Back-to-back cosmos-enacted zombie horror films! First, NIGHT OF THE CREEPS and now a quintessential take on Los Angeles: NIGHT OF THE COMET!
This is another repost, as Sunday is a day of rest. I’m not religious, but I do think it’s a it’s a healthy action and I will be relying on Sunday reposts here on out because I do need to prepare for NaNoWriMo.
I fucking love this film. It’s a whimsical teen zombie film, witty, surprisingly progressive, vibrant, and has one of the more nuanced sisters dynamic I’ve seen in genre films. It’s brilliant and well-worth your time this month.
NIGHT OF THE CREEPS opens on a darkened spaceship. One alien creature embraces a black experimental canister as it runs from two aliens in pursuit, guns blazing.
“That experiment must not get off this ship!”
Of course, the experiment is forcefully freed from the ship and finds its way to Earth. The experiment? Sluglike things that infect creatures through the mouth and immediately turns the host into a desiccated zombie.
The experiment ends up being unleashed at Corman University and matters escalate, mostly around semi-dweebish Chris Romero and his disabled friend J.C. Hooper who requires crutches, as well as Cynthia Cronenberg, the schoolmate Chris pines for, but a blockhead named Brad stands in the way.
“Sorry, Brad. Don’t take it personal.”
NIGHT OF THE CREEPS (CREEPS going forward) writer/director Fred Dekker has had quite the Hollywood career, spanning close to 50 years, writing everything from HOUSE to THE MONSTER SQUAD to IF LOOKS COULD KILL to 2018’s THE PREDATOR. However, NIGHT OF THE CREEPS feels like his mission statement, his visual thesis for his love of films.
From the knowing winks with a number of character’s surnames being shorthand for Dekkers influences. As noted above, you already have (John) Romero, (Tobe) Hooper and (David) Cronenberg. There’s also Detective Ray (John) Cameron, Detective (John) Landis, Sergeant (Sam) Raimi, and officers (Wes) Craven and (Mario) Bava.
There are also a number of other great inserts, such as Corman mainstay Dick Miller — see GREMLINS 2 and CHOPPING MALL — and all-around horror actor Tom Atkins (the aforementioned Detective Ray Cameron), as well as a mother watching a late broadcast of PLAN 9 FROM OUTER SPACE.
Those who know, know, and horror fans will feel like they’re in good hands.
“Zombies, exploding heads, creepy-crawlers… and a date for the formal. This is classic, Spanky.”
While CREEPS doesn’t quite have the menace or scares it could, that’s beside the point. While it moves surprisingly briskly it’s the characters here that shine, notably Chris and J.C.
“OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.
“Do you think it’s taking the Lord’s name in vain to say ‘OH MY GOD.’ a whole bunch of times really fast like that?”
“I believe you’re allowed to break the commandments in certain situations.”
J.C. is one of the more positive portrayals of a disabled person I’ve seen from a genre film of the 80s. Genre films of that time rarely featured them or if they did, it was in a ham-fisted, clumsy, and insensitive way. While we never quite know exactly why J.C. can’t walk without the aid of crutches, we do see that he is very self-sufficient and accepting of needing them, and his friend Chris is also accepting and never patronizing. He is a good, respectful friend, although occasionally an unappreciative asshole.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: male friendship is very rarely the focal point of films, and they have an intense friendship. They look out for each other and have each other’s best interests in mind. Early in the film, J.C. is the one who steps up and takes the initiative in order to draw Cynthia’s attention to Chris, while also deflecting her blockhead boyfriend Brad.
“I bust my ass to help you and you get chickenshit again. And I push and I push and I don’t give up. And why? You don’t even know. You don’t even care. Because it’s important to me that you’re happy. Is that so crazy?”
Like many mid-80s genre films, there is definitely a queer subtext here. Hell, it isn’t even really subtext, although it’s never exactly addressed in the film’s dialogue, but, well, just read the following excerpt:
J.C.: “[You] just get depressed all the time like you are. So fuck you.”
Chris: “Yeah, well, fuck you too.”
J.C.: “You try it.”
Chris: “You’d let me.”
J.C.: “You want me to.”
Chris: “You wish.”
[PILLOW FIGHT BREAKS OUT]
Granted, J.C. isn’t ‘swishy’ like how most gay men were portrayed in genre films at the time. However, more than a little of the dialogue indicates that J.C. is definitely queer.
“I walked, Chris. All by myself. I love you. Good luck with Cynthia.”
It is not subtle! I’m shocked that folks argue about this! (That said, I do spend a lot of time reading and writing about queer genre works.)
To reiterate: this portrayal of J.C. is far more sensitive and well-developed than most genre folks penning horror at the time, and still feels positive. Yes, he’s ‘Chris’s queer best friend’ but he also has nuance and heart and feels real.
I will note that there is one way where the film lets us down regarding J.C., but it’s a spoiler, so see below:
Spoiler
Unfortunately, this film does bury its gays. And the disabled. J.C. was doomed from the get-go, sadly.
[collapse]
Setting that aside, Tom Atkins is brilliant as hard-boiled Detective Ray Cameron. He gets some of the best lines and his performance straddles both serious and camp. Allegedly, it’s his favorite film that he’s been a part of, and that’s high praise.
NIGHT OF THE CREEPS is an eminently watchable film, fantastic for Halloween, but also just for everyday viewing. Dekker put his heart and soul into this film, was bolstered by everyone he knew he wanted to see his creation through, and it paid off in every which way.
“Thrill me.”
ADDENDUM
There are two different cuts of this film: the Theatrical Cut, where the ending is very bleak, and the Director’s Cut, which sets up a sequel. Obviously, go with the Director’s Cut. I have no idea why the producers and/or editors thought that the theatrical ending would result in better financial success because yikes. It is an utter killjoy of an ending.
This film features portrayals of rape and abuse. I do not go into specifics in this write-up, but felt it was worth the warning.
So, I done fucked up in attempting to have an entire month of extolling fun, non-traumatizing works. As seems to be a persistent theme, I thought this film was more fun than it is — and it is very fun, in a JAWBREAKER high-school way — until it isn’t.
I simply forgot about the final act. Well, didn’t forget exactly as just blocked it out. Of one of my many conditions, I suffer from dissociative disorder. For example: once my wife and I were having a pleasant discussion and the film playing on the TV in the background had an awful rape scene in the film and she asked me to turn the channel and noted: “How can you not be affected by this?” Simply put: my mind blocked it out. It wasn’t happening. That situation was not playing out. I went to another place.
Again, I wanted this month to all be about fun horror films. Initially, I’d planned to write about Brian de Palma’s PHANTOM OF THE PARADISE today, but I want to save that for our at-home Halloween viewing instead. A bad decision for sure, but so it goes.
Moving along. ALL CHEERLEADERS DIE is a sadly mostly-overlooked film from MAY and DARLIN’ director Lucky McKee, one of the few male writer/directors that seems attuned to taking the piss out of masculinity and shining a light on the shit women have to endure.
“I’m rotten.”
“No, you’re not rotten. You’re just… living.”
The film starts with high-schooler Maddy — a stern Caitlin Stasey — who, at first blush, feels a bit like Veronica Mars. She films herself talking about how she’s going to infiltrate the world of American football and cheerleading at her school, and undermine it. She does, she gets into the cheer squad, attends a party and gives the Tracy The Captain — a very blonde Blake Lively-ish Brooke Butler — the fingerblast of her life, while also telling off Brooke’s cheating ex for reasons later explained. Matters escalate, and four members of the cheer squad try to drive off to escape masculine insecurity and violence. Unfortunately, their car suffers an accident and all four of them die.
“How do I look?”
“Dangerous.”
“Duh.”
Fortunately, Lanna, who has been pining over Maddy for some time — I’ll note that this film is extremely sapphic — is prone to being witchy and she manages to bring them back to life via a handful of gems. Kinda. Two of the squad members were sisters, and they end up body swapped. Also, now they can only feed on blood and, oh, everyone is emotionally and physiologically tethered to each other.
“Leena’s a witch.”
“That’s not nice Maddy. You shouldn’t call people names.”
“No, she’s right. I am a witch.”
What results is what can only be described as unbridled hedonism due to their imbued power. There’s a lot of lust and murder. Again, matters escalate, and as others discover exactly how they survived their car crash, there’s the inevitable pursuit.
“Uh, what did he do to you?”
If I had remembered the final act, I certainly wouldn’t have rewatched this, but I did mean to write about it the first time I watched it as its cadence and sense of humor and twisted set-pieces are so fulfilling. Of note: cross-cutting between a death and an orgasm across all of the squad that is expertly and comically handled.
“Uh, what the fuck is going on?”
“Somebody got fucked, somebody got killed and I’m going to P.E.”
ALL CHEERLEADERS DIE fully recognizes the youthful feeling of invincibility but also of vulnerability and being pursued and power dynamics. Of all of McKee’s work, it feels far more succinct and the most impactful, and it’s a shame that it’s overlooked.
To say that director Jim Wynorski has had a storied career vastly understates matters. In the fashion of his mentor Roger Corman, he’s been helming horror and exploitation films for almost 40 years. Here are just a small sample of the titles of works he’s willed into the world: THE WITCHES OF BREASTWICK, BODY CHEMISTRY 4: FULL EXPOSURE, THE BARE WENCH PROJECT 2: SCARED TOPLESS, THE BREASTFORD WIVES, SEXIPEDE!, and ATTACK OF THE 50 FOOT CAMGIRL. I could go on, but you get the idea.
So far he has directed a mind-boggling 107 films, although I wouldn’t surprised if he directed two more in the time it took me to pen this post. As you might suspect based on the listed titles, most were churned out in a matter of days.
However, he is best known for the second film he directed: CHOPPING MALL. Originally titled KILLBOTS, it has the right balance of charm, slightly idiosyncratic characters, setting, and memorable production design.
CHOPPING MALL can be distilled down to ROBOCOP ED-209s replacing DAWN OF THE DEAD’s zombies in a mall. Their mall has rolled out security robots that aren’t too far removed from 80s Gemini robot but with arms.
“Trust me. Absolutely nothing can go wrong.”
A handful of mall employees decide to throw a sex-fueled party for themselves after-hours, The mall is struck by lightining, causing the ‘protector’ security robots to become murderous, and the party members can’t escape until morning due to even more security precautions. Matters escalate.
“If those things want some target practice, let’s give them some targets.”
While it is a paper-thin plot, as mentioned before, the characters — while being relatively stock, even down to the woman who knows how to fix a car’s engine — are deftly fleshed out by the cast. The robots, while looking Corman-cheap, are memorably designed.
Wynorski also leans on his love of cult films. The film opens with an over-the-top demonstration of the security robots and features Paul Bartel and Mary Moronov reprising their EATING RAOUL characters. Corman and Joe Dante mainstay Dick Miller briefly appears. The protagonists watch Corman’s ATTACK OF THE CRAB MONSTERS, and one of the shops is pointedly named ‘Peckinpah’s Sporting Goods’. They’re all small nods for sure, but showcase Wynorski’s love and appreciation for his influences.
“Maybe we should use one for the restaurant. Get rid of people we don’t like.”
However, the real standout is Chuck Cirino’s film score. It’s all staccato synths and simple hooks and is emblematic of the mid-80s, and very danceable. Oddly, it reminds me of the score from the MAX HEADROOM TV series.
It is an extremely winsome film that, against all odds, has endured. It’s worth noting that Wynorski’s latest film, MURDERBOTS, appears to slightly lean on CHOPPING MALL. Given that the plot is focused around a murderous ‘female’ robot, it feels more like Paulie’s robot girlfriend in ROCKY IV, but as I haven’t seen it, I cannot say for sure.
I recently posted about ARACHNOPHOBIA, a film that wasn’t as fun as I remembered. On the other end of the cinematic spectrum, for Horrorclature I rewatched IDLE HANDS, a film I last watched many moons ago. I recall it as an amusing, charismatic trifle.
I did not appreciate it as much as I should have.
IDLE HANDS — from director Rodman Flender and prolific genre writers Terri Hughes Burton and Ron Milbauer — features post-high school burnout stoner Anton Tobias, gangly and goofily played by Devon Sawa, living in his parent’s basement and oblivious to anything but his own physical wants, to the point where it takes him days to realize that his parents were murdered by a local serial killer.
“IM UNDER THE BED”
His friends — the always comical Seth Green and Elden Henson — ultimately realize that Anton, or more precisely Anton’s possessed hand, executed his parents. Shortly after, Anton’s hand takes them out. However, for mostly inexplicable reasons, they come back from the dead to do what they do best: hang out, watch lascivious TV, and smoke up.
“The killer was wearing me. I was the killer.”
Anton has a crush on fellow local, the alluring songwriter Molly, handled by Jessica Alba letting her freak flag fly when Anton finally confronts her, while trying to restrain his hand through some playful B&D.
“Shit, my parents are home. We’ll have to pick this up later, Babysnakes. My parents might take offense to some dirty, bloody boy banging their daughter.”
All the while a nebulous woman named Debi — gamely played by the singular Vivica A. Fox — has been traveling trying to restrain the spirit that inhabits these slackers.
“I come from a long line of Druidic priestesses sworn to fight a certain evil force that possesses the laziest fuck-up it can find.”
Matters escalate in a cartoonish manner that mirrors THE ADDAMS FAMILY’s Thing. It has been a while since I’ve seen a film utilize so much hand imagery since last watching BIRDS OF PREY. (To be fair, I watch BIRDS OF PREY far more often than I should.)
While this is a very silly and filthy film, it’s also very sly, with extremely exacting dialogue that expertly conveys the ennui of one’s twenties. It is also an exceptional representation of late 90s/early naughts horror, with its SE7EN-esque title sequence and THE OFFSPRING playing at a Halloween ball, not-so-subtly playing a cover of THE RAMONES I Wanna Be Sedated. (“I can’t control my fingers; I can’t control my brain!”)
“Well, my work here is done. Time for the ritualistic sex. Comin’?”
As you can see from the title, this film is all about spiders so, if you are no fan of those eight-legged creatures, stay far away from it.
I saw ARACHNOPHOBIA as a teen, and I remember it being far more fun then than I do now — and I am not afraid of spiders. I mostly remember John Goodman’s larger-than-life portrayal of Delbert McClintock, a slightly askew exterminator that isn’t too far removed from his performance in RAISING ARIZONA.
This is a pretty basic Spielberg-ian creature feature, helmed by Amblin stalwart Frank Marshall. In short, adventuring scientist Dr. James Atherton — played a bit too straight by Julian Sands (R.I.P.) — accidentally ends up carting an ancient, killer spider to a small town, a small town that Dr. Ross Jennings, gamely portrayed by Jeff Daniels, has just moved to with his family. Ross is scared as fuck of spiders, and ends up having to confront all of that as he realizes his new home is the epicenter of this murderous species of spiders.
“I think you shared the eight-legged equivalent of Frank Lloyd Wright.”
It’s sturdily shot by Mikael Salomon who will always be remembered for his camerawork on THE ABYSS. Also, almost all of the spiders are shockingly real and required some severe wrangling — with the exception of the ‘general’ spider, Big Bob:
“Even the new and improved Big Bob, however, was not large enough for some of the stunts required of the fearsome General and so a 15-inch mechanical spider was constructed by then rookie Jamie Hyneman, who is now best known as one of the hosts of MythBusters. This beastie looked terrifying enough to handle fearsome close-ups, as well as the physical demands of menacing the lead characters.” (Source)
However, it is a very, very slow burn of a film — in more ways than one — and drags a bit despite being under two hours long. As mentioned above, the highlight is Goodman as he deftly adds some much-needed levity to the film with his overconfident swagger, even if he is under-utilized.
Again, it’s not as fun as I remember — and there’s one pretty squicky token shower scene — but it’s still a good time and emblematic of late 80’s/early 90’s horror.
Obviously, the name infers spiders so, if you have arachnophobia? This film is not for you.
There’s a specific art to creature features that I feel has been neglected over the past decade or so. Fundamentally, they’re ridiculous: overgrown ants, giant iguanas, etc. but while looking absurd, the best ones juggle preying on one’s fears of the incomprehensible state of nature while also instilling a sense of levity. A spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down, if you will.
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s my media-induced, paranoid, delusional nightmare.”
EIGHT LEGGED FREAKS nails that precision. It’s exactly what it sounds like: radioactive waste causes a a severe number of spiders to grow to enormous heights and ravage the town that goatee-adorned Chris — played by a surprisingly winsome and knowing and game David Arquette — revisits, partially because he still pines for the current town sheriff, Samantha Parker.
“Lose the face fuzz before you [visit Samantha]. Makes your mouth look like a stripper’s crouch.”
This film could be perfunctory and lazily executed, but instead it’s far more inventive and savvy than it needs to be. One scene, involving a spider and a cat, is particularly impressionable by utilizing dry wall and only showing what it needs to show. It also liberally borrows from Spielberg’s bag of tricks, especially with its usage of a plucky, overly smart youth that helps save the day.
“This is a town hall meeting, not the WWF.”
Additionally, the effects are vividly energetic with all of the spider fur and leaping movements.
It’s well-paced and the flailing town is surprisingly well-developed with a mayor who brought in an ostrich farm and constructed a poorly attended mall. You really can’t ask for much more from 90 minutes of escalating mutations.
To those in the goth community, Elvira — a.k.a. Cassandra Petersen — is a living legend as a not just a TV horror film host, but also as a singular personality. (Unfortunately, her predecessor Maila Nurmi was not a fan.) A lot of folks believe being goth is all doom and gloom and feeling sad for themselves and the world and, while that’s part of the subculture, there’s a lot of whimsy and a fuckton of self-awareness and comfort with one’s body and sexuality.
In other words: Elvira knows who she is, what she wants, she doesn’t feel the need to filter herself and, as a result, she’s completely content with being brazen and someone who unapologetically revels in the darker facets of humanity, while also leaning into her love for vaudeville humor.
“Oh, fragility. Thy name is woman.”
While you might think that ELVIRA’S HAUNTED HILLS is a sequel to her cult film ELVIRA: MISTRESS OF THE DARK, it most certainly is not. It takes place in 1851 and riffs on a lot of traditional gothic works — there’s a lot of DRACULA here — but more than anything it’s a love letter to Roger Corman’s very loosely adapted films based on Edgar Allen Poe stories.
“That’s really weird. Cross-dressers are usually great dancers.”
(I’ll note that Lord Vladimere Hellsubus is portrayed by the one and only Richard O’Brien, best known for THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW’s Riff Raff.)
During the sixties, Corman warped a number of Poe works into films, including his version of THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER, THE RAVEN, and THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM, all of which ELVIRA’S HAUNTED HILLS riffs on, even down to mimicking the production design of Corman’s THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM.
While ELVIRA’S HAUNTED HILLS leans quite a bit on Corman’s works, it’s still singularly hers. It’s brazenly cartoonish, and she’s certainly the star. From her making the most of her cleavage to also being the smartest and funniest person in the room, she’s also not even close to shy. This is best exemplified by her repeated attempts to woo Adrian, Gabi Andronache recreating a vapid Fabio, all shoulder-length brunette curls and buff chest.
“Adrian! You came too late! …again.”
Additionally, she gets her own CABARET-esque musical number which ends with her brandishing underwear that literally begs for applause.
Even if you aren’t part of the goth community, this is one hell of a lark, one that is very self-aware and doesn’t take itself seriously but is also very smart and knowing. I do wish she’d been able to turn out yearly films because she’s so fun and charismatic while also being an absolute misfit and we need more of that in the world. However, I’m thankful we can watch the few films that she willed into the world.
If you’ve followed Stephen King’s career, you are probably aware that he had a pretty bad substance abuse problem in the 80s.
MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE was his first — and last — effort as a film director, and he was fucking coked-up and shitfaced during the production and it shows. The film is absolutely unhinged to the point of being nearly incompressible.
While I certainly won’t celebrate that sort of self-destructive behavior, his absolutely fucked up mental state resulted in an immensely fun and charming work.
MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE sees a world thrown into the tail of a comet — this was right around the time of Halley’s Comet, so comets were on everyone’s mind — and for some inexplicable reason, machines become murderously sentient.
“No machines are to be trusted.”
Emilio Estevez plays ex-criminal Bill Robinson, over-worked at a truck stop that becomes ground zero for a convey of malicious trucks. Matters escalate, which includes a very clumsy sex scene between Bill and an alluring hitchhiker named Brett, played by Laura Harrington.
“I’ll tell you one thing: You sure make love like a hero.”
I won’t mince words here: this is not a good film. It is pure schlock and is often nonsensical, but sometimes that’s exactly what you want, and MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE delivers.
I do admire that this is one of the few King works I’ve dealt with that focuses on the lower class. Everyone involved are the forgotten, those that can only get shit jobs, those who society never respect. It’s a fucking truck stop and while everyone there are the detritus of America, they still stand up and fight for themselves and each other.
“WE MADE YOU! WE MADE YOU! WE MADE YOU! WE MADE YOU! WE MADE YOU! WE MADE YOU! WE MADE YOU! WE MADE YOU! WE MADE YOU! WE MADE YOU! WE MADE YOU!”
Is MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE a lower class version of THE MIST? Yes, yes it certainly is. However, it has its charms and the iconic — albeit ridiculous — production design of the gremlin truck makes up for many of the coked-up flaws.
I previously posted about EATING RAOUL but do not feel like I did the film justice, so I hope you enjoy this revisitation.
The 80s were an inflection point for deviant indie films, perhaps best encapsulated by John Waters and POLYESTER and HAIRSPRAY, but also surprise hits like EATING RAOUL. These were films that pointed the limelight on the disenfranchised folks living on the sidelines of society, especially those who were more sexually divergent and kinky.
Writer/director/actor Paul Bartlel’s piece is a brilliant work. EATING RAOUL is a perfect encapsulation of what indie films can be: they call out the hypocrisy of heteronormative people, of personal repression, but by having the protagonists — Mary & Paul Blank (yes, not a subtle surname. Also, the protagonist couple are played by mainstays Paul Barlet and Mary Woronov and retain their real first names for this work) — staged as a post-WWII TV version of couples, even down to the single beds.*
“Yet so popular with the broken and destitute.”
To quickly summarize: Paul & Mary are a very straight-laced couple, living in a building mostly inhabited by swingers. They have dreams of ditching their respective jobs as a liquor store employee and nurse in favor of opening their own restaurant. In order to do so, they have to raise $20K (later $25K) to buy the Victorian abode they want to house it.
Given their current jobs, they realize that’s not feasible. So, Mary posits herself as a dominatrix and they start murdering her clients and stealing their wallets to help fund their restaurant.
“And whatever they want to do? Stop if it draws blood.”
They start fretting about the security of their apartment and enlist the help of a security specialist, Raoul, who eventually shows his true colors as a thief. Mary becomes entwined with him, and matters escalate.
“I don’t mind paying cash for gash as long as it’s class.”
It is worth noting that EATING RAOUL did become somewhat of a mainstream hit, partially because of its sensationalism, but I like to think it’s mostly because of its wit and performances.
“We like B&D but we don’t like S&M. We met at the A&P but we don’t like labels.”
I cannot overstate what films like EATING RAOUL did for the youths of the 80s and 90s. These were eye-opening films that presented a completely different world, films that eschewed heteronormativity, films that allowed misfits like myself to feel seen and accepted, all while being enthralled and laughing the entire time and never shamed anyone, even the norms. Sadly, that era seems to be over, but like with everything, the pendulum will inevitably swing back.
“Mary, I just killed a man.”
“He was a man, honey. Now he’s just a bag of garbage.”
As someone who is 1) an extremely light sleeper and 2) as someone who has dealt with abuse so I’m always on high alert, I don’t love the visual shorthand of two beds as sexual repression, because sleeping in separate beds can actually be a great thing for all parties involved, however: the message here is succinctly conveyed.
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