15th June 2009

In the next part of our Blind Dead coverage, we come to the nautical delights of 1974’s The Ghost Galleon

Even quicker to emerge on the heels of the predecessors, presumably in the face of a rapacious mid-70s exploitation boom, the third instalment appeared less than a year on from ‘Return…’’s quiet triumph. The ravages of not-enough-time are plain to see even before the opening credits have finished their calligraphic parade.

While dress sense has never been the series’ strong suit, this instalment goes for broke and metes out punishment for the previous films’ sartorial crimes by setting itself, by the beard of Bava!, in the fashion world.

Embarking on a search for her fellow model, friend and -- naturally, it’s a 70s exploitation picture – lover, Kathy, the uniquely-named Noemi uncovers a bizarre and totally nonsensical plot by her employer to scam oceanfaring vessels into “rescuing” a “stranded” speedboat containing model in skimpy, company-issue dress. The exposure that any ensuing news coverage of the PR hi-jinx would bring appears to be the employer’s ultimate, if distinctly odd and naïve, goal.

And so the most stilted and listless (in the case of the inept model ships featured in the film, quite literally listless) entry in the series again reinvents the Templars’ arrival in the present day. When one of the company speedboats disappears, the hardly pot-boiling plot thrusts the pursuing Noemi and Co. into an encounter with the titular gothic vessel, one that seems to traverse multiple dimensions and gobble scantily clad lovelies as keenly as the picture itself chews through poorly plotted minutes. On board, the Templars, inexplicably ensconced in molding caskets (I guess Ossorio is willing place his creatures firmly in the ‘vampire’ camp after all?), await inquisitive and presumably shipwrecked souls to drain and dismember.

And there is the first of many visible flaws in the piece: ‘Ghost Galleon’ relies on a more inane brand of the supernatural and uncanny than it does on the bold incongruity of “real life” malevolence that coursed through the veins of the first two instalments. That they do little to actually perpetuate any kind of shipwrecking is a gap in logic which has no place in the world of gothic horror. Great ghouls they remain; good marketers, they are not. The random nature of the human encounters with the galleon also betrays the perverse underpinnings of not only the Templars themselves but also the actions of those who, previously, have unwittingly summoned them through desire, act or original sin. That very Catholic brand of punishment has been a strong thematic pulse within the Blind Dead series thus far and it’s sorely missing here. And so, it becomes merely another haunted house mystery, one for which the outcome is all too obvious for us to be fully entranced. The scant gore on offer does little to temper the disappointment for fans of the series’ more sanguinary elements which, while not always explicit, contextualised the medieval rancour of the Knight’s cruelty in neat cinematic shorthand.

To allay fears that sexual equality or basic moral sense have been paid any kind of lip service this time around, the now de rigour rape scene plays out, regardless of its proximity to the ghoulish action, remaining but a lazy, blunt set up for a later death. The knowledgeable pedagogue is replayed from ‘Tombs…’ but here, he’s more of a reassuringly bumbling old soul than any kind of worthy, potent academic. Acting like a less paranoid Crazy Ralph, he imparts further Templar backstory before, somewhat short-sightedly, hitching along on the doomed journey anyway.

As those molding coffins suggest, the obvious template for much of the central action is ‘Dracula’ (or more explicitly ‘Nosferatu’), in particular the Demeter sequence, the partially-opaque photography of the Dead’s crude sarcophagi, adroitly referencing the eerie monochrome of Max Schrek’s perpendicular ascent in Murnau’s silent masterpiece. It’s a nice touch, and indicative of that which the picture relies upon for its marginal pleasures. As is increasingly apparent in Ossorio’s world, atmosphere unquestionably wins out over logic; but it’s an atmosphere that saves the picture from descending into uninvolving misfire. Atmosphere is legion here and there’s always a corner of the screen lovingly designed, dotingly captured, and winningly atrophied by the filmmakers. The lacklustre model work aside, it’s a triumph of production design.

The fatalism of the series hasn’t been degenerated or diluted either. In fact the picture matches the stark desolation of ‘Tombs...’ in its ebbing moments better than either the previous ‘Return…’ or the final chapter, ‘Night Of The Seagulls’, do. More EC Comics than Henry James, the final 2 minutes have the verve and chilling invention the remaining 85 so sorely lack.

In an exploitation industry so geared towards quick fix returns, it’s an admirable series that builds itself on successive instalments which seem intent on exploring, however successfully, narrative potential rather than pandering to the expected generic thrills --although there’s plenty of that in all three instalments thus far. Whatever their myriad sins, the Blind Dead films, like their titular beasts, are resolutely non-conformist.

Anchor Bay’s disc, though markedly less impressive than those for the film’s ancestors, is still a commendably stygian presentation of an atmospherically photographed production. Trailers (in the form of its US title ‘Horror Of The Zombies’) are all on board to the delight of fans of the series and to the detriment of trailer editing enthusiasts everywhere.

A small but well formed brace of DVD release hitting shelves this week:

My Bloody Valentine 3D: In an era where Tom Savini had exploded three heads in quick, spectacularly splattery succession, George Mihalka’s post-“Friday 13th”, north-of-the-border 1981 whodunnit was a remarkably coy slasher picture. A terrific picture but, notoriously cut and recently uncovered kill footage aside, one more genuinely concerned with the dynamics of suspense and tension than it was with the finer details of boiling someone in a tumble dryer.

Patrick Lussier and Todd Farmer have no such concerns. Oh, this 2009 reboot has got a decent enough whodunnit thread (though it’s ultimately revealed to be a complete fucking cheat) but it’s mostly concerned with well orchestrated scenes of technology-enhanced blood and coiled guts. And a midget impaled on a pick axe. Enough cannot be said about the completely matter-of-fact midget impaled on the pick axe.

Taking their cue from the original film, writer (and nude scene star!) Farmer and director Lussier reverentially recapitulate themes and simmering small-town tensions, old wives tale style superstitions and, happily, more adult skewed character development than the average teen-bait slasher, blending these elements with 21st century amounts of gore and T&A (and I don’t mean just Tom Atkins). And despite the most undemanding of narrative trajectories, it all somehow comes together in a sprawling piece of reckless, energetic entertainment the likes of which the horror film hasn’t witnessed since David Ellis first took the reins for “Final Destination 2”. Eyes pop, jaw bones fly and, yes, pointy things poke out at you in wearyingly regular intervals. Though it all comes with the added bonus of being rendered in wonderfully immersive RealD, it’s the design of the filmmaking, pulling you into the scenes with uncanny effect, rather than the grue exploding into your face which impresses with this new technology. It remains to be seen how effective this technology is when translated into the home viewing experience, but I hope it maintains the same level of sly innovation. It’s a huge part of this picture’s indisputable charm, despite it ultimately being as goofy as the Hari Krishna zombie in “Dawn Of The Dead”.

The Lost: To say that Lucky McKee’s genre career has been fraught is as much an understatement as saying his name is woefully ironic.. After taking the genre scene by storm with the low-key brilliance of ‘May’, McKee’s sophomore effort, ‘The Woods’ stalled endlessly, before finally emerging to small fanfare but good critical notices. He was then bumped off recent Jack Ketchum adaptation “Red” for undisclosed reasons.

It’s all rather dispiriting since, with “May” he more than proved his artistic smarts, and then proved his nose for new talent as well when he acted as godfather to his regular editor Chris Severtson’s first picture as director with ‘The Lost’. Despite faltering with his follow-up, the Lindsey Lohan oddity “I Know Who Killed Me” (memorably and expertly defended by Frighfester Alex Kidd as, in fact, a sleazy giallo throwback) Severtson hit a home ruin out of the gate with his powerful debut. It’s a picture -- from a Jack Ketchum novel about an unhinged would-be stud/rebel whose life suddenly unravels in a spring-loaded spiral of reckless, incomprehensible violence -- which raised the bar for McKee, his peers and any up and coming indie tyro to uncompromising levels of audacity.

With its rapturous, roving camerawork and vigorous improvisational acting style, ‘The Lost’ is remorseless puck rock picture-making in the key of Altman and Scorsese. Its meticulously pitched insouciance is everything Matthew Bright and Chuck Pirello’s comparatively vapid serial killer shockers are too concerned with post-modern quirk and easy sleaze to contemplate. Mark Senter leads an intrepid cast of little-to-unknowns who sear the screen with their raw energy and astonishing immediacy. This immediacy of the casual sadist is far more disturbing than any makeshift marquee murderer, something Severtson and his creative team understand the terrifying ramifications of all too well. The result, one that been far too long coming to DVD here in the UK, is one of the most unsettling depictions of youthful ennui to grace the screen since ‘Badlands’: ‘Natural Born Killers’ be damned.

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