The Gardener (1974)

So bizarre and cheaply made that it occasionally seems surreal, The Gardener—sometimes known as Garden of Death or Seeds of Evil—concerns a studly gardener who may or may not be responsible for the deaths of several past employers, but who definitely has magical powers over plants. Representing a strange convergence of the mainstream and the underground, the picture costars Katharine Houghton, who earned fame by costarring with her real-life aunt, Katharine Hepburn, in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner (1967), and Joe Dallesandro, who earned his notoriety by appearing in a series of Andy Warhol-produced features, often without clothes. Dallesandro is nearly as clothing-averse in The Gardener, applying his signature lifeless acting style to the role of a shirtless weirdo who seduces his clients in between sessions of communing with greenery. Set to absurdly lush music, the story begins well, thanks to an intriguing scene of a woman waking in a hospital bed and then suffering a fatal heart attack when she sees a plant in her hospital-room windowsill. The movie then slips into a mundane groove. After underappreciated housewife Ellen (Houghton) hires Carl (Dallesandro) to tend her garden—wink, wink—Ellen’s husband, John (James Congdon) notices strange things happening. Plants start to grow out of season and/or with tremendous speed, and plants multiply at a disturbing pace. Meanwhile, Ellen investigates clues suggesting that Carl committed foul play at his previous jobs, even as she (weakly) resists the allure of his chiseled face, gleaming mane, and muscular body. Very little of what happens in The Gardener makes sense, especially once the movie arrives at its bewildering climax, and the acting is generally poor. Nonetheless, the film has a certain train-wreck appeal, and writer-director James H. Kay (who never made another movie) commits wholeheartedly to the wackadoodle story. In other words, while some viewers may find The Gardener entertainingly weird, most are likely to find themselves bored and confused.

The Gardener: LAME

Trash (1970) & Heat (1972)

          Producer Andy Warhol and writer-director Paul Morrissey were prolific collaborators in the ’60s and ’70s, reaching the commercial zenith of their partnership with the campy gorefests Flesh for Frankenstein (1973) and Blood for Dracula (1974). More typical of the Warhol/Morrissey aesthetic, however is a trilogy of grungy docudramas about street people, all starring somnambulistic stud Joe Dallesandro. Typifying a certain downtown aesthetic, thanks to filthy locations, ramshackle storytelling, and unglamorous actors, Flesh (1968), Trash, and Heat offer unflinching looks at what straight-laced people would classify as deviant lifestyles. These are challenging pictures to watch, not only because so much of what’s shown onscreen is ugly but also because Morrissey mostly eschews tools that might help sustain interest, such as economy and suspense. As exemplified by Dallesendro’s tendency to perform scenes in the nude, these pictures are about letting it all hang out.

          Whereas Flesh tells the story of a low-rent gigolo, Trash is the tale of a zonked-out junkie. Dallesandro plays Joe, a perpetually bewildered New York City heroin addict who spends the movie drifting in and out of sexual situations, even though the only kind of scoring he wants to do involves getting dope. The style is set right in the first scene, because the opening image is a close-up of Dallesandro’s pimple-covered buttocks as he receives (offscreen) fellatio from a shapely dancer. Unable to get the desired response, the dancer then performs a striptease, but Joe merely lies on the couch, still unable to get an erection. Once this pointless vignette runs its course, Joe wanders into other situations, eventually spending most of his time with his undersexed girlfriend, Holly (played by female impersonator Holly Woodlawn). Various “highlights” of the picture include Joe shooting up on camera and Holly servicing him/herself with a beer bottle. Oh, there’s also a scene during which a young woman patiently extracts lice from Joe’s pubic hair.

          Trash isn’t quite as dull and puerile as this description might suggest, though Morrissey clearly savors real-time grotesquerie. The picture has a mildly satirical quality, sometimes poking fun at the slovenly excesses of street people and sometimes skewering the ridiculous behavior of wealthy dilettantes who slum for kicks. The sum effect of all this gutter-level camp is that Trash feels like a John Waters movie on downers. (Lest we forget, many of the characters in Lou Reed’s classic song “Walk on the Wild Side,” notably a certain transvestite named Holly, were inspired by members of Warhol’s clique.)

          Discovering the redeeming values in Heat is difficult. Set in Los Angeles instead of New York, but filled with the same downtrodden losers as the previous pictures in the trilogy, Heat stars Dallesandro as Joey, an opportunistic young man trading on his past fame as the teenaged costar of a TV series. Taking up residence in a typical LA apartment complex with a courtyard surrounding a pool, Joey makes a deal to have regular sex with the complex’s obnoxious, overweight landlady in exchange for discounted rent. He also encounters Jessica (Andrea Feldman), a deranged young woman living in the complex with her infant child—the product of a drug-addled one-night stand—and her lesbian lover. Jessica’s middle-aged mother, Sally (Sylvia Miles), is a faded actress who once appeared with Joey on his TV show, so Jessica hopes that Joey can help persuade Sally to cough up extra cash, seeing as how Jessica doesn’t work. Joey quickly gloms onto the lonely and neurotic Sally, becoming her lover and spending long stretches of time in the mansion she won in her divorce from a wealthy man.

          Everyone in Heat is a delusional striver, except perhaps for the simple-minded transvestite who wanders around the apartment complex while masturbating 24/7. Miles’ performance has some Shelley Winters-style grandiosity, but the rest of the acting is sloppy and unmemorable, just like Morrissey’s camerawork. Even more problematic is the derivative nature of the piece, since Heat is basically a thick-headed riff on Billy Wilder’s Sunset Blvd. (1950). So unless wallowing in human desperation is your idea of fun, Heat is too amateurish, contrived, and dreary to merit your attention.

Trash: FUNKY

Heat: LAME

Flesh for Frankenstein (1973) & Blood for Dracula (1974)

          Although these two horror flicks are often marketed as Andy Warhol’s Frankenstein and Andy Warhol’s Dracula, the Pop Art icon was only nominally involved in the production of the features. The actual writer-director behind these lurid riffs on the work of Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker was Paul Morrissey, who previously made features including Flesh (1968), Trash (1970), and Heat (1972) for Warhol. Flesh for Frankenstein is more noteworthy than Blood for Dracula, because it’s hard to think of another X-rated ’70s horror movie that gleefully presents incest, mutilation, and necrophilia in 3D. And if Flesh for Frankenstein is ultimately dull and silly, adventurous viewers should not deny themselves the “pleasure” of watching campy German actor Udo Kier, who plays Baron von Frankenstein, repeatedly molesting the gall bladder of the “female zombie” he’s building from the body parts of various women. This mad scientist gets off on his work, big time.
          Unsurprisingly, the plot takes considerable liberties with Shelley’s original narrative. The Baron is preoccupied with creating a master Serbian race defined by superhuman sex drive, so he kills people whom he perceives as having desirable organs, then repurposes their innards. Meanwhile, the Baron endures a twisted marriage to his sister, Katrin (Monique van Vooren), with whom he has fathered two children. Alas, she’s hot for everyone except the Baron. Eventually, the Baron kills a local man, Sacha (Srdjan Zelenovic), using his head to complete an in-progress “zombie.” Sacha’s pal, Nicholas (Joe Dallesandro), investigates his friend’s disappearance and learns of the Baron’s weird scheme. The movie climaxes with the unveiling of a male and female monster, which results in widespread bloodshed and sex (sometimes at the same time).
          Made somewhat in the style of Hammer Films’ horror movies, with elaborate sets and lush Old World locations, Flesh for Frankenstein has a glossy widescreen look but feels amateurish on every other level. The acting is terrible and the script is inane. Moreover, the gonzo quality of the gore—organs dripping with viscera are pushed toward the camera for full 3D impact—is beyond ridiculous. Combined with the over-the-top sex scenes and the goofy nature of Kier’s performance, Flesh for Frankenstein is perhaps best described as a cartoon for sickos. Which, come to think of it, seems pretty much on-brand for Warhol.
          While still campy in some ways—notably the ridiculous performances and stilted dialogue—Blood for Dracula is much more of a “real” movie than its predecessor. The narrative merely uses Stoker’s enduring character as a jumping-off point, because Blood for Dracula concerns the titular fiend (Kier) scouring Italy for virgins. (Or, because Kier plays the role with his thick German accent intact, “weer-juns.”) The opening of the picture is interesting, portraying Dracula as pathetic figure dying of malnutrition; he slathers himself in hair dye and makeup to give the impression of health, and he whines endlessly to his manservant Anton (Arno Jeruging) about how he’d rather die than face the struggle of hunting for victims.
          Most of the movie takes place in an Italian estate, where Dracula works his way through four eligible daughters of a once-respectable household; now financially destitute, the family’s patriarch happily offers up his daughters as potential brides to the visitor who is presented as a “Middle European aristocrat.” Complicating Dracula’s quest is the presence in the household of a communistic handyman (Dallesandro), who also happens to be sexually involved with two of the daughters. (Hilarity ensues whenever Dallesandro speaks in his Brooklyn accent; for instance, upon learning that Dracula digs virgins, he asks his lovers, “So what’s he doin’ wit’ you two whoo-ers,” stretching the last word into two syllables.)
          Periodically throughout Blood for Dracula, it seems Morrissey believes he’s making a proper drama, so he lingers on dialogue scenes and artful shots, creating tedium because the acting is so awful. Even the sex scenes are dull, despite abundant nudity. Still, the movie looks fantastic, and some flourishes linger, such as the nasty scenes of Dracula vomiting when he unknowingly drinks the blood of fallen women. Blood for Dracula eventually echoes Flesh for Frankenstein with an outrageous finale filled with comically staged dismemberments. Nonetheless, Blood for Dracula is never as outright bizarre as Flesh for Frankenstein, which is both a good and a bad thing—in (mostly) steering clear of self-parody, Blood for Dracula falls squarely in the realm of mediocrity.

Flesh for Frankenstein: FREAKY

Blood for Dracula: FUNKY

Black Moon (1975)

          French director Louis Malle’s only feature-length venture into surrealism, Black Moon is among the strangest movies released in the ’70s, even though it’s quite tame, in terms of content and style, when compared to the boldest sex-and-violence freakouts of the era. Instead of shock value, Malle opts for the weirdness usually found in the world of dreams, juxtaposing doomsday scenarios, mother fixations, paranoia, talking animals, and other loaded psychological signifiers. Viewers inclined to parse Black Moon for deeper meanings could write epic dissertations trying to analyze all of the aural and visual messages, and stoners could presumably groove on the wall-to-wall oddity. For viewers seeking narrative coherence, however, only consternation awaits.

          British actress Cathryn Harrison stars as Lily, a young woman driving through the French countryside and trying to avoid the warring parties in a violent armed conflict between men and women. Eventually abandoning her car, Lily spots a unicorn and follows the animal to an old estate, where she encounters several bizarre beings: an elderly woman (Therese Giehse) who conspires with mysterious colleagues via radio; a young handyman (Joe Dallesandro) and his beautiful sister (Alexandra Stewart), who barely ever speak; and a slew of animals, some of whom speak.

          While ostensibly trying to find the unicorn, and thereby prove she’s not crazy to think she saw the mythical animal, Lily slips into the peculiar life cycle of the estate. After watching Stewart’s character breast-feed the elderly woman, for instance, Lily helps out by breast-feeding the elderly woman when Stewart’s character is away. Black Moon is filled with images that might mean something, like the bit in which Lily berates the unicorn, which she eventually finds, for being overweight and ungraceful. The question is whether Black Moon actually generates enough excitement and interest to warrant investigation of its mysteries.

          On the plus side, the movie has a beautifully overcast look; revered cinematographer Sven Nykvist shot the picture in and around Malle’s real-life family estate, so there’s a palpable sense of old Europe’s earthiness and splendor. On the minus side, the lack of a strong narrative line makes the episodes comprising the picture feel random, as if Malle (who also produced and co-wrote the picture) transcribed a stream of consciousness instead of crafting a story. Still, for many viewers, anything out of the ordinary is noteworthy, and if there’s one thing Black Moon is not, that is ordinary. Moreover, the frequent critical parallels between this film and Alice in Wonderland are justified, so if you’re game for another trip down the rabbit hole, Black Moon will certainly take you there.

Black Moon: FREAKY