The 1939 version of The Wizard Of Oz may be the definitive one, but it is very far from being the only one. Published in 1900, L. Frank Baum’s novel “The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz” was an instant classic, and ripe for adaptation. Within two years the book was turned into a stage musical, and within nine the first film version was released. Throughout the silent era and into the time of sound cinema, numerous attempts were made to interpret Baum’s magical tales for the silver screen, with varying degrees of success.
THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ (1910)
THE PATCHWORK GIRL OF OZ (1914)
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There are certain films that become associated with one indelible image. For example, it’s hard to think of North by Northwest without conjuring a mental picture of Cary Grant being chased by that crop-duster, or of Singin’ in the Rain without immediately seeing Gene Kelly hanging off of that lamppost. In the case of the Filipino action film They Call Her… Cleopatra Wong, the image that invariably comes to mind – for those familiar with the film, at least – is that of comely star Marrie Lee brandishing an imposing looking, quadruple-barreled, sawed-off shotgun while dressed in a nun’s habit and wimple (thanks, El Santo).
As with Sahitani Dracula, this is less a movie in the conventional sense than it is a seemingly random assemblage of images that, were Singh to have the benefit of a pretentious film studies student to defend his art, could be justified as a true cinematic representation of the non-linear, nonsensical, and sometimes completely incomprehensible structure of a nightmare. Unfortunately for Singh, though, he has yet to assemble the cadre of defenders that rally to the defense of European directors like Jean Rollin, Jess Franco, and Lucio Fulci (each of whom I myself fervently defend). So it’s left to me, and perhaps you, to build the cult around Harinam Singh and get his movies identified not as cheap crap slapped together by a guy who didn’t really give a damn, but instead as brilliant, surrealist deconstructions of the subconscious state. Go forth now, and turn this man into a genius!
The term “entertainment” takes on bizarre new meaning in Rene Cardona Jr’s entry in the post-Jaws shark film cycle. Graphic and protracted bouts of all-but-unmotivated animal slaughter are puntuated with scenes featuring drinking, drug-taking, nudity, sex, attempted rape, prostitution, partner-swapping, threesomes and, believe it or not, a few things they weren’t so explicit about; and occasionally, just occasionally, someone remembers that this film WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ABOUT A SHARK.
To tell the truth, the most shorthand way for me to paint a word picture of King Kong in your mind is to say that he looks almost exactly like Ken Davitian, the guy who naked wrestled with Sacha Baron Cohen in the Borat movie — which means that, shirtless, he displays varieties of male cleavage that you previously could never have imagined possible. This resemblance furthermore has the unwelcome result of me feeling, whenever I see King Kong on screen — and he is a fairly ubiquitous presence in Dara Singh’s movies — that I have a pretty good idea of what he looks like naked. Of course, this doesn’t take much imagination, since these movies, following the peplum model, tend to dress their male stars in as little as possible. This practice offers little trouble in the case of the handsome and well sculpted Dara Singh, who spends much of King Kong in an outfit that consists of little more than some furry leopard print hot pants and what look to be Ugg boots, but when it forces one to contemplate the hairy and mountainous topography of Emile Czaja’s torso in all its fleshy reality, it can be a bit of a challenge.