Blu-Ray Review: THE DEADLY SPAWN (1983)

Somewhere in a rural section of New Jersey, a couple of camping enthusiasts/possible life partners are shaken from their sleep by the sudden impact of an asteroid just a few hundred yards from their campsite. They go to investigate, and soon find themselves serving as an all-you-can-gnaw buffet for the meteorite's passengers: a bevy of space worms with multiple heads and more teeth than an Osmond family reunion. Needing a cool, damp place to rest, the Big Mama Worm lays down a slime trail toward a nearby house, slithering into the basement and settling down to a cosy life of popping out baby worms and messily devouring anyone who happens to come down looking for an extra jar of jam preserves.

Rightly considered one of the most ambitious micro-budget monster movies of its era (or any era, for that matter), The Deadly Spawn was a mainstay of video stores throughout the big-box VHS era. Produced by Ted A. Bohus and directed by Douglas McKeown (at least partially--more on that below), the movie was made on a truly paltry budget of about $25,000, yet boasts one of the most memorable and effective creatures ever to grace a video cover. And now Elite/MVD Entertainment has released a Blu-Ray edition of this essential slice of American indie-horror history, and graciously sent a copy to the Vicarage for review.


First, the movie itself--if you're a fan of cheesy sci-fi from the 80s, a celebrant of shoestring ingenuity and champion of the cinematic underdog such as the Duke and myself, then here is a movie tailor-made for your enjoyment. As the Mother Spawn grows larger, ickier, hungrier and ferociouser in the basement, a familial comedy of errors starts taking shape upstairs. The mother and father of the house are planning a long getaway of some sort, and have invited Aunt Millie and Uncle Herb to look after the kids while they're away. Because of their early planned departure time and Mom's conscientiousness about writing instructive notes before getting ready to leave, no one thinks it strange that neither parental unit is around when the rest of the house awakes--which is unfortunate, because they both have of course become Spawn-food in the interim.

On the fortunate side, though, is the fact that the orphaned-but-oblivious kids are uniquely well-suited to deal with the alien menace festering in their root cellar. Elder son Pete is an astronomy major just waiting for a radioactive bug bite to turn him into a superhero--nerdy, scrawny, but incredibly knowledgeable about all things to do with SCIENCE! His younger brother Frankie is a borderline autistic Monster Kid who enjoys wandering around the house in a devil cape and ape mask trying to scare Aunt Millie (and failing miserably). While Pete invites his school friends over for a study session and Pete talks to psychiatrist Uncle Herb to see if monster movies have warped his brain, a surprising number of expendable extras wander into the basement to be eaten by the Slimy Spawn.

Once Frankie discovers the toothy worm and its sperm-like spawnlings (gnawing on his mother's disembodied head! A circumstance which distresses him less than one would imagine), things get turned up to eleven--Spawn Babiez spread out in the neighborhood, attacking a vegan lunch party (seriously) and devouring Uncle Herb. Can Pete, Frankie, and the rest of the Mystery Incorporated gang find a way to defeat the Deadly Spawn before the neighborhood, and presumably the planet, becomes a bloody buffet?

The Deadly Spawn is a lot of fun, and all the more impressive due to its miniscule budget. Clearly a labor of love for all involved, it has that idealism and enthusiasm that I love so much, and that is sorely missing from many of the low-budget efforts of our era. And the creature effects by John Dods (who also did the effects for Don Dohler's immensely entertaining Nightbeast (1982)--a movie I've been meaning to review for ages!) are simply fantastic. Sure, there are some technical shortcomings and the expected sliding-scale acting, but it sets out to give the audience an icky fun time, and in that it more than succeeds.

As to the Blu-Ray presentation by Elite/MVD...well, I wish it were a little better. Whether due to the transfer or to the state of the source materials available, the picture here is somewhat less than hi-def. An improvement over a washed out VHS, sure, but just barely. There's a good amount of bonus materials. The commentary by Bohus and editor Marc Harwood is a hoot, as the two men clearly enjoy one another's company and love reminiscing about the film. We hear about technical triumphs, scheduling snafus, and tensions between McKeown and Dods which eventually led to McKeown's departure from the project and Dods stepping in as director. There's a gag reel, casing footage, trailer, TV spots, and more--more than enough for any Spawn fanatic.

In short, it's a great indie monster movie and worth adding to your collection, if you don't already have the DVD or are the sort of movie fan who just *has* to have everything on Blu-Ray.

Movie: 2.5 Thumbs
Disc: 2 thumbs

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Harlequin (1980): or, Rootin' Tootin' Rasputin

We need more movies about ambiguously evil wizards with disco-fros and lacquered black fingernails in this world. We just do.

I came to this realization recently while watching Harlequin (aka Dark Forces, dir. Simon Wincer), an entertaining and thoroughly MAD slice of Ozploitation from the far reaches of 1980. Displaying hints of the skill that he would later put to good use in blockbusters like Free Willy (1993), The Phantom (1996), and Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles (2001), director Wincer delivers a fun fantasy flick mixing mysticism, cutthroat politics, charlatanry, a healthy dollop of that good ol' razzle dazzle.

We start on the coastline of an unnamed city-state, where the deputy governor is going for an afternoon snorkel while his cadre of bodyguards look on. But even dozens of vigilant servicemen cannot keep the wetsuited politician safe--he disappears in the murky depths, sparking a media frenzy that it falls to Senator Nick Rast (David Hemmings) to deal with.

This is unfortunate, as Rast has plenty of his own problems to deal with. His son Alex (Mark Spain) is suffering from late-stage leukemia, putting bored trophy wife Sandra (Carmen Duncan) on the edge of a complete emotional breakdown. She puts on a brave face for Alex's 8th birthday party, however, showing the sick kid the time of his shortened life--complete with circus rides, balloons, and the creepiest skinny mute clown money can buy!

Nightmare Fuel

Say what you will about the creep factor, though, you can't deny the clown has madd sleight-of-hand skillz. He pulls cards out of thin air, turns handkerchiefs into doves, materializes a big slab o' cake for the sickly guest of to nom upon, and at one point even seems to bring down a crash of thunder from the heavens! They don't teach that at clown college! It's such a great show that even Dad's late arrival can't spoil it for the lovable little tyke--though it does put the senator in serious dutch with the missus.

All good things must come to an end, and the close of the party day sees Alex coughing up blood in the sink and falling into a near coma. The family doctor warns them to prepare for the worst. "It may sound a bit callous," says Nick, just having been informed he's next in line to the deputy governorship, "but it couldn't possibly have come at a worse time!" Say, you're right! That does sound a bit callous. Bastard.

Just when things look their darkest, though, a strange, puppet-like bird appears at Alex's window. Within moments the animatronic avian transforms into...a WEE-ZARD!

You know what they say about guys with big sleeves

Yes, it's the clown from the party, having shed his floppy shoes and make-up for a more elegant but equally ridiculous outfit. The stranger introduces himself as Gregory Wolfe (Robert Powell), and announces he has come to help Alex. Though Nick objects vociferously, desperate mom Sandra begs the stranger to do whatever he can for her dying son. Sure enough, within moments the kid is on his feet, demanding a sammich. Before Mom can thank him properly (and Dad can call his security goons), Wolfe has vanished again, seemingly into thin air.

He's not gone long, though--soon the charismatic magick-man is a daily visitor to the Rast estate, making cozy with Sandra while Nick is occupied in tense meetings with backroom political kingmaker Doc Wheelan (Broderick Crawford, Acadamy Award Winner! But not for this film). While Wheelan molds Rast for office like putty in his fat, tobacco-stained hands, Sandra finds herself drawn to Wolfe like a chickadee to a snake's hypnotic stare. But Gregory, ever the gentleman, rejects her carnal advances at first, a circumstance Sandra takes with the grace and decorum one would expect.

"EAT PLATE, asswipe!"

While he's getting in good with the lady of the house, Gregory is also spending a great deal of time with young Alex, taking him out on long seaside walks (accompanied by Nick's chief of security) to teach him the ways of wizardry. Lesson one? Dangling the recently moribund youngster over a cliff with one hand, so he can experience the fear of death! "Always remember the feel of Death, Alex," he tells his young pupil, setting him down safely while the security man changes his underwear, "and he'll never be able to take you by surprise!" Lesson two: never stand on a cliff with a man dressed like Rue McClanahan at a lingerie party.

"Sure, it looks silly, but the bollock-cooling factor is incredible!"

As the more erudite among you may have already tumbled, writer Everett De Roche's script is a modern-day retelling of the story of Grigori Rasputin, the Infamous Mad Monk of the Russian Court. (Wikipedia article here, for those who want to brush up.) The Rast family share name-analogs with the Romanovs, and even their surname is "Tsar" spelled backwards. Clever, huh? Certain historical happenings are mimicked here, such as Rasputin allegedly curing Tsarevich Alex of hemophilia, exerting a powerful influence over Tsarina Alexandra, and another famous bit of lore that would be spoilerish to reveal here. Suffice to say, the only thing missing is the Russian's Epic Fuck-Off Beard.

Maybe He's Born With It

Things heat to the boiling point when Wolfe starts hinting he knows what happened to the former deputy governor, and points his black-shellacked fingers at Doc Wheelan's merciless machine. "You're being groomed Nick, by magicians, to suit their purpose," he warns, indicating that Wheelan's political powers, though not as mystical, are no less formidable, and perhaps even more deadly. In his role as rival sorceror, Wheelan scryes his all-knowing TRS-80 to discredit Wolfe, uncovering seemingly ironclad evidence that the wizard is a fake and has been snookering the Rasts through hypnosis, adrenocortical steroids, and old fashioned show-biz.

That explanation is dealt a bit of a blow, though, when Wolfe crashes one of the senator's fundraisers--in SERIOUS LEATHER--and turns the place into a magical Fantasia! And not the kind where the hippos are dancing either; the kind where the basement gets flooded and the brooms all try to kill you. Looking like a cross between David Bowie's Goblin King and Slim Goodbody, Wolfe levitates a piano, cuts a dove in half with a flying cymbal, and magically extracts an elderly matron's abcessed tooth--a process apparently MUCH more complicated than simply curing leukemia.

"Do I make you horny? I make *me* horny."

Having gone a bit too far, Wolfe is imprisoned by Wheelan's stooges, only to escape and return to Rast's estate with a view toward ruining the announcement of his appointment. What follows is a battle of science versus magic, as Wolfe thwarts the house's high-tech security systems in order to plead with Rast to reject the Wheelans of the world and embrace...I dunno, a return to private law practice? The details are fuzzy, but it doesn't matter: the stage is set for a showdown, with the fate of the Rast family and Perth's New York's government hanging in the balance.

Harlequin is a wild ride, and one that fans of crazy-ass movies like the ones we celebrate here would do well to seek out. It has everything you want and more--historical pedigree, wild fantasy fx, histrionics galore, random Sigmund Freud impersonations, a fleeting boob sighting, and, as is only appropriate for a movie based on Russian history, strict adherence to the Chekov Rule ("If you show an ill-placed bottle of ammonia acids in Act One..."). Acting is good from top to bottom, the standouts being Crawford as the gruff, no-nonsense Doc Wheelan, and Powell of course carrying the film's top spot.

Ain't Nothin' Funny About a Clown with a Cricket Bat

In short, I enjoyed this flick a lot, and you will too, if you know what's good for you! 2.5 thumbs.

A few more images from Harlequin (1980):

"They're still bigger than yours."

 

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Not this time.

 

It's cymbalic, of course

 

State of the Art

"Oy! Fancy a shag?"

BZZZZZZZZZAT!

 

"Just one more question, kid--what the hell IS that thing?!"

 

"And that's the story of how Mercedes McCambridge and I killed a hobo one time. More punch?"

I don't know what I love more--the spray of blood on the middle dude's face, or how completely blase the guy beside him is. "Oh, this is nothing. You should see what David Copperfield can do to a baby penguin!"

 

"My God, Vicar--it's HUGE!"

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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.

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Shadows of Blood (1988): or, Amsterdamaged

That's right--there is no poster for this movie.

In the late 80s, the port of Amsterdam is rocked by a series of brazen and motiveless murders. Local police are stymied, until they learn through Interpol that two vicious serial killers have escaped a French asylum and are currently engaged in a friendly competition to see who can deal the most Dutch death. One of the men (Barry Fleming) is a maniacal, hatchet-faced freak who nurses romantic delusions about finding true love, along with an extreme sensitivity about his male-pattern baldness. The other, played by his Mad Mad Mad Mad Magnificence Paul Naschy, is a grizzled, cigar-smoking old Spaniard, who turned to serial killing after a successful career as a b-movie horror star and champion power lifter...hey waitaminnit!

Shadows of Blood (1988, dir. Sydney Ling) is something of an oddity in Naschy's career. A flick so obscure it doesn't even have an IMDb entry--in fact, Paul is the only member of the cast whose IMDb page seems to exist!--the film was apparently a direct-to-video effort produced for the burgeoning Dutch VHS market. Like many of the early shot-on-video productions, this one suffers from terrible videography, laughable video effects, and incredibly amateurish acting from everyone but the Mighty Mighty Molina. While it's probably only of interest to hardcore Naschyphiles and obsessive DTV collectors, the movie still boasts enough MADness to make it an enjoyable waste of 70 minutes, at least for connoisseurs of trash cinema like your ever lovin' Vicar.

ETA: VIEW THE LAST 8 MINUTES OF SHADOWS OF BLOOD ON YOUTUBE! (Spoilers, obviously)

There is really no plot or character development to speak of here--we meet Fleming's killer window-shopping in Amsterdam, walking down the street like a regular (if funny-looking) tourist. On a busy thoroughfare, he sees a young New Waver coming toward him, and something behind his eyes just snaps! Without even checking whether all ist klar, Der Kommissar, he throttles the young punk on the hood of a nearby Citroen! Whether from lack of social engagement or crippling politeness, the other Amsterdammers passing by on the street take no notice.

"I told you not to put mayonnaise on my fries, but YOU JUST DIDN'T LISTEN!"

Later, Fleming meets Paul's character (who for sake of simplicity we'll call "Paul") and they discuss their newfound freedom and what they intend to do with it--which seems to be mainly random, motiveless stranglings. Of interest to Naschy fans here is that Paul speaks his few lines in English--though so heavily accented and with such strange inflection, he's clearly working it phonetically. (No shame there though--ALL of the actors in the movie seem to be reciting their lines phonetically, with the exception of a wisecracking Cockney detective on the Amsterdam police force, who seems to serve no other purpose in the movie.) I for one got a strong Lugosi vibe off Naschy's dialogue here, which of course made me giggle with glee.

"I crap bigger than you!"

Eager to show the youngster how it's done, Paul checks into a bed & breakfast. Moments after dropping his luggage in his room, he drags a chambermaid in by the throat! (In the first of many instances of somewhat effective black humor, Paul thoughtfully puts out the "Do Not Disturb" sign. Also, in the first of many instances of filmmaking flubs, we next see Paul stepping around a stage light to get to his mark.) Still spry despite his 55 years, Paul stalks his prey before executing a stunning leap attack!

Huzzah!

As the bodies pile up, the Amsterdam police force finally takes notice. Though the tough-as-nails female chief orders her men to bring the killers in before Interpol can come in and trample the case, her elderly, Carlsberg-swilling flatfoots make no progress. Meanwhile Fleming strangles a hobo, and Paul one-ups him by walking into a cafe, ordering a dish of soup (or "soap"--it's hard to tell), and then strangling a Debbie Harry lookalike before his meal can even be served! A fellow diner, sitting literally the next table over, does nothing to help...though he may well have simply been paralyzed by Paul's mesmerizing manliness.

With no clues to go on (except presumably the DOZENS of eyewitnesses to every single murder!), the chieftess is forced to accept the help of an also-elderly Interpol agent, apparently sent over from their Department of International Standing Around with Hands in Pockets. (He's the best there is at what he does!) The agent fills them in on the killers' backstories, which include the fact that Paul has murdered 22 people, and his apprentice a respectable 19--not counting the latest additions. Together the crack task force investigate several tabacs, bars, and hotel bars, finding nothing but a series of suspicious-looking cocktails that must be immediately eliminated.

"Nope, no killers under the crumpets! Maybe at the bottom of this glass, then?"

From there on out, it's a series of curious events. Fleming strangles more random passersby. Paul throttles a few too--including one fat video editor (?), whom he takes out while wearing a Venetian plague doctor mask!--but later diversifies into stabbings and power-drillings. Things take a strange turn when Fleming starts courting a hollow-eyed local woman, who is not put off by his goblin-like face and penchant for killing people during lulls in the conversational courtship. Meanwhile Paul has an odd interlude wherein he meets an elderly Dutch serial killer to talk shop with, and later has his humanity reawakened by the not-so-skillful warblings of a homeless flautist. Seriously.

Fun fact: Naschy spent a good portion of the 80s touring with Jethro Tull

Things come to a head when Fleming senselessly murders the old flute-blower, which causes a rift in his friendship with Paul--a rift that's only exacerbated when Paul garottes Fleming's girlfriend before his eyes! Somehow the cops FINALLY catch up with the younger killer, leading to a foot chase and a showdown in which Fleming laughs like Dwight Frye on nitrous oxide and rips off his hitherto-unmentioned toupee! The police are powerless against such insanity, so it's up to Paul to put Fleming down like the rabid dog he is. As the chief of police stands by completely inactive--saying nonsensically via voice-over that "Perhaps it's better he gets away!" (wha?)--we get a flashback montage with strange video effects of blood-colored hands over the footage, grasping at the old killer while he offs victim after victim. Perhaps these are the "shadows of blood" that haunt him and inspire his murderousness? Director Ling leaves us to ponder this mystery as the end credits roll, and treats us to one of the most infectiously awful title songs I've ever heard in a Naschy flick.

Shadows of Blood is a terrible, terrible movie, and one that I'm sure Paul was not sorry to have left off most of his filmographies. Apart from a short write-up on the indispensible Naschy.com, there's little information in English about this flick, and many fans would probably say that's for the better. It definitely seems beneath Paul's considerable talents, and even the man himself seems to be uncharacteristically phoning in much of the performance, his eyes only on the paycheck waiting at the end. (Apart from those few lines alluded to earlier, most of Paul's acting here is done via broad gestures and pantomime.) Bad script, bad acting, a terrible Casio-fart score, and bad cinematography abound; it's little wonder that few if any of the other people involved have any further discernible film credits.

Your guess is as good as mine

Still, whether because of my own unique mental malformations, or because I'm always under the sway the Magic of the Mighty Molina, I admit to enjoying Shadows of Blood more than a little. The plot device of the competing serial killers isn't a bad idea, and the outlandish brazenness of their killings was a source of laugh-out-loud entertainment to me. Though I couldn't argue that it's anything other than one of the worst films in Naschy's long career, I nonetheless ended the flick with my trademark Naschy-induced grin on full beam. I was never bored by it, which is of course the gold standard for trash cinema in my opinion.

So for me and other Naschy completists, I would rate the film at 2 thumbs, something you need to see and might even enjoy. But for the average moviegoer, that rating would have to drop considerably, maybe even to the 1 thumb range. I freely admit to my bias--but what can I say? Naschy always makes me happy. Rest in peace, you wonderful madman. You are missed.

More images from Shadows of Blood (1988):

Kill!

Kill!

Kill!

Drill!

"Waiter, there's a Fly Girl in my soup!"

"Yeah, everyone keeps telling me Alcohol Niet Ils Ik Ru, but I don't believe it!"

That's right! KNEEL, PEASANT!

The Ghost Hand goes for Paul's Booty. Can you blame it?

Even Paul doesn't know what he was thinking

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NASCHY FOREVER

The Man

It hardly seems like two years have passed since Jacinto Molina, known to his still-growing legions of fans as the Lon Chaney of Spain, Paul Naschy, shuffled off this mortal coil and took his final bow. Followers of this blog know what Naschy's legacy means to the Duke and me: he was quite literally the impetus of this project of ours, and the subject of its first-ever review post. He left behind a legacy of joy, terror, and madness matched by few, and (in our humbles) surpassed by none.

He is sorely missed. We shall not see his like again.

It may seem incredible to some, but here, two years after the day I woke to discover that my icon and hero had succumbed to pancreatic cancer at the age of 75, I still get tears in my eyes just thinking about it. At some point between that first giddy discovery of Naschy's work, through countless visits to his monster-choked realm, from the dizzying heights of his Waldemar Daninsky saga to the saddening lows of his bitter, fallow years, Naschy stopped being just an image on the screen, just an old man from a foreign land whose interests and passions neatly dovetailed with mine; he became, in a sense, one of my dearest friends. And his loss was hard to take. It still is.

The Myth

Though I have delved deeply into the legacy Naschy left behind, I still have much to discover. Later today I will be posting one of these until-now-untapped discoveries. But in the meantime, as my tribute and monument to my much admired and even-more missed old friend, I collect here all the Naschyness of the blog for your reference and enjoyment.

Rest in peace, Paul. Gracias.

The Legend

• Frankenstein's Bloody Terror (1968)
• Assignment Terror (1970)
• The Werewolf vs. the Vampire Woman (1971)
• Dr. Jekyll vs. the Werewolf (1972)
• Fury of the Wolfman (1972)
• Horror Rises from the Tomb (1972)
• Crimson (1973) 
• Curse of the Devil (1973)
• A Dragonfly for Each Corpse (1973)
• The Hanging Woman (1973)
• The Hunchback of the Morgue (1973)
• The Mummy's Revenge (1973) 
• Vengeance of the Zombies (1973)
• Count Dracula's Great Love (1974)
• The Devil's Possessed (1974)
• Exorcismo (1975)
• Muerte De Un Quinqui (1975)
• Night of the Howling Beast (1975)
• Inquisición (1976)
• El Transexual (1977)
• The Frenchman's Garden (1978)
• El Caminante (1979)
• Los Cantabros (1980)
• Night of the Werewolf (1981)
• The Beast and the Magic Sword (1983)
• El Ultimo Kamikaze (1984) 
• Rojo Sangre (2004)

And remember last year, the glorious outpouring of love that was the Paul Naschy Blogathon? You can still visit all those links too! And well you should!

THE PAUL NASCHY BLOGATHON LINKS PAGE

EDIT: It appears I've jumped the gun with my grief, as Naschy's official date of death is November 30. :( I'm letting this stand, though--expect my review of my latest Naschy viewing tomorrow.

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Happy Birthday to The Duke of DVD!

"Getting old ain't for pussies, verily."

 Two thousand years ago, in the Australian bush near what is now Bumbang, Victoria, an Aborigine shaman fell into a Dreaming in which he saw a huge, flesh-puddled mass, barely human, surrounded by heaps of gold, piles of roasted wallabies, and the twisted limbs of a thousand writhing damned. The poor man never fully recovered, and spent the rest of his days with a severe form of involuntary sweating lalalogia accompanied by explosive incontinence. Though his people had no written language, for years the oral history recorded his bizarre utterances, collected by Swedish anthropologist Høyt Møøsewørryer in the mid-19th Century. The strange locutions--"Noshee!", "Fool-chee!", "Bah Vah!", "Arrh Ghent Oh!" and "Ooh, Dat's a Bollocky Bumtikler!" have never been satisfactorily explained, but many occult authorities point to this nameless seer as the first to glimpse the coming of the Great Destroyer of Glazed Hams and Devourer of Insanity, whose nativity today is celebrated by some, mourned by others, and feared by all.

Yes, parishioners, today is the birthday of His Flatulence, The Duke of DVD!

As is our custom on this most blessed and cursed of all calendar days, let us take a moment to review some of the lore and legend surrounding everyone's favorite aristocrat:

• In addition to his expertise in all things related to Madness in Cinema, the Duke is also an accomplished (some might say "cunning") linguist, being fluent in Cantonese, Hindi, Creole, and Sasquatchian.

• In 1935, up-and-coming Burlesque star-turned-actress Fifi "Bang Bang" La Desh penned a series of tell-all articles about the Duke, drawn from her experience giving command performances at his chalet in Cunter, Switzerland. Among the startling revelations in La Desh's memoirs, readers learned that after a particularly intense bout of drinking, the Duke once expelled three cysts in the shape of an Eye of Horus, a Pentacle, and Teddy Roosevelt's moustache. It was later learned that the latter was in fact the actual moustache of the ex-president, though heaven knows how it got there.

"Bugger!"

• The Duke has one of the greatest collections of false limbs ever assembled. His prize exhibit is the false arm of Admiral Horatio Nelson, which he employs to open stubborn jars and retrieve hard-to-reach items from high shelves. He also owns the peg leg of privateer François le Clerc, which he habitually puts to more unspeakable uses.

• On his last trip to the Amazon, the Duke and his party discovered a hitherto unknown species of beetle, Ducalias Dvdius Vulgaris, which as a defense mechanism excretes a pheromone that causes uncontrollable orgasms in its attacker. Shortly thereafter, the Duke single-handedly hunted the bug to extinction.

• After receiving a pre-festival tasting pass to the 1979 Munich Oktoberfest, the Duke consumed every vat of ale earmarked for the celebration. As a result, a Novemberfest was held that year, the only such festival in the city's history. The Duke has since been banned from attending, but still sneaks in occasionally in the costume of a Gypsy prostitute.

• The above is also how the Duke covers his airfare and lodging expenses for the trip.

"I find his eminence the Duke...disarming!"
"Also, a right cad. *sob!*"

• The Duke is the 3-time world champion in the Vertical Luge, and the first to be inducted in that sport's hall of fame, by virtue of his being the only person to compete in a VLA meet and survive.

• Among his many hobbies, the Duke enjoys Underwater Sculptural BB-stacking, and being tossed by dwarfs.

• The Duke's middle name is Eunice.

Many happy returns to my friend, my confidant, my blackmailer and fashion consultant, and one of the MADDEST men I know--parishioners and subjects, raise your glasses to the Duke!

Don't Hate Him Because He's Beautiful

Bunnies,
The Vicar

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Night of the Living Dead (1968): or, Slow and Steady Wins the Race

October Horror Movie Challenge, Day 31!

I probably don't have to summarize this one for any of my parishioners, but in the interest of keeping good form, here goes: after laying a wreath on their father's grave, siblings Barbara (Judith O'Dea) and Johnny (Russell Streiner) are attacked by a shambling, murderous lunatic. Johnny is killed in the struggle, and Barbara flees to a nearby farmhouse, whose sole occupant is a partially devoured corpse. Soon she is joined by Ben (Duane Jones), a take-charge kinda guy who is fleeing from a horde of similarly murderous shamblers. They discover another group of refugees in the cellar of the house--lovebirds Tom and Judy (Keith Wayne and Judith Ridley), bickering married couple Helen and Harry Cooper (Marilyn Eastman and Karl Hardman), and the Coopers' injured daughter Karen (Kyra Schon). News reports inform them that what's outside are worse than murderers--incredibly, the unburied dead are coming back to life to kill and eat the living! As the group of would-be survivors tries to find a way out, tensions mount between them and the zombie horde grows larger and hungrier...

Rewatching Night of the Living Dead (1968) for the who-knows-what-numberth time, I was struck as I always am by how near-perfectly paced the film is. There's little to no drag, and from the opening scene in the cemetery to the well-known shock ending, the movie hums along like clockwork--with a very tightly wound spring. Every scene has a purpose and pushes the film forward, gaining momentum as it goes. The characters behave believably, doing what anyone would do in a similar apocalyptic situation; even Barbara's paralytic shock and Harry's angry assholery are understandable and relatable. And Romero's zombies are slow, implacable, and overwhelming, setting the standard for flesh-eating ghouls that continues to hold today.

Suspenseful, thrilling, and still scary after all these years, Night of the Living Dead is the perfect Halloween rewatch, and a great way to cap off my 31 days of horror movies. 3+ thumbs, of course.

They're all messed up.

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...