Bloodless Countess

The legend of Countess Erzésbet Báthory holds a special place in the hearts of Goths, metal-heads, and vampire enthusiasts alike, with only Vlad Draculea being more revered. The 16^th century noblewoman was one of the most powerful aristocrats in Hungary, and reportedly harboured a dark secret. In 1610 she was accused of the murder of over 600 young women and bricked up in a room of her castle until her death in 1614. Since then legends have sprung up detailing the countess’ penchant for bathing in the blood of virgins, an attempt to keep her young and beautiful forever. Historically speaking the evidence of this, and even the murders, is pretty slim, but that hasn’t stopped her from entering the pop cultural as a Vampiric serial killer, with Hammer Studios reinventing her as Countess Dracula in 1971, and the black metal band Cradle of Filth dedicating their 1998 concept album Cruelty and the Beast to her legend.

Juraj Jakubisko’s movie Bathory (2008) initially sets out to readdress the balance with a historically accurate retelling of the countess’ life, however this soon goes out the window in favour of a picturesquely gothic tragedy. In the film, Bathory (played, with a sexy eastern European accent, by Anna Friel) is a benevolent renaissance woman, with a talent for healing, and an interest in anatomy. While her brutish husband is away fighting the Turks, she protects the chastity of her maids and household from overenthusiastic soldiers. So far, so plausible. However things quickly take a turn for the ridiculous. A romantic subplot is introduced where the blood countess has an affair with an imprisoned Milanese painter, who then turns out to be Caravaggio.

Jakubisko decides to throw all pretence of historical accuracy to the wind, and we end up with a film with all the factual merit of its Hammer predecessor. The story is narrated by a Catholic monk, who posits that the religious and political establishments turn against Erzésbet to seize control of her land and wealth, but that isn’t really important when the film is also asserting that the Countess was an early surgeon and coroner, and that the Church invented the photograph several hundred years before the French did.

If the films plot is weak (and it is) it does at least make up for it a bit with the visuals. The films lush cinematography highlights the baroque set pieces, the sumptuous gothic costumes (which includes a gorgeous Venetian ball scene), and the stunning Hungarian countryside (although in actuality it was filmed in Slovakia and the Czech Republic).

Bathory isn’t going to change people’s perceptions of the supposed serial killer; it will at least prove a guilty pleasure for fans of Goth melodrama and so-called bodice rippers.

“Post-Modern before there was any modernism to be post about”

I had heard bad things about Tristram Shandy: a cock and bull story (2006), which is why I was only recently compelled to watch it after seeing, director, Michael Winterbottom’s follow up series The Trip (2010) on BBC 2. Actually, to say The Trip is a follow up is slightly misleading, but the film and the TV series are both cut from the same post-modern clothe. The key word that describes Tristram Shandy is Metatextual, a word only used by wanky ex-students like myself who can’t quite get over leaving academia. Basically Winterbottom has approached the problem of filming an un-filmable book (The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy by Laurence Stern) by not filming it at all, but by exploring its central themes via a mockumentary about the attempt to film the aforementioned book. Confused?

Some people would argue that this level of ‘clever clever’ indulgence doesn’t really make an interesting film, and that it’s only those in the know who enjoy the in-jokes, but I personally think that’s cock and bullshit. For a start this a serious insult to the intelligence of the average viewer, and yes it probably did go over the heads of its American audience, but that’s mainly because Steve Coogan hasn’t been the tabloid hit over there he has here.

Speaking of Coogan, he gives an absolutely star performance here, confirming his own claim in The Trip, that he is the modern Peter Sellers. His onscreen chemistry with Rob Brydon is one of the most enjoyable elements of the film; with Winterbottom allowing the pair to improvise some classic banter which feeds into the Coogan/Brydon myth (both claim that they aren’t actually that close friends in real life, whatever that is).

I do have to admit that the film is a little up its own arse. The scene where Coogan is being interviewed, as himself, by the late Tony Wilson, who Coogan portrayed in Winterbottom’s Twenty-Four Hour Party People (2002), for a non-existent DVD extra that is announced by a voice-over, in particular makes me think that Winterbottom is being a little too smug. Also the cameo by Gillian Anderson as herself feels a little forced, though the scene where she grills Dylan Moran about his drinking made me giggle.

All in all Tristram Shandy does suffer from a few moments of art-college over indulgence, but it is probably one of the cleverest movie ideas of the last decade, and surely the only way you could film the nine volume novel. Coogans willingness to play himself as a cheating, vain, paranoid prima-donna is admirable, and the rest of the cast create a hilarious realism that is comparable to (though not as good as) Spinal Tap. Perhaps this film is just aimed at smart arses like me, but I think in the wake of The Trips success it’s a film that needs re-evaluating.

Carl Kolchak: TV horror godfather

TV Horror: the very words can conjure up disappointment in the hearts of fans across the world. While Hollywood has no standards or ethics, it does at least have budgets, TV has nothing but underpaid scriptwriters, C-list actors and sets borrowed from soap operas. Despite this there have been a few winners, the first few series of the X-Files, the first few series of Buffy (notice a pattern) along with mini-series like Salem’s Lot and the TV movies in the recent Masters of Horror series. Relatively unknown is a TV movie that inspired most of the above a fair few more, 1972’s the Night Stalker.

Ok, so by today’s standards this snail-passed, goth melodrama isn’t exactly terrifying, but it laid the ground work a lot of what followed. Set in Las Vegas, it’s the story of down-and-out reporter Carl Kolchak. Relegated to a crappy local newspaper after some unknown scandal in New York, all Kolchak needs is one great story to get him back on top. This being television he gets more than he bargained for. The bodies of female night workers start turning up all over the place; ‘dog-like’ bite marks on their necks and the bodies completely drained of blood. A bit of Mulder and Skully (without Skully) style investigating follows and it isn’t too long before Kolchak realises he’s looking for a Vegas Vampire.

The film may be severely lacking in gore, but there is a fair amount of creepy early seventies atmosphere and some rather impressive action sequences during which the vampire (given the dubiously Russian sounding name of Janos Skorzeny) takes on a horde of police officers, throwing them around like a rabid fox in a nursery.

Despite a few clunky moments, the final sequences for example could have been better; the script is surprisingly fresh after thirty eight years. This probably has something to do with the fact it was adapted by Richard Matheson, the author of classic horror novella I Am Legend, and various other projects in film and TV. The dialogue is snappy and most of the humour hasn’t aged terribly since first broadcast.

Chris Carter, creator and executive producer of The X-Files, has said that if he hadn’t seen this TV Movie as a child, he would never have written the pilot for his own TV show, for this alone Night Stalker deserves a place in the horror history books.

Space Vampires... no, seriously?

If there’s one thing I love about the horror genre it’s that it has the ability to get away with practically anything. Most studio big-wigs don’t understand the appeal of horror movies; they just know they can be incredibly profitable, so they tend to place their trust in someone who does know about them. In 1984, that someone was Tobe Hooper.

On a winning streak that included the acclaimed TV mini-series Salem’s Lot and the box office smash Poltergeist; it seemed Hooper could do no wrong in the early 80’s. So when it was announced that he would be working with Alien screenwriter Dan O’Bannon to adapt, cult writer, Colin Wilson’s novel Space Vampires to the big screen expectations were high. This was going to be a big budget spectacular, a work of Sci-fi/Horror genius, Hooper’s masterpiece. There was however one set-back, the film turned out to be a steaming pile of shit.

If you take a closer look at the ingredients it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise. Wilson is, quite rightly, a respected writer of philosophy and non-fiction, but his ficton have never been quite so well received. Hooper may have directed classics like those mentioned above and the seminal Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but he had also made some complete dross (like Eaten Alive from 79). And while Dan O’Bannon did give us Alien, he also gave us Heavy Metal and Return of the Living Dead.

Plot wise it starts off promisingly enough; a space mission, sent to investigate Hayley’s Comet, discovers an alien vessel riding alongside and decides to check it out. Onboard they find a bunch of desiccated giant bats and three humans in stasis pods (including the stunning Mathilda May, whose main contribution to the film seems to be being stark naked throughout). 3 months later the shuttle returns to earth with all the crew dead from a fire, and its black box deleted. The three humans (?) in stasis are mysteriously undisturbed though. Cue vampire related mayhem.


The cast may be attractive (well she is) but they couldn’t act their way out of a channel 5 soap opera. Frank Finlay hams it up admirably as a kind of post-modern professor Van Helsing, but Peter Firth and Steve Railsback give the two lead roles all the charisma of sour milk.

Much was made, at the time, about the movie’s cutting edge special effects, and they do look pretty good for the mid 80’s. Horror fan’s, however, aren’t as shallow as people think, and with no discernable gore, a few flashy gimmicks aren’t enough to hold their attention. Admittedly there are some pretty cool looking zombie style creatures, but it simply isn’t enough.

It’s fucking rare that I ever get a chance to say this, but if it’s vampires from space you’re after, then you’re better off trying Mario Bava’s 1965 effort Planet of the Vampires. despite all of this, Lifeforce has gained something of a cult reputation over the years, perhaps proving that while horror fans aren’t stupid, they are very, very forgiving.

Reich 'n' Roll

What happens when you take three ageing, but undeniably great, actors, add them to a plot that is essentially b-movie nonsense, and then throw in a bit of Nazi chic just for good measure? Well you’d probably end up with a film like Franklin J. Schaffner’s Boys from Brazil.

The film follows Ezra Leiberman (played by Laurence Olivier), an elderly Jewish Nazi hunter who is living out his autumn years in Vienna. When he is contacted by a young disciple with information of a Nazi plot, he is set back on the case and pitted head to head with Josef Mengele (Gregory Peck) who is orchestrating a curiously precise murder plot from his lair is South America. Pulling Mengele’s proverbial strings is a former Nazi Colonel, a character who is of no importance really; apart from the fact he is played by James Mason, which makes him brilliant. The story jumps from one madcap plotline to another, until finally exploding with the mother of all ridiculous twists. I won’t spoil it for people who haven’t heard it, but it’s fucking hilariously good.

The quality of the actors obviously pushes this up from being a nazi-ploitation film until it reaches the bracket of genuine political thriller. Olivier gives a tasteful and restrained performance of the idealistic Leiberman, a haunted concentration camp survivor (ironically it was Olivier playing the Nazi two years earlier in Marathon Man). By contrast Peck appears to relishing playing the bad guy and chews up scenery with an intensity that is truly quite frightening. Finally James Mason finds playing a Nazi a breeze, as it is a perfect role for his trademark brand of callus charm.

One thing you’ve got to love about the 1970’s is that a film like this just wouldn’t get made in this day and age, or if it did it certainly wouldn’t be played straight. Everything about this film should be ridiculous, it shouldn’t work, but it does. It’s like someone’s taken a novel by Dan Brown and turned it into a good film, a miracle. I mean it even had enough of a budget to be shot in various locations around the world, have pretty good affects for the time (including some quality gore at the end) and still pay its leading actors.

Boys from Brazil is testament to one slightly disappointing truism, they literally don’t make em like they used to. Watch this film, you’ll thank me later.

It Ain't Easy Being Green

Some People seem to forget that the environmental movement started way back in the 60’s. Back then people who recycled or tried to save the rain forest were dismissed as hippies and tree huggers, now everyone from middle-class house wives to oil companies recycle in one way or another.

Released in 1972, Silent Running was way ahead of its time and still holds its own as a powerful rallying call for people who don’t want to see the forests vanish from the earth.

Set in an unspecified future the film tells the story of Freeman Lowell, a botanist aboard the space freighter Valley Forge. The ship is carrying the last remaining forests from the earth in huge bio-domes in an attempt to preserve them against the industrial wasteland we have made of the planet. Lowell’s is an idealist; he loves the forest and finds himself constantly at odds with his apathetic ship mates. When the call comes that cut backs have had to be made and that the forests are to be destroyed and the ships returned to commercial use, Lowell can’t accept it. He kills the crew and hijacks the ship, steering it deep into the solar system to try and save the one, last forest.

The film looks awesome, with above average special effects and a refreshingly grimy aesthetic for the post 2001: Space Odyssey era. Admittedly the two robot drones that Lowell has for company after the rest of the crew have been dispatched aren’t really up to much, but they are pretty endearing, even if they do look crude.

The real merit in this film is that you just wouldn’t have anyone around these days with the balls to fund it. It has a real emotional depth to it, essentially being the story of one man’s quest to protect what he loves. There’s also the loneliness and the guilt at having killed his friends eating away at him as he struggles to man the ship on his own and drifts further and further away from earth.

Rightly regarded as a cult classic, Silent Running isn’t some retro oddity, but a film whose message is more important today than it ever has been. Anyone with an interest in science fiction, the environment or the early 70’s counter culture should see this film and be inspired by the sacrifices one man was willing to make to save a forest.

Zen and the Art Of Gun Fighting

Some films are worshipped like Christ on the cross. The Godfather (parts I and II), Easy Rider, Raging Bull, Pulp Fiction, these are all films that have been elevated to the status of cinematic deities, burned into the public’s collective sub-conscious like so much napalm. There are some films however that end up becoming more like myths, whispered folklore and half remembered dreams. El Topo is one such film.

Directed by and starring Alejandro Jodorowsky, a Chilean with a taste for surrealism and the alchemical, the movie became something of an underground hit in 1970, with John Lennon proclaiming it to be his favourite film after seeing it with loco Yoko in a New York art house.

Coming across like a mix of Luis Bunuel (Spanish surrealist godhead) and Sergio Leone (if you need telling who that is, get off my site) the film is truly a riotous trip. Violent in the extreme, the plot follows the adventure of the titular gun man and his seven year old son as he sets off on a quest to challenge and kill 4 Masters of the gun fighting art. Feeling more like a Samurai epic than a spaghetti western in places, the plot merely serves as a tool to get from one visually stunning and disturbing metaphor to the next, with it being abandoned almost completely half way through.

The film is that rare of all beasts, a head fuck that you enjoy. Setting your film in the desert is always going to give it that inner-space quest feel, and this is enhanced to perfection by the four gun masters. The first is essentially a Buddha or a swami, so peaceful that he offers no resistance to even bullets and they pass harmlessly through his flesh. The second is the artisan, a man who works with metal to enhance his strength, and with delicate models to enhance his accuracy and restraint. The third man is a rabbit farmer, a man who believes in passion and mercy, a man who carries a gun with only one shot. Most pertinent of all is the old master, who gave up his gun long ago and now uses a butterfly net to deflect the bullets of others. It sounds mental I know, but the pace and beauty of the film suck you right in, and it becomes a nice treatise on the nature of violence.

Not to say it isn’t without its flaws. Whether Jodorowsky intended it or not, there is an unpleasant streak of misogyny running through the film, what with the only pertinent female character, Mara, being manipulative, selfish and shallow. At one point she actually manages to get El Topo to leave his son with some monks so they can carry on alone. Also some of the acting leaves a little to be desired. Most of the main roles are fine, but you can just tell in places they didn’t have enough money for descent bit part actors and just drafted in anyone they knew willing to work for free.

El Topo is credited with helping to create to the new wave of Hollywood auteurs in the 1970s, with everyone from Dennis Hopper and Francis Coppola to Martin Scorsese citing it as an inspiration. Need I say more?

Southland Fail

How do you follow up a film that garnered as much critical acclaim and cultish devotion as Donnie Darko? I imagine, writer/director, Richard Kelly thought long and hard about this particular problem. What I can’t imagine is how he thought Southland Tales was the answer.
If you’ve never heard of it don’t worry, to say it got a limited release is like saying the Dead Sea scrolls were temporarily misplaced. It was panned so hard that the studio decided to just cut their losses and fuck it off, but can it really be that bad? Well the short answer is yes. The long answer is fuck yes.
The plot is a mess of sci-fi and meta-physics, complete with time travel, religious prophesy and political satire. In an Orwellian Los Angeles a movie star with amnesia, a porn star, a local cop, some terrorists and a renewable energy magnate all hurtle towards one another while a drug addled, Iraq war veteran narrates the end of the world. While Donnie Darko was a nuanced and personal descent into madness and quantum theory, this is like someone threw all the ideas they had at the board and saw what stuck.
If you think the plot sounds messy it’s nothing compared to the casting, it’s like a who’s who of early noughties twats. Dwayne Johnson (I never had any fucking idea what the Rock was cooking) plays protagonist Boxer Santeras in such a way as to imply that his bad acting was intentional, while Sarah Michelle Gellar sullies her all American girl reputation by coming over all foul mouthed as porn star Krysta Now (I actually quite enjoyed those bits). Perhaps the most irritating performance is Justin ‘snake hips’ Timberlake playing the narrator. In his defence it’s not entirely his fault, his dialogue is so full of needlessly weird bullshit I don’t think any actor could make it sound convincing.
I think one scene that truly sums this film up is when, for no good reason, Timberlake suddenly starts lip sinking to a Killers track (bad enough in itself) only to be joined by a chorus line of show girls. The best moments in the movie are like David Lynch cast-offs, visually interesting but completely without depth. I loved Donnie Darko as a teenager, it spoke to my pretentious neo-goth alienation, but this doesn’t speak me on any level. I’ve yet to see Kelly’s latest feature (The Box (2009)) but it’d have to be spectacularly bad to beat this.