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The Erotic Rites Of Frankenstein Jess Franco’s
The Erotic Rites Of Frankenstein is immediate, dispensing with the build up, dropping the viewer in at Doctor Frankenstein’s success, just prior to pulling the rug from under us, as it lurches from the source material into the unexpected. There’s a magnetism to the deviation, a malevolence to Cagliostro, and his own construct, Melissa, a meld of human and crow, realised with an erratic performance, unnervingly vocalised, convincing despite the economical costume. We’re in typical euro-horror territory, an experience that hinges on atmosphere, the macabre spectators in Cagliostro’s castle, cloaked in white wearing skeletal masks, silent as the erotic rites play out. It’s completely absurd, a spectacle of nonsense, but arresting in ambiance and captivating in its helter-skelter delivery.
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The Grapes Of Death Jean Rollin’s
The Grapes Of Death feels like a riff on
George Romero’s work, particularly
Night Of The Living Dead and
The Crazies. An experimental fertiliser has infected the local populace of a small rural farming village, their flesh slowly decaying in a mess of gloop and rubber prosthetics.
Rollin is adept at conveying isolation, the deserted train is steeped with a foreboding atmosphere, and the protagonist fleeing across the bridge in the fog is a haunting visual, the desolate landscape eerie. There’s a succession of demoralising encounters, the remnants of the village as disturbing as the barren countryside. The eventual fate of the blind girl, whose eyes are as white as her dress, is a shocking image, despite inadequate effects. The denouement leaves a deranged residue, psychological scars that burrow as deep as the fertiliser penetrates.
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The City Of The Dead
Whitewood has an ominous ring to it, despite connotations of light and purity with the colour, there’s a sinister feeling to the name. The floor is permanently ensconced in mist. There’s a hellfire and brimstone scenery chewing opening that lays the foundations for a delightfully campy but effective and engaging chiller. A student researching witchcraft takes up residence at the Raven Inn in Whitewood, at the suggestion of her lecturer. An inn ran by Mrs. Newless, which remarkably sounded out backwards bears an uncanny resemblance to the name of a witch that was burned at the stake centuries earlier. There’s a suggestive dread, the viewer possessing more pieces of the puzzle than the characters, an anticipation of a nefarious fate. There’s a power to
The City Of The Dead that most films struggle to conjure, terror as a mute housekeeper is unable to scream, a righteous fiery retribution as one character lurches upon the coven with a towering tombstone shaped like a cross.
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Apostle Gareth Evans’
Apostle spends over half its running time laying foundations, defining the period, the rule of the land and the spiritual beliefs of the people, or those forced upon them by the monarchy. It’s a luxury that probably wouldn’t have been afforded to it if this were from a major studio set for a widespread theatrical release. It’s this laboured build up that allows Apostle’s roots to plant, nurture, the revelations to fester, and become all the more compelling. There’s a harshness to the landscape, the desperation of the inhabitants wrenching as their way of life spirals into an inevitable chaos. The god they worship, a victim to the opportunistic prophets as they attempt to mete out a communal life at its expense. It’s visceral and breathtaking as it heads into a finale that sows a grim seed of despair.
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Witchhammer
The horrors of
Otakar Vavra’s
Witchhammer are human, a vile inquisitor preying upon the superstitious and the uneducated. The inquisitor expends more time researching the finances of the town than those he persecutes for crimes of witchcraft, deviously leading the direction of the investigation by implicating those with means, as greed motivates his sinister machinations.
Witchhammer feels authentic in its depiction of the subject matter, there’s a reference to the watching and we see them scour the bodies of those on trial for the mark of the devil. They systematically deprive these women of their pride and decency and eventually their sanity, clipping their hair, invading their privacy and torturing them into delirious false confessions. The scenes where we see those convicted burnt at the stake are harrowing, but breathtaking in the magnificence of the imagery.
I managed to watch everything I intended to, I'm just a little slow at both reviewing and posting them. Around 8 more to do.
I'm very happy with my selection, and had a great October. I also managed to fit some books into October, The Witchfinder's Sister and The Loney, and thoroughly enjoyed both. Started compiling next year's list already...
