American Mary (2012)

Directed by the Soska sisters, a pair of eccentric twin filmmakers from British Columbia, this unconventional rape/revenge film takes a typically feminine, clinical approach to its subject matter by avoiding the comforting recourse to humor in its depiction of horrific extremities. This allows the directors to tackle a plethora of intriguing social issues such as evolving gender roles and shifting corporal identities with all the emotional maturity necessary to do them justice. And despite a very unsatisfying ending, the result proves entirely earnest, original and genuinely disturbing, a privileged window into a world of dark and deviant fantasies. Further providing a captivating new avenging angel to the roster of rape/revenge artisans, the film also brings some much-needed estrogene to a sub-genre that usually objectifies the women it is meant to empower. Perhaps most important of all, it provides a meaty part for the best scream queen of Northern Hollywood, the lovely and dangerous Katharine Isabelle, my love for whom has actually grown with the spectacle of her gory retaliation against male oppressors and the revolutionary gender politics that it entails.

It's a shame for our national pride to be
dubbed "American" Mary...

I knew nothing about American Mary or the Soska sisters before I wandered into the video store a few months back, which is hardly surprising considering the nature of their work and the popular tastes in these matters. Being both a fan of body horror and women's cinema, I was immediately drawn to the film, and the eminently fetishistic box art featured on the DVD cover. For me, the whole project screamed of innovation, or at the very least, singularity. After all, there are but a few rape/revenge films produced each year, and even fewer outside of Hollywood. Hence, a Canadian rape/revenge film directed by two women felt to me like a once-in-a-lifetime find, and I duly decided to indulge in its revolutionary iconography, hoping that it would subsequently wash the awful taste left by the recent I Spit on Your Grave remake. And so I eagerly got home to indulge myself in the spectacle of artsy reconstructive surgery and bask into the moody light of true horror unblemished by comedy.

The story of the film focuses on Mary Mason, a brilliant medical student on her way to graduate as a surgeon, and thus enter a privileged circle jealously guarded by eccentric macho males. Unfortunately, she is eventually stopped in her tracks by her college's student loan offices, to which she owes a whopping 364$. Forced to come up with that sum within two weeks, Mary applies for a masseuse job in a seedy local nightclub. Dolled up for the interview, but clearly unwilling to partake in the degrading antics expected of her, she ends up wowing the owner by stitching up one his battered henchmen. But then, she also catches the eye of an exotic dancer who hires her to perform deviant reconstructive surgery on a close friend. Initially shocked by the ungodly nature of the operation, Mary finds a new occupation in the process, the path to which is validated when she is raped by one of her tutors during a decadent party in the high-rise apartment of a prominent surgeon. Convinced that her newfound wealth is the product of prostitution, the man seems to think it OK to have Mary drugged, raped and videotaped, which will seal not only her, but his fate as well. With some help from the nightclub owner who previously interviewed her, Mary eventually captures her aggressor and practices her new craft on his unwilling body, creating a monstrous work of art that positively spurs her on. The rest of the film chronicles her dealings with various interlopers as she promotes a home-based clinic for body modification. And while it features many intriguing tribulations on the way there, the film is unfortunately crowned by a clumsy, disappointing twist ending that feels painfully perfunctory.

Beauty and the Beast: Mary wakes up next to her rapist
in one of the film's most uncomfortable moments.

In the end, what I first envisioned when appraising the DVD cover was pretty much what I got: an off-kilter account of the protagonist's shattered innocence and subsequent strive for self-determination untainted by sensationalism and simplistic characterization. Eschewing excessive sentimentalism and oblivious showmanship, the film thus manages to convey a respectful and even-handed portrait of its characters and their deviant passions, using broad caricatures only to depict the self-styled male surgeons. In recourse to social realism, the film turns traditional  representational tropes on their head, scratching off the veneer of the surgical profession and  allowing marginal individuals to come out of infamy. This tactic also applies to the rape/revenge genre itself, which evolves from a shock-based mechanical tradition to a poignant dramatic framework. This is achieved by constantly keeping the focus on Mary and relegating the rapist to the background. Here, the story is hers and hers alone. As for the male aggressor, he is given minimal exposure, just enough to convey his disgusting contempt for women's sexuality. As for his eventual victimization at the hands of the protagonist, it constitutes not an end in itself, but merely a step in her transformation. Hence, while the pivotal rape is the main contributor to Mary's characterization, she does manage to cover some ground on her own, becoming an assertive new version of herself and not merely the shell-shocked killing machine usually associated with male iterations of the genre. 

The film's topsy-turvy take on representational tropes also allows for revolutionary gender politics. Aside from the fact that it features a composed, self-assertive female protagonist, the film is also intriguing in its depiction of her revenge, understood not as a primitive exercise in retaliation, but as a  truly intellectual endeavor. Transforming her former tutor in a truncated and sutured work of art instead of bluntly removing his genitals or shoving a shotgun up his ass, Mary refuses to be brought down to his level of animality. Instead, she achieves four revolutionary objectives in one fourteen-hour session of tentative surgery: 1) she practices her new craft, making a mockery of her tutor's contention to the effect that "surgeons aren't allowed any mistake", 2) she selfishly imposes her will on his body, much as he did during the chilling rape scene, 3) she empowers herself with his craft, thus gaining his elusive professional power and social status, and 4) she transforms a man's body through surgery in order to befit her own needs whereas it is usually the other way around. This clinical venture further proves us that Mary won't be dogged down by male abuse, but will rise instead to take her place in our increasingly competitive world despite crippling emotional hurts. It also begs the question as to what constitute the appropriate punishment for the male rapist. Personally, I was first made livid by the spectacle of Dr. Grant's butchered body and I had trouble sleeping on the night. I don't know why since I am the least susceptible man to incur such a woman's wrath, but I did. And thus does the film showcase the very last word in terms of poetic retribution, spurred on by millennia of unspoken sexual abuse against valiant girls and gals who lacked both Mary Mason's resources and unflinching assertiveness. An unpleasant, but necessary venture into visual extremes. 

Mary's revenge is not beastly and brutal, but poised and
clinical, a liberating effort for all the silent victims of rape.

Revolutionary gender politics also help denature the film's obligatory love story between Mary and shady club owner Billy Barker. First drawn to him by the need to score some quick cash, the protagonist is initially subservient to him, accepting his 5,000$ offer only because she direly wishes to pursue her studies. But after being raped, Mary quickly turns things around, becoming a major transformative force not only in regards to herself, but to all the film's satellite characters. This is made abundantly clear through a very short shot in which she waltzes into Billy's club, asking him if "he'd like to make 5,000$" (by capturing Dr. Grant for her). Using a similar formulation as he previously did, the film entertains no illusion as to who is now in charge. Simultaneously attracted and frightened by the young woman, Billy quickly becomes subservient to her, lending henchmen for her protection and club space for her meetings. He even develops a candid crush for her as exemplified by a fantasy sequence in which she lasciviously dances on his stage. In the end, he even begs her to elope with him, away from rainy Seattle toward sunny Los Angeles. And so it is Billy who eventually loses his poise, unable to dominate his seething emotions and ultimately playing the traditional "female" counterpart of a truly empowered "male" mogul.

(This paragraph contains spoilers)

Unfortunately, while its refreshing politics and accurate characterization allow the film to transcend its male-produced counterparts, I was displeased with two crucial narrative devices: the anemic dramatic trigger and the atrocious twist ending. Call me picky, but I had a real hard time immersing in the story on the back of its perplexing dramatic trigger, namely the fact that Mary is "forced" to take on a sleazy job to generate a measly 364$. Therein lies the credibility crisis of the entire enterprise: if the protagonist is supposed to have money problems, then why does she live alone in a big apartment with a wi-fi internet connection, an iPhone, a Macbook, a car and fashionable lingerie? Are we really supposed to buy this “glamorous starving student” bullshit? Well, I personally couldn't, and it nearly ruined the film for me, seeing how this shockingly ineffective attempt at miserabilism further creates a crisis out of something that isn't, allowing the film to run with the ensuing drama and generate dubious tribulations from it, thus bringing the story into a far darker realm than it should've gone according to common logic. A troubling screenwriting flaw. But then there is the perfunctory twist ending, yet another flaw that compromises the whole enterprise. Having Mary killed by a tertiary character, one that didn't utter a single line of dialogue in the whole film, is a slap in the face to whoever was actually involved in the narrative. But the real insult lies in the fact that the directors had to include a flashback in order to remind us of the killer's identity. Dramatic progression being what it is, you'd expect the ending to be a carefully planned affair involving returning themes and characters. But having a nondescript jilted husband pop out of the closet and off the protagonist, that is plain lazy. It makes for a tragic climax sure, but so would a deadly slip on a banana peel, a device equally irrelevant in terms of true tragedy.

The film's flawed dramatic trigger features an annoying
new archetype: the glamorous starving student.

Despite some small screenwriting flaws, the film is entirely redeemed by its singular imagery. Starting with the breathtaking opening sequece in which Mary practices her craft by dissecting and sewing turkey meat in disturbing close-ups, the film offers a privileged venture in the world of surgical fetish. A frightened novice herself, the protagonist is brutally introduced to that world when she is first asked to perform genital ablation on a troubled fashion designer. Providing a mesmerizing display of ungodly self-indulgence (the discarding of the nipples and vaginal lips being framed in sensuous close-ups), the following operation proves to be quite a brutal introduction for the uninitiated. And while such bodily alteration is considered a form of self-abuse in some parts, it is actually a growingly popular, and distinctly postmodern practice fit for disturbed eccentrics and fashionable cosmopolitans alike. Unbeknownst to many, the art of body modification actually goes far beyond scarification and breast implants, and the film proves quite didactic in that regard, allowing us to glimpse at some lesser known practices such as tongue-splitting and penile sub-incision. It's not always pretty, but it's always intriguing. There's also a quaint charm to it if you can appreciate that sort of stuff. Personally, I thought that watching the devilish Soska sisters waltz in Billy's nightclub, smirking jagged smiles and sporting elegant strands of lace running through flesh bodkins in their backs, was a rare treat. And so is the sight of Mary's happy patients as they display recently forked tongues or slightly infected penises. There's not only pain involved in body modification but also a certain aesthetic enjoyment. By displaying both within the same narrative, the directors create not only a singular, but also an earnest effort in representation.

In the end, while the film is abruptly cut short by the intervention of an obscure peripheral character, the trip was absolutely worthwhile. American Mary, while flawed and catering to some very specific tastes, is a mesmerizing effort in humanistic representation. Denying intricate characterization to the self-serving, self-styled and inhuman "slashers" in their ivory towers, the film gives the spotlight to those marginalized individuals vilified by popular mores, rape victims, strip club owners, beastly bouncers and explorers in the nether realm of experience. As such, it offers a privileged look into an alternative world where women can be empowered as artists and surgeons alike, a dark world obscured mostly by bourgeois tastes, reaching for the light of nobility with some help by the surprisingly talented Soska sisters, who would impress me even more if they were to pull off a worthy sequel to nondescript slasher See No Evil (2006). A very surprising effort from two really intriguing artists.

3.5/5  This revolutionary rape/revenge film brings a whole roster of marginal eccentrics out of infamy by way of a refreshingly humanistic take on traditional narrative tropes. A mesmerizing journey for those open-minded enough to undertake it. 

                                                      

NB - I'd like to thank my friend Louis for this review. Thanks for your helpful insight, your emotional honesty and your genuine love for women.

Cold Sweat (2010)

(Original title: Sudor Frio) 

This much maligned midnight film is actually a decent example of contemporary exploitation cinema, boasting an exemplary knack for cost-effective filmmaking and some refreshing takes on female nudity and the aesthetics of explosions. Given its minute setting and diminutive roster of characters, director Bogliano favors an impressionistic approach to his craft, hence managing to create a truly immersive film experience. The narrative is absolutely nonsensical, refuting the laws of chemistry, physics and common sense in a bid to fuel a nearly oneiric atmosphere imbedded in disturbing historical fact, but it certainly doesn't impair the sheer enjoyment to be had from this didactic effort in retrospection.

The film stars a clueless young man named Roman. Having recently lost track of girlfriend Jacquie through the intervention of an online seducer dressed as Death Note's L, Roman commissions female friend Ali to arrange a date with the mysterious young man in order to discover Jacquie's whereabouts. Invited for a romantic dinner in a rundown apartment complex on the bad side of Buenos Aires, Ali is then captured by two psychotic old men, former members of the fearsome "Triple A" (Argentine Anticommunist Alliance) and holders of 25 cases of dynamite stolen from revolutionary fighters of the 1970s. Having just lost yet another stunning lady to these creepy old reactionaries, Roman must dig deep, put on his thinking cap, assume his balls and get in there to save the day. And while lovely Ali proves to be a more resourceful, charismatic and ultimately better character, it is Roman that really needs to grow up through this ordeal, casting away his childish antics to better face the perspective of manhood.

Blowback: devious members of Triple A come out of
retirement to torture ignorant youths.

The most insistent criticism of the film stems from its nonsensical tribulations. I've seen this time and time again. People complain about what they think is an unrealistic situation, suggesting myriad other ways in which it could've been resolved and applying their "wisdom" to every single issue of every single film. They throw their hands in the air, as if annoyed by the fact that the events onscreen are not verisimilar, oblivious to the actual nature of exploitation cinema. Unable to suspend their disbelief anymore, these spectators are slowly sapping all the fantasy out of movie theaters, subsequently validating the widespread recourse to gritty remakes as a way to streamline Hollywoodian production. Given this new trend, it was inevitable that Cold Sweat would be relegated to the halls of infamy. I personally failed to see this coming, but then I am just a melancholy dinosaur, lumbering around in a world that is quickly escaping my grasp. And while I think that lapses in logic are no basis for criticizing such a sensuous film experience, I cannot defend Bogliano's dubious screenplay other than to say that it conveniently compensates for the production's lack of budget by filling wholes through iffy causality. 

Actually, the film resorts to a fairly common means of narrative economy by using the "house of horror" approach to storytelling, proceeding from a collage of unrelated vignettes to create an horrific atmosphere rather than focusing on a linear dramatic storyline. As such, it proves to be more of a freak show than an actual narrative film, not unlike Rob Zombie's House of 1000 Corpses, the latter effort proving equally nonsensical in its patchwork of eclectic influences. Drawing from the tradition of Grand Guignol, both these features boast various horrific set pieces used indiscriminately for their individual shock value and not any sort of dramatic power. Being a Southern import, Cold Sweat throws in a good measure of erotic vignettes, hence providing a touch of burlesque to the mix and making it all the more appealing to thrill-seeking spectators. It's pure exploitation, but the film has no greater pretenses, nor does it try to hide behind dubious morality or any delusion of dramatic grandeur.

Using the "house of horror" approach, the film
trades plausibility for shock value.

Trading emotional realism and narrative logic for sheer expressive power, the film makes use of canted shots, aggressive close-ups and a cacophonous soundtrack to create a sensuous diegetic space meant to convey and not merely portray the protagonists' harrowing experience. Foremost contributor to the film's oppressive atmosphere is the lingering presence of hard rock music, the shriller notes of which are amplified to complement the shocking spectacle of exploding heads and surging intestines. Then, there is the impressionistic editing, which proceeds from a succession of close-ups and medium shots to fragment space into fearsome shards of oppressive scenery. Whether they're intercoms threatening to expose the protagonists' presence or crates full of dynamite, nearly every element of decor seems to reveal a new menace. Not only does this type of spatial construction contribute a dizzying sense of disorientation amongst the viewers and protagonists alike, but it allows the director to make the most out of its diminutive sets, creating a labyrinthine deathtrap from just a handful of contiguous rooms. Drawing from a vast arsenal of economical visual devices, he also uses canted shots and slow motion to create evocative tableaux out of mundane, often overdetermined images. Hence, the climactic explosion of one of the villains becomes a highly stylized affair featuring surging intestines flying through the screen. But despite the sheer amount of cheap building blocks used in its construction, the film heavily relies on one even cheaper plot device, one that can be easily defined as narrative panacea*, and that is nitroglycerin.

The weak screenplay takes many shortcuts, but none more blatant than the inclusion of  a highly volatile "contact" explosive akin to nitroglycerin. Imbued with daft properties, this gooey liquid is said by the antagonist to explode on impact or when exposed to high temperatures. Once its efficiency is proven through the explosion of a naked woman's head, it subsequently allows the director to create suspense out of nowhere, conveying a sense of impending doom with the mere sight of a single drop. It also justifies the shameless exhibition of glistening female flesh in the film's most prominent scene. This happens when Roman finally discovers ex-girlfriend Jacquie (played by nude model Camila Velasco) tied to a table in a dimly-lit basement. Seeing how she is covered in nitro, the young man smartly suggests that she remove her clothes, lest she risks dying from friction. This warrants a fairly large amount of close-ups on Camila's glistening naked flesh, including a peek at her lovely breasts. Obviously, it's all fairly gratuitous, but then so is exploitation cinema, spurred on by narrative rationales akin to excuses meant to justify the showcase of unrestrained violence and unbridled eroticism. Here, you could actually consider the entire screenplay as an excuse to justify the film, but I doubt that this will prove its worth amongst casual viewers...

Glistening female flesh is one of the film's
most distinctive, most enticing features.

Luckily, while the premise of the film appears slim enough, it offers rare insight into Argentinian history, hence becoming a didactic exercise to help enlighten vacuous protagonist Roman and foreign audiences alike. Using archival footage from the "Dirty War" to introduce its anti-communist antagonists and their stolen stash of dynamite, Cold Sweat uses real-life horror not only to help shape our appreciation of those antagonists, but also to expose a gaping wound in the national unconscious kept open by the continuing trials of former military officers accused of heinous war crimes. Drawing from that real-life horror, the director manages to infuse his villains with a truly fearsome agenda, one that seems to find renewed relevance in its opposition against the carefree, uneducated youths of today, further hinting at the unnerving presence of a vengeful reactionary undercurrent threatening the populist gains inherited from Peronism.

Politics aside, Cold Sweat is a straightforward, unapologetic effort in exploitation cinema. Based on a flimsy screenplay tantamount to a convenient excuse for the showcase of tits and blood, the film thrives on a powerfully evocative visual landscape to immerse us into the diegetic world. And while it features a fair share of lapses in logic, the film ultimately succeeds in its humble goals by providing ample amounts of shock and exploitative material. Boasting three stunning brunettes exposed in various states of undress, it also proves to be a rare threat for women enthusiasts and a perfect example of unapologetic midnight cinema.

A single drop of narrative panacea goes a long way.
If you don't believe me, just ask Ridley Scott!

3/5  Despite a flimsy screenplay, this muscular exploitation effort features enough impressionistic shocks and enticing female flesh to please any thrill-seeking filmgoer undeterred by faulty logic.

* I originally coined this term to convey my appreciation of the multi-purpose black goop from Ridley Scott's atrociously penned Alien prequel Prometheus. Used indiscriminately to create a plethora of contradicting effects, this substance constitutes one of the laziest plot devices I've ever seen, begging the question as to what exactly Scott was searching for during the 33 years between the original film and this fourth follow-up: God or narrative panacea?

Bad Milo (2013)

This clever phallocentric reworking of David Cronenberg's The Brood begs the question of what would have happened had Trey Parker and Matt Stone been at the helm instead. The answer is a crudely-made, but highly relevant parody of a stressful work-a-day world dominated by wanton lust and greed, fueled by large helpings of meaningful scatological humor. It's never subtle, but it often hits home thanks to a barrage of cringe-inducing jokes and some gorgeous Frank Henenlotter style monster design. Rising comedic actor Ken Marino stars as the anal-retentive protagonist, displaying little of his potential screen presence by retreading into the soft shell of a stuck-up yesman, while Stephen Root shines as the protagonist's father in a surprising miscasting. It's not classic stuff, but it's good fun for an evening with friends and welcome proof that it is possible to deliver the goods on such an outlandish premise.

The story revolves around Duncan, a potentially sterile, chronically constipated and jittery man working as a drone for a shady investment broker. Well-known for his excruciating sessions on the stool, Duncan now has more reasons than ever to feel the pinch of anal disturbance. For one thing, he has just been assigned to do layoffs, a job which he inherited because of his mellow attitude and gentle face rather than any form of self-assertiveness and which he accepted out of servility rather than actual volition. Then, there's the issue of his mother, a sex-starved cougar who brazenly flaunts her indiscrete new beau and brutally intervenes in her son's love life by commissioning a cocky fertility doctor to delve into the biological causes of his childless union with blonde bride Sarah. Things take an hilarious turn for the worst during an hysterical dinner party in which the two prominently "virile" men compete to question Duncan's masculinity, hinting at every possible shortcoming from performance anguish to inadequate penis size. This sorry exercise pushes Duncan near the edge, from which he falls after receiving a call from an annoying co-worker who inadvertently erased an important file from his computer. That's when anger takes over, forcing the painful exit of Milo, a diminutive pre-Columbian ass-dwelling deity who leaves his passed-out host on the bathroom floor as he angrily goes after the guilty party. Lunging forward with outstretched claws, Milo does light work of his foe, spraying his blood all over the walls of Duncan's tiled, toilet-equipped office and showcasing the director's knack for visual economy as spurting red goop replaces the need for elaborate latex contraptions.

Anal retentive protagonist Duncan would be just your average frustrated
chump if it weren't for the pretty bride he inherited from the screenplay.

Following Milo's first attack, Duncan remains blissfully unaware of his presence, choosing to consult a therapist only to please his worried wife. Said therapist (a quirky Peter Stormare) is the one to bring him up to speed, producing an ancient tome in which the Mayans depict the bothersome creature as a stylized feathered deity sprouting from the asshole of a leaning man. Colorful illustrations aside, the man also provides Duncan with loads of sound advice, prompting him to (literally) bond with his inner demon and reunite with his father as a means to grasp the elusive source of his crippling constipation. In the end, the whole issue is solved through dialogue and the willingness of all parties involved to open up their hearts and share their feelings. It takes a while, and several hysterical tribulations (including hypnosis sessions, sock puppet theater and an unexpected demon fight), but harmony for all is eventually achieved when personal issues are thrown out in the open where they can no longer cause crippling blockages. Obviously, the morale according to which self-confidence and emotional transparency can instantly free someone from qualms is dated and blind to the actual intricacies of the human psyche, but it is always relevant, especially now that "nice guys" really do seem to finish last in the cutthroat rat race we call life.

The symbolism inherent to anal retention is obvious in the present context as Duncan proves to be constipated in both the literal and figurative sense. But the film's true interest lies in the appraisal of the sentient ass demon, especially where it pertains to womb envy and the innate limitations of masculinity.  For this purpose, let us first establish a comparison with the source material, namely David Cronenberg's The Brood. In this latter film, Samantha Eggar plays Nola Carveth, an angry woman gifted with an outer womb with which she sprouts sexless albino dwarves who brutally murder the people who have offended her. The manifestation, the "shape" of her rage thus finds physical embodiment through diminutive drones whose sole purpose is to eliminate the source of that rage, much like in the present narrative. Unable to procreate per se, Duncan's only alternative to killer dwarfs rests... in his ass. With recourse to a reversal of gender roles, the film thus playfully mocks man's inability to procreate, further highlighting his subservience to women in the process of child-bearing. And insofar as one accepts that where women have the power to give life, men only produce shit, then the rectum might as well be considered as the male womb. Parker and Stone already proposed the comparaison in a particularly scatological episode of South Park entitled "More Shit", where Randy lovingly eyes the echographic portrait of his record-breaking turd to a syrupy lullaby. The present screenplay makes this association all the more explicit when a panicked protagonist complains at the idea of having to push out a clawed demon out of his ass, to which his therapist replies that the female vagina is constantly faced with such perspectives. The wording lacks subtelty, but the idea is interesting as proof of our previous contention and as a reminder of the unsung heroics of everyday women.

A clever economy of means allows the film to stay afloat.

The idea of rectum as the male womb is made even more obvious in reference to the act of fathering and "bonding" with the bright-eyed little Milo, so-called because of Sarah's affection for this name as potential moniker for an hypothetic son. Don't be fooled, the thing is quite cute despite its large claws, fang-filled grin and nasty habit of mauling people to death. And it is quite expressive, too. Like a naive, toddler version of the vengeful Belial. Its first steps back into his anal "home" are carefully chronicled  and so is his consuming jealousy over the birth of a meddling new sibling, making his likeness to an actual baby all the more resounding. In turn, his existence allows the film to question another aspect of contemporary male anguish, namely the fear of fatherhood. After all, fatherhood is a stressful new burden for modern man, whom is just starting to awaken to the idea of child-rearing as a shared task.  It is a burden for which the wage of inefficiency is jeopardizing the world's future, a nerve-wracking task  for which one also sacrifices personal liberties and comfort. A task for which jittery Duncan is not ready.  Luckily, his own experience of child-bearing will slowly bring him up to speed, allowing him to grow from a child-like state of uncertainty into actual manhood. 

The limitations of masculinity are exposed quite explicitly with Duncan's problematic pregnancy, but they are also conveyed through evolving social mores, which relegate him to a supporting role opposite of his domineering mother and precious young bride. Seen primarily as an economic and organic contributor, the protagonist has a well-defined role within the family order, a role from which he cannot derive lest he becomes obsolete. This perfectly crystallizes male anguish in this era of stiff economical competition and the natural erosion of traditional patriarchal roles. Deprived of his "natural" authority, man now needs to succeed in both the professional and sexual arena in order to carry on to the next generation. As for "losers" and "limp dicks", they are branded for extinction. Never in history have human males been under such pressure. Even within traditional family frameworks, such as the present one, they now need to fight for some form of reverence and toiling at a normal job won't do anymore.  Men now need fancy suits, fancy cars and a radiating self-confidence to prove themselves worthy in the eyes of others. And even then, they remain subservient to the more glamorous and coveted females. This is exemplified by the final scene of the film in which Duncan, after vanquishing his demons and completing his quest for self-assertion, stands tall behind his expecting wife, humbled not only by her glamorous white gown but by her god-like ability to procreate. Of course, the parodic framework of the film helps soften the blow by likening it to a sophomoric joke, but there remains a definite source of  terror in the film and it stems from man's growing fear of obsolescence.

Charming monster design is key to the film's appeal.

Deeper symbolism aside, Bad Milo is a wholly enjoyable throwback to the quirky creature features of yesteryears (Henenlotter's influence is particularly strong here) and it admirably manages to keep a good comedic pace for its forgiving 84-minute runtime. The film hooks you up right away with its quirky nostalgic soundtrack and campy opening credits. And despite a mostly bland protagonist, the  supporting cast makes a good job of delivering many quality punchlines. There's ample bloodshed and many inspired, if consistently lowbrow twists including a memorable stint on the stool preceding Milo's first venture into the outside world. Keep an open mind, and you will surely enjoy this timely expression of male angst. That said, the film is squarely aimed at masculine sensibilities and the overbid of ass references will probably be lost on many female viewers, although they might appear tame compared to many Japanese gross-out comedies with similar themes, most notably the films of Noboru Iguchi.

3/5  This timely variation on David Cronenberg's The Brood is appropriately parodic in its analysis of contemporary male angst.

The Blood on Satan's Claw (1971)

I'd been waiting almost fifteen years now to see this rare British import, described by actor and author Mark Gatiss as part of the "folk horror" tradition of the late 1960s/early 1970s. And it was only by scouring the lowliest depths of the video store and rummaging through the most fetid shelves that I finally scored a sup-bar "formatted for television" VHS copy. While this prevented me from enjoying the film in its original grandeur, I was still allowed a rewarding glimpse at what is actually a surprising effort in picturesque country horror. The spectacle of ruined churches eaten by overgrown flora and kinky pagan rituals immediately reminded me of The Wicker Man (1973), but without Anthony Schaeffer's sharp wit. And although it is a lesser film, The Blood on Satan's Claw constitutes a nice companion to Robin Hardy's acclaimed masterpiece, as well as a prime example of British savoir-faire in the realm of genre filmmaking. The production is immaculate and the soundtrack is oozing a quaint charm befitting of the irresistible 18th century burg in which the story takes place. Vintage sex kitten Linda Hayden is memorable as the wicked antagonist with bushy eyebrows and stage actor Peter Wymark's extravagant headdress gives him an irresistible sense of anachronistic nobility. With plenty of intriguing pagan lore to boot, the film is a well-deserving, and surprisingly polished cult classic.

An impeccable introduction: the opening shot of the film showcases both
the painterly quality of the photography and the elaborate art direction.

The story begins as an unwitting farmhand discovers beastly bones buried in his master's field. Neither human, nor animal remains, these actually belong to Satan, prince of darkness. Momentarily freed from his underground prison, the Beast soon wreaks havoc on the local community, plaguing women with all sorts of furry and sharp appendages and turning honest townsfolk into frenzied cultists. As his unholy influence infectiously spreads and people start dying mysterious deaths, the local judge eventually steps up, donning his most elaborate feathered hat and leading a torch-bearing mob into the ruined church home to the cultists for a climactic battle with the Horned One.

The first things you'll notice in this film are the exquisite cinematography and impressive art direction, both of which perfectly vie to recapture the atmosphere of the British countryside from the early 18th century*. Following a series of surprisingly well-composed shots depicting the discovery of the beastly remnants, with the raggedy wheel of the farmhand's cart arduously making its way through uneven furrows and the glassy eye of the Beast evocatively peering through the recently plowed earth, the credits appear on elegant shots of darkened branches, ominously etched across the screen like the claws of some nefarious demon. Not only do these shots prefigure the film's later usage of rampant fauna as a means to imprison the characters, but it imbues the whole enterprise with a distinct sense of nobility absent from most genre productions of that era. The elaborate costumes and settings further contribute to the accomplished look of the ensemble by allowing director Piers Haggard to meticulously recreate the candlelit interiors and busy farmlands making up the town, hence providing not only a heightened sense of realism to the piece, but a proper anchor for such a folkloric tale of witchcraft.

Clever framing entraps players, and creates a metaphor for growing evil.

By equating the rise of Satan with man's return to nature, Haggard further uses expert photography to depict the surrounding fauna as a full-fledged antagonistic force. Framing people and objects through ample foliage, the director constantly fills the screen with a sense of impending doom, making the film's exteriors equally oppressive as its stuffy interiors. As for the intricate quality of the foliage, it also creates a sense of disorientation that greatly heightens the efficiency of the many chase scenes involving unrepentant witches and candid young victims. Initially, it is the local church that is framed beyond a wall of leaves, the creeping nature of which hints at the erosion of the Christian faith in the burg. This contention is validated when the camera enters the building and showcases the uptight reverend as he hopelessly  preaches to a flock of teenagers who would rather pass around the skeletal remnants plowed from the fields than indulge in their master's stern lecture. Thus, Satan's intrusion within the church is  symbolized both by the presence of his actual claws inside the classroom, drawing the children's attention away from the minister's teachings, and that of his leafy claws clutching at the building, ominously drawing believers away from a life of hardship toward a life of unruly abandon.

Flora is later used to entrap young Cathy Vespers prior to her capture by a pair of charismatic young cultists. Creeping up from behind as she is picking flowers from a clearing, the two boys ominously close in, forcing her into an inextricable predicament. This is expressed graphically by the director through the use of floral patterns circling the frame, blocking the maiden's escape and foreshadowing her eventual fate (see above). The following shots depict the ensuing pursuit, making use of the surrounding outgrowths to create spatial disorientation and give the woods a labyrinthine feel befitting of Cathy's nerve-wracking experience. Symbolically, the film thus depicts Satan's growing influence over the burg through his outstretched floral limbs, reaching in all directions to entrap the townsfolk in their debilitating influence. Hence the equation of satanic influences and nature, understood as a return to humanity's primordial bloodlust and sexual urges, finds renewed relevance, especially in the latter parts of the scene in which church ruins tend to suggest the complete victory of nature over organized religion and all the privations that it implies.

Not unlike the decors and costumes, the film's inspired screenplay also contributes to a realistic depiction of 18th century UK*. Featuring evocative dialogue throughout, the film is well served by a strong cast of dedicated performers, including Anthony Ainley (of Doctor Who fame) and irresistible stage actor Peter Wymark, who steals every scene as the skeptic, but concerned local lord. Oozing a distinct sense of nobility and displaying just the appropriate aristocratic sternness, Wymark comes across seamlessly opposite of various equally credible commoners. The film also features a colorful doctor character, whose antiquated practices and esoterical beliefs perfectly encompasses the iffy nature of olden medicine, culminating in a mesmerizing scene in which he removes a furry piece of skin from the leg of a possessed young woman.

Peter Wymark's judge wows viewers and commoners alike
with his imposing headdress and stern demeanor.

As for the classy orchestral soundtrack by composer Marc Wilkinson (who previously worked on Lindsay Anderson's If...), it is also a major contributor to the film's mood as it includes playful, but ominous arrangements, creating a partly whimsical, partly oppressive soundscape that gives the film a campy edge necessary to ease it into the pantheon of cult cinema. The main theme's languorous strings give it a sense of classical nobility befitting of the old burg and its strict Christian code of conduct, but that is perfectly counterbalanced by tooting brasses that seems to herald the advent of playful pagan rituals. Having such a distinguished score also counts as a rare production asset for what is essentially a rough exploitation film. Of course, it doesn't have the irresistible charm of the Wicker Man soundtrack, but it is evocative enough to appropriately complement the film's impeccable visuals.

Finally, the clash between the stern way of life of devout farmers and the playful exuberance of the wicked cultists results in numerous displays of enticing irreverence. Featuring a fair share of lovely nude maidens, the film stimulates our own lust by portraying the wanton activities of immoral pagans, putting us in the uneasy position of being simultaneously condemned and titillated. We are thus forced to recognize our sinful ways when leering at the supple breasts and undulating bodies of beautiful starlets, grasping Satan's outstretched hand with our filthy thoughts. In that regard, sex kitten Linda Hayden is quite memorable here as Angel Blake, head cultist and iconic flag-bearer of the film.  Whether it is through her enticing figure, overgrown eyebrows, white ceremonial gown or staple crown of thorns, she remains a quintessential embodiment of the witch: seductive, but composed, almost druidic in some regards. In one early scene, she brazenly removes her clothes in a vain attempt to seduce the minister away from his flock, providing a classic example of exploitative indulgence. It may not seem much by today's standards, but such indiscretions were a rare treat for British audiences of the early 1970s, warranting the film an X rating upon its original release. And while Hayden's birthday suit contributed to that rating, it isn't nearly as lecherous as the climactic fireside dance or the perplexing rape scene in which Wendy Padbury's Cathy Vespers is stripped naked by a raucous group of cultists, then stabbed to death during sex. And thus, Satan succeeds once more where God has failed, namely in fulfilling our most profound desires, and spurring Piers Haggard to come up with this awesome film.

Linda Hayden's Angel Blake is a pagan icon of the early 1970s.

There's a certain whimsical candor to The Blood on Satan's Claw. It's bloody violence and sexual imagery are certainly crude, but they stem from a playful, almost childish irreverence that seemed right at home in the early 1970s. As mores were evolving in liberal new ways, I guess that it was inevitable for the lure of Satan to draw the devout citizens of the British Isles away from their stern way of life and into the carefree world of nature. Released three years after If... and two years before The Wicker Man, the present film shares both their careful depiction of oppressive environments and revolutionary exaltation of man's "natural" instincts. Here, the claustrophobic farmhouse interiors, where spontaneous hospitality is sacrificed on the back of rigid traditions, comes in stark contrast with the joyous countryside where the lightly-clad cultists sing and dance with carefree abandon. A similar contrast is exploited in The Wicker Man as the stern, outdated antics of devout protagonist Howie are ridiculed by the joyous pagans of Summerisle who dance around phallic maypoles and jump naked over bonfires in yet another display of unrepentant freedom. And while the present film ends with the triumph of "good" over "evil", it reveals a rebellious undercurrent in contemporary British thought, and a lively  product of the worldwide sexual revolution. As such, it is not merely an exploitation effort, but a true historical document that demands renewed appreciation. 

4/5  A timely, lovingly produced effort in enticing exploitation and a bona fide cult classic.


* Many critics situate the story in the 17th century, but that is a falsity. Case in point is an early scene in which the judge toasts to "King James III" whom, while he never actually reigned over England, received that title after the death of his father in 1701, that is at the very beginning of the 18th century. 

Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon (2006)

While analyzing David Cronenberg's Rabid (see Revenge of the Phallic Woman) is when I first contemplated the idea of interpenetration as a solution to the gender paradigm. If you remember Marilyn Chambers' character from the film, you will probably remember the phallic syringe concealed in her armpit and its usefulness in re-imagining the porn star as a sexual predator. Although it seemed obvious to me that this phallic appendage represented the monstrosity of men, I was surprised to come across a plethora of contrary interpretations from various feminist authors. Anchored in mostly paternalistic, early psychoanalytical theories, these interpretations strangely vied to criticize Rabid for its insensitivity toward women when it is actually akin to a feminist manifesto. The film's incredible lenience toward the innocent protagonist-turned-monster (named Rose, no less), its insistence on the folly of male scientists (a typical Cronenbergian motif) and the punitive nature of the murders committed by Rose, all of these elements should lead one to a unequivocal interpretation thereof. But they don't, since psychoanalysis is now desperately impregnable in its pragmatic use by biased interest groups.

Evidently, the horror genre is a popular target for feminist psychoanalysis. Understood as a primarily "chauvinist" genre by many people, it is either dismissed categorically as a lesser art form, or intellectually broken down into bare components, which are then dipped in acidic verbose. Unfortunately, the vast majority of its detractors, in their ideological zeal, fail to see the most obvious, most revealing aspects thereof.  If we're to trust scholars, then every knife ever used in slasher films is an expression of phallic violence, which itself makes female empowerment subservient to that violence (with the heroine's appropriation of the killer's weaponry). Hence, psychoanalysis would tend to prove the secondary importance of women within the genre. But that is the biggest lie of all. Aside from the obvious fact that slasher films systematically star female heroines, these films also systematically showcase impotent antagonists and useless male protectors who die without a fuss. And while the male killer could be said to be the real star of the film, he is usually subservient to the survivor girl for whom he exists only as a catalyst toward self-determination.

Psychoanalytical appreciation of David
Cronenberg's Rabid is very problematic.

This all-encompassing thesis on slasher films might appear dubious to some, but it is quite well-defended by Scott Glosserman's genre gem Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon, which manages to successfully integrate elements of the horror, the documentary and the romantic comedy genres to create a highly complex manifesto on the power of symbols. Basking in psychoanalytical savvy, the film effortlessly deconstructs the slasher sub-genre by positing a series of codes inherent to its construction, codes that might appear obvious to the seasoned horror fan, but which are also cleverly used to help awaken the female protagonist to the idea of the that genre as an essential expression of social angst. Hence, the central discussion about phallic and yonic symbolism is cleverly used to reveal the subtle interplay of gender referents hiding behind the crude representations of sexes, which the average critic will cite as a shortcoming. Even if the film was merely an analytical exercise in appraising horror cinema, then it would be great enough. But Glosserman also delves quite brilliantly in the codes inherent to the documentary genre as well, articulating his narrative around the ethics of non-intervention. In doing so, he proves to be a surprisingly savvy film scholar and practitioner. But what is perhaps his biggest achievement is how he manages to create an absolutely symbiotic, violently passionate love story at the center of it all, one that shatters the conventional conceptions of the slasher sub-genre like so many wooden poles caught in a nuclear blast.

The film opens with live shots from famous slasher locales where tragic massacres have occurred throughout the years (Crystal Lake, Haddonfield, and Elm Street, where muscular Kane Hodder scurries inside his house as the camera approaches). That's right. Behind the Mask is set in a world where supernatural murderers are real, casting a tangible shadow over their victims and prompting uptight journalism student Taylor Gentry and her unsightly crew of helpers to investigate. When contacted by mysterious loner Leslie Vernon, who offers them rare insight into his own murderous activities, the team heads for the small town of Glen Echo, where an all-new rampage is about to take place. Using shots bearing the "University News" stamp at first, the film quickly shifts gears and uses the rushes taken by the young filmmakers to narrate their story. That's when we are introduced to charismatic newcomer (and stage actor) Nathan Baesel, who plays Leslie Vernon, the mild-mannered psycho whom we will follow through his elaborate massacre prep.

Kane Hodder as an "Elm Street Resident": Glosserman
cleverly introduces a world in which slashers are real.

Leslie is a cool guy with smarts to boot. He loves turtles and is revealed to be a very dedicated professional on his way to becoming another legendary slasher. When asked if his in-depth study of the heavy reference manuals found in his library is job-related, Leslie chuckles and declares: "I wouldn't recommend reading Grey's Anatomy for kicks". If that joke is lost on the uneasy reporter that is Taylor, it is certainly not lost on us, and thus the narrative takes hold, with candid Taylor and the viewer sitting at opposite sides of the spectrum. Leslie's next moves are all obligatory as we assist him in picking out a target group of victims, a convenient location where to massacre them and a proper anchor for his legend. Thanks to a well-rounded cast of supporting characters, including a retired slasher (Scott Wilson) and his survivor girlfriend, a Loomis-like investigator played by Robert Englund and an elderly librarian played by Zelda Rubinstein, the pieces of the puzzle slowly fall into place, making the prelude to a gory massacre a wholly enjoyable, convivial experience. Not realizing what they're truly in for, the three reporters partake in the whole operation with a certain measure of glee. But that glee quickly evaporates once the killing starts and they finally see themselves for what they are, namely the willing accomplices of a killer about to slaughter innocent high school students.

While it cleverly dabbles in the common grounds of the slasher sub-genre, thanks in part to a two-tier method of storytelling that mixes subjective shots taken from the reporters' cameras and atmosphere-heavy theatrical shots, the film also covers the academic debate surrounding the legitimacy of the genre as a symbolic mode of representation. But it does so in such a level-headed way as to obliterate the verbose of essayists for the greater satisfaction of the common people. "She's empowering herself with cock", says Leslie of the slasher heroine reaching for a long slashing weapon in one of the casual interviews to which he is subjected. While this is obvious to anyone who has the slightest interest in psychoanalysis, the wording used here brings the entire theory to street level. And it does so not only as a superficial reflection on the sub-genre, but as part of a complex narrative canvas that prefigures the end of the ideological dead-end stemming from rigidly psychoanalytical readings of slasher films. Because while it exposes the mechanics of sexual symbolism within the genre, it does so in regards to a caricature. The symbolic imagery it uses might be quite explicit, such as the alley in the orchard representing the vaginal passage through which the heroine is "born again" (a pun made famous by Peter Jackson in Bad Taste), but it is only so in order to draw attention to the automatic conclusions stemming from the mindless adherence to psychoanalytical interpretation. As such, it is a welcome remedy to the bitter and often self-defeating academic debate concerning the legitimacy of horror.

Through casual discussion, Behind the Mask bares
not only the serial killer, but also the
scholarly detractors of the horror genre.

Obviously, the slasher film is a fairly transparent affair as it proceeds from a set of prefabricated characters and situations, making its dissection a slightly dubious feat. Fortunately, the film finds additional depth in its appraisal of documentary cinema and its crucial ethical implications, especially in regards to non-intervention. Explored earlier in C'est arrivé près de chez vous (1992), another film starring young filmmakers who befriend a vicious serial killer, this idea of non-intervention under fire is constantly relevant here, as Leslie's actions are becoming increasingly reprehensible as the narrative unfolds. That idea has actually obsessed filmmakers since the beginning of the last century, when the first cameras were taken to the battlefields of Europe. Are documentary filmmakers mere witnesses of the action (like the flies on the wall idealized by a certain current of direct cinema) or are they part of it? When given the opportunity to save lives, are they morally obliged to do so, or is their testimony too valuable? In the present context, this question is essential as the need to unbolt the slasher mythos is constantly at odds with the necessity to prevent the slasher's actions. It even provides the crucial plot twist necessary to propel the  narrative into its gory final act. This happens when Leslie slips out of Taylor's frame and murders his first two victims, the muffled moans of which are accompanied on the soundtrack by typically clunky, outrageous stabbing sounds. We don't get to see the actual slashing, but we can imagine it quite easily. At this point is when the film crew finally dissociates itself from Leslie's actions by joining the side of heroes, thus emerging from their stupor and doing "the right thing". Consequently, the film's aesthetics change to accommodate the change in philosophy, dropping the subjective camera for the horror camera, and allowing the film to organically end in true slasher fashion. So the film ultimately proves to be not only a relevant meditation on both the horror and documentary genres, but a brilliant intertextual interpretation of those two genres. Quite a commendable feat for such a lowbrow effort.

(The following paragraph contains spoilers.)
Brilliant intertextual interpretations aside, the film also makes a revolutionary contribution to the slasher sub-genre by highlighting a typically underplayed aspect thereof, namely the love story between the psychotic killer and the survivor girl, further proving its under-appreciated  tragic nature. Aside from the fact that his mentor, a crotchety retired killer, is living with a loving survivor girl, Leslie's own infatuation with Taylor provides a powerfully endearing ending that seems to redeem the entire sub-genre. Usually, the murderous slasher is a sexually deviant individual plagued by an unhealthy fixation for the female protagonist, his murderous endeavor being a mere last ditch effort to compensate for his sexual shortcomings. But what if that killer was a clever, gallant gentleman with a genuine desire to liberate the heroine? Then, you'd suddenly have a respectable outlet for the unrequited love of inadequate men. Luckily, Leslie is just that kind of killers. In one of the later scenes of the film, he is seen putting the finishing touches on his costume under the watchful eye of an oblivious Taylor. With Midnight, the Stars and You playing on a cranky gramophone in the background, he suddenly starts shedding tears of joy as he envisions the breadth of his final gift to Taylor. Clumsily trying to comfort Leslie, it is her who eventually makes this a truly romantic scene, freezing their wondrous embrace in time. And thus the film introduces a radical new interpretation of the murderous slasher. Desperately infatuated with the survivor girl, he is actually a romantic soul willing to viciously murder people and ultimately sacrifice himself for her sake, allowing her subsequent liberation from the shackles of uncertainty, doubt and fear. This makes him a selfless, noble and eminently tragic character. But most importantly, it makes him something that critics rarely see in him, namely a true lover of women.

What better anchor into the world of horror
than an elderly Zelda Rubinstein? 

Behind the Mask is somewhat of a cool oddity: a clever hybrid of the documentary and horror genres. It was a tough gamble to make, but I must say that director Glosserman passes the test with flying colors. He is obviously a very savvy film connoisseur who perfectly understands the symbolic power of cinema, lovingly framing horror icons Robert Englund and Zelda Rubinstein and combining the main tenets of both genres in an explosion of intellectual brilliance. And despite its scholarly appeal, the result remains sufficiently lowbrow to please any film fan, no matter his personal preferences. A total success by any stretch of the imagination.

4/5  This cleverly self-reflexive documentary slasher should appeal to any film fan, no matter their creed.

X: The Man With X-Ray Eyes (1963)

Despite the absence of his typical tongue-in-cheek humor, B-series mogul Roger Corman manages to infuse this campy science run amok romp with a distinct sense of fun, using the Spectarama gimmick to great impressionistic effect, and having thespian Ray Milland deliver snappy lines of dialogue and succulent theatrics with equal ease. Of course, no real attempt is made to introduce actual sci-fi elements to the story, nor is the narrative particularly inventive, but there remains a solid effort from the undying master of American genre cinema and one of his key efforts as a director.

Oscar-winner Ray Milland gives a stern but affective
performance as the titular tortured soul.

In this typical cautionary tale against the excesses of scientific upheaval, Oscar-winner Ray Milland stars as Dr. James Xavier, a brilliant physician who recently developed eye drops allowing man to "see the whole wave spectrum". A pragmatic man at heart, Xavier is undeterred by the death of a test monkey, subsequently choosing to use the experimental medicine on himself. Immediately gifted with increased visual capabilities, depicted by the subjectively-framed breakdown of the light spectrum into its composing specs, he is soon able to see through opaque surfaces. Momentarily peering through the clothes of co-star Diana Van der Vlis and diagnosing heart diseases without using any tool, Xavier seems well on the path to becoming a superhuman. Unfortunately, the loss of his research grant puts a halt on his continuing experimentations, rendering him unable to control his endlessly growing power. It also pushes him toward the edge, prompting him to accidentally kill a fellow M.D. during an outburst of theatrics, and subsequently forcing him into exile. After a brief stint as as sideshow attraction, he ultimately returns to the city in search of funds to pursue his research. Unfortunately, his growing addiction to the medicine forces him into a tragic predicament that will eventually leave him blind. After all, "if thine eye offend thee..."

Not unlike many other Castle/Corman productions of the 1950s/1960s, this film focuses on one central gimmick: Spectarama. Used to convey Xavier's visual landscape, this "filming technique" proceeds exclusively from the use of campy subjective shots featuring various objects, usually fraught with shimmering special effects, delineated by a round frame meant to simulate the protagonist's iris. This technique is slightly overused throughout the film, a lazy crotch on which to ease the weight of the narrative, but it produces many intriguing effects, not the least of which is the sudden revelation of nude socialites or the imaginary cross-section of medical patients. It also allows for mesmerizing light play, such as when the screen is decomposed into shimmering specs of red, green and blue or when the Las Vegas neon signs create an impressionistic panorama of Sin City. It also allows Corman to showcase his legendary economy of means. In one such instance, we see the city through the eyes of Dr. Xavier, a collection of naked girders and construction sites meant to emulate the sight of skeletal architecture as exposed by the drug, prompting Milland to indulge in a sudden flight of lyricism about the "undone" nature of the city. This allows us not only to partake directly into the protagonist's plight, but also to enjoy an impressionistic spectacle exclusive to cinematic expression.

The Spectarama gimmick creates an impressionist
account of the protagonist's experience.

As for the Robert Dillon/Ray Russell screenplay, it is filled with snappy dialogue delivered with zeal by a cast of distinguished actors. The central love story is somewhat unconvincing and underplayed, but the interactions between characters always remain concise and evocative. Milland is appropriately endearing as the idealistic man of science opposite of Diana Van der Vlis, who provides a surprisingly strong female lead as another ambitious doctor. Aside from the two leads, the film benefits from the help of former comedian Don Rickles in one of his early roles. Casted as a cunning sideshow promoter, the balding middle-aged sensation alternates naive candor and petty wickedness with ease, creating a truly involving antagonistic character out of a dated "sideshow sleaze" archetype. Further distinguished cast members include veterans Harold J. Stone, Jon Hoyt and Dick Miller in a diminutive, but soulful part as a skeptic young heckler attending the performance of Xavier's psychic alter-ego Mentalo.

Pulpy by nature, the film does not delve into actual sci-fi themes, propelled as it is by the very hokey suggestion of "seeing radiation" and ultimately using the reference to God only as an opportunistic vector of dramatic power. Early in the film, fellow Dr. Sam Brant warns Xavier about the fact that "only the gods see everything" to which the latter replies: "My dear doctor, I'm closing in on the gods". Obviously, this exchange is meant to expose the irresistible lure of forbidden knowledge, but it also hints at the inevitable demise of Icarus who, after flying too close to the sun, lost his makeshift wings and died an all-too human death. In that sense, the wandering chapel setting used in the final scene perfectly sets the stage for Xavier's climactic self-abuse, reminding us that only God is meant to have Godly powers. As for the scientific elements contained in the narrative, they are tainted by a timely but irresistible candor that infuses the film with some definite lasting power as a cult item.

Former comedian Don Rickles admirably complements Ray
Milland's performance by portraying an antagonistic con man.

In the end, while Corman herein trades black humor for a potent sci-fi gimmick, thus brushing with the spectacular world of William Castle, he sacrifices none of his cost-effective production techniques, nor does he concede any terrain to sheer cinematic enjoyment. His narrative is constantly intriguing and each of his characters is absolutely picturesque. With plenty of spectacular visual effects to boot, The Man With X-Ray Eyes proves to be a prime example of b-series proficiency, not only as an economical staple of former Hollywood, but a true display of genuine movie magic.

3.5/5  Encompassing all of Corman's cost-effictive filmmaking savvy and knack for endearing storytelling, this simple gimmick film is a testament to the sheer enjoyability of cinema in the early days of television.