Double Feature: Planet of the Apes (1968)/Beneath the Planet of the Apes (1970)

Posted on June 6, 2012 at 6:00 am by Jeff Kuykendall

Has there ever been a more unexpected cinematic franchise than that spawned by Planet of the Apes (1968)? Actors in ape makeup, their moving lips unglimpsed beneath a coconut-shaped mouthpiece, arguing over matters of politics, science, and philosophy. Each film writes itself into a corner, but commercial demands require a sequel, and so the series resurrects itself – eventually forming, over the course of its five installments, a time-twisting Möbius strip. Then the obligatory remake. Then another prequel, with state-of-the-art CG effects – a film that became a surprising sleeper hit in 2011 (a sequel to the prequel has just been announced). Not to mention a live-action television series, an animated series, and comic books from 70’s Gold Key and Marvel Comics to a current series by BOOM! Studios. I can understand why we are treated to a pile of new superhero films every summer; I can understand why we keep revisiting Sherlock Holmes and Dracula; I can wrap my head around why the Twilight series was a big hit. Planet of the Apes, a ubiquitous pop culture presence in the 70’s, is more difficult to fathom. It ought to have been a flop. The whole thing ought to have been a tremendous disaster. But although there’s a certain camp appreciation for the original film, there’s also a heap of unironic love. The film is regarded as a science fiction classic; and, indeed, how many genuinely thoughtful films in that genre do we receive on a yearly basis? In retrospect, it was the beginning of a minor golden age for cinematic science fiction. 2001: A Space Odyssey would be released only two months after Planet of the Apes. We’d soon get the likes of Silent Running (1972) and Soylent Green (1973). It was okay to attend a science fiction film with your brain screwed on tight.

Stranded astronaut Taylor (Charlton Heston) takes Dr. Zaius (Maurice Evans) hostage in "Planet of the Apes."

The franchise’s longevity is also strange when you consider what a delicate balance the first Planet of the Apes wields. It’s an ideas-driven science fiction film, an action picture, an escape-from-prison thriller, and a broad satire. The apes are, at first, horrific – when Taylor (Charlton Heston) and his fellow astronauts crash on what they presume is a distant planet, they’re hunted by mounted warriors with gorilla faces, and rounded up into cages with other humans who are apparently mute and savage; some of those human victims, killed in the hunt, are strung up by their ankles like dead rabbits ready to be skinned. A moment later, we see the gorilla soldiers posing in front of a pile of dead men. “Smile,” says an ape behind a camera, and he snaps a picture: black comedy, with overtones of the horrors of Vietnam. Other jokes are corny (“All men look alike to most apes!”). Some cross into the sublime, like a famous, unscripted moment during Taylor’s trial, when the three obstinate orangutan judges strike a “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” pose. And there’s talking – lots and lots of talking. As much as its notorious twist ending (provided by co-screenwriter Rod Serling), Planet of the Apes is borne on the back of its debates over the roles of science and religion in a developing civilization, and the value of questioning one’s origins. It’s the Scopes Monkey Trial with real monkeys. There are also, of course, questions raised about experimentation on animals – the animals, in the film’s classic reversal, being humans. Rise of the Planet of the Apes took on the same theme, but it’s easy to forget that the 1968 film treated it with such originality by placing Charlton Heston in a cage surrounded by primitive humans abused by their simian scientists. The thrust of the narrative is Taylor proving to his captors that he’s more than a beast, while the elite of the society hide behind legalese and religious doctrine to avoid what should be a very obvious conclusion.

Scientists Zira (Kim Hunter) and Cornelius (Roddy McDowall) help Taylor escape to the Forbidden Zone.

The film was adapted by Serling from the 1963 novel La Planète des singes by Pierre Boulle, and rewritten by Michael Wilson, Oscar-winner for his screenplay (with Harry Brown) for A Place in the Sun (1951), and formerly blacklisted by HUAC, this being one of his comeback films after returning to the United States in 1964. The strength of the script is the film’s ace in the hole, but it’s helped considerably by the performances – under heavy makeup – by Kim Hunter (A Matter of Life and Death, A Streetcar Named Desire), Maurice Evans (Rosemary’s Baby), and, of course, the great Roddy McDowall, here moving about the sets with an appropriate chimpanzee hop. Charlton Heston delivers most of his lines through gritted teeth, and those lines have been oft-quoted over the decades. Despite the G-rating, he’s occasionally nude and never gets to wear much more than a loincloth for most of the film. In his manliest moment, he kisses Kim Hunter right on her simian lips. An eerie, borderline avant-garde score by Jerry Goldsmith has become a classic of its kind, capturing the story’s savagery and otherworldliness. Director Franklin J. Schaffner used the film’s success to graduate to prestige projects like Patton (1970) and Papillon (1973).

Brent (James Franciscus) meets Nova (Linda Harrison) and embarks on a search for the missing Taylor in "Beneath the Planet of the Apes."

The film’s ending is pretty definitive, and about as famous as that of Psycho or The Sixth Sense, to the extent that it was even spoiled on the cover of the film’s DVD release. (Heeding fan complaints, Twentieth Century Fox chose a different design for the Blu-Ray cover.) Because it’s impossible to discuss the sequel without spoiling the original film, I’m assuming you’re familiar with it, so let’s press on: Beneath the Planet of the Apes (1970) picks up directly from the previous adventure, with Taylor and his companion, the beautiful but mute Nova (Linda Harrison), leaving the remnants of the Statue of Liberty behind to explore deeper into the “Forbidden Zone,” that region of the planet where the apes fear to tread. They encounter a spontaneous wall of flame, bolts of lightning, and fissures which suddenly open in the earth – all of them pretty cheap special effects which should indicate to the viewer that a smaller budget has been applied to this sequel. Then Taylor vanishes through a wall of rock, and Nova is left alone – eventually encountering Brent (James Franciscus, The Valley of Gwangi), an astronaut conveniently arrived on the Planet of the Apes on a second ship closely following Taylor’s. The two journey to the ape city, where they glimpse an army of gorilla troops preparing to venture into the Forbidden Zone, and meet up with Zira (Hunter) and Cornelius (now played by David Watson, somewhat imitating McDowall’s mannerisms). This stop only briefly delays us from the main plot, which is an adventure deeper into the ruins of New York City. Brent and Nova travel through more landmarks like the subway system and the New York Stock Exchange before encountering a tribe of telepathic humans holding Taylor captive, and worshiping an unexploded bomb which has the capability of destroying the world.

Gold Key's adaptation of "Beneath the Planet of the Apes" was the first of a long line of Apes-franchise comic books.

Not only is the budget more modest, but – to its great detriment – so is everything else: Beneath the Planet of the Apes is a B-movie answer to the original’s A-lister, spending less time on the apes and their philosophical torment, and more on Nova’s One Million Years B.C. cavegirl glamor and the villainous doomsday cult, which seems to be inspired by horror movies, pulpy serials, and maybe just a bit of The Prisoner. The ideas put forth are simpler, as well; there’s less here on evolutionary biology than you’d expect, as the film, from Paul Dehn’s script, focuses instead on the notion that man was only replaced by apes because he destroyed himself – devolution spurred by nuclear war. Here we see hippie chimps campus-protesting against the militaristic gorillas. But the story seems rooted in fears older than the riots of ’68 – nuclear apocalypse hangs as heavy over Beneath the Planet of the Apes as any atom-age thriller from the “duck and cover” years. This is a film about the end of the world, period, and you can’t miss it, particularly when it’s Chuck Heston himself throwing the switch on the bomb at the film’s cataclysmic finale, leading us to blackness and a narrator informing us that “a green and insignificant planet is now dead.” The actor – whose role is little more than an extended cameo – insisted upon this ending. He was hoping this would be the last Planet of the Apes film, but he underestimated those apes, as well as the elastic ingenuity of science fiction…

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A Bucket of Blood (1959)

Posted on June 4, 2012 at 6:00 am by Jeff Kuykendall

“Life is an obscure hobo bumming a ride on the omnibus of Art,” quoth the Beatnik while the saxophone plays and, incongruously, the title A Bucket of Blood flashes onto the screen. We’re in the hands of Roger Corman, just as he’s entered a new phase of his career, one abetted in no small part by screenwriter Charles B. Griffith. The two would form an electric bond: Corman, learning to shoot faster and cheaper while maximizing the impact of his cast and lean, mean narratives; and 29-year-old Griffith, who had been writing for Corman for a few years, now turning to satire and helping the producer/director explore the genre of black comedy. Corman has proposed A Bucket of Blood (1959) as the first of a trilogy, the others being The Little Shop of Horrors (1960) and Creature From the Haunted Sea (1961), each of them offering a parodic twist on the typical drive-in horror picture. And for the star to launch this new direction, Corman chose one of the most promising talents in his repertory company, Dick Miller, who had played a fast-talking vacuum cleaner salesman in Not of This Earth (1957) and the square-jawed hero in War of the Satellites (1958). Now he’d try something a little different: a pathetic milquetoast named Walter Paisley. His performance would become so iconic that the character name would be reused, as an in-joke and homage, for Dick Miller roles in Hollywood Boulevard (1976), The Howling (1981), Twilight Zone: The Movie (1982), Chopping Mall (1986), and Shake, Rattle & Rock! (1994).

Walter Paisley (Dick Miller) showcases his debut as an artist: "Dead Cat."

Walter works at a beatnik dive, in awe of the artists who surround him, including the poet, Maxwell Brock (Julian Burton), who opens the film and virtually narrates with his pretentious verse. But timid Walter is the butt of the beatniks’ jokes, only earning sympathy from the lovely Carla (Barboura Morris, The Wasp Woman), with whom he’s secretly in love. One night, while trying to sculpt clay to prove himself to his peers, Walter realizes that his landlady’s cat has gotten itself stuck inside the wall. He tries to cut it free, but when he stabs the wall with a knife, he hears a feline shriek on the other side. Absorbed by grief, and suffering a nervous breakdown, something snaps within him. He covers the little corpse with clay. The next morning, he presents his work of art to Carla and the club owner, Leonard (Antony Carbone, The Last Woman on Earth): a cat statue with a knife sticking out of its side. Carla is immediately impressed by the apparent craftsmanship, though Leonard is afraid it will scare the clientele away. “What’s it called?” he asks, and Walter responds, in more of a question than an answer, “‘Dead Cat.'” Inspecting it closer, Leonard asks, “How come you put a knife into it?” “I didn’t mean to,” Walter responds, honestly. At Carla’s urging, Leonard at last relents to displaying the piece in the club. “Does this mean I’m an artist?” “Yeah, you’re a real artist now. Now go on back and scrub down those garbage cans.”

Walter is crowned by his new champion, the poet Maxwell Brock (Julian Burton).

No longer mocking, the beatniks are impressed by Walter’s debut as a sculptor. Maxwell Brock is particularly anxious to be known as the one who discovered this brilliant outsider artist. His delirious speech illustrates why screenwriter Griffith was the most important weapon in Corman’s arsenal. “Attention everyone! As you pass through these yellow portals I am sure you noticed on your right a small clay figure, and assumed this transfixed effigy to be the work of a master sculptor. And indeed, so it is…he is none other than Walter Paisley, our very own busboy, whose hands of genius have been carrying away the empty cups of your frustration. Mark well this lad. His is the silent voice of creation. Within the dark, rich soil of humility, he blossoms as the hope of our nearly sterile century! Bring me an espresso, Walter.” Leonard is so taken by Walter’s commercial potential that he asks him to make another cat. “But I haven’t got another cat,” Walter protests. Yet an opportunity presents itself when a cop comes knocking at his door, arresting Walter for the possession of heroin, which our hero had accepted in ignorance from a grateful patron. Panicked, Walter brings down a frying pan on the officer’s head, splitting his skull…and the next day he has a new sculpture to present to his audience: “Murdered Man.” They’re shocked by his astounding skill. It’s suggested that he gather enough works to put on a show; and Walter, thrilled at the attention – particularly from Carla – is open to the idea.

Walter's second creation, "Murdered Man."

At just 65 minutes, A Bucket of Blood has the feel of a classic E.C. Comics tale, wedding gore with subversive humor. Corman and Griffith had collaborated on the story, inspired as much by Mystery of the Wax Museum (1933) and House of Wax (1953) as by their research at beatnik joints along the Sunset Strip; clearly Griffith relished sending up the characters they encountered. You don’t expect to see this much wit on display in a 50’s B-movie; Corman writes in his autobiography How I Made a Hundred Movies in Hollywood and Never Lost a Dime that the sneak preview audience “laughed throughout the film and applauded at the end.” But art world satire aside (which anticipates 2010’s Exit Through the Gift Shop), it’s also a fascinating character study. At the opening of the film, Walter quotes Maxwell’s own poetry back to him in fanboy admiration; Maxwell scoffs that “repetition is death,” stressing the need for an artist to be original. He’s right. Walter is trapped in the wakes of others; throughout the film he’s repeating words spoken by his friends, and replaying dialogue in his head, forever haunted by put-downs and expectations. Giddy at being regarded as an artist, he truly doesn’t grasp the concept: his first response to Leonard’s appraisal of “Dead Cat” is “Do you wanna buy it?” He thinks he can sculpt (and murder) his way into Carla’s heart, and leaps to a marriage proposal without taking the step of a first date. When she explains that she admires his art, but doesn’t love him, the concept unravels poor Walter. Miller captures the tragically childlike quality of his character, and it’s no wonder that this is often called his greatest performance. (Given that Miller was seldom offered a lead role, the film is all the more valuable.) The film’s only weakness is its budget: American International Pictures could offer Corman just $50,000 for the shoot, and he made the picture over a breakneck five days. So when Carla marvels over the “detail” in “Dead Cat” and Walter’s other sculptures, the audience is required to suspend their disbelief. But A Bucket of Blood proves itself to be more inspired than anything from Walter Paisley’s workshop. It’s Corman at his best.

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Virgin Witch (1971)

Posted on June 1, 2012 at 6:00 am by Jeff Kuykendall

Real-life sisters Ann and Vicki Michelle are cinematic siblings Christine and Betty in Virgin Witch (1971), a controversial Tigon film from that period in British film history when the only surefire path to box office success was directly over the naked bums of young actresses. It also belongs, albeit loosely, to the early-70’s subgenre of occult lesbian canoodling, though for once no vampires are involved. In fact, there’s hardly anything occult, either…but there is a lot of canoodling. I have to write about this film quickly because give me another couple of hours and I’ll have forgotten it entirely. The two London girls are invited by a modeling agency up the country to an estate in Wychwold – a town with a name that should caution the average tourist. Ostensibly Christine is present for an “important” photo shoot, one which involves shedding clothing, posing on the tops of cars, and imitating Eve eating an apple. She quickly becomes enamored by the eccentric inhabitants of this estate, which include the master of the house, decadent, piano-playing Gerald Amberley (Neil Hallett), randy young photographer Peter (James Chase), and Sybil (Patricia Haines), a lesbian who becomes attracted to Christine and insists on calling her “Christina,” because it sounds better. Meanwhile, the more skeptical Betty begins exploring the mansion and uncovers some occult paraphernelia, including a demon mask straight out of Onibaba (1964). This group is actually a coven, and Gerald is the high priest. Christine wants in.

Sybil (Patricia Haines, ex-wife of Michael Caine) opines on the benefits of witchcraft while standing before an "Onibaba"-style demon mask.

It’s hard to say exactly what the coven does. They’re pleasure-seekers who enjoy an enthusiastic black magic orgy, which means, in this case, a lot of naked dancing: waving the arms in the air and the shaking of breasts. Christine is initiated through some very not-sexy fornication on an altar with the middle-aged Gerald, under sickly green light. Betty is encouraged to join the coven too, and she brings along her boyfriend so they can also do the deed before the jiggling flesh of the witches and warlocks – so that’s kind of sweet, I guess. But the seemingly-naïve Christine proves to have bigger career ambitions than Sybil and Gerald had suspected, and soon she’s making a deadly power play to advance her position in the cult. If I made this film sound plot-heavy, I apologize; it is not. The above is stretched out over a very long 88 minutes, with very little happening apart from the constant display of skin (at one point, the film stops so that Sybil can take Christine’s measurements). Not that the Michelle sisters aren’t lovely to behold in their birthday suits, and I can only assume that this is the principal reason the film is now out on Blu-Ray from Eurocult label Redemption Films, now catching a second wind from its new distribution deal with Kino.

Sisters Vicki and Ann Michelle as Betty and Christine, aspiring models on the path to witchery.

We’re just never exactly sure what’s at stake, if you’ll pardon the expression. Christine and Betty don’t seem to be in any real danger, and the coven is largely harmless; like so many Satanic-themed films, it’s hard not to get the impression that these are merely decadent hippies who don’t get out of the cellar temple very much. (While watching movies like this, invariably my thoughts go to the scene in Roman Polanski’s The Ninth Gate when Frank Langella berates a throng of dark-robed cultists as being nothing but a bunch of phonies.) Stranger still, the dreary lounge music soundtrack doesn’t even feel contemporary to 1971; title song “You Go Your Way,” sung by Helen Downing and written by the film’s co-producer, Hazel Adair (creator of the soap opera Crossroads), sounds like something from the soundtrack of Manos: the Hands of Fate (1966). This film isn’t that bad, of course; it’s pretty but disposable, with a script desperately in need of inspiration. The British Board of Film Classification originally rejected the film and demanded cuts, though it’s hard to see what the fuss was about. In another year or two, Virgin Witch would seem passé. The Blu-Ray looks just fine, though I found the audio to be a little muddy (probably true to the source). There are no real extras apart from a photo gallery and a trailer, and that’s appropriate for a very forgettable film. Some promotional material in the gallery uses the tagline: “Witches have special powers. This is one of them!” (I guess that means they’re sexy.) One correction to a previous statement of mine about the Jean Rollin Blu-Ray releases: apparently Redemption is using the spine numbering for all their discs, Criterion-style, and not just the Rollin films. This film is spine #7.

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