Before you head out to get that Christmas tree, you may want to consider going artificial after you see Treevenge, a short film from Canadian director Jason Eisener that picked up an award at the Sundance Film Festival earlier this year, as well as a number of other citations from fantasy film fests across the nation. It's been bouncing around the Interweb since the summer, but now is truly the time to give it an airing.
I submit this for those of you who think The Jar's taste in horror to be a little on the mild side; you would do well to remember that I adore all Canuck horror, the more twisted and demented, the better.
It is, without any equivocation, NSFW, and parents may want to think twice before watching the second part. I, on the other hand, am quite childless, and so I say...roll it!
After the twilight years of classic Universal horror - and as the studio segued into tales of sci-fi and radiation-spawned monstrosities - and as Val Lewton's efforts for RKO drew to a close, Boris Karloff increasingly explored non-cinematic opportunities to ply his craft as an actor. He eagerly embraced the nascent medium of television, but, true to his stage roots, he also accepted a handful of offers to "tread the boards" on the Great White Way. In 1941's Arsenic and Old Lace he appeared as gangster Johnathan Brewster, for whom plastic surgery has rendered the spitting image of a certain horror film star (pity every production that followed, professional and otherwise, charged with the difficult task of finding a performer to compare with the incomparable Karloff), and he was the villainous Captain Hook in the 1950 musical adaptation of J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan, with score by Leonard Bernstein. In 1955 came the role that Karloff considered the proudest moment of his long and storied acting career: Bishop Pierre Cauchon in Lillian Hellman's adaptation of the Jean Anouilh play about the martyrdom of Joan of Arc, L'Alouette - The Lark.
The chance to adapt the play came at a time of great difficulty for playwright Hellman. Respected for such stage works as The Children's Hour, The Watch on the Rhine and The Little Foxes, Hellman was called before the House of Representatives Committee on Un-American Activities in 1952, and told to give up names of associates with Communist sympathies. She refused, but rather than know the martyrdom of a contempt citation, she was dismissed with the degrading comment, "Why cite her...? After all, she is a woman." There began a period of blacklisting and poverty, with Hellman unable to see her original work produced - at one point, she was even forced to sell her house. Instead, she turned to adaptations, a prospect that did not fill her with excitement. But when presented with Anouilh's script, she found an occasion for pointed political commentary. Like fellow dramatist Arthur Miller did in 1953's The Crucible, she would find inspiration from history, and whereas the accused of Salem met their fate at the end of a noose, Hellman's protagonist would be burned at the stake. That climax was not without personal resonance.
There was a problem; halfway through the adaptation, Hellman discovered that she didn't care for the story. Whereas Anouilh's Jeanne d'Arc was true to the title - a lark singing in ecstasy to the glory of the Almighty - Hellman envisioned a tougher character, a sturdy peasant girl capable of leading armies into battle. (I would argue that the tension of this dichotomy actually led to a better script and a more complex Joan - child, woman, warrior, saint.) The experience left Hellman somewhat distant and embittered toward the project, reminding her yet again that the world was not interested in her original ideas.
Broadway producer Kermit Bloomgarden, with a reputation for shows of great literary import, would bring the play to New York. Hellman would remain a very hands-on playwright, involved in every element of the production, including the hiring of neophyte Broadway director Joe Anthony. The first-timer was considered a gentle, approachable sort, open to input from the performers. However, he was consistently overruled by the ever-present Hellman, who routinely barked out directions to the cast, testing the patience of even the most professional of the crew. In his autobiography, cast member Theodore Bikel tells of an occasion at a rehearsal of his solitary scene as Beaudricourt, the landowner who is worn down by a relentless and optimistic Joan. When the girl exited the stage, Bikel placed his head in his hands in frustration, only to hear Hellman shout out from the back of the theater, "What was that supposed to mean? Don't do that! I don't like gestures!" Bikel's response is worth reprinting in its entirety -
Miss Hellman, I cannot accept such a statement. If you do not like a particular gesture, then we might discuss it with the director and if we should all agree that it is wrong or inappropriate, then we might consider changing or eliminating it. But to have you say to me - categorically - that you do not like gestures - in the plural - directly attacks one of the principal things my profession is all about. Words are your department, Miss Hellman, gestures are mine. I wish you would realize that my work starts where yours ends.
Having been in such rehearsal situations myself, I can imagine the tomblike silence that followed. Certainly such difficult dynamics required a cast of utmost professionals, and with Karloff in the role of Bishop Pierre Cauchon, the show had a performer who embodied professionalism and courtesy to fellow actors and crew. For Karloff, here was a part that allowed him to demonstrate new colors within his actorly palette. Audiences that arrived at the show expecting him typecast in the role of a grand inquisitor had to be surprised. Instead, his was a paternal figure, protective of the innocence he saw within the young martyr, and fearful of the destiny that awaited her if she did not renounce her claim to be a vessel for the Holy Spirit. (How could she be? After all, she is a woman...) Karloff received glowing reviews for his work, and earned a Tony nomination for Best Actor in a Play, but lost to Paul Muni in Inherit the Wind.
For all his professionalism, there were moments that saw the great man (almost) crack. Directors often admonish actors not to tamper with the play's dialogue offstage in jest, lest those unorthodox re-writes accidentally find their way in front of a paying audience. Bikel tells of a performance when this happened. The line of dialogue, delivered by one of Joan's prosecutors, was supposed to be, "When the devil wants a soul for his own, he appears in the shape of a beautiful girl with bare breasts!" What emerged from the actor's mouth was Bikel's backstage parody - "He appears in the shape of a beautiful bear with girl breasts!" Poor Boris was the one who had to deliver the follow-up line, and the cast could see him struggle to suppress his laughter.
The show was a great critical success, but the reviews for star Julie Harris were positively rapturous. By the time the show had opened at the Longacre Theater on November 17, 1955 (going on to run 229 performances, a smash for a straight drama), Harris was already an Oscar-nominated actress (The Member of the Wedding), and in 1953 received the first of her record-setting five Tony Awards and ten nominations for her portrayal of Sally Bowles in I Am a Camera (later to be the source material for the musical Cabaret). She earned her second Tony as Joan of Arc, graced the covers of national magazines, and was the toast of New York City. She also developed a warm relationship with Karloff, and the two spoke of each other with great fondness in the years that followed. Both reprised their roles when The Lark was adapted for television as an installment of the Hallmark Hall of Fame that aired on February 10, 1957 (and will hopefully be excavated and released someday on DVD).
An interesting sidelight - The Lark marked the second time that Karloff acted in a production with music from the pen of Leonard Berstein, albeit indirectly. Bernstein composed a set of choruses for seven voices plus simple percussion that served as incidental music for the play. Three of the songs are in French and based on folk songs of the period; the remainder are his interpretations of movements from the Latin Mass. The works are published in two volumes and have gone on to become choral concert staples. They were pre-recorded for New York performances of The Lark - which meant that Bernstein had minimal working contact with Hellman, an old friend. Their successful endeavor inspired them to collaborate on a musical version of Voltaire's Candide, one of the legendary "interesting failures" in musical theater history. The free-wheeling Bernstein clashed violently and often with martinet Hellman, and the friendship was irrevocably broken. Years later, eyebrows were raised when Hellman agreed to speak at a televised 60th birthday celebration for the maestro - and spent her time speaking only of Bernstein's recently deceased wife Felicia.
Earlier this year, Karloff's daughter Sarah auctioned off a number of items from her father's treasure trove of mementos, believing that they best belonged in the possession of fans. Two items stood out among the rest: a scrapbook of notes, photos and reviews from The Lark, and, more impressive still, Karloff's original script, filled with annotations and pasted-over rewrites. The notes in the margins reveal a very workmanlike approach, utterly practical, devoid of the psychological over-analysis in which some performers indulge. Perhaps it is because that Karloff recognized a compassionate humanity in Cauchon, compassion which he shared in abundance and used as a wellspring. Maybe it is because his work in The Lark allowed him to show the humanist within that made Pierre Cauchon Boris Karloff's most cherished role, and we should hope that its televised version will someday surface, that future generations may know an equally-cherished man.
(This post is dedicated to the joyous memory of Thomas F. Nevins - teacher, mentor, director, colleague, friend - who passed away two years ago this week. He saw and loved the original New York production of The Lark - and was able to direct his own version before he passed away. God love you, Tommy. Now shut the hell up.)
Midweek Music - "Gloomy Sunday" Music and lyrics by Reszo Seress and Lazslo Javor
As I mentioned on Monday's post, the Gold Key comic title Boris Karloff Tales of Mystery became a must-buy by the time I was a mere six years of age. However, it took only until the second issue for the title to feature something that simply scared me right out of my prepubescent mind, a fear that stayed with me for many years after.
In addition to illustrated stories, the Gold Key horror titles of the time also featured one-page text pieces, usually printed after the first full story, with real-life subjects that were taken from supernatural legends or the paranormal. It was as if each book was taken over for one page by the editors of Ripley's Believe It or Not, and these text pieces were my first exposure to stories of UFOs, the Loch Ness Monster, ESP, even the well-documented similarities between Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy. But it was issue #24 of BKToM that told the terrifying story of...The Melody of Death.
Accompanying the text was an ominous drawing by Gold Key artist Joe Certa; a radio was in the foreground, musical notes issuing forth from its speaker, while in the background stood a woman. Her head was lowered in profound grief, face in hand, her dark hair obscuring her features. She stood alone, bereft, moved to unspeakable melancholy by what she was hearing. It was a chilling sketch, replete with shadowy portent, but it didn't do justice to the tale told by the text.
In 1933 collaborators Reszo Seress and Lazslo Javor created a song that caught the attention of their native Hungary, and not in a good way. The tune was entitled "Gloomy Sunday," and its lyrics (translated from the Hungarian) tell of a love lost to Death, and the longing for reunion that only suicide can bring -
"Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless. Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless. Little white flowers will never awaken you, Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you. Angels have no thought of ever returning you. Would they be angry if I thought of joining you? Gloomy Sunday.
Gloomy is Sunday; with shadows I spend it all. My heart and I have decided to end it all. Soon there'll be candles and prayers that are sad, I know. Death is no dream, for in death I'm caressing you. With the last breath of my soul I’ll be blessing you. Gloomy Sunday."
The song was not a success initially, but (and what follows here may very well be apocryphal) reports surfaced over the next few years of the song being linked to a number of suicides, often of a very colorful variety...a man requested an orchestra to play the song, and then went home and shot himself in the head...a woman overdosed on barbituates and was found clutching the sheet music...suicide notes were written consisting of merely the two words of the song title...and in the incident that got to me, the comic book text piece told of a young boy bicycling down the street who, having heard a panhandler whistling "Gloomy Sunday," gave the man all his money, pedaled to the nearest bridge...and threw himself in the water to drown.
Gentle reader, that scared the daylights out of me; a 1968 comic book aimed at kids was the last place you'd expect to read of another child's actual death - and by his own hand. The notion that a song could exert such a powerful thrall over an otherwise well-adjusted person shook me to my core. I resolved that day on that I would never allow myself to hear the melody...and it was a pledge that I kept for almost 16 years - that is, until I picked up a copy of former J. Geils Band frontman Peter Wolf's solo debut LP Lights Out, and there on the second side..."Gloomy Sunday." But hey, I was a college student now, it was 1984, I was a double major in Music and Theater - what harm was it gonna do? So I listened to it.
Meh.
To be honest, it is indeed a very mournful tune, and in the original Hungarian it has the most haunting, ineffable impact; given the subject matter, it is easy to hear how it could have a negative effect on someone predisposed to self-destruction. However, it is also worth remembering that Hungary has traditionally had the highest suicide rate among all European countries. (Stories of the song being banned after similar suicides in the US appear to be just that - stories.) In the last 75 years there have been hundreds of cover versions, with the most notable coming from Billie Holliday (no stranger she to depressing subject matter), Sarah McLachlan, Portishead and Elvis Costello. So here, submitted for your approval, is "Gloomy Sunday" in the original Hungarian, and a cover version by the inscrutable (and Icelandic) Bjork.
Oh, and one final bit of information...composer Seress died in 1968 from - you guessed it - suicide, flinging himself off a building. Just so you know.
In the winter of 1968-69, I was in the First Grade, and my horror proclivities were well on their way to being permanently established. Thanks to my mother, I had learned to read by the tender age of two, and my first few years of school were filled with tests after tests measuring my abilities and perceptions. I'll have to make this a separate posting someday, but for now I'll just say that my teachers discovered that nothing could make me happier than to be sent to the school library, where I would pore over Edgar Allan Poe stories and volumes of short stories "edited" by Alfred Hitchcock.
I also adored comic books. Like most kids, I first acquired the Disney titles and Harvey's Richie Rich offerings, but in the summer after my kindergarten year, I discovered the darker titles; DC's anthology books to be certain, but my first purchases from the Red Owl supermarket were from the folks at Western Publishing, and their Gold Key comics line. After consulting my collection and doing some checking of dates, I can conclusively say that the first horror comic that I ever bought was Boris Karloff Tales of Mystery #23, cover dated September of 1968.
Compared with other Gold Key titles (the other two titles of their terror trinity being Ripley's Believe It or Not! and The Twilight Zone), this issue was something of an anomaly. Like the other two books, it was published quarterly (!), meaning that each issue could remain on the newsstand for three months waiting to be sold. Yet, despite such a leisurely schedule, Gold Key must have needed to do some cost-cutting about then, as the contents were mostly reprinted from the title's "first issue," when the book was launched in 1962 as a tie-in to the television series Thriller. Even the cover was duplicated, albeit with a splash of yellow behind the revised title. By the third issue, the book was christened BKToM, and it remained a fixture of the Gold Key line until the very end of the 1970s, 97 issues later.
This issue also featured the only photographic cover of the series, something that was more common in the early run of such Gold Key TV tie-ins as Star Trek, Dark Shadows and Bonanza. The comics line was noted for their sumptuous painted covers, reminiscent of the work being done for paperback books and movie posters of the time. Placed alongside the latest offerings from Marvel and DC, the Gold Key titles looked sophisticated, expensive, compositionally complex. It was very easy to lose yourself in the cover of a Gold Key comic.
I'm not sure what it was about that issue that drew me to it, but I have a vague recollection of my father, pulling out his wallet and whipping out the fifteen cents worth of magic, reinforcing the fact that, if I liked all things ghostly and ghastly, then Mr. Karloff's was a name that I would do well to know. Hence this elderly man holding a candle ushered me into a new world of comic collecting, and in the next twelve years, I never missed an issue. (That December, watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas on its second CBS repeat, Karloff's name popped out at me; here was a voice to attach to the comic drawings, and the black and white headshot that appeared on every cover.)
February 3, 1969 was a Monday morning, and the television was tuned to the CBS Morning News (during the summer, it would remain on that channel for Captain Kangaroo one hour later). I was all dressed up and waiting for the neighbor lady to come pick me up and drive me to school, when the story moved on the screen; over the weekend, Boris Karloff passed away from pneumonia in Great Britain at the age of 81. The choice of a film clip was an odd one in retrospect - it was the waterwheel climax from 1951's The Strange Door (for years I thought my memory on this might have been a bit hazy, until I eventually saw the movie and the recollection came flooding back). No Frankenstein's monster? Or The Mummy? Nothing more recent, like from Corman's pictures? Perhaps this was all the news division could find in a pinch.
I didn't know enough at the time to ask these questions - I was merely struck. This was the first celebrity death of someone I knew, someone whose sepulchral voice was familiar to me, someone whose picture I held in my hands. Even though I only knew him from his more elderly appearance, and later learned of the fragility of his health during his last decade, it saddened me that someone could die from something that was little more than a very bad cold. And how Ironic that a man whose stock in trade for most of his career was Death...would wind up imparting one of my earliest lessons on the subject.
This week over one hundred bloggers around the world are celebrating the 1887 birth of Karloff the Uncanny with the Boris Karloff Blogathon, and here at the Jar all my postings for the next seven days will pay homage to the man behind the monster. For those of you who are regular readers, you know that I like to post material that remains relatively uncovered by the Interweb. That may be a bit of a challenge, but I'm looking forward to it, and I'm honored to join my fellow bloggers in such a worthwhile tribute. Stop by Pierre Fournier's excellent Frankensteinia and see what the rest of the world has to say. It promises to be frightfully fun....
1988 falls in the post-slasher era, yet before the great Horror Drought of the early 90s; lots of supernatural themes, big rubbery monsters and, unfortunately, many theatrical releases that are still awaiting their digital due. Apologies - trailers for The Carpenter, The Chair, Hide and Go Shriek,Paperhouse and The Unholy either were non-existent, or resisted embedding. Let's enjoy a few of these together, shall we? (And watch for a very special appearance from Toni Basil in one!)
If pedigree insured success, then the 1972-73 NBC anthology series Ghost Story / Circle of Fear would have enjoyed a long, prosperous run. With executive producer William Castle at the helm, co-developed by Richard Matheson, and featuring scripts from notables the likes of Robert Bloch, Henry Slesar and Jimmy Sangster, the series sure looked on paper like it would be a winner. After all, heartbroken horror fans were due an apology after the network's shabby treatment of the final, truncated season of Rod Serling's Night Gallery the year before.
The series was initially structured around snifter-toting host Sebastian Cabot, who, as proprietor of the imposing edifice Mansfield House, would present tales of the bizarre and supernatural, more often than not centering around the dead haunting the living. The reputation of all parties involved was able to coax some superlative talent to the screen - Jason Robards, Helen Hayes, Patricia Neal, Karen Black, Jodie Foster. Melvyn Douglas, among many others. But the show could stand as Exhibit A in the argument against the hour-long single-story format; most of the tales felt padded, the atmosphere of the uncanny dissipating long before the closing credits rolled. The first 14 anemically-rated episodes were telecast before Christmas of '72...and then came an intervention.
While America rang in a new year, Ghost Story rang out its title and host. Gone were Cabot and the Essex House framing device (which always struck me as an odd solution, as one of the standard knocks against anthology shows is the lack of continuing characters - was he unable to shake the Mr. French persona in the minds of viewers?), and in was the new title Circle of Fear, with a more in-your-face intro and a punchier theme from composer Billy Goldenberg. All other production credits remained the same, and the series managed another nine installments before NBC called it quits. (Ironically, this makeover was similar to the one that happened over at Night Gallery for its final season; however, that series took a turn for substandard scares more appropriate for a carnival funhouse - much to Serling's chagrin - whereas the changes that took place here were more cosmetic in nature.)
That's not to say that GS / CoF didn't have its moments: dead wife Stella Stevens terrorizing hubby Robards through his TV set in "The Dead We Leave Behind," the eerie cement block with the protruding harpoon in "The Concrete Captain," the titular moth that torments Janet Leigh in "Death's Head," and the haunted rocking horse discovered by Martin Sheen in "Dark Vengeance." But for me, the most consistently memorable installment was from a teleplay courtesy of Star Trek's D.C. Fontana and master fantasist Harlan Ellison first broadcast in January of '73. Every now and then I'll bump into someone who remembers the series, and the episode they'll bring up is "the one about the jars"...and then I know they saw "Earth, Air, Fire and Water," which explores that mysterious realm of the subconscious known only to those who create. Where does inspiration come from? And what happens when you really lose yourself in your work? (Night Gallery fans, look closely - you'll see artwork from Jaroslav Gebr, who painted the canvases for NG's pilot movie, as well as the paintings representing the Sixth Sense episodes that were stripped into the series when it entered syndication.)
I was delighted to be tooling around YouTube and discover the episode in its entirety. Unfortunately, the sound is very much out of synch; I hope it doesn't drive you mad, and you're able to compensate. Two of Ghost Story's episodes have found their way onto the recent collection of William Castle movies - and in pristine condition, I must say - so I'm hoping that the interest is sparked to re-master and release the entire 23 episode run of one of the greatest Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas in televised horror history.
Richard Kelly's The Box is getting ready to limp out of first-run theaters, having eked out a miserable $13.2 million in box office receipts, and laying claim to a dubious achievement; it earned the almost unheard-of "F" grade from opening night CinemaScore audiences. The Las Vegas-based research organization polls Friday night filmgoers in 25 major markets across the US, and gives patrons the option of assigning letter grades from A+ all the way down to F. To place that failing grade in perspective, it is widely assumed that A's are given to hits, B's to middling successes, and a C is usually the worst grade that an audience is expected to give. A C grade is tantamount to a death kiss, with D's and F's all but nonexistent.
Why such a high curve? That's because those who are being polled are highly-motivated consumers of that film. They're the ones who braved opening night crowds, paid opening night prices (matinee goers need not apply), and obviously were keenly aware of the new film's opening date to catch one of the first showings. Not only are they most primed to enjoy the experience, but CinemaScore founder and creator Ed Mintz has found that they are also the patrons whose disappointment in a film's shortcomings can prove most accurate for predicting BO totals. Once the Friday night numbers are in, they are crunched to deliver a prognostication for final US gross. The system has proven remarkably prophetic.
So if you are polled by CinemaScore, what precisely are you asked? As it turns out, not very much. The poll, able to fit on a wallet-sized card, wants to know your age, gender and the grade you'd give the film. Also, you're asked if you're enthusiastic enough to either rent or buy the movie later (although given the recent precipitous drop in DVD and Blu-Ray sales, one would think this question's worth has been devalued of late), as well as your primary reason for wanting to see the movie - star, director, genre, advertising, etc.
And that's it. CinemaScore then applies a formula that takes into account the age and gender demographics to predict a film's BO take, and a high grade does not always equal dollars; if the audience has skewed older, that usually means a lower final gross (Russell Crowe's State of Play earned an A- from CinemaScore, but the younger demographic shunned the movie, and it was widely considered a flop with $37 million banked.)
Now, consider this; according to Entertainment Weekly, there have been three other movies in the last five years that have also earned the dreaded F grade, and, gentle Jar readers, get a load of what they are - 2004's Darkness, 2005's Wolf Creek and 2007's Bug. This means that the only films to garner a failing grade have all been Horror films, or at the very least films that were sold as such. So does this mean that horror fans tend to be peevish, more apt to reject a film they feel doesn't meet expectations? Or did these movies pull an opening night crowd that was unprepared for the subject matter they saw? (It is worth noting that none of the four films - The Box included - met with total critical derision. Indeed, Wolf Creek and, to a lesser extent, Bug, have come to be highly-regarded examples of the genre as the decade draws to a close.)
Two of the films - Darkness and Wolf Creek - opened up on Christmas Day, never a strong choice for unveiling a horror film. In my memory, there have been only two genre films that have done considerable business during the holiday season: 1973's The Exorcist and 1996's Scream, with the former having been front page news in the days leading up to its opening, and the latter having built its business slowly due to spectacular word of mouth. There have been many horror films that have tried a Christmas Day release, only to play to near empty theaters; Dracula 2000, An American Werewolf in Paris, The Faculty, even the when-the-hell-else-are-you-gonna-release-it remake of Black Christmas. The holidays bring out the angel within theatergoers, when perhaps the Grinch is the one who should be sitting in the seat. And let's face it - can you think of a more un-Christmasy picture than Wolf Creek? (With a final US gross of $16 million, it more than made back its $1 million investment.)
In the case of Friedkin's Bug, an unsettling flick that was a challenge to sell, its schizophrenic ad campaign left viewers uncertain as to exactly what kind of film they were going to see. With its roots on the stage, it was a project that was better suited to a limited release arthouse campaign. (Of course, the fact that its subject matter was calculated to make audiences squirm in their seats and reach for disinfectant could not have helped.)
I find it amazing that audiences are more tolerant of failure from comedies or dramas than they are of darker, nastier themes. Few films were more despised - and rightly so - than Tom Green's Freddy Got Fingered, yet it too managed to dodge the dreaded F grade, ejaculating horse and all. And I find it sad that the Camerion Diaz movie so judged is not The Sweetest Thing. It may be cold comfort to Richard Kelly, but it's worth remembering that a CinemaScore is far from history's final verdict on a film; unfortunately, in the short run, it may be the most accurate.
Midweek Music - Kenny Miller, "Eeny Meeny Miney Moe" From the soundtrack of I Was a Teenage Werewolf Music and lyrics by Jerry Blaine and Paul Dunlap
The box office success of1957's I Was a Teenage Werewolf was due to the convergence of three factors that came together at just the right time: 1) The recent court ruling that prevented the Hollywood studios from owning their own cinemas suddenly opened up the market to a slew of independent producers offering cheaper product to theater owners who couldn't afford the more expensive major studio offerings; 2) The increasingly pervasive new medium of Television, considered a purveyor of safe, family-oriented entertainment that skewed to an older demographic, sending America's teens out into the cinemas to seek out that which was "cool," and 3) having found it, now wanting to see movies that featured protagonists of their own generation. Suddenly we had more rebellious teens in hot rods getting into trouble with the authorities, who would take some mighty convincing when it came time to warn the populace about, say, cannibalistic blobs of space protoplasm. Even the monsters got their youthful makeover, as Werewolf was followed within one year by I Was a Teenage Frankenstein, Blood of Dracula (which might as well have been called I Was a Teenage Vampire and was basically Werewolf's plot in a school for troubled girls), Teenagers from Outer Space, and the generically-titled Teenage Monster. In the late 50s, it was good to be a Teen.
Many of these films had an obligatory music sequence, often painfully embarrassing, as producers tried to replicate the sound that was pouring out of car speakers and transistor radios, but with limited results. This is how we get "Eeny Meeny Miney Moe," in which Kenny Miller (Vic the Bongo Guy) entertains a party of friends with his paean to sponging off of a woman of means. For a guy who plays the drums, he has a laughably poor sense of rhythm; by the third line of the song, he's already behind the beat, and the dance break (complete with a time step, something I'm sure every teenager knew how to execute) finds him almost a full measure off. But, hey - a guy's got to be a rebel somehow, right?
I Was a Teenage Werewolf went on to become one of the most profitable pictures AIP released, and Ken Miller still makes the rounds of conventions...hopefully on time.
Word comes of the death of director Paul Wendkos, whose filmography includes dozens of hours of episodic TV drama and movies, as well as helming the surfer-era classic Gidget. Of greater interest to me and readers of the Jar was his directing The Mephisto Waltz, one of the first and best of the Devil Worshiper movies that followed in the wake of Rosemary's Baby. Alan Alda plays a writer who relinquished a career as a concert pianist after a disastrous debut, but finds the keyboard calling to him once again when he is taken under the wing of Curt Jurgens, a dying konzertmeister and Satanist interested in more than mere conversation from Alda. A very young Jacqueline Bisset is Alda's wife, willing to go to great extremes to keep her husband from Satan's clutches, and if she can't manage that...The ending is a downbeat shocker and a testimony to the power of practicality.
Before you head out to get that Christmas tree, you may want to consider going artificial after you see Treevenge, a short film from Canadian director Jason Eisener that picked up an award at the Sundance Film Festival earlier this year, as well as a number of other citations from fantasy film fests across the nation. It's been bouncing around the Interweb since the summer, but now is truly the time to give it an airing.
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