DRAG ME TO HELL (2009)

I can absolutely understand why the people who love Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead franchise also love Drag Me to Hell. Following that first 1981 trip within the woods, which was gunning for a solely scary experience, the audience’s unexpected laughter-ridden response led the rest of the Evil Dead franchise down a path more focused on “spook o blast” slapstick horror-humor. Even Raimi’s cult favorite Darkman, which was equal parts horror, action, and superhero movie, displayed the same kind of manic execution, very icky set-pieces, and a frenetic and unhinged sense of humor. If it weren’t for his extremely undervalued 2001 ghost story The Gift, which was a straight, dark, and humorless horror/thriller, I would say that Raimi was neither interested in nor had the confidence to make a genre pic where he couldn’t rely on silliness and buckets of slime. That The Gift didn’t make any money might have been the last reason Raimi needed to leave serious horror behind as a director.

If Drag Me to Hell has somehow eluded you all these years, yet you adore the Evil Dead series, then this movie is for you. It contains all the stalwarts of that franchise, but this time in a gussied-up mainstream flick starring the pretty Alison Lohman and the prettier Justin Long. Everything else remains the same: goo, slime, goo-slime, slimy goo, and screaming. The spectre of the dead gypsy (Lorna Raver) constantly shows up either in ghostly form or corpse form and manages to projectile vomit all manner of foul things directly into Lohman’s mouth: maggots, corpse slime, embalming fluid (I think), entrails, and more. Drag Me to Hell is 90 minutes of nasty shit being gooed into an unwilling mouth, and right around the time Lohman drops an anvil on the head of the gypsy, which causes both the spectre’s eyes AND more black goo to fire into her mouth, you start to wonder what on earth you're doing with your time. (The operatic musical score by go-to horror composer Christopher Young, however, is the tops.)

I’m going to be pretty blunt: I hate Drag Me to Hell. I hated it in theaters ten years ago, and this opportunity to revisit the film hasn’t yielded any less hate. Years before The Evil Dead returned in the form of the new-ish Starz series, fans moaned that Raimi was dragging his feet on making Evil Dead IV, and Drag Me to Hell seemed like a direct response to that. “Give the people goo!” he probably bellowed. Because the similarities are profound: people are possessed, causing them to float and make scary faces and speak in terrible demon voices; more goo, more blood; even a terrible CGI goat comes to angry life at some point, mimicking the laughing and squealing animal heads from Evil Dead 2. There’d be absolutely no mistaking Drag Me to Hell as anything other than a Sam Raimi movie (although, while his Oldsmobile appears, Bruce Campbell doesn’t). It’s absolutely cut from the same cloth as Evil Dead 2 and especially Army of Darkness. If you’re someone like me who doesn’t particularly care for either of those, then you must run, screaming, from Drag Me to Hell. But if you're someone who does love the latter half of the Evil Dead franchise, open your mouths and prepare for goo slime.

THE ST. VALENTINE'S DAY MASSACRE (1967)

The name Roger Corman carries a lot of weight in both mainstream Hollywood as well as cult audiences. The man responsible for enabling the careers of no less than Martin Scorsese, Ron Howard, Joe Dante, and so many more, has also produced some of the silliest, trashiest, z-grade horror and exploitation trash this side of 42nd Street. Silly as it might sound, but the man who currently has CobraGator and Sharktopous vs. Mermantula on his producing roster is also the same man who, without hyperbole, permanently changed the face of the industry by not only breaking new ground when it came to low budget filmmaking, but who also birthed upon the world some of our greatest living filmmakers. Though Corman has also stepped behind the camera for no less than 56 directorial projects, when you compare that to the one thousand films he's produced, it seems like a drop in the bucket. His directing "phase" transcends four decades, his last credit belonging to the glorious trainwreck Frankenstein Unbound, but it often seems that Corman's body of work that receives the most attention revolves around his Edgar Allan Poe collaborations with Vincent Price as well as his self-described "drugs and sex pictures" like The Trip.

And that's what makes The St. Valentine's Day Massacre so special. Made during a time when studios were no longer making classic-era gangster pictures (the only other one that comes to mind is the Warren Oates starring Dillinger), and boasting involvement from the likes of legends Jason Robards, George Segal, and frequent muse Bruce Dern, the pedigree of The St. Valentine's Day Massacre suggests a rather subtle project for the director to take on - at least, on its surface. Because while it's easy to deduce that since it doesn't feature Dennis Hopper or Peter Fonda dropping acid and hallucinating or a man being slowly sliced in half by a swinging pendulum blade that it's possible that Corman was looking to make a "prestige" picture, so much of The St. Valentine's Day Massacre is hugely ingrained with his DNA - and I don't just mean the violence. Though he was working for his first major studio, and though his production was considered low budget, he was given the most amount of money yet to bring his project to fruition. His ability to stretch a dollar to its very limits is something that seems to be making a return to genre film-making, and he successfully increases the scope and look of his film with little effort. Much of Corman's budget went toward building impressive exterior Chicago sets, complete with storefront barber shops, general stores, and bars, and actors were willing to work for less in order to play a different kind of role.

The St. Valentine's Day Massacre, presented in a semi-documentary style approach, is actually quite factually accurate (if you're willing to forgive the gaunt Robards playing the quite rotund Al Capone, that is), which is one of the film's best attributes. It's 1929 in Chicago. The sounds of gunfire ring out, causing pedestrians to shrink back behind doorways. Everyone looks alarmed, but no one looks very surprised. This is what life in Depression-era Chicago has become. Attempting to rule the city are Alphonse Capone, Southside Mob boss, and George "Bugs" Moran, who is eager to muscle in on Capone's illegal booze importing, using threats and intimidation to force speakeasy operators into buying their supply from him instead, and at twice the amount. Tactics like this are causing a problem: namely adding to the tensions already firmly established between the rival gangs. It soon escalates to all-out war, with drive-by shootings spraying thousands of bullets, and the gangs cherry-picking each other's men one by one.

The first thing worth commending about The St. Valentine's Day Massacre is how calmly presented it all is. Corman adds nothing superfluous or gimmicky to keep your attention on screen (except, of course, for that rather silly domestic dispute involving thrown lamps and a scantily clad Jean Hale). Much like modern takes on the gangster genre including The Sopranos, The St. Valentine's Day Massacre is driven by dialogue, character exchange, and the performances of the actors engaging in them. You can add as many tommygun-grasping, suit-wearing mafioso to the poster as you'd like, but the film refreshingly doesn't rely on warring gangs whacking each other out. This would be considered praise for any filmmaker, but it's heightened praise considering it's Roger Corman's accomplishment, a man who more often than not eyed the line in the sand with a glint in his eye and wry smile as he took towering steps over it. Sure, men are gunned down, as this kind of story demands it, but the violence is surprisingly sporadic, so when it does occur, it actually results in being that much more jarring. However, the problem is at times this decision can cause the film to seem drawn out or tedious. Audiences will be anticipating what the title promises, and Corman is right to make them wait for it, but a brisker pace would have resulted in a more rewarding experience. Still, The St. Valentine's Day Massacre packs quite a punch despite that, offering up an array of dedicated performances from the likes of Robards, George Segal, and Ralph Meeker. (Look for the blink-and-miss-it cameo from Jack Nicholson.)

Speaking of performances, Jason Robards resurrects an unhinged, megalomaniacal Al Capone, chewing every stick of scenery and making damn sure the back row can more than hear him. It will more than rival Robert De Niro's take on Alphonse in Brian De Palma's The Untouchables twenty-five years later.

The gangster era is a huge part of American history, and as such, the gangster picture is a huge part of American cinema. United Artists produced probably the quintessential take with Scarface, but Warner Bros.' frequent collaborations with James Cagney and Edward G. Robinson solidified them as the studio producing the gangster picture. Though the movement had run its course by the end of the 1930s, the mystique that they held for the American public never really waned. Corman's contribution to this genre with The St. Valentine's Day Massacre remains one of the director's most celebrated films - accessible to all cinematically inclined members of the public. With nothing outrageous or overly exploitative to isolate lesser adventurous audiences, Corman's rare foray into the mainstream was a successful one. Fifty years later, whether The St. Valentine's Day Massacre is considered a cult title or perhaps a minor classic, there's no mistaking that Corman's passion for the story and his admirable ability to work within the confines of a low budget have resulted in a film that, at the very least, is still worth discussing all these years later.

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.

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