Fool's Views Reviews (L)

	*Lady Frankenstein* (1971) This gory and goofy Italian spin on the Frankenstein tale is notable for two aspects: 1.) its hideous-in-every-sense-of-the-word monster makeup, and 2.) the abundance of nudity from its luscious female star, Rosalba Neri (billed here as Sara Bey). The former resembles a melted plastic doll head perched on a professional linebacker. Thankfully, the latter does not. Joseph Cotton, a long way from his glory days, is found slumming away in the role of Baron Frankenstein when daughter Neri shows up, eager to assist in his experiments. While lacking the style of the Hammer classics it seeks to emulate, the film does feature a respectable laboratory sequence complete with bubbling test tubes, green flashing lights, and a convenient electrical storm when the need arises. All of which serve to animate Ol’ Melty-Puss, who proceeds to bear-hug his creator to death and storm around the countryside, throttling everything in his path. Ever the dutiful daughter, Lady F. schemes to create another creature to destroy the original, selecting the hunky village idiot to serve as her brawny beast. Co-directed by Mel Welles and Aureliano Luppi, (presumably to share the blame), it’s all a bit silly, but the comely Neri makes it slightly easier to endure with her strong and sexy performance.
	*Lady in a Cage* (1964) Kudos go to this high concept thriller (crippled Olivia De Havilland is trapped in her indoor elevator, thugs invade her home to rob and torment her), which succeeds primarily due to the performances and Walter Grauman’s sharp direction, full of gliding zooms and unusual camera angles. For my money, the script would have benefited from dropping the whole “smothered son” subplot, as all it does is jam a bunch of forced dialogue into De Havilland’s mouth and never really propels the plot. But James Caan is pretty great as the amoral leader of the hoods, and it’s the first time I really appreciated his inspired casting as Sonny Corleone. There are times during the film when he really [I]is[/I] a young Brando. The whole thing requires a healthy amount of suspension of disbelief and could have been scripted a little more tightly, but overall it’s a solid pic.
	*Last Horror Film, The* (aka Fanatic, The) 1982 Reuniting Maniac stars Joe Spinell and Caroline Munro, this so-so slasher/comedy seems to have been made primarily to send up Spinell’s stalker character from that film (odd, since the notorious William Lustig effort had only been made a year earlier.) The action centers on an obsessive New Yawk cab-driver (Spinell) given to Walter Mitty-like flights of fantasy involving Hollywood starlet Munro. Determined to have the beauty for his homemade horror film, he follows his dream girl to Cannes to convince her, whatever it takes. As genre standards go, there is adequate female nudity courtesy of the French Riviera, and the gore scenes are reasonably juicy; but the real fun is watching Spinell and Munro actually run around the 1981 Cannes Film Festival, stealing shots among “real” celebrities, and for cinemaphiles it’s a kick in the pants to see that year’s offerings on display. Spinell is great as usual, especially in dream sequences where his fantasy alter-ego abuses him, then presents him with awards. Munro, sporting crazy two-toned locks, seems to be enjoying herself, and Spinell’s real-life mother steps in to play his batty, macaroni-baking onscreen mater. Storywise, there are a few legitimate surprises, although the final scene is a bit of a cop-out (albeit a good-natured one). What’s not so great is the excessive presence of Jeff Coz and Jesse Frederick’s teeth-clenchingly bad electronica songs. Co-writers Judd Hamilton and David Winters (who respectively produced and directed, and also show up onscreen as murder victims) work in several references to recent real-life assassination attempts. Pretty daring stuff for a low budget horror flick.
	*Last Horror Movie, The* (2003) One of the better “found footage” horror flicks, though I’m not sure if the term can really be applied when a serial killer/wedding videographer has deliberately filmed his killings as a “documentary” and dubbed them onto a videocassette for the audience’s viewing pleasure. Great low budget filmmaking with outstanding special f/x gags, the whole enterprise is carried out with skill and confidence, much like its obvious inspiration, Man Bites Dog. Kevin Howarth as our psycho lead is charming and engaging…when he’s not bashing someone’s brains in or eviscerating them – it’s one of the better horror performances of the past five years. After passing it on the video shelves for years, I’m glad I finally checked it out. Recommended.
	*Last Man on Earth, The* (1964) “Another day to live through. Better get started.” From its opening shots of barren city landscapes littered with lifeless corpses to its bleak conclusion, the first screen version of Richard Matheson’s novel I am Legend is a downer all the way. But considering the subject matter, this is no surprise, and directors Sidney Salkow and Ubaldo Ragona are to be lauded for remaining true to Matheson’s apocalyptic spirit. Following a worldwide plague that transforms the living into vampiric undead, lone survivor Vincent Price spends his days dispatching his former friends and neighbors with wooden stakes and his nights tearfully watching home movies while the infected batter away at his barricaded home. The stark black-and-white scenes of shambling undead, some of which are former loved ones, cannot help but conjure images of Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (still four years away). Through haunting voice-over, Price projects the appropriately weary tone of a man isolated for nearly three years, torn between apathy and a base animalistic desire to survive. However, his less-than-athletic screen presence here makes him an unlikely and/or unconvincing hero at times. In the face of Uncle Vincent’s limp-wristed stake-pounding, one cannot help but imagine what Peter Cushing (once considered for the role) might have done with it. The flashback sequences of the plague’s early days never quite pack the punch they should, due to the cast’s oddly mannered acting. But with the help of a strong third-act twist, the film musters an ending both tragic and satisfying. An admirable effort overall, unquestionably leaps and bounds ahead of 1971’s The Omega Man (also based on the same material.)
	*Legacy, The* (1978) This had been staring at me from the shelves of my public library for over four years now, and I finally decided to give it a whirl. Not the best investment of 90 minutes I’ve ever made. Katharine Ross is deadly wooden and Sam Elliot looks and acts ticked off all the time. And trying to penetrate the plot? Fuhgedditaboudit. There’s kind of a curse and an old guy who picks up the traveling Americans, but then it turns out he’s totally bedridden and has drawn Ross to his English estate to make her part of the unholy half dozen or something. Soon people are inexplicably dying in less-than-inspired Omen fashion, but oddly enough, no one ever trips over the zillion cats that are running around the place. Directed with a general malaise by Return of the Jedi’s Richard Marquand (!) and offers a score that sounds like it was pulled from a Charlie’s Angels episode. Bottom line, kind of a drag.
	*Legend of Hell House, The* (1973) In the pantheon of top-notch haunted house movies, this fine, moody offering ranks just below Robert Wise’s outstanding The Haunting, to which it owes a great debt. The familiar premise concerns a team of spiritual sleuths assigned to investigate Belasco House (aka “Hell House”) to provide evidence of life after death. However, unlike the ambiguity of Shirley Jackson’s story or the subsequent film version, Richard Matheson’s screenplay (adapted from his novel) elects to make the existence of the malevolent presence within the so-called “Mount Everest of haunted houses” undeniably explicit. Rather than resorting to cheap bloodletting, director John Hough achieves a true visceral quality through skillful use of camera angles and sound, achieving terrific suspense and shocks through well-executed low-tech effects (slamming doors, flying silverware, etc.) The film is well served by its accomplished cast, headlined by medium Pamela Franklin (who cut her acting teeth in another masterful ghost story, The Innocents) and parapsychologist Roddy McDowell, the rattled sole survivor from Hell House’s last expedition. Matheson adds a kinky sexual element to the proceedings, complete with lusty somnambulists and unnerving spectral assaults. Major flaw: the disappointing final resolution, which fails to match the nail-biting tension of the preceding scenes. Fine electronic score by Delia Derbyshire and Brian Hodgson.
	*Legend of the Wolf Woman* (1976) My. My. My. As Kitley popped this one in, he made the bold statement that I would “never forget this film.” I suspect he may be right. The damn thing starts off 200 years earlier with sassy blonde banana Annik Borel doing some ritualistic nude dancing in a circle of flames, and after a few minutes of frenzied gyrations, she is suddenly wearing a fur body suit complete with hairy boobs and 3-inch nipples. Um, wow. Of course, the local puritan villagers aren’t going to stand for this, but before they can bring her to justice, she’s buried a hatchet into their leader’s head. Niiiiiice. Flash forward to present day, where Borel is playing her own descendant, wrestling with sexual anxiety ever since she was raped as a 13-year old. Seems that every time she gets worked up (which happens frequently), she gets the urge to tear her partner’s throat out – which you just know has to cut into her dating pool. Pure Italian exploitation sleaze is the name of the game, with the movie turning into a rape/revenge thriller in the last half hour. However, I did enjoy the rare cinematic angle of lycanthropy as a purely mental disorder as opposed to the standard fur and fangs, even if it does mean we never see another legitimate werewolf after the opening scene. And big time props to Borel, who gives it everything she’s got and then some. Where was her nomination at the ’76 Oscars, I ask ya?
	*Lemora: A Child’s Tale of the Supernatural* (1973) Banned by the Catholic Film Board for decades, this dodgy yarn of orphaned “singin’ angel” Lila Lee (Cheryl “Rainbeaux” Smith) has generated a passionate following over the years. The story has the trappings of a dark fairy tale: When her murdering gangster father goes missing, Lila is given mysterious instructions to come alone to the shady town of Astoroth. Lila’s subsequent journey down the rabbit hole certainly has potential, with an array of curious encounters with bizarre characters, but the execution is so amateurish and clunky that even with an enormous amount of goodwill this still plays like bad children’s theatre. Sequences of poorly executed slow-motion (intended to be “atmospheric”) come off as merely cheesy, and its numerous innovative moments are overwhelmed by sloppy camerawork, makeup, and dialogue. The whole affair smells of something shot with a found camera and obvious non-actor friends all-too-willing to shove their faces in front of the lens for a lark. Lesley Gilb’s monotone interpretation of the vampiric Lemora is neither mysterious nor menacing, only a pale, pancaked bore. With its low budget seams showing everywhere, this is just strange enough to be a curiosity item, but remains a poor entertainment value. Writer/director Richard Blackburn (who also appears as the weak-willed Reverend) would go on to script another cult favorite, Eating Raoul, with Paul Bartel.
	*Leopard Man, The* (1943) Directed by Jacques Tourneur, this effort is as atmospheric as his previous I Walked with a Zombie and The Cat People, but only marginally succeeds as a horror film. More whodunnit than supernatural thriller, authorities pursue a killer panther in New Mexico, with suspicion growing that the murders are committed by a man pretending to be a panther. Of interest is the film’s introduction of the modern slasher-film motif of introducing us to a character, following them for a while, then killing them off. Includes great moments of tension and fear, with each of the murders a classic set piece unto itself. The scene where an intolerant mother (ignorant of the murderer outside) refuses to let her crying daughter inside the house is particularly chilling . Warning: Modern audiences may find the Hispanic characters (played by pale Anglos with nary an accent) distracting if not offensive. Words like “mamacita” sound truly foreign. Due to expectations of a more supernatural nature, some may find the ending a disappointment, particularly when the killer’s identity is clear from the halfway point. Still a worthy entry in the Tourneur-Lewton canon, though not to the level of their earlier efforts.
	*Let’s Scare Jessica to Death* (1971) This brilliant low-budget psychological chiller combines elements of ghosts, vampires and zombies, yet manages to find it’s own uniquely eerie voice. Following her release from an institution, emotionally sensitive Jessica (Zohra Lampert) leaves NYC with her husband and their like-minded hippie friend to find peace and quiet working an apple orchard in Connecticut. But when they encounter a strange, beautiful squatter residing in the farmhouse, Jessica’s unstable world begins to crumble; and like our heroine, the viewer is never sure what is reality or nightmare. Director John Hancock allows us to enter Jessica’s fragile mind through effective use of self-doubting voice-over (“Don’t tell them, they won’t believe you.”) as well as an ongoing chorus of entreating, berating, and haunting inner voices. Lampert offers a gutsy, raw, heartbreaking performance as a woman fighting fiercely for her sanity. Barton Heywood is also quite good as her husband, sincere and loving while deeply frustrated by Jessica’s deteriorating mental state. As their compatriot, Kevin O’Connor provides a warm, steadfast presence, with Mariclare Costello capturing just the right tone as the mysterious, sexy stranger that forever changes their lives. The evocative score by Orville Stoeber and Walter Sear remains one of the best of the early 70’s, augmenting Hancock’s unsettling atmosphere. The film boasts a wealth of subtle, memorable sequences, with surprises around every corner. Rather than trying to shock or startle, Jessica insinuates on a deeper level, creating a spell that lingers without flashy effects or gore. An underrated gem, deserving of multiple viewings.
	*Lifeforce* (1985) Halley’s Comet. Nude space vampires. And scenes of human victims having their “life force” (visualized as an electrical blue stream) violently sucked out of their mouths, reducing them to shriveled husks. What’s not to like? Based on Colin Wilson’s novel The Space Vampires, a team of astronauts encounter a ship lodged within the head of Halley’s Comet and discover three humanoid creatures encased in coffin-like crystalline blocks. As any genre film fan can predict, as soon as they get them back to earth, blocks are going to crack and heads are going to roll. Tobe Hooper does a fine job of keeping the action moving along as astronaut Steve Railsback and SIS agent Peter Firth attempt to track down the interstellar bloodsuckers as they jump from body to body. But, in the name of red-blooded adolescent heterosexual males of all ages, the best reason to watch the movie is to see the glory that is Mathilda May’s really, really, really sexy, buck-naked space vampire. Ouch. This chick is hot. And naked. A lot. (Insert cold shower here.) The keeee-razzzy scenes of panic and mayhem as the population of greater London is bled dry of their precious electrical blue fizzies and turned into zombies are great fun, as is watching a pre-Star Trek Patrick Stewart strut his stuff as an histrionic asylum official. The spirited screenplay by sci-fi vets Dan O’Bannon and Don Jakoby, while a mite chatty, admirably applies an intriguing twist to the classic vampire myth. Sadly, the befuddling special-effects bonanza finale denies the film the much-needed nudge of coherency it requires to put it over the top.
	*Little Shop of Horrors, The* (1960) Filmed in two days with a $27,000 budget, this hysterical black comedy about a man-eating plant is proof positive that people, not dollar signs, make good movies. Producer/director Roger Corman hijacked a set after another studio had finished filming, dressed it as Mushnik’s Flower Shop, then populated it with screenwriter Charles B. Griffith’s memorably wacky characters. Jonathan Haze stars as Seymour Krelbourn, the nebbishy hero who invents a new hybrid of plant in the hopes of saving his job, only to find that it has a taste for human blood. And it’s not shy about expressing it either, as its puppet-like pod mouth opens to plaintively whine, “Feeeeed Meeee!” The more it eats, the bigger it gets, and soon the flower shop business is booming, but at a grisly price. The rest of the cast is terrific, especially Mel Welles’ meshugenneh shop owner Gravis Mushnik, torn between success and his wavering conscience. As Audrey, the object of Haze’s affections, Jackie Joseph is deliciously daffy, endowed with a gorgeous figure and a penchant for malapropism. Dick Miller’s stoic, petal-nibbling customer is a low-key treat, Myrtle Vail steals every one of her scenes as Haze’s hypochondriac mother, and a very young Jack Nicholson turns in a priceless portrayal of a masochistic dental patient. While initially dismissed as one of “Corman’s cheapies,” the film developed a cult following and inspired a hit off-Broadway musical, which was in turn adapted as a big-budget screen musical in 1986. Hilarious, innocuous fun.
	*Little Shop of Horrors* (1986) Though the film version of the hit off-Broadway musical is undeniably bigger, louder, and broader than Roger Corman’s low-budget comic gem, this is by no means a bad thing. Director Frank Oz finds exactly the right notes, balancing the B-movie spoof/black comedy/big-budget musical/cartoon elements perfectly with the aid of an outstanding cast and dynamite visual effects. Rick Moranis stars as uber-nerd Seymour, pining desperately for his co-worker Audrey (the helium-voiced Ellen Greene, recreating her stage role) while hanging onto his job at Vincent Gardenia’s flower shop on Skid Row. Not long after Moranis discovers our bloodsucking botanical nightmare (whose origins are from outer space here), the little pod develops into a motormouth muppet monstrosity, brilliantly brought to life by Jim Henson’s Creature Shop and vocalized by The Four Tops’ Levi Stubbs. Alan Menken and Howard Ashman’s irresistible sing-along songs carry the day, with a terrific Motown girl-group chorus guiding us along the surprisingly dark comic path of abuse, sadism, and murderous munching. Musical highlights include “Suddenly, Seymour,” “Skid Row,” the Oscar-nominated “Mean Green Mother from Outer Space,” and Steve Martin’s showstopping comic ode to ill-tempered hygenists everywhere, “The Dentist Song.” Though the all-star cameos get a little excessive, Bill Murray elevates his bit part (played by Jack Nicholson in the original) to a hysterical aria of agony as Martin’s pain-hungry patient.
	*Lodger, The* (1944) Shamefully neglected by classic horror fans due to its relative inaccessibility, this gorgeously shot and flawlessly acted spin on the Jack the Ripper legend is now finally available on DVD from 20th Century Fox. An atmosphere-drenched version of Marie Belloc-Lowndes’ novel, it takes Alfred Hitchcock’s 1926 silent version and does the unthinkable by actually improving upon the Master. Laird Cregar is the mysterious titular character who appears out of the London fog to take up residence in Sara Allgood and Cedric Hardwicke’s home, and his stunning, smoldering performance anchors the picture. Despite being only 28 years old at the time (!), Cregar’s bravura, layered turn earns our sympathies and suspicions in equal measure, with Merle Oberon as the gorgeous dance hall starlet that might be the Ripper’s next victim. (Due to interference from the censors, the Whitehall victims’ occupations had to be altered from prostitutes to actresses.) George Sanders lends able support as the investigating Scotland Yard official who also falls for Oberon’s charms. Directing in full Expressionistic mood, John Brahm collaborates with cinematographer Lucien Ballard and composer Hugo Friehofer to create one of the finest horror films of the 40s. Not to be missed.
	*Loreley’s Grasp, The* (1974) Well, when this Spanish film’s title (originally released in the U.S. as When the Screaming Stops) first came up, my immediate thought was of a girl in one of my high school classes named Lorelei and how nice it would have been to be in her grasp, but that’s neither here nor there. Although, the bevy of sexy senoritas on display in Amando di Ossorio’s feature about a legendary monster that feeds upon the hearts of her victims are nothing to sneeze at either. Despite plenty of gore and female nudity on hand, di Ossorio’s pacing moves in fits and starts, by turns silly and redundant. (Oh, look, there’s the creature’s scaly claw upon the door sill…again.) When the murders start, the local girls’ school headmistress, played by honey-haired honey Silvia Tortosa, hires hunky Tony Kendall to stand guard over her charges, to their giggling delight. He soon learns that the mysterious sexy stranger in town, Helga Liné, has a few surprises beneath her luscious petticoats, and we’re not just talking about her sexy swimwear. By the time we end up in the underground (and underwater) cathedral populated by cast members who look like they stumbled off a sword n’ sandals flick, viewers’ patience might well have been stretched as thin as the strings dangling from Miss Liné’s green string bikini. Complaints aside, Deimos Entertainment’s new DVD release is gorgeous to look at, with lovely colors and shadows filling the canvas.