Review by Keri O’Shea
Since cinema’s earliest inception, the presence of the Devil has been ubiquitous – whether Old Scratch appears as a monstrous entity or a cunning outsider, a gentleman magician or a horned miscreant, the silver screen has never been long without him. That is the central thesis of author Nikolas Schreck’s far-reaching (though intentionally not encyclopaedic) study of Satan on celluloid – and, as Schreck notes, considering the close relationship between the Devil and this particular offshoot of the arts, it’s strange that so little had been specifically written on this subject before Schreck did the job. Nikolas Schreck, himself a contentious and well-known figure in modern Satanism (located as he is on one side of a bitter schism from the Church of Satan founded by his wife’s late father, Anton LaVey), has crafted a very educational and interesting book here, travelling at a good pace through an abundance of material and examining along the way anything which intrigues him, be it grindhouse or arthouse. In fact, many of his detractors may just be kicking themselves that this book is as good as it is.
The book begins with the birth of cinema, making the point that the phantasmagoria shows which preceded film were themselves seen as a kind of magic by many; this link between sorcery and cinema was established further by the work of stage magician Georges Méliès, who brought a rendition of the Devil to the screen in a puff of smoke as early as 1896. As soon as the magic of cinema was in operation, black magic was right there with it. As the Silent Era progressed, with its numerous interpretations of the Faust legend, its homunculi and its magicians, Schreck observes that a difference sprang up between European (mainly German) and American cinema; whilst Europe featured Satanic deal makers, America stuck more to using Satan as a way of frightening people into behaving. Special mention is given to the still-remarkable Häxan (1921) and, divertingly, Schreck also picks up on the genuine occult significance of certain scenes in arguably the best known of the proto-horror movies, Nosferatu, thanks to the involvement of one Albin Grau, former Ordo Templi Orientis member and correspondent of Aleister Crowley.
Moving into the 1930s and 40s, Schreck identifies some notable movies in the Satanic tradition and, returning to Crowley, arguably the world’s most famous magician, notes the strange ways in which Crowley influenced film both within his own lifetime and beyond it. For instance, practitioner of the dark arts, Dr. Praetorius of The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), was played with aplomb by another English eccentric, Ernest Thesiger – who was, you’ve guessed it, an associate of Crowley’s. Although Crowley wasn’t a Satanist by any stretch of the imagination, ‘Great Beast’ moniker or otherwise, it’s interesting to see the ways in which a prominent occult scholar such as Crowley could have an important trickle-down effect into cinema – and it’s a point which only reiterates the connection between magic and the movies. Want a less heavy example of that connection? Look at the Satan – or Chernabog, a Slavic deity, by his proper name – who appears during the animated film Fantasia and the ‘Night on Bald Mountain’ sequence by a certain renowned corporation…remind you of anyone? Schreck posits that it was Bela Lugosi who chiefly influenced Chernabog’s appearance…
As the 1950s laboured under the weight of Communist paranoia – with its cinema reflecting this particular fear in its depictions of aliens, or worse, people who looked like us, talked like us, but were Other and mindless – Schreck highlights the beginnings of the career of occult filmmaker Kenneth Anger, a figure who strove to merge genuine ritual with cinema through his sparse, but nonetheless important filmography. The 1960s, with its widespread occult revival, provided far more fertile ground for on-screen devilry, and Schreck’s obvious admiration for Barbara Steele’s performance in Mario Bava’s Black Sunday holds up this film in particular as a shining example of the cinematic expression of this revival. No arguments from me there, or for the praise heaped upon Night of the Eagle and Masque of the Red Death. What Schreck is well-placed to offer here is a keen insider’s eye: the occult movement during the decade was unprecedented, and needs some unpicking to really get to the bottom of why and how it fed into the cinema of the period. Of course, no discussion of 60s occult cinema would be complete without mention of Rosemary’s Baby, a film which acted as a real game-changer, and one which is still influential in the following century.
Rosemary’s legacy stretched on into the 1970s, but now alongside a conservative Christian subtext, most notably within films such as The Exorcist (which gets a deserved beating here) and The Omen. Schreck’s opinions on post-1960s cinema reflect the fact that he sees an unmistakeable dumbing-down in culture in recent years, so the enthusiasm and anecdotal asides which punctuated the earlier chapters of the book become fewer and further between; you can almost hear a sigh of disappointment at the beginning of the final three chapters, which cover the 70s, 80s and 90s. His castigation of Messrs. Lucas and Spielberg, who of course first ventured into filmmaking during this time, for their “safe, unchallenging fantasies of Manichean simplicity” may chafe with film fans who harbour nostalgic impulses towards films such as Star Wars, but his assertion that they promote “a dreary twelve-year-old boy’s vision of the universe where machines are neat, girls are icky, and everything moves really fast and explodes” is certainly a sharp piece of bravura. It’s not all (a lack of) doom and gloom, though. Before signing off, Schreck praises Kenneth Anger’s Lucifer Rising, Hellraiser (“one of the first significant fictional occult worlds since H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos”) and The Ninth Gate, amongst a small number of others, as examples of Satanic filmmaking of significance, even in decades he regards as otherwise rather dry.
It covers a wealth of material spanning approximately one hundred years, but The Satanic Screen is heavily imbued with the decidedness and keenness of a firm film fan. Although it is more studied than conversational in tone, there’s plenty of humour throughout, and that Schreck takes pleasure in playing with language is apparent, as he coins terms and expressions such as ‘Hollywooden’, ‘first cloven steps’, ‘Mephistomania’, ‘Poe-pourri’ and, Heaven forfend, ‘loquacious labia’. As a guide to Sinister cinema, it has to be said – this book really is second to none.
However, agreeing or disagreeing with Schreck’s spin on the films he covers is one thing. Where his enthusiasm wanes, you may differ, but you can be sure that he will honestly describe his issues with the films in question, and you can then take his points on board, or not, as you decide. Less honest is how he deals with his schism with the Church of Satan, a subject which crops up in particular during his discussion of Rosemary’s Baby. Church of Satan founder Anton LaVey always asserted that he appeared in a cameo role as the Devil in this film, and Schreck spends some time scathingly asserting the opposite. That Schreck had personal dealings with LaVey, to say the least, is not mentioned at all during this diatribe – making it the elephant in the room here, because most people aware of Schreck’s name will know of his erstwhile involvement with the Church of Satan, and although his silence on this score doesn’t make his point regarding Rosemary’s Baby untrue (I personally doubt that LaVey did appear in Rosemary’s Baby, for what’s it’s worth), it does makes him appear disingenuous. Showing his hand would have done him no harm here. In fact, registering that personal animosity more openly – without turning the book into a saga, of course – would have helped to explain why Schreck sneers at LaVey for certain things (such as having had a distinctly middle-class following, for example, or for treating Satanism as ‘showbiz’) which he doesn’t criticise at all when it’s equally true of others whom he discusses in positive terms; Méliès, for instance, is described as using ‘novelty and razzle dazzle’, something which Schreck seemingly admires in him, but detests in his late unfather-in-law. These instances come across as pockets of unreason, in an otherwise carefully-reasoned piece of work.
This is one weak link in an otherwise engaging, well-argued and well-structured book, I must stress, and I absolutely still recommend The Satanic Screen. Those interested in magic will find numerous nods to the true nature of the left hand path; those whose interest is purely that of film buff will find a meticulously-researched compendium of films well-known and lesser-known – though it is too witty to be a pure reference guide. If nothing else, though, your wish list will double in size after reading, so this is a book well worth seeking out.
Festival Report by Nia Edwards-Behi
My three favourite films from the festival are vastly different. A devastating, harrowing and utterly compelling film, Kotoko is the latest from Testuo director Shinya Tsukamoto. The legendarily vocal BIFFF audience appeared to detest the film, but it was by far the festival stand out for me. It’s an incredibly slow moving film, but it never felt boring to me. Japanese singer Cocco takes the lead role of a woman who suffers a mental breakdown when her perceptual disorders make raising her child alone unbearable. It’s hard to do it justice, and it’s a film that’s going to take a few more viewings to fully appreciate, but it feels like a perfect, quiet companion piece to Tetsuo, in many respects, and even though it feels overwhelmingly serious, it has its moments of dark humour, like its predecessor. As breath-takingly difficult the film was, I cannot wait to see it again.
Father’s Day is the latest offering from Troma, and boy, does it deliver. Impressively well-made and fantastically irreverent, the film is genuinely funny whilst being incredibly inappropriate. What starts off as a serial killer movie turns into something else entirely, without seeming out of place. The film boasts some strong performances and a wicked soundtrack, and benefits from a truly funny framing device of being a TV show, complete with mid-film ad-break. I absolutely cannot wait to see this film again with a crowd.
Two incredibly silly films of varying levels of depth are Iron Sky and Zombie Ass. Both were films I highly anticipated and while one only just met my expectations, the other thoroughly surpassed them. Zombie Ass is as it sounds. It’s the latest Japanese splatter fest and while I found it thoroughly entertaining and, yes, even funny, it’s hardly a good film. It’s clear that Iguchi & co. are truly scraping the barrel (so to speak), and it shows most clearly through the use of a single-location (methinks their budgets are rapidly decreasing) and the almost entirely CGI effects. While Machine Girl and the like were glorious examples of fantastic practical effects, the over-abundance of CGI blood and fluids in these films are now verging on the… well, sad. Iron Sky, on the other hand was significantly cleverer than I expected, and even quite sweet. It’s a film about moon Nazis, and is massively entertaining (and in thoroughly bad taste, at times), but yet, it feels like a film that has something to say. Some great performances really round off what is a truly enjoyable film.
Beast is a completely different, er, beast: all slow and ambiguous and pretentious…so, naturally, I liked it. Reminiscent of a film like Trouble Every Day, I wasn’t ever sure if I was bored, while at the same time captivated. It’s a beautiful film to look at, and it’s central theme of sexual obsession and consumption is fascinating. It’s lead performances are powerful, particularly that of Nicolas Bro, who is, at times, truly repulsive, and yet, never unsympathetic.
Sennentuntschi: Curse of the Alps is a film that indulges in being far too long, not least of all through its wholly unnecessary present-day framing device around a film set in the 70s. Otherwise, it’s entertaining enough, particularly as the story it tells is relatively unfamiliar. Roxane Mesquida is particularly fabulous, as ever, even if the film is a little heavy on the men-abusing-women thing.
Another film which reminded me of better work was Game of Werewolves. In fairness to the film, perhaps it’s my lack of a sense of humour that’s the problem here – everyone else I spoke to adored this film, but I can genuinely say it didn’t make me laugh once. It had other things going for it, that is, a strong cast and some good transformation effects, but overall the film bored me to pieces, and reminded me a lot of Faye Jackson’s Strigoi, a film I enjoyed a lot more.
Invasion of Alien Bikini was perhaps the most misleading film I saw. Both its title and poster imply a fun, Sushi Typhoon-esque romp, but instead, the film is a 74-minute mess that feels like losing around 3 years of your life. The film spends about 20 minutes on a scene of two characters playing Jenga, before descending into a depiction of forced alien sex, the brutal beating of the alien-woman, and then some bizzaro political subplot…I think? I genuinely am not sure.
Belial Bradley is, to put it mildly, a vile piece of work: the film makes us wait thirty minutes for the big reveal of what or whom Duane is talking to, and when we finally see his dear twin brother, it ain’t pretty. The special effects make-up team, headed up by John Caglione Jr., strikes a very fine balance between the ridiculous and the sublime here! Voilà a distorted, adult-sized head, albeit with basically normal facial features (modelled by Kevin Van Hentenryck, who plays Duane), attached to a short, lumpen torso, and not much else: the only limbs are two claw-like hands, and if you can get past Belial’s appearance, then you have to contend with that raspy breathing and screeching (also down to Van Hentenryck). Shouldn’t judge a book by its cover? Belial is also murderous, jealous, petty, controlling, prone to wild tantrums, oh, and not averse to sexual assault either. Nice. It’s pretty obvious that we are not meant to warm to him at first, but perhaps another reason he has stuck in our minds so much is because, like a lot of memorable on-screen monsters, he’s not just a grotesque creature. He has a back-story as well. As we find out how people have treated him during his life, it all gets more complicated. If a person is treated like nothing more than a parasite, removed from their conjoined twin’s body by force and then put out in the garbage to die, would we expect them to be a well-adjusted human being? It’s not as simple as good twin/bad twin, either. We may start out feeling nothing but sorry for Duane, the physically-normal and naïve guy left holding the basket, but he’s not just a victim in all of this: he’s responsible for aiding and abetting his brother’s violence from the start, and obviously agrees with what Belial wants to do, right up until he starts hurting people who have nothing to do with their sad story. There is a moral ambiguity behind Basket Case after all, regardless of the lurid way it is played out. Everyone has an idea of ‘what’s best’ for the brothers Bradley, and the problem of Duane having a ‘normal life’ causes the problems which follow. Belial acts like a shit, but he’s only doing unto others what has been done unto him. And, hey, the fact that he unleashes vengeance on the doctors (and vet!) who cut him and Duane apart against their will allows for some heavy on-screen gore, which is yet another reason Basket Case retains a special place in the hearts of so many…
For a film made on a minuscule budget, then, Basket Case achieves a hell of a lot. It balances the very nasty with the ludicrous, it tips the hat to the gritty grindhouse fare which inspired it whilst standing on its own as an original piece of film, and – whether it was meant as such or not – it heralds the beginning of the Henenlotter ‘body horror’ genre with its deserved cult following. Whilst Henenlotter hasn’t made a great number of films during his career to date, the ones he does have to his name are instantly recognisable. For them, we must thank the surprise success of Basket Case, with its blend of body shock and 80s culture shock which is still a pleasure to watch, even after thirty years on the circuit. So happy birthday, Bradley brothers! Your place in horror history is well deserved. 
It’s not really too surprising that the Cat People remake isn’t so widely spoken of in fanboy circles. It has a female protagonist, a somewhat abstract tone, and only sporadic moments of gore and creature effects. Not to imply that fanboys are anti-intellectual by nature, but if a film defies easy description and isn’t specifically designed to appeal to young men, it tends to get swept under the carpet; I’ll admit, for that very reason I had pondered whether I should write this retrospective, uncertain as to whether or not the film is of interest to our (wince) core demographic. But the long and short of it is, whether the 1982 Cat People is highly regarded within horror fandom or not – it damn well should be. If remakes must keep being made – and, let’s not delude ourselves, they will – then the filmmakers responsible would do well to consider Schrader’s take on Lewton/Tourneur. It does what all remakes should set out to do: revise the central conceit for a contemporary audience, and make it stand apart as a unique and interesting piece of work in its own right. On top of that, it is a kind of film that is so rarely allowed to get made these days: a genuinely adult fantasy, not simply in the sense that it features lots of sex (though of course it does), but in that it is specifically oriented towards a grown-up audience, reflecting grown-up concerns, rather than the typically adolescent sensibilities that tend to dominate genre films (a comment, not a slur).
Now let’s consider the other half of that poster tagline; yes, the ‘erotic’ part. I’ve always found erotic a very strange word, perhaps down to how commonly misused it is in application to anything that involves sex; say, all those repetitive Sharon Stone or Shannon Tweed movies which generally present intercourse as a performance sport, the performers on the whole too infatuated with themselves to be particularly appealing to watch (remember Stone and Stallone in The Specialist? Shudder.) There’s a different vibe to Cat People, owing in no small part to the casting. Nastassja Kinski was an inspired choice for Irena; as a European actress not speaking in her native tongue, she is wholly believable as a stranger in a strange land, on top of which her short hair and slender figure lend her a certain androgyny which, while it may clearly flag the film as a product of the gender-bending early 80s, makes her stand out that bit more, particularly by comparison with Annette O’Toole’s softer-bodied, long-haired all-American girl. Also, Kinski’s sharp features and piercing eyes are, appropriately enough, somewhat feline, which doesn’t hurt. Even so, she has an unassuming quality which makes you believe she could be entirely unwitting in attracting the lust of others, and just about convinces you that she could indeed be a virgin. Without wishing to get too Freudian about it all (Schrader left his wife for Kinski during production) the film takes a slow-burn approach, lulling us to gradually fall in love with Kinski; while her naked body is a familiar sight by the end, its first appearance is not until over an hour in.
