C.H.U.D. (1984)

In 1984, I had never seen an R-rated movie, but I could have told you what C.H.U.D. stood for. Everyone on the playground could. I had never actually sat down to watch the film; never caught it on cable growing up; never saw a minute of footage, but was familiar with the 80’s-iconic poster of a mutant peering out of a sewer, and had probably seen television commercials for it back in ’84. So recently I asked my friend, “You know C.H.U.D.?” “Doesn’t John Goodman have a cameo in that?” “Yeah, have you seen it?” “No.” I wasn’t all that surprised. Why do you need to actually see C.H.U.D. when its chief purpose is simply to exist? I can’t imagine my video-store childhood without a copy on the shelves. Now, you know what C.H.U.D. stands for (Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers, a phrase one uses on such a frequent basis that a handy acronym had to be established). But did you know that the twist in the film – yes, a twist! – is that it actually stands for “Contamination Hazard Urban Disposal”?  When this jaw-dropping fact is revealed late in the film, I really wanted a couple of extra lines to underline the melodrama, something like, “You mean it doesn’t mean Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers?” “No, I assure you, it means Contamination Hazard Urban Disposal.” My point is that the film runs a little short.

Fashion photographer George Cooper (John Heard) and homeless-rights advocate "The Reverend" (Daniel Stern) use a Geiger counter to track the C.H.U.D.

Actually watching the film – actually spending 96 minutes with the thing – is an entirely different, and slightly disappointing, experience after so many years of expectations. I anticipated something a bit more over-the-top, more crazed, more Humanoids from the Deep (1980). In fact, if you’re at all curious about C.H.U.D., I’d recommend Humanoids instead. The films share one thing in common: they’re both about environmental contamination creating murderous mutants. One of these films is good, lowbrow fun, and the other is C.H.U.D. At least the latter has an interesting cast, including that random Goodman cameo: John Heard plays George Cooper, a fashion photographer who, for no particular reason, is really, really pissy pretty much all the time. His girlfriend, and favorite subject, is a model named Lauren and played by Kim Greist, Sam Lowry’s crush in Brazil (1985). When homeless people (and one unfortunate Westie) start disappearing, Heard investigates with the help of a homeless rights advocate named A.J. “The Reverend” Shepherd, played by City Slicker Daniel Stern. Stern, here, is grunged-up and covered in a thick layer of grime throughout the film, to the point where you can practically smell him. In what is clearly meant to be a performance akin to Richard Dreyfuss in Jaws, he cracks wise and rants passionately against the city officials who refuse to admit the existence of monsters. In this case, they’re monsters those officials created, since a covert toxic dump in New York City’s sewers is creating the cannibalistic dwellers; the vagabonds who live in and near the sewers are therefore the first victims, and the only ones who truly know what’s going on – but society won’t pay attention to the homeless. If you sense a message here, then I can confirm you’re not in a coma.

John Heard and Kim Greist in "C.H.U.D."'s "explosive" climax.

I credit director Douglas Cheek for attempting an urban thriller with social themes. C.H.U.D. has a bit in common with Larry Cohen’s God Told Me To (1976) and Q: The Winged Serpent (1982), as well as Wolfen (1981) and the London Underground thriller Raw Meat (1973), all horror films which embraced the gritty urban landscape and focused more on characters to help ground the fantastic elements. But any movie about cannibalistic humanoid underground – I apologize, I keep forgetting there’s an acronym I can use for this – really ought to deliver on murderous mutant mayhem at some point. Instead, Cheek focuses on the slowburn approach until finally the audience is liable to forget this is even a horror film. (Some directors – Ti West, for example – can pull that off. But C.H.U.D.‘s “character development” scenes are deadly dull, with little reward.) Finally there’s a moment when Kim Greist confronts a mutant in her apartment, and a nice creature effect shows the monster’s neck lengthening, its head, with those two glowing eyes, wobbling on the stalk. Greist chops (with a sword!), the neck spurting green blood, and the severed head, fallen to the ground, turns over and bites her on the ankle. A few more scenes like these scattered throughout the film would have been useful, but for the most part, the C.H.U.D. are barely present in their own movie. I’d suggest this is a good candidate for a remake, if it weren’t for the fact that all the films I’ve compared it to already exist. You may not have gotten around to watching C.H.U.D. yet, but – really – you already have.

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The Brigand of Kandahar (1965)

I’m sure Hammer would have loved to have had a David Lean in their stable of directors. They craved prestige. She (1965) took them furthest in the direction of big-budget adventure spectacle, and it was enough of a hit to justify a shoddier sequel and a few would-be epics, among them the sensationalistic The Viking Queen (1967). The Brigand of Kandahar was released the same year as She, but the budget was tighter, and it shows. You get the feeling they wanted to get a quickie epic in the can to puff up their resumé. But Brigand can’t compete with Lawrence of Arabia, made just three years earlier. It’s a 78-minute B-movie, and a somewhat limp end to Hammer’s co-production deal with Columbia Pictures, who had helped finance and distribute many Hammer classics through the early 60’s. John Gilling of The Scarlet Blade (1963) wrote and directed, recycling footage (and plot) from the 1956 British Colonialist adventure film Zarak, a Terence Young film for which Gilling was associate director. This accounts for the unusually large-scale battle scenes which close the film – and also for a few awkward moments in which Gilling clumsily foregrounds his actors before rear-projection of Zarak action. This is Hammer moving dangerously close to Roger Corman territory.

No, we couldn't really afford this: Recycled "Zarak" footage in "The Brigand of Kandahar."

Lieutenant Case (Ronald Lewis, Mr. Sardonicus), stationed in Fort Kandahar on the frontier of India in 1850, is a “half-caste” who cuckolds an officer named Correlli by romancing his sexy wife Elsa (Katherine Woodville) – a character introduced in her bathtub, water pouring down her naked back. Case underlines the irony when he’s asked to accompany Correlli on a spy mission, but when only Case returns, he’s court martialed for abandoning a fellow officer. He protests that the alternative was to get killed, which would mean a failed intelligence mission; but no matter. Case is rescued from prison and delivered to the camp of the rebel leader, a Ghilzai chieftain named Ali Khan and played by, of course, Oliver Reed, here wrapping up his obligations for Hammer after an apprenticeship in films like The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll (1960), The Curse of the Werewolf (1961), Paranoiac (1963), The Damned (1963), and The Scarlet Blade. He wears a thick coat of skin-darkening makeup to pull off the role, which might be offensive, except he’s Oliver Reed and he steals the movie (per usual). The ex-lieutenant is persuaded by Ali Khan’s anti-Colonialist rhetoric and joins the cause; it helps that there’s a gorgeous girl in the tribe, Ratina (Yvonne Romain, The Curse of the Werewolf and Captain Klegg) who oozes fierce sensuality and has taken a liking to Case. Battles ensue, with Case rising in the ranks until he becomes the face of the native opposition.

Ronald Lewis, Oliver Reed, and Yvonne Romain provide for some soapy drama in the Ghilzai camp.

The Brigand of Kandahar suffers greatest from an uninteresting lead: Lewis clenches his jaw a lot, but is never as sympathetic or as fascinating as he ought to be. If Reed were in that role, this would be a markedly superior film; but he was still seen as a character actor. Gilling films it all competently but dispassionately – a suspenseful sequence or two might have done a world of good. Considering the film’s brevity and the amount of plot it contains, one would expect a fast-moving little picture; instead it just plods along, with gestures at melodramatics that don’t quite contain the emotional heft they require. The film is just a few good strokes away from solid camp, and that was the direction Hammer was inexorably heading, with the likes of Slave Girls (1967) around the corner. One could credit the film for its anti-military stance – with its portrait of senior officer sadism and incompetence – but this is not Paths of Glory; and it’s miles across the desert from Lawrence of Arabia.

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The Scarlet Blade (1963)

The film is called The Scarlet Blade (aka The Crimson Blade, 1963), but don’t be fooled. The hero doesn’t wear red, and he doesn’t show up in a mask slicing his insignia on the faces of his enemies. This mid-60’s Hammer swashbuckler doesn’t buckle many swashes, and it’s not terribly concerned with heroics in general. Ostensibly the star is Jack Hedley (Witchcraft) as Edward Beverley, the son of a noted colonel executed for defying Oliver Cromwell. He’s the Scarlet Blade, but he’s not top-billed. Those honors go to Lionel Jeffries (First Men in the Moon, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang) and rising Hammer star Oliver Reed (The Curse of the Werewolf, The Damned), playing officers of Cromwell hunting the Beverley clan and their fellow Royalists. Far from Errol Flynn adventure, The Scarlet Blade is distracted by the dilemmas faced by its supporting players – those who surround Edward Beverley – turning this B-picture into a strangely uneasy film about the price of rebellion. Reed’s Captain Tom Sylvester is one of the more interesting portrayals of his Hammer years. At first he appears to be another of the actor’s ruthless sadists, but gradually he develops more depth. Sylvester hates the Beverleys, but is politically apathetic. He offers to change coats to please the woman he loves, Claire (June Thorburn, The 3 Worlds of Gulliver), the daughter of the fierce Colonel Judd (Jeffries). At first, we can’t tell if it’s merely a ploy, and neither can Claire or her Royalist friends. But she gives him a chance to prove his loyalty: he delivers information which allows the Scarlet Blade to lay an ambush against the Roundheads. In exchange, the self-obsessed captain expects Claire to immediately surrender her charms to his greedy lips; instead, she accepts the embrace of Edward Beverley. Sylvester is enraged, then resigned. He betrays the Scarlet Blade to Colonel Judd’s forces, but does so almost reluctantly. You almost feel for the guy, right up to the moment of his death. (And don’t think Reed goes down easy. He doesn’t so much chew the scenery as smash it to pieces.)

Oliver Reed, as Captain Sylvester, learns that the woman he loves (June Thorburn) has fallen in love with the Scarlet Blade.

The Scarlet Blade is written and directed by John Gilling, who also helmed Hammer programmers like The Shadow of the Cat (1961), The Pirates of Blood River (1962), The Reptile (1966), and – most notably – the atmospheric and influential The Plague of the Zombies (1966). The action scenes are somewhat lethargic, even in the “spectacular” finale, with horses riding past explosions and swords clashing; and Hedley makes little impression as the story’s hero. In fact, he’s largely absent from the narrative. Gilling is far more interested in the Judd household than the Beverleys, focusing on Captain Sylvester’s lust for Claire, and the colonel’s disappointment in his daughter’s political awakening: there’s a nice scene when Judd offers a toast in honor of Cromwell, and Claire refuses to drink…until everyone departs the table, she whispers “The Scarlet Blade,” and takes a sip. The final scene is strangely touching, as Judd belatedly makes peace with his daughter’s decision. Still, this would be an entirely forgettable matinee movie if it weren’t for Reed’s performance; Sylvester fits neatly into the actor’s resumé of debauched but troubled souls – there’s a line to be traced from Captain Sylvester to Father Grandier in The Devils (1971). Perhaps he’s too good here, since it’s difficult to determine why he obsesses so much over Claire (Thorburn is slightly miscast). But when he’s onscreen, The Scarlet Blade becomes far more fascinating than it ought to be.

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