He's A Maniac, Maniac!

He's A Maniac, Maniac!

DRIVE-IN SATURDAY

by

Edouard Dauphin

Some call it a lush life—this film critic’s existence brimming with glamorous world premieres, luxurious private screenings (Sat next to Rex Reed once at The Long Riders—he dozed off even before I did) and exclusive cocktail parties at the Hotel Carlton while the Mediterranean ripples in the sun and starlets parade in Puris naturalibus along the beach. (Missed Edy Williams topless one time by less than cinq minutes.)

But then there is reality in the form of a shrieking alarm clock summoning The Dauph to a 10:30 a.m. screening clear on the other side of Manhattan in what looks to be a hailstorm and is this flick soon to be unspooled an undiscovered masterpiece or even a much touted extravaganza? His eyes mere slits, Edouard examines the press invite. He is to trudge out into the downpour to view something called Metalstorm: The Destruction Of Jared-Syn. In 3-D, for God’s sake. Lush life indeed—better pack a thermos of kamikazes.

Some interest was stirred by the director’s credit: Charles Band did give us the 3-D Parasite, a nasty little shocker of a year or so ago. But ten minutes into Metalstorm, it is clear that this latest effort is technically inferior. While Parasite suffered from mid-range defects in the 3-D process, Metalstorm is just a blurry eyesore that doesn’t even have a brutalized Cherie Currie to redeem it. Instead, we get a tortured Saturday morning cartoon come to life that looks like it was filmed out back of Gerry Ford’s house in Palm Springs with a cast garbed in old Gene Simmons cast-offs. Talk about a watered down Star Wars. Metalstorm is a watered-down Yor, The Hunter From The Future.

A quick note about the 3-D glasses. They’re of the cheapest cardboard and boast Left and Right eye labels. Then, in case we’re still confused, there’s another label that advises: “This Side Toward Screen.” Sure, but only if you want to see the movie. Added note: didn’t see Rex at this screening—guess he was still at home snoozing.

“Sex... Drugs... Psychos.

25 years before Norman Bates hacked his first victim!

30 years before Andy Warhol exposed the Chelsea Girls!

40 years before the Divine first tasted dog doo-doo!

One motion picture dared to break all the taboos.”

—ad for Dwain Esper’s Maniac.

Pretty impressive chronology to which one might only add: 48 years before Rick Johnson first combined Pop-Tarts with Miracle Whip!

Maniac (not to be confused with the inept slasher movie of a few years back) is the latest flick of yesteryear bidding to become a cult favorite a la Freaks or Reefer Madness. It is already attracting a devoted following via midnight showings at Greenwich Village’s trendy Waverly Theatre, which is where The Dauph caught up with it one recent evening. Take my word for it—even by my oddball standards, this is a truly strange film. And possibly the first anti-cat movie ever made.

First let’s talk about Dwain Esper. Now, a man who can’t spell his own first name correctly has to be a little weird for starters. But Esper also distinguished himself by putting together one of the most truly bizarre bodies of work in cinema history. Among the films he directed are Marihuana, Weed With Roots In Hell (that old spelling problem again!), How To Undress In Front Of Your Husband, Modern Motherhood and Hitler’s Love Life. With credits like those, can a Dwain Esper Film Festival be on the horizon? Sure hope so.

But in the meantime, we have Maniac, a hilarious, off the wall schlock masterpiece that looks like it cost maybe five grand and features actors who are either drunk or on Seconals. Making matters even funnier, there are supposedly informative title cards, written by someone from the “Chicago Institute Of Research And Diagnosis” giving the audience definitions of Paresis, Paranoic, Dementia Praecox—all of the ailments The Dauph has suffered from for years.

The plot—what, there is of it— concerns a mad scientist (What else? This is 1934, folks) who is murdered by his insane assistant—the Maniac of the title—who then assumes his identity, complete with fake whiskers and ludicrous Russian accent. He takes over his patients too, including a nutcase who believes he is the orangutan murderer from Poe’s “Murders In The Rue Morgue” and a pretty narcoleptic believed to be dead and actually lying on the slab in the morgue before being revived. He feeds the apeman something called super-adrenaline (love to get my hands on some of that!) which, of course, freaks him out entirely in one of the movie’s most outlandish scenes. The zombie girl he simply attacks (The flick was titled Sex Maniac when it was first marketed.) and then plays Doctor with in some very coy nude scenes—pretty steamy stuff for the Depression ’30s.

Then there’s the matter of the cats. Well, for one thing, felines are associated totally with Satan in this movie. When the maniac disposes of his first victim by walling him up in the basement (more shades of Poe), he tosses a cat behind the bricks just for laughs. There’s also an infamous scene which will surely become a classic in which he gouges out a cat’s eyeball and drops it delicately into his mouth. Chewing it thoughtfully, he then remarks : “Why, it’s not unlike an oyster or a grape.” Dauph’s cat, Harry, is already picketing this movie.

Hope Maniac gets out to where you are. If not, go to where it is. It’s preposterous exploitation—and you might even learn something about crazy people. f||?