House on Haunted Hill (1959), William Castle.

No frills haunted house movie that takes the oldest story in the book (where did it originate!) : millionaire invites a selection of strangers to the house, promising them $10,000 if they can make it to morning.

Carol Ohmart, playing Vincent Price's wife, is a gorgeous, healthy 50s blonde and their bitchy back and forth is quite endearing. Did she poison the champagne? Is he going to kill her with the cork? Hey, why is there a vat of acid in the basement again?

But a real question: in this cheap ass Vincent Price Collection from "St Clair Visions" whatever the devil that is (sounds like a medieval nun), why is the 3rd movie The Bat not a Vincent Price flick but the original from 1928? Do cheap "collections" do this on purpose to save dough? This would also explain why my Lee Van Cleef box set does not in fact contain The Satanic Mechanic, as promised! I am bound to wander this earth forever until I find that one.

Be Kind Rewind (2008), Michel Gondry.

For anyone who respects thrift, the DIY philosophy towards life and the rejection of the notion that anything produced for mass consumption must be offlimits for re-interpretation: here is a flick for you! Starring Mos Def and Jack Black!

This year I caught RIP: a Remix Manifesto, a little National Film Board of Canada production whose thesis is that the clamp down on copyright stifles human creativity (Rule: Culture always borrows from the past). Youtube clip found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9oar9glUCL0. And to paraphrase the "culture jamming" dudes from Negativland as they appear in RIP: if you don't ask to jam mass culture down our throats in the form of commercials, billboards, print ads, jingles etc, why do we have to ask to re-use it? Be Kind Rewind and RIP both have copyright enforcing agents as their antagonists, and both are buoyed by a wonderful spirit of playfulness. Be Kind Rewind doesn't quite delve into the issue much, but props for even having it there in the first place. My big disappointment: no Sweded version of The Jerk! Not even in the Special Features!

Yeah, yay for movies that celebrate movies - takes me back to running around with my Fisher Price camcorder bought during the summer one year as a kid. Wow, for something that ran on cassette tapes - that thing produced some gorgeous black and white!

The Cowboys (1972), Mark Rydell.

Robert Carradine - better known later in life as LOUIS from Revenge of the Nerds (!) - as a young cowpoke.

Pee-yew! What's that I smell! Why, it's late vintage John Wayne. You know when a 1970's western begins by throwing the words "OVERTURE" on a black screen, and an overinflated yet hollow John Williams score blasts on for several minutes, that there's trouble ahead. I mean, is this an homage to Spartacus, or what? Aren't classic westerns better known for a lone rambling dude singing a souful tune?

Anyway... all the grown ups are panning for gold down the road and the only hands Wayne can hire to move his cattle 400 miles west are 12- and 14 year olds. (No kidding). Begins as feeling like a lighthearted Disney-esque production, with Wayne sizing up the little half-pints. Then, a bit of 70s cultural awareness is thrown in: "Hi! I am Scotty Schwartz! I am Jewish!" (No kidding)! Plods along, completely devoid of any tension or adventure, with Wayne leading the boys alongside campfire cook Nightlinger, played by character actor Roscoe Lee Brown - better known as Saunders from Soap! (No KIDDING)!

Sure, the western is pretty consistently a treatise on masculinity. However in this flick, the concept goes way beyond that of a fatherly John Wayne teaching a bunch of kiddos how to rope and ride. Instead of just getting calluses on their fingers -- [Spoiler alert!] -- in the final quarter of the film the tone of the movie clouds over completely as the tots take up arms and turn into bloodthirsty revenge seekers!

This is what I get for insisting on seeing every Bruce Dern flick. Thank God Eastwood was still pumping some spit and gristle into the genre, because this is an embarrassment!

Mafioso (1962), Alberto Lattuada.

Beautifully filmed, simple story of a successful Sicilian-born factory foreman, now living in Milan, who returns south to visit mamma e babbo and gets caught up in the local Don's sinister activities. His beautiful blonde Milanese wife complains about the chicken under the bed and introduces the art of waxing to her in-laws.

I am hereby totally convinced of two things: 1) Europe, 1960s = the pinnacle of cool and 2) must book train trip to Sicily.

They Died With Their Boots On (1941), Raoul Walsh.

War hero worship for droolers.

The Devil Bat (1940), Jean Yarbrough.

Reporter Kills Devil Bat! Oh and PS, Americanism and Girls!

Great thriller B! Bela Lugosi is kindly "village doctor" whose scientific research gets ripped off by local moneyed family; he seeks revenge by electrocuting bats until they feel like chewing on the jugulars of his oppressors. Bela Lugosi is such a dapper guy, always in that sharp fedora and full suit. This one is pretty solid. I appreciated all the little touches: the great question-mark tie worn by the Chicago newspaperman, the strange family portraits in Lugosi's hallway. The chilling screech heard when the bats descend on their prey is fantastic! I haven't had so much fun since The Tingler!

$5000? I can't believe these jerks!

Scared to Death (1947), Christy Cabanne.

The narrator of the film lays on a marble slab.

What the frig! Completely random group of wacky characters assemble in a house and crazy things happen. This includes Bela Lugosi, who appears to have lost his uppers, and a dwarf who gets an elaborate introduction only never to be seen again! Story goes nowhere and some guy in a green mask hangs outside the living room window; nobody really notices. This is some screenwriting without discipline or purpose. I like to imagine it was typed out at 3AM in some low-rent Hollywood apartment.

Filmed in what they call "Natural Color" but which is actually Cinecolor, a subtractive colour process that gives everything, for lack of a more sophisticated description, a strange vintage look. It made me think of Autochromes, a very early development in colour photography, although that process is completely different - see below for an example. In any case, the effect of the Cinecolor may have been the only slightly spooky thing in the whole film. It was certainly a thrill to realize Lugosi had piercing blue eyes.

Director Christy Cabanne - not a woman, to my disappointment - was assistant to DW Griffith and went on to churn out myriad B-pictures.

Autochrome by the Czech photographer Bufka, taken ca. 1915.

Heaven Can Wait (1943), Ernest Lubitsch.

A satirical movie made in 1943 that gently chides the sobriety of the social morés of a bygone era is pretty much destined to become completely dated by 2009. Though the concept of what is risqué has certainly changed and this story feels toothless by today's standards, it remains watchable because of its wonderfully witty dialogue and lovely performances. Don Ameche plays Henry Van Cleve, a well-to-do New Yorker who, though he marries the girl of his dreams, continues to dog around ceaselessly up to the point where he ends up explaining himself to some kind of maitre d' to the ante room of Hell. Ameche's playboy (whose minor sin is to love women too much) remains sympathetic - unlike many other characters who appear destined for a fiery afterlife.

I find Lubitsch's witty comedies of manners to be well crafted but ultimately weightless - real human emotion is either sparse or lacking. As well, I instinctively chafe at a little cast of characters for whom work is optional and money is no object. The beautifully composed colour (simply stunning Technicolor) is just another demonstration of its artificiality. I find I often walk away from these confections feeling amazed at the craftsmanship, yet underfed.

An unfortunate old biddy meets her end.