Found-Again Friday: Dead Again

Writing my post last week sent me off on a tangent, so this time I’m changing the plan slightly and going back to what, in 1993, was one of my favorite movies.

Why Found-Again? Honestly, talking about my love for Kenneth Branagh/Emma Thompson makes me feel like I’m about a thousand years old. (Imagine the Highlander posts I could have written if I were! Speaking of tangents….)

I was fifteen when Siskel & Ebert reviewed Branagh’s Henry V and vividly remember the discussion about how Branagh might be the next Olivier and was otherwise an up-and-coming cinematic Big Thing. For some reason—I’m not a huge fan of the play even after several Shakespeare classes, so it wasn’t Henry as such—I found this very exciting. Two years later, I was also watching Siskel & Ebert when Dead Again, Branagh’s new movie with his then-wife Emma Thompson, got worse reviews.

I didn’t see it till I was nineteen, but once I did, I was hooked. The apparent king and queen of movies in a noirish supernatural thriller—how could I be anything but smitten?

The Premise: A mute, traumatized woman (Thompson) shows up at an orphanage with no apparent memory of who she is;  the nuns turn to one of their former charges, hard-boiled PI Mike Church (Branagh), for help. The further Mike digs into the case, however, the more it seems the trauma might have its roots in a famous murder from 1948, linked to the woman’s past life…or his own. But will forgotten crimes be reincarnated as well?

DeadAgainNoirDuo

From a stylistic perspective (which readers have probably deduced I have little ability to analyze, but onward!), Dead Again hits all the classic noir beats: the LA setting, the Old Hollywood glamor of the flashback sequences, the dark corners and plot twists and dramatic camera angles.

Andy Garcia, noiring even harder than Alec Baldwin.
…and Andy Garcia, noiring even harder than Alec Baldwin.

The cast is likewise great, with the two leads joined by Derek Jacobi as a chiseling antique dealer/hypnotist, Wayne Knight as Church’s friend, Andy Garcia as a 1940s reporter who gets too involved,  and a great turn by Robin Williams as a cantankerous ex-shrink who works in a grocery store. You shouldn’t have slept with that patient, pal.

That said, rewatching Dead Again is a little like rewatching Highlander for me: once there’s enough distance from the initial adrenaline rush, doubts begin to creep in. Some of the events seem a little disconnected from each other, in that way where the story makes more sense when you describe it aloud than when you’re watching it on the screen. And then there’s the plot twist, which is not quite as twisty in 2015 as it was in the early 1990s.

The Verdict: Be aware that it comes from someone who fretted over the Branagh-Thompson divorce in a way I’ve never cared about famous people before or since when I say that Dead Again is… just a little goofy. It seems to have moved into that category of movie that I don’t mind watching alone, but am slightly embarrassed to show to other people; the very things I love about it are all a bit embarrassing to explain, and the whole thing seems so dependent on mood.

Parts of this movie are none too subtle on the symbolism, either.
Parts of this movie are none too subtle on the symbolism, either.

I’d hoped a re-viewing after several years’ abstinence would put me back in touch with everything I adored about the film, but it didn’t quite happen.

On the other hand, the movie and even the trailer still give me chills. I suppose for a movie about reincarnation, hope really might spring eternal.

 

Might go well with: Little hors d’oeuvres. You thought I was going to make a twice-baked potato joke, didn’t you?

Next time: Curses!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Found-Again(?) Friday: Frankenstein (1931)

Why Found-Again? Like Vertigo from earlier this year, it’s hard to tell—given the combined forces of old Saturday movies, horror documentaries and Mel Brooks parodies—whether I’ve actually seen Frankenstein before. I’m not going to let that stop me, though. I can “IT’S ALIVE!!!” with the best of them.

The Premise: Blah, blah, body-snatching, meddling with blah that man was never meant to blah, neglecting the love of your life for MAD SCIENCE!, mayhem, fire bad, blah.

Blah.
Blah.

You may gather from the above that I am not completely happy with my viewing, or indeed with the Frankenstein(‘s monster) idea in general: like Romero-style zombies, it’s a horror genre for which the symbolic richness of the idea far outweighs any interest I have in watching the actual product. I haven’t even seen the Kenneth Branagh adaptation, and that was made when I still thought of Branagh as a minor deity.

And now that I’ve finished it, I think I must not have watched the 1931 Frankenstein before after all: finding out that the brain-stealing scene in the Mel Brooks movie was lifted nearly wholesale came as an almost physical shock.

Seriously?
Seriously?

Even so, I found the monster’s electric birth and subsequent misery very moving…only to run up against the angry mob at the end. Like the brain theft, it was familiar—but it seems it’s a lot harder to get the mood back from memories of Transylvania 6-5000.

It doesn't take a "normal" brain to know this won't end well.
It doesn’t take a “normal” brain to know this won’t end well.

Other random thoughts:

  • I love the futuristic font the movie title is written in at the beginning, even though most of the rest of the film seems terribly old-fashioned by comparison.
  • Remember when I said that if you don’t love the character Rachel in Highlander, you are a terrible person? The same goes for Boris Karloff. I don’t even hold a grudge over the very misnamed The Man They Could Not Hang. (They definitely did, to death and possibly beyond; it just didn’t take.)
  • Henry Frankenstein—Henry??—seems like a man who could profitably take relationship advice from Werewolf of London’s Wilfred Glendon. It’s that bad.
  • For a guy getting choked to death, Fritz (known to the popular consciousness as Igor) sure can scream.
  • I am half-convinced that after his collapse, Henry goes to the same sanitarium James Bond repaired to after the unfortunate genital incident in Casino Royale.
  • Imagine a mob of angry villagers, each wearing my grandfather’s hat.
Your author in 1977 doing likewise.
Your author in 1977 doing likewise.

The Verdict: It’s not Frankenstein, it’s me. I made it through Halloween even though I’d seen it all before, Charade wasn’t ruined because American Dreamer ripped off its beginning, but I had a very hard time with this one. It’s a shame—this is the only Frankenstein movie I’ve ever watched that wasn’t a bride-of movie or a parody of some sort—but it just isn’t my cup of tea.

Might go well with: Bratwurst, Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein, millinery.

 

Next time: The monster hits keep coming when The Quest for Monday returns!

Found-Again Friday: Weirdness for October! The Haunted Palace

Are you really going to pretend this is “Found-Again” for you? In October?? Nah. Turns out I miss writing about horror movies, and it’s the season, so.

The Premise: Charles Dexter Ward (Vincent Price) and his wife Ann (Debra Paget) inherit a spooky house in Arkham, complete with undead caretaker and a painting of Ward’s ancestor, the sorcerer Joseph Curwen (played, after his inevitable revival, by Vincent Price looking even hotter).

HauntedPalCouple
“Hi! We’re cute and guileless! Which way to the evil old manor, please?”
Curwen, before he was burned to death in his own yard, ran what could euphemistically be called a captive breeding program between hypnotized women and Elder Gods. As a result, the townspeople of Arkham suffer from strange deformities and are understandably afraid that lookalike Ward might be going into the family business.

The Haunted Palace is nominally one of the Poe adaptations Roger Corman made with Vincent Price back in the 1960s, and it does begin and end with readings from the poem. Really, though, it’s H.P. Lovecraft’s The Case of Charles Dexter Ward novella run through a sort of Poe/Gothic filter of creaky castles, velvet coats and women in distress. It’s also my favorite of those adaptations*—but we all know I’m a little weird.

This movie is so Gothic, even the hero gets a white nightgown.
This movie is so Gothic, even the hero gets a white nightgown.
I vacillate as to which version of this villain is worse: the mad-scientist cannibal necromancer Curwen in 1991’s The Resurrected (which I now own on DVD! One more for Unwanted Eyeball Violence Row…) or this one, who sneers so well and just digs up one old girlfriend and only kills people in a straightforward, laws-of-physics kind of way. But the premise of The Haunted Palace is thoroughly nasty, even though the nastiness is obscured by the lack of gore and the Silly-Puttyesque special effects, so I’m tempted to give 1963 Curwen the advantage.

Though he's quite nice to look at, in a domineering, I'mprobably-cheating-on-you-with-my-dead-girlfriend kind of way.
Though he’s quite nice to look at, in a domineering, probably-cheating-on-you-with-his-dead-girlfriend kind of way.
The Verdict: I’m not going to say that this is perfect: I never make it through the movie without joking that the casting call for the role of Ann should’ve said “Must be able to yell the word ‘Charles!’ upwards of 20 times a minute.” Then there’s the painting, which is supposed to be 18th century but appears to be a self-portrait by Vincent van Price.

Not exaggerating even a tiny bit.
Not exaggerating even a tiny bit.
Also, what kind of stone can be set on fire by angry villagers?

Even so, it’s well-done and genuinely creepy at times, with a great performance from Price in which you can easily tell which character he is at any given moment. Heck, he’s worth watching for the evil Latin recitations alone.

Might go well with: Red wine, The Resurrected, Tales of Terrorthe H.P. Lovecraft Literary Podcast.

*For those of you keeping track of such things, I’ve seen seven of the eight and would rank them in this order: 2) Masque of the Red Death; 3) Tales of Terror; 4) Pit and the Pendulum; 5) tie between Fall of the House of Usher and Tomb of Ligeia, mainly due to poor Price’s costume in Usher, which is sort of Little Lord Fauntleroy via the ninth circle of Hell; 6) The Raven.

For the “They Remade What?!” Blogathon: Paris and Gamines and Spies, Oh, My! Charade and Its Remake

They remade What?! Blogathon

I suspect I’m one of the only people who saw 2002’s The Truth About Charlie, the remake of Charade, before seeing the original 1963 movie. And I didn’t like it initially, perhaps comparing it in my head to what the old-movie buffs I knew insisted was perfection.

When I finally saw Charade, then, it was with a sense of wonder and relief: the movie, though fantastic, is not a classic in that parlor-furniture, mustn’t-be-touched sense that my friends and family insisted it was. In fact, my appreciation for both versions has only grown over time.

The storyline for the movies is more or less the same: After some time away to think it over, pretty Regina (Audrey Hepburn/Thandie Newton) is just about to divorce her husband Charles when he turns up dead. And not only dead, but crooked—Charles was carrying multiple passports under various aliases, and the life Regina thought she had is revealed to be a lie. An attractive man she met on her vacation (Cary Grant/Mark Wahlberg) seems to have followed her home, but why? And what’s his relationship to the sinister trio who begin to stalk her, looking for a fortune Charles stole long ago?

Things only get more complicated when she’s asked by a sneaky American to spy on the whole cat-and-mouse game.

That makes it sound grim, but the original movie is anything but; it’s suspenseful yet witty and fast-paced, with a solid romantic subplot and interesting relationships, all set against the gorgeous backdrop of Paris. The opening has dialogue worthy of The Thin Man, in my opinion:

 

So how do Charade and The Truth About Charlie stack up?

The Cast:

This category does have a clear winner: in The Truth About Charlie, Thandie Newton is suitably spunky as Regina,  and Mark Wahlberg takes on a rough-edged version of the Cary Grant role, with Tim Robbins as the would-be spymaster (a role Walter Matthau played in the 1963 film). They do their best against the unbeatable originals, but it’s a necessarily losing battle.

Regina 2.0, walking in the shadow of the original movie.
Regina 2.0, walking in the shadow of the original movie.
"You mean someone did this before?"
“You mean someone did this before?”

And while I applaud tTaC director Jonathan Demme for using a more diverse cast for the three thieves, it’s hard to compete with James Coburn and friends from the original film.

...even when they hurt Cary Grant.
…even when they hurt Cary Grant.

Advantage: Charade

The Music:

Charade’s soundtrack is the work of Henry Mancini, a man famous for the Pink Panther theme but who had a widely varied career, including doing the music for Remington Steele. The man likely never hit a wrong note in his entire life.

Even so, I often think one of my problems with The Truth About Charlie was the plot’s failure to match the adventure quotient of its soundtrack, which is one of those albums I find essential for road trips.  This is the first thing you hear as The Truth About Charlie’s credits start:

I love it! There are also tracks by Asian Dub Foundation, Gotan Project, and Charles Aznavour, among others. The techno vibe isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but to me? It sounds like intrigue.

Advantage: The Truth About Charlie

The Setting:

I doubt real Paris was ever the lily-white location of the first Charade film, where the most “foreign” thing the viewer sees is the German tourist Regina uses for cover while surveilling her new friend. The Paris of The Truth About Charlie is more varied: there’s even—gasp!—graffiti. I hate the word “gritty,” but when a movie’s plot features people ruthlessly chasing after stolen war loot, a little grit is probably a good thing.

Advantage: The Truth About Charlie, but only slightly; fantasy-fashion-shoot Paris from the original film is also pretty cool

 

The Verdict: Mixed. Charade and its remake share the same flaws, really: some parts are more goofy than they need to be, and some of the tonal shifts between terror and whimsy are more jarring than I suspect was intended.  As a caper/spy film, I find The Truth About Charlie, and its version of Paris, slightly more believable. But when it comes to heart…much as I hate dinging The Truth About Charlie for not having Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn when it couldn’t, the two leads make Charade the timeless film it is. Put bluntly, I’d watch either on TV on a weekend, but only Charade would cause me to say “I love this movie!” aloud as I settled in for the duration.

Found-Again Friday: Beyond Therapy

At some point, every kid will beg their parents to let them see an R-rated movie. I was an only child, so I say without shame that my nagging skills—in this and every other regard—were highly advanced, and so Mom took me to see my first R film in the theater when I was 13.

A sort-of art film based on a play.

Why did I waste my +20 Tongue of Nagging on such a thing? In other words, Why Found-Again?–or indeed, found in the first place?

For obvious reasons.

Indeed, this movie represented for me some sort of zenith (nadir?) of Goldblum-fan dweebdom.
Indeed, this movie represented for me some sort of zenith (nadir?) of Goldblum-fan dweebdom.

And for reasons that are obvious if you’ve seen American Dreamer.

I don't think it's actually possible to make Tom Conti not cute, but they certainly had a go at it.
I don’t think it’s actually possible to make Tom Conti not cute, but they certainly had a go at it.

The Premise: I think you have me stumped there. The romantic foibles of some incredibly neurotic people?

Bisexual Bruce (Goldblum) attempts to date homophobic basket case Prudence (Julie Hagerty) while still living with his boyfriend Bob (Christopher Guest). Both Bruce and Prudence are in therapy, with counselors (Tom Conti and Glenda Jackson) in adjacent offices who meet up for quickies during particularly boring sessions. Add in Bob’s excitable mother and a number of minor characters from a French restaurant, and you have a recipe for a nervous breakdown—on the audience’s part, also.

I had an “aha!” moment when I saw that Robert Altman directed Beyond Therapy. While it’s not a comment on the quality of the man’s body of work, this proves Altman’s movies have been Not Doing It For Me since I was a tween (the sole exception: Prêt-à-Porter), and that made me feel a bit better about my initial reaction.

However, it seems to have also shot my usual methods straight to hell. This movie is so scattered, it deserves a scattered writeup. Brace yourself for incoming bullet points!

  • I think this must mark the beginning of Goldblum’s European period, so I did learn something!
  • The set design in this movie is fantastic, from the paintings in the Tom Conti character’s office to Bruce and Bob’s apartment.
  • Christopher Guest with facial hair will always ever be Count Rugen to me, which makes his turn as Bob a bit…odd.
  • At the restaurant, Prudence says she writes for People magazine, just like Goldblum’s character in The Big Chill.
  • There’s what I am pretty sure is an Airplane! in-joke referencing Ethel Merman.
  • While it’s neat to see a movie from this far back with a bisexual protagonist, really, did it have to be like this??
  • There is a very cute rabbit hand-puppet.

The Verdict: This didn’t even make my worst-movies list back on my old site, because in spite of its flaws, Beyond Therapy was kind of forgettable in 1987, and I suspect it will be this time too. As I haven’t yet forgotten it, though, my advice is this: treat it as you would treat the Ark of the Covenant. This is a film whose one sound decision, other than set design, was “Let’s put a vest on Conti.” Unless you too are on a quest to see everything Goldblum ever made, avoid avoid avoid.

Might go well with: Leaving the room, watching a better movie in another room, and having a good, stiff drink.

Next time: Blogathon entry!

Found-Again Friday (Sort Of): Heaven’s Prisoners

This one’s iffy: while it’s true that I once sat down to watch Heaven’s Prisoners and remained in the room the whole time, I fell asleep and never followed up until last week. After all, it seemed incomprehensible that anything with Eric Roberts as the bad guy could be dull enough to incite sleep. It might not be good, but it shouldn’t be dull.

Good news, kind of!

The Premise: This is one of two film adaptations of James Lee Burke’s Dave Robicheaux books: regular readers will remember that these often have a similar structure to episodes of Highlander: The Series. Alec Baldwin stars as Robicheaux, an alcoholic ex-cop who tries and fails to shake his past by leaving New Orleans and opening a bait shop in the bayou. A plane crash lands him with both a foster child and a mystery, and the answer lies with his childhood friend, mobster wannabe Bubba Rocque (Roberts).

People forget Alec Baldwin could noir like a champ back in the 1990s.
People forget Alec Baldwin could noir like a champ back in the 1990s. Then again, I also liked The Shadow.

The good news is that if you get past the first 40 minutes or so without pricking your finger on a magic spindle, Heaven’s Prisoners picks up considerably, with some nice action sequences and interesting secondary characters. (The other good news is the soundtrack, which is naturally blues-heavy.) The bad news is that it’s often a colossal downer of a film; if you’ve read the books, you know Robicheaux is what you might get if Thomas Hardy had a bowl of jambalaya, watched a few cop shows, and decided to write a mystery series, so this is not surprising. And then there’s Bubba Rocque. Did I mention Eric Roberts sports a distracting combination cornrows/French braid/man-bun for most of the film? You won’t be able to forget it.

The Verdict: Definitely better than I remembered (in that I got  all the way through it), but still not quite the movie the books deserve.

Might go well with: Etouffée, beer, and the much sillier The Big Easy, since I’ve got to admit I’ve never conked out on that one.

Found-Again Friday: The Thomas Crown Affair (1999)

Why Found-Again? For personal reasons too depressing to go into, I don’t watch this very often—which is, as you know if you’ve ever seen it, a total shame. 1999’s Thomas Crown Affair is a wonderful movie, and I don’t say that often enough.

The Premise: Bored gazillionaire businessman Thomas Crown (Pierce Brosnan) turns to art theft for a little excitement and gets more than he bargained for when the theft brings ruthless insurance investigator Catherine Banning (Rene Russo) into his life. It’s a cat-and-mouse game, if you’re the sort of person who thinks a cat and a mouse might hook up at a fancy-dress ball.

The Thomas Crown Affair—a quasi-remake of the 1960s heist film with Steve McQueen—is a mystery movie. It’s a heist movie. It’s a romance movie. It’s an art-museumgoer-geekery movie. It has an amazing soundtrack. It’s a worthy successor in wit and pace to The Thin Man, the movie that is my gold standard for non-supernatural films.* And more to the point, Crown is the other role Brosnan was born to play—after Remington Steele and that shooty guy with the short name.

This film is so. Much. Fun.

The Verdict: Sorry, I couldn’t hear you: I was too busy bouncing on my couch in joy as Nina Simone wailed on my television. Are you watching this yet? Why aren’t you watching this yet?

Watch this!

Might go well with: Champagne, the first season of Remington Steele, apples.

 

 

*I’m classifying sci-fi in the supernatural category for the purposes of this review, although there are lots of excellent arguments as to why I probably shouldn’t.

Found-Again Friday: Oscar

Why Found-Again? In a way, I already had one found-again conversion moment with Oscar: I walked out on it in the theater back when I was a teenager on the grounds that it was too silly. Now I own it, but don’t watch it very often—maybe once for every 50 times I quote from it, in fact. So what’s the deal?

The Premise: Twofold:

1) Being a mobster who’s trying to go straight is one lasting administrative headache, not least when your idea of “going straight” is going into finance.

2) What audiences in the early 1990s were really missing was a chance to return to the era of screwball comedies.

For people who think the appearance of Sylvester Stallone always guarantees a crapstorm on the horizon, there’s probably no hope of convincing them to like Oscar. But I like Stallone here as “Snaps” Provolone, a successful mob boss trying to go straight as a promise to his dead father (Kirk Douglas).

The only things standing in his way are the cops, the rival gang, the snooty bankers who want his money, his lovesick but devious accountant, a desperate daughter trying to get freedom at any cost, and his exasperated wife: after all that, you’d have big, sad eyes too.

Oscar has one heck of a cast: in addition to Stallone, you have Marisa Tomei, Peter Riegert, Chazz Palminteri, and Tim Curry as a character I love so much I named one of my bettas after him, the elocution teacher Dr. Poole. That’s a lot of people who are fun to watch, even when the plot threatens to wear thin.

Getting back to point 2 above, though, this movie tends to be an acquired taste, a little too silly for people who want a witty comedy and not silly enough for fans of, say, the Naked Gun series. Watching the actual screwball comedies of the early twentieth century has given me a better grounding to appreciate Oscar, but there’s a case to be made that a movie shouldn’t always come with its own research project.

The Verdict: I don’t know why I don’t watch this more often, especially since I steal henchman Connie’s “I’m gettin’ good at this!” line almost weekly. I know I said above that it was an acquired taste, but you should acquire it already.

Might go well with: Tea, smoked salmon, Johnny Dangerously.

I don’t always post full movies, but as with so many of these features, the trailer is seriously lacking (lacking about 55% of the plot, for one thing, and being oddly misleading about the rest).

Found-Again Friday: Into The Night

“The police can’t help me—I’m one of the bad guys.”

I really didn’t mean to use this space for so much Jeff Goldblum Revisited, but I’ve been watching a lot of semi-obscure ’80s/early ’90s movies lately and Into the Night fits right in.

The Premise: Nerdy engineer Ed (played by you-know-who) has insomnia, a cheating wife, and a general case of suburban malaise.

That "whoa" sound you heard back in 1987 was Tween Me watching this.
That “whoa” sound you heard back in 1987 was Tween Me watching this.

On a late-night drive, Ed inadvertently rescues Diana (Michelle Pfeiffer) from a bunch of Iranian mobsters and is plunged into seedy intrigue in Los Angeles—seems Diana (see the quote above) is a jewel smuggler. Can the two of them make a deal that will get them out of this mess alive? Will Ed ever sleep? How did Dan Aykroyd get in this production, and how would we ever play Four Degrees of Jeff Goldblum without him?

This is a weird little movie, and since I didn’t recognize all the director cameos when I was younger (the movie’s director, John Landis, plays a bad guy; David “The Fly” Cronenberg plays Ed’s boss, and there are other brief appearances by Lawrence Kasdan and Roger Vadim), I am only now starting to appreciate how weird. Jim Henson has a cameo, for pete’s sake. And yet I kept wondering what kind of movie David Lynch could’ve made from this same material, since it seems to touch on a lot of his neo-noir motifs.

On the other hand, could anyone really improve on Jeff Goldblum in an Elvis car?

Wow.
Nah.

The Verdict: On the whole, I probably like this movie as much now as I did when I saw it in the ’80s, but for completely different reasons. Except for the B.B. King soundtrack, of course: that’s always good.

Keep an eye out for David Bowie in the trailer, too.

Might go well with: Bacon, other diner food.

Next time: We spend more time with Jonny Quest and friends.

Found-Again Friday: Werewolf of London

I’m a bit deficient in the old Universal horror movies, so I selected a few to visit and revisit—including this one, the favorite horror film of one of my non-horror-watching, no-you’re-a-nerd acquaintances.*

The Premise: Botanist Wilfred Glendon (Henry Hull) has a manor but not much of a manner, to the dismay of his lovely wife. On an expedition to Tibet to collect a night-blooming flower, he’s attacked by a wolf-creature; after he returns to England, Wilfred begins to experience certain…urges. You know the drill. The flower can stave off his transformations, but only if Wilfred can get it to bloom and keep the flowers out of the hands of a rival (Warner “Charlie Chan, for some reason” Oland).

I haven’t been so conflicted about a Found-Again entry since the Beauty and the Beast TV show turned me into a 14-year-old girl again. Rated purely on a scale of “How’s the werewolf story?,” Werewolf of London is okay, a solid 5–7 out of 10. It is, however, highly entertaining for the following reasons:

  • A marvelous cast of minor characters, including a haughty lab assistant who looks exactly like Arte Johnson in Love At First Bite, a snooty butler with a combover, and an assemblage of gin-swilling old ladies. There is also the wife’s old boyfriend, who at one point dons a leather trenchcoat and looks as much like Black Adder’s WWI Lord Flashheart as it is possible to do unironically.
See?
See?
  • We can see that Wilfred is already well on his way to villainy thanks to a tour of some really evil plants at the beginning of the movie. One appears to be a shoggoth, in fact, or some sort of shoggoth/sea anemone hybrid.
  • This is, hands down, the most stereotypically British horror movie I’ve ever seen, and I’ve certainly put in my hours watching Hammer films. There’s something so endearing about a ravening monster who stops to put on his scarf and hat before he goes out to eat pedestrians.
  • Our protagonist is at one point warned that “the werewolf seeks to kill the thing it loves best.” Based on our actual body count, it would appear that what Wilfred really loves is blondes with good screaming voices.

The Verdict: As long as you don’t pin your hopes of entertainment on the actual werewolf, Werewolf of London is an awful lot of fun. If only someone had explained about the shoggoth.

Might go well with: Carpaccio, edible flowers, Bombay Sapphire.

 

Next time: Cartoon characters with frickin’ laser beams.

 

*To whom I may or may not have been married at one time.