NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS, THE (1993). Tim Burton creates another fantastical world of dark imagery and isolated characters, and douses this world of the macabre within a wonderfully upbeat and original musical menagerie by Danny Elfman. This Academy Award-nominated stop-motion film is geared towards children, but could thoroughly be enjoyed by adults with youthful and darkened imaginations as well. This film annually visits the inside of my VCR, and should be dubbed as one of the most original and classic Halloween stories ever told. Jack Skellington is the Pumpkin King of Halloween Town. Every year, he demonstrates his delicious capacity to deliver scares and frights to the entire town's grotesque population, but this year, he has become bored with his annual routine. He sets out to find something different, and does in the town of Christmas. The lights, the joy, the happiness of this town burn the dimmed light within Jack's head, and lead him to attempt a Christmas parade of his own in Halloween Town. The consequences of this blending of the holidays leads to various misinterpretations, excitement, harmonies and hilarity. This is a wonderfully dark and moody children's Halloween tale that gently stirs all of the required elements of humour, musical charisma, children's imagination and amazing special effects in a successful simmering pot of entertainment. This film is filled with many wonderful images and sounds from the wildly imaginative mind of Tim Burton, the man behind the original Batman and Edward Scissorhands. The story is as original as any one that I've ever seen for Halloween, and moves along at an excited pace through its short running time of only 76 minutes. The special effects are stunningly coordinated and surpass any Disney animated films that I have ever seen. After a few minutes of staring at these characters in awed disbelief, I completely fell under their spell and in love with the personas. The musical numbers are easy to understand and hummingly addictive (The album was nominated for a Grammy for Best Musical Album for Children), while the dark and moody atmosphere created in Halloween Town (Dali and Gaudi would be proud!), is equated only by the cheery and charming ambience of Christmas Town. There are elements of other Halloween tales intertwined in this masterpiece, along with a little Grinch Who Stole Christmas, but overall, this story is truly original, and gave me a truer appreciation of both seasons involved. Of course, Halloween has always been my favourite holiday of the year by a long shot, but don't let that biias sway your vote. This film should capture anyone's dormant imagination, with its wild visuals, upbeat musical renditions, sharp and exact imagery, and creative story. See this one with your kids, if you have any...if you don't, rent some for the weekend, it's worth it!--Reviewed by Berge Garabedian

NIGHT OF THE ZOMBIES (1983). Starring Margrit Evelyn Newton, Franco Giraldi, Selan Karay, Gaby Renom, Luis Fonoll, Piero Fumelli. Directed by Bruno Mattei. Anyone looking for proof of the oft-expressed theory that Mattei merely apes Lucio Fulci's style, and does it badly at that, need look no further than this exercise in cinematic laziness. Just about every review I've read of this film mentions the proliferation of stock footage, but it's not really that distracting at first. It's only after the zombie stuff really kicks in and the story is supposed to be in high gear that intermittent shots of disparate (not to mention highly anachronistic) animals begin to become funny, in a ridiculous, put-your-foot-through-the-screen kind of way. There are plenty of other grievances as well, also mentioned elsewhere (people standing by mutely and watching their colleagues being torn apart; soldiers who figure out to shoot the monsters in the head, only to forget it a mere five seconds later, etc.), which is kind of a shame, because the resolution of the whole thing is actually rather visceral and horrifying and I'm not just talking about poor Margrit having her tongue ripped out. In the hands of a more competent filmmaker (sorry Bruno) this could possibly have been one of the better Italo-zombie films. But as it stands it's pretty much as bad as its reputation suggests, which is a plus for some people, so maybe congratulations are in order. From the Random Coincidence Department, I discovered that one of the SWAT team guys was played by Giraldi, who is mainly a director and did A Minute To Pray, A Second To Die, a spaghetti western I had watched only a few days previous to viewing this.--Reviewed by Marc Beschler

NOSFERATU (1922). Though not the first cinematic appearance of the vampire, the German silent classic Nosferatu marks the first vampire classic and the first attempt to film Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Though the filmmakers initially tried to deny the Stoker connection to avoid paying royalties (humorous considering the first half of the film follows Stoker’s novel closer than nearly all of the subsequent adaptations), Bram Stoker’s widow sued and won. A judge actually ordered all copies of the film to be destroyed, but thankfully prints survived, preventing Nosferatu from being irretrievably lost as so many other silent horror classics have been. Unlike the monster movies that would dominate Universal a decade later, Nosferatu is not a film whose classic status comes from its Gothic production design or impressive sets. Nosferatu’s status as a classic is based more on casting than anything else. Though some of the effects (the fading of the vampire out of the frame, coffin lids peeling back untouched) are ahead of their time and several images stand out (Schrek shot from a low angle as he approaches the last remaining crew member of his voyage from Transylvania), Murnau’s camera rarely moves. Nosferatu also exists without much editing, lacking even the simple inserts that Tod Browning added to Dracula. It is Schrek’s appearance itself, the way his shadow creeps along the stairways and hovers above sleeping victims, that creates Nosferatu’s ominous, otherwordly mood. Though Nosferatu lacks the expressionist design of The Cabinet Of Dr. Caligeri and the Gothic gloom and roving camera of the classic Universal Horror cycle, its legacy can be summed up in one image. As Schrek approaches the room of his victim, only his shadow is seen. As the death-like hand stretches out to turn the door and enter, it elongates and distorts into a grotesque and terrifying image of terror. Lacking the suave menace of Bela Lugosi, the romantic charm of Frank Langella or the ferocity or Christopher Lee, Schrek’s vampire barely seems human at all. 80-years later Max Schrek is still the silver screen's most terrifyingly creepy vampire.--Reviewed by Matt Mulcahey

OBSESSION: A TASTE FOR FEAR (1989).  Starring Virginia Hey, Gerard Darmon, Gioia Scola, Carlo Mucari, Dario Parisini, Teagan Clive, Eva Grimaldi, Kid Creole. Directed by Piccio Raffanini. Meandering, stupid Italian thriller about an icy "art" photographer (Hey) whose trés decadent lifestyle is mildly jostled when one of her models is murdered. The film manages to maintain a fairly consistent air of unpleasantness and ineptitude all the way through. One potentially interesting device, the detective in charge (emoting all kinds of grizzled attitude, which mainly consists of him sporting a 25 o'clock shadow) having the dead girl's electronic appointment book and following her intended schedule, is clumsily handled at first and then just abandoned. While this is sometimes listed as a giallo, the genre it seems to have the most in common with in tone is the tidal wave of direct to video "erotic thrillers" that have glutted the market over the past decade. The filmmakers idea of sexy seemed to be bathing every other scene in incandescent blue and red lights, making it look as if these characters live in some kind of city-sized strip club. At least I thought this was supposed to be a stab (no pun intended) at eroticism, until an out-of-nowhere, smack-in-the-face of a scene in which the cop, pursuing the killer, fires his gun and a freaking laser beam comes out of it! Whoa, nellie! Was this supposed to be some kind of futureworld scenario?  Why was I not informed of this earlier?  But then, on further consideration, I found this actually explained a few things; things I had perhaps taken for granted as dippy, trendy affectations: Hey's hideous sportscar with one of those Delorean lifting-doors which is basically nothing more than a safety bar; the aforementioned electronic schedule which is actually a digital watch; the cop's tinfoil shirt, etc. Yes, this definitely clarified things. Of course it didn't make the film any better and it certainly didn't make it any less nonsensical, if anything the exact opposite. But it did clarify things for me, save of course for the tears in my eyes having spent an hour and a half watching this horsestuff. What it comes down to is that the main thing this film has to recommend it is a) the cast features a lot of very attractive women, b) there's truckloads of nudity (some fairly explicit), c) do the math.  Those delightful boys at StompTokyo (stomptokyo.com) have often cited nudity in the first scene of a film as an immediate warning sign (this has that and in a rather tasteless context), but I wonder what they would say about a film that has an end credits sequence that is a virtual nudie montage as it is here? I think I can probably guess. The only other interesting thing I can say is for all of you adult comic fans out there. A scene in a dance club features a very brief cameo by Ranxerox, the star of Gaetano Liberatore's ultra-violent graphic novels.--Reviewed by Marc Beschler

OLD DARK HOUSE, THE (1932). Travelers seeking shelter from an English downpour take refuge in an ancient mansion. The place is old, dark...and the butler is Boris Karloff. The travelers, among them Charles Laughton, learn they would have been better off in the storm, as the house's odd inhabitants slowly become even odder, and, eventually, homicidal. Karloff and director James Whale, fresh from making Frankenstein the year before, infuse this version of J. B. Priestley's novel with thrills and chills galore. Laughton, as a gauche, self-made businessman is in fine fettle. Ernest Thesiger, as a sinister member of the household, provides a hint of the saturnine performance he would later give in Bride Of Frankenstein. There are a few light moments, but, overall, Whale creates a mood of decay and corruption, as well as neatly exposing the effects of religious fanaticism. The very prototype of the "old dark house" flicks, and undoubtedly the best.

OLD DARK HOUSE, THE (1963). Combine Hammer Studios and shockmeister director William Castle and you should have a marriage made in Horror Heaven. Well, Hammer and Castle divorced after release of this picture and it's no wonder. This remake of James Whale's classic 1932 chiller is a horror-comedy...moldy horror clichés and crude slapstick comedy. This time around, Tom Poston portrays an American who gets invited to the old, dark house of the title, and finds an assortment of oddballs presided over by Robert Morley. Someone is killing the house's tenants off, and Poston has to find out who, or die in the attempt. Poston spends a good deal of time falling down trap doors, avoiding falling statues, and warding off the advances of a vampish (but not vampiric) member of the household. Castle adds nothing new to the by-then stale "old dark house" formula...not even one of his famous gimmicks. Robert Morley is a joy to watch no matter what the venue, but Poston is a lightweight actor at best, and the rest of the cast (none of them Hammer regulars, oddly enough) hardly registers. This is a prime example of wasted opportunities and talent. One genuine highlight are the opening titles, featuring animated drawings by none other than Charles Addams, creator of The Addams Family.

PLAGUE OF THE ZOMBIES (1966). So here’s the set-up: Peter Thompson is a doctor practicing in an isolated village that’s experiencing a mysterious epidemic. Hounded by the frustrated denizens and unable to come up with an explanation for the mounting fatalities, Thompson sends for his teacher and mentor, Sir James Forbes. Sir James arrives with his daughter, Sylvia, just in time to witness the rapid decline of Thompson’s young wife, Alice. Later, fleeing a confrontation with the local squire, Sylvia is overwhelmed by the sudden appearance of a cackling, rotting zombie carrying Alice’s corpse. It’s not long before she, too, succumbs to the sudden exhaustion, marked by strange and horrifying dreams...Director John Gilling shot Plague for Hammer concurrently with The Reptile. This is the better film, and, despite it’s mediocre reputation, is effectively spooky and surprisingly visceral. That said, he does seem to favor plot over action—this is a nice way of saying the film’s a bit talkey. What might be dull in less accomplished hands seems to work well here. Gilling got his start scripting noirs, he knows how to handle a character-based storyline. The pacing is deliberate and the twists are unexpected. He co-wrote the script with Peter Bryan, and although he flirts with all manner of genre conventions, generally confounds them, i.e. the simple villagers aren’t particularly ignorant, the newcomers aren’t shunned, and Sylvia, the putative romantic lead, is much more her father’s sidekick than anything else.. The acting, also, is solid all around. Andre Morel is pitch-perfect as the spirited Sir James and Diane Clare is surprisingly tart as Sylvia. Brook Williams is the only actor hitting false notes, his Peter is a little hammy, sometimes coming off more like Paul Lynde than a grieving husband. John Carson is particularly memorable as Clive Hamilton, the intimidating squire. His performance is pleasantly understated, foregoing the usual hallmarks of villainy and projecting only a vague but unmistakable air of generalized degeneracy. One of the most striking aspects of the production is the relative restraint. There’s very little Gothic filigree in the workable interiors and lush Cornish landscapes, and as much of the action occurs in sunny daylight as darkness. The sensationalistic aspects of the plo--white-eyed zombies, voodoo ceremonies, slavery--although presented in an appropriately lurid fashion, are kept to a minimum. The scenes of grotesquerie and exotica gain much power from seeming to intrude on a film that favors the eerie over the horrific. When the zombies do appear they’re genuinely fightening, the voodoo ceremonies strange and a little hilarious, all fevered drummers and masked priests, backlit and silhouetted in garish red. It’s refreshing to watch a horror film produced in the mid-60’s that doesn’t rely utterly on camp value to score it’s points. If not particularly intelligent, POZ is intelligently made, standing in fairly stark contrast to many of the American horror films released in the same decade.--Reviewed by Todd Toussaint

PLAN NINE FROM OUTER SPACE (1956). The story behind the motivations of writer-producer-director Edward D. Wood Jr. is as pathetic as it is sincere. Often considered the worst filmmaker in film history, and rightly so, he directed some of the funniest films ever. The thing is, Wood was sure that his pictures were deep and well executed. Wanting to get everything right, he was eager to please. But, as we can see, he wasn't too efficient, and Plan 9 From Outer Space may well be at the bottom of the barrel. Wood, no matter how bad his products were, is still very appreciated. In a way, it's pretty easy to understand why: his films are so amateurish and incompetent that they provide lots of laughter from a game audience. The impossible story concerns a group of extraterrestrial beings persuaded that they can conquer the Earth by resurrecting the dead. They want to make friends of these monsters, therefore adding to their overall strenght! During the film, we spend some time with the humans on Earth, while they are slowly getting aware of the presence of flying saucers. But that's not all: we also visit the E.T.'s "spaceship", where its owners proudly show us their recent discoveries, including an hilarious electrode gun. Oh, by the way: Plan 9 From Outer Space is based on sworn testimony, in case you wondered. You may find this resume a bit idiotic, but that's the way it is, folks. One of the reasons explaining why Wood's films are so funny is that his tone in consistently serious; Wood wants to tell us a complex and frightening story, don't get him wrong! His goal was always to make daring pictures (he went as far as to compare himself to Orson Welles since he wrote, produced and directed most of his projects). He's totally honest here, as he was in the autobiographical Glen Or Glenda?. If you watched the Tim Burton bio-pic Ed Wood, you already know that Wood, with Plan 9 From Outer Space, wanted to direct a supernatural thriller, not a "creature feature". He... missed the mark. There's no tension in the film, no thrills. Lots of laughs though. The "special effects" are equally hilarious. Heck, we can even see the strings attached to the "flying saucers". He also used stock footage that has no means. Not having much money, Wood worked with the simple tools he had and offered us a VERY modest science-fiction outing, to say the least. Other weird details pop out during the course of the movie: first, Bela Lugosi died after only a few days shooting the film. For the rest of it, Wood used another actor (a young and tall blond guy) who continually wears a cape in front of his face to "simulate" a new Lugosi. The aliens' costume is also amusingly done, as are their rituals. Poor actors! They don't look too bright in Plan 9 From Outer Space. Speaking of actors, the acting level is appalingly low here. They certainly aren't talented, speaking their lines with no emotions whatsoever. They're all very bad, but my vote to the worst of the lot goes to Dudley Manlove, who plays the aliens' leader. His performance is so fierce and dertermined that he makes a total fool of himself! He invests a lot in his role, making him even more pitiful. Extremely comical stuff, though, if you ask me. Other ridiculous details are also easy to identify: sometimes, the sky goes from dark to light in the same scene. But Wood wasn't interested in the credibility of his masterpiece, as you must have guessed already. I found this film even more interesting than Glen Or Glenda?, but the two are very badly done. Plan 9 From Outer Space is still the worse of the two, with impossible to understand situations, a terribly funny story, hilarious villains and non-existent acting. I'd recommend this very film to start your "Wood experiments". When all is said and done, Wood was ambitious. But he also had no talent.--Reviewed by Philippe St-Germain

RABID (1977). Starring Marilyn Chambers, Frank Moore, Joe Silver, Howard Ryshpan, Patricia Gage, Susan Roman, Roger Periard, Lynne Deragon, Terry Schonblum, Victor Désy, Julie Anna, Gary McKeehan. Written and directed by David Cronenberg. Okay, bear with me: A girl has a radical skin-graft operation following an accident, which results in her developing a parasitic growth which comes out of her armpit and sucks other peoples' blood. Said victims then turn into blue foam spewing maniacs with the uncanny urge to bite other people. As a result, the city of Montreal is soon turned into a wasteland. Actually, the film doesn't play as crazy as it sounds. Cronenberg's second feature (following Shivers aka They Came From Within aka The Parasite Murders, where would the world of cult film be without 'aka'?) both confirms his obsession with the invasion of the human body and clarifies it. In the first film, the invaders were some kind of bizarre, alien slugs, but in this, the trouble is caused by a perversion of the human flesh itself. This would continue to be a major theme in the director's films, an exploration of various ways that the physical aspect of the human condition might be transcended or subverted, with the result often being a self-destructive, occasionally cannibalistic reaction. This has shown up in all different forms, from the 'All Hail the New Flesh' doctrine of Videodrome to the reckless self-endangerment of the car accident fetishists in Crash. This film also shows Cronenberg making great strides in his filmmaking style. There is a wonderfully claustrophobic scene in a subway car which would make me never want to ride the subway again, if the service hadn't already done so. Porn legend Chambers, as Rose, the Typhoid Mary of the story, resonates a lot of charisma (natch) and also turns in a pretty damn good acting job. I have to wonder, if her talent had been at all nurtured, could she have done good work and would we have been spared the embarrassment of such T&A crap as Bikini Bistro and Bedtime Fantasies? Ah, who the hell knows? At any rate, she manages to generate a lot of sympathy for Rose and Cronenberg gives us an ending that has a truly poignant and tragic bent to it.--Reviewed by Marc Beschler

RAVEN, THE (1963). Starring Vincent Price, Boris Karloff, Peter Lorre, Hazel Court, Olive Sturgess, Jack Nicholson, Connie Wallace, William Baskin, Aaron Saxon. Produced and directed by Roger Corman. Quoth the Raven: "How the hell should I know?" Price and Lorre play magicians who venture off to the castle of rival magus Karloff because Price believes Karloff is holding captive the soul of his late wife Lenore. If you are at all familiar with Edgar Allen Poe's famous poem than it is already apparent to you that it served as merely a springboard (and a rather thin one at that) for Richard Matheson's screenplay. Matheson and Corman, realizing that the original poem might make a good short but could hardly be stretched to feature length, opted to tell a story dominated by laughs instead of chills and I'm happy to say it worked. This is probably one of the funniest movies I've seen in ages and the nice thing is that, as opposed to many horror films, it's supposed to be funny. Things get off to a nice start with the film playing much like its source material at first, until the fateful moment when the bird is supposed to utter its famous line and instead the phrase that begins this review comes out of its mouth in Lorre's voice. Price then has to concoct a potion to turn Lorre back into a man, consisting of, among other things, jellied spiders and dead man's hair. After this has been accomplished, Lorre sees a portrait of the dead Lenore and swears that he has seen her in the castle he just came from, the castle of the very same magician who turned him into a bird. Price is skeptical at first, but is so obsessed with his late wife that he decides he has to see for himself. They are joined by Price's daughter (Sturgess) and Lorre's son (Nicholson, in an early role and it's kind of perversely fun to watch Lorre smack him around, given the tenor of the roles he eventually became well-known for). They venture off to Karloff's castle and things just get better from there. One of the best things about this film is that the people involved are so good at what they do and are so obviously having a great time doing it. Even though most of the humor is in no way subtle, they pull it off so well that even the silliest bits have a droll quality to them. And the actors also avoid the kind of mugging performances that could have easily resulted from the material, except in the few cases where it is appropriate. (My favorite example of this would be the scene where, in a stand-off, Karloff wilts Lorre's magic wand and Lorre, in that unmistakable voice of his, slowly snarls "You di-i-irty old man!") In fact the actors work together so well that even though some of the effects work in the climactic showdown are a bit cheap, it seems like nit-picking to complain about it. There's some wonderful set design and it's easy to see why Corman was reluctant to tear it down without getting some more use out of it (the result of which was The Terror, a film I have yet to see, but which stands as a bonafide cult item for its back story alone). Add to all that the pretty Ms. Sturgess and the bodacious charms of Ms. Court (those sensitive to cleavage may want to shield their eyes) and you've got one hell of a good movie. This was the fifth in Corman's Poe series, followed by The Haunted Palace, though as that was mostly based on H. P. Lovecraft's "The Strange Case of Charles Dexter Ward," its actual successor was 1964's The Masque Of The Red Death.--Reviewed by Marc Beschler

REPTILICUS (1962). One of the worst giant monster flicks ever. A Danish outfit drills for oil and instead finds blood and skin. It turns out to be from a portion of a prehistoric amphibious reptile. The "portion" regenerates into a full-blown giant "Reptilicus" that threatens Copenhagen, while scientists and military types try to destroy it. Early scenes of the scientists studying the unknown specimen aren't badly done and the manner in which the specimen was first discovered is imaginative, but the film quickly falters and flops. Producer-Director Sid Pink (The Angry Red Planet) couldn't sign American actors for his Denmark shoot (two versions, English- and Danish-language, were shot of each scene), so Danes played both local national and American roles. Due to their heavy accents, their voices had to be dubbed, and that artless dubbing ruins.even acceptable scenes. One scene, where terrified Copenhagen residents tumble off an opened drawbridge, is about the only effectively chilling one in the flick. But the fatal blow to the film is the titular giant monster itself. No stop-motion models or stuntmen in rubber suits here; the monster is a puppet, suspended from visible wires, dangling over unconvincing miniature landscapes. He also spits out a kind of badly animated green goo, as if old Reptilicus is a two-pack-a-day smoker. The result provokes laughter, even from the kiddies. Accordingly, audiences laughed the film out of theaters when it was released, helping shorten the film career of Mr. Pink. Reptilicus? Ridiculous!

ROSEMARY'S BABY (1968). 1968 was a year of great upheaval in the United States and horror movies were not exempt from the change which was sweeping across America. The scope of the cinematic horizon was a broadening landscape of open valleys where movies would never be quite the same again. This was never more true for horror films, and Rosemary's Baby was a turning point on the genre wheel of horror. Directed by Roman Polanski from the Ira Levin novel, Rosemary's Baby is, other than The Exorcist, the "mother" of all modern horror films. Mia Farrow plays the wife of Guy Woodhouse (John Cassavetes) a struggling actor, who, after an evening dinner with neighbors Roman Castevet (Sidney Blackmer) and Minnie (Ruth Gordon), becomes involved in a witches coven. We, the audience, are at first as unsuspecting as Farrow herself is. Throughout this film Polanski weaves a web of unseen terror and what lurks behind the next proverbial dark corner is the lurid Freudian slip we fall for throughout. The dream sequences of Rosemary (Farrow) pack a Freudian punch that nearly knocks us out before the final round of the film, boxing us in her world of psycho-claustrophobic wanderings. Ruth Gordon and Sidney Blackmer are the outwardly charming couple who live in the same apartment building as Farrow. Gordon is so good in this film that even the Academy of Motion Pictures couldn't ignore her, handing her an Oscar, a rare feat for anything horror-related. This is interesting to note in light, er, darkness, of the mainstream view of horror pictures. The underlying religiosity is etched in the film's tag line: "Pray for Rosemary's baby". And this theme is effectively utilized in the dream sequences. In fact, in the late-60s, alternative religions were being embraced across America, and Anton Levey, from the Church of Satan, portrays the old master himself in a brief cameo. What is chilling about Rosemary's Baby is that the characters never become less-than-real; on the contrary, they become more real as the story un-folds. These characters (particularly Gordon's and Blackmer's) are mainstream, elderly, and well-respected members of the community, leading a dual life and existing always where you'd never expect them to be. Not once do they lose their humaness. And the dialogue in the last ten minutes makes these characters appear even more real, and even somewhat likeable. The film never becomes over-wrought with horror cliches, rather it exhibits a subtle exuberance, making the characters and the film, all the more believeable. These are real people, hidden in the very throngs of a society, nestled deep within and under our own noses. These disciples of Satan come across as real people, not as walking zombies with mis-placed passion killing everything in their path. The film deals with the very real issues of the negative side to the occult and Polanski's brilliant direction brings this reality home, especially in the opening and closing shots: the message evoked is that evil is hidden and existing in the very last place we would look for it: our own homes. Indeed this film which gave birth to modern psychological horror filmmaking, has without a doubt, grown through the years with each viewing to show it has withstood the test of time. A genuine classic. --Reviewed by By Mark Pallatino

SATANIC RITES OF DRACULA, THE (1973; also released as Count Dracula And His Vampire Bride, and Count Dracula Is Dead...And Well And Living In London). You can't keep the King Of The Vampires down for long...unfortunately. When a British security organization spots its own chief participating in satanic rituals, it calls in Scotland Yard (Special Branch) for help. Scotland Yard, in turn, calls in its unofficial occult expert--a chap named Van Helsing (Peter Cushing), a descendent of the original vampire-hunting Van Helsing. Before long, it's clear that more than a kinky cult is involved...Dracula (Christopher Lee) has risen yet again from the grave and the fate of the world this time is involved. This is the sequel to Dracula AD 1972, and if ever a movie didn't merit a sequel, that move was it. At least AD 1972 was a straightforward Dracula-on-the-loose flick, albeit set in modern times. This follow-up is burdened with a counter-intelligence angle that needlessly complicates, rather than complements, the plot, such as it is. Cushing gets to do some low-grade vampire stalking and Lee appears briefly as Dracula, ostensibly to loose a plague upon the world, but in reality only to justify the film's title. Joanna Lumley (The New Avengers, Absolutely Fabulous), in red bangs and heavy makeup, is all but unrecognizable as Van Helsing's daughter. Director Alan Gibson's lenses this final Hammer Dracula entry with no verve or style, aside from the use of slow-motion to highlight a few action sequences. One wishes that Lee and Cushing had "just said no" when a sinking Hammer studios asked them to participate in one more Dracula film. A sad and silly swan song for a once protean horror series.

SECRET OF THE BLUE ROOM (1933).  Lionel Atwill is drafted in to liven up this mediocre low budget “old dark house” style murder mystery.  With Gloria Stuart playing the eligible, beautiful girl desired by all the males around her.  The “blue room”, the supposed scene of strange disappearances many years before, now the pattern seems to be repeated.  The most keen on Gloria Stuart dares to stay over night in the room and disappears, soon there is murder!  An intriguing premise is wasted in this film, Lionel Atwill is given little to do but look moody and direct the proceedings.  When you think only the year before he was doing Doctor X, Mystery Of The Wax Museum, and Murders At The Zoo, he must really of upset somebody important.  Gloria Stuart says he was very self-absorbed and distant.  The film is obviously an insert job using previously shot footage, probably German and then weaving the events into it through judicious editing.   This gives the film a fragmented feeling however some of the Frankenstein sets are reused for the house.  However this does little to compensate for the stilted dialogue and ultimately while the murder is a surprise, the film does not really add up to much and it doesn’t have the atmosphere needed.--Reviewed by Mark Coyle

SEVEN DEATHS IN THE CAT'S EYE (1972). Starring Jane Birkin, Anton Diffring, Hiram Keller, Françoise Christophe, Venantino Venantini, Doris Kunstmann, Dana Ghia, Konrad Georg, Serge Gainsbourg. Directed by Antonio Margheriti under the name Anthony M. Dawson. Moody, not uninteresting, but convoluted and ultimately far too vague horror/giallo about a wealthy family that supposedly has some kind of unspecified vampiric curse on it and what happens when all the living members gather at the ancestral mansion. Somebody should have told cinematographer Carlo Carlini that, while darkness and shadows can certainly be effective, light can be a good thing too. For example, light allows us to, oh, I don't know, see what the hell is going on! Honestly, there is a steady stream of shots throughout the film where, while motion can be detected, I would be hard pressed to tell you who or what is engaging in said motion. The film also crams a number of red herrings into the mix, which wouldn't be such a problem if they had gone to any trouble to make the "suspects" look a bit more suspicious. Little indication is given as to why any of them might want to kill the others, aside from the fact that most of them are simply unpleasant to be around. This only applies, of course, to the human suspects, as included amongst the aforementioned herrings are two animals, who don't specifically need motives, barring supernatural forces which can be motives in and of themselves. The first is the family cat of the title, which isn't surprising. Cats always seem to be suspects in this kind of film. I guess it's that inscrutable and occasionally icy feline quality that makes them believable as malevolent presences. The other is a large orangutan that the young man of the family keeps in his room (and which is, curiously, named after him), though we never get a very good look at it; mainly dim close-ups of its bared teeth (see lighting problem above). Had a bit more detail been added (what exactly is the nature of the vampiric curse? what more specific reasons for murder do the family members harbor?) this might have been elevated above simply OK, but…shoulda, coulda, woulda and like that. To be fair, I think that the version I watched, the Prism Video release, was probably edited at least a little bit. But to go from being fair to being realistic, I doubt that any excised footage would have added all that much. At least Birkin, a slightly gawkier version of Isabelle Adjani, is quite pleasant to look at. When you can see her, that is.--Reviewed by Marc Beschler

SHOCK TREATMENT (1981). Starring Jessica Harper, Cliff De Young, Richard O'Brien, Patricia Quinn, Charles Gray, Ruby Wax, Nell Campbell, Rikk Mayall. Directed by Jim Sharman. Harper and De Young play Brad and Janet (characters previously played by Susan Sarandon and Barry Bostwick in The Rocky Horror Picture Show). This takes place at an undetermined time later and it doesn't matter anyway, as there is little or no mention of the previous film. B & J somehow become involved with a big experiment involving a TV series run by scientist O'Brien or some such nonsense. This is another case where, like when I watched Alex Cox's Straight To Hell, I went in thinking it couldn't possibly be as bad as I had heard. And, just as in that case, my childlike optimism was dashed against the rocks like so many overripe melons. Despite a game cast and having been made by the same people behind the simply delicious (if I may wax Frank'n'furterish) RHPS, this film fails on almost every level. The songs are largely unmemorable, the script is rarely funny and the dynamic naughtiness that helped make RHPS such a kick is sorely missed. The only thing I really got out of this was that I thought at times I could see what writer/co-star O'Brien was reaching for, at least in terms of being familiar with his obsessions (old Fifties style horror and sci-fi, rock 'n' roll, transvestism and sexual identity brou-ha-ha in general, etc.) as clearly laid out in RHPS. It even seemed clear that the song "Bitchin' in the Kitchen" was an attempt to duplicate the success of RHPS's "Dammit, Janet." Unfortunately, noticing these consistencies did little to enhance the enjoyment of the film and did nothing to abate my astonishment that such a classic film as Rocky Horror could spawn such a stale follow-up. Future "Young One" Mayall appears as one of O'Brien's assistants, though he looks less than enthused with the proceedings. One can hardly blame him.--Reviewed by Marc Beschler

SOME NUDITY REQUIRED (1998). Starring Odette Springer, Maria Ford, Julie Strain, Jim Wynorski, Fred Olen Ray, Chuck Moore, Dan Golden, Catherine Cyran, Lisa Boyle, Arlene Sidaris, Andy Sidaris, Samual Z. Arkoff, Edward Albert, Jr., Roger Corman. Written and directed by Johanna Demetrakas and Odette Springer. Low-rent but thought-provoking documentary about the B-movie industry and, in particular, its effects on the actresses who make their living allowing themselves to be exploited, at least if you believe what some interviewed here have to say. Co-writer/co-director Springer takes a personal tack by appearing in the film and relating how while working as a composer for Roger Corman's New World Pictures, she found herself conflicted about the films she was working on. Feeling alternately sickened and fascinated by the material, she also discovered that the films opened up personal revelations in her regarding her insecurities about her physical appearance and sexual abuse she had suffered as a child. This honest approach regarding Springer's uncertainties helps the film avoid a potentially biased outlook, the pitfalls of which are fairly prevalent. Notorious schlock director Wynorski, despite Springer's assertion that she has a soft spot for him, comes off pretty much as a callous jerk and the rest of the male directors don't fair all that much better. Moore spends the majority of his interview scenes staunchly defending the genre pictures he and his associates make only to appear at the end in a scene shot later backpedaling like a madman. On the other hand Cyran, the sole female director interviewed, also came off as abrasive, even when she was saying things that I kind of agreed with. A nice contrast is set up through the separate interviews of former Penthouse Pet Strain and actress Ford. Strain maintains that it is she who is using the industry, not the other way around, and watching her its not hard to believe that its true. Ford on the other hand clearly has serious issues with the things she has been made to do on screen. Her segments, along with Springer's personal reactions (she even dares to go full-frontal on camera and I think this is supposed to be linked in the viewer's mind with Ford's nude karate scene from Angel of Vengeance, which is shown here), are the most affecting parts of the film. As a fan of the B-movie oeuvre (and, for the sake of full disclosure, a fan of gratuitous nudity as well), I have to admit this film gave me pause. I watched Angel of Vengeance the following day, as scenes from it had featured fairly prominently in this. For starters, it simply wasn't very good, but that's not the point. One of the things that I often look for while watching a bad movie is whether or not it looks as if the performers are at least enjoying themselves. I've seen enough schlock that I thought I was pretty good at spotting this, but watching A of V, I wasn't so sure. I actually found myself doing the exact opposite: looking for signs that Ford wasn't enjoying herself. I'm not sure if I saw any, but I was struck at the very least by how I felt obligated to reevaluate the way I looked at this type of film. Not to say that I came to any big conclusions, or that this made me want to stop watching exploitation movies, but it did make me want to ponder the nature of genre films a bit more than I had before. If you are an exploitation fan, or even if you're not, Some Nudity Required may do the same to you.--Reviewed by Marc Beschler

SPIDER BABY (1964). Good news! Jack Hill's "Spider Baby" is now available in a special collector's edition video from Video Treasures. The print is pristine (unlike the version you might have seen at the drive-in) and letterboxed to give you the full splendor of this little gem. It even features a 30 year reunion of the surviving cast and crew members at the NuArt in West LA (pardon me as I wipe a tear away—I used to live in that theater). Cast? Lon Chaney Jr. as "Bruno" the beloved family chauffeur and caretaker. Sure, in 1964 Lon wasn't at the peak of his career—though his rendition of the theme song is pure genius—but what a moving portrayal of the loyal family retainer who genuinely loves his charges, though they suffer from the rare genetic disease of "Merrye Syndrome," which causes them to regress steadily back through childhood toward bestiality. Virginia (17-year-old Jill Banner) likes to play spider and "sting" her victims with a couple of large carving knives while older sister Elizabeth (Beverly Washburn) scolds her lovingly feral brother, Ralph (Sid Haig) rides up and down the dumbwaiter, drooling, and catches dinner for the family (how could they pass it off as rabbit with a tail that long?). Just don't ask about the Aunts and Uncle in the basement—the skeletons in their closet have tooth marks. Of course, all hell breaks loose when long lost relatives show up to claim the property and commit the kids, but loyal Lon has a trick up his sleeve to save his kids from that fate and the world from Merrye Syndrome. So bad it’s good? Or just really really wacky? Both—wonderfully memorable lines ("It's not nice to hate anyone" Bruno admonishes the girls after the "stinging" death of a hapless messenger) make this the family values/cannibal film you shouldn't miss. The relative cheapness of this version (list $14.98) makes it affordable fun for the whole family. After all, it does teach valuable lessons about togetherness, taking care of the elderly and learning not to hate. --Reviewed by K. A. Laity

SPIDER WOMAN STRIKES BACK, THE (1946).  After the success of Gale Sondergaard as the menancing, evil Spider Woman in Universal’s Sherlock Holmes And The Spider Woman (1944), Universal gave Sondergaard her own film with the added attraction of Rondo Hatton, known as “The Creeper” having given films like “Pearl Of Death” a chilling, murderous feeling.  The film is therefore something of a star vehicle and was one of the last serious horrors made by Universal in the golden era.  Without Roy William Neill’s pacy direction this plays more like a reasonable B-movie from the Republic studio than a main feature.   Gale Sondergaard is effective once more as the evil Spider Woman, now pretending to be blind and breeding spiders and plants to kill off and scare away the locals in order that she can claim the land.  However shes misses a decent foil to play against, Rathbone as the brilliant Holmes provided a spark on screen that is missing here.  Her fiendish plans are not really quite evil enough to raise the film and make us root for the limp Milburn Stone, we never see her plotting or involved in the deeds carried out in her name.   Hatton is once more chilling as the mute servant murdering and extracting blood from the girl bought in to assist Sondergaard, although in reality her next victim.  There is an unrequited love theme for Hatton that is never picked up, which is a shame.  By this time, Hatton’s real physical problems were distorting his face and hands to a large extent and you cannot help but feel for him, his genuinely deformed presence is both disturbing, fascinating and saddening in equal measure.  The film is very tied to one small set and lacks the added element that would have made Sondergaard a real diabolic human monster.   Instead, the ending comes with fire in her laboratory and a joke.  Surey not a fitting end for what had potentially been a major but unrealised horror film heroine.--Reviewed by Mark Coyle

SPIRITS OF THE DEAD (1967; also released as Histoires Extroadinaires). Before Roger Corman's Edgar Allan Poe series was relegated to home video and AMC, they were a semi-constant presence on weekend television. Anyone with a favorite "horror-host" or, at least, memories of a regular weekend "creature feature" show was treated to this rotation on a regular basis. Then along came another "entry" in the series. Well, it had to be part of the series, didn't it? It was a Poe film from AIP, and that was Vincent Price's voice introducing it, right? Spirits of the Dead--all right! Thinking we knew what to expect--and occasionally given the usual "cool ghoul" introduction by our host--we kicked back and let the movie rip. And without warning, we were given one of the most unusual, challenging films we had yet been confronted with. It didn't supply anything we expected it to--least of all a Cormanesque "charge." No "thrills" in the mainstream sense, either. We might not have liked it or understood it at the time--and yet I don't think any of us gave up on it either. It was an anthology, after all--if one story didn't work for us, the next one might. And the last one probably tripped us all out. We may not have known it at the time, but we had just been exposed to our first genuine "art film" in the guise of a Saturday night shocker! We had just been given our opportunity to tell anyone who cared that we had seen work from Roger Vadim, Louis Malle, and none other than Federico Fellini! With this "identity" established for "Spirits of the Dead," please understand that no written plot synopsis can convey the intention or effect of this film for anyone who hasn't seen it. But for the sake of providing a framework:1. Vadim's "Metzengerstein" features Jane and Peter Fonda as decadent aristocrats obsessed with sex and death games. Jane's careless disregard for the lives of others results in her being led to her destiny by a ghostly black horse. This entry is widely regarded as being the least of the three, but is by no means skippable. 2. Malle's "William Wilson" features Alain Delon as another callous thrillseeker. However, his haunting is carried out by his exact double, who has plagued him since his school days. The story comes to a head when Wilson takes cruel advantage of Brigitte Bardot in a high-stakes game of cards. This potent, shocking episode was significantly edited for TV--but retained quite a bit of its power even in its cut form. 3. Fellini's "Toby Dammit" gives Terence Stamp the title role in a segment identified on-screen as an adaptation of Poe's "Never Bet the Devil Your Head." This final story concerns a British actor arriving in contemporary France to star in a Western being filmed there (!). The disorienting concept of the film within the film mirrors the star's personal hell. This stranger in a strange land, caring only about the Ferrari he's being given for making the film, attempts to flee the publicity tour in that very car--all the while coming closer to meeting the source of his haunting. This spectre--that of a little girl in a white dress, playfully bouncing a ball, is the most indelible image of the entire film. Unlike the Corman/Price/Poe films, "Spirits of the Dead" vanished from the airwaves and is still unavailable on video in its American release form. Within the last year, the French language version was released on tape by Water Bearer Films (with subtitles, and without Vincent Price's opening/closing readings). It is this tape edition which received a distressingly dismissive review in Fangoria #177. (According to this write-up, only Malle's segment--which is uncut here--is worth a look). In fairness, it must be pointed out that Terence Stamp's performance in the Fellini segment was originally recorded in English--the subtitled version is severely compromised when Toby speaks French like everyone else. The feeling of Toby's being completely and utterly lost worked best in the long-lost TV version! Yet by no means does the Fellini segment deserve such a casual brush-off--the amazing visuals remain in any language. However, those with access to laserdisc and DVD now have an opportunity to see this film with a choice of soundtracks. Tim (Video Watchdog) Lucas supplied the English-language audio (yes, including the Vincent Price readings) for this improved release. For far more detail and insight than I can provide here, I refer the interested reader to Lucas's coverage in VW #33. But in brief, I second the recommendation that the first two stories be listened to in French, while "Toby Dammit" be screened in English (and do your best not to read the subtitles--you're not supposed to understand what everyone's saying). Your reaction to the film will depend (as always) on your personal taste, and I am loath to assign generic "star" ratings to anything. I will, however, claim that this is truly a one-of-a-kind work, and I recommend it to all interested viewers.--Reviewed By Shane M. Dallmann

STEPFORD WIVES,THE (1975) OK, raise your hand if you've ever used "Stepford" as an adjective. Now raise your hand if you've actually seen The Stepford Wives. Thought so. Not to dismiss the legions who have watched the 1975 cult classic, but a lot of us out there have been wielding that reference without having seen it. How do I know this? Because the movie has never been shown in its entirety since its 1975 release, and it has never been released on video until today. I also know this because, until a few days ago, I was one of the phony phrase-wielders. But you know what? It's OK. Because now that I've seen it, I'm here to say that we've all been using it in proper context. It's been used in newspapers to describe everything from Hillary Rodham Clinton's fierce public bouts of domesticity to 1995 gubernatorial candidate Bob Babbage's apparently robotic performance in a debate. It's used in casual conversation to describe offices in which the employees are impossibly chipper and oh-so-pleasant. The movie, which was released 22 years ago this month (December 1997), is partly owned by Bristol-Myers Squibb Co. "They just got out of the film business, and (the film) sat in ownership for so long," said Sue Procko of Anchor Bay Entertainment, which bought the video distribution rights. "Nobody ever thought about it." But Jay Douglas, the vice president of acquisitions at Anchor Bay and a "huge film buff," decided to go after it, Procko said. The movie stars Katharine Ross and Paula Prentiss and features a 7-year-old Mary Stuart Masterson in her film debut. (She plays the daughter of her real-life father, Peter Masterson.) The film was based on Ira Levin's 1972 novel about a woman who senses something's awry in her new hometown, a tiny nation of happy hausfraus where the kitchens sparkle and the men spend their time at secretive meetings. There's no hit-you-over-the-head horror here, folks. As critic Pauline Kael once said of the film, "it's so tastefully tame that there's no suspense." It simplifies complex gender issues and leaves Peter Masterson's husband character woefully undeveloped. Still, as campy '70s fun, it's a must-see. In one scene, a feminist consciousness-raising session starts off normally enough, with a few of the women complaining that their husbands don't love or value them enough. But you know you're in a cult thriller film when ... when the eerie, tinkling music starts in and one of the more, er, established Stepford wives whispers her startling confession: "I didn't bake anything yesterday." Stepford \step´-ferd\ 1: n a fictional, suburban town where the women live to make their men hap-hap-happy. 2: a : adj of, or relating to, a desire to incessantly perform housework with an alarmingly cheery gusto b : possessing the quality of antiseptic perfection (syn SPACED OUT, LIFELESS, VACANT, MECHANICAL, HOMOGENEOUS, CREEPY.) --Reviewed by Heather Svokos, Lexington (Kentucky) Herald-Leader

STRANGLER OF THE SWAMP (1946). Generally regarded as the bottom rung of independent studio production, Producers Releasing Corporation (PRC) occasionally sired such unforgettable offerings as Edgar Ulmer's Bluebeard (1944), Josef von Sternberg's The Shanghai Gesture (1941), and Frank Wisbar's eerie, stylish Strangler Of The Swamp (1946).  A 58-minute programmer, Strangler provided writer/director Wisbar (1899-1967) with the opportunity to recreate Fahrmann Maria ("Ferryboat Pilot Maria," 1934), a romantic fantasy he made in Germany before emigrating to America in 1939.  Unlike more successful refugees such as Robert Siodmak and Fritz Lang, Wisbar returned to filmmaking in Germany after World War II. A nameless, fog-shrouded hamlet is haunted by the wrathful ghost of ferryman Douglas, who was hanged for a murder he didn't commit.  Joseph, who testified against him, has taken over the coveted position as ferryman, only to meet a violent end.  Joseph's granddaughter Maria (Rosemary La Planche) returns to the village and inherits the job (which now even the town fool won't take).  When Maria falls in love with Christian Sanders, Jr. (23 year-old Blake Edwards), son of the village elder who helped railroad Douglas, the spectral Strangler sets his sights on the young Sanders.  As in F. W. Murnau's Nosferatu and Fritz Lang's Der Mude Tod (Destiny, 1921), deliverance from evil can only be found through sacrifice. The use of a dark, otherworldly setting to embody the villagers' guilt and despair bears the imprint of Wisbar's background in German Expressionism.  In Wisbar's hands, the studio-created swamp becomes a lightless, Stygian realm; even the daylight scenes are steeped in the forlorn shades of twilight.  Glass paintings and artful framing of foreground elements create a deep-focus look unique in the PRC canon. Strangler Of The Swamp breaks with Hollywood convention by presenting a resourceful female protagonist who rescues the male lead from peril.  A former Miss America, Rosemarie La Planche radiates confidence and capability as ferrywoman Maria.  (Wisbar used her again in the routine Devil Bat's Daughter.)  Future director Blake Edwards essays a bland, affable characterization in the mode of Cat People's Kent Smith (whom he resembled at the time).  Charles Middleton, who played Ming the Merciless in Universal's Flash Gordon serials, projects a glowering, if excessively corporeal, presence as the Strangler. While reasonably free of scratches, the print on the DVD edition is soft, with some shots severely out of focus.  Sprocket hole wear occasionally causes the picture to jerk, and the soundtrack suffers from motorboating and speed variations.  Unlike many of Image Entertainment's recent cult movie DVDs, Strangler is presented without any supplementary features.  This omission is unfortunate, as little has been written about the film or its director.--Reviewed by Michael Draine

SUSPIRIA (1976). A young American woman (Jessica Harper) arrives at a creepy German dance academy to find that a student she saw fleeing the rainy night of her arrival was brutally murdered. Assured by the school's administrators (Joan Bennett and Alida Valli, both looking butch, preserved, and scary) that everything is OK, Harper soon falls prey to odd dizzy spells, and her roommate (Stefania Casini) begins to feel that those footsteps she hears at night may hold the key to the true mystery of the academy, that it is a cover for a coven of witches. Dario Argento¹s peerless 1976 horror opus is the peak of his filmography (even Argento¹s most ardent admirers, and they are legion, agree on this point) , and arguably the finest horror film of the Seventies. It has a beautiful, stylized look in astoundingly pronounced primary colors ( think of Mario Bava's palette exaggerated a bit), and one of the most memorable soundtracks in any movie, thanks to Goblin (think of Mike Oldfield's "Tubular Bells" with dissonant mandolins, eldritch whispering, and piercing percussion). Argento pulls out all the stops in the film's first few scenes in a bravura bit of bloodletting that has an unsettling ferocity to it that sets the tone of the film, and doesn't let up for its duration. With a fine performance by Harper as an innocent abroad, Suspiria is one of those films where every move is fraught with an atmosphere of impending horror. A simple walk down the school's long, blood -red hallways becomes an exercise in mood. The sets in the film are gorgeous , as is the widescreen composition of the film (a non- letterboxed print is almost not worth seeing), and the shocks genuine. There is a Cocteau-ish disembodied hand that plunges through a window, a hail of squirming maggots, and even a bat attack straight out of a "B" movie. Suspiria is the kind of horror film that makes you realize how Dario Argento has always been a light year or two ahead of his American contemporaries. --Reviewed by Nick Burton

SVENGALI (1931).  The 1931 version of Svengali, based on the 19th century novel Trilby by George du Maurier, ranks as one of the best "borderline" horror films ever made. Combining mystery, Gothic horror, and even German Expressionism (most noticeable in the oddly distorted sets of Anton Grot), the film boasts a memorable performance by John Barrymore, one of the most famous actors of the silent cinema, and a veteran by the time this film was made. Horror fans will remember it was Barrymore who starred in the best silent version of Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde (1920), and his performance in Svengali seems almost like a variation on the Stevenson tale: the title character is, in his "normal" state, a merely eccentric musician, but when he segues into the role of mesmerist, his "Jekyll" turns to "Hyde."   Svengali was far from the first movie based on the "Trilby" novel--there were a number of films during the silent era which drew from the same source. Presumably, its qualities of heavy melodrama, which often threatened to degenerate into unintentional comedy, fascinated audiences weaned on this type of story: witness the quaint sentimentalities of Stella Dallas, Broken Blossoms, and Sparrows. Of course, it's rather pointless to complain about the more maudlin aspects of these films today, because society has changed so radically, and with it the expectations of filmgoers. To be sure, you'll find a certain remnant of this element in Svengali--for example, the opening scenes where a middle-aged diva tries to ingratiate herself with the musician, only to lapse into a tearful anecdote about an abusive spouse. But with patience, a modern viewer can put these things in context, and not get overwrought.  There are other things, of course, which may be problematic for viewers today. First, some bad comedy of the intentional variety, as in the scene where a Scotsman and Englishman are taking a bath, and Svengali begins a piano rendering of "God Save Our Queen." The Englishman, a fulsome patriot, actually jumps to his feet and stands at attention, and Svengali gets a hoot out of it. This might have worked in 1931, but falls very flat today. Finally (to exhaust the liabilities), we have to put up with a tedious love triangle between Trilby (played by Marian Marsh), an apprentice painter, and Svengali, who wants to discredit the painter to have the girl for himself.  Still, even this aspect of the film is rather fun, especially since Marian Marsh is quite cute in an old-fashioned way. And as the film proceeds, the sinister aspect of Svengali (again, like Jekyll and Hyde) gradually overtakes his congenial side, and we are led, almost unwittingly, into the realm of classic horror.  It's probable that anyone who has seen "Svengali" will remember its most famous scene, which, though influenced by Tod Browning's Dracula, is superior to anything in the Browning film, and which subsequently influenced certain sequences in the 1934 version of The Black Cat. It begins with a mid-range shot of Barrymore (the camera slightly off to one side), then a direct frontal shot of him glaring, seemingly, straight at us, though in actuality well beyond us into a vague distance. The camera tracks backward and we see him diminish in size as it draws through a window, then pans further back to an exterior shot of a twisted panoply of roofs and shadows.  It is night--the only sounds are a howling wind and a tolling bell as the camera glides backward. Suddenly, we're confronted with a sleepwalking Trilby as she slowly steps forward in a hypnotic trance, counterpointed with close-up shots of the mesmerist. Finally, we see her enter Svengali's chamber, and the camera comes to rest on his gaunt, looming figure. The entire sequence is a  bizarre masterpiece, and seems in many ways to anticipate some of the finer moments in the films of Val Lewton. It is, in fact, precisely this kind of sequence which makes some of the horror films of the early thirties inimitable. They simply couldn't be done today, not because of technical difficulties, but because the entire style partakes of a certain historical epoch: that strange interval between the end of the silent era and the first tentative steps of talking cinema.   Without disclosing the entire plot, it's worth mentioning that Svengali anticipates a subgenre of films in which a ventriloquist sees his personality slowly dissolve into the figure of a dummy or mannequin. There are many, of course, ranging from The Great Gabbo of Erich Von Stroheim and the final episode of Dead Of Night, to later examples like the 1964 Devil Doll and, of course, Magic. True, Svengali is not about a ventriloquist, but the way in which he gradually assumes mental control over Trilby during the course of the film is quite similar to the psychic transpositions that pervade the ventriloquist films. At one point late in the proceedings, for instance, there's a scene where Svengali has succeeded in "ventriloquizing" Trilby, and she haltingly confesses her "love" for him.  But the hypnotist knows the truth, and he turns away, muttering that "it's only Svengali, talking to himself again."   This film, in short, is a rare find for the horror fan: a "transitional" film from a technical standpoint which combines techniques of the silent and sound eras, and which also forms a bridge that bifurcates, in one direction, toward the Universal horror films of the thirties and, in another, toward the Lewton films in the RKO canon. By all means, see Svengali, if you haven't already, to participate in a unique experience, full of atmosphere and dark, beckoning menace. --Reviewed by Paul Kesler

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