Archive for Dick Smith

Cremastermind

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , on June 10, 2014 by dcairns

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One can’t help but be fascinated by the moment in GHOST STORY when Craig Wasson, playing his own brother — wait. He’s not playing Craig Wasson’s brother. I don’t know if he even has a brother. He’s playing the hero’s brother, and in the same film he also plays the hero, Don Wanderley. Interesting choice of name. Musical.

Anyhow, as David Wanderley, the brother Wasson has a moment which one can’t help but be fascinated by, when, backing away in terror from the rotting, cadaverous visage of Alice Krige (achieved by means of Rick Baker effects, I hasten to add), he crashes through the window of the skyscraper he’s in and plunges to his death many storeys below. What makes the sequence fascinating is that, like John Vernon in POINT BLANK, he performs his death plunge nude, but unlike Vernon he goes full frontal. And, in a bit of gratuitous realism that fairly boggles the mind, Wasson’s genitals are seen to WAGGLE IN THE WIND.

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“Mammy!”

Extensive pretend research has failed to establish how Dick Smith and Rick Baker managed to make Wasson’s balls waggle about so realistically — did they attach wires? No. Did they have a wind machine blasting up Wasson’s arse? No. Did they paint the privates with flesh-coloured metallic paint and then position magnets at — NO!

I am forced to conclude that Wasson got the part, a leading one in a large production also featuring John Houseman, Fred Astaire, Douglas Fairbanks Jnr and Melvyn Douglas, by virtue of his ability to make his generative organs wag about at will. His highly developed cremaster muscle, which granted him this superhuman power, would stand him in good stead in Brian DePalma’s BODY DOUBLE (scenes deleted).

This Youtube clip (at twenty seconds in) denies us the full majesty of the effect, since a piece of genital fogging has been despatched — Fly, my beauties! — to cover what we are forced to call the offending area.

Genital fogging, it seems to me, is one of the last great areas of artisanship left to cinema. Like the workshops full of ladies stencil-tinting films in the early silent days, the film industry continues to support squadrons of dedicated artists, hunched over the reels of celluloid in their berets, delicately wielding their cans of spray-on fog, clouding the private parts of the great and good. Japan alone supports over a million of them. If we should ever throw off our prejudicial attitude to the lower abdomen, what shall become of these trained professionals. One pictures them, squatting on the sidewalk or standing by freeway off-ramps, with a cardboard sign reading WILL FOG GENITALS FOR CHANGE, blurring the cocks of passing strangers for a few cents.

You might suggest that they could find work doing faces, making people anonymous when they testify to traumatic experiences on television, but no. Whole other skill.

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Actors who have naturally foggy genitals of their own are highly prized. B**t R******s may not learn his lines, but his smudgy nuts ensure he is never out of work.

Crawling from the Limerwreckage

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , on August 24, 2012 by dcairns

Three supernatural blaxploitation limericks comin’ atcha –

BLACULA

SCREAM BLACULA SCREAM

ABBY

I must say, the possession make-up in ABBY affects me much as Dick Smith’s makeup on Linda Blair did — both seem crude,  well over the top and unconvincing — but somehow they’re all the more upsetting for it.

People Who Need People

Posted in FILM, Science, Television with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 6, 2010 by dcairns

Let’s see: we know never to smile at a crocodile, but what must one never do at an alligator?

THE ALLIGATOR PEOPLE, directed by poor old Roy Del Ruth, has in many ways the feel of a Corman B-quickie monster farrago, (leading lady Beverly Garland had already made several of these, including the much-admired cheesefests NOT OF THIS EARTH and IT CONQUERED THE WORLD), but it’s actually a 20th Century Fox production with delusions of adequacy.

I had to watch it because it’s part of my See Reptilicus and Die quest to witness every celluloid monstrosity memorialized in Denis Gifford’s Pictorial History of Horror Movies, but curiously enough my strongest association with the film is from another Gifford book, Movie Monsters, a little paperback I owned as a kid. This was a collection of pieces on various celebrated movieland beasts, each illustrated with a snazzy b&w still, into which the alligator people had somehow trespassed — there was a feeling of weary indulgence on Gifford’s part, as if perhaps he had a reptilian quota to fill, or he felt he didn’t have enough US-based fiends, or the 50s were under-represented or something.

The movie starts almost promisingly with some dynamic vehicular second unit and some stylish transitions, lulling you into an illusion that somebody behind the scenes gives a damn. It’s an illusion that disintegrates progressively as the malarkey continues, but it does get us off to a good start. A couple of leaden shrinks jocularly ponder a baffling case, a nurse (la Garland)  who has revealed a peculiar story under the influence of sodium pentathol (Shrink 1 apparently routinely dopes his staff, especially the cute ones).

Enter Beverly, perky. “What’s wrong with her? Is she insane?” asked Fiona, aghast. “No, she’s just Beverly Garland,” I explained, in much the same way I had to account for Victor McLaglan to students (“Who’s he? Why is he grinning like that?”) Beverly has turned her eager-to-please charm up to eleven. She hangs on Shrink 1’s every word, and she’s so pleased to meet Shrink 2 one fears she may blow a gasket, or somehow melt her smiling apparatus. We check the running time: 74 minutes. The exact duration we feel we can bask in the radiance of Beverly Garland without our skins drying out.

SLEEP! Beverly is doped and hynotized in a trice (one look at her and you know she’s going to be a receptive subject) and we’re flashbacking to the sad tale of her disappearing husband and her quest to track him down in the Louisiana bayou.

CAUTION: Radioactive Material. So Bev sits on it.

Here we meet Lon Chaney Jnr, who has a hook for a hand and a grudge against ‘gators. “I’m gonna kill you, alligator man!” He’s exactly like Captain Hook, in other words, only very very drunk. His character name is Manon, but he resists the urge to dance naked among goats. The missing hubby’s mum is Frieda Inescort, an Edinburgh-born actress of great dignity, all things considered. And then there’s gorgeous George MacReady, as a disappointingly non-mad scientist.

Here, we sympathize: the mad scientist stereotype is a pernicious cliche and if you can avoid using it, you probably should. But cliches attain their status by virtue of usefulness, and making THE ALLIGATOR PEOPLE’s atomic experimenter a reasonable guy rather wastes MacReady’s talent for hoarse maleficence, and leaves the plot dangling listlessly. Plus, the tragic finale comes not as a “There are some things man was not meant to know” wagging Finger of Doom warning, but as a “shit happens” shrug of the scaly shoulders.

“No, Mr Alligator, I expect you to die!” Seriously DIG how George has set up his atomic laser of healing in what appears to be his living room.

The plum part falls to Richard Crane, Beverly’s absconding spouse, who was repaired after wartime injuries by MacReady’s radiation/alligator based treatment. Unfortunately, the side-effect of said treatment is full-scale mutation into an alligator. Who could possibly have predicted such a thing? Here, we must admit, is some full-blooded Mad Science. Patiently, and for about ten minutes, MacReady explains to Garland that some members of the reptile family have extraordinary powers of healing, and it was his dream to harness this ability for the benefit of mankind. For instance, some lizards, when they lose their tails, can grow new ones.

“Can alligators do that?” asked Fiona.

“No,” I said, thus collapsing the movie’s entire premise into a little white dot, just as if I’d flicked the TV off with the remote.

Baselessly, the film trundles on. Crane gets some decent pathos, and the more seriously regressed patients are as genuinely disturbing as they are ludicrous in their tennis-racket-shaped beekeeper hats. MacReady has a bulging staff of Muscle Marys to keep these “revolting scaly monarchs of the swamps” in line: these male nurses apparently learned healthcare from Joe Louis, and resort to a swift right to the jaw when their patients show excessive crocodilian ebullience.

Crane’s leathery good looks are an early work by makeup supremo Dick Smith (THE EXORCIST), and they’re reasonably effective when he’s in his early stages, despite the fact that there’s practically no way to combine human and lizard characteristics using 1959 makeup effects.

Just when it seems that only a major transfusion of silliness can make this movie worth sitting through, we get it. MacReady figures that a massive does of radiation just might do the trick, but a drunken Chaney attacks the lab for kicks and causes Crane to get the full megaton, transforming him into an upright Wally Gator who brings the film to it’s tragic swampy conclusion amid howls of merriment and rejoicing from the audience of two.

Here’s Wally!

Back to the bookend scenario, where Shrink 1 and Shrink 2 agree that it’s better to leave Beverly as the grinning, amnesiac zomboid we met earlier rather than restore her memory of such horrors. A rather elegant total inversion of normal psychotherapeutic practice.

What happened to Roy Del Ruth? Time, I suppose: that great marching alligator devouring everything in its path. The following year he would helm WHY MUST I DIE? for Howard Hughes, a doomed attempt to prove that Hughes’ girlfriend Terry Moore could pull off a Susan Hayward style death row melodrama. The following year, his career took an upturn when he died of a hear attack.

I am most curious to see 1928’s THE TERROR, a Del Ruth scare flick made when he still had pep. Let me know if you run across a copy.

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