Regular Columns

As I’ve indicated in this space before, one of the joys of the DVD age is the chance to see, at long last, films that one might have heard about since childhood, but that were unavailable until now. A recent addition to Fox’s Cinema Classics line is a case in point. Fox Horror Classics consists of three movies directed by John Brahm, and the one I want to talk about today is The Undying Monster (1942), which I first read about over thirty years ago.

The occasion of my initial encounter with the movie was a mention of it in Denis Gifford’s A Pictorial History of Horror Movies (quite the seminal book in my childhood, as, I imagine, it was for many horror fans my age). This is what Gifford writes:

So I was musing over the last couple of days once again on the nature of the appeal of what I’m (extremely) broadly defining as cult movies. I’m not explicitly looking for a Grand Unification Theory here, though I wouldn’t turn my nose up at one if it turned up. There are some easy answers, but they’re very much only partial ones.

Let’s deal with them first. Yes, there are plenty of cult films that are extraordinary works, classics by any definition, even if they tend to escape the mainstream’s notice. But these are purely and simply fine cinema, and one need not look far to see why people like these movies. After all, why wouldn’t they?

The wonderful thing about cult film fandom is the peculiar obsessions that typify it. I’m thinking specifically here of the enthusiastic loyalty fans have for a given director or performer, whatever said person’s standing in the mainstream film community might be (and very often in defiance of such). Hence, for instance, the following that Joe D’Amato commands. As for performers, let’s think for a moment about character actors. I’ve already documented my great fondness for Michael Ripper, he of the bulging eyes and multiple bit parts in Hammer films. Well, I have in my hands a delightful little tome that does me one better.

Last night, the Winnipeg Cinematheque hosted a launch of Kier-La Janisse’s A Violent Professional: The Films of Luciano Rossi (FAB Press). “Who?” you might be asking. I confess that I was when I first heard of the project. The short answer is that he was a character actor who showed up (often very, very briefly) in over 70 Italian films, in everything from spaghetti westerns to cop thrillers to gialli. His look is a bit of a sleazy, greasy cross between Guy Pearce and Steve Buscemi. The launch was accompanied by a screening of Umberto (Cannibal Ferox) Lenzi’s enormously entertaining Violent Naples (1976), a Dirty Harry variation with John Saxon (speaking of character actors) as one of the lead baddies. Rossi pops up (in, according to Janisse’s book, one of his best roles) as an absolutely irredeemable rapist/thief. His demise (impaled through the throat on a metal pole) is applause-worthy.

Time for another entry in the Wish List, my lament for sorely absent DVD releases. Today: Paperhouse, to date available only in Region 2 and 4 imports, which is a real tragedy. Allow me to explain.

When I first saw Paperhouse on VHS back in the mid-90s, it was the first time in far too long that a film managed to frighten me. This was all the more surprising in that it is based (loosely) on Marianne Dreams, a children’s book by Catherine Storr. But given how so many children’s tales are based on some pretty primal nightmares, perhaps it is fitting that I felt an atavistic chill. Director Bernard Rose would go on to direct Candyman, to date still the best adaptation of a Clive Barker tale, but for my money this is a more affecting and more frightening film.

So I’m in the middle of working my way through Severin’s latest Black Emanuelle box set, and a screening of Black Emmanuelle/White Emmanuelle (actual title Black Velvet) has prompted these musings, which I inflict on you here rather than in the review itself. Now, European sexploitation movies from the 70s aren’t exactly the deepest experience going, but there’s plenty of food for thought in this film, even despite (or because of) its flaws.

First, let’s consider the characters. Laura Gemser reprises her role yet again as Emanuelle (ignore the second “m” of the title). But whereas in the other entries of the series (particularly the Joe D’Amato ones) she is a photojournalist. Here, she’s a supermodel. This is a pretty significant switch. Now, I’m not about to make any kind of crazy argument about the gender sensitivity of D’Amato’s films. However, as a photographer, Emanuelle controls the gaze. She is using the camera, hers is the active look, and her investigations are usually what power such plots as the films possess. That said, she is very much subject to the male gaze of the actual camera. In Brunello Rondi’s film, she is a very passive figure, figuratively and literally abused and raped by the male photographer, Carlo. So, the question arises, is this an undermining of the character (though Gemser is called on to deliver a much more varied performance than is usually the case), or is it a more honest appraisal of the actual nature of Gemser’s position in a sexploitation film?