The Vampire Bat

Setting aside my fear of vampires, I sat down this weekend to watch The Vampire Bat (1933).  To be fair, I felt safe in choosing this film because the blurb on the DVD package referred to a string of murders supposedly committed by a vampire . . . until the real culprit is revealed.  That told me all I needed to know.  No real vampires would be present.

The film is set in the usual small German village that seems to be a haven for vampires, werewolves, and other assorted monsters.  Several murders have been committed involving two puncture marks on the victims' necks and a complete loss of blood.  Clearly, a sign that vampires are at work.

Naturally, the prime suspect is a mentally-challenged young man who lives in the village.  And plays with bats.  "They're soft . . ."

Before long, a torch-wielding mob is formed to deal with the problem.  But still the murders continue.  So it's up to the local detective, providing the voice of reason, and his scientist girlfriend to uncover the truth.  Which turns out to be even more frightening than vampires.

Like so many films from this era, The Vampire Bat begins and ends abruptly.  But otherwise, this is a solid B-movie.  Despite the ability to spot the real villain early on.  The scientist girlfriend did not faint or scream hysterically, which was a pleasant surprise.  And it ended on a fun note.

It's heart-warming to see the surviving characters able to laugh and crack jokes within mere seconds of the villain's demise.  Emotionally healthy, I think.

Motha

So yesterday evening, I sat down and leisurely explored the pages of Martha's new Halloween magazine.  Ideally, I would have done this at home with my feet up, with autumn scented candles burning and with a mug of pumpkin spice latte in one hand.  But real life intervened.  So instead, I found myself at my daughter's softball game.  Where hordes of angry mosquitoes forced me off the bleachers and back to the safety of my car.  Fortunately, I had thought to bring Martha along for company.   I did have my feet up however.  Up on the passenger seat beside me.

But now back to Martha . . .

I was moderately pleased with my purchase. Even if the "Martha as Mothra" cover creeped me out a little. I have issues with moths' wings.  But that's another story.

This year's Halloween offering is not an entirely new one.

But it is mostly new.  And while not up to the level of  past years (which makes me wonder about staff changes amongst her minions) there are a few ideas that caught my eye . . .

. . . including the section on classic B-movie-inspired costumes.  Which I'm sure hasn't influenced my opinion of the magazine in the least.  My personal favourite is "The Vanishing Man".  Clearly a relative of "The Invisible Man", who must have been too busy for the photo shoot.

Yes, this year, Martha is all about classic images and B-movies.  And pistachio cupcakes.

I will most definitely be trying the pistachio cupcakes.

wax

Arriving in Times Square on the first day of my recent New York City trip, it was hard to miss the giant golden hand beckoning visitors to Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum. I had been to Madame Tussaud's in London many, many, many years ago and was curious to see how the New York version measured up. When I went inside and saw the price of admission, however, I decided I would be content to simply relive the memories of my London experience.

But my teenage children, who hadn't been alive during my trip to England, were eager to experience Madame Tussaud's wax collection. So I paid their admission, gave my daughter the camera, and instructed her, when taking photographs, to include anything that might interest me.

She knows me well.

sleepy hollow by sunlight

So I'm home from a week's vacation in New York City. And one of my favourite parts of the trip had nothing to do with the city itself.

Not wanting to drive in Manhattan, we opted to stay in upstate New York and take the train into the city. And quite naturally, as I was exploring a map, looking for a suitable spot, my eyes fell upon Sleepy Hollow.  Perfect, I thought.

Alas, not quite so perfect. There was no hotel in Sleepy Hollow itself, so we stayed in nearby Tarrytown.  And my dreams of a lantern-lit ghost walk through Sleepy Hollow Cemetery evaporated when I discovered that most of their ghostly activities take place in the fall.  Ah well, I now have an excuse to return.

But despite the fact that it occurred under the intense light and heat of a July sun, it was a worthwhile visit. The spirit of Ichabod and his headless pursuer was everywhere.

From the orange and black street signs . . . 

. . . to the stone carvings . . .

 . . . to the metal statue near the original bridge . . .

. . . to the site of the famous bridge. Now a busy and somewhat dangerous intersection. Fortunately, I survived.

Perhaps because of the possibility of sight-seers being mowed down by speeding cars, the original bridge has been re-created in a quieter and safer location.  Deep in the heart of Sleepy Holllow Cemetery. 

Where the greatest danger is being mowed down by passing joggers.

From the Old Dutch Church . . .

 . . . to Washington Irving's grave . . . 

. . . to the looming front gates, this cemetery is massive.  Easily the largest I've seen.  With hills and valleys and winding paths and mausoleums.

There are bound to be more than a few ghosts lurking in there.  Time to begin planning an autumn trip.

The Strange Door

Happily, before leaving town for a long Thanksgiving weekend with my in-laws, there was time enough to watch another movie from the Boris Karloff Collection. This time, The Strange Door, which at first glance, bore an uncanny superficial resemblance to last weekend's The Black Castle. Creepy old mansion. Dark and stormy night. Evil and sadistic lord of the manor. Karloff in a supporting role as the timid but courageous servant.

But there the similarities ended. And at first, The Strange Door promised to be a bizarre and suspenseful film. I've never read Stevenson's story, upon which it was based, so I had no idea what to expect. Charles Laughton seemed disturbingly cruel and powerful. The early scenes promised a film in which nothing is what it seems. In which the lines are blurred between heroes and villains. In which the ending is completely and satisfyingly unpredictable.

Alas, it quickly transformed into a tale of bitterness and unrequited love. In which Laughton's character devised an elaborate and oddly long-term plot for revenge. Suddenly, he appeared weak and pathetic. I liked him better when he was just plain crazy.

There was, of course, the requisite happy ending. At least for some of the characters. It was entertaining. But it was no Black Castle.

Jekyll and Hyde

While channel-surfing last night, I stumbled upon Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the 1931 version, on TCM. I've experienced countless adaptations of this story, from radio to cartoons, but it occurred to me that I've never seen a film version. So I propped up the pillows and settled back for a couple of hours.

Throughout the film, I wavered between enjoyment and derision.

The sets were beautiful and the depiction of Victorian London was wonderfully atmospheric. With plenty of fog. Overall, it was well-paced and well-acted. Despite some laughable dialogue. Which may have been deliberately laughable to contrast Jekyll's very proper world with Hyde's more carefree environment. I'll give the writers the benefit of the doubt.

My derision appeared along with the character of Hyde.


The character of Hyde was somewhat . . . overstated. He was almost giddy with evil. During his scenes, the movie felt like a parody of itself. It was difficult to feel genuinely fearful of this small creature. Except of course when he was murdering someone.

This film has been widely praised as one of the best. And despite its flaws, it was an enjoyable way to spend an October evening. I'm curious now about the other film versions. And about how they compare.

The Black Castle

The 2010 season of classic horror viewing opened last night with The Black Castle. As one of the films in the "Boris Karloff Collection" that I rescued from a clearance rack last month, I expected Karloff to play a more prominent role. Instead, his is a supporting part, as a timid but honourable doctor to an evil count. And we know the count is evil because he wears a black eye patch.

The evil count dominates his village in the Black Forest. He collects taxes from the peasants, entertains lavishly, maintains an alligator pit in his castle, and draws up unbreakable marriage contracts when he wants a wife.

Tragically, he once had his reputation as the reigning god of an African tribe ruined by a group of three Englishmen, resulting in both a vow of revenge and his unfortunate eye patch. Two of those Englishmen went missing after a visit to the count's castle. Although why they would visit someone who vowed revenge against them remains a mystery. And now, the third man has come looking for them, cleverly disguised as an entirely different Englishman.

All is unfolding according to plan. Until one of those irrepressible villagers tells the evil count about questions the Englishman had been asking about his missing friends. Clearly, the words "secret identity" meant nothing to him. And his open admiration of the count's wife likely didn't help matters.

The Black Castle is a visual feast of classic horror imagery. The opening sequence alone contains all the necessary elements: the dark and foreboding castle; the old adjacent graveyard; the flaming torches; the stormy night; the swirling fog; the howling wolves. It was beautiful. Add in the evil count, the raucous villagers, the humble servant, the medieval dungeon, and of course, the simple, lumbering assistant, played here by Lon Chaney, Jr.

What more could any classic horror fan ask? Except perhaps a "damsel-in-distress" romantic interest who did more than stand around looking distressed. But at least her screaming was kept to a minimum.

Boris and Lon Jr. and me

Every year at about this time, my attention turns to my seasonal movie viewing. I like to give the month of October over completely to Halloween-themed or otherwise creepy viewing. And for me, creepy viewing means horror movies pre-dating 1960. Before the blood and body parts began to flow. During the past two years, I've devoted myself to the classic Universal monster movies. Now, having exhausted most of those, I need to look elsewhere. But where?

And then, suddenly, serendipity struck.

I was in my grocery store, en route to the milk which we always seem to be out of, when I passed a clearance rack of DVD's. No particular genre. No theme. No connecting thread. Other than that they were all DVD's the store wished to be rid of. And there, below Season 1 of Ellen and above the collectors' set of Bonanza, two DVD sets caught my attention.

A set of five Boris Karloff movies that I've never before seen. And . . .

. . . six Inner Sanctum movies with Lon Chaney, Jr. My favourite wolfman. Together with one of my favourite old radio shows. I had no idea there were Inner Sanctum movies.

So in that brief moment of chance, I solved my movie dilemma for October. And possibly for November as well. And I even remembered the milk.

the end of the journey

Universal brewed up the tana leaves one last time to revive the mummy, Kharis. I think it's significant that both this final mummy film of the era, The Mummy's Curse, and its predecessor, The Mummy's Ghost, were both released in 1944. Almost as if Universal decided, "Let's get this over with and put him to rest."

The Mummy's Curse, however, is not a bad movie. Certainly a step above, or perhaps several steps above, the two previous mummy films. This improvement in quality isn't entirely obvious at the beginning of the film, which resembles a rollicking musical comedy. But soon, the music stops and the horror begins. Sort of.

Decades have passed. Kharis and Princess Ananka are still buried in the swamp, where they have remained for the past 25 years. But you can't stop progress. And now developers are planning to drain the swamp to build . . . something.

Coincidentally, archaeologists from the Smithsonian have also arrived to search for Kharis and Ananka. Accompanying them is a quiet, unassuming scientist from Egypt. Or perhaps not so unassuming. Not surprisingly, he turns out to be another in the long line of Egyptian priests sworn to protect Kharis through the centuries. Start brewing the tana leaves.

The locals are agitated. They've heard the legend. But they aren't taken seriously until someone discovers one of those rotting pieces of mummy wrapping that Kharis keeps dropping. But by then, the bodies have started to pile up.

Kharis is determined to track down Ananka. No matter who gets in his way. I started to feel sorry for poor Kharis. He's so plodding. And Ananka. She seemed a little confused and unsure. Must be the side-effects of that soul transfer.

Everyone came together at the abandoned monastery on the hill which no one had really noticed throughout the film. There . . . it all ended rather quickly. There was no real sense of closure. But can there ever be closure for someone who's been alive for centuries? And with that thought, so ends my Universal classic horror viewing for another season.