The Lair Of The White Worm (1988)

Ever since I read about a scout’s unfortunate end – his own ‘end’ separated in a bathtub by the fangs of Lady Sylvia Marsh (Amanda Donohoe) – in a copy of Empire magazine as a wee slip of lad (I think as part of a weird section on unfortunate ends to male genitalia in the movies), I’d always been curious about The Lair Of The White Worm (1988). Directed by Ken Russell (The Devils) as part of a three-picture deal with Vestron Pictures and adapted from a Bram Stoker novel, this is ostensibly a gothic horror tale about a pagan snake-worshipping cult, surviving in the shape of the immortal Lady Marsh who lives in a countryside mansion. Everything kicks off due to a visiting archaeologist (Peter Capaldi) unearthing a snake skull from the grounds of a bed and breakfast inn run by two sisters (Sammi Davis and Catherine Oxenberg). One of the sisters is dating Lord James d’Ampton (Hugh Grant), a foppish gent who actually has family lineage with the knights who dispatched an ancient ‘worm’ that hid in the Stonerich Cavern, a cave on top of a mountain. Ancient worm, snake cult, lady with fangs – is this all connected? All of it is rendered as bawdy camp by director-writer Russell; even though it looks like he’s shooting on a budget of a countryside UK TV drama, he splashes everything with suggestive one-liners, sacrilegious dream sequences, and flaunted sexuality with all of the saxophone-scored costume changes and nude writhing of Donohoe as Lady Marsh. Seriously, Donohoe is indominitable as the stylish, sinister villain, and the movie had the great luck of having two great leads in baby faced Capaldi and Grant early in their careers. I knew this film was about snakes but was not prepared for all of the knowing allusions and references, right from a close-up of a hose on the ground, resembling a scaly creature in its yellow colour and texture, and complemented with a slithering sound effect. Completely ridiculous, but well aware and knowing, somewhere between Hammer Horror and Coppola’s Dracula in terms of horniness, shot with an undercurrent of screwball comedy. All I could do is shake my head and think, Ken Russell, you maniac. Streamed on Criterion Channel but available to rent/purchase on iTunes. Recommended.

The Iron Rose (1973)

The Iron Rose (1973; La Rose de Fer) is the third film I’ve seen from French director Jean Rollin, and along with Spanish filmmaker Jess Franco, their names represent a quintessential arty Euro-horror milieu. Rollin is known for low-budget genre flicks, usually concerning vampires, where there’s nudity and blood, and actors wandering around castles and shorelines. While offering some exploitation thrills with the sex and violence (and are often marred by dodgy moments), the films I’ve seen of Rollin’s are also marked by a dreamy atmosphere, usually generated by long takes and a static pace; even though his films never clock past 90 minutes, and are usually under that, they always lull me into a narcoleptic state. Some would argue that’s a flaw, but for me, and many of his fans, that’s part of the experience. That these films feel like a waking dream, accentuated by the locations and misty weather, and the potential for blood, poetic reverie and off-kilter theatrics. There’s something innately compelling about watching figures emerge slowly out of a foggy mist. The Iron Rose is apparently a rarity in Rollin’s work in that it doesn’t involve vampires. The plot is quite simple: a man (Hugues Quester) meets a woman (Francoise Pascal) at a wedding. They agree on a date. Wandering a deserted train track, they look for a more quiet location for their picnic and the man suggests visiting a graveyard. A morbid site for a date, and they pay the price for wanting to make it in a crypt, becoming lost and delirious as night comes and they cannot seem to find their way out amidst the graves. Yet there’s a deeper pull to the unfolding fear and panic, as the young lovers become tense and argumentative, and the woman becomes possessed with the dead and the beyond. There’s symbolism and portent, particularly in the title object of an iron rose, and Pascal is fantastic in conveying their character’s fateful transformation. The use of primary colours in the costuming – the man’s red sweater, the woman’s yellow top – stand out within the darkened landscapes, the gravestones and (purportedly real) bones. Self-financed, a strange passion project for Rollin that was not a critical or commercial success, but has now become a cult object within his overall output of erotic horror films. Available to stream on Kanopy. Recommended.

Paprika (2006)

Look, I can rewatch Inception anytime, but after my first viewing at the cinema, I remembered thinking, “The imagery wasn’t really that surreal for a movie about dreams.” Sure, there’s the city folding on itself, and the hallway zero gravity fight, but for the most part, it’s pretty standard stuff – the climax is a snow fortress siege, for crying out loud. Trust in Paprika (2006; Papurika), which is already tied to Inception by many seeing it as a clear influence on Christopher Nolan’s film, to fully embrace the surreal; this is a Japanese anime that is a bright, colourful, dazzling collection of images. Here, a key image denoting the collapse of dream logic into the real world is a circus parade where people start to crack up and lose themselves in chaos. Based on a novel by Yasutaka Tsutsui, Paprika was itself a long awaited dream project for director Satoshi Kon (Perfect Blue) that was was sadly his last, dying of cancer four years after its release. In a clinic where therapists use futuristic technology – a device called a DC Mini – that can allow people to observe and interact inside a patient’s dreamscape, an unknown assailant has stolen one of the devices, and is using it to create havoc, invading people’s subconsciousness and causing them to lose any distinction between reality and the subconscious. Doctor Atsuko Chiba uses it to treat patients as their alter-ego, Paprika, who is buoyant and extroverted whereas Atsuko is stern and introverted. Along with the tech crew, and a haunted police detective (who looks like J. Jonah Jameson) that Atsuko is treating, the team chase the dream assassin through guises and references. The strong underlying theme is the movies themselves as a dream machine that breaks down reality (I was delighted when a character discussed movies in a dream and they resemble Akira Kurosawa). While not as fucked up as Perfect Blue, there are still some eerie and gnarly moments, providing a dark undercurrent to the visual confetti that feels like the movie’s main aesthetic gear. I really enjoyed Paprika and its artistry, not just visually and conceptually, but also in its basic storytelling and finding moments of humanity and tension within this weirdness. Rented it on iTunes. There is a great NTS Sounds Of The Screen: Satoshi Kon mix by Florence Anderton-Scott out there on their website, basically the thing that inspired me to watch Paprika; Susumu Hirasawa composed the music for this film. Recommended.