"Six Authors in Search of a Character, Part 1: Stephen King" in ZYZZYVA

I'm very excited to premiere the first installment of a new essay series in ZYZZYVA Literary Magazine––it's called "Six Authors in Search of a Character" and it will explore the unusual and complicated psychology of writers portraying on screen characters they created in print. Part 1 tackles Stephen King's appearance as "Jordy Verrill" in CREEPSHOW, a role which grapples with identity, addiction, and a "meteoric" rise.

R.I.P., George A. Romero

It pains me to write about the death of George A. Romero, whose impact on my love of classic and contemporary horror is immeasurable. While he is best known for essentially creating the modern zombie movie with NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD (then setting the gold standard for the genre with DAWN OF THE DEAD), his entire catalogue is worthy of deep study. He was not merely a scare-master, but a true observer of the human animal, and his films are packed with nearly six decades' worth of trenchant, razor-sharp social commentary (I'd hoped he had at least one more feature in him, a "Romero" take for these troubled times. Though there are multiple Romero scripts in circulation, one of which, ROAD OF THE DEAD, seems the most likely to see release).

Whether I'm talking about CREEPSHOW, a strong contender for "most fun Halloween movie" and one I can truly watch anytime, anywhere; MARTIN, a masterpiece of postmodern vampirism and Rust Belt mysticism; or KNIGHTRIDERS, a film about "fighting the dragon" and making your own family wherever your find it; Romero's films speak to me in varied and complex ways––the man was a philosopher, a poet, a sociologist, and a true citizen of the world. It was my pleasure to see him twice in person (at the New York premieres of DIARY OF THE DEAD and SURVIVAL OF THE DEAD) and he was as delightfully charming as you might imagine: compassionate, gregarious, and humorously no-nonsense (he answered one audience member's question about the efficacy of chainsaws versus shotguns in the event of a zombie pandemic by saying "Son, it's only a movie").

Here's to you, George.

Music Review: GOBLIN LIVE IN CONCERT (2013, U.S.)

As a part of their first-ever North American tour (after a long and on-again-off-again history dating back to 1972), I was lucky enough to see Goblin perform live last night at the Music Hall of Williamsburg in Brooklyn, NY.  

They played crowd-pleasing selections from the album ROLLER and from their soundtracks to ZOMBI (DAWN OF THE DEAD), PROFONDO ROSSO (DEEP RED), NON HO SONNO (SLEEPLESS), TENEBRE, and PHENOMENA, among others, often accompanied by gory mondo projections, including clips from DAWN OF THE DEAD and the Goblin-Argento oeuvre.

It was a pleasure to see three of the original members:  the legendary Claudio Simonetti (wearing a DANGER: DIABOLIK t-shirt),

Simonetti tinkles the ivories.  Photo by Greg Cristman, from the writeup at Brooklyn Vegan.

veteran Maurizio Guarini jammin' on the second keyboard, and virtuoso Massimo Morante (prog) rocking out (on his birthday, no less!) in tight leather pants, sunglasses, and a bandana that could hardly tame his frizzy, Italo-rocker 70s hair.

Massimo plays it loud. Photo by Greg Cristman, from the writeup at Brooklyn Vegan.

This was, obviously, outstanding.  (They were also joined by newer members, drummer Titta Tani and bassist Bruno Previtali.)

A near front-row view afforded me a glimpse of their tightly-knit, non-verbal shorthand, from which I get a sort of furtive satisfaction when I have the privilege of seeing it live from a band I love.  Their Italian-accented banter with the audience was endearing and fantastic ("Hello Brew-kleen!"), Claudio did the vox effects from TENEBRE live, and he dared the audience to do their best witchy whispering along with him on SUSPIRIA– in short, I had a big dopey grin on my face the entire time.

Also, I never thought I would see Claudio Simonetti and Massimo Morante sing "Happy Birthday to Me" and mock-drink from a giant cardboard cut-out of a bottle of Jim Beam while a crowd of Brooklynites roared in approval.  And, my Lord– they may be getting a bit long in the tooth, but as my ringing ears can attest, they played it loud.  What a show– and a fine start to my Halloween season!

Only now does it occur to me... POLLOCK

Only now does it occur to me...  that Ed Harris ought to have his own, instructional drum video based around this gem of a scene from POLLOCK:


And now that we're on the topic of Ed Harris and rhythmic convulsions, I guess I can't resist making you watch this all over again (from CREEPSHOW):

Hopefully, I have now cured everyone's case of the Mondays!

Only now does it occur to me... NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD '90

Only now does it occur to me...  that this is one of the best credit titles that ever was!

That's right:  the 1990 NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD remake was co-executive produced by zombie legend Romero and post-Globus Cannon films impresario Menahem Golan.  Brilliant!

As for the film, it's a mediocre but watchable Tom Savini-helmed retread of the original that contains a few nice flourishes (and a near-Shakespearean performance by Tony Todd of CANDYMAN fame), but in the end is the kind of disposable 80s horror that's best suited for the background of a party.

Only now does it occur to me... THINGS TO COME

Only now does it occur to me...  what an inspiration THINGS TO COME must have been on everyone from George Lucas to George A. Romero.

A heavy does of H.G. Wells future history that was designed as a sort of retort to the world of METROPOLIS, THINGS TO COME is an enjoyable, extremely well designed piece of classic science fiction.

I knew that it was influential, but I didn't quite realize what an impact its visuals had on everything from LOGAN'S RUN's domed metropolis to THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK's Cloud City.

Then, the most curious thing:  "the wandering sickness."  Wells describes a plague in the latter stages of his Second World War (which stretches into the 1960s), spread by a poison gas dropped from airplanes.  Though it seems to be a vague prediction of the radiation sickness from atomic bombs, it immediately reminded me if the zombie film canon:  the victims wander a post-apocalyptic landscape in a daze, arms outstretched, and are highly contagious.  Infected family members must be killed immediately in order save other survivors; difficult decisions must be made.



I had always heard of I AM LEGEND/THE LAST MAN ON EARTH being the primary influence on NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD, so this came to me as a surprise.  Even the name, "the wandering sickness," evokes latter-day zombie fiction like THE WALKING DEAD.  So:  H.G. Wells predicted (often in roundabout ways) devastating aerial bombing, the Second World War, genetic engineering, automatic sliding doors, cell phones, flat-screen TVs... and the zombie genre!

Junta Juleil's Guide to Melancholy Horror

What is "Melancholy Horror?"  I think it's my favorite horror sub-genre, at least for the moment.   It's sort of difficult to describe, and I may be the only one actively trying to define it, but here goes:

I'd say it's a sub-genre of especially artistic horror/thriller/supernatural drama films that fill half of you with genuine scares, and the rest with a genuine sadness– or at least a sense of overwhelming alienation.  They routinely begin and/or end with a tragedy, often of an accidental, non-supernatural variety.  They were made, by and large, between 1970 and 1981, and mostly on lower budgets that lend them a very "documentary" feel.  They always make the most of their budgets, however, and come across as very impressionistic, hypnotic, and dreamlike; the 1970s film stock often lending sunlight, candlelight, and fall colors a special ethereal prominence.

There's often a female or child protagonist slowly losing her mind, or slowly receiving a twisted spiritual enlightenment.  (If it's a child, the odds are high that they'll be wearing a creepy nightgown at some point.)  Often there's a conspiracy of dubious veracity.  At the very least, these films are wrought beneath a haze of narrative ambiguity.  Sometimes, afterward, you're not even sure that you've just seen a horror film, but you're unsettled just the same.  Rarely are they fast-paced, but this only draws you in to their exquisite atmospheres even more; perhaps you even let your guard down...

They often have soundtracks comprised of flutes, harpsichords, or atonal noise; or, equally often, a solo classical pianist.  Sometimes they're set in small towns, abandoned villas– or houses and shanties on the edge of a spooky desert, or a black forest.  They generally feature little gore, if any (otherwise something like THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE might fit in), and frequently deal with ghosts and madness and loss of identity.

Hard to say exactly what and who the grandfathers and grandmothers of this mini-genre are; I'd say perhaps the ghost stories of Henry James, M.R. James, Algernon Blackwood, and J.S. le Fanu, Japanese folk tales, European morbid fairy tales, Edgar Allan Poe, Dreyer's VAMPYR, Herk Harvey's CARNIVAL OF SOULS, Antonioni's BLOW-UP, Frankenheimer's SECONDS, and the films of Mario Bava and Ingmar Bergman.

So, without further adieu– JUNTA JULEIL'S TOP 20 MELANCHOLY FRIGHT FLICKS!

They aren't exactly ranked, per sé– but perhaps they are ordered by my enthusiasm. This is by no means a comprehensive list, and I invite you to submit your own recommendations in the comments section;  I would love to discover more films of quality that fit the bill.

1. THE CHANGELING (1980, Peter Medak)

A sheer force of atmospheric dread. Medak is a master of effectively controlling space, foreboding architecture, and ornate interior design– as well as the roaming camera that captures them.  The score, by Rick Wilkins, is hauntingly evocative, consisting of ever-flowing, swirling piano, surging and eddying like sudden rushes of air or gentle, ghostly breaths.  It's almost as if a shroud lies draped upon the film- a defeated sigh, a pensive look, a sense of loss.  As long as we fear the unknown, this film will resonate.

2. THE TENANT (1976, Roman Polanski)

One of the most frightening and claustrophobic movies I've ever seen.  Polanski directs himself through a film full of disintegrating identities, bathroom hieroglyphics, Shelley Winters, and a world gone mad.  The less you know, the better.  Based on a novel by Roland Topor.

3. 3 WOMEN (1977, Robert Altman)

Halfway between PERSONA and SINGLE WHITE FEMALE is 3 WOMEN, and for my money, it transcends them both.  (No high-heel murder, though– ha!)  Impressions?  Monstrous paintings.  Old, well-used, bloated bodies, wading through a pool with waifish companions.  People talking, but never listening.  That terrifying mechanical bar curiosity, "Dirty Gertie."  The tragedy of finger food prepared for guests who'll never come.  A mysterious pile of gravel.  I will spoil no more. Altman adapts one of his own dreams and in the process creates one of the finest films of the 70s.  (Not to mention that the incredible Sissy Spacek and Shelley Duvall are two of the finest actors of their generation.)

4. PICNIC AT HANGING ROCK (1975, Peter Weir)

Buttoned-up lace and sun-beaten earth.  Obsession.  Hysterics.  Frozen clocks.  Young girls wandering among prehistoric boulders and deep crevices, never to be seen again.  A deeply unsettling picture.  J.D. over at Radiator Heaven just did a fantastic take on it here.

5.  PHANTASM (1979, Don Coscarelli)

That spooky-rockin' soundtrack.  The yellow blood.  The Jawa-men.  The box of pain (a DUNE homage?).  That sleazy lean-to shack-bar that looks like a stiff wind could blow it over.  The noiseless, alabaster-white corridors of the mausoleum. The angry red sky of the other dimension.  The phantasm balls, and their hidden secrets.  The Tall Man.  BOYYYYYYYYY!
Few films build such a wonderful impression of the end of summer and the beginning of autumn.   Ultimately, it's a grim coming-of-age, and minus the supernatural elements, I think that its honesty and sheer quality could have even made the "establishment" critics take notice.   In fact, Coscarelli's first two films were slice-of-life coming-of-age flicks played straight (the excellent KENNY & CO. and JIM, THE WORLD'S GREATEST, the latter of which I have not seen).  But let the establishment critics have their films, and let genre fans have PHANTASM.
And despite all of its wonderful bells (and balls) and whistles, it all really comes down to a feeling, an emptiness, a melancholy born of grieving. That secret urge to wander the graveyard on an overcast day, and see what you can see...

6.  DON'T LOOK NOW (1973, Nicolas Roeg)

Marketed as a "psychic thriller," DON'T LOOK NOW is a subtle, bewitching marriage of virtuosic visuals with a story of genuine pathos and terrible dread– a real sense of loss accompanies the terror here.  In a way, it is a film of textures– troubling, murky waters; shattered glass; the dreary, mottled marble.  You dance in and out of consciousness, chasing that red-coated figure through the grey labyrinth of Venice and the boundless convolutions of the human mind.  Based on the novel by Daphne du Maurier.

7. LET'S SCARE JESSICA TO DEATH (1971, John D. Hancock)

If I had to pick one movie that truly embodied what "melancholy horror" represents for me, it'd be LET'S SCARE JESSICA TO DEATH.  It's handling of mental illness is eerie but always tasteful; its soundtrack is haunting and folksy, brimming with doleful sincerity; its low-budget is worn on its sleeve and only increases the film's authenticity; it's layered with intriguing, understated soundscapes; and Zohra Lampert's eponymous performance is heart-rending– everything the film needs lies in her bewildered gaze and her pitiful smile.  And there's a dangerous streak that runs beneath the surface of this film– it feels raw, it feels immediate; it knows the Summer of Love is over, and that there's something blurry on the horizon that speaks to man's darker aspects.  The sort of film that fuels sprawling, multi-layered dreams afterward...  There's even a loving cult web tribute, and the enthusiastic ramshackle mood of the site fits the film perfectly.

8. DON'T BE AFRAID OF THE DARK (1973, John Newland)

"Can you see them, Sally ... hiding in the shadows?  They're alive, Sally. They want you to be one of them when the lights go out."  As I've said before, the film begins by adhering to the 'young couple moving into possibly haunted old house' template and proceeds to -quite rapidly- outperform the cliché with a combination of skillful realism and morbid, childlike dream-logic.  The dynamics of marriage, the motif of the forgotten housewife, the attention paid to gender and overmedication, and the irresistibility of the unknown are tackled evenly, and it's tempered by a sense of Lovecraftian, ancestral doom.  Likely the best made-for-television horror movie we'll ever see.

9. THE LITTLE GIRL WHO LIVES DOWN THE LANE (1976, Nicolas Gessner)

This is an odd one.  Based on the novel and stage play by Laird Koenig, its major scenario (which I shall not reveal) is one that could just as easily occupy a child's daydreams or a child's nightmares.  Centered around a bold, confident performance by an adolescent Jodie Foster, this tale is woven in the midst of an extremely evocative autumn atmosphere.  In the midst of this cool, creepy ambiance and a damned gutsy plotline, the film even ventures to ask some pretty daring, open-ended questions about the usefulness of human society and its infrastructures in general.  There's a strong supporting role by Martin Sheen as a complex, despicable being; and a pleasant bit by BAD RONALD's Scott Jacoby as a boy on the cusp of being a man; but still, the poetry is what makes the lasting impression: the quiet roar of the seashore, the stillness of the night, the glow of the candlelight, and perhaps the faintest scent of bitter almonds...

10. THE STEPFORD WIVES (1975, Bryan Forbes)

Ira Levin's work has a way of getting to you when you're at that oh-so-vulnerable point of moving into a new space or city– you don't know where anything is, you have no established circle of friends, and you sometimes feel like a prisoner in your own home.  So you stick your neck out and discover that your environs are not so idyllic as they seemed at first glance... or maybe it's just the isolation talking.   An effective and sociopolitical film that really works even if you've already had the major twist spoiled for you (via cultural osmosis).

11. NOSFERATU (1979, Werner Herzog)

An actual army of rats flooding the village of Wismar.  Cow-biting.  Gypsy violins.  The stroke of genius in centering a NOSFERATU/DRACULA remake around the 70s' best psychotic approximation of Max Schreck: Klaus Kinski.  From the opening shots of actual, dessicated corpses from the cholera-vaults of Guanajuato, Mexico (set to the strains of Popol Vuh), Herzog is letting us know that, no, he does not intend to fuck around.  Kinski doesn't play the vampire as a villain, per sé– he's more like a resigned, intellectual animal-creature who finds himself to possess an unfortunate, unavoidable biological function:  the fact that he has to schlerp on necks to survive.   Though it remains faithful in many regards, there are plenty of twists on the well-known source material (very much in the vein of the changes Polanski made to MACBETH), and the whole affair is lightly swathed in the dreamlike, hypnotic atmosphere that Herzog perfected in occasionally macabre, but non-Horror films like HEART OF GLASS, AGUIRRE THE WRATH OF GOD, and THE ENIGMA OF KASPAR HAUSER– which makes it an excellent "Melancholy Horror" candidate.

12. MARTIN (1976, George A. Romero)

Ostensibly a "vampire" movie, MARTIN turns the genre on its ear into a meditation on suburban malaise in the greater Pittsburgh area.  Our titular hero is a vampire.  Only he doesn't have fangs or Svengali-esque powers of hypnosis, he has to use razor blades and roofie-laced syringes.  And garlic and crucifixes don't seem to do much.  And daylight's cool, too.  But he's a vampire, yeah.
Romero's first collaboration with Tom Savini (acting and effects-wise), it becomes a psychosexual "coming of age" portrait filled with unnerving ambiguities, some great performances from some folks who are the antithesis of airbrushed Hollywood-types, and some good ole Rust Belt mysticism.  And I don't believe I've ever quite squirmed so much during a vampire film.  Romero considers it his finest work, and it's so damn well done, it's hard to argue with him.

13. NIGHT GALLERY(TV SERIES) (1969-1973, Rod Serling and others)

I know it's not technically a movie, but so frequently does it hit upon all the aspects of "Melancholy Horror" that I have defined, I feel as if I owe it a mention.  Similar to THE TWILIGHT ZONE in many ways, NIGHT GALLERY differentiates itself by being a true product of the 70s, and, by and large, by telling different sorts of (melancholy) horror stories, stylishly and cinematically.  Its avant-garde music and hallucinatory titles recall perhaps the surreal 60s work of Japanese auteur Hiroshi Teshigahara, and episodes like "The Doll," "Clean Kills and Other Trophies," "The Caterpillar," "Certain Shadows on the Wall," and the incredibly well-directed (by John Astin!) "The House" really tap into this subgenre, feeling often like mystical little fever-dreams.  Hurried production schedules give it that raw, occasionally indie feel, and nothing really can match the joy of seeing Serling striding around the Night Gallery, clasping his hands and tersely informing us of the shocks in store...

14.  TOURIST TRAP (1979, David Schmoeller)

As I've asked before, what is it that elevates this flick from 'boondocks slasher' rip-off to a quiet masterpiece of 70s horror? How about a crew defined by a dedication to genuine- and sometimes avant-garde artistry? Check it out: TOURIST TRAP possesses ethereal, soft-focus visuals courtesy of Nicholas Josef von Sternberg (DISCO 9000, GAS PUMP GIRLS), son of- yup, Josef von Sternberg; an eerie, unsettling Italian soundtrack full of echoey wailing and offbeat woodblock/slide whistle/ominous harpsicord curiosities courtesy of Pino Donaggio (DON'T LOOK NOW, TRAUMA, PIRANHA, countless Brian de Palma flicks); and mesmerizing, mood-fitting editing by future director Ted Nicolaou (TERRORVISION). All of this might sound silly on the page, but, trust me, when it all comes together, it's truly special.  Also...  MANNEQUINS.

15. PHASE IV (1974, Saul Bass)

Before you whine that it's more sci-fi than horror– please tell me what bodily and psychological sensations you were experiencing the last time ANTS WERE CRAWLING ON YOUR NAKED BODY. But, to be serious, this isn't a "killer-bug" flick, or else it wouldn't be on this list.  I've written at length about it elsewhere, but let me say that Bass creates a cruel, exotic worldscape of geodesic domes, subterranean tunnels, microscopic photography, and blistering sunlight. Brian Gascoigne's accompanying soundscapes are often electronic, high-pitched, oscillating frequencies; elsewhere they're eerie synthesized organs and low, dissonant tones.  This film is trippy as shit, and it's as beautiful as it is troubling. PHASE IV is order and disorder. Geometry and disarray. Patterns and chaos. Symbols and meaninglessness. It's something hidden- buried- within our souls and etched upon our spinal columns. It's been with us since the stone faces were built on Easter Island and since the time of the pyramids and before. Each and every image captivates us, fascinates us, because deep down we know that we are not the masters of this planet.  It's not a chronicle of a young person's descent into madness, like many of these other films, it's the chronicle of a species, an entire planet undergoing that blood-curdling journey into the unknown...

16. DAUGHTERS OF DARKNESS (1971, Harry Kümel)

When somebody describes a film to me as a "Euro-Vampire Lesbian Movie from the 70s," I sort of assume it's going to be soft-core hilarity in the vein of Joe D'Amato–  instead, this feels like a Fassbinder flick with a little bit of blood, or perhaps an Albee play directed by Argento.  Set in an empty seaside hotel in Belgium in the wake of a series of mysterious, blood-draining murders, DAUGHTERS OF DARKNESS explores the flexibility of human sexuality (equally on the sado/masochistic spectrum as well as the hetero/homosexual one) and indeed the flexibility of human identity.  Delphine Seyrig (as The Countess Bathery) steals the show in an otherworldly, Weimar-style old-school starlet performance; she's the sort of actor who has no trouble convincing you that she could be several centuries old, and she uses it as a starting point for some extraordinarily nuanced drama.  (There's also a chuckle-inducing appearance by a sugar daddy whom IMDb user kwedgwood hilariously and accurately describes as an "older, dominant and pampered sissy.")  Anyway, there's a pensive mood, graceful seascapes, and loads of interesting and beautiful faces– the sort that surface especially in European art films from the 60s and 70s.

17. THE BEGUILED (1971, Don Siegel)

Based on a novel by Thomas Cullinan, it invokes the spirit and temperaments of Poe, Bierce, Hawthorne, and Capote, and the resulting film possesses a sort of 'Southern Gothic psychedelic existentialism.' It almost has the feel of SPIDER BABY combined with THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY.  Lalo Schifrin delivers his most mature, complex score (full of deep, echoey flutes, mournful oboes, and intricate harpiscords), and it perfectly complements the mood of the film.   Stifling, hypnotic, even baroque, the film is presented from an omniscient perspective: different characters' thoughts, memories, and hypocrisies bleed into one another, like wreckage upon wreckage. You can blame it on the war or you can blame it on human nature, but no one- not even the sweetest, most innocent of little girls- emerges from this thing unscathed.

18. AUDREY ROSE (1977, Robert Wise)

Not quite a horror film, not quite a drama, AUDREY ROSE takes a serious and sometimes scary look at reincarnation while making use of a few tropes from the "ghost story" genre.  It's anchored by strong performances by Marsha Mason (as a mother coming unraveled) and a young Anthony Hopkins (as a mysterious stranger who may have a link to her family, involving past lives).  Child actor Susan Swift does a fine job, too, and manages, uncannily, to look a lot like "kiddie Karen Black."  Though it lingers perhaps too much on courtroom scenes in the latter half, the film maintains a splendid atmosphere of discomfiture without ever overtly dipping into horror.  Based on the novel by Frank De Felitta (THE ENTITY).

19. DEAD AND BURIED (1981, Gary Sherman)

I've written about this film before, and it manages to capture all the melancholy frights of the seaside.  The waves roll in, crest, and break; smashing against the rocks.  There's a violent tranquility in that.  Dusk falls.  Colors in the sky obscured by clouds.  You smell the salty air.  There is a wonderful haze so thick on the film stock, you feel as if you could reach into the screen and run your fingers through it.  There are some fine scares at play here, too, not to mention one of the freakiest bandaged men in all of filmdom.  Similar to LET'S SCARE JESSICA TO DEATH in its claustrophobic portrayal of a small town gone (seemingly?) mad.  Like a gloom-soaked EC comic for adults.

20. VALERIE AND HER WEEK OF WONDERS (1970, Jaromil Jires)

As I've said before, some have called VALERIE a fairy tale, inspired by the likes of ALICE IN WONDERLAND and LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. It's even more appealing to pin it down as such, given its clear influence on subsequent works from Angela Carter and Neil Jordan's THE COMPANY OF WOLVES to Jan Svankmajer's ALICE to even Lynch and Frost's TWIN PEAKS, but I think it might be more accurate to say that it resembles a medieval painting 'come to life.' Imagine a sprawling vision by Bosch, brimming with disturbing, inscrutable visual metaphors and beguiling, fleeting reveries; fair maidens and old crones; men of the cloth and perversions of men of the cloth; dances of life and dances of death. It's truly as if a portal has opened from within one of these masterworks and allowed us a quite tangible, timeless taste of its fancifully macabre contents (or as tangible as twenty-four frames-per-second will allow).

Honorable Mention: Altman's IMAGES, Bergman's THE SERPENT'S EGG, Romero's SEASON OF THE WITCH, Clark's BLACK CHRISTMAS, Leacock and Matheson's DYING ROOM ONLY.

Honorable Mentions that are a little too polished and high-profile to quite qualify:  De Palma's OBSESSION, Kubrick's THE SHINING.

Movies that I haven't yet seen (as of Oct. 2012), but I am told fit the bill:  Fuest's AND SOON THE DARKNESS, Fulci's DON'T TORTURE A DUCKLING, Fleischer's SEE NO EVIL, Mulligan's THE OTHER, Benedek's THE NIGHT VISITOR, Martino's ALL THE COLORS OF THE DARK.  I'd be particularly interested in the feedback of those who have seen some of these, too!

-Sean Gill

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #65-61

65. MR. JEALOUSY (1997, Noah Baumbach)

"What would you do if I bit your face now... suddenly?" Gotta love MR. JEALOUSY. It offers astute, biting commentary on romantic relationships, daring to go to places of jealousy, resentment, and self-hatred where even dramatic films (much less comedies!) fear to tread. It offers bold 1930's-style screwball, mistaken identities, a ludicrous bit part by Peter Bogdanovich as Dr. Poke, the finest ever use of Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle," and tackles OCD, substitute teaching, Gustav Flaubert, and the eternal question of "Do people really spit in the communal coffee creamer?" It's well-populated by genius performances from the likes of Baumbach standbys like Eric Stoltz, Chris Eigeman, Annabella Sciorra, Carlos Jacott, and John Lehr, (and a great one from Baumbach newcomer Marianne Jean-Baptiste, fresh off of Mike Leigh's SECRETS AND LIES). Noah Baumbach himself even gets to prove that he was born to do voice-over narrations. And, of course, the excess budget brought us little-known gem that is HIGHBALL. In all, one of the best-written movies of the 90's, and a film so good that naturally Armond White's response was to call for Baumbach's retroactive abortion. If that doesn't prove you've made a great film, I don't know what does.

64. KNIGHTRIDERS (1982, George A. Romero)

"I'M FIGHTING THE DRAGON!" Yes, you certainly are, Ed Harris. You are, too, Mr. Romero. You have to fight the dragon, gentlemen, for you feel the moral imperative to do so. You live in a world of insanity, your options limited to being crushed beneath it's bootheel, lashing out madly, or retreating into oneself. In a way, this is the definitive counter-culture film. It unfolds with an ensemble-based subtlety that recalls the best Renoir and Altman. It reveals an ensemble of fully-developed, REAL characters trying to deal with existential confusion and a world gone mad, NOT, as the cover art might suggest, a group of medieval-themed bikers pillaging the countryside. Romero has taken timeless messages on brotherhood and sisterhood from the tales of King Arthur and languidly, thoughtfully, applied them to the modern era. George Romero is not merely a horror filmmaker, nor is he, in fact, merely a filmmaker. He is a philosopher, a poet, a sociologist and a true citizen of the world. I salute you, Mr. Romero, a man who unfailingly depicts the true heights and depths of humanity, whether it be in the midst of a zombie holocaust or while good friends bond over a quiet campfire. May you continue to grace us with such compassionate, thoughtful works. Also: Stephen King's cameo as a local yokel and Tom Savini's amazing "80's sell-out" costume receive my highest commendations.

63. THE CHANGELING (1980, Peter Medak)

I wrote previously that:
For the uninitiated, it must be said that the less you know about THE CHANGELING, the better, so I'll avoid revealing anything about the plot. Somehow the median point between Nicolas Roeg's DON'T LOOK NOW and the turn-of-the-century ghost stories of M.R. James, THE CHANGELING is a sheer force of atmospheric dread. Director Peter Medak is a master of effectively using space, foreboding architecture, and ornate interior design– as well as the roaming camera which captures them. In THE RULING CLASS (1972), he nearly turned the expansive Gurney estate into a character- an object of desire for some, and a turgid reminder of a centuries-old oligarchy to others. While it was not a 'horror' film in the purest sense, I feel as if Medak learned much back then, and merely had to subtly tweak his techniques in order to create a seriously sinister mood. The score, by Rick Wilkins, is hauntingly evocative, consisting of ever-flowing, swirling piano, surging and eddying like sudden rushes of air or a gentle, ghostly breaths. The cast is phenomenal: George C. Scott's stoic melancholy, Melvyn Douglas' tortured countenance, and Trish Van Devere's harried energy go a long way toward establishing the atmosphere. THE CHANGELING belongs to the genre which I call 'melancholy horror,' consisting of films like CASTLE FREAK or DEAD & BURIED. It's almost as if a shroud lies draped upon the film- a defeated sigh, a pensive look, a sense of loss. But make no mistake, this film is SCARY. Medak portrays the supernatural in a manner that, for me, is unmatched: to feel the otherworldly as an ominous presence that lingers just outside the frame- Kubrick does it in THE SHINING, Alan Parker does it in ANGEL HEART, Lynch does it in TWIN PEAKS, and Medak does it here. He doesn't have to rely on cheap 'sudden loud noise' scares, he builds a genuine sense of foreboding from the ground up, and takes the material very seriously. Without this film, there would be no RINGU (or, consequently, THE RING), THE OTHERS, or even THE DEVIL'S BACKBONE. It's one of the great ghost stories, unsullied by time, and as long as we fear the unknown, this film will continue to resonate.

62. KOYAANISQATSI (1983, Godfrey Reggio)

The hypnotically transcendent imagery of Godfrey Reggio (and DP Ron Fricke) and the transcendentally hypnotic music of Philip Glass are perhaps the perfect fusion of sound and image in film. Eschewing mere 'words' in favor of a view of the world from perhaps the omniscient vantage point of the "angel of history," Reggio brilliantly illustrates the process by which we are subverting– no, perverting the concept of a genuine, harmonious existence through almost every aspect of our modern society. It's a humbling film, one that places one's own insignificance into an even wider context; it makes our personal time and our personal space seem so very, very painfully small. When the bulldozers first appear after a series of idyllic landscapes, you want to cry "INTRUDER!," you want to destroy them and their faceless mechanical obscenity! It says more by saying less than FERNGULLY, AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH, AVATAR, CAPTAIN PLANET, and every other well-meaning environmental film combined, because it's intent is not to "recycle more" or "save the whales" or "prevent oil spills," its intent is to show us, quite graphically, how, for most of us, our entire lifestyles, from when we wake in the morning till when we go to sleep at night, from cradle to the grave, are (to use some of Hemingway's favorite terminology) inauthentic. It's not a problem that'll be solved through sorting the glass bottles from the plastic ones, nor from turning the A/C unit from high to low; it's a call to reinvent ourselves, to recreate what it means to be a human being in a society that has only been in existence for as long as a blink of the cosmic eye. It's a powerful film, and one of only a chosen few that dares show how irrevocably fucked and how painfully trivial we really are.

61. THE RED SHOES (1948, Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger)

Astonishing spectacle and tempestuous melodrama in a ferocious blaze of wondrous Technicolor. I've sung the praises of Powell & Pressburger earlier in this countdown, but words cannot do this film justice. It's a true pleasure to the point of pain, and if you haven't seen it– goddammit, just see it. Here's a taste for the uninitiated.

Coming up next: Gutter poetry, drug addiction, and James Woods... And no– not all three at the same time!

Previously on the countdown:
#70-66
#75-71
#80-76
#85-81
#90-86
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #90-86

90. THE USUAL SUSPECTS (1995, Bryan Singer)

A heist film that's at once fun and fatalistic, it's cleverly written and incredibly well-constructed. However, its fanboyish following and unfortunate susceptibility to pea-brained parody certainly threaten to undermine any prospective "Greatness." But after a handful of viewings across the past decade and a half, I've come to the conclusion that it really holds up– John Ottman's flowing, occasionally beautiful, occasionally malevolent score; Christopher McQuarrie's razor-edged but never self-congratulatory dialogue; Kevin Spacey's furtive, crippled sad sack; Gabriel Byrne's classy Euro-gangster; Kevin Pollak's smartassed grease monkey; Benicio Del Toro's fashionable, generally incomprehensible sidekick; Pete Postlethwaite's ominous litigator; Chazz Palminteri's loud-mouthed, thick-necked cop; even Stephen Baldwin makes for a believably rugged gunman. And even beyond the intricacies of the now-notorious plot, there's plenty of layers to uncover here: blue collar (criminal) heroes overwhelmed by shadowy, international corporations; homosexual undertones fused with themes of criminality and counterculture that run far deeper than the surface gag of "going straight"; strange mirrorings of THE WIZARD OF OZ; and, hell, bit parts by Paul "EATING RAOUL" Bartel and Dan "COMMANDO" Hedaya. Yep, I still stand by this movie.

89. GREY GARDENS (1975, Albert & David Maysles)

Perhaps the ultimate experience in "cinéma vérité," GREY GARDENS observes the goings-on at the eponymous, ramshackle mansion which is home to a pair of reclusive, ex-high society Bouviers who go by the sobriquets "Big" and "Little" Edie. In turns funny, tragic, horrifying, heart-warming, and simply hard to watch, the Maysles brothers cross that sterile, journalistic boundary, going beyond simple exploitation and into a deeper truth; perhaps they even form a makeshift family along the way. It's a film about decay and aristocracy, sure, but its aims are chiefly humanistic– beneath each mould'ring shutter and crumbling wall we find alternations of genuine vibrancy and misplaced dreams. One of the great documentaries.

88. A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (1971, Stanley Kubrick)

The sort of film that was my all-time favorite when I was seventeen, but now, apparently, it's somewhere closer to #88. Regardless, it's a work of operatic beauty and hideous ultra-violence, one of quasi-futuristic daydreams and elaborate linguistic fascinations, of oppressive institutionalization and unhinged criminality. Based on Anthony Burgess' novel of moral choice (a novel which I highly recommend, along with other Burgess classics like ONE HAND CLAPPING, ENDERBY, and THE LONG DAY WANES), Kubrick's film really feels like an event; a larger than life, more than occasionally grotesque extravaganza of free will and urban decay. Wendy Carlos' electronic reimaginings of Purcell, Beethoven, and Rossini lend the film an evocative, dystopian soundscape, punctuating the drama, in turns, with black comedy and Stygian dread. And how can I neglect to mention Malcolm McDowell, whose volatile, darkly enthusiastic portrayal has come to define the film and its place in history. Also, Patrick Magee's completely over-the-top, eyebrow-indicating appearance as a revenge-seeking writer is well worth the price of admission.

87. TALES OF HOFFMANN (1951, Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger)

Hot damn– TALES OF HOFFMANN! The (Techni)colors, the sets, the choreography– pure, radiant, cinematic spectacle that has irrevocably and personally shaped filmmakers from George A. Romero to Martin Scorsese to Francis Ford Coppola. Powell and Pressburger's definitive adaptation of Jacques Offenbach's renowned opera is a smorgasboard of eye candy, enchanting harmonies, and morbid reverie. It's absolutely absorbing; I defy anyone to watch the first twenty minutes and not find themselves enthralled by the movement, by the dancers, by the overwhelming waves of joie de vivre and frenzied emotion... Eh, I'll shut up for now and let the damn thing speak for itself:

86. RIO BRAVO (1958, Howard Hawks)

John Carpenter's favorite movie and my most-beloved Hawks. One might accuse Carpy of overindulging in imitation (ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13, GHOSTS OF MARS), but the set-up is too damned fun for even Hawks to resist– he remade it twice himself! (EL DORADO and RIO LOBO). What we got here is a stalwart sheriff (John Wayne) determined to make a solitary stand against a horde of voracious outlaws. Of course, there's a drunk (Dean Martin), a cripple (the adorably hilarious Walter Brennan), an up-and-comer-guitar-slingin'-show-off (Ricky Nelson), and a inscrutable, hard-drinkin' lady (Angie Dickinson) waiting in the wings, not yet sure what parts they'll play. The eventual shoot-outs and the gut-mashin' pay-offs are thrilling indeed, but the movie's not about them; it's about character development, it's about waiting, it's about the forging of regular dudes into men of action. It's got comic relief, silly romance, nail-biting suspense, but, most of all, a genuine depth of story, of character, of locale. It's the sort of movie that people mean when they say "Boy-o, they don't make 'em like that anymore."



Coming up next: Harry Dean Stanton, crumpled metal perversions, and eyeball-popping insanity!

Previously on the countdown:
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

The Runners-Up to Junta Juleil's Top 100, Part 1

Ah, so many films and so few spaces on the Top 100. Naturally, there had to be some spill-over.

IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS (1994, John Carpenter)

"Reality isn't what it used to be." A Lovecraftian ode sung, naturally, toward the abyss, it's Carpy's last (thus far!) unadulterated, undeniably "Great" film with a capital G. IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS prints the fall of man upon celluloid, shows it to our protagonist- shows it to us- and together we cackle in the darkness, senselessly, because there's nothing else we can do. Previously reviewed HERE.

BABY DOLL (1956, Elia Kazan)

Kazan can wring more forbidden sexuality from the subtle rocking of a porch swing than all the R-Rated movies ever made, put together. A Southern Gothic chamber piece like no other, it develops into a tête-à-tête-à-tête between long suffering perv Karl Malden, the creepily childish Carrol Baker, and the inimitable Eli Wallach, and it's no exaggeration to call it a blazing tour de force and perhaps the most vigorous, deranged examination of American repression ever made. It's a bottle of cheap champagne on a hundred-degree day, only someone's been shakin' it up for twenty years, and you have to open it without spilling a drop– good luck!

FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE (1965, Sergio Leone)

FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE is not, in fact, Leone's greatest achievement, but it's probably his most fun. In fact, perhaps one could go out on a limb and say that it's one of the first "buddy movies;" or at least the first "spaghetti western buddy movie," but even if that's true, it's a more-than-occasionally dark one. From a raging, hunchbacked Klaus Kinski to Lee Van Cleef's flinty, hawk-nosed countenance to Gian Maria Volante's wildly hallucinating madman to Clint's cigarillo-chomping roughneck with no name, one might call this film a meditation upon faces. Faces and guns. And it's all tied together by Morricone's sweeping score, which pendulates between primal grunts from the pit and overpowering Bach organ fugues!

BLACK BOOK (2006, Paul Verhoeven)

After a few explorations of hollow men, CGI bugs, robot cops, showgirls, ice-pick murderers, and the like, Verhoeven returns to where he began– visceral, dark, Dutch art film. Verhoeven usually takes the dim view of mankind, and here he quite effortlessly develops his hypothesis that we exist in a state of neverending war; it's just that big men with small ideas are always submitting these arbitrary labels, like "1914-1918," or "1939-1945," and to tell you the truth, Verhoeven doesn't know quite what those are supposed to mean...

DIRTY HARRY (1971, Don Siegel)

I said before that DIRTY HARRY is "a complex dissection of the 'man of values' in a world that has none, with our hero gradually realizing that his supposed values systems are in fact shadowy and undefined, and aww, who the hell cares anymore, let's shoot some people." Sure, it's sorta fascist. Sure, it stacks the deck, unimaginably. Sure, it has laughable depictions of hippies. But dig that groovy Lalo Schifrin score! Check out that classic a-hole authority figure, John Vernon! Behold the simpering, insane majesty of psycho-killer Andy Robinson! See Clint Eastwood's noon-day hot-dog interrupted by the magnum-blasting of goons! You know, just another Don Siegel masterpiece.

CREEPSHOW (1982, George A. Romero)

As I have written before in these hallowed pages, I would like to invest in a bumper sticker which says "I'd rather be...watching CREEPSHOW." Now I could say that this film flirts with the Top 100 entirely by virtue of "Ed Harris disco dance mania," but it's really because Romero lovingly recreates the morbid fantasias of childhood, the sensation of reading a book beneath the covers with a flashlight; the impressionability of youth, whereupon a dark and stormy night can inspire a sense of unrestrained, gleeful dread... Also: Tom Atkins.

EATING RAOUL (1982, Paul Bartel)

"I'm the host here, goddammit, now get out of your clothes and get into the hot tub, or get out! We don't want any wet blankets or spoilsports at this party...we're here to SWING!" "-Yeah, well, swing on THIS!" EATING RAOUL is probably Paul Bartel's (DEATH RACE 2000, SCENES FROM THE CLASS STRUGGLE IN BEVERLY HILLS) greatest, loopiest trashterpiece, and it's one that pushes the envelope considerably. Comedy this quirky can be a slippery slope, but Bartel and Mary Woronov, who were quite obviously born to work together (as our 80's cult Hepburn and Tracy), soon brush aside our fears with an impossibly perfect combination of slapstick, refinement, and obscenity.

MILDRED PIERCE (1945, Michael Curtiz)

"That Ted Forrester's nice-looking, isn't he? Veda likes him." –"Who wouldn't? He has a million dollars." Film noir, melodrama, woman's weepie, whatever the fuck you want to call it, MILDRED PIERCE (based on the novel by James M. Cain) is goddamned fantastic. Joan Crawford, as a hard-workin' small businesswoman who can't seem to catch a break exudes genuine frustration, pathos, and the weight of life's disappointments...she's at the height of her shoulder-padded powers. I don't wish to reveal much of the plot, but Ann Blyth's spectacular, spiteful portrayal of Mildred's money-hungry daughter, Veda, has got to be one of the most hate-able screen villains of all-time.

STAR WARS (1977, George Lucas)

One of the most enjoyable adventure movies ever made. Continuous revisions, CGI shitstorms, and seemingly endless, doltish pop culture quotings cannot dampen the effect of the Star Destroyer thundering overhead, the menagerie of rubbery buddies at the intergalactic dive bar, Harrison Ford's lopsided grin, Alec Guinness' soothing self-assurance, Carrie Fisher's privileged but gutsy revolutionary, the cathartic roar of the angry Wookiee, the sad bleeps and bloops of a forlorn R2-D2. The attention to detail in the starship models; the sprawling, ramshackle sets and rundown futuristic equipment; the imaginative aliens and innovative special effects; the nods to Kurosawa, Curtiz, and Hawks; the childish wonder and excitement... ah, the heart swells! (But goddamn, what a pity the way things have turned out...)

JFK (1991, Oliver Stone)

Whether or not you agree with Stone's politics, or all, or none, or 10% of the conspiracy theories contained within the hefty treatise that is JFK, you must admit that it is something of a piece de resistance in terms of the fusion of editing, music, narration, and camerawork. At times it feels as if you are situated upon the tail leader of the Zapruder film; it's already been projected, and you're whirling around in the darkness afterward, confused, spooked, disoriented... A monument should be built to Joe Pesci's eyebrows in this film. And Tommy Lee Jones' mysterious, frightening portrayal of Clay Shaw just might be his finest work. Also: Gary Oldman, gay Kevin Bacon, Jack Lemmon, and Donald Sutherland... as "X!"

HOUSE (1977, Nobuhiko Obayashi)

Though it pains me to say that HOUSE does not quite pack the same punch the second time around, nothing can compare to the feelings of sheer shock, confusion, elation, and general bogglement that HOUSE instills in the first-time viewer. As I've written, "To avoid comparing it to other films, I would simply describe the HOUSE experience as akin to being trapped inside a kaleidoscope as a cackling madman rams and twirls and flips and submerges it with reckless abandon as upbeat music and ludicrous sound effects ricochet here and there and everywhere, dueling one another for dominance." Theoretically, I feel as if I've often thought that there were "no rules" in cinema, but only after seeing HOUSE did I realize that such a seemingly meaningless conceit could actually, successfully be put into practice!

TRUST (1990, Hal Hartley)

Hal Hartley's a personal American indie film hero of mine, and it was difficult to decide whether TRUST, SIMPLE MEN, AMATEUR, or HENRY FOOL belonged on this list. I settled on TRUST, a film I've described as "REBEL WITHOUT AN APARTMENT." It's a stirring, contemplative, and frequently deadpan hilarious tract; suburban malaise in a world on the verge of... something.