Only now does it occur to me... PHANTASM (1979)

Only now does it occur to me...  I've written a little about PHANTASM (1979) a few times before. It's a surrealistic indie melancholy horror which owes more to Luis Buñuel and Jean Cocteau (and a little Ray Bradbury) than, say, NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD or the Universal horror classics.

Fred Myrow's 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 should have even made the establishment critics take notice. In fact, Coscarelli's first two films were slice-of-life coming-of-age pictures played straight (the excellent KENNY & CO. and JIM, THE WORLD'S GREATEST). But let the establishment 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...

 

I also once wrote about THE OTHER (1972) as the missing link between SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES and PHANTASM, but I'd like to add a few new observations as well. 

First, that it's incredible how deeply PHANTASM aligns––more psychically than literally––with STAR WARS. Both take deep inspiration from DUNE (STAR WARS with Tatooine, the Tusken Raiders, spice-running, Jedi spirituality, and the Butlerian jihad reflected in "we don't serve their kind here," etc.; PHANTASM with the faux-Bene Gesserit "put your hand in the box/fear is the mind killer" scene, 

 

a hostile wasteland planet, and "Dune's Cantina"), 

 

and both feature little people in desert robes (in STAR WARS, the iconic Jawas; in PHANTASM, the compressed bodies of the dead... reanimated by the Tall Man and used as interdimensional minions). 

Director Don Coscarelli has described this as a coincidence. He was apparently midway through production on PHANTASM when a friend told him he had seen "a trailer for this new movie Star Wars and your characters, the little brown dwarf guys, are in it." Later, STAR WARS fan and THE FORCE AWAKENS director J.J. Abrams helped restore the original print of PHANTASM and named Gwendoline Christie's shiny chrome STAR WARS character "Phasma" as a tribute.

Anyway, PHANTASM is great. It's meandering and dreamlike and a true indie, with bold editorial choices and stunning visuals. It's a little rough around the edges, and the performances (aside from A. Michael Baldwin's lead (child) performance and Angus Scrimm's elementally terrifying Tall Man) are uneven, but it's spooky, charming, and in a class of its own. 

 

It makes the time for multiple Reggie the Ice Cream Man (Reggie Bannister) guitar jam sessions

 

and definitely is not a screenplay they're going to teach in SAVE THE CAT or Robert McKee-inspired film schools. This gives it time to develop its potently weird dream energy, like a more adult ALICE IN WONDERLAND (or like VALERIE AND HER WEEK OF WONDERS or LEMORA: A CHILD'S TALE OF THE SUPERNATURAL).

 

 Like most melancholy horror films, it's about grief, abandonment, and fear of the unknown.

A strong recommend if you've never seen it, especially in its gorgeous new restoration.

Film Review: LEMORA: A CHILD'S TALE OF THE SUPERNATURAL (1973, Richard Blackburn)

Stars: 3.5 of 5.

Running Time: 85 minutes.

Notable Cast or Crew: Lesley Taplin (THE ACTIVIST), Cheryl Smith (LASERBLAST, THE INCREDIBLE MELTING MAN), and Hy Pyke (BLADE RUNNER, DOLEMITE). Directed by Richard Blackburn (who also co-wrote EATING RAOUL and wrote and directed a TALES FROM THE DARKSIDE episode). Cinematography by Robert Caramico (BLACKENSTEIN, FALCON CREST, JUST SHOOT ME).
Tag-line: "Through the doors up the dark stairs behind this window... a possession is taking place! Run, little girl... innocence is in peril tonight!"

Best one-liner: "I am the unkillable. My spirit is the strongest ever."

Longtime readers of this site will know of my interest in what I call "melancholy horror," which I roughly define as a sub-genre of especially artistic horror/thriller/supernatural drama films that offer  genuine scares and genuine sadness in equal measure. They routinely begin and/or end with a tragedy, often of an accidental, non-supernatural variety; and they were made, by and large, between 1970 and 1981, mostly on lower budgets which lend them a 'documentary' feel. Their visuals are impressionistic, hypnotic, and dreamlike, the 1970s film stock often lending sunlight, candlelight, and fall colors a special ethereal prominence. LEMORA: A CHILD'S TALE OF THE SUPERNATURAL fits firmly into this category, a truly American indie that later found a cult audience in France. It's a peculiar hodgepodge of Jesus and Lovecraft, of folk tales and arthouse sensibilities, drenched in scary-weird amateur acting choices and vibrant, expressionistic lighting.

LEMORA is mostly notorious for a lengthy condemnation by the Catholic Legion of Decency, and the re-release poster pictured (at the top of the review) is retroactively trying to cash in on these religious horror aspects by making visual reference to CARRIE. Truthfully, the film has much more in common with melancholy gems like LET'S SCARE JESSICA TO DEATH (1971) or VALERIE AND HER WEEK OF WONDERS (1970). Technically, this is a PG-rated children's movie, but it's also a perverse psychological miasma of adolescent paranoia and sexual aggression, and the fact that sections of it were filmed on abandoned sets from THE ANDY GRIFFITH SHOW only adds to the effect.

Welcome to Mayberry!

The plot revolves around the thirteen-year-old Lila Lee, a doe-eyed gangster's child turned evangelical starlet,

 

the "singin' angel daughter of a real life devil,"

who escapes her (possibly pedophilic?) foster Reverend for the Lovecraftian hamlet of Astaroth, where her father may be hiding out. Here, factions of proto-Fulci-esque zombies 

vie for dominance against Edwardian lesbian vampires who look like they just escaped the PICNIC AT HANGING ROCK.

To paraphrase Bush 43, "ladies and gentlemen, this is some weird shit." Essentially, every character that Lila Lee encounters attempts to exploit her to some end (whether by sexual or culinary means)

and the result is a deeply alienating life lesson (ostensibly for child viewers) regarding society's view of adolescent female sexuality. Minus the horror elements, it is a message that easily could have been delivered by Catherine Breillat, Simone de Beauvoir, or Chantal Akerman. LEMORA's inability to commit to a single horror trope (zombies, vampires, witchcraft, hag horror, ghosts, religious horror, haunted houses) feels deliberate, speaking to the universality of the message––almost as if to signal that all female Bildungsromane lead here, from  LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD to THE BELL JAR. 

At the center of all of this is a deeply bizarre performance by Lesley Taplin as the eponymous Lemora, a predatory vampiress who may very well be the most likable character in the film.

In the end, it's an obscure, atmospheric, and generally quiet entry into melancholy horror genre, and like ALICE IN WONDERLAND and many a coming-of-age fairy tale, it is ambiguous enough to inspire a wide range of reactions (I could just as easily analyze LEMORA as a progressive text, or regressive one).

Only now does it occur to me... OUR MOTHER'S HOUSE (1967)

Only now does it occur to me... that Jack Clayton should certainly be in the running for "greatest ever director of child actors." Anyone who has seen THE INNOCENTS cannot fail to be impressed by the child leads (Martin Stephens and Pamela Franklin), who infuse their roles with a spooky maturity and an uncanny depth that almost make you wonder if the children have been possessed for real. [I've already reviewed THE INNOCENTS (1961), and conclude that (alongside THE CHANGELING) it's probably the greatest "ghost story" film ever made.]

Clayton further demonstrated his proficiency in working with child actors in the (flawed, but interesting) adaptation of SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES (1983) and the (Harold Pinter-penned) domestic drama, THE PUMPKIN EATER (1964). I just finished watching OUR MOTHER'S HOUSE (1967), and I have to say he sort of outdoes himself, at least as far as the directing is concerned.

I wouldn't quite call OUR MOTHER'S HOUSE a horror film, but it's more macabre than your usual drama; between its atmosphere and pedigree, I think I can safely shoehorn it into my "Melancholy Horror" genre, which I've described at length here. It has an overcast, oddly unsettling pre-autumn color palette

that carries a "back to school" nostalgia alongside a kind of bleak-hearted English emptiness.

In its own way, I'd call it a minor influence on everything from CARRIE to THE BEGUILED to THE LITTLE GIRL WHO LIVES DOWN THE LANE.

The initial set-up (without getting too spoilery) is that a deeply religious mother has been living from her sickbed, trying to raise seven children of varying ages. Consequently, they have become quite self-sufficient but have developed a complicated socio-political structure, a structure whose key anchor is their daily religious instruction, ominously called "Mother Time."

When Mother dies, the children see little reason to alter the makeup of their insulated household, and therefore decide to bury her in the backyard garden without telling anyone. What follows is a sort of domesticated and more introverted version of LORD OF THE FLIES, filled with unexpected happenings and power struggles and séances and matriarchal cults––it's top-notch wacko melodrama, and I mean that as highest praise. That any of this works at all is a testament to Clayton and his talented child actors. Of course, one of the standouts is THE INNOCENTS' Pamela Franklin,

who seizes a mantle of power and is overwhelmed by deep, pubescent insecurities. The role requires her to run a gamut of human emotion that even lifelong devotees of the craft would find daunting. She is phenomenal.

Also, Dirk Bogarde is in this, too. I won't tell you under what circumstance he appears, but he knows this film belongs to the children and he does not attempt to upstage them.

(He has top billing in this movie, simply because the true stars are little-known child actors.)

In short, if you have an interest in morbid 1960s melodrama, a master's class in child acting, or what I term melancholy horror, OUR MOTHER'S HOUSE is a curiosity worth seeking out.

Sean Gill's "Till the Cows Come Home" in Pembroke Magazine

I have a new short story (you might even say it was of the "melancholy horror" persuasion) called "Till the Cows Come Home," and it may be found in the 2016 issue of Pembroke Magazine (#48), a literary journal published at the University of North Carolina at Pembroke.  It is available for purchase in print here.

Film Review: THE BROOD (1979, David Cronenberg)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 92 minutes.
Tag-line: "The Ultimate Experience Of Inner Terror."
Notable Cast or Crew: Oliver Reed (THE DEVILS, WOMEN IN LOVE, SITTING TARGET), Samantha Eggar (DOCTOR DOLITTLE, THE COLLECTOR, THE EXTERMINATOR), Art Hindle (INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS '78, PORKY'S), Cindy Hinds (THE LITTLEST HOBO, THE DEAD ZONE), Susan Hogan (DISTURBING BEHAVIOR, THE LITTLE VAMPIRE), Robert A. Silverman (SCANNERS, NAKED LUNCH), Henry Beckman (MARNIE, DEATH HUNT).  Produced by Pierre David (VISITING HOURS, SCANNERS, VIDEODROME).  Cinematography by Mark Irwin (SCREAM, ROBOCOP 2, VIDEODROME).  Music by Howard Shore (AFTER HOURS, THE LORD OF THE RINGS).
Best One-liner:  "Thirty seconds after you're born you have a past and sixty seconds after that you begin to lie to yourself about it."

"THE BROOD is my version of KRAMER VS. KRAMER, but more realistic."   –David Cronenberg

"You got involved with a woman who fell in love with your sanity and hoped it would rub off."  –"Frank Carveth," a character in THE BROOD

What better time than a blizzard for this icy Canadian horror psychodrama?  It's David Cronenberg's THE BROOD!

In this, his fourth theatrical feature (though it's actually his twenty-first film, if we include his shorts and television work), Cronenberg gets personal––really personal.  Specifically, he delves into the intimate and troubling emotional landscape of his divorce and the subsequent custody battle.  My impression is that the artistic process must have been so draining and generally unnerving that he would require years to recover––in fact, SCANNERS, his 1981 follow-up, unfolds at such a passive, Kubrickian remove, that I would go so far as to call it his most impersonal film.  Perhaps using cinema as a tool for psychological self-analysis in THE BROOD felt a little too much like toying with the "new flesh," like something out of the Philip K. Dick novels Cronenberg idolized as a young man and would later deconstruct and reassemble as frightening, post-modern, sterile techno-hellscapes (SCANNERS, VIDEODROME).

Did he fear becoming one of the half-benevolent, half-mad techno-sages that pepper his films (like Oliver Reed's "Hal Raglan" in THE BROOD, Patrick McGoohan's "Paul Ruth" in SCANNERS, or Jack Creley's "Brian O'Blivion" in VIDEODROME)?  I've always thought the greatest horror writers are the ones fully capable of scaring themselves––and so we enter the world of THE BROOD.

Oliver Reed plays the aforementioned Dr. Hal Raglan, a techno-guru whose new methodology, "Psychoplasmics," attempts to physically manifest emotions like resentment, melancholy, and rage within his patients.

The film imagines the following scenario: what if discontent could be grown externally, like a sore or a lesion? Would people perceive mental illness differently? Could it be treated simply and painlessly? Perhaps the fallout from a bad job, bad marriage, bad childhood, or bad life could be frozen, disintegrated, and forgotten as easily as a wart or a blister.

The opening scene involves a public presentation of Psychoplasmics, and it is well on par with the infamous demonstration from SCANNERS (if not as Grand Guignol). It's a simple interaction between doctor and patient (Oliver Reed and Gary McKeehan), but Cronenberg's execution is fresh and hypnotic.  There is a distinct performative, theatrical aspect, but also an uncomfortably intimate one.  In the context of the film and behind the camera, the layers of staging and representation are as poignant as they are disquieting.




You might occasionally chuckle at the intensity of the performances, but only in the way you might whistle, wide-eyed and skittish, through a graveyard at night.

I don't want to tell you too much about THE BROOD.  I think it's a sci-fi horror film that's sadder than it is scary (quite an achievement, because it is incredibly unnerving), and it really toes the line between Body Horror and Melancholy Horror.  It is a film about cycles of abuse, the reverberations of divorce, and the repression of emotional scars. It is a film about how psychological damage inevitably resurfaces, no matter how deeply it is buried.  And yet it is also a film about damage extracted from the soul––scrutinized, treated, and compartmentalized––and how it, despite our best efforts, may very well resurface, too.

On a slightly lighter note, I'll close out the review with a few stray observations (without spoiling THE BROOD).


#8.  Let's talk a little more about Oliver Reed.  The man was known to phone in (from the bar, to be specific) many of his performances (usually in genre fare) from the late 1970s and beyond.  That's not the case here.  I'm not sure I've seen him this committed and connected outside of a Ken Russell film.

Out of all of Cronenberg's techno-sages, Reed's is the only one who truly lays claim to a full story arc, and the bulk of that rests in his performance.  For instance, I can't think of many actors who can project "blind arrogance" and "reflective self-doubt" simultaneously, or with such panache.


#7.  Samantha Eggar.

I'm not so familiar with Samantha Eggar's catalog, but when I see that her most-viewed credits involve films like DOCTOR DOLITTLE and Walt Disney's HERCULES, I'd say that her talents have been under- or mis-used.  In THE BROOD, she is magnificently intense and eerily authentic.  She's only in a handful of scenes, but, ohhhh boy, does she make her mark.  At once she is the storm and the storm's eye; a dormant volcano, biding her time.  


#6.  And, by virtue of their intensity, this brings us to "Oliver Reed vs. Samantha Eggar,"


who in a number of scenes engage in one-on-one "scary eye" combat.

This is, in essence, why I go to the movies.


#5.  Art Hindle.

He's servicable, but not particularly colorful. In early Cronenberg films, the heroes tend to be blanker slates (see: Hindle here, or Stephen Lack in SCANNERS), and I'm not sure if this changes due to maturations in Cronenberg's writing or in his casting.  After SCANNERS, his heroes become far more memorable––James Woods' wondrous sleaze in VIDEODROME, Christopher Walken's spooky quirkiness in THE DEAD ZONE, Jeff Goldlum's lovable verbosity in THE FLY, Jeremy Irons' glum freakiness in DEAD RINGERS...


#5. This is peculiar: at one point, a policeman's (incorrect) theory about what's actually going on describes the plot twist of Dario Argento's PHENOMENA. Maybe Dario saw this at the movies and figured it was a red herring too good to pass up!


#4.  Mark Irwin's crisp, sterile, and foreboding cinematography.  You could chalk it up to the natural visuals of 1970s Canadian architecture or the way the overcast Ontarian light strikes the lens, but Cronenberg and DP Mark Irwin (VIDEODROME, THE FLY, SCANNERS, THE DEAD ZONE) are clearly a match made in heaven.  Or perhaps hell.  Or more accurately, perhaps the waiting room to a body-horror clinic at the icy inner circle of hell.


And naturally, it has the requisite "little girl in a horror film wearing red" (á la DON'T LOOK NOW, et al.).


 #3.  With his second film score, Howard Shore has not quite yet come into his own––here, he's channeling Bernard Herrmann, and is more melodramatic than usual.  (It is solid work, though derivative.)  In the six years following THE BROOD, he will go on to compose SCANNERS, VIDEODROME, and AFTER HOURS––three of the finest and most original soundtracks of the 1980s.


#2.  Hey, it's Robert A. Silverman!  One of the key "Cronenberg Cronies," he's lent his oddball, off-kilter presence to classics like RABID, SCANNERS, NAKED LUNCH, eXistenZ, and even Cronenberg's episode of FRIDAY THE 13TH: THE SERIES.

Here, he has a, um––shall we say, "neck condition?"


#1.  Cindy Hinds, a child actor with serious chops.

A bad performance here would have wreaked serious consequence on the rest of the film, but Ms. Hinds (who also appears in THE DEAD ZONE) is capable of adapting to very subtle changes in tone, at times displaying a frightening detachment or a traumatized vulnerability.

She is perhaps the true center of this film, an open-ended enigma whose fate, depending on your own emotional state, can be unwritten or preordained.

Five stars.


––Sean Gill