Blood Feast: Groundbreaking Gore Gets Its Due

Psycho may have invented the slasher, but without Blood Feast, most slashers would be pedestrian, monochrome exercises in boredom. Here we have the genesis of splatter. If not for the chivalrous hedonism of Herschell Gordon Lewis, Tom Savini might have been condemned to a life of hanging drywall. Lewis set out to immortalize taboo deeds that major studios wouldn't dare touch.

After concocting a string of "nudie cuties" (with such titles as Nature's Playmates and Boin-n-g), he seized the next peccadillo on his list - gore. Blood had been spilled prior to 1963, but not to this extent. Drive-in audiences were bowled over by Blood Feast's graphic (although domesticated by today's unattainable standards) depictions of dismemberment, scalping, and...tongue extractions.

The very definition of schlock. It goes without saying that on a technical level, this film is putrid. Lewis warrants the adulation that gorehounds entrust to him for simply having gargantuan audacity, but in all fairness, he's a meager director. The film has no visual style to speak of, the camera seldom budges, and his sense of pacing is groggy. The midsection, in particular, is on life support, and for a film that only runs for a frail 67 minutes, it seems to crawl on perpetually. Lewis can also be held accountable for the dowdy, droning score. Aside from the occasional spasm of a melodramatic brass section and a few effective thumps of a drum, it's rudimentary and further binds the pace. But Blood Feast wouldn't be quite as enchanting without an amateur at the helm, now would it?

The talent in front of the camera mirrors the talent behind it. It would almost be pretentious of me to refer to them as "actors." Bill Kerwin is the only "actor" here who doesn't completely embarrass himself. He plays Pete, a cop trying to find the common denominator in a series of grisly murders. Kerwin has the look of your archetypal Hollywood lead, which is why his presence in this flick stumps me. Connie Mason is tragic as Suzette, the obligatory love interest. She's about as charismatic as tupperware and seems to be in a constant state of euphoria. Upon receiving news of her friend's untimely demise, she reacts as though she's eluded the whammy on Press Your Luck.

Mason was a former Playboy playmate, so you'd think that Lewis would make an effort to exploit the only inherent talent that she had to offer. Startlingly, Blood Feast is bereft of irreverent nudity. We get generous portions of cleavage and girls cavorting in either bathing suits or their unmentionables, but alas, no one bares any flesh. It's also interesting to note that the script doesn't feature one iota of profanity. If it weren't for the effusive gore, this flick would flirt with a PG rating! But the gore is prevalent, and it's agreeably vile. The special effects aren't as shoddy as I thought they would be, but of course, the same techniques have been honed to greater effect over the decades. Our villain, Fuad Ramses, is played with unchecked vim by Mal Arnold. Think Vincent Price, only ten times as theatrical. Yeah. The guy is so hammy, he practically levitates; I had too much fun watching him.

In juxtaposition with the stagnant second act, the climax is fairly energetic. The suspense is mild (although you're inclined to root for the wrong people) and the chase sequence is nimbly executed (the camera actually moves!). Things end on a bumbling note, though. One of the characters recapitulates the film's events as if they were hard to follow. This isn't exactly Jacob's Ladder. That said, I lapped up its sheer idiocy. I've called attention to all of its blemishes, but I really enjoyed this seminal indiscretion. To date, Blood Feast is the only H.G. outing that I've had the pleasure of laughing at/with, but I'm determined to swill its tardy sequel as well as the rest of the "blood trilogy." And maybe Boin-n-g, too.