The Aussie Sontaran

I like the new, slicker Doctor Who, but I do prefer the older, cheaper series. One factor swaying my preference is my affection for facial deformity. Burns, scars, deep fissures resulting from violent blows, birth defects, cranial aberrations, and general alien hideousness; these are a few of my favorite things. In grade school, I was very fond of a little girl who sported a terrific facial scar. Her left eye, too, was a whisper lower than her right eye. What a beauty she was!

My favorite Doctor Who villains are The Sontarans because, well, they're the ugliest. I don't like using the word ugly because it sounds terribly judgmental. But I need to use it because it conveys something most people understand. If I say that a scarred person is beautiful, I may confuse the reader. Most scarred people are beautiful, of course, and I have known a few and been turned on by many.

The cheaper Doctor Who embraced deformity and what some humans call ugliness. The Sontarans are a favorite because they're still partially humanoid. Other faves like the Zygons are gloriously "ugly", too, but because they're kind of reptilian (as are the Silurians and Sea Devils) they don't rate as highly on my ugly scale as the Sontarans do.

The first Sontaran to visit Earth (in The Time Warrior) was Linx (pictured directly below). He arrived on John Pertwee's watch.

As you can see, he's a striking fellow, a real piece of work. I've always considered him to be a slightly wrong Humpty Dumpty. When I used to recite that famous nursery rhyme, a tale of a fallen egg man, I'd picture him looking very much like our handsome hero above.

I urge you to closely examine this photo and appreciate the deep facial fissures and oddball skull. Such a face has the power to take one's breath away.

The Sontarans returned a couple of year's later in the form of Field Major Steyr. This militant Humpty tangled with Tom Baker, the fourth doctor, and his pretty assistant Elizabeth Sladen. Again, the make-up geniuses behind Doctor Who's finest monsters had a field day with the field major and made ugliness respectable, as it should be.

I feel compelled to relate an event involving Linx and an old schoolteacher. When I was attending a dysfunctional private school for boys, a teacher who bore some resemblance to Linx took our class for a week of special mathematics (algebra). Whenever he'd turn and face the class, I'd notice his strange and uncanny Sontaran features. In retrospect, I'm not sure whether it was his face shape, eyes, or general monster demeanor, but he definitely gave old Linx a run for his money in the Sontaran lookalike sweepstakes.

The black and white shot above is scanned from my beloved Dr. Who Monster Book, a publication put out by Target Books that collected the Doctor's enemies into one manageable literary menagerie.

I was well known for carrying this book with me at all times. You never knew when you'd need to consult it.

During one of our endless mathematics classes, I began to circulate copies of Linx's pic...

The actual pic

Unfortunately, the pic found its way to the desk of our teacher, the Linx lookalike. He snapped up the photo and seemed genuinely affronted by it. He stared at it angrily -- wincing, I imagine, at its uncanny proximity to his own unfortunate features. When he was done staring, he looked up and said: "Whose is this?"

I stuck my hand up. "It's mine, sir."

"I should have known it was yours, Mr. Savage. You seem a great deal more interested in monsters than mathematics."

I grinned. I couldn't argue with him.

"And who is this fellow?"

"Linx, sir," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"It's Linx, sir. From Doctor Who."

My teacher didn't seem satisfied with my answer. I couldn't understand why. I'd identified my Sontaran hero. Why did teacher's dirty look linger?

"His name's Linx, is it?"

I nodded.

"Really? Why don't you show me where it says his name is Linx."

My teacher flipped the photocopy over and gestured at me to stand.

All eyes were raised as I approached the desk.

He handed me the page and pointed. "Does that say Linx?"

I looked down. Then I felt the back of my neck get real hot.

I hesitated.

"Well?"

"No, sir."

"Then what does it say?"

I read what I'd written -- what I'd forgotten I'd written.

"Um--"

"You can read, can't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then go ahead and read exactly what it says."

I took a deep breath and rubbed my sizzling hot neck. The heat was quickly spreading to the rest of my body, too.

"It says 'Mr. Arnold is the Australian Linx', sir."

The class erupted into laughter for about one second. Mr. Arnold's cold, injured glare cut the festivities short.

Mr Arnold turned the page over and stared Linx in the face.

Linx stared straight back.

Then Linx was crushed and balled up in Mr. Arnold's hand.

The crushed Linx picture was then placed in my hand. "Take this rubbish to Father Cooper (the school principal) and ask him for appropriate detention. Can you do that, Mr. Savage?"

"Yes, sir."

I returned, without Linx, fifteen minutes later with a detention schedule.

Mr. Arnold, the Linx lookalike, never mentioned the incident again, but he did tell me a year later that he watched Doctor Who "occasionally"... and found it "amusing".

Good bless that ugly Sontaran educator!

Where is he now?

Probably back on his home planet. Retired on an Earthman's pension.

Does Piranha Deliver The Sausage?

Exploitation films are notoriously guilty of selling the sizzle and failing to deliver the sausage. Us cinephiles carry histories of bitter cinematic disappointment, a disappointment that occasionally kills the passion. Of course, the passion, like a craving for a drug, doesn't stay dead long.

Long rhymes with schlong, doesn't it?, and there's a bonza visual gag featuring one in Alexandre Aja's fantastic remake of Joe Dante's Piranha. Thanks to Aja and his team of enlightened collaborators, this 3-D monster movie delivers the above-mentioned sausage, the sausage beneath the sizzle, and every exploitation element a true exploitation fan could dream about.

Bottom line -- See it!

The story is simple and logical , a skeleton on which to hang set pieces. An earthquake causes the rock shelf between two lakes to split. Prehistoric piranhas from one lake are released into the other. The other lake is currently playing host to a bunch of inebriated Spring Breakers. The inevitable result is bloodshed, suspense, and nudity on a grand scale.

Thanks to ace cinematographer John R. Leonetti, this exploitation masterpiece looks positively amazing; it's directed (by Aja) with precision, care, great invention, and enormous craft; and is graced with some of the bloodiest set pieces this side of Saving Private Ryan. For the gore-hound, it is a smorgasbord of human dismemberment.

Thanks to the supreme efforts of FX maestros Howard Burger and Greg Nicotero, we get Fulci*-level violence in a Jaws-like scenario. Faces are pulled from skulls, breasts are chewed to the rib cage, and a penis is torn from the body of a sleazy porno producer. And if that isn't enough (of course it isn't! Ed.), we get an angry little fishy eating its way out of a co-ed's face. It's all in the name of fun, of course, and the pacing, thank Christ, never lets up.

There's nothing to really dislike in Piranha -- unless you went in expecting a serious marine documentary or a film populated with real people (nobody here is real, and the teen love story is appallingly written). Script depth notwithstanding, this hits all the right notes, and it's a sausage that wears its aesthetically rich skin proudly. The mayhem is directed with relish and passion, and the non-stop boobage on parade may give the late Russ Meyer a reason to jerk off in his grave.

Unfortunately, the film was not as passionately embraced by the public as distributor Dimension would have hoped. The redundant but enjoyably brutal Stallone action pic, The Expendables, outgunned Piranha (3-D***), and may have prevented it from swimming into the public's periphery, which is a shame. Hopefully, this exploitation gem, which truly delivers because the makers truly cared (about everything but decent characterization*), will be rediscovered elsewhere.


* Fulci (Lucio) directed watershed gore classics such as Zombie, The Beyond, City of the Living Dead, and The House By The Cemetery in the late 70's and 80's, and became notorious for the extremity of his work (admittedly, the stuff between the gore in Fulci's films was often dull)

** Worth noting that the original Piranha was written by a real writer, John Sayles, and though the film had a much lower budget, it possessed several more "dimensions" than this

*** I continue to detest 3-D, and this didn't alter my view of the process. During the more frantic sequences, the blurring and strange, uncertain focusing made my eyes and brain ache

Do Yourself A Favor

Despite the fact that I originally reviewed them (glowingly!) almost eighteen months ago, Mesrine - Public Enemy Number One, and Killer Instinct, are finally opening in the States. They comprise an exquisite duet in a genre the French are excelling at lately (A Prophet was another winner). I urge anybody who appreciates solid cinema to support these movies with your dollars.

I often ponder what would happen to Quentin Tarantino's career if he featured as much sex in his movies as violence? I'd say the critics and audiences would turn on him. They've sure turned on the makers of the next little gem.

The sequel to The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played With Fire, has been lambasted by most U.S. critics for reasons I'll get to shortly. It's smaller scale entry, sure, and it's not quite as glossy as its parent, but for fuckin fuck's sake, see this film! It's suspenseful, brutal, unrelenting, and downright deviant bullet train of moviemaking. On top of these honors, it boasts an incredible and unique villain.

If the series continues to head in this direction, the third and final installment will be a subversive masterpiece.

I'd say the high level of sexual content (consenting and non-consenting) is behind the majority of poor reviews the film is getting in the U.S. Let's face it, considerable portions of the U.S. are puritan to the core, and sex is considered more obscene than a human being having their head chopped off. When was the last time a non-porno film was charged with obscenity, eh? Gross discomfort with the sexual nature of the human animal sways the most intelligent critics (with some exceptions, and you know who you are!) in the U.S. Very few seem capable of shedding their puritanism so that they can fairly and objectively review films with high level sexual content. For some reason, all that flesh and sweat tends to overwhelm them.

A classic example of puritan backlash (or is that whiplash?) was Giussepe Tornatore's exquisite The Unknown Woman, one of my favorite and most beautiful/brutal noirs of the last five years.

Ignore the puritans, listen to the audiences, and make a date with The Girl Who Played Played With Fire.

Also well worth catching this week is the excellent Hugh Hefner doco, Hugh Hefner - Playboy, Activist and Rebel. It's a pretty exhaustive look at the man and, primarily, his brave, lifelong campaign to fight official and unofficial racism in America. The Hugh many of us thought we knew is but one part of a fascinating gentleman and modest activist. Even an American hero.

Serbian Movie

Several months ago, Srdjan Spasojevic's Serbian Movie started to circulate at festivals. aintitcool's Harry Knowles wrote a histrionic review that placed it on the must-see lists of hardcore horror fanatics. Other scribes discussed its extreme nature and went batshit hyping its taboo-breaking content. Some even questioned its reason for existing.

The usual cliched response to films with inflammatory intent is Why do we need to see this? It's a stupid question because the answer is we don't. Then again, we don't NEED to see Disney movies, either, or TV shows about crab fishermen risking their lives. We NEED to eat, sleep, drink, and breathe. Everything else is secondary.

Hysterics aside, Serbian Movie was clearly made to shock and provoke because it doesn't offer too much else. 99.9% of humans will find it objectionable and offensive (without even seeing it) and will stay away. The rest, like me, will let their curiosity get the better of them.

The film is technically polished. The compositions and lighting are on par with any American horror film in the Hostel budget range. The acting is decent, too. The film's lead (Sergej Trifunovic), who plays an ex-porno actor lured back into the business, bears a strange resemblance to Euro porn actor/director Christophe Clarke, and has a laconic, laid back manner that works well for his character. The film's villain (Srdjan Todorovic), a philosophy-spewing porno "artist", looks like a younger, better manicured Coffin Joe. The lead's wife, who is accepting of her husband's profession, is played with quiet authority by Katarina Zutic. Finally, the couple's son, who plays quite a special role in the film, is particularly impressive as an unfortunate young victim of demented minds.

Some of our favorite horror films are notable for extreme set pieces. Emmanuelle in America has a doozy, as does Salo, Cannibal Holocaust, and In A Glass Cage. Serbian Movie definitely deserves to be placed alongside these, if only for its extremity and perversion. One set piece in particular, involving a newborn, is the film's most harrowing. Clearly, no real infant was harmed, but the single angle and sound effects create a very disturbing ninety seconds you won't soon forget. Other horrors include an eye socket being penetrated with an erect penis and two unidentified bodies being carnally assaulted.

Horror in its purest sense allows us to confront the unspeakable in the safe environment of the cinema or home. Serbian Movie definitely dishes up the unspeakable and does so with style and solid craftsmanship. Although you will find material such as this in the literary works of authors such as Edward Lee, Marquis De Sade, Samuel R. Delany, and JF Gonzalez, filmic representations are, not surprisingly, not as common.

Unfortunately, the Serbian Movie script is rather undercooked, and its depiction of organized perversion amongst the elite is not believable. The villain, who not only looks like Coffin Joe, spouts philosophy like him, too. In this case, it's porno philosophy. This nutbag sees 'newborn porn' as the future of the genre, and carries on up the Khyber about love, art, and blood ad nauseum. Perhaps expressing the filmmaker's view, he says of Serbia: "...this is no country for real art." On porn, he offers: "(it exists) so those who can't get laid can come." Without a doubt, his most salient observation is: "'Victim sells." No horror fan can dispute that.

What separates Serbian Movie from a true masterwork such as Augustin Villaronga's In A Glass Cage are several things, the primary one being substance. Although its montages of public porno culture suggest sexualized commercialization is out of control, this thesis is not explored beyond a headline, and it's a stretch to link sexually provocative billboards to horrors such as baby rape and the fucking of beheaded women. The gulf between the two is vast.

Ultimately for the viewer, the film is an exercise in waiting for the next shocking set piece that will up the perversion ante. The bits between these are not of zero interest, but they're not exactly vital, either, and there's some narrative confusion in the final quarter as the lead character lurches about in a drug-induced haze.

Even after the final shocking revelation, a closing slice of dialog takes the perversion even further, bluntly re-stating the film's ultimate intentions.

As my brain cooled hours later after the experience, I felt like I'd eaten very greasy, slightly poisonous junkfood. This contrasted with my initial reaction to John McNaughton's Henry - Portrait of a Serial Killer, another flick notable for its shocking content, but appreciated equally for its solid scripting, amazing performances, and characterization. Henry left me with the feeling that I'd seen something very special. Serbian Movie didn't feel special, but it sure felt like raw, unchained cinema.

Another Serbian movie, Life and Death of a Porno Gang, is worth checking out, too, and I will discuss it shortly.

The Killer Inside me

There's a lot wrong with Casey Afleck's lawman character in The Killer Inside Me, but there's little wrong with the film itself. Coming to cinemas accompanied by mostly scathing reviews, the type typically reserved for films in which violence against women is depicted graphically and realistically, this Michael Winterbottom adaptation of a great Jim Thompson crime novel is a work of uneasy, exquisite poetry.

Afleck is a quietly spoken lawman with some issues. In fact, he's all issues, but that doesn't stop him from doing his job (even if that job involves investigating his own murders). When his murders attract the attention of his colleagues, he's forced into defensive mode, and that's when the film gets really interesting.

The key to sucking something substantial from this film is the title. Afleck lives with a killer inside him, a killer partially spawned by a childhood rife with abuse, but, thankfully, the film doesn't attempt to psychobabble the issue or reach for groundbreaking revelations regarding his condition. As a result, the fascination level is high.


In subtle ways, the film reminded me of John McNaughton's Henry - Portrait of a Serial Killer. Although Afleck's killer hasn't achieved anything of serial proportions (as far as we know), his acceptance of the sociopath within parallels that of 'Henry'.

Afleck, who is always strong, wears this character like a bloody cocoon, and manages to convey the boy next door, a sweet charmer with a crooked smile.

Casey's lady friends, played by Jessica Alba and Kate Hudson, don't fair well when the drama's done and it's quitting time. Both take beatings that, filmically, are on par with the sudden and terrible violence of Once Were Warriors. Blood is spilled often, and there is a persistent tension that imbues every frame.

American reviews of this flick have been (mostly) negative and British reviews have seen past its extremes and into its frightening beauty.

I'm definitely with the Brits on this one, even though they once incarcerated my kind and sent us to the hell that used to be The Land Down Under. Memories like that ruffle the feather of the convict inside me.

The Ugly Truth About The Enchanted Cottage

Open Letter to the Makers of The Enchanted Cottage:

Although your movie has been hailed as a romantic classic by some, it has some very serious flaws which gravely undermine its effectiveness.

Yours is the "tragic" tale of an Ugly Spinster who falls in love with an Ugly Soldier who's been disfigured by war.

Fine. I like that. I like Ugly. I like the idea that two Ugly people will find each other, make Ugly Love, have Ugly Children, make Ugly goo-goo eyes, and come to believe that their Ugliness is, in fact, Beauty.

Great idea. Old idea. So bring on the Ugliness.

Problem is, you didn't. You fucked up. You screwed the pooch.

Why?

Lots of reasons, but Vanity is the big one. You got scared. You opted to protect your actors and spare audiences True Ugliness because you were a bunch of fucking pussies.

Well, damn you all to an Ugly hell!

Dorothy McGuire, who plays the Ugly Spinster, is not ugly. You give her a crappy hair-do, light her in an unflattering way, and smudge black around her eyes. Big deal! Do you think we're blind? She's not Ugly. Far from it.

Then there's Robert Young. Je-sus Christ. He's a handsome chap, that's for sure. And it's fine that he's introduced as a handsome chap with a fine dame on his arm and ambition in his eyes. He's lit like a leading man and he behaves in that confident, Leading Man way. Fine. No problems there.

It's in the next development where you fuck up like a pedophile at a child care center.

Young returns from the war. He checks into the Enchanted Cottage of the title and sulks about. He hides his face, which we know is scarred, and he talks about wanting to die and wanting to be left alone because he's so horrible and he's lost the use of his tennis hand. His dame has left him, too, because he's so damn Ugly now, and he refuses to let his own mother see him because, shit!, he's probably scarier than John Merrick, the Elephant Man, with his Ugly mug.

Great. Love it! What a tragic fellow Young has become. Our sympathies are with him.

Right?

They are... until we see him.

Crikey, what a fucking whining pussy-boy. That so-called Ugly scar he's complaining about is more like a thin line drawn with an eyebrow pencil. The bloke's eye is slightly off, sure, but it's no big deal if you squint a bit or don't focus on it exclusively while listening to him lament his sorry state.

Because the producers decided to de-Uglify the Ugliness, they destroy any sympathy we have for Young. Now he's a handsome bloke with a small scar complaining about how Ugly he is.

Well, pal, there are a lot of men out there in the audience not even 10% as good looking as the Ugly version of you. So pull your fuckin head in and stop complaining like a little girl. You're like Howard Hughes screaming about the price of milk.

Why the producers of this fraud didn't go the whole hog and give Young the full Quasimodo treatment is beyond me. THAT would have been my kind of movie, and it would have been a much better movie than the half-ass thing it is now.

In this nonsense, we're supposed to feel that McGuire is some kind of saint for accepting Young and his Revolting Ugliness. Yeah, she's a saint for agreeing to shack up with a handsome leading man with a pencil line down his face. Please, canonize this charitable bitch right now.

Guys, if you want to make a movie about Beauty and Ugliness and its relative relationship, at least have some faith. It's like you didn't have enough faith in the conceit that an Ugly Woman would really fall for an Ugly Man, so you cut the hands off your make-up man and emplyed an eye pencil to do your job.

Of course, it's the cottage that's really responsible for the "magic" that occurs here, so there was no reason to not depict your actors as Godawfully Hideous freaks that only Todd Browning would love. Having that contrast was so important, but you went for the stinking middle ground instead.

Shame on you.

Enchanted Cottage? More like Cottage of Pussies.

Saeki Toshio's ONIKAGE

If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know I love the mind-bending work of Saeki Toshio.

In the most peculiar and surprising ways, he sings my song.

Clearly, he sings the songs of others, too, because he is somewhat of a cult phenomenon.

His latest collection of previously unseen work, Onikage, has been published by San Francisco-based Last Gasp. It is a stunner. Also stunning is the size (it's huge) and the low price.

I'm not home much lately, but when I am, I eat my my morning oatmeal with blueberries and bee pollen crystals while leafing through these enchanting works of a deeply fertile imagination.

This image above, which echoes Todd Browning's Freaks, is one of my favorites for what it suggests and what it celebrates.

These scans are merely sections of larger pieces. Due to this book's size, it is impossible to fully scan the pages with a standard scanner. I only include these here to give you a taste of the magic to be discovered when you purchase a copy of this sensational book.

There is a rare interview with the artist and several overlays which illustrate his unique working methods.

"In the modern world, where one rarely stops to think about the truth behind the moment, you might enjoy it if you take a peep at my mysterious and strange illusions. To those who frown at them, I want to place the drawings right in front of your face and ask if you really disapprove. I'm always thinking how wonderful it would be to give shape to psychological pictures which everyone hides and holds deep within them."

Saeki Toshio
March, 2009

My New Feature Is Rolling in LA

Posts recently have ground to a halt as I am concurrently shooting a TV reality show and directing/DP'ing my newest feature, The Cloth Dagger.

Dagger is a psycho-sexual drama starring Jim Van Bebber, Renae Boult, Michael Tierney, and Kristen Condon.

Renae Boult previously played a dominatrix in my film Sensitive New Age Killer and was my very first choice for this role.

I worked with Kristen Condon on an aborted 'roughie' in 2009.

She also starred recently in the Australian feature The Beautiful and the Damned.

I see big things ahead for her.

It's been so great working with Jim Van Bebber on The Cloth Dagger.


An extraordinary director in his own right, Jim is also an extraordinary actor, and he's been blowing me away with his take on a very dark character. Jim has brought an unexpected humor to the role of 'Rolf', a poster boy for guys your mother warned you about.


The shoot is taking place in the darkest and dirtiest corners of Los Angeles.

The Cloth Dagger will be hitting the road in 2011.

Kristen Condon, PhantomofPulp, Renae Boult, and Jim Van Bebber

Lone Wolf and Cub Like Never Before

It's not news that Lone Wolf and Cub is possibly the best action series ever produced in Japan. Originating from a manga, it spawned several TV sequels and an Americanized jigsaw known as Shogun Assassin.

What could be news to some is Eureka UK's re-mastering of all 6 features. Simply titled The Complete Lone Wolf and Cub Boxset, this collection is an absolutely stunning presentation that immediately renders every other release (incl. the the US Animeigo boxset) utterly obsolete.

Using original Toho elements, it has a sheen and freshness of image that never betrays its almost forty year vintage. Watching one of my favorite installments, Yoshiyuki Kuroda's 'White Heaven in Hell' (#6 in the series)...

I experienced visual wonders that I'd never experienced before. From the snow-bound vistas to the rich rural locations, every frame is like a shot of electricity to the eyes.

Surprisingly, the UK boxset appears to be Region O, so is playable all over the world on region-specific players. Artwork and slip cases are top notch, and Shogun Assassin is also included as part of the 7-disk set.

Do yourself a favor and pick this up. Unless you caught these when they were first released, you have never seen them like this before.

Masterpieces given the masterpiece treatment!

The Loves of Andy Milligan

Jimmy McDonough's book on exploitation filmmaker Andy Milligan, The Ghastly One, is one of the best books I've ever read on filmmaking and forging a life true to your nature. The two somehow go hand-in-hand.

I'm reading the book slowly, and savoring every word like Belgian chocolate, because I don't want it to end. I know it will end, of course, but I'm putting the inevitable off. I'm delaying a miserable future without this book's magnificent revelations and life lessons. If nothing else, Milligan understood human beings very well. He wasn't terribly impressed with them, but he sure had a handle on what makes them tick, lick, trick, and fick.

He had great taste in movies, too. Tony Richardson's Mademoiselle ('66) was a glittering favorite of his, and it's not hard to see why. Aside from being a stunning piece of subversive cinema, it reflects Milligan's cynical and deliciously lurid world view.

Jeanne Moreau plays a young woman, a school teacher, who is occupied with the destruction of a small, country town while pining for a handsome Italian wood chopper. The Italian is being blamed for Moreau's acts by the racist locals, but he soliders on regardless, handicapped by his weakness for the (not-so) fair sex. Hefty complications ensue.

The film, written by Marguerite Duras, and based on a story by the inimitable Jean Genet, is an unforgettable essay on evil, racism, and deep repression. Moreau, as usual, is a revelation, and proves once again that she was and still is an original without peer. What she does with a stare or the subtlest of gestures transforms every moment of her screen time into a work of complex artistry.

Ettore Manni plays 'Manou', the object of Moreau's affections and the town's simmering hatred. In one scene, he enjoys a siesta beside a fallen log in the forest. His partner berates him for being lazy, but he clearly benefits from this act of renewal. What makes this scene particularly fascinating is that the film's late and great cinematographer, David Watkin, was renowned for snoozing on the set of his movies. On imdb, he is quoted as saying that sleeping is "... the one thing you can do on a movie set that doesn't make you more tired!"

I'm curious now about the source of this scene in the film. Did Mr. Watkin's presence inspire it, or did it inspire Mr. Watkin?

The film's cinematography is ravishing. I mean truly ravishing. Orgasmic ravishing. I stared at it with breathless anxiety, marveling at Watkin's use of single source light and shadows. I shoot a great deal myself and favor the natural over the artificial. As a passionate cinematographer, the work on this movie filled me with enough inspiration to power another dozen movies. I urge you to buy the DVD and submit to its power. Please permit yourself to be sucked into the emotional and visual maelstrom of its fevered wonder.

Beyond highly recommended!

***

A review of Jimmy McDonough's The Ghastly One will be
posted when I'm ready to bid adieu to it (sometime this year or next)