One of the most mistaken assumptions is that artists have it easy. Sure, it sounds awesome. You get to sit around in your pajamas all day, chasing your muse and watching or reading whatever catches your attention, all in the name of “research.” But then you have to actually do the work. You have to create. You have to deliver the goods. You have to make something out of nothing. And therein lies the rub. Take it from me—inspiration isn’t always enough. Sometimes, you need a little something extra to motivate you. Writer/director/actress Rachel Grubb obviously knows this. Her new film, Why Am I in a Box?, is a look at artists who need, shall we say, extreme motivation. And they get it. Boy, do they get it.
Ellen Farnsby (Rachel Grubb) is a writer. Well, she wants to be a writer. Her boyfriend, Ted (Mike Rylander), is a writer too. Well, he wants to be a writer too. Jeremy (Derek Dirlam), who has a crush on Ellen, is a filmmaker. Well, he wants to be a filmmaker. All that’s keeping these artists from creating a masterpiece is themselves. That’s where Paige (Brooke Lemke) comes in. Paige wants to be a writer, but she knows her limits. Rather than torture herself with delusions of grandeur, she’d much rather torture someone else. So, one day she kidnaps Ellen and locks her away in a room, demanding Ellen write a novel. Think of Paige as the ultimate patron. She’s willing to provide Ellen with everything she needs to create—especially inspiration. See, if Paige doesn’t like what Ellen writes, Ellen will die. And as proof of her commitment, Paige presents the severed finger of a former protégé. How’s that for inspiration? It’s certainly enough for Ellen, who begins writing for her life, while the men in her life begin trying to save her life…that is, when they’re not trying to create their own works of art—because, really, what’s more important: life or art?
Grubb has given us a movie that, severed limbs aside, bears more relation to the mumblecore films of Andrew Bujalski than to standard-issue fright flicks—call it “mumblehorror” if you will. This quirky black comedy rambles along at its own pace, finding its rhythm as it goes. But that’s all part of its charm. Another part of its charm is the performances of its cast. While some of the players are a bit uneven, all of the principals are very good. For me, the standout is Derek Dirlam. As Jeremy, he demonstrates the charisma and chops necessary to easily carry a big-budget, mainstream project. Speaking of budget, Grubb has delivered a flick that, quality-wise, is head and shoulders above other low-budget indie horror films. Why Am I in a Box? looks and, more surprisingly, sounds wonderful. That’s quite an achievement for a first-time director working with limited funds.
Ms. Grubb began her career with plans to become a novelist. Along the way, she got sidetracked. With Why Am I in a Box?, she’s been able to cleverly exorcise those authorial demons. Hopefully, she has a little left over in her toolbox for her next flick. Maybe something about a slacker actress that gets some much-needed motivation from an overzealous director? Ooh, that’s good. I think I’ll write my own screenplay—right after I finish watching this Project Runway marathon.
~Theron Neel
Well, we made it. It’s the last stop on Slammed & Damned’s whirlwind European tour. We’ve seen four Euro horror films in four days. And while we haven’t seen all that much of Europe, we have seen four very different styles of Euro horror. First, it was 
The film Baba Yaga is based on a graphic novel of the same name by Italian comics artist Guido Crepax, who came to prominence in the 1960s and ‘70s and was known for his fluid illustrations and erotic, hallucinatory storytelling. Though he’s not a household name, he has been covertly influential over the years. If you’ve seen Frank Miller’s Sin City books, you’ve seen Crepax.
Director Corrado Farina set out to interpret Crepax’s work into the medium of film and he did a good job—maybe too good of a job. What works on the comic page doesn’t necessarily work on the screen. Crepax’s stories and images are surreal dreamscapes that are highly impressionistic and often lack a strong plot line. In his work, it’s not the tale that’s important; what matters is how it’s told. Farina employed the same philosophy in making Baba Yaga, but the demands of commercial film (and his producers) required a somewhat straightforward narrative be imposed. So, Farina wrapped his basic tale in bizarre imagery and visual non sequiturs that are faithful to Crepax but don’t have much relation to traditional film grammar and syntax. The end result is a bit of a mess. But it’s a Euro-fabulous mess that can be a lot of fun if you approach it on its own terms. Also, don’t expect much horror in this horror movie. It’s not scary, just stylish. But that’s enough for me. I choose to view it as a time capsule—one that includes a groovy score as well as a leather-clad killer sex doll. (See what I did? If you were on the fence, I know you want to see it now.) Check out the NSFW trailer below for a taste of Baba Yaga’s sado-delights.
Here we are on day three of Slammed & Damned’s 
Kill, Baby…Kill! is a wonderful film and an excellent example of what’s great about Mario Bava as a filmmaker. It’s interesting to step back and view this film in context of the times in which it was made. In the mid-sixties, Britain’s Hammer Studios was making solid, Gothic horror flicks, while in America, Roger Corman was doing the same through American International Pictures. Over in Italy, Bava was making similar films, but he brought a level artistic skill that far surpassed that of his peers. Kill, Baby…Kill! is full of what we love about Bava: artful compositions, expert utilization of shadow and light, an active camera, surprising use of color. Watching this movie today, it’s easy to see the line connecting Bava and Dario Argento, who seems to have picked up where Bava left off—maybe more so than Bava’s son, Lamberto, who acts here as his father’s assistant director.
Welcome to the second stop on Slammed & Damned’s European tour. Yesterday, 
Cut (ahem) to 40 years later. There’s a maniac running loose on a Boston university campus, cutting up coeds with a chainsaw and taking pieces of the bodies. We know the killer is the little boy because we see him reassembling the now bloody puzzle from the opening scene. But who is he? Is he a student? Is he the groundskeeper? Is he a professor or maybe the dean? Soon, the police are called in. Apparently, the Boston police department only has two detectives, and they might well be the most incompetent detectives in movie history. But they mean well and everyone respects them. Eventually, the case is solved, but not before the murderer has bloodily chopped up several coeds and collected enough body parts to assemble a human nudie puzzle. The end?
I love this movie so much, but where to begin? Let’s break it down. First, the score of this flick is fantastic. It’s like a character all its own. One minute, it’s moody Goblin-like electro sound effects; the next minute, it’s cheesy ‘70s porn music. But it’s always perfect. Awesome! Next, this killer isn’t your usual maniac. He seems to also be the invisible man. This guy strolls around campus in broad daylight wearing a trench coat, a suspicious black fedora pulled low, clumsily hiding his chainsaw behind his back—and no one notices. Awesome! Next, because the police force is so understaffed, the lead detective (‘70s hunk Christopher George) calls in an amateur to work undercover. But not just any amateur. He calls in former world-famous tennis pro Mary Riggs (‘70s fox Linda Day George), who happens to have retired to a desk job in the police station. Awesome!
Speaking of Linda Day George, she has maybe the best scene in the movie. After finding the bloody corpse of a young girl, she’s so upset that she stands waving her clenched fists and looking at the sky, screaming “Bastard! Bastard! (beat) BASTARD!!!” It’s so deliciously awful, I had to stop and watch it twice. Awesome! Add to that the aforementioned aerobic dancewear that seems to appear every few minutes, as well as a kung fu attack that comes out of nowhere for no reason other than to have a kung fu attack in the movie, and you just have one of the best worst flicks ever committed to film. But it’s not all bad. If Pieces gets anything right, it’s the kills. There are several bloody, stylish murders here. So, if you’re watching and scratching your head at some incongruous plot point, just wait a few minutes. You’ll be rewarded with a slo-mo stabbing on a water bed or something cool like that.
So, with Pieces, the filmmakers have given us one of the worst films I’ve ever seen, and in so doing, one of the best films I’ve ever seen. I’m still not sure how they did it, but I really don’t care. I’m just glad it exists.
We kick off 
Meanwhile, a tour bus full of seven sightseers (the usual varied group of clichéd characters from European Central Casting) is tooling around the German forest, seeing the sites (which seem to be, umm, trees). The tour bus hits a roadblock, but the driver is advised by an über-creepy farmer to head to—say it with me—the Baron’s castle, which he does (of course). After they arrive, it soon becomes über-clear that the seven people on the bus represent the seven deadly sins, though some of them are sketched more broadly than others. It was über-easy to identify lust, gluttony, greed and pride. But all the others just seemed to be über-whiny, which isn’t a deadly sin though it probably should be. But I über-digress.
The only actors I’ll mention by name are Erika Blanc, who plays the succubus, and Daniel Emilfork, who plays Satan. Blanc is an Italian actress known for her work in horror flicks of the period. She’s quite good as Lita, prowling around in revealing clothes and tempting people to their doom. Her makeup in Devil’s Nightmare is an interesting choice. She’s gorgeous as she tempts people, but when they die she looks like, well, a green current-day Faye Dunaway. Emilfork is one of those actors you know you’ve seen somewhere. I finally realized I knew him from the cool French film The City of Lost Children. Here, all he has to do is sit around looking mysterious, and he nails it.
I just finished watching the wonderful 1980 horror flick 
Though it was also released in 1980, Motel Hell is ‘70s horror through and through. With more focus on story and style than blood and guts, director Kevin Connor has given us the charming tale of Farmer Vincent (Rory Calhoun) and his little sister Ida (Nancy Parsons). They run a little hotel in rural California called Motel Hello, though the constantly flickering “O” lends the film its ironic name. Vincent and Ida have a booming side business selling home-made smoked meats. Everyone agrees they are the best in the land and taste like nothing they’ve ever had. That’s because Vincent uses no preservatives and mixes in a secret ingredient: human flesh.
With his overalls and mane of white hair, you’d never think Vincent was a serial killer. At their core, he and the eccentric Ida are down-home country folk, and their work ethic proves it. Most nights, you’ll find them out booby-trapping the nearby country roads, hoping to cause car accidents. When they do, they drag the injured people back to their farm, sever the unlucky victims’ vocal cords and plant them up to their necks in the “secret garden.” They leave them there, curing, until they’re deemed ready, and then Vincent and Ida grind them up and mix them into their smoked pork sausage. An old-fashioned, God-fearing gentleman, Vincent is convinced he’s doing the Lord’s work, both feeding the hungry and slowing down overpopulation.
The next morning, Vincent and Ida’s baby brother, Bruce (Paul Linke), stops by. Bruce is the local sheriff, and he takes a shine to Terry. But Terry only has eyes for Vincent. She falls in love with her farmer in shining armor and agrees to marry him. This causes the jealous Sheriff Bruce to do some detective work. I won’t spoil the ending, but I will leave you with this awesome teaser: a chainsaw battle between Sheriff Bruce and a man wearing a pig’s head—yes, that’s right, two pigs fighting it out. This image is a nice example of the unexpectedly subtle humor in Motel Hell. Besides being a smart visual pun, it’s also a nice nod to Leatherface and The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. The filmmakers even manage to work in a clever reference to George Romero’s zombies.
Another thing that grounds this flick in the ‘70s is the number of fantastic supporting players from that period who appear. Though not well known today, people like the adorable Elaine Joyce, appearing as a zany swinger looking for a party, and the legendary DJ Wolfman Jack, playing a televangelist, were household names back in the Me Decade.
As I’ve 
The simple, pastoral life in Evan’s City, Pennsylvania, is totally destroyed when a government-engineered biological weapon is accidentally detonated outside of town. An extremely contagious virus, code-named Trixie, has been released. When a person catches “the bug,” as it’s called, the best-case prognosis is incurable, violent insanity. Before the townsfolk know what’s happening, their sleepy little hamlet has been invaded by the army and martial law has been declared. Though the government hopes to find an antidote, it’s quietly understood that the whole town will most likely be destroyed to contain the contagion. As the public panics and begins to fight back, it becomes harder and harder for the occupying troops to tell who is and isn’t infected.
All the performances are good, some hammier than others, but one sticks out. I keep thinking about Lynn Lowry’s delicate portrayal of Kathy, a young hippie chick that is so innocent and caring, no one can tell whether she’s crazy or sane. Lowry, most recently seen in 
Normally, movies so “of their time” seem dated when viewed decades later, but The Crazies manages to sidestep this hurdle because its themes have modern-day parallels. Events such as the massacre at Ruby Ridge, the rise of AIDS and the betrayals of a corrupt, uncaring government (sadly, that one never goes out of style) can now be read in to the flick. Perhaps that’s why it’s been remade recently (a new version of The Crazies is due next month). I haven’t been following it, but I’ll be interested to see what they do with Romero’s template. It shouldn’t take much tinkering to make the story relevant for today’s audience.
While Romero definitely is the zombie guy, he’s also an artist. Now, an artist does more than bring form to chaos; he observes the world and interprets it for us in such a way that we see truths that otherwise might not be glimpsed. In the cinematic arts, a happy ending is usually tacked on to allow us to feel better about the world. But here, Romero is not that filmmaker. He seems fed up, and it shows. The Crazies is a cynical, bitter film by an artist with vision who has finally seen too much and is intent on telling us so. That’s a good thing…isn’t it?
In 
While Sgt. Howie is a chaste and pious man, he is only human and his attraction to the innkeeper’s beautiful daughter (Britt Ekland) tests his convictions. She flaunts her sexuality and makes her desire for him quite clear. This leads to a long dark night of the soul for our hero, from which he emerges virtue (barely) intact. Luckily, he has his case to focus on. As he searches for the missing girl, it becomes obvious the whole populace of Summerisle is involved in a plot to cover up her disappearance. The deeper Sgt. Howie delves, the more he’s convinced the girl is to be offered as a human sacrifice at the upcoming May Day festival. As he races against time to locate and save her, the villagers seemingly do all they can to stop him. But has Sgt. Howie become so distracted by his sense of duty that he doesn’t see what’s actually happening? Will Howie’s faith save the day or be the cause of his downfall?
Of course, none of this would work if the actors couldn’t sell it. Edward Woodward makes Sgt. Howie a study in contradictions, communicating viscerally the battle between Howie’s intellect and desire. Britt Ekland’s appearance as the innkeeper’s daughter has received much attention over the years, though it’s hard to appraise her dramatic ability because all her dialogue has been dubbed by another actress. But when she begins her infamous nude dance, she ably fulfills her role as Sgt. Howie’s temptation. Sir Christopher Lee’s portrayal of Lord Summerisle is my favorite performance in the film. Though Lord Summerisle seems to be running the island as his own personal work camp, Lee makes him a charming mod hipster who actually seems to believe the heretical twaddle he spouts, especially when it serves his interests.
That 1973 was a much different time is driven home brutally by viewing Neil LaBute’s 2006 remake of this flick, starring Nicolas Cage. It’s mystifying that two such different films could be made of the same story. (If you don’t believe me, check out the two vids below.) To watch the original version of The Wicker Man today is to travel back to a bygone era, much like Sgt. Howie does when he lands on Summerisle—but be assured, it’s a trip worth taking.
Everyone knows horror is cyclical. We latch onto one monster, wring all we can out of it and move on to the next. These days, it’s vampires—Asian vampire priests, sexy Southern vampires, brooding teen vampires. Just a couple of years ago, it was zombies—slow zombies, fast zombies, droll British zombies. One could say vampires are the new zombies. I suppose I and everyone else thought filmmakers had done everything possible with the zombie trend. But I just received a screener of a film directed by J.T. Seaton called George’s Intervention, and it made me realize we were wrong. There was one very funny angle that hadn’t been explored.
George’s Intervention is like an extremely entertaining piece of candy—part drawing room farce and part murder mystery, all covered in a bloody good zombie coating. The laughs begin subtly but start piling up as fast as the bodies in George’s basement. And George’s friends aren’t the only ones on the menu. People start to drop by to drop dead. Let’s see, there are Mormons, salesmen, neighbors, strippers. I mean, what’s a not-so-highly-functioning zombie to do?
It’s funny—although George is a zombie, he seems much less troubled than the people demanding he needs help. Maybe George’s Intervention is deeper than it seems. Maybe it’s really a message movie, a plea for understanding and tolerance. Nah, who am I kidding. Any flick in which the lead character gnaws off a man’s gore-covered leg is a zombie movie, plain and simple. Any flick in which the zombie then finds reason to beat the man with the gnawed-off leg is a comedy. George’s Intervention allows both to occur, and I ask you: What else could you possibly want from a movie?
Art reflects the human experience, and film is art—at least, it is occasionally. We go to the movies to see idealized and stylized depictions of our world. And let’s face it, we live in a violent world. Violence has long been an important element of cinema. It’s a primal, visceral part of the human experience, and because of that it almost demands to be filmed. But once that happens, violence becomes commodified. This brings up several moral and ethical concerns for those that ponder such things. One of the better films I’ve seen that ponders such things is Tomorrow By Midnight, writer/director Rolfe Kanefsky’s 1999 thriller, which due to its touchy subject matter remains unreleased in the U.S.
If this all sounds a bit heavy for entertainment, don’t worry. Kanefsky makes his points but never lets them get in the way of what he’s crafted: a compelling thriller filled with amusing characters and intense situations. Film buffs will love much of the dialogue, which is filled with insider references to films and directors.