Archive for Black Sunday

Otto Destruction

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 9, 2020 by dcairns

Luke Aspell jumped in at the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour to offer me a piece on Otto Preminger’s ROSEBUD and I naturally jumped at the opportunity, as reading his thoughts would be quicker than reading the making-of book, which I still hope to get around to one day.

Meanwhile, look —

The first line of dialogue in ROSEBUD is “Am I glad to see you!”, said by one Palestinian to another. The American colloquialism of this line has been mocked, but heard in the accent of Moroccan actor Amidou, its incongruity is perfect. In the opening sequence, we’ve followed Yosef Shiloach’s journey to meet him. Now, as both men carefully navigate their way through a casual, friendly chat in English, their vulnerability makes us warm to their characters before we know who they are. The alternatives would have been English dialogue that tries to sound translated, clichés of Arab speech, or subtitles, all of which would imply that we already know all we need to know about these people. Preminger begins by acknowledging his, and our, distance. Our sympathy increases when we meet their traumatised allies. Mme. Tardets is in shock after a car accident five months ago. Kirkbane talked about liking “action”, and Tardets mentioned not having seen Hacam “since Algeria”, but Kirkbane’s description of the collision and its aftermath is the film’s first mention of violence. The perpetrator was “some idiot”. This senselessness, irrelevant in plot terms, is the first indication of the horror with which Preminger regards the Israel-Palestine conflict.

The camaraderie of Hacam, Kirkbane and their comrades is distant from the solitary fanaticism of their leader, just as the friendship of the women they kidnap has nothing to do with the corruption and greed of their parents; the reunion of the Palestinians in the kitchen at Tardets’ farm is echoed in a scene of the women in the galley on the yacht. Such moments of interpersonal warmth are brief, but frequent; there’s a lot of jolliness, pleasure in each other’s company, in ROSEBUD. The tone is exemplified by the child-like grin of achievement Hamlekh (Cliff Gorman) gives his colleague when he finds the right lever to stop the yacht’s engine, or the reaction of Helene (Isabelle Huppert) when Martin (Peter O’Toole) and Shute (Mark Burns) are fooled by the disguise she adopts for the return to Corsica – a disguise which turns out to be completely unnecessary. Plainly, the educational aspect of airport thrillers was what most interested Preminger about them; the way their writers decant technical information into page-turning prose. Cutting away from unnecessary action to make time for explanations action directors would skip, this film is so expositional as to become abstract; free to show us something or have a character describe it, Preminger frequently opts for description, but the description is always also an explanation. An explanation of a yacht’s automatic pilot is a narrative event. The characters move through a world that itself moves around them, and every task they plan and accomplish, every mechanism they understand and explain, is an island of reason in a sea of chaos. This isn’t a metaphysical chaos, but a multiplication of human unknowability.

(On the subject of pleasure in each other’s company, Erik Lee Preminger was aided in writing the screenplay by Marjorie Kellogg and a British writer called Roy Clarke, whose career Preminger chroniclers have yet to bother to look into. My keen hope is that it will turn out to be the Roy Clarke who wrote Last of the Summer Wine and Open All Hours.)

In the 34 years since his death, the world has had time to catch up with the challenges of Otto Preminger’s late period. HURRY SUNDOWN remains difficult to process, but it has its admirers, and each of the other last films, from BUNNY LAKE IS MISSING onwards, is someone’s idea of a masterpiece. Except, of course, ROSEBUD. In his obituary of Preminger, Andrew Sarris wrote that “Since Laura, the only film he has made that seems utterly beyond revisionist redemption is Rosebud.” Chris Fujiwara has called it “without doubt the hardest of Preminger’s films to defend”. Why? Yes, it’s Munichsploitation, one of its most famous images appears to combine gratuitous female nudity with the racist implication of a threat to white womanhood, half of the cast are non-native English speakers who have to play scenes to each other in English, one of the French actors can’t handle it and is dubbed by That Bloke whose non-specific “foreigner” accent was a fixture of 60s thrillers, the climax is two fingers to anyone who thought they were watching an action movie, and the last scene is an expression of despair guaranteed to depress or offend viewers of all political persuasions, but apart from that?

Really, I shouldn’t joke. None of these faults registers as a fault while the film lasts, and many exhilarating moments have gone undiscussed for far too long. Within its own terms, ROSEBUD is perfect, and to call a bad movie is the least imaginative thing we can do with it. Even if it constitutes a failed attempt at commercial filmmaking — and I don’t think it does — surely everyone knows by now that one of the most revealing insights into a film-maker’s world-view is what they do when they think they’re being commercial and get it wrong? SKIDOO wasn’t the social unifier it was so clearly intended to be, but by now everyone admits it’s (intentionally) hilarious. ROSEBUD is full of things we can laugh at, but they’re more funny peculiar than funny ha ha, and to respond with nothing more than laughter would be to waste the kind of opportunities that viewers of late Preminger are accustomed to taking. In almost every scene, we find him complicating, opposing or ignoring the conventions of the thriller, and replacing them with something more interesting. This is an action thriller with the action (ie. violence) removed, whose climax is aggressively anti-climactic: the kidnappers and their victims are knocked out with a gas, and the jihadist mastermind Sloat (Richard Attenborough) is kidnapped while praying, his men, facing east, neither seeing nor hearing the commandos seizing him behind their backs. Only if Preminger was merely George P. Cosamatos or Andrew V. McLaglen would this be the failure that even Erik Lee Preminger has condemned it as; its ludicrousness, and our disappointment, is the point. As he did with the interminable padding of the prison break sequence in EXODUS, Preminger defies our expectations, but the concision and clarity of the ROSEBUD sequence makes the effect invigorating and provocative rather than tiresome.

In truth, ROSEBUD’s status as Preminger’s most despised work seems ascribable to a mixture of political history, cultural history and political fashion. EXODUS, regarded by many Premingerians as one of his greatest films, is far more gung ho in its Zionism, and far more self-deceiving about Israel’s relationship with the Palestinians, but it was made before 1967, and therefore isn’t right-wing; ROSEBUD was made in 1974, and therefore is. EXODUS dramatises the debate within Zionism between those who sought to achieve Israel by peaceful means, and those who sought to achieve it by violent ones. Jewishness and Zionism are totally equated; while their means may differ, everyone’s end is the same. Each scene states and restates the desperation of the settlers, the justice of their cause, the magnitude of their suffering, and no honest dissent is conceivable. The scale and production values of EXODUS, despite its rough edges, make it an auteurist’s dream, a director’s film with the resources of a producer’s, but its long stretches of unalloyed propaganda are so obnoxious, and so contrary to Preminger’s best qualities, that to forgive or overlook them, while condemning ROSEBUD for far less, is a scapegoating more perverse than any of the later film’s eccentricities. As Preminger’s films demonstrate, identity is inseparable from circumstance, perspective and experience; a change of circumstances reveals, or may induce, new facets of an individual’s personality. Making a propaganda film with the support of a nation’s government may give one limitless opportunities for expansive mise en scene, but what happens to Preminger’s personality in EXODUS is a greater loss than any spectacle can make up for. Only in its last minutes does the film acknowledge what lies ahead; in ROSEBUD, Preminger regards the predicament of Israel and Palestine with a sense of unassuageable desolation. To expect Preminger to make an anti-Zionist film would be unreasonable, yet ROSEBUD is more humane and balanced than its reputation would suggest. ROSEBUD is most usefully compared not with Palestinian and pro-Palestinian films like THEY DO NOT EXIST (Mustafa Abu Ali, 1974) or Godard (and Gorin) and Mieville’s ICI ET AILLEURS (1976), but with mainstream American thrillers like THE DAY OF THE JACKAL (Fred Zinnemann, 1973) and THE BLACK WINDMILL (Don Siegel, 1974), both of which were reference points during production, or BLACK SUNDAY (John Frankenheimer, 1977), which amounts to a prescription for Palestinian extermination.

ROSEBUD has also suffered from the success of SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE!, Theodore Gershuny’s account of its troubled production. Gershuny, who had made some low-budget exploitation films himself, evidently expected an atmosphere of power and luxury, and instead encountered a working environment like a submarine or the kitchen of a fashionable restaurant. He seems to have blamed Preminger for his disappointment. The book contains some good anecdotes, but Gershuny’s voice is monotonously misogynistic, dividing all the women involved in the production into the fuckable and the unfuckable, and Preminger seems to have discerned Gershuny’s attitude early on, establishing a running joke of calling him an “Arab sex maniac”.

The only film of Preminger’s independent phase to which he didn’t retain the copyright, ROSEBUD was compromised by the demands of Preminger’s production partner. He had originally planned to make the villain a Jewish anti-Zionist, but United Artists made their participation conditional on his abandoning this idea. The solution he found was prescient, and preferable to his original conception: a British Islamist at a time when the rise of Islamism was so unthinkable that critics dismissed him as a figure out of melodrama. His arbitrary quality, highlighted by Richard Attenborough’s performance, which emphasises the smallness of fanaticism, is another bug that’s actually a feature. Edward Sloat (as with Senator Donnovan, you may wonder if this is a typo someone missed) is introduced to the plot halfway through the film, in a shot blocked and framed by Preminger to make the outward turn of Cliff Gorman’s right eye as distracting as possible, and then becomes the pretext for a long interlude in Germany that leads nowhere. The journey is the destination, as a long autobahn sequence excised during the editing would have made even more obvious.

Much of ROSEBUD takes place in transit. The characters travel between countries in the space of a single cut; there’s a sense of perpetual motion. Its villain and its hero — though the film isn’t stupid enough to regard him as a hero — are alike stateless. Larry Martin is a British mercenary who generally works for the CIA, Edward Sloat is a British Islamist who leads an unrecognised offshoot of the PLO. When they meet, we have no sense of them relating to each other as fellow Britons in a foreign conflict. Imperialisms of money and the imagination have deracinated them. Cynicism and idealism are equally apt to drive people from their original identities, and it’s in keeping with Preminger’s long history of reservations and caveats that Israel’s ally is a cynic, and its enemy is an idealist. O’Toole’s contrived pronunciation of “Israel” as “Issrile,” in a manner that suggests he’s trying to keep his tongue as far away from his teeth as possible, can be interpreted either as an excessive gesture of respect or an expression of distaste.

When I saw ROSEBUD for the first time, a few years ago, I had the advantage of having already seen THE HUMAN FACTOR several times. A number of ROSEBUD’s challenges anticipate those of Preminger’s last masterpiece, but the extremity of THE HUMAN FACTOR makes it easier for us to recognise its achievement; we can’t mistake it for an attempt to make a normal film of its ostensible genre, whereas we can mistake ROSEBUD for a botched commercial thriller. While I wouldn’t now say that ROSEBUD is on the level of Preminger’s other 70s films, I would rank it at the top of the second division of his works, roughly at the level of FALLEN ANGEL and WHIRLPOOL. In SKIDOO, TELL ME THAT YOU LOVE ME, JUNIE MOON and SUCH GOOD FRIENDS, Preminger situated disruptive subjective perceptions — hallucinations, traumatic memories, fantasies — within “objective” worlds of debateable naturalism. In ROSEBUD, the subjectivity and the objectivity have mingled indivisibly. The narration perceives and accepts its inventions as inventions. Far from being an “empty” rejection of a world that has become “unreal”, ROSEBUD continues Preminger’s ongoing project of meeting and accepting the complexity of reality, to a degree too profound for realism, liberated and isolated, as he has been since TELL ME THAT YOU LOVE ME, JUNIE MOON, by the death of the American cinema. (Or, if you prefer, the death of classicism.)

A last example of how richly Premingerian this despised film is: Peter Lawford plays Lord Carter, an apparently stuffy, hidebound character, with a feathered hairdo. Preminger seems to have cast him primarily for friendship’s sake and secondarily for his value as a celebrity. This kind of casting is nothing new in Preminger, and not even unprecedented in his use of Lawford; consider his pro-filmic, or metatextual — if we classify Lawford’s celebrity life as another media “text” — casting as Lafe Smith in ADVISE & CONSENT, the faux-insider in-joke who unexpectedly turns into a classic Preminger observation about human mystery — and, indirectly, his being a Kennedy stand-in, about leadership. (From the same film, another example of this approach is the characters’ expressions of respect for Seeb Cooley, which pile up past the point of dramatic utility, and begin to feel more like tributes to Charles Laughton, whose last film this was.) Carter is given what are, by implication, the most Zionism-agnostic lines of the film, advising against negotiation with reference to an experience he had during the Mau Mau Uprising. The thinkability of the comparison — if the Palestinians are the Kenyans, who are the British? — and of putting it in the mouth of the film’s most literally incredible, conspicuous performer (Lindsay being its most conspicuous non-performer), endorses Carter’s thinking, discredits it, and leaves us thinking. That Preminger gives this speech to the actor who represented English anti-Semitism in EXODUS makes it even more remarkable. As always, Preminger’s thinking remains joined-up; the sublime and the crass are indivisible. In BONJOUR TRISTESSE, Cécile’s flashbacks begin as she listens to Juliette Greco singing an original song, also called “Bonjour Tristesse”, which was obviously commissioned and written to serve as a promotional tie-in. In Preminger, every but is an and. Patrice (Georges Beller) errs in expecting Sabine (Brigitte Ariel) to place ideological purity above family affection. She and her friends are sympathetic and funny; Patrice is a prig, but/and Margaret (Lalla Ward) is a reactionary. Kirkbane says he doesn’t want to hurt people when he kills them, but/and expresses satisfaction when his perfect weapon works as planned. The way he told it, Preminger didn’t really begin making Preminger films until he was also producing them; the practical financial considerations that other narratives of film art screen off from aesthetic matters were, for him, part of the same thing; producer-director is one job, not two. His embrace of practicalities went beyond pragmatism to become an ideal in itself; in the opening credits of THE CARDINAL, “and John Huston as Glennon” is followed by “Bobby (Morse) and the Adora-Belles”, an in-joke crediting a fictional vaudeville act as though they were a real pop group. This is seen against the superb, possibly Saul Bass-storyboarded graphic beauty of shots which introduce our protagonist walking alone through Rome. Aesthetics, prestige and tackiness are joined together in economic and artistic reciprocity.


Steele Herself

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , on July 28, 2017 by dcairns

A Barbara Steele selfie.

Apparently never-learning, I have co-authored another article on Miss Steele with Daniel Riccuito, although when told the piece was up at The Notebook I couldn’t remember contributing anything to it. What does Peter Weller say in NAKED LUNCH when presented with his book? “Truly I suspect some colossal con.” Or a small con, in this case.

But there it is in black and white — the synopsis of BLACK SUNDAY’s opening scene is mine, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. The rest of the piece, needless to say, is excellent, classic Riccuito delirium.

Here.

Unkind Cuts

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 17, 2015 by dcairns

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Daniel Riccuito, main author of The Beauty of Terror, with Jennifer Matsui and myself, is incandescent with rage about changes Fangoria magazine made to the piece without consulting us. I’m slightly more philosophical, having been really horribly rewritten several times during my film and TV career. A shout-out here to the giftless bastards at Tern Television and to so-called director Crispin Whittier Whittell, whom I would like to shoot with a gun.

The people who butcher creative work are usually friendly, smiling people. They totally don’t get that they just mutilated something you cared about, and stole something that was rightfully yours. “Think of me as the kindly torturer,” Sid Sheinberg told Terry Gilliam while doing his best to rip the guts out of BRAZIL. These people look hurt when you tell them they destroyed something they didn’t understand. They look confused when you say you wish they’d asked. They made everything better without bothering us, so why aren’t we delighted? Of course, they only enjoy such freedom from doubt, such artistic carte blanche with other people’s labours because they are totally bereft of any creativity themselves.

Fangoria’s changes are tone-deaf, clumsy, anti-intellectual, humourless, and mostly unnecessary. But what makes them completely unacceptable is that they didn’t send a copy of the proposed alterations during the months the piece was waiting to see print. This kind of consultation ALWAYS happens. When I write for Electric Sheep, which is an online publication, the very thoughtful and precise editorial changes are always offered up to me to see if they’re acceptable. With Sight & Sound, or with Criterion liner notes, the same thing happens. Apart from being courteous, this is also efficient: if a writer has expressed themself unclearly, the editor’s attempt to fix the problem might not work — it may well take the writer’s input to clarify what the piece intended to say.

The GOOD NEWS is — you can read the original article at The Chiseler, here.

This is possibly of interest only to Daniel, Jennifer and myself, but I thought I’d run through the more egregious changes, just for the record.

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A minor example: “Of course, the answer is partly grounded in Steele’s unique physical equipment” becomes “The answer is partly grounded in Steele’s unique physical attributes.” This is typical of the changes, where an interesting word choice is replaced with a mundane, hackneyed one.

A more complex one: “Steele’s beauty is no accident of nature, even if she is, but a virtuoso performance by an artist in full command of her talent summoning and banishing it in equal measure in her dual role as mortal damsel in distress and undead predator released from her crypt.” This becomes, in Fangoria’s blood-smeared hands, “Steele’s beauty is no accident of nature, even if she is, and Sunday showcases a virtuoso performance by an artist in full command of her talent, summoning and banishing it in equal measure in her dual role as mortal damsel in distress and undead predator released from her crypt.” Which is hard to understand, as it seems to say that Steele is summoning and banishing her talent, using it to play the damsel and abandoning it when she plays the revengeful revenant. This is not only not what we meant, it’s not even what Fangoria means to say.

We wrote, “Where Steele’s Italian films are concerned, we are watching silent movies of a sort.” This is following a reference to Spanish filmmaker Segundo de Chomon, making the argument that Steele’s appearance has something in common with his hand-tinted special effects. Clearly the reference was deemed too obscure for the magazine’s public (though encouraging people to go look something up never struck me as a disservice to the reader). Chopping the Chomon line, Fangoria makes do with, “Where the actress’ Italian films are concerned, the experience is like watching silent movies of a sort.” The “of a sort” becomes bizarre and ungainly since it’s the first mention of silent cinema, and it’s not even really clear what is meant by “the experience” — the experience of watching them, presumably, but if so, why not say so?

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The phrase “molded by Italian cameramen into disquieting and sudden plasticity,” which referred to Steele’s entire Italian career, is folded into a sentence about BLACK SUNDAY and forced to serve as a description of that film, which had only one cinematographer, Mario Bava.

Here’s one of my own sentences: “While Italian movies robbed Steele of her voice, they liberated her from what it had meant in Britain.” This becomes “they liberated her from the constraints of Britain,” which is a different point, one less related to the beginning of the sentence, and the overall point explored in the next two paragraphs, which is about class.

My line “Omninational, omnisexual, but definitely carnivorous” just gets chopped altogether, leaving the section to widdle out lamely. That was my best sentence!

Even a quote from the star herself is not safe from the editors’ “creativity” — “There was a tremendous feeling of respect, whereas in my earliest roles at Rank I always felt shoved around, practically negated by the pressure of production.” “Negated” is replaced with “ignored.” As Matt Damon complains in THE INFORMANT! “How is that OK? That’s NOT OK.”

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Or, there’s this: “amid the groundswells of fog, lifeless trees and gloomy dungeons, Steele is an absence impossibly concretized in penumbras and voids.” Fangoria couldn’t cope with such richness, apparently, so we get “amid the groundswells of fog, lifeless trees and gloomy dungeons, Steele is a walking shadow.” Pity the poor hack who, throwing out a complex phrase, must try to invent something of their own to replace it. I know, Shakespeare! That always works!

“Dark Barbara comes back as a very corporeal revenant, hair occluding one profile, like Phil Oakey of the Human League.” References to British new wave bands of the eighties are another thing Fangoria’s readership are not expected to be able to cope with, so the sentence is lopped. “Obscuring” is subbed in for the too high-brow “occluding,”

This, I thought, was one of my more useful paragraphs. “Almost indescribable in terms of plot, character or dialogue, the film looks stunning, as chiaroscuro as Steele’s coal-black hair and snow-white skin. Apparently the product of monkey-typewriter improvisation, the story serves as a kind of post-modern dream-jumble of every Gothic narrative ever. You might get a story like this if you showed all of Steele’s horrors to a pissed-up grade-schooler and then asked them to describe the film they just saw. As a result, the movie really takes what Dario Argento likes to call the “non-Cartesian” qualities of Italian horror to the next dank, stone-buttressed level.”

“The story may be a kind of postmodern dream-jumble of countless Gothic narratives, but its visuals are stunning, as chiaroscuro as Steele’s coal-black hair and snow-white skin.” Shorter, yes. But better? Any good at all? “Visuals” are always “stunning,” aren’t they?

Another line from Barbara gets rejigged: “…and faces that are like spells they look so informed,” becomes “and faces like spells.” Minor, but completely unethical unless you add the dreaded […] to make it clear you’re monkeying with a direct quote.

A mild speculation on why the Italians embraced Steele and she them: “a shared gloomy zest for life, fatalism and pasta” hits the cutting room’s sticky floor.

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“And yet we’ll never know quite how seriously the filmmakers approached these farragoes. They fuse the kind of outrageous plot twists pioneered by Psycho and Les Diaboliques with all the gothic trappings familiar from The Monk or The Castle of Otranto, and Poe’s morbid, overheated imagination with the new sexual liberality of sixties cinema, already curdled into something icky and sadistic and necrophile, as if decades closeted by the censor had fermented some kind of fetid corruption infecting every glance. The dialogue is always unspeakable in any language (hence, perhaps, all that dubbing, as a kind of disinfectant/alibi), while the plots collapse with the impact of a single breath of air, and characterization is strictly puerile. But the potent sex-death brew is nevertheless intoxicating, the visuals sleek and seductive, and the eyes follow you about the room.”

This gets rendered down into:

Freda and his contemporaries fused the kind of outrageous plot twists pioneered by Psycho and Les Diaboliques with all the gothic trappings familiar from The Monk or The Castle of Otranto, and Poe’s morbid, overheated imagination with the new sexual liberality of sixties cinema, already curdled into something icky and sadistic and necrophilic, as if decades closeted by the censor had fermented some kind of fetid corruption infecting every glance. […] The potent sex-death brew is nevertheless intoxicating, the visuals sleek and seductive […].”

““Oh, Riccardo Freda! We had our own private opera going,” Steele recalls.” This becomes “Riccardo Freda and I had our own private opera going,” which is, on the one hand, less exciting and expressive, and on the other, not what Barbara Steele actually said, ever.

“A desperate thing to do – like fighting a war – so everyone became emotionally invested on-set, and the atmosphere translated quite powerfully; yes, I’d say the results of all that apparent chaos wound up registering in the movie.” This gets chopped down to a couple of phrases, which is permissible in principal, but why would you want to lose all that good stuff, coming straight from the star’s mouth?

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“The villain’s demise is superbly absurd, as he’s sealed within a cartoonish effigy, which makes him look like the lost, Goth member of the Banana Splits (original line-up: Drooper, Fleagle, Snorky, Bingo and Scabies).” By now I’m sure you can guess what got cut here.

“Despite a Scooby Doo/psychological ending eschewing the supernatural, this is one of the most extreme, delirious Italian Gothics, and despite a plot that doesn’t ultimately make a lick of sense, it comes closer to being a proper film than any of them – Francesco de Masi’s beautiful score lifts it out of pulp territory altogether at times.” I think that’s fair comment, though admittedly I should have fixed those two “despites,” bundling the provisos together. That’s just the sort of mistake a good editor can help with. But the final version is weirdly weak: “…this is one of the most extreme, delirious Italian Gothics and Francesco de Masi’s beautiful score lifts it out of pulp territory at times.” Without the “altogether” at the end, that’s a very watery statement to end a paragraph on.

“As soon as we meet the gardener, a hulking near-mute, we anticipate greenhouse shenanigans, given Babs’ history in these things,” — Fangoria drops the “Babs” but replaces it with a blurry “her” despite the fact that Steele’s name hasn’t appeared since the start of the previous sentence. This is exactly the kind of thing — noun/pronoun alternation — that an editor should be able to carry off invisibly.

“Laughter disrupts the dream-flow the picture aims at, but without completely staunching it, so the time passes in hypnagogic free-fall, that too-tired-to-sleep delirium when little jolts keep sparking you into reality, only to slump back to somnolence as the movie drains life and reason from you.” This is cut completely.

“Plywood characters totter through Bava’s puppet theater, crossing from day to night in a single cut, wielding candelabras that cast impossible shadows (how can a light source cast its own shadow?), spouting wooden dialogue from their wooden lips, with only the invading force of Satanism offering any recognizable human vivacity. Steele’s witch is not only fully justified in her revenge, as established in scene one, she’s the only figure with meat on her bones (and we see how it gets there, in a gruesome “re-incarnation” which renders the word literally): getting back into the skin. Exacting her pound of flesh.” Gone: anything that addresses the “flaws” in Bava’s filmmaking is unacceptable, I suspect.

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But enough nit-picking, here’s the response of co-author Jennifer Matsui ~

“Fangoria’s grease pencil doodles on the margins, which somehow made its way into the final draft, failed to deliver either clarity or brevity to the final product. Instead, we get a somewhat clunking, rhythmless hot mess mimeograph of the original. This version has visible Cheetoh stains over the once legible prose, as if some suburban dungeon master was tasked with the editing job after replying to a “Make money at home” banner ad on Craig’s List. Stare at them long enough, and you’ll start to sprout visible shoulder blade and knuckle hairs.”