Bandh Darwaza (1990)

Thanks to the good folks at Mondo Macabro, I finally had the opportunity to dip my toe into the wild and woolly Bollywood pool.  Working from a Dracula-based storyline, the sibling team of Shyam and Tulsi Ramsay work some serious magic with Bava-like primary colors in the lighting design, an abundance of creative cinematography, a blatant lift of Henry Manfredini’s Friday The 13th score and an outstanding lead monster in the form of Anirudh Agarwal’s undead Nevla.  With solid blood-red contacts in his eyes and a menacing presence that explodes off the screen, the picture reaches near-masterpiece status every time Agarwal rears his ugly head.  Sadly, the Indian cinema staple of incorporating full-blown musical numbers into the action – no matter what is going on – and the nearly 2 ½ hour running time is likely to challenge, frustrate and/or puzzle many unfamiliar Western viewers.  But while I could have done with a few less trips to and from the vampiric lair on Black Mountain, the pluses certainly outweigh the minuses (especially if one isn’t shy about using the FF button during the romantic ballads).  Now I just want to find out what that “30”-looking symbol (used the way crucifixes are in Western vamp films) actually translates as.  Anyone?

Basket Case  (1982)

Low-budget auteur Frank Henenlotter’s cult classic of separated Siamese twins walks a twisted tightrope between outrageous comedy and gory horror.  Sporting a nasty scar on his side and huge hair, Duane Bradley (Kevin Van Hentenryck) carries his wicker basket through the sleazy streets of Manhattan (Times Square has never looked grimier) in search of the doctors who separated him from his brother, ominously named “Belial.”  Resembling at first glance nothing more than a piece of melted foam latex with face and arms, Henelotter’s utterly laughable creation bellows and moves about through a combination of obvious puppetry and some spectacularly inept stop-motion photography.  As the film proceeds, more forgiving viewers will overlook and/or celebrate the shoddy camerawork, cheap sets, and astonishingly bad acting, and find themselves carried away by the charming audacity of Henenlotter’s story and characters.  Through low-tech gore (latex scars and syringes spraying copious quantities of blood) and high enthusiasm, the amateurish cast sells the goofiness for all they’re worth.  A dead ringer for the big-boned-but-cute-blonde-with-the-great-sense-of-humor-you-had-a-crush-on-in-high-school, Terri Susan Smith shines as the “girl-next-door” receptionist that catches Duane’s eye.  Unfortunately, this sends Belial into a spasmodic fit of jealousy, leading to one of the most profoundly hilarious and disturbing climaxes ever produced.  Not for the snobs or the squeamish, this is an enjoyable and inventive B-grade kookfest.

Beauty and the Beast  (1946)

One of the most extraordinary and beautiful films ever made, Jean Cocteau weaves a tapestry of wonder over his adaptation of the classic fairy tale.  In the opening segment, Cocteau introduces his tale by entreating his audience “to be as children and again believe in a world of fantasy,” then proceeds to deliver a magic rarely seen in cinema.  After mistakenly plucking a rose from an enchanted garden, a poor merchant must yield his daughter Belle (literally “Beauty”) to the keeping of a fearsome Beast.  While a terrifying vision to behold (the astonishing makeup’s application required four hours each day), the Beast turns out to be a tender and eloquent being, brilliantly realized by the fine French actor Jean Marais (who also plays Belle’s human suitor).  He asks Belle daily to marry him, the only way that he can be released from his curse, and our hearts soften with hers towards this majestic and unfortunate creature.  The film contains wonder after visual wonder, yet remains emotionally and truthfully grounded, a feat of magic in itself (ever more obvious in today’s world of soulless computerized wizardry).  Between images of candelabrums held by disembodied arms, living faces among the bas-relief, and magical talking mirrors, we have an enchanted love story of the highest order, and our hearts ache, break, and soar right along with those of the characters.

Bedlam  (1946)

This third collaboration of star Boris Karloff and producer Val Lewton is not a straightforward horror tale, yet contains some chilling moments nonetheless.  Karloff is absolutely captivating as Master Sims, the sadistic yet utterly charming chief warden of St. Mary’s of Bethlehem, known as Bedlam.  When flinty heroine Nell Bowen (Anna Lee) interferes with Sims’ plans to ingratiate himself to Lord Mortimer (a delightful performance by Billy House), he has her incarcerated as a madwoman under his charge.  Within this realm, where Sims has reigned unchallenged for years, their battle of wills escalates as the sharp-witted and steel-spined Nell forms alliances with her fellow lunatics, some of whom are not as they seem.  While Karloff is ostensibly the villain of the piece, his presence is so magnetic and fascinating the audience may find it difficult to root for his downfall.  Lewton (under pseudonym Carlos Keith) is responsible for the suspenseful and witty screenplay, which contains numerous nightmarish images, including an inmate suffocating from being dipped in gold paint (a precursor to James Bond’s Goldfinger) and a ghoulish “trial” of Sims by his tormented patients.  Director Mark Robson, who served as editor and/or writer on numerous earlier Lewton productions, skillfully evokes a shadowy atmosphere of gloom.  This marked the final Lewton/RKO teaming, concluding a remarkable string of high quality/low-budget pictures produced between 1942 and 1946.

Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon (2006)

After making a big splash at the 2006 South by Southwest Film Festival, this spiffy little indie slasher/mockumentary continued to make the festival rounds, creating a healthy amount of buzz and garnering numerous awards.   A combo of The Blair Witch Project, Man Bites Dog and a Christopher Guest pic, Mask follows a documentary film crew as they attempt to get up close and personal with wannabe slasher icon Leslie Vernon (assayed with Jim Carrey-like glee by Nathan Baesel) as he prepares for his first big mass murder, the one that will put him “over the top.”  Along the way, the tropes and clichés of the slasher film genre are deconstructed, while perhaps not quite as slickly as they were in Wes Craven’s Scream.  (That said, I particularly enjoyed the coining of the “Ahab” term to designate the obsessed authority figure on the trail of any good homicidal maniac, in this case played by Robert Englund.)  The change-of-tone third act seems to have as many detractors as supporters, but as I was growing tired of the psuedo-doc format by that point, I enjoyed director/co-writer Scott Glosserman’s verve.  Not for all tastes, but certainly worth a shot for fans looking for a slasher flick with a twist.

Bell from Hell, A (1973)

A dark and twisted tale of revenge and madness whose bleak tone never lets up. A young man is released from an asylum and returns home to his aunt (Creepshow’s Viveca Lindfors) and her three daughters, who had him declared insane in order to steal his inheritance.  Prior to arriving, he stops off to work for a spell at a slaughterhouse, quitting after he “has learned enough.”  (These unsettling scenes feature authentic cattle slaying – performed by lead actor Renaud Verley himself! – and will likely upset animal activist viewers to no end.)  From there, the labyrinthian plot unfolds with bondage, rape and bee attacks on the menu, culminating in a twist-upon-a-twist ending that will confound the most sharp-minded.  The film’s biggest flaw is the lack of anyone to truly root for, as all the characters are pretty despicable, but the artistic merits carried the day for me.  Directed with atmospheric visual panache by Claudio Guerin, who, in a macabre footnote, jumped or fell to his death from the constructed bell tower on the final day of shooting.

Beyond, The  (1981)

Considered by many to be Italian director Lucio Fulci’s masterpiece, this is an eye-popping good time for those who like their gore dripping and their storylines incoherent.  As near as can be determined, the film revolves around an old hotel in New Orleans that has in its basement “the seven doors of evil,” one of which gets opened by a troubleshooting plumber. (Wouldn’t you think it would be harder than that?  Guess not.) That’s all the excuse that Fulci needs to open his arsenal and soon, corpses are rising from the dead, eyeballs are pushed, prodded, and poked out of their sockets, faces are melted with acid, and other gross-outs ensue.  In one of the most audacious set pieces, a nest of tarantulas make a slow and deliberate feast of an unconscious victim (complete with grimace-inducing munching and crunching noises on the soundtrack).  While the film’s narrative is nearly incomprehensible, there is plenty of imaginative camerawork and art direction amid the mayhem, creating an unsettling mood (as if those spiders weren’t unsettling enough). Filled with numerous memorable scenes, including a knockout final sequence.

Black Castle, The (1952)

Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney, Jr. receive prominent billing, but neither one is really given much to do here:  Chaney turns in another one of his patented “drooling idiot” roles, while Boris skulks in the shadows much of the picture, which could hardly be called a horror film to begin with.  Instead, it concerns itself primarily with the dashing Richard Greene’s search for the killers of his companions, leading him to the door of evil count Stephen McNally.  While there, he (of course) falls for McNally’s bride, played by the fetching Rita Corday, and has a few close encounters with an alligator pit.  But the overall tone is one of an adventure tale, complete with a climactic plot device lifted from Shakespeare’s R&J.  Good for a rainy day and Karloff completists, but that’s about it.

Black Cat, The  (1934)

Bearing no resemblance to any aspect of the original story by Edgar Allan Poe, this atmosphere-drenched offering from director Edgar G. Ulmer is a superior piece of filmmaking.  It is all the more historic for marking the first and finest on-screen teaming of horror icons Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi.  The storyline of mysterious doctor Lugosi and an American couple seeking refuge in Karloff’s Hungarian mansion during a rainstorm is muddled at best (due in part to studio interference and editing by Universal), but Ulmer and his two leads make up for it with sheer presence, swift pacing, and a dreamlike “atmosphere of death” (as one character puts it) that pervades throughout. Karloff and Lugosi square off admirably, playing a figurative and literal game of chess with one another, their characters’ dark history revealing itself layer by layer, with the tension mounting to a memorable and satisfying climax.  The delight in watching these two hugely popular stars at the top of their game is palpable, and one can easily forgive the film its minor flaws in logic and dull supporting characters.  The director’s heightened noir is stylized, to be sure, but undeniably engaging, with special kudos to Charles D. Hall’s exemplary art direction.

Black Christmas  (1974)

Director Bob Clark’s effective (and underrated) holiday thriller pre-dates the slasher film craze and its influence is felt in Halloween, When a Stranger Calls, and countless others.  The simple set-up involves a college sorority house and an (unseen) homicidal killer, heightened by some of the most chilling and unsettling obscene phone calls ever recorded.  Utilizing extensive handheld camerawork, this is among the first usage of the “heavy-breathing killer’s point-of-view” shots that would become a staple of the slasher oeuvre.  Red herrings abound and, while a little meandering at times, Roy Moore’s script expends real effort to create distinct characters.  These are nicely fleshed out by fine ensemble performances (including Olivia Hussey and Keir Dullea), with Margot Kidder’s foul-mouthed sorority sister and Doug McGrath’s dim deputy taking top honors.  Not as slick or sticky as the genre would become, this suspenseful low-budgeteer still packs a wallop (the sequence where the police are tracing the calls is particularly potent).  The murders, while relatively bloodless, are striking and violent, and the final scene is an absolute stunner.  The unusual, discordant musical score is by Carl Zittrer.

Black Christmas (2006)

Watching the behind-the-scenes DVD featurette, one almost aches for writer/director Glen Morgan.  Here is a filmmaker whose previous directorial effort, the remake of Willard starring Crispin Glover, did not meet with much financial success, and he is obviously feeling the pressure to deliver a crowd-pleaser with plenty of “Boo!” or “Bleahhh!” moments.  Seems like a nice guy and a genuine horror fan too, which is why his dead-on-arrival redux of Bob Clark’s cult classic is doubly disappointing.  In trying to do something new with the now well-worn storyline of a sorority house full of potential victims, Morgan goes completely off the rails almost from the get-go, delivering up gore without scares and characters thinner than the anemic script’s pages.  Some people have defended BC ’06 as being a “pretty good 80s slasher,” which to my mind is damnation by faint praise, not to mention the fact that two decades have passed since the 80s slasher heyday.  Sure there are a few cool kills and original ’74 cast member Andrea Martin returns as the sorority house mother, but really, what was the point?  Sorry, Glen, but if this is the best you can do and you’re a fan…maybe you ought not be directing.  Stick to writing Final Destination movies.

Black Room, The (1984)   

I would have never guessed that this was made in the 80s, as it feels like a sleazy, edgy, free-lovin’ 70’s movie all the way.  A brother/sister team set up a trap to lure unsuspecting visitors to their secluded (California?) mansion to engage in some bloodletting.  Kind of a vampire premise, but with a touch of social commentary as well.  It doesn’t always work, but people who’ve seen a lot of low budget indie horror, especially from the 70s, might get a kick out of this.  And it has a nearly unrecognizable Linnea Quigley as a babysitter, just a year before her infamous nude gravedancing in Return of the Living Dead.

Black Sabbath (1963)

Mario Bava hooks up with Boris Karloff and American International for this well-polished and extremely atmospheric anthology of fright. The first tale, “The Drop of Water,” has a greedy woman stealing a ring off the corpse she has been called to prepare.  Later at her home, someone comes a’callin’ (featuring one of the creepiest “fun” visuals since the blind housekeeper in William Castle’s House on Haunted Hill).   Next, the gorgeous Michele Mercier contends with calls from her dead convict lover in “The Telephone” – the least effective of the bunch, but still entertaining enough.  Finally, “The Wurdulak” has all-purpose AIP hero Mark Damon showing up at a terrified household run by patriarch Karloff, who has just returned from an encounter with the dreaded vampire-like character of the title.  All the chapters are introduced by a droll Karloff, and Bava’s exquisite use of light and color are on glorious display here.  Perfect for introducing fans to both AIP’s gothic horrors and Il Maestro.

Black Sheep (2006)

As surely as Peter Jackson drew inspiration from childhood idols Willis O’Brien and Ray Harryhausen, Jonathan King’s admiration for his fellow Kiwi filmmaker’s early madcap horror/comedies is apparent in nearly every scene.  Much like Bad Taste and Braindead (aka Dead-Alive), the characters are drawn large and loud, then inhabited by appealing, offbeat actors.  Nathan Meister plays Henry, a New Zealand sheep baron’s younger offspring waylaid by a chronic fear of the woolly ones due to childhood trauma at the hands of his sadistic, bullying elder brother.  Now grown, Angus (Peter Feeney) has moved into genetically engineering his ovine, the fallout of said experiments resulting in the most ill-tempered baa-baa’s ever to graze a hillside.  Of course, the joke of turning the proverbial docile lamb of the field into a homicidal carnivorous beastie is the basis for King’s (who also scripted) black comedy, but thanks to Jackson’s Weta Workshop, audiences are also treated to several half man/half sheep monstrosities and a troughful of off-color intimations that Angus’ contributions to his work may extend beyond just his brainpower.  Blessedly free of CGI, directed with verve and performed with shear abandon, this may not be a classic for the ages, but it’s delightful summer fun and one of the best horror/comedies since Shaun of the Dead.

Black Sunday (aka The Mask of Satan) (1960)

One of the most atmosphere-drenched cinematic forays into the supernatural.  Marrying the feel of the Universal classics with the darkness of a Grimm fairy tale, this tour-de-force directorial debut launched the careers of Italian cinematographer Mario Bava and scream queen Barbara Steele.  As shocking as Psycho’s shower scene (which came out the same year), the breathtaking opening sequence in which a spike-studded iron mask is pounded onto a captured witch’s face shocked audiences around the world, passing instantly into horror film iconography.  Bava weaves an elaborate tapestry of gloom over this tale of vengeance visited upon the family that burned Steele and her brother at the stake two hundred years before.  Though few of the elements of the fantastic story (based on Gogol’s story “The Viy”) break new ground, this is an unabashedly gorgeous exercise in style and stunning black and white cinematography.  Barbara Steele is outstanding as both the witch, Asa, and her modern-day descendent, Katia.  In spite of a few melodramatic scenes of romance between Katia and her heroic lover, this masterpiece of Gothic mood will linger in the mind long after the lights come up.  Bava’s pioneering work here (and as cinematographer for 1956’s I, Vampiri) paved the way for fellow auteurs Dario Argento and Lucio Fulci, and created an entirely new genre:  the Italian horror film.  Absolutely required viewing.

Blair Witch Project, The (1999)

All you low-budget horror filmmakers out there take note:  You can make an astonishingly original and frightening film for barely any money at all; it simply requires a fresh approach and more imagination than Karo syrup.  Witness this groundbreaking and box office shattering sensation from first timers Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sanchez, which takes the premise of a trio of student documentarians wandering around a forested area of Maryland and manifests a shining example of minimalist “theatre of the mind.”  Well aware that the film has as many detractors as fans, I come down firmly on the latter side, and will defend it until the witches come home.  Say what you will about how the hype killed it, how it was a better example of innovative marketing than filmmaking, how the shaky camera induces motion sickness, how the characters are annoying, how it ripped off Cannibal Holocaust…  I will simply look you in the eye and shake my head in sorrow that you weren’t able to go along for the ride, unable to enjoy a good campfire story well told.  Kudos go to the evocative use of sound, the authentic (mostly improvised) performances, the "found footage" motif, how so many onscreen events go unanswered, the palpable tension between the increasingly desperate characters, the chilling ending...  Yes, the characters are annoying at times, but we find their behavior completely realistic.  Would they keep filming under such dire circumstances?  As one character mentions, “Through the camera lens, things seem somehow less real,” so yeah, they keep filming.  As far as the camerawork, with the given set of circumstances, if it were any smoother we wouldn't buy it.  What can I say – I love this movie. Also worth your time is the companion faux documentary, Curse of the Blair Witch, which expands upon the legend to the point where you believe that such a legend truly existed.  Funny thing is, now it does.

Blood Beach (1981)

“Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water, you can’t get to it.”   You might want to find another locale to take that romantic midnight stroll after watching this low budget monster flick, which succeeds on its own rough graces more often than one might expect.  When southern California beaches are being thinned out by a subterranean monster, it’s up to ill-tempered police captain John Saxon to curb the Coppertone creature’s cravings.  We never get a really good look at the bloodthirsty behemoth until the end (which, when it does surface, seems to resemble an organic satellite dish), but the scenes of bewildered bathers being sucked under the sand still manage to provide a thrill in the best monster movie traditions.  Unfortunately, whenever we leave the beach (i.e. the majority of the 92-minute running time) to focus on the dull-as-dishwater romance of headliners David Huffman and Marianna Hill, the show stops dead in the water, with nothing but sergeant Burt Young’s mannered and decidedly un-PC rantings to carry the day.

Blood on Satan’s Claw  (1971)

When an inhuman skull is unearthed by a workman’s plow, strange events begin to occur in a quiet 17th-century English village.  A young fiancee goes insane.  Her betrothed cuts off his own hand.  His aunt dies of a mysterious illness.  Most horrifyingly, the village children form a fiendish cult, worshipping a strange creature in the woods and sacrificing their friends and family to appease it.  Piers Haggard does a masterful job of cultivating a realistic feel to the events, painting an atmosphere of sinister menace with drab palettes and bold camerawork.  Among the most haunting moments are those involving the coven’s sensuous young leader (Linda Hayden, with a pair of strangely evolving eyebrows) seducing her victims with an angelic smile and wicked body.  Unusually solid acting, with Barry Andrews superb as the noble workman and Patrick Wymark, in his final role, turning in a remarkable multifaceted portrait of the local magistrate battling to save his town. The script is not without its flaws, most notably a number of unanswered questionsand a less-than-satisfying final confrontation between the powers of good and evil, but overall this effective low-budget film from Tigon is a fine companion piece to their (slightly) superior Witchfinder General, in spirit as well as subject matter.

Bloody Murder (2000)

This is the kind of bloodless, sexless slasher movie that makes one wonder exactly what target audience the filmmakers were going for.  From its well-worn “counselors prepping a campground” plot device to its masked killer (wearing a hockey mask, no less…groan), there is absolutely nothing here we haven’t seen before, and unfortunately there aren’t enough of the things that we have, i.e. boobs and blood.  Dull characters performed by inexperienced actors shot on video are bad enough, but seeing as how director Ralph Portillo elects to fade out/cut away every time someone falls victim to the killer, there is very little left to recommend.  Even more puzzling is the film’s 1999 time stamp – it’s as though Portillo and screenwriter John R. Stevenson were completely unaware that there had been a slasher boom, and therefore felt no need to try to provide anything original.  To call it an homage to the Friday the 13th franchise would be an insult, because while that series is hardly high art, it is never boring.  Bloody Murder lives up to its title, as it is just that to sit through.

Bloody New Year (1987)

Well, you can’t tell me that Norman J. Warren wasn’t slightly influenced by The Evil Dead when he made this little puppy for his "comeback" picture. Hmm, kids trapped in an isolated spot? Check. Random invocation of demons? Check. Kids possessed by said demons one by one? Check. Bizarro rooms and violence and general mayhem? Ch…you get the picture. Sadly, it all feels pretty uninspired and never really takes off. At least with his Alien rip-off, Inseminoid, Warren ratcheted up the sleaze level a bit and took us places we hadn’t been before.

Blue Monkey (1987)

A couple weeks back, I was relating to my buddy and hero Jon Kitley my experience with Helter Skelter and reveling in Steve Railsback’s stunning performance.  Always one to help, he offered up this mutant monster kookfest from the late 80s.  Consider Railsback off his pedestal again.  When a strange foreign plant stings an old man, he turns purple and spews up a yechy worm creature upon his arrival at the local hospital.  As if that wasn’t bad enough, some “cute” prepubescent leukemia patients decide that it would be a good idea to feed the squirmy specimen a growth accelerant that looks a lot like Draino crystals.  It’s up to Cop Railsback, fetching doc Gwynyth Walsh and an enthusiastic entomologist (Christopher Guest regular Don Lake) to battle the enormous and evolving insect puppet.  It’s a goofy monster movie, not to be taken seriously at all, and even by that criteria…it still falls a bit short, mostly due to the unwelcome attempts at comedy, the chief offenders being the little moppets and an annoying expectant couple.  And let’s not even get into the title. 

Body Snatcher, The (1945)

Arguably Boris Karloff’s finest onscreen performance, this is another great-looking piece of atmospheric horror from producer Val Lewton.  Karloff’s Cabman Gray, oozing ill-intentions and menace while remaining innately likeable, emerges as one of the most intriguing characters in film, regardless of genre.  Gray has been employed as a grave robber to provide cadavers for Henry Daniell’s professor to use at his medical institute.  When there are too few corpses to satisfy demands, Gray goes about supplying them through “other means.”  Philip MacDonald and Lewton (as Carlos Keith) do a terrific job adapting Robert Louis Stevenson’s story (inspired by the real-life exploits of body snatchers Burke and Hare).  Robert Wise directs with a sure hand, leaving much of the violence offscreen and allowing our imagination to fill in the ghoulish blanks.  The street singer sequence, in particular, is a wonder.  Daniell proves a worthy foil to Karloff, and the mounting power struggle between them is electrifying to watch.  Bela Lugosi appears in a small role (despite his billing) as Daniell’s servant, and his brief scene with Karloff is startling yet strangely moving.  The film marked the final time that the two icons of horror would appear onscreen together.

Boucher, Le (1970)

Stephane Audran is an independent (and single) schoolmistress in a small French village.  Jean Yanne is a humble butcher who may or may not be a serial killer of young girls.  From this unusual pairing of souls, writer/director Claude Chabrol spins a mysterious and riveting suspense yarn that is by equal turns a captivating tale of romance.  Featured in both 1001 Movies You Have to See Before You Die and Roger Ebert’s Great Movies II, it is said that with this picture, the cruel portraitist of the French bourgeoisie redefined his career, becoming an artist capable of great depth and human empathy.  But even without the filmmaker’s oeuvre in mind, this is a thrilling and touching effort that should appeal to viewers of nearly any stripe.

Bride, The  (1985)

A complete reimagining of Bride of Frankenstein, this sumptuous costume drama captures the Gothic look and feel with fine production design and sturdy acting, but fails to engage emotionally.  The film begins on course, with great-looking laboratory scenes of mad doctor Sting animating Jennifer Beals to be his monster’s mate.  But the seams begin to show when the film splits in two.  One half follows the original monster, shunned by both mate and creator, in his travels while the other observes Frankenstein as he dresses up his newest creation as an independent society lady at home.  Doing a commendable job with minimal makeup, Clancy Brown follows well in Karloff’s large footprints, and when he meets circus midget David Rappaport, a Victorian-age Of Mice and Men dynamic is created to good effect.  Sadly, the film’s other two leads have not one volt of electricity between them onscreen, with the comely Beals utterly vacant behind the eyes and Sting every inch the preening rock-star narcissist.  While the filmmakers attempt some sort of comment on sexual politics, it falls flat, and the climactic showdown between creator and creation feels rushed and tacked on.  Well-intentioned, but not even in the same class as the original.

Brides of Blood (1968)

The first film in the Philippine “Blood Island” series is actually a pretty darn good flick, and when I say “good,” I mean entertaining as all get out.  It’s certainly a low budget effort, combining elements of Day Of The Triffids and King Kong, with a little Swamp Thing and Attack of the Mushroom People tossed into the mix.  But I gotta say, directors Eddie Romero and Gerardo DeLeon managed to put together a good old fashioned monster movie and added enough exploitation ingredients – mild gore, naked native girls and a screaming blonde going by the dubious screen name of “Beverly Hills” (and lemme tellya, her hills are alive…and nearly falling out of her skimpy nightgown throughout) – to keep the drive-in crowd happy.  In fact, if this had been filmed in black and white, I think it might have looked even more, ahem, legitimate.  Having seen the zoom-happy sequel, Mad Doctor of Blood Island, already, I’m raring to check out the final chapter, Beast of Blood.

Brood, The  (1979)

Canadian writer-director David Cronenberg offers up this gooey treat about killer dwarves spawned from mental patient Samantha Eggar’s internalized anger.  Oliver Reed stars as Dr. Raglan, the god-like head of Psychoplasmics, Inc., a center where patients manifest sores on their bodies when provoked to heightened emotional states.  When husband Art Hindle attempts to restrict visitation rights with her daughter, Eggar’s consequent fury unleashes her “rage children” upon family members, schoolteachers, and ultimately Reed himself.  There is some fine eccentric work from former patient Robert A. Silverman, although his character is ultimately left with little to do.  Cronenberg delivers his customary bravura visceral images (including a truly unforgettable scene witnessing the birth of Eggar’s offspring, complete with her biting into the sac’s membrane and licking the fetus clean).  Typical of the director’s early work, the story does little in explaining the hows and whys, which may prove frustrating to some viewers.  Nauseating and thought-provoking, the film also marks the first teaming with composer Howard Shore, who has scored every subsequent Cronenberg film to date.

Bubba Ho-Tep  (2002)

Expanded from Joe R. Lansdale’s terrific short story, this enthusiastically original tale is a born cult classic.  The mind boggles at its very premise:  Following a hip-breaking stage fall, Elvis is discovered alive and not-so-well in a Texas old folks home.  His dreary daily monotony is abruptly ended with the appearance of an ancient Egyptian spirit who begins to suck the souls out of his fellow residents.  If that wasn’t enough, the geriatric King of Rock-n-Roll is embodied, in a clever and nuanced performance, by none other than Evil Dead’s Bruce Campbell.  As he hobbles into action to defend his debilitated rest home against the undead menace, Elvis is joined by neighbor Ossie Davis (a droll turn as a man who believes that he is JFK, despite the fact that he is black.)  The whole thing is directed with style and panache by Phantasm’s Don Coscarelli, who also scripted.  A sharp ensemble effort, with everyone obviously giving it everything they have.  Perhaps most surprising is the film’s substantial emotional impact as we grow to love these eccentric characters, especially Davis and Campbell as the unlikeliest heroic duo ever conceived.  A satisfying venture on multiple levels, as much a reflection on aging and life’s regrets as monster movie.  Well worth a look.

Bucket of Blood, A  (1959)

Step right in, Daddy-O, for the coolest combo of comedy and horror to make the scene.  At once parody and time capsule, Roger Corman simultaneously slams and celebrates the “Beat” generation and their penchant for kooky poetry, groovy jazz, hipster slang, and the search for “the next big thing.”  Character actor Dick Miller appears in a rare leading role as sad sack Walter Paisley, frustrated sculptor and busboy at the ultra-hip Yellow Door club.  The film boasts a sensational roster of faux-cool characters, ranging from beret-wearing hepcats, self-appointed poetry gods, stuck-up models, nosy landladies, and wholesome heroines.   Julian Burton is perfection as the ultra-mannered wordsmith Maxwell, spouting immortal lines of freaky-deaky like “deep down inside my piranha.” The zippy affair evolves quickly into a cheap and funny send-up of Mystery of the Wax Museum, when Miller begins covering his victims (beginning with his landlady’s cat!) in clay and passing them off as works of art to earn his place in the pantheon of in-crowd “artistes.”  Goofy-great (snap, snap) clever-cool script by Charles B. Griffith, backed by Fred Katz’s terrific jazz score with Paul Horn’s fiery sax solos tearing up the joint.  Bert Convy makes his screen debut in a small role as an unfortunate vice cop.  Miller’s “Walter Paisley” moniker would surface again and again throughout his career, on display in such films as The Howling, Twilight Zone –The Movie and Chopping Mall.

Bug (2006)

Less a conventional horror flick than an examination of the contagious nature of insecurities and our need to be loved and empathized with, even down to our paranoiac fantasies and pathologies.  When broken-down barmaid Ashley Judd (looking less glam than we’ve seen in a long while) invites gawky, gangly drifter Michael Shannon to share her dingy hotel room efficiency, she opens the door to a future beyond her cowering fear of her recently paroled con-of-a-bitch husband Harry Connick, Jr. and a decade-old personal tragedy.  But this new figure brings issues of his own – issues that come in the form of tiny insects that may or may not be real.  From the breathtaking heliocopter shot that opens the film to the twitchy camerawork inside the increasingly claustrophobic hotel room, director William Friedkin bobs and weaves around his cast – avoiding the operatic feel of The Exorcist in favor of an in-your-face documentary style that manages to work more often than not.  The cast is terrific across the board, with Shannon (who originated the role at Chicago’s A Red Orchid Theatre) a particular standout.  There are times when Tracy Letts’ script’s stage origins become apparent – it’s a talkier piece than most modern horror efforts – but don’t let that scare you off.  Just because you can’t immediately classify and stick the label pin on this BUG doesn’t make its bite any less potent.

Burnt Offerings  (1976)

A criminally inert entry in the haunted house pantheon from TV vet Dan (Trilogy of Terrors) Curtis.  With their young son in tow, Karen Black and Oliver Reed (irretrievably miscast as a “normal” couple) rent a country mansion for the summer, and soon become entangled in mysterious goings-on.  Predictably directed, with every surprise telegraphed, this trudge of a film is boring to the point of catatonia.  With no sense of pacing, bizarre dream sequences, and a “twist” ending that is apparent within the first fifteen minutes, the cast stumbles around the house for much of the movie looking for the plot and the point.  Reed has a couple of fine moments as the wary husband, but even he can’t do much with the leaden dialogue (“This house is destroying us!”)  The final moments are intriguing, but who can stay awake that long?  Along for the bumpy ride are Burgess Meredith, Eileen Heckart, and a spry Bette Davis, who seems to be having the most fun of anyone.  Skip the film and check out Robert Marasco’s excellent source novel instead.