Led by former newscaster Matthias (Anthony Zerbe), The Family hates Neville because he represents an old way of life, a life ruled by science and technology, the very things that brought about the apocalyptic war that turned them into blood-crazed zombies. Neville uses all his “old world” devices — electricity, machinery, and science — to ward off their attacks. Along the way he discovers that he is not the only person to outlive the chemical attacks.
The Omega Man has the feel of a really elaborate Twilight Zone episode; both novella writer Richard Matheson and director Boris Sagal (father of Married With Children's Katey Sagal) were veterans of the television series. The only thing missing is the tight-jawed Rod Serling popping up to welcome us to another dimension at the beginning of the movie.
Like the television show, The Omega Man is thoughtfully crafted (even if it is a little ham-fisted at times) and, like the best Twilight Zone episodes, it bursts with social comment, in this case on racism and the dangers of irresponsible scientific research. There is even an interracial romance between Heston and Lisa (Rosalind Cash), a rare sight today on television and in movies, but even scarcer in 1971.
Sagal was a prolific director of episodic television who would occasionally take over the reigns on an Elvis movie or low-budget thriller when he wasn't making a mini-series or calling the shots on the sets of Columbo or Ironside. Like many of the creative types involved with the film, he wasn't an innovator, just a dependable craftsman. That might explain why The Omega Man doesn't have the visual flair of some of its innovative contemporaries like A Clockwork Orange or The Andromeda Strain.
While Sagal keeps up a vigorous pace, probably learned from directing hundreds of hours of network television, the action scenes are tepid. While they are not awful, they have a run-of-the-mill Starsky and Hutch quality. It's also fairly obvious that Heston didn't do his own stunts — check out his motorcycle driving stunt double, who doesn't look a thing like him. (Hey, if he is supposed to be the last man on Earth, who's driving the bike?)
Lackadaisical action scenes aside, it is bad dialogue that will usually sink a movie like this, and while there is some truly dreadful writing here, particularly in the scenes of Heston alone in his apartment, at least he seems to have a sense of humor about it. No actor wants to wander aimlessly around onscreen talking to himself, but as the last man on Earth (or so he thinks) he doesn't have much choice. Even for Heston, who was no stranger to over-the-top histrionics, it must have been difficult to deliver monologues to a bust of Caesar. “Hi, another day, another dollar. Miserable schmuck! Shut up! Why the hell can't you leave me alone?” he says to the statue. “What day is it anyway? Monday? Huh? The hell it is. It's Sunday. Sunday I always dress for dinner . . .” I'm not even sure Laurence Olivier could deliver those lines convincingly.
Heston has better luck later on when he meets Lisa. The back and forth between them has the makings of a camp classic. In one scene he tosses her a machine gun to ward off The Family. “What's this for?” she asks. “Comfort,” he gruffly replies. Much of Lisa's “hip” dialogue seems ripped from the pages of an anti-establishment blaxploitation script, particularly when she refers to Neville as “The Man . . . but he's cool.” Heard through today's ears the dated discourse has a retro charm that is part of the film's schlocky appeal.
Having said that, there is a lot to like about The Omega Man. Sagal's flashback scenes of the germ warfare are very effective and truly scary. He also takes good advantage of the deserted Los Angeles streets — the crew would shoot on location very early in the morning before people were on their way to work. The streets and buildings look lived in, but strangely barren, like something catastrophic has just happened.
The tension of the film is reinforced by veteran television composer Ron Grainer's music, a hauntingly atmospheric soundtrack that underscores the anxiety of the characters without detracting from the visuals.
The Omega Man might seem hopelessly dated and kind of cheesy — I prefer to think of it as a time capsule of early '70s American Cold War paranoia — but it is also an effective cautionary tale about the stupidity of war and the dangers of using technology irresponsibly.
PEEPING TOM (1960)
“Do you know what the most frightening thing in the world is? It's fear.”
— Mark Lewis (Carl Boehm)
Peeping Tom may be one of the most reviled films ever made. British director Michael Powell was a respected filmmaker, with the critically successful A Matter of Life and Death, Black Narcissus, and The Red Shoes on his resumé. The release of the voyeuristic Peeping Tom savaged his reputation, essentially ending his long and distinguished career in film. “The only really satisfactory way to dispose of Peeping Tom would be to shovel it up and flush it swiftly down the nearest sewer,” wrote Derek Hill in the London Tribune. “Even then, the stench would remain.” People hated this movie so much that one outraged critic approached screenwriter Leo Marks after a press screening angrily saying, “Don't do that again,” and even co-star Anna Massey called it “a horrible film to watch.” The film lasted in British theaters for less than a week before virtually disappearing. Two decades later, Martin Scorsese championed it in interviews, hailing it as a masterpiece.
Peeping Tom is a deeply subversive movie that was years ahead of its time.
Mark Lewis (Carl Boehm) is a feature film focus puller with a deadly secret. In his off-hours he is a serial killer who films his victim's dying moments. He falls in love with Helen Stephens (Anna Massey), the daughter of his blind landlady, and reveals to her that he was the subject of cruel experiments by his psychologist father. The elder Lewis terrorized his son — dropping lizards on him while he slept and forcing him to grasp the hand of his deceased mother — and would film his reactions in the name of the study of fear.
Mark's unusual hobby is uncovered when he kills Vivian (Moira Shearer), on a deserted soundstage, shooting her final moments before hiding the body. When her corpse is discovered, Lewis films the horrified reactions of his co-workers. A police officer, Inspector Gregg (Jack Watson), makes the connection between the sadistic work of the well-known Dr. Lewis and the odd behavior of his son Mark, and puts a tail on him. That same night Lewis kills again, just as Helen finds the film of Vivian's murder. When she confronts him he tells her all the gruesome details as the police close in.
Ironically Peeping Tom would be considered a mainstream horror film today, the kind of film that Brian De Palma made early in his career, but in 1960 this subject matter really got under people's skin. Despite the fact this film showed less violence than another big hit that year, Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho, Peeping Tom's study of the relationship between voyeurism and cinema earned ire because it wasn't a morality tale. It doesn't present Lewis as a crazed homicidal maniac, but as a sympathetic character who may be redeemable. It's a sophisticated psychological journey that may have confused and confounded audiences looking for a neat and tidy package with no gray areas.
The use of color in a horror film may also have startled viewers. Most contemporary horror films of the era were shot in black and white, thereby distancing the audience from the real life threat presented onscreen. The lurid full color presentation of Peeping Tom may have seemed too real, too close to home.
Whatever the reason, this underrated classic was shelved by a nervous distributor, surfacing in a butchered cut two years later that earned better notices after a brief Parisian run, but failed at the box office. Director Michael Powell was blackballed in Britain following the release of the film, and although he later found work directing series television and a handful of independent features, his well-earned reputation as a major filmmaker was irrevocably damaged. A brief interest in Powell's work occurred in the '80s, fed by the praises of heavyweight fans Frances Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese. While he never again made important films, he did serve as senior director in residence at Zoetrope Studios and lectured at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire. Virtually penniless at the time of his death in 1990, and hi
s reputation in tatters, he never gave up hope of making another film. “He never became bitter,” said his wife Thelma Schoonmaker, “which I think is the greatest achievement in his life aside from his wonderful films.”
THE PHANTOM OF THE PARADISE (1974)
“Here at the Paradise we offer you a special blend of fantasy
and fact. Atrocity and art. Music and murder twice nightly.
And is the horror you witness mere theatrics, or is it real?
The only way to be sure . . . is to participate.”
— Swan (from the liner notes of Phantom of the Paradise)
Years before shooting Bruce Springsteen's first-ever rock video, “Dancing in the Dark,” maverick director Brian De Palma made a satirical rock-and-roll musical that combined the stories of Faust and Phantom of the Opera. Phantom of the Paradise's story of revenge was born out of De Palma's frustrations working with the big Hollywood studios.
Brian De Palma wrote the first draft of what would become Phantom of the Paradise in 1969. The story was born out of a combination of influences. De Palma had been throwing film script ideas around with a young nyu student who suggested a rock musical with the title Phantom of the Fillmore. The director found the idea of a contemporary opera house being haunted by a ripped-off composer very appealing in light of his own problems reconciling his artistic vision while working in the framework of the movie industry. “The problem is that even by dealing with the devil, you become devilish to a certain extent,” De Palma said, expressing his distaste for the business side of show business. “You need the machine. And once you use it, you are a tainted human being.”
He wrote and sold an early version of the script to Marty Ransohoff at Filmways, but later bought it back when Ransohoff didn't show any desire to develop it into a movie.
Ed Pressman, a producer who would go on to have everything from Das Boot to Conan the Barbarian and American Psycho on his resumé, bought two of De Palma's scripts, Sisters and Phantom of the Fillmore. They decided to film the horror thriller Sisters first, as it would be a less complicated shoot. Sisters proved profitable for American International Pictures, who green-lighted Phantom of the Fillmore but wanted drastic budget cuts. Pressman and De Palma felt the film could not be made for the kind of money aip was offering, so the film entered development limbo.
It would take the next two years to convince studios and financial backers that a rock-and-roll parody would sell. “Studio people are so far away from the rock scene,” De Palma said in 1975. “They didn't even know about things as big as Alice Cooper. . . . There's a real generation gap.”
During the development period De Palma sought out a composer to write the score for his proposed rock musical. “My original conception was to get a supergroup like The Who or The Rolling Stones to write the whole score,” he told Filmmaker's Newsletter in 1975, “but, of course, you couldn't even get them on the telephone.” Instead he made what might have seemed like an unusual choice.
Paul Williams began his show business career as a gag writer for Mort Sahl. While working with Sahl he not only wrote jokes, but also dabbled in song writing. The first tune he wrote, “Fill Your Heart,” wound up as the b-side to Tiny Tim's smash hit “Tiptoe Through the Tulips.” Encouraged by the success of that record, he joined a&m Records as a contract writer, pumping out a series of soft-rock hits for Three Dog Night and The Carpenters. He parlayed his early '70s songwriting success into a movie career, stepping out from the sidelines to appear in a number of films (including Battle for the Planet of the Apes) and make the rounds on the chat shows.
With his newfound fame and easygoing nature Williams seemed on top of the world, but beneath the diminutive exterior was a growing bitterness that may have attracted the like-minded De Palma to him. Williams once said that even if he cured cancer, he would still be remembered as the guy who wrote the theme song for The Love Boat. That was just the attitude that De Palma was searching for. Williams' chameleon-like song writing skills also came in handy. “What is good about Paul Williams is that he is sophisticated enough as a composer to write satiric music of a certain form,” said De Palma. “I mean he can write Alice Cooper-type music and he can write '50s Beach Boys-type stuff.”
De Palma and Williams came up with a contra deal that would benefit both of them. De Palma would cast Williams in the movie, while Williams would provide a score at a cut rate. “As we got to know one another a little bit, [De Palma] said, ‘You've got to play Winslow [the Phantom],'” remembers Williams. “That was the original thought, for me to play Winslow. Then we got into rewrites on the script, and I wasn't sure I could act behind a mask, so it seemed like the right idea for me to play the slimy mogul, Swan.”
Having raised the $1.1 million dollars to make the film through private investors, shooting began. The title had to be changed to Phantom of the Paradise after rock promoter Bill Graham refused to allow the filmmakers to use the Fillmore Theatre as a setting.
De Palma's shooting script tells the story of Winslow Leach (William Finley), a gifted but unknown composer whose magnum opus, a rock cantata based on the Faust legend, has been stolen by Swan (Paul Williams), a strange rock impresario. To get Winslow out of the way Swan frames him for a crime, has his teeth removed in a monstrous “hygiene” procedure, and has him thrown in jail. Of course Winslow breaks out of his cell, determined to wreck havoc at Swan's warehouse. They say bad things come in threes, but the torment is not yet over for Winslow, who gets jammed in a record press where he is hideously disfigured and loses his voice.
Not one to let mutilation get him down, Winslow vows revenge on Swan. Donning a leather suit, cape, and a hawk-like metallic mask, he haunts Swan's new extravagant nightspot The Paradise. Swan confronts him and offers a deal. Winslow agrees to stop terrorizing The Paradise in exchange for control over his music. Winslow will agree under one condition: he wants the beautiful Phoenix (Jessica Harper) to sing his cantata. Swan ignores Winslow's request, and turns the beloved cantata over to a heavy metal band fronted by the sexually ambiguous Beef (Gerrit Graham). Winslow goes mad and exacts his revenge in increasingly bloody ways.
It is my long-held belief that most rock music movies suck. It is difficult to translate the excitement of a live performance to the screen, and very few filmmakers are able to pull it off. Despite the occasional cheesy song in Phantom of the Paradise, the musical performances are fun, and don't get in the way of the story. The concert scenes have a filmic feel to them that many rock movies miss. Most often concert footage is of the banal Midnight Special variety, but De Palma takes full advantage of his celluloid canvas and presents exciting musical numbers. Shot a full two years before The Rocky Horror Picture Show — a movie to which it is often compared — Phantom of the Paradise may have been the first film to really exploit the carnivalesque aspects of glam rock, using the visually androgynous character of Beef to simultaneously entice and repel the audience.
But it is the story that sets this movie apart. The tale of The Phantom of the Opera has been told and retooled hundreds of times, but De Palma manages something that many others have not been able to do: he tells us a story that is familiar, but manages to keep us off balance, unsure of what will come next. What starts off as comedy turns into tragedy. The outrageous nature of his telling of the Phantom's story masks his deeper message about the nature of greed in the entertainment business, a notion that seems more relevant now than when this film was made. He gets his point across subliminally, while keeping the viewer entertained with his great visual flair and wicked sense of humor. There's something for everyone here: comedy, horror, music, and social satire.
The Phantom of the Paradise was not a success when it was released in 1974, but became a cult hit through midnight screenings.
RICHARD'S FAVORITE ALAN SMITHEE FILMS
Alan Smithee is one of the most prolific directors in Hollywood, and yet has never been nominated for any awards, and has never been seen in public. You see, Mr. Smithee doesn't actually exis
t. The name was created by the Director's Guild to protect any directors or creative leads who feel their work has been abused. They can apply to have their name removed from the credits, and have Mr. Smithee's name inserted instead. The pseudonym was retired in 1997 after the release and subsequent publicity of Arthur Hiller's comedy (and ironically an Alan Smithee film itself) Burn Hollywood Burn: An Alan Smithee Film.
1. Death of a Gunfighter: A 1969 western starring Richard Widmark, Lena Horne, and Carroll O'Connor that has the distinction of being the first Alan Smithee film. Robert Totten was originally slated to direct, but clashed with star Widmark and was replaced by Don Siegel.
2. Stitches: This 1985 medical school comedy starring Parker Stevenson was actually directed by Rod Holcomb.
3. Ghost Fever: A 1987 “comedy” featuring Sherman “George Jefferson” Helmsley and ex-heavyweight boxing champ Joe Frazier. Actually directed by Lee Madden.
4. Catchfire: A strong cast headed by real director Dennis Hopper which includes Jody Foster, Dean Stockwell, Vincent Price, and John Turturro flounders in this turgid 1989 thriller.
5. Shrimp on the Barbie: This silly 1990 Cheech Marin movie was actually directed by Michael Gottlieb.
6. Bloodsucking Pharoahs in Pittsburgh: Not even the special effects of master technician Tom Savini could save this 1991 stinker, actually directed by Dean Tschetter.
7. National Lampoon's Senior Trip: Not bad by Smithee standards. This 1995 Matt Frewer comedy is credited to co-directors Kelly Makin and Smithee, when the original director took his name off a segment titled Forrest Humps.
8. Smoke ‘N' Lightin': Two Miami mechanics steal a luxury car for the night in this Christopher Atkins vehicle from 1995. Written and really directed by Mike Kirton.
The 100 Best Movies You've Never Seen Page 18
