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Two Bahama Mamas

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Jaws: The Revenge (1987)

Although borderline calamitous in its execution at times, I digested the terminal death rattle of the Jaws series (on a 4:3, open matte VHS taped off the telly, no less) so often as a nipper that when its filmic son of Scheider dons that yellow (symbolic of danger 😉 as discussed in our original Jaws pod) raincoat, and ventures out aboard a boat, I start to feel a bit queasy. It gives me the seasick creeps, because ultimately it doesn’t matter whether a film’s much cop—if it swims beneath our skin at a certain age, it can remain there forever—nostalgia-soaked; unmarred by even the most sagacious professional criticism.

Jaws: The Revenge has the nerve to plonk a Poundland Michael J. Fox (Mitchell Anderson) as Sean Brody—thankfully not the forgettable, miscast John Putch from Jaws 3-D underlined, in front of us, followed by the actual generic bearded lead, Lance Guest (The Last Starfighter) doing his most middling work since Halloween II as the late Chief’s eldest, Michael (the fourth and final incarnation of each Brody sprog—ensuring there’s absolutely no connective tissue, or through line whatsoever, and we, the audience, must again start from scratch with entirely new actors in these roles).

Then there’s what can only be described as an exhaustive thesis in ham and cheese by Michael (I bought my mum a new gaff, and had a lovely ‘oliday in the Bahamas with this dosh) Caine as the sozzled, seaplane-piloting, degenerate gambler, all round cheeky chappie, and patronising grandma on the verge of a nervous breakdown chaser, “Hoagie,” eliciting bemusing Oedipal jealousy all over the shop. I will confess to mimicking Michael pulling on his moustache whiskers in reverie, and very specifically toying with a pencil over the years, as these throwaway character bits have each crept into my own human behaviour—much like quoting Costner in The Bodyguard, and pressing lift buttons with my thumb like John McClane, so perhaps there’s more value to Guest’s performance here than I initially gave credit for.

The playground debate-baiting, would-be death of most folks’ fave Revenge character, Mario Van Peebles, as Jake baffled us all, causing playing field bickering beyond, as the BBC’s UK terrestrial screenings opted for the harsh finality of the U.S. theatrical cut ending, in which the Neptune’s Folly’s bow-breaks, and Jake is munched, taking a slo-mo plunge into the white shark’s gob (also his fate in Hank Searls’ novelisation), and yet other television showings chose to air the international home video and subsequent (otherwise butchered) DVD release denouement, which saw Jake miraculously return from the depths—bobbing up bitten and bloody, but very much alive. If the rumors are to be believed, it was a negative audience test screening demanding more ending excitement—hence the inexplicable exploding Jaws (of course the shark’s called “Jaws.” Here comes Jaws: Jaws the Shark—mind he doesn’t bite you with his enormous jaws), which also triggered a wet set reshoot, and the subsequent resurrection of Peebles.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m in no way saying Jaws: The Revenge is a good film. The shark is so clean, it looks like it just escaped from Florida’s Universal Studios—rubbery, restricted, jerky movements and all. The film is utterly devoid of logic at times, the daft—but aren’t we clever cut to the eye of a cod or whatever, Ellen being psychically-tied to a large mackerel shark, the clunky, sepia flashbacks, and awkward deployment of film grammar-destroying, nonsensical dream sequences. All that being said, it’s nevertheless a drastic improvement on Jaws 3-D.

After the Quaid-led mess of 3, it’s almost enough to just see Ellen Brody—it’s enough to bump into characters we know from the familiar town of Amity, taking the ferry, running down its now historic beaches, walking around the same locations as the first, following in the Chief’s footsteps—and call me nuts, but killing off the Marty McFly-esque red herring protagonist, Sean, in the opening moments is kinda brave. However, signs we may have jumped the shark—Fonzie-style, include the openly ridiculed, audibly roaring beast, a self-reflexive, meta moment where Jake disputably mimics John Williams’ Jaws theme over the underwater CB radio, and a whopping white pointer somehow navigating the narrow corridors of a wrecked ship—though to counter that, I do endlessly enjoy Michael’s bubbly, bends-inducing, yet ingenious use of a scuba tank to escape to the surface.

The mismatched, jumble sale sweater-vested dress sense—and even more muddled movie meanderings of America’s most birdbrained critical twosome, Shitskel and Eburk, each took delight in pointing out the picture’s finale was bizarrely missing an appropriate master shot to clue audiences into what was actually occurring. They’re not wrong; they’re just assholes. The bonkers levels of bloody geyser-spurt render the uncut version more satisfying—albeit in a preposterous way, but the death of The Revenge’s Carcharodon carcharias is an underwhelming catastrophe in the theatrical. The sequence drastically needed truncating. Although, I believe the filmmakers had enough coverage, as even an amateur YouTuber managed to experimentally trim the existing footage, and it’s a marked improvement—if a little abrupt, and crude in form.

S&E’s review lives in infamy as being among the most notorious, harshest, and arguably funniest reviews from their At the Movies segments, with the rotund, human dough-boy—schlubby Lego man, Ebert, peering at us achingly, like a bullied toddler through thick, jam jar glasses, hungrily pointing out logical fallacies regarding the shark’s POV, and pleading for acceptance from anyone who’ll listen. Then there’s the weedy Gene—candidate for world’s most asexual man—all corpse-like, with beige dismissals of truly great movies being a thing of regular occurrence, which I constantly attempt to capture in our Critics’ Corner segments. The snidey Siskel spouted, “An idiotic script sinks the whole show.” He loathed the dream sequences, appeared apoplectic, and relayed that audiences in his theatre were groaning, and that he felt an urge to punch a hole in the screen—which would’ve likely done more damage to his puny limbs than the theatrical paraphernalia.

Not wanting to be outdone, Ebert boastingly recounted shouting, “His shirt is dry!” aloud in his cinema showing, to which no doubt the entire audience lifted him up onto their shoulders, and declared him king of the pedants. He may have got a laugh from that particular preview audience, and I’m sure that gave him some semblance of satisfaction, being the desperate toad he is. As Ebert observed, “Mrs Brody could be haunted by flashbacks to events where she was not present, and that, in some cases, no survivors witnessed.” My infantile brain didn’t care. The Siskmeister General also latched onto the bugbear continuity error of a dry Caine when he clambers back on board the Folly after his seaplane vs shark altercation. They were obviously so bored that they noticed. I myself did not—especially as a little ‘un.

Jaws: The Revenge houses, “Old, cheap, lousy gimmicks,” which is rich coming from these two—their TV careers, at least, were based entirely upon the wafer-thin premise of two mutts pathetically bickering over movies for ratings. “Live in Iowa is the answer!” they chuckle. These two jerk-offs yank each other’s chains and giggle over the ineptitude of films that neither of them could’ve put together in a million years. They were clearly teased as children, and hold grudges against anything, and everyone they can, taking a palpable delight in the faux-intellectual destruction of someone’s art, whether it be Tobe Hooper’s The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, David Lynch’s Blue Velvet, or Joseph Sargent’s Jaws: The Revenge. In future, I’ll be looking to their British counterpart—the equally elderly but more measured, Barry Norman instead.

Late Comedian Richard Jeni’s face-slapping, career-defining, four-minute Johnny Carson Tonight Show appearance mostly milked the Brodys’ bloodthirsty Bahamas trip for material. Jeni recounts renting all four Jaws movies in a row, and joked The Revenge‘s title should have been, “Here’s a fish. You’re stupid.” He continued, “It’s 4 in the morning. You’re sitting there with one sweat sock and a burrito watching a shark that only kills one family out of an entire ocean full of perfectly edible people, for no reason that we ever explain. Call me a spinal column with a bucket of popcorn, but you couldn’t be stupid enough to enjoy it.” Well, I sure proved him wrong!

I was so miffed by these so-called reviews, with the majority of critics halfheartedly sticking the boot in with stale, self-evident assertions. It’s an easy target, and it struck me as indolent and quite elementary, as they rarely peered beyond the sluggish demise of the creature with its nonsensical roaring, and the dopey, misguided premise that the same shark family is chasing the same Brody bunch. There’s certainly a case for The Revenge being more of a laugh than Jaws 2, and in my mind it’s infinitely better than the indefensible Jaws 3-D. I invariably try to sneak The Revenge in somewhere between Boxing Day and New Year, because never mind the Die Hard non-debate, this is a Christmas film! Why not double bill it with The Muppet Christmas Carol for a second slice of Crimbo Caine? After all, what says Christmas more than the child character from your favourite film, bathed in red light, writhing in agony and grasping at a limb that’s no longer there whilst carols are sung joyously on the shore by cheery Amity islanders? Belated berry crumble to you all!

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Some Dickhead is Standing in My Sun

by scariousartistsLeave a Comment on Some Dickhead is Standing in My Sun

In 1982, the Ladd Company unleashed the dystopian sci-fi classic, Blade Runner. In 1984, they crapped out the first Police Academy movie. Quite the about turn. Overtly racist, sexist, homophobic, fat-shaming characters populated the hugely popular hit, which spawned six shady sequels ranging from amusing to abhorrent. Believe it or not, they still air on UK telly fairly regularly—albeit with the slurs chopped out. Already, I can feel some righty readers squirming in their seats at my politically correct 2024 hindsight—please hear me out, I’m a sort of fan.

The first Police Academy installment, for better or worse, established an overarching premise that would be regurgitated over and over, birthing the classic catchphrases, “Many, many,” “Move it, move it, move it!” and “Don’t move, dirt-bag!” They had a formula and boy did they stick to it—’til the wheels fell off (for me, to a lesser degree) in the juvenile, barrel-scraping oddity, Police Academy 6: City Under Siege, and then altogether in the monstrosity that is the almost unmentionable, Police Academy: Mission to Moscow. The franchise had sequential, annual releases for episodes 1-6, before Mission to Shitshow crept along a little later in ‘94 like an accidental pregnancy, and subsequently feels like the runt of the litter in a litter consisting almost entirely of runts.

The overarching premise is simplicity itself—under a new mayor, in an unnamed city bubbling with crime, a floundering police academy updates its admittance policy to include all willing applicants—cue the misfit new recruits as they blunder their way through, and then overcoming all odds, ultimately emerge on top. Whether the hapless cadets were rescuing kidnapped captains, foiling serial bank robbers, or defeating rioting street punks, the slapstick giggles, sexual innuendo, and cheap humour made the madcap movies staples in childhoods all over the world. But would the franchise survive a “woke” reappraisal? Is the first film in particular merely a tasteless, flesh-flashing, ‘80s screwball sex comedy in the sordid vein of ’81’s Porky’s? Should we disregard the worrying content, and excuse it on account of its “different time” hijinks? Should we stop being so bloody sensitive, and just enjoy it for what it is? Or do we hold the franchise to rights?

For the uninitiated, here’s a quick sequential rundown of the titles in the series:

Police Academy (1984)

Police Academy 2: Their First Assignment (1985)

Police Academy 3: Back in Training (1986)

Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol (1987)

Police Academy 5: Assignment Miami Beach (1988)

Police Academy 6: City Under Siege (1989)

Police Academy: Mission to Moscow (1994)

The majority of the Police Academy films have a uniformity (soz), and are structured pretty much identically—beginning with some bullshit lead-in text before a (sort of) cold open—typically a tentative thematic tie-in to the story, opening on a cityscape and buildings at night alongside Robert Folk’s triumphant, earwormy score. Next, a new recruitment process will usually begin—with Mahoney, Tackleberry, or Nick, for example, meet-cuting their 90-minute love interest. Harris (or Mauser), driven by incurable insecurity and unfounded meanness—with their useless sidekick, Proctor, typically in tow, attempt to kick the insubordinate newbies out, or forge a devious plot to discredit them somehow. Cue a training scenario montage, and some sketch-like, vignette-style set pieces, separated by spinning tile transitions.

Next, the unconvinced senior officers will no doubt gripe about the ineptitude of the bumbling cadets up until a final, fifteen-minute-ish action set piece (e.g. the riot in Police Academy, the zoo punk raid in Police Academy 2, the airshow in Police Academy 4, and the Everglades swamp boat chase in Police Academy 5, in which a (relatively) serious, “someone’s in trouble” rescue attempt is miraculously a success—whether it’s Mahoney saving Kim Cattrall, and Hightower, in turn, saving both Mahoney and Harris in the original, or the rookies rescuing Harris and Lassard in Assignment Miami Beach. This act proves the worth of—or reinstates the chump cops as true heroes, and cements their rightful place at the academy with an approximately five-minute awards ceremony thrown in next, in which select dippy rozzers are rewarded with promotions—freeze frame on a joyous moment over the end credits, and they wrap it up! That’s yer lot!

“It’s dirty work, but somebody’s gotta do it!” blasts the soundtrack as Steve Guttenburg’s shit-eating grin greets us once again in Police Academy 2: Their First Assignment. Decked out in a sleeveless cop uniform with ludicrous, unnecessary, cut-off shorts, cruising boobie beach on his trike of misogyny—this, ladies and gents, is Carey Mahoney—a handsome chancer, who typically finds himself the heroic, girl-getting, male lead in the midst of numbskulls. How this puppy-dog creep didn’t find himself at the wrong end of a sexual harassment lawsuit when—whilst impersonating an officer, he ordered a youthful Kim Cattrall to first show, and then describe her thighs, we’ll never know. The archetypal sex pest protagonist pressed his luck again as he casually drank a Bud whilst peeping-Tomming nubile cadets in the showers—gifting the first movie’s target audience some cheap, Porky’s-style T-and-A. Then in ‘85’s Police Academy 2: Their First Assignment, whilst being fitted for new police issue pants, he pervily wrangled balloon animals into his trousers, and pleaded for the female shop assistant to, “Please be gentle.”

Mahoney is arguably the star of the first four films in the Police Academy franchise—although more colourful characters such as the klutzy, effeminate, Cmdt. Lassard, the Rambo-mad, armed to the teeth and ready for war, Tackleberry, human synthesiser and uncanny mimic, Larvell Jones, the intimidatingly androgynous, Callahan, and the lofty, Globetrotteresque, Hightower, eventually surpassed him as standouts as the shenanigans spiralled over a total of seven films (although I am loathe to even mention the tagged-on seventh installment, and disaster of Biblical proportions, Mission to Moscow). These were simpler times, when cadets all had “Johnsons” and were “the right colour.” Wouldn’t fly commercially in 2024—although I’m positive it still raises suspect chuckles in certain households, and it sure as hell flew in the ‘80s—so much so, that the Police Academy movies grossed over $537 million, with a sequel being produced every subsequent year, from ’84-’89, until Mission to Moscow—which I not only consider non-canon, but also a stain on the previous stain that is Police Academy 6: City Under Siege, excreted itself into existence.

At the risk of some invisible, Internet overlord expelling The Rewind Movie Podcast from your algorithm, I am about to explicitly quote Police Academy’s multiple racial slurs and non-pc terms without redactions, as to illustrate the content—so sensitive readers beware. Please take into account, in the Police Academy universe, all Japanese people are experts in martial arts, would be better suited as sushi chefs, and in all likelihood had family members who were somehow involved in Pearl Harbor. “Spade” and “dumb, fat, jigaboo” aren’t terms you’d typically find in a knockabout ’80s comedy, but they’re all shockingly present and politically incorrect here in the first Police Academy installment, alongside a plethora of homophobic digs—most notably in the many, many, Blue Oyster Bar dance sequences, “Mahomo’s”—I mean, Mahoney’s startling, out of the blue, “Sleeping’s for fags” utterance, and enough “bitches” and “queers” for Tackleberry to shake his sleazy saxophone at.

“You men stop that!” cries the sexually puzzling Commandant Lassard before showing gleeful approval at the male-female kiss that follows. Is Lassard gay? I would’ve bet my life on it. However, he is apparently married—although, so was Oscar Wilde, so all bets are off. I’d personally hazard a guess at latent homosexuality based on an ambiguously-gendered podium liaison, and his ongoing trademark, camp ejaculations. In this particular city, every blind alley appears to lead to a gay bar packed with over-familiar, mustached, leather-clad gents who love dancing. When you consider these Blue Oyster Bar scenes were the first example of on screen homosexuality I’d ever witnessed—my introduction to gay characters in movies, it’s perhaps less than ideal—jovial and lighthearted, sure, but at whose expense? It’s another unfortunate sign of the times that I believe should nevertheless continue to play out in reruns and repeats purely for posterity, historical hindsight, and reflection.

Just to momentarily play devil’s advocate—Mahomophobia aside, the first Police Academy movie is somewhat forward-thinking in the sense that it predominantly paints the racists and bigots as fools, and chooses to favour the city’s minorities as equal representatives of the community by depicting them as people considered worthy of donning the blue of the academy, and shouldering the responsibilities of being a cop. This message is unfortunately buried so low under the imbecilic gags that it rarely has opportunity to surface and resound—but it’s in there somewhere.

The Beatles or The Rolling Stones? Coke or Pepsi? Harris or Mauser? I’m a Harris guy, myself. Granted, he’s despicably mean to poor Hooks, bless her, but G.W. Bailey’s “pissants,” and “numbnuts” leap off the screen and explode like little comedy grenades. No one says, “Dickhead” like Bailey. He’s the king of villainy in these movies—and of course in another child of the ’80s fave, Short Circuit, where he faces off against a goodie Guttenburg once again as the loathsome army baddie, Skroeder—dead set on blowing up Johnny 5 and making him… not alive. G.W. was peculiarly passed up for Police Academy 2: Their First Assignment, making way for Art Metrano’s copycat antagonist, Mauser—but when Art called it quits, Bailey returned triumphantly for Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol in ’87, which, to this day, remains my go-to entry as it’s the sole Police Academy get-together to host the entire stable of key characters—Mahoney (not Nick), Jones, Harris (not Mauser), Hightower, Hooks, Zed, and Sweetchuck (plus an enchanting, mid-eighties Sharon Stone).

It’s important to note that a racist character exhibiting discriminatory behavior is not the same thing as a film itself being racist or discriminatory. Without meaning to regurgitate Ricky Gervais’s Twitter feed, we must differentiate between the subject of a joke, and the target of a joke, as a responsible, intelligent audience—something these films perhaps unfortunately failed to attract. Having said that, as dumb as this series gets, it’s still marginally smarter than its target viewer. Are these films harmless? To me, yeah. They’re a product of—and still bear a clear resemblance to, the seedier, bygone traditions of the era, and stood on the puny shoulders of the practical joke-filled, raunchy sex comedies of the time, to perv on nude girls in the locker room. I’ve neutralised the hate speech, and enjoy the majority of them as nostalgic, frisky farces in a similar vein to the British Carry On films—they’re neither respected, nor hold any weight or credibility, but are actually pretty benign. I equate the hankering to view any of these movies with the urge to smoke a cigarette, or eat a McDonald’s. It’s the same every time, ultimately bad for you, but nevertheless quite enjoyable. So if you’re craving a motion picture with witty discourse like, “I could show a movie on your butt, fatso!” or an Asian man mispronouncing “cauliflower” and “broccoli” for apparent comic effect, look no further! Amid the many, many, wonderful memories, you’ll no doubt glimpse the diseased, hamburger-heart of ’80s America, and it’s very, very, strange.

PS To aid you on your next Police Academy quest, I have prepared a user-friendly guide to the crap cop shenanigans—Police Academy: Pulling Rank! 🚓. The following brief reviews and ratings score the franchise, and grade each film out of a possible 10, in order of greatness (or reverse shitness).

1. Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol (1987)

The familiar yet amusing premise employed here is the introduction of a C.O.P. program—not, “Collection of Pissants,” as Harris would have you believe, but “Citizens on Patrol,” which sees incompetent civilians of all ages and backgrounds merely acting as police officers after superficial, basic “training.” It is perhaps the best incarnation of that core, repetitious, but comedically functional idea in the series. But nostalgia alone isn’t what cements Citizens on Patrol‘s claim to the top-spot. It’s the perfect Police Academy storm, and notably the sole Police Academy entry to feature franchise OGs and stalwarts, Mahoney, Harris, Zed, Sweetchuck, Hooks, Hightower, and a bonus Sharon Stone—which marks Citizens on Patrol as the only movie with everyone present.

There’s a skateboarding David Spade, Harris calls proctor a “dickhead,” and we hear the unforgettable, deep guttural chant of, “Yama-yama-yama-yama-yaaama!” with a hockey-masked Tackleberry jumbling up his horror antagonists, and emerging from a body bag clutching a chain saw. Bobcat Goldthwait—an acquired taste for sure (just ask Jerry Seinfeld), is absolute gold for his run of three films (2, 3, and 4). Zed getting a girlfriend may be his best plot line, with the charming and quite captivating, Corinne Bohrer puzzlingly finding the cacophonous madman attractive. There’s hope for us all! His guitar-accompanied, “Shut up! No, not you. The ducks” bit under the tree, and their poetry slam meet cute are ridiculous and hilarious in equal measure. Callahan (Leslie Easterbrook), and her returning—still unlikely squeeze, Nagata (Brian Tochi) are reunited to fight ninjas alongside auditory sensation fan favourite, Jones—who is at this stage still a valuable novelty, and enjoyably on top form, new recruit, Mrs. Feldman bungles the C.O.P. program single-handedly, and then rescues it from the clutches of failure with the neat, “Book ’em Tack!” window motorcycle crash sequence.

Despite phoning in the entire movie, the top-billed Steve Guttenberg as Mahoney is sycophantically swooned over by thirsty female basketball fans, and rounds out his series stint sipping champagne with Sharon Stone in a Police Academy air balloon before disappearing from the franchise forever—at its arguable peak, no less. I’d call that a win. Citizens on Patrol‘s final Williams County air show set piece is legitimately ace—and surely influenced Blackadder Goes Forth‘s similar ADR’d death-defying Red Baron sequence two years later, showcasing impressive practical aerial stunts, and for me is good enough to top the Police Academy action denouement leaderboard. Mahoney appropriately rides shotgun in the passenger seat, while Stone heroically pilots a biplane—and despite a somewhat unbecoming Rod Stewart hairdo, the 28-year-old (post-Allan Quatermain and the Lost City of Gold, pre-Action Jackson) is off the charts gorgeous—to quote the ever so wise, Nagata, “Wow! What a woman!” Lance Kinsey as Proctor is an MVP here, Marion Ramsey is warmly welcome as the deceptively demure Hooks, George R. Robertson as Chief (later Commissioner) Hurst has a turn, Billie Bird is a fun addition as daredevil pensioner, Mrs Feldman, and Tony Hawk pops up as a (blink and you’ll miss him) sk8er boi.

As per usual, the blundering Harris and Proctor are heroically saved—this time from a watery grave by the recruits from the program they’ve been railing against throughout and refused to endorse, and now must eat humble pie and learn their lessons. As Zed and Sweetchuck plummet towards certain death with only one parachute between them, Goldthwait’s off the cuff, “Break your fall! Hit the kids!” is one of the funniest, and darkest lines in the entire series. If that wasn’t enough, Citizens on Patrol‘s theme song is performed by Michael Winslow & The L.A. Dream Team, featuring various James Brown and Michael Jackson riffs, parodies, and impressions.

7.4/10

2. Police Academy 5: Assignment Miami Beach (1988)

To quote Kevin Smith, in reference to the lost sequel, Beetlejuice Goes Hawaiian—“Must we go tropical?” The answer here is an unequivocal yes! Having said that, the guilt of loving Police Academy 5: Assignment Miami Beach weighs heavy on me. I’ve always felt (incorrectly, mind) that Matt McCoy was the thinking man’s Steve Guttenberg, whereas in reality, he’s kind of an unfunny, chucklehead lame-o. Although, that didn’t stop me pretending to be him when I was little—mimicking his hotel lobby hostage scenario exploits by diving behind our sofa with a plastic cap gun. New king of the pranks, Nick’s sexual harassment poolside massage is met with swift retaliation from the elegant and assertive Gretzky-bride, and slicked-back Playboy bunny, Janet Jones—refreshingly subverting the ordinarily successful Mahoney-style chat-up approach by hoying McCoy into a nearby pool. There’s no Sharon Stone, but at least we have a more proactive female character (albeit one we’re encouraged to ogle at first).

Amid the slapstick-o-rama and bozo bad guys, there’s enough “butt-wipes,” “sleaze-balls”, and “dick-weeds” to comfortably tick your Binge Bingo™ “PG-13 cuss” boxes, there’s a badass fanboat chase through the alligator-infested Everglades with an Apocalypse Now aping “Ride of the Valkyries” swamp rescue, Hightower fights an alligator, fat lad Tab Thacker returns as “little” Tommy Conklin, aka “House,” Proctor inevitably ends up nude—delivering my favourite ever Lance Kinsey throwaway line—“He’s thinking,” MasterChef‘s John Torode has a lookalike in the baddie gangster, “Mouse,” and then there’s “Sugar,” whose standout moment is unfortunately just a fart gag in a lift. We have an oily volleyball montage to rival the shirtless Cruise, Slider, and company in Top Gun—featuring the indelible, “How low can you go?” limbo montage, we take a leaf out of the Thaddeus Harris book of pick-up tekkers as he shoots his shot with a chick at a tiki hut bar, there’s a Jaws reference—”Desist the swimming area now, mister!” and enough spit-takes and squirting donuts to addle our brains throughout. Having said that, Proctor frustratedly throwing the unconscious Harris face-first onto a table in a fit of rage is hilarious—and I’ll have words with any man who says otherwise.

One review simply asked, “Where the fuck was Mahoney?” The thinking-man’s Steve Guttenburg, he may not be, but ol’ Matt McCoy as Nick is sufficient, I suppose. Harris has reached such an exasperated level of hatred, resentment, and frustration with the incompetence of literally everyone around him, but he himself continues to cock up every golden chance offered to him to do any better, and improve his station. The strands of Harris desperately trying to become commandant, the honouring of Lassard in Miami, the police training seminar, and then the actual diamond heist and real kidnapping converge and intersect with comedic benefits.

By 5, presumably even the makers were tired of the formulaic structure, and instead opted for the most movie-like plot so far—with entirely new crooks in the shape of the pencil-mustachioed, surely coked-up, diamond thief villain, René Auberjonois, as Tony the wannabe gangster, and his bungling sidekick henchmen. What works here plot-wise, severely drops off in the next installment, City Under Siege. Here, director Allan Myerson injects a more cinematic approach to the photography and staging. A “MAl-arke-ee Diamonds” sign proves the makers know how silly it all is, and evidently chose to embrace it. It’s such a fun ride, and unlike earlier entries, actually feels good-natured. Lassard can’t help but foil the criminals—even when he’s not trying to be a hero cop, he’s inadvertently knocking them down stairs, and dropping golf balls to maim and injure. In fact, the police procedure demonstration conceit makes for some surprisingly humorous interactions between Lassard and his kidnappers. A chipper camaraderie evolves between them; a mutual respect, and a budding friendship.

The conceit of the police procedure demonstration is innovative for the franchise, and allows Cmdt. Lassard to be both the klutz, the willing hostage, and the hero. The score is gentle and emotive—the kettle drum tunes make me happy—it all sounds like a Mario Kart track, and transports me back to a carefree youth. It feels like a slight recalibration before the overtly slapstick, plot-heavy (sorta) City Under Siege, and following Citizens on Patrol—which for me, was the peak of the first four entries with their somewhat honed, comedy vignette style. Although, this one does, quite novelly employ them during the Miami sequences, alongside the police convention, karate demonstrations, riot control drills, etc. which freshens the presentation a touch. They knew what worked, what they wanted to change, and they did it, so for me this one really delivers, and would also be a terrific introduction to the Police Academy franchise.

Assignment Miami Beach is a pleasant, unabashedly feel-good movie, aspiring to nothing more than it achieves. If you have any rugrats in your household, this is an excellent place to begin because when it’s rude, it’s gently rude. Sure, Callahan is reduced to a strutting boob gag, but fortunately for the film, or unfortunately for feminism, it still works. There are no offensive racial slurs or questionable content, and it relies on a heavy dose of kid-friendly slapstick and pratfalls. Everyone has grown into—as opposed to bored of their roles—I’m looking at you, City Under Siege and Mission to Moscow.

7.3/10

3. Police Academy 3: Back in Training (1986)

There are more laugh out loud moments in the first twenty minutes of Back in Training than the entire first two films combined. Police Academy 3 was perhaps my most-rewatched as a kid. “Warm tonight,” is one of the funniest lines in the whole series, and is something I either say, or think about, perhaps once a month, and is for me, Proctor’s second best ever (after Assignment Miami Beach‘s dumbtastic, “He’s thinking”), as is Tack’s, “Slug shredding your vital organs…” presentation. Influential? I’ll let you be the judge of that—in Back in Training, Nagata and Jones invent Rush Hour. Search your feelings, Brett Ratner—you know it to be true. Sadly, Mauser’s here in place of Harris, so that’s an automatic point off from me—but thankfully Proctor returns! There’s a clear, uncomplicated premise, which I quite enjoy—one of two rival police academies must close, only one can remain—with a stuffy committee making the final call. Brain off, and enjoy!

7.1/10

4. Police Academy 2: Their First Assignment (1985)

Alright, where’s Harris? The memorable hair-glue prank on Mauser soothes this travesty slightly, but G.W. Bailey is always missed. Chief Hurst returns—albeit meaner, and Lassard’s brother—played permanently stressed-out by Flight of the Navigator‘s baddie scientist, Howard Hesseman, is a nice new addition. There are some vandal grannies, and the moronic, hare-brained, walking disaster Fackler is back in full force. Mr Sweetchuck’s opening lock-up has a spoofy tone akin to Police Squad!. Notably, Their First Assignment marks the first appearance of franchise staples, Mauser, Proctor, Sweetchuck, and a scene-stealing Bobcat Goldthwait as the batshit “Zed”—who, as my favourite Police Academy character, brings a much-needed injection of chaos, anarchy, and solvent abuse to the proceedings. This entry showcases some of Zed’s best lines and manic scenes, such as crashing a funfair, and looting a supermarket. It contains both Mahoney’s funniest business in terms of the character, and it’s also Guttenberg’s best turn in the series, stretching his comedy legs as the undercover “Jughead,” not to mention all the fairly effective, filthy, Officer Vinnie Schtulman, new partner/two hander shenanigans. A decent final act climax helps Their First Assignment to climb just a smidge above the first Police Academy film in my personal rankings.

As if, “Nice piece! I was referring to your side arm,” and Tackleberry applying gun oil in lieu of cologne wasn’t enough to endear his and Kirkland’s like-minded coupling to us, the fun, spoofy tone is solidified with Eugene and Kathleen‘s disarming post-date strip down. It feels like a scene ripped straight out of The Naked Gun, but credit where it’s due, precedes it by three years. Having said that, as an example of Roger Ebert’s critical skewering—setups to jokes occasionally go absolutely nowhere. Here, Fackler needs to spend a penny, so stops at a petrol station. The blasé attendant informs him he can use the key but he shouldn’t run off anywhere. We see the bathroom key is tied to a big breeze block, and that’s it—that’s the gag. Nothing happens next. The scene just ends.

Police Academy 2 features the cringeworthy clangers, “I want to get my hands on some healthy young men!/There are bars,” “New recruits, not fruits!” and “Your little butt is mine/I’m straight.” There’s sadly some blatant, and occasionally disturbing racism from Mauser—with his throwaway, yet abhorrent “Jones boys” remark after they’re inadvertently blacked-up in a sooty tunnel. It’s a moment the character never really recovers from, and another example of why I prefer Harris as academy instigator. Mauser is also egregiously, and excessively cruel to Hooks, and dangerously antagonistic with Hightower—of course the film at least exposes racist characters for their idiocy, and they invariably get what’s coming to them. Here, the deserving Mauser does, as per, get his comeuppance, and is left with crap Lego man hair when a poly alloy, liquid adhesive glues his hands to his head in a shower, resulting in some hairy-palmed wanker quips.

Also in bad taste are shocking Asian stereotypes galore, including the phonically bungled, L and R mispronunciations of “Not on broccoli! Not on cauliflower!” Pete Lassard angrily exclaiming, “Is all that crap necessary?” because the Japanese chef with the wok is being a, quote, “stupid bastard,” the boiled fish bit, “Oh, you want stir fry?” exchange, and myriad Bruce Lee business. The undercurrent of racism is strong in this one, too, with Jones’s good ol’ boy partner blurting out, “I got you figured for an asshole. I’ve never taken any shit from you people, and I’m not gonna start now.” He also calls Jones, “boy,” which stings.

6.9/10

5. Police Academy (1984)

Spoof scribe, Pat Proft, of Real Genius, The Naked Gun, Hot Shots, and the Scary Movie series fame, penned this one, with Paul Maslansky producing, and Hugh Wilson (writer of Stroker Ace) on debut directing duties—capitalising on prior sex comedy genre efforts like 1983’s Private School, and attempting to read from the same zeitgeisty memo as the trashy, sexploitationer, Revenge of the Nerds—released the same year. The gently titillating tone is in the vein of, but not as harsh as the genre’s key predecessors—it’s more Meatballs, and Porky’s lite than the full fat Coke version.

It’s the original, and set the template for every sequel—barring the one that shall not be named. Like The Fast Show or something, it’s packed with little comedy sketches, cementing the template for the first four installments, at least. It’s firmly in the nostalgic camp now—corny, yet strangely cinematic at times with its visual gag deployment. The Brian De Palma-aping window gag shot, with girls getting changed, Callahan lifting weights, the Lothario’s bedroom harem antics, and finally, repeat sexual offender, Carey Mahoney, up to his old tricks—smugly kicking back with a brewski, and scoping naked ladies—before Harris predictably gets the blame, is I’m sorry to say, perhaps the most sophisticated cinematic composition the series ever achieved. Police Academy‘s clumsy, clunky jump cuts only enhance the crass comedy.

Never has hitting in your wife in the head with a car door, or whacking her in the guts with a suitcase been as funny. Pratfalls ensue as resident klutz, Fackler inadvertently starts a riot (by throwing an apple out of a car window), during which Harris is taken hostage (the first of many, many times). Mahoney pervs? Check. Tackleberry sax? You betcha. Trivia: David Graf, as the trigger-happy Tackleberry was the first character ever to appear in the series—foolishly shooting up his own surprise party. Amid timid, “butt breaths,” “scuzzballs,” “scumballs,” and “cretins,” the unfortunate, wholly distasteful—yet revealing of the era, use of racial slurs such as “spades,” and a 28-year-old Kim Cattrall describing her thighs, would absolutely not pass muster in 2024’s somewhat illuminated Thunderdome.

George Gaynes as Lassard is perhaps the standout performance here with a genuinely peculiar turn. His, “And what a lovely sight it was” in reference to “Johnson’s” everywhere adds another puzzling layer to the conundrum that is Lassard’s sexuality. Also, Mahoney and Hightower get involved in a slightly under-cranked Benny Hill car chase, and “I’m Gonna Be Somebody” by Jack Mack plays us out with a cut from his new record. Take it away!

6.5/10

6. Police Academy 6: City Under Siege (1989)

City Under Siege features the best pool hustle scene since the late, great James Avery as uncle Phil broke out “Lucille” on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and Jones breakin’ out just about every pop culture reference of the era—from Jimi Hendrix to The Terminator. In the movie’s standout moment, Tackleberry apologises to a cat—which is as funny in writing as it is in the film—very. Also, there’s a truck chase set piece to rival (not really) similar sequences in Con Air, A View to a Kill, and Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines. The cartoony, vertigo-inducing window-washing squeegee sequence—featuring Harris’ desperate, pathetic pleading—“I’ll feed the poor!” always makes me laugh, and the Fred Flintstone nod may keep the little ‘uns chuckling, but they’re running out of steam by this sixth entry, and only the dire depths of Mission to Moscow manage to sink and stoop lower—although this installment still feels like a genuine slice of the series, and not a last, lame tag on.

The Wilson Heights Gang storyline results in a little too much plot reliance. Who cares about the plot? This is a Police Academy movie, right? The masked, Scooby-Doo “Pinocchio test” ending is a real stretch, even for a childhood fan of the franchise. If Assignment Miami Beach “jumped the shark,” or more appropriately—“fought the alligator,” then City Under Siege makes it into a handbag in a borderline embarrassing fashion, with desperate slapstick squeezing the final comedic juice from the ailing franchise. The series was undoubtedly neutered when it went PG-13—the language is softened even more so here with “kick some butt” and “stupid twit” both lamely uttered. As a boy it didn’t bother me, but as an adult, it grates. There’s simply not enough sleaze or edginess to offset a plethora of pratfalls. Also, it’s Matt McCoy again, so…

5.4/10

7. Police Academy: Mission to Moscow (1994)

What a mess. I am not ashamed to say I have attempted 1994’s Mission to Moscow twice in my life, and have failed miserably both times. It just ain’t canon. It’s abysmal; a monstrosity. There’s no Hooks or Hightower, either. 1–6, for all their faults, are the real deal, and the much delayed oddity that is the seventh Police Academy installment is merely—as uttered in the superior City Under Siege—an imposter. It should be reprimanded, and brought up on insubordination charges. The bewitching beauty of Claire Forlani (a year before Mallrats) can’t save it. Not even Dracula and Hellboy can—avoid like the ruddy plague. I’m serious.

0.9/10

Police Academy Drinking Game

PPS Prepare your livers! Here’s a bonus Police Academy Binge Bingo™ (in association with the Scarious Artists Trope-Tote™ collection) I made just for you. In no way am I condoning either excessive alcohol consumption, or any of the behaviour exhibited in the following rule inclusions, or corresponding scenes. Please excuse the juvenile nature of this, and at least try to drink your many, many bevoirs responsibly.

  • Prank
  • PG-13 cuss, e.g. “cretin,” “scuzzball,” “butt-breath,” etc.
  • Training montage
  • Sexual harassment
  • Dismissed—someone is threatened to be, or is actually thrown out of the academy
  • Racism (slur or stereotype)
  • Sexual act
  • Firearm safety breach
  • Street punks
  • Homophobia—or gay stereotype, e.g. The Blue Oyster Bar
  • Harris says, “Move it!”
  • Tackleberry weaponry
  • Free
  • Unintentional maiming
  • Angry Hightower—feat of strength
  • Lassard says, “Many, many“
  • Promotion
  • Film reference, e.g. Rambo, Jaws, Dirty Harry, etc.
  • Incoherent Zed
  • Jones vocal FX
  • Proctor is insulted
  • Nudity
  • Hooks yells
  • Attempt to discredit
  • Harris or Mauser is a kiss-ass
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The Clown Prince of Crime

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The Dark Knight (2008)

“Dark” is the operative. A ferocious, unstoppable leviathan of a movie. Its single cello string like a coiled spring—so tautly wound that it whines and quakes. Christopher Nolan knows precisely the vital images to carve, and the zinger lines that needed to pop—from the Joker gang’s brutal, Heat-inspired opening heist, to the bazooka-wielding jester’s explosive subterranean antics, and the kind of heart-stopping, chaotic car chases that both mimic, and ultimately eviscerate Friedkin’s French Connection, you’ll grimace and wince, then cheer and applaud.

Reinventing the Batman’s most-famed archnemesis as a Lynchian, wild man Tom Waits resulted in posthumous Oscar perfection with the late, great Heath Ledger’s giggly, guttural, cross-dressing Joker emerging as the epitome of cinematic comic book villainy, and the cloudy-minded poster boy for the criminally insane. In spite of its superiority, Ledger’s world-burner doesn’t quite nail the unruly rally cry irresponsibility of Joaquin Phoenix’s later portrayal, but edges close—palpably urging us all to introduce a little anarchy, and disturbingly makes a dangerous amount of sense whilst doing it—with the same brand of twisted conviction, and simplistic solve-all snake oil salesman logic that serves inflammatory world leaders. At a glance, this picture (war) paints Joker as a loony, but under a little surface scratch scrutiny, he’s so clear in his chaotic, criminal convictions that he eventually owns the role—in spite of Joaquin and Jack’s best efforts, exhibiting the kind of cocksure arrogance America laps up from its straight-talking politicians. Like other corrupt officials, Joker at least has an answer for the lost boys of America. Political allegory aside—and although tragically premature, I reckon Heath would’ve probably enjoyed bowing out on this menacing note. Although The Dark Knight Rises would have undoubtedly played differently with the Joker breaking out of Arkham Asylum, and returning for more malicious mischief, Nolan somehow unknowingly depicted both the pitch-perfect, macabre exit of the Clown Prince of Crime, and the unfortunate, final curtain call of the admirable actor playing him—with the Joker spinning and twirling; upended madly, and then through Pfister’s rotated lens, now seemingly the right way up, eeking out a closing, uncomfortably insane squawk, before colliding with us; the audience.

Bale wears Bruce Wayne’s suave smirk as comfortably as the silent guardian’s cowl, and British institution, Michael Caine’s Alfred is a consistent joy—it’s a pleasure to watch, and spend time in his dignified company. Gary Oldman isn’t exactly as I’d pictured Gordon, but it’s nevertheless a fine portrayal of the character, and serves as yet another father figure for Bruce’s collection. Freeman and Gyllenhaal support the film’s weighty, yet far-fetched high concept with restrained, grounding performances, and Eckhart elevates and colours the entire picture—stomping his thematic “dent” into the overarching tale of the trilogy as “Two-Face.” 

Minor caveats such as the spoiled continuity of Katie Holmes’ Rachel Dawes depiction robs the trilogy of a neat arc, and Batman Begins‘ through line character as we simply can’t just start again and warm to Gyllenhaal right off the bat. It’s one of the trilogy’s most regrettable cock-ups, but I suppose it was unavoidable—though Maggie is undoubtedly the better performer. The gruff, gravelly voice of Bale’s Batman is an acquired taste, and Nicky Katt’s rubbish comic relief commentary improv aside, the movie remains predominantly both humorous and disturbing. I always wondered if there was perhaps a way to excise the section with the two ferries. By the time it arrives, it feels like one set piece too many for a two and a half hour film that could’ve been just a smidge tighter. Having said that, the ferry sequence may be a bridge too far, but it’s arguably necessary to unearth and articulate the plot machinations of the battle for Gotham’s “white knight,” Harvey’s corrupted soul.

The Dark Knight showcases the level of seamlessly-integrated practical stunts and CGI audiences can often only dream of. Here, it thrillingly comes true, with the plummeting Batman crushing the roof of a van, circling the Hong Kong cityscape in elegant flight, flipping the Joker’s truck silently into the air, and the militarily-grounded “Tumbler” Batmobile and its handy interior ejector pod. Add to all this a booming, pulsing Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howard shared score that drones and beats in syncopation—a rhythm and rhyme. This pulsating heart of the movie ensures it kicks off with a bang and does not stop until we’re plunged into a quick cut darkness at the film’s watchful protector climax—daisy-chaining every scene together smoothly without ever sacrificing pace, and if it ever did run the risk of losing momentum, the deafening thuds startle and jolt us back to life—each thick, thump to the body reverberates and is felt.

No one will ever get this close again—not even Matt Reeves’ acclaimed 2022 incarnation, with bat-fatigue dulling its Seattley, emo-goth impact. The Dark Knight is anarchic, adult cinema, walking a tightrope; teetering on the precipice of overblown ridiculousness without ever stumbling into the winking, glossy Marvel mire; rattling the tracks of its own implausibility, but miraculously never toppling the train. If Michael Mann read comics, this is what we’d get. In spite of the tale-ending muscularity and might of The Dark Knight Rises, this is Nolan’s caped crusader mic drop; the superhero film to end all superhero films—a total triumph, and worthy of every ounce of praise and credit it has garnered.

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Nothing But a Doodle

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Evil Toons (1992)

The midnight hour is upon us! First, they undress you, then they possess you. It’s time to turn in, or turn on! I may be a total creep for picking it, but this sleazy slot belongs to Fred Olen Ray’s Evil Toons—the dumbest, shortest, sleaziest horror I could exhume from my psyche. My rationale was, you’re probably feeling a bit silly by now—your brain is almost certainly kaput, you’re probably sloshed, cream-crackered, or just plain sick of horror movies. So send the weans to bed, and all sane-minded or sober companions home. The stage is set for Evil Toons—a lowbrow, spoofy send-up of haunted house films with one seemingly original conceit—human-on-drawing commingling. This particular kink went public in the weighty commercial wake of Cool World, Space Jam, and most notably, 1988’s tantalising Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Olen Ray leapt on the bandwagon, and chucked a pervy, animated wolf that’s on screen for a mere one minute and 30 seconds into his campy slasher. And yes, there’s just the one titular “evil toon”—rendering the title itself a bald-faced lie. The composite photography, animation, and rotoscoping isn’t half bad—there’s just barely any of it.

Made for the HBO/Showtime market before the scream queen movie bubble popped with 1995’s Witch Academy, and shot simultaneously with/overlapping Olen Ray’s Spirits from 1990, Evil Toons was purportedly shot in just eight days for $140,000. I thought Night of the Demons was my proud, new trashy discovery, but this takes the cheese biscuit—a spooky, erotic, fantasy horror-comedy with a murderous hell house softcore porno plot. From the director behind Hollywood ChainSaw Hookers, Scream Queen Hot Tub Party, Attack of the 60-Foot Centerfold, Bikini Frankenstein, and Harlots of the Caribbean: Dead Girl’s Chest. I’m uncertain how many of those are “legit” films, and how many are merely softcore porn. Here, Gary Graver’s Halloweeny photography occasionally pops, Sherman Scott’s (actually writer/director Fred Olen Ray’s pseudonym, as he didn’t like seeing his name appear too many times in the credits) dumb as a rock—yet admittedly self-aware screenplay leaves an awful lot to be desired, and Chuck Serino’s music peculiarly seems to play at wrong, inopportune moments. Inexplicably, monotonous score music drones over what would’ve otherwise been fairly effective jump scares. It’s almost as if they rushed this through post-production! Of course, when the tit-mad Olen Ray does miraculously carve out a moment of suspense, the telltale, soon-to-be animated wolf effects shots have decreased in quality to such a massive degree, that the moment is robbed of any real tension or unease—we instantly twig that the monster is about to pop out.

You won’t be shocked to hear there’s nothing particularly clever going on—ever, but Evil Toons does have the retro, clunky charm of a scene from the video game Night Trap, or the gentler aspects of countless slashers of the day. The acting resembles an average episode of Baywatch, and is about as intellectually challenging. It’s about as scary as Scooby Doo, with hokey horror tropes such as exaggerated, hysterical screaming, constant thunderstorms, Mr Hinchlow’s lame jump scare, terminal hickeys, bloody nighties, demonic shape-shifting, ancient incantations, and kissing Beelzebub’s butt. However, it’s acutely genre-referential in a tongue-in-cheek fashion, and self-aware to the point where the gals actually reference it directly. For example, there are pre-Scream, genre-savvy lines like, “It’s a dark, stormy night and we’re four young, attractive girls in a big, spooky house all alone. If we don’t go downstairs one at a time, how will we ever get bumped off without the others knowing about it?” and “How come every time you stay in an old, spooky house it has to lightning and thunder?”

Burt, played by the eternally-welcome Dick Miller (The Terminator, Gremlins)—who, hilariously for some reason, doesn’t know what a contortionist is—arrives in a white van creeper-mobile, resembling something Buffalo Bill might pop to Sofology® in, but chock full of hot, consenting coeds—these sorority chicks are set to score 100 bucks a piece if they can clean the house, stay overnight, and get picked up the next day with a spick and span home ready for the new owners to occupy. Burt calls these lasses “kids,” but if I’m generous, the youngest among them probably looks around 28, and as for the eldest—plucky, maternal cougar, team leader, and Olen Ray squeeze, Suzanne Ager (Inner Sanctum, The Bikini Carwash Company, and Buford’s Beach Bunnies) as Terry, could, in all honesty, pass for mid-to-late 40s—or older, depending on the camera angle and lighting. Of course, you’d never suspect it from the director’s male gazey, caboose-showcasing, reverse angle of her bent over backside as all the ladies’ arced, lined-up rears are boldly pointed skyward whilst retrieving cleaning products from Burt’s van.

All is going well with our motley crew of porno actresses and low-end scream queens until creepy bloke, David Carradine (Kung-Fu, Bound for Glory, Kill Bill) delivers a book with a face on it—a Kandarian warlock’s demon spells from late 17th century England, brought to America by Gideon Fisk in the early 1930s, and the pesky source of all the problems plaguing the house. Another 40-year-old college “kid,” Biff Bullock isn’t the only thing that’s turning up around midnight—expect some hair-raising company, and a bit of soul eating, as it captures fresh souls to go to hell (providing they’re tangy, but not too tart).

Alongside bird-woman, Terry, is the shy, smart girl, and “little miss egghead,” Megan—our bespectacled, sweatpants-adorned, preposterously well-endowed, virginial yet self-admiring redhead lead, played by 1982 Penthouse Pet, Monique Gabrilelle (Emmanuelle 5, Amazon Women on the Moon, Deathstalker II, Silk 2, and maybe most memorably to some, Bachelor Party—yeah, she’s that girl in the bedroom with Tom Hanks). A most diverting game to play during Evil Toons is closely watching Megan’s screams to detect if she’s actually stifling laughter—which is a lot of the time. Oddly, I didn’t mind at all, because it just shows how much of a laugh they’re all having making this daft movie. Gabrielle‘s ponytail even stands erect at one point to illustrate her petrified terror. In a film such as this, why there is no payoff for Megan’s apparent carnal cravings to be a promiscuous, sexually-liberated young woman is anybody’s guess. Perhaps the chaste must live on in horror—but that being said, everyone does anyway in this preposterously-plotted picture.

Adult film actress, Madison Stone is arguably the star—she’s on the video box cover, and makes for an interesting Google if you don’t mind clearing your history afterwards. Madison plays the raven-haired, spandex-clad, Roxanne—a Kathleen Hanna-esque, Pamela Adlon-y, sorta Shannon Doherty-alike, whose klutzy shenanigans—including bizarrely alluring, ditzy yet determined wine bottle opening techniques that inevitably result in upended legs, and whose striptease twerking pulled the football captain, made her a firm favourite—just don’t ask what she’s doing with that butter. The possessed incarnation of Roxanne is incapable of pouncing on and devouring any of her gal pals without first ripping their tops open to expose their chests, before gnawing at their throats—classic deployment of the jugs before jugulars rule. Jan may struggle to eat sandwiches, but still, the early ‘90s feathered hairdo’d blondie, Stacy Nix, is another fave, and is—prepare to go incognito, trivia fans, also a porn actress, subsequently renamed, “Barbara Dare.”

As much as an enlightened, modern gent can get a kick out of the audacious, abundant T and A on display here, I’m not sure I could’ve justified picking Evil Toons without the sheer movie presence of the male supporting cast—namely the aforementioned Dick Miller, and David Carradine. Kill Bill Carradine turns up looking like a cross between a dirty Doc Brown, and the 1990s incarnation of WWF superstar, The Undertaker. In a bit of future Bangkok, fishnet-wearing, bondage in a closet foreshadowing, Carradine—who filmed for perhaps a day or two, but is peppered throughout the entire movie, hangs himself in the opening moments *insert sadomasochistic, auto-erotic asphyxiation joke here.* The ham and cheese-flavoured Carradine plays Gideon Fisk—lurking and loitering aimlessly, clutching pretty much the exact Necronomicon—the smirking, human flesh-bound book from The Evil Dead—if it was sold on Wish.

There’s a commendably meta moment where “that guy” Dick Miller is watching himself lose his cat in 1959’s horror/comedy, A Bucket of Blood—no doubt because it’s public domain, whilst smoking one of his trademark cigars. Before his inexplicably attractive girlfriend—the lingerie-clad scream queen, Michelle Bauer (Café Flesh, Tied & Tickled, Night of the Living Babes, Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama, and Assault of the Party Nerds Part 2: Heavy Petting Detective—I could go on) cameo helps sell a half-decent sex toy jackhammer gag. I’d watch Dick do almost anything—even read the Transylvania yellow pages, but the scene here, in which he is fellated by a fanged Roxanne, and caterwauls, “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy… oh my Gooood!” hilariously like he’s in a pervy pantomime, really pushed that rule to its limit. I’m lying—it’s probably the best bit, and in my mind, is now way up there with Miller and Schwarzenegger’s gun shop interaction in The Terminator.

Granted, there’s not enough of the Roger Rabbit-style, live action and animation blending, and what does exist is fleeting. Evil Toons lures us in with the (crossed fingers) broken exploitation promise of sexually deviant cartoon characters running wild, and delivers very little of it. Hoodwinked by a title! The somewhat shrewd writer/director, Olen Ray pulled the ol’ bait and switch, substituting toons for titties. The twisted yet tempting potential for sexual liaisons between alluring ladies and raunchy renderings was the uniquely kinky kicker required to pitch and sell the movie, but we only get one such encounter, and it’s actually a frankly unpleasant and violent assault. When it finally arrives, there’s nothing titillating about the scene—we watch aghast, and then it promptly passes.

If anything’s unsettling about any of the films I picked, it’s Evil Toons, as the juxtaposition of childlike animation, abundant female nudity, and toon-rape are all employed amidst an amusingly scored softcore sequence. The monster is essentially just a rubbish Tasmanian devil; a dirty talking, ravenous cartoon wolf. He’s generic, but he’s a killer. Of course, when the perverse pangs of guilt inevitably hit us, we can rest assured, the cast are all in on it—everyone involved in this movie knows exactly what kind of film it is, and presumably, as long as the cheques clear, they’re all A-OK with it. This is neither the most misogynistic, nor exploitative motion picture these women have chosen to endure in their careers. What rescues Evil Toons from unforgivable seediness is, the girls are having as much fun as the audience, which makes it charming, comparatively gentle when compared to -other slasher films, and unadulterated, campy fun with an all’s-well-that-ends-well ending—in which the ghostly Kill Bill declares the demons never existed, and neither did he, before vanishing in a cloak of electric lightning.

Evil Toons is another Evil Dead-adjacent, book of spells come down, and has quickly become the guiltiest of all my guilty horror movie pleasures. It’s the kind of zero effort pleasure you may take from meditation—just zoning out; the kind of film you wish you’d caught on late night telly when you were 12 or 13, and beyond. Can I, in all good faith, recommend it? Yeah, go on then. Evil Toons exists solely as a silly, naughty nudie romp—a delicious, brainless cheesecake, perfect for a midnight unwind—and not once was my brain used! If you’re still uncertain, what are you chickens waiting for? Just heed these wise words, “Remember, in times of trouble, let your conscience be your guide.”

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The Ghost with the Most

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Beetlejuice (1988)

Grab your Handbook for the Recently Deceased—it’s Tim Burton’s batshit comedy/horror, Beetlejuice. Tonally, this is perfection for most Hallowe’en hang-outs—pretty much nailing the seasonal scares of lighter fare such as The Addams Family features, but neatly negating their softness with an edgier, more off-kilter vibe. Beetlejuice has been on the periphery of my Hallowe’en party picks for years, but this particular mini-marathon set the necessary standard, spirit, and represented the specific eighties/nineties era I was looking to delve into, and chain together complimentary movies.

I feel as if I’ve had the necessary, rigorous training in the quirky, nonsensical humour of Burton all my life—from Pee-wee Herman to his Batman films. Here, charming newlyweds, Adam and Barbara Maitland, take an unfortunate tumble off a bridge in their car and perish, but in lieu of a peaceful, endless slumber, they find themselves negotiating a bureaucratic afterlife full of peculiar waiting rooms and paperwork—where even in death, poor souls are subject to arbitrary, administrative red-tape. Making matters worse for the previously happy couple, a pretentious family of oddball artists move in, and disrespectfully begin to rejig the Maitlands’ previously happy home. Seemingly only the madcap, loony antics of the smutty and salacious “bio-exorcist,” Betelgeuse can shoo the invasive tenants. I often consider the film’s smart satire. Its attractive theme of the villainous business-minded, versus the kind and thoughtful creatives speaks to me—as does the deader-inside-than-the-actually-deceased living ignoring the valuable, innate qualities of the strange and unusual to their own detriment.

It’s an all star affair. Geena Davis—just two years after Cronenberg’s The Fly, is in lovely form, and in light of the recent Alec Baldwin fiasco, my viewing was coloured slightly darker, but I still love their endearing relationship as the tragically drowned Maitlands. I mean, wouldn’t it be a right laugh—although in death, to assume scary guises, and frighten folks with your better half? I appreciate how maternal Geena is to Winona here as Lydia, and the shot of her unsettling, mournful crumbling as the aged Barbara in her wedding gown has never left me in all these years. There’s an overt romanticism here too, as recognised and honoured by prolific alt-country troubadour, Ryan Adams—once upon a time beau of serial-dater, Winona circa his Heartbreaker/Gold heyday, who wrote a song entitled, “This House is Not for Sale,” about the events and characters in the film. “My whole life is a dark room; one big, dark room,” oozes goth princess, Winona Ryder—just 15 when filming in ‘87, and 17 on the film’s release in ‘88, lookin’ like something between Edgar Allan Poe’s daughter, Robert Smith, and precious Mr Echo, Ian McCulloch, or perhaps one of the Jesus and Mary Chain.

The possibly insane (certainly insanely talented) Home Alone mum and Christopher Guest improv regular, Catherine O’Hara’s vibrant visage—paprika hair, scarlet lips, and coruscating blue eyes, pops throughout. Dick Cavett and Robert Goulet each have brief executive producer cameos. Problematic performer number two—after the doom-laden Baldwin, is the pedo-principal from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, who pops up periodically to harsh our mellow.

That brings us to the oddity that is Michael Keaton. Cruising Dante’s air-conditioned “Inferno Room” full of hookers, we’re ceremoniously introduced to the most eligible bachelor since Valentino; the cockroach-eating pervert, Betelgeuse—I can only assume this original spelling caused a ruckus in the marketing department as no one could pronounce it. I could see Keaton doing a full stand-up show as Betelgeuse, but it would more than likely go sideways like a Bobcat Goldthwait special where you quickly get sick of the shtick. In my youth, I found the anticipatory mystique surrounding the character of Betelgeuse fascinating. I recall waiting to see him, and relished all of his disgusting appearances. I vividly remember the moment where he honks himself and hollers, “Nice fucking model!” as it was always cut for television.

Only a visionary could imagine the otherworldly quirks of Harry Belafonte tunes working so well here. Beginning with his “Day-O (The Banana Boat Song)” accompaniment to the table possession, and eternally sealed by the levitating Lydia dancing—now inseparably and iconically accompanied by Belafonte’s “Jump in the Line (Shake, Senora).” These calypso tunes are shrewdly scattered throughout, much like Cat Stevens was in Harold and Maude. Speaking of Hal Ashby’s peculiar and profound picture, the deathly appearances of the Maitlands even echo Harold’s faux suicides, revealing what was, I’m sure, an influence on Burton.

Where else could you possibly witness an attractive, suicidal, green Miss Argentina receptionist, a charred (literally smoking) Marlboro red shaky man, a run over flat guy, a little preacher with an alien head, skeleton office workers, a shrunken headed chap, a blue lady with separate legs and torso, a three fingered typist, a dumb dead football player, and a very dumb dead football player?

The crackers dénouement is lifted tenfold by Danny Elfman’s grandiose, raucous score—elevating the kooky picture on more occasions than I could count. The way that opening tableau tracking shot seamlessly and mysteriously merges into the giant tarantula trick miniature is an example of the meticulous skill and dexterous design at hand—from finger candles, to mirror gags, and levitation rigs—even the way Catherine O’Hara’s sculptures mirror and match Winona Ryder’s fringe feels intentional. In retrospect, although the shoddy rear projection of the sandworm segments plays kitschy in 2023, it’s somehow softened by the charm of the crude, yet appealing handmade stop motion animation.

Beetlejuice Drinking Game

Now, please join hands, and enjoy (responsibly) this doom and gloom Beetlejuice drinkalong. Simply sup thine pint, or bevoir of choice when…

  • Goth angst is expressed—predominantly by Lydia
  • Somebody says, “Betelgeuse”
  • Calypso music plays
  • A Sandworm appears
  • The Handbook for the Recently Deceased is seen, or consulted
  • Afterworld admin—the bureaucratic red-tape of the hereafter is negotiated

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Hail to the King, Baby

by scariousartistsLeave a Comment on Hail to the King, Baby

Army of Darkness (1992)

Once upon a time, I had this UK horror/fantasy film magazine—kind of like Fangoria, but not. The name escapes me, but it featured a run down of the practical effects work in Hocus Pocus—the guy’s mouth sewn shut, and Army of Darkness, with its various Deadite designs, Evil Ash, etc. I’ll have been no older than 10, and those images seared into my brain and stayed with me. I didn’t see Army until a “bootleg version” inexplicably titled, Bruce Campbell vs. Army of Darkness, wrapped in phony brown paper bag DVD packaging, arrived on region 1 US DVD circa the early noughties. As a Brit, I didn’t grow up watching Raimi’s beloved Three Stooges. In fact, I’ve still never seen anything in full, but as a child of the ’80s, I did religiously absorb Blackadder, The Young Ones, and Bottom, which all helped prepare me for its slapstick elements. Speaking of the genius, Rik Mayall, there’s a hilarious Drop Dead Fred-esque face-stretching incident in Army when Ash picks the wrong Necronomicon.

Love is blind, and I love Army of Darkness. For all its faults and flaws, inconsistencies, and glaring mistakes, it’s a joke that I am happily in on. Is horror/fantasy Allhalloween appropriate? For me, unequivocally yes. Although it has crones, thunder and lightning storms, and howling at the moon, I was still slightly concerned whether a magic spells, swords and sorcery story would be the ideal tonal fit for Hallowe’en, but it really plays. Army of Darkness—the ultimate experience in medieval horror—what is essentially Evil Dead III, aka The Medieval Dead is my daft as a brush, skeleton-packed, off-the-wall faux-epic pick to keep you cackling after 8pm.

The year is 1300 A.D. and our ol’ mate—the long tormented (mostly by Sam Raimi) sap stranded in, or out of time, Ash—after being sucked through a mind-bending vortex along with Sam’s trusty Oldsmobile at the climax of the previous picture, finds himself a shackled, pilloried, and whipped prisoner. After impressing the primates with his twelve gauge Remington “boomstick” from the sporting goods department of S-Mart, the peasants begin to hail “he who has come from the sky,” laying on a harem of wenches who feed him grapes as he scoffs chicken legs like he’s Henry VIII. However, the foolishness and spinelessness of Ash means disaster is always just around the corner.

Evil Dead II is a cinematic bible to me, and I completely adore KNB’s (Kurtzmann, Nicotero, and Berger) practical puppetry, make up, and Army of Darkness Deadites, especially as they were working 24/7 on a measly $800 a week for this non-union shoot. How folks can say these effects aren’t masterly is beyond me. Army is incredibly cinematic—whether it be the forest of bendy rubber trees, Introvision front-projection composites, force perspective miniatures, matte paintings, the “she-bitch,” or the flying Green Goblin Deadite attacks. 86 minutes really flies by.

Earmuffs, “Ringers,” but the final flurry castle raid is arguably better than the battle for Helm’s Deep, and for my money, any Game of Thrones episode. Does The Two Towers have a squadron of talking crossbow skeletons? Nope. Does GoT have a ginger-bearded, bony bagpipe band with a femur flute soloist? Don’t think so. I easily get battle fatigue during these kinds of lengthy clashes, but the theatrical cut of Army pitches it just about right. Elements of a personal fave, 1991’s Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves also leapt out, including throwing the ladder down, Ash cutting the rope and flying up the castle side, and impaling an attacking witch with a spear using her own momentum to skewer her.

Campbell continuously moans that Army should be a PG as opposed to an R, but having said that, censorship when done right isn’t simply the arbitrary exclusions of sex, violence, and cussin’—it’s about eliminating potential mimicry. Yes, this is a film that features loquacious skellingtons and a spurting blood geyser, but a man also skillets his face off a hot stove, and pours boiling hot water down his throat, which (crucially, as far as censors are concerned) doesn’t burn him—and perhaps most egregiously, the movie features a quite disturbing, gropey sexual assault of Sheila in the presence of the newly resurrected, exhumed, skeletal Army of the Dead.

Bruce Campbell antagonist and director of Army of Darkness, Sam Raimi, can be witnessed wearing a French beret, barking theatrical directions into a megaphone like a certifiable Cecil B DeMille. Raimi allegedly briefed youthful cinematographer, Bill Pope (Darkman, The Matrix, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, Baby Driver) on his ways of working prior to hiring him, saying words to the effect of, “So, buddy. I’m gonna tell you exactly where to put the camera, how high to put the camera, what lens to put on the camera, where I want the camera to move to, how fast, and what speed.” When Pope agreed to those terms, Raimi conceded, “Actually, I have no idea about lenses, or light, or any of that stuff. I was just testing you to see if I could push you around.”

There’s something mechanical, almost clockwork about Raimi and Pope’s palpable, creative cinematography here—the nonstop intricate ballet between the camera operator, and Bruce, with the precision of the moves contrarily retaining a handmade feel. It’s brilliantly shot and lit, and without doubt, one of the most visually inventive films I’ve ever seen. The classic “force” POV splitting tree trunks in half in its wake, the swaying camerawork eliciting feelings of queasiness and vertigo, and that incredible tracking shot with all the characters turning camera left, and ending on Bruce, as everyone eyes Ash is a real sight for sore bones. Traditional film grammar aside, this is a movie that expresses itself using every kind of shot you could possibly imagine, but it’s also fluent in cinematic punctuation—the communicative way moments are emphasised and underlined. Raimi’s kinetic skills always shine though, no matter how absurd it gets.

Whether he’s in a Hitchcockian shirt and tie, smoking endless cigarettes, calling everyone “buddy,” tormenting Bruce by making him flap his arms and squawk like a chicken, or run around with his foot nailed to the floor, Raimi abuses his directorial authority in the most mischievous of ways. Some directors acquire positions of power to get laid—Raimi just wanted to chuck dummy skeletons at Bruce from off camera. He has an uncanny knack for filling his frames meticulously and unsparingly—creating, at times, an overwhelmingly detailed sensory experience. Take the fantastically immersive nature of Army‘s Skywalker Sound mix. Raimi’s crash zooms are accentuated by the clanking of cast iron hits during Ash’s gearing up. I adore the Army of the Dead’s ADR ad libs—it’s all so dense, and when the skeletons start chattering away, that’s some of my most treasured stuff. The film editing credit, “R.O.C. Sandstorm” was actually a Sam Raimi pseudonym, as after the his previous picture, Darkman was recut by Universal against his wishes, he had to boldly, and covertly tinker with the movie a mere 48 hours before release. Sam resolutely did not want history to repeat, so opted to infiltrate his own edit room undercover with support from long-time collaborator, Robert Tapert.

Personally, I could watch exploding skeletons all day long. Alas, Dino De Laurentiis would disagree. “Let’s have two skeletons blowing up instead of five,” De Laurentiis would dictate, as a method of slashing Army‘s run time down. Sam’s half of the movie—the bits he edited, ended up quite lengthy and less disciplined—some may argue, overindulgent. Raimi allegedly said to his editor, “Dino is old, and he won’t remember his notes, so you don’t have to follow them.” Then Dino would become enraged because he did remember, and after making specific requests, there were still five exploding skeletons instead of two. The “I slept too long!” ending with Joseph LoDuca’s enormous, booming score (Danny Elfman’s involvement was limited to a single “The March of the Dead” cue) was legitimately disturbing back in the day. In spite of Army being an overtly daft film—same with Evil Dead II, which I saw aged 15 or so, and was horrified by Ted Raimi’s sweet Henrietta, then found myself suddenly laughing along with my school mates, Rob and Phil, and then secretly scared again. It was, and still is, the perfect balancing act of humour and horror. Army teeters more on the precipice of silliness, and occasionally stumbles and plummets over the edge, but in the interest of sheer Hallowe’en spirit—enjoyment and laughter as well as terror, it fits the brief.

This alternate, Planet of the Apes-esque conclusion from the longer cut definitely has its tragic merits, but I much prefer the action-packed, upbeat, heroic, S-Mart-set, hideous horror hag ending from the truncated theatrical—sans the former’s spliced back in, lower quality scenes. It’s (I believe) canonical in terms of what followed, although I’m not proficient. The Evil Dead films are very much a closed loop trilogy to me. As Gali often says, the series has “grown arms and legs.” The 86-minute theatrical also boasts the, “Come get some,” and “Hail to the king, baby,” zingers that 1996’s Duke Nukem 3-D so shamelessly stole, as well as Robbie Hart’s jilting fiancée from The Wedding Singer (in the Van Halen T-shirt), making out with Bruce. Mournfully, the edit room floor eradication of Charles Napier as Ash’s boss is, I’m sure, one of cinema’s greatest tragedies.

Army of Darkness is a complete oddity in the sense that Universal, and De Laurentiis forked $11 million in the first place to produce a picture with a deliberately dislikable and contemptible coward as their lead protagonist. Army is, in a way, the pinnacle of the Evil Dead series in respect to the character of Ash, but it’s not as representative, harsh, or as darkly visceral and frightening as Evil Dead II. Bruce Campbell is Buster Keaton in Dead By Dawn—plate smashing and body flipping, but here he’s Elvis Presley. Campbell is comedically adept, physically fit—in peak condition, and dare I say devilishly handsome—to the degree that we are forced to ponder why he wasn’t a bigger commercial star.

Having said that, in the longer bootleg cut, the contentious slapstick windmill segment is twice as long as the theatrical, and feels thrice as long. Although a tad long-winded and annoyingly broad—and featuring the obnoxiously goofy mini-Ashes, it’s essentially another nifty Bruce Campbell one-man show. His solo second act here is admittedly hard to swallow at times, as the more compelling and comical moments revolve around Ash interacting with the medieval folk. Let’s just be grateful the fabled deleted sequence, in which Ash gets caught up in a can-can line of dancing skeletons was vetoed, as that may have represented the crossing of a tonal line in the sand. Although, I still don’t think I’d hate it.

Of course, Campbell is not entirely alone here. There’s the striking Embeth Davidtz (Schindler’s List), with her truly creepy pallid transformation into Evil Sheila, “Chop Top” Bill Mosley (The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, House of 1000 Corpses, The Devil’s Rejects), a bafflingly brief Bridget Fonda cameo (she loved the first two movies), as our third different Linda, and loyal brotherly stalwart, Ted Raimi pops up in count ‘em, four roles—Cowardly Warrior, Supportive Villager, S-Mart Clerk, and Brave Fighter.

Mixed and middling reviews, meshed with a strange marketing ploy to sell the film as if it were somehow detached from the beloved Evil Dead series, as opposed to the essential, climactic third part of a trilogy, sent Army hurtling into the cult classic category like a catapulted skull. Those primates, Siskel and Ebert—like stuffy grandparents were never willing or able to understand Army of Darkness, and that suits me just fine, cos who’d want to glance around and see those two critics’ corner squares at your happenin’ Hallowe’en gathering? Miserable bags of bones.

With the kind of inane nattering that would be more at home at a bus stop than on a film criticism TV chat show, America’s dumbest critical duo barely scratched the surface of anything they reviewed on At the Movies, and Raimi’s sequel was no exception. Their primitive intellects wouldn’t understand alloys and compositions, and things with molecular structures, slapstick coughing skeletons, botched incantations, or flying Deadites. In Gene Siskel’s unsurprisingly smug, joyless, sarcastic, condescending faux-analysis, he whinged that Army of Darkness didn’t have the wit of Back to the Future. Only a soulless, movie-misunderstander such as Siskel would view this highly humorous, film-literate homage as “a rip-off of Ray Harryhausen’s (Jason and the Argonauts) stop motion skeletons,” and cruelly remark that, “They’re more compelling than any of the humans in the film.” I mean, what is wrong with this geezer? At least Roger Ebert praised the film’s effects, and felt Raimi was making The Naked Gun of horror by spoofing medieval warfare films—which isn’t quite on the money, but not a million miles from the truth. He also stuck up for Bruce by saying Campbell does exactly what the role calls for.

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Halloween Party

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Night of the Demons (1988)

Right. It’s unquestionably time to put the brood to bed, and anyone squeamish, or overly concerned about nudity can step out now, too. From Kevin Tenney, director of Witchboard, comes, “a slasher film with no slasher.” Don’t scoff any razorblade apples, whatever you do, because we’re entering the closet belonging to our acid-head mother for a movie I wasn’t familiar with until researching this saga—1988’s Night of the Demons. This film had its original title of Halloween Party blocked by the Michael Myers Halloween franchise overlord—Syrian-American movie mogul, Moustapha Akkad, who threatened a spoilsport lawsuit for infringing on his beloved cash cow.

This one is set on Hallowe’en night, so that’s a promising start. The opening shot of Night of the Demons is rock ‘n’ roll blaring from a teenagers’ car somewhere in the suburbs, with a pumpkin stuck on their roof, and a fat bloke half-arsedly dressed as a pig, calling his female friend a bitch and yelling, “Happy Halloween… asshole!” at a curmudgeonly pensioner. That paints a pretty accurate picture of what will follow. The adolescents sack off their lame-o high school dance in favor of bohemian misfit, Angela’s gothic gathering at Hull House—a now abandoned crematorium by the cemetery where the funeral parlor owners just happened to go full maniac at Hallowe’en years before. As the teen bozos party into the night, Angela’s sexy séance transforms the snarky dudes, and dudesses into hideous demonic creatures of the night, who begin to kill and devour one another.

As her crude, wisecracking little brother, Billy would put it—nice gal Alice in Wonderland with the “bodacious boobies” or “big cha-chas,” Judy is our prudent female lead. In addition to this “pretty little piece,” the malleable-mouthed, lipstick boob artist and doll faced, Suzanne is played with saucy relish by an arse-out Linnea Quigley (Nightmare Sisters, Savage Streets, the aerobic spoof, Linnea Quigley’s Horror Workout, Assault of the Party Nerds 2: The Heavy Petting Detective, Girls Gone Dead) who—Meet Me Halfway bonus edition—is introduced to us properly bent over, perusing Tide detergents with a full screen upskirt of her pink-pantied posterior. Which is how she spends the majority of the movie, actually—flashing anything and everything, front and back, in a frilly pink dress—distracting convenience store employees whilst Angela robs booze and snacks.

Linnea quite confidently owns this role, yet in spite of Night of the Demons only being 3 years later, she doesn’t hit the mindbogglingly bewitching physical heights of the equally nudie, Return of the Living Dead. A stand out gross out moment for her is when future Quigley beau and special-effects dude, Steve Johnson’s effects (Ghostbusters, Fright Night, Dead Heat, A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master) aid her inexplicably, but quite seamlessly with a Cronenbergian body horror technique, as Suzanne stuffs her lipstick inside an invisible nipple cavity.

Night of the Demons feels kind of porno-sleazy; a bit naughty, and the gore is legitimately repulsive at times. It revolves around perversion, and screwy characters who just want to fool around. They talk about cute boys, and the bros are awful to the chicks, with a plethora of insults and awful behavior—especially the fat, John Belushi-aping, pig-man slob, Stooge—whose abusive language eventually meets its match with Angela‘s tongue-gobbling, feminist revenge. But even the so-called nice guys like Jay, whose jock head is turned at the slightest attractive female presence, leaps at the chance to ditch his date, Judy.

Then there’s the pirate, Alvin Alexis as the not so jolly Rodger—with his (almost) perpetually, glum expression—breaking new ground as perhaps the first African American slasher secondary to live through to the completion of a horror film (don’t check that, it’s likely spurious). Although, I did discover a few comments from people of colour appreciating that Rodger made it to the end—albeit as the result of cowardly, sensible decisions and logical, rational choices, bordering on scaredy-cat tactics—such as spending a chunk of the film hiding in a car. Rodger really represents the audience here as he’s arguably one of the only likable characters.

Night of the Demons racks up the nudity, and the fake-out jump scares with a multitude of boos, woo-hoos, and ooga-boogas. There’s skulls and sarcasm, wrong turns, low-lying mist, pratfalls and pranks, candelabras, strategically placed pumpkins, and characters in costume—Max and Frannie as a doctor and, I assume, his patient, brewskis, dirt bags hiding in coffins, doors slamming of their own volition, broken down cars, and broken mirrors—speaking of which, the Pat Benatar Best Shot Award goes to the bit that cleverly captures and neatly frames our entire ensemble, if you will, in the shattered shards of glass, framing everyone perfectly. Technically speaking, it’s a marvellous composition. Along with the Beetlejuice-esque finger-candles gag, and wild contra-zooms, Evil Dead fans will instantly clock the demon force POV—although clearly a rip-off, it’s homaged stylishly with shameless bravado. Night of the Demons‘ dynamic, mobile camera feels firmly in the vein of Raimi—as is the spurting eye-gouge, and over the top, Kewpie doll makeup, which is seemingly pinched from Linda in the 1981 original.

This pick comes with caveats—the score is cacophonous and a bit maddening with its naff, intermittent keyboard stings—honestly, there’s a fraction too much snarling and gurgling in dimly lit hallways, but perfectly executed camera moves like the 90° rotation during the mortuary make out between Judy and Jay, the 360° Angela and Stooge smooch, plus the harsh barbed wire wall climb, which is cringily visceral, and in contrast to the bloody theatrics of what has come before, actually gets under your skin. The motion control, double exposure-showcasing title sequence is also certainly a visual highlight, but it’s unquestionably Angela’s provocatively-possessed, cheeky full moon-flashing, “Stigmata Martyr” spinning and twirling fireside waltz that really takes the cake. Her Cleo Rocos-esque, bendy grind n’ crawl, and strobed strut in fingerless gloves—arched almost supernaturally in black lingerie, marks Night of the Demons‘ second exposed derrière, and much like movies such as Vamp, or From Dusk Till Dawn, it’s a strategically-placed, seductive segue, which serves to transition audiences into the gory second half of the picture.

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Calling All Shabby Clientele! 

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Street Trash (1987)

Street Trash aka Horror in Bowery Street screams post-Vietnam, pre-Giuliani, Reagan-ruled ‘80s NYC with its toxic-wasted, radioactive neon, vibrantly vandalised milieu, and dirty depictions of nefarious blown-up hobos. It’s a chaotic and frantic stink bomb of a picture, and as its adroitly articulated tone-setting imagery seeps into our eyeballs, we feel precisely as it intends us to feel—like a bum jumping in the back of a garbage truck, or a geezer ripping a fart in a thieving tramp’s face. I would also submit that only in Street Trash will you witness such a carefully deployed insert of a flabby, running man’s gut.

When a liquor store owner roots out a crate full of Viper—a 60-year-old poison booze once wisely pulled from the market, capitalism dictates he can probs get a buck a bottle—where’s the harm in that, eh? This endeavour inexplicably results in dissolving, disintegrating, and exploding vagrants—giving a whole new meaning to rotgut whisky. Filmed on location in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, and based on an original 1984 short also directed by Jim Muro aka Jimmy Muro Jr aka J. Michael Muro, its freakish screen credits include: Drunken Wench, Melted Businessman, Bitchy Businesswoman, Exploding Derelict, Dismembered Derelict, Wheelchair Derelict, Receptive Whore in Van, Whore on Telephone, Other Whores in Van, Smoking Derelict, Viet Cong Vampires, Sundry Junkyard Bums, Perverted Rottweiler, and Fire Escape Cat.

There is, of course, the guilt of demonising the disenfranchised to get over, and then there’s the hurdle of holding down your lunch, but once you do that—if you can, it could be argued that Street Trash is a cognizant art film. Are we witnessing the bravery of a movie that dares to scream at an audience who can’t deal with reality? Is the goop merely Muro’s paint splashed upon a New York City junkyard canvas of rusty fire escapes and corroded old cars? Is Street Trash sharp, socio-political satire with something to say? Is it the dirt and grime; the melty, jelly napalmed, cannibalistic, hungover horrors of war, viewed through the prism of a downtrodden American trash-class—the bastard sons and disregarded daughters of an abusive nation? However, every time my mind made a leap to detect or decipher said socio-political satire, I was either too dumb, too British, or giving Street Trash far too much credit. It’s also possible, of course, that the film is nothing but a deeply insensitive exploitation of wartime PTSD, the U.S. underclass, or just a nasty piece of work. 

Confidently provocative, queasy on the eye, and akin to a sleazier—and more depraved, junkyard John Waters, Street Trash is a lurid, effervescent, repugnant, rancid rainbow bumspoitation slime-fest—and much like the pulpy mess it often depicts, it’s sadly an unformed mass of matter as opposed to an artful brushstroke—or even a Jackson Pollock-esque pebble-dash splatter, but it’s also simultaneously too dumb to really be upsetting; too despicable to be fun or really funny. I filed it as a misguided sendup with nothing at all to say, but plenty of content to shallowly offend, which is a shame because all it really would’ve taken is an afternoon of considering what this piece could possibly mean during the writing stages, and yet evidently no one bothered—no one had the forethought or good sense to do just that, which is what divides it from the truly great satirical horrors such as Romero’s Dawn, or the skewering social commentary of a cutting-edge Cronenberg. The scariest quality of Street Trash—though it’s not really supposed to be scary, is that it had the ghastly potential to drag us anywhere at any point. I felt that literally anything could happen at any given moment, and that so rarely occurs in cinema in this day and age.

The influence of Sam Raimi’s The Evil Dead is so prevalent it cannot even be measured. As with other, at a glance trashy, cheap, chuckaway, gross-out flicks, there’s a strong case for the photography—see Braindead aka Dead Alive—they’re often inventively shot and lit, and David Sperling’s mobile camera is no exception. His keen eye frames bright yellow buildings, and clear blue sky backdrops. I love the opening tracking shot, which bought a lot of time with me cinematographically. I responded to the yellow on black title credit font. I was struck by the one sheet art, the multicoloured gunk, technicolor blood and guts, and the audacious attempt at non-intellectual body horror—how the sheer schlockiness of this stuff plays if you don’t happen to have the intellect of a David Cronenberg. Having said that, these bodily explosions unequivocally put Scanners to shame. It’s Troma-esque, but with—at the very least, a smidgen more technical ability and prowess.

The frankly insane sight of a homeless man being dissolved into a toilet covered in acrylic paint, with his severed hand still clutching the chain—his face now a blue liquid ooze in the bowl, will likely never leave me, and isn’t that what cinema—particularly horror cinema, is all about? Even the offy owner that looks like ELO’s Jeff Lynne melts horribly with red and orange sludge dripping down his trouser legs, and grotesquely attempts in vain to crawl off down the street. Winette, Bronson’s junkyard bit of skirt, perishes with leaking, multicoloured boobs before splashing herself across a rusty vehicle as part of a vague Vietnam recollection. The brash character of Bronson is a fully bonkers, Section 8 Nam vet, and self-designated king of the derelicts, who pulls the neighbourhood nomads’ strings—lording over them as an unhinged, abusive, roundhouse kicking, human femur bone-handled knife-wielding psychopath, and murderous puppet master. 

Like scratching an itch you didn’t know you had, there’s something mesmerising, and pornographically compelling about colourful exploding people. A key case in point being Street Trash’s twisted answer to Violet Beauregard from Wonka—a bloke blowing up like a blueberry, popping like an infected zit, and spraying himself up a wall. Or take Wizzy—clawing open his own torso to reveal purple gore—a liquefying Freddy Krueger face, and then detonating like a dodgy bath bomb against the graffiti’d wall like a yucky Banksy—as if a big bag of Skittles had all melted together atop a strangely edible-looking ice cream cake. Not to forget the movie’s toxic, yellow crud dripping from stairwells, erupting toes, a cop whose special finishing move is to piss, or hurl on people, the gas canister decapitation, bum fights, a repugnant syphilitic perv, and an upskirt of death denoument ensuring Street Trash is sleazy to its bitter end.

The further Street Trash strays from the toxic booze and melting winos, the less I humoured it. The more depraved it became—and it is honestly filled with every despicable act that could possibly be imagined—I was turned off. It’s the cinematic equivalent of puking in an alley, or finding a muerto moggie in the rubbish. Having heeded this warning, if you are indeed compelled to see a man get his cock cut off, then have the dismembered member hoofed like a field goal, and lobbed across a scrap yard, a drunk gal taken back to a smoky salvage yard hovel only to be dragged away to an unknown fate by a ghoulish gaggle of animalistic and monstrous vagrant voyeurs, or perhaps most egregiously, a played for laughs, off-screen necrophiliac rape—all are on offer here. I’m relieved to say, comedically-scored sex attacks are not my cup of tea. Yes, it has been said that everything in life can be considered darkly humorous until it happens to us, but it’s a comic tightrope these filmmakers are not deft enough to negotiate—with dialogue resembling improv chatter from a bad dream, Street Trash plays as misjudged, and left a lingering bad taste.

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No Life Jacket Required

by scariousartistsLeave a Comment on No Life Jacket Required

Jaws (1975)

How do we even begin to discuss, or write about our favourite films? Is Jaws the greatest ever? I can’t say—it’s so subjective. But it’s my favourite. I know that much. It’s perhaps impossible to express my deep-seated adoration for it, but let’s try. Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (once level-pegging) has, as of this year, been relegated to second place in my rankings, as although it’s technically superior in many ways to Jaws—the cinematography, labyrinthine depths of the tale, its applicability—it still doesn’t provide the primal buzz; the effervescent emotion, and sheer joy of Steven Spielberg’s 1975 classic.

As a naive lad, I was daft enough to rate the films in the Jaws series according to the demise of the shark. Air tank canister explosion vs power line chomping vs incineration vs skewered by the broken bow of Ellen Brody’s ship. I couldn’t quite detect why people viewed Jaws: The Revenge as a poor entry, and rewatched Jaws 2 endlessly for its shark electrocution denouement. I was, however, always cine-savvy enough to know that Jaws 3 was absolute shite. I’ve perhaps seen it just one and a half times in my entire life. Not even my Innerspace hero, Tuck (Dennis Quaid) Pendleton could salvage, or get me even remotely interested in that abomination. But the first is, simply put, everything I look for in a film. I revisit it once a year on average, sometimes more, and it flaws me every single time. I laugh, cry, always cheer at the end of the incendiary third act, and if it’s ever on telly, I must watch it to its beach-side conclusion.

Back in 2007, I was gearing-up to make the final, major production for my MA filmmaking degree. I was set to write and direct Sycamores—a vaguely amusing, but ultimately too cluttered, grandiose and ambitious, wannabe Wes Anderson (but British), Garden State-y, Hal Ashby’s Harold and Maude/Being There meets unintentional Preston Sturges story-steal (Hail the Conquering Hero) short film, that sadly fell apart when my producer (the only producer in my year, I might add) requested “changes.” So, I went back to the drawing board, and back home to Catterick Village—initially to sulk, and curse the film school, and then to regroup, rebuild, and rewrite something from scratch. I remember thinking, I’m 25 years old, and if this is the last film I ever make—it very nearly was, until recently (13 years later), when I wrapped The Self-Seers—what do I want it to be? What story do I want to tell, and what films and filmmakers do I want to draw influence from? The answer was undoubtedly Steven Spielberg and Jaws.

So, I dipped into a book I’d had since a few Christmases before—The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories by Christopher Booker, and the very first chapter was entitled, “Overcoming the Monster.” It sounded so enduring, made total sense to me, and the stories and films Booker referenced were among my all-time favourites. I combined this revelation with a hunt through my old primary school work from the late ’80s and early ’90s, seeking inspiration from my earliest attempts to write stories. Serendipitously, I stumbled upon an X-Files rip-off and my monster in one fell swoop—a large, predatory wildcat, akin to the legendary Beast of Bodmin Moor, et al. The Wilds was born—a 15-minute short, shot on Super 16 (with an Arriflex SRII), about a farmer, whose community is plagued—and son is eventually slain by—a black panther-like creature, roaming the Yorkshire Dales, and must vengefully venture out alone to hunt and kill it. I sought the council of my best friend, Sam Hollis, who generously co-wrote the screenplay with me, and we got a green light from Leeds Metropolitan University to produce it together. Fans of The Rewind Movie Podcast should note, I choppered in The Northern Film School’s A-team of Gali (1st AD), Devlin (camera assistant), and friend of the show Joe Mac (gaffer), to aid the production.

The Wilds is basically Jaws, but where I grew up. Chief Brody is now a farmer, a kid dies, the ending is an homage to/pinched from the “Smile, you son of a bitch” closer, with our protagonist firing round after round, in a hail of gunfire, towards an oncoming monster dashing directly towards him. There’s a slow-motion climax, before our hero returns home triumphant, albeit with unshakable trauma from the tragedy that befell the town, and his family, forever in his mind. It’s all there, and honestly, most of that was unconsciously stolen. Being forced to select what could be the last crack you ever take at filmmaking was enlightening, as it unveiled what perhaps always was, and now certainly remains my favourite film.

I used to think Steven Spielberg made all the films. Spielberg, Frank Marshall, and Kathleen Kennedy, to be more exact, as their names were present on just about every opening credit sequence I absorbed as a kid. Amblin’s films were ubiquitous to say the least. With a batch of shorts from 1959-’68, Spielberg directed telly episodes of Night Gallery, Marcus Welby, M.D., and Columbo, before blowing the doors off with the hypnotically captivating TV movie, Duel, in 1971.

I tried to articulate this exact sentiment when it came to John McTiernan, and specifically his films, Predator and Die Hard—to me, Spielberg is always trustworthy, thoughtful, and considerate in terms of the audience, and these traits are what elevate him above other capable but unexceptional filmmakers. He’s completely concerned with either providing, or hiding information—from how his images are seen and interpreted, to precisely when the music plays. He’s in control, and we’re in his safe, steady hands—viewers can’t relax otherwise.

The genesis of several key scenes from Jaws was particularly revealing. Spielberg was understandably skeptical before signing on to direct, but liked the third act of the book so much, that he wrote a whole draft of the screenplay himself. He scripted the nighttime scene on the pier with Charlie and his buddy, and their holiday roast bait, where the jetty is dragged out to sea by the shark—that was all from Spielberg’s initial pass. We see it suddenly stop, and then terrifyingly turn—along with our stomachs. Again, it’s a skillful cinematic technique, and one of many Spielberg employed to show the shark without showing the shark. 

I found it interesting that Spielberg chose to write and direct Close Encounters of the Third Kind next in 1977. I think he’s underrated as a writer—he’d already penned his short films, and cooked up the stories for The Sugarland Express in 1974 (which directly preceded Jaws), and following that, Poltergeist, and The Goonies, not to mention his A.I. Artificial Intelligence screenplay, and sole writing credit on his new film, The Fabelmans. Spielberg can undoubtedly write, but he intriguingly opts not to. He favours the vintage image of the Hollywood director, in the vein of his heroes—as overseer, as orchestrator—chipping in whenever he sees fit.

Could Jaws have been one notch better? A scripted, but never shot, suspense-horror death scene points to… perhaps. When reminded of this fabled would-be Jaws moment, I close my eyes and picture a gem that got away, featuring a harbormaster watching his TV, and in the background, we see the masts of the ships swaying outside—something is beneath, knocking them back and forth. One mast would lean, then another, and the next. We picture something travelling beneath the keels, but it remains unseen—much like with the barrels, it’s another shrewd method of illustrating the presence of the great white visually, without actually seeing the recalcitrant “great white turd” that was Bruce the shark (sorry, old friend)—instead, Spielberg merely suggests the presence of the creature. Of course, the harbormaster wanders onto the dock and leans down, towards the water, to clean out his coffee pot, and the shark takes him. That all sounds so Spielberg, and I wish it was part of the film. But maybe we should be careful what we wish for—with a film already at its two-hour maximum-satisfaction running time, and delicately balanced like a perfect meal, to be equally satisfying and nutritious, without leaving you feeling bloated, perhaps one extra ingredient could tip the scale, and sour an otherwise excellent dish.

Spielberg once famously said that without the now iconic score, Jaws would only be half as successful. Johnny Williams’ seesaw strings and swiftly plucked notes add up to a large percentage of why Jaws soars. Seemingly subconsciously stolen from the third movement of Ludwig van Beethoven’s “Symphony No. 7,” the deceptively simple theme has earned its longevity, universality, and never ending applicability. Listening to the score in isolation is really rewarding—the diversity of the cues does make me frustrated that many people’s memories of Jaws are reduced purely to those dual-noted dur-durs—although, the effective simplicity of it is equally admirable, for its articulation of an unerring primal pursuit, and the pitch-perfect personification of an unstoppable force of nature that is the carcharodon carcharias.

The “Shark Cage Fugue” is prettier than it ever needed to be. There’s an underwater majesty to something like “Ben Gardner’s Boat.” The “Montage” cue of the “summer ginks” arriving, is overtly playful and betrays the inescapable element of fun present throughout the film. One of my favourites, “Father and Son,” has hints of Raiders of the Lost Ark—another firm fave in terms of my all-time best scores. It’s a lovely piece, which delicately underlines and gently elevates an already beautiful scene between the Chief and Sean, during their mimicry dinner. “Out to Sea” blends beauty with foreboding, and underscores the suspenseful sequence of Quint getting a bite on his soon-to-be-snapped piano wire—the, “Marlin or a stingray” bit, and also has adventure elements, swiftly introducing character themes to follow, and crucially, the very end’s paddling away part. It’s textbook storytelling through music, and I can’t think of a time it’s ever been done better.

Jaws is never afraid to be joyous and jubilant in its execution—it’s in the music, it’s in the performances, but the score is what ultimately lifts it, distills that energy, and exhibits such gleaming pride in being a movie that is unashamedly entertaining for viewers. That’s cinema—score and image colliding to make something incredible, unforgettable, and greater than the sum of its parts. It’s an intricate, detailed symphony from Williams. As celebrated and revered as the score is today, I still think it’s underrated and gets somewhat overlooked—the depth, melody, and tonal shifts, are reduced to the simplistic one-note dread of the key motif—that often becomes the takeaway.

The piece that hits me like a ton of bricks, every time, is the sublime “Man Against Beast.” It has everything, and features—towards the end of the cue, my number one, favourite score moment in Jaws, when Hooper ties the barrel on, just in the nick of time, then exclaims, “Free another barrel! I’m comin’ around again!” as the music explodes into a pirate’s adventure time crescendo. The Chief is smiling, Hoop’s smiling—who says shark fishing has to be depressing? There’s a terrific shot of the Chief here, as they’re running down the yellow barrel, and they’re grinning ear-to-ear. Williams called it, “A moment of fanfare—of triumph.” These musical motifs, where the score just erupts, are his favourite moments, and I wholeheartedly agree. People once divided by their differences, petty quarrels and disputes; characters firmly at odds with one another, are suddenly united in their quest to hunt and kill this beast. That’s the stuff that underpins it all—the quest.

“Between Attacks” pinches Quint’s, “Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies” sea shanty. “Blown to Bits” is an orgasm of sound, as Sir George Martin would say, and “End Titles” is a perfect, all’s ok with the world relaxant, gently accompanying the Chief and Hooper landing intact on Amity’s sandy beach.

Spielberg once said, “Sometimes the simplest ideas are the best,” and I feel like it’s often a race to the finish line—to harness that simple idea, do it first, before anyone else, and do it better than they ever could—to set a standard; a precedent. When you have that brilliant idea, and execute it perfectly—that’s hard to beat, and I’m absolutely fervently against any remakes or sequels of Jaws, whether they involve Spielberg, or not. They just mustn’t. In fact, I believe any attempts to regurgitate and spew out the remnants of what once made Jaws great, would act in direct opposition with the contemporary audience’s taste—it would only serve to tarnish the original.

For me, the only way a sequel would ever have been even mildly acceptable, is if Jaws 2 was a prequel—the Indianapolis story, and it was directed by Spielberg himself in his late ’70s heyday, in place of say, 1941. But not now. Please, not now. Jaws couldn’t be remade, re-imagined, or sequelised, because the audience‘s attitude towards sharks has changed so vehemently, that they’d likely invoke toxic masculinity and undue violence towards animals in the early script meetings, and “cancel” Quint, Hooper, and Brody for their harpooning antics.

It’s dangerous aboard the Orca, and ultimately feels like a blunt test of masculinity. I know I’d struggle, as, like Brody—I’d like to imagine I’d have determination and grit when it mattered, but it would be a completely foreign experience. I’d be pulling the wrong lines, and standing in the wrong place—getting trapped against the boat when the rope gets tight. I’d be that guy, because I know nothing about fishing. I know nothing about hunting. I’m, quite unusually for me, in total admiration of these three as hunters. Instead of resenting them for killing this, to quote Hooper, “Beautiful” creature, I’m fully on board with the fact that this “monster” must be destroyed. I don’t think that could ever be the angle today. There would be vocal, shark fishing protesters with placards reading, “Justice for Bruce,” and “Quint Had It Comin’.”

Spielberg pitches the vilification of the shark just right, and that’s precisely the problem. Not once do we feel for the great white—not once. We want it dead. We want it blown to smithereens. It’s a killer; a ruthless, horror character, and it must be stopped. I agree, there are moral implications in demonising sharks, and I’m positive the expertly-crafted fear created by Jaws has sadly perpetuated the ongoing cruelty, and it’s shameful that people can be so stupid—but it’s a horror film; it’s fiction.

Among what I call, The HorrOscars, Jaws rests in good company, alongside The Exorcist, The Silence of the Lambs, The Sixth Sense, Black Swan, and Get Out, as the only “horror films” ever to be nominated for Best Picture. Although, it’s absolutely criminal that Spielberg didn’t get a nod. Absolute, categorical proof the Academy is a weird, arbitrary, political farce.

I maintain it’s a blind alley to judge a director on how expertly they can play a single note, and maintain that note throughout the running time—a true judge of a filmmaker is as a composer; as an artist, who can play our emotions as notes. In Jaws, one second we’re fearful, the next we’re belly-laughing, then we’re smiling to ourselves, recalling memories from our own lives, perhaps rolling a single tear, then we’re on tenterhooks once again, and it takes such delight in its cinematic manipulation.

I truly believe that certain films are blessed. Not by a divine hand—that would, among other things, insultingly detract from, and cheapen the very real skill and devotion of the cast and crew. Whether it’s luck—when opportunity and preparedness meet, or simply fortunate timing, sometimes a shooting star will align. I’m not religious, but some movies live and breathe, and some don’t—in fact, most don’t. There’s something lurking within Jaws, something beneath, that elevates it.

Re-watching Jaws is as pleasurable as spending time with an old friend—a mate who says all the same stuff, but never disappoints us, never lets us down, and always makes us laugh. It’s a film that sits patiently on my shelf, and when I need it, it’s there—waiting for me. I watched it for—I’m estimating, the 50th time, on my own recently, and when the Chief blows up the shark, I was clapping and crying like an idiot—like a blubbering fool. To paraphrase Trent in Swingers, maybe it’s because I had my own things going on, but I caught myself in a ridiculous, teary moment and I just didn’t care. I wasn’t embarrassed—I was so happy. It’s everything I want in a film. It’s so daft—a bloke blew up a shark, and I’m sobbing. I don’t know what to do with that information, or how I can explain it—it’s simply a magical movie.

Rarely, but sometimes, the best-selling band is the best. Occasionally, the biggest hit is also the best song. Sometimes the highest-grossing film is also the most accomplished and well-made. These things can align—and it happened with Jaws. The images directly relate to the human condition—our deepest fears are manifested on screen, and the film is constructed in such a way that it gives us exactly what we want—a safe nightmare. It delivers in the most satisfying way imaginable, with no life jacket required.

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Humanoids from the Deep

by scariousartistsLeave a Comment on Humanoids from the Deep

Monster (1980)

1980’s Roger Corman creature feature and New World Picture, Monster aka Humanoids from the Deep boasts an illustrious crew including Gale Anne Hurd (The Terminator) as a lowly production assistant, renowned film editor and Dead Heat helmer, Mark Goldblatt (Terminator 2: Judgment Day, Armageddon), and the late, great Oscar-winning James Horner (Titanic, Aliens) on musical duties. “Ruck Crew It Is” awards go to Rob Bottin (The Howling, The Thing), who created and designed the Humanoids—everyone has to start somewhere, eh? Also, Rowdy (Road House) Herrington was an electrician, and Steve Johnson (Ghostbusters) assisted with makeup and special effects. The picture is credited to director, Barbara Peeters—who by the sounds of it was executing things all too sensibly by choosing to keep the movie’s seaweedy sex attacks vague and shadowy, before being usurped by an uncredited Jimmy Murakami (Battle Beyond the Stars), who allegedly, at the request of Corman, favoured bonus T&A and a more explicitly depicted, sexploitative subplot, with second unit director, James Sbardellati (Deathstalker) also swooping in late to drizzle some extra sleazy sauce. If the version of Humanoids you have acquired shows the film’s on-screen title as Monster, then bully for you—it’s the complete and uncut European version.

If you’re as dense as me, you may be pondering what the fuck a cannery is, so I’ll save you the hassle of Googling it. A cannery is a factory where food is canned. I imagine you feel as stupid as I did, right? I think the general gist here is that these folks have been greedily slipping DNA-5 into the water to accelerate the growth of salmon, in order to rescue the commercial viability of their community—but it backfires by imposing gargantuan growth spurts on the fishies, and inadvertently creates rapey Humanoid monsters that cause absolute havoc. Now they want to mate with human women to extend their evolution! I’m slightly ashamed to say it, but I was in after hearing that synopsis.

The cast is hardly star-studded, but the soon-to-be killed on the set of John Landis’ Twilight Zone: The Movie, Kurt Vonnegut lookalike Vic Morrow pops up as Hank Slattery. I’ve got a real soft spot for Doug McClure as I watched him a lot as a lad in the cheapo dino submarine schlockbuster, The Land That Time Forgot—a film I know roughly every frame of, and that fuelled just about every Action Force (or G.I. Joe for any American friends) vs any old rubber dinosaurs I’d acquired from car boot sales, resulting in playtime scaling issues somehow worse than the film’s. Here, it’s difficult to tell if McClure is genuinely bamboozled, or playing it bewildered. Nevertheless, he’s hilariously watchable in a hammy performance—whether he’s discovering slime on a dog house, or trying some peculiar flirting. In Humanoids, he plays Jim Hill—the trigger-happy, king of the body warmers, flowery cowboy shirts, and stilted delivery. Poor McClure can’t even beckon someone over without doing it in a noticeably strange fashion. One minute he’s terrified and emotionally destroyed at the sight of a plethora of horribly murdered doggies, then in the very next scene, he’s grinning, or participating in perhaps the worst choreographed car park punch-up ever filmed.

I suppose they’re branded “Humanoids” as they really are just blokes in suits. It’s everything Alien thankfully wasn’t. These phony fish-men slice you open with their claws for a laugh, or if you have the misfortune of being an attractive female, do you from behind in the mucky sand. These fuckers also like to hide on the roof of your jeep, and smash your windscreen when you’re least expecting it. Fortunately, one can dispatch them with a few rifle blasts, a harpoon skewering, or failing that, try some drain cleaner or stab them with any knife from around the house. Perhaps the most memorable sequence in Monster is when the big-brained, barnacled Humanoids—sporting laughable, elephantine craniums, start smashing through the wooden boardwalk, attacking ladies, and slaughtering gents. It’s a budget massacre featuring loads of clawed-faced gore, with the Humanoids using their silly long arms to pull a fella’s head off, tear off limbs, and spray blood all over the pier—butchering DJs and bothering jiggling, tiara-adorned beauty queens. The creature on a merry-go-round alone may be worth tuning in for.

Monster’s naughty bits typically comprise of hot chicks frolicking, making out topless in the backs of trucks, and a ton of babes in underwear or out of their bikinis—stunning blondes conveniently draped in sheer nighties and sleepwear lingerie, an underwater ass-grab, and a shameless close-up bikini bottom bum-run. Another egregious sexual assault unfurls when an anthropomorphised ventriloquist dummy, its equally dumb owner, and surprise surprise—a lass with big knockers, get their tent ripped open by one of the sex-starved creatures, and the fully nude fleeing gal gets crudely violated amongst the seaweed.

Just as in Jaws, the filmmakers opt to utilise what seem like the real inhabitants of the town setting as extras, but here they can barely speak, let alone act. It’s tricky to tell what anyone is garbling on about most of the time—of course, it doesn’t matter at all. I lost count how many times they ripped off Spielberg’s shark spectacular—from Horner’s wannabe Williams score full of familiar tinges, also bonus Bernard Herrman-esque Psycho sting steals, and the thievery doesn’t end there—McLure’s Hill is a poor man’s Chief Brody, and the leggy, biologist photographer who knows more than she’s letting on—Corman-castigator, Ann Turkel (who later boycotted Humanoids over its superfluous nudity and exploitative nature) as Dr. Susan Drake, is a borderline Matt Hooper. There are nods and winks throughout—from tying off stern cleats, to lingering underwater POVs. They kill a nipper almost immediately, and then a hound too for good measure. Monster even features the most irresponsible use of gasoline on a boat since Jaws 2 where that daft woman cooks herself in her own petrol. The 75th Annual Noyo Salmon Festival is essentially Jaws’ Fourth of July, and the geezer giving the barracks speech does his best mayoral Murray Hamilton impression. A fisherman struggling to reel in a catch looks a lot like Quint with his piano wire, too—especially as the compositions are identical. They don’t even try to disguise it.

Humanoids shallowly showcases some old-fashioned American racism directed at the local Native American guy, but if you’re still on the fence, there’s a cool cutaway of an owl that rivals the raccoon witness from Wild Things, and it features the first—and perhaps only, dirty dishes jump scare in the entirety of cinema, which must count for something. It’s a film with far too many mid shots and nondescript coverage, resulting in quite inept storytelling and a lack of character differentiation. Once you’ve seen a few bubbly, underwater tussles and killin’s, you start wondering where the movie could possibly be going—thankfully, it’s incredibly short so c’est la vie. It certainly lacks the Joe Dante factor of Piranha, and the prestige of Jaws, but one merit of Monster is that it’s arguably bonkers enough in its performances and presentation to keep viewers—particularly altered ones, interested for a fairly breezy 80 minutes. As a caveat, the sordid plot may sound alright on paper, but it’s so klutzy, and very rarely has any kind of impact. As polished as the Shout Factory restoration may be, Humanoids is still largely amateurish and clunky in both its photography and execution. You get a free visor though if you watch this one.