(1962)
Dir - Edward L. Cahn
Overall: MEH
This largely forgotten quasi-adaptation of Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont's Beauty and the Beast, (and the first live action version made in America), takes more of a werewolf angle to the source material, where Mark Damon's Count turns into the beast of the title every night when the moon rises due to a sorcerer's curse, but is otherwise betrothed to Joyce Taylor and respected by his subjects. This changes the plot completely, throwing in a political usurping angle involving Michael Pate's scheme to exploit Damon's predicament in order to seize the thrown for himself. Cinematographer Gilbert Warrenton takes advantage of the Technicolor format and the earthy browns and reds inherent in the costumes, plus none other than Jack Pierce does the makeup effects, serving as the second to last film that he ever worked on before his death six years later. Damon's Beast is no Lon Chaney Jr.'s Wolfman, and he gets little screen time as the same version of his Count protagonist, with no personality change and just a big burly hairdo and a dog face in place of his normal dashing leading man looks. Director Edward L. Cahn was well-versed in B-movie magic, (or a lack-thereof), but he does adequate if forgettable work here considering the mild approach to such a famed story.
(1968)
Dir - William Rostler
Overall: WOOF
Z-grade sexploitation of the dated variety, Mantis in Lace, (Lila), would serve as a cautionary tale against the potential dangers of LSD usage if not for how pathetically realized the final product is. Shot in dingy strip clubs and a seemingly abandoned warehouse, characters say things like "What's your bag?", "That's where it's at baby", and ask each other what turns them on, and once the title stripper partakes of some mind-melting acid with a douchebag who looks like either of the Festrunk brothers, she proceeds to fall in love with the drug, sending her into murderous rampages. The script by Sanford White fleshes out nothing, so anyone looking for an interesting foray into the psychology of heavy drug use, the erotic dancer industry, or seedy town violence will be persistently disappointed. For viewers who want to watch comatose-inducing stripteases though, sleaze-peddler William Rostler delivers the "goods" as boringly as any other no budget nudie flick from the time period would. Two different cuts of the film exist, (one that emphasizes violence over naked boobs and visa versa), but in either instance, there can be no disguising the lack of production values, plot construction, or acting abilities, let alone erasing the dirty feeling that any audience member will have after sitting through it.
(1969)
Dir - Jack Smight
Overall: MEH
A conglomerate of three Ray Bradbury stories from his 1951 collection of the same name, The Illustrated Man is an ambitious yet confused film that weaves together vague science fiction ideas, art house aesthetics, and thriller motifs. Though it follows a linear path in the sense that one story is handled at a time, the wraparound narrative keeps clumsily interjecting with Bradbury's "The Veldt", "The Long Rain", and "The Last Night of the World", throwing the viewer off as we need to persistently regain our footing. Rod Steiger has been accused of gnawing the scenery once or twice in his long career, and this is as good of an example as any where he takes on different accents, flies off at the handle, and gets plenty of tasty monologues in his quest to make his character's various incarnations intimidating. Claire Bloom and Robert Drivas are given the thankless task of trying to hold their own against Steiger's mannerisms, but in Steiger's defense, his character(s) is written in a manner that keeps him aloof from the audience at all times. The same can be said about the entire movie in general, which becomes so mangled with style, intense performances, and unfocused narratives as to never land on any decipherable agenda. It is impressive from a production standpoint, (70s sci-fi fans will delight in some of the futuristic set dressing, and Steiger's "don't ever call them tattoos" skin illustrations are well done), but the film regularly proves that it simply does not know what it is doing.
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