Black Roses (1988)

This just in! Rock 'n' Roll Horror reviews continue with Black Roses.

Black Roses begins in medias res--in medias res of one of the lamest rock concerts ever committed to film, featuring a coterie of wailing demons with guitars and microphones delivering a bass-drum-thumpin’ rendition of the Black Roses megahit, “Me Against the World” as a throng of musical-appreciatingly-challenged fans go ape-poopy. How did the world devolve into such a state in which demons are an acceptable form of entertainment? More puzzlingly, how did music of this foul stripe ever become popular outside the realm of fiction? Now that your brain is sufficiently tickled, the filmmakers rewind the narrative, to the Lamborghini-powered arrival of the Black Roses to the blink-and-you-miss-it Podunk shithole town of Mill Basin.

"Tie a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree . . . "

What does Black Roses have going for it that Hard Rock Zombies doesn’t? Well, let’s take a look at the featured bands. The Black Roses are better than the band in Hard Rock Zombies for two reasons: 1) The Black Roses went through the trouble of naming their band. 2) They are slightly better musicians. In fact, I can easily imagine Black Roses being played on the radio alongside acts such as Poison and Motley Crue--that is to say that they blow muledick.

"Check out my hairy pits!"

As far as story is concerned, Black Roses is more coherent, although there is a great deal of fuzziness in terms of the intent of the band. They seem intent on evil, sure, by I for one wanted to know a bit more (well, actually I wanted to know quite a bit less, but that would hardly have suited the purpose of this review). It goes a little something like this: The Black Roses bring their leather-clad brand of mayhem to Mill Basin and the parents get their panties in a bunch over their corrupting influence. A meeting is held to try and stop the rock, and it seems as if the concert is going to be called off. The voice of reason comes not in the form of Jello Biafra, but the Mayor of Mill Basin, who reminds the lynch-mob-in-the-making that all rock and roll is rebellious and that the teens of Mill Basin are not being exposed to anything other than an updated version of Chuck Berry or Buddy Holly (which is true, if the word “updated” means “infused with vast amounts of suck”).

The International Symbol for B.J.

Caught in the middle of this generational battle is Mr. Moorhouse (John Martin), a man of such hunky proportions that he could easily replace Brawny on a roll of paper towels and consumers would nary bat an eye. He’s also a veritable wunderkind with his students--he’s the cool teacher that isn’t afraid to toss around terms like “bass-ackwards.” He is universally loved by his students because he isn’t afraid to “talk turkey.” Every joke he cracks is met with a chorus of laughter in which every single student is a participant. He is heavy into writers such as Whitman and Emerson and, while his lessons start out with a seemingly valid premise, they quickly detach themselves from the flat earth upon which they were founded and float away into an ether of nonsense and detours (one can imagine Mr. Moorhouse as being of the type of teacher whose lesson plans were easily derailed by students who posed questions designed to lead him away from the curriculum).

How could I possibly detract from this man's beauty with a caption?

While it is doubtless that Mr. Moorhouse cares deeply about his students, I’m not entirely sure that he’s much of a teacher. Student Johnny Pratt (Frank Deitz) is bursting with an incredible amount of youthful angst and exuberance for a twenty-eight year old--this is perhaps exacerbated by the questionable relationship between Moorhouse and Johnny’s love interest, Julie Windham (Karen Planden). In a scene strangely reminiscent of West Side Story, Johnny hangs off of lampposts and pours his heart out to Julie, jibing her for her crush on their dreamy hunkboat of a teacher. Johnny proclaims that the best way to deal with the nebulous swarm of emotions churning within his heart is to “paint the town red.” He then steals a can of red house paint and begins to apply it to the middle of the street. Now, either Johnny was sick the week that Mr. Moorhouse gave his lesson on metaphor or Mr. Moorhouse just plum forgot to teach it. At any rate, Johnny has shown himself to be the perfect candidate for hard-rock fandom.

"I'm sorry but I'm incapable of abstract thought. Hand me the brush, will you?"

The youth of the town get their way and the Black Roses are permitted to perform. The local chapter of the PMRC shows up to monitor things and Damien (Sal Viviano--I know, Damien, right? What an original name for a dude that turns out to be evil!) looking like an incredibly wholesome rocker who matches milk consumption and hairspray application ounce-for-ounce, takes the stage and says something terribly innocent such as, “I’d like to sing you all a little song about my hometown.” The axeman begins an arpeggio through a heavy chorus effect, and the schmaltz begins. Satisfied that the Black Roses are nothing more than a bunch of cuddly hairdos in blousy shirts, parents, teachers, and all other authority figures leave THIRTY SECONDS INTO THE FIRST SONG. This proves to be a bad idea because the band breaks into “Rock Invasion,” and “Rock Invasion” is a much better song, because it casts some sort of wacky spell on the teenagers in the audience.

"And now I'd like to kick off the set with an entirely non-demon-related song."

From what I could gather, this spell does a few things. It makes unattractive, middle-aged men desirable in the eyes of teenage rock fans (and, yes, chalk this one up as another movie featuring a game of strip poker). It also causes teenagers to become all gross looking and murderous. Most frighteningly, it causes teenagers to become fans of the Black Roses.

I just can't decide who's prettier . . .

The rest of the movie features Mr. Moorhouse locked in an epic struggle between good and evil, hoping to rescue the souls of his students. Some highlights: Vincent Pastore (of Sopranos fame) plays some dude’s father and delivers what I have got to believe is his first onscreen “va fangul.” Julie, fed up with Moorhouse’s lecture on Whitman delivers this little gem: “Why do we have to study all of these dead writers? I mean there’s a poet alive today that writes rings around them: Damien.” (For some reason, the idea of song lyrics presented as a form of poetry has always made me cringe. Certainly there are good song lyrics to be found--certainly not from the Black Roses--but when you strip the melody away, they almost never could stand on their own as something you’d want to read). There is a conversation between Damien (Sal Viviano) and Moorhouse in which Damien says, “I’ve known your soul for a long time.” Are these mortal enemies or is Damien trying to get Moorhouse into the sack? Perhaps my favorite scene takes place between Mr. Moorhouse and his girlfriend Priscilla. He shows up at her house and, without provocation, she immediately lights into him for his love of his students and for doing nothing more with his life than being a high school English teacher. Naturally, an argument ensues and Mr. Moorhouse delivers this parting shot: “I’m going home.” (Turns away, pauses, turns back to Priscilla) “Or maybe to a bar. Yeah. Whichever I pass first.”

A demon with a taste for Pussy.

Why do I love this scene so much? Part of the reason is undoubtedly because Mr. Moorhouse, the Mozart-listening, poetry-appreciating, renaissance man, seems to be far too chill to ever allow himself to become tethered to such a harpy as Priscilla. Finally we are allowed to see the fallible, human side of Mr. Matt Moorhouse.

"Hey, Moorhouse. Tom Selleck called. He wants his aesthetic back."

Even as the action of Black Roses picks up, I found myself becoming bored. The exposed puppet rods and corny costumes could not hold my interest. Mr. Moorhouse is the best thing that this movie has going for it. The horror elements (as weak as they are) could be stripped away entirely and this movie could instead be a character study of Matt Moorhouse, a denim and flannel kind of guy with a big comfy mustache, a man who indeed could achieve greatness in the larger arenas of life, but who is content to teach his class in Mill Basin, his little chunk of paradise. For Matt Moorhouse, it’s all about the kids.

Are

you

serious?

Dead Silence

Much like some people are such complete assholes that it’s difficult to picture them as babies or toddlers, coddled by adoring parents, it’s hard to imagine Dead Silence in any form that would make anyone want to get behind it, financially or otherwise. Try as I might, I can’t envision some supportive roommate, agent, whoever, looking at a draft of the screenplay, then calling the writer up to say, “This movie about the ghostly ventriloquist? I really think you’ve got something here.”

Dead Silence opens with a young married couple, Jamie and Lisa Ashen, spending a quiet evening at home. We know immediately that they are doomed because it is apparent from the first frame that they are sublimely happy. Lisa giggles, talks in cute little voices, and wears a manic grin right up to the minute the camera zooms into her screaming throat. Everything is super great until a knock at the door alerts them to the delivery of a surprise package. It’s a ventriloquist’s dummy, perfectly preserved in a velvet-lined box. “Oh my God, that reminds me of that poem from when we were kids,” Lisa says. “Beware the stare of Mary Shaw . . .” but she can’t remember the rest. As we find out later, the poem in question is:

Beware the stare of Mary Shaw
She has no children, only dolls
And if you see her in your dreams
Be sure you never, ever scream

Ok, so it sounds silly now, but if I had heard that as a child and was told that Mary Shaw lived in my town and would come to me in my dreams and cut out my tongue, I sure as hell would remember the entire poem well into my adulthood. But Lisa can’t remember the rest of it and isn’t bothered by the dummy’s sudden appearance, so she sends Jamie out for some takeout and stays at home alone.

Beware the stare of . . . Oh, shit . . . Something about killer dolls . . . Ah, fuck it. Let's get some takeout.

Jamie returns, carrying a red rose he plans to give his perfect wife to celebrate their eternal happiness, only to do a Risky-Business-style slide across the hardwood floor on a pool of fresh blood. Lisa, propped up on their bed with her tongue ripped out, was brutally murdered, and Jamie knows that Billy, the dummy, had something to do with it.

After being taken into police custody, Jamie is interrogated by a wise-cracking cop, the film’s attempt at comic relief, played by Donnie Wahlberg, formerly of New Kids on the Block. Naturally, Donnie blames Jamie for Lisa’s death. In undoubtedly my favorite line of the film, Jamie earnestly explains to the cop, “Where I come from, a ventriloquist’s dummy is a bad omen.” As if a dummy, like a black cat or a cracked mirror, is one of those irritating things you might come across at any moment, and whose mysterious appearance outside your door would cause you to mutter, “Oh, for Christ’s sake. What next?”, not to shriek “What the fuck?!” and start kicking the thing down the hallway and away from you as hard as you can.

A killer dummy at the door? Oh, Christ. Today of all days!

Upon his release from custody, Jamie returns to his apartment to get Billy and the two embark on a road trip in a glossy red Mustang convertible. It is beyond me why Jamie would drive a convertible. He exists in a world of gloom, perpetually bathed in the gray-green light that has been so popular since “The Ring” came out. Jamie and Billy drive out to Ravens Fair (creepy enough for you?), where Jamie was born and raised, and get a motel room. It isn’t clear why Jamie has brought Billy along for the ride, considering that he believes the doll is responsible for his wife’s death, but I don’t think he has anything to worry about. From the way Billy keeps shyly stealing glances at Jamie from the passenger seat and awkwardly sidling up to his bed at the motel room, it appears that Billy has a plan for Jamie, one that might very well involve tongues but definitely does not include murder.

Dead silence turns to awkward silence during the drive to the motel.

From there, they visit Jamie’s father and new stepmother. His father, always a neglectful asshole, has suffered a stroke and is now confined to a wheelchair but has become a genuine, loving person. Ah, the healing powers of a debilitating stroke. Jamie also visits with the local mortician, with whom he seems to be on a first-name basis, to hash out the details of Lisa’s funeral.

Jamie is shocked to learn that an open-necked shirt is not appropriate funeral attire.

Through hushed conversation with his father and the mortician, Jamie discovers that according to Ravens Fair lore, in the 1940s a ventriloquist named Mary Shaw ran the local theatre. She was a beloved figure until a small boy mouthed off to her during a performance. The boy disappeared, Mary was blamed, and the townies dragged her into the woods, forced her to scream, and ripped out her tongue. Now she gets her revenge by cutting people’s tongues out and stealing their voices. Oh, and she had 101 hand-made dolls that were all buried alongside her in miniature coffins. She also wanted to be turned into a doll when she died. Though the locals were sufficiently enraged to murder and mutilate Mary Shaw, they apparently cooled down long enough to follow each bizarre edict of her will.

There's something about Mary. Maybe it's her wicked awesome tongue.

Once Jamie determines that Mary Shaw is behind Lisa’s murder, he heads out to her former home, an old Victorian theater situated on Lost Lake (with a prime location like that, who would have thought things would go so very wrong?). Lucky for him, there is a Convenient Rowboat waiting to take him across the lake to the rotting old theater, and a Convenient Oil Lamp to light his way. Mary’s possessions, though covered with dust and cobwebs, are still perfectly preserved. A quick flip through her scrapbook reveals that the young boy Mary Shaw murdered was none other than Michael Ashen, Jamie’s great-uncle.

Yes, it’s true. Jamie’s father explains that the people who killed Mary were Jamie’s ancestors, and that after the murder, they were all found with their tongues cut out. This is a family curse, one that would affect not only the killers, but “their children, and their children’s children.” He fails to explain if the curse affected their children’s children’s children, or how Jamie and his father came to be if all of the Ashens were killed by Mary Shaw. I think I know the answer to that first question, but even after two viewings I’m not really clear on the second one.

Ryan Kwanten, who plays Jamie, is cute and adorable but, it must be said, wears basically the same facial expression all the time. Killer dummy, family curse – it’s all the same to him. In any other movie, I would chalk that up to poor acting, but I have to tip my hat to anyone who can keep a straight face through this kind of material. He does it through more or less the entire film, and should receive some sort of award – maybe not for acting talent, but for perseverance and triumph over adversity.

Jamie is devastated to learn that his entire family is doomed.

Once the family curse is revealed, things move along pretty quickly. Jamie buries the doll, someone digs it back up, there’s a fire, a bunch of empty coffins, a clown in a wheelchair who sticks his tongue in Jamie’s ear, and a bunch of other scary shit too. Most importantly, though, there’s a shocking finale, and it’s worth sticking around for. Forget suspension of disbelief – this one requires suspension of all rational thought. It did make me feel a little bad for Jamie. The guy can’t catch a break. But something tells me he’ll take it all in stride.

Hey Donnie Wahlberg, not hanging quite so tough anymore, are you? Douche bag.

Most horror films by nature are illogical. Whether through the storyline, relatable characters, even the setting, the successful ones satisfy a viewer’s need for plausibility with at least minimal grounding in reality. At the very least, a decent scary movie is so unsettling that you aren’t motivated to weigh the logistics of every scene. Dead Silence meets none of these criteria. It’s not scary, and it makes no fucking sense. For one thing, this is supposed to be a family curse, directed very specifically at the Ashen family. But Mary Shaw takes out whoever she feels like, including the mortician, who poses no threat to anyone. She has a right to be pissed off, I suppose, but can't she take revenge within the parameters of her own unreality?

Dead Silence is a nasty-ass casserole of scary movie leftovers, but it still gets my highest recommendation. Ok, it’s not scary, but you’ll be up all night anyway. You’ll be lying in bed thinking, Wait a second, why are all the businesses in Raven’s Fair closing now? Didn’t all that shit take place in 1941? Or, Why does Jamie’s father have his ex-wives painted out of the family portraits? Why doesn’t he just take the paintings off the wall? Or, Does human flesh really take seventy years to decompose? Or, If Jamie is such a loving husband, why did he bury his wife in the world’s creepiest cemetery? You get the idea. Throw down seven dollars for any other movie, and it might leave your consciousness the minute it’s over. Spend a couple bucks on Dead Silence and it will stick with you for days. You’ll definitely get your money’s worth.