The Dirty Five Out West

In the final days of the U.S. Civil War, the Confederate Army needs to stop a stagecoach carrying an enemy spy from reaching Washington, D.C. With soldiers in short supply, the Confederates pardon five convicts whose "skills"--they're all killers--make them uniquely qualified to accomplish the mission. In addition to capturing or killing the spy, the ruthless ex-cons are tasked with retrieving $30,000 for the South's coffers.

The quintet consists of: a gambler (Mike "Touch" Connors); a sociopath and his older brother (Jonathan Haze and R. Wright Campbell); a cattleman (Paul Birch); and an outlaw (John Lund), who becomes the group's de facto leader. Amid much bickering, alliances are secretly forged among the men as they make their way to a stagecoach station near an abandoned mining town. Once there, they encounter a young attractive woman (Dorothy Malone), who runs the station with her boozing uncle. Jealously quickly pits the killers against each other as they await the stage.

Made in 1955 for a paltry $60,000, Five Guns West marked the directorial debut of maverick filmmaker Roger Corman. The former Stanford University-educated engineer wasn't new to the film business. By the mid-1950s, Corman had produced three films and decided he could save money by directing his own movies. 

Five Guns West is a textbook example of how to make a film on a shoestring budget. Other than a few extras, there are only seven characters--limiting the costs of cast salaries. Most of the action takes place outdoors, so few sets were required. The Indians, mentioned several times as a threat to the mission, appear only via stock footage.

Dorothy Malone.

The only two "stars" in Five Guns West are John Lund and Dorothy Malone. After some lead roles in "A" films such as The Mating Season (1952), Lund's career had already begun a slow decline. In contrast, Dorothy Malone had forged a solid career, though she was unhappy with her parts. Corman once said that he was only able to hire her because she fired her agent and took a reduced salary. Determined to change her image, Malone died her hair blonde and sought more challenging roles. The year following Five Guns West, she co-starred in Written on the Wind (1956)--and won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress.

Paul Birch and Mike Connors.

Despite their star status in Five Guns West, Lund and Malone fail to generate much drama on the screen. Supporting player Mike Connors--billed as Touch Connors--steals the film as a charismatic gambler more interested in the $30,000 than Malone's fetching heroine. Veteran actor Paul Birch is also convincing in his few scenes as one of the five. Birch appeared in several Corman films and later had a recurring role on The Fugitive TV series as Captain Carpenter, Lieutenant's Gerard's superior in the police department.

Given its budget limitations, Five Guns West is a watchable Western reminiscent of the later fact-based blockbuster The Dirty Dozen (1967). The opening scenes on the trail are well-written and hint of a tight drama of internal friction. However, that initial promise gives way to a conventional tale once the five reach the stagecoach station. Still, it gets bonus points for an imaginative shoot-out between Lund and Wright in the crawl space of the station's house.

Seven Things to Know About Roger Corman

Roger Corman
(photo by Angela George)

1. Roger Corman produced Martin Scorsese's second feature-length film Boxcar Bertha (1972). In Corman and Jim Jerome's book How I Made a Hundred Movies in Hollywood and Never Lost a Dime, Scorsese recalled: "He once said, 'Martin, what you have to get is a very good first reel because people want to know what's going on. Then you need a very good last reel because people want to hear how it turns out.' Probably the best sense I have ever heard in the movies."

2. Corman offered the lead role in his motorcycle gang picture The Wild Angels (1966) to George Chakiris, an Oscar winner for West Side Story. However, Chakiris could not ride a motorcycle and withdrew from the film, so Corman promoted Peter Fonda to the lead role. Fonda accepted on the condition that his character's name be changed from Jack Black to Heavenly Blues (a type of Morning Glory flower). Fonda's previous role, that of the doomed gang member Loser, went to Bruce Dern. The Wild Angels cast also included Nancy Sinatra, Dern's then-wife Diane Ladd, Michael J. Pollard, Gayle Hunnicutt, and Corman regular Dick Miller.

A young Tom Selleck in Terminal Island.

3. In the mid-1960s, Roger Corman interviewed several UCLA and USC graduates for an assistant position. He eventually hired Stephanie Rothman, who had a master's degree in film from USC. She later became a producer, writer, and director responsible for drive-in cult classics like The Student Nurses (1970) and Terminal Island (1973). Corman interviewed UCLA grad Julie Halloran, but didn't hire her. He did start dating her and they were married in 1970. Julie Corman became a successful film producer, too.

4. Corman tried working for a major Hollywood studio on a couple of occasions. His year-long deal with Columbia Pictures in the 1960s proved fruitless. Corman wanted to produce an adaptation of James Joyce's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Columbia wasn't interested. However, his deal with Twentieth Century-Fox yielded The St. Valentine's Day Massacre (1967). The one million dollar budget was the largest of Corman's directorial career. The director originally wanted Orson Welles for the role of Al Capone, but the studio convinced him otherwise. So, he had Jason Robards switch parts from Bugs Moran to Capone.

5. One of Roger Corman's most cost-effective hits was Tidal Wave (1973). It was originally a three-hour Japanese movie called Submersion of Japan. Corman bought that film, had it edited down to 72 minutes, dubbed the dialogue, and included new footage of Lorne Greene as a United Nations ambassador. Corman said: "It surprised all of us and made money...Tidal Wave was probably the most outrageous example of re-editing a film for domestic release."

Jack Nicholson in The Terror.

6. The Terror (1963) is often described as a horror film made by Corman in two days with the leftover sets from The Raven (1963). The reality is that it was the longest film ever made by Roger Corman. With barely a script and Boris Karloff available for only two days, Corman shot as much footage as he could. Then, over a period of several months, he had five different directors shot sequences of the film. Those directors included Francis Ford Coppola and Monte Hellman (Two-Lane Blacktop). Jack Nicholson, who co-starred in The Terror, commented to Corman that "everybody in this whole damned town's directed this picture" and asked if he could direct the last day. Corman said: "Sure, why not?"

7. Today, Roger Corman is 95. His last film credit was as executive producer of Death Race: Beyond Anarchy in 2018. In 2009, the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences gave Roger Corman an honorary Oscar "for his rich engendering of films and filmmakers."

Rock Hudson Gets Caught in an Avalanche!

Rock Hudson makes a call!

A 3.7 rating (out of 10) on the IMDb and a 7% (out of 100%) audience score on Rotten Tomatoes might lead one to believe that a movie may be a turkey. Yet, there's always that "may" and, besides, I'm a Rock Hudson fan and have a bit of a soft spot for disaster movies. Thus, I spent 91 minutes watching Avalanche so you wouldn't have to.

Rock stars as David Shelby, a rugged developer who has risked his entire fortune on a newly-opened, sprawling snow resort (you know he's rugged because he boldly wears a light-green plaid flannel shirt with a white turtleneck underneath). In addition to launching his new business, he's dealing with a messy situation involving a crooked politician and trying to woo back his ex-wife Caroline (Mia Farrow). She catches the eye of rugged photographer Nick Thorne (you know he's rugged because he lives in a cabin by himself on a snow-covered mountain).

Mia Farrow looking concerned.

Nick (Robert Forster) warns David of bad incoming weather and an unstable slope; there's also mention of a deadly avalanche that occurred in the 1880s. (Such foreshadowing is often a standard element in disaster movies). No one seems concerned about the snowfall, though, including the two figure skaters, Shelby's secretary, his mother (Jeanette Nolan), and a studly skier ("I ski like I breathe or talk...or make love").

After an hour or so of tedious plot, the avalanche finally comes when an airplane collides with the top of the mountain. The big event consists of a lot of stock footage interspersed with what appears to be foam blocks rolling into people. When the moving mounds of snow stop, the big rescue begins.

Avalanche was produced by Roger Corman during the period in which his New World Pictures was trying to compete with the bigger studios. Even so, it's borderline shocking to see the likes of Rock Hudson and Mia Farrow in a Corman picture. Unfortunately, I think most of the film's budget went to their salaries. The best disaster movies (e.g., The Poseidon Adventure, The Towering Inferno) benefit from the kind of well-known cast that Roger just couldn't afford.

Robert Forster tries to save the day.

It still might have worked in the hands of a better writer and director. Corey Allen had a long successful career as a TV director and an actor before that (he was Buzz in Rebel Without a Cause). So, perhaps, he just had a bad experience making Avalanche--I don't know how else to explain his shoddy work behind the camera and as co-writer. Robert Forster, who gives perhaps the best performance, inexplicably disappears for most of the film's second half. In some sequences, Allen cuts back-and-forth between scenes so quickly that it's dizzying. His characters are poorly-developed and uninteresting and there's no logical narrative to the film. Heck, a few juicy subplots would have made a world of difference!

Still, I guess Avalanche must have affected me on some innate level for I found myself looking for another New World Pictures disaster film: Tidal Wave (1975). It starred Lorne Greene, though the disaster footage was lifted from a big-budgeted Japanese movie called The Submersion of Japan. I thought for sure I'd find it on YouTube...but not yet.

The Best Movies You May Have Never Seen (Oct 2015)

Never Take Candy from a Stranger (1960)  (reviewed by Toto from the Classic Film & TV Cafe)

In the opening scene, two little girls are playing on a swing in the woods, laughing and enjoying a lovely afternoon. Then we see they are being watched by an old man with binoculars in a nearby isolated house. One little girl tells the other that she knows where they can go to get candy. As the two girls skip off together in the left side of the screen, we see that the abandoned swing dominates the foreground on the right side--a sign of leaving childhood behind.

Jean (Janina Faye) and Lucille (Frances Green) leave childhood behind.

That night, Jean Carter, one of the girls, tells her parents about her day and innocently reveals that she and her friend danced without their clothes on for the old man. Her horrified parents mask their emotions and the mother questions her daughter. The parents conclude that she wasn't molested, but they know that some kind of action must be taken.

Janina Faye as nine-year-old Jean.

There are two prevailing themes in Never Take Candy from a Stranger. The first is the threat of losing childhood innocence, which is symbolically represented in the film by the empty swing, an abandoned bicycle, and a stuffed animal. The second theme is societal isolation. Early in the film, we learn that the Carter family has moved from England to a small industrial Canadian town so Peter Carter can become the principal of a school. The town's residents refer to the Carters as foreigners more than once. Initially it seems to be in jest, but it quickly becomes clear that there are some townspeople who resent the "trouble" caused by "the outsiders."

Niall MacGinnis questions the witness.

It doesn't help that the prosperity of the town centers around a mill owned by the Olderberry family. The retired family patriarch turns out to be the old man that the Carters accuse of improper conduct toward their daughter. The eventual trial places young Jean on the witness stand, with the Olderberry's attorney (effectively played by Niall MacGinnis) questioning her aggressively, his face jutting toward her on one side of the screen and then the other.

With a first-rate cast, a literate script, and excellent direction from Cyril Frankel, Never Take Candy from a Stranger should have garnered stellar notices. Instead, it was panned by critics and ignored at the boxoffice. Undoubtedly, the title didn't help (neither does the original British title Never Take Sweets from a Stranger). I also suspect that moviegoers expected a more conventional tale of horror from Hammer Films, the home of Dracula and Frankenstein.

This one includes a truly horrifying scene near the climax as the two girls are chased in the woods and find a rowboat. They climb into it, thinking they are leaving danger behind...when they realize the boat is still tethered to the dock. Their pursuer then grabs the rope and begins to pull them in.

Without ever showing violence, Never Take Candy from a Stranger ranks as one of Hammer's most frightening films, right down to its somber conclusion.

“X” The Man With The X-Ray Eyes   (reviewed by Grand Old Movies)

Roger Corman’s unsung 1963 masterpiece, “X” The Man With The X-Ray Eyes, is a film examining cinema’s very essence—the act of seeing. As movies capture the world in visual terms, we thus experience movies as visual objects, viewed through our faculty of sight. Corman thrusts that notion right at us from his film’s first shot, a giant eyeball staring at us as we in turn stare back at it. This is how we understand what’s before us, the film seems to be saying, through our own fleshy orbs—the only pair each of us has, as one character notes. Eyes are our primary organ for taking in the world around us, and we’d better be damn careful how we use them.

Except that the film’s protagonist, Dr. James Xavier, has lost all caution in regards to his own. A medical researcher experimenting with increasing the range of vision, he’s developed a drug to expand the eyes’ ability to see light, and becomes his own guinea pig. A colleague warns him that “only the gods see everything”; “I’m closing in on the gods,” Xavier replies, and indeed he does. From seeing through paper, clothes, and then walls, he then sees through flesh (including his eyelids) and bone, into interior organs, able to diagnose disease and even impending death. But Xavier gets hooked on his drug and applies it more and more; the result, far from achieving heaven, plunges him into hell. He no longer recognizes a human being, but only “a perfect breathing dissection”; an urban metropolis appears “dissolved in an acid of light—a city of the dead.” The more Xavier sees, the more the world loses substance, evaporating into particles and atoms, into wavering light itself. He now gropes like a blind man, longing for only one thing—to again “have the dark.”

As with Xavier’s vision, Corman’s film looks beneath its low-budget, sci-fi surface, and finds mythic resonances in its anti-hero’s quest. Is Xavier a doomed Prometheus, enduring torture to bring fire to humanity, or a disobedient Adam, defying divine law in seeking knowledge? But in its hallucinatory effects and theme of expanded vision, the film also anticipates how the Sixties generation pursued mystical experience via drugs and esoteric religions. While working as a sideshow attraction Xavier masks himself with a bandanna decorated with a large, open Eye, a reference to the “third eye” that signals inner perception, beyond mere physical sight. Xavier’s irony, however, is that the more he sees, the less he knows; people, places, the world itself, have slipped away from him, leaving him in a spiritual abyss.

Yet the film’s overarching viewpoint is seemingly Biblical, especially in the famous final scene, in which Xavier staggers into a revival meeting and hears the preacher exhorting his flock to repent. Instead, Xavier proclaims his own apocalyptic vision: beyond “there are great darknesses,” he cries, but at the center he can see “the Eye that sees us all.” Has Xavier’s sight finally reached God? No answer is given; rather, the appalled reverend responds with Matthew’s advice to the lagging sinner: “And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out!” And so Xavier does, raising two bloodied sockets to our own appalled gazes. The screen swiftly goes black; then light gradually returns—or rather, waves and lines of light, through which skeletal impressions of buildings and landscapes bleed through, as if the camera now participates in Xavier’s torment, its mechanical eye imprinted with his human ones. It’s a vision of unending horror: of knowledge that can’t be unlearned, and of eyes that can’t be closed.

The Fearless Vampire Killers (1967)   (reviewed by Rick from the Classic Film & TV Cafe)

Sharon Tate as Sarah.

Whether intentional or not, The Fearless Vampire Killers comes across as a perfect parody of Hammer Films’ fangs-and-damsels formula. One’s affection for the film will depend, in part, upon familiarity with the Hammer approach. All the expected ingredients are present: attractive women in low-cut attire, a Transylvanian setting, an eerie castle, garlic hanging from the ceiling of a beer haus, a hint of eroticism, and a well-prepared vampire hunter. To this mix, Polanski adds a dash of the unexpected: a bumbling lovestruck assistant, a Jewish vampire, a gay vampire, and a darkly humorous ending.

The vampire killers of the title are Professor Abronsius (Jack MacGowran, looking like Albert Einstein with a big red nose) and his assistant Alfred (Polanski). Shortly after their arrival at a snowy Bavarian inn, a young maiden named Sarah (Sharon Tate) is kidnapped by Count Von Krolock (Ferdy Mayne). The girl’s father sets out after his daughter, but later turns up dead—the blood drained from his body. Knowing now that vampires are at work, the Professor and Alfred head toward Von Krolock’s castle to destroy the bloodsuckers.

Polanski, who had not yet directed Rosemary’s Baby, shows a genuine flair for the horror genre. There’s a masterful scene in which Sarah is taking a bath, while Von Krolock watches her through a skylight. Snow begins to float into the bath water. As Sarah looks up, the vampire crashes through the glass and bites her neck. Bath water splashes against the door suggestively and then stops. Later in the film, Polanksi stages a ghoulish scene in which vampires emerge from graves in a cemetery, still wearing their rotting clothes, as they make their way to the Midnight Ball.

Alfred tries to destroy a vampire!

As an actor, Polanksi proves himself to be a skilled comedian. He and Tate share a funny scene in which she talks about the joys of taking a bath which he misconstrues as a proposition (“Do you mind if I have a quick one?” she asks). The supporting cast has its share of comic highlights, too, especially Alfie Bass as a new vampire who wants to keep his coffin in the Krolocks’ vault (and not in the drafty barn!).

Originally, Polanski planned to cast Jill St. John as Sarah, but a producer friend introduced him to the stunning, red-haired Tate. The two were married soon after The Fearless Vampire Killers. Tate’s career was on the rise (she co-starred in the trashy but popular Valley of the Dolls) when Charles Manson and his cult murdered her in 1969.

Released as Dance of the Vampires in Britain, The Fearless Vampire Killers was trimmed nine minutes for its U.S. release. The video version is the full 107-minute film. The famous subtitle Or, Pardon Me, But Your Teeth Are in My Neck never actually appears in the film credits. (For a more in-depth review of this film by Cafe contributor Sark, click here.)

Come to “The Little Shop of Horrors” For All Your Man-Eating Plant Needs

At Mushnick’s Florist, a small flower shop on skid row, Seymour (Jonathan Haze) is an unassuming employee. To avoid losing his job, he brings in a special plant he’s been nursing. The plant, Audrey Junior -- named after Seymour’s beautiful co-worker, Audrey (Jackie Joseph) -- is frail and apparently dying. Seymour’s care seems to have no effect until that evening at the shop when, quite by accident, Seymour learns that Audrey Junior is responsive to his blood. The strange plant brings in some customers, but it quickly returns to its feeble state. Seymour considers his next move, and Audrey Junior clears up his indecision by stating bluntly, “Feed me.” That night, the lowly employee is lucky enough to happen upon an accidental death, and Audrey Junior grows in size and popularity. Meanwhile, the plant’s appeal for sustenance is vigorous and persistent, and suddenly Seymour is at a loss as to where he might find food. But let’s face it: with a sadistic dentist (John Shaner) who enjoys inflicting pain on his patients, how hard can it be?

Roger Corman’s The Little Shop of Horrors (1960) is a wonderfully diverting black comedy. Though the man-eating plant takes center stage, it’s supported by a motley cast: the customer (Dick Miller) who, as an Audrey Junior counterpart, buys flowers for consumption; Seymour’s hypochondriac mother (Myrtle Vail), whose meals are spiced and garnished with various medications; and the investigating cops, Joe Fink (Wally Campo) and Frank Stoolie (Jack Warford), who are so apathetic that Stoolie casually and coldly tells Fink that his own son has died from playing with matches -- and then lights a cigarette. Haze is quite good as Seymour, who’s passive but never measly, and his romance with Audrey is a high point of the film. Seymour’s boss, Mushnick (Mel Welles), adds even more humor to the plot, insisting that his employee call him “Dad” when Audrey Junior piques customers’ interests, but then retracting that when the plant isn’t looking well.

A number of cast members had previously worked with Corman and would work with him again. Screenwriter Charles B. Griffith, who has several smaller roles in The Little Shop of Horrors, including a would-be robber and the voice of Audrey Junior, scripted Corman’s earlier effort, A Bucket of Blood (1959), which starred Miller. However, the movie’s most famous star is Jack Nicholson, who appears in a single scene as a masochistic patient of the dentist. Even today, varying home media releases of the 1960 film will highlight Nicholson’s appearance.

The Little Shop of Horrors garnered a cult following, a status that was solidified by an Off-Broadway adaptation in 1982, written by composer Alan Menken and playwright/lyricist Howard Ashman. The production eventually moved to Broadway and was further adapted into a cinematic musical in 1986. The movie was directed by Frank Oz and starred Rick Moranis as Seymour, Ellen Greene as Audrey, and a scene-stealing Steve Martin as the dentist. Levi Stubbs, lead vocalist for the Four Tops, provided the voice of the plant, called Audrey II in the adaptations.

Roger Corman filmed The Little Shop of Horrors in two days. Corman has stated that the film’s budget was $30,000, which would make the 1986 musical’s reported $25 million budget over 800 times higher. In Corman’s 1960 original, Audrey Junior is, essentially, a mutation or some type of deformity. Its origins are a little unclear, as Seymour claims that he bought seeds from a Japanese gardener and then later defines the plant as a cross between a butterwort and a Venus Flytrap. Audrey II of the stage and film adaptation is an alien, a fact that’s nearly impossible to forget with the catchy number, “Mean Green Mother from Outer Space”.

The musicals are topnotch, but one shouldn’t negate the skill of Roger Corman. The singing and dancing rev up the comedy, but the 1960 movie was already funny, and some might argue that the original has a charm that the adaptations don’t quite match. With a shoestring budget and made in little time, The Little Shop of Horrors is a testament to Corman as a director and producer. Success isn’t predicated on the size of the production. Sometimes it only takes a little shop. And a man-eating plant.

Roger Corman Blogathon: Creating an Illusion of the Supernatural in "Tomb of Ligeia"

(This review is part of the June 17-19 Roger Corman Blogathon, hosted by Forgotten Classics of Yesteryear. Click here to check out the rest of the blogathon entries. The review below was originally written in 1979 for a film class taught by noted Hitchcock historian James Naremore. It does contain plot spoilers and assumes you’ve seen the movie. For the record, I got an A- on it…but an A for the course!)

The last of Roger Corman’s Poe adaptations, Tomb of Ligeia (1964) is generally considered the second best of the series, with top honors going to Masque of the Red Death. Yet, while Ligeia may not be as “finished” as the earlier film (to quote the New York Times review), it represents Corman channeling Hitchcock by creating a thematic cousin to Rebecca.

Adapted from a Poe short story by Robert Towne (Chinatown), Tomb of Ligeia stars Vincent Price as Verden Fell, a Victorian gentleman recovering from the death of his beloved wife Ligeia. To perhaps even his own surprise, he meets and quickly marries the strong-willed Lady Rowena (Elizabeth Shepherd) and brings her to his dilapidated country estate. Rowena quickly learns that Ligeia still maintains a hold on Verden, whether it’s through supernatural means or merely in Verden’s mind. Like the second Mrs. de Winter in Rebecca, she believes she must battle the memories—or ghost—of Ligeia in order to save her marriage. But unlike the second Mrs. de Winter, Rowena begins to worry that she is becoming Ligeia.

While the parallels with Rebecca are obvious, Hitchcock never suggested a supernatural presence. Corman, on the other hand, strives to create the illusion of it through his use of setting and narrative viewpoint. One of the most important characters in Ligeia is the abbey on Verden’s estate. In fact, the film’s title refers to the abbey, which is—in reality—the tomb of Ligeia. By treating the abbey as a character, Corman suggests that it is alive or perhaps even haunted by a ghost. There are no doors which open and close at will; Corman is more subtle than that. Instead, the abbey becomes the setting of all the “supernatural” events. As long as Verden and Rowena are outside of the abbey (e.g., on their honeymoon), they are happy. However, once they return to the decaying abbey, their happiness is shattered.

An example of the abbey’s influence is when Rowena, under Verden’s hypnotic spell, inexplicably becomes Ligeia. At first, this appears to be a supernatural occurrence, but it can also be explained by the influence of the abbey (containing memories of Ligeia) on Rowena’s subconscious mind. No matter where she goes in the abbey, Rowena is confronted by memories of Ligeia (e.g., Ligeia’s cat and portrait…shades of the dog and painting in Rebecca). In fact, the influence of the abbey and its memories are so strong that Rowena begins to dream about Ligeia.

Corman also creates a supernatural quality through his use of narrative viewpoints. Throughout Ligeia, it is difficult to discern who is telling the story and when the camera is being subjective. Corman seems to change viewpoints as the film progresses, presenting his story from four different viewpoints: third-person objective, Ligeia, Rowena, and Verden.

The film begins with a third-person narrative, as if Corman is telling the story and we are watching. This viewpoint represents the “reality” in Ligeia. There is nothing supernatural about events such as the fox hunt or Verden’s sudden appearance at the graveyard. And nothing supernatural occurs while Rowena and Verden are on their honeymoon. As long as Corman remains outside the abbey, his narrative viewpoint remains objective and realistic.

However, once Rowena enters the abbey, the film begins to change its narrative. Sometimes, it seems as if Ligeia is the camera and she is spying on Rowena and Verden. Corman's camera peeks into bedrooms and follows Rowena down the darkened hallways in long dolly shots. The camera (Ligeia) spies on Rowena and her former beau Christopher when they have breakfast on the porch. As they talk about Verden’s strange behavior, the camera zooms beyond them and to the tower. It seems as if Ligeia is laughing at them because they know nothing of her secret.

Finally, the camera also becomes subjective at several points in the film, allowing the audience to see what Rowena or Verden is seeing. This subjectivity often adds a supernatural quality to something that could be easily explained. Following the cat’s first attack on Rowena, she becomes convinced that the cat is trying to keep her away from Verden. This belief continues to the point where she believes that the cat is Ligeia. When Corman gives us a close-up of Rowena's face, then a shot of the cat, you see the cat the way Rowena does--as a creature intent on killing her. Hence, the montage scene in which Rowena runs from room to room and finds the cat waiting in each is purely subjective. Rowena imagined the cat’s movements and we saw them because she did.

A better example of this technique is in the final scene. Verden carries Rowena out of Ligeia's tower room. When he lays her on the stone floor, he sees that she has transformed into Ligeia. This would appear to be the most supernatural event in the movie: We see Verden carry out Rowena; we see him lay Ligeia down. Yet, Corman has deceived us by changing viewpoints in the scene. Verden did carry out Rowena, but she did not change into Ligeia--except in Verden’s mind. When Christopher walks into the room, we see the two lovers from his viewpoint. Verden is holding Rowena, not Ligeia (as he imagines). When Verden starts to strangle her, he too sees Rowena. But it has been Rowena all the time, because Verden imagined the transformation.

Throughout Tomb of Ligeia, Corman plays with the audience’s perceptions. He has structured his film so that it can be viewed as either a supernatural tale or a suspense drama. Corman’s dividing line between the two is a very thin one. More importantly, he has created a finely-textured film in which what we see isn’t influenced by just our own perceptions. The eye of the beholder is important, but of equal weight is the identity of the beholder. Ligeia challenges the viewer to take note of who is seeing what…as well as what they are really seeing.

Underrated Performer of the Month: Allison Hayes

Pulchritude with attitude. That's an appropriate description for B-movie actress Allison Hayes, who portrayed larger-than-life female characters on the silver screen...as in Attack of the 50-Foot Woman.

Born Mary Jane Hayes in 1930 in Charleston, West Virginia, she got her big career break when she represented Washington, DC in the 1949 Miss America Pageant. She took Allison Hayes as her professional name, worked in television, and eventually made her way to the West Coast in the early 1950s. She made her official film debut with a small part in 1954's Francis Joins the WACS. Further supporting player roles followed with costumers such as Sign of the Pagan (starring Jeff Chandler) and The Purple Mask (with Tony Curtis).

Hayes finally landed a promising role as a faded Southern belle opposite Van Heflin in the Western Count Three and Pray (1955). Unfortunately, critics focused on the film's other female star, a young Joanne Woodward. Instead of juicy parts in bigger budgeted films, Hayes got stuck in mid-grade fare like Mohawk and The Steel Jungle.

In 1956, Roger Corman provided her with a meaty role as the villain opposite gun-toting Beverly Garland in his fascinating feminist Western The Gunslinger. That same year, she played an alluring witch in another interesting Corman picture The Undead, which was filmed for $70,000 over ten days in a refurbished supermarket.

Hayes worked steadily in low-budget films and in television, often in thankless parts that capitalized on her looks. She was a promiscuous spouse who becomes a zombie in the camp classic Zombies of Mora Tau (1957).  In The Unearthly, she played alongside John Carradine as a mad scientist and Tor Johnson as his henchman (the film was later shown on MST3K).

But with her next sci fi film, Allison Hayes earned icon status as the title character in Attack of the 50-Foot Woman. She plays an alcoholic, mentally unstable wife with a crappy cheating husband. However, her life changes when she encounters an alien and begins to grow into a vengeful giant. The movie was understandably panned when originally released. But it acquired a cult reputation over the years, thanks to Ms. Hayes' no holds barred performance and the fantastic concept. My only problem with the film: Even with her emotional baggage, it's hard to fathom how any husband could cheat on Hayes' character. She is way hotter than Yvette Vickers as the "other woman."

In the 1960s, Hayes worked mostly in television. She appeared on Perry Mason five times with friend Raymond Burr (who co-starred in Count Three and Pray). Health problems, possibly related to lead poisoning, caused her to retire from acting by the late 1960s. She died of leukemia in 1977; she was only 46.

31 Days of Halloween: Yes, It's Murder... But Is It Art? Roger Corman's A Bucket of Blood

Walter Paisley (Dick Miller) is a busboy at The Yellow Door, a cafe frequented by self-proclaimed artists, pompous poets and the like. Walter is usually mocked by the arrogant crowd as he serves them their espressos. He would like to be an artist himself, telling whoever will listen that he's "working on something." One evening, he heads to his lowly apartment and tries to mold clay into a piece of art. Uninspired and unable to create a sculpture, the disheartened man gives up. When his landlady's lost cat begins to meow, somehow stuck inside the wall, Walter drives a knife through the drywall, inadvertently killing the feline. He removes the cat's body and suddenly has an idea.

The next day, Walter presents to the people at The Yellow Door his first sculpted piece, called Dead Cat. Not surprisingly, the cafe patrons love it, and the busboy is finally given respect. One woman, enamored by Walter and his work, hands him a tiny bottle to take with him. Unfortunately, an undercover cop witnesses what he believes is a drug deal, and he arrives at Walter's place, demanding to know the name of his supplier. Walter's resistance leads the officer to pull his gun, and Walter reacts by swinging a pan at the man's head. The budding artist works this in his favor, creating Murdered Man, which he proudly displays for Lou, the cafe owner, and Carla, the object of Walter's affection. No longer a busboy, Walter is enjoying admiration from others and his flourishing popularity. But it isn't long before people are demanding a new masterpiece from the artist, leaving Walter with few options.

Director Roger Corman is well known for his low-budget B-movies, having helmed such classics as X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes (1963) and, perhaps his most famous, The Little Shop of Horrors (1960), which enjoyed future success as a Broadway musical and a film adaptation in 1986. A Bucket of Blood (1959) is one of his earlier features, and in spite of the budget and time restraints, Corman made a witty and memorable horror movie. Some may categorize A Bucket of Blood as a black comedy, but Corman presents the humor in a gleefully subtle fashion. When one particular woman scoffs at the idea of the busboy sitting at their table and claiming to be an artist, she then offers her services as a model, asking if Walter would like "to do" her. "I just might," he replies. When Lou begins to suspect what Walter is doing, he hears the news vendor calling out the day's headline of a vicious murder, right before Walter produces his latest sculpture. Corman even incorporates a literal interpretation of the title!

Corman specialized in films of low budgets as a director and producer -- he wrote a book entitled How I Made a Hundred Movies in Hollywood and Never Lost a Dime. Many directors who worked with Corman moved on to successful films careers, such as Martin Scorsese, who directed Boxcar Bertha (1972), and Francis Ford Coppola, who made Dementia 13 (1963). Other filmmakers who began by working with Roger Corman include James Cameron, Ron Howard, Jonathan Demme, Peter Bogdanovich and Joe Dante. Jack Nicholson's film debut was the Corman-produced The Cry Baby Killer in 1958. In addition to The Little Shop of Horrors, Nicholson also acted in two other films directed by Corman, The Terror and The Raven (both 1963).

Roger Corman could make films fast and efficiently (hence, the reason he was able to boast about "never losing a dime"). But his movies, whether he directed or produced, do not typically feel like products off an assembly line. There are gifted crew members behind the camera. Corman has proven himself numerous times as a director, but one cannot deny his aptness in the producer's chair as well, with so many of his proteges attaining future success. His films may not be embraced by the mainstream, but the world of cinema would most certainly not be the same without Roger Corman.

A Bucket of Blood was remade in 1995 for the Showtime network, starring Anthony Michael Hall as Walter and Justine Bateman as Carla. It was also co-written and directed by Michael McDonald -- who would later achieve fame on the Fox sketch comedy series, MADtv -- and was subsequently released on video as The Death Artist.