Regular Columns

Without question, the most celebrated bad director is Ed Wood. He is the portal through which so many people discover the joys of the terrible film. He stands out from so many contenders because his films are not ordinarily bad. They are deeply felt, deeply earnest. He meant what he was saying, whatever that was. And his style, particularly his screenwriting style, is unmistakeable. Insanely purple, banal, and incomprehensible, it cannot be mistaken for anyone else’s work. It is as individual as the writing of the Co...n Brothers, but for all the wrong reasons.

But Wood is far from being the only deity in the badfilm pantheon. There are other directors who vie for his throne. And it is one of those I’m here to tell you about today: Doris Wishman.

Let us sing a hymn in praise of bad movies. Not ordinarily bad, of course. There is very little joy to be had in anything touched by Martin Lawrence. No, the crap that brings warmth to the heart of the badfilm fan can be the B-movie so inept that the set falls down. But there is also the big-budget, A-lit pic that pulls a Hindenburg, and those are to be treasured as well.

I have this latter type of badfilm in mind because I saw Lady in the Water over the weekend. Now, I cannot recommend this film if ...ou want to see something good. It is a megalomaniacal mess that is also, taken straight, paralyzingly dull (one of the people I saw it with bailed after an hour, and I can hardly blame her for walking out). However, when viewed as a slo-mo career catastrophe, it becomes quite fascinating. It is also so silly that it just begs to be rediscovered as an unintentional comedy. Let’s think about the names of things: “narf,” “scrunt,” “tartutic,” “Madame Narf.” This is gold, people. Imagine screening the film and yelling “Narf!” every time the somnabulant Bryce Howard shows up. Or do as one critic did, and Google the word “scrunt.” Go ahead, do it now. I’ll wait.

In our last thrilling episode, I talked about Vampyres as being one of the pinnacles of European erotic horror. I felt that I couldn’t very leave the topic without saying a few words about the man whose lengthy career has largely been built around this form: Jesús (Jess) Franco. Cult movie connoisseurs will already be very familiar with him, and should feel free to stop reading now. For the rest of you, consider this a brief, guarded, introduction.

The word “prolific” hardly begins to describe Franco...s output. He’s directed over 150 films, most of which he also shot, wrote and scored. But are they any good? They are certainly very personal, and fine arguments for the auteur theory (but then, so are the films of Ed Wood and Doris Wishman). Lucas Balbo, Peter Blumenstock and Christian Kessler rightly titled their excellent book on Franco Obsession. Franco IS capable of putting together a well-crafted piece of cinema, though this tends to be the case earlier in his career. Kim Newman, writing about Russ Meyer, said that he “knows how to make good films, but refuses to do so,” and the same could very well be said of Franco. (Being utterly consumed with the erotic is something else the two directors have in common, but Franco has none of Meyer’s technical perfectionism). Though Franco’s films are very sloppy, are plagued by a horrendous overuse of the zoom lens, and have plots that can most charitably be described as “loose,” they are also very improvisational, much like the jazz Franco also loves (and plays), and can be rewarding in the most unexpected ways.