A near collision culminates with Rose (Marilyn Chambers) pinned underneath a motorcycle in flames. She and the other rider, Hart (Frank Moore), are rushed to the nearby Keloid Clinic, where plastic surgeon Dr. Keloid (Howard Ryshpan) immediately begins surgery on Rose. He employs a revolutionary process called “neutral field grafts,” in which skin grafted onto the woman’s burned body would aid in the growth of new tissue. An unforeseen side effect is a slit underneath Rose’s left armpit, from which protrudes a stinger-like organ used for feeding on blood. What’s even worse is that Rose’s victims don’t die but rather turn into raving zombies that, in turn, attack and infect others.
David Cronenberg’s Rabid (1977) is an early film for the Canadian director but still displays the type of themes he would continually return to, including metamorphosis, physical or otherwise. It’s also an early movie for producer/director Ivan Reitman, who produced this movie and Cronenberg’s previous film, Shivers (1975/aka They Came from Within).
The sexual implications of Rabid are unmistakable. But what holds even more weight is a more general comparison of genders and a critical assessment, it would seem, of masculinity. One can’t help but associate some of Rose’s qualities – her new body part and its corresponding violence – with masculinity and the woman’s human characteristics – her guilt, expressions of pain, even her smile – with her own femininity. Or more simply: the monster is male, the human is female.
In the same vein, the majority of Rose’s victims are male, most of whom are aggressive or too brazen and seemingly deserve their fate. The rabid men’s attacks are ferocious – they hurl themselves at people while foaming at the mouth – but Rose feeds with a mere hug, and an arguably more potent result. She ends most attacks by gently stroking the victim’s hair, a compassionate act that further differentiates the monster (male) from the woman herself. Perhaps most significantly, the doctor, who’s essentially responsible for Rose’s condition, is a man who tries to improve the female body and fails miserably.
Cronenberg excels at perverting the ordinary. A crowded subway train becomes confined and inescapable when one of the infected passengers begins attacking others. A surgeon asking for a surgical instrument is really just asking for a weapon when he’s rabid and craving blood. Movie theatres aren’t relaxing, shopping malls are anything but leisurely, and hospitals are better at creating sicknesses than curing them.
Chambers, born Marilyn Ann Briggs, first gained notoriety in adult features before leaving the industry and starring in mainstream films. Rabid was her first starring role in mainstream. She returned to adult pictures and eventually starred in indie films. Chambers began her career as a model and was pictured on the box for Ivory Snow laundry detergent in the 1970s – she’s a smiling mother holding an infant. The multitalented woman was also a singer and had some success with the single, “Benihana”, which is featured in Rabid, playing on the radio while Hart is in the garage working on his bike.
Sissy Spacek was reportedly the actress whom Cronenberg originally wanted to play Rose. In the film, actress Chambers passes a movie poster for Carrie, Brian De Palma’s 1976 movie starring Spacek.
A keloid or keloid scar – the doctor’s namesake in Rabid – is scar tissue growth that typically occurs following a skin injury.
So what’s the moral of Rabid? Well, it could be that men without inhibitions would turn into rabid, mindless, infectious, murderous freaks. Or maybe it’s that men should respect women and accept them as the stronger, more adaptable sex. But I like to think it’s this: Hugging a person you love is good. Hugging strangers or people you barely know is bad, especially if they’ve just undergone experimental surgery.
Ante Meridiem Theatre is a place to focus on movies that used to crop up on television late at night into the early morning hours. This month, I thought I’d stick with the theme of Movie-Watching Memories and share with you the things that can happen when you stay up past your bedroom for a movie.
In my youth, a wide range of movies was not exactly at my disposal. The premium movie channels – HBO, Showtime, Cinemax, The Movie Channel (shockingly, only one of each) – were available to rich folk. Not that my family was poor. Let’s just say that my brother and I’s G.I. Joes didn’t convene at the coveted USS Flagg Aircraft Carrier but instead engaged in battle at the Barbie Dream Condo – though its three floors and elevator access made it ideal for snipers. But those guys who had the USS Flagg were the same ones watching HBO every night while I stayed at home and held a tape recorder up to a radio, waiting for the guitar solo before sneezing so I wouldn’t forever wonder what the lead singer was actually saying in the second verse.
Turn to a channel not in your dish package today, and you’ll just see a message telling you to upgrade. With basic cable, you saw snow, but sometimes, just beyond the snow, you could see movement. People. More specifically, actors. Acting out a movie. Crank the volume, and you could hear crackling voices reciting lines. The snow on the HBO channel we didn’t get was unrelenting. Nothing but snow. But on the other channels, all bunched together in sequence, films were often slightly visible and barely audible.
The quality of the movie pushing through the static varied. Cinemax would be nearly perfect one night and unwatchable the next. Sometimes a film on The Movie Channel couldn’t be seen on one TV but was drive-in quality on another. The television in the basement was the best, which was fitting since my mock bedroom was there – “mock” because the basement and my bedroom were all one room, separated by a desk and a bureau and a gun cabinet that acted as my closet but turned away from the community side of the room for, you know, privacy and what not. But one fateful night, at around two o’clock in the morning, the movie I was attempting to watch wasn’t very clear. I decided to risk checking the TVs on the first floor.
On the top floor, my stepfather, mother, sister and brother slept. When it was this late, watching anything on the TV in the TV room (my stepfather’s TV) was a little like juggling knives in the dark. You’d have to stand and listen by the stairs for any creaking to allot yourself ample time for fleeing. Fortunately, the stairs to the basement were adjacent to the TV room. On this particular night, however, the TV room TV was no better than the basement one. So I opted for the TV in the dining room, an ironic location as we were never allowed to watch TV while eating. The movie was Stripped to Kill (1987), which, of course, I had to see because I’d already seen Stripped to Kill II (aka Live Girls/1989), and I wanted to see if the first film would help the second film make more sense. As it turns out, they’re only related by title.
It was a cold night, and I was wrapped in a blanket, sitting uncomfortably in a wooden chair and watching a tiny television resting on a countertop, all atop two cabinets, like a faux desk. The good news: The movie looked amazing, like I’d bought a pristine VHS copy. The bad news: The dining room was farther away from the basement stairs than the TV room, and I didn’t realize that I hadn’t mapped out an escape route until I heard someone creaking down the stairs.
I quickly turned off the TV and ducked into the cubbyhole under the countertop. I pulled the chair as closely as I could, sitting with my knees against my chest. My stepfather appeared from around the corner and walked into the dining room, thankfully not turning on any of the lights. He stood next to a huge window and surveyed the backyard. He was maybe five feet away from me, and I could smell his Old Spice. I pulled the blanket up to my nose and held my breath. Finally and mercifully, he walked away, headed for the restroom. I waited patiently, frozen like a derelict statue. He finished his business and headed past the dining room and in the direction of the stairs, but I still couldn’t move, convinced that he’d seen me and was waiting around the corner. When my knees started cramping, I slowly pushed the chair away, crawled out from my nook, and half-jogged to the basement, not a stepfather in sight. I decided to catch the film some other time.
At the time, it was an unsettling experience. It didn’t prevent me from taking first-floor trips for marginally visible movies, but the dining room did become a quarantine zone. Years later, I saw Stripped to Kill in its entirety, and let me say: It’s no Stripped to Kill II.
Ante Meridiem Theatre is a new feature at the Cafe to focus on those movies that, years ago, would crop up on TV in the wee hours of the morning, when you were only partially awake, and right before the network turned to snow.
A night watchman at a factory finds a woman standing next to a hydraulic press and a crushed body. The woman, Helene (Patricia Owens), flees and later calls her brother-in-law, Francois (Vincent Price), to tell him that she’s killed her husband (and Francois’ brother), Andre. Francois is initially skeptical but his brother’s death is quickly confirmed and made all the more confusing when Helene claims that she operated the press but Andre had lain his head and arm under the machine. Francois and Inspector Charas (Herbert Marshall) find Andre’s laboratory (a madman’s lab, according to Francois), and Helene is seemingly obsessed with flies and becomes hysterical when her nurse swats one of the insects. Eventually, Helene tells the story of Andre (David Hedison), who had invented a device capable of transporting matter, suitably titled the Disintegrator-Integrator. His invention is successful, but one day, he locks the lab door. Slipping notes under the door, Andre informs his wife that he cannot speak and that he needs her help, though she must promise to not look at him. Inside, Andre’s head and face are covered by a cloak, and he keeps his left hand hidden. Helene must find a specific fly, one with a white head, for Andre to correct the ghastly accident which occurred when he transported himself -- not realizing that a fly was in the machine with him.
When I was younger, some of the local cable channels would show numerous horror and sci-fi films late at night and into the early morning hours. Vincent Price was the star of many of these movies, and my brother and I were huge fans, my brother filling a stack of VHS tapes with Vincent Price films. Some our favorites were House of Wax (1953), The Last Man on Earth (1964), and the Dr. Phibes movies (1971-72). Kurt Neumann’s The Fly (1958) is perhaps not the best film to watch for Price fanatics, as over half of the film is Helene’s flashback, in which Price’s character, Francois, only appears in a couple of segments. But despite Price as a supporting character, the actor’s presence has made The Fly a Vincent Price movie.
The Fly is a superb film, and its structure works wonderfully. Rather than open with the genesis of a scientist’s creation, it starts with the aftermath, the shocking image of Helene -- in a dress and with her hair up -- standing next to a bloody body. The first act of the movie consists of Francois and the inspector investigating the crime scene and Andre’s lab, while Helene provides only a few details. The flashback slowly and effectively builds to the accident and invariable reveal of Andre’s new head and arm. Andre as the fly is finally seen with only about 20 minutes remaining, but the gradual suspense -- including Helene and her son trying to catch the fly that Andre says he’ll need to reverse the procedure -- makes the long wait anything but disappointing. Unfortunately, the more overt qualities overwhelm the movie’s subtleties, as the intriguing concept of Andre’s waning humanity is given little development. But the film remains engaging throughout and has a terrific ending -- Francois finds the much-desired white-headed fly.
A sequel followed in 1959, called Return of the Fly. In it, Andre and Helene’s young son has grown and is trying to redeem his father’s name and reputation by continuing his work. Similar results ensue, courtesy of dissimilar circumstances. Price reprises his role of Francois. A second sequel, Curse of the Fly (1965), was produced in the UK and follows the son and grandson of Andre -- though the son now has a different name. They experiment with teleportation, and before long... well, you can guess what happens. Brian Donlevy, who portrayed the titular scientist in two of the Quartermass movies from British studio, Hammer Films, stars as Andre’s son. Director Don Sharp also made movies for Hammer.
Some viewers see the 1958 film as campy, particularly Andre the fly -- though I think he looks creepy, and I especially enjoy his thousand-eyed point-of-view of Helene. There was no sign of campiness in Canadian filmmaker David Cronenberg’s remake in 1986. The movie starred Jeff Goldblum as scientist Seth Brundle who impresses a beautiful journalist, Veronica (Geena Davis), with his Telepods -- devices that can teleport an object from one machine to the next. The most significant difference between the remake and the original is that, while in the original the scientist and the fly “swapped” molecules (and body parts), in the remake the biological makeup of both fuse and create a singular being. This causes Seth to metamorphose into a new creature -- he calls himself “Brundlefly.” The movie is decidedly more horrific and more grotesque, and though the 1958 movie is good, Cronenberg’s remake is even better. There was also an okay sequel to the ‘86 movie: The Fly II (1989), with Eric Stoltz as Seth’s son who -- blah, blah, blah, he becomes a fly!
Suffice to say, teleportation never seems to work out well in movies, or literature, for that matter (example: Stephen King’s short story, “The Jaunt”, from the collection, Skeleton Crew). People are often excited about technological advances, but The Fly represents a fear of new technology -- Helene explicitly voices her apprehension -- and the potential (and feasibly harmful) side effects of unfamiliar machinery. Most technology is about convenience. Sure, it’d be great to quickly teleport to a place miles away, much like the speed of messaging via texts and email. But would I take a fly head and arm in exchange for Apple’s new iTeleport? Nah, I’ll just walk.
Ante Meridiem Theatre is a new feature at the Cafe to focus on those movies that, years ago, would crop up on TV in the wee hours of the morning, when you were only partially awake, and right before the network turned to snow.
Duane (Kevin Van Hentenryck) is a young man staying at a hotel in New York, carrying with him a wicker basket in lieu of any luggage. Inside the basket is Duane’s brother, Belial, his Siamese twin, a deformed mass of flesh whose only recognizable features are a head and both arms. Years ago, the conjoined brothers’ father demanded that doctors perform an operation, and the two were forcibly separated. Belial, not even considered human, is discarded with the trash but is rescued by Duane. They are nurtured by a sympathetic aunt (Ruth Neuman), but following her death, they decide to exact revenge against the doctors responsible for severing their physical connection. Though Belial’s verbal discourse consists of grunts and shrieks, he communicates with Duane telepathically, making it impossible for Duane to hide his adoration of Sharon (Terri Susan Smith), a receptionist he met at a doctor’s office. Belial becomes envious of Duane and Sharon’s relationship, and the surprisingly mobile smaller brother becomes harder to control.
Frank Henenlotter’s Basket Case (1982) is a low-budget treat. As with other films by the director, it merges subtly comedic moments with extraordinary violence, leaving some viewers confused as to when they should laugh. But the amusing morsels throughout complement the film. Duane and Belial’s attacks typically consist of Duane setting the basket down and letting his brother do the dirty work, but Belial also makes his way around the hotel. Consequently, the hotel manager is repeatedly running up the stairs in response to a person screaming or sounds of a commotion. When he reaches the source of brouhaha (usually near Room 7, Duane’s room, though no one seems to notice), there’s a crowd of tenants which he subsequently must disperse. It begins simply as an indirect reaction to Belial’s lack of etiquette but gradually becomes a recurring gag, with the manager eventually referring to the hotel as a nuthouse.
Henenlotter also furnishes the film with visual puns. One of the condemned doctors is introduced ravenously devouring his lunch, only to later essentially be the lunch for the brother in the basket. Likewise, another doctor is prefaced with a premonition. She’s dining in a red dress, flanked by red candles and eating strawberries. The most striking visual involves a female tenant at the hotel in her room, with a smiley face clock on the wall and the woman changing into a smiley face nightshirt before she is attacked by Belial. It’s true that no one is smiling after Belial makes an appearance, but the real joke is Belial, who is almost nothing but a face himself and is inherently the mortal enemy of the smiley face.
Henenlotter’s films often deal with some sort of physical deformity or an unsanctioned physical alteration. He followed Basket Case with Brain Damage (1988), which is about a man afflicted with a parasitical creature that discharges a hallucinogen and forces the man to seek sustenance for the parasite (or, more specifically, brains). Henenlotter went on to direct Frankenhooker (1990), about an electrician/low-rent doctor who pieces his mutilated fiancée back together, and two Basket Case sequels, Basket Case 2 (1990) and Basket Case 3: The Progeny (1992), both which starred a returning Van Hentenryck. The director had evidently retired from the film industry but fortunately returned in 2008 with the release of Bad Biology, following the peculiar love affair between a man and a woman, each with physical anomalies.
Basket Case has enjoyed a couple of releases on DVD but will be making its Blu-ray debut on September 27th from Something Weird Video. Frank Henenlotter’s Basket Case is just like its character, Belial. Bizarre, eerie, small, and prone to hurdling itself at your face. Both might be aggressive and violent, but what they really want is acceptance. The film is a great piece of cinema, appreciated by those who allow it to show its own merits. Some things are filled with treasures which one can only discover with patience and respect. Then again, other things (namely baskets) have tiny, deformed Siamese twins with razor sharp teeth and a score to settle. Choose wisely.
Ante Meridiem Theatre is a new feature at the Cafe to focus on those movies that, years ago, would crop up on TV in the wee hours of the morning, when you were only partially awake, and right before the network turned to snow.
Twelve-year-old Alice (Paula Sheppard) resents her younger sister, Karen (Brooke Shields), envious of the attention she receives surrounding her First Communion: her new white dress and veil, and a crucifix given to her from their priest. On the day of Karen’s First Communion, it is Alice who kneels at the altar with the other girls, and a nun finds Karen’s body. Not surprisingly, the police suspect Alice of her sister’s murder, but her mother, Catherine (Linda Miller), and estranged father, Dom (Niles McMaster), refuse to believe that she is responsible. However, when Catherine’s sister, Annie (Jane Lowry), is ferociously stabbed on the stairwell in Catherine’s apartment building, she insists that the assailant, dressed in a yellow raincoat often sported by Alice and a smiling face mask that the girl would use to scare people, is her 12-year-old niece. And if the culprit isn’t Alice, then someone has blood on their mind and hands, and a giant knife for spilling more.
Alfred Sole’s Alice, Sweet Alice (1976) is an extraordinary film, but also unnerving. In spite of its mediocre budget, Sole shrouds the movie in a brooding atmosphere. Inside the apartment building are the dark cellar, the claustrophobic staircase, and the creepy, reclusive landlord, Mr. Alphonso (Alphonso DeNoble). But the outside world is one of gloom, drenched by the pouring rain and seemingly filled with abandoned buildings. Even a church is not safe from the atrocities, as the film’s first murder occurs in such a place. Perhaps the movie’s most noteworthy trait is that Sole provides unforgettable shocks and thrills: an early scene in which Alice scares Karen by wearing a mask (pulling aside said mask to reveal another one), and the attack on Annie, which is utterly terrifying. Though Annie survives the assault, her sister is helpless, and outside the rain disperses Annie’s blood in lieu of washing it away. There is no solace in the woman’s endurance, particularly as a tearful, pale Annie accuses Alice in her hospital bed.
Alice, Sweet Alice was filmed and released initially as Communion, a greater and more appropriate title. But due to the notoriety surrounding Pretty Baby in 1978, in which a very young Brooke Shields appeared in a movie about a brothel, Sole’s movie was re-released under the Alice title and focusing on Shields’ involvement. In 1981, after the actress had garnered even more fame with The Blue Lagoon (1980) and Endless Love (1981), the film was released a third time as Holy Terror. Though the director prefers his original title, the most accepted title among fans and perhaps the best known is Alice, Sweet Alice.
Actress Miller was the daughter of Jackie Gleason and had been married to Jason Miller, who played Father Damien in William Friedkin’s The Exorcist (1973). She and her former husband are also the parents of actor Jason Patric. Though she was portraying a 12-year-old girl, Sheppard, in her cinematic debut, was 19 at the time of filming.
Unfortunately, Sole directed only a handful of films, as he was unhappy with the lack of independence working in Hollywood, including his 1982 slasher film parody, Pandemonium. Since stepping away from the director’s chair, he has become a production designer (a job which he essentially handled in Alice, Sweet Alice) and is quite prolific, working on TV series such as Veronica Mars and the currently running Castle.
Sole has cited Alfred Hitchcock and Nicolas Roeg’s Don’t Look Now (1973) as inspiration for his 1976 film. Certainly there are visual connections to Don’t Look Now, as well as a subtle play on Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960), but the richly textured Alice, Sweet Alice is entirely the work of Alfred Sole. He adds menace to a yellow raincoat, makes a 12-year-old girl’s playful ways ominous, and triggers a sense of dread when a character takes the stairs. He makes it abundantly clear that no one can hide, no one is safe, and no one can help. Sole offers the kind of film that doesn’t allow its viewers to alleviate their fears and unease by turning on all the lights.
A near collision culminates with Rose (Marilyn Chambers) pinned underneath a motorcycle in flames. She and the other rider, Hart (Frank Moore), are rushed to the nearby Keloid Clinic, where plastic surgeon Dr. Keloid (Howard Ryshpan) immediately begins surgery on Rose. He employs a revolutionary process called “neutral field grafts,” in which skin grafted onto the woman’s burned body would aid in the growth of new tissue. An unforeseen side effect is a slit underneath Rose’s left armpit, from which protrudes a stinger-like organ used for feeding on blood. What’s even worse is that Rose’s victims don’t die but rather turn into raving zombies that, in turn, attack and infect others.
The sexual implications of Rabid are unmistakable. But what holds even more weight is a more general comparison of genders and a critical assessment, it would seem, of masculinity. One can’t help but associate some of Rose’s qualities – her new body part and its corresponding violence – with masculinity and the woman’s human characteristics – her guilt, expressions of pain, even her smile – with her own femininity. Or more simply: the monster is male, the human is female.
Cronenberg excels at perverting the ordinary. A crowded subway train becomes confined and inescapable when one of the infected passengers begins attacking others. A surgeon asking for a surgical instrument is really just asking for a weapon when he’s rabid and craving blood. Movie theatres aren’t relaxing, shopping malls are anything but leisurely, and hospitals are better at creating sicknesses than curing them.
So what’s the moral of Rabid? Well, it could be that men without inhibitions would turn into rabid, mindless, infectious, murderous freaks. Or maybe it’s that men should respect women and accept them as the stronger, more adaptable sex. But I like to think it’s this: Hugging a person you love is good. Hugging strangers or people you barely know is bad, especially if they’ve just undergone experimental surgery.
