Film Review: TALES FROM THE CRYPT PRESENTS: DEMON KNIGHT (1995, Ernest R. Dickerson)

Stars: 4 of 5.

Running Time: 92 minutes.

Tag-line: "Ready for your deadtime story?"

Notable Cast or Crew:  John Kassir (The Cryptkeeper), William Sadler (DIE HARD 2: DIE HARDER, THE GREEN MILE, BILL & TED'S BOGUS JOURNEY), Billy Zane (TITANIC, TWIN PEAKS, BACK TO THE FUTURE), Jada Pinkett Smith (SCREAM 2, COLLATERAL), Brenda Bakke (L.A. CONFIDENTIAL, UNDER SIEGE 2), CCH Pounder (ER, AVATAR, ROBOCOP 3), Dick Miller (GREMLINS, THE TERMINATOR), Thomas Haden Church (WINGS, SIDEWAYS), Charles Fleischer (Roger Rabbit in WHO FRAMED ROGER RABBIT), Tim De Zarn (CABIN IN THE WOODS, FIGHT CLUB), John Schuck (STAR TREK IV: THE VOYAGE HOME, MCMILLAN & WIFE), John Larroquette (NIGHT COURT, THE TENTH KINGDOM).  Theme by Danny Elfman.  Produced by Walter Hill, Richard Donner, Robert Zemeckis, Joel Silver, A.L. Katz, Gilbert Adler.  Written by Mark Bishop (BEAT THE CYBORGS), Ethan Reiff & Cyrus Voris (BULLETPROOF MONK, KUNG FU PANDA, Ridley Scott's ROBIN HOOD).  Featuring one of those ludicrous and amazing 90s soundtracks including: Megadeth, Ministry, Pantera, Machine Head, Henry Rollins, and the Gravediggaz, among others.

Best One-liner:  "Now, that's INTERRORTAINMENT!"  Said by the Cryptkeeper.  It's such a stretch, I have to tip to my hat to it.

The first theatrical TALES FROM THE CRYPT feature (it was followed by the far inferior BORDELLO OF BLOOD in 1996 and RITUAL in 2002), DEMON KNIGHT is quite possibly one of the best supernatural horror flicks of the 90s.  Its story is driven by an epic demon mythos as spectacular as anything ever depicted on an Iron Maiden album cover: a fiendish hellspawn named "The Collector" (Billy Zane)

pursues the semi-immortal human drifter Brayker (William Sadler) across time and space in pursuit of an artifact: an ancient key, filled with holy power and Christ's diluted blood.

 I told you this was as good as an Iron Maiden album cover.

The Collector and his demonic minions already possess six of these seven keys that, incidentally, are capable of unlocking the cosmos on Hell's behalf– and Brayker is the final holdout.  He's not only the last hope for humanity, but he's the last hope for the universe.  They've certainly pulled out all the stops, and there's certainly nothing "small screen" about this film.

Did I mention that the diluted Christ-blood turns into liquid-laser demon-repelling force fields?  (Also, this same key has a "vampire artifact" cameo in BORDELLO OF BLOOD.)

DEMON KNIGHT was originally devised as a non-TALES FROM THE CRYPT-related work which would have been Tom Holland's follow-up to CHILD'S PLAY, but that plan tanked after the failure of FATAL BEAUTY (his Whoopi Goldberg-buddy-cop movie that I still defend as a masterpiece).  Like the magical talisman at the center of its own story, the movie changed hands several times, being passed off to PET SEMATARY's Mary Lambert, Full Moon Pictures' Charles Band, and PUMPKINHEAD's Mark Caducci before it landed in the lap of producer Joel Silver– one of the all-star team (that included Richard Donner, Walter Hill, and Robert Zemeckis) who brought TALES FROM THE CRYPT to HBO in the first place.  And so DEMON KNIGHT became TALES FROM THE CRYPT PRESENTS: DEMON KNIGHT, and the world became a better place, et cetera, et cetera.

Because it was the first TALES FROM THE CRYPT movie (and by that I mean, with HBO's Cryptkeeper and everything– there was already a British film that drew from the original EC comics back in 1972), the wraparound story involves The Cryptkeeper directing his first movie– naturally, also called DEMON KNIGHT.

He's gone full Cecil B. DeMille, with a riding crop and jodhpurs and all that, and this is a thing of beauty.  The only scene that he actively directs plays out like a parody of the worst TALES FROM THE CRYPT episodes, with a nude woman gloating after having murdered her husband, though it's not long before his decaying corpse comes after her in a meta-cliché of the typical CRYPT-ian just desserts.

Crypty calls "CUT!", unleashes some of his quintessential bon mot-infused verbal abuse,

and we see that put-upon actor playing the avenging corpse is none other than noted TV actor John Larroquette:

(See? I promised you some Larroquette!)

After suffering through some magnificent puns– as is our TALES FROM THE CRYPT ritual (or is that our 'Crypt'-ual?)– we're presented with our main story.  And after it's all over, we get a nice outro courtesy of Crypty, who's attending the premiere of the film we've just watched.  I will not spoil the full extent of the groan-slash-delight-inducing punnery

but suffice it to say that "Frights, camera, and action!" only begin to scratch the surface. 

But on to the actual film:

Basically, William Sadler's "Brayker" is pursued by Zane's "Collector" all the way to a Western flophouse, complete with a lot of colorful character archetypes including "the no-nonsense owner" (CCH Pounder):
 
 CCH Pounder- always a pro.

 "the 'rough around the edges' female mechanic" (Jada Pinkett Smith):
 
 Pictured here, the living embodiment of 1995.

 "the douchey bad boy" (Thomas Haden Church):

 Thomas Haden Church: not quite pulling off the Hawaiian shirt/mesh tank top combo.

"the drunk" (Dick Miller):
 
 If your movie does not feature a hobo-wine swilling Dick Miller, then, my friend: YOU DON'T HAVE A MOVIE.

  "the hooker" (Barbara Bakke), "the sad sack" (Charles Fleischer):
 
 Note that Charles Fleischer's sad sack sort of resembles Julia Sweeney's "Pat."

and "the kid" (Ryan O'Donohue).  Though first skeptical of Sadler, this motley crew finds themselves trapped inside as Zane's ravenous army of demons (which spring forth from his glo-stick colored blood) lay siege to the motel.

The film proper draws upon the great "characters trapped in a dingy Western structure" tradition that can probably be traced at least back to the 1936 classic, THE PETRIFIED FOREST.  (Said tradition has certainly not abated, with horror movies like FROM DUSK TILL DAWN and FEAST subsequently using the framework.)  DEMON KNIGHT also has an atmospheric, "bizarro Route 66" vibe that reminded me a bit of WILD AT HEART and THE HITCHER.

The SFX eschew CGI about 95% of the time, are wonderfully goopy, and the gore is as frequent and over-the-top as pretty much any movie I can possibly name.  Eyes are blasted out of sockets:



 orc-ish demon armies go on the prowl:
 
 hands reach through fleshy walls (á la NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET):

and bodies disintegrate and transform in ways (with killer tongues!) nearly worthy of Rob Bottin's work on THE THING:

NOM NOM NOM

I also can't tell you how awesome it is having William Sadler (TALES FROM THE CRYPT alumnus, and a guy who's made a career out of brilliantly portraying villains) as the good guy.

In an alternate universe, I hope that William Sadler's döppelganger has the success and cashflow of, say, a Harrison Ford or a Brad Pitt.  Here, he maintains the gravitas, likability, and badassery required of him and throws in plenty of character-work flourish, especially in flashbacks, like this one where he blows away the possessed forces of the Kaiser across the trenches of the Western Front:


(If I haven't sold you on this movie already, then you may be beyond help.  But you know what, I'm gonna raise you one... BILLY ZANE!)

Yes, the show-stealer here is the aforementioned Mr. Zane, whose shaved head and gleefully fey, simpering countenance command an Oscar-worthy performance (I'm sort of not even kidding).

WATCH Zane dancing a nutty Faustian tango by-way-of-90s-music-video with Jada Pinkett Smith!


 

SEE Zane tending bar as Hunter S. Thompson with a gaggle of naked women

 

in an attempt to win the soul of a bewildered and euphoric Dick Miller!

BEHOLD Zane LITERALLY PUNCHING HIS FIST THROUGH A MAN'S SKULL!

Eat yer heart out, Swayze in ROAD HOUSE!

Hot damn– this is the sort of excellence one could only dream of being in a TALES FROM THE CRYPT movie.  And I believe the unyielding brilliance of Zane's performance has inspired me to revisit/rediscover some major/minor 90s Zane.  THE PHANTOM, here I come!

–Sean Gill

Film Review: SURVIVING THE GAME (1994, Ernest R. Dickerson)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 96 minutes.
Tag-line: "Jack Mason knows he's going to die someday. But today he's not in the mood."
Notable Cast or Crew: Ice-T, Rutger Hauer, Gary Busey, F. Murray Abraham (AMADEUS), John C. McGinley (THE ROCK, SCRUBS), Charles S. Dutton (SE7EN, MENACE II SOCIETY, CAT'S EYE), William McNamara (OPERA, EXTREME JUSTICE, GLAM). Music by Stewart Copeland (Drummer for The Police, DEAD LIKE ME, WALL STREET). Directed by Ernest R. Dickerson (JUICE, the MASTERS OF HORROR episode THE V WORD with Michael Ironside). Written by Eric Bernt (ROMEO MUST DIE, HIGHLANDER: ENDGAME, THE HITCHER remake).
Best one-liner: "I like my meat RARE!" –"Try WELL-DONE, bitch!"

From THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME to HARD TARGET, there has been a majestic, rugged American tradition of making awesome movies about 'dudes hunting dudes.' Well, I'm here to tell you that SURVIVING THE GAME is one of the best- it's unrelenting, unhinged, unabashed, balls-out entertainment.

Rutger Hauer in a doo-rag hunting bandana... CAN YA BEAT THAT?

Former Spike Lee cinematographer and JUICE director Ernest R. Dickerson is at the helm, and the first act is a tale of inner-city desperation starring a heart-string-tugging Ice T (and his gargantuan homeless dreads) set to jazzy, oddly upbeat tunes by Stewart Copeland.

Recruited by the affably intense real-life manslaughterer Charles S. Dutton, Ice T quickly finds himself wrapped up in an illicit ring of blue-blooded, hobo-huntin' madmen.


Said madmen include a troubled, lunatic John C. McGinley (who's losing his shit before the hunt even begins!); a nefariously paternal F. Murray Abraham (I never thought I'd see Salieri head-butting Ice T:

his pansy son William McNamara (Argento's OPERA, GLAM); a fringe-jacketed, knife-slingin' Gary Busey ("Experience the animal within yourself!"); and douchey, goatee'd ringleader Rutger Hauer (he's the kind of guy who's clipping his nails and has got a bird on his shoulder while he's interviewing you).

Rutger Hauer carefully oversaw his character's grooming and coiffure- and made sure that it was accentuated for maximum douchiness.

As such, SURVIVING THE GAME becomes a masters course in acting. Watch the following scene, for example:

I'm blown away. Even Ice-T, who's not exactly a titan among thespians, becomes fully connected to the material when he's surrounded by this veritable phalanx of genius performers. Each moment, word, line, and gesture fascinates. Watch Busey's unwavering stare. Or Hauer's vague sense of morality in the way he expresses the sentiment that we should cherish each moment- it's his roundabout way of telling Ice-T that this meal is his last.

To Hauer's character, this is a kindness. It's the way that he does things- the imparting of a fleeting, final gift; a few of life's finer things before the deluge. Busey is less interested in the 'etiquette' of murder, but he's being honest in his own way, as well- "When you're eating the flesh from the pig... look into his little beady eyes. That way, you will be devouring his soul.”

Now, you don’t have to be a Busey scholar to realize that he made that shit up on the spot, but Busey's character is merely sharing his perspective on the nature of the hunt and each member's place in the world. As far as he is concerned, he was christened 'the predator' on his thirteenth birthday (more on that in a minute) and Ice-T has been christened as 'the prey,' perhaps merely by virtue of his homelessness. Each character has a chance to dip into their subconscious and speak in a kind of veiled candor, or a reptilian honesty, if there is such a thing. It is at once a confession and a deception. The hunt is separate from their life, yet the hunt is their life. Only now does F. Murray Abraham's character reveal his true nature to his son. In sharing this moment with him, they're closer to Ice-T than they are with their wives or children- he's a sacred object- a confessor- just as he is an object of hatred- the hunted. But note that in either implication, he remains an object, an instrument. Something less than human that still manages to flirt with the divine. "Doc, sometimes you even scare me." –"Good." In another movie, this could've been a throwaway scene, quickly hammered out by its makers so that we could get straight to the ACTION, ACTION, ACTION! But instead, it's paced more like a film from an earlier era: character development is not a chore to be hustled along on its way like a necessary evil, it begets suspense. It increases the intensity of the higher stakes which are yet to come. Watch THE WAGES OF FEAR, Kobayashi's HARA-KIRI, any and every film which Hawks made. They're full of scenes like this– intense characters putting out their feelers, discovering the nature of the enemy, determining who exactly they're up against. Fanatical men exuding control, careful to reveal some (but not the full extent) of their hand. Ultimately, if scenes of this nature are executed with honesty, concentration, and a sprinkling of élan, they can be equally as satisfying as the eventual payoffs.

As if it wasn't exceedingly clear already, Busey is out of his mind in this picture. I mean, he always is, but here the muzzle is OFF. Busey later delivers an utterly mind-blowing monologue about the day he killed his boyhood dog with his bare hands and became a man.

I'm astounded. In a different film, this could have won him an Oscar. I’m serious. Busey has tapped into some primitive, subterranean chamber of the soul where few dare to venture, and he has emerged with something both captivating and repulsive, muted and visceral, improvised and premeditated, brutish and calculating - and it's quite possibly the best staging of a monologue I've ever witnessed.

In fact, for a typical actioner, there are a LOT of monologues. And they’re good ones, too. Then things get loco- McGinley ends up infusing his character with pathos:

Ice T gets to make one of those ‘leaps of faith’ like in every survival movie, shreddin’ guitar solos accompany myriad beat-downs, Rutger Hauer gets to show off that Russian priest outfit he stole from the set of WEDLOCK:

and a shot of PHILADELPHIA appears with the subtitle “Seattle.”

Guess they thought no one’d notice? Wow.

Still, based on the caliber of performer and the well-paced, intricately unfolded narrative: five stars and my highest recommendation.

-Sean Gill

Television Review: THE V WORD (2006, Ernest R. Dickerson)

Stars: 2.9 of 5.
Running Time: 59 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Michael Ironside. Written by Mick Garris. Co-starring Arjay Smith, Branden Nadon, and Jodelle Ferland (the little girl in the DEAD LIKE ME pilot and TIDELAND).
Tag-line: "From the director of TALES FROM THE CRYPT- DEMON KNIGHT."
Best one-liner: Ehh, not so much.

Well, I'm beginning Ironside week with an unlikely choice- a work that I don't particularly like outside of its Ironside performance- a Masters of Horror episode called THE V WORD. However, in a way, it's indicative of larger trends in Ironside's oeuvre: just because Ironside is in a movie does not mean that the movie will be good; but when a movie has got Ironside, IRONSIDE will be good. He'll be better than good- he'll be fucking fantastic. Award-worthy. And that's why he's got an entire week devoted to him and his work. Anyway, without further ado- THE V WORD:

Maybe the title is a reference to Michael Ironside's work on V? Otherwise, even knowing that "the V word" is "vampire," it still conjures a sort of 'VAGINA MONOLOGUES meets THE HUNGER on set of THE L WORD' vibe, when, in fact, it's a sort of poor man's Showtime retread of MY BEST FRIEND IS A VAMPIRE. There aren't even any central female characters. In short, this is an generic, 'through the motions' bloodsucker that gets a shot in the arm (or the eye!) from an inspired, terrifying turn by Michael Ironside.

The writing is extraordinarily ham-fisted: within the first five minutes, there's blockheaded commentary on violent video games, race, AND the American family unit. Just as I wondered aloud "What greenhorn douche cake wrote this?!," Mick Garris' teleplay credit appeared on screen. Well, hoo boy, that explains a lot. Ernest R. Dickerson's (SURVIVING THE GAME, JUICE) direction is taut and workmanlike, but the script is so dumb, you kind of wonder, what's the point?

But then, up pops Ironside, literally, looking so fucking scary I dove beneath the couch.


One could posit that Ironside is the meaner, steelier Jack Nicholson; and, if that's true, then this is Ironside's 'other side of the mirror' Joker moment. Greg Nicotero's makeup has Ironside festering and ashen-faced (like he's dunked his head in spoiled milk), punctuated with a blood-soaked smile. Some character actors phone in their performances, but Ironside merely makes his labors seem effortless. He shambles around with a perverse, fearsome grin and a feral, frenzied leer.

And Ironside's vampire doesn't bite necks– he RIPS them apart with his bare hands and then drinks from the gaping wound.

DAMN!


Ironside is having a goddamned blast.


I wonder if he bit anybody for real.

And he manages to be this freaky while chasing around a couple of CW network-style numbnuts. And it's not really much of a *spoiler* to say that he gets a pretty nasty send-off.

Though it IS courtesy of said numbnuts. I'm reminded of the Eastwood vs. Bronson episode of RAWHIDE which ends with Bronson gunned down by some random milksop as Eastwood stands idly by.

Bravo, Mr. Ironside. You rose above your collaborators' mediocrity and made this a piece worth remembering.

(Also of note is the vampire POV “Blood-vision,” which is decidedly not as good as, say, PREDATOR-vision.)

Blood-vision in action.

Nearly three iron-sided stars.

-Sean Gill