Flesh of My Flesh

My first impression of Suitable Flesh (2023, directed by Joe Lynch) during its first act was that it didn't feel like a horror movie at all. It felt like one of those direct to video "erotic thrillers" of the late 1980s/early 1990s. Do you know the ones? They often starred former centerfold Shannon Tweed (who in her defense was a pretty good actress in a limited range) or Andrew Stevens. Suitable Flesh has the same shot on video look to it and the same baffling erotic impulses. I mean, sure. The film starts with an autopsy about to begin, and a psychiatrist visiting her friend and colleague after that colleague has been locked in a padded cell. And this all happens at "Miskatonic Medical School." But once that mental patient begins her story, you can queue up the candles for a night of soft-core. Or maybe not. Because this film doesn't get very naked, even if it does include oral pleasures. And once the film gets to the horror parts of the program, it goes at it full bore. It goes so over the top that I found myself giggling at two of its more outre` set-pieces. The second impression I had in its early going was that this was a film with a serious case of gender. The source material is Lovecraft's "The Thing on the Doorstep" which has as protagonists Lovecraft's usual neurasthenic male academics. This film gender swaps the leads and then mixes the novelty of female sexuality into the story's body-hopping shenanigans. Old Howard would run screaming from this, I'm sure.

Bats in the Belfry

The Vampire Bat (1933, directed by Frank R. Strayer) is filmmaking opportunism at its finest. Its studio, Majestic Pictures, had a reputation for turning out higher quality product than its poverty row brethren, in part because the studio had a habit of renting out the facilities of bigger studios when those facilities were idle. That's what happened here. The producers filmed great whacks of the film on the sets Universal built for Frankenstein and The Old Dark House, and borrowed a number of character actors from Universal to give it the appearance of being a new Universal production. Lionel Belmore, who played the Burgomaster in Frankenstein, plays the Bürgermeister here as if this film was set in the same universe. Dwight Frye appears here, too, and you could be forgiven for mistaking him for Renfield's imbecile cousin. It's practically the same performance. The real impetus for this film was making use of the two stars of Warner Brothers' Doctor X and The Mystery of the Wax Museum. Doctor X had been a substantial hit, and The Mystery of the Wax Museum had every indication of surpassing it. But the latter film's production took longer than expected and both Fay Wray and Lionel Atwill were idle at the time. Wray already had experience with waiting out complicated productions, having already starred in The Most Dangerous Game while the special effects for King Kong were being completed, using Kong's sets and technicians. In stepped Majestic, with a production ready to go for the two actors. Melvyn Douglas, fresh off James Whale's The Old Dark House, completed the cast. The film beat The Mystery of the Wax Museum into theaters by a little over a month, letting Warners' publicity department do the heavy lifting. Given the improvisational nature of its production, it's a miracle that the film is watchable at all. Seriously, there's no reason at all for this to have turned out to be a good movie. It's a rip off at its core. And yet...this is surprisingly entertaining. Personally, I think the secret ingredient is Melvyn Douglas. He was a talent much too large to stay confined in the horror movie. Fay Wray and Lionel Atwill (and to a lesser extent Dwight Frye) are talents too big for poverty row, too, though perhaps not too big for horror films. Fay Wray made five of them in quick succession in 1932, and they are the films for which she is best remembered. This is a film where the cast provides the alchemy that makes the movie work, which is a good thing because the script has serious deficiencies. To quote The Bard, it's a tale told by an idiot...

Scare-a-Thon 2023: We Have Always Lived In the Castle

Here's another edition of my friend, Aaron's, Scare-a-thon. I'm on the panel here. It's for a good cause.

There are a couple of these on the horizon, so stay tuned.

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A Murderer's Dozen

"Stiff." That's the word for most films from the dawn of talkies. "Stilted" is a good one, too. The Thirteenth Chair (1929, directed by Tod Browning) fits both descriptions. It's a bit of an evolutionary missing link, given that it was filmed in both a silent and sound version while Hollywood was still in the process of learning how to make talkies. Many theaters at the time were still unable to even show them. The silent version is lost, alas, and I can't help but think that it's a much better film. The silents of the late 1920s were some of the glories of cinema, attaining heights of artistry it took sound pictures almost a decade to equal. This assumes you believe they ever did. I'm dubious of that very last point. This particular film is notable for two reasons. First, the lead role was offered to Lon Chaney. Had he accepted it, it would have been his last collaboration with Browning, and their only talkie before Chaney died of cancer. Chaney did not accept the part. Second, it teams Browning with Bela Lugosi for the first time and prefigures Lugosi's screen image in the films that followed Dracula. Browning ultimately made three films with Lugosi. Beyond the trivia, The Thirteenth Chair is a slog for a contemporary audience, but it's not without interest.

The Blood is the Life

Tod Browning's Dracula (1931) is a pivotal movie in the history of horror movies. It is the first major horror film of the sound era. Without its success, the explosion of horror movies during the pre-Code era possibly doesn't happen, or, maybe, happens on a smaller scale or just differently. The movie studios of the day, big and small, were increasingly desperate for hits in 1931 as the Great Depression deepened and paying audiences evaporated. Anything that drew a crowd was all right by the heads of the studios. What drew crowds in those days was sin, salaciousness, violence, licentiousness, and sensation. Horror movies could provide all of that. The genre itself is built on transgression, after all. Moreover, the elements of what came to be defined as the Universal horror movie were already in place. Universal made big money on horror movies during the silent era. Two of Lon Chaney's biggest hits--The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1923) and The Phantom of the Opera (1926)--were made at Universal, as was the John Barrymore version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1920). Universal was also the landing spot for Paul Leni, the German director who had huge success for Universal with The Cat and the Canary (1927) and The Man Who Laughs (1928). So Universal, at least, was already in the horror movie business before Dracula.

Carl Laemmle, Sr., the company's founder, did not want to make Dracula. He thought it was essentially demonic, unlike the studio's previous horror films, which he viewed as essentially humanist. Carl Laemmle, Jr., however was keen on the property and only convinced his father to buy the rights to the play because MGM was ready to step in if Universal passed on it. It is likely that an MGM production would not have been very different from what Universal eventually made. Tod Browning was under contract to MGM, after all. Universal had to borrow him for their film. Browning for his part wanted Dracula long before Universal took an interest. He had already discussed the possibility with Lon Chaney. Chaney had already worked up a make-up look for The Count. He wanted it as much as Browning. Other filmmakers at Universal wanted Dracula, too. Paul Leni was keen to make Dracula with HIS frequent collaborator, Conrad Veidt, in the role. In some alternate universe, such a picture is one of the masterpieces of the genre. Veidt might even have made the film had he not gone back to Europe at the time, afraid that his thick accent would be a hindrance to his American movie career. If he only knew... Two things conspired to shape the film that was ultimately made: Leni died of blood poisoning in September of 1929. Chaney died of lung cancer in August of 1930. Without Chaney, MGM lost interest in the property. Browning, without a star for the project, decided to cast the relatively unknown Hungarian actor, Bela Lugosi, in the part. He had worked with Lugosi once before in The Thirteenth Chair (1929). Lugosi had drawn crowds to the theatrical version by Hamilton Deane and John L. Balderston on the stage and had a much publicized dalliance with Clara Bow, so he wasn't obscure, exactly. Just obscure in movies. The match was made and Dracula went into production on September 30, 1930.

Scare-a-Thon with DR. AC: Crimes of the Future

Here's another roundtable discussion with my friend and former erstwhile editor, Dr. AC about one of my favorite filmmakers. I need to turn up the volume on my microphone next time. Anyway, I'm the smurfette here...

I've got a couple of these coming this month, so enjoy.

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This blog is supported on Patreon by wonderful subscribers. If you like what I do, please consider pledging your own support. It means the world to me.

X Marks the Spot

According to one of my old spiral-bound movie notebooks, I saw Doctor X (1932, directed by Michael Curtiz) some time during my time as a video store owner back in the day. I still have the database from that fiasco, and sure enough, Doctor X was in our inventory. I don't remember seeing it, though. My suspicion is that the version we had on VHS was a seriously deficient edition, probably the black and white version of the film, though it's possible we had a washed out version in technicolor. The timing was right. It's a miracle that the technicolor version exists at all, given that it was thought to be a lost film after Warner Brothers discarded all their two strip technicolor materials in 1948. A print was found in Jack Warner's collection of private film holdings after his death in 1978, however, which found its way into distribution over the next decade or so. It underwent an extensive restoration in 2020.

All of the major Hollywood studios were getting into the horror movie business in 1932 after seeing box office returns for Dracula and Frankenstein a year before. All of the major studios except MGM--and all of the minor ones too--were in dire financial straits in 1932. It was the worst year of the Great Depression. Everyone was desperate enough to try anything to stay afloat. Movie studios were not exempt. They were even willing to try horror movies. Warners handed the keys to Michael Curtiz for a pair of technicolor horror films--the other one was The Mystery of the Wax Museum the following year. Both are distinct from the films made by Universal or Paramount (we'll get into that as the month goes on). They feel like Warner Brothers movies, in spite of the horror elements. Doctor X in particular is more overtly a characteristic pre-Code film than most of the films Universal was making, particularly in regards to the strata of society it was willing to depict. The ostensible hero--or at least the audience surrogate--is a hard boiled reporter who hangs out in whore houses. This is not in the subtext. It's right there on screen. Warners always strove for street cred, for want of a better phrase. They were the studio of the common man, the everyday Joe, The New Deal, and that runs through their horror movies and makes them distinct. That they were willing to lavish two strip technicolor--a process that was not at all common--on horror movies WAS out of character, but it was a gamble that paid off handsomely. Both films were successes for a studio that desperately needed them.

Behind Castle Walls

My partner and I were speculating in the course of a long drive last week about favorite authors we would like to have met. We've met a fair few of them, but she would like to have met Toni Morrison and I would like to have met Robert Bloch. I don't know what that says about us. An author I decided I would prefer not to have met is Shirley Jackson. On the evidence of her work and the general outline of her biography, I don't think I would have liked her. The dominant theme of her work is a neurotic paranoia that in her own life was apparently completely justified by the dynamics of her marriage. I watched the recent biopic starring Elisabeth Moss as Jackson and found myself nodding along even when I knew that they were fudging the details (they fudged the details a LOT). Jackson has been enjoying a bit of a renaissance lately, what with the Netflix adaptation of The Haunting of Hill House and renewed interest in her last completed novel, We Have Always Lived in the Castle, which serves as an ur-text for Park Chan-wook's Gothic potboiler, Stoker, and which was made into a film in 2018 by director Stacie Passon based on the book itself. Passon's film does an admirable job of meeting Jackson on her own terms, neurotic paranoia and all.