Regular Columns

Time for a book recommendation.

Years ago (1992 to be precise), Christopher Golden edited Cut! Horror Writers on Horror Film. In and among the various essays in this fascinating tome were those special joys for the dip-in-dip-out reader: the list. John Skipp and Craig Spector offered “Death’s Rich Pageantry, or Skipp & Spector’s Handy-Dandy Splatterpunk Guide to the Horrors of Non-horror Film.” And Stanley Wiater contributed an essential guide for the daredevil viewer: “Disturbo 13: The Most Disturbing Horror Films Ever Made” (collect ‘em all!).

A few weeks ago, I sung the praises of Forrest J. Ackerman and the childhood joys his Famous Monsters of Filmland gave me. Now comes sad word, already up on numerous websites, that he is ailing, and the end is very soon. (I have seen some statements that, in fact, he passed on yesterday, but nothing, fortunately, that strikes me as authoritative, as of yet.)

Assuming, then, that it isn’t too late, I will also pass on that he is receiving cards at the following address:

Consider this column a companion piece to my review of Last House on the Beach. I mention therein that the finale of the film obviously inspired (to put it politely) that of Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof. I shouldn’t really use this opportunity to beat up on Death Proof all over again. But what struck me even more than the similarities between the two scenes was their instructive differences.

So, if you haven’t seen either of the films yet, consider this entire column a spoiler and leave now. Thank you.

Oh God, here we go again with another When I Was A Wee Lad memory. Sorry. But When I Was A Wee Lad, two of my favorite books were The Hammer Horror Film Omnibus, and The Second Hammer Horror Film Omnibus. Written by John Burke, each volume contained four novelizations of Hammer films, and for many a year, this was the only way I could experience the stories. It would be a long time before I saw the films in question. Still, most of those films I got under my belt some time ago, but one remained stubbornly out of reach, seen once on TV and then never again, VHS and then DVD releases apparently never on the horizon. That film was Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb (1964), and the wait is finally over. It appears as one of four films on the Icons of Horror: Hammer Films 2-disc set. Accompanying it are The Gorgon (also novelized by Burke, and more about it another time), The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll, and Scream of Fear.

The plot sees the inevitable turn-of-the-century expedition to Egypt find a lost tomb (that of Ra-Antef in this instance), dig everything up, then suffer tragedy. The father of the heroine is killed in the opening scene, and hireling Michael Ripper (in an all-too-brief bit, though his presence is as welcome as ever) is also murdered when the expedition headquarters are ransacked. More trouble ensues when the principal backer of the work, American impresario Alexander King (Fred Clark) decides not to turn the findings over to a museum, but mount a road show instead. On the way back to England, hero John Bray (a rather bland Ronald Howard) and his callow fiancee Annette Dubois (Jeanne Roland) encounter the dashing playboy Adam Beauchamp (Terence Morgan), who turns out to know a surprising amount of Ancient Egyptian lore, and has his sights set on Annette. Back in England, the expected curse plays out, as one character after another is slaughtered by the mummy of Ra-Antef (Dickie Owen).

Just the other week, I was singing the praises of [REC]. Today, I come to bury its American remake, Quarantine. At first glance, Quarantine is a virtual photocopy of its model. Scene follows scene in the same order, to the same (intended effect), to the same final shot. And yet somehow, the whole thing falls flat. How can this be? If the movies are identical, why aren’t they identically effective?Because they aren’t really identical, of course, at least not where it really counts, and every change Quarantine rings is a poor decision. First, there is the running time. Quarantine runs about a quarter of an hour longer than [REC], and every minute is sorely felt. Scenes go on just a little bit too long, and then tension and pace leak away. The original barrels in, assaults the viewer, and wraps up. Quarantine has the temerity to bore us, and thereby unintentionally demonstrates what a fine art editing is.Next, there is the question of sound design. The original, as I wrote before, features among the most terrifying aural attacks in recent memory. Quarantine somehow emasculates the sound, largely eliminating, as far as I could tell, the disturbing yowls of the infected/possessed. With the possible exception of the musical, the horror film is perhaps the cinematic genre whose impact on the viewer is most heavily dependent on sound, and Quarantine fumbles the ball.As for the visuals, both films are, of course, exercises in hand-held camera fake vérité. Quarantine, it seems to me, uses far more close-ups, and the overall effect is to make it far more (and needlessly) difficult to make out what is happening on the screen.Then there’s the plot. While this is the element where Quarantine deviates the least from its model, it does make one significant change. As our remaining characters enter the top floor apartment at the climax of the film, they find a collection of newspaper clippings that provide as much of an explanation as we’re going to get as to what is going on. Where [REC] strongly hinted at a supernatural agent, Quarantine opts for a far more prosaic doomsday virus. Yawn. So much for ambiguity, not to mention the chill of dark poetry that informs the resolution of the original.And speaking of finales, without giving too much away, there’s the problem of the final threat. This being, in [REC], is seen just enough to hint at terrible nightmares, and its barely glimpsed movements are jagged and most disturbing. Quarantine gives us far too close a look at its menace. Between too much visibility and the mundane explanation, what stands before us is not particularly scary. In fact, it’s rather silly.Taken on its own, Quarantine is not a terrible film. It’s entertaining, and its foundation is solid enough to resist complete disaster. But it is also pretty damn pedestrian, while the original was brilliant. And that, though utterly expected, is still sad.