Dead By Dawn: Evil Dead II

            A dancing, stop-motion, headless corpse with a chainsaw. A mischievous disembodied hand. A mounted deer head trophy laughing maniacally. Where can one find such wonders? In Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead II (1987) of course! All this, and fountains upon fountains of bright red, and black, and green blood! Bring an umbrella.

            The follow up to the low-budget masterpiece The Evil Dead (1981) was a long time coming. Raimi and Co. (including his brother Ted Raimi, writer Scott Spiegel, and star Bruce Campbell) enjoyed remarkable success with their debut picture, especially on the home video market. But five years and a failed production later (Crimewave [1985]) they were at a loss for a new project.

            Allegedly, Sam Raimi did not want anything to do with a sequel to The Evil Dead. But studios were clamoring for it and Bruce Campbell convinced him – Convinced him by locking him in a room with co-writer Scott Spiegel and forcing them to write a script. The incessant laughter coming from the room was an indication that something entirely different than their first effort was being concocted.

            With a completed script, and a budget ten times that of the previous film, the crew headed to location in North Carolina to shoot one of the most original sequels ever made.

            Fans of the Evil Dead franchise are a curiously segregated group. While all seem to love each of the three movies, the whole seems split into distinct sects with almost religious devotion to their favorite installment. Yours Truly here happens to pledge his undying allegiance to the first film, but as mentioned, there is a love affair with all three. That said, those who call Evil Dead II their favorite seem to be the weirdest of the bunch. The humor of this film is seriously, and I do mean seriously, demented. Where else will you find the leading man battling his own possessed hand?

           

Much of what makes this sequel work so well is the humor. Whilst the first film was ‘The Ultimate Experience in Grueling Terror’, Evil Dead II takes itself much less seriously. It never even really attempts to scare (in spite of the tagline ‘Kiss Your Nerves Goodbye!’) and instead almost styles itself as a spoof of the original as opposed to its sequel.

            This is most evident in the unrelenting gore that oozes all over the screen, and the set, and the actors, and everywhere. Instead of spurting or gushing, the grue frequently erupts in sprays of volcanic proportions, almost as if being released from a fire hydrant. It literally covers everything. With spectacle so ridiculous, the audience is simply forced to let go of any realistic expectations of fright and give in the hilarity. At times, the evil force even literally bids the viewer “JOIN US!”

This invitation is practically the entire aim of the film. Each gag is designed to draw the audience in with every *wink wink* *nudge nudge* moment, well-placed pun, and not-so-subtle pop culture reference – just check it out when Ash tries to imprison his unruly hand in a bucket and weighs it down with a copy of Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms! The film is perhaps at its most effective when parodying its predecessor. At times, nothing is funnier than when a film makes fun of itself and Evil Dead II not only knows that, it relishes in the fact with unholy glee.

 In The Evil Dead, Ash’s girlfriend Linda becomes possessed and laughs for an uncomfortably long time in very disturbing, very high-pitched cackle. Ash can’t deal with it anymore and screams “Shut up!” “Why are you torturing me like this? WHY?!” and we as the audience feel the same way. In true parody fashion, Evil Dead II takes this moment and makes it do a handstand and juggle bowling pins with its feet. The mounted deer head becomes possessed and starts laughing. Followed by the desk lamp, and the books, and the book shelf, and the clock, and the shutters… Finally, Ash can’t take it and starts laughing uncontrollably as well. “JOIN US!” Laugh with us! Resistance is most definitely futile.

But crazy jokes and ooey-gooey gross-out gags on their own do not a movie make. There is an undeniable craftsmanship at work in Evil Dead II as well. To say that the film is paced at a rather quick clip is a gross understatement. This sequel is a slick, well-oiled machine created for a specific purpose- to thrill and tickle the funny bone. There is almost no fat here, all of it is trimmed. There is not a single scene in the film that can be deemed unnecessary. As a result, the movie’s run time of 84 minutes goes by in a flash. Credit certainly goes to Raimi and crew for making this ride a fast and enjoyable one. It doesn’t overstay its welcome and leaves the audience desiring more. One might complain that the downside of this is that bothersome things such as character development and depth of story are completely eschewed in favor of a candy-coated ride through the theatre of macabre. Characterization? Storyline? Raimi and Co. call that fat. And fat is to be trimmed.

In spite of such ‘overlooked’ issues, any viewer of Evil Dead II will be treated to Raimi’s always ingenious cinematography. Like The Evil Dead before it, this film’s greatest strength is its inventive camera work. This time the crew had the benefit of a steady-cam and it impressively shows. The famous POV ‘Demon Cam’ looks a lot more like a rampaging evil and a lot less like two guys running through the forest with a camera on a two-by-four. The better equipment also left much more time to spend on the effects that abound in every frame. No more acrylic paint masks, here we get latex appliances and make-up!

The final aspect that makes Evil Dead II such an entertaining film is none other than an incredible turn by star Bruce Campbell. Ash’s personality shifts drastically from installment to installment, and here he is his most dynamic. The role is much more physical than the previous film and it must take a special kind of person to fight with his own hand so viciously! But more impressive than that is the setting. Ash is alone for the entire first half of the film and Campbell plays it off beautifully and convincingly. An actor acting against himself for forty-five minutes and pulling it off is a testament to his skill and dedication to his craft. Quite frankly, without Bruce Campbell, Evil Dead II just would not work.

The middle installment in a trilogy can often be the weakest. It takes a lot of ingenuity and more than a bit of luck to coax lightning to strike twice. Ultimately, the charm of Evil Dead II lies in more than its humor and technical excellence. Like its predecessor, it is frightfully original and it is this left turn that keeps it feeling fresh even twenty-five years later.

So go check it out! But be careful, you might just end up ‘DEAD BY DAWN!!!’

Necronomicon Ex-mortis: The Evil Dead

Once in awhile you stumble across a film you might never have known existed, and it turns out to be a work of genius. Film nuts such as Yours Truly spend a lot of our free time seeking out films that not many people have heard of. Their existence is almost a myth sometimes – like the battle epic Siege of Firebase Gloria (1989). It’s always a wonderful moment when, half-way through the film, you realize that you have practically tripped over something very special. Then there is The Evil Dead (1981).

           

The Evil Dead sits in a decidedly different category of discovery. The nature of this wonderful gem of a movie is perhaps more akin to a legend than a myth. The Evil Dead is something that everyone has heard of, and many have seen. Yet for some reason it still sits in that place where it enjoys a sort of beloved notoriety. The title itself is enough to ward off most of those who do not desperately desire to see such things (and God have mercy on the ones who see it accidentally). But for horror aficionados, The Evil Dead is the holy grail of low-budget filmmaking.

Anyone questing to see it has a bewildering dilemma. Some movies are difficult to watch because they are hard to find (just try finding an uncut copy of Razorback [1984], I dare you). The Evil Dead has the exact opposite problem. To date, there are no fewer than six Region 1 DVD releases and two blu-ray releases (one with an extra special features disc and one without). This is disregarding the Region 2 4-disc set, multiple VHS releases, and a Sony PSP version. Needless to say, pursuers of the film are faced with the problem of which release they should lay down their hard-earned bucks for. Die-hard fans tend to buy multiple releases simply to own the complete array of supplemental material out there.

Even more puzzling than this is that the film isn’t more popular in the mainstream, considering its wildfire popularity in the horror community. Certainly, its gore isn’t for everyone. And the atmosphere of terror will put off more than a few for sure. But there is a magic to it. For anyone seeing it for the first time, no matter how much they have heard about it, The Evil Dead is an unexpected treat.

So what makes this cult classic so great? Is it originality? Ingenuity? Or is it simply fun? How about all of the above? Honestly, when one takes a look at the film on a surface level, it just should not work as well as it does. When director Sam Raimi and company embarked on production in late 1979, they had no location, two actors, and a budget of $375,000. Finding three more cast members was hard enough, but when they arrived at the cabin they were supposed film in, they found it occupied by about two dozen squatters.

A change of venue was in order. Raimi and producer Rob Tapert discovered an abandoned cabin outside Morristown, Tennessee. There were no squatters this time, but the floor was completely covered in four inches of manure. Actor Bruce Campbell (who would become the famous hero, Ash) almost single-handedly shoveled the entire cabin. The crew knocked down walls and replaced them, added a generator and a telephone, and used a good chunk of the budget to do it.

If these hurdles weren’t enough, it is safe to say that no Hollywood producer of the time would back the picture if they saw it in production. Raimi and crew seemed to violate nearly every tenant of horror filmmaking. First off, they had a male hero – a strong female lead was considered a must at the time. Secondly, the set-up was almost flip-turned upside down. Instead of the characters being picked off one by one, the hero is basically tortured and picked on for the duration. Simply, it should not work. But it does.

Perhaps the biggest reason for this is that The Evil Dead is astonishingly proficient filmmaking. This makes it all the more impressive considering that the primary cast and crew all dropped out of film school to make it. The storyline is tight, the acting is honestly too good for a film of this budget and this genre, and most of all the camera work is positively captivating. The cinematography is so intricate and unique, in fact, that one can spot its influence on big-budget productions in practically every genre since. From the POV ‘Demon Cam’ to the ingenious placement of the car and camera on an incline to make the actors look off-kilter – it’s all been copied from a film which, for all intents and purposes, is practically a home movie.

The fun of The Evil Dead comes from a brilliant and original combination of horror and humor. Most horror films at least attempt to rely on subtlety to build suspense. Here subtlety is chucked out the window. The audience gets to see everything happen. There are no *wink wink* cutaways from the action, nothing is artfully implied. It is all onscreen. Raimi and Co. keep the blood flowing, the goo splashing, and the ribs tickling and never let up.

The incessancy is another point. Once the action starts rolling, it just does not stop. The audience is never given a chance to breathe. The most effective proponent of this is the film’s downright inventive sound design. The tension is skillfully manipulated through the precise, meticulous placement of noises and sound effects. Moments range from impressively long and loud action pieces, to dead silent instances where the only thing audible is Bruce Campbell’s labored breathing. In most horror films, loud stings and jump scares are often considered cop-outs or just trying too hard. In The Evil Dead, these devices are legitimately terrifying because of this aggressive and original sound design.

But even the most original film would fall flat if it was a one-trick-pony. The Evil Dead supplements the horror with a viciously unique brand of humor. Even the truly disgusting gore effects are in on the joke, such as the moment when Ash pulls a stick lodged in his zombie-fied friend’s leg and the result is the *pop* of a cork and a torrent of blood gushing as if being drained from a jug.

The film also seems to thrive on little, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moments of dialogue – “WE CAN’T BURY SHELLY; SHE’S A FRIEND OF OURS!!!” – and sight gags like the ‘eyes open-eyes closed’ interplay between Ash and his girlfriend Linda.

The glee the filmmakers take in manipulating the audience is so apparent, that we absolutely must laugh along with them. Where most films’ self-awareness has a tendency to become pretentious, here it is genuine and infectious. The picture itself seems to know there is no rhyme or reason behind what is happening and takes absolute, nonsensical pleasure in that fact. This is never better shown than when Ash screams, “Why are you torturing me like this? WHY?!!!” As the audience, we just continue to scream in fear and laugh in delight.

All of these things have combined to create one of the most entertaining experiences one will ever have in the horror genre. The Evil Dead is one of the few films that lives up to its grandiose tagline –“The ULTIMATE Experience in GRUELING TERROR!”

Watch it if you dare!

The Green Inferno: Ruggero Deodato's Cannibal Holocaust

            What to say about Ruggero Deodato’s Cannibal Holocaust (1980)? What to say, at least, that hasn’t already been said? VILE! DEPRAVED! SICKENING! Masterpiece? It is certainly true that no viewer new to the film is ever prepared for what awaits in the following hour and a half. Might it even be appropriate to say that those who have seen it are still unprepared upon their second viewing, or third… or fourth? There must be something truly special about a film that has that power. Whatever else Cannibal Holocaust is, it is a masterpiece.

           

            The premise is astonishingly simple (the best plots are). Four documentary filmmakers head down to the Amazon jungle intent on capturing on camera the fabled cannibal tribes. Of course, they disappear. An anthropologist investigates the disappearance. He makes contact with the tribe and discovers the canisters of film the team shot. As the audience, we then view the footage and discover their fates. And with that comes the self-proclaimed “Most controversial movie ever made!”

            But first, a little background. Contrary to legend, Cannibal Holocaust is not the first of its kind. In fact, by the time it was released in the summer of 1980, the ‘Cannibal Exploitation’ subgenre had been going strong for eight years. The films in this niche were predominantly Italian to start. This makes perfect sense, considering the propensity for the ‘spaghetti’ filmmakers to include an extraordinary amount of brutality in their films. Of the 39 titles on Britain’s famous ‘Video Nasties’ list, 29 hail from Italy!

            The film often deemed to be the first entry in the cannibal canon is Umberto Lenzi’s Man From Deep River (1972) (aka Sacrifice!, Deep River Savages, and Il paeso dell sesso selvaggio). The film centers round a man captured by a tribe in the Amazon who eventually becomes one of them. Dances with Wolves eat your heart out, literally. It is curious that Lenzi’s later works Eaten Alive! (Mangiati Vivi! [1980]) and Cannibal Ferox (Make Them Die Slowly [1981]) are considered to be imitations of Cannibal Holocaust when the director is credited with starting the trend in the first place.

            Indeed, not only was Ruggero Deodato’s incredible work of ‘cinema verité’ not the first cannibal film, it wasn’t even his first. In addition to director Sergio Martino’s adventure opus Mountain of the Cannibal God (La montagna del dio cannibale [1978]), Deodato made his own cannibal adventure with Jungle Holocaust (Last Cannibal World; Ultimo mondo cannibale [1977]). Surprisingly, we find that the infamous Cannibal Holocaust is in fact a follow-up!

            What’s more, the tropes the film follows are well-worn in the genre. There is plenty of jungle, natural native nudity, actual animal slayings, and very gory, brutal violence. None of this is new, all of it tried and true. Even the concept of hand-held documentary footage can be lifted from Deodato’s contemporaries Gualtiero Jacopetti and Franco Prosperi, whose films Mondo Cane (1961), Africa Addio (1966), and Goodbye, Uncle Tom (Addio zio Tom [1971]) ushered in a new era of cinematographic realism.

            With all of this pointing towards the film as unoriginal, one must ask “What makes it so special?” To turn a well-worn cultural maxim on its head, ‘Cannibal Holocaust may not be the first, but it certainly is the best’. So, perhaps the more appropriate question is, “Why is Cannibal Holocaust the best of its kind?”

            Ironically, many of the characteristics that make the film so great are also the ones that have made it so controversial. Due to the depictions of violence, Cannibal Holocaust was initially banned in nearly sixty countries, from Great Britain (as a Video Nasty) to its home country of Italy, where it was seized in Milan and the filmmakers arrested for obscenity. The courts, in fact, at first charged director Ruggero Deodato with murder, in the belief that the actors in the film had actually been killed. Deodato was forced to contact them and produce them alive to exonerate himself.

            Even today, while it is not under widespread ban, the work is still heavily censored in many countries. This is mainly to cut out the numerous scenes of violence towards animals, which were not simulated- animals were harmed in the making of this picture. These parts of the film are a main source of controversy, but also necessary to the success of the film (as horrid as that sounds).

            The realism portrayed is unlike any other film in existence. The fallacy of modern ‘found-footage’ films, such as The Blair Witch Project (1999) and Cloverfield (2008) is that they still aspire to the theatricality of Hollywood. This is the very media that Cannibal Holocaust wishes to indict. Just as the TV Executive points out to Dr. Monroe (played with surprising naturalism by Robert Kerman), “Today people want sensationalism!” The onscreen slaughter of animals, especially one rather unlucky yellow-spotted river turtle, plays right into this. ‘You want sensationalism?’ Deodato seems to say, ‘you’ve got it!’ Happy now? This very social condemnation blatantly stands contrary to the label of exploitation given the film by those who decry it.

            But the real service the killings perform for the film is to set a tone for the audience.  We are duly shocked by this sort of snuff film á la National Geographic, and when the axe comes down, so to speak, we are prepared to believe that everything we are seeing is real. It is a magnificent cinematic magic trick. Many aspire to making their films believable, contending it is that holy grail of attributes that ultimately makes a great work of cinema. But few ever achieve it. Why is this, we must wonder?  Perhaps Cannibal Holocaust holds the answer. We cannot handle it. Is it too real? When a film finally convinces us to believe all that we see, we cannot escape the mortality of ourselves. The film challenges us to reconsider what we label ‘entertainment’. Our morality kicks in. Instead of condemning a filmmaker for showing human depravity (rationalizing that it was unnecessary), we finally acquiesce to condemning the evil of humanity itself. When we see the final ten minutes of Cannibal Holocaust, we cannot help but give ourselves over to the images before us. Logic says that is just a movie and it couldn’t have really happened. But on some level, we believe it is. And anything that can make us believe so unquestionably what we are being shown is real can make us reevaluate the standards we so blindly accept in everyday life. Standards of morality, of entertainment, of art.

            That is the power of Cannibal Holocaust.

                       

The Legacy of Roger Corman, Part 2: Science Fiction and Horror

            After the decline of exploitation in the late 1970’s, Roger Corman needed a new and different direction to take his production company, New World Pictures. The dilemma presented itself in a quite sudden fashion in the summer of 1975, when a young nobody, whose only previous project at that time had been a made-for-TV thriller about a killer semi-truck, released a big summer movie about a man-eating Great White shark. Steven Spielberg’s Jaws turned the Hollywood community on its head. In a moment, the monsters, thrills, and shocks of exploitation had become a mainstream extravaganza. Bruce (the affectionate on-set moniker for Spielberg’s famous shark) effectively marked the beginning of the end for the grindhouses and the drive-ins.

            Never one to say it was hopeless; Corman saw the change in the weather as a proverbial blessing in disguise. Low budget filmmaking is the art of copying others anyway, so why not rip-off the major studio successes? The popularity of films like Jaws, and of course, Star Wars, could act as a veritable forecast of what kind of film would make the most money for his company. With tongue planted resolutely in cheek, Corman embarked upon a series of delightfully entertaining imitations (full of his signature action and sex-appeal) that, in spite of themselves, have still managed to earn their rightful place in the hallowed pantheon of movie history.

            Naturally, the genres that served this formula most readily were that of Science Fiction and Horror. And, since Jaws began this phenomenon, it seemed only fitting that it be the first film to make money for New World by proxy. For this, Corman hired one of his favorite editors, Joe Dante, to direct Piranha (1978). Dante, who in the 1980’s would find fame with The Howling (1981) and Gremlins (1984), managed to do what many considered impossible (or at least, improbable). He rehashed a recently used concept and made it a hit. Piranha, coupled with the great post-apocalyptic action flick Death Race 2000, made 1978 New World Pictures’ most successful year to date.

            There are two good reasons for this unlikely success. The first could be that a Roger Corman film, no matter how cheaply made always delivers on what it claims. Secondly, they never fail to be fun. Mr. Corman felt that humor was essential to the success of any film- especially horror. This resulted in Piranha being much more lighthearted than the film it so plainly ripped off. Simply put, more thrills and less chills!

            The success of Piranha spawned (pun intended) a terrible sequel (the directing debut by none other than James Cameron!) and spurred another, decidedly less successful New World picture, Up From the Depths (1979). Despite the latter film’s flaws, it was nevertheless entertaining (the trailer was a masterpiece…)

            Due to the earth-shattering success of George Lucas’ Star Wars (1977), New World Pictures also ventured into the cold blackness of space with a pair of action-packed Science Fiction features: Starcrash (1978) and Battle Beyond the Stars (1980). Though the former film introduced the world to one David Hasselhoff, neither of them managed to achieve the quality that their horror counterparts boasted.

            When the Ridley Scott-directed Alien (1979) arrived, the game changed once again. The unholy, illegitimate child of Science Fiction and Horror was exactly the impetus needed for Roger Corman to release a new collection of successful imitations.

            The first of these was 1981’s Galaxy of Terror (also known as Mindwarp: An Infinity of Terror; who the heck thought of THAT title?!) With this outing, Corman once again proved his talent of copying an idea and tweaking it ever so slightly… With Piranha, one big killer fish was changed to a lot of small killer fish. In Alien the danger lay in a single, very hostile xenomorph. In Galaxy of Terror, the danger would be each individual character’s own thoughts and fears.

            In spite of being hailed by critics as one of the worst movies ever made, it still manged to be New World’s highest grossing picture up to that point. Perhaps today, Galaxy of Terror’s most lasting merit is the jumpstarting of two important Hollywood careers- James Cameron (a special effects artist) and Bill Paxton (a set decorator!)

            Naturally, one turn deserves another, and the success of the film was followed by Forbidden World (1982; a.k.a. Mutant). A more direct Alien rip-off, the picture differed in that the creature changed forms multiple times as the story progressed. The production was marked by great ingenuity and resourcefulness (from the redressing of old Galaxy of Terror sets, to hallways made to look ‘sci-fi’ by lining them with McDonald’s take-out cartons!) But the most defining aspect of the movie is definitely the excellent practical make-up and effects work, courtesy the as-yet-undiscovered John Carl Buechler. If anything, Forbidden World stands as a testament to the resourcefulness of special effects work that came to define filmmaking in the early- 80’s.

            In 1981, New World Pictures released what was to be their most popular (and now perhaps most famous) feature. Recalling sea-monster pictures from the 1950’s, such as Creature From the Black Lagoon (1954), but with Roger Corman’s signature exploitation twist, Humanoids From the Deep (a.k.a. Monster) arrived just in time to ride the wave of new low budget horror that was achieving unprecedented popularity thanks to runaway hits such as Halloween (1978) and Friday the 13^th (1980).

            And so went the rest of the decade. New World Pictures never lost a cent on any project Corman decided to undertake. Genres experimented with ranged from ghost stories (Twice Dead; 1988) to Fantasy (Deathstalker; 1985), from creature features (Demon of Paradise; 1988) to even musicals (Rock ‘n Roll High School; 1979).

            The question to ponder is, “What exactly is so attractive about these spin-offs?” They certainly aren’t anything we haven’t seen before. Even if they do offer more action and more sexiness, they don’t offer the meaningful cinematic experiences that their sources of inspiration do.

            The truth of the matter resides in a collection of factors rolled into one profoundly simple ball. The humor, the action, the sexiness, the unabashed cheesiness even… All combine to deliver a single, simple answer about these films- They are more fun.

            If Jaws, Star Wars, and Alien are the main courses, then Corman’s rip-offs are the desserts. The same way the greatness of these blockbuster titans cannot be overestimated, neither can the sheer entertainment value of these shallow imitations. Yes! They are shallow! But the big, grinning-from-ear-to-ear catch is that they know it. Each of Roger Corman’s best, most entertaining pictures displays a singular, almost ironic sense of self-awareness. Not to the point where characters break the third wall and address the audience directly, but a merely subtle brand of humor that lets the viewer know everything up on that screen is decidedly tongue-in-cheek. This characteristic above all else is what makes these movies so irrepressibly fun to watch. It is as though Roger Corman understands the ultimate purpose of cinema so much better than anyone else. Sure, film can be deep, it can be challenging, and probing, and it can most definitely be artistic. But ultimately, movies exist to one end- to be entertaining! And to be honest, why else do they get labeled ‘good’ if they thrill us and ‘bad’ if they do not? This is the lasting legacy of Roger Corman.

            So many self-proclaimed critics, and professors, and ‘artists’ spend endless, useless hours praising complex films and damning the simple ones. It seems that they forget the joy of watching a fun movie. In the end, aren’t films are supposed to entertain?

            So hats off to you, Mr. Corman, for reminding us all how fun the cinema can be!

The Legacy of Roger Corman, Part 1: Women Behind Bars

            “THEIR BODIES WERE CAGED, BUT NOT THEIR DESIRES!”

            So read the provocative poster for The Big Doll House. Released into grindhouse theatres all over America in 1971, the film was one of the early pictures to be produced by low budget legend Roger Corman for his brand new company New World Pictures. Corman, who brought the filmmaking world new Hollywood talents such as Francis Ford Coppola and James Cameron, was searching for a kind of movie that would seem different while sticking to his tried and true formula- action and sex appeal. In other words: Exploitation. For this, he settled on a genre known as the ‘Women in Prison’ film.

           

“The Big Doll House was the second film for my new company, New World Pictures,” Corman explains his rationale, “and I wanted a sure hit. Hollywood had a long tradition of women-in-prison movies, and no one had done one recently.”

           

The set-up is simple (necessarily so, one can’t get too complicated when making an exploitation feature). A group of scantily clad, beautiful women are serving sentences in a prison in the Philippines. They are poorly treated by the warden and miss male company, so they decide to stage an escape. What follows is a lot of explosions and pretty ladies shooting guns.

            Originally, The Big Doll House was to be set and filmed in Los Angeles, California. But Roger Corman moved the project to the jungles of the Philippines because, as he himself put it, “I realized I could get a bigger-looking movie for the same money.”

            To direct the film, Corman hired Jack Hill, one of the many newcomers to the Hollywood circuit looking for a door into the movie industry. With a handful of unknown actresses, and a half written script, the production took off for the Philippine Islands.

            The film’s most direct and lasting impact was the introduction of a new face to the grindhouses, a face to be loved the world over- that of Pam Grier. The foxy African-American actress quickly became New World Pictures’ most bankable visage. This was especially surprising considering The Big Doll House was Grier’s first ever acting role, and the only coaching she’d had was a bit of on-set advice from costar and genre veteran Sid Haig. From her launching point with New World, Pamela Grier would go on to headline some of the most entertaining exploitation films of the 1970’s, including Jack Hill’s Coffy and Foxy Brown.

            For the moment, however, she would remain Roger Corman’s golden girl, starring in a number of resultant women-in-prison pictures- most notably Women in Cages (1971) and The Big Bird Cage (1972; Jack Hill’s not-so-serious sequel to The Big Doll House). She was so popular, in fact, that Corman developed a formula for success entirely around her.

            In his own words, “After the success of The Big Doll House, Pam Grier became our standard leading lady for several pictures. We developed a formula where we’d have two girls in trouble. One would be a white girl and the other would be Pam Grier.”

            But in spite of the cultural impact Grier may have had, these films would make a hard case for anyone making the claim that they had a lasting influence (except perhaps on the style of a few mavericks, like one Quentin Tarantino for example…). So, instead of asking the common question, “what makes these films important?” maybe we should ask, “what makes these films so darned entertaining?!”

            This question is pertinent mainly because of the stigma surrounding the Women in Prison genre. Of course the supposed ‘danger’ to what is ‘appropriate’ is glaringly obvious. What is an exploitation feature if not exploitative? Many who would consider themselves some level of ‘dignified’ decry these films as lurid, lewd, disrespectful, and shallow. And with taglines such as, “MEN WHO ARE ONLY HALF MEN, AND WOMEN WHO ARE MORE THAN ALL WOMAN!” well… who can blame them for voicing such opinions?

            Many others have tried to rationalize their enjoyment of the pulp-injected subject matter by declaring the films ‘progressive’ and ‘political’ and cite a ‘pioneering’ of strong female and black lead characters.

            Whatever the pretense, it is just impossibly entertaining to watch buxom babes blowing stuff up (with good alliteration, no less!) But there has to be more to this confounding, bewildering, perplexingly enjoyable formula than mere personal preference?!

            Without trying to be too vague about it, there is just something unique about the vintage of these movies. This is of course gloriously displayed by the grainy, unkempt, scratched 1970’s film stock, but also in the sort of back-of-your-mind knowledge that, if they were made today, they just would not work. Not in the same way, at least.

            The truth is, these movies were the guilty pleasure resulting from a perfect storm of circumstances. The jungle location, the much too bright fake blood, the liberated, nubile young actresses (Roberta Collins anyone?!), and especially the time period (1971-1974 about) just seemed to fit perfectly together in one gigantic jigsaw puzzle.

            The Philippines were essential in making The Big Doll House and others work. The environment (as much a character as the women themselves) played a much bigger role than simply being a better bang for the buck. The hardship, adventure, backdrop… all are better served (even made possible?) by the jungle! This fact is one of the very few subtle aspects of productions that are defined by their frankness. Hey, it is exploitation, after all! Nowhere is the strength of this location more apparent than when it is absent. In the later, Corman-produced picture Caged Heat (1974; helmed by Jonathan Demme, who would later bring the world The Silence of the Lambs) the setting is in California’s Mojave Desert. Sure, the locale may seem similarly hostile, but it has not the exotic nature, nor the adventurous charm, of the Philippine jungle. And as a result, try as it might, Demme’s film simply cannot achieve the thrills and fun of its predecessors.

            Then there is the brand of violence these films peddle. It ranges from torturing interrogations to punishments to shoot outs to mud wrestling. All of which might be considered tame by today’s standards (especially when stacked up against the likes of the Saw franchise and The Expendables). But again, the point was not to be shocking. The point was to be entertaining. And entertain it does. So often, the term ‘exploitation’ is associated with the horror genre exclusively. Films like The Big Doll House and The Big Bird Cage certainly prove otherwise.

            And what women-in-prison picture would be complete without, well… women? There is something undeniably attractive about strong female lead characters. Their beauty and their attitudes appeal to male audiences. Their beauty and their attitudes appeal to female audiences (though admittedly, for different reasons…) Still, if it were men on the screen, no one would find these films to be half as entertaining as they are! The fact is that strong, attractive women draw the attention of both genders. If anything, that is a reason for these films to be praised, not vilified as many are tempted to do.  “But they exploit women’s sex appeal!” some have cried. This is most certainly true! These films exploit sex appeal, and feminine strength, and intelligence, and… the list goes on. In the end, there is more to praise about this genre’s treatment of women than there is to criticize. It’s all for the sake of comedy anyway (and pretty good comedy at that… just try not to laugh!) The point is, women plus guns equals entertainment!

            The early 1970’s was a special time in Hollywood. Low budget pictures could make money just as well as big budget ones. The grindhouse circuit was thriving and New York’s famous 42^nd Street was teaming with them! Each small house playing an endless series of double-bills and never closing day or night provided an ample platform for exploitation cinema. Plus, with the MPAA’s new implementation of the ratings system, one could actually make films featuring more adult subject matter and get away with it. This celluloid playground was the perfect situation for Roger Corman’s foray into the Women in Prison genre. It is unfortunate that this period lasted for only about ten to twelve years. With the likes of Steven Spielberg and George Lucas making ‘blockbusters’ (perhaps just a word for exploitation with a bigger budget), the grindhouses began to close. In the present day, the cinematic world is flipped. Now, small theatres show art film, and big ones show large budget thrills, chills, and spills. In the end, it is this nostalgia that helps to make these old grindhouse pictures so enjoyable.

            Whatever the reasons, the truth simply remains that The Big Doll House, and those films that followed it, are exactly what they set out to be: Entertaining. One cannot ask for more than that!

Note: All Roger Corman quotes taken from the liner notes for the ‘Women in Cages Collection’ DVD set released by Shout! Factory, 2011

Existence Upside-Down: The Double Life of Veronique

            1990 was a year of incredible change on a global scale. But nowhere was that change more felt than in Eastern Europe. To put a finer point on it, there was no more Soviet Bloc. The Iron Curtain had fallen. Among the great number of countries liberated, none was more greatly affected than Poland (with the possible exception of Eastern Germany, of course). The Berlin Wall itself came down just months before (in November, 1989).

            It was this environment in which Polish filmmaker Krzysztof Kieślowski [pronounced ‘Christoph Keeshlowsky’] began work on his first major foreign coproduction (made with financing from France, in fact) entitled The Double Life of Véronique (La double vie de Véronique).

            The film centers on two women (both played with a transcendently beautiful melancholy by Iréne Jacob) who have never met, but share an inexplicable, supernatural connection. Weronika is a Polish soprano pursuing a career in vocal performance. Véronique is a French music teacher. Though they have never met, they seem almost identical- same face, same passions, same habits- yet their lives have taken drastically different turns…

 It is difficult to put into words the existential power of this film that so deftly plays hopscotch with the line between fantasy and reality. It is nearly impossible to search for meaning in the hypnotizing moments shared with these two women. How does one search for meaning in a story that is itself a search for meaning? Is not that, after all, the beauty of a work that asks a question, but gives no answer? In viewing, The Double Life of Véronique takes its audience (willing or otherwise) along for the ride. That is, if Weronika/Véronique finds an answer to any of her questions, then we do as well. If she does not, then neither will we find an understanding. There are, however, three exacting themes we are gifted with- tools, in a way, with which to uncover some of the mystery. A veil, an upside down world, and a brief, haunting melody.

The film is nigh unto a proverbial juggling act. Where does the fragile veil of reality end? And where do the depths of an ocean of fantasy begin? Kieślowski demonstrates as much at the point when Weronika’s story concludes- at the beginning of her doppelgänger’s tale. We become covered with earth from Weronika’s point of view at her funeral. And with that covering Véronique is uncovered. And the two women’s tales could not be more night and day from each other. Weronika is a tragedy, Véronique is a comedy. Kieślowski could not be less subtle when he replays the events for us (in a marionette show no less- as if Weronika/Véronique are puppets after all, being played by forces unseen and unheard?) The ballerina puppet dies, and is covered with a sheet, only to rise again as a fairy (an angel?). Weronika’s tragic life, an ill-fated singer, seems to resurrect as Véronique, who this time quits life as a singer to be a teacher instead. In a glimpse of the past near the end of the film, Véronique wakes from sleep to say, “I dreamt I saw a white sheet coming down…” One has to wonder, has she been re-birthed once again? But as all questions in this tale, we are given no answers.

There is too the nature of what a veil is. It covers, it obscures, it hides. When Weronika is laid to rest, and the earth covers her, Véronique feels suddenly alone. A direct contrast to when the Polish singer finds her direction, she connects to her counterpart, saying, “I’m not alone anymore.” It is only when this veil covers the other that Véronique is no longer sure of herself. Weronika is hidden, and so is her double’s direction.

It is almost too obvious that the two women seem to represent both Poland and France respectively. And Kieślowski seems to know full well the implications he puts forth. All the world’s nations depend upon each other the same way that Weronika and Véronique do. And when one drops away, there is nothing there to hold the other up.

By this, Kieślowski proposes that we are all parallel, and not as different as we pretend to be. Yet we force ourselves to live in opposing worlds. Parallel-the same- but separate. This might be the first point made in the film when it opens with an upside down view of the city of Krakow, Poland. This is seen again through the rubber ball that the two women seem to share in common. Viewing through the transparent orb, the world is upended. And with both of them looking through the sphere, we cannot help but believe that they are peering into each other’s worlds- as though the ball is a window to another reality (another fantasy?). The sadness they feel is that they can only look, but never share in being. Even at their only chance meeting in life, they must view each other through a glass pane, or a camera lens.

The curious choice to open the film with an upside down world works all too well. Kieślowski tells us plainly that this world we are about to enter is not our own. Every time we see the upturned world, we are drawn deeper down the rabbit hole, until by the end, there is nothing we can question. Everything that has transpired does not need a reason to exist. We must accept it. It seems, just as we begin to believe we can understand this world, we see a topsy-turvy portal that reminds us that reality is skin deep. Beyond the opaque orb is a world of fantasy so subtle, so seemingly like our own, it begs the question, “Does it exist?” Or is it simply a dream Weronika experiences as she lies buried in the ground?

Perhaps Kieślowski does not have a point. Perhaps the image is simply symbolic of a narrative that is as upside down as the world it is set in. The director himself has stated that the film is about thoughts and feelings, a subject that many consider ‘un-filmable’. The mind does not often work in sequence, or chronological order. Why should a film about the mind do so? In this way, what seems in disarray to the eye may be in decent order to the mind. So why shouldn’t the fantasy world we see as completely upside down make perfect sense to Weronika/Véronique? The journey to discover meaning is hers, after all, not ours. We must be reminded that we are simply along for the ride.

The third commonality the two women share is an ethereal work of music. It is the work that Weronika is performing when her heart gives out, and it is the work that Véronique is teaching to her students (and, in part, leads her to connect with new beau Alexandre Fabbré). Teaching the class, she says that the piece was written “over two hundred years ago”. This would place the (fictional) piece in the mid-Classical period. She adds that the composer was “only recently discovered”. Beautiful music, she tells us, transcends time. Can it transcend space as well?

The existence of the theme at all in the story of Véronique suggests she may simply be Weronika’s fantastical dream. The music that carried her to the grave carries her French counterpart to life, love, and beyond.

Music, rubber balls, veils, marionettes- all are built to be more, to mean more, than their simple appearance. Weronika and Véronique inexplicably share so much in common, but in the end, they search for meaning in their lives in vastly different ways. Kieślowski’s ultimate point could simply be that, no matter how identical we all can seem, individuality can never be escaped. It will always live inside our souls. There will always be a different journey. It may be a parallel world, a dream, or a fantasy. But whatever it is, there certainly has never been such a deep investigation of what it means to exist than The Double Life of Véronique.

Samurai and Gunslingers: Kurosawa, Peckinpah, and the Necessary Outlaw

            “If they move, kill ‘em!”

            Unlikely first words for a would-be protagonist to utter, yet, the first time we meet Pike Bishop that is exactly what he says. The beginning of Sam Peckinpah’s seminal 1969 masterpiece, The Wild Bunch, is almost as iconic as its ending. Plenty of guts, but almost no glory whatsoever. Many films endeavor to let the audience understand who their hero is at the beginning of the story, so that we can root for them the entire time. Peckinpah tempts us into believing that is what we are seeing- Pike, the ruthless outlaw (played by William Holden). In truth, we don’t see who our hero really is until the end of the movie- Pike, the moral man in an immoral world.

            In a time set not long before The Wild Bunch, Sanjuro saunters in to a desolate town somewhere in late-feudal Japan, and finds himself embroiled in both sides of a gang war. Such is the set-up of Kurosawa’s 1961 stroke of genius, Yojimbo. In the same way Peckinpah fools us, Kurosawa sets up Sanjuro (the incredible Toshiro Mifune) as a ronin (a samurai without a master), a killer for hire. Yet again, we do not see the true nature of the man until the end of the film- Sanjuro, the imperfect savior.

            With these two films, we see a broad-stroke connection between two (otherwise unconnected) legendary filmmakers- Akira Kurosawa and Sam Peckinpah. The underlying theme between nearly all of their mutual works: The Necessary Outlaw.

            The concept of the anti-hero is hardly foreign to the histories of art and literature. The timeless paradox of someone who does wrong in order to accomplish good, embodied in a single characterization. Even in the earliest known written fiction text of the English language, Beowulf, the main character demonstrates this classic archetype. But we can go farther back than that. Many more classic fables, such as the Egyptian tale of Neferkaptah (who steals the Book of Thoth), or Homer’s epic poems The Iliad and The Odyssey, center around such men (Whether it be the over-confident Achilles coming to sack Troy, or the hunted Odysseus just trying to make his way back home to Ithaca). The draw of this character is so universal that even William Shakespeare uses the same template in each and every one of his great tragedies, from Romeo and Juliet, to Hamlet and Macbeth. It is no surprise that with the advent of film, the great anti-hero made his way to the silver screen. Even now, the cinema is saturated with this necessary outlaw. His ranks include superheroes (Bruce Wayne- Batman, Tony Stark- Iron Man), cowboys (The Man with No Name), cops (Dirty Harry), and many others. Yet, in light of all this, no other modern filmmakers have made such profound use of the necessary outlaw than Akira Kurosawa and Sam Peckinpah.

            Kurosawa’s career is marked by the theme of this characterization. Even from his earlier works such as 1950’s Rashomon, the outlaw has been portrayed as being forced into action, if not on moral grounds. The character has been featured so many times in Kurosawa’s catalogue of work, it is almost impossible to distinguish one from the next. From the rash Kikuchyo in Seven Samurai, to the father out for revenge in The Bad Sleep Well, and even the unassuming peasant thief in Kagemusha, the archetype of an unavoidable anti-hero, whether his end is heroic or tragic, has found deep root in so many of Kurosawa’s masterworks.

            In 1961, Akira Kurosawa released another in a long string of masterpieces going back from before World War II. He titled it Yojimbo (The Bodyguard). It was based off the popular American novel Red Harvest by author Dashiell Hammet (incidentally, George Lucas is a great admirer of Kurosawa, and while filming Star Wars (1977), he codenamed the production Blue Harvest). The film centers round actor (and long-time Kurosawa collaborator) Toshiro Mifune. Kurosawa himself said, “Anything good I have ever done has been with him…” and it is no better evident than here. Mifune is a prototype for Clint Eastwood’s ‘The Man with No Name’ (a fact ever relevant in view of the Leone/Eastwood collaboration A Fistful of Dollars, a nearly note-for-note remake of Yojimbo, the first installment of the Man with No Name Trilogy, and Eastwood’s feature film debut…).  As if to simply highlight the fact, Mifune introduces himself as Kuwabatake Sanjuro or ‘Thirty-year old Mulberry Field’, “Though I am almost forty,” he adds. This template is especially suited to the necessary outlaw, as if to suggest that he is no one, but could be anyone. A man caught in a tide of conflict he has no stake in nevertheless he must find his footing to survive.

            Upon learning of the town’s plight (underscored in a delightfully dark moment as the first sight we come across- a dog meandering by carrying a severed human hand) Sanjuro hires himself out to the highest bidder in the gangs’ war for supremacy. Even though he is strong, cunning, and charismatic, we still believe he is a villain. It is through his later actions, playing to the two sides against each other that we begin to think he may really be that most epochal of protagonists- the anti-hero.

            There is a humorous, if slightly disturbing scene that begins the third act of the film in which the restaurant owner has carried Sanjuro away from the town in a basket (this of course following the outlaw’s escape from his captors). We see him stand up, out of the basket, and try to hold himself without falling over. We see the terrible bruises, lacerations, and other wounds the beatings that left him nearly paralyzed incurred. “You look like hell,” his friend observes. Sanjuro grins in an attempt to lighten the mood, but instead invokes the image of a crazed madman. “It’s worse when you smile…” says the friend. Indeed it is. Through subtle plotting, genuine good intentions, and an ultimate demonstration of desire to save the poor souls in the town, Kurosawa has encouraged the audience to grow fond of his bad man doing good. But in this moment, we are unsure once again of whom this unfamiliar savior really is. Is he a flawed hero, rough on the outside, but inside a guardian angel of the weak? Or is he a vengeful demon, sent from the netherworld to punish the men who harm the innocent and defenseless?

            Kurosawa aims to leave this question unanswered. His anti-hero is nameless, faceless, incomprehensible. Sanjuro is not a man, not a character. He is force of nature, karma personified. The humble are rewarded and the haughty destroyed. In Yojimbo the situation makes the outlaw’s existence necessary. Both sides are wrong, so he does not take sides. They are all guilty, so they all must die. But he is not one of the people either, he does not belong, so he cannot be a hero. “Go home,” he tells the young guard, “a life spent farming and eating porridge is best.” He knows what the way is, even if he cannot follow it. After the matter is concluded, Sanjuro simply leaves town. Kurosawa shows us, there is no place in the world for the flawed hero.

            If Akira Kurosawa defines the paradox of a world that needs an outlaw but has no place for him, then Sam Peckinpah puts said outlaw under the microscope. In the wake of numerous ‘spaghetti westerns’ coming from Italy, Hollywood was once again in a clamor for classic adventures in the Old West. But this time, they had to echo the dark poetry made popular by Sergio Leone and others. By 1969, there had been precious few American installments to the genre that lived up to the one-two punches of Leone’s works (with the notable exception of 1968’s Hang ‘Em High). Clint Eastwood was still delivering a string of powerhouse performances, but as of late his concentration had been mostly outside the western genre, with two of his three 1968 films being experiments with different categories- the cop drama Coogan’s Bluff and the war thriller Where Eagles Dare. His later triumphs such as Two Mules for Sister Sara and High Plains Drifter were still off on the horizon. With the production (and popularity) of western films treading water, Sam Peckinpah embarked upon an ambitious and costly venture- to make an epic American western with a fresh twist. The result was The Wild Bunch.

            Peckinpah’s epic film centers round a band of aging outlaws in the quickly disappearing west and Mexico circa 1913-1915. The troupe is led by William Holden as Pike Bishop. The bunch rallies up for one last score while trying outrun a posse on their tail led by Pike’s old friend Deke. The film opens with a shot of children dropping scorpions into a swarm of red ants. Though the scorpions are larger, stronger, and fiercer, they cannot stop the tide of ants smothering them. The camera then pans up to see the bunch riding by on horses and Peckinpah seems to say that these men are scorpions themselves. They are strong, fierce products of a quickly disappearing era. They are fated to be overcome by the vast swarm of ants known as progress.

            When we are first introduced to Pike, he orders one of his men “If they move, kill ‘em!” And with that pronouncement we are set down a road of violence, retribution, and desperation. The first turn is the group’s bloody escape from the town in which we witness Pike kill one of his own badly wounded men, refuse his burial, and threaten all the others with violence over a few bags of what turn out to be washers. We feel we are meant to believe that Pike cannot be our hero, he must be our villain. The confusion comes when the men opposing our supposed villain aren’t any better. In fact, they seem worse in some ways. This sort of moral conundrum is Sam Peckinpah’s bread and butter. The brutal violence that has been the benchmark of his career serves only as a vessel to bring this true conflict to the fore.

            Soon we begin to see Pike making decisions that do not seem to reflect the character set up in the violent opening shootout. When he kills his own man, it is out of compassion, not cold-bloodedness. He gradually turns from being concerned about his own affairs to those of his men. His kindness escalates from there, with acts such as refusing to kill train guards, to ripping off a Mexican Federale in order to help his friend Angel’s family, then offering to buy the man’s life back when he is caught. Slowly but surely, one begins not to know what to make of the outlaw.

            The defining moment for Pike is not in any of these actions, but in the obvious despondency he feels when the Mexican general refuses to give up Angel. In the end, he feels no joy in wine, women, or song. He goes to face the general and his troops, even though it means death, because he is a moral man. A moral man in a hopelessly immoral world. It is this character trait that makes Pike an anti-hero. It is also his fatal flaw. The famous final march in the film is almost an underlining statement of the character of Pike and his men- Dutch, Lyle, and Tector. They walk calmly to certain death with big grins on their faces. When the chaos erupts, it is four against two hundred. Once again we see the scorpions- bigger, stronger- swarmed by ants. But this time, the scorpions take the ants with them. Pike’s final moral act at last lets us understand who he is- a man trying to do the best he can when the world has gone mad around him. His ultimate desperation is to save someone-anyone- nameless innocents who have not the ability to stand up for themselves. Peckinpah’s point seems to be at once self-reflective and prophetic: In a life filled with selfish actions, make your last one selfless.

            Both Yojimbo and The Wild Bunch readily accept and demonstrate that the outlaw is necessary in the world in which we live- a world that is closing in on itself, and seeks to regulate the behavior and order of the lives led within it. Kurosawa and Peckinpah challenge our ingrained perceptions of the appropriate and the necessary. They instead pose to us the question, “What makes an outlaw?” Does it take a criminal, a vagabond, a sinner? Or does it take a hero? A man fully conscious of his limitations, and yet accepts them, is able to walk upright amongst the evildoers in his midst. The world is wrong, they tell us, and it takes an outlaw to make it right.