The Last Broadcast is shot as a faux-documentary about the murders of three men in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey – the haunt of the infamous Jersey Devil. Filmmaker David Leigh presents the facts surrounding the incident (dubbed the “Fact or Fiction murders” by the media) in a series of interviews with people who were involved with the case. The three men were carrying out a live broadcast of their supernatural-themed show, “Fact or Fiction”, from the woods when they were killed leaving Jim Suerd (the fourth member of the group) as the sole survivor and prime suspect. Suerd dies in prison under “mysterious circumstances”, which prompts Leigh to set out to find the truth about what happened in the woods that night.

This was the first film to be created in an entirely digital format, something filmmakers Stefan Avalos and Lance Weiler achieved using software borrowed from friends and with PCs they built themselves. I’m not going to take any jabs at the look of this film because it would be unfair and I eventually got used to the “greasy lens” look and monotone narration.

I think some additional editing in the first 45 minutes would have helped to move the story along quicker because things don’t really pick up until the second half when Leigh receives a box of pulled video tape and becomes an important character in the story. Analyzing this footage becomes the focus of the remainder of the movie as he enlists the help of data retrieval specialist, Shelly Monarch, to restore the tape which appears to document the last moments of the men. I thought this last half was genuinely creepy as Leigh prepares to visit the site of the murders and we see Monarch slowly recovering images that include an indistinct shape that was present during the attacks.

Considering the budget they were working with (allegedly $900) the dialogue and acting aren’t bad and there’s some perceptive commentary on how “truth” is shaped by media sensationalism and further distorted in this age of 60 second sound-bites and the constant flow of online information.

I really wanted to like this movie: it merged the internet with a centuries-old legend and the last half of the film is worth the wait. But, in the end, I felt duped and had no way of consoling myself. For fans of first-person POV horror films, this is one of the earliest efforts in the genre and is definitely worth a watch but prepare to be shocked by a horrific ending.

The film documents the efforts of Sir Hugo Cunningham (Robert Stephens) in his bid to gain immortality via the entrapment of The Asphyx. The Asphyx only comes into existence at the moment of death, so this affords the film a number of interesting sequences such as Cunningham electrifying himself to the point of death. The Asphyx itself is a piece of mystical nonsense, but its importance lies in propelling the narrative forward. It functions in much the same way as an Hitchcockian MacGuffin. The film isn’t really about The Asphyx but instead about one man’s efforts to control life and death, to gain power through the manipulation and control of nature. Cunningham’s initial motivations are powered by an objective desire to ensure that society advances in a progressive and liberal fashion (his outrage at a public hanging is evidence of this). Unfortunately the objective appeal of immortality soon makes way for a series of highly subjective decisions which lead to death and tragedy. Cunningham is a tragic but driven scientist who has buried one wife, and watched his son and fiancé perish in a boating accident. His zealous determination to continue the Cunningham line and immortalise his daughter Christina (Jane Lapotaire) and his adopted son Giles (Robert Powell) soon takes over any benevolent motivations that Cunningham may once have harboured.

The accidental death of Christina plunges Cunningham and Giles into a dilemma which is violently resolved with the suicide of Giles. The cold and implacable performance of Robert Powell makes this scene something of a surprise, and its place in the narrative seems somewhat contrived and inappropriate. With his Asphyx safely away behind a combination lock, the digits of which died with Giles, Cunningham faces a life of tortured immortality. The morality of most films that deal with immortality is that the condition is a curse rather than a utopian ideal. Cunningham is punished for playing god and belongs to a long line of well to do scientists who ultimately lack the maturity to deal with the forces they have unleashed. The 1872 Victorian setting places the film firmly into the Age of Reason and the modernism that was embraced in the name of this cause. Its attitude to science and technology is a cautious one – offering brilliance and hope in the shape of Cunningham’s moving pictures, but tragedy and death in the shape of the trapped Asphyx.

The film is book-ended by two sequences in modern day London. They add very little to the proceedings, apart from an absurd final image of the hideously aged Cunningham being crushed between two oncoming vehicles. But even these tacked on moments are invested with emotion and pathos by the gerbil (the first creature made immortal by Cunningham) being the only thing to which Cunningham as an emotional attachment. The film is perhaps a little philosophically weak and fails to follow through the metaphysical issues it raises, but credit must go to Brian Comport for a screenplay overflowing with ideas. The cinematography by celebrated DOP Freddie Young is outstanding at times, and it is essential that the film is enjoyed in its original aspect ratio and in a sufficiently decent print. If you can handle the deliberate and measured pace of the film and are interested in ideas rather than actions then there will be much in The Asphyx of interest.

By the time Corman decided to divert his attentions to an adaptation of the H. P. Lovecraft short story The Case of Charles Dexter Ward he already had House of Usher (1960), Pit and the Pendulum (1961), Premature Burial (1962), Tales of Terror (1962), and The Raven (1963) behind him. It’s more than conceivable that Corman was a bit bored of Poe. But AIP were not bored of Poe and inspired by box office receipts the production company decided to market Corman’s latest horror picture as another Poe film. With a few scant lines from the obscure poem The Haunted Palace appearing on screen, Lovecraft suddenly became Poe. AIP would go on to do this a number of times during the 1960’s – Witchfinder General (1968) became The Conqueror Worm and The Oblong Box (1969) has no relation to the short story after which it was named. Lovecraft was very much the heir to Poe’s throne in literary terms and it would have been a fitting tribute if AIP could have segued from Poe into the cosmic terrors of Lovecraft. Unfortunately it wasn’t to be and Lovecraft wasn’t utilised at all in the marketing of The Haunted Palace.

Vincent Price gets the opportunity to play two characters here – the soppy and pathetic Charles Dexter Ward and the infinitely more interesting Joseph Curwen – a man who is burnt at the stake by the villagers of Arkham for his love of the black arts. Over a century after this vigilante deed Ward arrives in Arkham to claim his inheritance – a suitably gothic and eerie palace handed down to him by his warlock ancestor. After enduring the indifference of a superstitious populace Ward finds himself in conflict with the spirit of Curwen whose force of will enables him to inhabit the body of the feckless Ward and continue the plans that were interrupted a century before by the torch wielding locals. Curwen is aided and abetted in his task by Simon (a bloated Lon Chaney Jr.) in their bid to harness the cryptic powers of the Necronomicon and open a passageway for the old gods to return to our world and once again hold dominion. Chaney Jr is badly underused and apart from a few eerily lit moments adds little to the film apart from his obvious marquee value. Price on the other hand gets to ham it up and dominates proceedings, delivering his wicked lines of dialogue with the sadistic relish for which he became popular. Corman makes use of an evocative portrait of Curwen, a work of art which glares down at all who enter the palace, the burning eyes fixing Ward in their glare, communicating both control and bodily possession.

The village of Arkham is well rendered, with a number of enjoyably hysterical scenes taking place in the ironically named Burning Man Tavern. Here we get to see the mob mentality develop amid an increasing tempo of supernatural events, the least of which are two excellent revenge murders and a surreal moment in which mutated descendants of the original mob surround Ward in a bid to make him leave. Curwen’s thirst for vengeance is soon forgotten however as he successfully revives his long dead mistress (the film wastes a lot of time with this) and when Curwen finally gets around to the true purpose of his quest the film is virtually over. Curwen fails to fully carry out his revenge and Chaney Jr’s character simply vanishes from the film. We don’t see enough of the old gods, who appear almost as an afterthought as the film forgets earlier developments and rushes headlong into the typical Corman ending – a building on fire. The film benefits from first rate art direction courtesy of Corman regular Daniel Haller and an outstanding musical score from Ronald Stein. Apart from one or two major plot weaknesses The Haunted Palace is easily one of the most stylish and enjoyable of Corman’s 1960’s gothic horrors.

What seems most noticeable now is the lack of spectacle that features in the film. It has an understated quality that would soon seem outmoded and dated with the release of The Exorcist (1973) just a few months on the horizon. But this is a brave decision by filmmakers who seem intent on creating chills and scares rather than revulsion and horror. It offers the audience subtle scares and is one of the least physical of 1970’s horror films. It doesn’t succeed at all on an intellectual level, but neither does it try to resort to the ponderous moralising seen in The Exorcist and The Omen (1976). Because it doesn’t rely totally on special effects one or two sequences are a bit creaky and clichéd (airborne crockery and furniture, doors opening on their own, spectral footsteps etc). But audiences are compensated for this by the unfaltering seriousness of the performances. Even the usually manic over-acting of Roddy McDowall is kept in check in the first half of the film. He plays the only survivor of a previous expedition within Hell House. In the films final third his agitated qualities emerge at a time when the film is just beginning to drag. This is an excellent example of what can be achieved on limited resources. A handful of committed performances in a single setting can work very well at times.

However this is not a film devoid of some technical accomplishment. The regular establishing shots of an external view of the house enshrouded by fog are eerily conveyed, and the interior art decoration has a wonderfully baroque touch which hints at the debauchery that once occurred with the damned walls. Of particular note is the sound design. The efforts of Delia Derbyshire and Brian Hodgson of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop (most famous for its contributions to Doctor Who) create much of the films tension and atmosphere. This combines well with some inventive photography from Alan Hume who uses low angle shots, photographic distortion and a restricted frame all in service of subtle scares. Many horror films are remembered for individual sequences, but this is not so here. In this film the whole effect is the most important thing.

Unfortunately the single setting and minimum of characters means there are a number of static talky sequences. The director John Hough who also helmed Hammer’s stylish and enjoyable Twins of Evil (1971) is somewhat pedestrian in his direction. But this complements a general downplaying of the aesthetic presentation. The only thing that was irritating was the profusion of onscreen captions telling us the date and time. Other than this The Legend of Hell House is a thought provoking and effective haunted house story. Not quite up there with the likes of The Haunting, mostly due to the rather daft reason for the paranormal activity. Nevertheless a memorable effort by all concerned.

The director, Basil Dearden, was best know for a series of highly conservative social problem films he had made in partnership with producer Michael Relph under the auspices of Ealing Studios in the 1950’s and 1960’s. A number of themes and concerns present in films such as The Blue Lamp (1950), Violent Playground (1958 – featuring a young David McCallum and Peter Cushing) and Sapphire (1959) are reconstituted in The Man Who Haunted Himself to reflect the new found permissiveness in society that so worried old conservatives. How the doppelganger comes into existence in this film is one of its weak spots, explained away in a vague and embarrassed manner. The two Pelham’s offer representations of two differing generations clashing. The first Pelham is stuffy, conservative and impeccably middle class. Furthermore he is sexually repressed and ignorant of the desires of his frustrated wife. The duality continues with their twin sons, evidence that Pelham isn’t entirely sexually useless. One could say this Pelham represents the post war generation of stiff upper lip determination, the values of the 1950’s, the values of Ealing’s post war problem films. The doppelganger is by contrast thoroughly modern. He is not only sexually active, but promiscuous with it, he is a gambler, a smoker, a drinker and a driver of fast and dangerous sports cars. His carefree and permissive abandon situates him as the antagonist in the conservative universe Dearden creates.

The audience is never entirely certain whether Pelham is not hallucinating and cracking under the strain of pretence he lives under in suburbia. This creates much of the tension, especially in scenes where he talks to himself on the phone. It paves the way for a finale which is unexpected but very welcome. In the final minutes Dearden abandons any efforts to maintain realism and composes the most visually striking and exciting sequence in his career. The film hurtles (colourfully and violently) full pelt into the realm of fantasy. The outcome is something of a surprise as the repressed and stuffy Pelham is absorbed by the permissive Pelham. It is a despairing note and clearly indicates the direction that Dearden believes modern society to be heading toward. Apart from the finale Dearden directs in an unobtrusive and unfussy fashion. Moore is revelatory as both Pelham’s and puts to shame anyone who might claim Moore cannot act. The film deserves greater visibility and acknowledgement.

However one must commend Argento’s bravery in committing himself totally to the irrationality of the horror genre. This irrationality includes a number of striking and downright odd set piece sequences that last far beyond their narrative justification. The two that spring most readily to mind are an encounter with a demonic alchemist in the basement of a Rome library, and an even more astonishing underwater sequence in a flooded hotel ballroom. These phantasmagorical moments are a sophisticated index illustrating the burgeoning global threat of the Three Mothers. This realm of phantasmagoria also represent a clash between modernity and a more mediaeval world of witchcraft and superstition. Alchemy emerges as a major thematic and symbolic motif of the film and one which works at an extra-textual level. After all Argento and his team of technicians are creating a kind of visual alchemy, suggesting the events on screen are a metaphor for the filmmaking experience itself.

Like a good number of Argento, films Inferno can be enjoyed at a visual level, and the graphic violence within (surprisingly more sadistic than normal for an Argento film) provides the requisite thrills for hardcore horror fans, but as a piece of storytelling, Inferno is nothing short of a disaster. Everything serves what I would term the internal illogic of the film…even the soundtrack by Keith Emerson. The music lacks synchronisation, suffers bizarre and awkward tempos, and wildly offbeat time signature. Only during the reveal of the true identity of the mysterious nurse at the films conclusion do we get the type of brilliant music we are accustomed too in Argento’s films. The result is that there is scant opportunity for the audience to take things in and ponder the deeper mysteries of the film, and explore the connections (both character based and narrative based) that were established in Suspiria and concluded so badly in the recent Mother of Tears (a film by the way that makes Inferno look like Citizen Kane!). There is much to admire here, but if you want a single example of where Argento began to lose it as a storyteller and constructor of narratives, this is it.

The anthology format by its very nature presents micro-narratives that are brief, but offer short sharp shocks to the audience. Amicus would later on go on too employ talented scribes such as Robert Bloch and R. Chetwynd Hayes, and even mine the gore soaked world of EC Comics. Unfortunately Subotsky is more an ideas man than a brilliant writer. The basic kernel of each story is very good, and the bridging segment which concerns five passengers in a rail carriage having their fortunes told by a mysterious stranger known only as Dr. Schreck (German for ‘terror’ – played by the superb Peter Cushing) ultimately provides an excellent payoff. But generally the stories lack depth, detail, and any efforts at characterisation are purely cosmetic. This is not necessarily a criticism of Subotsky, with the anthology format he made a rod for his own back, but the strength of the ideas just about pulls the film through in the end. The fogbound railway setting is superb, claustrophobic train carriages often make for evocative spaces. This is probably the most successful setting in the film, the later stories all suffering from a weakness in art direction that would plague Amicus throughout its history.

The first tale of terror is set in a gothic mansion in the countryside of Scotland, and is a nice little story concerning a Werewolf. For once the production design works, with plenty of dry ice, eerie crypts and a few surprising plot twists. The second tale “Creeping Vine” is probably the films most notorious. The weakest segment by far it involves a family trapped in their horribly modern home by the rapacious plant life outside. Despite the presence of Bernard Lee (M in the Bond films) the premise is so utterly daft that one even forgets about the awful acting of British DJ Alan Freeman. Light relief follows in the shape of “Voodoo” – a tale of a musician (Roy Castle) who decides to plagiarise the music he witnesses at a voodoo rite in Jamaica. For some the over acting of Castle might be an issue, but at this juncture in the film this comedic segment is most welcome. What follows is the films most famous story “Disembodied Hand”. A pompous and pretentious art critic (Christopher Lee) gets his comeuppance for his withering reviews, when the disembodied hand of an artist takes its revenge on him. This might sound as daft as killer plants, but the performances of Lee and Michael Gough as the tormented artist make this a joy to watch. The final story “Vampire” featuring a young Donald Sutherland is a witty final entry, with a clever twist.

By requiring just a few days work from big star names Amicus were able to fill their marquee with actors who drew audiences without breaking their budget. Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee were at the pinnacle of their popularity in 1965, and Donald Sutherland was just on the cusp of stardom. Some of the casting choices such as Alan Freeman can seem peculiar now, but Freeman was also a very popular figure in mid 1960’s Britain. The stories are transparent genre clichés, but director Freddie Francis enthuses them with atmosphere and with a keen eye for visuals that echo his exemplary efforts as an Oscar winning cinematographer. Dr. Terror’s House of Horrors remains a popular and fondly remembered film from a golden age of British horror that succeeded commercially with mild scares rather than body horror and gore.

Further viewing – Amicus Anthologies
Torture Garden (1967), The House that Dripped Blood (1970), Tales from the Crypt (1972), Asylum (1972), From Beyond the Grave (1973), The Vault of Horror (1973), The Monster Club (1980).

The Game sees Nicholas Van Orton (Michael Douglas), highly successful in the finance business, even more successful at being a complete prick, submerged within a professional “game”, recommended to him and paid for by his drug-addicted brother Conrad (Sean Penn) as a birthday present. Reluctant to engage in the game to begin with, which is shrouded in vagueness and requires countless private details/information of participants lives, Nicholas soon finds himself under constant surveillance, being followed by mysterious people, sent cryptic messages and other annoying sentiments of the sort. However, the game quickly spirals out of control, with Nicholas thrust into countless life-threatening scenarios, unable to quit the game amidst shoot-outs, the destruction of his home and his brother’s mental breakdown. As the circumstances become even more grandiose than before and the game increasingly appears as if there are no limits to what it can do (including seemingly predicting the future and participants being granted superhuman strength), it becomes quite apparent that there better be a damn good explanation by the end for all the nonsense ensuing. Assumingly, Fincher just buckled under the strenuous task of tying it all together.

Part of the problem is that no ending could be completely satisfactory after what occurs throughout the prior two hours or so. It’s not the usual action movie nonsense, such as walking away from countless high-risk situations without so much as a knick, although that is featured in abundance. The problem is that the game is on such a large scale that it isn’t feasible. It’s not just because police officers, cab drivers and pedestrians in on it, nor is it because entire hospitals, entire restaurants and entire businesses are in on it, but because nearly every single person Nicholas encounters is. It reaches the point where poor Nick and a small handful of others seem to be the only people in the whole San Francisco area not in on it. As well, the game relies entirely on knowing what Michael will do at exactly any given point in time, something impossible without the means of telekinesis. He’ll hail a cab at this exact moment. He’ll jump off a ledge at exactly that point. He’ll swivel his head in that exact direction at that exact moment. It’s enjoyable, good fun, but there’s an accompanying uneasy feeling about how it’s all going to turn out.

While no ending could be completely satisfactory, the chosen ending remains the least satisfactory. All the lapses in logic are abundant throughout the film and these plot holes are cast aside in one of the most absurd twists in film history. It’s not that it heaps a million more plot holes onto the already towering heap, but that it essentially strips every single character of any semblance of intelligence or real emotion. I’m tip-toeing around the events of the ending in case people intend to watch the film, but the reasons, motives and logic behind the “game” for those involved are so far outside the realm of any fictional reality that they would only be acceptable within the realms of comedy, and even then it would be a bit iffy (indeed, there was a comedy within the last decade that employed a similar conclusion for nothing more than cheap laughs, and yet was still more plausible than this utter nonsense).

The worst part is that The Game presents its conclusion wrapped up in pseudo-intellect and a pretentious condescension, attempting to present some sort of meaningful lesson to both its character and the audience. It’s got all the fixings typical of a smart thriller: Academy Award nominated/winning talent, a moody low-key score, a meaningful moral, but it’s got all the intelligence of something with none. I’ve seen my fair share of bad endings before: one film ended with the characters all dying in a random explosion out of absolutely nowhere, another with the characters turning to the camera before unmasking the killer and shouting in street jargon ‘Yo, we’re not going to show you who the killer is. See you in the sequel! Bye”, and yet another one where a hotdog vendor turned out to be some sort of CGI demon-thingy. However, these were all preceded by equally stupid events and at least did not pretend to be anything other than dumb finales to equally dumb movies. The Game was somewhat enjoyable throughout and then ended with the equivalent of one of those atrocious endings, but masquerading as smart.

There are countless fans of “The Game”, and while normally I’m not such an elitist snob about these sorts of things, if they truly believe this to be an intelligent film in any sense of the words, they’ve been duped. It’s got all the fixings of one, but that’s all. This is the intellectual equivalent of “Freddy Got Fingered”. “Freddy Got Fingered” ended with Tom Green being ejaculated on by an elephant. I truly believe that would be a more fitting ending for “The Game”. Sure, Michael Douglas being sprayed with semen by a sexually excited elephant would be beyond silly, but at least it would wear it’s stupidity on its sleeve, rather than layered underneath countless pretensions. It would be a slap in the face to the viewing audience who invested two hours of their time, but at least it wouldn’t presume them to be idiots.

The shifts in tone and atmosphere are subtle at first. Hints and clues as to Asami’s past and background, fragmentary flashbacks of an abused childhood, enigmatic and ghostly sequences which owe much to the Kaidan or avenging spirit motif popularised in J-horror hits like Ring (1997), the introduction of temporal confusion. The colour scheme also begins to shift, subtly at first, before drenching the film in cold blues, mysterious greens and sickly yellows that hint at the inner decay and perversion to come. Despite this formal explosion, nothing can compare to the films violent denouement. It is shocking, harrowing and difficult to sit through, mainly because of the sound effects, but also because of the obvious enjoyment Asami gains from slowly torturing her helpless male victim.

Miike denies that there is a political reading to be found in Audition but this hasn’t stopped Western critics groping to understand the film through any means possible. In the West it was hailed in some quarters for its feminist qualities, but any attempt to turn Asami into a positive or heroic figure is deeply flawed and controversial. The film also makes perfunctory attempts to discuss the female role in Japanese society, and its clear that male resentment of women in the workplace exists. The film works best from the perspective of gender and audience manipulation. What makes the film so exceptional is that succeeds in an age in which films rarely hold any surprises for us. Most of the secrets a film have are exposed by trailers or clod hopping critics. Miike consciously plays on Western perceptions of Asian cruelty, and its no surprise that its images of sadistic torture found greater success in the west. The film is a melting pot of trans-national signifiers, it plays with Japanese conventions, whilst simultaneously flirting with a western brand of horror and the politics of cult film reception. Audition confirmed Takashi Miike as a filmmaker of note, to laud him as an auteur is perhaps a step too far (Audition was cast, written and budgeted before Miike was invited to direct it), but one thing is certain, Audition is a significant and important film.

Polanski was a director perfectly suited to make a film detailing the gradual alienation and psychological breakdown of a vulnerable female. He had explored similar territory in Repulsion (1965), and would later take the theme even further by casting himself in The Tenant (1976). In all of these films the spatial claustrophobia of the apartment is central to the anxiety. The apartment block in Rosemary’s Baby has a history of tragedy and of evil, and this is brought to life extremely well in the way the building is almost personified. The corridors squeeze the characters, and Polanski’s camera offers a tight and restricted view. The walls are thin, the décor tasteless to the eye, the neighbours strangulating in their platitudes and good intentions. Into this is thrown a young upwardly mobile couple. Rosemary played with wide eyed vulnerability by Mia Farrow begins having strange dreams and suspicions, and her mysterious pregnancy only adds to the creeping paranoia that begins to overtake her life. The terror lies in the lack of freedom that Rosemary encounters, she has nowhere to turn as the cult draws nearer.

Much of the horror lies in the inevitability of the plot. As an audience we become certain long before Rosemary that she is pregnant with the devils child. Rather than dilute the suspense, this becomes the films masterstroke, because it affords Polanski the opportunity to really ratchet up the paranoid tension. The modern day coven of witches remains hidden by a tight network of bourgeois society folk. It is made up of doctors, and scholars, and is firmly associated with the upwardly mobile world that Rosemary’s husband Guy (John Cassavetes) so desperately craves. He sells himself out in order to progress up the Hollywood ladder, which offers a bleak view of the acting profession and the desperate measures required to succeed in the modern world. This is a horror film with an unusual amount of subtlety, subtlety that Polanski had not shown in either Repulsion or Dance of the Vampires (1967) – and perhaps shows evidence of artistic maturity. The narrative patiently builds up, and aside from a very striking dream sequence in which we briefly see the Devil making love to Rosemary, the film is marked by a visual blandness. The film offers particularly rich rewards to those seeking to explore issues of gender and psychoanalysis. But what really impresses some forty years on is the level of commitment shown by the excellent Mia Farrow and the patience and subtlety behind the camera of the brilliant Roman Polanski.