Hubrisween 2015 :: Z is for Zombie Lake (1981)

We open in a small French village shortly after World War II. And if the extreme soft-focus and loopy organ-grinder soundtrack wasn’t a big enough clue, the fact the film quickly focuses and then lingers on a fare damsel first stripping and then dipping into a forbidden lake is ample evidence of the soft-core sleaze we are about to encounter. And if you were paying attention to the credits and do a little digging this conclusion is a slam dunk.

Anyhoo, said damsel is quickly attacked by several soggy ghouls lurking below the surface and she is drowned. And judging by the mayor’s reaction, this has happened before and will likely happen again, which it does, when several more ghouls surface, slosh into town, and tear the throats out of several more unlucky maidens with their teeth. One also notes at this point that these ghouls are decked out in German Wehrmacht uniforms.

Despite all the bodies piling up, the mayor (Vernon) refuses to close the beaches. Enter hotshot reporter, Katya (Moore), whose muckraking and bed-hopping eventually pushes the mayor to bring in the authorities, who are promptly eaten by the ghouls. Meantime, the reporter uncovers the truth: seems that during the war, while the town was occupied, a German soldier fell in love with one of the locals after being injured while saving her from an enemy mortar round. This love was consummated as he recuperated. Alas, this love story doesn’t have a happy ending as the woman dies giving birth to their daughter, topped off with the father and his whole garrison being wiped out by the Resistance. And three guesses to all of you out there as to where they hid the bodies?

Now, one of the resurrected ghouls is easily recognizable as the father. And if there was a reason as to why he and his dead brethren have reactivated and are seeking vengeance on the town I totally missed it. Honestly, it doesn’t really matter as, first, a whole visiting female athletic team goes for a strip ‘n’ dip and are promptly eaten, as is the reporter, leaving the mayor to cook up a master plan of using the orphaned daughter as live bait to lure all the ghouls into a barn where they are promptly napalmed to death.

Like most Euro-smut disguised as a feature film, Zombie Lake’s (1981) greatest sin is being incredulously tedious. The production then doubles-down on a consortium of terrible and uninspired acting, shoddy and (barely) perfunctory make-up effects, and a central plot that requires you to root for the Nazis. And despite the presence of a metric-ton of eye-candy and bare boobies, it’s hard to get any pleasure out of it due to the whackadoodle soundtrack that plays out like the old Magic Organ 8-track my grandparents used to have in their old Caddy. And trying to add those two things together, well, this did not compute.

Zombie Lake was also another feature that Jess Franco backed out of at the last minute (-- too awful for Jess Franco? Noodle that for a bit, Boils and Ghouls), with Jean Rollin coaxed and conned into taking over. Rollin has long since disavowed the film, which is small consolation for those of us who stumbled upon it and took the plunge.

What is Hubrisween? This is Hubrisween. And now, Boils and Ghouls, be sure to follow this linkage to keep track of the whole conglomeration of reviews for Hubrisween right here. Or you can always follow we collective head of knuckle on Letterboxd. Wohoo! A thru Z. I made it!

Zombie Lake (1981) Eurociné :: J.E. Films / P: Marius Lesoeur, Sean Warner, Daniel White / AP: Daniel Lesoeur / D: Jean Rollin / W: Julián Esteban, Jesús Franco / C: Max Monteillet / E: Claude Gros, María Luisa Soriano / M: Daniel White / S: Howard Vernon, Pierre-Marie Escourrou, Anouchka, Antonio Mayans, Marcia Sharif

Cult Movie Project #19 (of 200) :: Sexing Up the War on Higher Education in Henry Levin's Where the Boys Are (1960)

If someone drew a triangle using the bubble-gum pop of Gidget (1959) and the knee-deep cheese of the Frankie and Annette Beach Party movies (1963-1966) as the base angles, and the steamy melodrama of A Summer Place (1959) as the apex angle, and then after adding a little geometry to this triangulum I think we'd find another coming of age flick set against the backdrop of sand and surf right smack in the middle: Where the Boys Are (1960).

While writing novels about people going on a journey, author Glendon Swarthout had himself quite the career in both print and on the big screen. They Came to Cordura, which focused on a ragtag group splintered off from Pershing's expedition into Mexico to hunt down Poncho Villa, for one example. Another, The Shootist, focused on the end of the journey for aging gunslinger, J.B. Books. But his most famous stories usually added a coming of age factor, with the likes of Bless the Beasts and the Children and his wildly popular Where the Boys Are; a "zany satire on the holiday pursuits of the American teenage girl" which provided the first ever insider-look into the annual Spring Break invasion of Florida.

"Why do (college kids) come to Florida?” asks Merrit Andrews in Swathout’s novel. “Physically to get a tan. Also, they are pooped. Many have mono. Psychologically, to get away. And besides, what else is there to do except go home (for Spring Break) and further foul up the parent-child relationship? Biologically, they come to Florida to check the talent. You've seen those movie travelogues of the beaches on the Pribilof Islands where the seals tool in once a year to pair off and reproduce. The beach at Lauderdale has a similar function. Not that reproduction occurs, of course, but when you attract thousands of kids to one place there is apt to be a smattering of sexual activity."

First published in 1958, MGM quickly turned the novel around and made a tidy sum off their minimum budget. However, one should point out that George Wells' screenplay only covers the first half of the book, as the second gets even zanier with the radicalization of Merrit as she tries to help smuggle guns into Cuba to help Uncle Fidel and the Fuller Brush Beard Brigade's revolution that ends in disaster.

No, the film adaptation is more concerned with another revolution. And while Where the Boys Are definitely has the wholesome late 1950's sheen on the surface (-- beginning with Connie Francis' infectious theme song), down below it makes no bones about poking the taboo of premarital S-E-X right in the eye with a very sharp stick.

From the opening scene, Merritt (Hart) is already duking it out with her uptight college professor over the elder's archaic views on sex and the dating habits of the young American female. But as the film plays out, Merritt has some major issues over the practice of what she's preaching – a far cry from the character in the novel, who lost her virginity long before she headed south. Also of note, in the novel Merrit only travels with one companion who basically disappears, leaving our protagonist to sleep with every male character we’re destined to meet in the film, gets pregnant, refuses all overtures of marriage, drops out of school and moves home to regroup.

But Wells and director Henry Levin had something different in mind, basically splitting Merrit into four different characters, giving us quartet of anxious co-eds from a winter-socked mid-western college ready for their own pilgrimage south, to where the boys outnumber the girls 3 to 1. Good odds for these gals, each with their own goal: too tall Tuggle (Prentiss) is on the hunt for a husband, preferably one she can look in the eye without bending her knees both figuratively and literally; Melanie (Mimieux) also has her sights set high, wanting to notch a couple of Ivy Leaguers on her soon to be discarded chastity belt; and while the pugnacious Angie (Francis) will settle for just about anything, Merritt isn't really sure what she's looking for, if anything at all, really, romantically speaking. Kudos to the casting director for filling those roles out, too. These seemingly mismatched puzzle pieces shouldn't fit but they do and the sense of camaraderie found with these girls is one of the film's strongest points.

And the resulting chemistry with their respective beaus-to-come is just as wonderful as the film follows them through the entire week of Spring Break, where the girls move from one bizarre locale to the next, taking in the sun, the suds and the scenery. Along the way, Tuggle falls for the lanky TV Thompson (Hutton), and Angie finds romance with Basil, a myopic bass player (Gorshin), whose experimental combo-band pays the audience to listen to them, dig? The brainy Merrit also finds her match with Ryder Smith (an eerily untanned Hamilton), as they hurl intellectual barbs at one another over the "Stud / Slut Dichotomy" to keep him at arm’s length, allowing the reluctant Merritt to ease into the relationship.

And as TV's police-band radio constantly updates us on the collegiate shenanigans erupting around them (-- a favorite being a live shark reported in a hotel swimming pool), the couples schmooze, snog, bicker over commitments, fight, break-up, make-up, snog some more, culminating in climactic calamity at a fancy dinner at a fancy seafood restaurant, where the whole gang winds up in a giant aquarium with the showcase aqua-bat, leading to a mass arrest.

To make matters worse, the overly naive Melanie has taken her best friend's Kinsey-backed advice to heart. And while the film's overall tone is comedic, it can also be downright brutal at times, with poor Melanie usually taking the brunt of it, serving as an abject lesson for the others when she's suckered to a private motel party by a couple of no-goodniks posing as Yale students. When she finally susses out the ruse and tries to leave, it's too late. What happens next is only implied, but there is no mistaking the devastating final result once the motel door slams shut.

The other girl's relationship problems pale in comparison, but they are the bumps along the way just the same. TV wants to knock-boots with Tuggle but she's determined to wait until she's married. TV takes the hint, and the specter of a long term commitment frightens him off. And knowing that once Spring Break is over means the probable end of their relationship, a conflicted Merritt's hot and cold act is wearing awfully thin with Ryder, resulting in a similar nasty spat. And then things get really twisted when everyone's relationships are saved or cemented as a direct result of Melanie's sexual assault.

And this is why I'm just as conflicted about my feelings for Where the Boys Are. On the surface, it's beautifully shot, filled with adorable characters, who we openly root for to make it work, and so immersive in the chaos of one raucous week I could almost enjoy it unconditionally -- almost. Because underneath, it's mixed message of saying sex is OK but the only one who actively engages in it winds up raped, brutalized and in the hospital is a pretty twisted way to moralize away it's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt. And, well, I kinda have a problem making all of that compute while trying to laugh at an aquarium full of goofballs.
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“I don’t want to give the impression that Where the Boys Are should be taken all that seriously. After all, any picture about the students who migrate to Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale is bound to be somewhat stupid and junky, even if it cost a lofty $2 million, was made on location, and was filmed in CinemaScope … But I do think it is above being enjoyed only on a camp level. There is much to appreciate … George Wells’ script may be about sophomores but it never becomes sophomoric like most college sex comedies; it is surprisingly intelligent, contains unexpected insights into the coed condition, smoothly blends serious moments into the comedic framework, strives for the offbeat, and features a lot of clever dialogue.”
 
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXX-- Danny Peary 
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The Fine Print: Where the Boys Are was watched via a digital rental through Amazon Prime's streaming package. What's the Cult Movie Project? That's 19 down, with 181 to go.

Where the Boys Are (1960) Euterpe :: MGM / P: Joe Pasternak / D: Henry Levin / W: George Wells, Glendon Swarthout (Novel) / C: Robert Bronner / E: Fredric Steinkamp / M: George Stoll / S: Dolores Hart, Paula Prentiss, Yvette Mimieux, Connie Francis, George Hamilton, Jim Hutton, Frank Gorshin, Chill Wills

All Spark But No Fire :: A Beer-Gut Reaction to George Marshall's The Forest Rangers (1942)

The Forest Rangers (1942) is a vintage rom-com, where a slightly singed forest ranger (MacMurray) falls head over heels hard for a visiting city girl (Goddard); so hard he marries her on the spot -- much to the chagrin of his old pal (Hayward), whose girly parts our dundering hero couldn't see for the trees or something. 

And so, while some firebug is wreaking havoc in the National Park, and the audience is treated to 42-consecutive choruses of "I Got Spurs that Jingle-Jangle-Jingle", Hayward does her best to sabotage the marriage in a thoroughly misguided attempt to win back Ranger Oblivious. 

Now, the headlining trio do add some spark to this tired triangular plot -- especially their fairly risque threeway when all three combatants share a bed of leaves 'n' twigs together after they all get stuck in the forest overnight. Couple this game of musical spooning with an earlier scene when the two lovebirds pull a per-marital all-nighter together, in an Everly Brothers sense, and, man, 'In Flaming Technicolor', indeed. Whoa.

Despite her best efforts, I don't think there was ever any doubt that MacMurray and Goddard were never gonna break up but I was still rooting for Hayward anyway, finding her to be the most interesting character in the whole movie. (A woman of position who runs her own logging operation but is only seen as just one of the guys and too 'butch' to be a proper wife.) In fact, she might've been too good with her character because one can't help but call bullshit on the climax -- no, not on who was really starting the fires, but the role reversal when our two ladies are caught in the latest raging inferno; a reversal so insipid I simply couldn't buy it. 

The print I watched on YouTube was pretty abysmal, in authentic Drunk-O-Vision, but I bet this thing would really pop if ever restored. All in all, pretty harmless hooey, perhaps slightly scorched, but amusing enough if you're into this kind of screwball thing. 

The Forest Rangers (1942) Paramount Pictures / P: Robert Sisk / D: George Marshall / W: Harold Shumate, Thelma Strabel / C: Charles Lang, William V. Skall / E: Paul Weatherwax / S: Fred MacMurray, Paulette Goddard, Susan Hayward, Albert Dekker, Lynne Overman

Sometimes the Hangover's Worth It :: A Beer-Gut Reaction to Archie Mayo's Moontide (1942)

Returning to one of his favorite ports along the California coast, a hard-drinking, free-spirited sailor named Bobo (Gabin) and his mate, Tiny (Mitchell), set anchor and start raising some hell in the local watering holes. Alas, after one particular insane night of debauchery, Bobo gets so blasted he awakens on a stranger's boat wearing somebody else's hat, with no idea how he got there. Worse yet, the hat's owner turns up dead, and, fearing what he might have done during his drunken blackout, Bobo, with Tiny's encouraging, prepares to skip town.

But! This fugitive flight is interrupted when Bobo rescues a girl, Anna (Lupino), who was trying to commit suicide by drowning. Completely smitten with this waif, Bobo decides to stick around, falls in love, and gets married -- much to his old buddy Tiny's annoyance, who tries to sabotage this relationship at every turn. And then things take an even more sinister turn when Anna discovers who the real killer is, making her the next target!

Moontide is a fascinating, proto-film noir whose rocky production and subsequent box-office failure, unfortunately, and unjustly, relegated it to the musty vault of Forgotten Films and the Criminally Overlooked; just a footnote on the failure of Hollywood to import French actor Jean Gabin, who had resisted all Tinseltown overtures until France fell to Germany in 1940. Director Fritz Lang walked away from it during the pre-production phase. Ida Lupino was only in it because Joan Bennett got pregnant and had to bow out. Then, after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, producer Mark Hellinger had to move the entire shoot indoors when location shooting on the docks proved untenable due to National Security risks.

And on top of all that, Joseph Breen, Hollywood’s censor extraordinaire, seemed to take a personal interest in this flick and proceeded to stomp the ever-living hell out of anything that came within six nautical miles of the Hayes Code right out of John O’Hara and Nunnally Johnson’s script. And when you take into account all the murder, mayhem, attempted suicides, raping and, yes, cannibalism in Willard Robinson’s source novel, one can only wonder who thought it was even possible to film the doomed characters of Moontide in the first place. But film it they did, and quite remarkably I might add.

Gabin is great, but Lupino is even better, showing a rare vulnerability. I’m telling ya, she’s so good in this. And both are supported by rock solid, out-of-character turns by beach bum Claude Raines and a murderous Thomas Mitchell. Archie Mayo subs in just fine for Lang, too, with lots of shadows and fog, and a nice assist from Salvador Dali for a drunken, phantasmagorical dream sequence. And the move indoors just adds a surreal, dreamlike quality that makes this thing come off as some kind of a demented fairy tale — complete with a Daryl F. Zanuck mandated happy ending. (For the record, I totally agree with him on this change.) And for every five things Breen squashed, one or two things managed to slip through.

Unfortunately, while dancing around Breen's scissors, Moontide can’t quite get its footing on what it really wants to be: a hard-edged thriller or sudsy melodrama — but, eh, whaddaya gonna do. In the film's defense, it does both genres very well, they just never quite jive properly. And please, don’t let that schizo stuff scare you off or you’re gonna miss a really good movie.

Other Points of Interest:

The newspaper ads for Moontide at the Morgue. 
 

Moontide (1942) Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation / P: Mark Hellinger / D: Archie Mayo / W: Nunnally Johnson, John O’Hara, Willard Robertson (novel) / C: Charles G. Clarke, Lucien Ballard / E: William Reynolds / M: David Buttolph, Cyril J. Mockridge / S: Jean Gabin, Ida Lupino, Thomas Mitchell, Claude Rains, Victor Sen Yung

Childhood's End :: A Beer-Gut Reaction to Sam Wood's King's Row (1942)

___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___

A good town.
A good clean town.
A good town to live in.
And a good place to raise your children.
___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___

And so reads the sign welcoming visitors and viewers to King's Row; a small mid-western town at the turn of the last century America. Maybe it is a good place, but maybe it's not as we're presented evidence to the contrary by following the lives of five such children -- Parris Mitchell, Cassie Tower, Randy Monoghan, Louise Gordon and Drake McHugh -- as they grow up, grow apart, and discover the truth when they come back together; that underneath the shiny veneer of small town idyllic life, things are pretty damn ugly underneath...


Okay, I know the film eventually has a happy ending, but, man, was this thing ever depressing to sit through. From the opening gut-punch of no one attending poor Cassie's birthday party, to her murder, to the brutal, and totally unnecessary, amputation of McHugh's legs by a vengeful doctor, could it get any worse? Don't get me wrong, the film is fascinating and really quite good despite it's, for lack of a better word, perverse and melancholy tone.


Based on Henry Belleman's novel of a small town's dirty secrets -- insanity, nymphomania, incest and sadism -- director Sam Wood and scriptwriter Casey Robinson do a pretty good job of adapting this lurid story in such a way that it not only keeps the melodramatic elements from spitting the bit, cinematically speaking, but also appeases the draconian Hayes Code rather deftly by keeping the majority of those elements in; and frankly, I think the film has one of the better uses of a violent thunderstorm as euphemism for s-e-x -- good enough that even though it couldn't have been more obvious, I didn't find myself giggling at the obviousness.


Acting wise, Robert Cummings is great as Parris, the wide-eyed hero; and Betty Field is equally impressive as the doomed Cassie. It's odd to see Maria Ouspenskaya out of her gypsy duds as Cumming's' benevolent grandmother, and even odder to see Charles Coburn shake his old fudd routine and play an outright bastard of a zealot. And give Reagan some credit, too; he was pretty good as the cad about town, McHugh; and even better when tragedy hits him hard. All politics and monkey movies aside, I knew the guy could act after watching him as the villain in Don Siegel's remake of The Killers. All of it adds up to pretty good drama that doesn't overstay it's daunting 128 minute screen-time.


King's Row (1942) First National Picture :: Warner Bros. / P: Hal B. Wallis / AP: David Lewis / D: Sam Wood / W: Casey Robinson, Henry Bellamann (novel) / C: James Wong Howe / E: Ralph Dawson / M: Erich Wolfgang Korngold / S: Ann Sheridan, Robert Cummings, Ronald Reagan, Betty Field, Claude Rains, Maria Ouspenskaya, Charles Coburn