Once upon a time, the idea of a film being silent, foreign and — steee-rike three! — black and white equated to box-office poison. Then 2011’s The Artist won five Academy Awards, including Best Picture; earned $133 million worldwide; and lived happily ever after.
To paraphrase a character late in The Black Waters of Echo's Pond, anything to get off this movie. From the start, director Gabriel Bologna (The Asylum's 30,000 Leagues Under the Sea) has no real hold on the material; what little there is gets so far away from his grasp that his last name proves accidentally apt.
Ah, the early days of video stores. Most every city, burg and/or township had that one glorious store with one copy of everything. OKC had Kaleidoscope Video Stores; Mid-Del had Bob’s Video; and in the dark regions of Bob’s Video sat the “adult” movies which were basically comprised of Paul Morrissey’s Flesh For Frankenstein and Blood For Dracula and Ralph Bakshi’s two X-rated cartoons, Fritz the Cat and Heavy Traffic. Oh, how I wanted to see all these movies! Of course, as an eleven-year-old, I never had the gumption to try to rent any of them out of fear I would be ejected from the store and banned for life.
I've seen many a zombie movie — too many, one could argue successfully — but 1966's The Frozen Dead must be the first in which a member of the undead was so concerned with hair care, Carly Simon probably wrote a song about him. As the pic's mad scientist introduces him, “This one is harmless. He combs his hair continuously, like a vain adolescent.”