Reflections on ... The Wild World of Batwoman (1966)

 

Recently watched: The Wild World of Batwoman (1966). Tagline: “A Thrill-cade of Excitement! Roaring through the city streets into Wildville!” 

Look, I have a high (possibly masochistic) tolerance for terrible films. In fact, I have a twisted affection for them. Give me a The Brain That Wouldn’t Die (1962) or I Eat Your Skin (1971), and I’m transfixed. But The Wild World of Batwoman defeated even me. Its duration is a mere one hour and six minutes, and yet somehow it felt like three numbing hours long. IMDb gives up on even attempting a synopsis: “The pointlessly named Batwoman and her bevy of Batmaidens fight evil and dance.” (Rotten Tomatoes makes more of an effort: “A busty vampire needs a scientist's atomic bomb, made from a hearing aid, to save a comrade”).  Opportunistic hack director Jerry Warren clearly aimed to exploit the popularity of the campy Batman TV series. When they legally threatened him over copyright infringement, Warren simply re-titled it She Was a Hippy Vampire. 

Anyway, the titular Batwoman (ineptly played by Katherine Victor) is a tired looking middle-aged woman in an exploding punk fright wig, Halloween mask and dominatrix outfit. She’s also a crime-fighting vampire ruling over a bevy of groovy “Bat Chicks” who are forever breaking into frantic go-go dancing. (Are they doing the Frug? The Watusi? The Jerk? I couldn’t tell you).  The ensuing wacky hi-jinks are utterly incomprehensible. To add to the confusion, Warren also pads-out the action by splicing in footage from The Mole People (1956), an entirely different film.  

The naïve kitschy tone has its appeal. There’s some decent twang-y garage rock music. The Wild World of Batwoman would inevitably be more tolerable broken into chunks on something like Elvira’s Movie Macabre or Mystery Science Theatre 3000. Anyway, I stuck it out to the bitter end. I defy you to the do the same! The Wild World of Batwoman (viewable on YouTube) is routinely described as one of the worst films ever made – find out why! 

Reflections on ... Hush (1998)

 / Johnathon Schaech and Jessica Lange in Hush /

Recently watched: Hush (1998). Tagline: “Don’t breathe a word …” 

Hush is a long-forgotten, misbegotten hot mess of a psychological thriller very much in the late eighties / nineties lineage of The Hand that Rocks the Cradle or Fatal Attraction. (We know it’s a psychological thriller from the opening credits, which features the eerie lullaby “Hush, Little Baby” and a toy carousel spinning). 

Jackson Baring (Johnathon Schaech) and girlfriend Helen (Gwyneth Paltrow) are a strikingly attractive young New York yuppie power couple who live in an enviable loft apartment (heavy on the glass bricks). When Jackson takes Helen home to Kentucky for the Christmas holidays to meet mom for the first time, she’s surprised to see that “home” is an ominous and palatial estate called Kilronan (picture a replica of Tara from Gone with the Wind, complete with pillars). There she meets manipulative widowed matriarch Martha Baring (Jessica Lange), who we VERY quickly establish is stark raving mad beneath her genteel patrician façade. Seething with neurosis, brandishing glasses of whisky and furiously puffing cigarettes, Lange’s histrionic (and self-parodic) performance – seemingly channeling Geraldine Page, Faye Dunaway and Blanche Dubois (or perhaps Faye Dunaway as Blanche Dubois) – firmly anchors Hush in campy hagsploitation horror territory. Her honeyed Southern accent also evokes Bette Davis in Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte and Tallulah Bankhead in Die, Die My Darling. (Speaking of which – how come Martha has a pronounced Southern accent but her son doesn’t seem to have one?). 

Anyway, Martha harbours dysfunctional Oedipal feelings for Jackson and is scheming for him to return to Kilronan and take over the family horse farm. Martha breeds purebred horses – and seems intent that Helen will deliver a purebred male heir for the Baring family! Once that’s achieved – Helen will be superfluous! Hush reaches a crazed zenith when Martha bakes a cake for Helen spiked with a veterinary drug used to induce labour in pregnant mares! 

Hush - apparently the first and last film directed by Jonathan Darby - was filmed in 1996 and due to be released in ’97, but when test screening audiences roared with laughter at all the wrong moments the cast was reconvened almost two years later to shoot additional scenes. Hence the plot holes, wild shifts in tone and the fact that in some scenes Paltrow (who’d cut her hair in the meantime) is wearing an ill-fitting wig so transparently fake it rivals Christina Aguilera’s in Burlesque. Even after it was drastically re-edited (with an entirely different ending), Hush flopped at the US box office and went quietly straight-to-DVD in the United Kingdom. (I demand to see the director’s cut with the original ending!). “I’ve never been able to keep my mouth shut,” Jessica Lange has declared. “So, if somebody asks me how I feel about Hush, I’ll say it’s a piece of shit.” Presumably Paltrow would love this one scrubbed from her résumé too. But I wonder if Ryan Murphy saw Lange in Hush. It makes a great audition for her subsequent work in American Horror Story. 

(Hush is viewable on Amazon Prime and YouTube - at your own risk!).

/ Even if you're wary of committing to watching Hush in its entirety, the trailer alone (with its "voice of doom" narration) is a delightful kitsch artifact in its own right. Fascinatingly, the trailer retains glimpses of original scenes that were deleted from the final film (like we can see the original fiery ending - entirely different from the underwhelming later conclusion!). 

Reflections on ... New Year's Evil (1980)

Recently watched: New Year’s Evil (1980). Tagline: “Don’t dare make new year’s resolutions … unless you plan to live!” 

Over the holidays, my boyfriend Pal and I punctuated our almost continuous prosecco drinking with some festive themed movie viewing. We watched the original Black Christmas (1974) and then on New Year’s Day, this grisly low-budget slasher flick. In Los Angeles, glamorous hard-boiled celebrity DJ and television’s first lady of rock’n’roll Blaze Sullivan (Roz Kelly) is hosting “Hollywood Hotline”, a live televised coast-to-coast New Year’s Eve countdown. Viewers are encouraged to phone in to vote for their favourite New Wave song of the year - but one of the callers is a misogynistic maniac calling himself “Evil”, who threatens to murder a “naughty girl” as each time zone hits midnight – culminating with Blaze herself! 

What distinguishes New Year’s Evil is its exploitation of the punk subculture. Considering it was filmed in Los Angeles in 1980, the mind boggles at the actual bands the filmmakers could have feasibly utilized for the musical sequences: X, The Screamers, the Germs, the Zeros, The Weirdos! The presence of any of these would make New Year’s Evil a valuable time capsule. But no – we see only two appalling ersatz punk bands (nonentities Shadow and Made in Japan), and at tedious length. The film’s received wisdom about how punk rockers behave (they are troublemakers with piercings and Mohawks who mosh and stick their tongues out a lot) is unintentionally hilarious. New Year’s Evil also fails to clarify why hardened young hardcore punk rock fans are so rabidly enthusiastic about sequin-clad middle-aged Blaze. Is it because she exhorts things like “It’s time to spin out and boil your hair!” while wielding a feather boa? 

Which brings us to the performance of Roz Kelly. Do younger people have a clue who Kelly was? In her brief heyday, she was best known for portraying Pinky Tuscadero, Fonzie’s tough cookie girlfriend in seventies sitcom Happy Days. Her screen presence was certainly … um … distinctive. Whether playing Pinky, Anthony Franciosa’s brassy secretary Flaps (yes – Flaps!) in Curse of the Black Widow (1977), cavorting in Paul Lynde’s infamous 1976 Halloween special or indeed here as Blaze, Kelly is consistently abrasive, brittle and borderline hostile. Her bizarre acting choices are perhaps the scariest aspect of New Year’s Evil! 

Watch it here: 

Reflections on ... Arlene Dahl (11 August 1925 – 29 November 2021)

 / Coiffeur-to-the-stars George Masters styling Arlene Dahl’s hair poolside in 1961 /

Farewell to Arlene Dahl (11 August 1925 – 29 November 2021). The star of stage, screen and television, beauty advice columnist, astrologist, authoress of fifteen books, surprisingly durable glamour queen and kitsch icon (and one of the last survivors of Golden Age Hollywood) has died aged 96.

/ Glamour shot of Arlene Dahl featured in May 1957 issue of Modern Screen magazine via /  

Renowned for her flaming red hair and trademark beauty spot, Dahl was routinely cited as “one of the most beautiful women in the world” in the fifties. Most of her movie roles were decorative, but the lurid film noir Slightly Scarlet (1956) is genuinely great, and I need to properly re-visit Wicked as They Come (1956). (Both of these are viewable on YouTube last time I checked). Like many an aging star, in the seventies and eighties Dahl cropped-up as a celebrity guest star on TV shows like Love Boat and Fantasy Island and then the soap opera One Life to Live.

/ Dahl with Rhonda Fleming in Slightly Scarlet (1956) / 

In addition to acting, Dahl diversified into journalism (writing the newspaper column “Let’s Be Beautiful”) and business (as an entrepreneur, she launched Arlene Dahl Enterprises, marketing her own range of cosmetics, negligées and perfume. In the early seventies she hawked wigs for Sears!).

Dahl married six times. Her former husbands included screen Tarzan Lex Barker and suave Argentinian actor Fernando Lamas (Their son Lorenzo Lamas starred in 1980s soap opera Falcon Crest). She also had a fling with John F Kennedy in the forties.

Her most noteworthy literary effort - Always Ask a Man: Arlene Dahl’s Key to Femininity (1965) - rivals Joan Crawford’s 1971 volume My Way of Life as a camp sacred text. Let’s charitably say Dahl’s tips are “of their time.” “It’s a man’s world!” she preaches. “Don’t fight it – the key to happiness and success is femininity! You may be healthy, attractive, intelligent, witty, athletic, personable and rich but it just isn’t enough – for that man – if you’re not feminine!”

Reflections on ... Story of a Love Affair (1950) aka Cronaca di un amore.

Recently watched: Story of a Love Affair (1950) aka Cronaca di un amore. Trust me - never was a title more bitterly ironic! A bleak Italian neo-realist interpretation of American film noir very loosely inspired by The Postman Always Rings Twice, Love Affair represents the feature film debut of art cinema virtuoso Michelangelo Antonioni (1912 - 2007). His icily detached perspective, ambivalence towards his characters (he certainly never invites sympathy for them) and emphasis on desolate cityscapes are already present and correct. If Love Affair initially feels a bit inconsequential and unengaging, persevere – the tension really builds as it proceeds, and the ending is devastating. And remember: Antonioni wants you to feel alienated! 

Love Affair is a meditation on guilt, consequences, human weakness and fatalism. Smouldering nineteen-year-old Lucia Bosè (whose sultry dark looks anticipate Isabella Rossellini and Natassja Kinski) is swathed in furs, veils and spectacular haute couture ensembles as Paola, the petulant and spoiled young trophy wife of millionaire Milanese industrialist Enrico (Ferdinando Sarm). (Antonioni ensures we repeatedly observe Paola snap abrupt orders to her staff: “Get me cigarettes!” “Get me a martini!”). When she’s reunited with Guido (ruggedly handsome dreamboat Massimo Girotti), a lost love she hasn’t seen in years, Paola begins scheming for them to run away together. But Guido is penniless, and she can’t countenance the thought of abandoning the fabulously lavish lifestyle she’s become accustomed to. Soon Paola starts hinting the solution is for Guido to murder Enrico …   

To complicate things: the jealous Enrico has hired a private detective to investigate Paola’s past. And Guido and Paola share a painful dark secret from years earlier: they may have killed before! At the very least, their amoral self-absorption contributed to a tragic accident. The camera swoons over the combined beauty of Girotti and Bosè. They are perhaps the most exquisite couple in Italian cinema history right up until Antonioni teamed Monica Vitti with Alain Delon in L'Eclisse in 1962. (Antonioni and Bosè would reunite in 1953 for the even better The Lady Without Camelias). Bosè died of coronavirus complications aged 89 in 2020. 

Reflections on ... The Velvet Underground documentary (2021)

Recently watched: Todd Haynes’ documentary The Velvet Underground (2021). My quick thoughts!

I found it hypnotic, but it’s intended for Velvet Underground fanatics (my boyfriend Pal and I watched it at The Institute of Contemporary Art. He found it numbing and admitted to almost falling asleep!). The first note of music you hear is the lacerating scrape of John Cale’s viola on “Venus in Furs.” It still sounds alien and abrasive! As the kids would say today, it’s a “deep dive”: Haynes is keen to provide context, so there's an emphasis on the early sixties avant-garde / experimental music and underground cinema subcultures that spawned The Velvet Underground in the first place. (I shuddered in ecstasy when clips from Kenneth Anger's Scorpio Rising and Jack Smith’s Flaming Creatures cropped-up). As an unapologetic Nico obsessive, I was thrilled by how respectfully and seriously she’s depicted. (All too often she’s been dismissed as a footnote in The Velvet Underground story). In the past drummer Moe Tucker has spoken contemptuously about Nico, but in the doc, she clearly states that no one sang those three songs better and that it always sounds wrong when anyone else tries. (Tucker isn’t asked about her subsequent embrace of far-right Tea Party politics!). Either Gerard Malanga or Danny Fields notes that when Nico first emerged and wasn't famous yet in her own right, she'd get compared to Dietrich or Garbo as a reference point and that now other singers get compared to her. My interest in the VU peaks with the timeless 1967 debut album and once Warhol, Nico and Cale split, that's it for me. But it does make you wonder: why was Reed such an antagonistic prick? He's still an enigma. But Reed was very cute, sexy and charismatic in his youth so got away with murder. Reed's older sister Merrill - a therapist - is intensely likable. At one point we hear a sixties novelty song called "The Ostrich" that one of Reed's pre-Velvet Underground bands recorded, and she obligingly jumps up and does the dance that went with it! The perennially fierce Warhol superstar Mary Woronov is always a welcome presence. There's a fascinating home movie clip of life at Warhol’s Factory with everyone lounging around acting bored and sullen while a woman reads aloud horoscopes from the newspaper. Everyone pointedly ignores the camera except for International Velvet, who strikes pin-up poses and clearly yearns for attention. At the centre of the documentary is the conflict between “frenemies” Reed and Cale. It’s explained that as a child of the fifties, Reed’s musical imagination was steeped in doo-wop and rockabilly. The collision of that with Cale’s classical / experimental sensibilities resulted in the signature Velvet Underground and Nico sound. Haynes’ greatest triumph is that you completely forget watching it that there is virtually NO concert footage of The Velvet Underground performing in existence. He well and truly overcomes that obstacle.

Reflections on ... The Grim Reaper (1962) aka La commare secca.

Recently watched: The Grim Reaper (1962). Original title: La commare secca. 

“You’ll die covered in lice!” Seriously – Italians have the best insults! A vivid slice of life in the gutter adapted from a short story by highly politicized low life poet/provocateur Pier Paolo Pasolini, The Grim Reaper (21-year-old Bernardo Bertolucci’s directorial debut) opens with the discovery of a murdered prostitute in the park alongside The Tiber. The ensuing film unfolds in flashbacks, as the potential culprits recount their versions of what happened that night while being interrogated by the cops. Meanwhile, Bertolucci repeatedly cuts back to the doomed sex worker (starkly unglamorous and middle-aged with a careworn face) getting ready for work in her flat, drinking espresso, pinning-up her hair, oblivious that she has a date with death. 

Out of all the mid-twentieth century Italian art cinema directors, Bertolucci is the one I’m least au fait with. The Grim Reaper is firmly in the gritty tradition of Pasolini’s early masterworks Accattone (1961) and Mamma Roma (1962), Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria (1957) and Visconti’s Rocco and His Brothers (1960). In fact, it offers an irresistible cornucopia of all my favorite Italian neo-realist leitmotifs! Raw egg-sucking. Prostitution (everyone is seemingly either a pimp or on the game themselves. The tough hetero-flexible Italian boys depicted here are seemingly open to turning tricks, if only to rob the johns of their gold watches). Petty crime. Rough trade in tight pants. Italian men sexually harassing girls on the street. Women with ratted hair and heavy black liquid eyeliner. Nuns. The Colosseum. Women wearing Anna Magnani-style black slips. Grubby urchins playing in the street. Hungry characters speaking wistfully of potatoes in meat sauce and gnocchi. Ads for Campari and Cinzano everywhere. 

This isn’t a spoiler, but the conclusion offers a bleakly pessimistic assessment of mankind. “She was only a whore!” the killer shouts in protest when he’s finally apprehended.

Note! Don't confuse this film with this one!