CAPSULE: FRANKENSTEINS BLOODY NIGHTMARE (2006)

DIRECTED BY: John R. Hand

FEATURING: John R. Hand, Amy Olivastro

PLOT: A scientist—or perhaps his monster, it’s never quite clear—kills women to harvest

Still from Frankensteins Bloody Nightmare (2006)

their body parts so the doctor can resurrect his dead love.

WHY IT WON’T MAKE THE LIST:  Missing apostrophe aside, there’s lots to admire about Frankensteins Bloody Nightmare, though not as much to love.  Director Hand shows a remarkable technical ability to create unique visual and auditory environments inspired by the 1970s trash movies of Jean Rollin, Lucio Fulci, and Andy Milligan, but with with their cheap, desperate Super-8 stylistics exaggerated to surreal levels.  The problem is that, for all its technical ingenuity, the movie has no story to tell, which will cause the average viewer to lose interest quickly.

COMMENTS:  Frankensteins flesh may be recycled out of various parts snatched from grindhouse graveyards, but its heart was taken straight from the arthouse.  One man show John R. Hand (writer/director/editor/composer/star) obviously watched a lot of 1970s horror cheapies growing up, and (like us) he was clearly more impressed by the mysterious artificial ambiances created by grainy film stock and heavy use of theremins, oscillators and other weird sci-fi audio effects than he was by the nudity and gore those drive-in auteurs depended on to sell tickets.  Nightmare strips away the exploitation elements from these flicks (bloody it ain’t), adopting only the bare outline of a mad scientist story; it seizes the distressed visuals and shaky audio that remains, and amplifies these leftovers to psychedelic levels.  Hand himself is too boyish looking to convey the soul of a tortured scientist, and his acting is no better than the rest of the amateurs in the film.  Given the intent to mimic an exploitation film this might not have detracted too much from the atmosphere, had there just been enough story and action to keep the viewer engaged.  Dialogue is sometimes muffled and inaudible, making a difficult-to-follow story nearly impossible.  It’s a bizarre experience to feel lost inside a the plot of a movie where almost nothing is happening onscreen, in terms of story development.  Stylistically, on the other hand, there’s always something going on.  The opening mixes grainy home-video style footage with bright, solarized footage depicting a pitchfork assault; strange whines, moans, blips, and electronic drones assault our ears, building to a dissonant crescendo.  The film changes style every five minutes or so, as we tour Hand’s portfolio of foggy lenses, overexposed film, desaturated colors, psychedelic color filters, thermal imaging, a  psycho-sexual dream sequence, all accompanied by a disquieting soundtrack of distorted Moog organs and overdubbed tape effects.  The penultimate scene in the film contains an absolutely beautiful effect where the autumn landscape, then an actress’ face, magically and organically melt into abstract blobs of orange and gold and purple (the director’s commentary reveals the cheap and ingenious method by which it was achieved: household bleach on still photographs).  Overall, Nightmare is a worthy experiment that’s successful in short stretches, but could have used a lot more story.  A few bare boobs and a pint or two of gooey stage blood, the key elements this film’s inspirations never would have left out, would also have livened things up.

I can see why James Felix McKenney would give Frankensteins Bloody Nightmare an honorable mention on his top 10 weird movies list.  Depending as it does on discount techniques for creating striking moods, this is a movie that can almost serve as a textbook to Hand’s fellow micro-budget filmmakers.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…a wild cocktail of nightmarish sensibilities; its death nerve twitches to a disquieting mish-mash of strange images and even stranger sounds… The story is bootleg but Hand’s head-trippy dissolving of consciousness is something fierce, inviting repeat viewings with a joint in hand.”–Ed Gonzalez, Slant Magazine (contemporaneous)

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