Matt Cimber , "The Witch Who Came From the Sea" (1976).
One of the great joys of the DVD revolution has been the number of obscure screen gems to discover. After collecting and watching movies for a nunber of years, it's easy to believe that I've seen everything worthwhile. But then something pops up and reminds me what I loved about the search in the first place. Once in a while I can still find a film that leaves me shaking my head in amazement. Tonight I experienced just such a movie, a limited release from 1976 called The Witch Who Came From the Sea.
There was no way to tell what this movie was going to be like from its packaging. It almost looks like its marketed toward the pre-adolescent crowd. But if you brought this home for your kids, you'd be making a huge mistake. Even if you intend to show this to your adult friends or loved ones, I'd advise you to use discretion. Read some reviews elsewhere. I enjoy this sort of stuff, but you may not. Don't expect stellar acting. This is a melodramatic psycho-thriller, bordering on exploitation. The dialogue is often delivered awkwardly, but the word-choice is so strange that the disjointed conversations tend to enhance the film's surreal tones.
You learn fairly quickly that Mollie, our hero, is deeply disturbed. She seems to get on well with her nephews, but at the same time she is experiencing disturbing visions. Mollie is a horn-dog certainly, but there's some trauma flittering about on the periphery of her libido. Her sister seems to have a clue, but Mollie is obviously too detached from her past to escape the fantasy world she has constructed in order to forget. Her peculiar psychosis is triggered by images of football players and rugged-looking actors on television. Living in Santa Monica, and working at a beach-side dive bar, she has the opportunity to meet these stars. Acting out her subconscious dream world, Mollie soon runs afoul of reality. As the director slowly reveals to us the source of her pain, we watch her spiral into a nasty mental breakdown.
The groovy atmosphere of this movie makes it especially enjoyable. The Boathouse (Mollie's place of employment) is a beat-down and gritty drinking hole, meant for the type of seventies lounge lizard that has a pirate fetish. The proprietor is the rough-around-the-edges, but basically warm-hearted old salt, "Long John". He's obviously got a soft spot for our hero, and in a way he redeems the male gender in this uber-feminist tale of horror. The viewer is also invited to a sinister tattoo parlor run by "Jack Dracula", and a Hollywood sex party at the swanky pad of TV actor "Billy Batt". Cinematographer Dean Cundey (Halloween, The Thing) keeps the look of the film visually compelling, and there are a few low-rent (but effective) bits of visual trickery.
Director Matt Cimber spares us from the most disgusting and gory imagery- stuff that we could well expect from what we know is actually happening onscreen. But the power of suggestion might be enough to sicken you just a bit. There are implications of genital manipulation, incestual rape, and evisceration. Somehow all these elements didn't keep me from kicking back and enjoying the bygone charms of the free-wheeling seventies. And the hammy performance of Millie Perkins carries the story through its pill-induced confusion. Get out the TV trays and fill your martini glasses, because you are in for a treat.
There was no way to tell what this movie was going to be like from its packaging. It almost looks like its marketed toward the pre-adolescent crowd. But if you brought this home for your kids, you'd be making a huge mistake. Even if you intend to show this to your adult friends or loved ones, I'd advise you to use discretion. Read some reviews elsewhere. I enjoy this sort of stuff, but you may not. Don't expect stellar acting. This is a melodramatic psycho-thriller, bordering on exploitation. The dialogue is often delivered awkwardly, but the word-choice is so strange that the disjointed conversations tend to enhance the film's surreal tones.
You learn fairly quickly that Mollie, our hero, is deeply disturbed. She seems to get on well with her nephews, but at the same time she is experiencing disturbing visions. Mollie is a horn-dog certainly, but there's some trauma flittering about on the periphery of her libido. Her sister seems to have a clue, but Mollie is obviously too detached from her past to escape the fantasy world she has constructed in order to forget. Her peculiar psychosis is triggered by images of football players and rugged-looking actors on television. Living in Santa Monica, and working at a beach-side dive bar, she has the opportunity to meet these stars. Acting out her subconscious dream world, Mollie soon runs afoul of reality. As the director slowly reveals to us the source of her pain, we watch her spiral into a nasty mental breakdown.
The groovy atmosphere of this movie makes it especially enjoyable. The Boathouse (Mollie's place of employment) is a beat-down and gritty drinking hole, meant for the type of seventies lounge lizard that has a pirate fetish. The proprietor is the rough-around-the-edges, but basically warm-hearted old salt, "Long John". He's obviously got a soft spot for our hero, and in a way he redeems the male gender in this uber-feminist tale of horror. The viewer is also invited to a sinister tattoo parlor run by "Jack Dracula", and a Hollywood sex party at the swanky pad of TV actor "Billy Batt". Cinematographer Dean Cundey (Halloween, The Thing) keeps the look of the film visually compelling, and there are a few low-rent (but effective) bits of visual trickery.
Director Matt Cimber spares us from the most disgusting and gory imagery- stuff that we could well expect from what we know is actually happening onscreen. But the power of suggestion might be enough to sicken you just a bit. There are implications of genital manipulation, incestual rape, and evisceration. Somehow all these elements didn't keep me from kicking back and enjoying the bygone charms of the free-wheeling seventies. And the hammy performance of Millie Perkins carries the story through its pill-induced confusion. Get out the TV trays and fill your martini glasses, because you are in for a treat.
posted by Merge Divide at 9:55 PM
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