WITCHBOARD (1986)

Most church leaders prefer to be addressed by their surname as a means of commanding respect amongst their congregation, but ours insisted he be known by his first. So, we all called him Pastor Sam. The moniker had a less formal ring, and it was certainly the perfect counter-balance to the dose of frothing conviction we'd get every Sunday. He was a man with power, but he was accessible at the same time. Terrifying behind the pulpit, his flip-side soothed. He had a gentle smile and voice that matched. Children felt comfortable enough to ask for rides on his shoulders, and he'd always oblige with a laugh. His stature always made the ride a little scary, but there was never any fear that he might drop you.

After service, the men would lineup for casual macho banter revolving around Cadillacs and sea bass, and the wives would hang back, their breasts a'flutter as their men got the rub from this towering amalgam of John Wayne and Billy Graham.

That was the scene every Sunday, and I rarely stuck around to eavesdrop. But this time, I'd been instructed to take a number. I sat on the front pew for several hours, pumping my velcro sneakers and staring at my Skeletor action figure. I tuned out the adult yammering by focusing on the empty ocular sockets in his face and contemplated the relevant topic of how he could see anything while fighting He-Man. That always bothered the shit out of me.

I've always been more compelled by villains. After all, they had a mystique. Rarely did they ever explain what made them so bad, and so I was often left to contrive origins for them in my own little brain. The hero always required less imagination to exist, and was therefore always far less engaging. So, naturally, Skeletor and his band of sinister flunkees were the center of the plastic universe on my bedroom floor. Besides, without the villain, what was a hero anyway? If not for Skeletor, He-Man would have just been another Ken doll in S&M gear; an unemployed gay bartender turned drifter, existing only for Ponch and John to pull over and harass before telling him to move onto the next town, where he would inevitably blow his brains out in hotel room painted with semen and Wild Irish Rose.

Gene Simmons once sang a dower little tune, denouncing a world without heroes. But if you ask me, a world without villains would be void of color and purpose. Indeed, without the good fight, there would be little other to do than turn on each other until there is no one left and all there is to do is lay down and die. All that said, fuck KISS. Congratulations on the pussiest use for a flying V ever, assholes.

So, finally, the sycophants all clear out, and I'm nudged to my feet. I approach Pastor Sam, Skeletor in hand. My grandmother says, “Pastor Sam, my grandson would like to show you something.” Sam looks down at me, smiles and kneels. I hand Skeletor over. Pawing at his blue skin, a concerned expression evolves. I remember vividly as he removed Skeletor’s little purple staff. Plucking the accessory from kung fu grip, he held it up and asked me, “Max, do you know what this means?” I shook my head. Pastor Sam paused for a moment, and told me, “this is a sign of the devil.”

It was possible. After all, Skeletor was the embodiment of all that was evil. He was a bad guy, so it seemed pretty natural. I didn't have a problem with it really since Skeletor was supposed to be the guy He-Man stomped the shit out of. Now, if the role model had a cod piece with a pentagram on it that pissed goat blood (I want one), it might have been a totally different story from my child-like point of view. At that point, all Pastor Sam had done was assure me that the bad guy was actually... well, a bad guy.

Later that night, I stood in the parking lot of the Foursquare Church, crying as several birthdays and Christmases worth of gifts went up in smoke. I watched Castle Gray Skull morph and twist into a puddle while Pastor Sam, high on toxic plastic fumes from his cleansing bonfire, slurred through “Hosanna in the Highest.” I’m positive that night set in motion a rebellion within me that only further encouraged my keen interest in morbid subject matter. Raised into pacification through material objects, the destruction of my entire toy collection was far more damaging than any Catholic handjob ever could have been.

Since every school I've ever attended was of some religious variety, I encountered kids who were either similar, or even more fucked up than I ever could have been. Repression rears a mean brat, drawing kids toward taboos at hyper speed, and heroin too. By the eighth grade, bum wine and teenage pregnancy were mostly passé. What really cheesed the penguins off was finding spell books in the school yard. The first time I laid eyes on a book of magic was in the Saint Thomas Aquinas boys’ room. We passed it around in awe like most well-adjusted kids would a smut magazine.

Throughout the eighties, the Christian fundamentalist right was popping off to anyone who’d listen about the approaching thunder of an underground Satanic network. According to them, the devil’s followers were running our day care centers. They were in our local government. They were the policemen covering up cattle mutilation. They were taking the white man’s scholarships and women. They were also corrupting the youth of our country through heavy metal music and horror films. Even Parker Brothers had aligned itself with the dark one, and was mass marketing witchcraft under the guise of traditional board game fun.

According to elders, this mass-produced piece of cardboard, known alternately as the “mystic oracle,” was a spirit world walkie-talkie. We were warned against using the board, for it may yield dire repercussions, inviting unseen forces into our homes, and possibly even our bodies. That wasn’t a hard sell to a bunch of rebellious pubescent kids. And while Sunday morning rants and news reports made us all aware of the existence of this portal to evil, one movie taught us all how to actually use the thing. Of course, I speak of the 1986 Kevin Tenney classic, “Witchboard” – a varitable primer for Ouija Board use.

When I was a kid, no single social gathering was complete without a bunch of stupid, doe-eyed girls standing under the red hue of the bathroom's heat lamp, chanting "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary" into the mirror. Retrospectively, games like light as a feather epitomize teenage innocence despite the fact that we all thought we were toying with cataclysmic forces that could rend us limb from limb. And of course, there were the Ouija Board sessions, which always told me who had and had not seen "Witchboard." Of course, the board must be used by two people only, and it must rest on their knees since it acts as a spiritual conduit. The people using the board should also have clean systems, meaning, they shouldn’t drink or do drugs. Everyone generally shrugged that one off. And of course, no one should EVER use it alone, lest they end up the victim of "progressive entrapment."

Every culture has had its own variant of the spirit board for thousands of years. Widespread house hold usage, rather than Satanic corporate conspiracy, is to credit for the board’s industrial reproduction. The Ouija Board’s popularity has waned only slightly over the past two decades, drifting into the realm of kitsch for some. Nevertheless, it remains a potent piece of pop culture iconography, thanks largely to "Witchboard" writer/director Kevin Tenney, who is perhaps second only to Patience Worth when it comes to propagating the board's popularity in modern culture. This film is to the Ouija Board what "The Outer Limits" was to the Betty and Barney Hill alien abduction case. Both have influenced a culture’s perceptions on their respective topics on a potentially subliminal level, and are perhaps even responsible for a low grade of hysteria regarding both abduction and encounters with the spirit world. In fact, I’m pretty sure almost every psychic ham out there probably owes Kevin Tenney royalties for using whole verbiage to make a living.

The story starts off at a banging house party, where some yuppie assholes attempt to bring the fun to a crashing halt with theological debate. Amidst this mess, we’re introduced to Linda, her low-brow drunkard boyfriend Jim, and their respectively estranged lover and best friend Brandon Sinclair, “of the Sinclair vineyards!” As the party winds down, the spiritual debate takes a turn for the best when Brandon breaks out his trusty Ouija Board, providing us with a short lecture on its origins. Brandon, along with Linda attempt to contact the spirit of a little boy named David, who is apparently attached to the board since it was made on the approximate date of his death. During the low-rent séance, Jim tells some awesome jokes to piss the spirit off, which leads to the destruction of Brandon's tires. Sinclair leaves in a huff, conveniently forgetting his Ouija Board, which Linda discovers while cleaning up the next day. She contacts David once again, and develops a bond with the little boy’s spirit. Brandon warns her about using the board alone, but Linda is a free-thinking 80s kind of gal and continues using the Ouija. Soon, a swirl supernatural foreboding and death threatens the trio as Linda falls deeper into progressive entrapment. Jim and Brandon are forced to put their friction aside to fight something far more sinister than originally suspected. Check out the trailer, dudes.

Tawny Kitaen is probably the most recognizable face here, and she actually turns in a surprisingly solid performance as the Ouija-addicted Linda. Other notables include Rose Marie ("The Dick Van Dyke Show") as Jim and Linda’s landlady, and Kathleen Wilhoite ("Roadhouse") as annoying psychic hippie punk Zarabeth. Lastly, Soap opera fodder Todd Allen and Stephen Nichols play the men in Linda’s life. It’s hard to say whether these guys help or hinder the movie, but they do provide for some unintentionally hilarious moments via melodramatic delivery better suited for "General Hospital."

However, for my money, James W Quinn, who plays Jim’s best friend, Lloyd destroys every actor in this entire fucking production. Once in a while, there's just some guy who stands out in spite of the fact that his part is inconsequential. Jim is one of those guys. If Tenney is out there, I'd like to urge him to make a fourth "Witchboard" movie, starring James W. Quinn as both the hero and the villain, and perhaps even playing a few supporting roles. Quinn also did a lot of the demonic voice work in Tenney’s “Night of the Demons” films. Here, though, we get him in the flesh. It’s a shame this guy never got a comedy feature, because he’s solid gold here. Never have I been so distraught at the death of a supporting character. Every time Lloyd dies, a piece of me goes with him.

Overall, this film achieves a genuine and compelling atmosphere. Tenney aptly constructs true suspense, and in the process never really resorts to using gore, which makes this anomalous for the period, but ultimately far more accessible. "Witchboard" is due recognition as a unique artistic accomplishment since it barely abides by any genre standards of the time. Let's face it, there aren't a slew of movies out there about Ouija Boards, though it does seem like such an obvious niche. Lastly, though, it deserves a heap of credit for it's influence on popular culture. Even if you dislike this movie, chances are, you've been infected by it somehow.

Tenney followed up with “Witchboard 2: The Devil’s Doorway” in 1993, but the film never quite achieved the same level of acclaim as the original, more than likely due to the fact that it’s not really a true sequel. Another sequel, “Witchboard 3: The Possession” followed only two years later, and while I own it, I’ve never bothered to watch it.

Are you awesome enough to take the VHS Summer “Witchboard” Drinking Game Challenge? Don't be a pussy! Take a drink any time any of the following things happens. And, remember, Pabst Blue Ribbon is the official beer of the VHSS.

1. Someone says the word “OUIJA.”
2. Lloyd appears on screen.
3. We see Jim’s chest hair.
4. Anyone says the phrase “PSYCHIC HUMOR.”
5. Any time there is sexual tension between Jim and Brandon.
6. Any time Tawny says a bad word.
7. Someone says “PROGRESSIVE ENTRAPMENT.”
8. Tawny’s shower scene.

EVILSPEAK (1981)

Like the Pharaoh to the Jew, and whip-cracking slave driver to the cotton pickers of yore, today there suffers a new minority under the tyrannical thumb of an ultimate oppressor. Daily, this outnumbered troop’s will is ground to brine beneath the dark heels of giant Jack-boots. Drunken on blood from the stone, this force mocks the groveling of its mass victim with cruel laughter and probably a middle finger, too. Of course, the dispirited group of which I speak is non other than yours truly, and this domineering entity which keeps me from truly realizing my potential is better known as the local police department. Seriously, if I weren't accountable for my actions, I would sally forth on a holy crusade from coast to coast, baptizing pubescent shit heads in a tide of correctional violence that would ultimately make the world a better place for you and I both. If only, my friends, If only…

Anytime I bring up the fact that teenagers have reached a flamboyant apex of shittiness some dirty hippie starts going on about how every round of adolescents baffles their elders with their attempts to differentiate their generation from the previous one. Sorry Wavy Gravy, but I call bullshit. Need proof? Here you go.

Years ago, PETA managed to get an injunction passed against hunting season somewhere in New Jersey. Subsequently, the deer population boomed over the next few months. Shortly after, a PETA van struck a deer as it bolted across the highway, totaling the vehicle. Naturally, being that PETA are idiots, they decided to sue the county for failure to control the deer population.

This parallels the Columbine shooting in some ways. Those dorks in the video above are kind of like the deer PETA were trying to protect. After bullying was cited as the catalyst for the Columbine massacre everyone suddenly developed a zero-tolerance policy toward nerd-bashing. Well, congratulations assholes. Now the nerd population is totally out of control and kids are lamer than ever before.

People need to realize that bullying builds character. A little adversity goes a long way. I’ve always thought there should be something along the lines of a bar mitzvah, where when a kid turns eighteen he gets punched in the face really hard. Everyone needs to be humbled at least once in order to be a decent human being if you ask me.

Instead of an outright ban there needs to be a quality control for bullying. We need to set some standards and regulations. For instance, if a kid is wearing eyeliner and a dog leash, and telling people he’s a werewolf, beat the living shit out of him. However, if the kid is like Clint Howard in "Evil Speak" and just a little awkward, but otherwise good natured, just let him be. He’s got it hard enough.

"Evil Speak" is not so much an indictment against bullying as it is a cautionary tale outlining the differences between tough love and sadism. Set against the cold façade of a fancy lad military academy, Stanley Coopersmith is the target of classist abuse at the hands of both students and administration alike. Credited with defeat at a school soccer game, Stanley is punished with the foul task of cleaning out the campus chapel’s cellar. While schlepping through cobwebs, Coopersmith stumbles upon the campus’ occult wing. Why the fuck is there an occult wing? No idea. Rifling around, Stanley finds a Satanic Grimoire, which he begins to decode with a Commodore computer. No shit.

Eventually, after being debased one time too many by classmates, clergy, and even the janitor, Stanley snaps and pledges allegiance to Beelzebub, who imbues him with the power of flight, a sword, and flesh-eating hench-pigs to wreak appropriate vengeance on the assholes who killed his puppy.

Most reviewers cast "Evilspeak" off as below-average loser-strikes-back flick, but there’s a primary difference between this movie and others of a similar ilk. For one, this thing comes off as pro-Satanist, mainly because the film’s protagonist is completely wholesome and innocent. Films like "976-EVIL," which feature immediately unlikable pervert nerds who gradually shift into power-mongering demon hosts, are usually the standard for this sub-genre. "Evilspeak"’s Coopersmith is both likable and sympathetic, and the villains are so vicious that you crave to see them destroyed. Most of the bullies in nerd revenge flicks never do something so bad that they deserve to die, so when the punishment exceeds the crime it totally paints the protagonist in an evil hue. The bullies in "Evilspeak" deserve worse than death.

I’ve also seen reviewers discard this as a forgettable waste of time. Such a statement is an admission of delusional psychosis, because seeing Clint Howard fly around on wires while slicing military cadets to pieces with a Conan sword is easily one of the most memorable things I have ever seen in any movie. Seriously, what kind of fucked up shit have you seen through your diseased mind’s eye to have been desensitized to that sort of imagery?

There’s also a shockingly well-produced prologue featuring Bull from Night Court as a fallen priest who’s ex-communicated from the church for his nudity-laden Satanic antics. The first few minutes of the movie actually look and feel better than anything else in the film, but the finale is so gonzo that it completely eclipses anything else, good or bad.

That said, the acting here is far better than average for the genre and period, and we’re treated to some familiar faces here as well. Haywood Nelson of “What’s Happenin!” fame plays Coopersmith’s outcast friend. Don Stark, better known as Bob Pinciotti from “That 70s Show,” also turns in an apt asshole performance as Bubba, the ringleader of the tormentors. Cinema dorks will also mark out for Charles Tyner’s appearance as hard-ass Colonel Kincaid here. The real star of "Evilspeak," though, is the strangely adorable Clint “Leon” Howard as the maligned hero. His performance here isn’t as over-the-top as most would have you believe. In fact, dramatically, it’s pretty sound.

There are apparently NUMEROUS cuts of this film floating around today, ranging anywhere from 92 minutes to 103 minutes, all depending on the country the release was intended for, as well as the format. I own the 92 minute original VHS release, and from what I understand at least 12 minutes of violence and gore has been omitted. Twelve fucking minutes! That's insane! There is at least one particular scene cut to sate the censors where it kind of backfires. In the director's cut, when Miss Friedemeyer is attacked in the shower by the Satanic pigs, she is obviously being devoured. However, in the ultra-censored version the attack plays out more like a pig-rape, which is way more fucked up than simply having your entrails eaten if you ask me.

While "Evilspeak" may not qualify as fine cinema, it’s still more entertaining and endearing than most five star snoozers and it’s certainly worth a look.