Double Feature: Sting of Death/Death Curse of Tartu (1966)

Posted on November 28, 2020 at 4:51 pm by Jeff Kuykendall

Arrow Video’s new box set He Came from the Swamp: The William Grefé Collection, celebrating the career of the Floridian indie exploitation filmmaker behind such films as The Wild Rebels (1967), Willard knock-off Stanley (1972), and Mako: The Jaws of Death (1976), kicks off with a swampy splash with its first disc, Sting of Death and The Death Curse of Tartu, which were released as a double feature in 1966 to take a gator-chomp out of drive-ins across America. The first film is a standard-template monster feature with outré value provided primarily by its choice of monster: a human who mutates into a Portuguese man o’war – a jellyfish – albeit one with groping hands and diver’s flippers for feet. The second film is more unusual: deep in the Everglades, an Indian spirit turns into various animals to kill those who venture onto his land. The acting is amateurish, the editing crude, the spontaneous eruptions of teenage dancing downright hilarious. But taken together, they’re oddball triumphs of low-budget gung-ho filmmaking, as Grefé literally throws his actors into the deep end – and, after them, snakes, sharks, and alligators. Much of the pleasure in watching them now is Grefé’s insistence on using real predators and shooting the vast majority of footage in authentic locations. (The director would later apply his skill at working with live animals on the sets of Live and Let Die.) When an actress splashes around while fleeing a jellyfish monster, you half expect her to emerge covered in leeches before Grefé calls “cut.”

Teenagers getting ready for a pool party (and “The Jellyfish Song”).

Sting of Death is the more purely enjoyable of the two films, a brisk and outlandish 80 minutes which begins with a bikini-clad sunbather killed by some kind of swamp thing, then dragged underwater through the opening credits. A marine biologist (Jack Nagle), who has an extremely distracting black spot in the middle of his head (a recent injury, he tells us), welcomes his daughter’s friends to his island home, where they gather around a swimming pool and meet his hunky young researcher friend (Joe Morrison, of Grefé’s earlier films The Checkered Flag and Racing Fever), as well as the disfigured Egon (John Vella, The Wild Rebels). Egon is hyper-sensitive to any mockery over his looks, and also strangely insistent that jellyfish – the subject of their research – can grow to much larger sizes than previously known. Unbeknownst to them, in his spare time Egon heads out to a secret cavern lair outfitted with mad science equipment and transforms himself into a giant humanoid man o’war – the actor’s head still visible inside his balloon-like helmet – before taking revenge on those who would insult him. But in the meantime, we’re treated to Neil Sedaka tunes including “The Jellyfish Song,” which accompanies the teenagers’ pool party and much Beach Blanket Bingo-style dancing. (The teens also take time to insult the Beatles; and it’s true, the Beatles never wrote anything like “The Jellyfish Song.”) The good times end when a boat ride sends the group into the water, where they’re attacked by some very fake-looking jellyfish. Then the mutated Egon begins stalking them, first by lurking in the swimming pool next to their dancing feet (how he’s not spotted is anyone’s guess), then by creeping up to a busty blonde while she takes a shower, because a bit of Hitchcock will surely class up this joint.

Shower stalking in “Sting of Death.”

Throughout, Grefé enjoys taking us on trips through thick reeds on an air boat or showing us divers searching with flares underwater. The climax, in which Morrison fights the jellyfish-man while gripping his sparking flare amidst the green, purple, and blue hues of the secret cavern – while the damsel in distress cowers amidst inexplicable human skulls – is the precise pulpy horror endpoint one desires out of this third-tier Creature from the Black Lagoon. I should mention that, although these are new 2K restorations (from a 35mm negative for Sting of Death, and a 16mm negative for Death Curse of Tartu) and the colors truly pop in Sting, the elements for these very rare films are imperfect: the sound is harsh and the films reflect flickering and various forms of damage on the negative. They both look like drive-in films that have travelled the country for years and arrived in your home showing all the wear. I don’t mind that, and in many ways it heightens the experience; these films need nothing further but popcorn and beer (or perhaps ads reminding you to check out the concession stand between films). And Death Curse of Tartu, which was made, Corman-style, for the sole purpose of accompanying Sting of Death into drive-ins, has an even rougher, almost cinéma vérité look for its location footage – having less damaged elements would not benefit it all that much, and that beer will help you get through the seemingly endless scenes of explorers wandering through the Everglades, which seem to have been inserted to pad out the film and allow teens plenty of time to make out in the back seats of cars.

An Indian zombie lies inside a secret crypt in “Death Curse of Tartu.”

If Death Curse has a very different feel from Sting of Death, that’s likely due to the scratchy field recording of Indian chanting and drums that often interrupts the soundtrack, indicating that the curse is about to reach out and attack one of the Everglades interlopers. Grefé cuts to a dark underground crypt where a man in skull makeup (Doug Hobart) opens his eyes and rises from his coffin. (Cultural accuracy is not the film’s strong suit.) He then transforms into various bloodthirsty animals – predicting the 70’s wave of nature-run-amok movies. Our hero, alas, is a rather obnoxious know-it-all archaeologist (Fred Pinero) who bosses around his wife (Babette Sherrill) and four teenagers as he takes them on a swampy search for his missing friend, already murdered by the spirit Tartu. The four teens want only to make out, roast marshmallows, and dance, which is all well and good until one of them is eaten by a shark (that is, Tartu). Shortly their air boat is scuppered by the sinister force – although we have to take their word for it, because the budget won’t allow for damaging such a vehicle – which creates the problem of having to send someone back for help, a long walk downriver and vulnerable to the wrath of Tartu. Without question the film’s highlight is an attack involving a live, very large alligator on a screaming girl dangling from a tree. (The gator violently wrestled Grefé on location after he unsuccessfully tried to convince his actress that it was harmless with its mouth tied shut.)

Alligator attack.

Grefé and director Frank Henenlotter (Basket Case) provide audio commentary for both films. The disc is also accompanied by two featurettes directed by the reliably excellent Daniel Griffith: “Beyond the Movie: Monsters-a-Go-Go!” in which author and historian C. Courtney Joyner recounts the history of rock ‘n’ roll monster movies of the 60’s, and “The Curious Case of Dr. Traboh: Spook Show Extraordinaire,” an interview with Tartu‘s monster, Doug Hobart, who hosted a string of successful “spook shows” in theaters in the 50’s as “Dr. Traboh.” This latter featurette is a priceless history of a lost art form, which presented films alongside elaborate, sometimes titillating, sometimes gory live theater performances for appreciative audiences of screaming kids. The box set also contains Grefé’s The Hooked Generation (1968), The Psychedelic Priest (1971), The Naked Zoo (1970), Mako: The Jaws of Death (1976), Whiskey Mountain (1977), and They Came from the Swamp (2020) a new documentary on the director, along with hardcover liner notes. More to come, maybe!

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The Brides of Dracula (1960)

Posted on November 21, 2020 at 9:16 am by Jeff Kuykendall

When I think of The Brides of Dracula (1960), first I think of the lighting and rich colors of DP Jack Asher. Asher, who had also photographed Hammer’s The Curse of Frankenstein (1957), Dracula (1958), and The Hound of the Baskervilles (1959) – all classics of the Hammer Gothic style – submerges the Meinster manor in pools of red and blue, creating a dream-realm both dangerous and deeply alluring for the naïve heroine sneaking through its nighttime corridors. Asher blanches the pale faces of the vampire “brides,” and his shadows are so stark that they can kill – which is precisely what happens in the finale. I think of the production design of Bernard Robinson, once again transforming Bray Studios into something mysterious and ancient, and I think of director Terence Fisher, at the top of his game, delivering another gem of elegant horror with his dynamic compositions and knack for steadily developing tension that creeps up on the viewer. Many fans consider The Brides of Dracula to be a high watermark for the studio, or at least very close, ranking consistently toward the top whenever favorite Hammers are discussed. It’s the perfect synthesis of all the elements that made the brand so memorable, released at the peak of the studio’s powers. And if rumors are to be believed and Shout Factory is taking a break from releasing Hammers on Blu-ray, then for Brides, their latest Hammer disc, they’ve chosen to wrap up the line on a high note. Taken from a new 2K scan of the interpositive, the disc ports over some older special features and adds new supplements (including a wonderful, in-depth appreciation of Fisher’s career from the great Richard Klemensen of Little Shoppe of Horrors magazine). This is a major step up from the previous R1 disc of Brides, as a features-free inclusion in Universal’s missed-opportunity Hammer Horror 8-Film Collection. (That disc framed the film as 2.0:1, whereas the Shout disc offers the options of the more accurate theatrical ratios 1.85:1 and 1.66:1.)

David Peel as Dracula stand-in Baron Meinster.

I’ve always found the narrative approach of Brides appealing, taking a more credible approach to a Dracula sequel than its many follow-ups. As with Universal’s Dracula’s Daughter (1936), Brides follows not a miraculously rejuvenated Count but the original film’s hero, Van Helsing. (As much as I love the other sequels, it’s hard to escape the feeling that Dracula exists for the sole purpose of being killed over and over again.) Yet this was not the original intention; as Marcus Hearn and Alan Barnes note in their book The Hammer Story, an early 1959 draft by Jimmy Sangster called Disciple of Dracula brought back the Count, to once again be played by Christopher Lee. This was rewritten by Peter Bryan and later touched up by Edward Percy – all three writers having their name on the final product, while Dracula disappeared and Van Helsing, played by a returning Peter Cushing, took center stage. Well, he does eventually. The script takes its time with a protracted opening act that deliberately mirrors the first act of Stoker’s Dracula – an innocent in a castle occupied by a vampire – lending Van Helsing’s eventual appearance the sense of relief that you get in the original novel: finally, someone who knows what’s going on and can tackle the problem! French actress Yvonne Monlaur, who starred in the same year’s lower-grade but delightfully bonkers Circus of Horrors, spearheads the first act as Marianne, a schoolteacher traveling to an academy in Eastern Europe who is plucked out of a claustrophobic tavern by a mysterious older woman, Baroness Meinster (Martita Hunt of David Lean’s Great Expectations), and taken to her secluded home atop a forbidding crag. Here Marianne spends a restless night, catching a glimpse of the Baroness’s son (David Peel) standing on a balcony beneath her bedroom window and apparently about to jump to his death. She rushes to his rescue, only to find that he can’t possibly jump – his ankle is bound to a chain. His mother claims that he’s dangerously insane, but Baron Meinster’s charming, sympathetic demeanor tells Marianne otherwise. Fatefully, she steals the key to the chains…

Publicity still with Peter Cushing as Van Helsing and Yvonne Monlaur as Marianne.

This opening sequence is a little masterpiece of visual storytelling, building interest in part through Bernard Robinson dressing cozy Bray Studios in such a way to suggest a manor full of secrets, labyrinthine corridors and staircases. I have no clear map of the Meinster home in my mind, except that it must sprawl, surreal, in all directions, a trick aided and abetted by Asher’s careful lighting. Fisher poses mysteries and striking revelations with skill: what is that man doing on that balcony? – why does the the servant, Greta (Freda Jackson, The Shadow of the Cat), deny his existence? – while Marianne steals the key, what is it that Baroness Meinster is up to? Actually, to that last question, I’m not entirely sure; but for Brides the sensation is more important than the plot, and we’re certainly on the edge of our seat watching both Marianne and the Baroness sneaking and spying. (On this viewing, the film’s first act kept bringing to mind Suspiria – which is another film in which the story is less relevant than style and impact.) Much later in the film, when Van Helsing visits Baroness Meinster, Fisher delivers a terrific moment in which we glimpse her fangs before she hastily covers them, as though shamefully hiding a disfigurement. He might have held back on that revelation, but he shows us those fangs straight away, drawing our attention as much to her character as the suspense of a vampire confrontation. Moments like this stick in my mind as much as the more overt moments of horror, as when Greta, bent over and hair covering her face, squeals with delight while urging one of the undead to claw its way out of the earth.

Terence Fisher-brand suspense: Van Helsing reaches for a crucifix about to plummet into a shaft while Meinster approaches.

And then, of course, there’s Cushing, who had just come off playing Sherlock Holmes in Baskervilles with the same intensity and energy that he brought to his performances as Baron Frankenstein and Dr. Van Helsing. When we last left Van Helsing, he was having a swashbuckler-worthy duel with Dracula in his castle; now he’s hunting down the remnants of the plague unleashed by the Count. Marianne allows herself to be romanced – and proposed to – by the liberated Baron Meinster, but he’s unfaithful: her friends at the Girls’ Academy are preyed upon by night. Meinster may just be a hungry vampire, but his liaison with Andree Melly (who sadly passed away in January of this year) foregrounds another implication when the bitten woman tells Marianne seductively: “Please be kind to me. Say that you forgive me for letting him love me…We can both love him, my darling.” Perhaps this is what the Baroness was warning Marianne against – her son just isn’t good husband material. Van Helsing eventually hunts down Meinster and his harem at an old windmill, which leads to an indelible climax in which, just to kick things off, the unthinkable happens: Van Helsing finally succumbs to the vampire’s bite. How he efficiently copes with this problem is one of the reasons why I love the character, Cushing’s performance, and this marvelous movie in general.

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Waxwork II: Lost in Time (1992)

Posted on November 14, 2020 at 9:55 am by Jeff Kuykendall

The best thing about Waxwork (1988) was its enthusiasm. The debut film of Anthony Hickox, the son of legendary editor Anne V. Coates (Lawrence of Arabia) and director Douglas Hickox (Theater of Blood), it wore its love of monster movies on its sleeve, using the tried-and-true waxworks trope to introduce what were essentially short films about Hammer-style werewolves, decadent vampires, and a rampaging mummy. The collage-like plot, which comes crashing together in an anything-goes finale chock full of rubber monsters and spraying blood, was matched by its spin-the-wheel casting including Zach Galligan (Gremlins), David Warner (Time Bandits, TRON), Deborah Foreman (Valley Girl), Michelle Johnson (Blame It on Rio), Patrick Macnee (TV’s The Avengers), John Rhys-Davies (Raiders of the Lost Ark), and Miles O’Keeffe (Tarzan the Ape Man). Part of the fun watching the film now is the obvious fact that the film’s ambition far outstripped its budget; the writing and direction are occasionally slapdash, but the practical effects are inventive and a few set pieces are genuinely striking, like a bloody vampire showdown in a white-walled chamber, or the erotic-comic revelation that the “good” girl Sarah (Foreman) is less interested in Galligan’s vanilla-romance overtures than the whip of the Marquis De Sade (J. Kenneth Campbell). In the end credits Hickox dedicated the film to his heroes: Joe Dante, John Landis, John Carpenter, Dario Argento, George Romero, and Steven Spielberg – somewhat redundantly, given how overt those references are.

Mr. Hyde (Michael Viela) in Waxwork II.

Following the underrated Sundown: The Vampire in Retreat (1989), Hickox reunited with Galligan for Waxwork II: Lost in Time (1992), a film where his many movie influences are the story. I could not actually tell you what the plot is, apart from this: the film picks up from the final minutes of the original, despite the fact that Sarah is now played by supermodel Monika Schnarre instead of Foreman (whose off-screen romance with Hickox had ended). A severed hand stows away to Sarah’s home, where it murders her abusive stepfather (George “Buck” Flower) in a very Evil Dead II manner. The story then swings into a murder trial where her only hope is for Galligan’s Mark to prove that sinister supernatural forces are bent against her. Macnee returns in a cameo, having apparently recorded his final words in that short period between learning from Mark of the magical waxworks and getting killed inside (the man thinks ahead). He instructs Mark and an out-on-bail Sarah to seek out a time portal lurking behind a looking-glass in his home, which can be opened by moving pieces on an Alice in Wonderland chessboard. They pass through the mystical door into – well, a Hammer Frankenstein movie, which is where it becomes clear that the title of the film is a misnomer. A better title might have been Waxwork II: Lost in Other Movies.

Bruce Campbell as the leader of a paranormal investigation that goes very badly.

Here Hickox’s direction has improved since his rough debut, though his script is a drunken mess, which I don’t mean as a criticism. By the end of the film I had no idea what was happening, what Mark was doing or had just done, who the villain really was or how they were supposed to get home. (I am told, though am not convinced, that a character named Scarabis and played by Alexander Godunov is important.) In a recurring joke, Mark delivers expository dialogue that only adds to our confusion: a tossed-off reference to the Loch Ness Monster is par for the course. It doesn’t help – and, again, I don’t really mind – that each time Mark and Sarah jump into their latest mini-adventure, they’re already dressed for their new roles and have adopted their personas, as if we’ve flipped channels and here we are, in some new movie’s final act. First up is the Frankenstein film, in which the doctor (Martin Kemp, The Krays) gets his head crushed by the monster, popping loose teeth and eyeballs like a Mr. Potato Head, and culminating in a brain bursting out of the skull, the camera tracking it as it hurtles toward Galligan Sam Raimi-style. The film switches to black-and-white for an extended riff on Robert Wise’s The Haunting, with Sundown co-star Bruce Campbell – just about to start filming Army of Darkness (1992) – taking the Richard Johnson role from the original, alongside Sophie Ward (Young Sherlock Holmes) and Marina Sirtis (Star Trek: The Next Generation). Walls breathe and bleed, the camera tilts and the image warps. Any doubt that this film is really more comedy-horror than horror-comedy should be erased by the extended scene in which a bound and partially flayed Campbell tries to maintain his composure under increasingly painful circumstances – an appropriate warm-up for the take on Ash that Raimi had in mind for Darkness, the broadest yet in that series. Hickox has fun bringing some color to the black-and-white, including a Shining nod with doors parting to fill a room with red blood.

David Carradine welcomes Zach Galligan to a medieval kingdom.

Sarah, with an Ellen Ripley haircut, finds herself in Aliens for a spell, allowing Hickox’s FX crew to build a giant gooey xenomorph to slaughter some astronauts. As the film unfolds, we also meet Jack the Ripper, Mr. Hyde, a suspiciously familiar shopping mall filled with zombies, and a poorly dubbed Godzilla knock-off. Unfortunately, the film stumbles with its take on sword and sorcery films (of the Roger Corman variety in particular) that bogs down the third act for far too long – it seems, for a time, that we might actually be expected to care about the characters and story, which of course we do not. But we do get a cameo from David Carradine, playing his flute from Circle of Iron (1978), and, well, the sight of Galligan in a Prince Valiant haircut (some unintentional foreshadowing, given that Hickox directed 1997’s Prince Valiant). Luckily, the climax, as with the original Waxwork, goes off the rails with calculated insanity, bouncing from one mini-movie to another, including an admirable recreation of Murnau’s Nosferatu with a cameo from Drew Barrymore. Both Waxwork films have been released on a double-feature Blu-ray as part of the Vestron Video line, and in the accompanying documentary The Waxwork Chronicles, Hickox reveals that his favorite parts of old monster movies were the finales, so Waxwork was intended to be a movie that consisted only of those moments. This sensibility of all highs and no lows comes closest to being realized in Waxwork II; and even if it’s not a completely successful experiment, the goofy side effects of the all-consuming enthusiasm are infectious, right down to the very early 90’s hip-hop music video (“Lost in Time”) that plays over the ending credits.

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