Category Archives: It Came from the Reader-Suggested Queue

It Came from the Reader-Suggested Queue

IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: WITHOUT WARNING (1980)

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DIRECTED BY: Greydon Clark

FEATURING: Jack Palance, Martin Landau, Tarah Nutter, Christopher S. Nelson

PLOT: An alien hunter is on a killing spree in a small western town, but a pair of teenagers finds they must contend with a sinister truck stop owner and a shellshocked army veteran as much as the murderous monster.

Still from without warning (1980)

COMMENTS: Greydon Clark is a self-professed bargain-basement moviemaker. There’s a reason he titled his autobiography On the Cheap: My Life in Low Budget Filmmaking. (For that price his paperback is going for on Amazon, he probably could have made a whole film.) But that doesn’t set him apart from the many B-movie honchos who ply their trade. No, Clark’s superpower was that he knew how to cast stars. Faded stars, but stars nonetheless, who were willing to put in a couple days work in exchange for a small paycheck and one more moment as the biggest name on the set. In return, Clark got to use their reflected glory to give his movies a sheen of credibility and Hollywood glamour. Such Tinseltown luminaries as Joe Don Baker, Alan Hale, Jr., Jim Backus, Peter Lawford, Pat Buttram, and answered the call of a Greydon Clark production at one time or another. So when it came time for the monster-in-the-woods cheapie Without Warning, you could count on a cast list just as lavish: Larry Storch, Ralph Meeker, Neville Brand, and all signed on for a day or two. It’s that special touch that separates Clark from his contemporaries.

Two of those casting coups are actually the marquee attractions here. Jack Palance and Martin Landau, more than a decade away from taking home Oscar gold, are here to chew up half of the budget and all of the scenery. Once on the set, they clearly weren’t directed so much as unleashed. Palance has his particular brand of discomfiting fun, shouting down his scene partners with wide-eyed, raspy mania. You can’t point a flashlight at your face and tell the kids with a mad laugh, “Hey, I ain’t the crazy one” and not take some joy in your work. Meanwhile, Clark deliberately named Landau’s character Fred Dobbs after Humphrey Bogart’s paranoid fortune seeker in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, and Landau has clearly decided to adopt that mania and ramp it up to the 4th power. The film is giddy fun whenever the two men share the screen, and the pairing has the unexpected effect of making Palance seem cool-headed and grounded in comparison to Landau’s bubbling cauldron of PTSD- fueled mania. 

I’m talking about the actors a lot, and frankly, it’s because the story isn’t all that much. You’ve got a series of mildly gory killings, and you’ve got a pair of teen couples who march blindly into harm’s way. (One of those doomed horny teenagers is none other than David Caruso in one of his first film appearances.) It’s very much your standard horror flick. Clark does try to make the movie a little less by-the-numbers with some savvy choices. The fact that the killer in the woods turns out to be an alien hunter out to collect pelts is novel for its time. (Clark joyfully notes not only that his tale precedes the strikingly similar Predator by seven years, but that they hired the same actor–giant Kevin Peter Hall–to play the equivalent role.) He also gifts the hunter with a sci-fi weapon that looks like a street taco with oozing tentacles, an organic-looking prop that introduces a gross novelty to the proceedings. (Palance carves into the mustard-spewing little creatures with gusto.) And he even manages a neat bit of misdirection with Nutter’s Sandy, a Final Girl with a rare sense of logic and self-preservation. She’s not exactly a feminist icon, but she faces down her boyfriend’s machismo and Palance’s aggression with surprising determination.

There’s a lot of genuine behind-the-scenes talent slumming it here, too, including cinematographer Dean Cundey (future Oscar nominee for Who Framed Roger Rabbit), makeup artist Greg Cannom (future 4-time Oscar winner), and most notably, legendary monster-maker Rick Baker as the uncredited brains behind the alien hunter’s mask (which bears a striking resemblance to this guy). And it is their work that helps the film float a few feet above its humble origins.

Without Warning is by no means a hidden gem. It’s almost entirely devoid of suspense, extremely predictable, and the parts that once reveled in the grotesque now feel almost quaint. But this plucky little film punches above its weight class, succeeding at enough things to be pleasantly diverting. Greydon Clark may not have had a great film in him, but all things considered, this one’s not bad at all, and that’s something.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“This cult favorite isn’t a particularly good movie but it has enough wacky elements and a few moments of genuine tension that have made it a lovable low budget gem… easily the best movie about an alien trophy hunter bagging human prey with the use of flying, plasma-slurping alien flapjacks.” – Brian Bankston, Cool Ass Cinema

(This movie was nominated for review by Brad. Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)

Without Warning (Special Edition) [Blu-ray]

Without Warning (Special Edition) [Blu-ray]
  • From Greydon Clark, the legendary cult director of Satan’s Cheerleaders, Angels Brigade, The Return, Wacko, Joysticks, Final Justice and Uninvited
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Capsules, It Came from the Reader-Suggested Queue

IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: MONDAY (2000)

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Mandei

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DIRECTED BY: Sabu (Hiroyuki Tanaka)

FEATURING: Shin’ichi Tsutsumi, Yasuko Matsuyuki, Ren Ohsugi, , Akira Yamamoto,

PLOT: A businessman awakens in a strange hotel room with no recollection as to how he got there; as reassembles his memories, he discovers that a number of shocking acts lead directly back to him.

COMMENTS: “Get a little booze in you and you’re a tough guy,” the mugger’s moll says. And right she is. Koichi Takagi, a meek middle manager (in Japanese parlance, a salaryman) can’t even stand up to his mouse-voiced girlfriend. But get a few drinks in him, he becomes an entirely different person. Confident, even cocky, and – provided with the proper tools – a spree killer. Kanpai!

Like Garfield but so much worse, Koichi is having a truly terrible Monday. He wakes up in an unfamiliar hotel room with multiple religious tomes open on his bedside table and no clear memory of his weekend. When the neurons finally begin to fire, they first recall an incredibly uncomfortable funeral where, through farcical hijinks, he is called upon to snip the wires on the corpse’s pacemaker with disastrous results. From there, his girlfriend dumps him after he fails to explain why he missed her birthday party. An attempt to drink away his woes lands him in the orbit of a yakuza boss, and soon he’s engaging in a highly charged dance number with the gangster’s girlfriend. Alcohol definitely seems to have loosened him up, but maybe too much, as will become apparent once he gets a hold of the mobster’s shotgun. Whoops.

A surprising number of reviewers seem to think that “’Monday’ is a movie for those who believe that fate has once again dealt them an especially bad day.” The thing is, I don’t think this is really a case of bad luck. There are three very clear causes at the root of Takagi’s rampage: a gurgling rage from overwork and underappreciation, a distinct inability to keep a clear head with all the liquor that’s thrust upon him, and the sudden and unfortunate availability of a Philadelphia-made shotgun. (One of his selected poisons, Henry McKenna Kentucky bourbon, also throws some shade at all-American vices.) Maybe one can argue that none of these things are intentional on Koichi’s part, but this isn’t just a rotten roll of the dice. Rather, he has reached the point where he is unable to hold himself back from bad choices. In a funny/tragic moment, Koichi begins to compose a maudlin suicide note, expressing regrets to his family and offering explicit instructions for taking care of his plants. But while he writes, he idly takes a swig (and then several more) from a nearby bottle of booze, and his tone becomes less conciliatory and more aggressive. That proves unfortunate, but that’s not dumb happenstance.

The revelation of Koichi’s lost weekend plays out like a darker version of The Hangover, but when he discovers that every channel on the television is talking about him, as well as the regrettable ease of perpetrating gun violence, Monday takes on a different tenor as he tries to find a way out of this mess. It soon becomes clear that he’s the only guest left in the hotel, and the place is surrounded by authorities waiting to apprehend him as a brutal murderer. Here is where the film makes its true bid for weirdness, deploying a series of massive tonal shifts and elaborate setpieces in quick succession. When the drunk and armed Koichi emerges from his hotel room, we’re treated to a violent action scene to compete with the likes of John Woo or Gareth Evans. When Koichi enters an elevator to make his way down to the street, he is accompanied by a gaggle of giddy white-painted demons urging him on as he indulges his worst impulses. And when he reaches the street and takes the lead detective hostage, he indulges in an amusingly self-serving inspirational speech that culminates in a public celebration akin to the boys coming home from war. It’s a dizzying display, but even if you thought you could draw any meaning from it, Sabu yanks the rug out by returning Koichi back to the hotel room to contemplate his predicament. And there we end, certain that it all means something, but sure of little else.

Monday relies heavily on the goodwill engendered by Tsutsumi’s affable performance. He seems like a decent man in a world where decency gets eaten for lunch, and even when his actions are at their most appalling, you hold out hope that he’ll come to his senses and pull himself out of the muck. But despite his charm, you can pity Koichi but you can’t really forgive him. His excuses have merit, but his actions are indisputable. Friday may be pay day, but Monday is when the bills come due.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“The flashbacks become increasingly edgy as Sabu turns up the danger, as well as the weird… It’s the sort of thing that sends conventional moviegoers and I suppose overseas distributors running for the hills, but Sabu has too much on mind to be concerned about that. One thing Sabu is not is subtle, and serious issues, such as unchecked authority, glorified perceptions of violence, and the questionable right to take justice into one’s own hands, come to the forefront, even debated openly by the main character and those he confronts.” – Steve Kopian, Unseen Films (2022 screening)

(This movie was nominated for review by Tamori. Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)

It Came from the Reader-Suggested Queue, Shorts

IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: THE HANDS OF GOD (2003)

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DIRECTED BY: Alyson Levy

PLOT: Participants at the 9th Annual International Festival of Christian Puppetry and Ventriloquism in Kankakee, Illinois explain the role of puppets in their evangelism and their faith.

Still from The Hands of God (2005)

COMMENTS: I will never forget the jaw-dropping moment some years back when a late evening spin ‘round the dial landed me on public access television just in time for one of the most bizarre sights that had ever flickered across my retinas. It was a green space alien puppet singing in a warbling baritone about the power of Jesus, while random intro-level chroma-key wipes revealed an assortment of inanimate puppets waiting for their turn in the spotlight alongside the barely animate human hosts staring blankly into the distance. I had stumbled upon Mr. Grey Spaceman, one of the stars of the legendary “Junior Christian Science Bible Lesson Hour,” a kind of kids’ show for kids who had been raised in a cave and then fed quaaludes before being plopped in front of the TV set. The inexplicable mind behind this entertainment (that ran for over two decades) was David Liebe Hart, who built and operated all the puppets in the show, using the same voice for all of them and singing in unthinkable lugubrious tones. Hart’s was a talent so singular that Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim invited him onto their “Awesome Show” to just be himself.

There is nothing quite as weird as Hart’s material in The Hands of God. (There is probably nothing as weird as Hart’s material in the world.) But there’s a spirit that runs through the “Junior Christian Science Bible Lesson Hour” that is present here, an earnestness to spread the word of the Gospel and an innate certainty that the best way to do so is through sub-Henson puppetry. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and this is certainly among the most impenetrable of His mysteries.

Director Levy is part of the PFFR collective, the folks responsible for the outrageous children’s-TV parody “Wonder Showzen” as well as the scripts for the twisted anthology Final Flesh. So it’s natural to assume that her goal is to exploit these guileless rubes for all they’re worth. And that may be, but having arrived at this week-long gathering of devout felt, she clearly realized that nothing she did could be more remarkable than what these performers were willing to do themselves. Aside from pointing the camera at the stage, Levy is careful to let the action speak for itself.

One of the things the action says very loudly is that the message is vastly more important than the medium. The puppeteers are uniformly terrible performers, so dedicated to reminding us that Jesus died for our sins that they never come within a country mile of the rhythm or wit we expect from a comedic sketch. One puppet duo consists of an old man in overalls and a primly dressed little girl, but the characters are irrelevant because they’re only here to trade Christian aphorisms that they already know, echoing the way they themselves are performing for an audience that has already been converted to the Good Word. When there is a message, it’s usually a reminder of the flawed world we all share. One puppet troupe dances in front of signs reading “Oprah No” and “Jesus Yes.” Four puppets wrapped in keffiyehs slam into each other in an orgy of Muppety violence until they are thrust apart by the arrival of a puppet Jesus. Most cringe-inducing is the sweet-looking woman whose hippie-girl puppet Yolanda is just back from Mexico, where she “never knew it would be so poor.” Certainly they mean well, but absolutely no one is concerned how they will come across. The Lord is on their side.

An interesting storyline in The Hands of God is the connection between the puppeteers and their puppets. In interview segments, when the subjects are explaining their understanding of the functionality of faith, the humans frequently turn to seek approval from the very figures they are controlling. The puppets authentically become independent personalities, separate in character but fully aligned in mindset. Perhaps the most insightful moment comes during the closing credits, when the interviewees attempt to answer the question of whether there are puppets in heaven. For the first time in the picture, there is a schism in the dogma, as the absolutists who reject any physical manifestation in the Great Beyond run up against those who are clearly heartbroken at the mere thought of being without their companions for eternity.

The Hands of God is proof that weirdness is in the eye of the beholder, as the behavior of these righteous performers can be interpreted as either wildly psychotic or charmingly quirky. But like their spiritual ancestor David Liebe Hart, no one here is doing a bit. Levy’s short documentary is a fascinating look at a group of people for whom touching the face of God is as easy as talking to the hand.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“Creepy looking Christians in all weird shapes and sizes. None of these people really look normal.,,, This was pretty damn funny — but insanely scary as well.”–Claire CJS, Clint’s Blog

OTHER LINKS OF INTEREST:

Depraved Puppetry: Is There Any Good News in Dark Humor? – A perspective from a Christian who’s also a fan of PFFR

(This movie was nominated for review by Brad. Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)

Capsules, It Came from the Reader-Suggested Queue

IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: LIVE FREAKY! DIE FREAKY! (2006)

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Beware

DIRECTED BY: John Roecker

FEATURING: Voices of Billie Joe Armstrong, Tim Armstrong, Theo Kogan, Kelly Osbourne, Davey Havok, Asia Argento, John Doe, Jane Wiedlin

PLOT: A denizen of a future, post-apocalyptic landscape discovers an account of a narcissistic cult leader and his murderous spree in Hollywood in the latter half of the 20th century. 

Still from Live freaky, die freaky! (2006)

COMMENTS: A line of defense of bad comedians is to complain when they get called on the carpet for telling offensive jokes that punch down. “Don’t be so offended,” they love to say. So it’s not an auspicious start for Live Freaky! Die Freaky! to kick off with a title card that warns us, “Rated X, not for the easily offended.” It’s a litmus test. If you’re in any way put off by what follows, you have no one to blame but your own uncool bleeding heart. Because giving offense is very much the order of the day.

Make no mistake, writer-director Roecker wants so very badly to shock you with his profane irreverence. Live Freaky! is a bouillabaisse of slanderous characterizations, insulting stereotypes, cheeky musical numbers, and puppet gore. It’s a parade of sub-“Davey and Goliath” animations naughtily saying the dirtiest things they can think of, and then winding up covered in blood. Everyone fails every possible variation of the Bechdel test because everyone endlessly boasts about their depraved sex practices (and one character indulges himself even after death). The meet-cute between the film’s lunatic messiah and one of his aspiring acolytes is a lengthy scene of explicit stop-motion doll sex while singing a jaunty music hall tune. It’s the creation of someone who saw Team America and concluded that the way to make that film’s notorious sex scene funnier would be to just do more of it. 

I suppose Live Freaky! is a bold example of not really caring about anything at all. From the moment we see a live-action post-apocalypse vagrant unearth an old copy of Healter Skelter (sic), we’re launched into a looking-glass version of the Charles Manson story where the inexplicably charismatic miscreant may be bad, but at least he’s a man of the people. His victims are portrayed as even worse: drug-addled, sex-obsessed, vulgar and dismissive of anyone who isn’t rich or famous like they are. Oh, wait. I’m sorry. Did I say Charles Manson? Of course I meant Charles Hanson. Absolutely nothing to do with that other fellow. In fact, you can tell that the filmmakers have done their due diligence removing any trace of the Manson family’s rampage,  because while the names may all seem familiar, they’ve cleverly replaced every first initial with an H. Yep, this story is about Sharon Hate and her friends Hay and Habigail. Totally different. You can’t possibly sue them. It’s all 3-D chess with these guys.  

The movie openly embraces a punk aesthetic, which is presumably why the voice cast is comprised of several major figures from the punk rock scene, led by Green Day front man Billie Joe Armstrong essaying Charlie through what feels like a Redd Foxx impression. He’s joined by Tim Armstrong (no relation) from Rancid, John Doe of X, plus friends from Good Charlotte, AFI, Blink-182, Tiger Army, White Zombie, Lunachicks, and the Transplants. (Also Jane Wiedlin of The Go-Go’s, which is just depressing.) And then they hand this collection of punk all-stars a series of lame songs without an ounce of punk in them. And aside from their punk bonafides, the other thing cast all have in common is that none of them can act. Every line is delivered as if it was the only take of a script received five minutes before recording. The closest thing we have to a professional actor, Ozzy Osbourne’s daughter Kelly, plays her grotesquely vain socialite with the same snooty, over-enunciated whine throughout. The best analogy for the cast I can think of is a bunch of friends who come over to help you move. Everyone’s there to lend a hand, but they’re really just there for the pizza.

This kind of thing is tolerable in a show like, say, South Park because the creators are such committed libertarians. Yes, they’re bomb-throwers, but their targets are usually the high and mighty, the terminally humorless, and blinkered illogicians. There’s a brief glimmer of satire in Live Freaky! in a 20-second scene where the prosecuting attorney bemoans the degeneracy of Charlie and his crew, and then celebrates all the money he’s going to make off the book he’s writing about the case. But that’s it. Who is the movie really out to take down? Hollywood, maybe, although not any Hollywood that bears relation to life as lived by actual human beings. The rich? They’re not so much worse than the murderous, dumpster-diving poor. No, there’s no real target here, except the audience. Basically, the filmmakers are just hoping someone will take offense. They want the glory of having ruined someone else’s day. Well, mission accomplished.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“This 2003 [sic] film is a weird concept, done in a weird way and done with a weird sensibility.  Nothing about this feels normal… To quote a great man, ‘This movie sucks!'”– Alec Pridgen, Mondo Bizarro

(This movie was nominated for review by Sam, who called it “Pretty terrible, but incredibly weird!” Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)

Live Freaky Die Freaky

Live Freaky Die Freaky
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Capsules, It Came from the Reader-Suggested Queue

IT CAME FROM THE READER SUGGESTED QUEUE: JOE VERSUS THE VOLCANO (1990)

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Recommended

DIRECTED BY: John Patrick Shanley

FEATURING: , , ,

PLOT: A terminally-ill sales executive quits his dreary job and agrees to jump into a volcano.

Still from Joe vs. the Volcano (1990)

COMMENTS: What makes a man give up a career as a firefighter—enthusiastic, feeling good all the time, and casually courageous—to become an administrative drone at the worst factory this side of Staten Island? Apparently it’s three-hundred dollars a week. That’s small change for getting your spirit crushed eight hours a day: working under a foul-tempered boss, drinking arsenic coffee, and feeling your brain fry as you soak up the rays of droning fluorescent lights.

And what makes a man throw everything away and opt to willingly toss himself into a volcano?

This second question makes up the bulk of John Patrick Shanley’s directorial debut, Joe Versus the Volcano. (Which, for the longest time, was the famed screenwriters only directorial outing.) Shanley is at his peak picaresque powers, impressively avoiding the “cutesy trap” as he maneuvers his charming leads—and guest actors—through a well-paced, well-plotted, well-shot adventure, toward a seemingly inevitable end. Indeed, there’s so much buoyancy in the cast and tone that the semi-demi-hemi-twist of fate ends up being, in hindsight, the only viable fate for our passive hero.

Odd and awful, Hedaya steals his ten minutes as a supervisor; despite half his lines being over the telephone—and half of those lines being “I didn’t say that!” Comedy stalwart Lloyd Bridges swans in as a rogue fairy godmother, belittling Joe and his apartment before offering the improbable plot hook, just after opening a canister of salted peanuts and emptying them on the coffee table. And thrice-credited Meg Ryan delights as the three women Joe pursues (well, ends up in the vicinity of by mere happenstance…), showing a playful versatility which mirrors the trajectory of Joe’s self awareness.

Joe Versus the Volcano does more than immolate us in a firewall of charm. Joe’s job at “Parascope” (famed both for its rectal probes and impressive petroleum jelly sales) is a Dantean combination of German Expressionism and grime. The jagged pathway to the godawful factory (which mimicks Parascope’s trade logo while bringing to mind Caligarian sets) delivers us, from the start, into the blurry, grit-sheened hell of industrial living. We meet Joe here, and Joe needs must be Hanks. We need to like this loser, who has fallen from grace (or whatever echelon former-firefighters fall from). His performance is a charismatic variation of Ryan O’Neal’s turn as Barry Lyndon. But whereas O’Neal’s Lyndon was mired in a cynically reactive worldview, Hanks’ Joe is capable of awe and appreciation—which is why Shanley’s fluffy romcom works so well, and why we end up heartily rooting for Joe to overcome the looming trial-by-magma.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“Gradually during the opening scenes of Joe Versus the Volcano, my heart began to quicken, until finally I realized a wondrous thing: I had not seen this movie before… Hanks and Ryan … inhabit the logic of this bizarre world and play by its rules. ” — Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times (contemporaneous)

Joe Versus the Volcano [Blu-ray]

Joe Versus the Volcano [Blu-ray]
  • Polish Release, cover may contain Polish text/markings. The disk has English audio.
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