Super Xuxa versus Satan (1988): or, Brazilian Wacks

Friends, there have been dark days at the Vicarage. For the last two years and change, your ever-lovin' Vicar has found himself stuck deep in the Slough of Despond, without the energy or inspiration to so much as lift a quill. Bereft of inspiration, deserted by my Muse, and still heartbroken at the untimely loss of one of the last century's greatest talents, the ink had all but dried up in my disused pen. I found the weird movies I watched drained of their color, their madness impotent to lift my soul from the sprawling shadow Silence that had enveloped it. It was, to put it mildly, a very "down" mood.

But then, when I had all but resigned myself to never preaching the gospel of Mad Movies again, a figure appeared as though in a dream: clad in heeled white boots, a white pleather bikers' jacket and hot pants, a shining headband and a form-fitting rainbow-print tee, this angel descended on a wave of sunshine and 80s South American bubble-gum pop. She sang to me in a language I couldn't understand, but her words drizzled like warm honey of the flavorless Eggo™ of my soul, filling it with a sweetness whose taste I'd nearly forgotten. Taking my gnarled, withered hand in hers, she lifted me up and showed me something that put the joy back into my heart, the spring back in my step, and the starch back in my cassock:

What she showed me was Super Xuxa versus Satan (aka Super Xuxa contra Baixo Astral), a 1988 kids' movie from Brazil with more positivity, puppetry, and family-friendly batshittery than you can shake an inappropriately designed Muppet at. And that, my friends, is quite a lot.

Trust me. I know.

MORE MADNESS...

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The House of the Seven Graves (1982): or Disco in the Dovecote

I admit I wasn't expecting much from The House of the Seven Graves (La Casa de las Siete Tumbas, dir. Pedro Stocki). And at first, I seemed to be getting what I was expecting. However, as the movie wore on, what started out as a standard flick about possibly supernatural childhood trauma turned into an eerie, dark fairy tale about witches in the woods, haunted wells, and the destructive tensions between lovers and friends. Perhaps that doesn't entirely excuse some of the film's narrative and technical shortcomings, but it did make for an entertaining and somewhat pleasing pelicula from our friends from way way south of the border.

Somewhere in rural Argentina, besties Clara and Cecilia make their way through an idyllic, thoroughly normal childhood. They ride their bikes, braid each others' hair, and play the innocent juvenile games of an age before Internets, XBoxes and lipstick parties. This all changes, however, when down by the train tracks an old hobo entertains them with the legend of a witch who lives nearby, who has a penchant for luring young 'uns to her house, draining their blood, tossing their lower halves down a well and shoving their disembodied heads into a huge, haunted dovecote* on her estate grounds. With nothing better to do, adventurous Cecilia drags timid Clara to the house in question and dares her to go into a workshed, only to abandon her friend once the dusty door clatters shut. If you're thinking this is a recipe for life-long psychosexual trauma, you've clearly been to Argentina before.

*Note to the Vicarage Architetural Corps: we need a haunted dovecote. STAT.

MORE MADNESS...

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Gothic (1987): or, The Young Romantics are TRIPPING BALLS

October Horror Movie Challenge, Day 19!

In the summer of 1816, in Sweden at the Villa Diodati, one of the most legendary gatherings of literary heavyweights in history is about to take place. One of England's most famous young poets, Percy Bysshe Shelley (Julian Sands) is to be the guest of one of its most infamous, the Mephistophelean Lord Byron (Gabriel Byrne). Shelley is accompanied by his beautiful future wife, Mary Godwin (Natasha Richardson)--not yet Mary Shelley, since the poet is still technically married to his first wife--and Mary's fiery, slightly unhinged stepsister Claire Clairmont (Myriam Cyr). Byron's sole companion is his physician, Dr. Polidori (Timothy Spall), a creepy little man with a more-than-professional interest in Byron's body. Once gathered, the group immediately engages in an orgy of free love, laudanum-fueled licentiousness, and nightmarish visions that will drive them to the brink of MADness, and will also give birth to one of the enduring horror myths of all time.

Warning: if you're in the mood for a Merchant Ivory-style biopic about the girl who wrote Frankenstein, this is NOT the movie you're looking for.

I had seen Gothic (1987) before, many years ago, but somehow I had forgotten how relentlessly, jaw-droppingly INSANE this movie is. Director Ken Russell--a man not particularly well-known for his even hand and cool restraint--takes the famous historical event as a springboard into a Phantasmagoria* of frenetic debauchery and borderline-surrealism. Everything is turned up to 11: the dialogue is overblown and operatic--literary references and quotes are dropped repeatedly and with great force. The music (by Thomas "She Blinded Me with SCIENCE" Dolby!) is hyperactive and intrusive, going from 80s synth rock to symphonic tempests to the Diodati Disco.  And the images...dear God, the images!

*Yes, I know.

A fish flopping helplessly (and pointlessly) in a stone birdbath. A writhing python draped around a suit of medieval armor. A merkin-jerkin' automaton. A demonic dwarf crouched on Mary's chest. Byron's menstrual vampirism. Claire's constant CRAZYFACE. Mary's visions of her dead baby. And Percy meeting a dream woman who never has to say, "Hey, my eyes are up here."

None of it makes very much sense, but Russell is clearly not interested in any sort of accurate historical representation--it's all about seeing how many beautiful, nightmarish images he can cram into 90 minutes. Turns out, the answer is "A Metric Shit-Ton."

The acting here is hard to judge. I said it was operatic, and it's true--there's lots of grand gestures, wild expressions, and screaming on key. Byrne really makes a meal of this diabolic version of Lord Byron, and Richardson is vulnerable and passionate as the future Mary Shelley. Cyr is a force of nature, with her wild black hair, huge, almost Steele-ian eyes, and a sensuality so raw it's almost bleeding. On the down side, Sands seems to have been hired solely for his (admittedly uncanny) resemblance to the actual Percy Shelley--even taking into account the over-the-topness of the script, he is uniformly terrible here.

Themes of birth, death, creation and destruction form only the thinnest framework for the unstoppable fever dream that is Ken Russell's Gothic--a movie so incredibly insane, if it were a person, you'd have to lock it up in the interest of public safety. This is, of course, the highest of recommendations. 3 thumbs way up!

This was exactly my facial expression during the entire runtime of Gothic.It will be yours too.

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The Red Headed Corpse (1972): or, Love and Sex for Dummies

It's a truth we learn early: sometimes in order to get what you really want, you have to put up with something you really, really don't. You can have the ice cream, but only if you eat your Brussels Sprouts. You can buy those comic books, but only if you mow the yard. You might be able to get to third base, but only if you go antiquing for three hours and then sit through Love, Actually. So what's it gonna be? Is the cost worth the benefit? How bad do you want it?

Whether you will enjoy The Red Headed Corpse (aka The Sensuous Doll, dir. Renzo Russo, 1972) will depend on the results of your own personal cost-benefit analysis. Are you willing to spend a great deal of your movie-watching time staring straight into the haggard, leathery, alcohol-ravaged face of Farley Granger--his watery, bloodshot eyes filled with self-loathing, his lips foam-flecked with the hateful venom they spew whenever they're not wrapped around the neck of a liquor bottle--if every now and then, as your reward, you get to see Erika Blanc naked?

Don't answer right away. This one bears serious thought.

This...

...for this?

Granger plays artist John Ward, the kind of misanthropic, irredeemable, apocalyptically assholic character that could only be the protagonist in an Italian exploitation flick from the 70s. In the opening scenes he all but spits on an art dealer who offers him 300 lira for a few slapdash drawings, then blows the whole wad on booze before going back to his studio to get catatonic. We see he's being followed by a mystery man on a motorcycle, who even goes so far as to break into Ward's house and steal a photo for later use--but after a couple of minutes the movie seems to forget all about him, and so should all of us.

Since he's clearly not rolling in dough from his paintings, we can only assume Ward comes from money--his studio is actually a decrepit gothic mansion, with acres of unkempt grounds. Walking off his hangover the next day, Ward runs into a gaggle of hippies who have crashed on his land, playing folk music, dropping acid, and having random hairy sex in the name of Peace. (God bless 'em!) Eventually one of the bearded brethren sees him and offers him spiritual freedom in handy, smokable form:

"Hey man, want to turn on?"

"Huh-uh."

"Why? You like the world as it is?"

[venomously] "I DON'T GIVE A DAMN!"

"Seriously, man, try it--it intensifies your personality!"

"No thanks--I'm an asshole."

Seeing that their petal-pushing is unwelcome here, the hippies summarily split, but not before Ward's dialogue partner bequeaths a parting gift--a battered junk-shop mannequin with a flowing red wig! "You want a girl?" the Hippie asks."Well here's one you can make your very own. She's better than the real thing! She won't talk back, and she'll always be waiting..." How the hippies came by the figure or why they carry it with them remains unclear, but I'm sure it seemed like a good idea after four tabs.

Back in the studio, Ward sets up his plaster playmate and then proceeds to get plastered himself. A few drinks in he hatches the unsurprising plan to fix the doll's face into the most beautiful he can imagine, which of course he can do, being a painter and all.

"Relax--you're not the first girl I've spackled."

Later at a bar--where I can only assume he fled because he drank everything in the mansion, including cough syrup and drain cleaner--Ward runs into a gorgeous red-haired lady of the evening who proposes a for-profit body-fluid transaction. Dripping condescension and condemnation, Ward shoots her down and leaves--with the natural result that she follows him out of the bar, stops him in the street, and offers to forego her fee if this drunken, wrinkled, hateful little man will just bed her already! Because really, 70s Italian whores weren't in it for the money--all they really wanted was LOVE.

The more hateful and alcoholic the better, apparently.

His hardball haggling having paid off to a ridiculous degree, he accompanies the Gold-Hearted Hooker to her friend's apartment to seal the deal. Once there she gets needy and clingy, saying she'd like to wake up next to him and begging to be allowed to model for his paintings. "Aren't I beautiful enough?" she asks, displaying a gorgeously voluptuous Eurobod and Duke-Approved Free-Range Bush™. "Don't you think I can do it?"

You don't have to be a dummy to love him, but it helps.

Apparently the answer is no, because next we find him back at Chez Whiskey, working on his doll while unpacking some serious psychological baggage. "I'll make you lovely--a dream! You'll be lovely...pure...and FAITHFUL...Everything a woman SHOULD be!" If you guessed he's been burned before, and as a result now hates all women and sees them as soul-draining vampires bent on control and destruction of all men--well hey, you get a cookie! John finishes the touch-up, and before you can say "Pygmalion!" the doll has come to life!

Not one to look a gift mannequin in the mouth, Ward instead focuses on his new girl's bodacious ta-tas, as she silently sweeps through the house, miming childlike discovery at every piece of furniture. The love of a good woman-shaped object really works wonders, as soon he's happy and sober and selling lots of art. "You're an angel," he says to his artificial love, whom he's christened Christine (Erika Blanc). "You never ask for anything!"

Good work, John.

All good things must come to an end, however, as she proves to be a quick study for a dummy. After Ward screws the power of speech into her (don't ask), there's no shutting her up! First, first she only professes her love, but soon moves on to requesting flowers and candy, and later to demanding expensive dresses and nonstop attention. In the face of her constant nagging, Ward hits the bottle again, and Christine suggests he resort to painting lurid nudes in order to finance her newfound expensive tastes--with her as the model, naturally. At first he refuses, but she bullies him into it: "Aren't I beautiful enough? Don't you think I can do it?"

Pay attention, kids: that's a clue.

Soon his work catches the eye of the world's slimiest art collector, Omar Bey, who offers Ward thousands for each new painting. Meanwhile, bored at the mansion, Christine starts an affair with a greasy hunter who just happens to turn up, played by Venantino Venantini (Seven Deaths in the Cat's Eye). When Omar conspires to come by while Ward is out of the house, he gets what he came for, but leaves behind a distinctive cigar butt, which Ward recognizes immediately.

"I don't know about you, but post-Impressionism gives me SERIOUS WOOD."

His jealousy reawakened, Ward confronts his cheating lover; however, he hasn't figured on her backbone of reinforced, aluminum-plated steel! "I'm free to take love if I want to--that's how it was when I found you! You feel like killing me? Then do it! Go ahead, big man! You're just like all the others...a pig, a disgusting pig!" I thought she was modeling macrame for hippies when he found her, but never mind. Cowed and emasculated, Ward drowns his sorrows while Christine becomes more and more brazen, flaunting her affairs--including a beachside tryst with a college kid in the highest-waisted swim trunks EVAR--right under his swollen red nose.

This can't go on forever, though--soon a reckoning must be made, leading to a final confrontation that teases at some unearned and wholly un-set-up supernaturalism, then dissolves into a fever dream of unburied corpses and meant-to-be-shocking plot twists that are in practice much less interesting than they sound. Oh, and the motorcycle guy's identity is revealed, and he narrates about five minutes of plot-hole filler before a sardonic cop gives us the head-scratching ending "twist." Fin.

No strings attached.

So all this doesn't sound too terrible, and maybe it's not, as long as you're the patient sort. Because let me tell you, it takes a lot less time to read a synopsis than to actually watch the movie. It starts off pretty strong, with all the weirdness of Ward's psychosis and the "mannequin inexplicably comes to life" stuff, but by the 40-minute mark all that's in the past. The next 40 mins are mostly Ward being drunk and hateful, Christine being nude and hateful, and Omar and the hunter being slimy. Not much else.

It wouldn't be half as tedious if you had an interesting character to latch onto, but unfortunately Russo strikes out there as well. Granger's John Ward is so hateful, drunk, and pathetic, he actively repels audience sympathy. Erika Blanc is aptly named--sure, she's gorgeous and often naked, but her acting skills are almost nil; she's a blank space where someone meant to draw in an interesting character, but forgot. (On the other hand, she *is* playing a mannequin, so maybe it was method.) The only other characters of note, the hunter and Omar, are likewise slimy and unappealing. The easily infatuated hooker is the only half-way sympathetic character, and she's in it for less than five minutes.

"Do that thing again where you hate everybody and call me a slut. That's HAWT."

This was Russo's last feature film, at it looks like that was no mistake. The editing is choppy, and despite periodic flashes of style in composition, the direction as a whole mostly comes across as merely adequate. Combine that with a plot that doesn't make sense half the time (and the other half is just plain stupid), and I'm afraid there's not much left in the "plus" column.

But there *is* Erika Blanc naked. A lot. The question is--is that enough?

Maybe for you. For me, it's enough for 1.5 thumbs, and not much more.

"SAY NO MOOAH!"

A few more images from The Red Headed Corpse (1972):

"God, how I hate this window treatment!"

"I just want to put a new coat of shellack on it, I swear!"

"Ooh, look at THIS attachment I could get! That could be fun, no?"

Little known fact: at one time, Erika Blanc was the leading European James Brown impersonator.

One for the ladies.

Farley Granger's Dylan phase

"Excuse me, have you seen the point of all this? We're looking for it."

MORE MADNESS...

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Mosquito der Schänder (1976), Or I Want To Suck Your Blood, But Only If You Are A Corpse

My dearest readers, friends, I bid thee well-met. It is I, the Duke of DVD, once more exposing the contents of my brain like so many sweet treats spilling forth upon the loamy ground from the rent bottom of a piñata, worked to be an effigy of the Vicar buggering a sheep. “What are we celebrating?” you ask, sphincter contracting alarmingly. The onset of cold weather, of course! The hoary wind of fall ripples across our skin, raising our nipples erect, a harbinger of the dread winter to come. So let us sit before a roaring fire, a crystal glass of port in hand, and muse upon the bleak abomination that is German cinema.

Not content to merely churn out endless chest-shitting videos, which they could easily do given their industrial capacities, the Germans have instead deigned it necessary to befoul the world with another form of disturbingly MAD cinema: blood-drinking, doll-collecting deaf-mutes who love molesting corpses. “But Duke,” you bleat in a piping voice, “isn’t this a sub-genre that the Germans should excel at?” Be at ease, sir or madam! It is indeed a sub-genre that only the Germans could pay adequate service to! Not only were the makers of this film up to the task of bringing us the eerie world of deaf-mutes who play with dolls obsessively, but they were also keen on throwing the doors open wide on the multi-faceted world of breaking into funeral parlors and molesting corpses.

Are you with me so far? Don’t be afraid! Grip the Duke’s hand, and let us explore, shall we?

Mosquito der Schänder or Mosquito, the Rapist (renamed Bloodlust for the U.S.), is set in the bleak, soundless world of a deaf-mute. We don’t know his name, and in fact as far as I could tell, no one in this movie is given a name. He is credited simply as “The Man” (played excellently by Werner Pochath). He is no one, and everyone. Or something like that. Our deaf-mute friend lives in a simple apartment, the walls painted black, surrounded by shelves of dolls of various sizes. Dolls are his passion, and he would like nothing more than for them to be alive, so that they might comfort him and love him.

"I get 50 mpg on this hog, baby!"

Our movie opens with this poor soul riding a hilariously small scooter through a nameless small town. He arrives at his apartment building, and we are given a disturbing flashback that gives us a bit of insight as to his mental health. As a young boy he is beaten severely by his father, who leaves him bleeding on the floor as he begins to molest his young sister (in a rather graphic and shocking scene). These things, which presumably went on for some time, left him a shattered individual, capable of feelings only for his dolls. He’s in love with a young girl who lives in the same apartment complex as he, but of course doesn’t know how to express this.

"Now... where did I leave the non-doll-related porn?"

At work, where he is an accountant, he fares no better. His coworkers laugh behind his back, and in some cases straight to his face, accusing him of being a pervert and gay. He tries to find solace with a prostitute, but he has no clue as to how to “be” with a female, so the hooker kicks him out when it becomes clear all the dude knows to do is lay his head on her flabby stomach. So, what’s a social outcast to do, when all you have are dolls and a pet rat to give you attention? Well, logic dictates that you try to bring the dolls to life, of course! This comes at the wrong time, though, because he finds he’s obsessed with how blood looks on skin. This first manifests itself when he first spills ketchup on himself at lunch, and then later spills red ink on himself at work. He realizes that, damn, blood sure is awesome!

"I'll teach you to change the channel during Sanford & Son!"

This sets off a truly epic series of scenes in while our burgeoning pervert repeatedly breaks into funeral parlors and molests corpses. There’s never anything overtly sexual; instead he’s obsessed with their blood. It starts out small, just cutting a corpse and licking the blood off his hand, but escalates quickly, culminating in the drinking of corpse blood with a forked glass straw (hence “mosquito,” get it? haw!). Like any bandit worth his salt, our man signs the wall “Mosquito,” perhaps as some sort of calling card to let the funeral home know that he was all up in their business, drinking blood and what not, yo.

"No, it's an ACTION FIGURE!"

He further defiles some corpses by taking their eyes out of their heads. The effects here were adequate, but nothing too showy. He tries using the blood from the cadavers to breathe life into his doll collection, but he must be doing something wrong, because this plan fails. (Shocker.) He’s going through life, enjoying his blood-letting festivities, when suddenly, tragedy strikes! The young (living) girl who is the object of his obsessions falls off the apartment building roof in what I could only deem an accident of Darwinian proportions. She’s dancing, eyes closed, near the edge, and suddenly over she goes! I, for one, am thinking deaf-mute guy is better off not dating someone so stupid.

"All right, luv, just swipe your credit card and we'll be good to go!"

Her funeral is barely over when Mosquito digs her up and drinks her blood, which is the only way he knows how to express true love. Awwwwww! Her death, though, is more than he can take. As if his mind weren’t snapped enough, he comes unglued, and stalks the first couple in love he can find, following them out to the woods. He watches them make the beast with two backs for a bit, before finally stabbing both of them to death and drinking blood out of the girl’s breast.

Everyone knows Berliners are jelly-filled!

This proves one step too far, as the cops arrest him at work shortly after, dragging him out past a lot of employees who aren’t surprised in the least. The movie ends with a dream sequence showing the girl he loved, dancing around. Fin.

Ahem. So you see, fellow readers, that a movie shot in Switzerland, made and released by Germans, can have quite a bit of depravity in it. The movie stops short of showing actual necrophilia, but I believe this is only because our poor deaf-mute guy simply didn’t know how sex is made. He instead penetrated the corpses with his glass tube, and drank their essence. Despite the grotesque subject matter, I found myself fascinated by this movie. The use of theremin music during the scenes when mutie was in his apartment really kept me on-edge. The namelessness of everyone involved added to things as well. The child beatings and molestation were just disturbing icing on an already unseemly cake.

The director (Marijan David Vajda) does a great job in composing each shot, giving us a constant barrage of the claustrophobic world that the deaf-mute inhabits. Hookers leer at him from side alleys, coworkers stand too close and laugh at him. Even his ridiculously small scooter is somehow appropriate. Werner himself does a great job, and is very convincing as a man driven to follow his desires, no matter how twisted.

"At last, my RealDoll™ has arrived! And what a spiffy collector's case!"

I do have to take exception with a few things, however. For one, the movie was titled “Mosquito the Rapist,” yet no actual rape ever happens, to living beings or corpses. The closest we get is the man’s dad molesting his own daughter, but this only goes as far as groping. Perhaps stabbing a glass straw into a corpse’s breast to drink its blood is considered rape in Germany? This brings me to my other nit to pick, and that is the fact that there’s blood in the corpses to drink at all. I don’t know the state of embalming during 1970’s Germany, but I’m pretty sure corpses were being drained of all fluids back in Egyptian times. I can forgive this, however, because if proper embalming techniques were used, we wouldn’t have a movie, now would we?

In the end, Mosquito served as the genesis for a glut of German necrophilia movies (such as the infamous Nekromantik series), and for that we should give the creators thanks. Don’t feign mock alarm! You know it’s true! The movie is worth watching, not only from a purely historical point of view, but from a pure Euro-trash point of view as well. Come for the corpses, stay for the blood-drinking!

2 Thumbs Up.

Extra bonus images from Mosquito der Schänder (1976):
 

Never question the accuracy of Klaus's accountancy. EVER.

"I didn't want to kill her...but just LOOK at this dress! Really!"

"Hurry up, Billy!  Before someone comes along and wants to drink blood from my breast!"

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Attack of the Beast Creatures (1985): or, Night of the Oompa Loompa Fetish Dolls

All right, folks, I admit to not having what you would call an encyclopedic knowledge of the subject, and I'm quite willing to listen to contrary opinions and be proved wrong. But still, I'm going to go ahead, climb out on that proverbial limb, and make my underinformed but still strongly-held judgment:

Attack of the Beast Creatures is THE BEST independent monster movie EVER to come out of the state of Connecticut.

Granted, that's rated on the famous Vicar-ious sliding scale: the movie has problems, including but not limited to an extremely constrictive budget, amateur acting, deadpan unnatural dialog, and a marked lack of explanation for the various goings-on. But along with all that, it's got the endearing earnestness and unquenchable-if-misguided ambition that are the hallmarks of a glorious failure and a Mad Movie classic. And most importantly: always entertaining and never, but NEVER boring. In short: a winner.

More of a wedge, actually

In May of 1920, the ocean liner S.S. Obelisk meets an unspecified tragedy in the icy waters of the North Atlantic, leading all hands and passengers to abandon ship. Captain John Trieste (Robert Nolfi) and First Mate Case Quinn (Robert Lengyel) find themselves on a lifeboat along with several paying customers who are freaking (the fuck) out about the whole thing. They get caught in a strange rogue current (or do they? Dun-dun-DUN...) which speeds them away from the other lifeboats and finally dumps them on the cold pebble beach of an uncharted island. When asked where they are, a crew member shrugs, "Your guess is as good as mine. Greenland, maybe?"

Saddled with a badly injured shipmate, the Cap'n and Quinn quickly organize the other survivors in hopes of finding enough food and water to sustain them until help arrives. Crusty old rich dude and Hall of Fame Cinematic Asshole Mr. Morgan (John Vichiola) wastes no time informing everyone that a) the injured dude is done for, so they should conserve their energy and just leave him to die, and b) they're highly unlikely to get off the island alive anyway, for which Cap'n John deserves all their unending scorn and hatred. Despite their fellow passenger's stinkin' thinkin', however, the rest of the survivors decide to pitch in and do what they can to contribute to the whole "not dying" project.

Reason behind the nautical saying: "Never wear yer white pants when the seas be rough. (Arrrgh.)"

At this point the characters all wander into the Deciduous Forest of Backstory Exposition. Munching berries like a bunch of brown bears dangerously behind on their pre-hibernation fattening-up, the characters take a few minutes to quiz each other on who they are and why they're there. Turns out Morgan was taking his wife on a sea cruise for her health; whether the wife is on one of the other lifeboats or drowned is unclear. Middle-aged socialite Mrs. Gordon (Kay Bailey) was to meet her husband at the Obelisk's destination, and she is befriended by chubby veterinarian and possible hag-seeking-fag Philip (Frank Murgalo), the most  food-focused member of the group. Flapper chick Cathy (Julia Rust) is the designated "in-shock screamer" of the flick, and tougher-minded flapper Diane (Lisa Pak) makes it her duty to keep the girl together.

There's another crew member, Pat (Frans Kal), but don't worry too much about his backstory--a few minutes into the forest he finds a sparkling pool of what looks like delicious, life-giving water, and crouches down to get himself a face-full of savory wetness. It quickly becomes clear that we're not in Greenland anymore*, however, when the limpid pool turns out to be filled instead with fast-acting, face-eating acid!

Human Alka-Seltzer

*At least, I don't think Greenland is dotted with naturally occurring pools of sulfuric acid. Then again, you could forgive them if they decided to leave that out of the travel brochures.

The crew and survivors hold up admirably under the strain of this shocking (and surprisingly gory) turn of events, as Cap'n John shrugs it off with the pronouncement, "Well, we've gotta be a lot more careful of what we eat and drink now!" No point crying over liquefied friend-face, one assumes. Though to their credit, the crewmen do give the high-school biology class skeleton of their fallen comrade an IMMEDIATE Christian burial, which as we know is exactly what all the survival handbooks and B-movie guides insist upon in such circumstances.

After a LOT more berry picking and some ominous rustling in assorted ferns, Quinn gets thoughtful and opines, "I dunno, there's something about this place...something weird!" Something BESIDES the face-eating acid pools, you mean? Cap'n John and Quinn go back to the shore to check on their injured friend, whom they left unattended and bleeding on the beach (like you do). They find his body completely stripped to the bone (Biology Class Skeleton appearance #2) by some unseen scavengers.Also in keeping with the B-Movie Rulebook, Cap'n John swears Quinn to secrecy on the subject. "Whatever it was, we've GOT to keep it to ourselves! The others have enough to worry about!" Yeah, we definitely don't want to tell them they have to watch out for some man-eating monsters that might be stalking us! That would just make them antsy!

"Whoa! I don't remember eating THAT!"

The secret doesn't stay secret very long, however. That night around the campfire--which the Cap'n allows to be set up right out in the open, natch--the inhabitants of the island make their presence known in the film's one genuinely almost-creepy scene. After the Cap'n puts the moves on Diane with some smooth, worldly-wise dialog (Diane: "I guess you've been lots of places!" Cap'n John [deadpan]: "I've been lots of places."), his Lady Love takes a turn on watch. While she stares out into the darkness, she notices two small glowing eyes staring back. She strains to see them better, and notices three sets of eyes. A moment later, half a dozen--and after another cut, even more! The slow buildup of unknown monsters, with only the ambient light of the campfire (shades of Dogme 95?) is effectively done, imo. And then--finally!--THE BEAST CREATURES ATTACK!

The respectable filmmaking chops continue here, as the initial attack is all chaos and shadows and firelight. The creatures are clearly small in stature and very numerous, and we get only split-second glimpses of their faces as the screaming and thrashing reaches a crescendo. Granted, what we *do* see is rather guffaw inducing, but it's so ACTION PACKED that it's easy to forgive. Beast Creatures jump onto shoulders, swing in on vines, and scurry off into the darkness, shrieking like newborn Alien Chestbursters! One even gets thrown into the flames, leading to a combustible marionette sequence that is as exciting as it is entertaining.

Like everyone, he just wants a Pearl Necklace™

After the shipwreck victims fight off this first wave, they stop to do a damage report. Old man Morgan is the worst injured, as he now has a gaping wound on his leg. The rest of the group gets off with minor scratches and cuts. Cathy goes into shock, because that's her job, but everyone else seems pretty okay with the whole "being on an acid pool-riddled island that's also overrun with little orange land piranhas" thing. The Cap'n calmly decides they need to get to higher ground, as that way the Beast Creatures will be easier to fight off. So the next day, the group sets off on a cross-country trek to the island's lone peak.

Having showed somewhat remarkable restraint so far with his Beast Creature effects, director Michael Stanley decides it's time to give the people what they came for: the rest of the movie takes place in full daylight, and his diminutive stars take center stage, conducting guerrilla-style attacks on the humans as they walk slowly across the island. Beast Creatures pop up out of holes to gnaw on ankles, drop out of trees into the ladies' hair, and generally make serrated-tooth nuisances of themselves again and again. And once you get a good look at them, you'll be so glad for the Death of Restraint!

"Rarrr!"

I mean, just LOOK at that beautiful little bastard! The comparisons to the Zuni Fetish Doll in Trilogy of Terror are apt, as would be a call to that movie's copyright lawyers--the Oompa Loompa Orange paint job and lack of pupils are really the only distinguishing marks. I tell you, parishioners, you don't know true Mad Movie Joy until you watch one of these little guys swinging from a vine into the camera lens, or better yet doing a bouncing, arm-pumping run across the screen accompanied by some of the best "pitter-patter of little feet" Foley effects this side of The Muppet Show. The rest of the movie is one attack and/or crazy character action after another, and I don't mind telling you I was grinning like Karen Black in freeze-frame the whole time.

Time for a Mad Movie Bullet List? I think so!

• Despite all the strange happenings and dangers, the women of the group still giggle like they're on a Girl Scout outing between attacks, bonding over dress repair and laughing with orgasmic glee when they find a non-acidic pool of water to bathe in.
• After a few of the aforementioned hit-and-run attacks, the Beast Creatures regroup for another all-out assault, leading to some of the greatest land-piranha attack footage ever committed to film. Obser-uv:

"We know you have granola bars! GIVE THEM TO US!"

• Despite their ferocity and numbers, the Beast Creatures seem incapable of inflicting any real damage--despite being COVERED with the things, everyone comes away with only a few superficial scratches. Except for poor Mrs. Gordon, who perishes in the swimming hole, likely having drowned after gulping water thanks to the Beast Creature's relentless tickling.
• Morgan goes insane from the stress, foaming at the mouth and dashing off into the woods. Despite his bum leg he easily outpaces both Quinn and Cap'n John, and finally takes a header into one of those pesky acid pools. (Biology Class Skeleton appearance #3)
• More great dialog abounds. Cathy: "Do you think we'll make it?" Cap'n John (deadpan): "We'll make it."

Death from Above!

• Quinn mentions the island "feels like the tropics," despite being in the North Atlantic. The Beast Creatures play jungle drums to unnerve the humans, and are later seen gathered motionless around a Tiki idol on top of Beast Creature Peak. Nothing else is ever made of this connection.
• Both Quinn and Philip fall prey to some primitive traps set by the Beast Creatures--a trip-wire/impaling spike snare, and a shallow eating pit--both set right out in the open, not camouflaged, and easily avoidable.
• Though it took them a day and a half to reach the peak, the whole group makes it back to the beach in 10 minutes at a brisk jog. They also cross a non-acidic river on the way, which apparently they didn't notice on their initial water search.

The Vicar, mid-viewing

• In the FINAL WAVE attack, the creatures somehow manage to take a main character down, the one unexpected death of the movie.
• Final line, from some flabbergasted rescuing sailors-cum-audience stand-ins: "What were THOSE things?"

A lot of people are going to hate Attack of the Beast Creatures, and I'm not going to claim it's perfect, by any means. But your reaction to the obvious flaws is going to determine how you feel about the movie as a whole. Are you going to harp on the fact that the 1920s setting is completely arbitrary and serves no narrative purpose, as there are no period settings or use of timely events, even in dialog? Are you going to rag on the totally period-inappropriate synth score, which sounds less like 20s jazz than some kid in his bedroom aping NPR's "Hearts of Space" on his Moog? Are you going to NOT be filled with joy by the fact that the opening titles go on for over 6 minutes in between action scenes, and include a credit for "Hairstyles by D J's Hair-Inn"? Well then, this movie is not for you.

You can tell I had a blast with Attack of the Beast Creatures. It's silly, it's badly made, and its creatures are laughable, but it is never boring and is full of the kind of enthusiasm and low-budget ambition that seem to be in such short supply these days. The Beast Creatures themselves--their origin and provenance, their connection to a Tiki culture thousands of nautical miles away, the idiosyncrasies of their inhospitable home island--are never explained, perhaps because like all Nature's greatest creations they are at root inexplicable. But they made me smile, laugh, and cheer, and for that I can only offer them my affection.

2.75 thumbs for this pinnacle of Connecticutensian filmmaking. Where's our DVD, Nutmeggers?

NOM NOM NOM!

More images from Attack of the Beast Creatures (1985):

Flapper As Fuck

We Have You Surrounded

"Anybody seen Kyle?"

Forest of Doom

"We paid for it, we're gonna USE it!"

Quinn learns the hard way why you never accept a BJ from a Beast Creature

"Holla!"

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