THE 'TEEN WOLF' SERIES (1985-1987)

Every decade of filmdom can be easily defined by some if its choicest titles. Say the 1970s, you might think The Godfather, or Taxi Driver, or Apocalypse Now. Say the 1990s, you might say The Silence of the Lambs or The Cable Guy (haw haw). But say the 1980s, and the titles are seemingly endless. Never before has a decade been so reinforced by its penchant for excess and absurdism, along with the pop culture it created. The 1980s…where to start. The Breakfast Club. Back to the Future. Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

And oh yes, Teen Wolf, that odd parable about boys becoming men and getting hair in places they didn’t have before, or noticing girls and wanting to go in closets with them, is one of the most ‘80s films that the ‘80s ever happened to. The music (James House!), the fashions (I wear my sunglasses indoors!), the hair (wolf and non-wolf alike!) – Teen Wolf wasn’t just made during the ‘80s, but it’s of the ‘80s; it is the ‘80s: when films were daring in their willingness to be stupid on purpose, and when two guy friends could call each other “fag” in the comfort of their own van. Yes, the 1980s were king.

Teen Wolf was one of the first somewhat genre-oriented films to embrace the “coming of age” aesthetic that was in its infant stage of becoming a go-to trope: an adolescent experiencing a physical, emotional, or mental renaissance that would see them transitioning from childhood to adulthood. Teen Wolf boasted one of the more outlandish approaches to “coming of age,” comparing puberty and sexual awakening to literally becoming the Wolf Man, but amusingly the film actually does a good job of slowly introducing this concept. NASA-sized suspensions of disbelief are required less for the fact that this is happening, but more for the notion that everyone at school seems totally cool with this. During minute one, there’s Scott the Boy: he sucks and everyone hates him. During minute two, there’s Scott the Wolf and he’s an instant fucking legend. Alan Turing had to create the modern computer system, get chemically castrated for being gay, commit cyanide suicide, and STILL wait fifty years before the masses cheered for him. Scott Howard The Wolf only needed thirty seconds during a single basketball period.

Societal progress!

Teen Wolf, silly though it may be, is essential ‘80s cinema. It’s not the best that the decade has to offer, but it certainly embodies the decade much better than other films from the same era that one might argue are better made. 

As usual, Teen Wolf Too falls victim to the comedy sequel: it strives to hit the same comedic beats, follow the same path, etc. It’s not quite as derivative as Airplane 2: The Sequel, which literally recycled every good joke from the original, but it’s very close. However, while it’s bad enough that Teen Wolf Too seems totally fine reveling in redundancy, therein lies an additional problem which basically torpedoes Teen Wolf Too right from the start: Jason Batemen, who fills in for Michael J. Fox as the new Scott Howard.

After toiling in 1990s obscurity following the end of the Brat Pack era (he was nearly cast in Freddy vs. Jason – for serious) and enjoying a career resurgence thanks to the brilliant Arrested Development, Batemen has been back in full force enjoying many different manners of films and television: acting, writing, and directing. As a comedic voice, his talent is immense, and as a dramatic one, he’s surprisingly nuanced and mature. But all that aside, one thing remains: guy plays an excellent dick. Following his semi-dick role of Michael Bluth, he’s transitioned into many other film roles where he…plays more of a dick, with a biting sense of humor and a sharp tongue. Some people are naturally capable of this, in the same way other people are naturally capable of the exact opposite. When one thinks of Michael J. Fox, Marty McFly comes to mind – America’s wholesome, plucky boy next door – someone who will take your daughter’s virginity, but be lovably flustered about it the whole time. When one thinks of Jason Batemen, your mind fills with a dick, complete with snide smile and really nice sweater. Ergo, opting to have Batemen fill in as Scott Howard for this go-round results in his turning the character into kind of a dick. And it’s not just his performance that’s to blame, either, but also the script, which is intent on pursuing a kind of Dickensian (pun not intended but I’ll take it) reformation story that sees Howard starting off shy, becoming a dick, but then re-embracing his humanity again by film’s end. Along the way he’ll excel at sports, woo the girl, isolate and then win back his best boy chum, and befriend Kim Darby – a page torn from the journal of our own lives.

Teen Wolf Too is a weak sequel – generally bandied about on those “worst sequels of all time” lists that movie sites love to run. And, frankly speaking, it deserves to be there. Its plot is recycled, its conflict redundant, and its lead is unlikable. Except for a single fun montage set to Oingo Boingo, this sequel will leave you howling in pain haw haw sorry. (If you want to check out the REAL sequel to Teen Wolf, then locate the nearest copy of Teen Witch, stat.)

THE MIND'S EYE (2015)

The ’80s are back. What’s resurrected this era formerly mocked at every opportunity by the following decades will always remain a mystery — we could, perhaps, look at the increasingly complicated world around us and think that the ’80s were a simpler time populated by fellow humans who were easily comprehendable, but we’ll simply never know what’s kickstarted this recent wave of retro callbacks. It took Stranger Things for the movement to go mainstream, but — at least in the horror genre — the ’80s have been back for a while now.

Part of that movement is writer/director Joe Beggos, whose 2013 science fiction/horror hybrid Almost Human was made to honor that ’80s era of John Carpenter and other, more trashy video store fare — you know, the kinds that came in those extra large VHS cases. While not a particularly good film, it at least was an admirable one — made on a low budget and employing only practical, in-camera effects.

Much of the same team has returned for Beggos’ second feature, The Mind’s Eye, which this time is honoring ’80s-era David Cronenberg, very notably Scanners, along with Firestarter-era Stephen King. Made with the same spirit of Almost Human, the plot is very reminiscent of Cronenberg’s 1981 head-exploder, but tinged in a more simplistic grindhouse/EC Comics vibe. Whereas Cronenberg’s Scanners, as well as his other early “body horror” films had something philosophical to say about a variety of issues, be it politics, the self, or the even the sexual revolution, The Mind’s Eye doesn’t have much to offer beyond, “His WHOLE head came off!” And that’s fine. Not every trip into the horror genre need be rife with a social message or satire. Sometimes it’s okay that a film is just a violent, primary-colored romp into over-the-topness, and that, most definitely, The Mind’s Eye is.

Graham Skipper, who portrays unofficial scanner Zack Connors, and who looks too much like Brooklyn 99's Joe Lo Truglio, takes on an outlandish character within the outlandish confines of The Mind’s Eye and does as convincing a job as anyone possibly could have. Some of the dialogue he’s forced to render is unbearably silly, and one gets the impression even he feels silly having to say it, which can hinder his performance somewhat.

His scanner-girlfriend, Rachel (Lauren Ashley Carter), however, offers a shaky performance — one that tears you away from whatever intrigue The Mind’s Eye manages to establish. Forgiving that the absurd elements of the plot make it difficult to suspend disbelief, Carter has trouble making it feel real. She seems to be concentrating so hard on making her character believable that her sheer insistence is what calls out her performance is disingenuous.

Noah Segan, who has turned up in a nice helping of solid horror fare over the years (Deadgirl; Starry Eyes), offers a nice turn as Travis Levine, a Snake Plissken-eyed protege of sorts who serves as a henchmen with some scanning abilities of his own. Though his character is underused and proves somewhat ineffective by the end of his art, Segan once again proves he’s a fun actor to watch in films with out-there concepts.

And then there’s John Speredakos as Dr. Slovak, who offers a perfectly serviceable take on the villain until the end of the second act, during which he turns super-villain, at which point his performance goes from “prick” to “utterly, off the charts insane.” Seething, dripping, and echo-voiced (okay, that part makes no sense, but it just makes you appreciate an already hammy film even more), this version of Slovak bears his teeth like a fleshless skull at every possible instance. The sheer lunacy of this character transformation and the performance it inspires is one of the highlights that The Mind’s Eye offers.

By film’s end, in which the good guy and bad guy are making constipated faces at each other while covered in sweat as the camera shakes to make you feel the intensity, that feeling of “how seriously should I take this?” continues to be called into question,. If you want to take it seriously, fine — just watch it for all the cheese — but if you’d rather just enjoy The Mind’s Eye for what it is, you’re probably better off. Because it’s in watching The Mind’s Eye that you question just how much Beggos was in on the joke. Strictly as an ’80s-styled horror romp (except for the First Blood-style opening, which is very ’70s), he has succeeded quite easily, when keeping in mind that many, many horror films from the ’80s weren’t that good. But when there’s a sequence which cuts between Zack and Rachel having sex (in a variety of ways) with Dr. Slovak injecting himself, quite violently, with a syringe of magic scanner juice, it does leave you wondering — is Beggos having fun with us, or is he taking all this just a bit too seriously? I’d like to point to all the exploding heads and dummies being ripped in half as evidence to the latter, but the air of sincerity prevalent throughout The Mind’s Eye wants to suggest otherwise.

Though channeling Cronenberg and King, director Joe Beggos doesn’t miss the chance to slather The Mind’s Eye in Argento-style primary coloring, especially during the third act. It results in a wildly chaotic but beautiful image. The standout star of The Mind’s Eye, however, is the electronic musical score by Steve Moore, who previously provided similar sounds for The Guest, Mayhem, and Cub over the last couple years. If you were ever in doubt just how much an effective musical score can make or break a film, Moore proves it with The Mind’s Eye, and the movie wisely makes the score front and center in every possible scene. 

Issues aside, I enjoyed The Mind’s Eye. Inconsistent performances and an uneven tone aside, there’s a lot to admire, most of which has to do with Beggos’ style as a director and his insistence on employing practical effects whenever possible. When one character in particular is levitated into the air before being split entirely in half in a beautiful gooey red shower of blood and guts, I was smiling ear to ear. And that makes me sound like a psychopath, but really it’s because this is what the ’80s were about: excess. Having said that, ’80s this is, but Stranger Things this ain’t.

DISCO GODFATHER (1979)

As far as I’m concerned, the Blaxploitation movement can be divided into two parts: the normal ones, and the ones with Rudy Ray Moore. The singer/musician/comedian/actor/producer and all-around jack-of-all-trades was one of the most famous faces in Blaxploitation – one whose Dolemite persona would launch a reasonably well known career. Previously and hilariously described as “a uniquely articulate pimp,” Moore’s creation of Dolemite, whose penchant for long, rhyming diatribes belted in his halting voice, would go on to create a post-Blaxploitation iconic rhythm and sound that would remain with the genre even after his death in 2008. (The character of Bullhorn in 2009’s surprise cult hit Black Dynamite, for instance, was heavily inspired by Moore’s unforgettable tenor, and can be heard as the trailer’s narrator.)

And it wasn’t just Rudy Ray Moore’s presence that made his run of films, including The Human Tornado, Petey Whitestraw, and this, Disco Godfather, so successful, but it was that Moore had the foresight to play the concepts of nearly all of them completely straight. Though The Human Tornado betrays this just a bit, relying more on comedy than the film it’s sequelizing, Dolemite, Moore’s filmography was grounded on playing the title character whose prestige and adoration could have only existed in the world of fiction. Thirty years before Will Ferrell would find similar but much more mainstream fame in playing comedic ego-maniacal characters, Moore was a kung-fu fighting, lady-bedding, rhyme-shouting “uniquely articulate pimp” who could garner the kinds of laughs that leave you wondering if he’s being serious or not. With multiple opportunities seized to show off his not-great body in a manner suggesting he boasted the same physique as Black Belt Jones’ Jim Kelly, or to engage in very poorly choreographed fight scenes, Moore is a constant on-screen force who elevates material either admittedly well worn or absolutely unique. (Disco Godfather is definitely the latter.)

Disco Godfather would not only serve as Moore’s last leading performance of the 1980s, but also serve as the most befuddling and odd film of his career. A drug-scare film baked on high in the Blaxploitation oven, Moore plays the titular character (literally called “Mr. Disco” or “Mr. Godfather” by others) as a righteous discotheque/club owner who sees his promising basketball-playing nephew fall victim to the newest drug on the streets – angel dust – which causes the poor lad to suffer hallucinations in which demonic nuns growl through fangs and cut off his arms with a machete. If you’re thinking, “that sounds hilariously outlandish,” that’s because it is – and again, none of this is played for laughs, but it’s beautifully tempting to theorize that perhaps Moore and his crew had discovered the joys of what’s known as the straight-faced comedy long before anyone else. The earnestness of the writing and performances and, to be fair, the poor filmmaking, are what make Disco Godfather, and Dolemite before it, so infectiously entertaining. And regardless of the inspiration, let’s not forget that, putting aside the sheer insanity, Disco Godfather proudly boasts a strong anti-drug message, showing its users as straitjacket bound in mental asylums or being spiritually torn apart by red-eyed demons. Yes, again, the film surrounding this message is absolutely absurd, but at least it was about something.

Blaxploitation sub-genre aside, Disco Godfather is a relic of its time for another reason: the soundtrack. Disco Godfather wants to get out there and make it sound good, can you dig it? Sooo much disco is on hand throughout — disco music, disco sequences, disco lifestyle, and disco flava. Probably half of the film’s 90-minute running time is dedicated to scenes of people dancing disco and Moore encouraging — nay, insisting — that they “put more weight on it.” One particular dance sequence lasts a staggering nine minutes, which sees Mr. Godfather’s club patrons dancing disco the only way they know how – discoey – as Moore DJs in the background and urges them to keep dancing. It’s just the tops.

If you’re new to the Blaxploitation movement, I think it would be wise to check in with Foxy Brown, Black Caesar, and even Truck Turner to get a feel for the genre before you dive headlong into the wild world of Rudy Ray Moore. His face, voice, and schtick are very familiar if you “get it” and enjoy that world, but to those with just a cursory knowledge of the genre, he likely won’t come off familiar. (The poor asshole doesn’t even have a photo on his IMDb filmography.) 

Blaxploitation offers its own charm and definitely its own way of doing things, and it’s best to settle in and find your groove before your whole world explodes upon your first high-kick to the face from Dolemite’s platform shoes. To emphatically discover that Disco Godfather had been purposely constructed as a straight-faced comedy would certainly show that Rudy Ray Moore was far more deserving of accolades for his abilities as a comedic performer, but sometimes it’s just more tempting to believe something like Disco Godfather was never driving for laughs, but ended up there anyway.

WHAT TO DO IF YOU WAKE UP AT 3 A.M. AND THERE'S A COWBOY STANDING IN YOUR ROOM

INCONSIDERATE LOOMIS

TERMINATOR: DARK FATE (2019)

[Contains spoilers for the Terminator series.]

Following the first round of advanced screenings for Terminator: Dark Fate, there were, understandably, mixed opinions, though all of them echoed one general reaction: it was “the best Terminator sequel since Terminator 2: Judgment Day.” The major studios behind Dark Fate’s production, Paramount Pictures and 20th Century Fox, were probably ecstatic at this pull quote, because nothing sells a sequel better than a close association with the originals in terms of quality and audience expectations (see 2018’s Halloween). That new car smell wears off pretty quickly, however, once you realize making a Terminator sequel that’s better than all the non-Cameron sequels isn’t that high of a bar. Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines was occasionally okay, even if it was nothing more than a soft retread of Judgment Day that mostly felt made for television. Terminator: Salvation had interesting ideas but was plagued with major script rewrites to cater to Christian Bale’s interest in playing John Connor, whose status as a cameo was beefed up to a major role following his involvement, and which threw off the tenor of the story. Then came Terminator: Genisys, which, holy shit, I don’t even know. I just know that it was dreadful, not helped by its lame PG-13 rating. By then, general audiences seemed very over the franchise, so even when it was announced that a new sequel was going into production that would retcon every sequel since Judgment Day, be directed by Deadpool’s Tim Miller, bring back Arnold Schwarzenegger, and also see the return of creator James Cameron in a consultant/producer role, the Internet barely cared. However, when it was revealed that Linda Hamilton, gone from the franchise since Judgment Day, would also be returning, the Internet finally raised an eyebrow. It would seem there was still interest after all.

Those initial reactions were right: Terminator: Dark Fate is, indeed, the best Terminator sequel since Judgment Day. It’s also an underwhelming effort that squanders the opportunity to wipe the slate clean in this franchise’s second attempt at a cinematic “okay, for serious this time…,” which it had previously wasted on Genisys. It also squanders the return of Linda Hamilton as the legendary Sarah Connor by misusing her character thanks to the very unexpected story changes that rock the established mythos – not because it was needed, but because it was easier than continuing the story arcs for every character left standing at the end of Judgment Day. The opening scene, utilizing the best use of de-aging techniques I’ve seen yet (seriously, one might think they were deleted scenes from Judgment Day’s production), is staged to be a shocker when a Terminator wearing Arnold’s face waltzes on screen and kills young John Connor. The sequence is meant to conjure the realization that shit’s about to get real. And it does—while also asking fans to make the hugest leap yet in terms of retconning a story by asking them to accept a major change in the series’ dynamic: 

For two films, the continued existence of John Connor would make or break the entire world.

But according to Dark Fate:

 ‾\_(ツ)_/‾ -{“Nah, don’t need him.”} 

That decision is a huge pill to swallow on its own, but there’s more: multiple Terminators (who for some reason looked like Arnold, which makes zero sense being that he was the protector in Judgment Day) were sent back during that particular timeline to make mincemeat of John Connor. I’d love to know what this particular Arnold-faced Terminator, a hunter killer machine imbued with all kinds of technology for seeking and destroying targeted prey, was up to while the T-1000 was blowing up half of Los Angeles – perhaps his CPU was ransomwared and he had to scrounge up the money to unlock himself. 

To its credit, Dark Fate tries to be different from what’s come before. The problem is this is a Part 6 that’s also a Part 3, and also the third Part 3 in this series. No studio will ever be daring enough to return the series to the grounded, gritty, grindhouse style of 1984’s The Terminator; no matter which studio had the rights, they were all intent to remake Judgment Day over and over instead. The first two Terminators are more than just great movies; they’re legendary watershed moments in cinema history and keepsakes that can’t be replicated. With Cameron having pushed special effects into new, uncharted territory, both of his Terminators invoked awed questions of, “How’d they DO that?” In this new era, the audience isn’t asking that question anymore because they already know the answer: CGI. And it’s so boring. Even though, according to this newest timeline, Terminator: Genisys no longer exists, the damage has already been done. Not only did it up the ante in terms of action extravaganza, leaning heavily on CGI, but it also used up another take on the same old story: trying to prevent a future war with sentient A.I. Rise Of The Machines claimed that Judgment Day was always inevitable. Genisys repackaged Skynet with a new name (that sequel’s title), a new global operating system that basically made Google and iPads the bad guy. Dark Fate says Judgment Day was avoided, but in effect, led to the creation of a new evil A.I. company called Legion with the same end result. It doesn’t matter if our heroes are battling Skynet, or Genisys, or Legion if it all feels like the same old shit, and it really does feel like the same old shit. Added to that, Genisys’ sins continue by also having squandered Arnold’s return to the series after a fifteen-year absence. For all these reasons, Dark Fate would play better if the previous sequel never existed, because even though it goes in a mostly different direction, their third acts feel almost identical when the spectacle hits the most ridiculous highs. Once a Humvee filled with people is pushed out of a midair Gulfstream and parachutes down into the Hoover Dam, where it then rides its falls all the way down to the bottom of the reservoir, coming to a rest underwater where the action continues, you can’t help but remember, in spite of all the spectacle and CGI and millions of dollars that sequence alone must’ve cost, how much better and more thrilling this series used to be back when it was just one plucky young girl fleeing from a robot in a factory, or when our heroic trio was being pursued by a liquid metal cop driving a tanker trunk down an L.A. highway. 

Though I’ll forever be an Arnold aficionado, my man love for him barely flared when his name appeared in the announcement for Dark Fate. No, I was much more eager to see Hamilton return to the series after her nearly thirty-year absence. Except for television work and obscure movies, Hamilton hasn’t appeared in anything prominent since 1997’s Dante’s Peak (where she played the hilariously named Rachel Wando). I wish I could say her return was a triumphant one, and even though she strikes an incredibly interesting image with her short-cropped silver hair and her aviators, her performance can be summed up by Dark Fate’s overall final product: okay, not bad, but should’ve been a lot better for what this was supposed to be. Thankfully, Mackenzie Davis as Grace, the new Terminator Protector, offers the film’s best performance, and not by default, but because of her actual thought-out, dedicated take on, essentially, the new Kyle Reese. Sadly, Natalie Reyes as Dani, “the new John [Connor],” barely registers as a presence let alone the future leader of the resistance against the robotic scourge. Her miscasting echoes that of Emilia Clarke’s miscasting as the rebooted Sarah Connor in Genisys. In The Terminator and Terminator 2: Judgment Day, I easily buy Hamilton’s pluckiness and her badass warrior take on the character, respectively. Reyes gives it her all, but she never feels comfortable in the role she was given. As for Arnold, well, it’s not that he offers a poor performance, because he’s basically been doing the same thing since Judgement Day – it’s more that the limits of the character don’t allow him to do anything new, and it’s not much of a novelty to watch anymore. Even sadder, Dark Fate, which rides a wave of well executed action sequences and mediocre drama, slows to a halt once his character appears in the third act, as the audience waits for his return to feel more than what it is, which by now is obligation. By now, his presence is expected, so much that he was literally CGI-ed into Terminator: Salvation, but again, there’s a problem: no one knows what to do with him anymore to make him more interesting than what’s already been done, and if that’s not happening, why include him at all?   

Terminator: Dark Fate also tries to be current and “woke,” but solely in an acceptably mainstream way: it suggests that women can be tough (which many male members felt was pandering, even though the strong female angle has been a mainstay of this genre since the 1970s), and that the leader of the resistance isn’t just a girl but a Mexican girl (whoa!). There is, however, one moment that works, and that’s when Davis’ Grace asks a prison guard at a Texas/Mexico detainment center where illegal border-crossers are held, and the guard replies, even in the midst of all the Terminator shit hitting the fan, “we call them detainees, not prisoners,” and Grace looks ready to backhand her simply for that response. 

Even though it pains me to say this (while also acknowledging that the world doesn’t need further Terminator sequels), the only path forward for this franchise is to start entirely from scratch – no Arnold, no Hamilton, no Cameron, and an entirely new storyline. To whichever studio is the next to land the rights, please, I beg you: hand over the reins to a new generation with new ideas, let them do what they do, and stop meddling. Otherwise, if there really is no fate but what we make for ourselves, then we are fated to see the same movie over and over until the franchise is dead for good.

EVILS OF THE NIGHT (1985)

Let me set the scene for you.

It’s night. It’s summertime (I guess). The moon is full and high in the sky. Cicadas sing their songs, unseen in the tall wheatgrass.

A handsome young couple begins to softly nuzzle in the woods near a calm lake. They’ll be getting married soon. They’re in love. A big wedding is planned. She wants the big affair. He doesn’t; he wants to elope. Their disagreement threatens to ruin their calm romantic night out.

“Let’s not fight,” says the boy. “I’ve got a better idea: two lips…gathered as one.” A soft Billy Joel-ish ballad begins to play as the camera moves in close on his hand unzipping her pants. In slow motion.

It was during this moment when I realized: Evils of the Night is just the greatest.

Boy, there’s nothing like the perfect bad movie — especially when it’s horror. Blood Rage — a new favorite — comes instantly to mind. There’s also Vampire’s Kiss, Squirm, The House Where Evil Dwells, Troll 2, along with —

I’ve wasted my life.

Evils of the Night is rather simply plotted: teens at a lake become victims one-by-one to a pair of auto repair guys being paid in gold coins by humanoid aliens to kidnap people for their blood. Evils of the Night features a lot of teens. A lot. If you can keep up with all the young people who are introduced, I applaud you. And because we’ve all seen horror movies, we all know what teenagers like to do: kiss, pet, get high, and be naked. Evils of the Night, itself wanting to be different from its ilk, sets off for daring new territory. Now the teenagers, in their throes pf passion, lick each other. Constantly. They lick every part: the neck, the chest, the Adam’s apple, or nipple (man or woman’s). Sometimes they like to lick all around each other’s mouths while kissing; like an eager child learning to ride a bike for the first time, the enthusiasm is there, but the skill is yet to be honed.

This makes Evils of the Night supreme, along with sample dialogue amusingly taken out of context:

• “Alright! Now we can get high!”
• “You gonna tease me all night, or can I get a little action this time?”
• “Where’s my surprise?” “First, let me clean the sand off.”
• “I’ve got to go see a man about a dog!” “What?” “I’ve gotta go to the john!”
• “No tongue, it makes me laugh.”
• “Why are you touching my nipples like that?” (asks a dude.)
• “Calm down — I’ll definitely call the police! Come on in.” ::a scream::

Even completely innocent lines of dialogue somehow become hilarious within the confines of this utter cinematic insanity:

• “Do we have any Pepsi left, Eddie?”

If you were to tell your mother that you were about to watch a film starring Aldo Ray, Julie Newmar, Tina Louise, John Carradine, and Neville Brand, she would probably say, “Ooh, can I watch it with you?”

Don’t let her.

Because amidst all the scenes of blood theft, murders, and John Carradine expositing to the other aliens exactly what it is the aliens are doing, even though you’d think they should know by now, since they’re aliens (“Just think, Cora: without these platelets, your bones will eventually grow fragile and break within a hundred years, but WITH them, you could live 200 years or more”), Evils of the Night also features: hilarious doggy style, unwitting necrophilia, teenagers running around in their underwear, hospitals inexplicably taken over by an alien race that no one seems to notice, sexy alien orderlies threatening to seduce each other in the hallway because they’re in between utilitarian alien tasks, suggestive and unsubtle banana consumption, duel lesbian suntan-lotion-rubbing, and finally, a crop of dry blonde hair swirling about in the gentle surface of the lake as she services her man underwater.

But above all of this madness, and all the things that make Evils of the Night so deliciously and ironically transcendent — the budget Cyndee Lauper knockoff soundtrack that goes ♬ “Boys will be boys, they will always be that way, boys will be boys, they just wanna play!” ♬; and the multiple scenes of aliens firing alien lasers from their special alien rings directly into the writhing bodies of underwear-clad teens — there lies the glue that holds all of Evils of the Night together. She is the heart and soul. For every wide-eyed look of shock and surprise levied directly into the camera, or every line of dialogue intended for her cast-mates, but aimed at space itself, you will know you are witnessing something unique, rare, and defining.

She is beautiful. She is blonde. She is…Connie.

Essayed by professional actress G.T. Taylor, Connie is the horror heroine the genre had been looking for since 1978’s Laurie Strode. Someone cunning, intelligent, forthright, and brave. Someone willing to believe that mud and seaweed applied by two horny boys is great for the skin. Someone who daydreams about making love to Prince Andrew. Someone eager to host a hand-burning contest. Someone who shies at the mere idea of a penis.

The performance — one seemingly laden with lithium, helium, and delirium all at once — is one that went on to define the genre. This cinematic portrayal of good, fighting against all this evil, was a butterfly effect with neutron bomb-sized ramifications which would transform the genre, the medium, even the world from thence on, elevating it into the next plateau of awakening. You see, Connie is us; we are Connie. She embodies us all at our most vulnerable, but also at our most resilient. She’s taught us everything we’ll ever need to know about each other, and ourselves. She’s taught us never to give in, never to surrender. We will not go quietly into the night. We will not vanish without a fight. We’re going to live on. We’re going to survive. Tonight we celebrate…Connie.

Please, before we go, let us take a brief detour to IMDB for actress G.T. Taylor’s official filmography:

Very impressive.

  

The day I saw Evils of the Night, my life changed forever.

Because I’d met Connie, the blond-haired, pin-striped, kewpie-doll-voiced angel who proved she’d fight to the death with a power drill to save her friends, all while fantasizing about wanting…you know…an O.

Evils of the Night is not just a gift from the bad movie gods, but it’s one of the nicest times I’ve ever had.

OUT FOR BLOOD

MICROWAVE MASSACRE (1983)

Have you seen Microwave Massacre?

Jesus. It's terrible, isn't it?

Cut from the same cloth as Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, but with far more classless humor and dialogue, Microwave Massacre is a 76-minute eternity crafted entirely of terrible one-liners and even more terrible special effects. Boasting a healthy 3.6 on IMDB and a too-high 33% on the usually less-forgiving Rotten Tomatoes, Microwave Massacre is one of those films commonly accepted as "the worst of all time." Watching it, it's easy to see why.

Obviously intended as a starring vehicle for Rodney Dangerfield, who wisely said "no" to this thing louder than someone eats popcorn at the movies, your lead maniac is instead played by Jackie Vernon, who apparently existed only to ape Dangerfield's one-liner style but with absolutely none of the pulse.

Within the first five minutes, we get a man unpacking a full, uncooked crab out of his lunch box, an extremely stereotypical gay construction worker, and bare breasts shoved through a hole in a wall (not counting the padded-out opening credits sequence also complemented by a close-up on swaying breasts). And if you think this is just the film finding its footing before embarking on a more traditional, less exploitative path, well brother, you ain't seen Microwave Massacre.

Microwave Massacre is 76 minutes of Jackie Vernon making awful one-liners to himself, with no one else around to hear them, all while wrapping up body parts with tin foil and shoving them into his refrigerator. You'd think I was just exaggerating, but no, that's really all this is. Sure, he kills the occasional girl while making extremely derogatory and misogynistic comments toward/about them, but that doesn't exactly make the film sound any more appetizing. If it does, you're an asshole, and Microwave Massacre was made for you.

For those who have never seen Microwave Massacre and are considering a blind-buy, holy shit, I have no idea how to guide you. Do you like Troma? The Sharknado films? Are you a fool? If so, then I dunno--you might still hate it. But it'll be a good conversation starter when someone begins looking through your collection and inevitably stops on the spine and inquires, "Is this for real?"

As a film, Microwave Massacre deserves an utter zero, but I gave it a half-point because I laughed exactly once (the punchline for the drive-thru gag) and I was feeling charitable. 

Microwave Massacre deserves to be beaten and left for dead in a hole, but fans of terrible humor, DIY gore gags, and hating themselves might find some enjoyment.

IT KILLS HER

The best and my favorite of the series.

NIGHT SCHOOL (1981)

In spite of the very profitable ‘80s-era boom of the slasher film, Warner Bros. weren’t eager to get into the blood ‘n guts game. While Paramount owned the playing field with the Friday the 13th series, as well as one-offs like My Bloody Valentine and April Fools Day, and New Line Cinema was keeping up with their Nightmare on Elm Street series, Warner Bros. observed all this from afar and decided it just wasn’t their thing. From their point of view, how could the studio that released The Shining and The Exorcist consider greenlighting something like The Prowler or Blood Rage?

However, they would later acquire the home video rights for two notable exceptions — the first being Paramount’s 1980 slasher He Knows You’re Alone!*, which is notable only because it features a very early appearance by Tom Hanks, and the second being 1981’s Night School, originally bankrolled by MGM and United Artists. Both of these titles, ironically, have something very much in common: dullness. 

In keeping with Warners’ then-general distaste for and avoidance of the subgenre, Night School doesn’t exactly play out like your more exploitative and silly slasher titles, such as Slaughter High or The Mutilator. While it certainly features a masked killer literally slashing at his victims until their heads fall off, Night School instead puts a much heavier emphasis on the police investigation aspect, which sees one Lt. Austin (Leonard Mann) chasing down leads and interviewing witnesses and potential suspects. It’s clear throughout that director Ken Hughes is trying to take a slasher script and turn it into an actual bonafide film, and of course that’s absolutely laudable, but when your tagline is “A is for Apple, B is for Bed, C is for Co-ed, D is for Dead, F is for Failing to Keep Your Head!,” well, your audience is going to be expecting something different.

On its surface, Night School should scratch that itch: it features the aforementioned masked killer, several graphic murder sequences, some flying or sinking heads, and a handful of (deeply unusual) sexual trysts, but they’re weaved throughout a too-normal and uninteresting detective mystery that detracts from the ideal slasher flick experience. Night School is a house divided amongst itself and it tries to be more than the sum of its parts (and other things I remember from elementary school), and for that it gets an F haha! No, I’m kidding — Night School was the cinematic version of me in high school: a solid C student. And like me, if you don’t expect too much, maybe you won’t be disappointed.

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* Via Wiki: “The film marked the first movie appearance of actor Tom Hanks, who played a relatively small part. In fact, it was said that Hanks’ character was originally written to be killed off with Nancy’s character, but because the filmmakers liked him so much, they omitted filming his death scene for the film.” 

Even forty years ago, Tom Hanks was still too damn likable.

I WARNED YOU

PSYCHOS IN LOVE (1987)

Right off the bat it’s clear that Psychos in Love is operating on a nearly non-existent budget. Somewhat shot to look like a documentary (sometimes, anyway – director Gorman Bechard seems to play fast and loose with this concept and what’s supposed to be documentary footage vs. narrative gets a little lost), Psychos in Love’s full-screen presentation with basement level audio (high-def presentation aside) complements the mostly true-life nature toward which its striving. Black and white interview segments with its lead psychos lend itself to this docudrama look very well, and also help to set the tone pretty quickly.

Psychos in Love begins on shaky ground as the audience has to take a step back and realize they’re not about to witness an A-list, even modestly budgeted genre flick. Everything is very raw, and there’s an obvious DIY aesthetic throughout, but the performances by our leads are very naturalistic. What might be most surprising about Psychos in Love is how often the comedy works, and that sounds like a dismissive thing to say about a film that bills itself as a horror-comedy, but so very often the words “low budget” and “horror-comedy” only lead to pain. As one might imagine, the comedy often lends itself to the dark and morbid, but sometimes the film takes a step back and rests on older, broader comedy. The marriage scene leans on Abbot and Costello’s most famous routine, but still manages to wrench some honest laughs out of it, and there’s an even better scene set at the bar where psycho Joe is having a duel conversation with both psycho Kate and a random Asian man in the back of the action – one of those “how long are they going to keep this bit going?” kind of things – and it left me pretty tickled.

Above all Psychos in Love does manage to be sweet on top of the murder and mutilations (and there are plenty of those), and leads Carmine Capobianco (also the film’s co-writer) and Debi Thibeault are easily likable, with Capobianco showing off a natural affability.

I have to admit, intriguing premise aside, I didn’t think I was going to enjoy Psychos in Love as much as I did. I’m a self-admitted snoot, and I tend not to go out of my way to see this level of low budget horror — and one that’s billed as a horror/comedy, forget it. Time and time again I’m proven wrong for this when I cross paths with something surprisingly well made like Psychos in Love.

For those of you out there lucky enough to be paired up with a horror-loving partner, Psychos in Love makes for the ideal date-night movie. Just leave expectations for a glossy production at the door.

TRY AND SURVIVE

DEMON WIND (1989)

I have to wonder why films like Night of the Demons and House are so celebrated, but meanwhile, Demon Wind has remained so obscure. Every bit as silly, gory, teen-douched, and well-intended as those other titles, it should have been destined for the same kind of infamy and video store-stoked adoration. It scratched that VHS-era itch with all the usual stalwarts one would come to expect from the genre: ghastly effects, over-the-top gore, hapless teens in peril, a dash of nudity, and skeletons.

For fans with a love for Night of the Demons or Demons/Demons 2, Demon Wind could be the newest love of your life, thanks to its practical effects, rubber and foam monsters, and lots and lots of blood and goo.

Demon Wind is made with the same kind of authenticity as the original Evil Dead while also borrowing a little of its aesthetic. (And plot.) (And tone.) (And look.) To call it a bold-faced ripoff might be taking things a bit far, but I’d feel pretty confident in saying that Demon Wind probably wouldn’t exist without The Evil Dead. It balances the horror and the drama in the same way, striving to concoct legitimately eerie imagery without the foresight to know that while the filmmakers were hoping to create things from your deepest, darkest nightmares, they were instead creating something that’s going to look just a touch silly.

You pretty much know the caliber of acting you’re going to get with a production of this size (read: not big) and the sub-genre in which Demon Wind exists (read: rubber monsters), but again, this only adds to the flavor of the film’s overall experience. Your lead hero, Cory (Eric Larson), looks uncannily like Emilio Estevez and coincidentally brings about the same kind of sincerity, even doing better here than Bruce Campbell did during his own maiden descent into demonic territory. Everyone after that exists on a sliding scale, with some performances ranking very below average.

Amusingly, Demon Wind just keeps introducing teen characters to the conflict, and after having digested enough of these kinds of films from this era, you can’t help but smile because you know every single one of these kids are going to die gloriously. Even as Demon Wind begins to run out of demon fodder halfway through, it introduces two more characters who were “late” following Cory’s initial invitation and who don’t last for too long once they get out of the car. (Also look for an early-career appearance from Lou Diamond Phillips as one of the many demons.)

If you’re the kind of person who used to wander up and down the horror aisle of the video store during the golden VHS era but Demon Wind has somehow evaded you all these years (as it did me), rectify that. It’s the kind of silly but imaginative (and gory) horror flick you would have stayed up late to watch with friends once your parents had gone to bed. One could never reasonably call Demon Wind good but it is fun, and when you’re dealing with a horde of zombies and animated cow skulls and succubi that leave nothing to the imagination, that’s all you could ever ask for.

NOTHING IS OFF LIMITS

That tagline makes it sound like porn, doesn't it?

SHOCKER (1989)

It's been just under five years since Wes Craven's death and it still feels very surreal and wrong that he's gone. On that sad evening in August, the news of his death began circulating throughout the web, especially on social media, and people were sharing their surprise and dismay that the man who had created so many nightmares (literally and figuratively) for legions of moviegoers was gone. Memorials and tributes began cropping up all over the place to examine the man's legacy, his fingerprints on the horror genre, and the films he left behind.

It's a strange, strange feeling to have experienced such a loss for someone many mourners never knew personally, but yet at the same time felt like family. How is that even possible? How can a perfect stranger, who did nothing more than create a handful of boogeyman and rob us from a few nights of sleep, leave a friend- or family-sized hole behind in the wake of his death? Because, for the horror genre, he's been an ever-constant presence in our homes. It was through his sensibilities as captured on film with A Nightmare on Elm Street or The Hills Have Eyes, or any number of documentary-driven examinations on horror in which he eagerly took part, that he became so well known to us all. There was no mistaking that soft-spoken voice, that kind and somewhat shy smile, and his incredibly nuanced and levelheaded approach to the genre, and why it was important.

In the fantastic horror documentary The American Nightmare, Craven had said:

“[Horror films are] boot camps for the psyche. It’s strengthening [kids’] egos and strengthening their fortitude… That’s something the parents never seem to think about… Even if [the films] are giving them nightmares, there’s something there that’s needed.”

In a really strange way, Craven became a father to us all - concocting on paper and then on film an array of boogeymen to scare us to our wit's end, not just so we could leave the theater laughing at the rush only a horror film can bring, but to prepare us for the real world...where things are much scarier, and much more dangerous.

In the days following his death, there was an appropriate amount of people who openly mourned, but there were also a faction of those who stated, unromantically, "Wes Craven actually made a lot of bad movies." And maybe that's true. Maybe many, or most, of Craven's films never managed to reach the scare-tinged heights of A Nightmare on Elm Street, the clever ingenuity of Scream, or the naked and honest brutality of The Last House on the Left, but no director on earth - living nor dead - is free of their own collection of mediocrity. One of the most celebrated genre directors ever to have lived, a man named Hitchcock, was not even free of such infallibility, and when he died, no Internet armchair critic was opining about all the bad films he made.

Which leads us, perhaps unceremoniously, to Shocker.

To call Horace Pinker a cheap Freddy Krueger re-appropriation wouldn't be a slight against the departed Craven, who has freely admitted over the years that his signing away of all rights to A Nightmare on Elm Street (which, in case you didn't know, generated enough money, along with its subsequent sequels, to establish the studio that would then go on to produce the Lord of the Rings trilogy) directly led to Shocker, in hopes that Craven could shape a new movie maniac with enough familiarity that it would create its own franchise which he could then control (and profit from).

That did not happen.

Man who comes out of your TV was no match for man who comes out of your nightmares.

Taken on its own merit, Shocker is very okay, if at times a little too silly, with an electric! (ugh) performance from Mitch Pileggi. Craven has always tried to mix humor into his horror films, and while this has often worked (Scream), other times the two very conflicting tones just don't work well together (Last House). For something like Shocker, in which a discorporated serial killer can travel through electrical circuits and end up on television shows, yeah, humor was to be expected. A silly movie would look even sillier if there wasn't a sly sense of humor throughout the whole thing.

Though you may not be able to tell by the finished product, Shocker was based on several distinct inspirations, from other films to Craven's own personal life. The construct of the film was inspired by a combination of 1951's The Thing From Another World and 1987's The Hidden, directed by Jack Sholder...who, quite ironically, had directed 1985's Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge. Personally, Craven has previously noted the tense relationship he had with his father, whom he described as "angry," and how the making of Shocker was an exorcism of sorts for his feelings toward him. Of the scene where Michael Murphy's recently possessed character tries to convince his son (Peter Berg) that he's fine, and that he's taken control, only to reveal that it was Pinker all along, Craven chuckled and observed, "I dunno, I guess I have trust issues."

The most striking thing about Shocker is how very similar it all plays out to A Nightmare on Elm Street - so much that Craven, while viewing the film for the first time since its post-production, admitted to being taken aback by all the similarities.

Shocker isn't a "great" addition to Craven's filmography, but in an odd way, it is essential viewing, if only to see a filmmaker retreading familiar ground in a different environment simply because that's where his sensibilities led him. However you may feel about Shocker, it's a pure, unfiltered Wes Craven film. And it's worth seeing for that alone.

Celebrate the catalogs of those filmmakers you revere. Lesser entries still have a lot of merit, and much to offer to completist viewers. Though it will never be spoken about with as much reverence as A Nightmare on Elm Street, Shocker very much contains Craven's aesthetic and sensibilities in every frame - not just in the usage of the dream relationships and walking premonitions, but in the power of the youth who are unable to depend on the nearest adult and have no choice but to take care of it themselves.

Father to us all, indeed.

Rest easy, Professor Craven. You are still very missed.

LOSE YOUR HEART