A few months back, I reviewed Charles Finney's influential oddity, The Circus of Dr. Lao. In satisfying my curiosity about Lao's origin and literary history, I came across one of those books I had always meant to read but had simply never gotten around to: Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes (1962). After Ray's passing early this year, I decided it was past time that I should get off my duff and take in a little classic Bradbury. And I figured, as long as I was catching up on reading the book, I may as well watch the movie.
Bradbury has long occupied an odd literary position: one of the few widely respected genre writers (up there with Asimov and Clarke), but in many ways, still dismissed as being largely for young adults. My last exposure to him was in high school. Because I moved around a lot, my reading list was an odd Frankenstein of books. I missed a lot of the one's everyone read, and caught a lot that no one else did. So I actually read Fahrenheit 451 on my own, but had to read The Martian Chronicles for class. Fahrenheit is probably the third best known and often cited science fiction explorations after 1984 and Brave New World, while Chronicles is probably the second best known book about Martians after War of the Worlds. And though I recall enjoying them both, other than a few short stories from various collections, that largely ended my exposure to Bradbury.
It's sort of fitting that as my age has more or less doubled since I last read him, that I should return to him on this darkly-tone exploration of age and maturity. Something Wicked opens on one of those nostalgic buddy stories that began, in may ways in America, with Tom and Huck. Will Halloway and his buddy Jim Nightshade are inseparable, living the adventures of young boys in rural America. One day, a strange lightning rod salesman warns them of a storm coming, and come it does, in the middle of the night, in the form of a strange carnival: Cooger and Dark's Pandemonium Shadow Show. Soon, strange things begin to happen among the locals, and Will and Jim discover some of the carnival's strange secrets which largely revolve around a magic carousel. The boys quickly end up way in over their heads in confronting the demonic Mr. Dark whose skin crawls with living tattoos, and must enlist the help of Will's father, Charles, the town librarian, in ridding the town of the magical chaos.
The film, from 1983, with a script by Bradbury, is a fun and fairly faithful adaptation of the novel. And, oddly enough, this is one of those few times, where I wouldn't fall back on that old cliché that the book was wildly better than the movie. The book was quite good, and had multiple passage of poetic beauty that were stunning and surprising. The movie had a good cast, some very fun thrills, and has aged far better than much of its 80's brethren that were aimed at younger audiences. But, I actually would've preferred something that fell between the two.
Now, without trying to ruin either one, I'll try and briefly discuss what I mean. The book captured the tone of nostalgia better, where the movie just had well made period look without evoking much of the feel. In a story that's a study on aging, innocence lost, and regret, the stronger nostalgic tone makes the points resonate. Now I prefer the book's approach of being less direct about the fate of the people who fall prey to the carnival, letting the boys figure out the mystery for themselves...but, I preferred the movie's more active and direct approach in resolving the conclusion. To explain myself, I'll need to branch off a bit.
In some ways, Something Wicked appears to follow the usual tropes of the hero's journey: Will and Jim enter a dark place in order to make a journey that will turn them from boys to men as they conquer their fears to conquer the evil Shadow Show. Problem is, they don't exactly do it all themselves. Will ultimately is the protagonist, but it's not just his story, nor Jim's, but also his father's. Charles Halloway, at first appears to be the wise old man character, but about halfway through the book he becomes a sort of secondary protagonist, and in some ways a future mirror of Will, as if both a young and an old version of the character are both competing for the same goal for different reasons: one to grow up the other to keep from dying. Now, a little after midway in the book, there comes a point where Charles Halloway gets...shall we say..."preachy", and it bogs down the story as Bradbury commits the literary sin of "telling" rather than "showing". His speech about the "Autumn people", in the midst of this, is a definite highlight to the book, and I was sad to see it get a sort of glossing over in the movie. The movie, oddly enough, does a better job initially of wedding the two threads together, but just like the book, I ultimately began to feel like I wasn't sure whose story this was supposed to be. Now I applaud Bradbury for bucking the system in several ways, but it's funny how much the change in the ancient formula throws things off.
By the end, the movie institutes a more active and satisfying conclusion as compared to the more "love conquers all" plot device of the book. I'm not sure if that's just because I've become so accustomed to movie endings that anything more abstract feels like I've been robbed, or if I've just become to jaded to believe in a "love conquers all" finale. In some way, I'm thinking it's the jaded one because, funny enough, the very ending of both book and movie are yet another one where you can't help but wonder what's gonna happen once the "feel good" moment has passed and the townspeople start asking where the carnival vanished to so suddenly and the authorities have to start asking where all the vanished townspeople are.
In wrapping up, I'd like to give the movie a little more attention. It's a good looking film with some pretty snazzy effects for the time period. While reading the book, I had imagined someone like Robards as Charles Halloway, and though Robards looks a little older than the middle-aged book version of Charles, he put in a warm performance. Jonathan Pryce, who's played a fair few villains, has, to my mind, never been as menacing as he was Mr. Dark. While he didn't have the sharper more devilish features that I had imagined, he pulls off the role with great aplomb. The real surprise was Pam Grier as the Dust Witch, which did add an exotic sensuality to the atmosphere of the necromantic carnival. I had been imagining something between Angela Lansbury in Neil Jordan's strange The Company of Wolves and Zelda Rubinstein, the diminutive medium from Poltergeist. In all, it was a solid adaptation and enjoyable adaptation.
We're gonna take a break this week from Matt Helm, but I haven't forgotten that I still have The Wrecking Crew left to cover. See, that's the only way I know Dean Martin: from comedy. Though, I'm sure Dino wouldn't have any problem with that legacy. I first saw him as a kid in the Cannonball Run movies, and then later from clips of his old roasts on PBS, and later on it was with the rest of the Rat Pack in the original Ocean's 11. So, since I like to fill in the spots where I see gaps in my experience, I decided to take in the serious side of Dean Martin and watched Howard Hawks' 1959 western, Rio Bravo.
The movie opens with Dude (Dean Martin), the town drunk, reaching for a dollar that's been mockingly thrown to him into a nearby spittoon by Joe Burdette, the brother of the town's wealthy rancher, when John Chance (John Wayne), the sheriff, kicks it away out of pity. Dude hits Chance knocking him out, and Burdette's men hold up Dude for Joe to go to work on. When a bystander tries to intercede, Joe shoots him in cold blood. This leads to Joe's capture and the start of a long stand-off between the sheriff and Nathan Burdette, the wealthy rancher while they wait for U.S. Marshalls to come for Joe.
With all the singers, John Wayne fights to keep the movie from becoming Paint Your Wagon...
For the most part, the movie is good fun if a little slow for a couple of jags. It never exactly gets tiresome, but every now and again, I felt like I kept waiting for something to pep things up just a hair. There's a lot of walking from the jail to the hotel, banter in the hotel, walking back to the jail, banter in the jail, and then walking back up the street again. Now, when I say it's a stand-off, that's because Nathan stashes men in the town to make sure that the sheriff doesn't try to sneak his brother off to the authorities under his nose. The only problem is, his men largely just stand around and aren't really all that intimidating until they finally make a move here and there.
A lot of this is because the movie was in reaction to the western High Noon (1952). High Noon starred Gary Cooper as a marshall who had to face down the vengeful members of the Miller gang all alone when no one will come to his aid. It's long been known to be an allegory of the House of Un-American Activities hearings in Hollywood that led to the black-listing of the Hollywood Ten, a group of filmmakers who had affiliations with the Communist Party. John Wayne was famously not a fan of High Noon, and enlisted Hawks to help him make Rio Bravo as a response. So as the sheriff who can't help but turn down help, Bravo definitely wins the "feel good" prize, but it simply can't compete with the desperation and suspense, the palpable dread, of High Noon.
But it does feel good, and it is nice and enjoyable to see a movie that's not so jaded and shows a whole town pitching in with its sheriff to keep the rich guy from bullying his way into setting his murderous jerk brother free. It's just not very nail-biting.
Considering his reputation, Dino deserved an award for this scene alone....
The only thing that had me nervous was Dino's character, Dude. He's essentially the heart of the picture. See, the problem too often with Wayne is that he's always John Wayne in nearly every picture, and the "Duke" is almost a little too indestructible. I can only think of two exceptions where he wasn't Wayne: 1) The Conqueror (1956), the strange movie that saw him playing Genghis Khan, and 2) my favorite Wayne picture, The Searchers (1956), which was one of his most complex and extremely unlikable characters. Dude, on the other hand, is all too vulnerable, though he's greased lightning with a gun. The sheriff explains that Dude was a former deputy who ran off with a girl who was no good only to return to take up his new position as the town drunk. And Dino gives a strong performance as he fights off the shakes and set-backs that keep pointing him back to booze. It was the surprising amount of screen time they gave his resurrection that had me waiting for the inevitable fall...but I won't say how or to what degree the movie delivered on that score.
The movie gave the ladies Ricky, I'll leave this for the fellas...
The supporting cast also does a fine job. The obvious stunt casting of Ricky Nelson as the new kid with a pistol only really grates during a song number late in the film; however, having both Ricky and Dino in the movie, I knew they had to sing something at some point. But it arrives late, and just when you feel the final action should be swinging into motion. Angie Dickinson is very enjoyable as the Duke's love interest, the gambler's ex-girl, Feathers. The scene where she has Wayne on his heels suggesting he give her a strip search is quite a corker. Unfortunately, her fast paced dialogue, a Hawks' trademark, seems a little ill-at-ease as the movie wears on, especially in a western setting, and it seems like the tender scenes are being forcibly wedged in there for the benefit of the women in the audience. As if throwing them Ricky wasn't good enough.
Looks like Howard would concur...
In all, for soaking up a few hours on a Sunday afternoon, you could do a whole lot worse than this relaxed and enjoyable picture. After all, Howard Hawks and John Wayne must've been happy with it as they more or less remade it two more times.
The movie poster: the only place where they toned down the innuendo.
Careful what you wish for, as the saying goes.
Last time we visited the Dean Martin series of Matt Helm Movies with 1966's Murderer's Row, I complained that the lack of coherent plot spoiled some of the fun. 1967's The Ambushers definitely managed to fill some of the plot holes (though the story is just as ridiculous as ever, which is a good thing), but managed to lose some of the fun in the process.
Pictured: The hard life of silver screen espionage
Don't get me wrong. The filmmakers piled on even more girls and even weirder gadgets, and the innuendo continued to flow fast and furious. This time, however, it just didn't seem to be as much fun as the previous two outings. I suppose it's the curse of second sequels. Third movies usually tend to be a let down, especially if the second movie outdid the first. Superman III (1983) immediately jumps to mind, although re-watching the second Superman movie showed that the bar wasn't necessarily that high. Rocky III. The confusion that was the third Pirates of the Caribbean movie. The palpable letdown of the third Nolan-helmed Batman. Usually, it's an attitude of keep everything the same while trying to pile on more of what everyone's supposed to love about it, which often results in a semi-stale "here we go again" feeling.
"The propulsion, gentlemen, is a crane and a series of wires..."
The third Matt Helm movie opens with the launch of a new American flying saucer that's pulled from the sky by a powerful electro-magnet (read: model truck that shoots sparks). We find Dino training female cadets at I.C.E (Intelligence and Counter Espionage) HQ when he runs into Sheila Sommers, the pilot of the saucer, who escaped her captors but has been rendered insane. Matt is assigned to find out who drove Sheila crazy and to find the missing saucer. This takes him below the border to a brewery in Acapulco which puts him on the trail of Jose Ortega, the exiled ruler of an outlaw nation.
Insert your own "air-bags" joke here
Like I said: The Ambushers piles on the girls. Lots and lots of girls. But while eye candy is always nice, the movie's slow to start and much of the innuendo starts to get forced. Janice Rule's fine as Sheila Sommers, but the abused and mentally damaged character feels heavy in what's been a farcical series so far. She doesn't quite fit in with the fast quipping Dino in the same way that Stella Stevens or Ann-Margaret did in the previous movies. Senta Berger fares better as the femme fatale, but never seems all that involved in the story and functions largely as a way to wedge the arch-villain operation of Big O into the story.
The special effects are particularly laughable this time around, but it probably would've been less fun had they been good. The visible wires, rotoscoped glows, and laser guns that shoot sparks add to the charm. And though there's only a few scenes this time around that stretch suspension of disbelief to the breaking point, the addition of at least some logic still can't keep this from feeling a little stilted.
Hey Dino, Smokey the Bear would like a word with you about forest fires.
Dino, of course, is Dino. And while he's comfortable and cool in the role of Helm, even he seems like his mind might be somewhere else.
In all, The Ambushers isn't a terrible entry into the series, but the magic has definitely faded.
However, the last Helm movie, The Wrecking Crew (1968) faced the most dangerous foe of all: A Change of Direction!
Dealing with Ian Fleming's novel The Spy Who Loved Me is one of those important times that a working knowledge of pop culture trivia pays off. If you were to pick up this book expecting a wildly exciting opening down a ski slope that was going to lead to a massive battle aboard an underwater superstructure...boy, would you be in for a surprise.
The tenth Bond movie (and the third for Roger Moore) took only its title from the tenth Bond novel.
Critics and fans alike were quite unhappy with how the book came out, a decade and and a half before the movie hit the theaters. It was quite a departure from the usual Bond novel. In the book, Vivienne Michel, a young Canadian woman, recounts a short history of her youth: growing up in Canada, her first affair with a boy while at finishing school in England, her failed love affair with a German newsman, and the getaway trip she took that led her to a cabin in the American Adirondacks.
This is not the poster of the story described above.
Being in a remote mountain setting might be as close to the movie as the book gets, as the opening has Roger fleeing a cabin on a crazy ski chase.
The cabins are being closed at the end of vacation season, and Vivienne, who had hired on as the receptionist has been left behind to help the owner close up. It's at this point that two hoods show up, and Vivienne does her damnedest to fend them off. Then, there's a knock at the door.
Two thirds of the way through we finally see 007. And I'll leave the plot summary there.
In some ways, I like to imagine a Bond or any action movie within which we don't meet the protagonist until the last half hour of the movie. Granted some other character usually picks up the slack. Obviously, in this case, it's Vivienne, not Bond, whose point of view we're adopting. But that's not my point, I'm saying things happen and continue to happen for an hour, and then Bond or John McClane or Indiana Jones shows up. I suppose The Good, The Bad and The Ugly sort of comes close, although again Tuco ultimately is the protagonist, but it is interesting how long Eastwood is left out of the action.
Ringo's wife Barbara Bach did not play Viv...but might as well have.
Anyhow. I was surprised at Fleming's choice to adopt a woman's perspective. The writing's not bad although many of the sentiments are cliché. It's not to say that no woman ever had an experience like this, but I feel as though I've heard this sort of scenario before from a number of male authors. As for the more action end of the plot, it's fairly by the numbers. In some ways, though you have to admire his decision to experiment this late into a popular game, Fleming handicaps himself by his choice of having Vivienne tell the tale. For one: We know James Bond is not going to die. No one needs the luxury of hindsight for that. And two: The damsel in distress is telling the story, and though she does an admirable job of fending for herself, we know James Bond is not going to let her die.
Now having written out these thoughts, it's only just occurred to me that years and years of cabin-in-the-woods horror movies are also mirrored in this plot long before there was a Camp Crystal Lake. But while the idea of some psycho or family of cannibals hidden in some remote location seems par the course, it's actually more inventive that the world's top special agent has to fend off a couple of dimestore hoods on an insurance job in the woods in the middle of nowhere. It's one of the most extreme cases of Plot Against Type, I've ever seen.
Kinda like when they don't have a big enough budget on a sci-fi flick, so the robots/aliens/people from the future spend most of their time on Earth at the present time.
"Sorry Rog...we couldn't afford the underwater Lotus. How about a '71 Volvo wagon?
In all, an enjoyable read, if only for a change of pace from the other Bond novels I've read. But how could it not fail at least a tiny bit when in your heart, you're just waiting for Richard Kiel to show up as the beloved Jaws.
As promised (thanks to encouragement from ilovedinomartin' blog), I've returned to the wacky world of Matt Helm, with Dean Martin's second outing as the I.C.E. counter-agent against the evil machinations of Big O in Murderers' Row (1966).
This time, a super weapon, the Helio-bomb, threatens to wipe Washington D.C. off the map after the scientist who invented it is kidnapped by an agent of Big O. Matt is reluctantly returned to service after faking his death to rescue Dr. Solaris (naturally a guy named Solaris captures killer sun rays. What's he going to make? Moon-bombs?) from an island fortress off the French Riviera. So Dino spends some time in the sun in the south of France and gets caught up in the wild swinging scene of the lovely Ann-Margret.
Wood-paneling: the essence of chic.
Like it's predecessor, The Silencers, Murderers' Row features a non-stop barrage of swanky scenes, snarky dialogue and snappy gadgets. Though it again tosses aside the grim and grimy underworld of Hamilton's original Matt Helm novels for more colorful settings and a host of fashion magazine glamor, this one seems a trifle less full of the fluff than the first film. It definitely has a more early Bond film vibe, but doesn't skimp on Helm's endless one-liners, the drinking and driving, and the occasional jab at fellow Rat Packer Frank.
In fact, that almost ends up being the problem: It definitely features a stronger plot than the original, but still features plot holes that one could drive a tricked-out hovercraft over and through. The one that plagued me most was that after Ann-Margret disables the machine the refines the ore that powers the Helio-bomb with a bobby-pin (ok, fine, fair enough), moments later, the men guarding her still leave her loose enough to power the electro-magnet that aids Dino in fending off the character I refer to as Quarter Destro (the credits call him Iron Head...see if you can spot him in the accompanying photos). Wait, what? She just blew up one machine, and the armed guards let her play with the magnet for several minutes to take out their boss. Guess it's true what the say about finding good henchmen.
When Shop Class goes terribly awry...
That's just one, there's several other gaping gaps in logic. Now, don't get me wrong, in the generally fun-filled light atmosphere, these heavy suspensions of disbelief can't spoil the fun (and a belt or two of gin will have you giggling over most of them after a wry retort from Dino). What bothers me, in retrospect, is that this could've been a solid action story above and beyond being a light afternoon's entertainment if only someone had seen to it that the script made a little more sense where it counts (like when Matt's got a cover story for his cover story that isn't spoiled by Big O's inside man in Washington). All of this could've been avoided, I suppose, if they'd headed off into the bizarre anything goes tone of the 1967 version of Casino Royale, but since they played it more by the numbers, I couldn't help but notice it. I know that consideration for pop culture longevity has only become a recent concern, but I like to think that for all the talent involved, they'd want a movie that over time would appeal to more than just guys into nostalgia or goofy cinema...oh yeah...like me.
In my dreams, I wake up to this sort of thing...
Karl Malden, the all too serious star in On the Waterfront and Patton, does an entertaining turn as the villain, Julian Wall. His strange relationship with his mistress Coco is surprisingly risqué for the era of married couples in seperate beds. You'll just have to see the movie to see what I mean. The only odd mis-step with his character is his introduction where he's given the Blofeld treatment. For those who don't remember, Ernst Blofeld was James Bond nemesis in the Connery run of movies, but until You Only Live Twice (1967) where he's played wonderfully by Donald Pleasance, he's only shown from behind or in shadows. Problem is: a) Malden has a very distinct voice, and b) when they semi-reveal him, Malden also has one of cinema's even more distinctive schnozzes. So even if you don't know who he is, when you see him as Wall...you're not likely to not be able to figure out he's the ominous shadow from the opening.
"What?! I thought it was Telly Savalas...I'm serious!"
In any event, a great deal of the fun is found in the genuine chemistry of Martin and...uh... -Margret. Even though Dino's hilariously out of place in her psychedelic discotheque world, he's never not cool. But at the same time, the filmmakers don't go out of their way to make her world seem like some idiotic fad either. It's a far more diplomatic trade-off of the generation gap than was served up in most movies at the time. In all, you can't help but wish that you could quip off to nearly every bit said to you like Dino can, and you sure wouldn't mind have a kooky beauty on your arm like Ann-Margret while doing so. (I got to work on a film with Ann-Margret, and I can assure you, she's continued to be every bit of the lovely lady she was then.)
Also, for a silly 60's swankfest, one can't ignore that the first film had the great Elmer Bernstein at the musical helm, and the second features the also dazzling Lalo Schifrin. So I say, see The Silencers to ease into the world of Matt Helm...but keep Murder's Row nearby as just the right chaser.
Bonus: The ideal substitue for the pool noodle.
I will return...at some point...and so will Dean Martin as Matt Helm in The Ambushers (1967).
This past weekend the first show by Miami-based art gallery 101/exhibit went on display in their new space at the elegant end of Melrose Ave. in West Hollywood, California. The choice for the inaugural opening was a new set of paintings and graphic works by Jason Shawn Alexander entitled {sic}. The word "sic" is most commonly used today as editorial demarcation of intention when grammatical or spelling mistakes are included in a citation, that said mistakes are being intentionally reproduced without editing. Quite an apt title for Alexander's work, because although it is obviously well-rendered, there is in the vigorous skritching and almost scribbling of the layers of paint flecks of lost color painted over, lines of the sketching peering through or left bare, and various flotsam and jetsam the mapping of a creative process on canvas. And that's how they were meant to be.
Simply put, the paintings are monolithic as are the figures contained therein. Though they often float freely within their compositions, the figures contain an all too human fragility. They would have substance if they were to suddenly land in your arms. They can be elegantly ugly. They can possess passion though seemingly on the verge of lost vitality. One gets the impression that the flecks and flicks and splats of paint and ink across these canvases is no different from the sweat and pores and hair of any actual person. It's figurative work of a certain rawness that many artists have hunted and some have captured once again made all the more resoundingly refreshing in the collective of the cute, the clever, and the cartoon that much of the Los Angeles art scene has been given over to.
There's a danger in the land this work occupies that other recent work I've viewed does not, no matter how soaked in blood it is.
Having followed Alexander's work over a number of years now, what I found most surprising was the introduction of a wider color palette. The blacks, whites, rusts, and unbleached titaniums weren't wholly absent, but they'd been joined by vivid reds and soft blues that I'd not seen before in the work. But instead of being a jarring change, it opened up an electricity within what's been a consistent vision and emotional tone in the pieces. Pardon me if this sounds blasé, but keeping such weight in a brighter context is much the equivalent of pulling off a successful and suspense-filled horror film shot entirely in broad daylight with little or none of the familiar tropes of scares in the shadows. To my mind, it was the indication of transition in Jason Shawn Alexander's work, and I shall remain curious as to the direction until I see where it goes.
A smaller back room houses a selection of Alexander's drawings, both for comic books as well as a fine series depicting a blues musician. It is perhaps fortunate that they have been separated from the giants. In spite of their strength of visual story-telling or the vitality of the line, they would likely be lost in the context of the painted work. A catalogue for the show is available, and though it flattens out the textures of the paintings, the reproductions reveals how strongly graphic the work is.
{sic} is on display at the new 101/exhibit space in West Hollywood in Los Angeles, California through November 23rd. Visit the 101/exhibit site HERE for more information.
For many years, European exploitation, especially the horror movies (Argento, Bava, Fulci, et al) have always had a following. They tended to have the higher caliber of known names in the West, better production values, and that non-stop bevy of Euro-beauties. And there's been a fair few glimpses of the Aussie exploitation scene over the years, and volumes of movies that made up Sunday afternoon Kung Fu Theater (though I don't include the Shaws in this, I mean more along the lines of Black Belt Jones 2: The Tatoo Connection). But most often overlooked is the wild ride that was the Filipino exploitation market.
Whoa nelly. For over the top nonsensical non-stop bizarre action, from hand-to-hand to machine gun and grenades combat, with liberal littering of jiggling titties, the low budget Filipino scene can be hard to beat.
The cardboard sleeve aka. the former face of brain-frying freedom...
Raw Force (aka. Kung Fu Cannibals, 1982) has...well...just been adequately described above. Just go back and reread the last two sentences. It makes almost no sense. It has frequent action scenes with lots of slow-motion frequently on things that require none and a whole heapin' helpin' of jiggling titties.
Fresh off SNL fame, Ackroyd's career takes a bizarre turn...
The action begins when the Hitler clone of the linen suit set trades a shipment of prostitutes to a bunch of strange monks on a remote island for a treasure trove of jade. When one of the girls, who've all been stripped, doesn't pass the monks' requirements, she's dispatched by...well...a white guy in white face in a kimono with a samurai sword. You may want to reread that again just as you might want to rewatch this opening at least 3-4 more times while pinching yourself to be sure that it's all real.
This photo of John Holmes in short-shorts was cropped for decency...
From there we meet a trio (I think) of martial arts guys who are hopping a cheap southeast Asian cruise in the hopes of a chance to go to Warriors' Island. Naturally, there is also on-board an Asian cook who's actually a martial arts expert and a female SWAT team member. And the captain...oh, the captain, is played by one Cameron Mitchell. Cameron Mitchell was a well-known American actor in the 1950's who then did a slow-slide down the quality pole, first to the Euro-exploitation market and then on down to...well...Raw Force.
This is a family blog, so instead of titties, I give you this.
Anyhow, after the introductions of characters I couldn't distinguish between a few minutes later, the ship makes port in a city. At the local whorehouse, linen Hitler, who we learn is a jade merchant (Aha!) shows up to warn one of our heroes away from Warriors' Island before sacking the place to collect more whores for the monks (Aha!). Then, we turn to a titty bar where a fistfight breaks out. Then, we turn to a birthday party where a bunch of titties break out.
This is easily 20 minutes worth of gratuitous nudity. A pre-internet era teenager's dream.
"I not only star in the film, I'm its biggest fan!"
Back to the action, linen Hitler sends his goons (whose costumes I refuse to reveal, you must see the movie and send me interpretations) to stop the ship before it messes up their plans. Gratuitous nudity gives way to gratuitous violence as passengers and goons meet all kinds of strange deaths. One of filmdom's worst fire effects sends our heroes and poor, poor Cameron Mitchell into a life raft set adrift on the seas, which naturally is "hundreds of miles from any shipping lanes."
Vast is the sea of dignity lost...
I would bet that you can't guess where they just happen to make land. If you guessed Warriors' Island, then go get yourself a sheet of gold stars, take one off, and put it proudly on your chest.
From here, I don't want to give away too much. Not that I have to worry about it. If you can't figure out that the heroes win, then I'll suggest you've been hidden away from basic story-telling your entire life. However, save for the white guy in the kimono, I have not, as of yet, mentioned that this is in fact a zombie film. I was just as unsurprised as you are. And you may have noticed that above, I did mention an alternate title for this film, Kung Fu Cannibals, but have not as yet mentioned how cannibals fit in. Any guesses?
Make-up effects provided by Monkees' Mike Nesmith's mom...(look it up)
Well, you'll simply have to watch Raw Force yourself to see just how many more gold stars you win.
A visual approximation of my joy upon viewing this film...
Give yourself a whole sheet if you randomly guessed that the dreaded and almost certainly non-existent "Asian Piranha" would first be randomly mentioned by a character, which would almost certainly necessitate it's (stock footage) appearance by the end, would it not?
I sit around most days and create. I've written 4 books (2 available through my site or Amazon), a small stack of screenplays, and a bunch of ad and web copy. When not using words, I paint and draw quite a fair bit. Occasionally, I'm paid for doing this. I like paper, pens, india ink, celluloid and alcohol. I hope you enjoy a little of what I've made for you, my love...my storm...my anonymous public...
