Horror Express (1972): Cozy Terrors

horror_express_cover_artSo many underrated movies to recommend, so little time!

Lately I’ve been feeling the urge to share my thoughts about films I love without typing out long blog posts.

Since today marks the birthday of the late great Sir Christopher Lee and yesterday was Peter Cushing’s birthday, I want to sing the praises of a delightful, lesser-known film that the legendary pair made together.

A Spanish-British co-production, Eugenio Martin’s Horror Express compensates for its low budget with unfettered plot twists and an eerie, snowbound period atmosphere.

Plus it’s set on a train. If you set a movie on a train, I’m about 300% more likely to enjoy it.

However, what makes the film so charming is Cushing and Lee’s heartfelt chemistry. In this case, they both play good guys—rival paleontologists who reluctantly join forces to battle an ancient evil. The film even throws in the occasional cheeky nod to the actors’ Hammer horror legacy. For instance, when a fellow passenger insinuates that Cushing might actually be the film’s demonic creature, he’s utterly scandalized: “Monsters? We’re British, you know!”

This is basically my idea of a feel-good movie.

Rather than face a blank page, I decided that I’d just record my two cents about Horror Express on my iPhone. Listen here or download the file at the Internet Archive.

Consider this the pilot episode for something that might become regular… if enough people like it! Please let me know if you’d like to hear more of my ramblings.

Since Horror Express is in the public domain, you can watch it in many places around the internet. I’m embedding the best HD version that I’ve found on YouTube. It’s also available in a nice transfer on Fandor.

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Eight Films in Eight Days: Cinematic Adventures in Paris

cinemaThe French take classic movies, like all forms of sophisticated pleasure, rather seriously.

For instance, if I want to go see a great movie at the Forum des Images, I must do so without so much as a macaron to sustain myself through the screening. Meanwhile, a few meters away, a huge multiplex sells the latest forgettable films on the market—with a full concession stand wafting good smells. I can hear its siren call, “Come over to the dark side… we have popcorn.”

But no, true bliss demands discipline before it bestows its favors. As much as the rigor and intensity of French audiences intimidate me, I also admire their deep respect and love for the fascinating films of yesterday. It warms the cockles of my heart to witness such a wide range of ages attending screenings, from a school group of tweens at the Cinémathèque to dowagers in Chanel suits frequenting the legendary theaters of the Latin Quarter.

In Max Ophüls’s Le Plaisir, the narrator of the first story concludes, “Le bonheur n’est pas gai.” That is, “Happiness is not joyful.” So you’d be wrong to think that solemn spectators in Paris movie theaters were absorbing the films like some kind of bitter medicine. In fact, they’re about as happy as you can get for €7.50.

Anyway, without further ado, here’s a pretty representative sample of what you can see in huit jours (the French often talk about “eight days” when they mean a week) in cinema’s hometown. Lucky for me, I also happened to be visiting Paris during La Fête du Cinéma, a yearly event that reduces ticket prices to €3.50 for a few days.

ritaCover Girl (Charles Vidor and Gene Kelly, 1944)

The Venue: Sadly, the Cinémathèque Française doesn’t live where it used to back in the days when Langlois hand-picked the movies, Musidora helped work the box office, and the likes of Truffaut, Godard, and Rivette hogged the front-row seats. But, hey, look on the bright side: there’s a gift shop. And you can still see a wide variety of classics, from the obvious to the obscure, projected from the archive’s own collection of prints.

The Movie: This inventive, flamboyantly-colored backstage musical, about a hoofer who wins a modeling contest, gave Rita Hayworth’s rising star a major boost.

Why I Went to See It: Whereas the Cinémathèque’s founder put together wildly eclectic programs of movies each day, the establishment now heavily favors retrospectives and coherent series. When I go see a movie at the Cinémathèque, I look for movies that belong to the Histoire Pérmanente du Cinéma series, which tends to feature a wider assortment of films, including some real rarities as well as Hollywood classics.

The Print: A 35mm version with French subtitles from the Cinémathèque’s vaults. The well-loved reels started to crackle and break up at their beginnings and ends—resulting in one jump cut so startling that I swear I thought the Nouvelle Vague boys got ahold of the print!

My Highlight: Rita Hayworth, wearing a somewhat plain navy suit with red piping, in a waiting room full of models decked out in chic pastels. The lily needs no gilding.

Bottom Line: Technicolor is a damn good storyteller. 

otherThe Other (Robert Mulligan, 1972)

The Venue: Crammed into an underground mall amongst numerous fast food joints and chain stores, the Forum des Images does not overwhelm you at first sight.

However, since the Forum opened in 2008, its exciting programs and decidedly hip ambiance have won over cinephiles from all walks of life.

With both purple fluorescent lights and a changing collection of real vintage posters hanging up in the lobby, the space revels in an oh-so-French blend of old and new. Did I mention the cinema library, where individual browsers can partake of thousands of films and books about films?

The Movie: A horror film? A coming-of-age story? A psychological thriller? However you categorize The Other, it’s much more than another good-twin-bad-twin movie.

Why I Went to See It: In my humble opinion, The Other also ranks as one of the unheralded masterpieces of the 1970s.

The Print: I neglected to notice that the Forum planned on screening a 35mm print in version française, borrowed from the Cinémathèque de Toulouse. That is, with dubbing from the original French release. Listening to all of the characters speaking approximations of their lines in French—and having to provide some whispered translations for my mother—oddly enough gave me the pleasant sensation of watching the film as if for the first time.

My Highlight: The way milkweed silk catches the sunlight as one of the twins carries pods of the fluffy stuff across a bucolic field.

Bottom Line: My respect for this film grew even more after seeing it on a big screen. 

loveLove in the Afternoon (Billy Wilder, 1957) 

The Venue: Fortified by some steak au poivre, I returned to the Forum des Images for the second screening of the day.

The Movie: A barely legal cellist tames a notorious roué by regaling him with false tales of her amorous escapades… lifted from the files of her private eye father. I can only describe this silly, tender trifle as an operetta without singing.

Why I Went to See It: Billy Wilder + Paris + Tango Music = Where Do I Buy My Ticket?

The Print: A well-preserved 35mm version.

My Highlight: Back-to-back close-ups of weathered Gary Cooper and weathered Maurice Chevalier in their confrontation scene. I’d weather that weather!

Bottom Line: It’s the sort of movie that makes you want to go kiss the first person you meet in the street. Fortunately I knew better than to ruin my lipstick. 

champo1A Time to Love and a Time to Die (Douglas Sirk, 1958)

The Venue: Rue Champollion is the epicenter of Paris cinephilia, lined with art house theaters of which La Filmothèque is my favorite so far. Sure, you might have to elbow someone out of the way to get your tickets, but it’s totally worth your trouble to burrow into a comfy plush chair in a screening room with golden floral sconces.

And, sure, some crazy filmgoer might bawl you out for fidgeting during the movie when you were just reaching for your lip balm, but that’s all part of the thrill. Next time, I think I’ll shush someone who isn’t talking, just for the hell of it.

The Movie: A typical love story set in crumbling WWII Germany, elevated by Sirk’s sometimes lyrical, sometimes gritty, but always arresting use of CinemaScope.

Why I Went to See It: When I was in college, I read young Godard’s review of A Time to letempsLove and it’s a real hoot, ending with something along the lines of, “You don’t know beauty ‘til you’ve seen it.” Well, I’d never seen it… And if I ever meet Godard, now I’ll at least have something to talk about while politely avoiding the topic of the migraine that Weekend gave me.

The Print: A gorgeous 35mm version, recopied from the original negative, with French subtitles.

My Highlight: A platinum blonde chanteuse keeping calm and carrying on signing in a swanky wine cave turned bomb shelter while perched on an enormous wooden keg.

Bottom Line: No, I’m not crying. I just got some irony in my eye…

All That Heaven Allows (Douglas Sirk, 1955)

The Venue: La Filmothèque again. Shorter lines, no crazy lady barking at me—such a disappointment.

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The Movie: A society lady falls for her gardener and his proto-hippie ethos of self-reliance à la Walden, and almost everyone she knows tries to crush her happiness.

Why I Went to See It: The world seems tragically drab after watching a Sirk film. I needed my next fix.

The Print: Another 35mm version in Technicolor with French subtitles. Some days I really like my life…

My Highlight: Jane Wyman standing in blue light, wearing a red dress, gazing at a yellow tree branch in a vase—the primary color triangle, almost phantasmagorically saturated—left me agape.

Bottom Line: I love happy endings, especially when they come with an alarmingly friendly stag that serves as the auteur’s eye-roll to his audience. 

ticketsL’Arlésienne (André Antoine, 1922)

The Venue: The Cinémathèque Française—and I should warn you that the establishment screens its silents without music. This tradition stems from the days when Henri Langlois couldn’t afford an accompanist and thus decided to argue that truly silent silents offer the viewer greater advantages. It’s so quiet you can hear the metallic whine of the projector behind the wall.

Look, I’m up for the occasional surreal film event kind of thing, but I do believe that silent movies, to be properly enjoyed, appreciated, and, yes, even studied, require music. When those films first hit theaters, they had live music and they still cry out for that treatment.

I have this nightmare where someone who’s never seen a silent film walks into the Cinémathèque and emerges with the impression that silent movies are austere, remote relics—when nothing could be further from the truth. So, you’re hearing it from me: if silent movies are as yet undiscovered territory for you, please seek out a screening with live music or at least some music.

The Movie: Frédéri, a farm heir obsessed with a vampy townswoman from Arles, agrees to marry a peasant girl who loves him. Brace yourself for tragedy.

Why I Went to See It: I’d never even heard of this film and, chances are, I’ll never get to see it again.

The Print: This 35mm version, restored in 1990 with support from the Musée d’Orsay, sparkled with sunlight and shadows. The original intertitles—written in that soothing, graceful Art Nouveau font that one often sees on early 20th century French posters—offered an unforeseen treat to the eyes.

My Highlight: An ominous silhouette shot of the woman from Arles watching Frédéri hover in front of her lace-curtained window, like a shadow puppet. But there were so many stunning countryside shots of sheep ambling and villagers dancing that I lost track of my favorites.

Bottom Line: A fascinating and sensual document of rural France in the 1920s weighed down by a waffling, melodramatic plot. Maybe music would’ve helped.

champo2Cléo de 5 à 7 (Agnès Varda, 1962)

The Venue: Le Champo opened its doors in 1938 and has been delighting cinephiles ever since. The movie theater now specializes in retrospectives—as I write, there are series showcasing Ford, Renoir, and Varda. The screening room where I saw Cléo featured a charming canopy of tiny lights, sparkling from the ceiling like distant stars.

Why I Went to See It: A few days before, I got my taste of Paris, Paramount-style with Love in the Afternoon. Just as one craves salty after sweet, I wanted a taste of the real Paris, in all its 1960s chaos and glory, as it appeared to the street-roving cameras of the Nouvelle Vague filmmakers.

The Print: Actually it was a 2K digital projection; the restoration and digitization was overseen by Varda herself. I tend to be a skeptic where digital is concerned, but the eloquent crispness of the images proved quite persuasive.

My Highlight: Cléo’s grey kitten swatting at the train of her angelic negligee. Although the switch from color to black-and-white in the opening scene also took my breath away.

The Bottom Line: This movie is heaven for the eyes, but hell on mascara.

spiteSpite Marriage (Edward Sedgwick and Buster Keaton, 1929)

The Venue: Forum des Images again. This time, before my screening, I tried out the stylish, yet comfy café on the second floor, which I totally recommend. A pot of green tea before a movie does so much to focus one’s powers of concentration, n’est-ce pas?

Why I Went to See It: Buster and his biceps on a big screen. Well, that’s a big part of it, but I also wanted to observe how a French audience would react to a Keaton movie. In his memoir, Buster wrote with pride that the French referred to him as “Malec,” a word that has no direct translation, but which means roughly “the hole in the doughnut” or “a blank piece of paper.” Um… does that mean he represents some kind of cosmic emptiness? And can you laugh at a cosmic emptiness?

The Print: A surprisingly unblemished 35mm version, on loan from the Cinémathèque de Toulouse. I only realized afterwards that this marked the first time I ever saw Buster on 35mm.

My Highlight: Tough to pin down, but I think the prize goes to Buster’s fierce frowny face, hissing the villain from the play in which his lady love plays the lead.

Bottom Line: A doughnut hole-in-one. You could probably hear the laughter for blocks. Apparently happiness can be joyful…

Getting out of the Boat: Black Narcissus and Apocalypse Now

2“Never get out of the goddamn boat. Absolutely goddamn right. Unless you were going all the way. Kurtz got out of the boat. He split from the whole f**king program.”

I’ve loved Apocalypse Now from the first time I watched that orange feathering of napalm burn through lush tropical forests to the lilting, funereal strains of “The End.” That opening shot spoke to me, whispering the truth of how ugly things can be beautiful and how the camera can charm that beauty forth.

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It was like looking through the eyes of another, not through a point-of-view shot, not even through the lens of a different philosophy—but through the eyes of madness, of someone for whom destruction was lovely. I had never felt anything like it. It horrified me, shocked me, inspired me, and changed me. It may have been the first time in my life that I encountered Art, that grand, fearsome, traumatic thing that we hear so much about.

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On the other hand, Black Narcissus refused me any such revelation until it was almost over. Having bought a Criterion DVD at a jumble sale (the poor fool who threw it away!), I played it one lazy morning. For the first hour or so, I liked it, thought it was visually pleasing and stimulating in an academic sense. It wasn’t until Sister Ruth revealed her awful, predatory true self that the movie pulled me into the heart of its darkness.

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The bottom dropped out of reality. I just didn’t expect a pensive, patient little art film to do that to me—to come at me with a rush of cosmic fury and not relent for almost twenty minutes. “Holy ****!” I exclaimed to myself. “Sister Ruth got out the boat!”

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Black Narcissus and Apocalypse Now both won Academy Awards for cinematography thanks to the hypnotic, ethereal camerawork of Jack Cardiff and Vittorio Storaro, in 1947 and 1979 respectively. (Both films should have won Best Picture, but that’s a whole other blog post.)

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Above: Jack Cardiff. Below: Vittorio Storaro on location for Apocalypse Now

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Apart from the two movies’ shared aesthetic interest in exoticism, they are extremely different. In contrast to the classically trained, crafted acting style of the performers in Powell and Pressburger’s film, Coppola chose a stable of hardcore method actors. While Black Narcissus seemingly fits into the mold of a women’s drama, Apocalypse Now has claimed an immortal place in the annals of cinematic machismo.

Black Narcissus departs utterly from realism by shooting not in the Indian mountains, but in England—against huge blow-ups of aerial photographs of the Himalayas, brightly painted to striking effect. We all know that the production of Apocalypse Now, filmed on location in the Philippines, mirrored its plot. As Coppola lapsed into the Kurtz mentality and actors started to succumb to the harshness of the environment and the strain of shooting, reality bled into fiction.

Nevertheless, I cannot separate these films in my mind. To me, they’ll always be spiritual sisters. I don’t doubt that Cardiff’s vision for Black Narcissus influenced Storaro’s photography for Apocalypse Now, but that’s not what I’m talking about.

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Fearsome transformations….

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I have seen a precious few films that seem to be aware that they’re in color. I mean, yes, the costumes, the sets, the lighting in most non-black-and-white films have all been carefully selected for their hues and tones, but the emotional powerhouse of color remains untapped.

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Warpaint of different hues…

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Color speaks to us in ways that defy rational thought. Baudelaire once noted that color is the most important element of a painting, because even before we can make out the figures, at a distance, the harmony or dissonance of colors allows us to intuit the essence of the scene.

In my opinion, color needs to “put the zap” on our heads, to paraphrase a few lines of Milius’ brutally insightful script for Apocalypse Now. Seriously—this is why I tend to prefer black-and-white films. Why show me colors unless they’re going to astonish me? Color needs to tell us something, not in terms of symbolism, but in terms of emotion and reaction. Both Black Narcissus and Apocalypse Now define dreamlike, vividly colored places, jungles and mountaintops, which not only magnify our perceptions, but also unleash our inner natures.

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Shades of observation: Sister Clodagh and Captain Willard.

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Apocalypse Now is not an anti-war film any more than Black Narcissus is an anti-religious film. Both of them transcend such unambiguous messages to tell us something much more vast about the soul of civilization. Sister Ruth certainly isn’t the charismatic genius that Kurtz is, since men have a cultural outlet for their madness—war—whereas women just get neuroticism. However, these two figures both revert to something primal and frightening. (Eventually Captain Willard does, too.) Sister Ruth and Kurtz split from the program of lies and moral rationalizations that govern the minds of their peers. Rather than persisting in fighting the call of the jungle, they give in. Their madness prompts some of the most fantastically beautiful images captured by a camera. 

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We watch traditions and codes of conduct plunge into a flamboyant psychosis that wasn’t so far away all along. Seductive, unreal colors, enhanced by sinuous camera strokes, hold us captive and enable us to feel the strength of those impulses towards annihilation, impulses that enthrall those who “got out of the boat.”

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As Nietzsche theorized, great tragic art must balance a tendency towards orgiastic self-destructiveness (the Dionysian) and the tonic splendor of appearances and expression (the Apollonian). If Black Narcissus and Apocalypse Now both depict the triumph of the Dionysian, of chaos and entropy, they nevertheless uplift us rather than depressing us. They temper our despair in mankind with our faith in art.

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Cardiff and Storaro extensively studied the great masters of painting—the color palette of Narcissus was based in part on Vermeer, and there’s quite a bit of Caravaggio in the way Apocalypse Now uses virtuosic contrasts of color and blackness. The compositional brilliance and luminosity that the cinematographers lend even to scenes of abhorrent violence or confusion strike a balance between these elements to produce cathartic experiences that, for me, have not been equaled by any other films.

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From lips to eyes… and from eyes to lips. Contemplating empty faces (Sister Ruth’s and the face of a Khmer statue) with camera tilts.

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Jack Cardiff had to campaign to get the sort of surreal, opalescent color contrasts he harnessed for a subliminal effect in Narcissus: “I was always fighting with Technicolor [representatives] because they wanted complete realism, whatever that was.” Instead, in certain scenes, he filled shadows with green light and colored the arc-lights slightly blue to suggest the distracting crystal coolness of the skies. Cardiff reflected that few viewers, perhaps one in ten or fifteen, would consciously notice these things, but that the choice would impact the mindset of the audience and contribute to the story.

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In addition to these more subtle manipulations, gathering momentum as the film unfolds, Black Narcissus overwhelms us with exaggerated panoramas of the edge of the world. The screen celebrates the giddy delirium that courses through Sister Ruth as she rings the bell on the edge of the cliff. We experience the rush of that chasm, shown in breathtaking canted angles.

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Later, through the translucent deep blues, febrile oranges, and acid pinks of her freak-out, we feel the terrifying release of Ruth’s transformation into a strange, unnatural creature—part modern woman, part painted devil.

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Kurtz’ poetic insanity penetrates the eerie iconography of Apocalypse Now. The glowing amber quality of light, the oppressive Prussian blue skies, the sulfuric yellow and psychedelic lilac gas flares, the impenetrable greens of the jungle all exteriorize the jewel-like ferocity of his Zen psychosis.

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“We’re all his children, man…”

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Kurtz, this faceless demigod, the diamond who cuts through bullsh*t, realizes that those who win wars must fully embrace “the horror.” But that appalling clarity, that knowledge also rots away at him from the inside out. Captain Willard’s voice-over tells us some of this, but such verbal information would be meaningless if Storaro didn’t paint this decay into every lopsided, eclipsed shot of Kurtz.

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Storaro, referring to his revolutionary use of color shading in Apocalypse Now, spoke of how he used the visuals, especially rich shades of black, to get in touch with the barbaric, “unconscious side” of humanity that Conrad’s novel conjured up: “The heart of darkness that he was looking at does not belong to another culture, another place, but part of our self.”

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Cardiff and Storaro both found intense, wordless ways of representing this slip into a primordial darkness, into a place beyond reason. When Sister Ruth begins literally to “see red” the screen suddenly snaps to pure blue as her rage forces her to lose consciousness.

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The first time I saw it, I though there was something wrong with the DVD, it startled me so!

Similarly, Apocalypse Now gives us an amazing shot in which the camera literally turns upside-down and then right-side-up, and then up-side-down again as Kurtz’ acolytes drag Willard through the mud to meet the elusive Colonel for the first time.

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Cinematography literally means writing with light and motion. Cardiff and Storaro wrote disorientation and temptation into the screen with shadows, with movements, with delicate shadings of color.

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The call of the jungle… Sister Ruth and Captain Willard stalk their prey.

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Black Narcissus and Apocalypse Now both dwell in the realm of exoticism, in the amplified Other that’s really just another guise for something flickering within us. These movies let me see Western civilization, the epicenter of my own values and all that I hold dear, transplanted and fragmented into a vibrant nightmare by the prism of madness.

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They also take me full-circle back to the primitive psychic engines of that civilization—Eros and Thanatos, sex and aggression—without asking that I transgress, without asking that I myself get out of the boat.

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~          ~          ~

This post is part of the 31 Days of Oscar Blogathon, hosted by three of the nicest ladies, coolest movie mavens, and best film bloggers out there, Paula of Paula’s Cinema Club, Aurora of Once Upon A Screen, and Kellee of Outspoken and Freckled. Check out their blogs and this wonderful blog event! Find the blogathon on Twitter by searching the #31Days hashtag.

Portrait of the Artist as a Madman

“My professor as a painter drives me to look attentively at the faces, the physiognomies, that present themselves in my path, and you know what a pleasure we draw from this ability which makes life more living and more meaningful to our eyes than to those of other men.”

                                                                                        Charles Baudelaire,

“La Corde”

 

 

 

[Abandon hope of spoiler-free reading all ye who enter here!]

A man hangs, his arms twisted over his head which lolls backwards. We cannot see all of him and it takes a moment to discern what we’re actually looking at.

The image crackles in distressed shades of sepia, sometimes overexposed and light, sometimes darker, but always fizzling, grainy, unstable. The figure, just shoulders and a jaw, bob in slow motion. It reads as a shot from a hand-cranked silent film.

And then the man screams. Thus begins Pupi Avati’s La Casa Dalle Finistre Che Ridono (The House of the Laughing Windows), a movie that opened up hitherto unsuspected realms of subtleness in the giallo canon for me.

The trauma of hearing that image—redolent of 1920s silent era textures—howl in agony shocks the viewer on a truly primal level. It’s as though you could hear a painting or smell a sound. Avati makes us feel like the image were extending across another dimension. The warped, distant sound of the scream heightens the impression not so much of hearing the man moan, but of hearing it in our minds. If you look at Edvard Munch’s The Scream long enough, you start to be able to hear it. Avati simulates this kind of artistic mind-meld that the most profound and morbid of paintings can produce.

Protracted, lyrical, and reminiscent of other times—the Renaissance as well as the 1920s—this opening credits sequence slaps us across the face with one of the key questions at the heart of horror as a genre. Should horror be beautiful? In other words, what are the moral implications of aestheticizing violence and death? It’s a tour-de-force introduction even before the obsessive, rumbling voice, that we later learn is the mad artist Legnani, begins to rant about his colors, the colors in his veins, the living colors…

The buoyant, undulating movements of this torture victim remind me of the surrealist short films, like Un Chien Andalou. The mismatch of beauty and brutality, visual lushness and moral ugliness generate a conflict collision in the mind of the spectator before we even dip a toe into the plot of the film. The dying man’s cries are also spaced out so that the spectator is allowed to linger in contemplation of the various shots of the body in agony before being brought back to the pain.

This kind of sequence practically traps us with the imminence of cinema. Even with letters of actors’ names appearing over these shots of stabbings and cries, we feel as though we are watching a man suffering before our eyes, at this instant. On the one hand, the look of the scene suggests that it occurred sometime in the past, but, on the other, the power of the image ensures that, on some level, it’s always happening now, right now.

This introduction etches itself so powerfully upon the brain that it takes a while to really concentrate on the plot, which concerns a young art historian, Stefano, called in to restore a mural of Saint Sebastian in a rural church in Italy.

Of course, the mural was painted by a deviant called Buono (should’ve been Cattivo, if you ask me…) Legnani, known as the “Painter of Agonia,” which means “death throes” not just agony in Italian. Along with his two sicko sisters, Legnani liked to be around dead people. However, his sisters actually like killing them, too, but I’ll get there soon.

Nevertheless, the mural will serve as a vital tourist attraction for the town—which is ironic, since so many shots in this movie look like they came right out of a 1970s tourist guidebook of Italy, only enhanced by slow pans and gliding shots from within classic cars. The film positively reeks of beauty and we, as audience members, have been trained to know that something evil lurks beneath that bucolic splendor—prepared by both giallo conventions and the indelible opener.

Don’t trust this travel-guide-worthy beauty!

We also recognize, in static form, the torment of the opening credits victim as soon as Avati shows us the mural. The director discloses the picture at the end of a long take which builds moment as a priest and Stefano walk down the nave of the church, when, with a graceful crane lift, the camera rises to focus on the picture.

We also get lingering, studious shots running over this mural, as a kind of visual imperative, “Look! See!”

Similarly, once the murders start (well, duh, it’s a giallo), Avati examines every hanging, bloody victim from multiple angles and shot lengths, cut together in a deliberate, pensive pace. He seems intent on giving us a class in anatomy—and in our own varied reactions to different parts of the same overall picture. The film resembles a painting, too, with its rich Rembrandt lighting, meticulous compositions, and abundance of frames within frames.

Art lives (and dies?) at the core of this film which forces us to become conscious of where our eyes travel and what they bring back. For instance, take the scene in which Stefano visits the town Mayor and surveys his collection of Legnani paintings, including one of the artist’s head on a woman’s body.

As the Mayor explains that the artist took to painting himself because no woman could satisfy him, we get a cut to a gauzy flashback (whose flashback, though, is not clear). The bare-chested artist smears paint on his arm, in a gesture reminiscent of a junkie shooting up heroine, and turns to a canvas.

I had to watch this sequence twice before I realized that we’re not actually looking at the artist, but at the artist’s reflection in a mirror. We see him looking at himself… looking at himself. It’s part of our own apprenticeship in looking.

Stefano, like many a hapless giallo protagonist, dies. I’m sorry, but I think pretty much anyone would see that coming. This likelihood allows the viewer to taste the bitter irony of every shot of Stefano restoring the mural. As he pulls away the plaster to reveal two wicked hags and adds life to the picture of Saint Sebastian’s death, he’s participating in his own demise as well. His act of restoration and creation engenders his destruction.

If art both gives life and takes it away, drawing from the subjectivity and the life force of a painter, what are we to make of recording, of mechanical ways of preserving life? It turns out that Legnani’s cuckoo sisters believe Norman Bates-style that they’re keeping their brother alive. Buono Legnani immolated himself in a final act of depravity and macabre fascination.

However, his elderly sisters keep his charred body preserved in formaldehyde and play his gravelly, heavy-breathing voice on a tape recorder.

In the top shock-horror scene of Laughing Windows, Stefano discovers the witchy sisters stabbing a victim to death when they proceed to show them their “brother,” the corpse and the recording.

The camera, from Stefano’s perspective, looks shakily from the one to the other twice, as if to ask, “What insane person could call this anywhere near a representation of life? Or even of death?” This facsimile strikes me as a grotesque parody of a person—it’s skin and bones and it speaks, what more do you want? A repeated voice recording and a husk of a body. It also reminds me of some of the intensely gross medieval depictions of death as the utter defeat of the flesh. By preserving their brother, the sisters totally miss the point of his art—capturing fleeting glimpses of human life slipping away, not worshipping cadavers.

This corpse-revelation launches a deeply disturbing scene. It could’ve been played for humor, but it’s not. The sisters are hacking up another sacrifice in hopes of reviving their brother. A lot of very stirring horror films revolve around this idea of preserving something (The Mummy, DeToth’s House of Wax, Psycho, all come to mind) and I think in this way that they’re attempting to cope with the cinema as a form of embalmment. Laughing Windows pokes fun at hollow mechanical or technical means of merely preserving or even of reanimating a dead person. Avati instead hints that the only things that truly live forever are those which have been strained through the filter of human creativity. Legnani may have been a nutso great artist—his sisters are just nutso.

Stefano is too dizzy, judging by the waffling of the handheld camera, to protest when they urge him to take a look at the slaughter. He doesn’t resist and his somnambulist pliability in the situation gives the whole thing the fuzzy, unreal vertigo of a nightmare. And then a blade flashes into him. We could’ve seen it coming, but somehow, we just don’t expect it when it comes.

And so, to the final sequence.  Stefano manages to flee with his open chest wound to a local church where he hopes to ask for help from the kindly priest. Well, the priest turns around, smiles, and begins to speak in a female voice. “He” is actually one of the hooded sisters. Stefano stares wide-eyed, unable to respond as the other sister waddles in, ready to finish the job. Avati cuts back and forth to the painted hags torturing Saint Sebastian in the mural and the film comes full circle.

Stefano is about to meet the fate that was right under his nose the whole time. We brace ourselves for viscera and more struggling torture.

We get a cut away to the façade of the church. Is that cut merciful or cruel, though?

After all, we can still hear the Legnani sisters twitter and giggle as Stefani moans. We don’t see it, but it’s there for us on the soundtrack. Now, there are actual “laughing windows” in the film…

But the windows of the church really laugh at us, a laugh of complicity, because we know what they conceal.

Seriously, now, you can try and tell me that Martin Scorsese didn’t totally think of this ellipsis when he came up with that terse, horrifying last shot of the Lighthouse in Shutter Island, but I won’t believe you.

With the final shot of The House of Laughing Windows our apprenticeship in looking is complete. We, the spectators, now occupy the position of the painters of horror, having been trained to look at ugliness, beauty, surrealist spectacles, details, life, and death. And as those witchy cackles and cries punctuate the soundtrack, we can imagine, we can make the image in our minds, although we might not want to fill the ellipsis. We can conjure up the fuzzy tormented elegy of the beginning (since that credits sequence is an accurate depiction of what’s going to happen to Stefano) or we can mold a new vision.

We become the painting, we become the cinema. It’s not the first time I or anyone else has made this observation, but great movies often invite audiences to “remake” or to participate in them. They’re constructed as partnerships, kept fresh and living by the disgust, pleasure, and, above all, the creativity of the viewer.

Preservation is not art, Avati tells us. Nor is cinema mere preservation, capturing living things as they are—soon to be were. The cinema dwells in gaps, lacunae, death in life. Truly knowing how to look and how to fill in those gaps renders us capable of seeing things as alive. And something alive is always on the edge of death. Perhaps the greatest art always flirts with death, absence, non-meaning and needs something else to complete it.

When we learn not only to look, but also to see, we are art, which is the intersection of life and death. And that should scare the hell out of us. I give a lot of credit to La Casa Dalle Finestre Che Ridono for pulling all these threads together in a giallo.

To Hell and Back: Kolchak’s Zombie and TV Catharsis

If Professor Van Helsing and Ben Hecht had a baby, he would be Carl Kolchak, reporter with the Independent News Service and freelance fighter of all things that go bump in the night. This rumpled, irredeemably square, paranoid pathological loner in a seersucker suit carries (under his hat, probably) the heritage of two great genre traditions: screwball comedy and classic horror.

Seriously, underneath all of the ’70s special effects and silliness, Kolchak: The Night Stalker stands out as one of the greatest genre-bending television shows of all time. The series dared to probe a lot of America’s deep-seated cultural issues—while still providing a laugh and a creepy good time. My favorite episode, “The Zombie,” directed by Alex Grasshoff and aired in September 1974, subtly grapples with the issues of urban crime, police corruption, immigrant assimilation, and even slavery.

Perhaps most cleverly, in every episode, Kolchak investigates a story, discovers something supernatural, and, always, always fails to publish conclusive proof that what he saw was real (what he tells us in his noirish voice-overs doesn’t count—that’s just between us and him). Thanks to this running meta-gag, Kolchak breaks his camera (as in “The Zombie”), or destroys all proof of the monster, or gets barred from the official info by the cops. We, as viewers, get to see the monster that TV brings into our living room… but which the old-fashioned reporter just can’t capture.

Most intriguingly, I would argue, the series recurrently refutes the kind of closure that movie horrors can provide. Instead, Kolchak never convinces anyone about the truth of what he saw…which means that every week, we get a fresh yarn with fresh catharsis. “The Zombie” hints that TV is actually a lot like religion: it supplies us with fantastic and frightening visions on a regular basis. The force of the plunge from normal to paranormal, reiterated each week by the ritual credits and the parallel refusal of closure in each episode, strives to unsettle the viewer so that he or she will crave and embrace many returns of the ritual.

But, before we get too far into that, let’s have a look at the series’ iconic credit sequence:

These opening credits give us a microcosm of every episode in the series: a progression from the normal, fun newspaper world into some strange, paranormal darkness. The camerawork is really good, in my opinion—one of the few places I can think of where those ubiquitous 70s zooms work with the spooky, “oh, no, what now?” tone that this snippet establishes before the plot even launches. As the prosaic, inviting workplace transforms into a hostile low-key lit noir environment, we come to understand that dread constantly lurks beneath a façade of comforting normalcy.

I particularly admire the extreme close-ups of typewriter mechanisms, shown from multiple, juxtaposed angles, as they grow increasingly aggressive and disorienting. In one shot, almost abstracted typewriter keys fly towards the camera, as if attacking the viewer. The jump cuts, too, from the side to the front of Kolchak’s face, disturb the conventional, unified sense of space established at the beginning of the credits.

The credits significantly conclude with a blurry freeze frame. This freeze emphasizes a sense of suspension from the very beginning of each episode. The aporia or the feeling of impasse in the opening immediately provokes tension for the audience. Indeed, “The Zombie” doeswant us to feel uncomfortable—it pulls us in with messy problems and bad memories only to eventually snuff them out. But, even then, not quite…

So, returning to the episode at hand, in “The Zombie,” Kolchak faces off against an undead Haitian gangster named François Edmonds, brought back to take revenge on the mobsters who put out a hit on him… and on the corrupt cops who let it happen. In order to stop this juggernaut of Afro-Carribean vengeance, Kolchak peers into different facets of otherness. He visits voodoo shops.

He gets roughed up by immigrant criminals. And this might be a good place to point out that the competing Italian and Haitian gangsters (one of which is played by a pre-Huggy Bear Antonio Fargas!) represent a kind of return of the repressed.

These gangsters, whether in the mold of 1920s mafiosi or new, pimped-out African American hustlers, have assimilated into American culture so well that they’re no longer really “others.” They become uncanny not because they embody foreignness, but because they have totally absorbed the twisted version of capitalist ethics that’s inherent in crime—notice how the tires in the garage meeting frame their heads, like the venerated profiles on coins. In their own way, they incarnate the American Dream.

Our poor Kolchak even has to spend a night in a grave himself with a dead man hanging into the grave—an experience which brings him symbolically closer to death.

However, Kolchak’s primary nemesis (spoiler alert!) isn’t the gangsters or the zombie, but rather a frail Haitian sorceress, Mamalois, the aunt of the murdered man whose body she controls.

 This shot, as Kolchak enters her home, visually sets up a powerful clash of cultures—but a muddy one. In the end, Mamalois’ tradition of mixed Pagan and Christian rituals makes her difficult to nail down and thus more worrisome as an enemy.

Meanwhile, Mamalois does not budge from her armchair and keeps her eyes fixed on the unseen, off-screen television set which the spectator hears through the sound perspective of the speaking characters.

From the TV, we can clearly discern dialogue that happens to come from the Audie Murphy film To Hell and Back. A proud woman, whose foreignness can be inferred through her thick Italian accent, rejects the condescending charity of an American soldier, who offers to pay her brother for an unfinished job.

Maria: My brother do not beg, soldier.

Murphy: He wasn’t begging. He did a job for me, and I paid him.

Maria: I see what you call job. You do not let him finish.

I regard this cinematic “quotation” as a commentary on the action in Kolchak. It seems a little too on the nose and easily audible to be a coincidence.

In the context of Mamalois’ house, a wild mixture of Afro-Carribean-European influences, this allusion to paternalistic, economic persuasion/coercion calls up memories of slavery and of brutal colonization. As in the movie within the TV show, the white male defender of empirical truth, Kolchak, must confront a woman whose challenging foreignness disinters and disturbs the past transgressions of his own culture.

The choice to frame the characters with the television antennae also hints that the comical reporter and the sinister sorceress share a larger representational purpose: they both exist as television fictions that satisfy the desires of the audience members, simultaneously watching on their television sets.

Similarly, on the left side of the screen, a tonsured monk figurine (not really clear here, but watch the episode and you’ll see it!) looms in the foreground, positioned on top of the television. This detail positions the television as a kind of altar and links the TV medium to religious ritual.

Of course, we spy on the real ritual in the next scene in which Kolchak, again, an outsider even among outsiders and others, watches Mamalois consecrate a mini coffin for him—setting him up for a violent zombie death and motivating him to stop the monster or die.

He finds the zombie in a junkyard of rusty, decaying cars (um, 1970s automotive crisis anxiety, anyone?), crawls into the hearse where the creature lies dormant and prepares to pour salt into its mouth and sew its lips shut. The sheer length of this sequence and the tight framings amount to pure bone-curdling suspense and masterful television.

Suddenly, the zombie awakens. Our intrepid reporter bolts. Clambering through piles of cars, Kolchak falls back onto the roof of one and looks up, as a cut reveals a low-angle shot of a loop of rope dangling conveniently above him.

The zombie rushes at Kolchak, but he throws the impromptu noose around the monster’s neck, grabs the other end of the rope, and jumps off the car. Our reporter hero lands derriere-down on the camera that he dropped in the scuffle. The next shot discloses the effect of his fall and the counterpoise of his weight: the zombie hangs struggling in the noose.

Wow. Could this long shot of the hulking, dark-skinned François Edmonds, struggling in a noose, fail to remind one of photographs of lynched African Americans?

Having failed to seal the lips of the zombie, and thus to silence the history of injustice which the zombie incarnates, Kolchak must repeat racial violence. However, acting in split-second self-defense, stress by the pace of the editing, rather than out of premeditated hate, Kolchak can cancel out the menace of minority rage and restore ideological order.

The pace of editing here, rather than dropping off, stays strong, rhythmically cutting between two ceremonies: Mamalois’ as she tries to revive the zombie, and Kolchak’s, as he lights candles to release the creature from its undead state.

The zombie’s feet stop kicking…

…as the candles burn out.

The montage brings together the ebbing life of the vengeful monster, the defeat of the foreign voodoo priestess, and the triumph of the reporter. In concert with the tribal drumming on the soundtrack, the frenzied speed of the cause-and-effect crosscutting between two competing rituals endows the scene itself with a cathartic exhilaration. As the spectator puts together the various interdependent processes, he or she joins in the rite of exorcism and feels a part of Kolchak’s agitation and victory.

However, the scene still ends with the prerequisite shot of Kolchak clutching his fractured camera.

The irony that Kolchak, a reporter, cannot show the supernatural, but ABC can, on a once-a-week basis, constructs the meta-punch line of the entire series. After all, the continuity of the show depends upon the protagonist’s failure: if Kolchak could verify his wild claims, he would no longer have to struggle to convince his boss, the police, or society at large.

Moreover, the fact that Kolchak can never secure evidence of the supernatural suspends the content of the show itself in the realm of the symbolic. In other words, unlike Kolchak, ABC does not intend to convince viewers that monsters and ghosts actually exist. The series derives its marketability not from alleged truth, but from emotional and psychological effect as a recurrent escape valve for social anxieties, channeled into pleasurable, visceral genre thrills.

So, to make a very, very long blog post short, if you haven’t seen the series, plunk yourself down, grab a box of some kind of vintage candy (I suggest Mallo Cups) and watch “The Zombie” right now. You may be surprised by how amazingly insightful—and enjoyable—it is.