Cast: Clive Revill, Gayle Hunnicutt, Peter Bowles, Roddy McDowall, Roland Culver, Pamela Franklin
For this ludicrous-yet-effective haunted house film, Richard Matheson adapted his own down-and-dirty novel for the screen, somehow managing to create a reasonable PG version from the NC-17 source material. The scenario is very deliberately a sexed-up ’70s remix of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House (not Hell House, got it?), itself filmed quite effectively in 1961 as The Haunting.
Some of that nice composition I was talking about.
The setup is archetypal. Four quirky characters investigate a haunted house: The physicist and his wife (Clive Revill and Gayle Hunnicutt), the touchy-feely medium (Pamela Franklin, formerly haunted as a child actress in The Innocents) and the sole survivor of a previous expedition (Roddy McDowall). The cast is great and utters potentially clunky lines about “ectoplasm” and “multiple hauntings” with so much in-character authority that they totally work.
My previous VHS viewing of this film did not include the pleasure of beholding the awesome wide-angle, widescreen frame composition employed throughout (and especially during the opening sequences). Creepy exterior shots of the fogbound house with datestamps presage each supernatural incident, creating both quickie verisimilitude and a rhythm of suspense. The general aura of competency and class—plus Delia Derbyshire/Brian Hodgson’s extra-delicious electronic score—makes Hell House an excellent Halloween A/V treat. (Well, aside from the overwrought ending.) I watched it twice.
Cast: John Marley, Lynn Carlin, Richard Backus, Henderson Forsythe
This low-budget riff on the W.W. Jacobs short story “The Monkey’s Paw” begins where the original ends: Instead of wishing the undead son away, his family invites him in. Sure, he seems a little weird, preferring to sit silently in his room all day and waiting for dark before he emerges with mod sunglasses and white turtleneck to prey upon the living. But that’s how it is when you’ve been dragged back from the grave by a mother’s love.
“Everything's fine, Bob.”
Director Bob Clark (himself now one of the undead) made a handful of notable indie horror films in the ’70s (not to mention an all-star Sherlock Holmes vs. Jack the Ripper flick) before hitting box office paydirt with Porky’s and A Christmas Story. Much of the credit for Deathdream’s effectiveness must go to screenwriter (and monster-makeup artist) Alan Ormsby for creating a queasy sense of doom, Richard Backus who rocks it as the deadpan, unwillingly-revived son, as well as actors John Marley and Lynn Carlin for convincingly transplanting their troubled-married-couple routine from John Cassavetes’ 1968 film Faces into this weird little horror movie. How long can a family stay together under these conditions? Answer: not long. The downer ending manages to be both sad and horrifying, the lesson of the Monkey’s Paw learned the hard way.
Cast: Delphine Seyrig, Andrea Rau, Danielle Ouimet, John Karlen, Fons Rademakers
This truly strange Belgian vampire film (original title Les Lèvres Rouges or The Red Lips) oozes style, dread and languid sensuality, not to mention an unhinged sense of humor. The dreamlike scenario: Newlywed innocents—or maybe not-so-innocents—Stefan (John Karlen, from TV’s then-smash-hit “Dark Shadows”) and Valerie (Danielle Ouimet) decide to linger in an opulent beachside hotel when their train is delayed. Too bad it’s the middle of winter and the only other guests are the glamorous Countess Bathory (Delphine Seyrig, The Day of the Jackal, Last Year at Marienbad) and her sultry personal assistant Ilona. Before you can say “Carmilla” the oh-so-charming Countess infiltrates herself into the lovers’ troubled honeymoon and encourages the emergence of Stefan’s barely-suppressed dark side. (Just what is he hiding about his mother, anyhow?) You know what happens next.
The Countess approaches.
The glorious, desolate backdrop of an off-season resort is almost a character in itself, swallowing up the machinations and psychodramas of the tiny cast of good-looking vampires and victims. Extra points also awarded for smashing ’70s fashions, slick editing, inspired location shooting (done entirely after dark or at dusk), letting the foreign actors dub their own lines, and a sinister-yet-groovy score from French soundtrack composer François de Roubaix. Unlike other lesbian vampire films from the same time period (cough Jess Francocough), Daughters of Darkness is an intelligent, warped pleasure, equal parts art and exploitation film. The HD version on Netflix is terrific, the very definition of eye candy.
This week, columnist Gene Grant called for African-Americans to speak up against injustices in New Mexico. In particular, he looked at the case of 16-year Journal photographer Adolphe Pierre-Louis, who spent 30 minutes cuffed on the side of I-40, though he committed no crime. Grant also pointed to the case of state trooper Dexter Brock, who was cuffed to a telephone pole by coworkers in 2000. Grant writes:
What happened to these two New Mexico brothers would not stand in many other states, and it should not stand here. It's time to put disapproval from African-Americans on the record for all to witness.
The piece reminded me of a brilliant essay we ran in 2007 called “Can I Touch Your Hair?” by Virginia Lovliere Hampton. It’s really one of the better discussions of race in our state that’s been published, and it’s one of my favorite articles that’s run in the paper. She writes about the positive aspects of living in New Mexico, as well as the downside of being in a region where African-Americans are a small percentage of the population.
One of those common experiences is having our hair “touched” if we have or wear our hair “nappy.” In Albuquerque—and, I hear, in Santa Fe, too—“nappy-headed” people of African descent are confronted regularly with having perfect strangers reach toward us to touch our hair or, worse, that of our young children—often without asking—like we’re dolls or other merchandise to be handled. It's unsettling, objectifying and rude, especially for those of us who, like me, are from the South, where, apparently, white folks are raised a little better.
I hear all the time that racism isn’t so prevalent in New Mexico—particularly against African-Americans. But it’s worth considering the insidious problems ignoring these issues can create.
A four-decade retrospective on display at Exhibit/208 shows Bruce Lowney’s range as a master of the tri-tone lithograph. Collected Works charts his evolution as a printer and visual poet, while making space for his equally impressive large-scale oil works.
Happy Tuesday Report Station fans. These are more tracks that came off the phone’s voicemail, not the Alibi’s. Again, this means these people were called from the phone booth and are calling the number back.
Four little gems from our favorite social experiment. The angle with these recordings is that they were left on the phone’s own voicemail. This is a number that someone would have only after having been called from the phone. Check out the surreal storytelling in the last track. These guys are in deep.
When the idea of asking artists to create new distribution boxes for the Alibi first started getting kicked around the office, a lot of people had the opinion that the boxes would be immediately vandalized. As finished boxes started coming in, and many were more intricate and beautiful than we could have imagined, talk around the water cooler was that they were just begging to be destroyed.
I wanted to have faith in humanity. Several of us on the opposing team defended the faceless masses of Albuquerque, saying surely someone wouldn’t break or batter a piece of art. The imaginary perp would see how much care and effort went into it and have respect! Deep inside though, we knew it wasn’t whether, but when.
All of the creators knew their work would be outside and vulnerable to attack, and gamely strove to make public art to better our city anyway.
Side and front framework completely splintered
That doesn’t make it any more acceptable for some total idiot to smash it. Well Albuquerque, you managed to make it about three weeks. Good for you. In the past few days, the Report Station, which has been causing a lot of communication, and spreading a lot of joy and weirdness, was all smashed up. It’s looked worse each day too, as if one person, seeing that it was vandalized, had to follow suit, lemming-like.
The only way to combat this destruction, that we can see, is through creation. That’s why we will post new recordings from the Report Station every day for the next five days. Keep calling in, friends. Tell the Report Station your secrets, hopes and dreams. We need ammo against the enemies of beauty and decency.
Walking up post-apocalyptic Lead Avenue to the Talking Fountain gallery, I wondered for a split second if it was worth it. The landscape was bleak. Like many businesses along the Lead and Coal corridor, the gallery has seen a decline in visitors, as it’s buried somewhere behind the pile of street-construction rubble. Despite the renovation inconveniences, the gallery and its local supporters are determined to put a positive spin on it.
Giant puppet samba parade? Say no more; I’m there. OFFCenter Community Arts Project is throwing its ninth annual folk art festival, We Art the People, on Sunday in Robinson Park (Eighth Street and Central NW). In addition to the parade, a family of jugglers, acrobats and magicians known as Clan Tynker will be running around spreading merriment. The daylong event—including a Rogue Bindis belly dance performance, the Cajun rhythm and blues of Joe Daddy & Hoodoo Jeff’s Swamp Fried Duo, bluegrass by Holy Water & Whiskey, and a crafting tent with supplies for kids and adults—is free. The only thing you might spend dough on is the work of more than 90 self-taught folk and community artists.
courtesy of OFFCenter
A Clan Tynker cyclist
OFFCenter says the sale of OFFCenter products, baked goods and yard sale items at this event will benefit the nonprofit and its low-income and/or homeless artists throughout the year. Also a portion of the food sales from the day is being donated to OFFCenter by the mobile vendors.
If you and your buddy pulled a heist and need a place to hide the cash, you'd better pray for a dead relative. That's the way robbers Dennis and Hal play it in Loot by Joe Orton. The two men stash their spoils in Mom's coffin. Director Aaron Worley says the dark comedy, which first premiered in 1965, sparkles with snappy wit that still draws laughs from modern audiences. Toss in a gold-digging nurse, a corrupt inspector and a cadaver that keeps popping up around the house, and a fortune of farce unfolds.
Alan Mitchell Photography
“Listen up, mister!”
Alan Mitchell Photography
The cast, left to right: Eric Bodwell , Brian Chapman , Neil Faulconbridge, Christy Lopez, Michael Weppler and John Hardman