Film Review: CAT'S EYE (1985, Lewis Teague)

Stars: 4 of 5.

Running Time: 94 minutes.

Notable Cast or Crew:  James Woods (VIDEODROME, VAMPIRES), Candy Clark (AMERICAN GRAFFITI, THE BLOB), Drew Barrymore (E.T., GUNCRAZY), Kenneth McMillan (DUNE, RUNAWAY TRAIN), Alan King (CASINO, THE ALAN KING SHOW), Robert Hays (AIRPLANE!, FIFTY/FIFTY), James Rebhorn (THE GAME, INDEPENDENCE DAY), Charles S. Dutton (SURVIVING THE GAME, ALIEN 3), James Naughton (THE PAPER CHASE, THE FIRST WIVES CLUB).  Produced by Dino De Laurentiis.  Music by Alan Silvestri (BACK TO THE FUTURE, PREDATOR).  Cinematography by Jack Cardiff (THE AFRICAN QUEEN, THE RED SHOES).

Tag-line: "Through the eye of the cat, a twisted tail of macabre suspense from the author of CARRIE, THE SHINING, and THE DEAD ZONE."  That's a mouthful.

Best one-liner:  "YOU FLYING SHIT HOUSE!"

CAT'S EYE is an omnibus horror flick, which longtime fans of this site will note is one of the best horror subgenres to watch with friends on a Saturday night.  This genre brought us CREEPSHOW, CREEPSHOW 2, TALES FROM THE DARKSIDE: THE MOVIE, TRILOGY OF TERROR, TWO EVIL EYES, THE TWILIGHT ZONE: THE MOVIE, and plenty of lesser fare like TRAPPED ASHES, and several others that ought not even to be named (CREEPSHOW III– shit, I said it!).  Some years ago, back when I wrote reviews on Netflix, I chose to tackle the beauty and complexity of CAT'S EYE.

I had a limited word count, and it went something like this:

There's so much to say about this sprawling epic, but since I don't have a lot of space, I'm going to center my comments on two aspects  of the film which merit discussion: the cat's performance, and the closing credit music "Cat's Eye" by Ray Stevens of the Village People.  First off, the cat delivers a first-rate,  nuanced performance, the best in the film.  No small feat considering James Woods and Candy Clark are two of the cat's co-stars.  Now before you assume I'm joking, I challenge you to watch the movie and say otherwise– this cat is gonna blow your mind.  The cat is a veritable powerhouse.  And the cat is uncredited.  Nowhere on the internet can I find any information about this cat or its career, and words can't do justice with what the cat manages to do with a basically non-written role.  

Finally, Ray Stevens' closing credits music "Cat's Eye" begins with perhaps the finest intro to any pop song of the 80s.  There's no way that any song can live up to that intro.  And, of course, the song doesn't.  But it's still pretty damn good.  And the lyrics shed some light on a few of the more obscure plot points, so if you choose to reflect on the film you've just seen during the end credits, like I do, you'll find it a lovely counterpart to your post-film musings and ruminations.

Obviously, I didn't have enough space to properly discuss CAT'S EYE, but I certainly don't disagree with my past self.  In fact, now, with the benefit of screen captures, I can show you the exquisite nuances of the Cat's  (named "General" in the movie) performance.  Here, General demonstrates existential longing:

Here, General demonstrates curiosity and apprehension:

Here, General demonstrates making out with a pre-teen Drew Barrymore, which frankly makes me kind of uncomfortable.


Sure, it's presented as a Gotcha! moment where you're expecting the cat to crawl up and start stealing her breath or something, and then you're relieved to find out that it's only kissing her, but then again, I'm not sure that cat-kisses were necessarily the best-case outcome for a scenario such as this one.  I digress.

Director Lewis Teague made a career out of drawing terrific performances out of animals.  Cujo in CUJO, the alligator and alligator puppets in ALLIGATOR, etc., etc.  Hell, Cujo even makes a cameo appearance in this film:

As does Christine the Plymouth Fury, who's driven straight out of the John Carpenter film and now outfitted with bumper stickers that proudly proclaim "Rock n Roll will never die!"  and "Watch out for me.  I am Pure Evil.  I am CHRISTINE."

Before I get ahead of myself, let's talk about the film's structure.  The frame story concerns the eponymous cat and his journey from New York City to Atlantic City to Wilmington, NC [side note:  Wilmington was Dino De Laurentiis central (i.e., BLUE VELVET) and home to such King adaptations as MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE, SILVER BULLET, THE NIGHT FLIER, and FIRESTARTER)] ostensibly in search of multiple-part playing Drew Barrymore who is in desperate need of his assistance.  On his way, he passes through– and plays a small part in– a few tales of mystery and imagination ("Quitters, Inc." and "The Ledge") before meeting up with Drew and starring in "The General."  It's not as good a frame story as Tom Atkins' EC-comic-hatin' father in CREEPSHOW, but I'm willing to go with it. 

Then the whole thing is shot by Jack Cardiff, one of the finest cinematographers to ever work in the medium– and the range of his credits is extraordinary.  He did Technicolor classics like THE RED SHOES and THE AFRICAN QUEEN and BLACK NARCISSUS and Hitchcock's UNDER CAPRICORN.  He shot big budget 80's muscle-bulging trashterpieces like CONAN THE DESTROYER and RAMBO: FIRST BLOOD PART II.  And then he directed films such as the madness that is GIRL ON A MOTORCYCLE or the rough n' tumble actioner that is DARK OF THE SUN.  And here we got 'im on CAT'S EYE.  Pretty terrific.

Anyway, the first tale is "Quitters, Inc." from the first King story collection, NIGHT SHIFT.  Though published under King's name, it's more of a 'Richard Bachman'-style tale (King's pseudonym for a series of novels that were stripped down, grittier, meaner, and more nihilistic versions of King's mainline work).  Without giving too much away, this tale stars James Woods as a smoker looking to quit.  On the recommendation of a friend, he engages the shadowy corporation "Quitters, Inc." to assist him – without realizing to what lengths they'll actually go to make sure he kicks the habit.  

 

It feels a lot like David Fincher's 90s thriller THE GAME, and curiously enough, both co-star classic "that guy!" actor James Rebhorn.

Pictured here in a hallucination.

Anyway, since I don't want to spoil the major twists, I'll point out a few of my favorite things from this segment.

#1.  Smarmy James Woods.

Smarmy James Woods was really hitting his stride in the early-to-mid 80s.  Truly one of the great sleazemasters of his– or any other– era.  Even when he's our protagonist, you can still see the trails of slime he leaves behind.

#2.  The Kronenberg Konnection.

 

At one point, James Woods sits at home watching TV in a nicotine-deprived, scotch-soaked, glass-eyed stupor, and what is on television but David Cronenberg's adaptation of THE DEAD ZONE!  For the uninitiated, two years prior, James Woods starred in Cronenberg's VIDEODROME, a masterful showcase of smarmy Woods featuring mind-altering television programming.  Anyway, he briefly complains about the quality of the programming, and the entire moment warms the hearts of VIDEODROME die-hards everywhere.

#3.  Unnecessary violence toward golf bags.

 

While fearing that intruders have infiltrated his home, Woods grabs a bludgeon and whips open a closet door.  Out pops a bag full of golf clubs which lands on the floor with a thud.  After the bag has been fully visible and well lit for a good second or two, he begins pounding on it and lands two serious blows at a point when anybody shy of blindness would clearly see that it was an inert, harmless golf bag.   I found this to be hilarious.

THWACKK

#4.  Taunts from tray of deviled eggs.

'Nuff said!

#5.  The line "Forget the cat, you hemorrhoid!"  Gotta love Mr. King's occasionally misguided attempts at local patois.

The next tale is "The Ledge," also culled from NIGHT SHIFT.  This, too, feels more like a Bachman tale as it trafficks in sadistic gangsters rather than the supernatural.  It even features a henchman named Westlake, referencing the hardboiled writer Donald Westlake who wrote under the pen name Richard Stark (among others).  King references Westlake again in the novel THE DARK HALF (which deals with the emotional fallout after his outing as Bachman) with a writer character who pens pulp fiction under the name "George Stark."

Anyway, a gangster who loves to gamble (Kenneth McMillian, who played Baron Harkonnen in Lynch's DUNE)

catches his wife stepping out with a washed-up tennis player (Robert Hays of the AIRPLANE! series), and makes him a wager:  he'll grant the missus her divorce and let Hays have her if he can make his way around the entirety of the treacherous exterior ledge of his penthouse.  Otherwise, Hays will be set up on a bogus drug possession charge and go to prison for a decade.  The tennis player decides to give it a go, and there you have it:  straightforward stakes, a simple premise- a wiry potboiler with no ambition other than to land you a couple of mean-spirited, tawdry thrills.

The ledge effects possess a strange disconnect (filmed in a studio) which for me only amplifies their effectiveness.  Like all the segments, it's got an oddly-inappropriate-to-the-point-where-it-works sense of humor, and my favorite moments involve the dick moves perpetrated against our hero, like the douchey élan with which McMillan blasts Hays with a fire hose or distracts him with a bicycle horn

or this total asshole pigeon who peck-peck-pecks at your ankles just when you're at your most vulnerable.

Said pigeon also receives feathery and spit-take worthy comeuppance with a hearty kick and the poetry of:

"YOU FLYING SHIT HOUSE!"
Amen, Mr. King!

The final segment, "General," was written specifically for the film (and for the talents of the FIRESTARTER herself, Drew Barrymore).  It's your classic crowd-pleasing l'il creepy creature piece, drawing some degree of inspiration from Richard Matheson's brilliant "Prey," otherwise known as the Zuni Fetish Doll Segment from TRILOGY OF TERROR.

This segment is pretty spectacular, and it concerns primarily the efforts of a breath-stealing troll to terrorize Drew Barrymore.  General intercedes, but draws the ire of Mom (Candy Clark) and the exasperation of Dad (James Naughton) who believe the stray cat to be the cause of the late-nite shenanigans. 

The troll effect is terrific, employing SFX practical effects and occasionally a little person in a suit amid huge sets- it's in turns dreamlike and silly, and it works wonderfully.

Candy Clark gets to chew some scenery as she stuffs our hero cat in a cardboard box and exclaims "Your bird killing days are over, my friend!"

But the final showdown between General and the Troll is what truly takes the cake.  Crayons are hurled like javelins, backflips are employed, and a roller skate is used as a weapon and a mode of conveyance.  I also can safely say that I never in my life expected to see a cat dueling an evil gnome atop a child's record player as a terrible cover of The Police's "Every Breath You Take" plays in triple-time, chipmunk voices and everything!

It's also worth mentioning that this is the second time in the film that this particular Police cover gets a workout.  Way to be cost effective, Dino!

Anyway, the film ends, and then that majestic song, referenced earlier, washes over you as you contemplate the finer nuances of CAT'S EYE.   And because I could not find the lyrics poetry anywhere online, I shall print them here, for posterity:

I didn't know
I was under your spell
I couldn't know
There was no way to tell
I took a step
I slipped I fell
I didn't know whyyyyy

Deep in the dark it was too hard to see
That in the night it had come over me
Ha!
Just stole my soul
Imprison me
With your cat's eye

Cat's eye
How you caught me unaware
Cat's eye
How you hold me in your stare
Cat's eye
Want to hide but tell me where
Cat's eye
You got me spellllllbound
 Cat's eye
How you stole my breath away
Cat's eye 
How you cut me night and day
Cat's eye
I can never get away
Cat's eye 
I'm spelllllllbound

It's like a dream only when do I wake
Can't even scream every breath that I take
Belongs to you what can I do
Why should I tryyyyyyy

I look around like a boy in a trance
You pull the strings I'm a puppet I dance
You're holding me eternally
In your Cat's eye

Cat's eye 
Took my heart with just a look
Cat's eye
Every stare is like a hook
Cat's eye 
Just one look is all it took
Cat's eye
Made me spelllllbound
Cat's eye 
How you stole my breath away
Cat's eye 
How you cut me night and day
Cat's eye
I can never get away
Cat's eye
I am spellllllllbound...



Four stars.


-Sean Gill

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #60-56

60. VIDEODROME (1983, David Cronenberg)

In IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS, John Carpenter nailed the H.P. Lovecraft atmosphere, possibly because he didn't attempt a direct adaptation– he was free to take what the "Lovecraft vibe" meant to him, and apply it in his own way, on his own terms. David Cronenberg does the same thing here, but with Philip K. Dick, and it's goddamned fantastic. James Woods is doin' that skeezy thing that he does, searching for cheap n' vicious cable TV thrills and engaging in a talk show-mance with Debbie Harry, who's pretty busy burning herself with cigarettes and giving herself unsanitary, impromptu body piercings. Meanwhile, cerebral cortexes are becoming infected and tainted with throbbing tele-tumors; abdomens are sprouting unexpected, vaginal VHS players; hands and guns are reshaping themselves, resculpting flesh and blood and steel; and Howard Shore's soundtrack is thrumming along in the background, threatening to drag us back into the pit, or possibly inviting us to evolve. Thankfully, it's got a (mean) streak of pitch-black hilarity, too– for otherwise we might go insane with sheer dread!– it ranges from visual puns to S&M wackiness to spit-take inducing gore to James Woods turning that Sleaze-O-Meter up to eleven and beyond. The first time I saw this was at college, alone, after hours, on a VHS player, deep in the bowels of the Audio Visual Department. Afterward, I half-expected the television to explode into a confetti of viscera; expected the tape itself to begin pulsating wetly in my hands. A powerful film; and, along with Rob Bottin's work on THE THING, Rick Baker's practical special and makeup effects here may very well be the pinnacle of "movie magic," period.

59. ALL THAT JAZZ (1979, Bob Fosse)

Bob Fosse's ALL THAT JAZZ is equal parts auto-biopic, Hollywood musical, and self-chastisement, at once both a swansong and a death rattle. Fosse didn't pass away until 1987, but eight years prior, with ALL THAT JAZZ, he submits, for our consideration, his greatest passions, achievements, nostalgias and lamentations. Roy Scheider, as Fosse's stand-in, warrants every superlative from tour-de-force to powerhouse, his performance as multi-faceted, in-the-moment, and self-reflective as Fosse's unique vision demands. The use of quotidian repetition (visually and aurally indicated in this film by contact lenses, Dexedrine, showering, and Vivaldi's "Concerto Alla Rustica") has never been more effective. Darren Aronofsky's similar stagings in PI and REQUIEM FOR A DREAM feel particularly empty . In Fosse's world, the wreckage of one's life piles on top of itself endlessly- the womanizing, the drug use, regret over familial relationships- and it can all be wiped clean by the promise of a new day ("It's showtime, folks!), everything a rehearsal for a rehearsal, a neverending series of highs and lows which one isn't forced to consider until the end of the line. Thus, Fosse sits in a cobbled-together dressing room limbo netherworld, confronted by Angelique (Jessica Lange), his interviewer, companion, and confessor, contemplating his demise and the life that led up to it. And it's all concurrent: his deathbed, his rehearsals, his family life, childhood embarrassments, in the editing room for LENNY- the comedic monologue on death alternating meanings with each iteration, budget meetings, business brunches, the final act of the last show of one's life and the ultimate send-off with one foot in the grave and one foot on the stage.
An unrivaled rumination on the life of a man who was as susceptible to flattery as he was to self-loathing, who was as much a scoundrel as he was an artist. Five stars.

58. METROPOLITAN (1990, Whit Stillman)

"Is our language so impoverished that we have to use acronyms of French phrases to make ourselves understood?" "-Yes." Like some fragile, carefully festooned porcelain ornament long misplaced, METROPOLITAN emerged in 1990, not with a roar, but rather with an eloquent whisper and an arched eyebrow. Whit Stillman's talent, initially misdiagnosed as Woody Allen-esque, was truly, autobiographically, anachronistically (think F. Scott Fitzgerald unstuck in time with a light dose of John Hughes) original, and it paved the way for such wordy American indie auteurs as Noah Baumbach and Wes Anderson. METROPOLITAN also heralded the arrival of one of the great underappreciated actors of our time, Christopher Eigeman (BARCELONA, KICKING AND SCREAMING). The craftsmanship and hilarity of this script cannot be exaggerated. Endlessly quotable, I find myself held rapt by the exquisite dialogue as one might marvel over a ship-in-a-bottle. Needless to say, it's not for everyone, and if a line like "Girls that have been degraded by you don't need the further humiliation of having their names bandied about non-exclusive Park Avenue after-parties!" doesn't appeal to you, then you probably shouldn't be watching this. The plot is simple, and it unfolds with subtlety and grace: one Christmas vacation, not so long ago, proletarian Fourierist Tom (Edward Clements) is immersed by chance in Manhattan's upper-crust deb world. Gentle, nuanced comedy ensues as he meets the snarky Nick (Eigeman), the tragically naive Charlie (Taylor Nichols), the titled aristocratic tool Von Sloneker (Will Kempe), the melancholy Molly Ringwald-type Audrey (Carolyn Farina), and many others. The film finds true, wry emotive power, however, in its last act, which finds Tom and Charlie cast adrift without their 'id,' Nick, and caught amid a sea of varying premature ideas of failure. An excellent film, and a true silver-tongued jewel in the crown of American independent cinema.

57. BARFLY (1987, Barbet Schroeder)

"And as my hands drop the last desperate pen, in some cheap room, they will find me there and never know my name, my meaning, nor the treasure of my escape." BARFLY is not a pitiful, kitchen sink drama about down-on-their-luck losers. It's not sappy award-season fodder, manipulatively constructed for tugging upon heartstrings and emptying tear-wells. And it's not some slacker ode, designed as a pat on the back for white-bred goof-offs who occasionally daydream about what it'd be like to take a week off work to go on a bender. BARFLY is sincerely dangerous and dangerously sincere, and it is because BARFLY is a philosophy. BARFLY is about winnin' one for the bums, even if that means yankin' the pillars of civilization down on all our heads. It's about taking one's intellect- a genius that could surely have moved mountains– and applying it instead to more expedient techniques for fucking with the night bartender at the local saloon (played with knuckleheaded élan by Frank Stallone).
Its dipsomaniacal protagonist, Henry Chinaski (a recurring Bukowski alter-ego– well, let's just be honest and say 'a Bukowski with a different name'), is played by Mickey Rourke with lunatic gusto which ever threatens to escape the mere confines of the cinema-frame. He lurches about like a movie-monster, dragging his feet like Frankenstein, teetering on his haunches like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, leering like Dwight Frye. He is a gutter-poet, an amateur street-fighter, and a professional drunk. His entire life is a war waged against the status quo, the skirmishes and campaigns of which take place in stagnant, lonely flophouses; noxious, grotty gin-joints; and desolate street corners at 3:00 in the morning. His many victories against society are private ones- they are not sung from the rooftops or celebrated annually by giggling schoolchildren– they're for himself, and for himself only. A wry, split-lip smile reflected back by cracked, dirty mirror.
I did a lengthy write-up on this flick (and the accompanying Q&A) last fall, and after nearly a year of reflection, I must say that BARFLY is King of the Cannon Canon– one of those rare adaptations of a writer's body of work which really captures the spirit of the artist, and in Bukowski's case, it's like white-hot lightning in a 40 oz. bottle.

56. BIGGER THAN LIFE (1956, Nicholas Ray)

"Childhood is a congenital disease - and the purpose of education is to cure it. We're breeding a race of moral midgets." Ostensibly a tale about addiction to prescription drugs, BIGGER THAN LIFE is really about an addiction to values; even going so far as to prove the collective insanity which is our society's bedrock, simply by upholding its more respected tenets... TO THE DEATH! James Mason takes the moral code of the LEAVE IT TO BEAVER-generation and amplifies it, distorts it, makes it 'bigger than life,' makes it a grotesque. His performance is terrifying and absolutely inspired, it's one of the most impressive acting achievements of the 50s. All of this is draped across an expressionistic CinemaScope frame, bursting with bold shadows and Technicolor insanity courtesy of ex-noir standby Joe MacDonald (PICKUP ON SOUTH STREET, PANIC IN THE STREETS, CALL NORTHSIDE 777). I don't wish to give too much more away along with my whole-hearted recommendation, but it's certainly one of the bleakest, blackest films of the 50s, and, if I'm not mistaken, is surely the inspiration for All-American dad Leland Palmer in David Lynch's TWIN PEAKS. (Also, a whirlwind shopping trip whereupon James Mason forces his wife to try on fancy frock after frock after frock ad nauseum is well worth the price of admission alone.) It's astounding that this was even allowed to be made. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll cower in fear. What more do you want?

Coming up next... Clint Eastwood times two, the rockin' tunes of Goblin, and some Frenchie neo-noir!

Previously on the countdown:
#65-61
#70-66
#75-71
#80-76
#85-81
#90-86
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

Film Review: VAMPIRES (1998, John Carpenter)

Stars: 3.5 of 5.
Running Time: 108 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: James Woods, Daniel Baldwin (HOMICIDE: LIFE ON THE STREET, BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY), Sheryl Lee (TWIN PEAKS, BACKBEAT, WINTER'S BONE), Tim Guinee (BLADE, IRON MAN), Maximilian Schell (JUDGMENT AT NUREMBERG, ST. IVES, CROSS OF IRON), Thomas Ian Griffith (THE KARATE KID PART III, XXX), Mark Boone Jr. (DIE HARD 2, BATMAN BEGINS). Cinematography by Gary Kibbe. Written by Don Jakoby (BLUE THUNDER, DEATH WISH 3, ARACHNOPHOBIA) and based on the novel by John Steakley. Cameo by Frank Darabont as 'car theft victim.'
Tag-line: "Prepare for the Dawn."
Best one-liner: "The sunlight turns 'em into crispy critters."


VAMPIRES underwent a lot of excellent re-evaluation during Radiator Heaven's Carpenter Blogathon this October, so I was feeling the compulsion to revisit it. My opinion was that it wasn't terribly bad nor was it terribly good, but that it was still a solid, Hawks-infused, second-tier Carpenter. This still stands, but I believe I must attach a caveat: VAMPIRES is the sort of movie you should probably watch alone. I think you know what I mean. As soon as the prying eyes of some second party, non-Carpenter apologist stray across the screen you begin to feel some pangs of embarrassment because an action scene is being presented with rampant dissolves, or some lesser Baldwin is smacking around Laura Palmer, or James Woods is delivering a speech about boners. Suffice it to say, that even to a girlfriend who's on board with THE THING and THEY LIVE, VAMPIRES is a pretty tough sell. VAMPIRES has got a lot of 'slowed-frame-rate slow motion,' which, for lack of better terminology, is The Slow Motion That Looks Like Shit. There are moments where so much exposition ("I know your parents were bitten by vampires, but...") is being jammed down our throats, it feels almost like we're being mugged. There's Maxmilian Schell in a Cardinal's outfit that might have been plucked from a community theater's Kostume Kloset.
I don't know if you can tell from this photo, but that cross may have been purchased from a craft store.

You see, the budget was cut by 66% right before filming began, and we can't blame Carpy for that. But there's a lot of good stuff, too. First off, there's no glaringly hideous low-budge CGI to muck up the proceedings––in fact, some of Greg Nicotero's makeup effects are damned impressive. But secondly, the movie is cool. Though it pains me to say it, in this movie, James Woods is cool. Don't believe me? Check out these pictures taken of him walking away from an explosion without even flinching.




Check out those mini-aviators, the cigar, and the scowl. He lights matches off of skulls for chrissakes.

Even when his nuts are on fire, he's got something snappy to say.

And he sells it. In order for a movie like this to succeed, it's gotta be carried by someone, and James Woods is up for the task. In those 'iffy' moments, you have to look to someone for leadership. We look to Woods, and he looks committed enough... so the movie stays afloat. His sidekick, Montoya, is played by the lesser Baldwin named Daniel. He drinks Red Dog, wears denim, and has got a fancy necklace that he bought from the mall.


We meet them in a scene that's very NEAR DARK-meets-Howard Hawks: getting to know the characters, in media res, in relation to their work. Though most of our expendable blue-collar heroes don't survive the first twenty minutes, Carpenter (and DP Kibbe) introduce the crew as hardened, workaday men, sleazy but professional, who exist someplace in that ambiguous zone betwixt 'pistolero' and 'SWAT Team.' Everyone has a job to do, and their determination and speciality devices lend a quality of verisimilitude to the proceedings.


(Though, later, during the aforementioned 'team massacre' near the twenty-minute mark, one team member comically shows uncommon ineptitude by attempting to stake a vampire right in the heart. Er, I mean, right in a spot three feet above his head.)


Our master vampire is played by Thomas Ian Griffith (KARATE KID III's "Terry Silver"), who kinda plays it like a cross between Richard E. Grant and Tommy Wiseau.

There is a great moment though, when a portrait of the Master, supposedly painted in 1340, is revealed.

Any resemblance to a Sears portrait, circa 1998, with a layer of 'oil painting' Photoshop rendering, is purely coincidental. Then we got Sheryl Lee as the 'sex worker-turned-vampire' who has a psychic link with the Master. She imbues the role with a genuine intensity that it doesn't quite deserve. (With shades of her Laura Palmer-as-possessed-by-BOB from TWIN PEAKS: FIRE WALK WITH ME!) As written, the role- and large swaths of the script as a whole (not written by Carpenter)- are fairly misogynistic, which is especially surprising considering that it's a Carpy film.


A lesser Baldwin stikes a lady


Random bondage

Lee and Carpenter work together to give it some added depth, however, and additionally, she can probably lay claim to being the freakiest element of the film.
The soundtrack is classic Carpy: bass-heavy, twangy, and usually building momentum, like his work on THEY LIVE and PRINCE OF DARKNESS. Kibbe's cinematography is up to par, and one scene in particular, whereupon the Master Vampire and his minions rise out of the prairie dust, is especially effective.

Anyway, the movie chugs along, Woods picks up another sidekick in the form of a nerdy priest played by Tim Guinee, there's some enjoyable action setpieces, some kind of hamfisted but not out-of-place commentary on the Catholic church, and the line "How do ya like your 'stake,' bitch?" Between all the screaming and yelling and grappling with blood-coated women and utterances of "fucking bitch" and all that, you get the idea that it's almost a 'day in the life' of James Woods the actor, and it's really too bad that Sean Young couldn't make an appearance in this film, too. To make a long story short, we conclude with a classically existential Carpenter denouement that smacks, most admirably, of the master Hawks himself.


Then, after the most genuine moment of the film (and one which it deserves to have) Carpenter boldly ends the movie with Woods and his new priest-buddy talking about boners.






Now, somehow I find that I can get behind this wholeheartedly: it takes balls to end your movie with a bunch of wisecracks about boners. But it's the kinda thing that makes you wince when somebody pops their head in, and just sees that part. So, alone, I give VAMPIRES four stars. When forced to defend it to somebody who has, uh, higher standards, I have to admit it's probably about two and a half. So let's split the difference. I still love ya, Carpy.