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That time Orson Welles met Andy Kaufman
12.02.2016
02:12 pm

Topics:
Movies
Television

Tags:
Orson Welles
Andy Kaufman


 
Orson Welles and Andy Kaufman were arguably the two greatest pranksters in American history. Welles infamously sparked an intense bout of public hysteria when his 1938 radio adaptation of H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds conned thousands of radio listeners into believing that a Martian invasion of Earth was actually occurring.  Welles’ final finished feature film, 1974’s documentary F for Fake, about the notorious art forger Elmyr De Hory is a dazzling, intellectuality challenging masterpiece that can never quite decide if it’s a fake documentary about a painter of fake masterpieces who himself was the subject of a true biography written by a fake biographer (Clifford Irving)… or what it is.

Meanwhile, Kaufman’s legendary ability to take a premise beyond its breaking point was so developed that to this day many people still believe that he faked his own death 32 years ago.
 

 
The two men not only met, but Welles interviewed Kaufman when he served as a replacement host on The Merv Griffin Show. Despite his notably curmudgeonly behavior in his advanced years, Welles genuinely gushed about Kaufman’s remarkable acting talents. The date of the show was June 25, 1982. Observing the proceedings was Barney Miller actor Ron Glass, who passed away earlier this week.

I was happy to learn that Welles appreciated the comedic heights achieved by Taxi, which he calls one of the few things on TV that is not a “criminal felony,” but it’s even more interesting to notice the man behind the Mercury Theatre, possibly the greatest theatrical ensemble ever put together, observe that Taxi, despite its marvelous cast, often fell short of its potential as an ensemble show because the plots were seldom confined to the taxi depot (which would have the effect of forcing multi-character interactions).

Welles acutely observes that “Nobody ever came from nowhere as completely as” Kaufman’s character Latka Gravas did. Kaufman comes out wearing a neck brace but never makes anything of it—this was no doubt a product of his wrestling escapades with countless female opponents.

Roll tape, after the jump…

Posted by Martin Schneider | Leave a comment
Fantastic vintage Japanese movie posters
12.02.2016
10:51 am

Topics:
Art
Design
Movies

Tags:
posters
Japanese film posters

12hardsdaynight1964.jpg
‘A Hard’s Day Night’ (1964).
 
A friend collects Japanese movie posters. He’s rich enough to afford it. The walls of his house are almost covered with these bright, garish, beautiful film posters. Last time, I visited him I asked why he never exhibited them or at least scanned them digitally to share on the Internet. He said he thought of them as art—and as art they had to be viewed in person and not through a screen. I thought he was just being a pretentious twat—but there you go.

Fair to say, it was an impressive collection—a mix of Japanese features and American/British imports. But his collection went no further than the late-seventies to early-eighties. I wondered why? This, he explained, was because the best Japanese movie posters originated during the Shōwa period—the time of Emperor Hirohito’s reign 1926-1989—when the printing process meant the posters were by artists creating collages from cut-up photographs. These were airbrushed and colorized to glorious effect. There was an art and craft to making these posters—which remained roughly the same from the twenties to the seventies—which the digital era no longer employs.

Inspired by my dear friend’s collection, I’ve collated together a mix of images which exemplify some of the best in Japanese poster design—and let’s be honest, who wouldn’t want one of these hanging on their walls?
 
21batman1966.jpg
‘Batman’ (1966).
 
33bedazzled1967.jpg
‘Bedazzled’ (1967).
 
More fantastic Japanese movie posters, after the jump…

Posted by Paul Gallagher | Leave a comment
‘Jean Cocteau speaks to the year 2000’ (or Jean Cocteau is dead, long live Jean Cocteau!)
11.30.2016
03:50 pm

Topics:
Art
Movies
Queer
Thinkers

Tags:
Jean Cocteau


 
Prior to his death in 1963, Jean Cocteau, the great French artist, filmmaker, novelist, playwright and poet, made his cinematic last will and testament, a time-capsule titled Jean Cocteau s’adresse… à l’an 2000 (“Jean Cocteau speaks to the year 2000”). Cocteau, seen seated in front of his own work at Francine Weisweiller’s Villa Santo-Sospir (where his Testament of Orpheus was shot), offers advice and perspective to a generation just being born. Cocteau gives his definition of genius and of the poet, “an intermediary, a medium of that mysterious force that inhabits.” He also discusses the technical progress of science and how it must not be impeded by intolerance and religion.

In his Cocteau biography James S. Williams wrote:

Just a couple of months before his death, in August 1963, he made one last film: a 25-minute short entitled Jean Cocteau s’adresse à l’an 2000 (Cocteau addresses the year 2000). The film comprises one still and highly sober shot of Cocteau facing the camera head-on to address the youth of the future. Once recorded, this spoken message for the 21st century was wrapped up, sealed and posted on the understanding that it would be opened only in the year 2000 (as it turned out, it was discovered and exhumed a few years shy of that date). If in The Testament Cocteau portrays himself as a living anachronism, a lonesome classical modernist loitering in space-time in the same buckskin jacket and tie while lost in the spectral light of his memories, here he acknowledges explicitly the irony of his phantom-like state: by the time the viewer sees this image, he, J. C., our saviour Poet, will long be dead.

Temporality is typically skewed: speaking from both 1963 and 2000 Cocteau is at once nostalgic for the present that will have passed and prophetic about the future. There is thus both a documentary aspect and projective thrust to the film, another new configuration of ‘superior realism’ and fantasy enhanced by Cocteau’s seamless performance as himself and his now ‘immortal’ status as a member of the Académie Française. He reiterates some of his long-standing artistic themes and principles: death is a form of life; poetry is beyond time and a kind of superior mathematics; we are all a procession of others who inhabit us; errors are the true expression of an individual, and so on. The tone is at once speculative and uncompromising, as when Cocteau pours vitriolic scorn on the many awards bestowed upon him, which he calls ‘transcendent punishments’. He also revels in the fact that he can say now what he likes with absolute freedom and impunity since he will not be around to suffer the consequences.

The status of Jean Cocteau s’adresse à l’an 2000 remains ultimately unclear. Is it a new testament or confession, or a heroic demonstration of the need for human endurance, or a pure ‘farce of anti-gravitation’ as he puts it? Or everything at once? It is entirely characteristic of Cocteau to leave us hanging on this suspended paradox. What is certain, however, and what we have consistently seen, is that Cocteau’s life and body are his work, and his work in turn is always mysteriously alive. This is Cocteau’s final gift to his fellow human beings. Let us retain and celebrate the force of that gesture. He is resurrected before our eyes, ever-present, defiant and joyfully queer.

Jean Cocteau is dead, long live Cocteau!

If you are a Cocteau aficionado, the film is a delight. Here are a few transcribed moments:

We remain apprentice robots.

I certainly hope that you have not become robots but on the contrary that you have become very humanized: that’s my hope.

But I have no idea who you are or how you are thinking, or what you are doing. I don’t know the dances you are dancing.

The dance of our time is called “The Twist.” Maybe you have heard
about it.

You most certainly have your own dance.

I wonder what Cocteau would have made of The Beatles, hippies, gay liberation, punk, Internet pornography, Facebook, the iPhone, Barack Obama and now Donald Trump, but this we’ll never know.

More after the jump…

Posted by Richard Metzger | Leave a comment
The sad and heartbreaking reality of Shelley Duvall’s mental health


 
“Oh, we went to a party, found a girl, and you’ve got to meet her. She is special!” Robert Altman remembered being told after screenwriter Brian McKay and assistant director Tommy Thompson returned from an engagement celebration for a local artist in Houston. They were in the lone star state location scouting for Altman’s upcoming film Brewster McCloud. At the time Shelley Duvall was studying nutrition and diet therapy at South Texas Junior College and working as a cosmetics salesperson at Northwest Mall’s Foley’s department store. Without formal acting experience or training, Altman cast her in the key role of the Houston Astrodome tour guide Suzanne Davis and a star was born. Over the next two decades, she would go on to appear in classic films such as Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, Robert Altman’s Nashville and 3 Women, and Woody Allen’s Annie Hall. Besides a successful film career she created, hosted, executive produced, (and even wrote the theme music) for the award-winning live-action children’s anthology series Faerie Tale Theatre.
 
In 1993 Shelley sold the rights to Faerie Tale Theatre to a small British entertainment company after she began to struggle financially. As an independent producer, Duvall was finding it increasingly difficult to fund new projects with tight credit and mounting production costs due to the recession. She was forced to lay off over a dozen employees that worked out of her production company, Think Entertainment, whose offices were located on the second floor of a nondescript San Fernando valley strip mall over a Chinese restaurant and a dry cleaner. Shelley retired as a producer but continued taking acting parts. In 1994 her Studio City home was damaged in the Northridge earthquake and she relocated to the small city of Blanco, TX (approximately 50 miles north San Antonio and 50 miles west of Austin) which boasted a population of 1,500 residents.
 
While she remained single without any children, Shelley moved into a modest ranch in Blanco with her collection of exotic birds and reptiles that she had begun acquiring in Los Angeles. “At home, it’s a menagerie: 70 birds, all different kinds, ten dogs, one cat, a leopard tortoise, a rabbit, four iguanas, and two desert lizards,” she said during her interview on the Marilu Henner Show in 1994. Shelley continued to accept acting roles and television appearances throughout the late ‘90s but in the early 2000’s the roles got smaller before dwindling completely. Her 2000 independent film Dreams in the Attic which shot in and around Houston and Galveston was pitched to Disney but never sold or released. Duvall’s final acting performance was in the outsider film Manna from Heaven in 2002.
 
Keep reading after the jump…

Posted by Doug Jones | Leave a comment
Meet Tony Coca Cola & the Roosters, the fake punk band from ‘The Driller Killer’


 
A minor obsession of mine is subculture representation in popular entertainment and mainstream media, especially as regards punk rock. That movement in particular was subjected to so many cartoonish misrepresentations that cataloguing them all would be a Sisyphean undertaking. The infamous “punk” episodes of TV’s Quincy and CHiPs set the gold standard for cluelessness, and countless hysterical local news segments ran the misconceptions into the ground. It’s more illuminating, in this scribe’s humble view, to look at the far rarer instances of anyone getting it right.

One of my favorite examples of actually nailing it is Tony Coca Cola and the Roosters, the fake band from The Driller Killer, the 1979 debut feature from Abel Ferrara, who’d go on the give the world infamous filmed provocations like Ms. 45, King of New York, and Bad Lieutenant. In the film, Ferrara himself (under the pseudonym Jimmy Laine) plays unsuccessful New York artist Reno Miller. Living off the largesse of his gallerist, Miller is unable to break through a creative block. Facing destitution and an eviction deadline, Miller approaches the art dealer for further funds, and is rejected unless he can complete a painting in a week. Complicating this challenge is his neighbor, Tony Coca Cola, whose band practices incessantly right in his apartment, depriving Miller of peace and sleep, causing his grip on reality to slip away. He snaps and embarks on an killing spree, offing derelicts with the movie’s eponymous power tool.

Ferrara, a Bronx native, was surely really plugged in to NYC’s seediness, so nothing about Tony Coca Cola and the Roosters rings particularly fake—it’s an entirely plausible band of the era. Check it out:
 

 

 
Sounds like an even more primitive Heartbreakers, with its stripped-down Chuck-Berry-via-Johnny-Thunders riffing. The band was made up of artist/author D. A. Metrov (under the pseudonym “Rhodney Montreal”) as singer/guitarist Tony Coca Cola, one Dickey Bittner on bass (in his only acting credit), and Steve Brown on drums, who’d resurface in a role in the 1988 gang/heist flick Deadbeat at Dawn. Metrov also executed the Reno Miller paintings in the film.

The above clip is from a restored version of The Driller Killer that’s being released by Arrow Video. The Blu-ray/DVD set features a new 1080p high def restoration from original film elements and an audio commentary by Ferrara, among other goodies. It’s the entire original cut, which was once banned in the UK as one of the “Video Nasties” that were suppressed in an infamous episode of official censorship in the ‘80s.

After the jump, watch another clip from ‘The Driller Killer’ as Tony Coca Cola and the Roosters audition backup singers while Miller tries to paint a buffalo…

Posted by Ron Kretsch | Leave a comment
Silent Night, Boogie Nights: Sexy movie posters from the golden age of XXX
11.26.2016
04:02 pm

Topics:
Art
Movies
Sex

Tags:
posters
Westgate Gallery


‘The Night Bird is to porno what Studio 54 is to disco!’ Of course it is…

If you’re looking for just the right movie poster—one that simply screams YOU (or even someone else’s name)—then you should probably head over to our expert friends at the Westgate Gallery, one of the very best curated selection of groovy movie posters anywhere on the Internet.

Westgate Gallery—named after a seedy 70’s porn theater in Bangor, Maine—is now having a sale—and not just on their “Golden Age of Porno” merch, either, but the entire store (they specialize in cult films, XXX and particularly lurid Italian giallo posters) is 40% off. If you know someone who is a big cinema buff (or retro porn addict?) they will love a gift from the connoisseur’s dream selection at Westgate Gallery:

SILENT NIGHT, BOOGIE NIGHTS!   It’s going to be a Merry XXX-mas for everyone on your Naughty List!  Online original movie poster boutique WestgateGallery.com has just launched our 2nd annual BLACK THROAT FRIDAY 40% OFF ORGY OF SAVINGS!  With the largest collection of illustrated/art-style original XXX movie posters commercially available, you can follow The Erotic Adventures of Wall Candy from its white-coater/marriage manual-skanky storefront beginnings with Rene Bond and Tina Russell through the heyday of porno chic superstars Marilyn Chambers, Annette Haven, Seka, Veronica Hart, Kelly Nichols, Vanessa Del Rio, Desiree Cousteau, Constance Money and Serena through the heavily hairsprayed princesses of the VHS home-video explosion including Ginger Lynn, Lois Ayres, Christy Canyon, Amber Lynn & notorious fake-ID enthusiast/Redondo High dropout/amnesia sufferer Traci Lords!  Pick up saucy Pop Art classics by Chet Collom, Tom Tierney, Olivia DeBerardinis, Armand Weston, Elaine Gignilliat and mysterious airbrush queen Penelope, some for under $20!  And our exhaustive archive of large-format Italian posters for American, French, West German & Danish hardcore humpfests is a dazzling array of lush masterworks (and a few hilariously kitschy hair-salon stunners guaranteed to heat up any boudoir, by the same top Euro commercial artists—Enzo Sciotti, Mafe, Aller, Morini, Sandro Symeoni & Mario Piovano—responsible for the thousands of non-porn Italian posters.  Another WG exclusive:  an extensive collection of ravishingly restored, linen-backed one-sheets ready for framing, which, like everything else in-stock, are 40% Off through Dec 24.

 

‘Dental Nurse’—makes a great gift for your dentist or dental hygienist. Or maybe not. No.
 

‘il Vizio di Baby’ AKA ‘Baby’s Vice & Ramba’s Greed’
 

‘Proibito’ AKA ‘Babylon Pink’
 
More, more, more after the jump…

Posted by Richard Metzger | Leave a comment
‘Body by Jake’ Steinfeld stars in Thanksgiving-themed Video Nasty, ‘Home Sweet Home,’ 1981
11.24.2016
10:31 am

Topics:
Movies

Tags:
video nasty
Thanksgiving
Body by Jake

Home Sweet Home VHS box cover
 
Last year at this time, I told DM readers about the impending limited Blu-ray release of a slasher film set during the Thanksgiving holiday, Blood Rage (which, incidentally, will soon be reissued in a standard edition). In that post, I also mentioned another Thanksgiving-themed horror picture, Home Sweet Home (1981).

Home Sweet Home stars Jake Steinfeld as homicidal maniac Jay Jones, an escaped mental patient, convicted for killing his parents. Steinfeld will be familiar to many as the fitness guru behind the “Body by Jake” brand of books, TV shows, etc. He even has his own catchphrase: “Don’t quit!”
 
Body by Jake
 
Like so many other horror movies from the era, Home Sweet Home incorporates elements from John Carpenter’s Halloween (1978), the most obvious aspect being the holiday setting. As far as I can tell (and I know our dear readers will correct me if I’m wrong), this is the first horror picture to take place during Thanksgiving. It’s also one of the few slasher films directed by a woman; in this case, one Nettie Peña.
 
Home Sweet Home title card
 
When we first lay eyes on Steinfeld/Jones he’s about to strangle a guy sitting in his station wagon. After he kills the dude, Jones steals the wagon, and we then watch him inject PCP into his tongue—! Moments later, he’s running over an elderly woman. We’re now but four minutes into Home Sweet Home.
 
Jake Steinfeld as Jay Jones
 
Tongue!
 
Blood on the windshield
 
You’d think with this beginning you’d be in for a wild ride, but as is often the case with exploitation cinema, what’s initially implied isn’t always the way things go. Instead, the picture settles into a more stable pace, with Jones periodically killing innocent people and laughing maniacally every time he offs someone. Eventually, Jones focuses on terrorizing a group of friends and family who have assembled for Thanksgiving dinner. You might presume he targets them as part of some jealous rage because he has no family of his own (he’s got “Home Sweet Home” tattooed on his hand), but who knows—his motive is never even mentioned in the film.
 
Huh
 
Aside from Steinfeld, the one to watch in this cast of characters is a young man that lives at the house where the party is taking place. You can’t miss him; for the entire movie, he walks around playing guitar with a portable amplifier strapped to his back, merrily annoying everyone within earshot. And he has the greatest name: “Mistake.” It’s not even apparent that’s his name until the closing credits, as everyone calls him “Stake,” for short. Oh, and he’s wearing whiteface the whole time. I guess he likes KISS?
 
Mistake in action
 
Home Sweet Home largely alternates between goofy and scary, though the mood isn’t always predictable. One aspect of B-movies I love is the established tone can flip on a dime—anything is possible. The film does not disappoint in that regard. Take the scene in which Jones holds a knife to the throat of one of the female guests and Stake pleads with the madman to “take me instead.” The moment is surprisingly touching, but it’s also unnerving, as we know by now that Jones is probably going to kill them both anyway. As Stake whimpers while awaiting certain death, there is actual sadness for the dumb kid in whiteface. Home Sweet Home also has its share of striking images, which at times appear for seemingly no other reason than to shock the viewer.
 
More after the jump…

Posted by Bart Bealmear | Leave a comment
‘Look, they’re crucifying Him! And nobody cares!’: When Charlie Chaplin met Igor Stravinsky


 
For a couple of years when I was a little kid—before I discovered rock music, so like 3rd and 4th grade—I collected Charlie Chaplin movies that I purchased on 8mm film from Blackhawk Films. Blackhawk sold newsreels of the Hindenburg disaster and WWII along with the public domain silent horror films of Lon Chaney and comedies by Chaplin, Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd. Blackhawk advertised in comic books, Famous Monsters of Filmland and in a nostalgia magazine my grandfather used to read (I wish I could recall the name of it, I’d buy every issue on eBay). I sent for their free catalog. The price of the Chaplin shorts ranged from like $7.98 to $14.98 which was an astronomical amount of money at that time, for someone who was eight years old, or otherwise. When I say “collected,” I probably had like seven Chaplin shorts that I got from Blackhawk. I’d tell my parents and grandparents just to give me money for Christmas and birthdays so I could order them. A $10 reward for a good report card meant another Chaplin film. I would screen them in my parents’ basement on a moldy-smelling Westinghouse 8mm projector my father had long ago lost any interest in.

I was really, really Chaplin obsessed. I still am to this day.

Charles Chaplin’s My Autobiography was published by Simon & Schuster in 1964, when the great man was then in his seventies and living a life of comfortable exile at Manoir de Ban, a 35-acre estate overlooking Lake Geneva in Switzerland, having been pushed out of Hollywood during the Red Scare. It’s one of the most extraordinary books that I’ve ever read. The first portion of the book describes, in brutal detail, the life of crushing Dickensian poverty that Chaplin and his brother Sydney were thrust into when their mother—who’d gone mad from syphilis and malnutrition—had to drop them off at the pauper’s workhouse, unable to care for herself, let alone them.

Chaplin’s remarkably beautiful prose is nothing short of heartbreaking. It’s not just the harsh Victorian circumstances he’s describing that are so excruciatingly Dickensian, it’s the quality of his writing as well. My Autobiography starts off exactly like a lost novel by Charles Dickens, and indeed there is probably no greater true life rags to riches story that has ever been told in the entire history of humankind. Chaplin went from being an innocent young boy who’d had his head shaved and painted with iodine for a lice treatment (there’s a group shot in the book that will hit you in the gut) in the lowest of circumstances to being the most famous man in the world just a few years later. It’s one of the best books that I’ve ever read and it’s one that will still be read long into the future as long as we don’t go the way of Planet of the Apes.
 

Stravinsky takes a spin on a hoop contraption that Chaplin had built at his Beverly Hills home.
 
And speaking of our puzzling new Bizarro World national reality, there’s an anecdote that happens later in Chaplin’s book (pages 395-397) where he writes about a meeting that he had with Russian composer Igor Stravinsky where he proposed a collaboration between them. It was sometime in 1937. War had yet to be declared, but something very dark was happening in the world.

I was thinking about this over the weekend, and how potent this imagery is in Donald Trump’s America:

While dining at my house, Igor Stravinsky suggested we should do a film together. I invented a story. It should be surrealistic, I said—a decadent night club with tables around the dance floor, at each table, greed, at another, hypocrisy, at another, ruthlessness. The floor show is the Passion play, and while the crucifixion of the Saviour is going on, groups at each table watch it indifferently, some ordering meals, others talking business, others showing little interest. The mob, the High Priests and the Pharisees are shaking their fists up at the Cross, shouting: “If Thou be the Son of God come down and save Thyself.” At a nearby table a group of businessmen are talking excitedly about a big deal. One draws nervously on his cigarette, looking up at the Saviour and blowing his smoke absent-mindedly in His direction.

At another table a businessman and his wife sit studying the menu. She looks up, then nervously moves her chair back from the floor. “I can’t understand why people come here,” she says uncomfortably. “It’s depressing.”

“It’s good entertainment,” says the businessman. “The place was bankrupt until they put on this show. Now they are out of the red.”

“I think it’s sacrilegious,” says his wife.

“It does a lot of good,” says the man. “People who have never been inside a church come here and get the story of Christianity.”

And the show progresses, a drunk, being under the influence of alcohol, is on a different plane; he is seated alone and begins to weep and shout loudly: “Look, they’re crucifying Him! And nobody cares!” He staggers to his feet and stretches his arms appealingly toward the Cross. The wife of a minister sitting nearby complains to the headwaiter, and the drunk is escorted out of the place still weeping and remonstrating, “Look, nobody cares! A fine lot of Christians you are!”

“You see,” I told Stravinsky, “they throw him out because he is upsetting the show.” I explained that putting a passion play on the dance floor of a nightclub was to show how cynical and conventional the world has become in professing Christianity.

The maestro’s face became very grave. “But that’s sacrilegious!” he said.

Continues after the jump…

Posted by Richard Metzger | Leave a comment
Rabies-infected acid-head hippie-gore Satanist masterpiece ‘I Drink Your Blood’ splats again!
11.21.2016
08:53 am

Topics:
Movies

Tags:
Grindhouse
Bhaskar
I Drink Your Blood


 
“Let it be known, sons and daughters, that Satan was an acid head. Drink from his cup. Pledge yourselves, and together we’ll all freak out.”

So opens 1970’s gore shocker I Drink Your Blood, with it’s Manson-esque satanic hippie cult—a cult who was written into the picture, after the first draft of the script, to exploit the nation-wide hysteria surrounding the Tate-LaBianca murders in 1969.

Allegedly, the first film to receive an “X” rating due to violence rather than sex, I Drink Your Blood is the story of a group of acid-dropping satanists who wreak havoc in a small town until a local boy serves them meat pies he’s injected with rabid dog’s blood in retaliation for the cult raping his sister and dosing his grandfather. Soon the devil-worshiping hippies all become rabid, mouth-foaming, bloodthirsty zombie maniacs and go on a berserk killing spree, infecting everyone in town with rabies.

The movie is just as batshit as that description sounds. How could it not be?
 

 
The film was shot in Sharon Springs, NY which was practically a ghost-town at the time of filming. The production paid $300 for use of a run-down hotel which was scheduled for demolition. The crew ended up doing much of the demolition themselves during the course of the filming. According to the film’s director, David E. Durston, tensions ran high in the small town where the locals seemed to feel as if the actors in the film were actually for-real satanic hippies. These misunderstandings culminated with the locals calling the sheriff after witnessing Durston “motivating” actress Iris Brooks for an emotional scene. Luckily no one was arrested, and filming was allowed to resume, giving us the masterpiece that still shocks to this day.
 

 
Boutique label, Grindhouse Releasing, is issuing a new deluxe Blu-ray version of I Drink Your Blood this week with a bunch of killer extras including one of the best horror movie tie-in gimmicks since the Sinful Dwarf‘s Torben doll.

The limited release of I Drink Your Blood includes a “horror hypo” which you can use to draw out rabid dog’s blood to infect your friends!
 

Dog’s blood rising.
 
In addition to the “horror hypo,” and the HD restoration of the uncut print of I Drink Your Blood, the set includes an informative commentary track with director David Durston and star Bhaskar, four never-before-seen deleted scenes, interviews with Durston, and stars Lynn Lowry, Tyde Kierney, and Jack Damon.

This set also features a stunning print of the not-often-seen I Eat Your Skin, which was famously paired on a double-bill with I Drink Your Blood on the early ‘70s drive-in circuit. I Eat Your Skin is, arguably, a bit of a snoozer, but for me it was cool to see a movie that I had previously only ever read about.
 

 
One of the real treats to Grindhouse’s set is the inclusion of director David Durston’s long-lost X-rated psychedelic thriller, Blue Sextet, which has previously never seen a home video release. Though it’s far from being a masterpiece, Blue Sextet does have its moments of wild imagery, that make it worth viewing.

Grindhouse has provided Dangerous Minds with this exclusive clip:
 

 
I Drink Your Blood remains a shocking and highly unusual film with performances that rise above the film’s low budget and campy storyline. I had the opportunity a few months back to see it in a packed theater, with about three-quarters of the audience having never previously seen it. People were screaming. It’s a testament to the theory that the only bad movies are boring movies.

And I Drink Your Blood is ANYTHING but boring.

More after the jump…

Posted by Christopher Bickel | Leave a comment
Kurt Cobain’s horror movies
11.18.2016
01:02 pm

Topics:
Movies
Music

Tags:
Kurt Cobain
horror films


 
In 1984 Kurt Cobain was 17 years old and bursting with creative adolescent energy. He was already friends with Krist Novoselic and Dale Crover, who a year earlier had formed the Melvins with Buzz Osborne and Matt Lukin, best known today as the bassist for Mudhoney.

One of the things they liked to do together was record footage in a horror movie style—it’s doubtful that they had any concrete designs to put a movie together; more likely they were play-acting as much as anything else. It’s not a “horror movie” as much as a bunch of unconnected shots cobbled together into a kind of “horror home movie.”

The two most memorable moments on the video are a few shots of Cobain wearing a Mr. T mask and worshiping in front of a pentagram, and another handful of shots in which Cobain pretends to slash his own throat and wrists, fake blood and all. That last section has earned the tape an alternate title of “Kurt’s Bloody Suicide,” which as you’ll see below is rumored to be Kurt’s own title, but Dale Crover dismisses the notion. If not, it’s of questionable taste given Cobain’s actual demise in 1994 by his own hand.

Mike Ziegler, once described as possessing “an arsenal of Nirvana recordings that goes unparalleled by any trader in the universe,” once asked Crover about the “horror movies.” Here is the substance of that conversation:
 

Ziegler: Do you happen to remember what the title of the movie was called? I’ve heard rumors from people that Kurt said the movie was titled “Kurt’s Bloody Suicide.”
Crover: I’m sure that there was no title. We were just fucking around with a camera.
Ziegler:  So… what the hell is up with the Mr. T scene in the beginning. Whose crazy mind thought that one up?
Crover: The Mr. T Idea just developed as we shot it. Krist filmed while I held the lights. Kurt made the satanic altar and played Mr. T. I think I manned the vacuum cleaner for the coke snorting scene. We were going to do more but never finished.
Ziegler: What did you use to record it?
Crover: Novoselic’s super 8.

 
Keep keeping after the jump…

Posted by Martin Schneider | Leave a comment
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