For some the capsule review comes easy, but for me it’s an exercise in pure frustration. As a means of self-discipline I have decided to confront that which tortures me through this continuing feature—B-Movie Bullsh*t in 50 Words or Less.
A quadruple amputee (in some scenes, at least) Vietnam war vet is turned into the title character in one of the worst Blaxploitation movies ever made. Directed by Skatetown USA’s William Levey, Black Frankenstein is so cheap it uses "Oh Tannenbaum" as background music during an automobile make out scene.
Made as a 90-minute pilot for a TV show that never happened, Bates Motel is an especially interesting example of the B-TV phenomenon. Essentially a TV sequel to Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho, the movie ignores the two other film sequels that preceded it and imagines a new scenario in which Norman Bates died in the insane asylum he was sent to after his infamous murder spree.
We only actually see Bates (played by a not entirely convincing Anthony Perkins lookalike) briefly in one flashback scene and some photographs. Our protagonist instead is Alex West (Harold & Maude’s Bud Cort), a fellow patient who befriended Norman as a boy, when he was sent to the asylum after fatally pushing his abusive stepfather into a dry-cleaning machine. Following Norman’s death, Alex discovers he has inherited the motel where Janet Leigh’s Marion Crane famously met her end in the shower. Judged cured by the same doctor who encouraged his friendship with Norman, Alex finds himself out in the real world for the first time in over 20 years, ready to become a hospitality entrepreneur.
Once he arrives in Fairville (renamed from the original’s Fairvale), Alex is met with nothing but incredulity when he insists he's there to reopen the Bates place. Local handyman Henry Watson (Moses Gunn), who used to do small jobs for Norman and his mother back in the day, tells Alex all about what happened there and why folks might be reluctant to see the motel re-opened. The town’s bank manager, Tom Fuller (Gregg Henry), is at first excited by the news that Alex has gotten his hands on the property, but is stunned to learn he has no interest in tearing down the motel and putting a condo development in its place. Despite this, he agrees to give Alex a loan to rebuild the place anyway.
Upon moving into the property’s famous house, Alex learns he’s not alone, as a local runaway named Willie (Lori Petty) has been squatting there for the past few months. She convinces him to let her stay and help out around the place, despite his strong conviction that this is something he has to do by himself.
Alex hires Henry to take on the reconstruction, during which the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Bates both managed to be unearthed, seriously unnerving the crew. At night, Alex is tormented by visions of Norman’s mother around the property, forcing us to wonder if the place is haunted or if he has been released from the asylum too soon.
Eventually the motel is ready to open. Alex admits to Willie that a lot is on the line. His first payment to the bank is due the next day. She asks him how much he has to pay, and is shocked to find out that he owes $10,000. It seems impossible that the small motel can come up with that kind of money in just one night, but Alex—as nervous as he is—remains convinced that everything is going to turn out alright.
Before they know it, their first guest arrives. Barbara Peters (Kerrie Keane) is an aerobics instructor who tells Alex she’s there to work on a book she’s writing, but the truth is that she has come to the motel to commit suicide, spurred by her three failed marriages and uncertain future.
But before she can slit her wrists, the rest of the motel becomes fully booked when a group of teenagers in strangely old-fashioned clothes arrive to have a party. One of the teens, Sally (Khrystyne Haje), walks into Barbara’s room by mistake and somehow convinces the older woman to join them. There at the party, she is introduced to the shy, quiet, Tony (Jason Bateman), who she is strongly attracted to, despite their age difference.
While this goes on, Willie has taken it upon herself to look into the suspicious connection between one of the members of the construction crew and Tom Fuller. Could it be more than a coincidence?
Barbara and Tony almost kiss, but she stops before it happens, insisting that she’s far too old to share such a moment with someone his age. He runs off, and she follows him. Outside the motel, he tells her how cold and lonely he feels, and she comforts him as best she can. When she leaves him to return to her hotel room, she picks up the razor she had brought to end her life and is shocked when Sally appears in the room, despite the locked door. Sally explains that she knows why Barbara is there and how she feels. She insists that after a person commits suicide their misery doesn’t end, but continues in a place that is cold and lonely.
Barbara remembers Tony using those exact same words and accuses Sally of spying on them. Sally tells her that she did no such thing and that she knows what she’s talking about because she committed suicide nearly 30 years earlier. She opens the window to Barbara’s room and outside sit all of the kids in outdated clothes, including Tony. They all tell Barbara their names, date of births and the day they committed suicide. After they have all spoken, they leave her alone to decide what she should do that night.
As they leave, Alex returns to the house and is horrified by the sight of Mrs. Bates at the top of the stairs. She comes running at him with a knife, but is tackled by Henry before she can hurt him. Henry rips off her mask and reveals Tom Fuller, who’s been trying to drive Alex crazy to get his hands on the valuable property. He insists the cops would never believe Alex’s story, but shouts out a panicked confession when “the real” Mrs. Bates appears from another room to attack him. In this case, it’s Willie, armed with a tape recorder, which she threatens to take to the police unless Fuller agrees to renegotiate Alex’s loan payments. Turns out Alex was right and everything did work out in the end.
The next morning, Barbara walks out of her motel room very much alive. Alex tells her to come back soon, which causes her to adopt a nervous smile. As she drives off, Alex looks directly into the camera and speaks right to us for the first time, saying:
Written and directed by Richard Rothstein, who also wrote the 1984 Wes Craven B-TV classic Invitation to Hell, Bates Motel is an interesting effort whose flaws work hard to disguise a truly interesting concept. Had the pilot been successful and actually gone to series, I suspect the result would have been the kind of short-lived cult show that fans discuss ad naseum today (think Max Headroom).
For me the most fascinated aspect of the potential series is its protagonist. As portrayed by Cort, Alex is a naïve innocent barely ready for the realities of the modern world, yet his history proves that he is capable of protecting himself when forced. He’s not a traditional hero, but he’s genuinely likable, which makes the fact that the movie’s ending suggests the series would have him take on the role of Rod Serling-esque anthology host very intriguing. Neither mysterious or dangerous, he would have been the first character of his kind to project an air of vulnerability rather than Uatu-like ambivalence.
It’s hard to say what the tone of the series might have been. Barbara’s story is more preachy than scary, but is thankfully saved from being unbearable by the excellent performances of all involved. I suspect, like The Twilight Zone, a Bates Motel series would have attempted to touch upon all kinds of storytelling, but that’s just pure conjecture.
That said, there are several things that work against the film. The soundtrack is truly horrible, filled with a cheap canned score that ruins several important moments. I’ve always been in the minority who’s found Lori Petty to be a charming performer, but the character of Willie is just too irrational and emotional to sympathize with (she literally leaves and comes back three times in the course of the movie). But the worst aspect is the cheesy Scooby-Doo mystery involving the banker’s attempt to steal the land. It’s trite and obvious to begin with, and only made more with an actor as obviously oily as Gregg Henry cast in the villain’s role.
Still, Bates Motel (which has never officially been released on video in North America) is still worth seeking out, if only to appreciate what happens when an imaginative concept is undone by imperfect execution.
On Tuesday I commented via the Twitter that were it 25 years ago, Lindsay Lohan would have already starred in a women-in-prison movie by now. Back then former A-Listers whose careers were clearly set on self-destruct didn’t spend their days being constantly monitored by celebrity websites, they made the transition to B-Movies! And, oh, what a wonderful time it was!
Thus inspired, I thought it would be fun to look at the kind of films she might have once made, when the option still existed.
It turns out that if you lived in Hollywood and had a decent coke connection, there was a very good chance you could get a BJ from The Brady Bunch’s own “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!” Suffice it to say, there was a significant time in Maureen McCormick’s life where her career was not her main priority. This explains Texas Lightning, a redneck coming-of-age fiasco written and directed by legendary B-Movie cameraman Gary Graver.
Truth is, I could probably just make this a list of Linda Blair movies and save myself the effort. Like Lohan she was a former child star whose career in the majors was stalled by a criminal conviction (specifically, conspiracy to sell drugs, although it seems to have been more a matter of her being in the wrong place at the exact wrong time), and further crippled by her decision to pose nude for Playboy’s less-reputable cousin, Oui. Still a bankable name because of The Exorcist, she went on to become one of the reigning queens of 80s B-Movies. Her defining role from the period was that of Brenda, a tough New York girl who refuses to take the rape of her deaf sister and the murder of her friend lying down. Grabbing a crossbow, she goes after the hoods who hurt those she loved and makes them pay. She makes them pay hard.
A truly talented young actress, Tatum O’Neal’s career was derailed by the fact that Ryan O’Neal was her father and it takes a shitload of drugs to get over that kind of crap. No, seriously, if you’ve read even a little bit of inside stuff on the guy it’s pretty hard not to conclude that he’s one major league scumbag. That said, I do love him in Zero Effect. Anyhoo, four years after starring with Richard Burton in one of the creepiest January/December romance pics ever made, she made her B-Movie debut in a film directed by Stephen “Jake and Maggie’s Dad” Gyllenhaal. Co-starring Irene Cara, Certain Fury is essentially The Defiant Ones with chicks in the big bad city, which is admittedly a concept just dying for a remake.
Am I the only person who remembers how fucked up Drew Barrymore used to be? Christ, she played herself in a TV movie about how messed up her childhood was! Beat that Lindsay! Ironically, her B-Movie debut in this overheated low-rent “erotic” melodrama actually marked the rebirth of her career. Sure there were a few insanely brief marriages and late-show tit flashes to get out of her system, but once they passed she steadfastly crafted one of the more admirable of Hollywood careers, proving that it is possible to hit rock bottom and rise back up to the top.
Alyssa Milano’s B-Movie escapades (which included a spin in the Poison Ivy franchise mentioned above) appeared to be made less out of frantic desperation, as they were the clumsy results of Milano trying to transcend her status as Tony Danza’s TV daughter into becoming Hollywood’s top choice slut. How else do you explain the softcore fangfest Embrace of the Vampire, a film more notorious today as a result of Milano’s litigious attempts to erase all photographic evidence of it from the Internet than anything in it (besides her boobies, natch). She might have made good on this career trajectory, if it were not for Aaron Spelling and a little TV show called Charmed, which ran for so long people forgot about her implants and B-Movie past. Unfortunately for Lindsay, Mr. Spelling is no longer around to once again perform such a miracle.
For some the capsule review comes easy, but for me it’s an exercise in pure frustration. As a means of self-discipline I have decided to confront that which tortures me through this continuing feature—B-Movie Bullsh*t in 50 Words or Less.
A trio of escaped maniacs, one black, one gay, and one Michael Pataki, cause mayhem at a girls school devoted to educating extraordinarily busty centerfolds torn from 70s men’s magazines. Delinquent Schoolgirls plays like less self-indulgent late-era Russ Meyer, but is often too mean-spirited to dismiss as harmless soft-core exploitation.
“I don’t think you have anything to be worried about, Drake. This isn’t the first time a woman’s threatened you. Remember that Playmate of the Year who was after you?”
“Claudia. How could I forget?”
“Nothing ever came of that, right?”
“She died in a car crash.”
“Oh, yeah, right. You…uh…didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?”
“No. I figured you did it.”
“Huh. I don’t think so, but then I was doing a lot of drugs back then.”
“It happened six months ago.”
“Wait? Did you say ‘Claudia’?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, yeah, that was totally me.”
1. Google the clues and you'll be able to figure out--down to the month--when this story is taking place.
Because absolutely no one asked for it, I've decided to post the occasional vlog review every now and then. I enjoy making them, even if it's clear no one enjoys watching them. Actually the main reason I threw this one together is because I wanted to test out the 1080p capabilities of my new iPhone 4S. As you can see I clearly need to work out the lighting issues. That said, this was by far the quickest vlog I've ever produced. It only took three and a half hours from the time I got the idea of doing it to having it available on YouTube. First person to comment, "Where did all of that time go?" will make me very, very sad.
(Note: It's late and I'm tired, so I've chosen not to proofread the following post. Please consider any mistakes you might find to be deliberate "Easter Eggs" I left specifically for your amusement)
They don't make TV movies like they used to. Now, that's not me speaking out of any sense of misplaced nostalgia, it's literally true--they DO NOT make TV movies like they did when I was young. That is to say they pretty much don't make them much at all. Beyond the occasional Hallmark Hall of Fame presentation, the Big 3 networks have all but abandoned the format in favour of much cheaper reality show programming. This marks a huge change from back when you could count on one or two debuting each week. And, no cable doesn't count. If you can include all of the same shit that you can see in a theater, it isn't a TV movie, it's a movie that premiered on TV. Huge difference. Don't be stupid and make me explain it to you.
When people think about the TV movies of old, they usually remember the soapy, message pictures that seemed to dominate the format. But any B-Movie fan can tell you that many great genre films debuted on the small screen. This continuing feature is dedicated to briefly looking at some classic examples of films that were too big for TV, but way too small for anywhere else.
We begin our examination with a cheesy classic that plays like the redheaded bastard stepchild of the already somewhat disreputable Airport series. I wouldn't be at all surprised if it had originally been written to serve as the fifth film in the series, following The Concorde... Airport '79 (in fact, it was actually released in the Philippines as Airport '85). All of the elements are there--a collection of c-list performers, gratuitous melodrama, and the kind of potential disaster only a ton of drugs could help conceive. It's the kind of film whose utter disregard for anything approaching verisimilitude is so vehement you get the sense that the filmmakers would happily kick you in the nuts if they could, because by that point there's clearly nothing holding them back. Yet, I found this more charming than frustrating--a classic example of imagination refusing to bow down to the petty bullshit of reality. And, believe me, this film bows down to no reality you know.
I am, of course, talking about:
Despite the claims of the above poster, the film originally aired on television in 1983 with the title Starflight: The Plane That Couldn't Land and it was directed by TV movie vet Jerry Jameson, who--wouldn't you know it--just happened to also make a little film called Airport '77.
Coincidence?
Jameson was also responsible for the mega-bomb Raise the Titanic, so it's amazing he managed to find any work at all, much less directing TV movies like Starflight. Suffice it to say, the budget of the two films bear absolutely no relation to the other.
Like a lot of Jameson's 80s TV work, Starflight stars Lee Majors, which is awesome. He plays a pilot, which is also awesome. He's also banging single mom publicist Lauren Hutten, which would be gap-toothed awesome, were it not for the fact that he's married to someone else, which makes it adulterously awesome.
The reason Majors and Hutton know each other is because he's the pilot of the groundbreaking flight she's publicizing. The Starflight is a revolutionary hypersonic passenger plane that goes up so far into the atmosphere it can travel to Australia in just over one hour. It's so revolutionary that its creator, Hal Linden, is pretty sure the flight is going to end in disaster. Turns out, he's right!
Actually, the flight would've gone fine, were it not for the desperate actions of sleazy businessman Terry Kiser. Flying to Australia for the launch of the satellite he funded, he's devastated by the news that the launch is going to be postponed, as it will ruin him financially. Consequences be damned, he orders that the rocket be launched anyway. His Australian crony reluctantly agrees, but then blows up the rocket midway through its flight. The resulting debris damages Starflight and forces it to gain even more altititude than it already had. The shocking result is that the plane completely leaves Earth's atmosphere and enters the cold, black darkness of space!
The rest of the film is then naturally devoted to the safe return of most of the passengers (you'll be shocked to learn that Kiser doesn't survive the trip), which is mostly accommodated by a space shuttle that travels to and from Earth with the 15-minute frequency of a public bus.
During this long stretch of film there are moments of genuine tension and excitement (Linden is transported from Starflight to the shuttle via a casket), pure unintended hilarity (the expense of constantly shooting everyone as being weightless is taken care of by the stewardesses rolling out a length of rope for the passengers and crew to hold on as they walk across the plane), and classic disaster movie irony (the airplane mechanic who has to go out into space to repair the plane is afraid of flying!).
Even someone as incapable of giving a flying fuck about science as myself will not be able to ignore the constant barrage of implausibilities. If Starflight can't get back to Earth without blowing up in the blazing furnace of the planet's atmosphere, how the hell did it make it past that same atmosphere to get into space in the first place? How is it that the space shuttle is able to touch down right where it needs to be, every single time, at least half a dozen times in one day? Doesn't Earth's orbit make that impossible? Who's paying for all the fuel required for all these fucking launches? Are these 50+ passengers really worthy an investment that even in 1982 had to be in the high millions, if not billions? Why would Lauren Hutton take her 12 year-old daughter on the maiden flight of an unproven aeronautical innovation that was obviously doomed to failure? Okay, so except for that one expensive scene, we don't see anyone weighless because they're wearing their seatbelts and holding the aisle rope--how come their hats and ties aren't floating around?
I could go on, but won't. Starflight doesn't need to justify its vast array of bullshit. It's a silly TV movie! And that's why we love them. Let the "real" movies worry about such undramatic, story-stopping foolishness like science. Starflight is grounded in its own reality--the B-TV Bullsh*t Zone.
At the moment of her greatest triumph, Louise Fletcher delivered a funny, well-prepared speech that ended with a moving tribute to her deaf parents, which she delivered in sign language. You can watch it here, and if you’re anything like me there’s a good chance it will cause a mighty lump to rise in your throat.
But not everyone was as moved by her speech as I was just now. As she headed backstage, Robert Altman—who she considered a friend and who helped resurrect her career a year earlier in Thieves Like Us—was spotted laughing as he cruelly mimicked her sign language gestures.
But Altman’s assholish behaviour wasn’t completely random—he was pissed off at her because he had based the role of a gospel singer with two deaf children who has an affair with a womanizing folk singer in Nashville on Fletcher and her experience as the daughter of deaf parents. Those of you who remember that film know that Lily Tomlin eventually received an Academy Award nomination for the part. The reason Fletcher didn’t play the role—and the reason why Altman felt compelled to act like such a prick that night she won her Oscar—was because she had been offered the role of Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, which was scheduled to shoot at the same time. She picked the right one and Altman never forgave her for it—they never worked together again.
I mention this because it’s a classic example of how very few victories aren’t at least a little bit bittersweet. Even one as close to a fairy tale as Fletcher’s—which saw her spend five years toiling in early 60s television obscurity, before giving up on acting completely for 10 years, and then winning the Oscar 2 years after she returned to the profession. It’s a great story, but not necessarily one with a happily ever after ending.
Following her win, Fletcher signed on to costar in the much-anticipated sequel to one of the most successful films of all time. For a 43 year-old actress who just a few years earlier had been completely out of the industry, this was an amazing development. But fate had something else in mind, because that film turned out to be The Exorcist II: The Heretic—a film so despised upon its release at least one poll at the time suggested it was the second worst film ever made, behind only Plan 9 From Outer Space. (It turns out everyone in the world except me is wrong about this. The Heretic is awesome; it’s the first movie that sucks).
Lacking the glamour that might extend the career of another aging actress, Fletcher never got the chance given to most Oscar winners to star in at least one major Hollywood film. Instead she went on to a career on TV and in B-Movies—some good, a lot bad. B-Movies gave her the chance to play the title role in Mama Dracula, but it turned out that probably wasn’t a good thing.
But things wouldn’t get overly dire until 1987, when she suffered the one-two punch of Grizzly II: The Concert and the subject of today’s post, which takes the prize for the lowest moment of her career mostly because Grizzly II was never finished or officially released. Like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, today’s subject was a literary adaptation, based on a 1979 book written by an author so popular that her heirs chose to hire a ghostwriter to continue writing books under her name after her death in 1986. It’s a gothic tale of familial secrets, cruelty, and incest, starring The Cute Girl with the Robot Brain and Steve Martin’s future ex-wife, and it’s really, really terrible.
I am, of course, talking about:
I’ve never read any entries in the “V.C. Andrews” canon, so I cannot honestly spend any time discussing her contribution to literature. Speaking dishonestly, I know she sucks because the only people I’ve ever seen read her books are…well…I can’t go there without seeming like a snobby asshole, can I?
Still, Flowers in the Attic is such a disaster as a movie it’s hard not to assume that its deepest flaws emanate directly from the source material. For those unfamiliar with either version, I’ll do you the favour of completely spoiling the experience so you need not suffer either.
Kristy Swanson plays Cathy, the eldest daughter of the four blond-haired Dollanganger children. She’s sad because her dad has died and left the family broke and homeless. Their only hope for survival is to move in with her wealthy grandparents, who so disapproved of her parents’ marriage they cut off all contact with them. Olivia (Fletcher) is still so pissed off by what Cathy’s mom (Victoria Tennent) did she insists that the Dollanganger children will not be allowed to roam freely in her home, but will instead spend all of their time silently locked away in their room.
It’s a terrible bargain, but Mrs. Dollanganger it seems has few options. When she does threaten to take the children away from the house, Olivia just laughs and tells her to go ahead. She then whips her to show her who’s boss. The kids' world expands a little when they find a door in their room that leads to the attic, where they entertain themselves with old clothes and toys. Without anyone else to pay attention to Cathy and her brother Chris become closer than siblings probably should be. Then they all start getting sick, and Cory, the youngest boy, dies.
Turns out the reason Olivia is so intent on hiding the kids is because her husband has no idea they exist. Their existence was kept from him because Cathy’s mom and dad were actually brother and sister.
To make matters even creepier, Cathy’s mom is trying to get into her parents’ good books by marrying a suitor who doesn’t share the exact same biological lineage, but he doesn’t know she has kids, which is why she’s been poisoning their food.
It all comes to a head when the three surviving Dollanganger kids escape, crash their mom’s wedding and confront her for her crimes against them. Cathy tries to force her mom to eat one of the poisoned cookies, which leads to a moment of such incompetent cinematic hilarity my words cannot do it justice:
Flowers in the Attic is so overwrought, laughable, and just plain wrong that it seems doomed from its very conception. Perhaps a more talented filmmaker than the man who gave us Blood Beach might have been able to do a better job, but that’s pure speculation. What we do have is a film that fails on every level, with one of the worst performances given by the sole Oscar winner in its cast. As Olivia, the sadistic grandmother, it’s hard not to see and hear Nurse Ratched in her every utterance and gesture. Only this time, she’s awful. It truly is a testament to the power the screenplay, director and editor have in shaping a performance. Is it possible that somewhere there is footage from Cuckoo’s Nest where she is just as horrible as she is here? Probably not, but it does prove that a lot more goes into an Oscar-winning performance than the work of the one actor.
Following Flowers in the Attic, Fletcher’s career has consisted of bit roles in movies and guest turns on TV. All in all, hers has been a decent career, but not one anyone seems interested in invigorating or giving a great final act.
Speaking of final acts, next week we take a look at a fine actress whose last years were spent making some pretty terrible movies.
“Well, what can I say about Stevie Schmendrick? He had a funny last name that’s for sure. I always used to think he made it up as some stupid joke, but then one night I was real drunk and I needed his wallet to pay my bar tab and I took out his I.D. and I’ll be fucked if that wasn’t his actual name. He must’ve been a Jew. We didn’t talk about religion much. ‘Cept when we was in the ambulance, of course. Then he wouldn’t shut up about it. Luckily he didn’t talk about it for too long....”
It's pretty safe to say that Wes Craven got royally screwed. Back in 1984 he made a film that impacted the horror genre and Halloween forever, giving us Freddy Krueger--a monster as significant as any created during the golden years of Universal Films. His reward for his triumph? Producer Robert Shaye refused to pay him more money to do the sequel and kept every penny of Krueger's lucrative licensing deals. The chance to work on the sequel for Dream Warriors must have proven cold comfort, because in 1989 Craven attempted to catch lighting in a bottle one more time with a character he hoped would become just as popular as his "Bastard Son of 1000 Maniacs".
If Freddy's gimmick was his ability to enter his victims' dreams and kill them with their own worst nightmares, than this character too would not be bound to the mortal realm. He would not be a man, but a living energy capable of possessing the mind and body of anyone he contacted, including adorable little girls. If Freddy could be anything in our unconscious world, than he could be anyone in our everyday reality.
It should have worked
It really, really didn't.
I am, of course, talking about:
Horace Pinker
A serial killer who is turned into an electrical phantom due to a combination of black magic and the electric chair, Horace Pinker ranks among the most disappointing of wannabe franchise characters. The problem is simple, unlike Freddy Krueger, who's a scarred monster in a classy fedora with big scary metal claws, Horace is the dude from The X-Files in an orange prison jumpsuit. It's just not even remotely the same.
It might help if Shocker were a better movie, but its inconsistent tone and sense of desperation sink it without a trace. Aiming for horror comedy, Craven crafted a film that is never scary or funny. When you do feel the impulse to laugh it's genuinely hard to tell if you're doing so with the movie or at it.
Still, of all the potential costumes discussed thus far here at Vanity Fear, I believe Pinker is probably the one most people are going to be able to guess without explanation. Shocker may have sucked, but a lot of people saw it on home video in the late 80s and early 90s. Plus the name on the jumpsuit is a pretty big clue.
Let's take a look at the scores:
Difficulty to Create: 5/10 An orange prison jumpsuit shouldn't be too difficult to find. The only question is, do you shave your head or go with a bald cap instead?
Obscurity: 3/10 Like I said, as terrible as the movie is, a lot of people saw it back in the day.
Fun Factor: 1/10 I just don't see being Mitch Pileggi for a day as a rollicking good time.
Potential "Sexy" Version: 4/10 Unbutton the jumpsuit to reveal some serious cleavage and change the name to Hortense Pinker and it could work.
Might Be Confused With: Lex Luthor.
Total Score: 2/10 Dude, it's fucking Horace Pinker. Lame.
You know him as Sheriff Roscoe P. Coltrane from The Dukes of Hazzard, but before that James Best had a long career filled with the highest of highs (Shock Corridor) and the lowest of lows (see below). You can learn more from the man himself in a Flick Attack interview I contributed to earlier this year. Having gone over his body of work, I have tremendous admiration for the man and have chosen to pick on him in this manner only because no one would know what I was talking about if I did The Five Best David Wurst Movies instead (he's a composer who has worked on a bunch of Corman movies, including the never released version of The Fantastic Four).
1. The Killer Shrews (1959)
Remembered today thanks to a classic episode of MST3K (enough so that a very belated sequel is apparently on the way), this no-budget B&W indie stars Best as a boat captain trapped on a island terrorized by poor dogs stuck in ridiculous shrew costumes. What is a shrew anyway? If only I currently had access to a vast pool of information from which I could divine an answer. Despite the MST3Ker's best efforts, Shrews is still a struggle to get through due to its glacial pace. Better to stick with Night of the Lepus for your ludicrous animal attack movie enjoyment.
2. Nickelodeon (1976)
In his Flick Attack interview, Best admitted to not liking director Peter Bogdonovich. After sitting through this laboured ode to cinema's earliest days I can't say that I blame him. Give me At Long Last Love any day of the week.
3. Hooper (1978)
According to Best, he helped write this late 70s ode to the Hollywood stuntman, but all of the blame for its suckitude still has to go to director Hal Needham. He obviously considered the film to be something of an autobiography, which goes to prove what an asshole he really is.
4. Sounder (1972)
Based on everything I've heard, this is actually an excellent movie. I've never seen it. I really shouldn't have said this list would be five movies long.
5. The Dukes of Hazzard: Hazzard in Hollywood (2000)
I don't really remember this TV movie, but old Daisy made me sad.
I'm sorry, I really have to think before I do one of these.
“Okay kid, here’s your chance to prove yourself to the producer. You do that and you’ve got it made in the stunt business.”
“I dunno, Drake. It doesn’t seem safe.”
“That’s very perceptive of you, Stevie. This stunt isn’t safe at all. In fact I’m pretty sure it was designed to kill whoever does it.”
“WHAT?”
“Turns out our producer is a big crybaby who thinks big fancy breasts are more important than the bonds of true friendship. I’m pretty sure he wants to murder me.”
An amusing exercise in which we pour salt on the wounds of those who temporarily achieved Hollywood glory, but were little prepared to keep it.
Just like Michael J. Pollard, last week’s inaugural victim of Hollywood caprice, George Kennedy is a true character actor. Beyond that though, all comparisons come to an immediate end. If Pollard was odd and quirky, Kennedy was solid and stalwart—a real man with a real face, real hairpiece, and real body.
The same year Pollard was nominated for Best Supporting Actor for Bonnie and Clyde, Kennedy won for Cool Hand Luke. In it he played Dragline, a prison tough guy who initially gives Paul Newman’s titular character a hard time, until Luke’s unbreakable spirit inspires his respect and admiration. It was his biggest role in a 10-year career that started when he was hired to be a technical advisor on The Phil Silvers Show (aka Sgt. Bilko), which led to him becoming an extra, which led to his getting the occasional line, which led to bit parts in other TV shows and then eventually movies.
Despite his Oscar, Hollywood was reluctant to elevate him to leading man status. When it did it was in Guns of the Magnificent Seven, the third film in the franchise, and the first to not star any of the original Seven. Notable only for putting him onscreen with his cinematic brother-from-another-mother Joe Don Baker, Guns did little to turn Kennedy into a true star.
The 70s saw him starring in a short-lived, forgotten TV series (Sarge), all four entries in the laughable Airport franchise (making him the series' only consistent character), Earthquake, and another just as short-lived, just as forgotten TV series (The Blue Knight), but it was the 80s where things started getting rough. His B-Movie career actually started promisingly with 1981s Just Before Dawn, perhaps the best slasher film of the period not made by John Carpenter, but the same could not be said for Wacko, Chattanooga Choo-Choo, Bolero or Delta Force. Kennedy’s lowest point, though, came in 1988, courtesy of the same directorial genius who gave us this:
I am, of course, talking about:
Unavailable on DVD, Demonwarp is a movie I only saw once on late night TV sometime in the early 90s, yet it has never ceased to haunt my dreams. Directed by Emmett Alston, the film is a bizarre mish-mash of sub-genres, seemingly created by the careless fusion of several unrelated screenplays. It first appears to be a Bigfoot movie, albeit one made to feel like a slasher film (Alston had previously made New Years Evil) before transforming into a cult/alien conspiracy thriller in which a topless screaming Michelle Bauer is sacrificed on an altar to a century old extra-terrestrial/god.
That one scene with Bauer has never left my mind, but it pales in significance to another she appears in earlier in the movie. In it, she and a similarly busty friend (of the blonde variety) are introduced into the film out of nowhere and without context as two tanning enthusiasts who have come to the forest to bask in the sun’s golden rays. To do this requires they unburden themselves of their tops, which they do quickly and efficiently. But, unfortunately, the baring of their breasts attracts the Bigfoot creature who shows his distaste for their exhibitionism by graphically removing the blonde’s head from her body. Bauer screams, is captured by the creature, and then disappears from the narrative until it’s time to sacrifice her on the slab—making this another feature in which she spends more time onscreen naked than otherwise.
Kennedy’s role as the father of one of the moronic teenage characters is negligible and unnecessary, but enough to get his face featured on the poster and top-billed in the credits. It’s the dictionary definition of a paycheque performance.
Fortunately for Kennedy that same year he co-starred in The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad! a Zucker-Abrams-Zucker movie based on their very short-lived TV show. It and its two sequels brought him back into the limelight and probably remain the films for which he is best known (at least among my generation). When the franchise ended in 1994 he worked as consistently as any actor of retirement age should be expected to. He’s still at it today, at the considerable age of 86.
Chances are Kennedy had no idea he’d have such a tumultuous career 51 years earlier when he was 35 and guest-starring on a TV western called Sugerfoot. It would be the only time he worked with another future Oscar winner, who was a regular on the show for the third of its four seasons. She too would know the highest highs and the lowest lows, but unlike Kennedy, she has never experienced any significant late-career success.
