay, the latter more than likely is not the first or fifth thing you think of when it comes to Castle, but exist it does in the form of his 1963 film, “13 Frightened Girls!” 

Despite the spider-web laden trailer, horror fans be warned, this is a total rosy-cheeked, borderline safe for the happiest-place-on-Earth crowd spy film, filled with teenage hijinks and brimming with girlish shenanigans. Proof? The proceedings begin at Miss Pittford's Academy for Young Girls, an idyllic school set in the Swiss Alps (or San Bernandino) for perfectly groomed, clean-skinned and lovely-as-a-Spring-flower daughters of world diplomats. At the head of the pack and narrating is Candice Hull aka Candy (Kathy Dunn), your all-American blue-eyed blonde lovely whose talent in Latin is disproportionate with her driving skills. The latter is used for early comic relief when Candy flips after a tarantula (?!) inexplicably comes down in front of her on the school bus. Scaring teenage girls? Who is this spider, anyways? Ted Nugent? 

Despite the minor wreck, all of the girls safely get to the airport for their school vacation. Candy goes to London, where her father, John (Hugh Marlowe), is stationed. Before greeting Daddy, she immediately beelines for Wally (the always impeccable Murray Hamilton), secret agent and worker for her father. Wally maybe the cat's meow, but he is also engaged to fellow agent Soldier (Joyce Taylor,) not that this deters young Candy. Thankfully, Wally actually has morals and did not attend the Jimmy Page Gentleman's School of Courtship and quickly rebuffs the 16 year old's hormone-laced advances.

The worm soon turns when she finds out, through annoyingly snooping, that Wally's job is in trouble. The main problem being his ability to obtain crucial information at the right time. Slack is an element needed in most jobs, but in the spy world? Not so much. Worried that her #1 crush could end up on the bread line, she ends up taking matters into her own hands. The name Kagenescu (Walter Rode) pops up in her father's conversion with Wally and of course, who does Candy run into while visiting her friend from China, Mai-Ling (Lynne Sue Moon)? Yeppers, Kagenescu.

Continuing her growing trend of being a bad guest, Candy immediately starts (yet again) snooping, traveling via the dumbwaiter. This is one of the best moments in the film, where a cat, randomly out of nowhere, gets thrown at Candy. Is it one helluva goony, not to mention cheap, scare? Absolutely, but it is wonderful in its lack of shame. Anyways, she makes a pit stop in the kitchen, managing to crawl around the most oblivious kitchen staff ever and goes to the freezer. It is there she discovers Kagenescu, hanging from a meat hook and stabbed with her father's letter opener. She manages not to arouse suspicion, amazingly enough, and excuses herself home soon after.

Meanwhile, Wally receives a mysterious note, lettered kidnapper style, along with the murder weapon. Turns out Kagenescu was killed by Mai-Ling's father, all in the hopes of starting international trouble with America. The note, signed by “Kitten,” gives Wally all the juicy info he needs to please his boss. This lights the espionage fire within Candy-Kitten, who puts all of her academic talents into studying the fine art of being a female spy. (All courtesy of a tome entitled, “Methods & Training of Modern Espionage.”) She practices the art of seduction, first to cure some love-lorn drama amongst the girls, then to provide more tidbits to Wally via her Kitten nom-de-plume, ranging from photos of canoodling world leaders to chess games gone hot-headed.

It's when she tries to further use her powers of seduction with a Russian Communist masquerading as a Dutch student, that she starts to truly play with fire. The handsome, in kind of a Quaalude sort of way, Peter (Garth Benton), is planning to orchestrate a student uprising, all in the scheme of having a Communist takeover in a foreign land. Candy narrowly escapes death after being drugged by Peter and manages to get her well bred posterior out of the frying pan.

That is, until Wally finds out who Kitten truly is, all after her Dad keeps putting the heat on him to reveal this independent agent once and for all. Typical teary adolescent drama ensues, only to be cut short by the news that Mai-Ling's daddy has kidnapped Soldier, with the ransom being non-monetary. Like everyone else on the Globe, they want to know who this “Kitten” is and want “him” delivered in person. That's another strange thing, is that everyone assumes that Kitten is a dude, which seems like it would be a very effeminate nickname for a super spy. Imagine calling James Bond “kitten” and you will immediately see my point. 

 

The rest of the film has some fascinating ziz-zags, some expected, including Mai-Ling getting upset after feeling used by Candy, but others not so much. Especially the ultimate and legitimately surprising twist near the very end.

On the whole phantasmagorical spectrum that is the film work of William Castle, “13 Frightened Girls!” tends to get mentioned a little less. Granted, compared to the big daddies that are “House on Haunted Hill” and “Straight Jacket,” it is easy to see why. First of all, it's not a horror film and even its gimmick, involving a world wide contest to find 13 lucky and comely girls from assorted countries to be featured, seems a little wan in comparison to the more outlandish stunts with the other films.

All that said, the film has a certain winsome charm and knowing cheekiness that makes it a fun ride. Sure, Candy is precocious to the point that someone needs to throw a brick in her general cranium direction and one has to take a pretty hefty suspension of disbelief that this tow-haired teen could pull off half of the antics she does. But that is the charm. It's like Castle is sitting next to you, cigar danging out of his smiling mouth and winking at you, as if to say, “Can you believe this shit?”

Forget believability, it's a fun, candy-shell-coated adventure. On top of that, Murray Hamilton is so good as the warm-hearted and world-weary Wally. Kathy Dunn is appropriately earnest and energetic as Candy. Of the rest of the teenage diplomats, the real standout is Gina Trikonis, daughter of former dancer turned director Gus Trikonis (“The Evil,” “Swinging Barmaids”), as the Russian representative, Natasha. She gets some good lines, including snarking on Candy's getting top grades in Latin while almost killing them on the bus (“a dead language is not worth dying for”) and possessing all sorts of bitchy verve with a nice center. Also worth noting is Alexandra Bastedo as Alex/England, who went on to have roles in the original “Casino Royale,” as well the top role in the horror-exploitation classic, “The Blood Splattered Bride.” There's also Judy Pace, who plays the student from Liberia. Pace went on to have a healthy TV career, having appeared on shows like “Peyton Place” and “Ironside,” as well as acting in notable films like “Cotton Comes to Harlem” and “Frogs.” Both Bastedo and Pace are given little do here other than smile and look pretty, but it is nice to see that they were able to build respectable careers on top of their debut work here.

“13 Frightened Girls!” maybe viewed as a mere curiosity in the silver screen world of William Castle, but it is sweet, silly and entertaining enough to merit a viewing. The power of Murray Hamilton and random cats compels you!

Weekly Mondo Round-Up: One Big Blur Edition

Ever have one of those weeks that is just one long blur? That would be this past week for me. Sadly, it has nothing to do with going all rock-and-roll or committing vast, lurid acts of bad decision fun. If anything, it has more to do with bad sleep. But if there is anything more tedious then having insomnia, it is writing about it, so let's move on.

I've noticed that lately there has been more and more discussion regarding gender and sexism in the fringe film writing field, especially in the horror camp. Over the years, I've been asked occasionally about my own experience being a female writer in a male dominated writing world. It can be weird at times, especially when people try to assign gender to your work. Nobody really asks a male writer to add a “masculine voice” to his work, unless it's for “Macho Beefcake Weekly.” At our core, we are artists before we are anything else. Most guys don't write with their happy equipment and I don't type with my ovaries. (Though if I could, that would be spectacularly impressive!) Don't get me wrong, I am a proud feminist. Granted, I'm the type of feminist that gives more traditional types the hives and I have even been labeled a “bad” one. But I'm not living for them and I wear my love of fringe art on my sleeve. There's nothing more beautifully radical than just being yourself. 

As for sexism, does it exist? Of course, it does, but it is just one part of the experience. For every editor that has talked down to me like I was a poor-dumb-girl, I've had many that have been incredibly cool, smart and progressive. It's like anything else in this world. Most people are fine. Some are awe-inspiring and others are awe-inspiringly stupid, but if we let the hateful and dumb rule our actions, then we have let them win. If someone doesn't want to read or watch your work just because you are a, b or c, then why would you want them as a fan in the first place? Life's too short for that and while it is a cliché, success is the best revenge always. 

For you cult film lovers who have a weakness for revenge-fueled action flicks and strange approximations of the punk subculture, then you will love my latest for Dangerous Minds. This time around, I explore 1990's “Punk Vacation,” another fine release by Vinegar Syndrome. While you're there, check out some of the reader's comments. There is some great info, including mentioning the epic tome Destroy All Movies and even The Dickies appearing on C.P.O. Sharkey. Fabulous.

Keep your peepers open and peeled, since there are some fun things coming up. In the next few days, look for articles on “Oriental Blue,” both a William Castle tribute and a review of “13 Frightened Girls!” for the uber-fantastic William Castle Blog-A-Thon and “The Ghastly Love of Johnny X.”

You can also find me on Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest & Google+.

Weekly Mondo Round-Up: And You Know What This Means? It Means That You Can Earn Some Real Money Edition

Being born creative is one of those double-barreled gifts. It's almost like having a second type vision. You can see life, both good and bad, in richer hues and assorted layers. The downside is that we live in a world that is not really built for artists. Making a viable living doing what you're born to do can feel about as accessible as winning the Mega-millions jackpot while simultaneously getting a deep-tissue massage. That's not even touching the assorted comments you will get from families, loved ones and friends. People that are not writers often have NO idea about the realities of trying to get your work out there. Every real victory you have will mean nothing to some folks just because of out-moded prejudices. Back when I was getting my feet wet with zines, I had friends obviously look unimpressed just because the publication wasn't a)glossy and b) available at your local mass-market book emporium.

Another one is using the term “blogger” like it's an insult. In the past few years of writing, I've been lucky to see people get progressively more open minded about writing online. It was just a handful of years ago where the snobbery towards online writing was massive. Whether it was writing for a blog or a regular website, the prevailing attitude was that it just didn't count. The sheer amount of bullshit attached to that is nearly mind-blowing. Writing is writing. If your work is out there and someone who is not yourself is reading it, then guess what? It totally counts. The fact that literary titans like Neil Gaiman have a blog should be proof right there that being a “blogger” is not and should not be a scarlet letter.

There's been a lot of really fascinating and needed discussion lately about the value of writing, especially for those of us in the fringe/genre film world. The internet is a huge blessing, making everything more democratic than ever. Of course with the landscape bigger than ever, it also means that there is more work to sift through. Even more troublesome is that it also ups the odds of having someone opportunisticly cribbing some of the words that you worked hard to craft. Of course, does that mean you shouldn't put you and your work out there? Hell no! When you're creative, at the end of the day the biggest priority should always be the work itself. If the cult of personality is something that is your main goal, then just be a celebrity and leave the art to the people that actually care. Also, ego? Check that at the door too. Doing anything to be “cool” is about the uncoolest thing in the world.

Writing is a field that will give you ample scar tissue, so to quote one especially mediocre Van Halen song, “you've got to roll with the punches to get to what's real.” The cream inevitably rises and the karmic scale does get balanced. Being a “real” writer isn't just about getting paid and published. It's about getting rejected, having someone leave a shitty comment or an editor bypassing your hard work for one of a lesser quality. Yet it is the negative that makes the positive all the sweeter when it happens. Getting your work out there and connecting with both like minded readers and writers is far richer than any of the annoyances that come with it. The more you explore, the more you realize that the good far outweighs the bad.

Being a film writer has a lot of blessings. That moment of not only moving a reader but sometimes even the artist whom you are writing about is tantamount to magic in this world. It is those moments that make up for any dramas or depression. Getting to explore and write about the language of cinema is what I live for and even when it can drive me crazy, it is without a doubt, my path. It's not even my chosen path, because it chose me long before I chose it and I would not have it any other way. Play people, especially your readers, for chumps and they will return the sentiment two-fold. But treat them with respect and the right ones will always, always get it.

Dedicated to Larry Gibbs and Andy Copp. Two friends that loved film and cut out from this plane too soon. Thank you both for making a special mark in this world and my life.

Weekly Mondo Round-Up: The Double Bill Edition

The art of the double bill is a fine one. It's the cinematic equivalent to creating the perfect mix-tape. (Sorry, even in the digital age, they will always be mix-tapes to me.) I love picking out two seemingly divergent movies and bringing them together, forming one most interesting evening. Granted, my personal taste has never been for everyone, so your mileage may vary. I was once banned from picking out movies for some friends of mine one night after crafting the double bill of “Meet the Feebles” and “Desperate Living.” Hey, it maybe a heady mix for the uninitiated but I still stand by that one. Puppets singing “Sodomy” and Edie Massey yelling out “Look....at.....all....those....dummies!!!” is sheer perfection, people. 

       Image from filmposters.com

So earlier this week, we had the diverse yet kind of harmonious double bill of the 1970 classic documentary, “Gimme Shelter” and the equally classic 1979 horror film, “Phantasm.” This was my first time seeing the former, unbelievably, and after reading about it for years, it did not disappoint. One of the fascinating things about the Rolling Stones is that within a time span of 10 years, there was not one but three documentaries made about them. The first being Godard's “Sympathy for the Devil” aka “One Plus One” (1968), “Gimme Shelter” (1970) and the infamous and sorely needs-to-be-legitimately- released “Cocksucker Blues” (1972). One could do a whole book about their connection to cinema, starting off with these three films. 

Okay, this has nothing to do with the documentary, but mein gott, Merry Clayton SMOKES it. 

“Gimme Shelter,” made by The Mayles Brothers and Charlotte Zwerin, documents the band around the time period of “Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out!”, complete with a brief shot of Charlie Watts being photographed for the cover, as well their 1969 concert at Madison Square Garden. The latter has some great footage, particularly of opening act Ike & Tina Turner doing a scorching version of “I've Been Loving You Too Long.” Seriously, the latter is total baby making music and undoubtedly made everyone in the audience that night about 200% more fertile. Mick's response to the footage? “It's nice to have a chick occasionally.” Mick? Shut up.

Of course, what “Gimme Shelter” is best known for is featuring the build-up, the firestorm and the aftermath of Altamont. What was supposed to be a sweet-cheeked follow up to Woodstock turned into a festival of bad vibes, abuse and one death, all thanks to some extremely poor organizing and the bright idea to hire the Hell's Angels as security. Because outlaw bikers being paid in beer are a great mix with pie-eyed and huge-pupiled flower children. The thing about “Gimme Shelter” is that even though I went into the film knowing the ride I was in for, I was still floored by the pall that blankets every frame of celluloid. Even the lighter footage, like the band recording “Brown Sugar” in Muscle Shoals, Alabama, has a somber undercurrent. It did make me happy to see that my favorite Stone, Charlie Watts, got a lot of camera time. (My other favorite Stone, Ron Wood, was not in the band at this point, though for what it's worth, more folks should give some love to Mick Taylor.) 

After that rock & roll deathshow, “Phantasm” was very much the spirit of the night that was needed. Re-watching it, something hit me that despite it being one of the biggies of horror from the past 30+ years, there is still really nothing quite like it. It is atmospheric, surrealistic, features some great colors and has Reggie Bannister....all wonderful things that should be in every horror film! I definitely wish more genre filmmakers would study a film like this, not to mention all of the Italian greats (Bava, Argento, Fulci) and honor the fact that there is a wide rainbow of gels in the world of lighting. Film is a visual medium, so embrace the colors. Some rich red lighting is way more striking and eerie than muted sepia. Muted sepia is fine for the old timey photo booth at Silver Dollar City, but not a horror film.

  Reggie, in one of the most iconic scenes in horror.

By the way, speaking of Mr. Bannister, he is such an impeccable character actor. The man is like an alchemist. In “Phantasm,” he plays an ice cream man/musician who sports a ponytail with a fading hairline. No one else in the world could make a role like that so indelibly badass, but in the hands of Bannister? Sheer awesomeness. Seriously, the man looks amazing in an ice cream suit and the scene where he joins Jody (Bill Thornbury), guitar in hand, for an impromptu jam on the porch? Awesome and even better, he not only bests Jody but then declares themselves “hot as love.” Holy hell. You can have your leathery, beef jerky skinned aging roid-heads in “The Expendables,” I'll take Reggie Bannister any day of the week.

Also in horror news, I saw the poster for the “re-imagining” of “Maniac,” with Elijah Wood. Now, I have no opinion on the film itself since I haven't seen it, but it did make me wish that more directors and producers would take more influence and less direct ideas from older films. There are good remakes, of course, some even great, but I feel like the past few years have sported a bulk-sized bonanza of them. There maybe few, if any, truly original ideas at this stage of the game, but individual approach, when honest and pure, is always original.

On the writing front, keep your eyes peeled for new material on Dangerous Minds, as well as upcoming contributions to both Rupert Pupkin Speaks, William CastleBlog-A-Thon and Paracinema. Enjoy, cats and kittens!

You can also find me on Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest and Google+.