The Theatre Bizarre

 The Theatre Bizarre is an ambitious showcase for the work of six directors, an anthology-style piece of cinema that borrows the structure of Amicus movies such as Tales From The Crypt, The Vault of Horror, The House That Dripped Blood, and Asylum. There is a traditional wrap-around segment from which the individual short films are launched, and this segment, in itself, is visually impressive. The British spelling of 'Theatre' in the title is indicative perhaps of the British background of the film's originating producers.

 The film was made for a very small budget and is a terrific example of what can be done with love, passion, sacrifice and commitment. The feel of the introductory segment is Grand Guignol-inspired, but the six films themselves don't necessarily adhere to that theme, and better represent the individual, unfettered dreams of directors Richard Stanley (The Mother of Toads), Buddy Giovinazzo (I Love You), Tom Savini (Wet Dreams), Douglas Buck (The Accident), Karim Hussain (Vision Stains), and David Gregory (Sweets).

 What you, as a viewer, will take from the film will depend on where your tastes lie as far as horror goes. Stanley's segment, which references Bava, Argento, Fulci, and Warren publications, is a Lovecraftian journey into witchery set in a foggy, visually stunning section of rural France. Lacking structure, it even feels like some of Fulci's more puzzling works. Giovinazzo's I Love You, set in a Berlin apartment, is an intimate essay on the disintegration of a relationship that ends as you would expect a Giovinazzo movie to end. Referencing Zulawski's Possession (at least tonally), its greatest asset is its strong cast of two. Wet Dreams, directed by Tom Savini, delivers a tasty feast of gore, sex, and sleaze. A cheating husband pays for his deeds with foul, paranoid dreams. Without a doubt, this story is in closest proximity to the spirit of the old EC-inspired anthologies. The Accident, by Douglas buck, opens with images that echoed, for me, Agnes Varda's Vagabond. Probably the most deeply disturbing of the offerings, it plays and feels like European arthouse horror, and involves an accident that affects a mother and daughter.

 Director Karim Hussein, who also shot Stanley's Toads, serves up Vision Stains, a pleasingly subversive and wet entry with a strong premise that, unfortunately, is not as well explored dramatically as it could have been. Some additional writing might have helped. Still, it's visually invigorating, and the lead performance is strong. Finally, David Gregory (also one of the anthology's producers), follows up with Sweets, his first directorial effort since Plague Town. Of the bunch, this was the most outright entertaining for me, and its subject of extreme gluttony had me squirming. Reveling in a cinematic form of Grand Gastronomic Guignol, it consciously or unconsciously references the surreal excesses of Marco Ferreri's La Grande Bouffe with its lurid tale of a  young couple and their sweet tooth. As its focus is a familiar subject, the "relate" factor to its putrid, vomitous horror is high.

Anthologies directed by one person (Creepshow, for example) are difficult to rate because success is based on the effectiveness of multiple stories, not one. Anthologies directed by six directors, such as this, are an even more difficult proposition. The Theatre Bizarre is an appropriate title because each tale is bizarre, and the theatre serves as a gallery for the exhibition of multiple genre efforts with very loose thematic connections. Also worth mentioning is the fine atmosphere and strangeness director Jeremy Kasten achieves with his wraparound segment in which a young woman is drawn to a strange theatre filled with mannequins, odd machinery, and Udo Kier. I couldn't help thinking that there is a story about this theatre and its inhabitants somewhere.

Not as consistently Grand Guignol as the title suggests, this unusual anthology is, nevertheless, well worth the admission price.

A DVD (from Image) with excellent commentaries on most segments and some brief behind-the-scenes snippets is now available. Unfortunately, Image didn't deem the film worthy of a BluRay release. Hopefully, they'll get a clue and address that error in judgment.

There's No Island Like An Island of Lost Souls

 

It's easier to write about something you hate than something you love. Love creates a euphoria that is difficult to articulate. That's why it's sought after, that's why the passionate murder in its name. One can't define love with a few choice words. Words fail in most cases. Music, on the other hand, can convey feelings of association with love. I used to make a habit of sending CD's to women I had secret crushes on. Some fresh girlfriends got them, too.

My love for Island of  Lost Souls ('32), the first movie based on H.G. Wells' 'Island of Dr. Moreau', heightened my excitement and made me impatient for the Criterion Blu-ray. I received it last week, banished all engagements, and watched it immediately.

 An unflattering portrait of the beautiful Kathleen Burke (The Panther Woman)

Like a reliable compass, the film took me straight to the fog-bound island with its crew of grotesque, tragic beast men, and it deposited me there for an adventure that I live anew every time. That's the film's magic. Each journey feels like virgin territory.  Until recently, I made do with a British VHS tape, its images denigrated by too much wear, its sound muted by inferior technology. As it represented my only hold on the movie, I never abandoned the tape, but I held little hope that a superior version would become available one day.

The Criterion Collection  has made Island of Lost Souls available on Blu-ray. So beautiful, so ravishing, so emotionally musical is this version, I'm tempted to send it out like love letters to those deserving of its joys. Written by Wells as a protest against vivisection, it focuses on one man's attempt to create his own men, using innocent beasts as genetic clay.

 

If you read this blog, you'll know why Island of Lost Souls is a favorite. A favorite? Is that all I can manage?  Describing my love for the film with words like "favorite" does it a horrible disservice. It IS a favorite, but I have many favorites, just as I've known more than a handful of favorite loves over the years, the first being an ethereal creature who opened forbidden gates to me when we were merely of an age deemed appropriate for riding a pushbike. Surely, like the film, she deserves more muscular distinction.

Of similar youth and curiosity, I encountered this Island of Lost Souls on a black and white TV jammed into a corner of my parents' living room at a time when TV wasn't yet a focal feature of the family home. The images of living creatures teetering in a limbo between human and animal engaged my senses and sympathies. Like the malformed stars of Todd Browning's Freaks, I felt sorry for these unnatural wonders, and became fascinated with them. Was my fascination compatible with sympathy? Could I ogle them, marvel at them, desire oneness with them, while fantasizing that I would save them and whisk them off to a safer harbor? Would it, in fact, be safe? Would they be safe with me? Or would I, lacking medical skills, become a purely voyeuristic Moreau, a savior turned betrayer?

Or worse?

The film's 'Panther Woman' (Kathleen Burke) is one of Moreau's finest creations, and she's deliciousness made flesh. As I contemplated her via the Blu-ray image, I was forced to admit that, under such circumstances, I could not merely rescue such a fascinating animal from a grisly fate. No, I'd surely want communion with her, to know her, to explore her, to contemplate the genetic and domestic possibilities she presented.

Director Erle C. Kenton is to be applauded for creating such anxiety in me, for transforming a novel into a horror film that sings a song with the intensity of love, and for leaving us with a trinket that has endured for more than seven decades, its black and white glow an eternal cinematic ember.

Criterion's stunning Blu-ray is a glorious hymn to the movie. Extras include a wonderful, informal chat between director John Landis, make-up maestro Rick Baker, and genre scholar Bob Burns; there is also a terrific piece by director Richard Stanley -- who was fired off the most recent version of the film -- in which he discusses his love for the original novel and film, and explains why he was ousted from his own take on the story. Film historians Gregory Mank and David J. Skal compliment these extras with mountains loads of rich production info.