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?

Sole Survivor (1983)

Sole Survivor does more than an adequate job of conveying a sense of loneliness throughout the opening sequence. The montage of empty streets, traffic lights winking red and green, and desolate window displays is quietly unsettling and puts the viewer in the proper mindset for what is essentially a quiet picture, punctuated by moments of terror. Denise Watson (Anita Skinner, who is really good at looking seductively to the side and has a nice Gaylen Ross-like quality about her) finds herself unscathed after her airplane goes down, taking everybody else on board along with it. What seems to be an incredible stroke of luck turns soon into a nightmare. It seems that she has been overlooked on Death’s laundry list, and that he’s sending his minions, in the form of the newly-dead, out to get her. (Comparisons to the much-later-in-arriving Final Destination are inevitable--a similarity that the manufacturers of the DVD are quick to point out on the box art.)

"At least now I won't have to fight for these armrests."

Overall, I must say that I was impressed with the film. The dialogue, especially that coming out of the mouth of Denise, is strong. She is an assertive woman, quick-witted, and--once she has brushed off the dust of the plane crash--doesn’t hesitate to ask out her dreamboat of a doctor (played by Brian Richardson). There is a seeming lack of introspection on her part; she is quick to get back to work, producing coffee commercials reminiscent of the Taster’s Choice variety so prominent in the early 80’s.

"You're going to feel a little prick."
"Doctor, I hardly know you."

"Taster's Choice? You're soaking in it."

Cast in the lead of Denise’s java ads is Carla Davis (Caren L. Larkey). Carla is an aging fading beach movie starlet who no one takes seriously. Complicating matters, Carla has psychic powers--she understands Denise’s predicament perhaps better than anyone else, and is roundly met with resistance. When dead people start showing up and try to shuffle Denise off of the old mortal coil, Denise is at first unwilling to heed Carla’s warning--she is written off as a former prima donna unable to cope with her waning stardom. But the dead keep coming nevertheless, and when the full import of Carla’s warning finally dawns on Denise, it is too late.

Seriously, I should be flogged for even considering using "I see dead people" as a caption.

"Seven days! Oh, sorry, wrong number . . . "

Sole Survivor is not a perfect film. The dialogue that I found so fresh in the beginning deteriorates after a half an hour or so--as if the screenwriter ran out of steam and lost some control over his craft. There are some 80s movie cliches as well: A round of strip poker (this would be an interesting study, Strip Poker in Horror Movies and Sex Comedies of the 1980s. The 70s were all about streaking, but the 80s belong to strip poker) and Denise’s over-sexed party-girl neighbor and her new-age valley girl sidekick (who probably thinks Denise’s problems have something to do with bad vibes) detract from the tone of quiet menace that pervades Sole Survivor. It’s obvious these secondary characters are included to up the body count (and perhaps to tack on some minutes to the running time,) but part of me wishes it had been handled differently. Denise and her neighbor seem an unlikely pair. Denise is a career woman and Kristy (Robin Davidson) is far younger and preoccupied with teenage things--which, like a guilty daughter, she tries to keep hidden from Denise. I wondered what in their relationship kept them together . . . But perhaps I’ve just answered my own question in that these people are driven together by loneliness, that they are all marking time until death.

"Don't mind Randy. He's always horny."

Valley Girls outshone by a sweet-ass clock.

Who knows what you'll find in McGelligot's Pool!

The scares in the movie are few but nicely handled. My favorite comes early, in the form of a slow, silent tracking shot through the wreckage of the airplane. Bodies are strewn about, Denise sits unscathed in her seat, plane parts and fires punctuate the landscape. The camera lingers on a man torn in half. As the dead man inexplicably opens his eyes and alarm clock rings loudly and we see that we have been in the dreaming mind of psychic Carla Davis. It’s no cheap smash-cut, but a slow atmospheric build, a combination of sound (or lack thereof) and pictures, that builds to the unexpected. And I for one will take that any day.

The Gallery of Creepy-Ass Mannequins

All in all, I’ll chalk this one up as a success. The film was shot for little money with a cast of virtual unknowns--it is quite obviously a labor of love rather than a product of the studio system. I’m no judge of acting, but I found that most of the cast turned in pretty decent performances (with the obvious exception of the morgue man). I was sad to see Denise go. She was a perfect example of death denial, so ready to jump back into her life after the mother of all wake-up calls. Perhaps the best that we can do is form whatever relationships we can and hope to press on. To push away the idea that the end is near is all that we can do if we want to lead a happy, productive life. And if you ever have a near-miss, be sure to watch your back for a while, just to make sure that the bullet you dodged really didn’t have your name on it. Then you can get back to selling that coffee.