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Shark Bait Retro Village: Haunted by her Past

Published April 18, 2023 by biggayhorrorfan

If you’re going to decimate an evil, mirror dwelling sorceress, its best to do it in a hot red teddy! Just ask Susan Lucci! After a weekend of tortured nightmares and heated bodily possession, in the 1987 made for television fright fest Haunted By Her Past (AKA Secret Passions), that is exactly how daytime drama’s most famous diva eradicates the evil spirited temptress that has been torturing her character’s fragile psyche.

The character in question here is the usually mousy Karen Beckett. After taking a detour on her anniversary weekend with her devoted husband (John James) and her best friends (Marcia Strassman, Robin Thomas), Beckett winds up at a tiny inn that soon seems to tie into her violent (yet previous unknown) history. Beguiled into a closed off room at the establishment, she is captivated not only by its furnishings, but by the evil Megan (Finola Hughes), who resides in the wooden looking glass that dominates the space.

As often happens in the course of these potboilers, the more Karen falls under her spell, the stronger Megan grows. In one of the film’s most ludicrously fun moments, a poor manual laborer is sent flying to his death merely by the reflected menace of this century’s dead wraith.

This project also nicely glances back at film’s golden age by featuring the indomitable Madeleine Sherwood as the town historian. Best known as Sister Woman in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, the veteran actress provides subtle nuances to this traditional role. As the provider of much needed backstory, she is a revelation of economic fun.

Horror buffs will also be happy to spot Page Fletcher as the cad who causes Megan’s downfall in the movie’s flashback sequences. Fletcher, of course, was the titular character in the terror anthology series The Hitchhiker. Interestingly, his first film appearance in the slasher semi-classic Humungous closely echoes his role here. There, in the opening moments, his character violates a young woman, ultimately helping to creating the havoc raising beast that serves as the film’s unstoppable backwoods killer.

Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!

http://www.facebook.com/biggayhorrorfan

Always Something There to Remind Me

Published April 10, 2023 by biggayhorrorfan

I am the B-movie loving, punk rock savior of Chicago theatre. Well, not really…but please let me try to (over-confidently) claim that title for at least a moment. This change in ruling status has been confirmed by a review in The Chicago Reader…well…almost…and overall, this has been a pretty glorious time.  

It all began months ago, when I forced my grizzled, unshaven roommate James to watch a backwoods revenge opus called Blood Games with me. A cigarette never far from his yellowed fingertips and a rocks glass, forever spilling over with Diet Coke and whiskey, he looked on at me, from his favored black leather recliner, with an almost tender, parental disbelief. Although his face was ringed with sort of kindness, he was definitely not sharing my enthusiasm for the cinematic retread of I Spit on Your Grave that was spooling out before us – a low budget opus about a traveling female baseball team who, after winning a birthday game against a group of chauvinistic small-town males, soon find themselves being physically assaulted and murdered off by the chagrined losers. Of course, Babe, played with committed athleticism by Laura Albert, and her fellow players, including the spunky Shelley Abblett, who stood out to me as the undefeated, kick ass Donna, triumphed by the final credits – obliterating all obstinate assholes and meek male passers-by. As always, struck by how an exploitation piece could have such obvious social constructs – so many women I knew did deal with harassment and subjugation on a daily basis and triumphantly made it through – I sat down and a wrote a show using the well-worn plot points of my favored exploitation gems mixed with all the feministic thought pieces that I had been compiling from riot grrl albums and periodicals for the past several years. I cast a series of fresh young actresses, many new to the city and some totally new to the acting scene itself – one or two marking the project as their first professional theatrical excursion – and we began a series of rehearsals in various living rooms across the city. 

Not only were these women acting out my words – a distinct and precious thrill – but they served as my built in movie buddies, as well. As part of the process, I shared a variety of revenge flicks with them – starting with that (previously mentioned) grimiest Mother of Invention- I Spit on Your Grave. Granted, I skipped over all the drawn out rape sequences, cutting straight to Camille Keaton’s beautiful revenge arc. The southern gothic The Beguiled (about a group of Southern school girls poisoning Clint Eastwood’s charming Northern philanderer also served well… although the rape of Mae Mercer’s Hallie, a plot point that I had forgotten about, caused an uncomfortable moment or two.  The fact that Farrah Fawcett actually stops her attack as well as turns the tables on her unshaven transgressor also made Extremities a necessary tool for the celluloid viewing pile…although by that point in time, we all had grown restless with the aggressive pyrotechnics on display and rounded things out by watching John Waters’ Female Trouble, a suggestion from one of the cast members, and a surprisingly appropriate offering considering (title character and perhaps Divine’s great moment) Dawn Davenport’s aggressive no holds barred criminal badassery. 

One night, during rehearsal, I even found a reason to throw in Barbi Benton’s Hospital Massacre AKA X-Ray. The show was written in a poetic idiom and there were 3 MacBethian witch style characters in X-Ray that I thought might help illustrate the rhythms that I was looking for in one of the dialogue selections of the show. But admittedly, by then my favored ladies seemed weary of my exploitation loving instructions, so I cooled it with my all too enthusiastic celluloid explorations. Thus our tight knit balance of personalities was restored and anything seemed possible once again.

We even beat the odds, structurally. The owner of Too Far West Cafe, the establishment where we were performing the show, decided he was going to put up a full length mirror in the performance space days before we were to begin rehearsing there. If his plans had gone through, the audience, in essence, would have been watching themselves watch the show. Thankfully, Daniel, the cute bespectacled barista who eventually became the show’s adorably muppet-like mascot, dropped the unwieldy piece of glass just before its installation and it shattered on the ground…allowing us to retain a certain sense of suspension of disbelief. 

We weren’t so lucky with the first reviewer, a long feared indie paper mainstay named Jack Helbig, who compared what I thought was Lydia Lunch style outrage to a badly written, overly hysterical after school special.  Hoping to mitigate the damage, I waited, squirming with anticipatory anxiety, for The Reader to come out today. As 5pm finally neared, I rushed from the office I work at on 640 N LaSalle to the paper’s headquarters on 11 E. Ohio, skirling through the broad, 4 sectioned contents with both hope and dread. I practically jumped with joy when I finished reading. While not without its criticisms, the author here actually got what we were aiming for and provided me with enough positive verbiage to market the rest of the run with some proper rave statements. 

Feeling the triumphant relief expressed in my opening paragraph here, I am proudly strutting across the bridge on LaSalle to Wacker Drive. I’m definitely taking the train home from the Lake station, downtown, off of the illustrious State Street. It is a bit out of the way but I want to be in the middle of a mass population glow, to be throwing out my joy among the thronging urban crowds. I want to fuel my already propulsive energy with the forceful stamp of my fellow city lovers, to feel as if we are all one big creative body, streaming together en mass. I believe I am finally on my way to achieving a consciousness filled with a swaggering essence of peace. I, stupidly, did not click on the self-confidence box when the goddesses of microbiology were creating my make-up at birth and I have stumbled every since, trying to ease my round sense of uneasy wondering into some square, stable peg. 

But just as these notions of security begin to take purchase in my essence, I glance into the swirling population storming around me …and I think I spot Lou sweeping past me in the crowd heading in the opposite direction and I gasp. All those motivational building blocks I have just carefully stacked up within me, crash down, shattering like James’ empty whisky glasses around me, cutting a quick and unexpected path to fear & turmoil in the face of this literal ghost.

Lou has been dead for over two years…and it’s been much longer than that since I’ve seen him, face to face. Granted, it has dawned on me, multiple times, as I’ve bludgeoned my way into my early 20s, that despite our familial friendliness, our relationship was far from a kosher one. I’m well aware what happened between us was abusive, but until now I have always sensed a love for him of some sort within me, as well. The mere suggestion of him has never frightened me before.

So, this reaction, this chilled to the bone- heroine in a gothic Henry James story response stuns me. I have no idea where it’s coming from. Could this possibly be the trauma that my therapist Gail has often talked about? She mentioned these feelings might sneak up on me when I was least expecting them. True to that form, I am standing here, stock still, contemplatively considering this — when I realize people are beginning to have to move around me, stalled in mid traffic as I am. So, I recover quickly, give a quick glance behind me and determine, decidedly, that the stranger I have just passed – as I have known all along – was not Lou. I shake it off and head home, eager to call my favorite cast members with the good news. We have a tag line for the show. “Searing…inescapable.” Two words, I suddenly realize, that describe not only our show, but the circumstances of my past, as well.

 

Note: (My first horror movie buddy was a priest named Lou Hendricks. Several years ago, Hendricks was named by the Western New York Catholic diocese as one of their most unrepentant predators in the ’70s and ’80s. Thus, I grew up watching monster movies with a monster – a man who was like an uncle to our family. Over the next few months, I will be sharing some of my stories from that period of time.)

I Fall to Pieces

Published February 22, 2023 by biggayhorrorfan

“I can’t say much about his performance, but that Kendall…wow!”

“Yeah?”

“What a cock!!!”

Thus, was Father Lou’s nuanced, all-encompassing assessment of Pieces, the Euro-trash epic I had, gleefully, discovered in the video section at the mini-mart in East Randolph, NY. This store had sprung up, seemingly overnight, at the corner of Main & Williams during my freshman year at college, a rumored tax write-off for a group of enterprising parents hoping to gather funds to pay for the college educations of their small town fleeing offspring. I definitely appreciated that notion of escape and the fact that the walls of the tiny rental area in the bodega sized pop-up were filled with such offerings as the Friday the 13th films, Dario Argento’s Creepers and Blood Sucking Freaks.

The lurid red of the Pieces’ VHS box had practically called out to me upon entering the space one evening, while the film itself had delighted me with its decidedly weird energy. The actors seemed unconnected not only to each other, but to the material as a whole. The violence was over-the-top, but ultra-unrealistic, as well. The unexpected supernatural twist at the film’s end also reminded me of the out-of-the-grave hand reach from Carrie and I was proud of myself for beginning to recognize influences and repeat behaviors from film to film.

Most importantly, as a collector of actresses, Lynda Day George’s name beneath the advertising artwork had definitely drawn me in, as well. I adored her from her performances in such environmental horror epics as Ants and Day of the Animals. Despite her almost artificially stunning Hollywood beauty, she always seemed ready to throw herself into the muddiness that the roles she played required.  In particular, the plotline of Ants required her to breathe through a tube, remaining perfectly still, while a quadruple baker’s dozen of insects crawled wildly over her impossibly porcelain skin. In Pieces, she almost one upped this dynamic in a sequence that found her paralyzed by a drug injection while enduring the threats of the recently revealed serial killer culprit of the film.

Savoring the multi-day rental period, I brought the tape over to Lou’s rectory on a heat strewn Wednesday evening. Occasionally, I would share my cinematic discoveries with the teen residents at the home for troubled kids, where I was employment-summering, but I felt this one may be too extreme even for their street savvy senses.  Thus, I was dying to get Lou’s reaction. The orgiastic energy of the film even seemed akin to the slaughter strewn graphics of Joyride, one of our favorite cheapie horror paperback novels. But unfortunately, Lou’s Vatican-Latin didn’t translate well to the subcontinental fare on (severed) hand…or, despite my assessment, Ian Sera’s member in those final celluloid driven moments really was of review-banning magnitude.

More than likely, though, it was just another case of those universal lessons that life metes out to you slowly- never meet your heroes and never ask the pervert local priest his true opinion of your latest, greatest horror film.

Note: (My first horror movie buddy was a priest named Lou Hendricks. Several years ago, Hendricks was named by the Western New York Catholic diocese as one of their most unrepentant predators in the ’70s and ’80s. Thus, I grew up watching monster movies with a monster – a man who was like an uncle to our family. Over the next few months, I will be sharing some of my stories from that period of time.)

Unsung Heroines of Horror: Margo

Published February 8, 2023 by biggayhorrorfan

I am forever diving into the cheap bins of LPs at my local record & thrift shops, searching for vinyl treasures to make their way into my ever-expanding collection. Try as I might to resist the lure of overwhelming my domicile with tuneful aluminum-based creations, I truthfully admit that I spend far too much time in these pursuits of rampant purchase. A couple of Sundays ago, with minutes to spare ‘til closing, I hit up the Brown Elephant in the Andersonville neighborhood of Chicago for some late afternoon perusing. There I found an old, old school Kapp recording of film & television star Eddie Albert & his singing companion, a glamorous creation named, singly, Margo. 

Low and behold, it turned out this was the very Margo who, starred with coquettish precision, in the moody Val Lewton produced horror The Leopard Man (1943). Further research revealed that Margo & Albert we’re married for decades. Albert’s continued fame, with projects ranging from comedy sensations like Green Acres and kiddie favorites like Escape to Witch Mountain, compared to Margo’s relative obscurity reveals an all to common tale of masculine privilege, though.  

Politically progressive, the couple both faced ostracism and backlash for their liberal viewpoints during the McCarthy era and often lost work because of it. A war record and his Caucasian background ultimately freed Albert from this witch-hunt, but the very feminine, very Mexican Margo never regained her momentum. She was relegated to sporadic television appearances, with a 1965 episode of Perry Mason marking her last acting credit. Albert’s career, meanwhile, continued for decades after that. 

Thankfully, we can still appreciate her magnetic presence in the well regarded Lewton film while gratefully acknowledging the sacrifices that this one of a kind woman made for truth & justice in society.

Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!

http://www.facebook.com/biggayhorrorfan

Hopelessly Devoted to: Jeanne Crain

Published February 1, 2023 by biggayhorrorfan

Jeanne Crain spent her primary Hollywood years portraying cinematic sweethearts. She was everyone’s faithful sister (Leave Her to Heaven) or the ingénue who bloomed when romance arrived, fully collared, at her door (The Model and the Marriage Broker). Nicely aging into roles in a series of mild noir films like Vicki and Dangerous Crossing, wherein she played elegant, frightened women facing deadly circumstances with trembling aplomb, she wound up her career, as many movie queens before her, in genre films.

She had to do little but look pretty in the midrange disaster epic Skyjacked. Her primary function there, in her final screen role, being to serve up devoted energy as a proud doctor’s spouse. Immediately before that less showy part, though, she proudly enacted a heavily utilized terror stereotype – the woman on the verge of emotional collapse. As the headliner of the cast of The Night God Screamed, playing a preacher’s wife stalked by a Manson-like cult, she fully committed to the disheveled, wide-eyed histrionics necessary for the undertaking.

Sure gold as the melodramatic heroine, a duo of guest shots on Burke’s Law in 1964 nicely confirmed her eclectic talents to the world. There she played against type as egocentric ladies of leisure and highly emotional murderesses. Despite these feats, she retired from the screen thirty years before her death. (She passed away in 2003 at the age of 76.) Thankfully, as night bleeds regularly into dusk, celluloid insomniacs can still discover her work on various media platforms, experiencing her never-ending magic as if anew.

Fun Fact:  Crain had the less-than enviable task of replacing Marilyn Monroe opposite Jane Russell in Gentlemen Marry Brunettes, the cinematic quasi-sequel to Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Even Russell was rumored to have felt that her very quiet, dignified costar was miscast. Still, Crain, whose vocals were mainly handled by the oft utilized Anita Ellis, proves that she was in on the fun via her enjoyable take on I Want To Be Loved By You on the film’s soundtrack LP.

Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!

http://www.facebook.com/biggayhorrorfan

Music to Make Horror Movies By: Nik Kershaw

Published January 4, 2023 by biggayhorrorfan

Growing up in a small town, I often had to rely on acquaintances from bigger cities to introduce me to interesting music. One of the girls I met at a theater audition was from a nearby metropolis and, while I tried to emotionally navigate around the crush she had on me – compounded by my own mild confusion as to whether I was ever going to wake up one morning and discover that I liked both girls and boys, she filled me in on some of her favorite artists. Nik Kershaw was one of them – and within a year or two, I figured out that there was a reason why I would so often longingly gaze at his profile on his second LP, The Riddle. I wasn’t ever going to like any Becky…or, as in this particular case, any Camilla, as well. 

Cheekbones aside, I also really dug Wouldn’t It Be Good, perhaps Kershaw’s biggest hit. Driving that point home, it was included on both his first and second album, and has also been featured in many film & television projects. One of the more interesting uses was in a Body Snatchers style television film called The Annihilator. Featuring Catherine Mary Stewart as a flesh and blood reporter turned into a mindless, assassinating robot, Kershaw’s tune was definitely in good company in this project. The other featured song was David Bowie’s Ashes to Ashes.

Nicely, Kershaw, who is now working some silver daddy magic, is still creating music and performing live. More information is able at https://www.nikkershaw.net.

Va-Va-Villainess: Janice Rule

Published December 26, 2022 by biggayhorrorfan

I once had a boss who I referred to, not so fondly, as The Dragon Lady. Dripping with privilege and obsessed with status, she was quick to cut down anyone who didn’t fit within her narrow definitions of societal importance. She reminded me, then and now, of a real-life Merle Kittridge. Kittridge, of course, was the well-to-do cold fish featured in 1958’s Bell, Book and Candle, the charmingly glossy look at the touching heartaches of a modern witch, perfectly played by the ever-enchanting Kim Novak.

Thankfully, the fictional Kittridge was eventually given some comic pathos by the film’s denouement via her majestic portrayer, Janice Rule. This turnabout is further emphasized by the subtle restraint this consummate performer gives to even her most cutting observations of Novak’s Gillian, ever an outsider due to her peculiar talents. That being said, as rivals for the affections of Jimmy Stewart’s quiet Shepard, the two actresses convincingly play up the polar opposites of their characters. Thus, Merle emerges as a classic example of a woman that you love to hate.

Nicely, in real life, Rule, who died in 2003 at the age of 72, seemed to be the exact opposite of her very popular creation. Earning her degree as a psychoanalyst, she spent the majority of her life helping others between her frequent acting gigs.

Fun Fact: Both Rule and Novak played the heroine in Picnic, William Inge’s classic look at the subtle torments and soft joys of smalltown life. Rule appeared in the original Broadway production while Novak took over in the popular film adaptation.

Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!

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Review: Sweeney Todd

Published December 16, 2022 by biggayhorrorfan

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As a cinema buff, I traffic almost solely in divas. Thus, there is nothing like the joy I feel when speeding down the filmography-highway of some long forgotten jazz singer or hungry B-Movie starlet.

Chicago theater has their share of celluloid worthy powerhouses, as well. A majority of them are estimable, of course. But, in my humble opinion, there is only one Caitlin Jackson! Over the past several years, Jackson has majestically brought such ball busting deities as Bette Midler and Sally Bowles to life on various stages throughout our (rarely) fair Windy City. This fall she added Sweeney Todd’s iconic Mrs. Lovett to her repertoire, as well, and her incisive take on the role first made famous by Angela Lansbury has had audiences committing acts of rampant standing applause, willfully and en mass.

That she has brought out the romanticism and sexuality of Lovett so surgically is especially impressive as this version of the show, produced by Kokandy Productions, imaginatively forgoes props and relies heavily on symbolic objects to push the proceedings forward. Derek Van Barham’s direction, meanwhile, emphasizes both the dark comedy of Stephen Sondheim’s lyrics and the ghoulish Gothicism inherent within the play’s themes of slaughter for profit and deep madness.

That troubling midland is felt most keenly in the fine performances of Brittney Brown and Isabel Cecilia Garcia, whose roles are mirrored reflections of each other. On the other end of the spectrum, Ryan Stajmiger brings such sweet beauty to his take on the show’s premium ballad Johanna that he is likely to bring tears to your eyes. He did to mine.

Sweeney Todd runs at The Chopin Theatre until Sunday, December 18th. More information is available at http://www.kokandyproductions.com.

Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!

http://www.facebook.com/biggayhorrorfan

Shark Bait Retro Village: The Strange Possession of Mrs. Oliver

Published December 15, 2022 by biggayhorrorfan

Squarely belonging in the quirky, femme drenched filmic universe highlighted by cinematic historian Kier-La Janisse, The Strange Possession of Mrs. Oliver hits its magnitude of magnificence due to the wonderful complexities of Karen Black’s lead performance.

Without a doubt, Black will always be one of celluloid’s most unique performers. Universally brimming with intensity and a lush sensuality, she was at the height of her powers in 1977 when this television film was made. Relishing her many close-ups here, she, indulgently yet effectively, brings all of the title character’s confusion and discovery to life. Whether you are intrigued (as I am) or dismayed by her often-eccentric technique, there will never be another like her.

As scripted by I Am Legend’s prolific Richard Matheson, this 78-minute piece of Gothicism begins as the timid Mrs. Oliver tries, unsuccessfully, to break out from beneath her husband’s (George Hamilton) severe, limited expectations of her. Bristling beneath the demand that she revoke all her freedoms for motherhood, the mousy woman ultimately starts to transform into a liberated swinger after a shopping trip to a local mall. Encouraged by a sexy dress shop employee (Gloria LeRoy) to suggestively dress and enjoy the fantasy of masquerading in a blonde wig, she soon begins dreaming of fiery landscapes and a violent past. Catching the eye of a mysterious stranger (Robert F. Lyons) during one of her nocturnal romps, this transformative adventuress is soon facing death in the face. Thus begins a quick race against time to discover the truth about herself before that ghoulish threat catches up with her completely.

Directed with a languid smokiness by AIP horror emperor Gordon Hessler (Scream and Scream Again, Cry of the Banshee), this project belies the limitations of its running time by offering up a solid mystery and the excitement of watching its main performer work her singular magic.

Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!

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Review: Shady Grove

Published December 7, 2022 by biggayhorrorfan

I never really gave being a parent much thought…except for the year or two directly following my father’s unexpected death in his mid-fifties. As with many males before me, I felt the need to carry on my dad’s lineage, to produce a bloodline namesake for our rapidly diminishing family tree. That notion, thankfully, quickly passed as my romantic status remained unchanged. (Who wants to raise a kid alone?!?) But that kind of patriarchal methodology, while never mentioned outright, definitely inspires the reactionary DNA of Shady Grove, a horror feature co-written by & starring the talented Niki McElroy. The societies represented here, for both better and for (far, far) worse, definitely seek the antithesis of that testosterone driven narrative. 

With both parties rattled by her recent affair with a woman, longtime couple Shauna (McElroy) and Mark (Todd Anthony) rent a quiet country cabin for the weekend in an isolated area. (First mistake, right?!?) Despite the over-the-top antics of their traveling companion, Eli (Juhahn Jones), the two try to tenderly navigate the newness of their rekindled relationship & the unexpected emotions brought on by Shauna’s surprise pregnancy. The mysterious smells emanating from a locked room in their vacation home soon take on a different meaning, though, when Eli disappears after a night of partying with two local women. The sheriff, authoritatively played by hearing impaired actress Becki Hayes, reads as concerned, but there appears to be little that she can do about the strange presences that are now seeming to stalk the very frightened couple. Thus, as the night wears on, it appears that one of them may not make it alive come morning while the other’s life may be irreversibly altered in a very deep seated way.

Ultimately emerging into something that resembles The Wicker Man mixed with more current fare like Vacancy & The Strangers, this well acted production is definitely a slow burn and a nice alternative to the neo-slasher route that many independent creators take. More importantly, the diversity displayed, onscreen and off, makes this a golden viewing experience and one that any woman living in this post #MeToo, nauseatingly right wing era can relate to on multiple levels. 

For more information, please check out https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100086453926442 and

& https://instagram.com/shadygrovemovie?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y=.

Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!

http://www.facebook.com/biggayhorrorfan