Fool's Views Reviews (H)

	*Halloween* (1978) From its startlingly violent opening scenes to its jaw-dropping climax, this low-budget masterpiece instantly announced itself as a modern day horror classic, shattering box-office records and becoming the highest-grossing independent film at the time. Nearly twenty years after Psycho terrified viewers out of their showers, director John Carpenter and producer Debra Hill co-wrote the brilliantly minimalist script of an escaped lunatic terrorizing a small Midwestern township, and trick-or-treating would never be the same. Donald Pleasance shines as the killer’s frantic psychiatrist, the only one who comprehends the extent of the evil that has been unleashed. Jamie Lee Curtis (in her film debut) provides the film’s emotional center as a bookish babysitter who, with fun-loving friends Nancy Loomis and P. J. Soles, unwittingly becomes the target of the masked boogeyman. While the relatively bloodless film is often credited with inspiring the modern-day slasher genre, Carpenter’s skillfully crafted tour-de-force is about much more than nubile victims meeting grisly ends. Like Spielberg’s giant shark, Halloween’s unstoppable antagonist (credited merely as “The Shape”) reaches near-mythic status, pursuing his prey with placid yet ferocious determination. Carpenter’s repetitive synthesizer and piano score heightens the gut-clenching tension, then shatters it with chilling efficiency time and again. In addition to inspiring a throng of “holiday-themed” horror offerings, the indie blockbuster spawned its own inevitable sequels (seven, at present), which contain nary a fraction of the original’s enduringly effective impact between them.
	*Halloween II* (1981) Following Halloween’s thundering arrival, scores of imitators followed suit with their own blade-wielding killers, emphasizing the myriad means by which one may meet their maker. Imitating rather than innovating, screenwriters John Carpenter and Debra Hill muck up their own superb mythology, reducing “Michael Myers” from an ambiguous embodiment of evil to a mere unstoppable psychopath with a dysfunctional family grudge. Despite picking up on the same night of the 1978 stunner, the two films are universes apart. Whereas the former dealt with Evil’s intrusion upon a small town, the 1981 follow-up is set in a world of innocence lost, with its core bathed in three years of senselessly spilled cinematic blood. Rick Rosenthal’s joyless direction only emphasizes the lack of emotional resonance, with a quadrupled body count of nameless, faceless victims. Logic and coherent storytelling are pitched to the winds in favor of skewered eyeballs, hot nurses boiled in hotter tubs, and so on. Jamie Lee Curtis returns as a traumatized, shuddering husk of her former self, and while the film purports to focus on The Shape stalking dark hospital halls in search of her, its true aim is acquisition of sharp implements and warm bodies to plunge them into. The film’s biggest misstep is attempting to pick up immediately following the original’s climax, surely one of the most successful exercises in tension building. With the emotional ceiling looming so close, there is simply nowhere to go but into histrionics, with Donald Pleasance’s hysterical psychiatrist the most flagrant offender. A base relation to its noble forerunner, all tricks, and no treat.
	*Halloween III: The Season of the Witch* (1982) Looked upon by fans as the redheaded stepchild of the Halloween series, this transcendingly goofy horror flick remains one of the great “bad movie” joys. Employing a narrative independent of the first two films (based on a story by Quatermass scribe Nigel Kneale, who demanded his name be stricken from the credits), first-time writer/director Tommy Lee Wallace tries to do something completely different, and boy, does he ever. With nary a butcher knife in sight, this time the evil lurks behind the masks of the Silver Shamrock toy company, whose omnipresent television commercials get either funnier or more annoying as the film proceeds. Beefy doc Tom Atkins (looking like a heftier version of the Brawny paper towel guy) sets out to discover what’s behind the brutal murder of one of his patients, his investigation leading to the Silver Shamrock headquarters. There he encounters Dan O’ Herlihy, having a high old time looning it up as the company’s psychotic president; but scarier by far than Herlihy’s masks, which have the ability to reduce the wearer to a pile of bugs and snakes (yes, you read that right), is watching fortyish Atkins getting all naked and cuddly with jailbait Stacy Nelkin (Brrrrr.) The delightfully zany plot features androids, corporate conspiracy, and a stolen section of Stonehenge, served up with plenty of gooey moments. (When a disgruntled buyer gets her lips fried off by a green ray shooting out of her mask, it is a jaw-dropping moment of inspired lunacy.) So far out there it’s impossible not to laugh, though the performers do manage to play it straight. Jamie Lee Curtis cameos as the telephone operator’s voice. A wonderfully bizarro alternative to the normal slasher fare.
	*Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Myers* (1988) By the time executive producer Moustapha Akkad decided to dust off the old Shatner mask for another go-round, the Friday the 13th series was on its seventh installment and Nightmare on Elm Street was on its fourth. Hmmm, anyone get the feeling that Akkad knew the gravy train was passing by? So, from out of the flames (both literal and figurative) of Halloween II comes this load of hogwash, delighting fans of the series sorely disappointed by the lack of butcher knives in H3. Despite being apparently blown to pieces in the previous installment, both Michael Myers and Dr. Sam Loomis (a frothing-mad Donald Pleasance) are back after ten years for more fun and games, neither much the worse for wear. True, Pleasance does have some minimal facial scarring and a limp, but it only contributes to his already juicy, over-the-top performance. Jamie Lee Curtis’ character of Laurie Strode is nowhere to be found, but she did leave behind…a daughter? Wide-eyed wunderkind Danielle Harris turns in the film’s best performance as the object of Myers’ homicidal rampage, and what a rampage it is, borrowing elements from every slasher film from the past decade with a dash of The Terminator thrown in for good measure. A blockheaded howler from start to finish, with the only real pleasure derived from watching Pleasance risk aneurysms while choking out overripe lines such as “He’s not human!” “Please listen to me!” and “Noooooo! Noooooo! NOOOOOO!” Corpses fly like confetti, rednecks shoot up the place, and the only thing worse than the laughable ending is the groaner ending that follows, opening the door wide for a no-brainer sequel.
	*Halloween 5: The Revenge of Michael Myers* (1989) Knowing all too well that the fans would not abide losing their favorite trick-or-treating psychopath, poor Michael Myers is brought back once again to lay waste to the cannon-fodder inhabitants of Haddonfield. And hey, you would be primed to kill too, if you kept being dragged from the grave into lousy movies like this one. Still trying to trim his family tree, Myers continues hunting down his slippery little niece Jamie (again played with preternatural prepubescent skill by Danielle Harris). While not following in her killer uncle’s footsteps (as suggested by the ending of Part 4), Jamie has been rendered mute from her traumatic encounter. She also exhibits signs of a psychic link with Myers, which affords the increasingly shrill Donald Pleasance opportunities galore to bug his eyes and bang his bald head against the wall trying to convince anyone that his former patient is still on the loose. (All together now: “He’s out there!”) The annoyance factor of the supporting characters goes WAY up here (giggling, jiggling Wendy Kaplan turns in a ninetyminutes-of-nails-on-chalkboard performance, and the “comic relief” Thud n’Dud deputies aren’t far behind). Ol’ Paleface Myers can’t put his victims out of the audience’s misery quickly enough with his now-familiar variety of deadly implements (scissors, pitchforks, rakes, scythes, etc.). There is a halfway decent sequence of Harris being pursued through the laundry chute of the old Myers house, but it’s a faint light in an awfully dark sky. The crashing, slashing affair careens to yet another explosive finale, one that introduces a mystery character in an infuriatingly jaw-dropping cliffhanger ending. Those in the audience who care about these things will cry out, “Whaaaaat?” Others will just yawn.
	*Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers* (1995) Oh, that tricky Moustapha Akkad. Perhaps hoping to add class to the long-running slasher series, the numbers are dropped from the title (psssst, it’s number six). Here’s an idea: How about just making a good movie? No? Well, it was worth a shot. Exhibiting an undeniable familiarity with the previous Halloween films (but lacking any reverence for their characters or legacy), director Joe Chappelle provides the most slick-looking, confusing, mean-spirited entry yet. Attempting to explain both Michael Myers’ indestructible nature as well as his family issues, writer Daniel Farrands introduces the tenuous concept of an ancient Celtic curse where an entire family must be sacrificed in order to save the entire clan (um, OK…). Meanwhile, the libidinous teens of the beleaguered burg of Haddonfield decide to hold a festival to “take back Halloween” (the holiday has been cancelled for years), which the audience knows is just an excuse for the double-digit body count to come. The character of Jamie Lloyd, our heroine for the previous two installments, is treated with utter contempt, and the Man in Black plot point from Part 5 is badly fumbled amidst babblings of genetic engineering. The murders themselves are the most senselessly vicious and gory of the series (when the demise of a boorish relative of Jamie Lee Curtis’ original character involves an exploding head, you may wonder which film you have wandered into.) Most annoying, however, are the utterly superfluous slamming and clanging sound effects that litter the soundscape, destroying (KA-SCHING!) any chance (SHOOM!) for suspense (BA-WHOOOMP!). A very tired-looking Donald Pleasance tragically died not long after filming, making this travesty the final chapter in an otherwise worthy career.
	*Halloween H20: Twenty Years Later* (1998) After a downward spiral of increasingly inferior sequels and storylines, Jamie Lee Curtis elected to return to the Halloween fold as her original character Laurie Strode, and there was much rejoicing. The backstory: Laurie faked her death in order to escape her psychotic sibling, and is now living a fragile existence as an alcoholic, overly protective single mother and principal of a private California high school. This move pleased some fans and annoyed others, as the events of the previous three installments are more or less ignored here, but it inarguably tightens the focus of the film. When The Shape inevitably shows up, a genuine, emotionally invested struggle between two beloved screen characters ensues, as Curtis struggles to defend herself and her son (Josh Hartnett, in his screen debut) against her lifelong nemesis. Horror veteran Steve Miner does a laudable job of alternating between suspense and shock, and the Robert Zappia/Matt Greenberg script provides many Scream-like references, including cameos from Curtis’ real-life mom/Psycho star Janet Leigh, and Nancy Stephens, reprising her role from the original film (she was the nurse in the car with Dr. Loomis when Myers escapes from the asylum). Curtis is terrific here, obviously enjoying herself in the role that first brought her stardom, and the final half hour is a thrill-ride of watching her go manoa-mano with her darkest fears. Unfortunately, the rest of the cast ranges from just fine to so-so. Hartnett is particularly wooden, Michelle Williams (from TV’s Dawson’s Creek) provides little more than a good scream or two, and rapper/actor LL Cool J’s comic relief ain’t so comic. Still, this is a welcome upswing for the series, providing nostalgia and bloodletting in equal measure.
	*Halloween: Resurrection* (2002) It would be wonderful to be able to say that director Rick Rosenthal (who cut his teeth on Halloween II) and screenwriters Larry Brand and Sean Hood had breathed new life into an aging series. It would be delightful to report that the idea of a reality-TV show placing model-perfect teens into the Myers house with video cameras was a well-executed premise. It would be lovely to assure you that Jamie Lee Curtis reprises her Laurie character one more time, not for the money, but because this was such a worthwhile project that she just couldn’t say no. It would be ecstasy to regale you with tales of the brilliant performances that rapper Busta Rhymes and model Tyra Banks turn in. Ah, yes, all of these things would be just divine…if the movie didn’t stink like a butcher shop in July with the freezer on the blink.For about a month. Knee-deep in maggots and putrescence. (Get the picture? Good.) While the movie finds its way out of the satisfying finality of Halloween: H20’s conclusion with a neat (if improbable) plot twist, it then proceeds to kick fans right in the teeth and keeps on kicking them for the next hour and a half. Words like frustrating, nihilistic, juvenile, and boring don’t begin to describe this monumental waste of everyone’s time, money, and lives. The absolute nadir of the series (so far)…and that’s saying something. Gack.
	*Happy Hell Night* (1992) Obviously, no one sent the memo to the makers of this slasher flick that the 80s were, in fact, over. A college hazing stunt unleashes a murderous supernatural killer from the local insane asylum (every university town should have one) and the body count is on. There’s just enough innovation here that one might be inclined to give it the benefit of the doubt, but the overwhelming cheese factor is pretty darn high and the acting pretty darn bad, even from the Night Stalker himself, Darren McGavin (played in flashbacks by a young Sam Rockwell). There are a few good gory offings, but the best thing about HHN is Charles Cragin’s eerie physical presence as the killer Malius – with his Nosferatu bald head and wicked ice axe slaying methods, one wishes he’d had a better movie in which to strut his stuff.
	*Hatchet* (2006) Anyone who has encountered Adam Green earlier this year on the convention circuit or in his myriad interviews in various genre magazines, podcasts, etc. knows that he is a whirlwind of enthusiasm and passion. Promising to bring back “old school American horror” with his tale set in the swamps of Louisiana, the young writer/director throws in the basic ingredients (couple genre star cameos, ample amount of bare breasts, double-digit body count, gore aplenty and a hideous homicidal maniac), stirs vigorously and hopes for the best. As an unabashed tribute to the slasher heyday of the 80s, HATCHET succeeds rather well, its game cast (led by Ben Moore, Tamara Feldman, Deon Richmond and Kane Hodder) well guided through the misty bayou setting by Green’s assured hand, and well gutted by some impressive splatter f/x. But while the script’s stabs at humor fall flat more often than not, more troubling is the fact that rather than tweaking expectations, Green seems content to embrace the well-worn clichés as his own, right down to the unstoppable killer who inexplicably comes back time and time again. The result is a movie that fails to distinguish itself beyond being a solid, lovingly created homage – one that pleases but never truly satisfies. Despite giving fans exactly what they think they want, it still feels a bit like a missed opportunity.
	*Haunting, The* (1963) Superior haunted house film, adapted from Shirley Jackson’s equally chilling novel, The Haunting of Hill House. Natty spiritual researcher Richard Johnson sets out to investigate Hill House, a large eerie mansion with an ominously dark family history. The other members of Johnson’s team include liberated psychic Claire Bloom and hepcat Russ Tamblyn, though it is Julie Harris’ fragile spinster who ultimately becomes the axis of the paranormal experiment. Expertly helmed by Robert Wise, this is that rare gem that generates a true sense of horror without trotting out a single drop of blood or rotting corpse. Instead, Wise’s bizarre and unsettling camera angles keep the viewer off-balance, capturing the dark shadows that wax and wane in every corner. The film’s foreboding atmosphere is enhanced by its miraculous sound design, a crashing and scuttling cacophony of implied menace, punctuated by eerie laughter and Humphrey Searle’s hypnotic musical score. Nelson Giddings’ superb adaptation lifts Jackson’s oppressive narrative gloom off the page and nestles it neatly within Wise’s meticulously structured shots. Of the excellent cast, it is Bloom and Harris who command attention; the former sexy and complicated, the latter clinging to reality by a slender thread. Harris’ odd bird mannerisms fit perfectly, making her character as exasperating as she is tragic. Leaving almost everything up to the viewer’s imagination, including Jackson’s enigmatic ending, Haunting’s chills outlast any number of chainsaws or butcher knives.
	*Haunting, The* (1999) Taken on its own merits, director Jan de Bont’s remake of the classic Robert Wise spookhouse flick is a big, loud, carnival ride of a film. However, when compared to the original, with all its subtle and effective chills, it remains an inferior and unfulfilling confection. To say there is a lack of imagination on display would be incorrect, for de Bont and his production team have created an E-ticket haunted house with eye-popping razzles and dazzles around every corner. Regrettably absent is a sense of faith in the audience’s imagination, something the 1963 version had in spades. Treated as passengers on a roller coaster, once we are strapped in nothing more is asked but to scream and laugh in all the right places as we are rocked and buffeted to and fro. The quartet of “type” performances from Liam Neeson (dashing professor), Catherine Zeta-Jones (brazen bisexual), Owen Wilson (surfer-dude skeptic), and Lili Taylor (emotionally delicate misfit) are capable enough, but David Self’s turgid screenplay gives them little more than glib one-liners and telegraphed gasps to contend with. While Shirley Jackson’s novel raised huge question marks as to whether the ghosts of Hill House were real or not, there is no denying their existence here as garden statues come to life and canopy beds assail their occupants. But de Bont’s spirits are only “movie real,” opulent special effects displays designed to impress. Thus, elaborate as it may be, the bombastic bells-and-whistles climax provides no lingering sense of dread after the credits roll, merely a ringing in the ears.
	*Hellraiser* (1987) At a time when masked killers with sharp implements were all the genre had to offer, author Clive Barker boldly conjured up this awesomely gory tale of a mystical puzzle box that functions as the key between Hell and Earth. While he definitely has some interesting philosophical ideas underlying his directorial debut, Barker establishes his gruesome tone within the first five minutes, as a man is graphically torn to pieces courtesy of some very nasty hooks on chains. The film then introduces the unfortunate man’s brother and his family and we quickly find that in this world, the dead don’t like to stay dead. Makeup master Bob Keen provides a gross-out moveable feast with such delicacies as a corpse regaining its corporeal form layer by gooey layer, several juicy hammer-to-skull moments, and more of those nasty hooks. But the coup de grace are the startlingly original Cenobites, grotesque demon creations who come calling whenever someone solves the puzzle box to “tear your soul apart.” Their omnious leader Pinhead (played with gusto by Doug Bradley) would soon become as iconic as Michael, Freddy or Jason. Most of the human performers acquit themselves nicely amidst the viscera, particularly Clare Higgins’ conflicted wife-turned-murderess. Only Andrew Robinson, as her husband, is unconvincing—too sleazy to be nice, too wimpy to be threatening. In the end, though, it’s Barker and his striking visuals who are the real stars of this show. Followed by a seemingly never-ending string of inferior sequels.
	*Helter Skelter* (1976) Hadn’t seen this since it was on TV back in the 70’s and it messed me up big time back then. But I wasn’t able to fully appreciate it until I took it in as an adult nearly 30 years later. Despite a few overly obvious expositional dialogue sequences to clear things up for the pre-Law & Order viewing audience, the three-hour running time moves like a freight train, and is never boring, even if we know how the verdicts came down. However, it’s the performances that really carry the day: George DiCenzo is charismatic vehicle to drive the story as assistant DA Vincent Bugliosi, but Nancy Wolfe is creepy as hell as “Sexy Sadie” Atkins, Marilyn Burns does a fine job as Linda Kasabian, and Steve Railsback is nothing short of a miracle. Every moment he is onscreen is electrifying, one of the greatest performances I’ve ever seen. How did this man never become a huge star? His closing statement to the court is utterly terrifying, and all he’s doing is sitting there and talking. How 1976 Emmy voters overlooked him is beyond my comprehension.
	*Hills Have Eyes II, The* (2007) Took advantage of our local theater’s “$5 movie night” to check this one out. For the money, it wasn’t bad, although it’s still a significant step down from Alexandre Aja’s (mostly) faithful retelling of Wes Craven’s 1977 survivalist classic. Taking more than a few pages out of Walter Hill’s underrated Southern Comfort, the sequel follows some greenhorn National Guard recruits (who are much, much prettier than one might imagine) as they do battle with the radiation-infected cannibalistic mutants, who have taken to living in the old abandoned mine tunnels. The stressful situations bring out the best and the worst in the weekend warriors, some make it, some don’t, lots of gore and killings, a pretty nasty rape scene, and 90 minutes later, the credits roll. It might make a little money, but it’s not going to change anyone’s life.
	*Host, The* (2006) When an arrogant US scientist/bureaucrat orders his Korean counterpart to dump gallons of chemicals down the drain – and into the Han River – merely because the bottles are dusty, the results are one of the best giant monster movies to come along in ages. The creature, an ingenious mix of amphibious ooginess, is truly one of the finest examples of CGI wizardry since the dinos of Jurassic Park thundered onto the scene over a decade prior. But the best news is that the “in-between-monster-attack” scenes, rather than a fine time to scoot out to the refreshment stand, are just as entertaining, thanks to a zippy script and the game cast. We’ve got social commentary to spare, and the dysfunctional family in Little Miss Sunshine has nothing on the Park brood, with its slacker father, spunky daughter, activist uncle, archery champ aunt and wise, weary patriarch, all of whom are given their due moments of failure and heroism. There are a few leaps in logic (primarily with the “yellow gas” incident) that left me scratching my head, but overall, this is an unqualified triumph.
	*Hound of the Baskervilles, The* (1959) Riding the success of their remakes of Frankenstein and Dracula, Hammer Studios seized upon another opportunity to breathe Technicolor life into a cinematic/literary icon: Sherlock Holmes. Peter Cushing dons the deerstalker with the same intelligent, dedicated authority of his Baron and Van Helsing characters, with Andre Morell’s Watson a decidedly less buffoonish take than Nigel Bruce’s incarnation in the Basil Rathbone series. Christopher Lee is perfectly cast as the arrogant yet vulnerable Henry Baskerville and is ably supported by Francis De Wolff, Ewen Solon and Marla Landi as the fiery Cecile. Of particular note is Miles Malleson’s comic work as the bumbling, sherry-sipping Bishop – the interplay between he and “Props Peter” during the telescope scene is a beaut. While not 100% faithful to Conan Doyle’s source material, the superlative mystery/adventure yarn was well received by critics and audiences alike – one can only wonder why Hammer did not pursue further Holmes installments.
	*House of Usher* (1960) This, the first in the series of Roger Corman’s takes on Edgar Allan Poe, shatters the director/producer’s “master of the cheapies” reputation. He creates incredible mood and atmosphere on a tiny budget (a reported $270,000) and, in bringing on board Vincent Price, finds his perfect cinematic interpreter. Price creates a spooky, bleached-white Roderick Usher, whose acute hearing and senses have him wavering precariously between sanity and the abyss. Both fragile and powerful, Price’s heightened dramatic style actually carries off Poe’s prosaic language with more success than a naturalistic approach would have. While the rest of the series is made up of loose adaptations of Poe’s work, this proves to be the most faithful, with the most significant alteration being that in the original story, the narrator is Roderick’s childhood friend. Instead, screenwriter Richard Matheson uses the visiting fiancee (Mark Damon) of Roderick’s sister Madeline (Myrna Fahey) as his vehicle. Despite all Roderick’s protestations that she is too ill to leave the house, Madeline does not appear to be the invalid that her brother describes, further illuminating the extent of his madness. When Madeline is traumatized into a corpse-like state by her brother, she is taken deep within the bowels of the house to the family vault and entombed….alive. The moment of the coffin lid closing while her fingers twitch is truly chilling. Despite a slow beginning, Corman piles on atmospheric scene after scene as the film progresses, (including a mind-bending, mist-laden dream sequence), and culminates with a hugely satisfying climax that literally brings down the house.
	*House of Wax* (1953) The first major studio film released in 3-D, this fine remake of Mystery of Wax Museum cemented Vincent Price’s reputation as the crown prince of horror. Employing the sly, winking wickedness that would become his stock-in-trade, Price has a whale of a time as eccentric sculptor Henry Jarrod, crippled in a fire and now leading tours in his museum of wax figures, all of whom bear an uncanny resemblance to recent murder victims. Supremely enjoyable, with Price’s plummy performance as the centerpiece for a grand buffet of memorable sequences. Included among the many highlights are Price’s studio-turned-blazing inferno with his gorgeous wax figures’ faces melting into macabre visages, cape-whirling pursuits through turn-of-the-century New York streets, amazing fight sequences, and an early screen appearance by Charles Bronson (billed as Charles Buchinsky) as Price’s mute assistant Igor. Glib banter and bad puns abound in Crane Wilbur’s droll screenplay, providing smiles and shudders in equal measure. Amazingly, director Andre de Toth created his marvelous 3-D effects despite being blind in one eye. The sensational paddleball barker scene will have you ducking in your seat, and the music hall beauties will sit you right back up. Great fun.
	*House on Haunted Hill* (1959) Classic fright-fest frivolity from producer/director William Castle. Vincent Price stars as an eccentric millionaire who offers $10,000 to five diverse guests if they can spend the entire night in the titular haunted house, and the thrills and chills ensue. Castle has never been more adept at creating straight-faced spooky atmosphere, and Robb White’s snaky screenplay provides characters and mystery adequate to hold our attention through the film’s zippy 75 minute running time. Doors creak open and slam shut, decapitated heads appear and disappear, and vats of acid bubble deliciously in the cellar, with a wonderfully cheesy skeleton topping off the delightful buffet. The mental (and sometimes physical) tug-of-war between Price and willful wife Carol Ohmart provides an additional layer of tension to the proceedings. Their beleaguered guests include Richard Long’s dashing jet pilot and cute Carolyn Craig (a great, great screamer, though not much more should ever be asked of her). Elisha Cook, Jr. is top-drawer as a frightened mouse of a man, alternating between shots of whiskey to ease his frazzled nerves and doom-filled warnings to anyone who’ll listen. This is the film where eternal showman Castle revealed his classic “Emergo” stunt of flying a skeleton on wires over theatre patrons, but even without gimmicks the film stands strong on its own, supplying equal measures of eerie jolts and campy fun. (Favorite moment: the floating servant woman. Utterly priceless.)
	*House on Straw Hill, The* (aka Exposé) (1976) A curiously dubbed Udo Kier plays a high-strung novelist working out the sophomore jitters in his country hideaway (when he’s not donning rubber gloves to do the horizontal mambo with bouncy playmate Fiona Richmond, that is), with Linda Hayden as the typist hired to take dictation. One of the infamous “video nasties” banned in Britian in the 80s, writer/director James Kenelm Clarke presents a hallucinatory and twisted portrait of sex and violence, and while his presentation has a decided confidence of conviction, his narrative is absolute claptrap. When Hayden isn’t wildly masturbating in the other room – which is often – she’s being raped in a field by two passing bicyclists, smarting off to the housekeeper, or luring Richmond into Sapphic embraces (though one gets the impression that Lady Fiona could be seduced by a bowl of frosted flakes, she’s that easy). Meanwhile, people around the house keep getting messily bumped off. If you’re a stickler for logical storytelling, prepare to be frustrated. If you’re just showing up for the naughty bits, you shouldn’t be too disappointed.
	*House That Dripped Blood, The* (1971) A not-too-bad anthology collection from Amicus, their 3rd in the series, following Dr. Terror’s House of Horrors and Torture Garden. Screenwriter Robert Bloch offers up a wraparound story of a supposedly “evil” house and a murder investigation, with a realty agent unfolding four tales of mysterious goings-on to the doubting police detective. Our first, “Method for Murder,” features Denholm Elliot as a horror novelist whose latest murderous literary creation seems to have sprung to life. Next up is “Waxworks,” where Peter Cushing becomes entranced by a wax sculpture of Salome, then “Sweets for the Sweet,” with Christopher Lee as the authoritarian father of a young girl…who just might be a witch. The quartet concludes with “The Cloak,” which centers on an arrogant horror film star (an amalgam of Cushing and Lee, perhaps?) drolly played by Jon Pertwee. Definitely the most lighthearted of the bunch, “Cloak” is probably also the most enjoyable for fans, especially considering it has the added asset(s) of Ingrid Pitt as Pertwee’s comely co-star.
	*Howling VII: New Moon Rising, The* (1995) This (hopefully) final installment in the hodgepodge werewolf series based on Gary Brandner’s novels features lots of down-home, country-fried humor, mostly of the sniggering, self-congratulatory kind – which might not be so bad if any of it were actually funny. There’s also a decided lack of onscreen werewolf action, and what little there is comes courtesy of flashbacks from Howlings IV, V, and VI. There’s even a nod to the audacious anomaly that was HIII: The Marsupials in that our writer-producer-director-star Clive Turner hails from the land Down Under. What our ambulating Aussie is doing in Texas is anyone’s guess, though the suspicions arise soon enough that he might get even furrier (hard to imagine, considering Turner’s natural hirsuite appearance) when the moon is full. Outrageously padded with country music numbers and shadowy scenes of bored line-dancers, most of the goddawful “story” is supplied by John Ramsden’s smart aleck detective, severe priest-cum-werewolf hunter Jack Huff. For what its worth, both Turner and Elizabeth Shé appeared in previous Howling installments (she in V and VI, he in IV and V). Unless you’re a fan of amateur hour country music, this is nothing less than 90 minutes of sheer agony, an ignoble legacy to Joe Dante’s brilliant 1981 feature.
	*Hunchback of Notre Dame, The* (1923) This silent film version of Victor Hugo’s classic is arguably Lon Chaney’s finest hour, in terms of both performance and makeup. Nimbly directed by William Worsely, this fine spectacle boasts terrific sets, particularly the reconstruction of Notre Dame’s famous cathedral and town square. Patsy Ruth Miller’s Esmerelda is exuberant and lovely, flinging her affections towards the handsome and vain Phoebus (Norman Kerry), yet still exhibiting kindness towards those less fortunate. Ernest Torrence portrays Clopin as a man divided between love for his adopted daughter and anger towards the oppressive nobles (such as Norman Hurst’s slithery villain Jehan). Still, it is Chaney’s show all the way, his Quasimodo an astoundingly visceral creation—immediately hideous, yet undeniably moving. More monstrous than any other screen Hunchback to come, Chaney never goes for pathos, capturing our sympathies while remaining authentically base and animalistic. Buried beneath a fright wig, pounds of nose putty and a restrictive body brace contorting his frame, the “Man of a Thousand Faces” conveys the fury of the oppressed as well as the wondrous response to a kind touch. The scenes of his ferocious resistance to Clopin’s attempts to retrieve Esmerelda from the church’s sanctuary are at once terrifying and thrilling.
	*Hunchback of Notre Dame, The* (1939) Due to its literary pedigree, this film generated the kind of budget not usually bestowed on a horror film, with every penny ending up on the screen in this extraordinary version. of Hugo’s novel. While there are some liberties taken with the storyline, the sets, costumes, sound, and score are so top notch and the end result so exhilarating that one forgets to quibble. Charles Laughton gives one of his finest performances as the titular bell-ringer, revealing all of Quasimodo’s longing, passion, and frustration from beneath layers of heavy makeup. Maureen O’Hara is devastatingly beautiful and vivacious as the gypsy girl Esmeralda, and Cedric Hardwicke presents a complicated portrait of the conflicted villian, with able support by Thomas Mitchell and Harry Davenport. There is magic in this film, with scenes that still pack an emotional wallop and bring a tear to the eye. Laughton’s rescue of O’Hara from the pillory is a true high point in cinema (although one has to question how he swings back up?) William Dieterle’s use of thousands of extras is a thing to behold, as well as his exquisite expressionistic lighting and shadows. They really just don’t make ‘em like this anymore.