high gloss trash, and a second ten

     Myra Breckinridge. Beverly Hills, California: Twentieth Century-Fox Home Entertainment, [2018]. DVD. Screenplay by Michael Sarne and David Giler; produced by Robert Fryer; director of photography, Richard Moore; film editor, Danford B. Greene; music, Lionel Newman. Directed by Michael Sarne; produced and released by Twentieth Century-Fox Film Corp. Originally produced as a motion picture in 1970. Based on the novel by Gore Vidal.
    Summary: after going to Europe to have a sex change operation, Myron Breckinridge is transformed into Myra, who claims to be Myron's widow. Performers: Raquel Welch, Mae West, John Huston, Rex Reed, Farrah Fawcett, Roger Herren, Calvin Lockhart, Jim Backus, John Carradine, William Hopper.

    I’m usually all in for bad movie classics, just out of pure curiosity. Besides, guilty pleasures or no, bad movies can be immensely entertaining. Moreover, they (usually inadvertently) provide a window into social and and cultural attitudes of the day. Anyhow it was a little out of character that I waited so long to catch Myra Breckinridge. But since there’s a DVD copy at my local library I decided, what the heck, I’ll give it a whirl and see what happens. I was happily surprised. Contrary to its reputation as one of the worst movies of all time, Myra Breckinridge is actually pretty good, in a Valley of the Dolls sort of way [1]. Say what you will about Myra Breckinridge, it’s seldom dull, and from a purely technical standpoint, rather skillfully put together. Approached in a certain frame of mind, MB can be great fun. And maybe there’s a certain ironic justice at work in that, for all its supposedly chaotic production disasters and the subsequent critical savaging it received, the creators of Myra may well have gotten in the last word after all. Today it’s considered a bona fide cult classic and has a devoted, if small, following, and as a result its reputation steadily increases with the passage of time.

    The film’s legendary haphazard production history actually gives us some, perhaps unintended, aesthetic benefits as the bumpy narrative plays with our expectations, then frustrates them. To wit, as Myra in most leisurely fashion gives our stud Rusty his physical exam, we suspect it will culminate in a more or less conventional sexual encounter, and thus her wild ride-the-bronc scene is all the more effective because it’s so unexpected (and, it must be admitted, shockingly over-the-top in its bad taste). Another element of unexpectedness is that the scene also reverses (is that the word?) the usual woman-on-top configuration. Other felicitous results are the Golden Age film clips interspersed, albeit somewhat jarringly, throughout. There’s also the Myra/Mary Ann quasi-lesbian encounter, which teases us with affectionate moments, but never goes all the way to the Sapphic heart of the matter (it seems that Mary Ann was just too reluctant, probably because she was straight). For all that the scene is sensitively and beautifully done, it’s a pale shadow of the Cynthia Myers/Erica Gavin steamy encounters in Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, which are far superior in their titillating depiction and resultant emotional impact.

"OK, boys. Get your resumes out"

   Which brings us to the movie I always associate with MB, and that’s the aforementioned Beyond the Valley of the Dolls [2], henceforth simply referred to as Dolls. Both were released in the same year, by the same studio. Both employ the same garish color palette, and both go gangbusters in satirizing the film industry, California counterculture, gender roles, superficiality of American materialism, and anything else they could think of. And both reap the benefits of, shall we say, hindsight. Yes, time has been kind to Myra and Dolls, especially Dolls. Even with its greater nudity and more overt sexual situations, Dolls has a warmth, optimism and innocence not present in MB, which has a harsher, more cynical tone. Moreover, Dolls is straight up the far more polished product, in a word, just a better film, even if it lacks Mae West [3].

    Speaking of Mae West, I’ve never been much of a fan. To me there was always a one-note quality to her saucy persona. But here, as the man-eating agent Leticia Van Allen, she’s just right. She seems to be having a great time essaying what’s basically a parody of herself. What’s more she just looks great: actually I think she’s sexier in MB than in her glory days in the early Thirties.

    One unexpected pleasure was a cameo by the usually virtuous William Hopper of Perry Mason fame. In MB he’s cast against type as a far right (and eminently hypocritical, corrupted and corruptible) judge. Quite the send-up of the ultra-conservative political views of his mother, the infamous gossip columnist Hedda Hopper. Whatever the context, the joy of seeing Hopper is tinged with a certain sadness as he died in 1970 at the age of fifty-four, just a few months before MB’s release. It was his last film and as such a somewhat inglorious end to a solid if under-appreciated career.

    The real revelation of Myra Breckinridge is Raquel Welch. In the title role she delivers the performance of a career, and we get a glimpse of just how good an actress she was. It serves as a bittersweet reminder of the career that might have been had she been taken seriously as an actress and not always typecast as a sex bomb [4].

    As for my somewhat superfluous ‘best movies of all time’ second ten, what can be said? I seem to be on a best/most kick these days, and I thought another list wouldn’t hurt. It might have been out of a sense of frustration that, in compiling my original top ten, indeed I had to limit the list to ten titles. Ergo a second ten. Actually numbers eleven to twenty might be a more accurate description. Readers will note that I’ve fudged a bit and included ties this time around. So be it. Anyhow drumroll please, here they are, more or less in chronological order:

tie: Metropolis, M
Olympia
The Seventh Victim
Les Enfants du Paradis
Meshes of the Afternoon
The Red Shoes
tie: The Seventh Seal, L’Avventura
The Naked Kiss
tie: Death in Venice, Portrait of a Lady on Fire
Blade Runner


[1] The original Valley of the Dolls, that is, not the ‘Beyond’ version. More on that film in the post above. By the way both Valley of the Dolls and Beyond the Valley are discussed elsewhere in these pages.
[2] Indeed it seems I’m not alone in conflating the two camp/trash classics, as over the years it’s not been uncommon for theaters to screen Myra Breckinridge and Beyond the Valley of the Dolls as a double feature.
 [3] Part of the explanation may be that Dolls was helmed by Russ Meyer, who was probably just a better director than Michael Sarne. Another possibility is that Meyer may have been given a freer hand by the studio.
[4] In a case of MB paralleling Dolls again, Hollywood also missed the boat on Cynthia Myers, not as good an actress as Raquel Welch by a long shot but her equal in sex appeal and screen charisma. Another instance of a career that might have been.

Rita resplendent : Salome (1953)

Salome. Columbia Pictures Corporation; screen play by Harry Kleiner; produced by Buddy Adler; directed by William Dieterle. 103 minutes. Directed by William Dieterle. Performers: Rita Hayworth, Stewart Granger, Charles Laughton, Judith Anderson, Sir Cedric Hardwicke, Basil Sydney, Alan Badel. Summary: the tale of Salome, the beautiful princess, daughter of Queen Herodias and step-daughter of King Herod, set during the perilous decadent days of early Rome and the events that led to the death of John the Baptist.

style ***

substance ***

In the pantheon of late Forties and early Fifties Biblical/Roman epics, Salome is usually thought of as decidedly second-tier, if it’s mentioned at all. Certainly it has more than its share of historical inaccuracies and camp elements. Moreover, the heavy-handed script, awash in somber piety, is pretty cringeworthy even by the standards of historical epics.

And yet …  even with the lapses in taste and history, Salome has aged pretty well, mostly due to the many delicious performances, over-the-top costumes (by Jean Louis), and gaudy sets which are captured in glorious technicolor.

It’s no revelation to point out that Rita Hayworth was at least ten years too old for the title role, but her footwork is as nimble as ever as she performs the most notorious exotic dance in history. True, her interpretation is somewhat tame by today’s standards, but a delight nonetheless. When Rita slinks around with such panache, who cares? Anyway in an era when so much more was suggested than depicted it’s actually a little refreshing to view today through our more jaundiced, seen-and-heard-it-all eyes.

The cast is mostly excellent. Judith Anderson exudes delicious evil in a one-note performance as Herodias and she too benefits from some splendiferous costumes. In a relatively understated turn as King Herod, Charles Laughton is effective because he underplays rather than overplays the role, thus suggesting a repressed, lecherous debauchery that’s just about to boil over.

There are a couple of exceptions to the generally primo performances. Alan Badel simply doesn’t have the dramatic heft to project John the Baptist, and as a result his interpretation mostly descends into righteous camp. Ditto for Stewart Granger as an earnest Roman centurion who becomes sympathetic to the Christian cause. He looks great but his lines and delivery are leaden.

This version of the Salome story doesn’t supplant the Oscar Wilde play and subsequent Richard Strauss opera, or even the classic Nazimova silent film version, as the grand champion, not by a long shot. Still, it’s a fun, entertaining movie, a polished studio product typical of its era and with the attendant virtues and excesses for this type of material. On balance, then, Salome is well worth a second look and especially noteworthy as a vehicle for a charismatic Rita at her alluring best. Also commendable are the widescreen technicolor look and some delectable scenery chewing from Charles Laughton and Judith Anderson. Another plus: we get a terrific epic score, not too bombastic, by George Duning.

the skull that wouldn't die: The Screaming Skull (1958)

   Cult classics. Collection 2. Del Mar, CA: Genius Entertainment, c2003. 2 DVDs, ca. 318 min. [AMC Monsterfest Collection]. Contents: Dementia 13; Frozen Alive; The Screaming Skull; Jessie James Meets Frankenstein's Daughter.
   Performers (Screaming Skull): John Hudson, Peggy Webber, Russ Conway, Tony Johnson, Alex Nicol. The Screaming Skull was released by: American International Pictures, Madera Productions, USA, 1958. Summary: A newly married couple arrives at the home of the husband's late wife, where the gardens have been maintained by a gardener faithful to the dead woman's memory. Strange goings on start to happen, which lead the new wife to think she's going mad.
 

As to the merits of this public domain ‘monsterfest’ collection, volume 2, with no disrespect to Francis Coppola on his debut directorial effort (Dementia 13)* or Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter (a favorite of mine, reviewed elsewhere in these pages), the true pick of the lot is The Screaming Skull. By the way, Frozen Alive, more a domestic melodrama/murder mystery than sci-fi, comes in a distant fourth.  
     * Not to be confused with John Parker's 1955 cult classic Dementia (aka Daughter of Horror).

   Skull is a curious amalgamation of William Castle-like showmanship (the opening scene pretty much clinches it here) and the old dark house formula, with a touch of Rebecca and a fairly heavy pinch of the Val Lewton horror films, especially in the middle third when the heroine goes meandering though the house peering into places she has no business, well, peering into, recalling the famed Val Lewton walks [1]. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

   Skull also somehow manages to suggest The Brain That Wouldn’t Die in that it has a creepy, unsympathetic husband, damaged wife [2], rural setting, B production values, and a leering, near soft-core porn quality, at least by the standards of the era (more on this below). To its credit Skull omits Brain’s luridly smoky saxophone music that accompanies the mad doctor as he cruises for babes. 

can a skull scream?

   Inasmuch as Skull takes its share of critical beatings online and elsewhere, and admittedly while the technical aspects of present print are so-so at best, for this viewer the film is an easy watch and holds up pretty well to repeated viewings. It has several especially effective sequences and the acting is generally competent if nothing spectacular. Ernest Gold’s score is creepy and intense. Also kudos to cameraman Floyd Crosby for the noirish visuals with well placed shadows. Best of all is leading lady Peggy Webber, who plays the nervous wife Jenni. She’s one of the best heroines-in-peril in the business and has a quality that makes her as likeable as hubby is instantly dislikeable.

   Moreover, Skull has an oppressive atmosphere of diseased eroticism that seeps into all the nefarious goings on: case in point, the developmentally disabled gardener, who’s a little too attached to the deceased lady of the house, to the point of necrophilic. The gardener character incidentally is played by Skull’s director Alex Nicol. Thus, and by way of getting back to our, very much alive, leading lady, as the story progresses we get some unexpected quasi-cheesecake moments: in one, there’s an impromptu if fairly bland undressing scene as the heroine gets ready for bed. Far more alluring are the extended sequences of her slinking though the large house in the middle of the night clad only in billowing negligees [3]. Interestingly when Jenni appears during the daytime she’s still attractive but dressed rather frumpy, which I suppose is consistent with the character, who is on the timid and retiring side.

   Certainly not a masterpiece, not even a minor one, and not especially different from or superior to other low budget products of its era, The Screaming Skull is nonetheless an enjoyable, scary movie that fills its 68 minutes with enough intelligence and thrills to keep the viewer’s attention [4], at least this viewer’s. However … and for all its good qualities, Skull comes by its reputation as a guilty pleasure honestly, and is best viewed on a dark and stormy night with a fireplace crackling nearby.

Trivia: this was Tony Johnson’s first film (she only made two altogether). A pity. She has a nice screen presence and quiet charisma that lights up the, alas underwritten, role of Mrs. Snow.

[1] Especially praiseworthy in the Lewton context is the highly effective use of sounds – rattling windows, scratching tree branches, screeching peacocks – all of which suggest unseen menace.

[2] In the case of Jan (Virginia Leith) in The Brain That Wouldn’t Die, there’s damaged and then there’s damaged! By the way, Brain, like Skull, is available in public domain. Note: okay, the guy in Brain, Dr. Cortner (Jason Evers), isn't technically her husband, but they are engaged to be married and he acts in a very husband-like way (at least in his own mind), his lecherous search for babes and the perfect body notwithstanding.

[3] Though tame by today's standards, the strip scene and Jenni’s creeping around the house clad in see-through nightgowns were pretty advanced for 1958. Indeed, and R-rated optical illusions or no, in some scenes the back-lit see-through effects get perilously close to the full monty. 

[4] Recently I had the good fortune to catch Screaming Skull on the Horror Hotel television program, a very fine print at that, far superior to my grainy, scratchy, DVD version. It all gave an added gravitas to the story, but more so revealed just how visually striking the film is, especially the beautifully lit scenes at night. 

Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter (1966)

   Jesse James meets Frankenstein's daughter. Scarborough, ME: Elite Entertainment, 2003. Circle Productions Inc. presents; produced by Carroll Case; written by Carl Hittleman; directed by William Beaudine. 1DVD (85 min.). Originally produced as a motion picture in 1966. Special features include commentary by Joe Bob Briggs and trailer. Cast: John Lupton, Narda Onyx, Cal Bolder, Estelita, Jim Davis, Rayford Barnes, William Fawcett, Nestor Paiva.
   Summary: Jesse James and his sidekick Hank are on the run after a botched stagecoach robbery. Hank is seriously injured in the shootout. Both Jesse and Hank are taken in by a mysterious doctor with a thick Euro accent. It turns out the lady is Baron Frankenstein’s granddaughter Maria, who is conducting shady experiments at her makeshift castle, transformed from a former mission. (Note: JJMFD is not to be confused with the 1958 trash classic Frankenstein's Daughter, starring Sandra Knight and Donald Murphy, and directed by Richard Cunha. )


   Roundly savaged by critics and cinema buffs alike, Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter is the proverbial guilty pleasure. Even so, some of us don’t think it’s nearly as bad as its reputation, as is evidenced by its continuing status as a cult classic [1]. For better or worse, better I think, JJMFD has an old school vibe to it, more akin to Fifties and even Forties westerns, and as a result very much out of touch with Sixties trends and sensibilities. In any case JJMFD was produced as half of a double feature with the similarly absurdly titled – with an equally absurd concept – Billy the Kid vs. Dracula, both directed by veteran B movie auteur William Beaudine. Opinions vary as to which is the superior effort: the consensus favors vs. Dracula though, as I often do, here I go against the grain and prefer JJMFD because it’s more over-the-top and just plain more fun. Why is it more fun? The answer in two words: Narda Onyx. But I get ahead of myself.

"I still have you, Igor."

   To begin, let’s clear up a frequent criticism of Daughter. The film is often maligned for having an incorrect title. Well, yes and no. Technically the title is correct, if a little misleading: our, um, heroine, Maria Frankenstein, is indeed Frankenstein’s daughter, but her father is the son of the great doctor (Henry Frankenstein in the Karloff movies and Victor Frankenstein in the novel). Thus yes, to be sure Maria is the grand-daughter of Dr. Frankenstein. By the way Maria identifies more with said grandfather and thus wants to continue his nefarious experiments in the more lightning-friendly American Southwest [2]. She considered her own father too much of a wuss in his reluctance to continue the Baron’s tradition of infamy.
   Trivia: in JJMFD Maria refers to Dr. Frankenstein as The Count. Actually he was always The Baron. It’s a surprising mistake: maybe the writers got their movie villains mixed up. Wasn’t there a count in another series of horror films, a Transylvanian fellow, or something?

it's alive!

  Speaking of the devil in the details, geographically Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter is a bit on the obscure side. The exact location is never spelled out, though in the dialogue the American Southwest gets a mention. Commentators have varyingly listed Mexico, Arizona, (New) Mexico or a generic Southwest or Western U.S., presumably near the border. The name of Juanita’s small town is never revealed, though ‘Prescott’ is mentioned once, more or less in passing, but the real town of Prescott, Arizona, seems too far away from the border to be a viable candidate. Along the way a place called ‘Shelby’ assumes some importance. There actually is a Shelby, Texas, but located as it is in the southeast central part of the state again the geography doesn’t work. Bisbee (Az.) is mentioned once, in passing, and actually fits geographically, located as it is only a few miles from the Mexican border. However – since so many locations are casually tossed about in the story, it’s difficult to pin down one place definitively as the setting for JJMFD.

   For all its imperfections Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter isn’t really a bad movie. Belying its reputation as a Poverty Row-like production, it has some pretty impressive talent in front of and behind the camera, and it shows in the final product. Whatever the reason, the western scenes seem a little more secure and polished, perhaps due to director Beaudine's experience in the genre. Nonetheless, the more rough-around-the-edges episodes at the mad scientist lab are far more entertaining, mostly due to Maria Frankenstein's unabashed histrionics, further discussed below. JJMFD is perhaps most admirable for getting the most out of a shoestring budget and short shooting schedule (reportedly seven days). There’s fine work from a competent, if mostly uninspired, cast. The sets and period detail, especially the furniture and mission architecture, are actually pretty good, and the Wild West atmosphere is nicely conveyed. Finally, the film’s color look is up to the standards of the era though nothing spectacular.

“you should have stayed in Europe and given pink pills to sweet old ladies”

   But best of all is Narda Onyx in the performance of a career. She inhabits the role of Maria with a fierce intensity lost on the other performers, the one possible exception being Estelita as the virtuous Juanita. And for all her scenery chewing Miss Onyx plays it deadpan straight without a touch of irony or self-conscious camp. In Miss Onyx’s marvelous portrayal Maria Frankenstein seems to be channeling her inner dominatrix, especially when she’s giving orders to her hapless brother Rudolph, always with a hint of the threat of physical violence for non-compliance. Naturally he cowers in her presence and obeys her every command (even while he secretly sabotages her ghastly experiments).
   Furthermore, the character of Maria enters that exclusive pantheon of female mad scientists, as well as the even more restrictive subgroup of the amorous female mad scientist (she has an immediate attraction to Jesse) [3].

   Speaking of things amorous, in addition to her gloriously over-the-top performance, Miss Onyx is very sexy in the role, this despite the bulky dresses and lab smocks she wears [4] (her echt-Central European accent compensates). She’s just as alluring as Jesse’s love interest Juanita (Estelita), who’s no slouch in the looks department and a lot nicer human being, though truth be told, Estelita has much the same fiery attitude as that of Maria. Why is it that evil women characters (e.g. the Bond villainesses) are always the most sexy? Ergo Maria is at her evil seductress best, accent-wise, when she goes into full on Mrs. Dracula mode in those scenes when she’s doing her most dastardly deeds.

   A perusal of IMDB reveals Narda Onyx’s credits as almost totally in television, not film [5]. Certainly I’ve not seen all her TV appearances, not even a minimum of them, but if what I have seen is any indication she was probably typecast as mysterious exotics or sinister villains. In view of her incredible theatricality and screen charisma in JJMFD we can only sigh and ponder the waste of a career, or can we? Had she not left the movies after JJMFD what would have become of her acting endeavors? Maybe her talents could have been harnessed and better served in more worthy vehicles. Or would she have been relegated to similar B material?

   In any event the last quarter century of Miss Onyx’s life is a blank, at least with regard to any mention in the public record. Searches online and elsewhere yield nothing except that her death took place in 1991 in Ventura, Ca., at age 59. Did she simply retire to private life after JJMFD? Was the film such an embarrassment she wanted to wash her hands of the movie business altogether? Whatever the explanation, and whether or not she considered the character of Maria Frankenstein beneath her dignity, Miss Onyx seems to be having a rousing good time playing the role.

   Trivia: JJMFD was the swansong for several of the principals associated with the film. As mentioned above it was Narda Onyx’s last film before she disappeared from public life. Similarly, it was the last movie William Beaudine directed. JJMFD was the last film for Cal Bolder though he appeared in a few television series later. JJMFD was Steven Geray’s penultimate film (he had a bit part in something called The Swinger later that year). And finally Estelita Rodriguez died under mysterious circumstances only a few months after the filming of JJMFD [6].
     On the other hand, veterans Jim Davis and John Lupton went on to lengthy careers. Davis by the way appeared (also as a lawman) in the cult classic Dracula vs. Frankenstein, which if anything has a lower reputation than Jesse James Meets Franknstein’s Daughter.

   Still, time has been kind to Jesse James Meets Frankenstein's Daughter: there's not a lot that's new in the film, but not a lot that's wrong either. Approached in a certain frame of mind, JJMFD can be immensely entertaining, and not just in a bad movie sort of way. However ... we can only guess what the result would have been had JJMFD been given the A-picture treatment by a more or less reputable company like Hammer. Much of the atmosphere and charm would likely have been lost. In addition, the  necessary American flavor might well have been compromised had such a quintessentially British operation been at the controls. 

 [1] Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter rates a pitiful 3.2 stars out of 10 on IMDB. On the other hand, it gets a somewhat inexplicable 4.5 stars (out of 5) on Amazon. Go figure.

[2] Just what are Maria’s motives in continuing with the experiments? Well, as mentioned above, the devil is in the details. Translation: it’s all a little vague. One take is that she simply wants to perpetuate the, uh, glory of the Frankenstein tradition. Another possibility is that she wants to create a race of Übermenschen, the ultimate goal being – you guessed it – to take over the world.
    Indeed, with her dominatrix tendencies, take-no-prisoners attitude, and the hint of sexual perversion, all coupled with her thick Central European accent, Maria Frankenstein both looks back to the lethally exotic versions of the Forties femmes fatales, and even more so, anticipates the most extreme manifestations that would appear a decade or so later in the notorious Nazisploitation movies, most notably Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS.

    As for Maria's plans for Hank/Igor, in addition to being her bodyguard and all around strong man, there's the suggestion that he will become her sex slave as well. However, the message is so subtle that it can be read either way, or not at all. And besides, we get the impression that it's not the promise of sex that's the biggest turn-on for Maria, but rather her pushing-the-boundaries experiments and the resultant power their successful completion will give her.

[3] In referring to women, the term ‘amorous’ always seemed to me more decorous than ‘horny’. Speaking of amorous, mention must also be made of the 1971 potboiler Lady Frankenstein, in which we have a highly sexualized Tanya Frankenstein (Rosalba Neri), who just happens to be Dr. Frankenstein's daughter. Like Maria Frankenstein in JJMFD, Tanya wants to continue her father's pushing-the-boundaries experiments. By the way Dr. Frankenstein is portrayed, improbably, by Joseph Cotten, who actually does a pretty good job in what was obviously not the high point of his career. Indeed, few actors are as quintessentially American in demeanor, looks and accent as Joseph Cotten, so he seems an eccentric choice to play the echt-Central European Victor Frankenstein. However, he makes an earnest attempt at the role and for the most part succeeds. 
     Other memorable, not necessarily amorous, women mad scientists include Rafaela Ottiano in Devil Doll (1936) and Katherine Victor in Teenage Zombies (1959). Victor also appeared in the cult favorite Frankenstein Island (1981), essaying yet another Dr. Frankenstein descendant, this time the doctor's great-granddaughter. Then there's the lesbian mad scientist (Louise Lewis) in Blood of Dracula (1957).
    Aside: the great Michael Gough is hors concours for the mantle of the lecherous male mad scientist. In Konga (1961), he has the hots for his favorite student Sandra (Claire Gordon), much to the displeasure of his girlfriend assistant and wife wannabe Margaret (Margo Johns). In fact, Gough's monomaniacal Dr. Decker has much in common with Narda Onyx's over-the-top take as Maria Frankenstein, both the character and the performance. Also worthy of a mention is Dr. Cortner (Jason Evers) of The Brain That Wouldn't Die. His ostensibly 'clinical' search for the perfect female body barely conceals a smoldering lecherousness on his part.
    Perennial mad scientist George Zucco rates honorable mention in the lecherous department for lusting after leading ladies Peggy Moran in The Mummy's Hand and Evelyn Ankers in The Mad Ghoul. You've got to give Mr. Zucco credit for his good taste! Also worthy of a shout-out is the poverty row cheapie The Monster Maker, in which an incredibly oily mad doctor J. Carrol Nash has an obsessive infatuation for beautiful socialite Wanda McKay. And though the sinister ventriloquist Vorelli (Bryant Haliday) in Devil Doll (1964) isn't a mad scientist (he's pretty close), he has a decidedly randy side. 

    Ultimately 'Dr. Frank' (Donald Murphy) gets the prize for the most loathsome lecherous mad scientist for his predatory advances in Frankenstein's Daughter (1958), in which he hits on two different women. Not content to make an unsuccessful play for his colleague's niece, he later attempts a thuggish seduction of her best friend.  

    
[4] The one exception is when she dons traditional Spanish señorita attire and affects a femme fatale persona in a failed attempt to bring Jesse into her sphere of evil by using her female wiles. Predictably she is not thrilled when Jesse rejects her and all her haughty pedigree in favor of the Mexican peasant girl. In her woman scorned fury Maria concocts a devious plan to exact a terrible revenge upon Jesse.

[5] Her very thin film résumé includes another infamous role, Greta Braun in Hitler (1962). She also managed to write a book around the same time, the subject matter being of all things a biography of Johnny Weismuller, titled Water, World and Weismuller: a Biography, VION, 1964.

[6] Estelita Rodriguez was reportedly working on a cinematic portrait of Lupe Velez when she died. In the film she was to appear as the famed Mexican film star of the Forties.

Further reading: Johnny D. Boggs, Jesse James and the Movies, McFarland, 2011, pp. 187-89; Senn Bryan, "Twice the Thrills! Twice the Chills!": Horror and Science Fiction Double Features, 1955-1974, McFarland, 2019, pp. 267-68; James R. Durham and Howard W. Marshall, "Review of 'Jesse James Meets Frankenstein's Daughter' by Circle Productions." Folklore Forum 4(5):130-132 (1971); Lissette Lopez Szwydkys, and Michelle L. Pribbernowy, “Women Scientists in Frankenstein Films, 1945-2015,” Science Fiction Film & Television, v11 n2: 303-339.

Valley of the Dolls (1967)

    Valley of the Dolls, a Mark Robson-David Weisbart production; screenplay by Helen Deutsch, Dorothy Kingsley; produced by David Weisbart; directed by Mark Robson; produced by Red Lion Productions Inc. and released by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. Based on the novel by Jacqueline Susann. Originally released as a motion picture in 1967. Theme song sung by Dionne Warwick.
    Performers: Barbara Parkins, Patty Duke, Paul Burke, Sharon Tate, Tony Scotti, Martin Milner, Charles Drake, Lee Grant, Susan Hayward. Summary: Three girls come to New York City and later, Hollywood, to chase their dreams of stardom. The girls go for broke, but fall prey to show business, sex and drugs, in this trashy, campy exposé of the dark side of stardom [1].

style ****
substance ***1/2

High gloss trash can be beautiful

    Usually described as a camp classic or cult classic, Valley of the Dolls is indeed an immensely entertaining kitsch masterpiece. Its undeniably high gloss production values can’t quite make up for the many defects, so from a purely aesthetic standpoint, Dolls must be considered a failure. But what a failure – a glorious, cliché-ridden synthesis of Peyton Place, The Oscar, A Star is Born and All About Eve, to cite some of the obvious, in some cases, far superior, precursors. But, and rather improbably, Dolls also has a serious side, being as it is a cautionary tale about the dangers of drug abuse and alcohol addiction, and of the corrosive effects of success-at-any-price in the take-no-prisoners show business gestalt [2].

    The bumpy cocktail of Swinging Sixties – complete with then-racy language, ‘steamy’ near-nude scenes, and quasi surrealist/psychedelic interludes – mixed with the genteel Fifties style melodrama, may seem old hat today, but, accurate or no, Dolls was a shocking portrayal a half century ago of the relentless and pitiless pressures the entertainment industry inflicts upon its biggest stars, and the resultant cost it exacts.

    While it's true there's no emotional center of gravity to the film, there are plenty of juicy individual scenes, the juiciest of all being the infamous Susan Hayward wig catfight with rival Neely O’Hara (Patty Duke). As if to emphasize, or more likely, to tone down, all the spicy content, the film is just plain beautiful to look at. Few melodramas have been so lovingly presented: director Mark Robson is in top form in his control over the sumptuous visuals.

    The cast is mostly excellent: Paul Burke and Tony Scotti ooze an oily charm, Sharon Tate and Barbara Parkins are fine, and Susan Hayward best of all as the aging diva with a touch of wisdom. Even Jacqueline Susann herself gets a fleeting cameo as a tenacious reporter. Only Patty Duke falls short as the hard-bitten, pill popping mega star Neely O’Hara. Actually I wish Miss Hayward had been given lots more screen time and Patty Duke much less. But alas, such was not to be. I’d also give a miscast honorable mention to 1950s golden boy Martin Milner, here as Neely's cranky agent and sometime boyfriend and husband. Milner’s pouty, grumpy take on the role never really works, and happily he disappears from the picture about half way through.

    But lest we sing Dolls’ praises too much, back to the heart of the matter: the true joy of this type of camp classic is that it takes itself totally seriously, and the actors play it deadpan straight. In other words, it doesn’t start out with the intention of being a comedy. Rather, like fine wine, the bizarre, absurd and comic elements reveal themselves and are appreciated over time. To wit: Patty Duke’s over-the-top acting is part of the (unintended) camp appeal we revel in, or cringe at, today. Another distraction is the lip-synching to the songs: Patty Duke and Susan Hayward never quite get the gestures right to match the ebb and flow of the music. I always prefer actors to sing their own material, an all too rare practice in the movies. But then again an inadvertent compensation is another campy, quintessentially Dolls-esque off kilter touch. Ditto for Susan Hayward‘s star number in New Haven, in which she’s literally upstaged by the Calderesque mobiles.

    Valley of the Dolls may indeed be the last gasp of the trashy, glossy soaper that tried so hard to be frank and serious, but more often than not descended into inadvertent camp. All the more perverse then that, in addition to being uncannily prescient in the trends it anticipated, Dolls itself exerted a huge influence on popular culture. Echoes of its kitschy majesty reverberated far beyond its first appearance in the late Sixties: pulp blockbusters by Sidney Sheldon, Danielle Steel, and Jackie Collins; the romance novel industry which sprang full-blown in the 1970s and 1980s; TV series like Dallas and Dynasty; the north-of-border ascendancy of the Latin American telenovela; the TV mini-series and TV movies; cable TV’s 24-hour infotainment programming; even stretching so far as to the stunning vulgarity of today’s reality TV.

    More so than ever, in our current media- and celebrity-obsessed culture, with its seemingly insatiable thirst for scandal and the sensationally bizarre, we can be fairly confident that the smutty potboiler, be it literary or cinematic, won't be disappearing anytime soon. As for Valley of the Dolls, it’s not so much a case of being so bad it’s almost good. It’s just plain good, in its own well meaning but spectacularly wrongheaded way. Thus the inevitable fate of the campy, trash classic: so tempting to hate but easy to love.

[1] The Fox 2-disc special edition of Dolls has a bevy of  bonus features, including commentary by Barbara Parkins and Ted Casablanca, screen tests, and best of all, the documentary 'A World Premiere Voyage.' Also worth a look is the featurette, 'Jacqueline Susann and Valley of the Dolls,' which reminds us how much the publishing world has changed since the novel appeared a half century ago. Then again, perhaps it reminds us how little has changed.
[2] Whatever Dolls' message, it may have been obscured by the film's glamorous depiction of drug addiction, set as it was in the plush show business milieu. For analysis, see: Nathan Smith, How Valley of the Dolls Turned Taking Drugs Into a Feminist Act.

Body Double (1984)

Body Double [DVD]; Columbia TriStar Home Entertainment, 2004; screenplay by Robert J. Avrech and Brian DePalma; produced and directed by Brian De Palma. Originally produced in 1984 as a motion picture. Music, Pino Donaggio; director of photography, Stephen H. Burum; edited by Jerry Greenberg.

Performers: Craig Wasson, Melanie Griffith, Greg Henry, Deborah Shelton. Summary: a voyeuristic, unemployed actor spies on a neighbor's nightly disrobing and sees more than he wants to. A grisly murder leads him into an obsessive quest through the world of pornographic film-making.

style ***1/2

substance ***

Watching Body Double is not a warm experience. Hardly. In fact it’s a seedy, downright sleazy experience, but that’s part of the fun. And it can be enjoyed with a certain smugness and a minimum of self-inflicted guilt simply because it doesn’t take itself too seriously. Gaudy? Sensationalist? Yes, absolutely. Irresistible? Well, maybe, and maybe not. But it has a high gloss patina and is somehow very easy to watch, in a cringeworthy sort of way – is that perhaps the working definition of a guilty pleasure? In any case for the viewer who fancies this kind of over-the-top thriller, one could do a lot worse on a cloudy, rainy night.

Director Brian De Palma has been called an acquired taste, and indeed considering all the polarized reviews of BD floating around the ‘Net this would seem to be an understatement. His admiration for and borrowing from the original suspense master Alfred Hitchcock has been much commented on so we won’t belabor the issue here, except to note that Body Double, as some of Hitchcock’s films tend to be, is more about style than substance. And the story itself, with its heavy doses of voyeurism, romantic obsession, reality and illusion, and lots of camera trickery, is a kind of commentary on the art, uses, and sometimes abuses, of filmmaking.

Thus Body Double also invokes, albeit faintly so, those cinematic behind-the-scenes critiques of the film industry, so memorably invoked in arguably – in some cases definitely – artistically superior films like Sunset Blvd., The Player, The Oscar and A Star is Born. True, the film ventures perilously close to pornography, and by implication, trash, but somehow it has a quirky elegance that at least partially redeems the tawdry subject matter. Besides, the film never really lapses into graphic porn, since it generally suggests more than it actually depicts.

Whatever his flaws as a director, De Palma has a great sense of camera angles as well as flair for soft, rich colors, and one of the joys of his movies is the fine visuals. Even if the content falters, the story is always presented in a visceral way, edited and filmed for maximum emotional impact. As to the cast, Craig Wasson, one of the most forgettable of actors, here as the flawed (non)hero, is perfectly cast precisely because of his numbing ordinariness and forgettableness, and he delivers a serviceable if not exactly brilliant performance. Both our leading ladies Deborah Shelton and Melanie Griffith are very easy on the eyes and Melanie in particular is appealing as the porn star with a heart of stone.

Eminently 1980s and especially enjoyable for the Hitchcock references, Body Double is a fun watch,  and in its way much recommended, with the usual not-for-all-tastes caveat for this kind of material. It may not be a masterpiece per se and may not even be De Palma’s masterpiece, but it’s a quintessential erotic thriller and certainly deserving of its status as a top-shelf cult favorite.

 

Hollywood behind the curtain: The Oscar (1966)

The Oscar. Paramount Pictures. Executive producer, Joseph E. Levine; producer, Clarence Greene; director, Russell Rouse; screenplay, Harlan Ellison, Russell Rouse, Clarence Greene; director of photography, Joseph Ruttenberg; music, Percy Faith; art direction, Hal Pereira. Originally released as a motion picture in 1966. Performers: Stephen Boyd, Elke Sommer, Milton Berle, Eleanor Parker, Joseph Cotten, Jill St. John, Tony Bennett, Edie Adams, Ernest Borgnine. Based on the novel by Richard Sale. Summary: the story of an actor's bitter struggle to rise to the top and win the coveted Oscar.

style ***

substance ***

Has anyone ever noticed that movies with all-star casts are never very good? Yes, we have rare gems like the eight-decades vintage Grand Hotel and Dinner at Eight, but most films with lots of big names are of the ilk of The Oscar, which is saddled with a dismayingly high-powered collection of varyingly mid-level and bonafide stars. But this is just the beginning of its myriad problems. Simply put, The Oscar is of highly dubious pedigree, specifically its falling in the decade from roughly the mid-Fifties to the mid-Sixties, which might well be described as the golden age of the kitsch masterpiece. The VIPs; Love Has Many Faces; Imitation of Life; Peyton Place; Written on the Wind; Suddenly, Last Summer; The Carpetbaggers, to cite but a few of the highest – or is it lowest? – exemplars.

The Oscar continues the tradition of the polished, pretentious but rather empty affair that's so bad it's, well, if not exactly good then immensely entertaining, mostly by virtue of the unapologetic over-the-topness. Part of the (not so) secret of success is that it doesn’t take itself too seriously. Or is it because it takes itself so seriously? One can never be sure in this kind of material.  

Arriving as it did in 1966 The Oscar is in one sense the last gasp of the steamy, melodramatic potboiler. And indeed it has more the flavor of early 1960s or late 1950s than Swinging Sixties. Ergo one of the film’s central agonies: it wants to be both plushy Old School romantic and no-holds-barred gritty, frank and shocking at the same time. Thus we have several scenes which feature semi-nude actresses languorously stretched out on oversized beds, parading around in skimpy nighties, or performing bland stripteases.

In any case The Oscar milks the Hollywood-at-its-naked-dirtiest clichés to the hilt, and what we’re left with is a highly uneven artistic product awash in the gaudiest of period colors, the worst offenders being those awful Sixties clothes which even Edith Head designs can’t rescue. Frequently unintentionally funny, the subtle-as-a-sledgehammer script is delivered in suitably heavy-handed fashion. There’s also Tony Bennett’s unnecessary, eminently far too frequent, narration that’s way out of place for a high gloss would-be epic like this.

The story’s principal characters fly perilously close to caricature: the rising star who’ll do anything to become a bigger star, the long suffering girlfriend(s), long suffering wife, philistine producer, sleazy private detective. To the film’s credit, the script, and resultant overheated performances, lampoon these tropes along the way.

As for the mostly excellent cast, they chew their respective roles with unrestrained glee. Boyd is perfect as the svelte pretty boy who wants the good life and even more so wants to be taken seriously as an actor. Ernest Borgnine as a repulsive private eye and Edie Adams as his frowsy wife also register a strong impression, as does Eleanor Parker, here cast as our hero’s “older woman” mentor and sometime girlfriend. She has little to do but look beautiful, which she does. Of course Peter Lawford makes an appearance (as a maitre d’) – you didn’t think a movie this bad wouldn’t have him in it? But it's Milton Berle’s nicely understated performance as the crusty agent with a core of integrity that really stands out amongst all the scenery chewing.

Despite a few virtues, then, and with no disrespect to the stunningly tacky Mommie Dearest, ultimately The Oscar may indeed be the worst ever film which purports to expose the seamy side of the movie business, Hollywood Babylon meets Sunset Boulevard, if you like [1].

And even if a viewing of The Oscar ultimately leaves a deliciously bad taste in the mouth, somehow a question lingers: was (is) Hollywood as irretrievably corrupt a place as depicted in this film, populated by clawing, desperate, nasty little people? Probably not. Even reviewers a half century ago were skeptical [2].  

[1] The film actually received two AA nominations: Best Color Costume Design and Best Color Art Direction, and perhaps this was only just.

[2] As far as I can tell The Oscar is not, alas, currently available on DVD. 

Further reading:

Erik Nelson, The Oscar: Greatest Terrible Movie of All Time, Salon, March 5, 2010.

There's No Business, Cool Cinema Trash, Feb. 18, 2008.