Hey, Lucio!


From whatculture.com


Nowadays, satellite television can beam any subject matter, however graphic, into our living rooms.  Thanks to this, the whole family – mum and dad, grandma and grandpa, the teenagers, the primary school-kids and the pre-school little’uns – can now sit together in front of the TV and enjoy, communally, such splendid sights as the bit in season three of The Walking Dead where Danai Gurira grabs a big jaggy chunk of glass and rams it in extreme close-up into David Morrisey’s eyeball.


Even better, a few minutes later, they can enjoy the sight of David Morrisey, again in extreme close-up, pulling the jaggy glass out of his eyeball.  Hurrah for modern tele-viewing!


This wasn’t always the case.  Audiences didn’t always have easy access to images of extreme eyeball abuse.  Indeed, three decades ago, a scene where a person got a humongous wooden splint stuck in her eye while a mouldering zombie grabbed her by the hair and dragged her through a hole it’d just smashed in her bathroom door was enough to cause outrage amongst the powers who decided what British film-fans could and couldn’t watch.  The scene belonged to the 1979 Italian horror movie Zombie Flesh Eaters, directed by the inimitable Italian filmmaker Lucio Fulci.  And it was the gory content of this and movies like it that led to Britain’s Video Nasties scare of the early 1980s.


By 1983, the Department of Public Prosecutions – cheered on by the likes of public-morality campaigner Mary Whitehouse, various flatulent back-bench Conservative MPs and the right-wing British tabloid press – had drawn up a list of 72 films deemed liable to ‘deprave and corrupt’ and thus were open to prosecution under the Obscene Publications Act.  39 of the 72 were successfully prosecuted.  The remaining 33 weren’t prosecuted or were subject to unsuccessful prosecutions, but at the time you had little chance of seeing them through legitimate means.


Now that the hysteria has long since passed, the majority of these films are available in uncut versions in Britain.  A couple of them – like Don’t Go into the Woods and Contamination – have even suffered the ultimate humiliation: they’ve been awarded wussy ‘15’ certificates.


Among the movies Lucio Fulci directed, two, Zombie Flesh Eaters and 1981’s The House by the Cemetery ended up on the list of 39 prosecuted titles; while a third, 1981’s The Beyond, was on the list of 33 that escaped successful prosecution.  A fourth, 1980’s City of the Living Dead, didn’t make the Nasties list at all, but British police seized videos of it nonetheless.  And a fifth, 1982’s The New York Ripper, wasn’t classified as a Nasty either, but it still got banned from British cinemas.  For this achievement alone, I think Lucio deserves respect.


(c) Variety Film Productions


I have a complicated relationship with Lucio Fulci.  While it’s debateable if I’ve ever watched anything he’s directed that I’d classify as a good film, I have to admit that when I encounter a new Fulci title in a DVD store or see one scheduled for broadcast on the Horror Channel, my pulse speeds up.  I get a prickly, sweaty sense of excitement.  I tell myself, I have to see this.  Although the end result is usually the same.  After the damned thing has finished, I sit back and feel a strange combination of bemusement, queasiness and disappointment, while a voice nags at me: “What the hell was that about?”  Although to be fair to Lucio, there’s usually been at least one sequence in the film that’s made me think: “Wow!”


Lucio Fulci didn’t find fame, or infamy, in the English-speaking world until the late 1970s, but he’d been a staple of Italian cinema for a long time beforehand.  He started as a scriptwriter, first of all working on the 1954 comedy Un Giorna in Pretura.  In 1959, a dozen film-scripts later, he began directing – one of his earliest directorial efforts was Ragazzi del Juke-Box, a musical starring none other than the soon-to-be 1960s pin-up Elke Sommer.  During the 1960s and 1970s, Lucio beavered away making comedies and spaghetti westerns.  He also tried his hand at directing giallo movies, those particularly twisted, kinky, violent and macabre Italian variations on the thriller genre: 1969’s Unna Sull’atra, 1971’s A Woman in a Lizard’s Skin and 1972’s Don’t Torture a Duckling.


Some have noted that his sudden interest in giallo movies – and hence in darker, bloodier material – coincided with the death of his wife, Maria Fulci, who in 1969 committed suicide after discovering she had cancer.  But the director himself never mentioned a connection between this personal tragedy and the darkening tone of his films.


The release of Zombie Flesh Eaters in 1979 saw Lucio plant his flag both in horror-movie territory and in the consciousness of impressionable, sensation-hungry teenagers, as I was then.  The film was a success despite English-speaking critics slamming it as an inferior Italian cash-in on George A. Romeo’s seminal zombie movie from the previous year, Dawn of the Dead. 


Well, Zombie Flesh Eaters is nowhere near as good as Dawn of the Dead, but it has an undeniable something about it.  The story kicks off with a seemingly un-crewed boat drifting towards New York Harbour (while a ravenous zombie lurks in its hold).  Then it shifts to the Caribbean island from which the boat originated, where a full-scale zombie epidemic – possibly scientifically induced, possibly supernatural – is underway.  And at the very end it returns to New York, which has now succumbed to a zombie onslaught too.  The stuff in New York is pretty ropey but the scenes on the Caribbean island, which is depicted as a cursed, pestilent and windswept hellhole, are wonderfully atmospheric.  A particularly hard-to-forget sequence is one where the protagonists stumble into a ‘conquistadors’ cemetery’ while some very old corpses indeed start wriggling their way out of the graves there.


But even that scene is surpassed by an earlier one where a female scuba diver flees from the predations of a large shark and hides behind a coral reef; only to discover that on the other side of the reef there lurks – eek! – a soggy and bedraggled-looking zombie.  The shark and the zombie then proceed to fight, in a slow, balletic, underwater way.  It’s typical of Lucio’s best sequences in that it manages to be simultaneously bizarre, haunting and totally bonkers.


The film is helped by the presence of two British performers, Ian McCulloch and Richard Johnson, who just ignore the absurdities of the situations and dialogue and get on with some proper acting.  I read an interview with McCulloch a while back and he professed himself bemused by Lucio’s filming techniques in New York – which involved the cast and crew turning up at a spot, filming without any licence, and then clearing off as soon as the police appeared.  This might explain the film’s curiously disjointed final image, which shows an army of zombies shuffling along an elevated bridge whilst below the New York rush-hour traffic trundles back and forth as if it’s just a normal evening.


The female lead, played by Tisa Farrow, is bloody awful, though.  Tisa is the younger sister of the more famous Mia Farrow, and I’ve often wondered what the pair of them talked about when they met up during this period.  “Oh hi, Tisa.  I’m busy making A Wedding with Robert Altman and Death on the Nile with Peter Ustinov.  What are you up to?”  “Well, I’m fighting off a horde of flesh-eating zombies in a conquistadors’ cemetery, courtesy of Lucio Fulci.”  Mind you, considering what Mia had to endure with Frank Sinatra and Woody Allen, maybe she thought her kid sister had the better deal.


(c) Dania Film / Medusa Distribuzione / National Cinematografica


Zombie Flesh Eaters is my favourite Lucio Fulci movie because it has a story – one where things move from A to B and then to C.  Unfortunately, for his next horror movies, Lucio decided that there’d be a common theme.  Each would take place in a locality that, unknown to the inhabitants, rests on top of a portal to hell.  And if you’re on top of a portal to hell, the laws of physics, of cause and effect, of A leading to B and then to C, will be suspended.  All sorts of crazy things will happen.  The dead will rise, furniture will levitate, dogs will go mad, eyeballs will bleed, the sky will rain maggots, demonic winds will blow in your windows and satanic spiders will chew your face off.  But there won’t be anything like a logically sequenced plot.  No, sir!


Many film fans have applauded Lucio for doing away with such outdated, bourgeoisie concepts as ‘plots’ in his films, but I have to say I find it a cop-out.  This ‘portal to hell’ stuff was just an excuse for Lucio to make things up as he went along.


First in this series was 1980’s City of the Living Dead, which centres on strange goings-on in a remote American town that, by bad luck, is built on one of those afore-mentioned portals to hell.  The townspeople are soon falling victim to various forms of supernatural mayhem, which are orchestrated by a ghostly priest and a clutch of zombies who apparently have the power to teleport from one place to another.  The film is a shambles – what else can you expect when there’s teleporting zombies in it? – but as usual with Lucio there are scenes that really stick in the memory.  I particularly like one where the protagonists explore some catacombs under the local graveyard, unaware that the cobwebby old cadavers there are stirring into life the moment they pass by.


A sequence that all viewers of City of the Living Dead remember is one where a girl sits paralysed in a car while the ghostly priest leers in at her and, under his malevolent influence, she starts to vomit up her own entrails.  Lovingly captured on Lucio’s camera, those entrails ooze from her mouth in a slow, slimy, stringy mass.  The actress who had the honour of playing this scene was starlet Daniella Doria.  She had to sit before the camera with her mouth crammed full of sheep’s offal, which then she slobbered down her front.  People go on about the pain that Christian Bale inflicts upon himself in his quest for cinematic perfection, starving himself to a skeletal husk for The Machinist (2004) or making his weight balloon to play the slobby hero of American Hustle (2013); but I bet even Bale would draw the line at regurgitating mouthfuls of cold sheep-guts over himself in a Lucio Fulci movie.


Daniella Doria made three subsequent films with Lucio and she died horribly in all of them – via asphyxiation, stabbing and slashing.  “She was one of my favourite actresses,” Lucio reminisced later.  “I killed her so many times.”


(c) Fulvia Films


Many rate the following year’s The Beyond as Lucio’s masterpiece – its champions include Quentin Tarantino – but I have the same problems with it that I have with City of the Living Dead.  There’s no rhyme or reason to it, because the action takes place on top of another of those pesky portals to hell.  Again, though, there are some striking scenes – notably, one where heroine Catriona McColl encounters a spectral female figure standing in the middle of a straight, seemingly endless causeway.  The figure is that of a blind woman, Emily, who turns out to be a ghost.  Later, though, Emily dies when her throat is torn out.  How you can kill a ghost, someone who’s already dead, is never explained.


The Beyond also contains the barmy ‘spiders from hell’ scene, during which a lightning bolt knocks a character off a ladder.  He breaks his back and then lies helpless while giant spiders emerge from the ether around him, converge on him and start munching on his face.  The spiders – real tarantulas – look creepy enough as they approach during the long shots; but for the face-nibbling close-ups they become highly fake-looking bundles of pipe cleaners that Lucio’s special-effects team probably threw together during the mid-morning tea-break.


Another problem is the ending.  It seems that Lucio had intended The Beyond, which takes place in a dilapidated Louisiana hotel, to be a haunted-house movie.  However, his financial backers expected him to make them another money-spinning zombie movie.  I can imagine Lucio’s producer grabbing him one day on the set, after looking at what was already in the can, and waving his arms and ranting in a stereotypical Italian way: “Lucio!  Hey Lucio!  Where-za hell-za zombies?!”  So, although he didn’t want to, poor Lucio had to insert an incongruous climax into the film where McColl and hero David Warbeck have a shoot-out with a sudden and unexpected bunch of, yes, zombies.


(Warbeck was a New Zealand actor whose CV included Sergio Leone’s A Fistful of Dynamite and Hammer’s Twins of Evil, both made in 1971.  He also appeared in Britain’s famous Milk Tray Chocolates advertisements and for a while he was in with a shout of becoming the next James Bond.  Alas, he died from cancer in 1997.)


The final instalment in Lucio’s ‘portals to hell’ series was 1982’s The House by the Cemetery, which has a young family moving into the titular house by the titular cemetery and discovering that they’re sharing it with, down in the basement, something very horrible indeed.  But sadly, the film lacks those moments of demented flamboyance that distinguished its two predecessors.


Meanwhile, between City of the Living Dead and The Beyond, Lucio also tried to do something different – filming a contemporary update of the Edgar Allan Poe story The Black Cat and setting it in England.  Inevitably, the resulting film is very loosely based on Poe’s story.  I’d hoped that the subject matter would reign in the director’s excesses and impose a little discipline on him.  The focus, after all, isn’t on a portal to hell that makes all things possible, but on a cat.  A pretty evil cat, right enough, but at the end of the day just a cat.


Unfortunately, the feline in Lucio’s The Black Cat (1981) is something else.  Somehow, it’s picked up psychic subconscious emanations from its owner, who’s a paranormal investigator obsessed with contacting the dead and who’s played by the distinguished Irish actor Patrick Magee.  Absorbing the hatred Magee feels deep down for the untrustworthy yokels who live around him in a rural English village, the cat starts acting out Magee’s supressed fantasies and starts killing the villagers.  But this cat seems to have picked up some other things too, including super-intelligence and super-strength; for it can hypnotise its victims, sabotage ventilation systems, set furniture on fire, come back from the dead and even, like those silly zombies in City of the Living Dead, teleport.  In fact, this darned cat can do so many things that you wonder why it ever bothers to scratch people.  But it scratches people too.


Once again, there are wonderfully eerie sequences, such as when Magee heads down to the village graveyard after dark and tests out his new contacting-the-dead wireless equipment.  But the film suffers from having everything thrown into it bar the kitchen sink, the same as Lucio’s other films from this period.


(c) Italian International Film / Selenia Cinematografica 


Lucio is remembered for one more ‘major’ horror film, 1982’s serial-killer / slasher epic The New York Ripper, which was controversial to say the least.  Even if Britain hadn’t been so jittery at the time about Video Nasties, the fact that it appeared soon after the real-life Yorkshire Ripper killings in northern England probably meant it was never going to get a British cinematic release.  It also led to Lucio being accused of misogyny.  I haven’t seen The New York Ripper, except for a few clips on YouTube, and it does look pretty gruelling.  The fact that the killer likes to perform Donald Duck impersonations during the murders is something viewers will find either deeply disturbing or deeply stupid; or possibly both.


Thereafter, due to various misfortunes – he fell out with his long-term scriptwriting collaborator Dardano Sacchetti and suffered a series of health problems, such as hepatitis, cirrhosis and diabetes – Lucio’s output tailed off in terms of both prominence and quality.  Although ‘quality’ is a subjective concept when you’re discussing his movies anyway.  He soldiered on into the early 1990s, with his last directorial effort being the poorly received psychological thriller Door to Silence in 1991.


I’ve seen one movie from his later years, a 1987 teen-orientated horror film called Aenigma that was apparently filmed in Yugoslavia.  It’s a weak rip-off of Brian De Palma’s Carrie (1976) and Richard Franklin’s telekinesis thriller Patrick (1978) and is about a schoolgirl who’s on the receiving end of a malicious prank by her classmates.  The prank goes wrong and she ends up comatose on a hospital life-support system.  But, possessing telekinetic powers, she’s able to wreak revenge from her hospital bed on those cruel schoolmate pranksters.  As usual, Lucio is all over the place when depicting the carnage.  People get strangled by their own reflections, get crushed by statues that come to life, get beheaded by falling window-blinds…  It seems the schoolgirl has the power to do everything except revive herself from her own coma.  Incidentally, the death-by-snails sequence in Aenigma has to be seen to be believed.


Lucio Fulci died alone, impoverished and sick in Rome in 1996.  At least he had the satisfaction of attending, two months prior to his death, a convention in New York organised by the American horror-movie magazine Fangoria.  Much to his astonishment, he was mobbed at the convention by thousands of American fans.  He’d had no idea that his name was known beyond the shores of Italy.


Funnily enough, Lucio’s films make me think of Gerry Anderson’s sci-fi-puppet TV show from 1964, Stingray.  Each episode of Stingray would open with a voice intoning, “Anything can happen in the next half-hour!”  That line would make a suitable opening for a typical Lucio Fulci movie too: “Anything can happen in the next hour-and-a-half!”  Especially if the film takes place on top of a portal to hell.


(c) Fulvia Films


British horror movies


The problem I had with British horror films was that just as I really got into them, they stopped making them.


It happened when I was 13 or 14.   British television – which back then consisted of three terrestrial channels, BBC1, BBC2 and ITV – got the broadcasting rights for a horde of horror films made in the late 1960s and early-to-mid-1970s by British studios that specialised in the genre, such as Hammer, Amicus and Tigon.  These were shown on TV late on Friday or Saturday nights and in the space of a couple of years I must have seen close on a hundred of them.  Regardless of whether its offerings were good, bad or indifferent, I became addicted to this particular wing of the British film industry.  And those actors and actresses who regularly worked in it – Donald Pleasance, Michael Gough, Ingrid Pitt, Barbara Shelley, Herbert Lom, Ralph Bates, Michael Ripper and of course, the legendary triumvirate of Christopher Lee, Peter Cushing and Vincent Price – became so familiar to me that eventually they seemed like old friends.


Today, many of these old British films are regarded as classics by fans of the genre – Plague of the Zombies, Scream and Scream Again, Blood on Satan’s Claw, House of Mortal Sin, Frankenstein must be Destroyed, From Beyond the Grave, Deathline, Blood from the Mummy’s Tomb, Twins of Evil, The Creeping Flesh, Frightmare, Theatre of Blood – and even sniffy mainstream film critics would have to concede that a few of them are quality productions by anyone’s standards: The Wicker Man, Witchfinder General, The Innocents, The Devil Rides Out, Don’t Look Now and Hammer’s 1958 version of Dracula (which has just been re-released in a sumptuous three-disc blu-ray version: http://www.cathoderaytube.co.uk/2013/02/british-cult-classics-dracula-3-disc.html).  There are also several that scarcely qualify as good films in any technical or aesthetic sense of the term, but somehow manage to be fascinating through a schlocky joie de vivre (or joie de mourir): Jack Cardiff’s lurid The Mutations, Don Sharpe’s motorcycle-gang-returns-from-the-grave epic Psychomania and Anthony Balch’s spectacularly unsavoury Horror Hospital, which I understand is a favourite of Quentin Tarantino – that doesn’t surprise me, somehow.


From en.wikipedia.org


That said, a lot of them are just so bad they’re bloody awful: Scars of Dracula, The Deadly Bees, Trog, The Blood Beast Terror, Horror of Frankenstein, The Haunted House of Horror, Curse of the Crimson Altar, The Comeback and Holocaust 2000, to name but an ignoble few.


Ironically, while I was discovering them on TV, the British film industry that’d once pumped these horror movies out like machine-gun bullets was in its death-throes.  1981, for example, saw just 24 films of any type made in Britain, which must have been the lowest total since the early days of the silent era.  The Eady Levy, a tax on British cinema box-office receipts that went towards the funding of indigenous films and that helped keep low-budget horror filmmakers in business, was phased out by Margaret Thatcher’s new Conservative government, disdainful of measures that smelt of ‘un-competitiveness’ and ‘subsidies’.  I read a story somewhere claiming that one of Thatcher’s ministers had strolled through London’s Soho district one night and been horrified by the number of British sex films showing in the porn-cinemas there, which had been funded by the levy – and that was the end of it.


Even if you scraped together enough money in the 1980s to make a British film, you wouldn’t attempt to make a horror one, such was the hostility towards the genre in Britain at the time.  The early-1980s ‘video nasties’ hysteria had convinced politicians and tabloid newspapers that movies like The Evil Dead and Zombie Flesh Eaters were capable of turning impressionable young viewers into drooling psychopaths who’d carry out copycat acts of limb-chopping and cannibalism.


Also, Britain’s film-reviewing establishment of that era – which included newspaper critics like the Evening Standard’s Alexander Walker, the BBC’s critic-in-chief Barry Norman, and Leslie Halliwell, whose yearly tome Halliwell’s Filmgoers’ Companion was the most widely-read film guide in the country – were a priggish and snobbish bunch who believed that the British cinema should only consist of worthy historical epics like Chariots of Fire and A Room with a View, with the occasional lefty kitchen-sink drama like Letter to Breshnev thrown in for a bit of subversion.  Anything requiring them to stretch their imaginations beyond their narrow, pre-programmed settings, such as Terry Gilliam’s Brazil or Neil Jordan’s The Company of Wolves, was treated with polite puzzlement and didn’t get proper critical acclaim until years later.  And obviously, they hated horror films.


Barry Norman, incidentally, recently published a list of his 49 greatest British films in the Radio Times (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/film/film-news/9849000/Barry-Normans-list-of-49-best-films.html).  His list included just one British horror film, which was the 1958 Dracula.  I have to admit, though, that this was one horror film more than I’d expect Norman to include.


A couple of British horrors saw the light of day during the Thatcher years, including Clive Barker’s ground-breaking Hellraiser (which was predictably but depressingly slagged off by Barry Norman on his TV review show), Bernard Rose’s neglected Paperhouse, and Tobe Hooper’s gloriously bonkers Lifeforce, which had Matilda May playing a statuesque space vampire who stalks around London and the English Home Counties draining the inhabitants of their life-energy – something she undertakes with an admirable single-mindedness, to the point where she doesn’t even bother to pause and put on some clothes.  But generally, the British horror-movie industry had gone the same way as the British shipbuilding industry, coal industry, steel industry and all the other heavy industries that were deemed obsolete in Mrs T’s brave new economic world.


From ang.wikipedia.org


However, like Dracula at the end of the 1958 Hammer movie – it took Hammer seven years to figure out to bring him back to life, but they finally managed it for 1965’s Dracula Prince of Darkness – the British horror film wasn’t really dead.  It just appeared that way.  I first noticed that the corpse was stirring again in the late 1990s, as horror movies with British settings and themes began to be mentioned with increasing regularity in the film pages of the national press – though they were invariably unheralded and low-budget and the reviews they got consisted of no more than a few lines.  And to be honest, most of them were not very good – Darklands, Proteus, Razor Blade Smile, Wisdom of Crocodiles, Reign of Fire, Deathwatch, Long Time Dead…  But at least somebody in Britain was making them again.


In fact, what was happening was the start of a British horror-movie renaissance, one that has continued to the present.  This new wave of British horror is now the subject of a book, Urban Terrors, written by the film journalist and scriptwriter M.J. Simpson, which examines 114 British horror movies made between 1997 and 2008.  (http://www.starburstmagazine.com/reviews/book-reviews-latest-literary-releases/4253-book-review-urban-terrors-new-british-horror-cinema-1997-2008; http://british-horror-revival.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/urban-terrors-list-of-contents.html).  Simpson limits his survey to just over a decade and makes 2008 the cut-off point because, I suspect, British horror films have now become so plentiful that he didn’t have room to include any more.  Indeed, in the book’s epilogue, it’s claimed that another 114 horror films were made in the UK between 2009 and 2011 alone (which is especially impressive considering that if you counted 114 films backwards from 1997 on a British-horror-movie timeline, you’d arrive at 1972).


In my next blog-entry, I’ll provide a guide to my own favourite British horror films made since 1997 – sixteen of them in all, one for each of the sixteen years since the second British horror-movie boom started.