Nikkatsu Trailer Theatre # 5: WE SELL OUR BODIES BUT NOT OUR SOULS!

Well if my gushing praise in last week’s Seijun Suzuki memorial post wasn’t enough to sell you on 1964’s ‘Gate of Flesh’, perhaps the typically hyperbolic outpourings of Nikkastu’s trailer department will do the trick?

Leaving aside a few meaningless and/or questionably translated exclamations and a some inevitable come-ons to the presumed-to-be-male audience however, I think this lean two and a half minutes actually does a pretty good job of conveying the power of Suzuki’s film, in visual terms at least. (It would have been nice to see a bit more of Takeo Kimura’s extraordinary sets, but, never mind – something tells this film’s original viewing public weren’t putting down their yen at the ticket booth for the sake of the set design.)

According to Suzuki, the film’s female stars were mostly drawn from outside the studio’s usual roster of contract players, as the Nikkatsu actresses were understandably unwilling to engage with such risqué material. With aching predictability, the women are all ranked below both Jo Shishido and Koji Wada (who makes almost no impression at all) on ‘Gate of Flesh’s official cast list, but it should be noted that their performances are excellent across the board. They’re all tops in my book.

We should also note the presence here of Chico Roland – Japanese cinema’s go-to guy for black American roles – appearing in a cameo as a U.S. Army chaplain. Last seen around these parts in 1968’s Genocide, Roland is always an extraordinary presence. Constantly on the verge of breaking into hysterics whenever he is on-screen, and seemingly fluent in neither English nor Japanese, I’ve always wondered what his story was. Any info gratefully received by the Chico Roland Appreciation Society c/o the usual address.

VHS Purgatory: Pretty Kill (George Kaczender, 1986)

It’s been a long time since I’ve done one of these posts, isn’t it? To be honest, with my movie watching time increasingly squeezed, and discs of solid must-see titles piling up, throwing on a random “hey, no idea” tape in the ol’ VCR has become a bit of a… well, luxury doesn’t seem quite the right word, but you get my meaning.

I don’t remember where I acquired this particular tape - it must have been a charity shop find I suppose – but the deliciously sleazy artwork by definitive ‘80s poster artist Enzo Sciotti has been staring at me from the shelf for months now, and this week the time finally came for me to give it a whirl.

I’d never heard of director George Kaczender (a Hungarian filmmaker who directed his first feature in Canada in 1969, quoth IMDB), and the more-half-arsed-than-usual plot synopsis on the back doesn’t give much away either (what happened here? Looks like the copywriter got about halfway, let his pre-school daughter write a sentence and then gave up…). As such, the only thing I had to go on prior to watching was the cast – Susannah York, clearly bumped up from cameo to top-billing to capitalize on her name value vis-à-vis this British edition, Season Hubley (who was good in Paul Schrader’s ‘Hardcore’), and Baron Greenback himself, the great Yaphet Kotto.

So. Turns out ‘Pretty Kill’ (which got a theatrical release in the US under the name ‘Tomorrow’s a Killer’) is a thoroughly mediocre Reagan-era New York cop / psychopath thriller, with a milieu that sometimes recalls that frequented by great NYC genre directors like Larry Cohen, Abel Ferrara and Bill Lustig, but is crucially lacking in the grit, talent and vision that went toward making them such.

Swinging unevenly between over-scored melodrama and sub-Friedkin faux-documentary mumbling during it’s first half, but the pace is sluggish, the direction strictly pedestrian, and the story rendered along lines flat, clichéd and emotionally manipulative. Even the obligatory 42nd street / strip club / sex party interludes seem bland and anemic, and the attempts to portray underworld / drug situations are laughably unconvincing. Not a *terrible* movie by any means, but something of a snooze, you might say.

Basically, the best stuff here comes from the cast. Though as suspected her role is very small, York is good value here, and Hubley is solid too as the kind of “professional high class hooker” character that only exists in ‘80s movies. David Birney is a very likable presence as our heroic-cop-on-the-edge male lead, with a kind of “Harry Dean Stanton’s wide-eyed younger brother” vibe to him. I feel he could have done good work injecting a bit of thespian muscle into in these kind of generic crime / action roles, but presumably the world at large disagreed, as just about everything else on his IMDB CV is prefaced with the dreaded “TV” brackets.

Always a joy to see Kotto too of course. Initially I feared he was going to be wasted here playing the obligatory “by-the-book superior officer” antagonist to Birney’s bush league Dirty Harry, but he actually twists the formulaic role in rather a winningly cool direction, oozing soft-spoken menace and somehow managing to convey the impression that he’s just as much of a threat to public decency as the movie’s low-life criminals, not as a result of any particular actions or story points, but just through the sheer force of his creepy demeanor and intimidating physical presence. The scene in which he unexpectedly appears in a zipped up leather jacket to whisper veiled threats at Birney during an after-work drinking session was the highlight of the movie as far as I’m concerned.

At the other end of the scale however, actress Suzanne Snyder, who plays the pivotal character of Francie, is simply atrocious. Her “taking pre-planned deep breaths and staring straight at camera” performance is pretty hard to take even when she’s playing a wholly one dimensional character in the film’s first half, but when the story opens out into a DePalma-esque psychodrama in the second half, requiring her to essay a chameleonic, split personality psychopath, her poor acting simply renders the whole thing comical, pushing ‘Pretty Kill’ beyond mere blandness and into the realm of being an actual living, breathing *terrible movie*.

Admittedly, this isn’t entirely Snyder’s fault – the script’s treatment of her character’s mental illness and childhood abuse-induced dysfunction is ham-fisted in the extreme, and the scenes in which she goes through the whole ‘regressing back to childhood’ breakdown routine – inexplicably clutching a corn dolly, imitating her father’s voice etc – are painful to sit through; an absolute embarrassment to all concerned, even if we write off any serious intent and just take the movie as a pure exploitation flick.

Speaking of which, ‘Pretty Kill’s finale does at least attain a certain degree of low level camp/trash excelsis, as Snyder, now in full scenery-chewing psycho mode, takes on Hubley in a bloody corkscrew / straight razor battle that plays like a TV sketch show parody of a DePalma set-piece. Nothing to write home about, but it was utterly ridiculous and moderately entertaining.

Also, the “story of a psycho” style synth-pop ballad that plays over the end credits is just unspeakably bad. Did Snyder sing it, whilst ‘in character’? I didn’t hang around to check, but I wouldn’t be surprised. A staggeringly misguided inclusion, either way. It pains me to rag on someone like this in a review, so I'll wrap this up now and sincerely hope that Snyder put this farrago behind her and went on to better things. (To my surprise, a quick IMDB check reveals that she actually racked up a pretty solid CV of smaller roles in ‘80s ‘cult’ fare, with appearances in ‘Weird Science’, ‘Night of the Creeps’ and ‘The Last Starfighter’ amongst others.)

Despite its myriad faults, ‘Pretty Kill’ nonetheless has a certain charm to it on a “turn off your mind and float downstream” level – perfect, mind-numbing late night TV comfort viewing that has a palpable nostalgic pull to it if yr in the mood for this sort of thing... a feeling that is only enhanced by the exquisitely degraded VHS form in which I watched it here.

Picture was nicely colour-drained and fuzzy throughout, but playback was smooth and consistent, suggesting this tape has been well cared for since 1987. Before the film, we got a lovely Guild Video ident, and trailers for ‘War Zone’ (Christopher Walken and David Hemmings in war-torn Beirut!), ‘Take It Easy’ (post-Flashdance synth-rock / acrobatics opus?!), ‘Duet For One’ (jaw-droppingly crass, based-on-a-true-story Cannon Films Oscar-bait) and ‘Witchboard’ (you know it) – all very much worth looking up on Youtube if you’ve got the time.

A full scan of Sciotti’s wraparound cover art is provided for your viewing pleasure below.

This Month’s Zatoichi: Zatoichi’s Revenge (Akira Inoue, 1965)

Like the preceding Adventures of Zatoichi, Akira Inoue’s ‘Zatoichi’s Revenge’ (whose Japanese title translates as the rather more specific ‘Zatoichi’s Two-Cut Sword Style’) adds nothing new to the series by now thoroughly established formula, as Ichi, wandering once again into a remote town where he spent a lot of time in his youth, discovers that his beloved massage teacher has been murdered as part of a nefarious plot to force his virtuous daughter, along with those of the other townsfolk, into prostitution at the local magistrate-endorsed brothel.

The elements are all here: another slimy, toad-like magistrate and oyabun duo to be taken down, another surly, ultra-skilled ronin lining up to take a crack at the great Zatoichi, and various likeable everyday folks in need of a helping hand.

Unlike the equally formulaic ‘Adventures..’ though, ‘..Revenge’ does at least proceed with enough verve and style to overcome its routine plotting to some extent. In his only entry in the series, little known director Inoue handles things with a great deal of energy, mixing extensive handheld camerawork with strong, dramatic compositions, whilst Akira Ifukube’s rollicking, Spaghetti Western-esque score is, as ever, hugely enjoyable.

(Once again, I’m a bit reluctant to start pulling Spaghetti Western comparisons in these reviews, given the rather complex tug of war that was taking place between the Eastern chambara and Western, uh, western genres during the 1960s, but the prevalence here of flamenco guitar flourishes and brooding brass alongside extreme eye close-ups, tense stand-offs, dramatic, tinted flashbacks to past events and visual storytelling involving significant close-ups of coins and medallions etc. etc. – all of this will likely flash viewers in the Western hemisphere straight back to the same year’s ‘For a Few Dollars More’, a comparison that we can reasonable assume to be more the result of accident than design, given the embargo placed on Japanese distribution of the ‘Dollars’ trilogy by Kurosawa's legal challenge to 'Fistful..'.)

Whereas Leone always seemed rather contemptuous of the ‘everyday folk’ supporting characters in his films though, they are by contrast the heart and soul of most Zatoichi adventures, and the main thing most viewers will take away from ‘..Revenge’ is a remarkable performance by comic film & TV actor Norihei Miki, who absolutely steals the show here in the role of Denroku the Weasel, a wiry, booze-addled card sharp torn between loyalty to his scumbag employers and his more noble aspirations to aid Ichi in sorting them out and to keep his own daughter out of their clutches.

Building a complex and hugely likeable individual out of what seems like only a very sketchy script outline, Miki proves himself a masterful character actor here. As Chris D. sagely notes in the booklet accompanying the Criterion box set: “Miki was an actor who, like Katsu, was able to incorporate unforced humour into his performances, keeping the silly and the obvious out and embodying real people”. Straight talk as ever from Mr D.

Also of note in ‘Zatoichi’s Revenge’ is the inclusion of some slightly rougher, exploitation-ish business than usual, introduced via the forced prostitution storyline. Though extremely mild in comparison to the hair-raising excesses that began to consume Japanese popular cinema a few years later, the scenes here of women being imprisoned, beaten and leered at by the baddies are still nearer the knuckle than anything we’ve seen in previous Zatoichi adventures. (In regard to this, it is perhaps worth noting that Inoue, moreso than some of the other Zatoichi directors, seems to have been primarily an exploitation man, with several women’s prison movies gracing his relatively brief filmography on IMDB.)

And… that’s about all I can find say about ‘Zatoichi’s Revenge’ to be honest, except to once again state that by this stage in my viewing, even a mid-table Zatoichi flick like this one is as comforting as a plate of hot toast and a pot of tea. And, as with plates of toast and pots of tea, I find myself immediately looking forward to the next one: that being Kazuo Mori’s ‘Zatoichi & The Doomed Man’, which saw release in Japanese cinemas in September 1965. See you then!

Franco Files: Mädchen im Nachtverkehr / ‘Girls of the Night Traffic’ (1976)

Of the innumerable sex comedies and caged women exploitation pics produced by Erwin C. Dietrich’s Switzerland-based Ascot/Elite productions during the 1970s, most prove fairly dismal viewing (to my tastes at least). The presence of Jess Franco and Lina Romay on the payroll did at least lead to Dietrich’s company names appearing on a handful of masterpieces and the occasional slice of out-of-nowhere weirdness though – and in the latter category, 1976’s ‘Mädchen im Nachtverkehr’, rather awkwardly translated as ‘Girls of the Night Traffic’, proves a case in point.

This certainly wasn’t one of Franco’s more personal projects for Dietrich – indeed, there seems to be some controversy over how much of it he was actually responsible for, with Dietrich taking credit as writer and co-director on IMDB – but I think that the oddball humour and general garish surrealism found within makes Jess’s contribution clear, adding interest and a sense of campy enjoyment to what would otherwise be a pretty forgettable shot-in-a-week softcore(ish) quickie.

Taking place in a bouncy comic-book world of guilt-free sex and commerce, the story here is thin bordering on non-existent, and centres upon three happy hookers (the only one of whom I recognise is Franco regular Kali Hansa), who lounge around naked on a big bed in their shared flat, recalling stories of adventures with their more unusual clients. I can’t speak for the way the girls’ banter scans in the original German, but the English fan-subs on my copy have them spouting some of the most mystifyingly overwrought double-entendres I’ve ever encountered in a motion picture;

“He rooted around in the belltower. It was sensational.”

“He modestly asked me if I would perform the trumpet angel for him. Why not?”

“I won’t do shock treatment with you. I’ll do ‘shell-seeking’, that’s easy.”

What does it all mean? Don’t tell me, I think I’m happier not knowing.

One brief vignette sees Hansa servicing a Dr. Hichcock-like character who has her reclining in a coffin previously occupied by his late wife, on what looks like an empty, black-draped sound stage, whilst funereal music drones on in the background. The sheer unexpectedness of all this renders it quite fun, and things take a further turn taking a turn toward the bizarre when the man appears to introduce his penis as “mein gondola” and begins shouting “gondola! gondola!” as he thrusts away once the inevitable action commences. Inadequately translated German slang, or just random weirdness? Again, I think I’m happier not knowing.

Meanwhile, another of the girls makes a date with the always slightly terrifying Eric Falk, who here presents an even more unwholesome presence than usual as a sexually inexperienced and apparently mentally deficient foreigner, who says things like “if it not cost too much, I make love, yes?” This is not quite so much fun, but, um…. ok.

Back at the shack, a lengthy sequence of sexy banana eating and sapphic frolics ensues (“honestly, we never get bored”, says someone), until the film suddenly plunges headfirst into the depths of Franco’s erotic-fantastique imagination for a positively dream-like sequence in which one of the girls suddenly finds herself trapped in a bamboo cage amid a set-bound jungle, before the other two approach in military uniforms (presumably recycled from Barbed Wire Dolls, or some similar picture), and things proceed in much the kind of direction you’d expect... until the scope of the scene widens out to reveal that this is actually a stage act being performed in some totally bizarre jungle-themed neon nightclub!

A trademark Franco trick of course, but used to maximum reality-trashing effect here, giving the impression that we’re suddenly adrift in the void, roaming through one of the innumerable such rooms that must be continually operating in the director’s mind.

In a subsequent flashback demonstrating how the girls fell into their current occupation, one of them is seen tootling away on a saxophone, practicing in the hope that she won’t lose her current job in a brass band – another self-referential wink to the mere handful of weirdoes whom one assumes might have been following Jess Franco’s career back in 1976 – before Hansa’s character barges in on the pretext that she’s a burglar trying to rob the place!

Introducing the third member of the trio, we cut to yet another thoroughly goofy vignette in an artist’s studio, where girl # 1 is trying her luck as an artist’s model and attracts the attention of the artist’s daughter/lover (her precise role is deliberately left a bit vague, as if the filmmakers hit on the icky incest theme but didn’t quite want to go all the way with it, or else just forgot or something).

 “It’s nice painting her thighs, when one is used to yours”, says the leery, pencil-moustached artist at one point, and once again, an avalanche of questionable euphemisms add a whole extra layer of strangeness here. “One always looks forward to the opening of a theatre”, says one of the girls when the fella unzips his pants, “but be gentle on the hero, he’s suffering from stage fright”. The camp factor is pushed even further by cut-away close ups to the guy’s paintings, which are absolutely HIDEOUS – air-brushed monstrosities full of fawns and dewy eyed sheep… just wonderfully absurd.

Toward the end of the film, a rather unsavory storyline emerges that kinda anticipates scenarios which were re-used for 1977’s superior ‘Die Sklavinnen’ (aka ‘Swedish Nympho Slaves’), in which the girls are kidnapped one by one by a swinging couple and sold on to Eric Falk’s character (see, I TOLD you he wasn’t to be trusted!), who is working for a cadre of Islamic white slavers who hang out in a smoky Turkish restaurant where some intense-looking musicians choogle away day and night on sitar and tablas (because India, Turkey – close enough, right?).

Here, in a turn of events that ranks pretty high on the list of “scenes you’d be unlikely to see in a motion picture nowadays”, the malevolent, fez-wearing Turks pound away doggy-style at their bored captives whilst yelling allegedly comedic variations on Muslim prayer mantras. The whole thing is so stunningly tasteless it’s kind of extraordinary, to be honest. Indefensible, undoubtedly, but at the same time, the knowingly ludicrous, slapstick presentation leaves it only a stone’s throw away from the kind of outrages a young John Waters was perpetrating at around the same time on the other side of the Atlantic.

If you’ve got a strong enough exploitation-stomach to shrug off a few light-hearted Islamophobic rape scenes though, the rest of ‘Girls of the Night Traffic’ remains 60-something minutes of utterly stupid, frivolous fun – the kind of sex flick that constantly objectifies the female body (that sort of being its core purpose, after all), but without ever feeling the need to get cruel or gross about it, and that slings random elements and jarring, inexplicable diversions together seemingly at random, with no apparent rhyme or reason, leaving us completely in the dark re: what’s coming next.

Though in essence the film is perhaps only marginally sillier than the innumerable hours of Germanic softcore nonsense that emerged from the ‘70s, we can assume that Franco at least was fully aware of the ridiculousness of the project he was involved in, and my guess is that he was deliberately ramping up the camp factor here as far as he possibly could, leading to the kind of movie where you can almost hear the cast & crew cracking up off-screen at the kind of nonsense they’re being paid to create.

On the downside, Francophiles should note that the film suffers from an absolutely chronic lack of Lina, which immediately loses it a point or two in the ‘Kink’ category (who knows, maybe she was visiting family or something on the week they made this one?), but that aside, if you are the kind of person who would even contemplate acquiring and watching a film like this in the 21st century, then god knows, you will probably enjoy it.

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Kink – 3/5 
Creepitude – 1/5 
Pulp Thrills – 3/5 
Altered States – 2/5 
Sight-seeing – 0/5
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