Double Takes: ‘The House of Usher’ (1989) ★★ / (2006) ★

OK, I was wrong.

A couple years ago, when I reviewed a selection of David DeCoteau movies, I advised readers to skip DeCoteau’s very gay and very bad Edgar Allen Poe’s The House of Usher and try their luck with two other schlocky versions, one from 1989, the other from 2006, speculating that both movies look “like they deliver the fun kind of bad DeCoteau didn’t.”

They do not, though director Alan Birkinshaw’s The House of Usher (1989), comes close. In this one, Molly (Romy Walthall, billed as Romy Windsor) and her fiancée Ryan (Rufus Swart) are vacationing in London when they get an invitation to visit Ryan’s heretofore unknown uncle, Roderick Usher. But on the way to visit Uncle Rod, Ryan swerves into a tree to avoid two children in the middle of the road (why, yes, they are ghosts; how did you ever guess?) Ryan’s injured, so Molly goes to get help, by chance stumbling up to the Usher mansion, where Clive the asshole butler (Norman Coombes) assures her that he’ll make sure Ryan gets the medical assistance he needs. Meanwhile, why doesn’t she have a cup of tea and a lie down upstairs before dinner with the master of the house?

When Molly finally meets Roderick (Oliver Reed), she’s assured that Ryan is in the hospital but unable to receive visitors just yet. Though Molly has her doubts, she agrees to stay put. However, it seems no amount of drugged tea—served regularly by Clive’s miserable wife (Anne Stradi)—will keep Molly in her room. As she explores the titular House of Usher, discovering, among other things, another member of the Usher clan (Donald Pleasence) kept locked away in the attic, Molly begins to suspect Uncle Rod might have sinister intentions.

This version of Usher has some things going for it. There are a few—very few—noteworthy set pieces, including a hand forced into a meat grinder fake-out and a character getting his dick gnawed-off by a rat; plus, Reed and, especially, Pleasence raise the bar considerably. Unfortunately, we spend most of our time with Walthall, whose performance seems better suited for a movie entitled Sorority Beach Party than a Gothic horror. In fact, the movie’s whole tone is off, like Birkinshaw and screenwriter Michael J. Murray had initially conceived this adaption of Poe’s story as a horror comedy but couldn’t think up any jokes—good or bad—before filming began. Yet, the movie is still filmed like a comedy, as brightly lit as a Disney Channel sit-com and with tacky sets that look as if they were hastily painted for a haunted house attraction at a high school Halloween fair. And the less said about the ending, which is as infuriating as it is nonsensical, the better.

But at least 1989’s Usher has some entertainment value. Not so director Hayley Cloake’s 2006 adaptation, which clocks in at a mere 81 minutes yet feels twice as long. This time out, our doomed heroine is Roderick Usher’s ex-girlfriend from college, Jill (pouty blonde Izabella Miko), who travels to the Usher estate upon learning of the death of Roderick’s sister—and Jill’s best friend—Madeline. Though the stern, Mrs. Danvers-esque housekeeper Mrs. Thatcher (Beth Grant) is less than welcoming, Jill sticks around after Maddy’s funeral, rekindling her romance with the charmless Roderick (a monotone Austin Nichols). Jill puts up with Mrs. Thatcher’s cock-blocking and her beau’s nightly sessions in a sensory deprivation tank to treat his neurasthenia, but it’s only upon discovering that the Usher family tree is a straight line that she begins to reconsider her relationship to the brooding Roderick.

Cloake’s movie may be a bit more competently made than DeCoteau’s Usher, but it isn’t any better; it’s just straighter. The movie’s most inspired elements—mixing in bits of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca into the story; the incest twist—are wasted, as are most of the actors. Miko makes the best impression, though I’m not sure if that’s testament to her acting skill so much as she’s just given more of a character to play than her co-stars. An actor who should have stolen this movie was Grant, a prolific character actor who usually makes a big impression in small roles. Grant frequently appears in comedies, so I was looking forward to seeing what she did with a more serious role. Not much, it turns out. It’s not her fault, though; it’s screenwriter Collin Chang’s. And if you’re thinking of checking this one out to ogle Miko or Nichols, don’t bother. Though rated R, this Usher only offers a few shots of Miko in panties and skimpy top and a near-subliminal shot of Nichols’ pubes. At least DeCoteau had the courtesy to appeal his audience’s prurient interests, albeit clumsily. Despite the curb appeal of her movie’s cast, Cloake’s The House of Usher is strictly a teardown property.

A Woman of (Four) Letters

Jackie Collins was the Lady Boss of
trash fiction in the 1970s and ’80s.

One of the many depressing aspects about the success of Fifty Shades of Grey was that it highlighted how adult fiction had become so tame by 2011 that E.L. James’ rape-y Twilight fan fic could not only became a pop culture phenomenon but also be discussed by the amnesiac media as if smut had never before dirtied the New York Times Best Seller list.

The NYT Best Sellers had been sullied long before James came along, and on a monthly basis, too. Among those regularly defiling popular literature in the 1970s and ’80s were Harold Robbins and Jackie Collins. Though Rosemary Rogers and Judith Krantz gave them a run for their money, Robbins and Collins had succeeded in making their names synonymous with raunch. Rogers and Krantz wrote racy romances; Robbins and Collins wrote trash.

I was more of a fan of Harold Robbins’ books, but Jackie always seemed a far more likable person, and watching the 2021 documentary LADY BOSS: THE JACKIE COLLINS STORY, currently streaming on Netflix in the U.S., confirmed the late author’s likability. She’s so likable, in fact, that no fewer than four women interviewed identify themselves as Jackie’s best friend.

Jackie’s story is told through interviews with her older sister (you know who), her three daughters, Tracy, Tiffany and Rory, and numerous friends and business associates. Director Laura Fairrie’s best source, however, is Jackie herself, not only from archive footage but from a treasure trove of diary entries, journals and an unfinished autobiography, Reform School or Hollywood.

Teen-aged Joan and Jackie Collins.

Jackie failed to make a
splash in the 1957
movie All at Sea.

Of course, much of Jackie’s story has likely already found its way into her novels in one way or another as her life could be the basis of a Jackie Collins book. It’s a life that includes a domineering father (Joe Collins was temperamental theater agent prone to flying into rages at the dinner table), sibling rivalry (Jackie struggled to establish an identity beyond “Joan Collins’ little sister”), an ugly duckling-to-swan transformation (Jackie matured into a shapely young woman, helping things along with a nose job in 1959), wild times in Hollywood (including a fling with Marlon Brando, whom Jackie describes in a diary entry as “kind of fat”), an acting career that goes nowhere (appearing in the Alec Guinness film All at Sea and a guest spot on TV show The Saint are her more notable credits), and an unhappy marriage (Jackie’s first husband Wallace Austin was a bipolar drug addict who committed suicide a year after their divorce in 1964).

Look back in leopard print: Jackie with her first born, Tracy,
and Jackie’s mother, Elsa Collins.

It’s not until Jackie’s second husband, nightclub owner Oscar Lerman, encourages Jackie to finish a novel she’s all but given up on that Jackie pursues writing with any real ambition. “I’d been writing all my life,” Jackie recalls. “I’d written a lot of half-books that I never finished, and he was the first person that said to me, ‘It’s absolutely terrific and you can do it’.”

That book was The World is Full of Married Men, and Jackie sold it to a publisher for £400 ($536 U.S.). To say that the publisher got a huge return on its investment is an understatement. The book’s mix of strong women and sizzling sex made it an instant—and controversial—best seller in 1968.

Jackie at work, exactly as you imagine.

As the documentary details Jackie’s ascension on the best seller lists, it focuses more on Jackie as a celebrity than a writer. Even her former agent Morton Janklow puts more stock in Jackie’s TV appearances than her prose: “It was one of the reasons she was so successful. She could go out there and promote those books and not be embarrassed.” Her Mob Wives aesthetic—big hair, big shoulder pads, lots of leopard print—was just another aspect of her branding. She looked like a character from one of her books, making her their ideal spokesperson. Lady Boss is peppered with clips of Jackie promoting her work, including a 1980s TV ad in which Jackie urges readers to “get Lucky.” (The voice heard at the end of the clip below is Jackie’s oldest daughter, Tracy.)

Two aspects where I feel Lady Boss drops the ball is that it fails to give viewers a sense of the book market of the 1970s and ’80s (timing plays a role in Jackie’s success as much as her storytelling talent) or acknowledge those who came before her. It’s admirable that Jackie was an active participant in the marketing of her books, but she was hardly the first author—or the first Jackie—to do so. That the documentary fails to pick up on the many similarities between Jackie’s and Jacqueline Susann’s lives and careers is Lady Boss’s biggest oversight. 

Jackie looms over Hollywood.

Lady Boss makes it abundantly clear that Jackie took a lot of shit for her books. The documentary tries to attribute this as mere sexism, i.e., people disapproved of a woman writing bluntly described sex scenes (Fairrie includes plenty of footage of Jackie being scolded and/or belittled by male talk show hosts). Lady Boss even tries to frame Jackie as some sort of feminist icon. Though the author did self-identify as a feminist, her brand of feminism didn’t seem to go beyond speaking out against the double standard. Women should be permitted to be as shitty as men, while true, is not the sort of rallying cry that would land her on the cover of Ms. magazine. 

The 1980s, when Jackie ruled trash fiction and Joan ruled
Prime Time.

The documentary also touches on the rivalry between Jackie and her older sister. Joan says that Jackie hated a couple men in her life (she doesn’t name names), and that these men also hated Jackie, and so things were a bit chilly between the sisters during these relationships. Though they teamed up to adapt one of Jackie’s bestsellers, The Stud, into a movie vehicle for Joan in 1978, and its sequel The Bitch in 1979, things were again reportedly tense in the 1980s when Joan, at the peak of her Dynasty career revival, tried her hand at trash fiction, starting with her 1988 debut novel Prime Time. Jackie was none too happy that Joan was trespassing in her territory, so it’s not surprising she felt some schadenfreude when Joan’s subsequent books for Random House were deemed “unpublishable.” 

On the subject of Joan—excuse me, Dame Joan—I did not always believe she was speaking candidly. Though she doesn’t appear to view her and Jackie’s relationship through rose-colored glasses, she’s careful to present herself as the ever-supportive older sister. (People without siblings might believe that, but rest of us aren’t buying it, Joan.) I also got the idea—through tone of voice and body language—that a few people interviewed didn’t have particularly high opinions of Jackie’s famous sibling. When Joan’s anecdote about Jackie’s spirit inhabiting a persistent fruit fly (seriously) is referenced, Jackie’s former assistant all but rolls her eyes and says her former boss's sister is full of shit.

From the Lost Years: A Supplemental Book Review

Jackie’s 2009 novel Poor Little Bitch
Girl. Love the title, hate the book.

Jackie’s life wasn’t as rosy during the 1990s and 2000s. In 1992 her husband Oscar died of prostate cancer. And though it’s only briefly touched on, Jackie was also losing her mojo as an author. Her books in the latter half of her career, while still best sellers, weren’t selling as well as they once had. “We changed as a world,” says Jackie’s publicist Melody Korenbrot, adding that Jackie tried to change with it. “She sat down and wrote, but eventually she became completely confused and lost.”

Judging by her 2009 novel, POOR LITTLE BITCH GIRL, Jackie was still lost in the late 2000s.

I’ve enjoyed a few of Jackie’s books, including The Hollywood Zoo, the 1975 a.k.a. of Sunday Simmons & Charlie Brick (the title later changed again to Sinners) and her 1983 mega-hit Hollywood Wives, perhaps the best thing she’s ever written (but still trash). Unlike grump Harold Robbins, Jackie didn’t take herself too seriously, her writing giving the impression she was chuckling right along with the reader.

Reading Poor Little Bitch Girl, you still get the impression she’s not taking herself too seriously, only this time the tone is less a conspiratorial chuckle and more of a “Whatever,” sighed under her breath.   

Poor Little Bitch Girl is the ninth installment in the Lucky Santangelo series, but the story pretty much stands on its own. Lucky herself is hardly in the thing. Instead, the novel revolves around four separate main characters: Annabelle Maestro, the estranged daughter of movie star parents, now running an escort service in New York with her cokehead boyfriend Frankie; Denver Jones (these names...), a one-time classmate of Annabelle’s, now a lawyer for an elite L.A. firm; Carolyn Henderson, a longtime friend of Denver’s, working in Washington, D.C. as Sen. Stoneman’s assistant (and his mistress); and Lucky’s son Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos, who runs a successful NYC nightclub and who was also once a classmate of Annabelle’s and Denver’s. None of these characters are older than 26, all of them are hot, and they all have the emotional maturity of junior high students.

The murder of Annabelle’s mother, Gemma Summer, is what sets the book’s story in motion, with Denver—whose firm is representing Annabelle’s father, the prime suspect—sent to New York to retrieve the titular poor little bitch girl. Denver hates the assignment, until she runs into Bobby. Meanwhile, in Washington, D.C., Carolyn is kidnapped just days after telling Sen. Stoneman that she’s pregnant with his baby. It’s a good thing Bobby, who is just as smitten with Denver, has a private plane and thinks nothing of using it to fly her to D.C. to look for her missing friend.

If you read the above paragraph and asked yourself, Wait, shouldn’t the driver of the story be Denver trying to solve Gemma Summer’s murder? then you clearly aren’t in the right headspace for a Jackie Collins novel. That murder is merely incidental. What matters is that Denver bangs a hunky journalist in L.A., then a sensitive screenwriter in New York, and then falls for Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos (though she has trouble forgiving him getting a b.j. from pop singer Zeena, a Cher/Madonna hybrid who speaks of herself in the third person). Even Carolyn’s disappearance is secondary to Denver finding a man. Why waste time cutting into the meat of the story when you can eat Reddi-Wip directly from the can?

Worse than the book’s mishandled plot is its one-note characterizations. Annabelle is selfish and bitchy; Frankie is an asshole; Bobby is charming; Denver is headstrong and kind of kooky (and evidently meant to be a Julia Roberts-type character as Denver is compared to Julia in more than once instance); Carolyn is a hopeless romantic. Jackie, preferring to tell rather than show, often assigns labels for her characters, declaring that Denver and Carolyn are independent and smart, yet Denver is always getting rescued by men and Carolyn just wants Sen. Stoneman to leave his wife for her, and the idea that either of these women have more than a high school education strains credulity. You’d have an easier time believing Denver, whose chapters are written in the first person, is a 16-year-old inhabiting the body of her attorney older sister, Freaky Friday-style, than buy her as a member of the bar. 

Why waste time cutting into the meat of the story when you can eat Reddi-Wip directly from the can?

But, hey, at least there’s all that graphic sex Jackie is known for, except, nope, not in Poor Little Bitch Girl. Sex may be at the forefront of every character’s mind—second only to money—but Jackie backs away from detailing any bedroom activity, preferring to just have her characters give generalized postmortems instead (“I liked that he took his time, kissing me everywhere—and I do mean everywhere”). Considering the first Lucky Santangelo novel, 1981’s Chances, includes a scene in which Lucky’s father, Gino, slurps his spooge out of the pussy he’s freshly plowed—and described about as delicately—Poor Little Bitch Girl is practically PG-13. But then, we didn’t have PornHub in 1981, so maybe by the 2000s Jackie figured she’d just let the Internet fuel the horny imaginations of her readers.

In the book’s defense, it does have an awesome title. Also, it’s fairly well-paced and I was invested in the story enough to want to keep reading. Except, by the time I reached the end I regretted wasting my time with it. Jackie never pretended to be a great writer, but she wasn’t even trying here. This wasn’t the work of an author trying to push herself to be better than her last book; this was a brand name trying to fill enough pages to get a new hardcover on shelves before her previous best-seller landed in the remainder bin. It’s not a novel, it’s product.

Admire Her Spirit if Not Her Books

After her husband’s death Jackie eventually took up with businessman Frank Calcagnini for a very long engagement (the pair never married). If Lady Boss interviewees can’t say enough good things about Oscar Lerman, they struggle to say anything nice about Calcagnini. The way Tita Cahn, one of Jackie’s many best friends, describes him, he could well have been the inspiration for the character of Frankie in Poor Little Bitch Girl: “He was a gambler, a drugger [sic], an alcoholic and an abuser.” About the kindest words anyone can muster for Calcagnini is that he could be charming. When Calcagnini died of a brain tumor in 1998 few people—other than Jackie—mourned his passing.

Jackie Collins in a British TV appearance
shortly before her death.

Unlike her late fiancée, Jackie’s passing was deeply felt by all who knew her. Jackie had been diagnosed with breast cancer years before her death, but like her mother before her, she kept her illness a secret, and like her late-husband Oscar, chose to keep working until the very end. Lady Boss includes a clip of Jackie on the British talk show Loose Women made during her final days and her appearance is startling. She looks gaunt, frail, a good ten years older than her older sister. Still, she never lets on that she’s sick. Nine days after this TV appearance, on Sept. 15, 2015, Jackie Collins died. She was 77.

In watching Lady Boss: The Jackie Collins Story I came to see Jackie as an entertainer, just one who wrote tawdry beach reads instead of performing live at Caesar’s Palace. The documentary also strengthened my appreciation of her as a person. I just wish I could like her books as much as I like her. Still, I’d read Jackie over E.L. James any day.

It’s the Pictures that Got Small: Sharon Stone

Sharon Stone’s autobiography The Beauty of Living Twice was published in March, so I thought in lieu of actually reading it I’d review some of her movies instead.

I, like a lot of people, became a fan of Sharon Stone after seeing Basic Instinct in 1992, for reasons that have nothing to do with the infamous interrogation scene (as established in previous posts, vaginas really aren’t of much interest to me). Basic Instinct was an over-the-top, trashy thriller and Stone’s performance as Catherine Trammel was spot-on. 

I don’t think showing her cooch on film is what
Sharon Stone should be embarrassed about.

Of course, this wasn’t the first time I’d seen Stone. She was in Total Recall the previous year, and in the 1980s I saw her in Action Jackson and the Steven Segal vehicle Above the Law (I never said I was proud), but Basic Instinct was the first time I noticed her. And having noticed her I was happy for her to be my new favorite movie star. Lord knows Stone was eager to be one. It’s a safe bet that even as far back as when she was doing guest spots on Remington Steele Stone spent her free time rehearsing her answers to reporters’ questions in the mirror, maybe even asking a girlfriend to hold a hairbrush up to her and pretend she’s Joan Rivers accosting Stone on the red carpet, just so she was ready when that fateful day finally came.

*In Stone’s defense, this was her co-star.

As fascinated as I was by Stone as an actress, however, some of what I read about her gave me pause, including her claiming she was “tricked” into flashing her bearded clam in Basic Instinct (um, sure); her assaulting a co-star*; and her acting like a diva on set—even before she became the face of the 1990s. I loved watching Sharon Stone the movie star, but I was finding it increasingly difficult to like Sharon Stone the person.

Ultimately what cooled my Sharon Stone fandom was her movies. I didn’t want to see her as an Old West gunslinger or as Richard Gere’s cold wife. I wanted to see her in more deadly vixen roles. Her performance in Casino revived my faith, and I was further encouraged when she starred in the campy remake of Diabolique the following year. But then she became more interested in being taken seriously as an actress, meaning we got Oscar® bait like Last Dance, the sci-fi snoozefest Sphere, and the heartwarming The Mighty. I was kind of tempted to check her out in the 1999 remake of Gloria—it sounds like a hoot—but I never got around to it [update: finally did and it’s not as terrible as I expected]. Then, well, I kind of forgot about her… until Basic Instinct 2 came out. As awful/awesome as that was, it didn’t so much rekindle my Sharon Stone fandom as make me wish she’d just accepted she was the Joan Collins of the 1990s instead of exerting so much energy trying to convince us she was, if not the next Meryl Streep, then at least next Jessica Lange.

So, About Those Movie Reviews…?

I thought I’d check out a few films Stone made after health problems, ageism, bad behavior and bad choices forced her off her A-list pedestal, films like WHEN A MAN FALLS (a.k.a. When a Man Falls in the Forest), a movie I didn’t know existed until it popped up on Tubi and Prime. The Prime synopsis describes this 2007 movie as “a psychological thriller sure to keep you mesmerized right up to the shocking end.” None of that is true, and neither is the thumbnail poster, which gives Stone star billing.

“Are you sure you don’t remember me? I won an Oscar®
for Ordinary People. What about Turk 182? No? Well, that’s fair.”

Writer-director Ryan Eslinger’s movie is actually a seriocomic indie drama about two men, Gary (Timothy Hutton) and Bill (Dylan Baker, looking like a live-action Matt Groening drawing), enduring bleak existences that they feel powerless to change. Gary is a genial alcoholic spinning his wheels in a dying marriage and an unfulfilling job; Bill, the night janitor at the building where Gary works, is so pathologically shy he flinches when people say hello to him. There’s a third, peripheral character, Gary’s friend Travis (Pruitt Taylor Vince), who’s life has been idling in grief mode since his wife was killed in a car wreck four years ago. Gary and Travis also went to high school with Bill, and it’s made clear that Bill was not their friend (“We picked on him all the time,” Travis recalls). 

The movie mostly flits back and forth between the Gary and Bill storylines. Gary is married to Karen (a de-glamorized Stone). “Karen… yeah, she’s Karen,” Gary sighs when Travis asks about his wife. He knows Karen’s depressed but neither Gary nor she seem interested in addressing their issues head on. Instead, she mopes and shoplifts; he shrugs and opens a fresh bottle of wine. 

Sharon Stone is sure her contract allows her to keep these gloves.

Meanwhile, in a seemingly different movie, Bill struggles with what to do about Sadie (Stacie Bono), the young mother living in the neighboring apartment whom he regularly hears being smacked around by her partner. He knows he should do something, but he can barely bring himself to greet her when he encounters her in the hall, let alone save her. When Bill’s not cringing at the sounds of violence coming from next door, he’s dreaming, sequences that are even more discordant with the movie’s overall tone. 

Dylan Baker dreams he’s in a more compelling film.

When a Man Falls is reminiscent of the little indie movies I rented from Blockbuster in the late 1980s – early ’90s that mixed understated drama and quirky comedy, brought to life by B-list talent. Except Eslinger not only fails to add all the necessary ingredients, he neglects to mix them properly. The drama never really goes anywhere, and the quirkiness sits on top like oil, never quite blending in with the rest of the movie. The Gary storyline is basically the equivalent of repeatedly asking your spouse what’s wrong and only getting a heavily sighed, “Nothing,” in response. Bill, on the other hand, seems to have wandered in from a different movie, albeit a more entertaining one. The only thing shocking about the ending, by the way, is how unfulfilling it is.

A face that says, “Fuck no, I’m not sorry.”

The acting makes When a Man Falls semi-watchable, with every actor getting at least one effective scene or moment. Stone gets two: In one, after she’s been busted for shoplifting, she faces her husband not with a look of shame but a defiant see-what-you-made-me-do smile. In another, when asked to sign a card being passed around the office to celebrate t co-worker’s engagement, she refuses (I can’t count the number of times I’ve wanted to do this in real life). These scenes made me wish that there was more to her role and much more to When a Man Falls.

Stone’s part in director Nigel Cole’s 2008 comedy $5 A DAY isn’t much bigger, but it’s a much better movie. Ritchie Flynn (Alessandro Nivola in a rare lead role), working as a health inspector until his boss learns of his prison past and fires him, is badgered by his estranged father Nat (Christopher Walken) to drive him from Atlantic City to Albuquerque, where Nat has signed up to participate in some experimental cancer treatment — or so Nat says. “You don’t have to dip into your pocket for a thing—zip, zilch, not even a crouton,” Nat assures his son.

Not that con artist Nat—who tips with gift cards for free phone minutes and helps himself to the free coffee offered to guests at a nearby casino—intends on dipping into his own pocket if he can help it. The car he’s secured for the trip is a PT Cruiser in a Sweet n’ Low wrap. (“Free wheels and gas for a year. All I have to do is drive a thousand miles a month!”), and he’s planned a route that includes an IHOP location every 300 miles, specifically so Nat can scam a free birthday meal using his many fake IDs. 

“Are you shitting me?” (Actual dialog)

So, yeah, it’s going to be a long drive for Ritchie, who resents his father after taking the fall for him so the old man, who already had priors, didn’t get slapped with a 10-year sentence. He also blames Nat’s bullshit for driving away his mother, who left Ritchie at a very young age. That Sweet n’ Low PT Cruiser isn’t helping matters, and neither is Nat’s insistence that they spend the night in a vacant house that’s up for sale. Nevertheless, when they’re surprised the next morning by a real estate agent showing the home to some potential buyers, Ritchie gamely plays along when Nat pretends they’re a couple. (“My partner and I are looking for something a little more feng shew-ish.”)

In Springfield, Missouri, Nat sweet talks his way into a banquet for a convention of pharmaceutical salesmen, then pretends to be a rep himself—a ruse that almost works until Nat gets a little too chummy with a salesman’s wife. Ritchie arrives just in time to talk a group of angry drug salesmen out of beating the shit out of his father by flashing his I.D. and claiming Nat was on an undercover assignment for the health department. It’s a funny scene, just don’t think too hard about enjoying a performance by Fox News BFF Dean Cain.

The fourth male lead of God’s Not Dead and the star of
The Deer Hunter, together at last!

While on the road Ritchie makes calls to his ex-girlfriend Maggie (Amanda Peet). She never picks up, but that doesn’t stop Ritchie from sharing stories about his life on her answering machine, since the main reason Maggie dumped him was he never shared anything about his past. Speaking of sharing, during a roadside piss stop, Nat tells his son he’s been impotent for several years, that not even Viagra can revive his wilted willie. Considering that if my father shared something similar I’d have to jab my car keys into my eardrums, Ritchie handles the news of his father’s E.D. with surprising nonchalance. Then again, he’s been to prison, so he probably has a higher threshold for what constitutes a breach of personal boundaries.

“You can’t get it up? Wish my cellmate had that problem.”

 

Ritchie caught in the path of a cougar.

Stone doesn’t appear until nearly an hour in, when the guys stop off in Amarillo, Texas, to visit Ritchie’s old babysitter, Dolores. An aging beauty with a spray-on tan and taste for sexy/tacky fashions (she greets them wearing a tiger print bikini and floral print kimono), Dolores is basically a parody of Stone’s Casino character, Ginger. Nat, knowing that Ritchie once had a crush on her, sees the visit as an opportunity for Ritchie’s fantasy to come true, and maybe help get his son’s mind off his breakup with Maggie. Dolores happily agrees to go out for drinks with Ritchie, but while she’s flirtatious it’s clear Nat is whom she pines for. She would’ve hooked up with Nat, she tells Ritchie, but “I’ve never met a man who’s so in love with his wife.” Nat didn’t drive Ritchie’s mother away, Dolores reveals; she left Nat for a car salesman she’d been having an affair with.

Dolores cures Nat’s impotence while
this scene causes ours.

Dolores’ word is called into question when it’s revealed she’s also a bit of scam artist, spilling a cup of coffee on herself and loudly claiming it was the waiter’s fault. The ploy should net her at least five grand, she later tells Ritchie. “I got my Mercedes with a trip in a supermarket last year.” Perhaps discovering Dolores is as duplicitous as his father is why Ritchie isn’t too broken up when his former babysitter bypasses inviting him into her bed and instead joins Nat in his (impotence cured!) And maybe Dolores is right, that Nat deserves a little love and affection, after all.

But Ritchie isn’t quite ready to forgive his father just yet, especially when he learns that Albuquerque is home to Kruger (Peter Coyote), the man Ritchie’s mother left Nat for. 

$5 a Day is the sort of movie that’s described as cute rather than funny. Yet, while its laughs are mild, it’s still an enjoyable film and worth checking out (it going straight-to-DVD likely had more to do with its marketability than its quality). Even when Walken is bad he’s fascinating to watch, but he’s very good here, clearly enjoying in his outsized role. Likewise, Stone appears to be having a blast spoofing her sexy image as Dolores. Playing the movie’s straight man, Nivola manages to hold his own, never being overshadowed by his larger-than-life co-stars (he’s also pretty easy on the eyes). 

Though this couldn't hold a candle to a 60+ Christopher
Walken, apparently.

It Gets Worse… and So Much Better

In 2012, Stone finally got to sink her teeth into a Bonafide starring role. She also got to bring audiences bigger laughs than $5 a Day delivered. Behold, the drama BORDER RUN (a.k.a. The Mule).

It’s bad, y’all. But it’s the fun kind of bad, and that’s owed largely to Sharon Stone.

Though I consider Stone more of a movie star than an actress, she can act. However, I think the quality of her performances are often contingent on the strength of her directors. Judging by Border Run, I’m not even sure director Gabriela Tagliavini was ever on set. Or maybe when Tagliavini saw Stone emerge from hair and makeup looking like she was just a black leather trench coat away from playing a vampire matriarch in the Underworld franchise, she was simply too stunned to question her lead actor’s—and executive producer’s — choices.

 

And, boy, does Stone make some choices in Border Run. She plays Sofie Talbert, a conservative journalist working for a Fox News-esque station in Arizona (“fair and balanced” is even worked into the banter between Sofie and her producer). In one of the movie’s early scenes, we see Sofie elbow her way through a crowd of other reporters to get to a Republican senator — who nevertheless looks like a Hillary Clinton/ Dianne Feinstein composite perfect for Newsmax anchors to hate ’bate to — and ask couple gotcha questions about her past votes revealing a softness on border security. Getting the senator’s stammering non-answer on tape, Sofie gives us a satisfied smirk then scurries back to the station. The only thing that would make this scene better is if the senator, or one of the other reporters Sofie elbowed out of the way, was heard muttering, “Fucking cunt.”

Stone nails the Megyn Kelly smirk.

Sofie’s career suddenly takes a backseat when she calls her brother, Aaron (Billy Zane), supposedly an SJW working in Mexico helping immigrants cross illegally into the U.S. And wouldn’t you know the moment he answers Sofie’s call he’s being shot at by Minute Men. The immigrants get away, but Aaron isn’t so lucky, getting captured by some mysterious figures who may or may not be Americans. All Sofie hears is gunfire before the line goes dead. Understandably, she’s concerned. Sofie immediately heads to Nogales, Mexico, to search for him.

Getting nowhere with the local police, Sofie heads to the border relief agency where Aaron works. After checking out the office’s bulletin board, which features several of Sofie’s news clippings, Sofie talks with Aaron’s co-worker, Roberto (Manolo Cardona). Over empty coffee mugs Roberto tries to dissuade Sofie from looking for Aaron, but when it’s clear that she’s going to anyway he agrees to take her to Aaron’s last known whereabouts, a small shack within shooting distance of the U.S. border. They find a cigar butt with a distinctive gold band and, hanging on the border fence, Aaron’s cap. Their investigation is interrupted by gunfire, however (the Minute Men don’t like Sharon’s hair, either) forcing the pair to retreat.

Sofie calls a number she plucked from the relief agency’s bulletin board, reaching Javier (Miguel Rodarte), a coyote. Javier won’t answer any of Sofie’s questions over the phone and tells her to meet him in Altar. Roberto warns Sofie against going there because Altar is super dangerous. (Like they’re safe where they’re at? Hello! You all were just dodging bullets.) After Sofie says she’s going to Altar, with or without him, Roberto agrees to take her there. 

It stands to reason that if you need to drink to watch Border
Run, you need to get fucking hammered to star in it.

Border Run teases a gratuitous sex scene that 
never happens.

But first, dinner and drinks! So far, Stone has portrayed Sofie as a no-nonsense, headstrong woman solely focused on her objectives, be they humiliating RINOs on tape or finding her missing brother. The moment she and Roberto stop at a cantina and she gets a few drinks in her, Sofie becomes a silly, head-rolling drunk. And possibly an easy lay. When she and Roberto take a few turns on the dance floor, they begin to make out, hot n’ heavy. Fuck Aaron, Sofie’s gonna get some!

Alas, Roberto gets cockblocked by a purse snatcher, the theft sobering up Sofie instantly. Now she’s all business and all about meeting up with Javier. Of course, Sofie and Roberto get separated in Altar, and in his absence Sofie almost gets raped in an alley, only to be saved by…Javier. Well, that was convenient.

Sofie joins one of Javier’s coyote missions, which will supposedly lead her to Aaron. Standing directly in her path, however, is Juanita (Giovanna Zacarías, fucking owning her role), the vicious head of a crime ring trafficking in humans and cocaine. Upon discovering “a shitty gringa” amongst her smuggled migrants, Juanita reacts as any vicious crime boss would, but Javier talks her out of killing Sofie. After all, Sofie has so many more hilarious facial expressions to share.

In Mexico, Sofie is just another “shitty gringa.”

Juanita inspects the more valuable merchandise.

Stone stoned.

Aaron is being held captive by Juanita’s gang, and he sees his sister being smacked around by Juanita from a window in the room where he’s chained up. Were this a different kind of movie (i.e., the good kind), the story might have had Aaron formulating a plan with Sofie to escape, using Javier — who seems to be allowed unsupervised access to Juanita’s prisoner — as a go-between. But that’s some action movie shit, and Border Run is still trying to be a gritty drama. So, Aaron remains chained up and powerless. Meanwhile, Sofie, just as powerless, watches as one of the smuggled migrants, a teen-aged girl, is roughly felt up by Juanita. We in the audience are powerless as we laugh hysterically watching Sofie succumb to the effects of some drugged water, with Stone giving a performance worthy of a 1968 classroom scare film about the dangers of marijuana. Within seconds of being drugged, Sofie rolls her eyes back into her skull and lolls her head from side to side, before quickly losing consciousness. Moments later, she comes to just long enough to realize she’s being tied to a bed, spread eagle, before blacking out again. She regains consciousness right before she’s raped. I think we can all agree that rape is a horrible crime, and therefore this scene should be horrific. Instead, Stone makes this the funniest scene of sexual assault since Pia Zadora was violated with a garden hose in The Lonely Lady.

Funniest rape scene or darkest episode of
The Muppet Show ever?

With Javier’s help Sofie manages to escape, but she and Javier are barely able to keep one step ahead from Juanita and her goons. Though they avoid capture by Juanita, they aren’t so lucky when they encounter U.S. Border Patrol. Javier is shot, and Sofie is taken into custody. Having met some real migrants and experienced firsthand the hell they endure to cross into the U.S. has caused Sofie to re-examine her hardline stance on border enforcement. Hence, she throws a hissy fit when being questioned by a Homeland Security officer (“I’m a TV reporter. I know my rights!”) When it’s suggested that if she doesn’t like America’s immigration laws she should contact her senator, Sofie angrily signs a release form, throws it at the officer and storms out. 

 Oscar® nominee Sharon Stone.

But Sofie’s saga isn’t over yet. She still has to find Aaron. Fortunately, Roberto reappears to help her. Sofie’s relieved, until she sees him smoking a cigar with a distinctive gold band.

Sadly, Sharon’s hair gets no redemption arc.

You can tell Border Run wants to be an important message drama about illegal immigration like El Norte, but it instead plays more like someone took a script for a 2000s-era Jean-Claude Van Damme direct-to-DVD actioner, changed the lead character’s gender and motivation, then replaced all the scenes of ass kicking with scenery chewing. It doesn’t work, but goddamn if it isn’t it fun to watch! The movie does have a kernel of a good idea, though: I’d so want to watch a reality show in which Fox News pundits are dropped in the middle of Honduras without their phones and are then tasked with having to make it back to the U.S. in one week with only a hundred Lempira, a few bottles of water, a couple Power Bars and a knife. The winner gets to suck Trump’s cock literally instead of metaphorically. Good luck, Sean!

Stone’s career has had something of a course correction in recent years. She got well-deserved positive notices for her performances in 2013’s Lovelace and the 2018 HBO series Mosaic, and she was perfectly cast as the eccentric heiress Lenore Osgood in Ryan Murphy’s American Horror Story retread Netflix series Ratched. If IMDb is to be believed, one of her upcoming projects is the comedy, The Tale of the Allergist’s Wife co-starring Bette Midler, which I’m sure will have a very professional and drama-free production should it ever happen [update: nope]. In the meantime, we have 30th anniversary edition of Basic Instinct to look forward to, which Stone says will be XXX-rated (😲). 

Oh, Sharon. I love you, but you’re so full of shit.

Her milkshake still brings the boys to the yard.

Striking Terror in the Hearts of Homophobes

It’s Halloween so I feel compelled to review something seasonally appropriate. The works of Romero, Carpenter and Craven are typical fodder for this sort of thing, or I could look at a couple of Frank Whale and Jacques Tournier films if I wanted to get all New York Times about it (I don’t). Instead, I thought I’d explore a different type of horror director, one who pays homage to horror conventions yet puts his own unique spin on the genre. This Halloween, I’m delving into some select works from David DeCoteau.

No one should watch a David DeCoteau horror movie expecting to be scared. Even his best ones are standouts not because they succeed as horror movies, but because they possess that so-bad-it’s-good magic. Yes, DeCoteau is that kind of filmmaker, occupying the same strata as Fred Olen Ray.

Like FOR, DeCoteau is extremely prolific, with 165 directorial credits to his name as of this writing (FOR only has 159, but he has more writing and acting credits than DeCoteau). Also like FOR, DeCoteau has worked in numerous genres, from hardcore porn to family-friendly Christmas movies. Yet, regardless of the movie’s genre, the era in which it was made, or pseudonym the director uses, there are certain signifiers that reveal a movie as being a DeCoteau product, signifiers that I’ll highlight in the movies below. Though many of these themes and techniques aren’t unique to the director on their own, they are hallmarks of a DeCoteau product when combined with some very specific, recurring tropes.

DREAMANIAC

The moment Thomas Bern realized he
didn’t want to be in movies anymore.

DeCoteau’s first horror movie was this 1986 Nightmare on Elm Street cash-in (one of the movie’s taglines was, “You Don't Have to Live on Elm Street to Have Nightmares”). Adam (Thomas Bern, in his screen debut/swan song), an aspiring heavy metal musician who is never shown playing or listening to it, agrees to let his girlfriend’s snooty sister Jodi (Lauren Peterson) rent his place to host a party for her prospective sorority. When Jodi’s guests arrive it’s soon evident that the sorority she wants to join is Phi Kappa Kunt. “Do I know you?” Jodi’s sister Pat (Kim McKamy) asks Francis (Dixie Carter lookalike Cynthia Crass), a sorority member bedecked in a giant foreskin. “I doubt it,” Francis sniffs. “I went to private schools all my life and I’m rich as shit.” The men attending this party don’t fare much better, being either dorky, goofy or smarmy. Only Pat is remotely likable, though I found her initial interaction with Adam to be borderline abusive.

Julia Sugarbaker goes to college.

Luckily for the good of humanity, Adam’s also into black magic (don’t let that Def Leppard tee fool you) and has summoned a succubus, Lily (Sylvia Summers), who’s down to fuck and/or kill the party guests, though she drags her feet doing either. Among the notable-but-improbable kills: Lily entices one of the hotter guys, Ace, to strip down to his tighty whities, wraps an extension cord around him and electrocutes him, somehow. Another head-scratching kill scene has a character getting decapitated by a power drill.

Though Dreamaniac has a few OK practical effects (it’s one of DeCoteau’s bloodier movies, though that “too gory for the silver screen” tag on the poster art is total bullshit), whatever schlocky potential it may have had is dashed by Helen Robinson’s lame script, the high school play-caliber acting and heavily padded runtime. That it was shot on video doesn’t help, though the quality of its cinematography is more early ’80s porn movie than shot on shitteo. That said, the picture is still pretty murky and fuzzy, making it even more of a chore to watch. 

What makes a David DeCoteau film unique? Exhibit A.

Story-to-Runtime Ratio: Barely 40 minutes of story to an 82-minute runtime. (I swore when I first watched it the movie was 1 hour, 42 minutes, but maybe it just felt that long.)

Method(s) Used to Pad Runtime: Repeated footage; footage of people walking/running; repeated footage of people walking/running; slooooow pans; even slower opening and end credits.

Kim McKamy considers whether porn
might be less demeaning.

Has Been/Porn Star in Cast: Kim McKamy took the name Ashlyn Gere in 1990 and had a long career in adult video.

Homoerotism Level: Lower side of medium, though after executive producer Charles Band screened the movie someone from his office called DeCoteau and asked, “Are you gay?”

Percentage of Runtime Male Cast Members in Underwear: Less than 10%, though Dreamaniac has more male nudity than other DeCoteau titles.

Will it Scare Homophobes? They may bitch about the amount of man-ass on display, but otherwise, no.

THE KILLER EYE

Ryan Van Steenis never saw the Eighth
Dimension coming.

DeCoteau takes the 1950s drive-in creature feature into the craptastic direct-to-video market of 1999, spicing it up with a heavy helping of homoeroticism and a generous side of naked women. Right off the bat we have “mad” scientist Grady (Jonathan Norman) hiring a hustler (pouty twink Ryan Van Steenis) to be his lab rat. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather screw, Doc?” the hustler asks. “’Cause my rates are the same.” Unfortunately for him, Grady wants a test subject, not a blowjob. The scientist administers eye drops that should, if successful, give the subject a view into “the Eighth Dimension.” Instead, the drops transport an entity from the Eighth Dimension into the blonde twink’s eye, causing it swell so large that it pops from his head and becomes sentient. (I just wrote that!)

Grady, however, was too busy arguing with his horny wife Rita (“You want to talk about you and your orgasms now?”) to notice any of these developments. It’s only after Rita (Jacqueline Lovell) leaves to have a three-way with their downstairs neighbors, hunky stoners Tom and Joe (David Oren Ward and Roland Martinez, respectively), that Grady notices his subject is now dead. So, he calls his assistant Morton (Kostas Koromilas), who conveniently lives in the same building, to, well, assist him, much to the chagrin of Morton’s young wife Jane (Nanette Bianchi). Though it would seem that a giant floating eyeball would be hard to miss, quite some time passes before it’s discovered, even though it’s frequently hovering only a few feet away, using its phallic-like optic nerve to get Rita off while her two stoned studs doze on either side of her, then feel up Jane while she showers. 

A typical night with Jerry Falwell Jr., his wife
and their pool boy.

Meanwhile, Creepy Bill (Blake Adams, billed here as Blake Bailey), a guy who, near as I could tell, just hangs out in the apartment building’s attic, happens upon the dead hustler’s body. Because Bill’s not quite right in the head, he has no interest in blackmailing Grady (“When you tell on others, you’re just telling on yourself,” he says). Instead, he joins the search for the titular Killer Eye, which at this point is more accurately described as the Creeping Molesting Eye. Rita, Tom, Joe and Jane join their efforts to trap the giant eye, to no avail. (“It’s been floatin’ and fucking for hours, so it’s got to be getting tired,” observes Creepy Bill.) But it soon becomes quite obvious that one member in their group has no interest in stopping the sentient eyeball.

The giant, phallic eyeball from
the Eighth Dimension.

This one’s kind of fun, actually. The movie knows what it is and does what it can within its limited budget, managing to deliver a few laughs in the process. It doesn’t do it efficiently, however. For all the amusing moments, there are just as many sluggish, pointless ones. The acting is weak, but still leagues above what was seen in Dreamaniac, with several cast members delivering semi-professional performances.

Story-to-Runtime Ratio: Really only enough story here to support 70 of this movie’s 90 minutes.

Method(s) Used to Pad Runtime: Extended PG-13 sex scene; extended R-rated shower scene; repeated footage, especially of that big rubber eye; slooooow pans; even slower end credits.

Has Been/Porn Star in Cast: Jacqueline Lovell worked in adult film under the name Sara St. James.

Homoerotism Level: High (see below).

#NoHomo

Percentage of Runtime Male Cast Members in Underwear: David Oren Ward and Roland Martinez never once put on pants, so a good 30-40%.

Will it Scare Homophobes? They’ll definitely be nervous, though Lovell and Bianchi are well utilized as the movie’s beards.

VOODOO ACADEMY

The spirit of Voodoo Academy
possesses Chad Burris.

Much like this movie’s young protagonist when he enrolls in the Carmichael Bible College, my husband and I didn’t fully know what we were getting into when we rented this DeCoteau offering in the early 2000s. We knew it was trash, of course, and our expectations were appropriately low, but then we started watching it and soon realized we’d happened upon a true hidden gem.

Like The Killer Eye, this 2000 release takes a premise that would’ve been common on the movie screens of yesteryear and pulls it into the 1990s, with DeCoteau putting his own, unmistakable spin on the material.

Christopher Sawyer (Riley Smith) is a devotee of Rev. Holice Carmichael’s “Neurocystic Christian Church” (a mix of Catholicism and Scientology, as one character describes it), so he’s thrilled to be accepted into the reverend’s bible college. Of course, the school’s extremely small, all-male student body — Christopher would be the school’s sixth student — is a bit of a red flag, but Mrs. Bouvier (Debra Mayer), the school’s sole administrator, explains that’s only because Carmichael Bible College is still an experimental institution. The school isn’t even accredited yet, another red flag, as is Rev. Carmichael’s sudden introduction of confessional booths. And seeing how the Rev (Chad Burris, who looks like he could be Jeff Stryker’s little brother) interacts with his students — placing hands on their muscular thighs, fixing his seductive gaze on their young, handsome faces — you just know those booths have a glory hole. 

Kevin Calisher looks over Carmichael
Bible College’s newest student.

It’s not until Christopher’s hunky classmates succumb to the effects of drugged wine (Christopher, a staunch teetotaler, abstained), and begin writhing in masturbatory torment that the devout new student decides to investigate. When one of the students, Rusty (Huntley Ritter), walks, zombie-like, upstairs to Mrs. Bouvier’s apartment (“That’s it, Rusty, follow your urges,” Mrs. B intones), Sawyer follows and discovers the truth: Carmichael Bible College isn’t a religious school at all—it’s a front for a voodoo priestess, and its students are all sacrifices to Macudo!

Simply put, Voodoo Academy is DeCoteau’s masterwork, second only to his one stab at indie legitimacy, 1997’s Leather Jacket Love Story. While the acting isn’t that good (it’s still a DeCoteau movie), the male cast gamely sells the homoerotism, especially Burris and, as class smartass Billy, Kevin Calisher. What’s amazing about this movie is that though its content is relatively tame, it’s so heavily suggestive that by the time the final credits roll you’ll swear you saw the guys suck each other off.

The boys of Voodoo Academy can’t fight the feeling.

Story-to-Runtime Ratio: Though 92 minutes is a wee bit longer than it needs to be (80 minutes is closer to the mark), Voodoo Academy doesn’t overstay its welcome. 

Rusty is swiftly punished for following his urges.

Method(s) Used to Pad Runtime: Lingering shots of guys writhing in their underwear; repeated footage; extended opening credits; slooooow pans.

Has Been/Porn Star in Cast: Despite all the guys in the cast looking like they were plucked from Chi Chi LaRue’s stable, none of them have done porn. Debra Mayer was in several Full Moon films prior to her death in 2015, but no porn.

Homoerotism Level: Were it any higher it would be hardcore gay porn.

Percentage of Runtime Male Cast Members in Underwear: Oh, 60%, easy.

Will it Scare Homophobes? They’ll be fucking terrified.

EDGAR ALLEN POE’S HOUSE OF USHER

Frank Mentier and Michael Cardelle make
awkward, awkward love.

With his 2008 retelling of the famous Poe tale, DeCoteau doesn’t waste time with mere homoeroticism. This one’s motherfuckin’ gay! What’s more, he made it for Here! TV, the gay network that gave us the wonderfully terrible series Dante’s Cove and The Lair. Was I giddy at the prospect of watching this? You bet your Tommy Hilfiger boxer briefs!

Unfortunately, Here! TV didn’t get the director of Voodoo Academy; it got the director of the 1313 series. DeCoteau’s interest in the material doesn’t go much further than cashing a paycheck, so what should have been a campy homo horror is a boring slog. He couldn’t even be bothered to eliminate the street traffic noise from scenes that are supposed to be taking place in the gardens of a remote country estate.

Part of the movie’s undoing is its casting. Frank Mentier, as the eccentric Roderick Usher, and Michael Cardelle, as his childhood friend Victor Reynolds, are emblematic of DeCoteau’s erotomania: buff, smooth and young. While Cardelle does look good in boxer briefs — because of course DeCoteau’s going to get him stripped down to his underwear — it’s nigh impossible to believe that his character has traveled the world and seen some shit when we suspect the actor playing him is filming his scenes during his high school spring break (and, based on Cardelle’s performance, between bong hits). Mentier, looking and sounding more bored than stoned, appears to be slightly older — he was possibly on his spring break from university — but not much more believable. These characters needed to be played by men who could act, not boys who could not. Jaimyse Haft, as Roderick’s sister Madeline, tries to deliver a real performance, bless her heart, but, alas, she just doesn’t quite have the acting chops to pull it off.

Who farted?

OK, I know better than to watch DeCoteau’s movies for the acting, but when so little regard is shown for all other production aspects (the script, art direction, the pacing) you become less forgiving. The one possible saving grace House of Usher had was its sex scenes, something to appease the viewers until there’s a Next Door Studios’ House of Usher, but again DeCoteau drops the ball. Mentier makes out with both Cardelle and a blonde whatsisname, yet it barely qualifies as softcore. The actors never even remove their underwear, instead yanking them below their buttocks but keeping their genitalia covered. You’d think a man who has directed gay porn would have a better grasp of the mechanics of sex. I wasn’t expecting to see any dicks, but I thought we could get sex scenes that reached the same level of explicitness as a Shannon Whirry erotic thriller, or, you know, Dante’s Cove.

Unless you share DeCoteau’s fondness of cute guys walking around in their underwear, House of Usher isn’t even worth hate watching. Better to stick with Roger Corman’s 1960 adaptation. Or try your luck with this 1989 adaptation or this one from 2006, both movies looking like they deliver the fun kind of bad DeCoteau didn’t. If nothing else, the acting should be better.

Michael Cardelle reminds us we’re watching
a David DeCoteau movie.

Story-to-Runtime Ratio: Though there should be enough story to flesh out an 84-minute movie, Simon Savory’s uninspired script, coupled with the sluggish pacing and bad acting, make House of Usher barely tolerable for one hour.

Method(s) Used to Pad Runtime: Repeated footage; lingering shots of guys in their underwear; people walking; extended softcore sex scenes; slooooow pans.

Has Been/Porn Star in Cast: Jill Jacobson of Falcon Crest fame(?) has a cameo so inconsequential it’s insulting.

Homoerotism Level: Extremely high.

Percentage of Runtime Male Cast Members in Underwear: 50%, augmented with some male rear nudity, but neither helps.

Will it Scare Homophobes? Yes, but they’ll be bored soon enough. 

Boo!

Dreamaniac and The Killer Eye are currently streaming on Tubi.