What if Vampires Owned a Dairy Farm: Thirst (1979)

Thirst is not a great horror film (it goes on a bit too long), but there are enough ingenious ideas and grotesque imagery in it to satisfy die hard fans. In fact, although it is a vampire film, it leans more towards science-fiction than anything gothic. The vampires, who run a medical facility in the Australian outback where they bleed victims for drinking with machines, are members of the establishment –- respected, civil, non-threatening. Underneath their veneer of upright behavior awaits the same hunger that has plagued them for centuries. But when the vampires, led by Dr. Fraser (wonderfully played by David Hemmings), discover that a descendent of Countess Bathory lives near by, they kidnap the young woman (Chantal Contouri) with the intention of re-educating her to her noble, albeit violent lineage. Of course, that’s easier said than done, and most of the film deals nicely with the woman’s refusal to accept her destiny. Some of the optical effects in the film are cheesy (the vampires’ glowing red eyes), but there are more than enough disturbing images in the film to make for an enjoyable night. It reminded me of a horror pulp from the 1930s or so. Good stuff.

Thirst is available on DVD from Elite Entertainment. The disc contains commentary from director Rob Hardy and producer Antony I. Ginnane, an isolated music track, and the requisite theatrical trailer and T.V. spots.

Bigger is Better: Hercules in the Haunted World (1961)

I’ve got a thing for sword & sandal films. Well, actually I have a weakness for all kinds of epic films. Whether it’s the religious phantasmagoria of The Ten Commandments (1956), the pleasure of watching The Vikings (1958) rape and pillage, seeing the mighty forces of Rome get their comeuppance at the hands of barbarian hordes in The Fall of the Roman Empire (1964), or witnessing the lone Maximus getting his just-revenge in Gladiator (2000), the twelve year-old boy in me can’t seem to get enough of the spectacle and the melodrama that are integral to the genre. For years, before the latter of the above became a smash success and ended up winning Oscars for Best Picture and Best Actor, I complained to anyone who would listen (mostly my indulgent wife and friends) that Hollywood (or anyone else for that matter) was no longer making those kind of pictures any longer. “Why not?” I asked, absolutely mystified. “They’re so damn cool!” Obviously expense played a huge factor in them not getting made. But now with advancements in special-effects, you don’t actually need a thousand extras to fill the seats of the Coliseum. You don’t even need the Coliseum for that matter. All you need is a computer.

Of course, you don’t really need that either. Mario Bava didn’t have a computer or a cast of thousands to help him and he ended up making one of the best, most enjoyable of all peplum films, Hercules in the Haunted World (1961). For those of you who don’t know anything about the peplum genre, the films were primarily Italian made and focused on the heroic exploits of legendary figures such as Maciste and Hercules. A lot of the films were dull and unimaginative. But at their bizarre best the films are splendid pulp melodramas with imagination to spare. Although Bava is best known for his wonderfully surreal horror films Black Sunday (1961), Black Sabbath (1963), Blood and Black Lace (1964), and my personal favorite Kill, Baby … Kill! (1966), his contribution to the genre is an equally excellent mix of sword & sandal and horror. Starring British body builder and two-time “Mr. Universe” Reg Park (who replaced Steve Reeves in the role) as Hercules, and the great Christopher Lee (who would also work with Bava in the 1963 gothic Whip and the Body) as the evil and vampiric Lyco, Hercules in the Haunted World is one of the best of its peculiar sub-genre. Like most of Bava’s films from this period, Hercules is fabulous to look at and contains plenty of eye-popping, hallucinatory visuals. Whether it’s seeing Hercules and his faithful sidekick crossing a lake of fiery lava by rope or watching Hercules battle flying cave-dwelling vampires in his quest to retrieve a golden apple that will save the soul of the woman he loves, the film is perfect matinee material. Bava’s use of dazzling primary colors (one of his trademarks) and inventive set designs help raise it far above its hackneyed storyline or lackluster acting (Christopher Lee excluded).

In all fairness, I don’t watch films like Hercules in the Haunted World for “good” acting and a strong storyline. Sure, if the film contains strong performances and a brilliant narrative, then all the better. I surely won’t complain. But it’s all about spectacle, really. These films, however ridiculous and cartoonish they may get, reconfigure history through the infernal lens of cinematic fantasy and myth, eschewing the restraints of reason and logic for something far more powerful and all-consuming. And that’s not just the twelve-year old boy talking, either.

Hercules in the Haunted World is available on DVD from Fantoma in all its widescreen glory and in its original European cut with English or Italian language options. Bava biographer Tim Lucas (his long-awaited book on the director should be out in June) has written informative liner notes for the release, and the disc also includes a theatrical trailer and some cool stills and poster art.

In Memoriam

Country music legend June Carter Cash, wife of the great Johnny Cash, died on Thursday May 15th at the age of 73. She will be fondly remembered.

Johnny Cash ~ Murder

I’ve been listening to a lot of blues and country music lately. Real country, mind you, not that soulless shit that Nashville’s been spewing out. Although Johnny Cash is always a favorite around these parts, he’s been on heavy rotation lately. But what can you say about Johnny Cash that hasn’t already been said a million times? He’s a living legend, a voice for the working classes, and a storyteller of the highest order. Elvis may be the King to most, but Mr. Cash is truly America’s finest singer/songwriter ever. Murder is a collection of 16 previously released songs that chronicle the lives of killers, thieves, assassins, and other miscreants. A lot of the songs will be familiar, like “Folsom Prison Blues,” “Delia’s Gone,” “Orleans Parish Prison,” and “Don’t Take Your Guns to Town.” But there are less-familiar tunes also included, such as “The Sound of Laughter,” which was previously unreleased in the U.S., “Hardin Wouldn’t Run,” and “When It’s Springtime in Alaska (It’s Forty Below).” Although it’s difficult for me to pick favorites, I’d have to go with the eerie “The Long Black Veil” and Mr. Cash’s incredible cover of Bruce Springsteen’s “Highway Patrolman.” Springsteen’s original version, from his album Nebraska (which I hope to write about soon), is extraordinary and haunting in its own right, but Mr. Cash’s more orchestrated version adds a layer of emotional depth that is hard to argue with. It’s all in the voice, I guess. Murder is available on its own or as part of a three CD box set entitled Love, God, Murder. As with this disc, the other two are also thematic.

When it Rains it Pours: Rolling Thunder (1977)

After spending seven years inside of a hellish North Vietnamese prison camp, Major Charles Rane (William Devane) returns to San Antonio, Texas, hoping to get his life back in order. Rane is given a hero’s welcome and is offered a brand new red Cadillac and a couple thousand silver dollars for his patriotic commitment. Unfortunately, the hero’s welcome doesn’t extend to his home life. On the first night of his return, Rane’s wife informs him that she’s been having an affair and that she wants a divorce. The scene is stark and uncomfortable to watch as the camera focuses in on Rane quietly smoking a cigarette and drinking a can of beer as he solemnly listens to his estranged wife. Although the news is painful and shocking, Rane is no stranger to suffering. All those years as a P.O.W. have burned itself deep within him. He’s become a friend to pain; a martyr in search of the next masochistic abasement. Realizing that his marriage no longer exists, Rane moves into a shed in the backyard and spends his days exercising and getting to know his son, who was only a few months old when Rane left for Vietnam. He also spends a lot of time brooding on his time in captivity. Not overcoming the nightmares, mind you. Just brooding on them. Rane is too far gone and wound too tight to be liberated from his torture-fueled memories. But you do get the feeling that he wants some peace. Of course, for a man like Major Rane, peace is a luxury that is far beyond his price range. Upon returning home one afternoon, Rane finds a group of good ol’ boys in his house. They’ve come for the silver dollars. Rane refuses to give up the money and is subsequently beaten. And when the beatings don’t make him talk, the thieves resort to torture (they shove Rane’s right hand down the garbage disposal, grinding it to a bloody pulp). Nearly dead from the torture, Rane still refuses to speak. But when his wife and son return home, the boy reveals where the silver dollars are. Then the nightmare really starts to cook. The thieves shoot Rane, his wife, and the boy, leaving them all for dead. But Rane survives the horrible crime and vows vengeance. Equipped with a metal claw for a right hand, Rane enlists the help of a young woman (Linda Haynes) who wore his dog tags while he was incarcerated and who is a self-described Major Charles Rane groupie, and the two of them cruise through Texas and Mexico hunting down the killers. Eventually Rane reunites with his old friend and fellow P.O.W. Johnny Vohden (played by an excitable Tommy Lee Jones in one of his first roles) to help him on his crusade. Vohden, whose return to civilian life has also been difficult, eagerly accepts the invitation. Like two desperate outlaws looking for one last shotgun blast of redemptive glory, Rane and Vohden journey to a Mexican whorehouse to slaughter their way into Heaven.

Written by Paul Schrader, fresh off his work on Martin Scorsese’s classic Taxi Driver, and crime writer Heywood Gould, Rolling Thunder traverses much of the same thematic ground as the earlier film, albeit in a more straight-forward B-movie fashion. John Flynn’s direction is sometimes crude and strictly utilitarian. But the film nevertheless harbors moments of great visceral power and complexity. William Devane is superb as the taciturn time bomb Major Rane. There is a disquieting calm about his performance, recalling less Robert De Niro’s role of Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver and more like Martin Sheen’s low-key haunted Captain Willard from Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now. More than just a retread of Schrader’s work on Taxi Driver, Rolling Thunder above all quotes the films of Sam Peckinpah. Whether it’s the perceptive reconfiguration of the American action-hero as a Puritanical kill-crazy avenger, the use of Mexico as a symbol for lawlessness and moral chaos, or the portrayal of the climatic shootout as a holy soul-cleansing ritual and philosophical confirmation that life is indeed a Nietzschean struggle beyond good and evil -– Peckinpah’s ruthless stamp is all over this equally brutal and shattering film. It may not be a masterpiece, but Rolling Thunder is definitely in my top ten favorite action films of all time.

Rolling Thunder is currently not available on DVD, but it was issued on VHS by the now-defunct Vestron Video label. Considering that Quentin Tarantino named his video label after the film, it would seem likely that he would put it out. So far he hasn’t. Regardless, it’s definitely worth hunting down.

The City that Never Sleeps: Violent City (1970)

Bronson, thy name is toughness. Although Lee Marvin is without a doubt my favorite tough guy actor of all time, Bronson is close behind him. Violent City (a.k.a. The Family), directed by Sergio Sollima (The Big Gundown), is a fast-paced hard-boiled shot of sleaze, violence and general politically incorrect behavior. In other words, it’s prime B-movie fare. Bronson plays a hit man named Jeff (but we all know it’s really Bronson playing himself, right?), who has a pretty big bone to pick with a syndicate crime boss played by Telly Savalas. Yeah, you heard me right -- Telly Savalas. You see, someone tried to rub Bronson out while he was on vacation with this hot blonde chick, played by Jill Ireland (Bronson’s future wife). Who was the mastermind behind the ambush? Well, Telly Savalas of course. And Jill Ireland too. In fact, before Bronson blacked-out he saw Jill take off in a little sports car. So anyway, a lot of the film is just about how Bronson is looking for some serious payback. He gets to beat, stab, shoot, break, and maim people left and right. He’s a regular Mr. Murder. He even slaps around Jill Ireland a couple of times, but she likes it. No, she really does. Eventually Bronson and Kojak have a little showdown, mano e mano. And Bronson ends up with the girl in the end. I think. I can’t remember since I was drunk. Violent City was written by European filmmaker Lina Wertmuller, who made a number of provocative films in the 1970s including the original Swept Away and Seven Beauties, the latter of which garnered her Oscar nominations for Best Screenplay and Best Director. The film also contains a fantastic score by Ennio Morricone. The film may not be Bronson’s best (I’ll leave that for Mr. Majestyk, which I hope to write about soon), but it’s right up there.

Violent City is available on DVD from Anchor Bay Home Entertainment and contains a great 15-minute interview with the director, the original theatrical trailer and more. But really, what more could you possibly want from a Bronson movie called Violent City? Perhaps only that it was longer.

Acid is Fun: Blue Sunshine (1976)

Long coveted by psychotronic film aficionados, Jeff Lieberman’s Blue Sunshine is a cranked-up psychotic bad trip that starts out twisted and only gets tighter as it goes along. Starring future soft-porn movie czar Zalman King, Sunshine examines what happens when a group of former college friends, who in the heady 1960s all took a bad batch of LSD known as Blue Sunshine, are now reaping what they’d sown. And man, it isn’t pretty. Blue Sunshine may take ten years to peak within the user, but it definitely makes up for lost time. Users of the drug (a reporter, a housewife, a political aide, a cop) turn into complete homicidal maniacs. Oh, and their hair falls out also, making them appear like Manson Family members, albeit more culturally conservative ones. Blue Sunshine may be a seriously whacked-out exploitation film, but its satire of American consumer culture is nevertheless dead-on. Like the films of cult film auteur Larry Cohen (God Told Me To, It’s Alive!, The Stuff), the early films of David Cronenberg (Shivers, Rabid, The Brood, Scanners, Videodrome) and George A. Romero’s classic living dead trilogy, Lieberman deftly skewers strip malls, suburbia, television, advertising, and most of all, the so-called Me Generation of daft “experimenters” who for one brief moment believed that there would be no repercussions for their downward spiral of collegiate decadence. Zalman King, as the “hero” of the film, is completely over-the-top. I’m still not sure whether he’s brilliant or the worst actor of all time. Perhaps he’s a little of both. On a scale of one to ten on the hysterical meter he rates an eleven and a half, just a little behind Steve Railsback’s totally bizarre performance from Tobe Hooper’s unjustly-maligned science fiction bomb Lifeforce. But to tell you the truth it’s too close to judge accurately. Previously, Lieberman had directed the Nature Run Amok drive-in classic Squirm (1976) and the Hillbilly Run Amok film Just Before Dawn (1981). Both have their value, but Blue Sunshine is definitely the one to see. Nostalgic baby-boomers, neo-hippies and disco-cogs should stay away, though. Everyone else should dose.

Blue Sunshine is available on DVD from Synapse Films. The Special Edition disc contains a short film called The Ringer, director’s commentary, the requisite theatrical trailer, and for a limited time only the original soundtrack CD.