MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE (1971)
In a perfect world, I'd watch this film again to ensure that I sopped up all of its tinges and niceties. I don't mean to imply that I dozed off at intermittent intervals; actually, I do mean to imply such a misdeed. Calm yourself. I saw enough of Rue Morgue to fashion a primed opinion. For instance, it sags in the middle. It's almost more fact than opinion to say that the exposition - the meat of the matter - is monotonous. Conversely, there are spikes of adrenaline scattered throughout. The first ten-ish minutes are delightfully pulpy, and that drive-in charm extends to the acidic death sequences.
The kills are literally acidic. Motherfucker (pictured above) just pours a vial of the oxidizing agent onto an unsuspecting face in such a matter-of-fact way, you have to give vent to nervous laughter. It's not funny, but it's so very funny. I think you understand me. In defiance of the source material, director Gordon Hessler chose to scrounge from The Phantom of the Opera. Our villain sabotages performances of Grand Guignol plays. Ironically, he subverts productions of "Murders in the Rue Morgue." Credit Rue Morgue for being an early subject to exploit the meta trope, even if it doesn't exploit it well. But as I avowed, it has its moments. As many times as it bobs and weaves, it was bound to strike it rich once in awhile.
If you're keeping a running tab, I prefer the 1932 version.
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