Thursday Guilty Pleasure: Week Five

After an entire month, at long last we bring you the final edition of the Thursday Guilty Pleasure, a joint venture between the Vault and Missy Yearian's Chickapin Parish! What can we say, it takes us a long to work up the courage to make these confessions, so bear with us...

In this swan song installment, I've got a particularly rare (and some might say forgettable) early '80s bit of cinematic corn, while Missy turns her attention to a film which I happen to like a great deal, even if i recognize that many people don't have much patience for it. So let's jump right in, shall we?

Saturday the 14th (1981)

Much like TerrorVision last time, this is one that goes back to the early HBO days for me. Saturday the 14th--a bizarre horror spoof that some misguided Hollywood exec somewhere once thought was a clever idea--was in constant rotation on the fledgling cable network. And at the time, I just thought it was the funniest thing imaginable.

Mind you, I had never even heard of Friday the 13th at the time, let alone seen it. Which is probably for the best, since this movie has nothing to do with it whatsoever--despite the fact that its title was intended as a timely parody of the aforementioned slasher classic. Looking back, one even has to wonder why the film was even called that, but at the time I didn't even bat an eye. Of course, at the time, The Electric Company was also my favorite TV show. But that's neither here nor there.

The very talented Richard Benjamin, Paula Prentiss and Jeffrey Tambor are all in this clunker, which leads me to think that a lot of people must've once thought that this movie was going to be a really big deal. Well, as we now know, those people were dead wrong. Saturday the 14th is now naught but a footnote in the history of horror comedy. But it'll always have a place in my heart, even if I can't quite understand what I ever found so funny about it...



...And now, Missy Yearian to discuss the merits of Tarantino's grossly misunderstood contribution to Grindhouse...

Death Proof (2007)

There are people in the world who could be identified by their status as Quentin Tarantino fans—people so rabid in their affection for the director that they’ll get borderline violent in their defense of his films. Me? I like him. I like him a lot. But he sure is an arrogant prick. Still, even these folks seemed to turn their noses up at his Grindhouse feature Death Proof.

Many people cite Planet Terror as being the better of the two halves of the Grindhouse experience. And I suppose I can see this perspective. But where Planet Terror is a loving homage to Grindhouse films, Death Proof actually is a Grindhouse film. And for my money, I would much rather watch an actual Grindhouse film than watch a movie that simply loves them.

In the past, I have heard people complain like crazy about the dialogue in this film. They say it’s vapid and shallow and completely irritating. And I suppose it could be, but what Grindhouse movie have you seen that doesn’t have throwaway dialogue that could have easily been cut? This is Tarantino writing for people we don’t necessarily like. This is him creating characters with much less depth than we’ve grown accustomed to. This is him writing about women whose real power comes in the form of violence.

And let’s talk about that violence, shall we? The first car accident in the movie is, for my money, worth the ticket price alone. It’s a completely non-CGI splatter fest, and I found myself utterly gleeful while watching it. Come on y’all, when that tire runs over Arlene’s face, it might just be one of those most shining moments in any one of Tarantino’s films. It’s as memorable as two American soldiers pumping bullets into Hitler’s face, as special as seeing Bridget Fonda bored to tears while being humped by Robert DeNiro. It’s a prime Tarantino moment.

But this isn’t the only quality moment in the film. The last twenty-ish minutes of the movie are absolutely joy-inducing. For once that tired old line “a white knuckle thrill ride for the ages” actually fits. The chase scene with Zoe Bell being Zoe Bell and Kurt Russell being… well, I am guessing Kurt Russell (you would too if you’d scene Big Trouble in Little China as much as I have) had me howling with laughter.

And if that weren’t enough, you have the cast, which I am sure some of you are going to be surprised that I love. To begin, you have Vanessa Ferlito looking hotter than she ever has and giving a lap dance that makes me wish I hadn’t levied all those arguments against strip clubs. And then you have Rosario Dawson who, no matter how hard she might try, can never seem to make me look away.

But the real stars of the film are Kurt Russell and Zoe Bell. Yes, some people seem irritated by that fact that Tarantino is so damned infatuated with Zoe Bell, but to that I say, “Aren’t you?” Watching Bell do her thing might be the best time I have ever had in the theater.

And Kurt Russell is by turns creepy, ugly, handsome, and hilarious. Even if I didn’t love the rest of the film, I would find it worthwhile just for the moment when he pours alcohol onto his gunshot wound and simply cries, “Why? Why? Why?” Let’s face it, friends, no matter what happens, we’ll always love a little Kurt Russell.

Okay, so there are stretches of boring in there. Of course there are. When is the last time you saw an actual Grindhouse movie? Because I am sure I have never seen one that couldn’t have been trimmed drastically. I applaud Tarantino for making a movie he loves—even if his fans didn’t follow in line. I did, however, and I can’t help but watch Death Proof at least twice a year.

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Thursday Guilty Pleasure: Week Four

We're back again with our penultimate edition of Thursday Guilty Pleasure. Yes, I know we missed Tuesday Too Scared to Watch it Twice this week, but October was a mondo busy month here in the Vault, what can I say? Anyway, just sit back, relax and enjoy the douche chills that are sure to ensue as you read all about some crummy movies that we really love. And incidentally, I'd like to go on the record as saying that not only do I enjoy both films selected this week, but I would go even further to say that House of 1,000 Corpses is a damn fine horror movie, so nuts to anyone who makes Missy feel bad for enjoying it.

TerrorVision (1986)

OK, If you really want to talk schlock--I mean, outright, absolute unapologetic crap that you can't help but love--then you can do no better than that mid 1980s gem which haunted the HBO airwaves during my youth. That's right, it's TerrorVision.

I cannot possibly describe how bizarre my love affair with this film is. The amount of affection I have for it is pretty much inversely proportional to how much it deserves that affection. Simply put, this is a really bad movie. And I've adored it for a quarter of a century.

Think E.T., only as a horrendous, campy horror comedy in which E.T. eats people. The special effects are at about the level of Hardware Wars, the comedic level of the acting is broader than the side of a barn, and then there's that theme song that bores its way into your brain stem and doesn't let go. "Terr-or-Vision!!"

I distinctly remember enjoying this movie so much, I would watch it each time HBO would air it, if I happened to be home. And once its cable TV run ended, I moved on to the neighborhood video store, so I could rent and enjoy it some more. And of course, back then, as with most horror comedies, I completely missed all the humor and irony, and found myself terrified of this ridiculous-looking creature swallowing people left and right.

The concept of a carnivorous alien pest transported to Earth via satellite TV is really one that needed exploration, so thank God that TerrorVision came along to fulfill that role. The level of absurdity is utterly infectious, and I make no excuses for loving this film the way I do. It's pure garbage. I'll take a nice, steaming, stinky helping, please. Thank you.



And now, on to Missy's infatuation with Rob Zombie's first foray into the horror biz...

House of 1,000 Corpses (2003)

This week is the first time in the series that I have actually been ashamed of my film choice. I mean, isn’t there some alliance among horror fans to universally hate Rob Zombie? Weren’t we planning to tar and feather him next weekend?

But here I sit before you about to tell you that I have a weird and totally incomprehensible affection for his first film, House of 1000 Corpses. Yes, I know it makes no sense. Yes, I know it is the most derivative film ever made. Yes, I know it is criminally awful. And yes, I am very irritated by the fact that there are not 1000 corpses in the movie, but I just can’t help it. Whenever I sit down to watch it, damned if I don’t have one good ole time.

As I said, the movie makes no effing sense. And I don’t mean that in that glorious Fulci way. I mean, from start to finish, there is just no logic to the movie. Besides, everyone knows that The Devil’s Rejects is the superior film—what with that “Tooty Fucking Fruity” scene and all. But every time I put the DVD in, and I see Karen Black, I just get all schoolgirl giddy. There is nothing that makes me happier on a rainy day than watching that woman’s eyes roll about in her head. And inevitably, I am drawn to watch Burnt Offerings by the time it’s over.

While it might be an unpopular opinion, I have also grown to like Sheri Moon Zombie. Whatever you might say about her, she commits to each project. And she really knows how to irritate the shit out of you. And when she teams up with Karen Black, the two manage to take the exceedingly dreadful material and make it surprisingly funny. There is nothing like watching a duo of dynamic women take an atrociously bad script and turn into something worth watching.

Say what you will about the plot, but visually, the film is impressive. It’s the pastiche-ness of the whole affair that makes it unbearable, and while I can understand that most viewers would not be able to look past that, I have spent my life wading through all the feces the horror genre has to offer, and this one just barely manages to save itself from the scrap heap by going almost Argento in its color scheme.

Zombie has… oh, I am loathe to use this word… crafted a film that combines its senselessness with its gorgeous colors and becomes somehow magical. It’s one of those experiences that only fits on a turn-your-brain-off Saturday. We all know we have that desire to watch a film that is for nothing more than downing popcorn and dozing off before the end credits. For me, House of 1000 Corpses fits the bill perfectly.

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Thursday Guilty Pleasure: Week Three

Yes, I know it's Friday--humor us, will ya? Missy Yearian of Chickapin Parish and myself are back in your face with movies we're ashamed to admit we actually love. I dig deep into the mists of time for a movie that proves not all horror films of the '30s are classics, while Ms. Yearian defends one of those notorious Platinum Dunes remakes...

Maniac (1934)

I'm fully convinced that Ed Wood must have traveled 20 years into the past, changed his name to Dwain Esper, and brought this film into being. There's really no other way to explain how a motion picture that so smacks of the King of Bad Cinema could have emerged during the golden age of classic horror.

The tale of a mad scientist and his vaudevillian comedian accomplice on a mission to reanimate corpses, it's really just about as bad as you'd think it would be. OK, well, it's actually a whole lot worse. The actors seem to have been people just pulled in off the street and told to make random gestures and exclamations, the production value is on a par with the local high school's presentation of Brigadoon, and best of all, the whole thing is punctuated by an unbearably overwrought narration about the dangers of the criminal mind or some such nonsense.

And yet, despite all this--or perhaps because of it--I couldn't take my eyes off this flick when I first watched it as part of one of those 80,000-horror-movies-for-50-cents collections which I picked up a while back at my nearest soulless big box outlet. What's interesting to me, is that when you think of bad movies of this caliber, you're usually not going back any further than the 1950s. If you want to be extra thorough, you can find some real clunkers from Monogram and their ilk from the '40s. But the '30s? For some reason, most people only think of the likes of Frankenstein, The Invisible Man, Dracula, etc. when discussing that era. Well folks, allow me to present you with a glaring exception to the rule.

Maniac is a kind of torture, but a sublime kind. It's the same kind of experience one gets watching Bride of the Monster or Plan 9 from Outer Space only, for whatever reason, far less infamous. Watch it for one of the most overacted death scenes in history. Watch it because its original pre-Hays Code title was Sex Maniac. Watch it because it features an actress named Phyllis Diller, who isn't the one we all know. For all these reasons and more, watch Maniac.

And when you do, you'll discover the wonderful, unifying truth that I did: Really bad movies have been around as long as there have been movies.



And now, gather round as Missy extols the virtues of the TCM remake...

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003)

This one is sure to get me kicked out of the Cool Kids Club, for I love the remake of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. I know it’s like a rule for all of us to have a hate on for Platinum Dunes, and I do. I swear I do. When they made that Amityville Horror remake, I held up my middle finger. When they remade Friday the 13th, I held up my other middle finger. And when they trotted out A Nightmare on Elm Street, I turned around, pulled my pants down, and mooned a metaphorical Michael Bay.

But I can’t help it. I love a movie that begins with a traumatized victim whipping a gun out of her vagina. Could she walk so well with a gun in her spam purse? Probably not! But who cares? Wouldn’t gravity sort of make it fall out from between her meat curtains since she was clearly wearing no underwear? Most likely! But what difference does this really make? I’ll tell you. It makes no difference… none at all. The moment is sheer absurdity, and that is what makes it so awesome.

You see, the original is clearly like the best horror movie in the history of history. (Yes, I know that’s debatable, but just give me some leeway, will you?) And it was so frightening because it was so simple. The idea that something so macabre, something so grisly, could exist behind the front door of a simple farmhouse is a terrifying one (and one that kept me up nights as I grew up in a house just like it). And this remake all but obliterates that notion.

Our baddies live in some dilapidated manor—a home anyone would be stupid to enter. But stupid is exactly what they are. And if you’re looking for a film wherein people you kind of can’t stand (especially Morgan who must be an intentionally irritating character who does almost as a good as job of pissing you off as Franklin) get picked off, this is the movie for you. Gone are the days when you want to see people live. Gone are the days when you don’t know what’s going to happen. This movie is an exercise in predictability.

I realize that makes it sound just awful, and you know, it really is. But there’s something oh-so-comforting in that predictability that just draws me in. This movie is like a sweater you keep in the bottom drawer of your dresser and only trot out when you’re feeling lonely. It’s just a comforting piece of shit, my friends. And sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.

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Thursday Guilty Pleasure: Week Two

Well, kids, it's The Vault of Horror's third anniversary today--and what better way to celebrate than to regale you with my love for cheesy Japanese monsters and little boys in ridiculous shorts? That's right, it's time for another edition of Thursday Guilty Pleasure, brought to by yours truly and Missy Yearian of Chickapin Parish, the poor misguided soul who seems to derive joy from the nadir of Dario Argento's career. Read on...

Godzilla's Revenge (1968)

Speaking of nadirs, this happens to be, by everyone's estimation, the ultimate lowpoint of the entire classic Showa series of Godzilla films from Toho. To that I say, pshaw. That's right! Pshaw. Because Godzilla's Revenge--as you would know if you listened to my recent Vaultcast with Miguel Rodriguez--brings me, and has always brought me, a disproportionate amount of pleasure.

By the late 1960s, Toho had completely given in to the fact that the main fans of the Godzilla series were little children. And so, instead of trying to make truly excellent films like Ishiro Honda's original Gojira, they started cranking out blatant kiddie fare, created without any intention of being anything but fluff. But once you accept that this isn't Gojira...well, Godzilla's Revenge can be a whole lot of fun.

You've got the little boy Ichiro, who aroused more jealousy in me than any other cinematic boy aside from possibly Elliot in E.T. You see, Ichiro had a magical machine that could transport him to Monster Island to hang out Big G and the rest of the gang. OK, so he was only dreaming, but that didn't make it any less awesome to me. I wanted to be that boy, and I wanted to chill with Anguirus, Gorosaurus and the rest of the kaiju crew.

Then, of course, there's Minya. That's right, I was the world's biggest Minya fan. Godzilla's little son (although paternity was never incontrovertibly established) completely captured my imagination, with his Don Knotts-like voice and classic smoke-ring blowing abilities. Yes, he may be the most maligned member of the Japanese movie monster fraternity, but I'm not too much of a snob to admit I loved the goofy-looking guy--and somewhere, in my grown-up heart, I still do. So take that, purists!

Godzilla's Revenge is a whole lot fun--not to mention the perfect gateway Godzilla film for little kids. So let's all get off the high horse, kick back and enjoy it's silly goodness, shall we? After all, what better way to learn a lesson about how to deal with bullying than by watching Godzilla duke it out with something that looks like a cross between a giraffe and a cat?



And now, I toss it over to Ms. Yearian, and her Guilty Pleasure for this week...

Mother of Tears (2007)

There is something special about Italian horror, no? All of us genre fans have a little place in our heart for those crazy Italians—mostly Lucio Fulci and Dario Argento. They make what we like to call “style over substance” movies. Hell, I’ve never seen a Lucio Fulci movie make much sense. Argento, however, is somehow a master at this particular kind of filmmaking. His movies are generally among the most visually beautiful you’ll ever see (see Suspiria or Tenebre).

This is why I was so surprised to discover that he’d botched Mother of Tears so badly. Holy hell, is that movie a mess or what? I mean, the acting is abysmal. The visuals are absurd. The story makes no sense. It should be the greatest cinematic disappointment of the decade.

But for some reason, it just isn’t. Don’t get me wrong. This is one of the worst horror movies I have ever seen. It’s an absolute disaster. But I’ve got such a girl boner for it that I can hardly believe it. That’s right, folks. I love Mother of Tears.

What makes the movie such a treat is the absolute shamelessness with which Argento made it. From the beginning, wherein a woman is strangled with her own intestines, the film is an experiment in absurdity. If I were to give you a highlight reel, it would look like the worst films of the eighties (a decade Argento seems to still be stuck in). A good example of this is the monkey (is it really a monkey? A baboon? Who knows?) that chases Sarah all over Italy. One could also cite the people chasing her on the train, what with their decidedly Duran Duran hairdos and makeup stylings.

But the real treat of Mother of Tears is the titular witch. Sporting a big, bouncy hairdo and the glossiest red lips you’ve ever seen, she’s no more terrifying than your average glance at your family photo albums. Upon first seeing her, I thought, “What? This is the worst of the three mothers? But she’s so eighties!”

All right, all right, truth be told, when I first saw Mother of Tears, I thought it was awful. I thought it was the worst possible ending to a fantastic trilogy. But then I saw it again. And, I don’t know, folks. You’ve got to admire Argento’s moxy. He made one atrociously bad movie (and yes, a bad ending to the trilogy), but it’s sure got style, doesn’t it?



* * * * * * * * * *

Yes, you read correctly up there at the top. Today is the third birthday of The Vault of Horror--which began here, if you'd care to check out the very first, completely unimpressive post. So to just keep it brief, I'd like to thank everyone, both colleagues and readers alike, for supporting this blog and helping it grow into what it is today. I can assure you... you ain't seen nothing yet.

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Thursday Guilty Pleasure: Week One

Because it simply wasn't argumentative enough, every Tuesday in October, to delve into the films we're too scared to watch twice, Missy Yearian of Chickapin Parish and myself are also joining forces throughout October to bring you Thursday Guilty Pleasures, in which we regale you with the movies that we know we're supposed to hate, but we unabashedly love, nevertheless. So buckle in and prepare to cringe, as we get it all off our chests. Be gentle, please...

Van Helsing (2004)

Wow, you're still reading? Yes, B-Sol of The Vault of Horror enjoyed the hell out of Stephen Sommers' gauche, gaudy Universal mashup starring Hugh Jackman as Gabriel "I'm too cool to be named Abraham" Van Helsing. Am I proud of that fact? No. But I'd be a fool to deny it.

Maybe it's the thrill of unleashing it on my kids, who had already been exposed to all the classic Universal monsters, and so got all the references. Maybe it was just the coolness factor of having all those classic monsters in one movie. But whatever it was, I would be lying if I didn't say that this loud confection of a horror/action flick held my attention, and then some.

I fully understand why people generally hated it--it's approach is in many ways completely anathema to the classic horror cinema it's trying to emulate; the camp factor is totally off the charts; the guy playing Dracula is pretty dreadful. Still, there were just enough old-school Universal references peppered without, and a certain respect for the lore of the classic monsters, that gave my inner horror geek a treat and a half.

I defy you to tell me, also, that this film doesn't feature one of the most faithful representations of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein Monster ever put on the screen. Say what you want about the rest of the painful hamminess going on in this flick, but Shuler Hensley is magnificent in a role which somehow seeks to translate the creature of the novel, while still giving a nod to the 1930s movie series. And I proudly admit to the childish grin that crossed my face when he shouted out "Friend!"

My only regret about seeing it is that Sommers' previous helming of The Mummy remake for Universal prevented everyone's favorite bandaged ancient Egyptian from making an appearance amongst his monstrous brethren. Van Helsing is a deeply flawed movie, and not at all what hardcore fans of classic monster cinema were hoping for, but I can't help but have a whole lot of fun with it.



And now, I yield the floor to Missy, and her first guilty pleasure of the month...

House of Wax (2005)

Look, I don’t have a good excuse for having seen this. I mean, it’s got everything working against it. It’s a remake (ew) and it stars Paris Hilton (double ew). And I really should have had the strength to say NO! But I didn’t. And as such, here we are staring down the barrel of week one, and I am about to admit a few shameful things to you.

Thing the First: I love The Simple Life. I own every season on DVD, and anytime I am feeling a little bit sad, I’ll pop them in (season two is my favorite) and a big ole stupid grin will spread across my face. I mean, really, if you let these entitled jerkwads into your lives, you deserve everything you get, right? Right?

It’s possible you’ve stopped reading now that you know this shameful secret. For those of you who are giving me the benefit of the doubt, let me explain why I tell you this. In watching five seasons of this show, I developed a keen understanding of Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. Mostly, I discovered that Nicole is the smart (and devious) one and that Paris has no identity at all. Because of this lack of personality, I thought, “Gee. Maybe she’ll be like Brad Pitt.* And it will be like she’s this blank slate onto which any character can be painted! Maybe she’ll be the greatest actress of all time!” What can I say? I am like a child, and I have great, great optimism. And that’s why I went to see House of Wax.

I was definitely wrong about Paris Hilton.

Thing the Second: I effing loved House of Wax. I loved it way more than it deserves to be loved. I mean, like, if you had kids, and one of them was like The Changeling or something, and the other was House of Wax, you would totally love The Changeling more, right? Yeah, me too. Everyone knows parents don’t really love their kids “the same but in different ways.” House of Wax is totally the DJ Conner of the family. You can’t help but forget he exists when someone as awesome as Darlene is around. (Well, until the later seasons when you have to deal with Becky 2, and then all bets are off. Wait, what was I talking about?)

Thing the Third: That CGI ending with the titular house catching fire and the knife separating the wax babies is totally like the most awesome thing in the history of CGI. And I want to marry it every time I see it, which is a lot because I watch this movie a lot, and I guess that’s Thing the Fourth.

Thing the Fifth: I would probably stalk Elisha Cuthbert, but only after that crazy garage guy chops off the tip of her finger because that’s when you know she’s a badass, and that’s when I realize that House of Wax is actually awesome and totally fun and not something I should be ashamed of at all.

Wait…. What are we doing here?

* Please note that I do not actually like Brad Pitt, but I do believe he has put in some convincing performances, and I believe that is because he is a non-person, and as such, he can become anything.

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