Masters of Horror:
Series One - Volume Two
(Anchor Bay U.K.  Region 2 PAL 6-Disc Boxed
(2006)
review by Blackgloves

The second volume of "Masters of Horror", containing the last six episodes of Season 1, presents us with several great episodes and a few fairly poor ones, and illustrates the strengths and a few of the weaknesses of the concept behind the show. On the whole though, the series has been worth pursuing and has, as we shall see, presented us with at least one masterpiece!

 

"Haeckel's Tale" comes with a mysterious "in association with George A. Romero" credit, but it was actually directed by John McNaughton, whose is afforded the Masters of Horror mantle purely on the strength of his first feature film, the controversial "Henry: Portrait of a Serial KIller". Romero was originally billed to direct the episode when the series was first pitched, and no doubt, his pseudo-credit appears for some kind of convoluted contractual reasons. It is not until the final third of the film that it becomes apparent why he was ever assigned the episode in the first place: for, for most of the time the film is a beautifully rendered period piece that recalls the colourful world of classic Hammer Films, with a beguiling Grimm's Fairly tale ambience to it that makes this one of the most immediately attractive episodes in the series for fans of classic horror. The screenplay has been adapted from a Clive Barker tale — a fact which becomes apparent in the final act when the transgressive sexual elements of the author's fiction (familiar from previous screen adaptations like "Hellraiser") burst full-force into the narrative. By this time, McNaughton seems to be playing for some kind of weird genre-warping effect with the material as the fairly tale elements are corrupted and shattered in a far more effective fashion than in, say, "The Company of Wolves "; the '80s British horror movie that comes closest to providing an example of the style of this film. 

 

The film tells the story of Ernst Haeckel (Derek Cecil), an 18th century American medical student and follower of the work of Baron Frankenstein, who, against the wishes of his teacher, is attempting to bring the dead to life. The film captures very well the style and aesthetic of "The Curse of Frankenstein" and the plot seems to be following the same formula as countless Hammer Frankenstein films for the first ten minutes; but things take a slightly unexpected turn when, after his own experiments seem to fail, Haeckel comes upon a necromancer in the woods called Montesquino (Jon Polito), whose sorcery appears to resurrect a dead dog. Haeckel is convinced that it is all a conjuror's trick though, until he is offered a bed for the night while on his way through the stormy woods to visit his sick father. His host, Wolfram (Tom McBeath), has a beautiful wife called Elise (Leela Savasta), who is half his age, and whom Haeckle is immediately taken with. When he followers her into the woods in the middle of the night, after hearing her screaming, Haeckle is confronted with a sight that proves Montesquino's powers are being used for a truly macabre reason that breaks one of the greatest sexual taboos.

 

The conclusion (which I won't give away) is so over the top that it almost seems like a parody, but the melding of modern sex n' gore conventions with the more romantic, sedate sensibilities of Hammer horror works very well to make these familiar elements seem vital again, and I think this ends up being one of the most memorable episodes in this first series, with some truly weird images.  

 

Probably the most disappointing episode of the series is Tobe Hooper's "Dance of the Dead".  I'm not familiar with Richard Matheson's post-apocalyptic short story, which was the inspiration for this sprawling adaptation, but Hooper's film is an annoying, noisy, jittery mess that has a weak and unconvincing plot at its core.

 

Peggy (Jessica Lowndes) lives with her embittered mother (Marilyn Norry) in a lawless city overrun with gangs high on exotic futuristic drugs, who spend their time mugging old people and stealing their blood (for reasons that do not become apparent until near the end of the film)! Though the background is never really revealed, the citizens of this post-apocalyptic landscape are the survivors of a nerve agent dropped by terrorists (a cross between snow and napalm) that falls from the skies and burns the skin on contact. The sheltered and good-natured Peggy becomes attracted to one of the members of a gang that gets turfed out of her mother's cafe and she sneaks off with him and his friends to a strange fetish club where the MC is a sallow-looking Robert Englund. When Peggy's mom follows her daughter, the weird show presented by Englund's character unveils an awful secret from her family's past. 

 

This good-girl-runs-off-with-boy-from-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks plot line is about as hoary as you can get of course, though many of the ideas that fill in the details of the dystopian world in which Peggy and her mother live, are quite imaginative. Hooper tries to disguise the basic ordinariness of the story with incessant thrash metal noise on the soundtrack and lots of jerky camera effects that begin to get on ones nerves once one realise that the story is going nowhere. Even lots and lots of skinny nude dancing women being poked with electric cattle prods on the stage of The Doom Club can't revive this moribund tale; and the twist at the end is just plain silly.

 

William Malone has directed "FearDotCom" and the remake of "House on Haunted Hill"; neither could be judged a modern classic, although I don't begrudge Malone his turn as a Master of Horror — and, indeed, "Fair Haired Child" is a professionally turned-out affair that gets extra marks for staging a teenager's kidnapping to the 2nd movement of Beethoven's symphony no. 7 -- one of my favourite pieces of music put to a cunningly disquieting use! The film starts out on familiar ground, though, with a nod to "Carrie", as we meet Tara (Lindsay Pulsipher)) a lonely, awkward outcast who spends her time at school in a daydream. Her world is turned on its head when she is knocked down and then abducted by a strange man in a van! She wakes up in large country house to find herself being administered to by a thin woman dressed in white (Lori Petty), who at first claims to be a nurse but turns out to be the wife of the man who abducted her. They throw her into the basement which is covered in chalky scrawls that give the mysterious warning "leave before he wakes!" But Tara also finds a boy called Johnny in the basement, kept in rags by the couple above — and she forms a special bond with him as they struggle to escape. But as their relationship grows, Tara discovers the reason she has been brought to this forbidding place threatens not only her friendship with Johnny, but her very life.

 

The twists and turns of this story are too blatantly telegraphed in advance for there to be any real surprises as the episode unfolds. Lori Petty is her usual squeaky birdlike self, while relative newcomer, Lindsay Pulsipher, is quite effective and sympathetic as the awkward school misfit. The episode chugs along nicely enough, but this is hardly going to be remembered as a highlight of the series. (Even "Dance of the Dead" was memorable, if only for all the wrong reasons!)  

 

Larry Cohen's "Pick Me Up" is a fairly decent black comedy that satirises serial killer movie clichés by pitting two common serial killer stereotypes against each-other. Caught in the middle of the feud that develops between homicidal hitchhiker, Walker (Warren Kole) and hitchhicker-killing truck driver, Jim Wheeler (Michael Moriarty) is a busload of travellers who find themselves stranded in the middle of nowhere (although, like most of the other episodes in the series, it is clearly the Canadian countryside). The ironic screenplay trades on the audience's awareness of slasher clichés throughout; when loquacious redneck truck driver, Jim offers to give the stranded occupants a lift to the nearest travelling stop, half of them sensibly stay behind in case he's some-kind of maniac. Well, he is of course — as the travellers who do go with him soon find out — but unfortunately for the remainder of the bus passengers, wisecracking hitchhiker Walker turns up, and turns out to be equally deranged. The only passenger who seems to have escaped the carnage is embittered divorcee Stacia (Fairuza Balk) who elects to walk to the nearest Motel, several miles up the highway. However, the two serial killers become aware of each other, and when they both turn up at Stacia's Motel, they become competitive over who will get to make this final kill!

 

This is watchable episode, which makes light of the very predictability of its subject matter. It benefits from powerhouse performances from Michael Moriarty, who manages the "comedy versus menace" dynamic of his character expertly, and Warren Kole whose handsome, wisecracking character is contrasted terrifyingly by a horrifying streak of sadism. Fairuza Balk plays a take-no-shit, ballsy heroine (itself a kind of cliché these days, but done here with a bravura that makes it compelling) who looks upon the whole competition dynamic between here ruthless pursuers with a dismayed cynicism that turns the horror of the situation into an ironic commentary on the laziness of serial killer flick conventions. The conclusion gives us a rather nice twist in the tale that rounds this episode off very nicely. 

 

Dario Argento's "Jenifer" embodies both the strengths and the inherent weaknesses in the whole concept of the series. On the one hand, this is by far the goriest film Argento has ever directed, replete with gross images that really are very disturbing. It is also the most sexually explicit film the Italian Maestro has given us to date; and it mixes nudity and horror in a very challenging way -- offering us the sight of the gorgeous, lithe body of lead actress, Carrie Anne Fleming, attached to a hideous make-up effect that gives her a disgusting mutilated appearance during her rampant sex scenes with actor, Steven Weber (who wrote the original short story and the screenplay adaptation!). But, although one of the best episodes of the series, it doesn't particularly feel very Argento-esque. Admittedly, neither have Argento's last few films -- but the essential interchangeability of all the episode's directors becomes apparent here, more than ever. Each episode is essentially made by the same crew with a different director at the helm, but the "house" style quickly develops and predominates. It is hardly surprising when the shooting time was so short and many of the same locations and sets are used again and again between episodes! Here, even Argento's main musical collaborator, Claudio Simonetti, turns in a half-hearted, meandering score of vacant underscoring. Only in the nursery rhyme motif that represents the child-like appeal of Jenifer (but recalls a similar theme in "Profondo Rosso"), and a pounding synth anthem near the end of the episode, does Simonetti come anywhere near producing anything that draws the viewer's attention to the musical accompaniment, but it never conjures anything like the signature audio-visual extravagance of Argento in his prime.

 

The story is a strange and twisted tale about a police officer, Frank Spivey (Steven Weber) who takes pity upon the victim of a maniac, who is killed by Spivey when he is discovered attempting to murder a screaming blonde-haired girl (Carrie Anne Fleming). The girl turns out to have a hideous appearance: a twisted gash of a mouth, full of misshapen yellowing teeth, and large dark shark-like eyes. Spivey becomes obsessed with the girl, although no information can be gleaned about her past, apart from her name - Jenifer - which is found scrawled on a piece of paper in the pocket of her attacker. Spivey rescues Jenifer from a mental institution and takes her to live with his not particularly understanding wife and son — who promptly leave after Jenifer eats the family cat! Despite unusual eating habits, Jenifer also has a rampant sexual desire and Frank becomes alternately pitying of her childlike mewing and entranced by her sexuality. However, this strange creature's darker side leads Frank to abandon his former life in order to hide her increasingly depraved crimes. He becomes homeless and alcoholic, forced to devote himself entirely to this strange, hideous entity. When he takes a stocktaking job at a small country grocery shop, he arouses the jealousy of his dependant charge ... with terrible results.

 

In terms of the series as a whole then, this is a great episode: some of the gore scenes remind one more of prime Fulci at his most depraved and take no prisoners in depicting some very unpleasant ideas indeed. In particular, the killing of a small child, which seemed so extreme when it was done in the 1931 Universal adaptation of "Frankenstein" (a scene clearly referenced here, when the child who lives next door to Frank is seen throwing flowers into a paddling pool), is taken to terrible extremes -- thanks to the wonders of CGI, which allow extreme violence towards a minor to be depicted without putting a real child in any unpleasant situations. Argento has certainly pushed the boundaries of TV violence here (his was the only episode to be censored — aside from Takashi Miike's episode which was banned altogether!) and the story, although it meanders towards a rather predictable end, does include enough weirdness and macabre zeal to keep most viewers interested for the full hour. 

 

But the episode that in some ways justifies the existence of the whole series was never even broadcast in the U.S. by Showtime. Takashi Miike's astonishing "Imprint" is not only by far the best episode of the series, but could also be one of the best works of the Japanese director's career thus far! In some ways it looks like a showcase for the wide range of genres and styles this versatile and prolific auteur has dabbled in over the past twenty years. Not really a horror director as such, Miike's uncompromising vision nevertheless falls within the range of emotions and challenging ideas that the other directors in this series (or some of them, anyway!) have expressed through the genre during their heyday. Miike's episode stands out in particular, I suspect, because his is the only one made separately from the other twelve, with a Japanese crew and different, unique locations — rather than Vancouver having to stand-in for everywhere! But more than anything, it sums up Miike at his best — when he is able to merge great beauty with ravaged ugliness, dazzling poetry with crude absurdity and tenderness with the blackest sadism. In Miike's work they all exist together, as entwined as the twin of the film's prostitute lead female character. Miike's films have never had a defining visual style but "Imprint" looks amazing, with deep blacks, otherworldly emeralds and sumptuous crimsons. The sets and costumes look similarly exotic and eye-catching, and the screenplay (which is adapted from Shimako Iwai's novel, "Bokkee Kyoutee") mixes comedy and horror; a broad, knowing absurdity; and arthouse sensibilities, in mischievous plenitude. Then, of course, there is the violence! We will come to that in a moment, but the current craze for torture-based horror; horror obsessed by the pain it is possible to imagine being inflicted on the body in such films as "Hostel" and "Saw", probably derives in no small measure from Takashi Miike's influence.

 

The story is set some time in the 19th century and sees an American traveller (Billy Drago) with a shady past, arriving on a small island that houses a brothel presided over by a dwarfish old Madam with a cancer-eaten nose (Toshie Negishi). The blue-lit waters around the island are full of the bloated pale corpses of dead women and the garish brothel seems haunted by ghosts lurking in the veiled shadows. Christopher has come in search of the beautiful red-haired girl, Komomo (Michie Ito); the girl with whom he fell in love years before. He asks a mysterious disfigured prostitute about the girl and what became of her, and is distraught to hear that she is dead! The woman (Youki Kudoh) then embarks on a series of tales about both her own life and that of Komomo; she tells of growing up with her abortionist mother and of her time as a prostitute at the brothel where the gruesome fate of the unfortunate Komomo was unspooled. But how much of the woman's story is true? and what is the bizarre secret that lurks in the shadows throughout the interview?

 

Violence and torture have been a big feature in Miike's most well-known movies; so it is no surprise that "Imprint" should also contain a central torture scene that, while not the most disturbing he has ever created, certainly goes well beyond the bounds of most television drama. Komomo is sadistically brutalised by having needles inserted beneath her fingernails and between her gums, and is left strung upside down to urinate over herself! This elaborate sadism is staged with carefully choreographed coldness but filmed in a series of beautiful, colourful tableaux that turns the inhumanity of it into a bizarre kind of entrancing visual spectacle. Challenging imagery abounds elsewhere in the episode with squalid abortion scenes, images of foetuses in a bucket, and the surrealistic Basket Case-influenced conclusion that takes the film into areas of parody while still retaining the haunted, dreamlike atmosphere. "Imprint" is a challenge to our stomachs and our aesthetic sensibilities, and, like much of Miike's work, breaks down the distinction between serious art and exploitation and will be talked about long after most of the other episodes in this series are forgotten.

 

The six discs in this box set come with the usual wide array of extras, including commentaries, behind-the-scenes featurettes and interviews, but, once again, the "Imprint" disc comes up trumps with a forty-minute interview with Takashi Miike, a twenty-minute featurette of the amazing special effects in the episode and a forty-minute making of documentary. It's well worth getting the set for this episode alone.