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Color Me Blood RedDirector: Hershell Gordon Lewis Rating: R 79 minutes (feature only) Siren OK, Hershell G Lewis, you and I need to have a little talk. For years I've been reading about you and your gore-filled low-budget horror films, from breathless hagiographies in 'Incredibly Strange Films' to outraged condemnation from US film critic/moral crusader Michael Medved. From everything I read I naturally expected your movies to drip with steaming viscera as herds of untamed madmen stormed across the screen decapitating everything in their wake. Hence I sat down with 'Blood Feast' (from your so-called 'Blood Trilogy') a few weeks back, ready to have everything I knew about horror washed away in a tidal wave of carnage, only to be confronted by a slightly silly film about Egyptian death goddesses; but I'm a patient man, Lewis, so I was prepared to explain away some of this disparity as being a natural result of the change in shockability between the innocent drive-in goers of the 50s and the jaded horror fans of the sinful 21st century. However, now I've watched 'Color Me Blood Red' and you know what? It's arse. I've left scarier films in the sink after a shave. I'm not even going to dwell on the huge flaw in the film's central premise of a demented artist that murders young girls to paint in the rich, red pigment of their blood (thank you acclaimed South Australian artist Arran Stierman, who once explained to me that blood actually dries brown on canvas), but when the cover declares that this DVD case contains some of the most jaw-droppingly horrific atrocities ever committed to film, I naturally expect a certain amount of, you know, horror. The plot goes something like this: an ever-so-edgy artist Adam Sorg (Gordon Oas-Hoam, credited here as Don Joseph) makes dreadful, dreadful paintings. He complains that no-one buys them, although there's an entire gallery dedicated to his work run by Sorg's exclusive art dealer Farnsworth (Scott H Hall). Sorg's nemesis is dandified art critic Gregorovich (Bill Harris, flouncing around with critics-issue scarf and cigarette holder) who declares that Sorg's colour sense is lacking. Sorg then discovers that by covering his hideous paintings with blood they become exciting and new, if no less hideous, but also that he can't possibly complete an entire canvas without passing out. Enter Gigi (Elyn Warner), Sorg's hipster chick girlfriend and convenient source of blood. His resultant painting is a hit, but can he follow it up? Take a guess. The acting, cinematography, framing, sound and so on are poor-to-incompetent, but that's to be expected in films of this genre. What irks me is the film's lack of anything scarier than Sorg's stubbly moustache, which possesses the eerie power to mysteriously appear and vanish at will. I mean, really: for a demented murderer Sorg's pretty damn soft on the killing front, dispatching a pitiful three victims. Three. If this was real life he'd be a inhuman monster, but by low-budget horror film madman standards that's barely trying. Alright Lewis, I'll accept that there's one scene that's pretty gory, and the dŽnouement could have been a suspenseful climax in the event that a) it had been filmed competently, and b) the viewer had the slightest bit of sympathy for the hateful young people who were (briefly) fighting for their very lives (sure, let the twitchy madman tie you up honey, it'll relax your arms). I'll complete your famed 'Blood Trilogy' with '2,000 Maniacs', but I'm not expecting much.  |
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