It seems like there was a period in the history of Hong Kong’s Shaw Bros. Studio when Sir Run Run Shaw had a bright red rotary telephone stored under a cheese dome sitting atop his desk. Whenever a completely loony script landed on his desk, he would calmly pick up the phone and it would automatically dial a pre-programmed number which would be answered by Danny Lee, sitting across the studio, presumably wearing a tight polyester shirt adorned with some distasteful paisley pattern. How else can you explain the man’s appearance in a string of the studio’s first real forays into the world of crazy kungfu? Although the Shaws would produce no small number of truly batty kungfu films, especially during the late 70s and early 80s when the company was on its final leg, their early forays into left field all seemed to have the common denominator of young star Li Hsiu-hsien, soon to become Danny Lee.
It wouldn’t be difficult to interpret The Web of Death — the third in director Chor Yuen’s long cycle of films adapting contemporary popular wuxia novels — as something of a cold war parable. In it, a Martial World clan by the name of The Five Venoms Clan is in possession of a super-weapon so powerful that the clan’s leader has decreed that it should be put under wraps and hidden away for the good of the Martial World as a whole. That weapon, the Five Venom Spider, is revealed to us in the film’s opening minutes, and that’s a good thing; while definitely kind of neat in a cheeseball sort of way, the Five Venom Spider is not the kind of thing that could live up to an extended build-up. What it is, in fact, is a normal-sized tarantula that, when released from its ornate cage, glows green, emits the roar of a raging elephant, and then shoots a deadly, electrified web to the accompaniment of much billowing of smoke and flying of sparks. It’s a weapon that will be deployed to amusing effect throughout Web of Death, but which has the unfortunate side effect of saddling Chor with a conclusion in which a room full of fighters who have been established as the Martial World’s bravest and most accomplished cower away from a spider. But more about that later.
With a driving funk theme and blood-dripping title graphic, Khoon Khoon‘s opening credits clearly announce that the film’s director, Bollywood B movie maestro Mohammed Hussain, has changed with the times, moving on from the gee-whiz swashbuckling thrills of sixties efforts like Faulad, Aaya Toofan and Shikari to lurid subject matter much more in tune with the tenor of the seventies’ less restrained Indian cinema. What’s still intact, however, is Hussain’s tendency to hew very closely to Hollywood models in the crafting of his films. This is the man, after all, who helmed one of Bollywood’s earliest adaptations of Superman, and who based his successful Dara Singh vehicle, the aforementioned Aaya Toofan, on Nathan Juran’s “Harryhausen” pastiche, Jack the Giant Killer.
When innovative Shaw Bros. studio director Chor Yuen teamed up with martial arts novelist Lung Ku and the Shaw’s top kungfu film star, Ti Lung, they made beautiful music together. In 1977 the trio collaborated to create two of the best martial arts films ever made, Clans of Intrigue and Magic Blade. The success of the films, as well as their recognition as some of the greatest looking films to come from the martial arts genre in decades, made it a pretty simple decision to keep a good thing going. Less than a year after audiences were dazzled with the complexly tangled web of swordplay, sex, and suaveness that made up Clans of Intrigue, the trio got together for a sequel called Legend of the Bat. Legend of the Bat is about Ti Lung smirking and stabbing people and trying to unravel a mysterious plot chocked full of secret identities, ulterior motives, and booby trapped lairs. In other words, it’s more of the same, and the same is worth getting more of when it’s as cool as Clans of Intrigue.
Really? This movie made so many “worst of” lists for the year it was released? I guess this is just one of those instances in which I find myself with a different opinion from the rest and supposedly saner masses of humanity. But is this really “worst of” material, especially in a year that saw the release of Norbit and Daddy Day Camp? I mean, to be sure, Primeval is no great film. In fact, it’s pretty dumb. And the smarter it tries to be, the dumber it gets. I think the film was undone for most people by the things I liked most about it: misguided and moronic attempts at “social conscience,” and a bizarre marketing campaign that framed the movie as a Wolf Creek/Hills Have Eyes new style slasher film while doing everything it could to obscure the fact that this was, in fact, a movie about a giant crocodile. It’s these two key elements that make Primeval one of the most authentic throwbacks to the era of Italian jungle and crocodile/alligator exploitation films. I said of the movie Grindhouse that Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez set out to make fake grindhouse movies and failed, while Sylvester Stallone simply set out to make a movie (Rambo) and made the year’s most authentic grindhouse film. Primeval definitely deserves to be placed alongside Rambo in that regard. And heck — both of them even use real-world war atrocities as backdrops for exploitation filmmaking.
The plot involves a recently disgraced journalist (Dominic Purcell) who gets saddled with a seemingly sensationalist assignment: to accompany a TV show host (Brooke Langton) and animal wrangler on a trip to Burundi to capture a legendary giant crocodile that has killed hundreds of people — not, it seems for food or survival, but simply because it enjoys killing people (thus the serial killer angle the marketing took). Purcell is initially disgruntled, because apparently as a journalist looking for big, important stories, he wanted to be in the U.S. to cover an S&L scandal or something. Eventually, it dawns on the idiot that he’s about to be dropped smack dab into the middle of one of Africa’s most brutal civil wars, and that hey! Maybe there’s a big, important story there, too. So he and his trusty (as in, you can trust him to annoy the hell out of you) cameraman Orlando Jones pack up and head to Burundi, where the small crew quickly discovers that there’s just as much to fear from local warlord Little Gustav as there is from Big Gustav, the crocodile.
The set-up is perfect Italian exploitation fare. Take a real-world horror and use it as a backdrop from your monster movie, trying in some ham-handed fashion from time to time to excuse your sleazy tastelessness by making an “important,” poorly communicated, and completely hollow feeling “point.” Primeval‘s point seems to be that civil wars in Africa suck as much as being eaten by a giant crocodile, but as long as the white people make it out alive, who really cares if the civil war, the crocodile, or both keep killing black people? It’s easy to see Ruggero Deodato or Sergio Martino churning out the same type of film (only with nudity) in 1979 or ’80. The results so many years later are pretty much the same, only with flashier camera work and a crocodile made of computer bits instead of latex and chicken wire.
The film stumbles over its desire to tell us civil war in Africa is horrible (because, you know, who could have guessed that?) by also portraying every African as either evil and violent, scared and superstitious, or smiling while splashing in the river just long enough to get eaten by a crocodile. Why not make the reporter black? Or the TV show host? Oh wait, they made the cameraman black. That’s cool, right? Except that Orlando Jones is in minstrel show overdrive, constantly bugging out his eyes (actually, I think that might just be the way his eyes look), trying to teach the Africans how to speak “black” and appreciate hip hop, and generally playing up every “wacky black guy” stereotype that action/horror cinema has thrown at us in the past thirty years. He even does that thing where he walks through the jungle talking to himself out loud in a way that no one actually does.
I don’t know what the deal is with Jones. I really don’t think he’s innately obnoxious and irritating, and I bet he could be a pretty good actor. Perhaps he’s just a victim of the age-old Hollywood prejudice against non-white leading men, coupled with Hollywood’s addiction to wisecrackin’ black men — and especially to wisecrackin’ black cameramen. In a movie that uses the horrors of the war in Burundi as a backdrop for a movie about a crocodile that eats people, you’d think there would be plenty of room for offensive missteps, but nothing of the African content of this film is as offensive and unenjoyable as unleashing Orlando Jones and his steady barrage of dick jokes.
All that said, and despite Jones, this movie is pretty tolerably entertaining if you already of a mindset that lets you tolerate things like Big Alligator River. Most of the performances are pretty good (Orlando Jones may be stupid, annoying, and intolerable — but his acting isn’t necessarily bad) or at least passable. Jurgen Prochnow shows up as the requisite “white guy gone local who is wise and knows the ways of the bush.” If, however, you are hoping for a performance as deliciously batty as Jon Voight’s in Anaconda, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. For some reason I can’t fathom, Prochnow plays the whole thing solemn and understated instead of unhinged and raving, which is the way it should have been. Purcell and Langton are there mostly to look concerned and run away from either the crocodile or Little Gustav’s death squad, and sometimes both.
The characters constantly make stupid decisions that end up with them in the river yet again. If you are being attacked by a 25 foot croc, why would you sleep on a rickety wooden veranda out in the middle of the river? But these fools can’t stay out of the rivier. It’s liek the more definite Gustav’s presence nearby is, the less ability the characters have to keep from randomly splashing around in the river.
From time to time, a pick-up truck full of thugs drive by the hassle and execute people, which becomes a point of concern when Jones’ captures one of the executions on camera, thus making the crew target number one for Little Gustav’s men. Oh, and there’s the crocodile. It doesn’t show up a whole lot, and when it does, it looks a step or two above all the CGI crocs that attack has-been actors in Sci-Fi Channel original movies. However, it does show up whenever it’s opportune for the plot — such as when Langton is about to be raped, only to be saved when Gustav shows up to eat the rapist without also attempting to eat Langton.
So I guess there’s a lot of bad and some good in this film, and both were of a type that made the movie appeal to me even as I was aware of how ridiculous the whole thing was. It’s like someone watched Hotel Rwanda and thought, “Man you know what would make this movie good? If Don Cheadle had to battle a giant crocodile! And also, if instead of the main guy, he was a sidekick who made lots of dick jokes. Get me the guys who wrote Catwoman!”
And the end? Seriously? They let the white people bring the random African kid back on the plane with them? The random kid and a random stray bush dog? Has no one who worked on this film ever gone through customs? you can’t even bring a foreign apple into the United States, let alone a kid and a dog.
So yeah. It’s a bad movie, though the kind I like. But worst movie of the year? Someone needed to see more movies in 2007. The best way to summarize the duality of this film is with a spoiler: the movie is good in that it kills off Orlando Jones. But this movie is bad in that it does it off screen. Had this been released to drive-ins in 1979, it would have been a hit. Instead, it sank at the box office and caused other, better killer croc films to get delayed and eventually end up on DVD (Rogue and Black Water, both from Australia), which is also where Primeval probably deserved to be.
I think that one of the most forbidding things about Bollywood cinema for those Westerners who might dare to sample it is its apparent hostility to Western notions of genre. For armchair adventurers through world popular cinema like ourselves, such notions normally provide a reliable safe harbor, even when we’re struggling through the most alien of terrains. While a given country’s cinematic repertoire might present us with some disorienting cultural peculiarities, we generally feel secure in the knowledge that we can find within it such universals as horror movies featuring ghosts and monsters, thrillers pitting detectives against masked killers, and adventure films showcasing the exploits of costumed superheroes — any of which we can use as a familiar jumping off point from which to explore those aspects of the landscape with which we are less acquainted.
After struggling through the lackluster Resident Evil: Degeneration, I wasn’t overly excited to jump headfirst into another animated feature film prequel to a scary video game. Even less inclined was I to watch Dead Space: Downfall because I’d never played the game and likely won’t play it for a very long time, as I do not own a gaming system for which the game is produced. Still, there was no way I was not going to watch, at some point, an animated sci-fi/horror movie, so I figured I may as well get it over with. If nothing else, at least this one was traditional cel animation (or the computer-enhanced version of cel animation that exists today).
It turns out that Dead Space: Downfall is pretty acceptable. Totally generic, yeah. Completely devoid of originality or imagination, yep. Utterly disposable, sure. But after such a rocky road through recent science fiction, horror, and animated films (a road that brought me to Resident Evil: Degeneration, Diary of the Dead, and Heavy Metal 2000), generic formula executed in adequate fashion was more than enough to draw a sigh of relief and unengaged satisfaction from me. Continue reading Dead Space: Downfall
There are certain films that become associated with one indelible image. For example, it’s hard to think of North by Northwest without conjuring a mental picture of Cary Grant being chased by that crop-duster, or of Singin’ in the Rain without immediately seeing Gene Kelly hanging off of that lamppost. In the case of the Filipino action film They Call Her… Cleopatra Wong, the image that invariably comes to mind – for those familiar with the film, at least – is that of comely star Marrie Lee brandishing an imposing looking, quadruple-barreled, sawed-off shotgun while dressed in a nun’s habit and wimple (thanks, El Santo).
Con Licencia Para Matar (aka With License to Kill) is the second of a pair of films featuring Las Tigresas, a trio of catsuit-wearing female secret agents for hire. The first Tigresas film, Munecas Peligrosas (aka Dangerous Dolls) was a barely-there affair, with just enough of a plot on which to hang its numerous instances of padding. Con Licencia Para Matar, by contrast, would seem to be packed with enough plot for the both of them, complete with two competing sets of villains, including a beatnik scientist with a trio of super-powerful, green-faced androids at his command, and a blonde bombshell revolutionary who conceals her true designs under her cover as the owner of a posh go-go club. Despite all of this business, the film still manages to devote plenty of time to what seems to be the Tigresas films’ first order of business, that being the inclusion of lots of random musical numbers and scenes of the Tigresas lounging around their well-appointed bachelorette pad in various stages of undress.
Love and Murder is a rough-edged, fast paced and ever-so-slightly sleazy little Bollywood B thriller that satisfyingly combines noirish stylistic flourishes with elements of the James Bond movies. If you’re going to crib, you might as well do it from the best, and Love and Murder certainly cribs well, also pilfering here and there from the German Krimi thrillers and even Clouzot’s Les Diaboliques. The addition of a classic femme fatale turn by Helen and an appearance by a mysterious killer in a skeleton suit almost compensates for the fact that the print from which the M.H. One VCD was made looks like it spent a good deal of time marinating on the bed of a stagnant lake.