Shout! Announces MST3K XXII

Tomorrow sees the release of the eagerly-anticipated Mystery Science Theater 3000 box set, MST3K vs. Gamera.  But Satellite News has just announced the titles for the next volume (XXII in the series), due for release in December.  Those titles will be:

TIME OF THE APES (306)
MIGHTY JACK (314)
THE VIOLENT YEARS (610)
THE BRUTE MAN (702)

That’s going back to the typical custom of two Joel Hodgson episodes and two Mike Nelson episodes, if you’re keeping track. Also, it means we’re getting more mind-melting, badly-dubbed, Sandy Frank-y Japanese movies, with Time of the Apes being a personal top 10 favorite.  (The other, Mighty Jack, is one of the most incoherent edit jobs ever unleashed on the Satellite of Love.)  The Violent Years features a script by Ed Wood.  And The Brute Man, from the abbreviated seventh season of the show (the last season on Comedy Central), stars 40’s boogeyman Rondo Hatton.  With these four episodes, Shout! Factory continues to prove to MST3K fans that they’re listening, and releasing the most sought-after episodes of the long-running cult series.

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Nightmare City (1980)

“Zombies don’t run.”  Thus has declared, on multiple occasions, George A. Romero – and he should know.  His films Night of the Living Dead (1968) and Dawn of the Dead (1978) are not just the key reference points in the Modern Zombie Film, but seminal works in the entire horror genre.  His zombies are slow and lumbering, alternately frightening and comic.  They don’t run because they can’t; their bodies are decomposing, after all, and with makeup artists such as Tom Savini, Romero lovingly demonstrated how many ways the human body can fall to pieces – and how horrific it is when it just keeps coming at you anyhow.  He began to give the “zombies don’t run” quote while promoting his return to zombie filmmaking with Land of the Dead (2005).  Zack Snyder had already made his remake of Dawn of the Dead (2004), and it was touted as a major innovation in the subgenre that his zombies were charging full speed at their victims.  How much scarier.  Why didn’t Romero think of that? Actually, Snyder was just borrowing from Danny Boyle’s not-quite-a-zombie-film 28 Days Later (2002), and even that movie set no precedents.  No, zombies were in running sneakers at least as far back as 1980’s Italian/Spanish co-production Nightmare City, aka Incubo Sulla Città Contaminata.  They were also wielding axes and machine guns, ravishing women, operating complicated machinery, and drinking blood like vampires.  But Romero hardly had the breath to deny that zombies do all those things; most people could assume.  Most, that is, except for Umberto Lenzi, maestro of Italian exploitation, who could care less about logic or consistency as long as it’s in-your-face, frame after frame.

The film opens with a news report about a “radioactive spill” at a nearby nuclear plant.  Dean Miller (Hugo Stiglitz), a news reporter, is dispatched to the airport to meet and interview a brilliant professor who will offer more details about the nuclear accident.  On the runway, an unmarked military cargo plane sets down without authorization from the tower; Miller and his cameraman rush to the plane along with police and a squadron of armed soldiers.  Out of the plane steps that brilliant professor – who immediately stabs a military officer with a giant knife.  The soldiers open fire.  Out of the plane erupts a mob of axe-wielding men, many of them in suits, most of them short and stocky, and all of them with mutated faces that resemble the Toxic Avenger’s.  They seem impervious to bullets, and quickly steal the machine guns of their victims and begin using them.  Miller and his cameraman spend an eternity watching this scene before finally Miller says, expressionless, “I don’t believe it.  My God.  Let’s get out of here.  Go.”

Back at the TV studio, a number of spandex-clad men and women are dancing before the cameras to a prolonged synthesizer instrumental, applying highly detailed choreography which involves lots of waving arms and spinning around.  Behind them, a flashing sign says: “M-U-S-I-C.”  Another sign is more specific: “DISCO MUSIC.”  The studio crew members, wearing lab coats, gaze blankly at the dancers as though their souls were taken from them long, long ago.  Miller arrives, demanding that the all-aerobics-dancing-program be interrupted for a special news flash.  The dancers don’t take it well.  Luckily, the TV announcer keeps the mood mellow and heavily sedated:

Dean Miller’s news flash is interrupted as soon as it’s begun.  Into the studio stomps General Murchison (Mel Ferrer, Eaten Alive), none too pleased that Miller thought that machine gun-wielding zombies slaughtering police officers and military personnel at the airport was news that the public should know about.  Miller stands up to the general by proclaiming, “In a democratic country, nobody is allowed to interfere with the freedom of the press.  For any reason, whatsoever!”  So the general decides to further ignore everything that comes out of Miller’s mouth, turns around, and asks the station manager for compliance, a request which is promptly granted.

Meanwhile, Major Holmes (Francisco Rabal, Viridiana) is enjoying a day off with his beautiful young wife (Maria Rosaria Omaggio) by engaging in a synthesizer-fueled sex scene, when he’s interrupted by a phone call urging him to return to headquarters.  But she refuses to let him leave until they’ve further established significant character information.  Catching her husband staring at a clay bust which she sculpted in the shape of a deformed and monstrous visage, she asks:

“Don’t you like it?”
“On the contrary.  But every time I look at it, I get a feeling of…”
“Of death.  Is that what you were going to say?”
“It’s funny, but it’s the first time that one of your works has given me a feeling like that. It’s the truth, I’m sorry.”
“I can’t say that you’re wrong.  When I look at it objectively, I mean when I’m not actually working on it, I almost get the feeling that I wasn’t the one who made it, but some other being outside of me.  It frightens me.”
“That sounds like science fiction.”
“Metaphysics, if you want.”

Here’s what you need to know: this dialogue has nothing to do with anything else that happens in the film.  So let’s just pretend it didn’t happen.  Back to aerobic dancing in the TV studio, and more synthesizers, while the crew stares, and stares, and stares.  MTV was still a year away, so this was all they had.  The hypnotic scene is interrupted when short, stocky, axe-wielding zombies burst into the studio and begin graphically slaughtering everyone.  Meanwhile, the dancers and crew run back and forth like chickens until they can be picked off by the zombies.  Only Miller, loose cannon news reporter that he is, has the idea to actually leave the studio by using the door.

Over at the local hospital, Miller’s wife, Dr. Anna Miller (Laura Trotter), consoles a young teenager that he’ll be back to playing football in no time, even though he’s been having premonitions that he’ll lose his leg in an explosion.  “It was all about my leg!”  (Actually, he’ll just get killed in his hospital bed by a zombie, his leg unviolated, so no worries there.)

But we’ll get to that in a bit.  Over at “headquarters,” General Murchison debriefs Major Holmes and some other high-ranking officers over a scale model of the city (whichever city this is – Madrid, or Rome, or Cleveland).  A dead zombie is wheeled into the room on a cart.  General Murchison immediately states, “The autopsy excludes the possibility of an extraterrestrial being.”  With that out of the way, Colonel Donahue of the Institute for Atomic Research explains how a radiation-altered, blood-sucking, highly zombie-esque super-mutant functions – in the most medically scientific way Nightmare City can.  “The abnormal strengthening of the cells’ vital qualities has increased their direct genetic capacity.  In other words…the victims of these creatures are contaminated, even if they only suffer minor injuries.”  He continues, “Atomic contamination destroys the efficiency of red blood cells in very short order.  That is why new blood is always needed for these creatures.  True, the human organism is greatly strengthened.  However, the power still remains the brain.  A lesion to the nerve centers can produce paralysis.  The procedure stops the complex entirely.”  The Major asks, “You mean only bullets to the cranium can stop these – these monsters?”  The Colonel agrees by suggesting that the “cerebral apparatus” will need to be destroyed.  So you see, zombies can infect others to make more zombies, and the only way to kill one is to somehow incapacitate its cranial cerebral apparatus mechanism which is inside its head, called, in layman’s terms, a “brain.”  Now the film has spent five minutes explaining this to you.

The outbreak is spreading, but General Murchison insists that the public not be notified; even while he and Major Holmes both secretly notify their loved ones to stay inside and lock the doors.  Zombies attack the hospital just as Miller arrives to get his wife.  They flee safely, barely outwitting those zombies, who prove to be more organized than anyone should reasonably expect.  One zombie even figures out how to operate the pulley of an elevator, so he can draw it up and empty its occupants straight into the hands of the monsters.  Another invades a hospital room and greedily devours the contents of a blood bag.  There are so many zombies that Umberto Lenzi can barely spare the makeup.  (This is an ongoing issue.)  In another military conference, someone suggests to General Murchison that maybe it’s time to inform the public, as they might be figuring things out pretty soon, but he remains unconvinced.  The next day, his daughter and her husband, who have ignored the general’s advice so they can enjoy a vacation in their RV in a field of weeds by the side of the freeway, are the next victims of the zombie invasion.

While Major Holmes’ sculptor wife takes in a fugitive, and the two of them battle zombies that have invaded their house, Mr. and Mrs. Miller take to the road in one of the hospital’s emergency vehicles, and drive until they need gas.  The gas station seems deserted, so rather than just filling his tank and splitting, Dean insists on exploring.  Sure enough, there really are zombies there after all, and within moments they’ve taken over his car and are just kinda drinking blood packs and hanging out and stuff.

Dean lights a Molotov cocktail and flings it at the car.  Look quick, before the car explodes, and you’ll see that the zombies have been replaced by some convincing stand-ins:

And boom.

Following this slaughter, Dean tries to help his wife through her nervous breakdown with a rapid-fire treatment of booze, physical abuse, and passionate kissing:

By now, the zombies have taken over the city.  Rather than delivering epic shots of dead bodies strewn about vast urban landscapes, the film instead treats us to a scene with a helicopter hovering over a big open field filled with zombie extras, most of them lacking monster makeup, all of them running back and forth aimlessly, as though engaging in an Ultimate Frisbee match.  (If you look closely, there’s a dog running back and forth with the zombies, probably thinking this is awesome.)

After Dean and Ann Miller take refuge in a church, they confront a zombie priest, who immediately attacks them with a giant candlestick; Dean kills him with a candlestick holder.  They move on to the next level of the video game, which takes place at an amusement park.  For the film’s big climax, the two are backed up against a roller coaster, and are forced to climb the tracks, the zombies in pursuit.  Soldiers arrive in a helicopter, and drop a ladder, while Dean lobs grenades and fires round after round at the zombies.  Then…tragedy ensues.  Please, don’t reveal to anyone the terrifying twist ending of Nightmare City:

But the nightmare of Nightmare City never ends.  Miller, shaking off the last 90 minutes just as easily as the audience wishes they could, heads out to the airport to chase his latest news scoop.  An unmarked military cargo plane is landing, and police and the military are gathering anxiously around it.  The door to the plane opens.  The tension rises, or probably stays at about the same level, or perhaps drops limply in exhaustion.  And out of the plane comes…short, stocky zombies with axes.  We are in a Möbius strip.  And the makeup has not gotten any better.

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Thriller: “Pigeons from Hell” (1961)

“Well, welcome to the fabled South!”

A car is lodged in the mud, between thickly-overgrown trees as night is starting to fall.  Out of the vehicle step two young friends, Tim (Brandon DeWilde) and John (David Whorf).  Newly stranded, they crack jokes and gradually wander down the road to a clearing, where awaits a dilapidated plantation manor.  The site has been abandoned except for hundreds of cooing pigeons.  As John approaches the door, the pigeons attack him before finally scattering.  It’s almost as though they’re warning him away.  The boys decide to spend the night anyhow.  Our host, Boris Karloff, appears in a suit and tie, standing somewhere off in the swamps.  With a dire expression, he tells us that the name of tonight’s tale is “Pigeons from Hell.”

What a creepy kick it must have been to encounter this particular episode of the anthology series Thriller when it first aired, in 1961.  Based on the classic “Pigeons from Hell” horror story by one of pulp fiction’s master storytellers, Robert E. Howard (it was written in 1934, and finally published in Weird Tales in 1938, long after Howard had committed suicide), this hour of television cut much deeper than what the era’s airwaves typically transmitted.  Once Karloff disappears from the screen, that welcoming hand releases you, and you’re on your own in the big dark mansion, where matters quickly become grim and subtly disturbing. 

The manor appears to be empty, so the pair goes to sleep before the great big fireplace on the main floor.  In the middle of the night, John suddenly rises, as though entranced, and begins to climb the grand staircase leading to the second floor.  On the soundtrack, the cooing of the pigeons rises, and a female voice operatically swoons.  Something very bad is happening; we know that much.  Down below, Tim awakens to find himself alone.  He calls out for his friend Johnny.  He starts to climb the staircase.  Then, suddenly, mayhem – and a nation’s worth of parents would spend the rest of the evening trying to quiet the screams of their traumatized kids.  Here’s the scene as it plays:

Okay, so what’s just happened?  Well, Tim runs out of the house, manages to find the local sheriff, called Buckner (Crahan Denton), and through his hysteria describes what he saw of his friend: “I saw him, his head was smashed, but he was walking with a hatchet in his hand…his head was split!”  Johnny was dead, but he came back to life – and tried to kill his best friend.  The sheriff can only think that the kids found themselves in the old Blassenville estate, which hasn’t been lived in for years…though there are stories…  He drags Tim back to the place to check it out.

The trouble with haunted house stories is that the storyteller has to find some reason to keep his cast of characters inside that house – even if the house is obviously trying to kill them.  Some of our classic haunted house films have found clever ways around this problem (see: The House on Haunted Hill, The Haunting, The Legend of Hell House, etc.); I don’t know that Howard necessarily did when he wrote “Pigeons from Hell.”  It makes as much fractured sense in the television adaptation: once Sheriff Buckner takes Tim back to the Blassenville house, and uncovers evidence to support Tim’s story – including John’s body with a nasty gash through the head; the place at the top of the landing where John sank his bloody hatchet into the wall; a pool of blood some paces before that, where John presumably got his; and, most unnervingly, the room from which Johnny had emerged, which has such an evil vibe that Buckner’s lantern goes out for just the length of time that they’re inside – Buckner suggests that they spend the night.  You see, they can’t go back now, as no court will believe Tim didn’t kill his friend.  But Buckner knows there’s something wrong about this Blassenville house, so why not stick around to see what weird thing happens next?  Presuming, of course, that it helps them find the real killer, and not just get the both of them axed.

Buckner tells the story of those who the Blassenvilles, who ruled the plantation with an iron fist.  They abused the (black) servants: “They had a mean streak in ’em.”  But one day, some fifty years ago, the help deserted them, and, one-by-one, the Blassenville sisters vanished.  Inside the house Buckner and Tim find a diary from Elizabeth Blassenville, who claims her two sisters were murdered.  She writes of fearing for her life from someone, or something, living inside the house: “Often at night I hear a fumbling at the door.  I dare not open it.”  Elizabeth, too, would soon go missing.  Buckner suggests they go talk to one of the last survivors of the plantation, “Old Jacob,” who now lives out in the swamps.  Jacob confesses that he taught the art of creating zuvembies (zombies) to one Eula Lee.  Buckner fills in the rest: Eula Lee was one of the servants.  No, insists Jacob.  Eula Lee was a Blassenville, but of a different father.

Yes, there are racial politics going on here, though the teleplay by John Kneubuhl steps delicately, and also alters plot-points and character motivations from Howard’s original tale.  Though it’s never explicitly stated, this we can tell from a close reading of Thriller‘s “Pigeons from Hell”: the mother of the three Blassenville sisters also had a mixed-race child – Eula Lee.  Possibly the father was one of their workers or servants.  To pay them back for their treatment of the black men and women of the plantation, Eula Lee revenged herself upon the brutal Blassenville sisters by killing them with zuvembies.  (Where do the pigeons fit in?  It’s suggested in passing that they are the souls of the plantation’s dead.)  After Jacob finishes his reluctant confession, he is himself killed by a poisonous snake, which leaps out of the fireplace to bite him.  Tim suggests that Eula Lee is behind it – still alive, practicing voodoo, possibly a zuvembie herself – but Buckner only expresses rage and frustration.  Nevertheless, he drags them back to the house to explore it further, and find any trace of Eula Lee.

The final revelation, altered from Howard’s version, underlines this “Pigeons from Hell” as a story about the brutality of the Old South.  Howard’s original tale makes explicit that the African-American workers on the Blassenville plantation were whipped and beaten savagely; though Kneubuhl mutes some of these details, and leaves others for the viewers to assume, he also removes some of the story’s unwelcome baggage, borne by Howard’s own (now outdated and unfortunate) racial theories.  Thus, the Thriller telling is leaner, meaner, and pointed.  The Blassenville plantation endured beyond the Civil War as a continuing example of Southern degradation of blacks by whites.  Eula Lee, mixed-race and thus the Blassenville’s dirty little secret, is the ideal vessel of revenge against the sisters.  That she uses voodoo places the story in a long tradition of genre fiction in which displaced Africans use the magic of their ancestors to avenge themselves upon their tormentors.  Director John Newland guides the climax with the same steady, eerie hand as he lent the forty or so minutes which preceded it.  Those children who convinced their parents to keep the TV on through to the very end would be rewarded with some restless nights staring into the shadows of their bedrooms or hiding under the sheets.  But for the adult looking for a richer ghost story, it’s the subtext, the secrets so unsuccessfully locked away in the closets and hidden rooms of the Blassenville estate, which makes this episode so particularly haunting.

Horror scribe Joe R. Lansdale wrote a Pigeons from Hell miniseries for Dark Horse Comics a few years ago, a sort-of-sequel with black protagonists exploring the Blassenville estate and encountering hatchet-wielding zuvembies.  It’s part of a number of Robert E. Howard-based comics Dark Horse has published (including Conan and Solomon Kane), which started a renaissance of R.E.H. interest about a decade ago; subsequently the vast bulk of his short stories are finally back in print, after a long absence.  The Karloff-hosted Thriller series is available on DVD and, at the moment, from Netflix’s instant streaming service.

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