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.