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Yes, I found it last night and was appropriately embarrassed.
I feel like it's the original Spanish title pulling a fast one here. A little bait and switch.





I'd never heard of this until an hour and a half ago and now I think it's a near masterpiece of mood and unease. How this has slipped by my attention all these years, but apparently also that of the entire universe, is a crime of some serious significance.

If we are talking on purely cinematic terms of editing, sound design, acting and cinematography, it doesn't get much better than this. But it's also a compelling narrative to boot and one of the best films about the occult I've ever seen. It should be on a short list right after Rosemary's Baby, The Wicker Man and Night of the Demon.

Am I being hyperbolic, yeah probably. But that's what happens when a little treasure like this has been completely over looked for so long, and you stumble upon it unexpectedly one night, as just I have. It was clear to me it was special from the moment it begins, to the moment it ends, and so I can hardly be helped being filled with not only this much excitement at having finally come across something so unexpectedly good, but also a profound confusion over why no one else seems to care.



It needs hyperbole in order to survive. It's ****ing great.




How did you watch this? I remember stumbling across it on YouTube years ago, bookmarking it for later viewing but never got around to it.*Looks like it's been taken down since.*



How did you watch this? I remember stumbling across it on YouTube years ago, bookmarking it for later viewing but never got around to it.*Looks like it's been taken down since.*

I reside solely on Criterion channel these days.



I reside solely on Criterion channel these days.
I feel like I should finally get a subscription given all the obvious benefits, but then it will make my habit of blind buying Blu-rays even more embarrassing.





I was the kid at school who was known to have seen the movies you weren’t supposed to. Classmates would ask me for the details of this forbidden fruit during recess. Some kind of Cadaver Whisperer standing by himself beneath a haunted oak tree at the end of the school yard. Beckoning to those curious enough to listen. Because I’d seen people die. And how!

I can’t remember how this became such common knowledge. Maybe they could make out evidence of the things I had seen somewhere in my eyes. Haunted and without sleep. Or maybe it was just the reputation you get when the record you bring to show and tell, the one who claim as your favorite and that you listen to all the time, is front loaded with such hits as “Red Hot Poker Into Eye” and “The Scaffold (Trap Opens, Body Falls). It’s a mystery. But, somehow, they knew.

And so did my grandmother, who had raised me since I was four, and had liberal ideas of the kind of things a child should be allowed to watch. I remember her circling the first Friday the 13th in the TV Guide when it premiered on television. Just for me, because she sure as hell wouldn’t be caught watching that trash.

She had trust in me that I could distinguish right from wrong. That, if I had questions, or any kind of distress over what I had seen, I could talk to her. But as open minded as she may have been, even she was skeptical of the kind of things I might get my hands on while visiting my mother. There was a clear lack of trust, and a fundamental belief that films could probably be much worse than even she was aware of. She had no doubt there were some things that not even a seven-year-old should see.

I can recall one particular interrogation after returning from my mothers in particular. I’d made great assurances that what I had seen this time wasn’t that bad at all. It was called Mother’s Day. A pleasant enough title. And there was an old lady in it. Just like her. And as for the violence it peddled, I had the perfect way of easing her nerves that it was all good. Nothing to worry about.

“When they kill people, they don’t even use knives”, I can still remember telling her in the kitchen. “Instead, they just beat the girls to death”

This line has lingered with me into adulthood. How they just beat the girls to death. I can’t say I remember my grandmother’s reaction to hearing this. Or if my mother lost her visitation rights for some time. But it was always there, as a fundamental example of how a movie can go too far. And how children definitely should not be in charge of deciding what kind of violence is acceptable and what isn’t.

It’s been a long time since then, and having just rewatched it, Mother’s Day is still a powerfully unpleasant watch. Even at 45 years old there are moments in this film that articulate violence with such a brutish force that bruises and missing teeth become harder to look at than any kind of evisceration or amputation any other movie from that era might want to gleefully depict.

But what is almost just as shocking to me isn’t so much the degree of the film's unpleasantness, but for a film that has such a deservedly bad reputation as this does, how restrained it feels. It deliberately holds back on its scenes of carnage. It isn’t interested in racking up body counts. It in fact seems to very consciously be more interested in trying to articulate where this kind of violence begins. In the kind of home where there could be no other outcome.

Now, this isn’t to say this film provides a particularly incisive commentary on this. The home of the murderous siblings is a caricature of hillbilly grotesquerie. They eat cat food and Trix for breakfast (of course). And childlike vulgarities like “Worm Guts” are spray painted all over the walls. This is the shorthand they use to depict the kind of dysfunction that will get women tortured and killed. But there is also such a devilishly disturbing aspect to these brothers sulking when their mother determines the method of a victim's death (the “Shirley Temple” is apparently not to one of their liking, and so he will mope from the sidelines just taking polaroid's as his brother gleefully indulges) that there appears to be enough of an attempt at some kind of satire, that it’s not a movie you can really just entirely dismiss. Which then makes you have to take these geek show beatings they dole out all the more seriously. And, I guarantee you, this is not something you want to do.

But most effective of all will be the time spent devoted to developing the characters of the three captives of this horrible family. They are cleanly articulated. We know who they are, and not just through the kinds of broad strokes one might expect from what is basically a late era grindhouse flick. There is tragedy in each of their lives. They are grappling with growing older and what to do with the rest of their lives. And when they are abducted, with such a suddenness even the most jaded of those in the audience might be shocked at how quickly the film moves from a campfire chat to a grueling fight for survival, there is a sense that this is how evil suddenly can disrupt anyone's life. We become even more invested in their well-being, since we almost feel as if we’ve been taken hostage along with them.

And none of this even gets into the one pivotal death that occurs, and how it feels about as upsetting and vividly real as any death from a similar movie at the time. Or how it might be the most effective rape/revenge movie of the era (probably not a tall order). Or the bafflingly strange conclusion to the film. And I won’t because it would be ridiculous to spend this much time on a movie that really isn’t that great. But, because of my history with Mother’s Day, and how it has kind of been a talisman for how bad art can be for so long, that fact that it is actually a vaguely interesting movie compelled me towards writing more words than was likely necessary.

And, no, no one ever asked me for the down low on Mother’s Day during my recesses. They were probably all too busy trying to steal my Death and Horror Sound Effects record from me, in hopes it was the key to my unbearable coolness (it was, and I have never been the same since I lost it). So let's take a moment to grieve of this, please.







Victim of The Night


I was the kid at school who was known to have seen the movies you weren’t supposed to. Classmates would ask me for the details of this forbidden fruit during recess. Some kind of Cadaver Whisperer standing by himself beneath a haunted oak tree at the end of the school yard. Beckoning to those curious enough to listen. Because I’d seen people die. And how!

I can’t remember how this became such common knowledge. Maybe they could make out evidence of the things I had seen somewhere in my eyes. Haunted and without sleep. Or maybe it was just the reputation you get when the record you bring to show and tell, the one who claim as your favorite and that you listen to all the time, is front loaded with such hits as “Red Hot Poker Into Eye” and “The Scaffold (Trap Opens, Body Falls). It’s a mystery. But, somehow, they knew.

And so did my grandmother, who had raised me since I was four, and had liberal ideas of the kind of things a child should be allowed to watch. I remember her circling the first Friday the 13th in the TV Guide when it premiered on television. Just for me, because she sure as hell wouldn’t be caught watching that trash.

She had trust in me that I could distinguish right from wrong. That, if I had questions, or any kind of distress over what I had seen, I could talk to her. But as open minded as she may have been, even she was skeptical of the kind of things I might get my hands on while visiting my mother. There was a clear lack of trust, and a fundamental belief that films could probably be much worse than even she was aware of. She had no doubt there were some things that not even a seven-year-old should see.

I can recall one particular interrogation after returning from my mothers in particular. I’d made great assurances that what I had seen this time wasn’t that bad at all. It was called Mother’s Day. A pleasant enough title. And there was an old lady in it. Just like her. And as for the violence it peddled, I had the perfect way of easing her nerves that it was all good. Nothing to worry about.

“When they kill people, they don’t even use knives”, I can still remember telling her in the kitchen. “Instead, they just beat the girls to death”

This line has lingered with me into adulthood. How they just beat the girls to death. I can’t say I remember my grandmother’s reaction to hearing this. Or if my mother lost her visitation rights for some time. But it was always there, as a fundamental example of how a movie can go too far. And how children definitely should not be in charge of deciding what kind of violence is acceptable and what isn’t.

It’s been a long time since then, and having just rewatched it, Mother’s Day is still a powerfully unpleasant watch. Even at 45 years old there are moments in this film that articulate violence with such a brutish force that bruises and missing teeth become harder to look at than any kind of evisceration or amputation any other movie from that era might want to gleefully depict.

But what is almost just as shocking to me isn’t so much the degree of the film's unpleasantness, but for a film that has such a deservedly bad reputation as this does, how restrained it feels. It deliberately holds back on its scenes of carnage. It isn’t interested in racking up body counts. It in fact seems to very consciously be more interested in trying to articulate where this kind of violence begins. In the kind of home where there could be no other outcome.

Now, this isn’t to say this film provides a particularly incisive commentary on this. The home of the murderous siblings is a caricature of hillbilly grotesquerie. They eat cat food and Trix for breakfast (of course). And childlike vulgarities like “Worm Guts” are spray painted all over the walls. This is the shorthand they use to depict the kind of dysfunction that will get women tortured and killed. But there is also such a devilishly disturbing aspect to these brothers sulking when their mother determines the method of a victim's death (the “Shirley Temple” is apparently not to one of their liking, and so he will mope from the sidelines just taking polaroid's as his brother gleefully indulges) that there appears to be enough of an attempt at some kind of satire, that it’s not a movie you can really just entirely dismiss. Which then makes you have to take these geek show beatings they dole out all the more seriously. And, I guarantee you, this is not something you want to do.

But most effective of all will be the time spent devoted to developing the characters of the three captives of this horrible family. They are cleanly articulated. We know who they are, and not just through the kinds of broad strokes one might expect from what is basically a late era grindhouse flick. There is tragedy in each of their lives. They are grappling with growing older and what to do with the rest of their lives. And when they are abducted, with such a suddenness even the most jaded of those in the audience might be shocked at how quickly the film moves from a campfire chat to a grueling fight for survival, there is a sense that this is how evil suddenly can disrupt anyone's life. We become even more invested in their well-being, since we almost feel as if we’ve been taken hostage along with them.

And none of this even gets into the one pivotal death that occurs, and how it feels about as upsetting and vividly real as any death from a similar movie at the time. Or how it might be the most effective rape/revenge movie of the era (probably not a tall order). Or the bafflingly strange conclusion to the film. And I won’t because it would be ridiculous to spend this much time on a movie that really isn’t that great. But, because of my history with Mother’s Day, and how it has kind of been a talisman for how bad art can be for so long, that fact that it is actually a vaguely interesting movie compelled me towards writing more words than was likely necessary.

And, no, no one ever asked me for the down low on Mother’s Day during my recesses. They were probably all too busy trying to steal my Death and Horror Sound Effects record from me, in hopes it was the key to my unbearable coolness (it was, and I have never been the same since I lost it). So let's take a moment to grieve of this, please.




Alright, this is helpful. I've been trying to decide if Mother's Day was right for me for years (I'm so ******* picky, what with my acceptance of Friday the 13th Part 8 and all). This is most helpful.



Another Charlie Kaufman? The plot has thickened....




Looks like I've stumbled onto my first dog on the season. Who would have thunk with that doozy of a poster.



Haven't finished it, so can't say for sure just how bad it is. Had to put the breaks on it last night, since I was having lots of trouble paying any attention to it. But we'll see how the second half unfurls tonight. I am not holding my breath.



I believe Lloyd's brother.


So, not the good one.
Lloyd's......imaginary brother?





If The Destroyer needs to learn one thing about horror, it's that Boogeymen shouldn't remind you of bouncers.


I imagine for some the abnormal body shape of Lyle Alzado is a thing of terror. In theory, a guy with big muscles and no shirt is kinda frightening. But I mostly kept thinking he was going to throw me out of a bar every time he steps out of the shadows. And that's only scary if you haven't had time to steal any salt shakers yet.








A version of Fall of the House of Usher that at first has all the cinematic charm of an Unsolved Mysteries crime recreation. But if you keep watching it somehow transforms into something beautiful and frightening and weird. Poe purists should probably tread softly though. It's frequently about as Gothic as a Miami Vice crotch shot.



I think I had a really similar experience with Harrington's "Ruby". It looked like some garbage 70's television movie. Until it didn't. Which is why something something blerp blerp.


Watch Ruby.



Poe purists should probably tread softly though.
The poor creatures. What a miserable existence to have to endure. Seriously, what would be the most pure Poe adaptation? Certainly some are better than others, but I'm not sure if there could possibly exist any such thing.



The poor creatures. What a miserable existence to have to endure. Seriously, what would be the most pure Poe adaptation? Certainly some are better than others, but I'm not sure if there could possibly exist any such thing.

Tell Tale Heart lends itself pretty well to faithful adaptations. Most though, true, probably deviate quite a bit from the source out of necessity. I've never seen a film version of Pit and the Pendulum to this day, and so I can barely even imagine what that would look like, other than the inclusion of a Pit. And a Pendulum.



Other adaptations of Usher though I at least can pretty quickly recognize on screen. This one, I don't think I would have even known it had anything to do with the Poe story until the last ten minutes or so.



Tell Tale Heart lends itself pretty well to faithful adaptations.
For short films, maybe. It's interesting how many Poe feature length adaptations have to flesh them out with amalgamations of different Poe elements from numerous stories.



I've never seen a film version of Pit and the Pendulum to this day, and so I can barely even imagine what that would look like, other than the inclusion of a Pit. And a Pendulum.
It isn't exactly faithful, but I think that the Corman-Price version is pretty good. Speaking of wild deviations, their Haunted Palace is actually Lovecraft, I believe, with Poe's name stuck on for good luck.



Chloe Dancer is a miraculously easy song to learn.
Mother Love Bone?



Uh, did they just blatantly steal the face from Pink Floyd's The Wall to make this poster?