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by Bill Gibron

4 Oct 2009


Schlock. Grade-Z cinematic silliness. Cheese. Bad movies get lots of unfortunate names, (especially when discussing the frightmare aspect of crap creativity) and with good reason. For anyone who fancies themselves a devotee of dung, a purveyor of the putrid, a fan of the full blown fear factor flop, the worse a supposedly scary film is, the better for the unlikely entertainment bottom line. Individuals love to champion the “so lame their loveable” school of shocks, but the truth remains that no matter the guilty pleasures present, a terrible attempt at motion picture macabre will always be nothing more than joyful junk.

Want proof? Look no further than the mind-bending DVD double feature from Liberation Entertainment, Mutants and Monsters: Uninvited/Mutant. Digging up two flailing fossils from the direct to video era of terror - the early 1980s - and serving them up sans anything remote supplementary - we are thrown into a world of weak premises, poor execution, bad acting, shaky special effects, underwhelming ambitions, questionable direction, and in the end, spotty, shoddy shivers. Indeed, the only thing frightening about either one of these dreadful dog and pony shows is that someone thought they had any viable commercial potential in the first place.

Uninvited starts off in a high rise laboratory, where a group of scientists are doing unethical things to cute little pussy cats. One of these fudged with felines escapes and quickly kills several security guards. Apparently, the beast has been outfitted with an inner demon, a murderous mutated kitten that comes crawling out of its host - Alien style - to snack on whoever is in claw-striking distance. Through a series of coincidences, it winds up on the yacht of corrupt stock trader Walter Graham. On his way to the Cayman Islands to pick up his ill gotten gains, a group of late ‘20s college kids in tow, he hopes to avoid prosecution by the SEC. When the passengers come face to face with the gangrenous Garfield however, getting pinched by the Feds is the least of their worries.

Mutant, on the other hand, finds brothers Josh and Mike Cameron traveling to the Deep South for a long delayed sibling getaway. A run-in with a few fed-up rednecks and the boys are stranded in the seemingly abandoned town of Goodland. The local law is a drunken city cop whose boozing it up to escape the past. The town doc is a female nosy-body who senses something is amiss with the citizenry. Almost everyone is sick with some kind of mystery flu, and there’s a disgusting yellow ooze on everything. When Mike goes missing, Josh turns detective. It’s not long before he’s hooked up with the town’s only pseudo-sexpot and together they unearth the horrific truth. A multinational chemical concern has been dumping toxic waste in the water supply, turning the entire populace into ravenous zombies!

In the realm of overripe ideas and underdeveloped delivery, Uninvited and Mutant take the proverbial urinal cake. With monsters made out of Tom Savini’s trash bin trimmings and performances so shaky they make Madonna look like Meryl Streep, both films easily fulfill the mandates of psychotronic stupidity. For his killer kitten compost, writer/director Greydon Clark (a true maverick of the mediocre, responsible for such ‘classics’ as Satan’s Cheerleaders, Angel’s Brigade, and the Joe Don joke Final Justice) convolutes his narrative way past the breaking point. Eventually, we get so tired of the criminal cat and mouse between Graham and his spunky Spring Breakers that we just want the feral feline to murder them all. Mutant, on the other hand, sees stuntman turned replacement lenser John “Bud” Cardos bet it all on the appearance of the undead at the end of his otherwise slowwitted wonder. Until then, he discovers as many ways as possible to turn terror into tedium.

Acting is crucial to making any horror movie work. If we don’t believe in the reactions of the victims, if we question their motivation (or in some instances, their similarity to actual living breathing human beings), we are instantly taken out of the moment. In Uninvited, seasoned vets like Clu Gulager, Alex Cord and George Kennedy try to compete with the incompetence of newcomers like a blond Rob Estes or an always bikinied Shari Shattuck. But the real rotten tomato in this wilted, worn out salad is Toni Hudson. She plays Rachel, the boat captain hampered by a saggy subplot involving her dad, his once thriving charter business, and Graham’s destruction of same. Her line readings are so one-note, her onscreen demeanor so slight, she is often upstaged by passing seagulls.

Oddly enough, the same thing happens in Mutant. Bo Hopkins and Wings Hauser are their usual b-movie best, bringing the slightest sense of scenery chewing to an otherwise laid back affair. Former child star Lee Montgomery is also very good, though director Cardos’ decision to constantly focus his shirtless well-toned torso on us becomes an issue for another think piece entirely. No, where things start to fall apart in the performance department is with the arrival of small town teacher and part-time barmaid Holly Pierce. Played with all the passion of a dead perch, obvious ‘friend of the producer’ Jody Medford treats us to blank stares, asexual allure, and a hairdo that suggests Farah Fawcett gone bumpkin. Just like Ms. Hudson in Uninvited, this lumbering love interest for Wings works against anything the film has to offer. 

Still, there are elements of enjoyment to be found in each offering. You can’t deny the devious fun to be had watching a hack job hand puppet, meant to represent an irradiated feline, slowly picking off the droning dim bulbs on the yacht’s passenger list, and Mutant actually delivers an army of the undead…just in time to have the cops show up for a massive firefight. There’s some minor gore in Uninvited, while nothing is better than a bunch of zombie children stalking and smelting another under-aged victim (in a boy’s lavatory no less). Yet even with the schlock factor stinking to high heaven and a desire to turn these former denizens of your Mom and Pop video store into some manner of cult concern, these two films just can’t cut the cheese. Some many find the Mutants and Monsters Double Feature to be a genial camp kitsch novelty. Others will merely be nauseous

by Bill Gibron

3 Oct 2009


If DVD has done anything, and frankly this applies to the entire realm of home video, it’s the introduction of foreign and outsider cult figures to an otherwise clueless commercial audience. Names like Jose Mojica Marins, Sonny Chiba, and Chow Yun-Fat went from literal unknowns with a small, devoted demographic following their films to overnight format icons. The availability of their movies, and the Internet’s capacity to spread said obsessive love around, turned the tide away from the typical Tinseltown twinkies and back toward these undeniably unknown quantities.

Perhaps one of the most enigmatic entries into this hallowed who’s-who is Paul Naschy. Known in his native Spain as the country’s Lon Chaney, his numerous horror films have cemented his status as a menacing, mercurial macabre presence. Yet until the advent of VHS, you had to wait for the local late, late show or Saturday shock theater rerun to see some of his work. Now Troma Entertainment treats us to one of his most unusual, a boisterous bodice ripper with supernatural overtones known originally as La Orgía de los muertos. Retitled The Hanging Woman for its US release, this slick supernatural sudser offers the multitalented actor in a solid supporting role. But even when he’s not the lead, Naschy simply dominates the screen.

In a small Scottish village, the death of a nobleman sends his relatives scrambling. His new wife wants everything. Unfortunately, his daughter stands to inherit everything. When the young woman turns up dead (hanging from a cemetery tree, thus the title) local law enforcement thinks it’s suicide. Evidence later implies she was murdered. When an unknown heir shows up, a nephew named Serge Chekov, the constable considers him a suspect. Soon, however, it’s apparent that darker forces have taken over the household. The widow dabbles in black magic. The doctor in residence reanimates the dead. And a perverted graverobber named Igor appears to hold the answers as to why the town is plagued by such undeniable evils.

Imagine Dark Shadows with nudity and you’ve got a pretty good idea of The Hanging Woman‘s allure. This Gothic soap opera, overloaded with plot and resulting onscreen exposition, is so manipulative and melodramatic that when something startling comes along (Naschy’s character is a grimy little scumbucket who takes pictures of - and occasionally fraternizes sexually with - the dead) that it throws everything for a loop. Director José Luis Merino tries to maintain a tone of seriousness and suspense, but the storyline is so scattered and moves at such a stumblebum pace that it’s almost impossible to feel anything other than confusion. Still, you have to give The Hanging Woman credit - it definitely offers up some fascinating tidbits among the less memorable material.

The whole zombie subtext works because Merino keeps them off camera for most of the movie. When they arrive, they provide a sickening spectacle in all their rotting corpse corruptness. Similarly, the witchcraft angle is also intriguing, since it suggests more is going on than what turns out to be a rather straightforward whodunit. But the best thing about The Hanging Woman is the performances. Everyone here is excellent, from Stelvio Rosi who resembles a lost member of the Moody Blues in his Serge Chekov regalia to the dishy Dyanik Zurakowska, who may not have much in the cleavage department, but sure puts on an alluring front. With other evocative turns by the performers in perfunctory roles (policeman, flustered city official), Merino makes his material work.

Naschy, however, is the key to everything. He’s not just a supporting part of the story, he’s an aura, a magnetic personality permeating every facet of the film. We understand early on that Igor is part of some bigger plan, that his love of the dead is being exploited by someone who understands his needs. Even the wicked widow dresses up like a recently interred body to get him into the boudoir, her confidence, and her bed. From the threat he presents to authorities to the last act reliance on his prowess as an unlikely alibi, Naschy owns The Hanging Woman. When he’s on camera, we are mesmerized by his obvious charisma. When he’s off, we wonder when Igor will return to the plot. While there are better movies that illustrate his undeniable superstardom in his oeuvre, The Hanging Woman is a great way to see how one actor can singlehandedly lord over an entire period piece production.

Troma earns extra points for providing us with another movie as part of this newly released DVD. While not starring Naschy, it too is from Spain and features Dyanik Zurakowska as a young woman who promises her lover that they will always be together - even after death. Entitled The Sweet Sound of Death, this morose monochrome effort from 1965 offers an interest contrast to Hanging Woman‘s more lurid color conceits. Troma also tricks out the disc with numerous added features. There’s an interview and commentary with Merino (in Spanish with subtitles), a new Q&A with Naschy, a talk with Ben Tatar (who specialized in dubbing foreign films into English) and a career overview tied to this film entitled “Paul Naschy 101”. Add in a few trailers, a photo gallery of vintage lobby cards, and a decent set of tech specs, and The Hanging Woman disc provides all the necessary digital context to clarify Naschy’s legacy.

While not a classic, The Hanging Woman definitely has its high points. It’s got some great locations, a splash of sinister finesse, more than a few ripe red herrings, and a performance by Naschy that’s not to be missed. But like most cult figures who are just finding their footing in the nu-media realm, there are dozens of better examples of the actor’s work to be discovered. Companies like Troma are definitely thanked for finding these often rare releases and putting them out for appreciated fans to fuss over. But just like the canon of Brazil’s Coffin Joe, whose decade long career has been reduced to a half dozen DVDs, Paul Naschy deserves a broader cinematic perspective. Of course, the hope is that a release like The Hanging Woman will spark further interest in the amazing macabre icon. As with many who’ve seen home video inspired interest, he definitely deserves it.

by Bill Gibron

30 Sep 2009


There’s no true middle ground with The Wizard of Oz. Either you love its overflowing sentimentality and sugar-coded Technicolor dreamscape or you despise its sugary, saccharine schmaltz. You beam whenever champion child star Judy Garland belts out “Over the Rainbow” or run in terror during those ominous opening strains. It’s hard to be ambivalent, the movie’s moxie making it difficult to ignore its earnest desire to entertain and yet it’s that very hyperbolic happiness that drives many modern audiences to dismiss the movie as antique, artificial, and aggravating. Well, perhaps Blu-ray can help turn the tide. After seeing the sensational 70th Anniversary edition of the film, fully restored to a high gloss HD sheen, few will ever view it as an amiable artifact from a bygone era. Instead, it will be seen as the masterpiece it is.

Everyone knows (or should know) the story by now - little Dorothy Gale, desperate to save her dog Toto from the evil clutches of local busybody Miss Almira Gulch, runs away from home, leaving her Aunt Em and Uncle Henry and handyman Hunk, Hickory and Zeke to worry about her. Thanks to the wise words of flim flam man fortune teller, Professor Marvel, she decides to return. As a twister descends on her Kansas farm, she is caught up in the maelstrom. Her house is blown into the whirlwind, ending up in the merry old land of Oz.

There, she meets the Munchkins, learns that she’s killed the Wicked Witch of the East, and has to follow the Yellow Brick Road to find the local wizard and get back home. With advice from Glinda, The Good Witch of the North, she heads to the Emerald City. Along the way she meets a Scarecrow who’d like some brains, a Tin Man who lacks a heart, and a Cowardly Lion who’d love some courage. She also incurs the wrath of the Wicked Witch of the West, an equally evil woman who wants her sister’s magical ruby slippers. It just so happens that Gilda gave them to Dorothy for safe keeping.

So what if it doesn’t follow the classic L. Frank Baum book to the letter? Who cares if then superstar Shirley Temple lost the lead to up and coming MGM diva supreme Garland? Does it matter that Ray Bolger was originally cast as the Tin Man, but then begged producers to give him Buddy Epson’s role of the Scarecrow? Or that the future Jed Clampett would eagerly change parts with his co-star, only to suffer a severe allergic reaction to the aluminum dust in the make-up and have to leave the production permanently? Outside of what’s up on the screen, the missing musical numbers (including the oft cited “Jitterbug”) and multitude of creative coincidences only increase the films legacy and longevity.

Indeed, many of the stories surrounding the making of this amazing movie are just as compelling as the film itself, and Warner Brothers has seen fit to fill out this astonishing four disc set with as many of them as possible. There is so much added content here - early silent film versions of the Oz stories (including one helmed by Baum himself), TV movies based on the material, documentaries and full length features discussing the film’s creation and lasting impact, as well as numerous critical, scholarly, and specialty (F/X, music) overviews - that we get wrapped up in the history. About the only thing not addressed here are the numerous urban legends and conspiracy theory rumors surrounding the final product.

And what a magnificent movie it is, a true endeavor of the human spirit that seems to resonate through every pore of your being down deep into the very core of your sunny, sated soul. It’s almost impossible to watch Garland, in her first major starring role, and not fall in love with her cherub cheeked cheeriness. When she cries, it’s like Heaven itself is weeping, and when she sings, the angels step aside so that her gorgeous voice can eclipse the very power of song itself. She is matched well by Bolger, Jack Haley (as the Tin Man), Margaret Hamilton (as Gulch and the Wicked Witch) and Henry Morgan (as the kindly Wizard himself). Burt Lahr’s Lion might be a bit much for those not familiar with such scenery chewing vaudevillian shtick, but his buoyant personality is so pervasion you simply stop carrying and start laughing.

The look of the film is also a supporting superlative, a day-glo dimension of plastic, paint, and imaginative persuasion. The opening sequences with their sepia tone nostalgia set us up for the sudden explosion of rainbow brightness. Munchkinland is so eye-popping a spectacle that it’s almost impossible not to be moved to tears of happiness and the various locations created for the film resonate with real authority and artistic power. Though Victor Fleming finds his name on the top of the director’s credits, myth tells us that as many as five other filmmakers had a hand in the final cut. You’d never know by looking at the lyrical vistas and stunning production numbers offered. It’s all so perfect and cinematically sublime.

From a special effects standpoint, The Wizard of Oz was also ahead of its time. This is 1939 after all. Several scenes, including most with Margaret Hamilton’s Witch are wonderful in their sense of supernatural intrigue. The times when our intrepid heroes interact with the omniscient Oz also offer excitable “how’d-they-do-that?” eye candy. From the costumes and careful make-up designs to the overall Golden Age of Hollywood sheen, you would be hard pressed to truly age the film. Indeed, when they invented the term “timeless”, The Wizard of Oz was probably part of the defining determination. And now Blu-ray has turned it into something even more magnificent.

This new transfer is awe inspiring. You can actually see the carefully created burlap sack lines in Ray Bolger’s face, painted on in a slight suggestive manner so that the rest of the fabric façade blends right in. When a close-up captures Lahr’s lion head, you’d be hard pressed to find where the appliances end and the human being begins. From details so crisp you can read the wording on various Oz documents and decrees to a field of poppies so ripe and red you can also smell their poisoned pleasantness yourself, there has never been a better version of The Wizard of Oz available on home video ever. If The Matrix made VHS consumers beg to switch over to the new digital domain, the Blu-ray of this classic will convince to make the leap into the new 1080p format pronto.

Even better, seeing The Wizard of Oz this way, in the most flawless and fleshed out way possible, should provide enough ammunition to cynical and smug of their anti-Dorothy sentiments. Unlike other mandatory motion pictures declared treasures by time, unclear consensus, and endless obsessive tirades, Oz maintains its long term defensibility for one important reason - it works. It entertains. It soars. It splashes across the screen in big fat sugar frosted hugs and emotionally honest kisses. For nearly two hours, we are whisked away to a world where no one is unloved, everyone is caring, and the dreams of a little girl find their final resting place in a small Kansas farmhouse among family and friends. Who needs winged monkeys when you can discover that there’s no place like home? That’s why The Wizard of Oz endures. That’s why it is one of the greatest films of all time. 

by Bill Gibron

27 Sep 2009


The search for enlightenment is part of the human experience. It’s the reason for religion, the basis for a billion self-help guides, and the excuse for so much of our own inner turmoil. We want to believe there is some purpose to life, that within a realm of a million minor difficulties and rewards, there’s a big picture plot as to why we exist. Of course, many would argue that faith is the opiate of the masses, that organized belief has done more damage than good, and that within a time frame encompassing thousands of years, priests and prophets have provided very little to further our understanding.

Now, two new DVDs from Alive Mind Media (a copy whose ad copy stresses their commitment to releasing “specialty documentary programming in the areas of enlightened consciousness, secular spirituality and culture”) hope to dispel some myths while making the mysteries of spirituality a whole lot less enigmatic. So…Help Me God centers on Simon Cole and his cross-country quest to discover the power and glory of a Higher Authority. His genial, 52 minute road trip takes him all across America, exposing both theological acceptance and fundamentalist rage.

Meditate and Destroy focuses on former bad boy turned author and Buddhist teacher Noah Levine. As much a teaching tool as a mini-biography, we learn of the drug addled and crime filled life that transformed this self-proclaimed punk into a force for good in the realm of spiritual guidance. While Levine’s story has much more dramatic punch, it is frequently compromised by director Sarah Fisher’s desire to hard sell the man’s ‘ministry’ and teachings. Cole, on the other hand creates a Religulous like experience in which questions of dogmatic inconsistency provide fodder for humor - and occasional insight.

Indeed, So…Help Me God accomplishes the basic tenets of its set-up. Cole comes across as good natured and genuine, never openly confronting his hosts like HBO pundit Bill Maher did during his documentary. Certainly he lets the subjects spewing hate hang themselves with obvious clarity (a family of rabid homosexual hating zealots are exposed for the robot minding morons they are), but he also wants to understand and experience the substance of religious devotion. After speaking with all manner of types - Muslim, Jew, Hindi, Buddhist, etc. - he decides to confront his quandary head on. Setting up a tent in the desert, he explores the reasons and the need for faith. His last act revelation falls in line with the rest of So…Help Me God‘s direct designs.

Cole also does a great service to those who truly feel the need for God without all the organized and ritualized trappings. The doubters deliver arguments just as compelling as the converted, while hot button topics like choice, sexual orientation, and Biblical interpretation also receive a fair and balanced treatment. The only downside here is the length - at 52 minutes, Cole just scratches the surface. He puts across a fairly flawless preamble to what could be a much longer and more sophisticated overview (Satanists, Wiccans, and Atheists are left out of the mix, for example). Still, by shining a light on the need for answers within a world striving to complicated and confuse, So…Help Me God becomes a telling individual explanation.

Oddly enough, Mediate and Destroy does the same thing, only in a far less compelling manner. No doubt about it - Levine is a persuasive presence. Taking after his noted father (both have a marvelous gift for gab and the prescient application of same) we see him speaking to various groups and gatherings, all the while focusing on the journey through Hell he put himself through as a youth. In between are talking head interviews that expand on what Levine teaches while supporting his updated dynamic. The biographical elements are a bit scattered, our subjects tales of youthful indiscretion and crack fueled violence supposedly showcasing how far he’s come. While they offer such sustenance, they often become unnecessary reminders.

His entire persona, from the punk rock patina to the amazing body art, suggests the entire battle without getting into every detail. Even better, when Levine starts counseling a specific group of individuals, his examples and heart-felt anecdotes deliver the message loud and clear. During these specific scenes, when others explain their pain and suffering, Meditate and Destroy really finds its purpose. We can see how Levine’s words move and inspire these people and the battles scars they all carry just beneath the surface makes them just as compelling as their teacher. Sometimes, the backstory blinds us to the teachings inherent in Buddhism, but as a way of getting the too hip and the too insular into spirituality, this is a fascinating film.

Indeed, what both So…Help Me God and Meditate and Destroy do best is remove the smug, self-important aura off of faith. They argue that people don’t have to be part of some centuries old community to get in touch with their own inner light. Cole specifically shows that forging your own path, investigating and dissection the various approach to religion might just be the best way to discover what’s really important to you. On the other hand, Levine has clearly found something that works for his always tenuous sobriety. And since he comes across as both serious and enthusiastic to share, we fall into his words and thoughts with ease. While So…Help Me God is the much more pleasurable experience, Meditate and Destroy goes deeper into the question of belief and its halting, healing power.

Still, one can see a viewer sitting through each of these films and finding fault with many issues. Indeed, for someone living in the pragmatic and the practical, the notion of turning over any control, even a small amount of metaphysical or psychological, would seem specious. And when Cole discovers the truth about his quest, we often wonder if that’s the reality behind the various versions of faith. Still, as Noah Levine points out over and over again in his teaching, life is not about unqualified happiness. It’s about suffering, and learning how to confront and defeat said struggle on a daily basis. For most, religion is a plausible panacea. As So…Help Me God and Meditate and Destroy disclose, there may be better ways toward achieving peace outside of such strict convictions.

by Bill Gibron

26 Sep 2009


In the hierarchy of horror, Lucio Fulci usually falls somewhere between the post-modern macabre of Dario Argento and the creepshow classicism of Mario Bava. He’s not as nauseating as Bava’s son Lamberto, yet never achieved the artistic aplomb of Argento apprentice Michele Soavi. In fact, Fulci is loved more for his appreciation of violence and brutality than anything artistically substantive. From The Beyond to The City of the Living Dead, he’s created classic ‘double dare’ movies, the kind of gruesome, offal-filled freak outs that had fans cringing in their seats (and hurling in their barf bags). But there was an even sleazier side to the director, something clearly seen in The New York Ripper. While he still piles on the pus, everything else here is drowning in debauchery.

After a dog discovers a decomposing hand near the Hudson river, police detective Fred Williams learns that the victim had recent contact with a strange man speaking in a deranged, duck like voice. Soon, another body is discovered on the Staten Island ferry. With the help of psychological profiler Dr. Paul Davis, Williams starts to rundown a list of suspects. In the meantime, a high society woman with a penchant for rough trade and live sex shows makes intimate recordings for her perverted husband. Elsewhere in the city, a young lady named Fay has a run in with a man with two fingers missing on his hand. Suddenly, this deformed individual is the prime person of interest in the case. As Williams hunts for clues, the killer calls him, taunting him in that silly, sickening way. If he’s not careful, this New York Ripper will destroy everything he knows…and loves.

It goes without saying that if you’ve seen one Fulci giallo, you’ve seen The New York Ripper (recently rereleased on Blu-ray by Blue Underground). As far back as his infamous Don’t Torture a Duckling, he meshed borderline boring police procedurals with momentary lapses into splendiferous gore. Fulci is truly the father of non sequitor sluice. Give him a standard situation - police firing on a suspect - and you’ll see the person’s head literally explode in a stunning array of arterial ambivalence. It doesn’t matter if it fits the tone of what he’s attempting. As long as he can paint the screen red, Lucio likes. Perhaps that’s why New York Ripper is so much mean spirited fun. While the vast majority of the movie plays like a lampoon of serial killer shockers (the murderer speaks like Donald Duck with a disease), the frequent lapses into outright nastiness more than makes up for the unintentional laughs.

What’s different here though is the reliance on repugnant sexuality and decadent NY-seediness. Any film that has a main character getting a foot job inside a skuzzy dive bar, that perpetrates a horrendous vivisection on a completely nude victim - Heck, almost any Fulci fantasy that explores the corporeal with the cadaverous - is bound to throw fright fans for a loop. We expect a little T&A with our scares, but the disturbed way in which The New York Ripper delivers this material is mind-numbing. If Fulci ever wondered why he wasn’t taken more seriously, the sleazoid subtext here should have been all the proof he needed. This really is a repulsive little reject. 

It’s this deranged dichotomy that works both for and against The New York Ripper. This is a movie where half of what’s onscreen truly satisfies, while the other part seems purposefully set on destroying everything that came before. The mystery is mangled in a series of false leads, ridiculous red herrings, narrative u-turns, and any other perplexing plot pointing the script can offer. On the other hand, the performances win us over, Fulci mixing his cast between accomplished Americans (Jack Hedley, Howard Ross) and Italian imports (Andrea Occhipinti, Paolo Malco). As with most of his films, his female leads are rather weak, passive in their ability to stand on their own. Almanta Suska, as Fay, has a hard time balancing the demands of the role with the reality of the situation. She’s supposed to be a prime suspect, yet never comes across as anything other than whiny and confused.

Sadly, Fulci left us in 1996, meaning that most home theater content must rely on experts and other so-called scholars to fill in the filmmaker’s many creative blanks. That being said, Blue Underground does very little with this release, simply providing some basic information and leaving it at that. The image upgrade is startling, definitely worth the investment. The 1080p, 2.35:1 widescreen image is crisp and clean, with minimal grain and lots of tacky early ‘80s coloring. The new HD mix, offered in dynamic 7.1 DTS, also opens up the film, allowing for more metropolitan ambience and big city atmosphere.

As for bonus features, we get a look at the New York locations (then and now), and an interview with actress Zora Kerova. Toss in a trailer and that’s it. Certainly, there is someone out in the fright fan ether that can comment on how the filmmaker came to helm this particular project (he had been on an international roll ever since Zombi in 1979). While always a journeyman, Fulci did hold some particular ambitions, and it would be interesting to learn where The New York Ripper fit into these crazy career plans.

Of course, as the years go by, and as the ‘Net expands in the appreciation of the wrongfully marginalized, Lucio Fulci may yet find his place among the horror beloved. Of course, you have to get past all the cheesy comedies, weirdo westerns, and other genre jumps the director created over his decades in the industry. The New York Ripper doesn’t help or hurt his cause, mostly because blood blots out the substantial shortcomings. Still, if you really want to see what this director is all about, take a gander at his straight ahead horror romps. They are much more satisfying from a fright and filth standpoint. Films like this one are not really an anomaly. But they do underscore the reason why Fulci remains a valued, if underappreciated auteur.

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