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.

same old Ichabod

It was a dark and stormy afternoon.

A perfect afternoon to spend on the couch.  Reading.  And a perfect opportunity to finally pick up the copy of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow that I bought last summer.  In Sleepy Hollow.  I have never read the original story, but as I began the tale of Ichabod, a familiar mental image sprung to mind.

I was surprised by this.  Until now, the version of the story with which I've been mainly familiar is the Disney animated version.   But I expected the original story to bear no more than a passing resemblance.  Disney usually "sweetens" the stories it turns into films, sometimes rendering them unrecognizable.  But as I read the story, I recognized Ichabod immediately.  His mannerisms.  His gait.  His unwieldy arms and legs.  Even his noble steed.  It was all there. 

Disney remained remarkably true to the original text.  And then added the musical stylings of Bing Crosby.  I wonder if Washington Irving would have approved.

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.

the usual suspects

My three remaining pumpkin plants appear to have overcome the monster that threatened to devour them earlier in the season.   The creature that consumed the majority of their comrades.  That promised to eradicate every last pumpkin plant in my front yard.  While it's still too early to tell if any pumpkins will survive, with such tough survivors around them, I remain cautiously optimistic.  But I am disappointed that  I was never able to positively identify the culprit.

I've had my suspicions.

At first, I thought it might have been the ubiquitous ants, which seem to crawl over every inch of the soil in my garden.

There is indeed  "No menace like it".  But while the ants are clearly in control of my yard, and while I can testify to the fact that killing one  means that two take its place, they have not posed a problem to my garden plants in the past.  No, a more likely suspect might be  . . . the slugs.  Having undoubtedly enjoyed my hostas, they may have been looking to add variety to their diet.

But while slugs are stealthy creatures, their numbers have been few this season.  From outer space or not, they would have needed to pick up the pace to wreak the havoc that had been bestowed upon my young plants in the spring.  The slugs were cleared.

Then, visiting my struggling pumpkin plants one day, I was startled by a grey fluttering amongst the leaves.  Leading me to suspect . . . moths.  Until now, they've been primarily concerned with destroying my front yard grass in a larval form (that's another story) but they may have moved on in search of new adventure.

 

Whether motivated by love or by the desire for pumpkin leaves and stems, the moths were a real possibility.  My prime suspects.  Until I was ambushed by . . . grasshoppers.  Everywhere.  Jumping with wild abandon throughout my front garden.  But in particular, amongst the pumpkins . . .   One was even resting comfortably within a pumpkin leaf.

Yes, it could have been the grasshoppers.  In Horrorscope.  The beginning of the end indeed for most of my plants.  But I can only speculate about their guilt. 

And I still have my suspicions about my neighbours' cats.

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.

the inner sanctum

Inner Sanctum is one of my favourite old time radio shows. A mix of mystery and horror. Often campy horror, but horror nonetheless. Always entertaining. Apparently, Universal Studios thought so as well and obtained the film rights to produce a total of six Inner Sanctum movies during the 40's, the program's heyday, which became ongoing vehicles for its bankable star, Lon Chaney Jr. And I was lucky enough to stumble upon the set of all six of these movies languishing on a clearance rack earlier this year.

Or so I believed.

Most of the Inner Sanctum radio shows I've listened to would be considered horror. Sure, there were some that suffered from the "Scooby-Doo Effect" of a real person disguising his crime as a supernatural force, but the show would never be mistaken for a detective story. But perhaps Universal wasn't aware of this.

These movies are each little more than an hour long, so I watched two last night. I chose Dead Man's Eyes and The Frozen Ghost. Horrifying titles indeed.

In Dead Man's Eyes, Chaney plays an artist who is accidentally blinded and finds it difficult to cope. His sympathetic elderly future father-in-law wills him his own eyes, to be transplanted after his death. Naturally, he's dead within days.

Wonderful, I thought. I know where this is going. The eyes will retain the essence of the old man and our hero will be possessed by the visions of his fiancée's deceased father.

But no. They were just ordinary eyes. And the remainder of the movie was a detective story focused upon finding the murderer.

Onward then to The Frozen Ghost. Obviously a horror movie.



This time, Chaney plays “Gregor the Great”, a well-known hypnotist who may or may not have killed a man through a mind trick during his stage act. The incident troubles him, and after leaving his girlfriend/stage partner, he takes refuge at a wax museum/mansion run by Madame Monet. Because isn't a wax museum the obvious place to take refuge when you're feeling troubled? Madame Monet then mysteriously disappears after fainting during an argument with Gregor. Was she killed in the same hypnotic way?

Wonderful, I thought. I know where this is going. The creepy assistant at the wax museum is turning people into wax figures. Or perhaps the wax figures are alive and are themselves responsible.

But no. They were just ordinary wax figures. And the remainder of the movie was a detective story focused upon finding the missing woman.

As 1940's B-movie whodunits go, these weren't terrible. They just weren't terribly spooky. But there are four remaining. I haven't given up hope. Not with titles like Pillow of Death and Weird Woman.

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.

on the small screen

It was with tremendous disappointment that I chose not to see The Wolfman when it arrived in theatres last winter. I had anticipated the release of this movie with some trepidation. Hopeful that it would remain true to the classic version, which I love, and not over-indulge in blood and gore, which I despise.

Alas, reviews and word-of-mouth convinced me that this was not a movie that I wanted to see on the big screen. At least not until I had had a chance to preview it on a much smaller screen. Where I could easily hide behind the nearest pillow. So I waited. And waited. And last week, I noticed that my wait was over. I rented a copy last night, popped some popcorn, gathered my oversize pillows around me, and settled in on the couch to form my own opinions.

And my opinions were not what I had expected them to be.

Much to my surprise, it was not as much of a gorefest as I had anticipated. I only had to hide behind my pillow four times. Maybe five. And it was not difficult to anticipate the occurrence of those scenes, which were, of course, designed for maximum blood-letting.

The remainder of the film, the non-bloody parts, began promisingly enough. I have an affinity for films set during the Victorian era, so the atmosphere immediately won me over. Unfortunately, the characterization did not. The new Larry Talbot seemed to lack the warmth and charm of Larry Talbot of old. I didn't particularly like the character and didn't much care what happened to him. He was . . . cold. In fact, all of the characters were cold. There wasn't a single one that I felt a modicum of sympathy for. Except perhaps, those who were already dead when the film began.

The film dragged along slowly. Much too slowly. I firmly believe that any feature film should be a full two hours long (otherwise, it's simply a glorified television episode) but as my eyelids grew heavy and I found myself reaching for the toothpicks, I considered revising this opinion. This film could have lost thirty minutes and not suffered. The version I watched was the director's cut, however. So perhaps the extra sixteen minutes included the monotonous bits.

In short, I'm glad I rented it. But I have no interest in ever seeing it again.

I miss Lon Chaney, Jr.