SPECTRE (1977)
Dir: Clive Donner

Surely one of the most eccentric telefilms ever aired, Spectre is the disjointed brainchild of Star Trek creator Gene Rodenberry. Given free reign by network execs Mr. Roddenberry pens another bombastic tale centered around a quasi-moral theme, in the style so familiar to his disciples everywhere. The structure is more episodic and less developed narrative than to be expected, with set piece following set piece and an only minimal connection tying these loose ends together.

Setting the tone for the campy occult splendours to follow, Spectre's opening five minutes are perhaps its best. Robert Culp is a paranormal investigator attacked at his modernist bachelor pad by a seductive succubus (a hot witch basically). The assault and subsequent destruction of the evil creature is witnessed by Culp's longtime pal and lush of a doctor (Gig Young in one of his final roles), who decides to fly to England to help Culp ferret out black magic practicioners. It seems a high-strung spinster is convinced her older brother is possesed by a demon who's greatest weapon of evil is a louche lifestyle of excessive sexual indulgence. The hoodwinked brother comes off as only marginally creepier than Hugh Hefner (and this guy at least wears French cuffs and slim-cut blazers around the house), and his ancestral home of hedonism only slightly more lurid than Hef's grotto. Turns out there's fire where there's purple magickal smoke, and the alternately suave and bumbling pair are led through a maze (figurative and literal - leftover cave sets from Land of the Lost to be sure) of modern Satanism and ritual sacrifice.

Unfortunately the overlong finale is centered around special effects and make-up artistry so ridiculously bad it nearly cancels the previous hour of offbeat dialouge and plotting. Still, the harpischord soundtrack is charming, the arcane magic rituals and esoteric occult terminology quaintly fun, and especial kudos for an art department on speed when it comes to creating groovy 70s interior kitsch (in a Scottish Baronial pyschadelic manner - think the Beggars Banquet-era Rolling Stones). A horror film with little horror, few chills and no scares, but enough bits of quirky charm to justify viewing. Well, on a hangover day anyway.

Now that Spring Semester is over at Satan's School for Girls, we can't imagine a better place to spend the summer holidays than at CampBlood. Webmaster Buzz has loaded his site with provocative articles, interviews, movie reviews and much more, all enriched by intelligent and witty prose. Check out his Horror for Homos section for a film guide both hysterically funny and comprehensive. Camp Blood is updated frequently, and each visit guaranteed to produce laughs and shivers. Of great interest to SSFG and its fans (uh, Hi Mom) will be the Movie of the Weak, dedicated to our beloved TV thrillers. And don't forget to browse Camp Blood's swag section; the ridiculously low-priced tote bags are totes a beach must for Summer '06.

DON"T BE AFRAID OF THE DARK (1973)
Dir: John Newland

A real standout film in the field of television horror, despite its cult status Don't Be Afraid of the Dark has yet to be released on DVD. This is most unfortunate given the film's ability to perhaps alter a few opinions on the complete and utter worthlessness of Made-for-TV movies. Rarely has TV tried so hard to actually scare the viewer; production executives tend to prefer non-disturbing and mild horror imagery unlikely to frighten away (yes, intended pun) advertisers. Within this tradition of watered down imagery and theme, Don't Be Afraid dares to buck convention and systematically builds its tale upon dread and the common phobias of madness and emotional isolation. Never taking time out for a prosaic sideplot or corny chuckles, Nigel McKeand's script is a near masterpiece of economical horror screenwriting. Similarly director Newland handles the proceedings with a detached and dark iciness, filling the screen with long shots of the spooky house, an abudance of night photography and screen frames heavy with shadows and blackness. Even the main characters of the film are introduced through voiceovers, disembodied conversations heard over still shots of the empty house interiors; the effect of the House as an entity to itself, and the residents merely visitors in a foreign (and hostile) realm is quite chilling.

The plot is deceptively simple; recounted as a written synposis it hardly hints at the creepiness the actual movie manages to achieve. Kim Darby plays a somewhat lonely young housewife to hubby Jim Hutton's Type-A lawyer with an eye on his firm's partnership. From this crux of quintessential 70s politicized domestic drama, thus the characters are built. Darby's unfulfilled modern woman, aching to express herself creatively and intellectually, is a stereotype of the liberated era, but she imbues the role with such pathos and genuine discomfort the viewer instinctively sympathizes. Her one persoanl wish for her new home is to take over an unused dank studio as a home office for herself, a room of her own, but her husband and the patriarchal handyman (My Three Sons' Uncle Charlie) attempt to discourage her. Eventually she is given challenges such as entertaining her husband's business partners and coordinating décor with an interior designer, but her greatest test seems to be staying sane. Darby begins to hear voices and see tiny creatures invisible to all else. And worse, the creatures turn out to be far from cuddly.

An inspiration for Don't Be Afraid of the Dark would surely seem to be Charlotte Perkins Gilman's 19th century macabre novella The Yellow Wallpaper, with its unhinged heroine obsessing over patterns in the wallcoverings that seem to have a life of their own. Both stories eerily present restless women who first feel trapped in their surroundings, then fatally attached to these interiors grown monsterous. And the two tales share endings evilly ambiguous – Don't Be Afraid of the Dark however climaxes on a tone of such despair and horror, even contemprary audiences may feel moved. As a highlight of 70s TV horror – and TV movies in general – this remains a treat for anyone looking for a spooky night at home. For those who love this genre, it is a treasure.

THE NIGHT STRANGLER (1973)
Dir: Dan Curtis

When movie sequels are spoken of, the tone invariably turns jeering, and smug dismissals are expected from all serious aficionados of the motion picture. And yet our genre of attention here, the horror fim, often gathers steam in spin-offs, unencumbered as it is by the more traditional focus on narrative consistency. The Friday the 13th series didn't introduce the iconic hockey masked figure of Jason Vorhees until Part II (1982). Nearly lovable wisecracking Freddy Kruger only began to really develop his sick one-liner schtick midway through the Nightmare on Elm Street marathon (by which time admittedly he'd devolved into a third-rate Catskills comedian). Similarly, other shlock classics explored more interesting terrain in their sequels, such as Night of the Living Dead (1968), Children of the Corn (1983).

Following the enormous success of The Night Stalker (1972), Dan Curtis and screenwriter Richard Matheson also benefited from returning to the drawing board to craft the excellent sequel, The Night Strangler. Their previous collaboration (they would work again on the seminal Trilogy of Terror ) garnered the highest ratings of any TV movie in over a decade, so expectations should have been low for this hasty afterthought, demanded in part by Nielsen-driven ABC.

Instead The Night Strangler gives us a Carl Kolchak with more motivation, a bumbling, awkward hero beginning to show signs of real life drama under the crumpled suit and battered straw bowler. Again the discredited news reporter is on the scent of a supernatural killer, this time not in seedy Vegas, but a Seattle made seedy despite its verdant exterior. Kolchak's beat is the world of exotic dancers, strip clubs, bums sheltered in abandoned buildings, and this sleazy urban underbelly is given surprising depth and attention here (despite television's preferred idealization of a squeaky clean America). Cameos abound ( The Munster's Al Lewis as a drunk homeless man suffering from hypochondria, Margaret Hamilton chewing scenery in the role of a cantankerous professor of the occult), and the script spends its first half developing mood and tone and nuances of Darren McGavin's Kolchak. The climax is therefore even more unexpected, switching locales as it does to a surreal underground cavern beneath the streets of America's most caffeinated city. Strongly recommended.