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Scary Monsters Magazine




JULY 2018

Posted July 10, 2018

The Chimes of Doom

By Irwin Shapiro

Charles Hanover didn’t understand the real power of the clock.

Back and forth, back and forth, Charles Hanover paced the broad landing on the upper floor of the old mansion. His glance kept shifting from the closed door of his Aunt Agatha’s room to the huge, ornately carved grandfather clock that was solemnly ticking in the corner. Back and forth, tick-tock, back and forth....

"Mr. Hanover, sir?" Mrs. Swanson, the housekeeper, had come up the stairs, and now she looked questioningly at him from the gloom of the deep stairwell. "How is she, sir?"

Before he could answer, Dr. Brooks came out of his aunt’s room. He placed a gentle hand on Charles" shoulder.

"It’s over, Charles. She never came out of the coma. Strange that she took a turn like that! I had thought, with proper care, she would go on for years. Still, one never knows with these cases.... After all, she was past 70."

"Of course, doctor. I’m sure you did everything you could."

Suddenly, with a harsh grating of gears, the chimes of the clock pealed out midnight. Charles whirled around with a cry of surprise. Loud, clangorous, the clock began to sound the hours: one, two, three....

"Stop!" Charles shouted above the chimes. "Stop it! Mrs. Swanson! Have this clock stopped! At once, do you hear?"

Breathing deeply, he regained control of himself. "I -- I’m sorry. I’m all on edge."

"We understand, my boy," the doctor said. "I’ll give you something to settle your nerves. Besides, it’s only fitting that the clock be stopped. Your Aunt Agatha set such great store by it."

After giving orders for the necessary arrangements, Charles retired to his room. How quiet the house was! As quiet as ... as death. For the first time since he had come here, and orphan boy of eight, the grandfather clock was still. He remembered Aunt Agatha speaking about it.

"You’re going to live with me now," she had said. "Your parents spoiled you. But they’re gone now; both of them. In this house you’ll do things my way. And don’t think you can deceive me! Have you seen that big grandfather clock upstairs? There are little men in it that ring the chimes. They’ll be watching you all the time, and if you do something naughty behind my back they’ll ring and ring and ring! So mind whatever I tell you!"

Charles had minded, afraid of the little men in the clock. Even later, when he grew up and was no longer afraid, he still minded. Aunt Agatha dominated him completely. She chose his schools and companions, ruled his actions, his very thoughts. He had wanted to be a chemist, but Aunt Agatha would not allow it. Why must he learn some vulgar profession? He was a gentleman, and gentlemen did not labor like everyone else.

Charles had not cared too much. Aunt Agatha paid his bills, bought him fine clothes, gave him ample pocket money. She could be kind -- when she had her own way.

But that was before he met Alice -- gay and pretty Alice, who thought he was the finest man on Earth. When he told Aunt Agatha he wanted to get married, she laughed her dry, hacking laugh.

"What?! You get married? And to a waitress, at that! Ridiculous, my dear boy!" 

"But Alice is different. She loves me! She...."

"Pah! Nonsense! She’s after the money you’ll come into some day, when I’m gone! No doubt you’ve mentioned that I hold the Hanover fortune in trust for you and that it will be yours on my death."

"Very well. I’ll leave! I’m 37 -- old enough to know my own mind! I’ll get a job!"

"Really, Charles? What can you do? You’ve no training, no ability, no experience. And how long would you last in a store or office? You’re used to luxury Charles. You’re soft and you’re weak. No, you’ll never leave me. And I want you with me. You’re all I have. We need each other, Charles. Now let’s say no more about it. I’m willing to forget it if you are."

Aunt Agatha had been right. He had not been able to bring himself to leave. But he had not forgotten. He had continued to meet Alice secretly from time to time. He had told her that they could not be married just yet. A few more months, perhaps a year, and he would be in position to marry.

And now Aunt Agatha was dead, and he was free. Free to be himself, to marry, to do anything he wanted! Free at last! 

Then he heard it again -- the chimes of the clock pealing out midnight. With a roar of rage he burst out of his room.

"Mrs. Swanson! Mrs. Swanson!" he called. "I told you to have that clock stopped!"

He was at the landing now, and Mrs. Swanson's voice came up the stairs:

"It was stopped, Mr. Hanover!"

"But I heard the chimes!"

"You ... you must be mistaken, sir! There hasn’t been a sound in the house!"

Charles stared at the clock. It was true -- the pendulum was stationary, the hands motionless, the gears and springs silent.

"Get me an axe -- or a hatchet!" he ordered.


"An axe! We must have one in the basement somewhere! Hurry!"

Charles remained there, staring at the clock until Mrs. Swanson handed him an axe. While she watched, horrified, he raised the axe above his head and brought it down on the clock. Methodically he destroyed the clock, smashing the case and the glass, shattering the gears and springs. He tossed the axe on the pile of wreckage and turned away, trembling, panting heavily.

"Have this ... this rubbish taken away. Immediately," he said, and returned to his room. Exhausted, he flung himself on his bed and fell into a deep sleep. How long he lay there he did not know, but when he awoke he heard the clock again. The room resounded with the ringing of the chimes. He pressed his hands against his ears, but he could not shut out the terrible sound.

He left the room, stumbled through the house, but there was no escape. He shut himself up in the library, tortured by the awful clangor of the chimes. Louder and louder, again and again, the chimes pealed through the night. It seemed to surround him, to fill the whole world, clanging, vibrating, echoing, peal after peal after peal. It hammered at his brain, crushing his senses.

Dawn was breaking when he lurched from the house. He got into his car and drove furiously to the funeral chapel. The chimes kept pace with him, ringing out in a mad torrent of sound.

"My aunt -- where is she?" he said to the amazed attendant.

"Right in here, Mr. Hanover. But...."

Charles pushed the man aside. He threw himself on his aunt’s coffin, clawing at it, beating on it with his fists.

"Aunt Agatha!" he shrieked. "Aunt Agatha! Come back! You’re the only one who can stop the chimes! Yes, I gave you an overdose of your sedative! I killed you! I had to do it! I had to be free of you! But the little men in the clock -- they saw me! They keep ringing the chimes -- ringing and ringing and ringing. Can’t you hear them? You’ve got to stop them! Please! Please! I’ll never leave you, Aunt Agatha, if you’ll stop them now!"

His head dropped, his body shaking with sobs as he lay across the coffin and clutched Aunt Agatha’s cold, lifeless hand.

He was still holding her hand when the police came for him. 

JUNE 2018

Posted June 17, 2018

Horror on the Hill

By John Martin

As they came out of the cottage, Jeff Crayton threw a wry glance at his companion.

“You’re foolish, Robb, to attempt a climb like that. Besides, think of it, man, you’ve been invited to my brother’s wedding. It’s hardly polite to….”

Down in the village, down the long, green slope, the tall white spire of the church trembled to the peal of bells. But Robb Martner didn’t hear them. He didn’t even seem to hear Jeff Clayton’s voice. Martner’s eyes stirred restlessly away from the small fishing town, ran darkly up the slope, and fixed on the steep granite cliff behind the town. It towered crazily out to sea and above its majestic, craggy peak, wild sea-birds wheeled and cawed. He had no eyes, no ears for the birds — only the gray, weathered cottage that hung on the peak’s edge like a witch’s hat.

“I’m sorry, Jeff, I can’t go,” said Martner finally. His voice had a dream-like quality to it suddenly. “It isn’t that I want to slight Henry and Amy. It … it’s just that I want to climb the cliff.” A forced note of humor entered his voice, “After all, I’m here in Buryport to relax, Jeff. That’s why I retired … came here. I think I’ll start by finding out what the inside of that cottage looks like. The view from the seaward side must be magnificent!”

“Have it your way,” Jeff said distastefully. “But if you’ll take my advice, you’ll leave Captain Martner strictly alone. As for the view, no one….” Jeff stopped abruptly as if he’d said too much.

“It is remarkable about the similarity in name, isn’t it?” Robb Martner said slowly. Now the high old house was mirrored in his eyes. “I suppose the Captain and I are related somewhere back along the line. Plenty of Martners used to live here in Buryport. Perhaps … perhaps the Captain and I can talk it over.”

Clayton looked at his friend helplessly. “Robb,” he said finally. “No one, as far as I know, as ever climbed that cliff … and come back.” No one except the Captain, anyway.”

“Nonsense,” Robb said. “It’s just a few thousand feet. The ascent isn’t overly steep. It just requires endurance, that’s all.”

“All right then, I’ll tell you,” Clayton said grimly. “And if you want to go up there when I’m finished, well ….” He paused then continued: “Only two men in the past 10 years have ever attempted scaling the cliff. And both of them made it. Only…,” Jeff’s voice cracked, “…both fell into the sea just where the ledge road turns the cliff edge.” He pointed….

Robb saw it — a thin ribbon of gouged rock winding up the face of the cliff.

“Bad nerves,” he said, but he couldn’t hide the sudden note of tension in his voice. Then he shook himself vigorously. “But I’m going anyway. I like the atmosphere of Buryport, Jeff. It’s wholesome, it’s clean, and it’s redolent of the sea. Often back in the city, I wished my parents had stayed here. I’d have liked to be a sailor, owned a schooner, and sailed the seas. After all, you have,” he pointed to a 30-foot single-master riding at anchor in the harbor. “That’s Captain Martner’s craft, isn’t it?”

Jeff shuddered. He nodded and got into the car. Robb started walking along the spine of the grassy rise that led to the cliff-side trail. At first, he was exhilarated by the sheer daring of the climb. Then, halfway up, he began tiring. The task was harder than it had seemed. And the gray house was nearer only with infinite slowness. At last he reached the spot from which Jeff said two others had fallen to their deaths. Idly he wondered why. The road — carved from the living rock of the cliff itself — was over a yard wide at that point. Of course it wasn’t entirely level — it tended to spill off toward the sea roaring a thousand feet below. With the wind whipping around him, Robb took a deep breath and rounded the curve.

He didn’t hear the rock splitting beneath him until he’d passed. Then the slow grumble reached his ears and he looked back, blanching. Behind him, a good six feet of the trail had disappeared.

“God, that was close!” he muttered, drawing back against the sheer rock wall. He didn’t hear the segment of trail hit the water, but he saw the splash, leaning dizzily forward. Then he looked up. Before him the trail was clear, and he couldn’t go back. Not now, anyway. The only way clear was to the top.

The trail grew steeper. About his head the wild sea-birds fluttered, shrieking their nameless cries. Looking up, he saw the sky suddenly overcast. A brisker wind sprang from the tossing, black waters. He just made the lip of the cliff in time. Another few minutes and the wind would have blown him over. Then the cottage squatted before him. He had to push against the wind across whipping tall grass to reach it. He fumbled with the ancient door latch. The door smashed back. An instant later, he stood within, in the semi-darkness of the beamed interior, lit only by the roaring flames of a fire. His eyes swept the room.

“Empty, by god!” he said. Then he gave a start as a figure stirred in the old captain’s chair by the fire. A thin chuckle oozed from the shadows.

“Not empty, Robb, not empty yet. I’m here.”

“The Captain!”

“Aye, Robb, the old Captain Martner!” The old man’s voice was like the dry rustle of wind over dead leaves. He didn’t stand up but waved Robb to another chair before the flames. “A hard climb it was, eh lad?”

Robb Martner sat down and stared. His eyes roved over the bony, emaciated figure, the narrow, pinched gray face, with its sparse gray beard, and then down at the thin brown hands. The Captain’s chair creaked, rocking slowly. Robb’s eyes came back to the Captain’s glittering eyes. He felt the strength drain from his limbs. Abruptly, the power of movement was gone. All he could do was speak.

“You know my name?” he croaked. “But how…?”

“I just knew it, Robb. I guess we’re related, you and me. And I’ve been expecting you, Robb, ever since you came to Buryport. A good move that was, Robb. Fortunate … for me.”

“For you?”

“I’m dying, Robb.” The withered old lips scarcely moved. The eyes glittered on, unwavering, fixed, and hypnotic. “Eh, Robb, the road fell beneath you?”

A cold chill crawled down Robb Martner’s back.

“How … how did you know that?” he asked. “You say you’re dying. We’ve never met. Yet, you know me by name — even know something you couldn’t have seen!”

“I know, Robb. I know. That’s all”

“I’ve got to be getting back!”

“You won’t be leaving, lad,” the Captain said dryly. “Not until after I’m dead, at least. And even then you might want to stay awhile and think — for you’ll have a job to do by then.”

“You … you mean to keep me here? Kill me like … like….”

“I didn’t kill the other two who climbed here, Robb. They murdered themselves. Or, rather, a yarn of mine did. Once they’d heard it, the agony of life it told made them take their own. But you’re stronger stuff, Robb. You can hear that tale and live.” There was a ghostly chuckle. “You’re a Martner, Robb!”

“What tale?” Robb asked with a thrill of horror.

The withered old mouth parted in a hideous grin.

“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Robb. It is a tale we Martners must tell — forever.”

Mariner … Martner! Robb’s blood froze. He tried to rise, to break the paralysis in which the old man’s eyes held him, but he fell back, helpless. The ancient lips writhed and the tale began:

It is an ancient mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three:

“By thy long, gray beard and glittering eye,

Now wherefore stoppst thou me?

The bridegroom’s doors are opened wide,

And I am next of kin;

The guests are met, the feast is set;

Mayst hear the merry din….”

He listened, thinking of Hank Clayton’s wedding. He’d never be a guest now. He was doomed to listen to the Ancient Mariner. Doomed to take his place when the tale was done and Captain Martner died ... doomed, perhaps, to sail the seas until….

The Captain paused, the glitter in his eyes fading.

“Aye, Robb, I know what you’re thinking. You’ve guessed your mission, lad!” He cackled in his high-pitched voice. “But you always wanted to be a seaman, didn’t you, Robb?” There was a dry, deathly chuckle. “You’ll have plenty of time now, Robb. You’ll have my house, my boat to sail in and tell your tale wherever you go, whenever the agony comes on you lad … for it comes, it comes, Robb, and it never bates until the story’s told! Now sleep, sleep, for when you wake, I’ll be dead and you will be the Ancient Mariner!”

Robb tried desperately to keep his eyes from closing, but they dropped, slowly, like coffin lids. Through the lulling waves of oncoming sleep he heard the captain’s cracked voice take up the tale again, fade slowly on the last stanza of the famous poem:

He went like one that hath been stunned

And is a sense forlorn;

A sadder and a wiser man

He rose the morrow morn.

MAY 2018

Posted May 25, 2018

Looking Back at Scary Monsters #100

This is page 141 from Scary Monsters #100; the last issue produced by former publisher Dennis Druktenis. Issue #100 has been sold out for quite some time. Award-winning MeTV horror host Svengoolie shared some of his Sven-toons and photos of him reading the Only Real Monster Magazine!

APRIL 2018

Posted April. 8, 2018

Movie Monsters from Mammoth to Miniature: Part 2

By Don Smeraldi

In Part 1 (article below this one), we examined a few of the more memorable 1950s B-movies showcasing the plight of everyday people transformed into mammoth monsters after exposure to radiation — the vintage sci-fi equivalent of Miracle-Gro. But creative filmmakers didn’t limit themselves to giant-inspired screams on the silver screen. Sometimes they explored through monster movie magic what happens when people are either accidentally or intentionally made much smaller in size, making their otherwise normal surroundings horrifically gigantic.

One early Technicolor tale of tortured tininess was DR. CYCLOPS (Paramount, 1940), directed by Ernest B. Schoedsack, who was co-creator of KING KONG. The title character, played with migraine-addled madness by Albert Dekker, is Dr. Alexander Thorkel, a world-renowned biologist who is conducting experiments with a natural source of radium he discovered in the South American jungle.

In the film’s opening sequence, Thorkel and a whimpering colleague, Dr. Mendoza, disagree over the morality of the experiments being conducted in secret. “You do not realize what we have here,” says Thorkel, reverently. “In our very hands, we have the cosmic force of creation itself. In our very hands, we can shape life, take it apart, put it together again, mold it like putty.”

"But what you are doing is mad,” pleads Mendoza, who steps between Thorkel and his equipment. “It is diabolic! You are tampering with powers reserved to God.” Like so many madmen given a taste of life-giving power, Thorkel would not be stopped. He kills Mendoza, and for reasons revealed later, summons three other scientists to make the long trip from the U.S. to join him at his jungle lab.    

Hello, You Must be Going

The threesome adds another traveler along the way and arrive at the doctor’s compound excited about what they believe oh-so-mistakenly will be an opportunity of a lifetime. Presenting himself as a kindly good fellow, the bald, hulking Thorkel — with eyes made tiny by thick-lensed glasses fit for a welder — invites them to immediately join him in his work, much to their delight. He then apologizes that his failing eyesight demands that he have their assistance in examining some crystals through his microscope. Once they finish, he abruptly orders them to leave. Shocked and dismayed, they realize that it was his vision all along, literally, to get highly qualified experts to confirm his analysis, only to quickly return, solo, to his experiments.

The Pit and the Radium

Determined to find out exactly what Thorkel is up to, they discover he’s dug a pit out back behind his crude cottage that serves as a makeshift laboratory. Dangling on ropes halfway into the pit is a mysterious device that channels incredible radium-charged energy through cables and into a machine inside Thorkel’s lab that transmits life-altering atomic rays.

Their curiosity getting the best of them, the unwelcome visitors sneak into Thorkel’s cottage when he’s out back adjusting the radium-gathering device. In minutes, Thorkel stumbles in the back door. Initially outraged upon catching them going through his notebooks and other work, a maniacal look of embarrassment on his face can’t suppress sudden thoughts of sweet revenge. Though he sheepishly apologizes for his behavior, his evil plan has been formed. He would invite them to check out his atomic ray machine up close and personal, lock them inside and zap them all — shrinking them right out of their clothes.

The Slower They Fall

The remainder of the film is a cat and mouse game of Thorkel trying to catch his teeny victims who repeatedly escape. Though it’s a harrowing experience, the sight of little people scampering to and fro and wearing what look like doll-size hospital gowns, and in one case an adult diaper, detracts from the tension generated by the doctor. Also, from a scientific and biological perspective, much of the struggles the shrunken people experience in climbing up and scaling down the now monster-sized furniture, crates and doors wouldn’t realistically occur. According to a noted professor of biology, the smallest of animals can fall or jump from great heights with no threat of injury. For the brainiacs among us, this means as objects get smaller, gravitational pull decreases more rapidly than drag, so terminal velocity decreases (but I die-gress). Even with this minor shortcoming concerning biological facts, director Schoedsack, and certainly the actors, must have had fun blocking and carrying out the scenes that make this and similar movies such a delight for viewers willing to stretch (or in this case shrink) their imaginations. Even Thorkel confirms our fascination with things large and small when he says at one point in the film, “Strange how absorbed man has been in the size of things!”   

Despite two of the little people being killed by Thorkel in his oafish attempts to keep his discovery a secret, DR. CYCLOPS ends on a positive note as the survivors stand tall and cause Thorkel to fall to his death in the radium pit. Slowly returning to normal size, they make the trip back home as the movie ends. As is the trend these days, a remake was at one time being considered, starring Harry Potter’s Daniel Radcliffe in the title role.

Male Pattern Smallness

Perhaps the most highly acclaimed film examining the horrors of humans made miniature is special effects classic THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN (Universal-International, 1957), directed by Jack Arnold (IT CAME FROM OUTER SPACE, CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON, TARANTULA) and adapted by Richard Matheson from his novel. Its incredibly effective set design included gigantic props like a 15-foot mousetrap, an 18-foot pencil, a four-foot pin and a 40-pound pair of scissors.

Oddly, much of the attraction of the film is the inescapable empathy felt for Scott Carey (played convincingly by Grant Williams, who also narrates the story) as Albert Zugsmith’s production deals with the metaphysical aspects of the situation that go far beyond the typical fantasy thriller. 

First exposed to a mysterious vapor when aboard a boat out at sea, and later accidentally sprayed with insecticide while driving, Carey soon begins slowly shrinking. Though his wife Louise (Randy Stuart) first thinks he’s imagining it, Carey notices that his clothes no longer fit. When the family doctor confirms that Carey is indeed shrinking about an inch a week, everything goes down hill from there. Carey is distraught and becomes the focus of worldwide media attention.

Tabby or Not Tabby

Nothing can stop the relentless, inexplicable shrinking of Carey’s body. His stature at first seems comical, but then at six inches or so becomes life-threatening as he narrowly escapes the jaws of Butch, the family cat, which had snuck in the front door accidently left open by Louise. Despite the blunder, she gets high marks for staying at her husband’s side (so to speak) and dealing surprisingly well with his childlike size and behavior. She would give up on Scott only after believing that Butch had succeeded in making a meal of her man.

Unbeknownst to his grieving wife, Carey has found relative safety in their cellar. But his new-found retreat becomes a house of horrors as his diminishing size makes finding basic needs like food, shelter, and warmth major obstacles. It is a world of utter loneliness that nearly defeats him. A battle he wins against a giant spider for a bite of stale cake appears to be his last moment of human dignity and triumph.

But not so. The film ends with Grant Williams verbalizing Carey’s feelings as he steps through the tiny holes of the cellar’s window screen and contemplates the universe: “And in that moment, I knew the answer to the riddle of the infinite. I had thought in terms of man’s own limited dimension. I had presumed upon nature. That existence begins and ends in man’s conception, not nature’s. And I felt my body dwindling, melting, becoming nothing. My fears melted away. And in their place came acceptance. All the vast majesty of creation, it had to mean something. And then I meant something, too. Yes, smaller than the smallest, I meant something, too. To God, there is no zero. I still exist!”   

Less is More, More or Less

While there have been many modern-day, large-budget forays into the humans-made-small storyline (for example, HONEY I SHRUNK THE KIDS, 1989), the most enjoyable examples are still the classics of yesteryear. Few stack up to Bert I. Gordon’s manifestation of marionette madness ATTACK OF THE PUPPET PEOPLE (1957), starring John Agar (see Scary Monsters #102 & #103 for more on this and other Agar films). And of course there’s the most unique entry of the 1960s: FANTASTIC VOYAGE (1966), directed by Richard Fleischer and featuring talent-stunted, doe-eyed Raquel Welch who’s on a team miniaturized for a seek-and-destroy mission into the bloodstream of a scientist patient suffering from a blood clot in his brain. They soon learn what would have been a more suitable title for the film: “When Corpuscles Attack!”

© 2011 and Don A. Smeraldi. All rights reserved. This article also appeared in Scary Monsters #100.

#  #  #


Posted Feb. 5, 2018

Movie Monsters from Mammoth to Miniature: Part 1

By Don Smeraldi

Long before “Super Size Me” became the mantra for fast food addicts craving a mountain of fries and sea of soda, the matter of size dominated the monster movie genre. In particular, the creature features produced during the 1950s allowed us to step outside reality and experience the catastrophic results – real or imagined – of livings things being exposed to radiation, experimentation or just plain misfortune. So grand were these B-movie epics concerning the plight of mammoth monsters gone amok or miniature people short on their luck that the silver screens of the neighborhood walk-in or drive-in theater seemed barely large enough to handle the subject matter.

Biological Mon-stress-ity

While size was often the monster movie makers’ theme of choice, most compelling was the story of the larger-than-life human being. After quickly sprouting to enormous heights, not unlike the Jolly Green Giant, their diminutive loved ones, friends and (surprise) the military would have to deal with the consequences in ways both agonizingly emotional and charmingly amusing.

As these unfortunate souls grew, sometimes with their clothes magically resizing in real-time, the screenwriters had to ignore or perhaps never considered the biological ramifications. According to one noted professor of biology, concerning the long bones in the limbs of these giants, the changes in shape that accompany changes in size are not sufficient to compensate for the increased loads. For the layman, that means c-r-r-rack! The bones of a person whose height reaches multiple times normal size would probably break as they shakily take their first “baby” steps.

Thankfully, the movies we know and love from our youth weren’t intended to serve as a primer on biology. Our imaginations went wild as we suspended our disbelief, whether the actors’ crudely projected images were superimposed onto skylines and countrysides, or they stomped menacingly among miniaturized surroundings. Following are a few of the “standout” examples worth visiting once again.

A Woman of Stature

Other than her agent, acting coach and probably most family members, who would want to forget the husky-voiced, buxom Allison Hayes in Attack of the 50 Ft. Woman (Allied Artists, 1958)? Best categorized as a bad yet beloved sci-fi cult classic, director Nathan Juran (credited as Nathan Hertz possibly to avoid ridicule) and screenwriter Mark Hanna did their best to play it straight by giving serious treatment to, well, a film with a budget of $88,000 proclaiming its 50-foot woman with a drinking problem and very bad attitude was “too much for any man”! The fact Juran and Hanna attempted to create serious cinema with this film, and failed miserably, is part of its lasting attraction, while the very forgettable 1993 remake starring Daryl Hannah went to great heights to reach new lows.

The movie begins with

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